brief conversation over the phone in Legira's home.
“Important instructions later,” spoke the whispered voice of The Shadow. “Stand ready.”
The earphones and mouthpiece were laid aside. From the tabulations, The Shadow's hands began to
form brief charts. One of these referred to Pete Ballou and his men.
7.48—entered Legira's.
8.04—left Legira's. Received word of Powell's departure at 7.56. Powell followed by Dowdy. Ballou
informed by other watchers. Communication between Dowdy and Ballou is evident.
8.58—Dowdy returns.
This sheet of paper was pushed aside. The hand of The Shadow wrote:
8.50—approximate time of murders.
Then, farther down, appeared notes concerning Alvarez Legira:
8.15—last logical time at Hendrix home.
9.30—at Baltham Trust.
Back went the hand to the first sheet. Consulting the tabulations, The Shadow found another statement
received from Burbank and added it to the notations on Ballou's list:
9.34—Ballou arrived Hotel Oriental.
Now, the hands held a map. It was an odd map of Manhattan, the streets lined with short dashes of red.
These indicated the average distance covered in each five minutes of running time by automobile. In
heavy trafficked areas, the lines were short; in others, they were long.
Using colored pushpins, the hands indicated various spots on the map. These were the locations of the
apartment where John Hendrix had lived, the home of Alvarez Legira, the Baltham Trust Company and
the Hotel Oriental.
Now, on a single sheet, The Shadow's hand wrote the statement:
Hendrix—9.14.
This denoted the time of The Shadow's arrival in the room of death. It also indicated the last possible
minute that the murderer could have been there; for the killer had been gone when The Shadow had
arrived.
Legira: 8.15—9.30.
Ballou: 9.14—9.34.
The Shadow, buried in darkness, considered these elements as he wrote them. The slender fingers made
measurements upon the map. They added these comments:
Hendrix to Baltham—45 min.
Hendrix to Oriental—20 min.
Now came a revised statement:
Legira: 8.50—9.30.
Ballou: 8.50—9.34.
As these varied tabulations lay upon the table, they spelled meanings that were evident. Regarding
Alvarez Legira, they indicated that had the South American left the home of Hendrix before the arrival of
Martin Powell, he could have reached the Baltham Trust Company, with thirty minutes to spare, before
half past nine. Had Legira, however, returned to the apartment, he would have lacked five minutes in
making the trip after the murders at ten minutes of nine.
In the first supposition, there was the question of Legira's delay. In the second, there was the problem of
possibility. On a forty-minute run, five minutes might have been cut off.
The Shadow checked the first comment on Legira: “8.15—9.30.” After the tabulation, the hand wrote
the words:
Delay in meeting Desmond and Francisco.
Thus, with keen intuition, did The Shadow account for the extra thirty minutes—a half hour which
Alvarez Legira would scarcely have spent in idleness, with ten million dollars awaiting him.
Now came the consideration of Ballou's schedule. This man could have gone from Hendrix's apartment
to the Hotel Oriental in twenty minutes. The trip would have been average if he had left the place two or
three minutes before the arrival of The Shadow.
If Ballou had left the room of death at ten minutes of nine—the approximate time of the murder—he
would have reached the hotel with twenty-four minutes to spare.
The point of the pencil rested upon the statement:
Ballou: 9.14—9.34.
It crossed out “9.14” and substituted “9.10.”
Now came a soft laugh from the dark. The Shadow, in his contemplation of the figure was considering a
factor which even Joe Cardona had overlooked. The time of the murders had been set as eight fifty, for
that was when the alarm had come from central. Yet the struggle—the evidence of which The Shadow
had seen—indicated clearly that time had elapsed between the shots that had caused the killings.
The light clicked out. Usually, that was the sign for the departure of The Shadow. To-night the man of
mystery was waiting. Complete silence dominated the room, for a time. Then came a scarcely audible
sound. The Shadow was writing in the dark.
THE noise ceased. Another lulling spell of silence. A tiny light shone through the darkness. Burbank was
calling. The earphones clicked as they were carried across the table. The Shadow spoke.
“Report,” was his word.
The Shadow listened as Burbank relayed information from Harry Vincent, the operative who was
watching Pete Ballou. When Burbank had concluded the report, the light clicked on above the desk.
There, perfectly inscribed upon the sheet of paper, were the words which The Shadow had written.
“Orders.” The Shadow's command was terse. “Have Marsland join with Burke and Vincent to-morrow.
Duty on Long Island. Place indicated in next order. Vincent to maintain contact. Relieve until
summoned.”
Burbank's response denoted that the order had been checked.
“Listen for radio signals,” came the next order. “Yacht Cordova off Long Island. Code.”
Another click through the earphones. “Cover Legira home as usual,” was The Shadow's final order.
“Vincent to drop Ballou immediately. Relieved.”
Out went the light. The instruments clicked as they were placed across the table. Then, through the pitch
darkness of the room came the tones of a long, mocking laugh. It was a shuddering laugh that was
scarcely louder than a whisper; yet the very blackness of the room seemed to quiver with the sound and
the walls hurled back ghoulish echoes that might have come from corridors of space.
The Shadow had planned new work. Burbank would remain at his post of duty. The active operatives
were relieved from duty until the following day.
“Vincent to drop Ballou immediately. Relieved.”
There was a deep significance in that order. There was only one man to take the relief. That man was
The Shadow. He was to carry on where Harry Vincent had left off. While his agents slept, awaiting the
task of tomorrow, The Shadow would maintain the vigil.
The Shadow was a man who never slept when important events were developing. Unwearied by the
adventure of this evening, he had set a new task for himself to perform. In Pete Ballou he had discovered
a key to vicious plots that were reaching their culmination. Another mission called The Shadow now.
Again, the ghostly laugh crept through the inky room. Long, weird, and sinister, it clung to crevices that
shouted back their strange reverberations as though a host of imps had cried with gibing mirth.
When the last sounds of that eerie peal had ended, deep silence pervaded The Shadow's sanctuary—the
silence that told the absence of a living being.
The Shadow had departed.
CHAPTER XVIII. THE MAN HIGHER UP
Two men were seated in a lavishly furnished hotel room. One was Pete Ballou, stocky and
shrewd-faced. The other was a man past middle age, a dark-visaged individual.
There was no smile on Ballou's face to-night. On the contrary, he looked worried. He regarded his
<
br /> companion with apprehension. It was quite evident that Ballou stood in awe of the man whom he was
visiting.
The dark-faced man turned in his chair and his features were clearly reflected by the light of a lamp
beside the chair. The sallow face showed harsh and grim. Two blackish eyes glowed sharply beneath
heavy, coal-hued eyebrows. A sneering smile rested upon the cruel, puffy lips.
“Bah!” Ballou's host spat the exclamation. “You have been a fool, Ballou. Do you know that?”
Ballou nodded slowly. Then he spoke in an apologetic tone.
“I can't figure consequences the way you can,” he said. “You've got the brains behind this work.”
“I have the brains?” The speaker arose as he spoke and his squat, chunky form seemed menacing. “Of
course I have the brains. That is the difference between us. Rodriguez Zelva has brains. Pete Ballou has
no brains.”
“I'll admit I made a boner to-night,” said Ballou, ruefully. “Just the same, it looked like the only way out.
That's what you've always told me to do, Zelva. Act when I'm in a jam—leave the rest to you. That's
what I did tonight.”
“I expected you to act with sense!” retorted Zelva. “I did not want you to play the fool. You have made
it more difficult, now. It is bad, too, because you have come here.”
“I had to come here,” protested Ballou. “I couldn't give you details over the phone. I waited until after
two o'clock.”
“Listen, Ballou.” Zelva's tone was low but emphatic. “You have worked for me very long. You knew
well that I stay apart from those who work for me. That is why no one has ever been able to say that
Rodriguez Zelva is engaged in crime.
“You have been but one of a dozen who have served me. I picked you for this work. Why? Because you
were the one best suited to arrange affairs in New York. Pesano, Salati, Ellsdorff—I considered all of
them, as well as others. But they were not suited for New York as you are suited.
“I placed you here to watch Legira; to deal with him craftily. I told you to avoid those who might suspect.
Until to-night, you played the game well. But now—ah, you are one fool! One great fool! To make things
so that you would have to come here at this time—”
As Zelva broke off his sentence, Pete Ballou tried to ease the situation by a prompt remark.
“There's no danger in my coming here,” he said. “I haven't been here since this job started. This is really
the first time. What can Legira do? He's bottled up—”
“That makes no difference!” exclaimed Zelva. “I have my ways, Ballou. I keep to them. I use every
precaution.
“This room—I have chosen it because it is secluded. I live here alone— ah, yes—but those two doors
on either side of the hallway— Pesano and Ellsdorff are always there. They never recognize me when
they meet me. That is their only work—to watch.
“Look from this window”—Zelva strode across the room and Ballou followed him—“you see this little
balcony? From here I can see below - to all sides— everywhere. Fourteen stories to the street below.
Who can come here to find me, in this room of the Goliath Hotel? I am safe, yes—but not alone because
I am secluded. I am safe because I am wise and make no mistakes except”—his tone was
ironical—“except when I choose men who have no brains.”
Zelva ceased speaking and leaned from the edge of the balcony. Ballou noted that there were other
balconies below, located on alternate floors, with twenty-foot spaces between them. He looked upward
and saw the bottom of another projecting balcony, twenty feet above.
The white bottom of the upper projection gleamed dimly in the night. Above, all was darkness. Zelva
turned and stepped back into the room. Pete Ballou followed.
THE moment that the two men had left the balcony, a splotch of darkness moved from above. A
shadowy shape obscured a portion of the white projection that Ballou had observed.
That mysterious blot swung toward the wall of the hotel. It traveled downward and a huddled figure
rested beside the open window. Then the black form flattened itself along the rail.
In the room, Rodriguez Zelva was walking slowly back and forth, glaring at Pete Ballou, who had
resumed his seat. The chunky man stopped beside the window and stared forth into the night.
His gaze passed beyond the silent form which had again become a mass of unmoving blackness. Little
did Zelva suspect that The Shadow, strange being of the night, had ferreted his way to this inaccessible
spot, coming stealthily from the balcony above!
Pete Ballou was waiting until Zelva's despising anger had cooled. He knew that his chief would soon curb
his ire and settle down to constructive ideas. The change was already making itself evident.
“Ballou,” said Zelva, in a different tone than before, “you have made a great mistake. But like all
mistakes, this one may work for the best. I formulate my plans as I see them come. Now, let me tell you
first how simple were the schemes that you may have injured so badly to-night.”
Ballou settled back to listen.
“Ten million dollars,” proceeded Zelva, “is very much money. I am an important man from South
America—here in New York. That is why I learned easily that Alvarez Legira was to receive that great
sum. Why should I worry about Legira? If he should take the money to Santander, it would be simple
there to seize it. One snap of my finger”—Zelva performed the action—“and the hotbed of revolution
would break out. The money would be ours. Why then do you think I have dealt with Legira?”
“To play it safe,” suggested Ballou. “Save a lot of trouble down to Santander.”
“You are wrong, Ballou,” returned Zelva. “I have threatened Legira because I have suspected that he will
not go to Santander with the money. Ten million dollars! Why should he return to Santander? Europe,
perhaps—but not Santander.”
“Is he double-crossing his pals?”
Zelva smiled and shrugged his shoulders.
“With ten million dollars?” he asked. “That is enough to make him do so.”
“He convinced people up here that he was on the level.”
“Ah, yes, he may be on the level, now. But let him have the ten million dollars. Then—”
Another shrug of Zelva's shoulders indicated once again that he considered ten million dollars to be a
stake that no man could resist.
“All right,” said Ballou, bluntly. “Figure it that way, then. The first thing was for Legira to get the money.
That's what you told me. Then for us to get it from him—giving him a chance for a fifty-fifty break as a
come-on.”
“That is correct.”
“So I try to work the deal,” continued Ballou, “but Legira stalls. I waited until to-night to make the last
threat. As soon as I come out of the place, I find that Silk Dowdy has trailed Martin Powell. I went to the
phone where I knew Silk would call and he tells me Powell is seeing Hendrix.”
“So you went there, too,” prompted Zelva. “That was both wise and unwise. Wise to learn what was
happening. Unwise because of things that might happen— as they did happen.”
“I thought it was wise,” declared Ballou. “I got in the apartment with a phony key. What do I hear but
Hendrix saying that it's going to be impossible for Legira to get the dough—if his telephone call goes
through.
“I figured then that Powell must have spotted something. Two of them— both bad. I had to stop that
phone call. So I did. Hendrix thought I was Legira. I bumped him and got Powell and the old bird in
addition.”
“And now?” questioned Zelva. “Do you think it will be easy for Legira to get the money now?”
Ballou's face turned blank.
“You killed,” declared Zelva, “because you thought it would help Legira if Hendrix could not speak. By
killing Hendrix, you disposed of the man with whom Legira was to deal. It has probably placed suspicion
upon Legira. It will give him an excuse to ask an extension of time— or to tell you that the whole deal is
ended.”
“I never figured it that way,” said Ballou, in a dejected tone. “I guess it makes it pretty bad. I've bungled
everything.”
“Perhaps,” said Zelva, calmly. “Perhaps not. It means that I shall have to use other methods besides the
simple ones that I had planned at first.”
“You'll let Legira wait?”
“No!” Zelva's tone was emphatic. “Legira is a danger to me. He cannot connect me by proof with this
matter, but he may suspect me. If he cannot secure the money before the time he has been given, then it
will be his end.”
“To-morrow at midnight?”
“Yes. Unless Legira has called you before that time, strike as you have told him. Wait at the Hotel
Oriental, just as you have planned. Then do your work.”
“That will queer the deal.”
“Did you stop to think that it would make trouble in any event? When I send threats, they are not idle
ones. Legira must arrange to have that money before midnight. Otherwise, we strike—and then—”
“And then?”
“After that,” smiled Zelva, “the government of Santander will hear from Rodriguez Zelva, who will kindly
offer to arrange affairs with the New York financiers!”
BALLOU'S eyes blinked in admiration. Now he understood Zelva's cunning. The arch conspirator was
trying to work through Legira because it appeared to be the most simple method. But with Legira
unwilling to come to terms, the elimination of the consul from Santander would leave the way open for
another alternative plan.
“Rodriguez Zelva,” said the man himself. “That name is important in South America. I have always
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