The Shadow - The White Skulls Part 7

Anyway, phone me, Cranston."

Brenz shook hands and Cranston left. Though he went from the Wall Street section, his next stop was a place that had some relation to it. Lamont Cranston called at the uptown office of an investment broker named Rutledge Mann.

Of all the serious minded persons that Cranston knew, Mann rated tops.

That was why Mann rated as an agent of The Shadow. Publicly, Mann was just a roundish-faced gentleman whose chubby expression was that of a sleepy owl and whose idea of a huge adventure was a good, rousing chess game. Privately, however, Mann's methodical mind, his meticulous way of winnowing everything down to the last grain and then winnowing the chaff, made him invaluable to TheShadow where research was concerned.

Mann was also a contact agent, through whom The Shadow's active workers reported. Right now Mann had a visitor who was going over papers with him when Cranston arrived. The visitor was Margo Lane; the papers were those that once belonged to Alban Sark.

"It's all a hodgepodge, Lamont," expressed Margo, gesturing to the pile of papers. "With all the fuss Sark made about this evidence, you'd think some of it would be important."

Cranston was writing a list of names which he handed to Mann. Then: "Call these private detective agencies," Cranston told Mann. "Find out why they bogged down on the investigations they made for Brenz."

That took care of Mann for a while. Cranston let Margo show him through the papers.

"Maybe Sark thought the papers were more important than they are," argued Margo. "He couldn't have opened that safe for a long time, because he had a lot of trouble with the combination. Maybe he was nervous, but he didn't show it, except that he acted awfully fast when he got started.

"Why, the way Sark turned out those lights was even speedier than when he trapped Jud and Gail. When those skeleton men chased him across the study, he was through the other door before they had time to fire at him.

"It was while they were trying to find Sark that they ran into The Shadow."

Margo paused to gaze at Cranston as though expecting him to admit that he knew all about it, but he simply kept on looking through the papers. "So Sark really helped us," Margo said, "though probably all he wanted was to get away, which he did."

Sorting the various papers into piles, Cranston gestured for Margo to do the same. The process wasn't very helpful, considering that the letters, memos and all that, were definitely incomplete and anything but incriminating. In fact, the contents of Sark's safe contained a lot of immaterial things, such as racing sheets, theater programs, and receipted bills from night clubs.

It was these last that specially interested Cranston. One batch of receipts were stamped with dates that showed them to be a week apart. Working along that line, Cranston found the same true of some ticket stubs that came from a large movie house.

Next, Cranston was examining Pullman receipts which were some indication of Sark's travel habits. Like a link to all these, was a little day book, its pages blank, except for a few printed pages that included such things as postal rates and a calendar. The one page that was fairly well thumbed was the one that bore the calendar.

"Rather a methodical chap," commented Cranston. "Or I might say that Sark had regular habits. He seemed to know where he was going to be at certain times.

I wonder who else knew."

That speculation still remained unanswered, except possibly in The Shadow'sown mind, when Mann returned with a report on his phone calls. They were very much of a pattern.

"All the detective agencies say the same," declared Mann. "Brenz became impatient with them too soon for them to get results. If an operative didn't produce a good report on Sark, Brenz said the job was poorly handled. If one good report wasn't followed by another, Brenz decided that Sark must have found out that he was being watched."

Cranston gave no comment, but Margo did.

"Brenz was right," declared Margo. "Sark proved last night that he knows what is going on. He had me tagged as Lamont's friend and he was expecting Jud and Gail. I wonder" - Margo gave Cranston an anxious look - "what did become of those two last night!"

"Of course, the detective agencies may have been giving me their usual talk," continued Mann. "Actually, I don't think they could be very competent.

Those I called had a very poor credit rating in Dunn and Bradstreet."

"Those you called?" queried Cranston. "I thought you were going to call all of them."

"I couldn't," returned Mann, "because some of them are out of business.

Apparently they were nothing more than fly-by-night concerns. I suppose Brenz wanted cheap service; if so, he got it. You might tell him that it doesn't pay to patronize cut rate companies."

That brought a smile from Cranston, since if anyone should have preached that lesson, the man was Philo Brenz. In fact, Brenz's greatest criticism of the enterprises managed by Townsend North had been their practice of underbidding.

Mann's statement, however, was a reminder that Cranston was to phone Brenz and learn if he had gained any further leads to Sark.

It was now after five, so Brenz would be home by this time. Cranston promptly put in a call, only to find that the line was busy. This proved to be the case with three repeats that Cranston made, but finally he managed to get Brenz on the wire.

When Cranston informed Brenz that he was hard to reach, Brenz had a prompt answer.

"I've been calling lawyers," Brenz explained. "All the lawyers who had anything to do with those North contracts. I've insisted that they look into the details and they're doing it right now. But meanwhile, I have found something important. Come right over, Cranston; I'd like to have an hour with you. It may do a lot to clear the question of Sark."

Liking that promise, Cranston agreed to visit Brenz. Telling Mann what Brenz had said, Cranston remarked: "You may phone those same lawyers, Mann, and see what you can find out for me. Phone me at Brenz's in about an hour. Any other questions?"

While Mann was shaking his head, Margo put one.

"We have a dinner date," she said to Cranston, "or don't we?"

"I don't recall one," replied Cranston.

"Of course it's a trifle late," admitted Margo. "Just a matter of twenty-four hours. We never did meet up in time to eat after I left Sark's last night."

"I'll call you later," promised Cranston, as he was going out the door.

"Just be patient, Margo."

"How much later?"

"An hour or so." "If you mean an hour multiplied by twenty-four," rejoined Margo, "maybe I'll dine with someone else."

"Who else for instance?"

"For one instance," retorted Margo, "I might have dinner with Alban Sark.

Or wouldn't he do?"

"He might if you can find him," decided Cranston. "Good hunting, Margo."

The door closed and Margo gave it an angry glare which Mann didn't notice because he was busy looking up lawyers in the red-book. Then, with a sudden dawn of an idea, Margo turned to the papers on the desk, remembering that they might furnish some clues to dining habits.

When it came to dining, Margo was seldom forgetful, though Cranston often was. At present, Cranston wasn't thinking of dinner, at least not in specific terms. What Cranston was considering was the present plight of Jud Mayhew and Gail North.

After all, the plight of hostages was not apt to be too pleasant, though Cranston doubted that it would become too difficult within a single day. At least he could spare an hour with Brenz, who might furnish some real information, before embarking on the one course that might aid two helpless prisoners.

It happened that Lamont Cranston was embarking on a lot more than he realized, even as The Shadow!

CHAPTER XIV.

DUSK was deepening over the Hudson River when Lamont Cranston turned from the window and watched Philo Brenz lay down the telephone with a final shrug of disappointment. In his turn, Cranston laid down the drink that Brenz had furnished him.

"At least the visit has been enjoyable, Brenz," said Cranston. "You have a nice outlook here, along Riverside Drive. It's probably worth the rent it costs you."

Despite himself, Brenz laughed. He waited until a stolid servant had removed the tray with its gla.s.ses. Then Brenz said: "The rent is nothing. What matters about this place is the number of the servants I need to keep it up."

"So I noticed," nodded Cranston. "You must have close to a dozen."

"Too close to a dozen," admitted Brenz. "But let's forget the servant question. That phone call was from the last of the lawyers. I've kept them working overtime in their offices and they've found out -"

Pausing, Brenz waited for Cranston to supply the word and Cranston did.

The word was: "Nothing."

"Exactly nothing," agreed Brenz. He picked up a paper that lay on a side table. "But still, this may mean something -"

"Just a moment," interrupted Cranston, picking up the telephone. "This is the first chance I've had to call my broker and find out how we made out today."

Cranston's phone call was brief. He looked worried as he laid the phone aside. Brenz in his turn appeared puzzled.

"Why call your broker so late?" queried Brenz. "The Exchange closed hours ago. Surely, he would have known about the market long before this."

"It wasn't the market," said Cranston. "It was a couple of horses. We wereboth playing the same daily double."

"And?"

"Exactly nothing," replied Cranston. "Funny, he called a lot of places without even getting an answer. But getting back to Sark. What about this message he sent you? What does it prove?"

Brenz pa.s.sed the paper to Cranston. It bore a roughly typed message, as though done in a hurry, by someone who knew as little about using a typewriter as repairing it, for the imprint was out of line.

The message read: I am in danger. I must see you. I can give you information, the very kind you want. Come alone to Thorneau Place at seven o'clock this evening.

If you think that prying into my affairs can help you in any way, you are welcome to try. I prefer to state my case in full to anyone who is prepared to listen. Are you?

It was indeed a curious message, but the thing that gave it weight was the signature "Alban Sark" that was scrawled boldly beneath. Cranston had seen that signature often enough, both on actual contracts and in the letters that Margo had delivered, to know that it was genuine.

The simplicity of Sark's signature was its validity. Though ragged, the man's writing of his own name was blunt. It was the hardest kind of signature to forge and Cranston was sure that this one wasn't.

Looking at Brenz, Cranston asked: "Are you going there?"

In reply, Brenz gave a smile that was a cross between mild and grim. He asked a question in return: "Would you?"

Cranston shook his head.

"Then add that to your collection," said Brenz, meaning the badly typed paper. "At least it is the only thing of any consequence that I am able to give you."

Pocketing the paper, Cranston started to the door. Politely, Brenz showed him the way out from the elaborate apartment. With all the servants in his household, Brenz found none available when he needed them and grumbled over the fact.

"These servants have their dinner while I wait for mine," complained Brenz.

"Half of them always seem to be taking an evening off. I have chauffeurs enough for three cars but only enough gasoline to run one. When my lease is up, I'm going to give up this apartment and move to my club."

Cranston agreed that it would be the best thing to do. But as he spoke, his manner was reflective. Brenz's servant problem was a minor matter, compared to Cranston's speculations. Realizing that Cranston's mind was on the message, Brenz said in parting: "At least we know that Sark is still alive. A dangerous man, Sark, too dangerous to tackle. It is obvious now that he must have framed that cab explosion himself, probably by planting a high explosive charge in his own luggage. Personally I intend to ignore the message, but if I can find Matthew, I.

might have Hugo drive him down there to see if anyone is around."

Matthew was Brenz's butler, Hugo one of his chauffeurs. Cranston had seenboth of them among the various servants who had been in and out during Cranston's brief visit at the apartment. But Cranston's own personal opinion was that the business at Thorneau Place, if important at all, would prove too important to be investigated merely in pa.s.sing fas.h.i.+on by someone's butler and chauffeur.

This was proven not only by the fact that Cranston's own limousine headed directly for Thorneau Place with himself as pa.s.senger, but by the fact that his trail was picked up by other cars, among them Shrevvy's cab. Cranston had a system with his limousine, which even its driver, Stanley by name, did not recognize, Stanley not rating as one of The Shadow's agents.

By ordering changes in route which meant odd stops or turns; by telling Stanley to increase or slacken speed, Cranston was able to signal when he wanted his agents to follow and how far. Thus when the limousine neared Thorneau Place and Cranston stopped it, ordered it further on, then alighted and finally dismissed the big car, half a dozen of The Shadow's staunch henchmen knew where he had gone although they did not see him go.

Merely stepping into sheltering darkness, Cranston enveloped himself in a cloak that he had been carrying over his arm. Clapping a slouch hat to his head, he became his favorite character, The Shadow. From then on he might have been a patch of night moving of its own volition.

In that brief interval before he became The Shadow, Cranston's figure was hidden by his own departing car. Even if a chance observer had glimpsed the tall form, be could not have sighted Cranston's face. It might have been anybody who stepped into that darkness and very shortly the gloom contained n.o.body.

The Shadow had gone to keep an appointment which belonged to Alban Sark and Philo Brenz, though the latter wanted no part of it. Now, even Lamont Cranston, self-appointed as a subst.i.tute for Brenz, had effaced himself from the scene.

Small wonder, for entering Thorneau Place was like going into a trap. The Place was shaped like a collar-b.u.t.ton and the interior, where it widened, was mostly a matter of, solid walls. Warehouses and other homely structures had replaced the old-fas.h.i.+oned residences surrounding this courtyard which was in effect a blind alley.

Brenz had only dimly recalled hearing of Thorneau Place, but Cranston had known all about it, though he hadn't expressed himself too volubly on the subject. A cul-de-sac of this variety was just the sort of locale that The Shadow considered in his plans. Some day - or more specifically some night - The Shadow had antic.i.p.ated that he might be in Thorneau Place under trying circ.u.mstances.

Tonight was the night.

As silent as he was invisible in the gloom, The Shadow pa.s.sed through the portals formed by two hulking walls. Here again, he was chancing that the whole surroundings might collapse, but he doubted that such would be arranged on this occasion. The Shadow was certain, however, that Thorneau Place had been turned into a trap.

Perhaps The Shadow could see in the dark; maybe he possessed that uncanny sense common to certain creatures, of distinguis.h.i.+ng obstacles that sightcould not discover. Whichever the case - or possibly just by some hunch - The Shadow paused at just the proper moment. Extending his gloved hands, he felt a waist-high object that he identified a sizable ash-can, its cover tilted loose.

The ash-can was heavy, but only because it was of st.u.r.dy metal construction. It was empty, as The Shadow ascertained by tilting it, very slightly, upon the cobbles that formed the paving of Thorneau Place. This obstacle had been set here just so someone would blunder into it and send it rolling together with its clattery top.

Half a minute pa.s.sed, with sounds so subdued that no listening ear could have caught them. Apparently The Shadow was making up his mind whether to test this trap or not; all the while he seemed to be on the point of trying it.

Then The Shadow did it.

Over went the big ash-can with a clanging thump, a roll that brought echoes from the cobbles. Instantly there was a response from low roof tops and high walls surrounding the court. Powerful flashlights hurled their beams, sweeping inward from the entrance to the courtyard, as though to comb in anyone who might have started out that way.

With the sweeping rays came spasmodic shots at clumps of darkness, probing those spots with bullets rather than await gunfire from them. At least half a dozen marksmen were surrounding Thorneau Place, intent upon eradicating the fool-hardy intruder who had defied their snare!

Men of murder were acting like marionette manipulators, their gunfire the strings with which they were staging a dance of death, in which The Shadow was scheduled to play the puppet!

CHAPTER XV.