The Shadow - The Shadow Laughs Part 2

"Yeah. You're a new man on the Gazette, aren't you?"

"Yes, sir. They just gave me a city job. Used to be an out-of-town correspondent. First time I've ever been in this place. Woozy, isn't it?"Griffith laughed.

"I never felt it that way," he said. "Guess I'm used to it."

He glanced around him, as though conscious for the first time of his surroundings. He realized that the place was indeed forbidding. The walls of solid masonry made it a sound-proof dungeon. The rows of trucks, a few of them occupied with bodies, lent a sinister aspect to the situation.

The detective noted that the reporter was sniffing, as though trying to recognize the peculiar, pungent odor which saturated the atmosphere of this hideous room.

"Formaldehyde," explained Griffith.

"Oh, that's what it is," replied the reporter, removing his hat, and displayed a shock of black hair. He shook his head as though to fight off a feeling of nausea; then he glanced toward the body of Frank Jarnow. The sight of the murdered man did not seem to annoy him.

"I've seen a lot of dead ones," he explained. "It wasn't that that bothered me. It was walking into the place with that smell of formaldehyde hitting me so quick. It seemed like I was out of the world, just cut off from everything.

"The lights are bright"-he looked at the row of brilliant incandescents-"outside of that, it's the gloomiest place I ever saw."

The reporter walked about the room, as though to familiarize himself with the strange surroundings.

White, blank walls on every side. He and the detective were the only living persons in this compartment where death reigned.

Bolton stopped, and then looked at Griffith, who was again studying the corpse. The reporter approached the detective, and also observed the lifeless figure.

"I don't know what kind of a story you're going to get here," said Griffith. "The story happened last night.

Seems like the papers always send men around after everything's over.

"Guess they thought the experience would be good for a new man like you. Otherwise I can't see what you're going to learn."

"Well," replied the reporter, "they like to get the story from every angle. I'm kind of lucky at that, finding you here. Maybe you've got some new opinion on the case."

"It isn't my case," laughed Griffith. "Detective Harrison is handling it. I'm just looking in on it, because it interests me."

"The Gazette heard that you might take charge," persisted the reporter. "The motive hasn't been established yet. It's an important case, even though the murderer is known-for Henry Windsor is well known in this town. So if you have any opinion-"

"None at all," snapped Griffith. "I keep my opinion to myself, young fellow. Harrison has the facts. See him."

"It couldn't have been premeditated," observed the reporter, ignoring the detective's antagonistic air.

"When Windsor fired that gun he gave it all away.

"Funny thing to do-use a gun up there. If he had intended to kill Jarnow, he could have stabbed himbetter-but he would have had to use a knife-from in back-"

DETECTIVE GRIFFITH laughed good-naturedly. The wandering talk of the reporter pleased him-for it was drawing the conversation from a touchy point; namely the shots that killed Frank Jarnow.

With his newly found clues, the star detective was anxious to avoid any interview concerning the murder.

So he interrupted suddenly, taking advantage of Bolton's reference to a knife.

"Did you ever see any one use a knife?" he asked.

The reporter shook his head.

"You don't know anything about it then," continued Griffith. "Stabs don't have to come from in back.

Look at this."

He lowered his right hand to his side, and half clenched his fist, indicating an imaginary knife. Then he swung his arm forward, and upward, directly toward the reporter's body. Bolton stepped back nervously, and turned half away, to avoid the sweep of the detective's arm.

"That's the system," said Griffith. "One thrust like that, and it's all over-if the man knows how to do it."

The detective was standing with his right arm still outstretched, a knowing smile on his face, as though pleased with his demonstration.

"Like this," replied the reporter suddenly. He swung toward the detective, and his right hand shot upward from beneath his coat, in exact duplication of Griffith's movement. But Bolton's arm was swifter, and amazingly sure in aim.

The detective emitted one startled gasp as he saw the flash of steel in the other man's hand. Then the long, thin knife was buried in his body.

With a grotesque twist, Detective Harvey Griffith toppled forward and fell across the body of Frank Jarnow.

The pretended reporter drew the blade from his victim's body, and calmly wiped it on the dead detective's coat. He did not seem nervous now; in fact he was extremely calm, and a contemptuous smile lit his sallow face.

He slipped the knife within his belt, into the sheath from which he had drawn it under cover of his coat.

Then he stooped forward, and his fingers quickly moved through the pockets of the dead detective.

His smile increased as he opened the envelope containing the articles which Frank Jarnow had once owned. He pocketed the envelope, and then rapidly purloined Griffith's notebook, and other articles of value.

With one foot, he drew a truck toward him; then rolled the detective's body upon it, and pushed the truck back to its position.

He opened a cigarette case which he had removed from Griffith's coat, and coolly lighted a cigarette. He studied the bodies that lay before him as a craftsman might admire his workmanship.

"You b.u.t.ted into it, Griffith," he said, softly. "I thought you were on the right trail. So you had to go too.

"I made a nice getaway last night-good enough to fool that dumb-bell Harrison-but Harvey Griffith was wise. Wise, but not cautious."You didn't have a story for a poor reporter, did you? Well, you've made one now. A better one than that fellow-"

He waved his hand toward the form of Frank Jarnow. Then, puffing easily upon his cigarette, the murderer strolled across the gruesome room, and ascended the steps.

Mike, busy at the desk, heard the supposed reporter stop at the door, and called to him without glancing in his direction.

"Did Griffith give you a good story?" he asked.

"No," was the calm reply. "I don't think he knows anything at all."

The door of the morgue slammed as the man departed.

CHAPTER IV. AN UNOFFICIAL REPORT.

IT was the morning after the murder of Detective Harvey Griffith. A round-faced gentleman with an amiable smile was at work in his inner office on the fifteenth floor of the Grandville Building, in New York. He was none other than Claude H. Fellows, the prosperous insurance broker.

To-day, this gentleman's mind was absorbed in unusual work. With large spectacles adjusted to his nose, he was reading through a newspaper. The columns in which he was interested referred to the murders of Frank Jarnow and Detective Harvey Griffith.

Methodically, Fellows transcribed important details to a sheet of paper. His careful eyes overlooked no salient fact.

On his desk was a stack of Philadelphia newspapers through which he had already read carefully.

Finishing the last one, he gathered up the entire pile and disposed of them in a large wastebasket.

Going to his personal typewriter, the insurance broker copied the memoranda that he had made. Back at his desk, he read the condensed report.

The top of the typewritten page gave such simple facts as the location of Mrs. Johnson's rooming house, and the Philadelphia morgue -the two places where the murders had transpired. Then followed two disconnected accounts: the first referred to the death of Jarnow; the second to the demise of Griffith.

The first trace of Frank Jarnow was when he called Henry Windsor by long distance from New York.

H.W. remembers the call. It reached him at the Civic Club; the operator there corroborates it. H.W.

claims to have made an appointment for eight o'clock with F.J., at the latter's room.

F.J. arrived in taxi at eight. Came in on train from New York. Taxi driver substantiates this. Went up to room, expecting H.W., who arrived fifteen minutes later.

H.W. had been drinking. Was unsteady. Went in room with F.J. Door was locked. Roomer heard argument between men. Words said by H.W. were "You'll be sorry for this."

Two shots fired at eight thirty. People broke into room. Time elapsed, nearly five minutes. Captured H.W. with gun. He tried to resist. F.J. lying dead.

H.W. accused of murder. Does not remember carrying gun or firing shots. Agrees he must have done it, however. Seems to be in a stupor. Being held by Philadelphia police without bail. His brother, Blair Windsor, Boston stockbroker, is expected to arrive in Philadelphia, coming from Ma.s.sachusetts.Only information on Frank Jarnow: Philadelphia bank teller. Good reputation. Left a week ago for vacation in Maine. Arrival home unexpected. Only relatives in California.

Detective Harvey Griffith arrived morning after murder of F.J. Went to house where murder had taken place.

From there to morgue to view body of F.J.

A man claiming to be a reporter entered morgue, and was alone with H.G. downstairs. So-called reporter left. H.G. did not come up. Half hour later, Mike Burke, in charge at morgue, went down and found the body of H.G. Had been stabbed to death.

Murder is attributed to Philadelphia crooks. H.G. was to testify on important case. Apparently good opportunity to get rid of him. Had many enemies.

Notebook and other articles taken from H.G., including envelope containing items in pocket of Jarnow.

This was given to H.G. by Detective Harrison, man on Jarnow case. Harrison had list of articles. None important, except eighty dollars cash.

Conclusion: No possible connection between two murders. All newspapers agree on this. Murder of Griffith has put Jarnow murder in background.

The insurance broker folded the typewritten sheet, and placed it in an envelope. He pressed a buzzer.

The stenographer entered.

"Take this to the Jonas office," directed Fellows, giving her the envelope.

He watched her through the door of his inner office as she picked up her purse and went through the outer door. Then, alone, his mind indulged in speculation.

He went back over the recent episodes of his life, and he wondered what the future would hold for him.

For Claude Fellows was the confidential agent of a strange, mysterious individual known as The Shadow-a man whose name struck terror into the hearts of those who dwelt in the underworld.

Who was The Shadow?

That was a question that no one seemed able to answer. He was an uncanny being who was capable of being everywhere; yet who also had the peculiar ability of being nowhere. His name was scarcely more than a myth among gangsters; yet they dreaded it.

Some had claimed that they had heard his voice coming through s.p.a.celess ether, over the radio. But at the broadcasting studio, no one knew the ident.i.ty of The Shadow.

He was said to have been allotted a special room, hung with curtains of heavy black velvet, along a twisting corridor. There, masked and robed, he faced the unseeing microphone.

A spy of the underworld had contrived to enter the broadcasting studio, to watch the door of the room that was supposed to be The Shadow's. Yet no one ever entered that room!

A crook whose specialty was wire-tapping had managed to secure a position as radiotrician at the studio. But even the most astute questioning of his fellow workers had brought nothing to light. Around the studio, The Shadow was almost as much a myth as on the outside.Only his voice was known. It might be that he broadcast by remote control, his voice coming to the studio by private wire. No one knew. Yet millions had heard the voice of The Shadow over the radio, and with it, his fear-striking laugh.

There were those who had met The Shadow. But even they had no knowledge of his ident.i.ty.

The only man who felt sure that he knew The Shadow's real personality was Claude Fellows-and he had gained his information during a period of emergency.

Fellows had entered the service of The Shadow in order to avoid financial failure. His only contact with the mysterious being was through messages which Fellows sent to an office in an old building on Twenty-third Street, east of Broadway. The office was apparently deserted. On its door appeared the name, "B. Jonas."

In return, Fellows received letters, written in simple code which he could read quickly. The writing was in a special kind of ink, which disappeared shortly after the letter had been opened.

The insurance broker was an excellent man for gathering detailed information. He followed all The Shadow's instructions perfectly. In return, he received a substantial salary, which came from some unknown source.

The Shadow was, of course, a man of considerable wealth. Fellows had recognized this from the start.

On one occasion, the insurance broker had gone to visit a friend named Lamont Cranston, a millionaire who had an estate in New Jersey, some distance from Newark.

He had gone in Cranston's limousine; and on the way, The Shadow had joined him in the car, and talked with him in the darkness-only to disappear when the automobile arrived at the millionaire's home.

But later on, Lamont Cranston had been wounded-in some mysterious fight. Fellows had gone to see him, and had secured the services of a wireless operator named Burbank, who operated Cranston's amateur sending station while the millionaire was incapacitated.

The Shadow worked by radio. He was a man with unlimited resources. Lamont Cranston had a sending station; he was a millionaire. So Fellows had smiled to himself, but had said nothing. He, alone, was sure that he knew the ident.i.ty of The Shadow.

Where was The Shadow now?

Fellows could not answer that. Lamont Cranston had been away for some time. He was a man who came and went as he chose. His servants remained in the house. They never discussed his affairs.

It was while Claude Fellows's mind was still considering the subject of Lamont Cranston that the door of the outer office opened.

"Come in!" called Fellows.