"I informed your uncle of the details," declared Mallikan. "I followed your advice. I told him to do nothing for you. I explained that if your captors knew that you had a wealthy relative, they might spirit you away to some place in the interior and hold you for ransom."

"Which they would have, at the time. Well, it was all right temporarily after I was moved into the international settlement. But just the same, it was wise for Uncle Milton to forget me."

Mallikan chuckled at the remark.

"HE did forget you," observed the shipping man, dryly. "He told me he was going to cut you off in his will. I wrote the American consul about it. You probably received the message."

"I did," returned Callard, "and my uncle wrote the consul also. He said the same. I was disinheritedbecause of my so-called crime. Because I sided with those who were in the right."

"I suppose you did, Dave. But you were indiscreet; and indiscretion carries a penalty."

"Does it?" Callard arose from his chair; his question was a hot challenge. "I'm not so sure of that, Mallikan. Not if I knew my uncle rightly. I've come back here, Mallikan, believing that Uncle Milton simply played the game as I wanted him to do. I still think that he arranged some legacy for me."

Mallikan shook his head.

"I understand," he said, "that your uncle left his entire estate to charity. After all, he did not have much wealth. Less than fifty thousand dollars, I believe."

Dave Callard delivered a raucous laugh.

"You believed that, Mallikan?" he questioned. "Why no one who knew anything about my uncle's affairs would have let that joke pa.s.s. Uncle Milton was worth millions!"

"I never met your uncle," reminded Mallikan. "I merely talked with him over the telephone."

"What about his secretary?" demanded Callard. "Ba.s.slett? Didn't you have any dealings with him?"

"None at all. I never saw the fellow. Did he know much about your uncle's affairs?"

"Enough to know that fifty thousand dollars wasn't much to Uncle Milton."

"Why not look up Ba.s.slett then?"

"Perhaps I shall. I came to see you first; that was all. I thought that because of our old acquaintanceship, Uncle Milton might have confided in you."

Dave Callard had again seated himself. It was Mallikan who had now arisen. The shipping man was pacing toward the window. He stopped there to watch the boats in the bay. Mallikan shook his head as he heard Callard's remark.

"I received no confidence from your uncle," he a.s.serted. "When he stated that he intended to disinherit you, I considered the matter closed. As for Ba.s.slett, I never met him; and I have no idea where you could find him."

"I can find him," returned Callard. "I know where" - he paused as he eyed Mallikan's profile at the window - "that is, I think I know where he might be. I'll look him up later on."

"You arrived last night?" queried Mallikan, still staring from the window. "Aboard the Tamalpais?"

Callard started to speak; then caught himself.

"I came in on the Zoroaster," he replied, in a casual tone. "Docked this morning."

"The Zoroaster?" queried Mallikan, swinging in from the window. "That ship came from Pernambuco."

"I shipped on at Trinidad," explained Callard, rising from his chair. "Stopped over there for a week or so.

Well, Mallikan" - the young man extended his hand - "you have a busy day ahead. I won't occupy any more of your time."

Dave Callard departed. Roger Mallikan's keen features showed a frozen smile as the shipping man staredat the door through which his visitor had left.

Mallikan went back to his desk and began to busy himself with details. An hour pa.s.sed; a stenographer entered to announce another visitor.

"A gentleman named Burke," stated the girl. "He says he's a reporter from the New York Cla.s.sic."

"Show him in," ordered Mallikan.

A WIRY, friendly-faced young man was ushered into the private office. This was Clyde Burke, on the staff of the New York Cla.s.sic, one of Manhattan's tabloid journals. As a roving reporter, Clyde did double duty.

He was more than a newspaperman; he was secretly an agent of The Shadow. It was in behalf of his hidden chief that Clyde had come to interview Roger Mallikan; but he intended to camouflage the visit under his guise of newspaperman.

"Good morning, sir," said Clyde, briskly. "I'm from the Cla.s.sic; we're after a story on a young fellow named Dave Callard."

"Why come to me?" queried Mallikan, dryly.

"I looked up Callard's name in the newspaper morgue," replied Clyde. "Found that he shipped abroad a few years ago on a boat that your company controlled. We just learned that young Callard came into New York last night aboard the Steamship Tamalpais. Thought maybe you'd heard from him."

"The Tamalpais?" demanded Mallikan. "You're sure of that? Dave Callard was aboard that boat?"

"Certainly," replied Clyde. He drew a folded newspaper from beneath his arm; but did not open it "A couple of detectives saw him at the dock -"

"Dave lied to me!" exclaimed Mallikan. "He told me that he came in on the Zoroaster, this morning. I doubted his statement at the time."

"When was that?"

"This morning. An hour ago."

"He was here in this office?"

"Yes."

"Where is he now?"

"I don't know."

CLYDE BURKE unfolded the newspaper. It was the first edition of an evening tabloid. Mallikan stared at the headline to which the reporter pointed. It told of double murder; the deaths of Ralgood and Ba.s.slett.

"The police received an anonymous tip-off," explained Clyde. "After midnight. It brought them to Luther Ralgood's residence They found the bodies there; and they discovered a letter from Dave Callard to Luther Ralgood."

"My word!" gasped Mallikan, settling back in his chair. His eyes flashed as he stared at the reporter"Dave Callard mentioned Ba.s.slett here this morning. He said that he intended to hunt up his uncle's secretary."

"He knew where Ba.s.slett was," remarked Clyde. "Dave's letter to Ralgood was proof of that fact.

Ba.s.slett had written Dave in China."

"And Ba.s.slett was in the employ of Ralgood?"

"Exactly. That's why I'm here after a story on Dave Callard."

"You'll get one, young fellow." Mallikan reached for the telephone. "Stay right here and listen. I am calling the police. I am going to tell them all that Dave Callard said when he was here this morning. He deliberately lied to me after he found out that I knew nothing about his uncle's fortune."

Clyde Burke smiled in satisfaction as Roger Mallikan put in the call. The reporter felt that he had scored a ten-strike. At The Shadow's order, Clyde had gone through files at the Cla.s.sic office; in them he had made the discovery of Dave Callard's former acquaintanceship with Roger Mallikan.

Those headlines in the evening newspaper blared forth the fact that Dave Callard was being sought for murder. While the police were hunting blindly, Clyde had gained a lead.

That thought, however, was not the real cause for Clyde's elation. The reporter was pleased because he had performed an even greater duty. Clyde Burke was prepared to pa.s.s this news of Dave Callard's most recent whereabouts straight to his hidden chief.

The Shadow, like the law, would have another trail in the coming search for Dave Callard.

CHAPTER VI. IN THE EVENING.

DARKNESS had settled over Manhattan. Newsboys were shouting out the last editions of the evening journals when a tall, stoop-shouldered man hobbled into the lobby of an uptown apartment house.

This arrival was an elderly man; except for his limp, he still had a strong physique. The tight clutch that he retained about the head of a heavy cane was proof of his latent strength.

The stoop-shouldered man stopped by the window of a little office. His glance was nervous as he eyed the clerk who was seated there, reading a newspaper. The stooped man coughed; the clerk bobbed about and came to his feet.

"Good evening, Mr. Shurrick," he said with a nod. Then, glancing to a row of pigeonholes beyond the desk: "No messages for you, sir."

Shurrick nodded and used his cane to hobble to the elevator. The clerk returned to the desk and picked up the newspaper. He resumed his reading of the details that concerned double murder. A police hunt had been on all day. So far, it had brought no new traces of Dave Callard.

The elevator arrived back at the ground floor. The operator strolled over to the window and looked toward the clerk. The man at the desk turned about and tapped the newspaper.

"This is a hot case, Jerry," he told the operator. "They can't locate this young Callard. Funny, ain't it? A guy gets back from China; b.u.mps off two blokes and dives out of sight. You'd think he'd have trouble getting a hideout, wouldn't you?"

"Yeah," growled the operator. "It does sound sort of goofy. There's a stack of dough mixed up in it, ain'tthere, Bill?"

"That's what the police think. They say that anybody who knew anything about old Milton Callard would have known that there must be some gravy somewhere."

THE clerk flourished the newspaper and began to mark different pa.s.sages with his forefinger. The elevator man leaned over the window counter to listen.

"The police have got the layout pretty straight," explained Bill. "Old Milton Callard was a wealthy gazebo who kept his business affairs to himself. He had a lot of friends; but they were all big money men like himself. They didn't know each other even.

"Any one of those blokes would have guessed that Milton Callard's estate was a couple of million short.

Any one of them - like this fellow Luther Ralgood - who got b.u.mped. But it ain't likely that any of them worried about old Callard's dough. It was the nephew who wanted the money. He came after it."

Jerry chuckled; then nudged his thumb over his shoulder, toward the elevator.

"Maybe old James Shurrick was one of Milton Callard's friends," he observed. "Funny old duck, ain't he? Crabbier than usual tonight."

"He might be one of them," nodded Bill. "He's an old bird and he's well fixed for mazuma."

"I wouldn't be him on a bet."

"Why not?"

"Because of where he's living. That penthouse is on the thirteenth floor of this building."

Bill planked the newspaper on the desk and leaned back to chuckle at Jerry's display of superst.i.tion.

"How's anything going to happen to a guy up there?" questioned the clerk. "Shurrick don't ride to the thirteenth. Only to the twelfth. He walks up the stairs to the penthouse. How's anybody going to get up there to bother him, anyway?"

"By the fire tower. It runs clear up from the alley in back of here."

"It stops at the twelfth floor. It would be a b.u.m route for a get-away."

"Not if a guy was lucky. Well, Bill, there goes the elevator buzzer. See you later."

JUST after Jerry left the office window, another man arrived from the street. He was a tall man who walked with shoulders well back. Though well advanced in years, he looked younger than James Shurrick. The clerk looked about and recognized the man's dignified face.

The arrival was Courtney Dolver, an apartment occupant. Bill looked in a box marked 12 B and pulled out a small stack of letters; also a key.

"Here you are, Mr. Dolver," he announced. "By the way, when do you want your mail to be forwarded?"

"Not for another week," replied Dolver. "They've been very, very slow refurnishing my Long Island residence. Only the servants' quarters are fit for occupancy."

"Another week before they'll have the place fixed?" "Longer than that. A month at least. I shall not go to Long Island at all. I am taking a vacation at the end of next week. I intend to go directly to my lodge in the Catskills."

Pa.s.sengers were coming from the elevator, which had returned to the ground floor. Dolver entered and the elevator went upward. It returned a few minutes later; Jerry came to the office to resume his chat with Bill.

"There's a guy that ain't crabby," he declared. "You'd think that Dolver was a kid. Walks into the elevator brisklike, sets his bag down and says, 'h.e.l.lo.' Dignified gent, too."

"He's taking a vacation," informed the clerk.

"A manufacturer, ain't he?"

"Used to be. He's doing importing mostly, nowadays. Guess he found it brought in the dough just as easy, without the overhead. Smart fellow, Dolver."

A light glimmered on the switch board. Bill plugged in; the call came from a square marked 12 G. Jerry started back toward the elevator; then stopped short as he heard the clerk's excited cry.

He swung about to see Bill leaping from the desk. The clerk cleared the counter with one bound and landed on the floor beside the startled elevator man.

"That fellow Lattan in 12 G!" exclaimed Bill. "He heard shots from the penthouse! He's watching the hall and wants cops quick! Hold it, Jerry, while I holler to Jake at the door!"

The clerk dived out toward the front. The elevator man stood stupefied. Ten seconds later, he heard the pound of footsteps.

Bill came rushing back, followed by a uniformed policeman. The clerk pointed to the elevator; Jerry dashed aboard and slammed the door as soon as the pair had joined him.

"This officer was right outside," explained Bill to Jerry, as the car sped upward. "Jake's putting in the alarm; then he'll beat it around to watch the fire tower."