Cardona's gun arm was jolted upward. Two shots barked wide from Joe's revolver. The detective had no chance to fire again. He was locked in a fierce struggle with his foe.

The Shadow whirled swiftly from the corner. Skirting the shrubbery, he came swinging in through darkness. Less than twenty feet from the combatants, he could see both faces as they staggered into the range of the porch light.

Eye to eye, those fighters delivered harsh tones of recognition. For Joe Cardona and his antagonist had met before. The man who was battling the detective was Dave Callard!

The fray was equal; but The Shadow could see its nearing finish. He was not the only person who had become a witness to the struggle.

Weston's chauffeur was springing up to the portico; revolver in fist, the uniformed man was coming to Cardona's aid. But before the rescuer arrived, Cardona and Callard went tumbling forward. They jounced a corner pillar; then plunged headfirst into the darkness of the bushes beside the porch.

As the chauffeur arrived and flashed his light, Dave Callard came up from the ground. With a mad leap, the man from China sprang off toward the front hedge, cutting across at an angle. Cardona's head had b.u.mped the pillar; the ace detective was rising groggily to look about for his a.s.sailant.

THE SHADOW had come to motion. With a swift swish, he was turning to follow the course of the fleeing man. Hard on Callard's heels, he was picking up the trail.

But as The Shadow moved in his new direction, another flashlight gleamed. Its sudden ray came from less than twenty feet away. Its ray gave momentary revelation of The Shadow's figure.

Partridge and Cray had come around the corner of the house, brought by the sound of Cardona's shots.

Partridge had seen Callard. He had flashed the light toward the fleeing man; the beam had shown The Shadow instead.

In that pa.s.sing glimpse, Partridge thought that he had spotted Dave Callard. So did Cray, who was in advance of his fellow servant. Already cutting across to block Callard, Cray pounced toward the spot where he had glimpsed the fading shape of The Shadow.

The servant was lucky in the darkness. His pounce brought him squarely upon the cloaked intruder. Cray grappled with The Shadow, shouting to the others for aid.

Dropping his rifle, a useless weapon in this combat, Cray struggled furiously as Partridge bounded forward with the light.

The glare showed Cray's back; beyond the fighting servant, The Shadow. Again, the glimpse was only momentary; for Cray's broad shoulders obscured Partridge's vision. Rifle in one hand as a cudgel, flashlight in the other, Partridge hurled himself forward in hope of downing Cray's antagonist.

The Shadow saw Partridge's spring. With a terrific snap, he brought his body upward. In that one coup, The Shadow eliminated two a.s.sailants. First, Cray. The Shadow had caught the fellow in a jujutsu hold. Then Partridge. With mammoth power, The Shadow sent Cray hurtling through the air, straight into the path of Partridge's light, squarely upon the springing man who was coming with rifle swinging.

As Cray, his arms spread wildly, came down, he flattened Partridge on the lawn. Rifle went in one direction, flashlight in the other.

All this had happened before Cardona and the chauffeur could make a move. Joe, gripping his revolver as he stood beside the pillar, had gained no real view of Cray's a.s.sailant. The detective thought that it must be Callard.

Raising his gun, Joe blazed bullets through the darkness. The slugs found no target. The Shadow had wheeled away through the night before Cardona had managed to begin his hurried aim.

The chauffeur was flashing his light across the lawn. It showed the front hedge, through which Dave Callard had fled. But it gave no sign of The Shadow. He had abandoned Callard's trail to choose strategy of his own.

Silent but swift in the darkness, he had cut back to the one spot where none would expect to find him.

He was choosing the shelter of the house.

Cardona and the chauffeur were on the move. Cray and Partridge had regained their feet. Flashlights were sweeping the hedge as the four hurried across the lawn.

The Shadow glided easily into the shrubbery beside the portico. From that vantage point, he could view the actions of those whom he had so cleverly eluded.

FROM two hundred yards away came the roar of a motor. At the hedge, Cardona pointed out tiny lights of an automobile that was pulling away from a lane down the road. Dave Callard was making a get-away.

Partridge and Cray raised their rifles and fired after the disappearing car. Their bullets were wide; the automobile pa.s.sed from view.

A whispered laugh from The Shadow as he heard the servants growl because of their ineffective shots.

Neither Partridge nor Cray were competent marksmen.

Suddenly Cardona's gruff voice sounded. The detective was pointing off past Weston's car. Beyond the side hedge were the moving lights of another automobile.

The car was coming along a little lane. It rounded the corner of the hedge, rolled to the front drive and entered. The four men watched it pull up by the portico.

An anxious face peered from the window as Cardona approached. The detective recognized Mallikan.

The shipping man smiled weakly as he identified Cardona.

"I lost my way," explained Mallikan, stepping from his coupe. "I found myself on the side lane in back of the house. I heard shots as I came along. Did you have trouble here?"

"Yes," returned Cardona. "Callard took a pot-shot at Dolver. By rights, he ought to have cut across the lawn to that side lane you came along. Instead, he was out front here."

"He managed to get away?"

"Yes. You almost ran into him." Mallikan's face showed a worried expression in the light of the portico.

"That would have been bad," decided the shipping man. "I carry no revolver of my own; I have no permit and I know nothing about firearms. I am glad that I did not encounter Dave Callard."

Cardona led the group back to the house. The chauffeur was beside him, with Mallikan. The Shadow then glided from his hiding place, took a swift turn in the opposite direction and started around the house.

When he neared the little side door where he had first seen Partridge, The Shadow stopped and crouched by the gloom of the wall. Sheltered under the wing of the house, he saw men who were standing there.

Commissioner Weston was holding the bra.s.s candelabrum. Beside him were Courtney Dolver and Clyde Burke. Lessing was there also; under his right arm, the servant held his rifle; from his left hand he gingerly dangled a gleaming revolver.

CARDONA and the others were arriving. Weston nodded a greeting to Mallikan; then spoke to the detective. As he did so, the commissioner reached over and took the revolver that Lessing was holding.

"Lessing found this by the bay window," explained Weston. "It is a revolver of .38 caliber; one cartridge is empty. It is the gun from which the bullet was fired. Luckily, the a.s.sa.s.sin missed his opportunity. The bra.s.s candelabrum stopped the shot."

"We ran into Callard out front," stated Cardona "He got away from me; then managed to shake off Partridge and Cray. That was what all the shooting was about."

"You exchange shots with him, Cardona?"

"No. We fired after him. He didn't use a gun at all. I guess this revolver you found explains why. He dropped it, like he did with the gat at Shurrick's."

Weston nodded. He saw Mallikan looking toward Dolver; so he introduced the pair. Dolver's face showed pallor; but the importer managed to frame a weak smile.

"It's too bad you didn't see Callard," said Mallikan to Dolver. "You might have been able to identify him with your a.s.sailant at the penthouse."

"I never saw his face," returned Dolver. "That is, no more than his chin. It was a rugged one; rather square."

"Like mine," nodded Mallikan, rubbing his own jaw.

"Yes," agreed Dolver, "and he was about your build, Mr. Mallikan. Broad-shouldered; perhaps taller, but that I could not say. He seemed to be crouched."

"That answers Callard's description," a.s.sured Mallikan. "Well, Mr. Dolver, you have been fortunate. So for that matter, have I. If I had not lost my way here, I might have run squarely into Dave Callard."

"You came in by the lane?"

"Yes. I stopped some distance back to take my bearings; then came along."

Weston ended the conversation by suggesting that the group go into the house. Cardona was grumbling because the revolver found by Lessing bore no fingerprints. The group entered the side door; the portalclosed, lights went out. Full darkness reigned beside the house.

Totally obscure, The Shadow moved across the lawn. His vigil here was ended for the present; for he knew that police would now patrol the grounds. Further details would come from Clyde Burke; points that would be discussed within the house.

Weird despite its repressed mirth, The Shadow's laugh whispered presagement through the thickness of the dark night. His dark form blended with the darkness, vanished.

CHAPTER XIII. THE NEW TRAIL.

Two days had pa.s.sed since the developments at Dolver's. It was a crisp, clear afternoon in New York.

Shouting newsboys no longer cried out their tale of murder. A lull had gripped the law in its search for Dave Callard.

Yesterday, the affray at Dolver's had made front page headlines. Today, other news dominated the journals. All except the New York Cla.s.sic. That sheet alone persisted in its efforts to make news about the murders that the police had pinned on Dave Callard.

Boxed on the front page of the Cla.s.sic was the same request that had been printed two days before. A call for friends of Milton Callard to show themselves.

Clyde Burke had a story in the Cla.s.sic also; one that carried his own byline. Other journals did not copy; since Clyde alone had been close to events at Dolver's. The story had been a Cla.s.sic scoop. Rival newspapers preferred to ignore the details after one printing, rather than call attention to the triumph of the Cla.s.sic.

IN contrast to the bright daylight of Manhattan, there was darkness in a certain room: The Shadow's sanctum. This was a spot where daylight never penetrated; a place that was thick with solid gloom. Amid the hushed walls came a click; the bluish light appeared above the corner table.

The Shadow's hands arrived. They opened envelopes and slid out written reports and clippings. The Shadow began a brief survey of events. Among the clippings was Clyde Burke's story of the attempt on Dolver's life.

One point, alone, was of interest. The chalk marks on Dolver's window shade had been deciphered.

Roger Mallikan had seen them; the shipping man had shown some knowledge of Chinese because of extensive foreign correspondence. He had interpreted the characters as a simple Chinese proverb.

The crudely formed chalk marks linked with Dave Callard. The hunted man had lived in China; he had worked for native interests in his attack on the Chu-kiang pirates. Had Callard entered Dolver's house and made those marks? If so, why?

The police had no answer. Whoever might have come in the window while the room was empty could also have decided to leave a marker for some other expected intruder. That was the only logical explanation.

Perhaps a more effective attempt on Dolver's life might have been planned beforehand. The arrival of Weston and Cardona would naturally have changed matters. One theory was that Callard had hoped to abduct Dolver; but had been forced to give up the idea after representatives of the law appeared.

THE SHADOW pressed clippings aside. Into the light came a piece of rope, looped and with ends already tied. It was a replica of the coil that had bound Courtney Dolver, that night at the penthouse. The Shadow slipped his wrists into the coils. Cloaked arms came beneath the light and added to the twists. Muscles pressed; the slack disappeared and the knots tightened. Carefully, The Shadow managed to work the coils from his arms, before they became too great a restraint.

This test proved what had been said before; that Dolver's struggles had only served to bind him further.

These knots were a tribute to the craft of the man who had devised them. The Shadow tossed the rope aside. Into the light he brought a bra.s.s candelabrum, similar in size to the one at Dolver's.

The Shadow moved away into the darkness of the room, leaving the candelabrum standing beneath the light. Suddenly a pistol shot rifled through the gloom of the sanctum. With that flash of flame in darkness, the slug from a .38 clanged hard against the center of the branched candlestick and sent the object banging to the floor beyond the table.

The Shadow had made a demonstration of his own. He had duplicated that shot from the dark, using a gun of the same caliber. Stepping past the table, he found the candelabrum in the dark and brought it back to view.

The Shadow's duplicate shot against an unheld candelabrum had sent the loose bra.s.s stand clear of the table. Had Dolver's candlestick been wavering in his hand, it might have done no more than deflect the bullet instead of stopping it. The Shadow knew, from experience, what damage a ricochet shot could do.

His tests completed, The Shadow began quick notations. His words were pointed as he inked them in blue fluid, that faded after drying. The Shadow was a.n.a.lyzing a chain of crime. He was marking off points that concerned ways of murder.

Ralgood - Ba.s.slett - Shurrick - the deaths of those three conformed. Each had been riddled with three or more bullets, fired from close range. Every man had been eliminated up to that point. Then came the case of Dolver. He had been spared.

But why had only one shot been fired? Why had the gun been dropped? Neither point was consistent with past occurrences. Three men had been riddled at close range; yet only one shot had been delivered at Dolver.

The darkness had allowed a chance for the .38 to be emptied point-blank. Dropping the gun had been folly, since it still contained useful cartridges. That revolver, moreover, gave no blind trail. Instead, the police had linked the dropping of a gun at Shurrick's with the same action at Dolver's.

Joe Cardona had encountered Dave Callard in front of the house. Callard had engaged in slugging tactics. Apparently, he had been weaponless, or had chosen not to draw a revolver if he had one.

Again, the facts were inconsistent. Why had Callard lingered by the house when he could have fled across the lawn? The time element had been in his favor; unready with a gun, he should certainly not have tarried.

THE final notations faded. The Shadow's laugh rang out amid the sanctum. In his inscription of these inconsistencies, The Shadow had merely noted facts that he had already a.n.a.lyzed. From confusion of circ.u.mstances, he had long since produced an answer to those seeming perplexities.

The tiny bulb glittered on the far wall. The Shadow took the earphones to receive a report from Burbank.

Clyde Burke had just left Joe Cardona's office. He had been waiting there an hour for the detective.

He was going back to the Cla.s.sic. Clyde was now off duty. The Shadow's turn had come. As Lamont Cranston, he intended to drop in on Commissioner Weston, who was expected at the Cobalt Club. There was still time before that appointment. As a final action in the sanctum, The Shadow again reviewed reports.

He noted that a police guard was on duty at Courtney Dolver's, and that the importer was keeping close to his Long Island home. Also that Roger Mallikan was accompanied by two detectives, who served as bodyguards wherever the shipping man went. Weston had seen to this protection immediately after the trouble at Dolver's.

SOME distance from the location of The Shadow's sanctum, Clyde Burke was entering a large, old-fashioned building, the home of the New York Cla.s.sic. The reporter took an elevator. He reached the reporter's room. There he saw the city editor beckoning. As Clyde approached, his superior nudged him toward the managing editor's office.

Clyde entered to find the M.E. pacing the floor beside his desk. At sight of the reporter, the managing editor s.n.a.t.c.hed up an opened letter and held it in front of Clyde. He exclaimed excitedly: "We've been waiting for you, Burke! This came in only ten minutes ago. From one of old Milton Callard's friends."

"Who is he, boss?"

"A man named Justin Hungerfeld. Came in this morning from Europe. On the Doranic, from England.

Saw our statement and sent this note by messenger."

"Where is he?"

"At the Hotel Albana. Waiting to see our representative. That means you. Get on it quick, Burke."

Clyde s.n.a.t.c.hed the letter from the managing editor's hand. The reporter skidded from the office, caught the elevator and rode down to the street. Clamping his hat on his head, he hurried around a corner; then stopped suddenly and ducked into a small drug store, to put in a call to Burbank.

His report made, Clyde came from the store. He looked about and saw no taxicabs. He decided that the subway would be best. Clyde started off at a brisk pace.

Eyes noted that fact. Sharp eyes that peered through slitted, yellow lids. They were the eyes of a Chinaman, watching from a laundry across the narrow street.

The Celestial saw Clyde's direction; then went back to a rear room, picked up a telephone and solemnly dialed a number. He spoke singsong orders in Chinese; then hung up.

AS Clyde neared the subway, he pa.s.sed a dingy-looking house that had a bas.e.m.e.nt entrance. A short, lightly built man was locking the lower door, his back turned toward the street. As soon as Clyde was by, this man turned around. A Chinese face showed above his American garb.