On the corner was a bank building. An Americanized Chinaman was standing in the doorway, counting checks that he had taken from a deposit book.

The Celestial who was following Clyde turned into the bank, nudging the other as he went by. The man at the door placed the checks and deposit book in his pocket. He took up the broken trail.

The subway car was rather crowded. Clyde did not notice the Chinaman who edged into a corner of the platform. But the yellow-faced observer kept his eye on the reporter. When Clyde alighted, theChinaman followed, reaching the street only a short distance behind The Shadow's agent.

Three blocks to the Hotel Albana, along a street that had opposite traffic. Clyde decided to walk. The Chinaman did not follow; instead, he stepped into a cigar store, entered a telephone booth and called a number. Like the man in the laundry, he talked in native singsong.

Pacing the side street, Clyde Burke looked behind him. He had gained the impression that he was being followed. All yesterday and today, he had occasionally felt that sensation. But as he glanced over his shoulder, Clyde curbed his qualms. He saw that no one was on his trail.

A FOLLOWER was soon due. As Clyde pa.s.sed the next corner, a placid, slight-built Chinaman stepped from the obscure entrance to a Chinese restaurant.

This Celestial had received the telephone call. He was taking up the trail. He followed it until Clyde entered the Hotel Albana. The Chinaman waited a few moments; then he entered also.

Pa.s.sing a cigar stand, the Chinaman shrank almost from sight. Listening, he heard Clyde inquire for Justin Hungerfeld; he saw the clerk nod and give the room number. The Chinaman watched the reporter head for an elevator.

There were telephone booths beyond the cigar stand. The Chinaman entered one and dialed. He, too, spoke in singsong; but among his babble of Chinese was a name that he repeated, as he addressed the person at the other end. That name was Leng Doy.

The Chinaman departed promptly after he had made his call. The yellow trail had done its work. Secret watchers in the employ of Leng Doy, Celestials who had kept their duty a secret even from Yat Soon, the arbiter, this chain of Chinese had functioned well.

They had watched Clyde Burke ever since the reporter had come into the limelight as the ace of the New York Cla.s.sic in the newspaper's search for friends of old Milton Callard.

Leng Doy, the crafty merchant, had guessed that Clyde Burke would be among the first to visit any man who might reveal himself.

Leng Doy had gained the news he sought. To him, by telephone, had come the name of Justin Hungerfeld, together with the present whereabouts of this missing man who had known Milton Callard.

Within some hideout, Leng Doy had won a triumph.

Where Leng Doy was, Dave Callard would be there also. The way had been paved for hidden action.

Aided by Leng Doy and the merchant's Chinese subordinates, Dave Callard could scheme to reach this new friend of his dead uncle.

The man whom the police sought for triple murder had gained an opportunity to deal with Justin Hungerfeld.

CHAPTER XIV. THE LAW'S TURN.

JUSTIN HUNGERFELD was in Suite 816. Reaching the eighth floor of the Hotel Albana, Clyde Burke followed a corridor, counting the doorways as he went. He pa.s.sed a hall that led off to the right; then he reached a service elevator, with a stairway beside it. The last door on the right was numbered 814 Turning back, Clyde took a few paces to reach the hall that he had pa.s.sed. He turned down that corridor looking to the left. After he had gone by a blank wall, he came to the door he wanted: number 816.

Clyde knocked. The door opened; the reporter stepped into the living room of the suite. There was a doorway to a bedroom at the left. The other chamber of this two-room suite was number 814, the door that Clyde had seen near the service elevator.

But it was not the arrangement of the rooms that impressed Clyde Burke. The reporter stopped in astonishment as he viewed the man who admitted him.

IT was Joe Cardona. A broad smile on his swarthy face, the acting inspector closed the door to the hall and motioned Clyde to a chair. The reporter sat down bewildered, while Cardona continued to grin.

Finally Clyde managed to ask a question.

"Where - where's Mr. Hungerfeld?" he demanded. "What is this, Joe? Some kind of a game? Have you pulled a phony on us?"

"Not at all," chuckled Cardona. "You want to see Mr. Hungerfeld? All right, Burke. Here he is."

Cardona nudged his thumb toward the door of the bedroom, as an elderly man stepped into view.

Though bent almost double, Justin Hungerfeld appeared spry as he came forward.

Parchment faced, with twinkling eyes and friendly smile, the old gentleman adjusted a pair of spectacles to his nose and thrust out a scrawny hand to the reporter.

"So you are Mr. Burke?" crackled Hungerfeld. "Well, well, young man, I am pleased to see you. I read your article -"

"All right, Mr. Hungerfeld," interposed Cardona. "Sit down a minute and let me tell the rest to Burke."

Joe waited until the old man complied; then turned back to Clyde. "You'll get your story, Burke, but you'll get it later. Understand?"

Clyde nodded, still puzzled. Cardona chuckled.

"Mr. Hungerfeld has been out of the country," explained the sleuth. "He engaged pa.s.sage at the last minute, aboard the Doranic. He's been safe because he's been abroad. At least it looks that way. But we'll drop that for the present.

"When Mr. Hungerfeld read the Cla.s.sic, here in his hotel room, he sent that note to your office. But a little while after that, he began to worry. He read through the newspaper again, saw my name mentioned, and called my office. I came up here."

"How long ago?" queried Clyde.

"An hour or more," replied Cardona. "I left word at the desk to have you come up when you arrived here."

"That's why I couldn't locate you at your office."

"Were you down there, Burke?"

"Sure. I was hunting for you, Joe."

CARDONA seemed to appreciate the joke. He laughed for a moment; then became serious as Hungerfeld started to speak to the reporter. Again, Cardona demanded that the old man say nothing.

"Here's the story, Burke," affirmed the detective, soberly. "Mr. Hungerfeld has something. I can't give you the details; I can't even tell you what it is. Not until later; but you'll be on the inside when it breaks.That's the commissioner's orders.

"The only people that he would let me telephone were Mallikan and Dolver, in case we needed them. As it turns out, Mallikan may be important. That's all that I can tell you; in the meantime, I'd suggest that you walk out for a while."

"Did the commissioner suggest that?" queried Clyde.

"He told me to handle you tactfully," returned Cardona. "He's all for you, Burke, but the news can't be spilled yet and you're likely to go berserk when you see a chance for a scoop. When Weston gets here, he'll chase you if he finds you around. If you scoot before he shows up, he'll be pleased."

"All right." Clyde shrugged his shoulders and looked at Hungerfeld. "Do you mind if I hang around in the lobby, where you can get me easily?"

"Not if you don't make a nuisance of yourself," agreed Cardona. "Duck out of sight when Weston comes in. He's due any minute now. I'll call you the first chance I have."

Clyde arose and started toward the door. There was a knock as he approached the barrier; Cardona scowled, thinking it was Weston. Joe reached the door and opened it; his face showed relief when Detective Sergeant Markham entered. Cardona nudged toward the hall; Clyde went out.

In the lobby, the reporter put in a call to Burbank. Cautiously, he told of his brief experience, gave the contact man the number of Hungerfeld's room and arranged to call later. Coming from the booth, Clyde lingered near the cigar stand, smoking a cigarette and watching the outer door.

He did not wait long. A car pulled up at the curb; from it came Commissioner Weston. The official entered the hotel and walked straight to the elevator. Clyde sauntered out into the lobby and chose a corner chair. Weston had not seen him.

Ten minutes pa.s.sed. Clyde decided to make another call to Burbank. He went to the telephone booth, dialed the number and spoke to the quiet-voiced contact man. Burbank's instructions were for Clyde to remain where he was. That meant that Burbank must have contacted with The Shadow.

Clyde Burke did not know that The Shadow was a.s.suming the role of Lamont Cranston; nor did he know that The Shadow had expected to meet Commissioner Weston at the Cobalt Club. Yet Clyde had a hunch that somehow, his information might have been useful to The Shadow. It had.

WHILE Clyde was still in the telephone booth, a leisurely figure came strolling in from the street. It was The Shadow, playing his part as Cranston. Burbank had called him at the Cobalt Club. The Shadow had called his limousine and had departed at once to Hungerfeld's hotel, knowing that he would find Weston there.

Reaching the eighth floor, The Shadow strolled along the corridor. His keen eyes noted the door marked 814, one that was used when the bedroom of Hungerfeld's suite was occupied alone. Strolling down the corridor to the right, The Shadow knocked at 816.

The door opened; Cardona's face glowered a challenge as it came in view. The detective gaped as he recognized the arrival. Realizing that Lamont Cranston was a friend of the police commissioner, Joe allowed The Shadow to enter.

Weston blinked from the center of the room. For a moment, the commissioner spluttered; then he demanded: "How did you come here, Cranston?"

"I was waiting to see you at the Cobalt Club," replied The Shadow. "Then I received the message that you had called from Grand Central Station."

"That's right. I ordered them to tell you that I could not keep the appointment."

"That was not explained to me. I asked where you might be. The telephone operator mentioned the Hotel Albana; also the room number."

The explanation fitted. Cardona had called the Cobalt Club at first; and Weston nodded, supposing that the detective had left information there. Cardona, however, looked puzzled.

He recalled that he had given the details to Weston when he had called the commissioner in Westchester.

He did not remember leaving word on his call to the Cobalt Club.

Cardona's speculation ended as Weston spoke. The commissioner had not forgotten his brusque dismissal of his friend Cranston at Shurrick's penthouse.

Neither had he forgotten his chat with Cranston afterward, at the Cobalt Club. Balancing those two events, Weston remembered the theories that his friend had so easily developed.

"You've come in contact with this case, Cranston," decided the commissioner. "You were with me at Shurrick's; perhaps you might have aided if I had asked you to accompany me to Dolver's. We are confronted with an unusual problem. Your opinions might possibly be of value."

THE SHADOW sat down as Weston gestured toward a chair. The commissioner took a seat behind a table and began to study notations that Cardona had made for him. Justin Hungerfeld sat placidly in a corner, while Cardona and Markham stood by the wall.

It was plain that the law had entered into a situation that promised real developments. Yet these were not the only factors in the game. The law and The Shadow were concerned with Justin Hungerfeld; so were the agents of another party. While Commissioner Weston prepared to hold conference in Room 814, men were gathering outside that suite on the eighth floor of the Hotel Albana.

Cautious, yellow faces were peering from the stairway beside the service elevator at the end of the main corridor. A stealthy figure was creeping into view: that of a Chinaman who moved in slinky fashion until he reached the side pa.s.sage. While a second Celestial waited at the stairway, the spy crept on until he reached the door marked 816. He listened, hearing voices that he could not distinguish; then sneaked back.

At 814, in the main corridor, the Chinaman paused and placed his ear against the door. Again he heard m.u.f.fled voices, less noticeable than before, but recognizable as the ones that he had heard at 816. The Chinaman's lips widened in a crafty smile. He had guessed that the two rooms formed a connecting suite.

Slinking back to the stairway, the Chinaman joined his companion. Workers of Leng Doy whispered as they sneaked downward. They were on their way to report facts that they had learned. Important news to Leng Doy; word that the Chinese merchant would pa.s.s to Dave Callard.

CHAPTER XV. THE THIRD RIBBON.

"WE are waiting for Mallikan," announced Commissioner Weston, from behind his table, in Hungerfeld's living room. "Before he arrives, Cranston, I shall describe to you the clue that we have found. Through this gentleman, Mr. Justin Hungerfeld, an old friend of Milton Callard." The Shadow shook hands with Hungerfeld. Weston rested his elbows upon the table and resumed.

"Some months ago," explained the commissioner, "Mr. Hungerfeld received a letter from Milton Callard.

In substance, the letter requested Hungerfeld to preserve a certain object that came with it, holding the same until the sixth of this December."

"The fifth of this December, commissioner," corrected Hungerfeld, in his crackly voice. "That was the date specified."

"The fifth of December," stated Weston, emphatically. "I must have misunderstood Cardona when he spoke across the telephone. Very well. Mr. Hungerfeld was told to take the object to the office of Roger Mallikan; to show it to Mallikan and wait until three such objects had arrived. Then Mallikan - according to the letter - would know what was to be done."

The Shadow looked quizzically toward Weston, who lifted an envelope from the desk. Out of the envelope, the commissioner brought a square piece of blue silk ribbon and handed it to The Shadow.

Upon the ribbon were two letters stamped in gold: R X.

The Shadow examined the cryptic ribbon carefully but made no comment. Still leaning on the desk, Weston resumed his emphatic discourse.

"I have talked with Mr. Hungerfeld during the past ten minutes," declared the commissioner, "and he believes, as I do, that this ribbon must be a key to certain wealth of Milton Callard's. Fifty thousand dollars was a ridiculously small estate for Milton Callard to leave. His wealth has been estimated as millions, despite the fact that he was canny about his affairs.

"Since two others are mentioned, it seems apparent that there must have been three strips of ribbon involved. It is not fanciful to suppose that the other two recipients of letters containing ribbons were Luther Ralgood and James Shurrick."

HUNGERFELD nodded as the commissioner paused. The Shadow spoke to the stooped man.

"You destroyed the letter?" he inquired, in the casual tone of Cranston.

"I did," replied Hungerfeld.

"Was it in Milton Callard's handwriting?"

"No. It was not."

"Was it in Ba.s.slett's handwriting?"

"I do not know."

Commissioner Weston began to stare as he heard The Shadow's third question. Despite Hungerfeld's indefinite answer, the commissioner had seen a gleam of light.

"If Ba.s.slett knew these three names!" exclaimed Weston. "That would have explained how David Callard gained them. But Ba.s.slett was killed defending Ralgood; Ba.s.slett could not have been the betrayer of a trust."

"If Ba.s.slett defended Ralgood, commissioner," interposed The Shadow, quietly, "he would scarcely have allowed Ralgood to be shot three times in the back while he stood by with a fully loaded revolver." Weston gaped; then nodded.

"We may picture Ba.s.slett threatening Ralgood," added The Shadow. "A struggle beginning between the two. Then the entry of the murderer, who delivered three bullets into Ralgood's body."

"But why did the murderer kill Ba.s.slett? His accomplice, by your mode of reasoning?"

"Because Ba.s.slett knew too much. He was the sole witness of a murder. His usefulness, moreover, had ended."

Again Weston nodded. Cardona's face showed agreement. The Shadow fingered the blue ribbon; then placed it back upon the table.