not explain why the facts had been released in the first place. Behind that point, The Shadow could see intended crime as a motive.
More reports came by short wave. Agents had checked on Melbrun's building.
The exporter's office was on the sixth floor. Next door was a building that had
a roof on the same level, and also offered a view of a fire tower that showed a
rear exit from Melbrun's building. The adjacent roof was the very sort of post that The Shadow wanted.
The limousine was entering the Holland Tunnel. Turning off the radio, Cranston leaned forward and noted the clock on the dashboard in front of the chauffeur.
Reaching lazily for the speaking tube, he instructed the chauffeur to take
him to an address near Melbrun's building. The clock said quarter of six; ten minutes would bring the big car to its destination.
Cranston's leisurely pose ended as the car sped from the tunnel. His hands
slid open a drawer beneath the rear seat, whipped out a black cloak, which he whisked across his shoulders. Opening a flattened slouch hat, Cranston clamped it on his head. Drawing thin black gloves over his hands, this man of sudden action reached for a brace of .45-caliber automatics and slid them beneath his cloak.
A whispered laugh stirred the darkened interior of the car. Darkness had settled over the city, too, and it furnished the very element that this black-cloaked master wanted. Should crime be scheduled for this evening, it would find trouble in the gloom.
The Shadow, master of the night, was on his way to combat crime!
CHAPTER III
TWISTED BATTLE
AS The Shadow's car was nearing the vicinity of Melbrun's building, a shambling figure sidled in from the darkness and paused before the lighted entrance. He was promptly recognized by men already on the ground: the private detectives stationed by Melbrun. The arrival was Jake Smarley, the bookie.
One of the dicks acted as if he owned the building. Accosting Smarley, he asked him what he wanted. The stooped bookie whined that he was going up to Melbrun's office to see Mr. Kelson. He argued that Kelson would be there, because he always stayed until six o'clock.
From across the street, two plainclothes men shifted into sight. They recognized Smarley, too, and gave the private dicks a nod. Smarley, the bookie,
wasn't the type who could start trouble. It was better to pass him through and find out what he really wanted.
Upstairs, Smarley encountered another pair of watchers, who gruffly demanded what he wanted. When they learned that he was going to the offices of the United Import Co., they pointed out the door to him. As soon as Smarley entered, the dicks moved to the door, opened it a trifle and looked in on what followed.
The employees recognized Smarley and exchanged grins, with the exception of Kelson. The secretary was seated at his desk, wiping a pair of spectacles.
He squinted as he saw Smarley; putting on his glasses, he recognized the bookie. A squeamish expression promptly decorated Kelson's sallow face.
'Hello, Kelson,' wheezed Smarley, in an almost fatherly fashion. 'All through your work? We can have a little chat.'
'Not today, Smarley,' pleaded Kelson. 'I've got a lot of things to do for Mr. Melbrun.'
Smarley gave a sharp look toward the door of Melbrun's office, then inquired in a low voice:
'Is Mr. Melbrun still in there?'
Kelson nodded. He figured that it would support his argument. On previous visits, Smarley had always called up first, to make sure that Melbrun wasn't in. Since his business with Kelson was a personal matter, involving unpaid racing bets, he had not wanted Melbrun to know about it. But on this occasion Smarley went against form.
With an ugly, dryish grin, Smarley arose from the desk and turned toward Melbrun's door, saying, loud enough for the rest of the office force to hear:
'This has gone far enough, Kelson. You haven't paid me what you owe me, so
I'm going to take it up with your boss.'
'No, no!' Kelson rose, excited. 'I forgot, Smarley. Mr. Melbrun went out
-'
By then, Smarley had opened the private door. He peered into Melbrun's office, saw that it was empty. His face showed reproval, as he turned to Kelson.
'So you lied to me,' whined Smarley. 'Tried to trick a poor old man who trusted you. Look at me' - he tugged his pockets, turning them inside out; then
extended his hands, palms upward, letting them tremble - 'a poor old man who hasn't a cent of his own! Yet you owe me money and -'
'I'll pay it, Smarley,' inserted Kelson, anxiously. 'I'll let you have some cash, right now. Here!'
He pulled two ten-dollar bills from his pocket. Smarley eyed the cash as though he wanted to cry, much to the amusement of the other men in the office, who enjoyed Kelson's plight. In the hallway, the detectives closed the door and
went back to the elevators, laughing at the situation.
It was really funny, to learn that Kelson had played the races and lost to
a bookie like Smarley. Kelson was the sort who tried to act like a human machine, as though he didn't have a single fault or weakness. Having found out what Smarley's business was, the private dicks were quite willing to let him thrash it out with Kelson.
As for the office force, they were quite delighted. They disliked Kelson, and were finding out, to their great glee, why Smarley had come to the office other times when Melbrun was out, to hold conferences with the private secretary.
To their enjoyment, Smarley shook his head at sight of Kelson's twenty dollars.
'It won't do, Kelson,' whined Smarley. 'I want the full amount, two hundred and fifty dollars.'
'But I don't have it, Smarley -'
'Then you can give me a note for it,' inserted the bookie, loudly. 'A promissory note, for thirty days. You ought to have some of those in your desk
- the blanks, I mean.'
Kelson shook his head; then, deciding that a signed note would certainly end the frequency of Smarley's visits, the secretary changed his gesture to a nod.
'I'll sign the note,' he decided. 'Wait here, Smarley, while I get a blank
from Mr. Melbrun's desk.'
PUSHING past Smarley, Kelson entered the private office. Solemnly, Smarley
eyed the other office workers, and received their approving grins. Reverting to
his suspicious attitude, the bookie looked into Melbrun's office again; then, entering, he closed the door behind him.
It was done neatly, so naturally that the men in the outer office did not link Smarley's action to anything more sinister than a desire to collect money that was really owing to him.
Nor did Kelson guess Smarley's purpose. At Melbrun's desk, Kelson was writing out a promissory note; he scarcely noted Smarley, as the withery bookie
stepped past him.
There was a strong door in the rear corner of Melbrun's office; a barrier that was heavily bolted. Smoothly, Smarley pulled back the bolts. Despite his care, the last one grated, bringing Kelson around. Anxiously, Kelson gasped:
'What are you doing, Smarley?'
Whipping from his crouch, Smarley sprang for Kelson with a speed that left
the sallow secretary breathless. As he came, the bookie pulled a revolver from his hip. Reaching the desk, he planted the gun muzzle squarely against Kelson's
