And yet it's my belief -'
He paused. Impatiently, he picked up a newspaper and thwacked the front page.
'Any day, Burke!' he exclaimed. 'Any day, these pages may reek with horror! New death - new robbery! It's a dreadful responsibility, being police commissioner.'
As he placed the newspaper on the table, Weston indulged in a relieved smile. He pointed to a photograph on the front page. It showed a long, lean face, with high forehead; firm eyes gazed beneath straight brows. The picture was of Kent Allard, the lost aviator who was arriving home from Guatemala.
'There's a man for you, Burke,' declared Weston. 'Twelve years ago, his plane crashed in the jungles of Guatemala. He was crippled, helpless among a tribe of Xinca Indians; and I understand those savages are the most barbarous in Central America.
'Did Allard yield to those Xincas? No! Instead, he tamed them. He lived with them; ruled them. When he had civilized them to a state where they could govern themselves, he appointed a native as chief. A work of twelve years was ended, so Kent Allard came home.'
Clyde nodded his admiration for the famous aviator. The reporter was sorry that he had not taken the Guatemalan assignment; for Allard's return had developed into the most sensational news story in years.
It was due for its culmination today, when Allard arrived in New York.
There was a ring of Weston's telephone bell. It presaged one of the best scoops that Clyde had ever had as a newspaper reporter. Clyde did not know that, until Weston finished talking over the wire. The commissioner's face showed huge enthusiasm.
'Bad news and good,' announced Weston. 'The mayor is too ill to receive Allard when he arrives. I have been appointed to take His Honor's place. You can come with me, Burke.'
THEY met Kent Allard at the Battery, amid the greatest medley of chimes and whistle-blasts that had sounded since the Armistice.
Tall, limber, the famed aviator wore a solemn look upon his thin, bronzed face. He was as solemn as the pair of short-built Xinca Indians who had come back with him from Central America.
Weston and Allard entered an open car and Clyde joined them, much to the envy of other reporters who were on the scene. Allard spoke brief words to the Xincas; following his bidding, the two Indians went aboard another automobile.
The procession moved up Broadway, beneath a storm of torn paper that was streaked with ribbons of ticker tape. Thousands of windows were disgorging that man-made deluge amid the fading light of late afternoon. The shouts of multitudes rolled among the canyon between the mighty buildings; drowning the music of the band that led the parade.
It was that spectacle that only Manhattan can produce: the home-coming welcome for a man of recognized achievement. It was a titanic expression of modern approval that dwarfed a Roman triumph; yet Kent Allard received it with surpassing calmness.
His bows to the welcoming throng were properly timed. His smile, when he showed it, was genuine.
When the procession had passed the greatest tumult, Allard chatted with Weston and Clyde, showing no partiality between the commissioner and the reporter.
At the city hall, the aviator received the formal greeting and spoke well chosen words into a microphone, that was hooked up with a countrywide circuit. He observed the radio announcer's watch and timed his talk to the exact five minutes that had been allotted him.
Then came the trip to the huge uptown hotel, where a suite had been reserved for Allard. Attired in evening clothes, the aviator met Weston later and appeared as guest of honor to a huge banquet.
Clyde was still the commissioner's guest; and all through that early evening, the reporter marveled at the tireless manner of Allard.
The speech that Allard made was a masterful account of the Xinca Indians, from the days of their ancient myths to an analysis of their modern life and customs. It was agreed by all who talked with the famous aviator, that they had never met a man quite the equal of Kent Allard.
NINE o'clock found Allard back in his suite, with only Weston and Clyde present; excepting, of course, the two Xincas, who were Allard's personal attendants.
There was one point upon which Allard had dwelt but little; namely, how the Xincas had accepted him as the white god from the sky. Allard seemed to consider that of but little importance.
Viewing the two Xincas, both Weston and Clyde noticed how definitely Allard had modified that detail.
It was plain that the servitors worshipped their white chief; that every action they made was hinged upon his command. In private, Kent Allard was quite as amazing a figure as in public.
'I admire the way you controlled those savage tribesmen,' confided Weston. 'I wish, by Jove, that we could use the same system with some of the dangerous characters that rove our underworld!'
Allard's clear blue eyes fixed themselves upon Weston. The commissioner met a stare that carried a hypnotic strength. He began to understand how the lost aviator had held complete mastery over hundreds of natives for twelve long, continuous years.
'Criminals can be handled,' declared Allard. 'But they should not be compared with the Xincas. The Indians, though savage, are human. Some denizens of your underworld could be better defined as jackals.'
Weston agreed. He thought of Shark Meglo. He told Allard about the murderer, and the aviator added a comment. Shark, in his opinion, was a jungle killer, whose habitat happened to be the depths of a metropolis, instead of an impenetrable forest.
Finding Allard interested, Weston proceeded with further details; he discussed the quest for the master-crook who the law was sure existed. He told of the valuable advice that Madden Henshew had supplied.
WHEN Weston left, Clyde went with him. Allard sat in a comfortable chair beside the window, looking out over the lighted city.
His far gaze was reflective; he seemed to be feasting on his new view of New York, as if comparing it with the solitudes of the Jungle. He listened to the murmur of the city, so different from the noises of the tropical forest.
Meanwhile, the Xincas were prowling softly, their faces as stolid as ever. One moved out into the hallway, while the other waited at the opened door. When the first returned, the second went into another room. The first Xinca approached Allard and announced, in slow-toned English:
'The way is open, master.'
Kent Allard arose. As he crossed the room with his slow, long stride, he exhibited a slight limp. Both Weston and Clyde had noticed it. That limp was the result of a broken leg that Allard had sustained in his airplane crash. He had set the break himself; the fracture had not mended perfectly.
The first Xinca was at the hallway door, pointing to a fire tower that gave a clear path below. The second Indian came from the inner room, bringing dark garments.
Allard received a cloak and slid it over his shoulders. He slid thin gloves over his hands. The last article that he took was a slouch hat, that he pulled tightly upon his head.
Allard's limp ended as he took a long, gliding stride toward the fire tower. As he reached the darkened entrance, he turned. His shape was merged with blackness that matched his garb; all that the watching Xincas saw was the glow of burning eyes.
A moment later, the eyes were gone. A whispered laugh, delivered by hidden lips, marked the departure of Kent Allard.
An amazing thing had happened; an event so incredible that even Clyde Burke could not have believed it, had he been here to witness the whole occurrence. Kent Allard, returned to New York for the first time in twelve years, had transformed himself into the one personage that it seemed impossible for him to be.
Kent Allard had become The Shadow!
CHAPTER XIII. THE SHADOW'S STORY
IN New York, there lived a remarkable man named Slade Farrow, who was at home on this particular evening. Farrow dwelt in a modest little apartment; he was a kindly faced man, of gentle manner. There were times, though, when Farrow's features became stern and his eye showed snap.
Farrow was a criminologist, who had devoted his life to two fine purposes: the reforming of crooks who were within redemption, and the righting of wrongs done innocent persons, who had been imprisoned for crimes that actually were committed by others.
