The Shadow waited. A few minutes was all he needed to get rid of the police commissioner.
The time would be well spent, since the friendship between Cranston and Weston was one upon which The Shadow frequently capitalized when he wanted information regarding the law's angle on recent crime.
'Come into the club,' invited Weston. 'We can have dinner in the grillroom.'
'I have dined, thank you,' smiled The Shadow. 'I am on my way to keep an appointment. Suppose I meet you later, commissioner.'
'Very well.' Weston showed a flicker of disappointment. 'I wanted to talk to you about those jewel murders.'
'Has there been another?'
Weston purpled as he heard the question; then realized that it carried no sarcasm. Seriously, the commissioner shook his head.
'No new robbery,' he declared. 'But I am worried, Cranston. Those crimes have occurred at intervals of approximately three weeks. It is almost time that another might arrive.'
'That is why I asked my question, commissioner. Well, I hope to see you later -'
A shout from the corner interrupted The Shadow's quiet statement. A newsboy came into view, flourishing early editions of the morning newspapers. Approaching, the newsie repeated his leather-lunged cry:
'Read about th' big plane crash! T'ree Americans injured! Big Croydon plane wreck! T'ree Americans
-'
Weston interrupted by buying two newspapers. He passed one to The Shadow. Spreading his own newspaper, Weston read the huge headline that announced the wreck of an airliner leaving England for the Orient. A pilot had been killed; seven passengers injured. Among the latter were three Americans.
Weston saw a heading over a row of photographs. It bore the words: 'Americans hurt in Crash.'
Weston's eyes went to the pictures. It stopped on the central one.
There, staring from the page was the face of Lamont Cranston; below it, the name of the very man for whom Weston had purchased a duplicate newspaper, only half a minute before!
Spluttering his amazement, Weston turned to speak to The Shadow, saying as he did:
'My word, Cranston! Look at this photo -'
WESTON cut himself short. He no longer saw his friend Cranston beside him. It never occurred to the commissioner that his companion had noticed the photograph in the other newspaper. Nor did Weston realize that half a minute had passed.
To Weston, the effect was that Lamont Cranston had vanished into thin air. Then the commissioner's startlement ended. He decided suddenly that something was seriously amiss. He looked for the club doorman, saw the fellow standing with a taxi driver, a short way down the street. With a bound, Weston went in that direction.
Quick though he was, the commissioner did not hear the quiet words that came from the interior of the cab. Only the doorman caught those instructions from the pretended Cranston. Nor did Weston see Moe's action at the curb.
The Shadow's taxi driver displayed a cupped hand that held some folded bills. The doorman nodded.
'Where is Cranston?' bawled Weston. 'What's become of him?'
'Mr. Cranston?' queried the doorman. 'Mr. Lamont Cranston? I don't recall seeing him, commissioner.'
'What? Didn't you see me talking to him?'
'I recall that you were talking to some one, sir -'
'Bah! Is this a jest?'
Weston pushed the doorman aside. He wanted to look into the cab, but Moe happened to be blocking the way.
'Where's the tall man who was here a minute ago?' demanded Weston, as he faced Moe. 'He must have gotten into this cab.'
'Nobody in this cab,' assured Moe. With a shrug, he shifted aside. 'Take a look if you want.'
Weston yanked open the cab door. Looking for Cranston, he did not notice that the handle of the far door was turning shut. Moe was right, the cab was empty. That was because The Shadow, donning cloak and hat, had made a quick departure to the street.
Staring streetward, Weston saw the limousine across the way. Triumphantly, he shouted:
'There's Cranston's car! That's where I'll find him!'
Starting across the street, Weston could not see Moe slip a pair of twenty dollar bills to the doorman, who nodded his full understanding. Weston's eyes were on Cranston's chauffeur, Stanley, who sat at the wheel of the big limousine.
Weston was coming from the street side. Stanley's head was inclined in the opposite direction. As Weston arrived a black shape glided from the curb side of the car. Thrusting his face through the open window of the front door, Weston shouted at Stanley:
'Where is Cranston?'
'Mr. Cranston?' Stanley gaped. 'Why, he's in Europe, sir!'
Weston's anger was intense. He roared at Stanley, demanding to know why the limousine was at the club if Cranston happened to be in Europe. Stanley informed him that Cranston's nephew was living at the New Jersey mansion and had come into town this evening. Stanley had parked opposite the club because he could always find space there.
Weston did not believe the chauffeur. Enraged, the commissioner yanked open the rear door of the limousine and stared inside. Seeing that the car was empty he slammed the door and strode across the street.
Moe's cab was gone; Weston glared at the doorman as he went past. Stormily, the commissioner entered the Cobalt Club.
AROUND the corner, Moe was picking up a cloaked passenger. The taxi driver nodded as he heard new instructions. The Shadow's plans were changed: he could no longer afford to go to Silsam's as Cranston. There was time, however to use an alternate method that could block Shark Meglo's coming crime.
That was why The Shadow's lips delivered a whispered laugh for the benefit of Commissioner Weston.
The Shadow's ruse had been a necessary one. He had met an emergency with the utmost speed: and in so doing had kept himself clear to battle crime.
The fact that there were two Cranstons was something that The Shadow intended never to reveal.
CHAPTER III. THE SHADOW'S SUBSTITUTE
FIVE minutes after The Shadow had again become a passenger in Moe's cab, a young man received a telephone call in his room at the Hotel Metrolite. The young man's name was Harry Vincent; most of his acquaintances regarded him as a pleasant, keen-mannered chap who had a comfortable income and therefore preferred to live in New York.
In fact, Harry was frequently seen at some of the bright spots in Manhattan. That simply served to cover his real activities. Privately, Harry Vincent was an agent of The Shadow.
The call that came tonight was from The Shadow. It was relayed to Harry by Burbank, the contact agent through whom The Shadow usually sent emergency instructions. Burbank's news was brief. Harry hung up and looked at his watch.
Twenty-five minutes of nine. Harry could get to Silsam's Madison Avenue home in ten minutes by cab.
Without bothering to change attire, Harry made a prompt departure from the hotel.
During the ride, Harry smiled at one fact he had learned. In service, Harry was the oldest of all The Shadow's agents, with the possible exception of Burbank. Harry had long connected The Shadow with Lamont Cranston, and had suspected that the two were sometimes one. At last, in this emergency, Harry had been informed of the actual circumstances.
Harry's smile ended as he reviewed the circumstances that had produced tonight's mission.
The previous year had marked a large number of jewel robberies in New York. The police had slipped badly in certain cases; it was The Shadow who had finally brought criminals to justice. Meanwhile, wealthy persons had adopted the practice of keeping silent regarding any gems they owned.
They thought that was why crimes had lessened. From that belief had come new crime. A new group of thieves had teamed murder with robbery. The secretive methods of jewel owners had made it almost impossible for The Shadow to learn where crime was due to strike.
