Shadow's departure. He was leaving New York.
When The Shadow returned, he would come openly, without his garb of black. Often had he appeared in public, using borrowed guises such as that of Cranston. This return would be unique.
At last, The Shadow had decided to arrive as himself. The Shadow would be unmasked at last!
CHAPTER VII. WESTON WORRIES
FOUR days after the robbery at Silsam's, two men were discussing the details of that crime. One was Commissioner Ralph Weston; the other, Inspector Joe Cardona. They were holding their conference in Weston's office.
Usually, the police commissioner was wont to argue with his ace inspector. Weston's brisk, military manner conflicted with Cardona's style. Where Weston tried to be dynamic, Cardona maintained a poker-faced calm.
Swarthy of countenance, stocky of build, Cardona had a way of listening to Weston's ideas without committing himself. That was something that often irked the self-important commissioner.
Today, however, all was different. Weston's stare was far away. He sat silent while Cardona did the talking. The opportunity was too good a one for Joe to miss.
'We've gotten some results,' voiced the detective ace. 'We've linked the robberies at Silsam's with the past ones. We found the place where Shark Meglo headed, after he got away with Silsam's gems. There was a hole in the wall, where he shoved the swag.'
Weston was nodding, without vocal comment.
'Somebody picked up the gems from the house next door,' continued Cardona. 'Whoever he is, he's the big shot. The only fellow who could name him is Shark, and Shark's made a dive for some new hideaway.'
Weston's nods continued. It was Cardona's opportunity to drive home the wedge he wanted.
'I've got a hunch,' spoke the ace. He paused, expecting a glower from Weston, who invariably disputed his ideas. No objection coming, Cardona added:
'My hunch is that the big-shot is the fellow who sold the jewels to Silsam. They're the same gems that were stolen three times before, because the big-shot has been selling them over and over. Shark's job is to bring them back to him -'
Cardona stopped. For the first time, he realized that Weston hadn't heard a word. Something was wrong with the commissioner, and Joe couldn't figure what it was. Settling back in his chair, Cardona waited.
After a minute, Weston suddenly realized that Joe had stopped talking. With a shake of his head, Weston jerked his senses back to normal. He made a grimace which was his best attempt at a smile.
'I'm sorry, Cardona,' apologized Weston in a humble tone that was new to Joe. 'My thoughts were elsewhere. I'm worried, Cardona. Badly worried! I won't be myself until this trouble is off my mind!'
Joe looked puzzled. He had noticed that Weston had been in a hazy state, but had not supposed that the commissioner's brain was overburdened.
'There will be a visitor in a few minutes,' informed Weston. 'After I've talked to him, I'll feel better. You know the chap, Cardona. His name is Burke, reporter for the New York Classic.'
'Clyde Burke?' demanded Cardona. 'Say, commissioner, you aren't letting that news hound in on this jewel stuff, are you? We've been trying to keep what little we've got, strictly to ourselves. If Burke -'
'No, no!' interjected Weston. 'Burke is aiding me in another matter. I shall let you hear the details when he arrives.'
A BUZZER sounded as Weston spoke. Answering the call, the commissioner learned that Clyde Burke was outside. He ordered that the reporter be sent in. Soon, a wiry, lean-faced chap appeared in Weston's office.
Cardona knew Burke well, and liked him, even though there were times he didn't want the reporter around. Hence Joe and Clyde exchanged friendly handshakes.
Weston was quick with a query:
'Tell me, Burke - what have you learned?'
'Lamont Cranston is definitely in England,' replied Clyde. 'He left the London hospital yesterday and is coming home next week, aboard the Queen Mary.'
'You are positive of that?'
'Yes. Here is a radio photo that I ordered from our London representative. The shot shows Cranston, back at his hotel.'
Weston studied the photograph. It was Cranston, sure enough, with his head bandaged as a result of the airplane crash. Weston sank back in his chair. His voice was hollow as he declared:
'But I saw Cranston! With my own eyes - outside the Cobalt Club! And when Silsam called the club, he said that he had talked with Cranston -'
Weston's voice trailed to a worried mutter. For the first time, Cardona began to understand. He remembered that the commissioner had made hazy comments regarding Cranston. He also recalled a conference between Weston and Clyde, not long after the Silsam robbery.
It was obvious that the reporter had learned what bothered Weston and had promised to look into the matter. After all, it was something that a reporter could handle better than the police. In fact, Clyde apparently proved that with his next statement.
'It was Vincent who called Silsam's,' explained Clyde. 'He introduced himself as a friend of Cranston's; but when Silsam called the club, he still thought that Cranston had been on the telephone. Vincent hadn't reached Silsam's at that time.'
'But the man outside the club -'
'Was Cranston's nephew. The one that Stanley, the chauffeur, said was in New York.'
'But he was the image of Cranston -'
Clyde shook his head. He produced another photograph. It showed a face very much like Cranston's, but younger.
There were slight points of difference, that Clyde pointed out.
'Leroy Cranston,' named Clyde. 'From California. Nephew of Lamont. This picture was in the Classic files.'
'Then this was the man I saw?' queried Weston. 'But he recognized me, outside the club, and I had never met him!'
'He may have known who you were,' smiled Clyde. 'You mistook him for his uncle, but he did not have a chance to explain who he was.'
'But why did he disappear?'
'Probably because he saw his uncle's photograph on the newspaper you handed him. He was alarmed; he must have dashed for the telephone at the corner drug store.'
'But he didn't return to New Jersey. I called there repeatedly. The servants mentioned Cranston's nephew, but did not know where he was.'
Clyde produced a clipping that gave the names of passengers on a liner that had sailed from New York at midnight on the same evening that the robbery had struck at Silsam's
'Leroy booked passage immediately,' declared Clyde. 'He wanted to reach his injured uncle. By this time, he has just about reached England.'
WESTON'S smile was genuine. At last, the commissioner was satisfied. He called his secretary, to cancel an appointment that he had made with a psycho-analyst. Weston had actually believed himself a victim of hallucinations, and had decided that he needed the attention of a physician who specialized in treatment of mental disorders.
'You have my full thanks, Burke,' commended the commissioner. 'If there is anything that I can do in return -'
'There is,' put in Clyde. 'You can save me the trouble of taking a trip to Guatemala.'
'To Guatemala?'
'Yes. You remember Kent Allard, the aviator, who was lost a dozen years ago? On that flight to South America?'
'Of course! Have they found a clue to his lost plane?'
'Better than that. They've located Allard himself! He landed in the Guatemalan jungle, and became the white god of a tribe of Xinca Indians. A Xinca messenger has just shown up in Puerto Barrios, on the Caribbean, with word that Allard is on his way back to civilization. The Classic wants me to go to Guatemala and meet him.'
