and his secretary, Crozer. This meeting at the conference room of the Amalgamated Builders might hold the secret of the riddle. Would The Shadow be there?
The hand wrote with the blue-inked pen. But the thoughts which it inscribed were in direct opposition to what might well have been expected. There was no mention of the meeting to be held tonight. The duty of watching that event could rest with the police.
Instead, The Shadow announced his secret intention of investigating a spot where he had been before; of going back upon a trail which the law had now abandoned. In carefully shaped characters, the hand inscribed this decision:
Tonight. The Club Janeiro.
The writing remained while silence persisted. The inked lines faded. The girasol sparkled as the left hand alone remained upon the table. The bluish light clicked out.
Amid the thick gloom of heavy darkness came a long, eerie laugh. The Shadow’s mockery sounded with its note of sinister understanding. It was a token of the unexpected; the cry of one who prepared a thrust into the weakest sector of the enemy’s lines.
Grim echoes caught up the awesome mirth and lisped the sound in sobbing whispers that persisted long. When the last touch of merriment had died, deep, solemn silence reigned undisturbed.
The Shadow, man of the night, had gone. From the depths of this mysterious abode - his unknown sanctum - he had set forth upon a new adventure.
While others chose to meet the menace of The Red Blot face to face, The Shadow planned a different course. Where The Red Blot least expected serious difficulty, there would The Shadow be!
Ominous had been the Shadow’s laugh. The tomblike stillness of the deserted sanctum carried a touch as sinister. A weird lull lay within this room. The weird presence of The Shadow had left its mystic spell.
CHAPTER XVII
THE PRELUDE
IT was after two o’clock when Dobson Pringle returned to the offices of the Amalgamated Builders’ Association. The girl in the anteroom informed him that a man had called, and left without giving his name; but that bit of news was not regarded as important by Pringle. The girl made another announcement, that was much more vital; namely that Felix Cushman and a friend were waiting Pringle’s return in the president’s office.
Hurrying across the floor, Pringle reached his own room, and found Cushman there. The man with the chief director was one whom Pringle immediately recognized - Detective Merton Hembroke, from headquarters.
As soon as Pringle had closed the door, Cushman motioned him to his desk and began to speak in a tense tone.
“I have brought Hembroke here,” he announced. “by arrangement with Commissioner Weston. Hembroke is the principal detective on this case; and he suggested that it would be well to make an inside inspection of these premises prior to tonight’s meeting.”
“An excellent idea,” agreed Pringle. “You mean that Hembroke will remain here after the office is empty?”
“For a short while,” returned Cushman cannily. “Every one will be gone by six o’clock. Hembroke can stay for an hour longer. But I would not deem it advisable for him to remain after seven o’clock.”
“Why not?”
“Because we must adhere closely to the terms of the demand. I am convinced, Pringle, that an emissary is coming from The Red Blot. As the hour for the meeting approaches, everything must be clear.”
“I can see no harm in Hembroke staying, “declared Pringle, in opposition to the director’s statement. “Nevertheless, my opinions seems to be considered of little weight.”
“The funds are arriving at half past eight,” resumed Cushman, summarily ignoring Pringle’s objection. “We must all be here by then - you and I and the directors. Right there is where we have scored against this criminal with whom we are dealing. If his spies are watching outside of this building, we shall be able to completely delude them.”
“How?” questioned Pringle.
“Commissioner Weston figured it out,” broke in Hembroke. “He has a great idea, Mr. Pringle -“
“Which is partly your suggestion, Hembroke,” interrupted Cushman in a commending tone.
“Credit belongs to the commissioner,” declared Hembroke. “I was there to talk it over with him - that’s all. Figure it this way, Mr. Pringle. How would anyone transport five million dollars?”
“Under police guard, of course.”
“That’s it. Well, the cash is coming up - in an armored bank truck. There’ll be police all around the place. As soon as the dough is in - away they’ll go. That will leave nearly one hour before the scheduled time.”
“But we aren’t all going, see? There’ll be me and Joe Cardona and a dozen other detectives all around this floor. That’s why I want to look over the layout. So I can arrange the posts.”
“Do you understand, Pringle?” questioned Cushman. “Our directors’ meeting will be in the conference room. No police in there at all. Everything in accordance with The Red Blot’s terms. But unless we get Selfridge Woodstock - there will be no negotiations completed. The agent will walk into a trap. The money will be bait. All will look fair; but we will be ready to snare him.”
“Well planned, Cushman,” stated Pringle. “Nevertheless, I still persist in my final decision of last night. Mark my words, Cushman; and I call you, Detective Hembroke, to be witness. We are placing five million dollars in jeopardy. We may lose all, and gain nothing.”
“We are chancing it,” said Cushman shortly, “and the odds are all in our favor. That’s final, Pringle.”
“It is a very good plan,” nodded the president. “It is quite natural that the money should be brought up under strong guard. Nevertheless, we might use blank paper, instead of real money. However -“
Pringle broke off and shrugged his shoulders as he saw an antagonistic glare in Cushman’s eyes. The chairman of the directors arose and conducted Merton Hembroke through a door at the side of Pringle’s office. This was a connection with a room which the directors used as an office.
The door closed behind Cushman and Hembroke. Pringle rang a bell for a stenographer.
IT was half past the hour before Dobson Pringle had finished with a mass of detail work. Pringle knew that by this time Cushman must have left, with Hembroke remaining in the adjacent office.
While resting in his large swivel chair, Pringle heard a rap at the outer door. He spoke; the door opened, and Carlton Carmody entered.
The white-haired architect closed the door behind him and sat down in a chair by the desk. He looked at the president with troubled eyes.
“What’s the matter, Carmody?” asked Pringle, in a kindly tone.
“I’m thinking of your worries, Mr. Pringle,” declared Carmody. “Last night troubled me a great deal. It wasn’t fair, the way you were overruled by Felix Cushman.”
“That’s part of my job, Carmody,” smiled Pringle.
“Things aren’t right, sir,” protested Carmody. “It impressed me that your opinions should at least have been given more consideration.”
“Cushman holds the whip hand, Carmody.”
“I know that, Mr. Pringle. Just the same, this situation has been bothering me all day. Of course, I can’t say anything - I was only at the meeting in case Mr. Woodstock had wanted to put questions that I could answer. But I feel that you have been treated unjustly.”
“Forget it, Carmody.”
“I’ll try to, Mr. Pringle. I’ve been working on those half-completed plans for the Soudervale Building - maybe they’ll take my mind from all this trouble. But it seems as though I can’t think of anything now but The Red Blot.”
“Don’t read the newspapers,” commented Pringle dryly. “Rather a hardship, Carmody, but advisable under the circumstances. Perhaps this trouble will be settled effectively tonight.”
“I hope so, Mr. Pringle.”
