The officer didn't dispute the story. He remembered that someone had been shooting in his behalf. But when he had taken a look under the truck, the officer changed his opinion.
'You were seeing things,' he told the truck driver. 'Nobody's under the wheels.'
'If he dropped quick enough,' expressed the truck driver, hopefully, 'he could've flattened in the center.
Maybe he crawled out in back.'
'There's nobody in back. Nor anywhere around here, either. Except those guys that got what was coming to them.'
'Maybe we ought to take more of a look -'
'I'll attend to that. Get along with you!'
The truck rumbled along the avenue. The puzzled driver heard nothing further, for the roar of the truck's motor drowned other sounds. It was the traffic officer, still at the corner, who caught the strange tone that followed.
It was the strain of a weird laugh; a trailing mockery that carried triumph as it dwindled into uncanny echoes. It was unreal, ghostly. The cop couldn't understand it. He stared about, but saw no one. He was puzzled by the way the mirth had faded into the distance.
There was a simple explanation, but the officer didn't guess it. The departing laugh had come from the interior of the truck. Entering through the open back, The Shadow had chosen that vehicle to carry him from the scene of battle.
Mobsters had taken cover; The Shadow had found no reason to remain. He was traveling elsewhere, in the hope that he might find another trail to men of crime.
CHAPTER VIII. CRIME'S PURPOSE
LATER that same evening, a group of men were gathered in the apartment recently tenanted by James Mandor. One man, brusque of manner, with short-clipped mustache, was seated at Mandor's desk. He was well- known in New York, for he was the city's police commissioner, Ralph Weston.
Another man, stocky of build, swarthy of complexion, was making a careful survey of the premises. He, too, had a reputation as an active worker against crime. He was Joe Cardona, ace of police inspectors.
A detective entered to announce that Mr. Lamont Cranston had arrived. Soon, Commissioner Weston was shaking hands with the tall, hawk-faced personage who had so recently been garbed in black.
Weston, however, had no inkling that this being who posed as Cranston was actually The Shadow.
There was a real Cranston, but he was seldom in New York. When Cranston was away, The Shadow frequently adopted his personality. It served him well, especially in meeting with the police commissioner.
'Hello, Cranston!' greeted Weston. 'Glad you received my message at the Cobalt Club. I wanted to see you, to learn if you know anything about James Mandor.'
'I have met him a few times,' returned Cranston, casually, 'but I know very little concerning him. What has happened to Mandor?'
'Another case of this sleeping sickness. A servant of Mandor's found him here, a short while ago. The third victim in two days.'
'How does that come under your jurisdiction, commissioner? I should consider it a matter that concerned the health authorities.'
Weston grumbled that it did. He said that Mandor had already been removed to a hospital. After that, he added:
'It was Inspector Cardona who thought we ought to come here.'
Cardona nodded wisely.
'There was some shooting early this evening,' the inspector told Cranston. 'It took place near a building where Brellick had his offices.'
'Brellick?' Cranston queried the name in puzzled tone.
'Yes. Martin Brellick,' returned Cardona. 'One of the sleeping sickness victims. I figured there might be a link. So when I learned that Mandor had succumbed to the same ailment, I suggested that we come here.'
Turning, Cardona nudged toward Mandor's safe.
'We want to see the inside of that box,' he declared. 'If it's been rifled, we'll know that crooks are in back of it. We're getting the combination, through Mandor's lawyer. We just learned that he has it tucked in a safe-deposit box, in case of emergency.'
WHILE they waited, Cardona went through papers that he had taken from the desk and the filing cabinet. He shook his head; so far, there had been no evidence pointing to crime.
Mandor's attorney arrived. He had the combination of the safe. He opened it and Cardona took a look inside. Disappointment registered on the inspector's face when he saw that the interior was shipshape.
Sight of big bundles of currency convinced him that his guess was wrong.
'I guess that settles it, commissioner,' Cardona told Weston. 'I'll forget this sleeping sickness business.
Only I had sort of a hunch -'
'You have too many hunches!' snapped Weston. 'I've told you that often, Cardona. Put things back where you found them.'
While Weston was apologizing to the lawyer, Cardona closed the safe and locked it. He came to the desk, found Cranston there. The commissioner's friend seemed sympathetic. He handed Cardona items that the inspector promptly sorted and put where they belonged.
At one corner of the desk lay a pile of objects: paperweights, match boxes, pencils, tubes of paste.
Cardona had rummaged them from a top drawer on the left. As Cranston passed them to the inspector, he came upon a square of black substance that looked like a chunky eraser.
There was something in the feel of that substance that caused Cranston to hold it. Handing Cardona other items, Cranston reached into his pocket, brought out a pack of cigarettes. With that action, he left the rubbery square in his pocket.
From then on, there was a meditative glint in Cranston's usually complacent eyes. At times, his hand slipped into his pocket, to finger the prize that he had acquired.
When they left Mandor's, Cranston made a telephone call from a booth in the lobby. After that, he rode to the Cobalt Club in the commissioner's official car. They had a light supper in the grillroom.
Weston was the first to leave; Lamont Cranston sat alone. Three names linked themselves in The Shadow's thoughts: Thurnig, Brellick, Mandor.
In tracing them, The Shadow had cut closer to the center of crime. In Thurnig's case, he had gained a mere clue. Checking on Brellick, The Shadow had found more, and with it, had battled crooks who had come to cover the trail.
As regards to Mandor, brief minutes were all that had prevented The Shadow from effecting a rescue; he had arrived on the scene during the completion of crime itself.
Unfortunately, The Shadow had lost the trail of the crooks concerned. He had recognized Cobber; but the thug was dead. So was another - Ludy - who probably could have talked plenty.
Ludy, at least, had provided The Shadow with some information. The Shadow had not forgotten that speech at the traffic light. Ludy had stated that finishing The Shadow was to be the last of the gas jobs, and it fitted with The Shadow's theory regarding crime.
Thurnig, Brellick and Mandor all had something in common that had made it necessary to dispose of them. But Mandor, the final victim, must have possessed some document that pertained to their common interest.
THERE had been burglary at Mandor's; that was why crooks found it necessary to be there when he returned. The Shadow could picture them forcing Mandor to open the safe. There, they had ignored money, to acquire something far more valuable.
Whatever it was, Thurnig and Brellick could answer; but they, along with Mandor, were the Dead Who Lived. If crooks had their way, none of the three would ever arouse, for they would talk if they did.
Proof that those three were slated for final death was obvious to The Shadow, because mobsters had intended to give him the same dose. They wouldn't risk any doubtful method on The Shadow.
Still, hope remained for the Dead Who Lived.
The one chance was to find out who had caused their present plight, and why. That much gotten, there might
