The reporter found Cardona going over a batch of papers that the inspector
shoved aside the moment he saw Clyde. Hunching back in his chair, Cardona became
poker-faced. Clyde only grinned.
'I thought you'd have something, Joe,' he said, wisely. 'What is it; new dope on the Parrington murder?'
'No. Talk to the homicide squad about that.' Cardona spoke bluntly at first; then suddenly changed tone: 'Say, Burke, you get around a lot. Tell me
-
do you think any rackets are starting up again?'
Clyde shook his head. He hadn't heard of any.
'I'm supposed to look into it,' remarked Cardona as if annoyed by a new assignment. 'What I need is some good men. Here's one fellow who helped a lot in the clean-up' - Joe lifted the papers from the desk - 'so I've been going over his record. You've heard of him: Bill Quaine.'
Clyde agreed that Quaine had a real reputation as a racket-smasher.
Secretly, the reporter was elated. Facts pieced perfectly. Cardona had certainly received a call from Parrington: what was more, the man had mentioned
Quaine by name.
Though Cardona didn't know it, he was getting close to unsuspected facts.
With more to go on, he might learn the details of the clever impersonation staged by Slick Thurley.
Working under orders from The Shadow, Clyde was prepared for such a situation. That was why he suggested:
'Why don't you talk to Quaine, Joe?'
'Quaine is out of town,' returned Cardona. 'On a long vacation. Anyway, he'd say he was good. I want somebody else's opinion.'
Clyde jotted down several names, passed them across the desk to Cardona with the comment:
'Why don't you talk to these fellows?'
The list contained the names of managers of various night clubs. The Bubble Club was not included. That was one place where The Shadow didn't want Cardona to drop in.
'They all knew Quaine,' insisted Clyde. 'Maybe they can tell you how much he really did toward smashing the night club racket. When you make the rounds, Joe, stick to the bunch that I have listed. They're the sort who won't stall.'
IT was nearly five o'clock when Cardona completed his tour, for he had to sit around in several night clubs waiting for the managers to arrive. The whole
job, however, was worth the trouble. Cardona was in a state of mental torment, when he arrived back in his office.
Detective Sergeant Markham was there; and Cardona could not help bursting loose with what he had learned.
'I've found out plenty about Bill Quaine!' exclaimed the inspector. 'He's been running a racket of his own! All during that night club mess, he was walking in on places, getting what he called 'evidence'; but that wasn't what he was after!
'He was making trouble for those night clubs. Every manager that confided too much in Quaine, began to find the clamps coming down on him from the racket
ring; Quaine always had an alibi for it, so no one man thought he was phony.
'But when you get the same hints from a dozen of them, you know what lies behind it. If those fellows had talked together, they'd have seen through the racket themselves; but night club managers don't get too chummy with each other. It took an outsider, like myself, to get the real lowdown.'
Cardona yanked open a desk drawer; brought out the file that he found there. He studied it with angry eyes, then flung the papers on the desk. 'Who took that stuff about Bill Quaine?' he demanded. 'This isn't the data I had before. Who's been in here, Markham?'
Markham hadn't seen anyone; but he admitted that he had not been in the office all along. Cardona went to the office door; in the hallway he saw a stoopish droopy-faced janitor, busy with mop and brush.
'Come in here, Fritz!' gruffed Cardona. 'I want to talk to you.'
The janitor shambled into the office. Cardona took the papers on the desk.
'Did you see anybody in this office?' he roared. 'Anybody who went out with a batch of papers hike these?'
Fritz shook his head. His eyes were listless, dull.
'You've been around here all along, Fritz?'
'Yah,' Fritz nodded. 'Not all along. Only a little while.'
Cardona slapped the papers on the desk. Fritz wasn't of any use; he knew as little as Markham. In fact, Joe wasn't even annoyed when Fritz began to paw the papers, looking at them curiously.
'I know him,' grunted Fritz, suddenly. 'Yah. Bill Quaine.'
Cardona swung about. Fritz was pointing to a photograph that had come loose from the papers. It was Quaine's picture, all right, but what it was doing in this batch of records, Cardona didn't know until he looked more closely.
He started to snatch the photo from Fritz's hands; the janitor dropped it.
The picture fell face downward on the desk.
Fritz was shambling away, back to his mop and bucket, while Cardona was staring at the name on back of the photo. That name wasn't Bill Quaine; it was Slick Thurley.
CARDONA scanned the papers. Amazement took control of his poker face.
Here
were records of a sort the police didn't have, although they were backed with certain official data that had never yet been properly linked.
'Slick Thurley!' exclaimed Cardona to Markham. 'Say - he's a dead ringer for Bill Quaine, but we never knew it! I've heard of Slick Thurley; he's been in some jams, too, but he always managed to get out of them.
'That's because we never guessed his real racket. He's been doubling for Quaine! With this mug of his, he could get away with it, by talking like Bill and acting like him. But, that's something we can check up on in a line- up.
'Bill Quaine is O.K.; the guy we've got to find is Slick Thurley. When we get him, we'll know who murdered Parrington; and I've got a hunch, Markham, that we'll learn a lot besides!'
The telephone bell jangled. Cardona answered. When he heard a whispered voice across the wire, he didn't have to be told who had put the new papers in his desk drawer. Joe Cardona was listening to The Shadow.
All during that call, Cardona nodded. When he hung up, he pulled a telegraph blank from the desk drawer and began to write a wire. 'Forget all that's happened,' Cardona told Markham. 'We're keeping this business to ourselves. I've found out the best way to handle it.'
Downstairs, Fritz, the janitor, was hanging up the receiver of a pay telephone. Hoisting his mop and bucket, he went to an obscure locker. Putting down the implements, he opened the locker and drew out a black cloak and slouch
hat.
As those garments settled over the head and shoulders of the pretended Fritz, a whispered laugh came from obscured lips. Though only an echo, that mirth identified its owner.
It was the laugh of The Shadow!
CHAPTER XVI
THE GO-BETWEEN
THAT night, Maude Revelle had a date with Pinkey Findlen. Maude expected it to be for dinner only; when Cranston had called her on the telephone, she had told her new friend that she might be able to see him later.
It was thought of Cranston that made Maude give Pinkey a suggestion, when they met at the side door of her apartment house.
'Let's go to a decent place, for a change,' insisted Maude. 'You know, like the kind we were at when you ran out on me.'
