Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 114 - The Strange Disappearance Of Joe Cardona

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THE STRANGE DISAPPEARANCE OF JOE CARDONA

by Maxwell Grant

As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," November 15, 1936.

The weird purple death menace which The Shadow battles is but a prelude

a more amazing event - the Strange Disappearance of Joe Cardona!

CHAPTER I

THE PURPLE DEATH

"LOOK at this, Cardona."

Fiercely, Police Commissioner Ralph Weston brandished a newspaper before

the eyes of his ace inspector, Joe Cardona. The headline, in a big-typed

streamer, read:

PURPLE DEATH STRIKES AGAIN

His swarthy face grim, Cardona received the newspaper with tight-fisted

hands. He grimaced when he noted that the newspaper had foregone the usual red

ink that it used for sensational headlines. The big letters were printed in

purple; the very hue that represented death itself.

Cardona watched Commissioner Weston pace the floor. Weston seemed cramped

for space, in this little office that was situated in his apartment. Cardona

saw the commissioner pause and stare through the darkened window, where the

rattle of an early winter sleet storm was clashing against the panes.

Beyond were the lights of Manhattan, blurred by the sweeping sleet. The

tops of skyscrapers were lost, enveloped by the swirl. The frown that showed

Weston's firm, square-jawed face was proof that the police commissioner was

utterly befogged by the trend of recent crime.

Cardona took another look at the newspaper. He saw a subhead in smaller

type:

Detective Missing After Finding Button Clue

Cardona grunted.

"These morning sheets work quick," commented the ace. "I didn't think

they'd get the news of Doolan's disappearance in time for the bulldog

edition."

Weston swung about from the window.

He said wearily, "Five deaths in three nights; four of our best men

missing. Lacey, Kirk, Jenkins - now Doolan. What's become of them, Cardona?"

Joe shook his head. Even his poker-faced countenance could not conceal

the

emotion that he felt. Murder was bad enough; the evanishment of every

detective

detailed to a case made the situation acute.

"Five disconnected deaths," mused Weston. "An obscure mechanic, a

university instructor, a radio announcer, a Wall Street promoter, a

pawnbroker.

None, apparently, ever knew the others. Four competent detectives missing. Two

Lacey and Kirk - gone before they learned anything. Two others - Jenkins and

Doolan - vanished after delivering clues that have not helped us.

"Jenkins found a fountain pen, significant only because it contained

ordinary purple ink. Doolan found a common button from a shirt cuff; not the

commonest sort of button, but one that is common enough. These clues may be

valuable, should we find a suspect; but in themselves, the clues are useless."

CARDONA pondered over Weston's words, then remarked:

"Maybe the clues mean more than we think, commissioner. They were

important enough for the man who's behind these deaths to snatch the

detectives

who found them."

Weston shook his head.

"I don't think so," he declared. "The perpetrator of the purple death is

merely flaunting his power in our faces. He wants us to know that our efforts

to unearth him will prove futile."

Weston drove a heavy fist down upon his desk. This was characteristic of

him.

"Five men have died," announced Weston, "from the effects of some

baffling

poison that turns their bodies purple. We know that the poison is similar to

known ones, but it coagulates the blood of the victims to such extent that we

have been unable to learn the time at which death struck them. That fact,

Cardona, has masked the murderer's movements."

Cardona nodded, listening to facts that he already knew. Suddenly,

however, he put a question:

"What about those new types of blood tests, commissioner? The ones you

mentioned yesterday?"

"I have talked with three experts," returned Weston. "Only one believes

that results are possible. He is Professor Kinsley Murkden. He has made a

special study of chemical reactions in the blood stream. In fact, he has been

delivering lectures on the subject."

"Did Murkden make any tests for you?"

"Yes. Using blood from the most recent victim. The test failed because

the

victim had been dead too long. Murkden believes that he could ascertain the

exact time of death if he could make tests within twelve hours after a

victim's

death."

"Perhaps he may have the chance."

Weston glared, for the moment, at Cardona's utterance. Then he sank back

in his chair, nodding soberly.

"You may be right, Cardona," he declared, solemnly. "We may have to meet

new murders. If they come, let us hope that we learn of them soon enough to

take advantage of whatever aid Professor Murkden may give us."

A minute of silence passed, disturbed only by the sweep and rattle of the

outside sleet. At last, Weston spoke methodically, passing Cardona a sheaf of

report sheets.

"It is unfortunate, Cardona," he remarked, "that you were away on

vacation

when these deaths began. However, beginning with to-night, you will have full

charge of investigation. These reports are copies of those supplied us by the

missing detectives. They are quite sketchy.

"You will, at least, learn something about the purple death itself, as

the

descriptions of the victims are quite detailed. I may say" - Weston seemed to

shudder as he spoke - "that the horror of the purple death is something that

can not be described with mere words. If you had seen the victims, as I have,

you would understand that fact."

Cardona received the duplicate reports. Rising, he donned a heavy

overcoat.

WHILE Cardona was tightening his overcoat collar, the telephone rang.

Weston answered it; Cardona heard the commissioner's end of a brief

conversation.

"Hello..." Weston's brisk tone slackened. "Ah, good evening, Mrs.

Tabor...

Quite an agreeable surprise, to hear from you... Certainly, I shall be glad to

do the favor... Yes, a message to Mr. Tabor, at his studio..."

Weston wrote an address on a pad. Cardona saw the commissioner smile, as

he added:

"I understand... Yes, I shall detail a tactful man to the duty. I have

such a man right here at present..."

Hanging up the receiver, Weston chuckled.

"There, Cardona," he declared, "is an example of how results can be

obtained by going to the man higher up, no matter how slight a task is

required. The Tabors are friends of mine; socially prominent persons who live

on Long Island.

"Frederick Tabor is an architect; he has a studio here in town, where he

goes when he does not wish to be disturbed. Here is the address." Weston

passed

the memo to Cardona, added, "It is ten o'clock. Tabor promised to arrive home

before that hour. Mrs. Tabor thinks that he has forgetfully remained at the

studio. Since there is no telephone there, she called me and asked me to send

some one to the studio to remind him."

Cardona stared.

Weston saw Cardona's gaze and chuckled anew.

"It is making a messenger service out of the police department," admitted

Weston. "However, the Tabors are important people. I assured Mrs. Tabor that I

would send an experienced man who would not unduly alarm her absent-minded

husband."

Weston was still chuckling when Cardona left, but Joe was muttering to

himself when he arrived outside the apartment house. Hailing a cab, Cardona

gruffly gave his destination. Riding along, Cardona continued to fume. The ace

inspector knew that the commissioner was actually using his office to curry

favor. With all his efficiency, Weston had that one fault. And it antagonized

Cardona.

THE taxi stopped in front of an old building on a secluded side street.

Alighting, Joe looked up at the darkened windows. He shrugged his shoulders,

deciding that Tabor must have already gone home. But when Cardona turned

about,

his taxi was gone. The driver had received his fare, and had pulled away while

Cardona was staring at the building.

There was a small lunch room several doors away. Muffling his face

against

the slicing sleet, Cardona strode in that direction. Entering, he sat down at

the counter, threw back his coat collar and ordered a cup of coffee.

"I'm looking for an architect's studio," Cardona told the man behind the

counter. "The fellow's name is Tabor. I thought maybe I'd picked the wrong

building, because I didn't see any lights there."

"You want Mr. Tabor?" returned the lunch room man. "You'll find him

there,

probably. His studio's on the third floor at the back. That's why you saw no

lights. Mr. Tabor must be there. He didn't bring back his coffee cup."

"His coffee cup?"

"Yes. Every time he works at night, he comes here with a big thermos

bottle. I fill it up with coffee and give him a cup with it. When he leaves

the

studio, he stops here to leave the cup."

"He stopped for coffee here to-night?"

"Yes. At eight o'clock."

Cardona gulped his own coffee and left the lunch room. He entered Tabor's

building, went up two flights of stairs that were lighted by a small

incandescent on the second floor; a glow that had not been noticeable from the

street. Reaching the third floor, Cardona saw a door that had a glass pane,

illuminated by a light from the other side. On the door, was the lettering:

FREDERICK TABOR ARCHITECT

Cardona rapped lightly on the door. There was no response. Cardona rapped

more loudly. Still, Tabor did not answer. Cardona shrugged. Probably, Tabor

was

working in an inner room and could not hear the knocks.

Cardona tried the door. It opened. The inspector stepped into a little

anteroom. There, he saw two chairs and a table, which supported a lamp. On the

table Cardona observed the corked thermos bottle. Beside it was a cup that

contained a half-inch of coffee.

There was a door beyond, marked "Private." It apparently explained why

Tabor had not heard the knocks. Joe rapped against the inner door. There was

response from the studio. Deciding that he had wasted enough time, Cardona

opened the inner door.

JOE'S first impression was one of complete disarray. The studio that he

viewed was lighted only by a large lamp that stood in a corner, shining upon a

table that supported a draftsman's board. A T-square, angles, protractors,

drawing instruments and slide-rule, were lying on the floor. Beyond, Cardona

saw the gaping front of a metal file cabinet, from which the drawers had been

yanked and left on the floor. Papers and building plans were strewn on the

floor. Scanning that area, Cardona spied a rack in a far corner, saw a coat

hanging there. A man's still form showed bulkily on the darkened floor below.

With a grim exclamation, Cardona sprang to the corner. Cardona knew that

this hunched man who lay face downward must be the architect, Frederick Tabor.

The man's dark trousers matched the coat upon the rack.

Gripping Tabor's shoulders, Cardona rolled the man toward himself.

Tabor's

head tilted face upward. From past Cardona's shoulder came the revealing

light.

With a blurt, Cardona dropped the inert shoulders, let the body sag as he

dropped back to stare.

Frederick Tabor was stone dead. It was not that fact, however, that had

appalled Joe Cardona. The ace inspector was accustomed to viewing death; he

had

guessed that Tabor was dead from the moment that he had begun to roll the

body.

It was sight of Tabor's face that made Cardona spring away as instinctively as

if he had just escaped stepping on a rattlesnake.

Never had Joe Cardona seen a face so contorted. Whatever handsomeness

Tabor might have once possessed, his dead features showed no trace of it.

Cheeks were puffy, swollen. Lips were twisted and bloated. Eyes were bulging

orbs that looked like imitation chunks of glass, ready to drop from the

sockets

that held them. Below them was a nose, with wide-spread nostrils like those of

primitive savage.

It was a feature that completely banished all semblance of a human

countenance. Doom had left a mark that could never be erased, for it dominated

every inch of Tabor's face.

The dead man's visage was dyed a deep purple; a color deeper than a

stain.

That lurid hue seemed to have crept from within, to reach the outer flesh and

tinge it with the evil dye. Hands, crossed on the dead man's chest, were

puffed

and purple. The penetrating stain had even purpled the finger nails.

Cardona had learned the truth of Weston's words, the moment that he had

viewed the dead face of Frederick Tabor. Embarked upon a seemingly unimportant

errand, Joe Cardona had stepped squarely into the chain of crime that he had

been ordered to investigate.

The ace sleuth had found Frederick Tabor, the latest victim of the purple

death!

CHAPTER II

CARDONA'S CLUE

ONE hour later, Joe Cardona was standing in the center of Tabor's studio

with an audience about him. In the group was a police surgeon and two

grim-faced detectives; also the proprietor of the downstairs lunch room. Most

important, however, were Ralph Weston and a man whom the police commissioner

had brought with him.

Weston's companion was Professor Kinsley Murkden, the blood expert who

had

expressed the belief that tests could solve the riddle of the purple death.

Tall, stoop-shouldered and frail of build, Murkden was craning forward with

one

hand cupped to his ear. The professor was hard of hearing, but his keen eyes

showed him to be alert.

That fact had offset Cardona's disappointment at first meeting the

professor. Joe's original impression was that Murkden was a deaf old dotard.

had changed that view after watching Murkden make a sharp visual survey of the

entire studio.

"I've made a thorough inspection, commissioner," announced Cardona, to

Weston. "I'm ready to reconstruct the crime."

"To begin with," continued Cardona, in a loud tone that brought a pleased

nod from Murkden, "Tabor came up to this studio at eight o'clock. I arrived

here soon after ten. So we know for a fact that he died between eight and ten.

"The doctor here" - Joe waved toward the police surgeon - "has been

unable

to fix the time of death. That was to be expected. It's the way the purple

death

has worked before. However we both are agreed on how death was dealt. The

murderer put poison in Tabor's coffee cup."

Striding over to the door that led to the anteroom, Cardona pointed to

the

thermos bottle and the cup, which still stood on the outer table. He also

indicated the hallway door. In loud tone, he continued:

"Tabor came in here at eight o'clock. He set down the thermos bottle and

the coffee cup. He left the door unlocked, came in here and went to work.

Soon,

he went out and had a cup of coffee. He left a little coffee in the cup. He

came

back to work again.

"That's when the murderer moved in. Tabor didn't hear him, because Tabor

was here in the studio. The murderer dropped a pill, or some other poison in

the coffee cup. After a while, Tabor came out for another cup of coffee. The

murderer was gone before that.

"Tabor filled his coffee cup, took a long drink of it and came back to

work. That's when the poison hit him. He collapsed. The murderer came in here

and rifled the place. Figuring the whole job, I would say that be could have

done it in about fifteen minutes."

WESTON considered Cardona's summary; then put a sharp question:

"The motive?"

"To grab some plan that Tabor had," returned Cardona, promptly. "To cover

whatever he took, he grabbed a lot of other things, too. That leaves us out of

luck, commissioner."

"There is another possibility," decided Weston. "The murderer may simply

have rifled the place to make it look as though he sought some of Tabor's

building plans."

"Maybe," agreed Cardona, "but in either case, he's covered whatever he

was

after. It looks to me, commissioner, as though our first step is to get the

time

element straight."

"Did you hear that, professor?" inquired Weston. "Do you think you can

help us?"

"I can," announced Murkden. "Especially if there is actually a trace of

poison in the coffee cup."

"We're sure of that," put in Cardona. "A purple color has shown up in the

little coffee that we found there. But there's none in the thermos bottle

That's how we know that the poison was put in the cup. The thermos bottle is

less than half full. It looks clear."

Professor Murkden raised his hand; waved a bony forefinger, as he stated:

"I have already learned enough from previous cases to make tests with

what

we might term synthetic compounds, resembling this purple poison. A prompt

analysis of the coffee will enable me to check my previous experiments.

"More important, however, is the matter of fresh blood. My previous tests

have been made too late to learn the exact rate of coagulation, which may be

variable. If I begin to-night, with tests of this new victim's blood, I feel

sure that I shall succeed in establishing the exact time of death."

"Good," decided Weston. "The body is already on its way to our

headquarters laboratory. Doctor, take Professor Murkden there. Detective Lewis

will bring the coffee samples. We shall lose no time with this."

Turning to Murkden, Weston made added query:

"Tell me, professor, when can we count upon your first report?"

Murkden considered, then replied:

"To-morrow evening. Let us say after my usual lecture."

"At what time do you lecture?"

"From eight o'clock until nine."

"Very well, professor. I shall call personally at nine o'clock."

MURKDEN left with the surgeon and one of the detectives, who took along

the thermos bottle and carried the coffee from the cup in a bottle that the

police doctor provided. Cardona dismissed the lunch room proprietor, then

turned to speak to Weston. He saw the commissioner staring at a partly opened

skylight in the slanted ceiling of the studio.

"What about that skylight?" demanded Weston. "Couldn't the murderer have

come in that way, Cardona?"

"No," replied Joe. "He would have had to go right through the studio

while

Tabor was working here. Besides, the skylight was locked when I examined it.

Jammed so tight that I decided it hadn't been opened for months."

"Why did you open it?"

"I wasn't passing up anything, commissioner. I went out to take a look at

the roof. I couldn't clamp the skylight afterward. I'd bent the bar opening

it."

"Mention all that in your report."

Briskly, Weston marched about the room, studying strewn papers, looking

obscure corners. Joe and the detective watched him. Neither glanced again

toward

the skylight.

There, motion occurred. The skylight inched upward. Solid blackness

seemed

to dominate the space, there was no influx of expected sleet. Gradually, the

skylight lowered into place. Outside, a hidden watcher was on hand; some being

whose ways were as impenetrable as those of night itself.

A few minutes later, Weston finished his inspection. He turned to Cardona

and queried.

"What do you think of the time element? When would you say that Tabor

died?"

"I have no clue," returned Cardona. He paused, then added, "Only a

hunch."

"I though so," smiled Weston. "You always have hunches, Cardona. I used

ridicule them, but sometimes they proved good ones."

"Thanks, commissioner," laughed Cardona. "Since you ask for it, I'd say

that Tabor died at about half past eight."

"Why?"

"Because the murderer would naturally have tried to get him as soon as

possible. Tabor drank one cup of coffee in the lunch room, at eight o'clock.

Let's say he took the next at eight fifteen. The murderer had to wait until

then to load the poison in the coffee that Tabor left. If Tabor took his next

cup at eight thirty, that was when it finished him off."

Weston mused over Cardona's statement.

"Fifteen minute intervals," remarked the commissioner. "Not too short for

a habitual coffee drinker. Perhaps you are right, Cardona."

"What's more," added Joe, "if the killer knew that Tabor was due home at

ten o'clock, he'd have planned to get him quick. Tabor would have had to leave

here about nine thirty to get home at ten. Maybe he'd have gone before then.

Maybe at nine."

Weston nodded, impressed. Then, with a smile, he said:

"This time, Cardona, your hunch will have opportunity to prove itself. I

shall remember what you said and check it with Professor Murkden's test

results

to-morrow night."

Cardona grimaced, knowing that his hunch would be criticized if proven

incorrect. Cardona felt resentful. Ever since he had broken in as a detective,

he had played his hunches. Yet Joe had never been able to convince the

commissioner as to their accuracy.

Weston saw that he had touched a sore spot. He tried to mollify Cardona

they went out through the anteroom. Clapping Joe on the back, Weston gave a

grave reminder:

"Don't forget what happened to the detectives on these cases, Cardona.

You

are too valuable a man to have disappear. I'm counting on you to smash the

purple death."

WITH that, Weston was gone, followed by the remaining detective. Cardona

was closing the door between the studio and the anteroom. Slow footfalls on

the

stairs indicated that Weston expected Joe to join him below. For the moment,

however, Cardona paused. A hunch had gripped him.

"Clues," muttered Cardona, half-aloud. "That's why they've dropped out of

sight. They picked up clues -"

Joe had remembered the fountain pen found by Jenkins, the shirt button

uncovered by Doolan. There was a chance that Kirk and Lacey might have

discovered some items also. At least, it was certain that in the last two

cases

of the purple death, prior to Tabor's murder, some trace to the killer had

been

found.

Why was there none here? Had the murderers been more careful, after

reading of previous clues in the newspapers? As Cardona considered this

factor,

he stared across the anteroom. His gaze stopped upon a tiny object just within

the door.

Popping over, Joe picked up a square-shaped newspaper clipping. Unfolding

it, he saw the diagram of a chessboard, with chessmen indicated on squares.

Below the diagram was the statement: "White to Mate in three moves."

Though Cardona was no chess player, he was familiar with the regular

contents of most New York dailies; and there was only one newspaper - a

morning

one - in which he had seen daily chess problems. Noting the position at which

the clipping had fallen, Cardona wondered if only the murderer could

accidentally have dropped the clipping at that spot?

Cardona hurried to the outer door. In the hallway, he stopped, the

clipping still between his fingers. He could hear Weston's footsteps.

With a grim smile, Cardona pocketed the clipping.

Others had made the mistake of proclaiming their clues to the police

commissioner. Weston, anxious to convince the newspapers that results were

being gained, had let the news reach the press.

But Cardona, for once, was decided on an independent policy. Dragged back

from a vacation, thrown on to an assignment that promised danger, he felt that

he was entitled to full leeway. Weston had offered him complete charge of the

case; then had proceeded to crimp Cardona's favorite method of following

hunches.

Joe had made one mistake; that of revealing his first hunch. He did not

intend to repeat it. His present hunch was that too much talk of the chess

clipping clue would mean disaster. The best way to avoid such complication was

to keep his find to himself.

The clipping safely in his pocket, Joe Cardona closed the outer door of

Tabor's studio and indulged in a satisfied smile as he started down the

stairway to rejoin the awaiting police commissioner.

So intent had Cardona been with his discovery that he had failed to

notice

any sound while he was still within the anteroom. Since Joe had closed the

connecting door to the inner studio, it was no wonder that his ears had failed

to hear the noise.

The sound was a soft scrape from the skylight of the deserted studio. It

was accompanied by an odd sight; the encroachment of solid blackness from

above. The skylight had opened wider; the darkened mass that entered slowly

molded itself into a human form.

A swish followed as a tall shape dropped quietly to the floor. A tall

stranger from the night stood in the studio where death had struck. Joe

Cardona

would have recognized that arrival, had he remained to witness this entrance.

The tall being was cloaked in black. His hands were encased in thin black

gloves; his face was obscured by the upturned collar of his cloak, the

downturned brim of his black slouch hat. Yet from the space between the collar

and the brim, eyes peered so keenly that their flash was visible.

This being of blackness was The Shadow. Master crook who hunted men of

crime, The Shadow, like the law, was on the trail of the purple death. With

contacts everywhere, The Shadow invariably learned when crime was uncovered by

the law. He had done so to-night.

ARRIVING at Tabor's studio, The Shadow had passed policemen stationed

outside while the commissioner was present. He had chosen his own route to

reach the scene of crime; namely, by the roof. Finding the skylight that

Cardona had opened, The Shadow had looked in and listened while Cardona had

summarized the circumstances of Frederick Tabor's death.

Men of the law had gone. It was The Shadow's turn to study the premises;

to learn what other clues might be present. Conversant with Cardona's full

report, The Shadow had gained a distinct advantage before beginning his

search.

Nevertheless, The Shadow had entered too late to peer into the anteroom

order to learn of Cardona's secret clue.

A simple item, that clipped fragment of a newspaper; yet it could produce

complications in the quest to learn the source of crime. Held by Cardona, that

clipped chess problem promised trouble to its finder.

Far better that The Shadow should have gained it; for he alone could have

used the clue to full advantage.

CHAPTER III

BATTLE BY NIGHT

THE search that The Shadow made through Tabor's studio was swift, yet

detailed. The result, however, was negligible. Whoever had rifled this room

had

done the job swiftly, but with definite care to avoid any traces. Articles had

been swept from Tabor's table. Files had been ripped from the cabinet.

The Shadow granted that the murderer had worn gloves. Cardona had looked

for finger prints, but had found none. Many of the papers from Tabor's files

were gone. That was proven by The Shadow's discovery of architect's estimates

that had missing pages. From this, The Shadow drew the definite conclusion

that

the murderer had actually wanted certain documents.

A man faking a robbery would not have had to search for the items that he

wanted; hence he could have bundled batches at random and strewn the rest

about. The murderer, scattering papers, had been on the lookout for certain

ones. Finding them, he had taken them; then snatched up groups of strewn

papers. That was why some sheets of lengthy estimates had been left behind.

This conclusion, however, was of little value. Tabor's papers were in

chaos; obviously a large percentage of them were gone. There was no way to

gain

a lead to the particular type of documents that the murderer had purposely

stolen.

STEPPING to the outer anteroom, The Shadow studied the table where the

thermos bottle and the cup had been. He saw a circled mark that indicated

where

the thermos had once stood on spilled liquid; to leave a stained ring in the

woodwork.

From the size of the circle, The Shadow decided that the thermos bottle

had been a quart container. He recalled the statement that half the coffee was

gone from it. Cardona had estimated that Tabor had finished two cups of

coffee;

one at eight fifteen, the next at eight thirty. Two cups, however, would not

account for a missing pint.

Even granting that Tabor drank coffee at fifteen minute intervals, The

Shadow estimated that he would not have consumed a quart within an hour.

Calculating on his own, The Shadow figured that the coffee clue would show

that

Tabor had died at about quarter past nine.

Nevertheless, The Shadow made allowance for the possibility that Tabor

might have drunk two or three cups at one sitting. Like Weston, The Shadow was

willing to let the time element wait until after Professor Murkden had made

his

blood tests. Science - not speculation - offered the best solution to the

evasive time element that invariably marked the purple death.

While in the anteroom, The Shadow glanced at the spot where Cardona had

found the clipped chess problem. The fact that The Shadow looked over the

exact

spot where the clue had been found was new proof that the murderer of

Frederick

Tabor had experienced real luck to-night.

His search ended, The Shadow returned to the studio. He went up through

the skylight, closed it exactly as he had found it. In darkness, he began a

precarious course along the roof. Sleet had hardened into ice; moving along a

frozen slant, The Shadow held his position in uncanny manner. His fingers and

toes seemed to dig into a surface that offered no apparent security.

The Shadow reached a projection of the roof; swung from its icy edge.

This

time, his fingers could not keep their clutch, but despite their slip, The

Shadow gave himself an inward swing beneath the projection and landed on the

platform of an old fire escape. Gripping the sleet-crusted rail, he descended

toward a space at the rear of the building.

Usually, The Shadow moved with absolute silence. To-night, that proved

impossible. Steps in the fire tower were loose; The Shadow was forced to step

heavily upon them, in order to gain a footing. The Shadow paused when he

reached the hinged extension that formed the last six feet of the fire escape.

Listening, The Shadow was rewarded for his caution. He heard sounds that

were barely audible. Whispers that only his keen ears could have detected. No

patrolmen, these. There were lurkers in the darkness just below; enemies who

had somehow guessed the presence of The Shadow and had moved in during the

time

that he had been engaged in upstairs investigation.

Those foemen had heard the slight clangs from the fire escape. Trouble

might begin at any moment. The Shadow's position was a bad one; though the

steps of the fire escape were iron, they were openwork and offered no bulwark.

THE SHADOW did not hesitate. Rising on the rail beside him, he reached

high and gripped a step above his head. Forcibly, he clanked the step; then

the

next one below it. The sounds, this time, were accurate. They gave a distinct

token of the exact spots where they had occurred.

The clanks, however, did not tell the most important fact; namely, that

The Shadow was beneath the steps that clattered, not upon them. Stooping, The

Shadow swung across the level rail of the lowest platform, ready for a

six-foot

vault to the area below.

The Shadow was not an instant too soon. As his form swung from the rail,

revolvers barked upward; simultaneously, big flashlights clicked their glare.

The barrage that ripped the night came from half a dozen guns.

Bullets found nothingness. Flashlights were luckier. As thugs fired

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THESTRANGEDISAPPEARANCEOFJOECARDONAbyMaxwellGrantAsoriginallypublishedin"TheShadowMagazine,"November15,1936.TheweirdpurpledeathmenacewhichTheShadowbattlesisbutapreludetoamoreamazingevent-theStrangeDisappearanceofJoeCardona!CHAPTERITHEPURPLEDEATH"LOOKatthis,Cardona."Fiercely,PoliceCommissionerRalphWe...

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Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 114 - The Strange Disappearance Of Joe Cardona

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