There was a definite reason why The Shadow ignored publicity. His strength lay in the shroud of mystery that enveloped him.
It was true that his voice was heard over the radio, in a program over a national broadcasting chain. That also served The Shadow's purpose. The tones of his mysterious voice were recognized by all who heard them. Yet all the efforts of the underworld to learn the identity of the broadcaster had come to no avail. The Shadow spoke from a soundproof room, boxed with black curtains. His method of entrance and exit from the place was a mystery that had never been solved — not even by those connected with the broadcasting studio.
The Shadow's mission was war on crime. At night he stalked the streets of New York, ready to thwart the plans of evildoers. He was everywhere — yet nowhere. A champion of law and order, this man of the night hunted criminals as an explorer might scour the jungle in search of man-eating tigers. When unsolved crimes occurred, The Shadow became a master of detection.
His marvelous brain had developed the power of deduction to a miraculous degree. Clews bobbed up from nowhere, that the police might follow in the wake of The Shadow's findings.
Yet these faculties were not the greatest that The Shadow possessed. He had one power that was beyond all others. In this he surpassed all sleuths of fact or fiction. The Shadow's greatest work was the discovery of crime. In cases which the police passed over; in instances where even the craftiest schemers of the underworld saw nothing amiss, The Shadow appeared to disclose deep designs beneath unruffled surfaces.
A master of disguise, The Shadow could appear in any company unsuspected. But when he stepped from the night to appear as a power of vengeance, his chosen part was that of a tall figure garbed in black. His cry of triumph was a mocking laugh that chilled the ears of hearers.
The symbol of The Shadow was the gem upon his finger; that fire opal, known as a girasol — a stone unmatched in all the world. Few knew of its significance. But when The Shadow was at work, that sparkling jewel shone upon his hand, like a living eye.
Tonight, beneath the rays of a green shaded lamp, the girasol was glowing with ever-changing hues. From deep crimson it became rich purple; then it changed again to a shade of darkened blue. The hands of The Shadow opened an envelope. Out fell the papers that Rutledge Mann had assembled that afternoon. One by one, the pages fluttered aside, until only two of the reports remained. One bore the name of Lamont Cranston; the other that of Doctor Gerald Savette. The laugh of The Shadow echoed softly through the shrouded room, and returned in ringing mockery, as though from the walls of a tomb. The long pointed fingers spread over the sheet that told the history of Doctor Savette. A hand moved into the darkness; it returned with a pencil, and checked this paragraph:
The only victim of the fire in Savette's sanitarium at Garland, Long Island was Austin Bellamy, who perished in spite of Savette's vain effort to reach the room where he lay helpless.
Now the hand progressed to a pasted strip at the bottom of the page. It checked these words: