He had chosen this spot with careful design. Lowering one hand, he encircled it about a pillar beneath the overhanging roof. The other arm followed. Clinging to the post, The Shadow moved downward inch by inch, until his feet touched the rail.
The officer was only a few feet away, on the other side of the post. He chanced to turn and look toward the railing of the porch. All that he saw was rain.
The Shadow's form was motionless. The projecting arms and shoulders were a black blot that to the officer's eyes were a portion of the night.
The policeman's tread sounded on the wooden porch. The man went down the steps and peered along the drive. He came back to his position, and paused to light a cigarette by the very post where The Shadow had been standing.
The blue-tipped match threw a glare as the policeman scratched it on the pillar. The sudden blaze revealed nothing. Quietly, stealthily the man of night had glided away into the darkness. He was treading the drive now, but not even the gravel gave sign of his passing. Out to the street — then the only token of his presence was a drifting silhouette that moved along the sidewalk past a blurred street lamp.
With cloak and hat saturated by Sound and rain, The Shadow traveled on without the slightest swish to indicate his presence. Invisible, he stopped beside a driveway that led to an empty house. There he turned to approach a coupe parked off the edge of the drive.
The patter of the rain on the roof of the car drowned the noise of the opening door. The Shadow reached the wheel of his own car. The starter sounded; the motor throbbed. The lights came on as the car swung clear of the drive and headed toward New York. Soon it reached a broad boulevard, and was lost in the traffic of late-bound cars returning to the big city.
When next The Shadow appeared he was in a darkened room where only the spotlight of the green-shaded lamp reflected its rays from the burnished top of a broad table. His hands alone were visible — dry hands now. Those long, slender fingers had shown their mastery with the automatic; now they were engaged in opening an envelope.
The girasol glimmered above a typed report. The Shadow was reading word from Rutledge Mann — word that included a relayed message from Harry Vincent, the agent whom The Shadow had dispatched abroad:
Shark Nice Paris Tally