As the car sped northward, Joe Cardona began to wonder about Terry Blake. The man’s manner reminded him of some one. Here, in the dark, the resemblance was most pronounced. Who was it, thought Cardona — a man whom he had met at night — a man whom—
Before Cardona’s mind had caught the resemblance, Blake spoke. In another second Cardona might have realized that Blake reminded him of The Shadow. But the interruption turned his thoughts.
“My men have been watching this place,” explained the speaker — without adding who his men were. “I have been in there myself. I have fixed it for our entrance. But it isn’t my job. I’m working independently. The pinch belongs to you, Cardona.”
“Thanks,” said the detective. “I’ll need it. My job’s hanging by a hair right now.”
The police car was crossing the Harlem River. It stopped at a spot indicated by Terry Blake. The four men left and crept forward toward an old house. Cardona began to wonder again. The ease with which Blake moved was amazing. They came to a side door. Blake produced a key. The door opened.
“Leave the men here,” instructed Blake, “until we call them.”
Cardona followed upstairs. At a nudge from Blake, he unlimbered his automatic. They stopped before a solid door.
Cardona watched the tiny ray of a little flashlight which Blake had produced. A thin, flat piece of metal glowed in the secret-service man’s hand. Delicately Blake wedged it in the crack of the door.
Cardona repressed a gasp. A portion of the door had been cut away— evidently some time before — so neatly that the eye could not have noticed it. This was Blake’s preparation!
Cardona noted the slender white hand that handled the thin piece of metal so smoothly. Now he saw muscles quiver; the metal moved noiselessly. In miraculous fashion Blake was lifting up a latched bar on the other side of the door — yet not a sound could be heard!