That was where the trail led — to Mayo! Four victims had already fallen prey to monsters of crime; Brockley, Jefferson, Powell, and Grant Chadwick. Rutledge Mann foresaw protective measures. Whatever scheme had caused the death of Grant Chadwick, it was reasonable to suppose that the killers had not obtained full measure.
If the old man had refused to meet their demands, it might be that he had passed on a heritage of danger to his nephew. Denby Chadwick had already been suspected of murdering his uncle. Would his life be safe now?
The Shadow's purpose was clear to Rutledge Mann. With Harry Vincent and Stuart Bruxton on the watch, Denby Chadwick would be assured of some security. But there was another man who must be protected — Sherwood Mayo, the multimillionaire.
Foreseeing this, Mann turned to another report. He referred to a list which he had prepared beneath the name of Sherwood Mayo. This list was entirely of Mann's compilation. It had not been difficult for him, with many influential friends, to obtain reliable data concerning such an important person as Sherwood Mayo.
The investment broker realized that this list might prove entirely useless; but he had prepared it with the view of picking out certain individuals who were inimical to Sherwood Mayo. Somewhere in this list, Mann felt sure, would be found the name of a man who might seek to injure Sherwood Mayo. Such a man might bear watching — as one who might possess information which could be used by blackmailers.
Finishing this last list, Mann gathered up all the material intended for The Shadow and folded the papers into a long, official-looking envelope. He tucked the envelope in his pocket and left the office, carefully locking the door behind him.
Broadway was aglow as Rutledge Mann rode down the busy thoroughfare. He discharged the cab at Twenty-Third Street, and sauntered along until he came to a dilapidated building. Even at night, this time-worn structure looked miserable and untidy. The rattly door was unlocked.
Mann entered and ascended a rickety stairs. He was in one of New York's most antiquated office buildings. In a gloomy, ill-lighted hallway, Rutledge Mann stopped before a door. The name on the glass pane was barely distinguishable. It simply read:
B. Jonas
Mann's envelope went through a slit in the door. The investment broker shrugged his shoulders and hurried from the gloomy building.