Through the fog, a street lamp showed the sidewalk below the balcony. A uniformed policeman dashed into the lamplight, staring upward. Evidently he had been attracted by the sound of the gunfire. Cardona shouted down to him. The patrolman recognized the brusque voice of the detective, the most widely known of all headquarters men.
"Any one down there?" demanded Cardona.
"No," came the officer's reply.
"Look under the balcony."
"No one there."
"Send for the wagon, then. We've got a dead one up here."
The policeman hurried away toward the patrol box, at the corner. Cardona peered downward; then shrugged his shoulders and went back to look at the body of Hawk Forster.
In the patch of light upon the sidewalk, a splotch of blackness appeared. It wavered there while a man emerged from a spot beside the dark wall of the old hotel.
The darkness disappeared as a tall form flitted across the street and merged with the misty light. Through the thickness of the fog resounded the tones of a weird, chilling laugh. Joe Cardona, viewing the body from the window, heard that laugh. It awakened a responsive chord in the detective's mind. His forehead furrowed as he caught the hint echoes of sinister mirth. The laugh of The Shadow!
Cardona knew that laugh. It had come to his ears at other times, when he had been miraculously saved from death at the hands of evildoers. To Cardona, the weird merriment brought enlightenment. He knew now that he had been brought here by The Shadow. He knew the source of the telephone call that had told him where Hawk Forster, wanted murderer, could be found. A quiet voice had spoken to Cardona over the phone — not the voice of The Shadow.