Chapter I — The Laugh of a Ghost

"I am Little Flower!"

A thin, piping voice was babbling amid the eerie darkness. As the shrill tones ended, a spectral silence prevailed.

"I am Little Flower!"

The repeated cry was like a weird echo of the first ghostly call. Then, when the call was no longer uttered, a low, quavering question came from among the sitters in the darkened circle. "Have you a message for me?"

It was a woman who made the query. Her tone was one that denoted a sincere believer. The listeners waited. The voice of Little Flower broke the gloom.

"I have message from J.H.," it said. "He wish to speak to some one that is here. Some one he cannot see. Someone who love him on the earthly plane. He say he is J.H. He say the one who love him will know—"

"I recognize J.H.," came the woman's voice. "I am the one to whom he would speak. Please, Little Flower, please bring me his message—"

The beseeching voice ended with a choking sob. The woman in the circle could speak no more. She was overcome with emotion.

The tenseness of the group continued. The low sobbing of the woman who had spoken was the only sign that people were in this darkened room — waiting— listening.

"He say he will try to speak," babbled Little Flower. "He say he will try, because she wish. He say he feel that she is worry. That she need him to tell—"

"I do need him, Little Flower," pleaded the woman. "Tell him that since he went to the spirit world I have been alone. I need his advice."

"He is talking now," piped Little Flower. "He tell me more now. He say his name is J — J — it is like John, he say—"

"That is right, Little Flower!" exclaimed the woman. "He has told you right. Oh, my dear Jonathan! He knew so much about the world — he was so successful — and now, without him to tell me what to do—"

"He see your trouble," pattered Little Flower. "He say his name is Jonathan. He see you worry about the money that you have. You are afraid you are not wise—"

"Jonathan knows!" bemoaned the woman. "He is speaking from the dead — from the spirit plane. Tell him that I sold — that I did what he advised — but that now—"

The speaker paused, for the voice of Little Flower was commencing to talk again.

"Jonathan he speak to me," came the shrill utterance. "He say he understand. He tell you all through me. He say you do well to sell the stock he say to sell."

"That is true, Little Flower!" gasped the sitter. "Only Jonathan could know about it. Speak to him again, Little Flower. I know it is my Jonathan!"

"He say that you have sold, but you worry about how to buy. You are afraid without him to tell. You wish to know what you must buy to be sure."

"That is true! That is true!" the woman exclaimed.

"He is on the spirit plane," continued Little Flower's voice, "but he can see earthly plane, too. He see something that you must buy.

"Yes, he tell me you must buy. It will make you have much money. Very much money, he say. It is a long name — too long for Little Flower to remember. She cannot understand such big word."

"Please, Little Flower! Please try to understand!"

"Little Flower she cannot say big words. But he say letters. Listen, while Little Flower try to say the letters: C-O-R-N-A-D-O—"

"Coronado!"

"That is what he say — the same word John — Jonathan, he say. There is one more word. It start like the first. Little Flower cannot say. She try to spell again: C-O-P—"

The piping voice broke and seemed confused. It became babbling and incoherent; then the spelling recommenced, laboriously, letter by letter:

"C-O-P-P—"

"Copper!" gasped the eager woman. "Coronado Copper. Is that what he told you, Little Flower?"

"That is what he say. What you say. The same funny big words, that Little Flower find too big to say. Jon-a-than — he say you must buy it quick. It must be quick — before it come too late—"

"Ask him how much to buy, Little Flower!" exclaimed the woman breathlessly. "How much!"

"I talk to him. Wait. He has hear. Through the ear of Little Flower, he has hear. I tell what he say." The piping voice became still. There was a long, breathless pause. Then an incoherent jabber of the shrill voice, and words that were meaningless. Finally, the tones of Little Flower:

"He is say one — one something — one — some-thing — some funny number, he say—" AS the voice dwindled, and the breathlessness increased, a new sound pervaded the seance room. It seemed to begin from nowhere, and grow to a terrifying crescendo.

It was the sound of an uncanny, mirthless laugh. A whispered laugh, it lost its eerie shudder and rose to a loud, mocking peal that drowned the babbling of Little Flower.

Sharp gasps came from the members of the circle. The linked hands of the sitters trembled. That laugh had sounded like a dooming knell uttered by some fierce power of another world!

The laugh died away; then came a low reverberation, as though the tones had echoed back from space itself.

A creepy chilling silence followed. Then, Little Flower's babble resumed, incoherent and tremulous, no longer certain!

"John — Jon-a-than — he try to say — he try to say — one — one-"

With terrifying suddenness, that awful laugh again burst through the darkness. Shorter, louder it sounded. It broke off in the midst of a weird peal; then, after a second's pause, the same tones were duplicated with less volume. A longer pause, and another mirthless peal. Then, after a heart-bursting wait, the uncanny gibe came as a sinister whisper from corridors of nothingness!

Little Flower's last babble did not return. There was a moaning from the medium at the head of the circle. A man's voice groaned.

"Lights! Lights! Turn on the lights!" came a tense whisper.

Some one complied. With the snap of the light switch, the room was flooded with illumination. A circle of a dozen sitters was revealed. Both men and women were in the group, and their faces were aghast. All eyes were centered toward the medium.

A sallow, nervous man, he lay slumped in his chair, with hands and feet bound as they had been arranged at the beginning of the seance.

A heavy, hard-faced individual arose from the circle and approached the medium. A woman joined him, and they managed to bring the medium from his trance. Still tied, he looked about, bewildered.

"Are you all right, Professor Jacques?" asked the man beside him. The medium stared blankly, then recognized the man who had come to his aid.

"Yes, my friend," he said. "Yes, Mr. Harvey. I am all right. A terrible dream came to me in my trance. Some dreadful, evil spirit seized my soul. It seemed to strike at my heart.

"I see you now, my friends. Ah — Mr. Castelle" — he was addressing a dignified, middle-aged man across the circle — "I am glad that you were here. You were a skeptic. Now, you have seen how evil spirits can act. Is it not terrible?"

Castelle nodded slowly. His face was as white and drawn as were the features of the others in that circle. The medium, gaining new control of himself, glanced from person to person.

"Ah" — he was speaking to a frightened, elderly woman — "it was you to whom Little Flower was speaking, was it not?"

"Yes, Professor Jacques."

"I am sorry that your message was interrupted. It was too bad, madam, that such should happen on your first visit to my seance room. It is dangerous, sometimes, for me to gain messages for those who have never been here before. Some evil is present tonight!"

He paused, as his eye, moving farther around the circle, rested on a tall, hawk-faced man who was observing him with fixed, unchanging gaze. A frown appeared upon the forehead of Professor Jacques. There was something about this silent individual that made the medium suspicious. The hawk-faced man, alone of all those in the room, appeared unperturbed. His hands, long and slender, were resting on his knees. His face was as firm as a stone chiseled countenance.

Professor Jacques was unable to meet those stern, unyielding eyes. The medium looked again at the hands.

Upon one finger, Jacques observed a strange, mysterious gem, that glowed like an undying ember. Its deep-purple rays changed to vivid crimson. That stone had the sparkle of living fire. The medium fought against the fascination of that gem, and turned to the man beside him, the heavy-set man whom he had addressed as Mr. Harvey.

"I think I am all right, now," he said. "I am glad that you are here, Mr. Harvey. You and these others know and understand the dangers that confront a medium. I shall rely upon all my sincere believers" — he swung his head around the circle, dodging the gaze of the hawk-eyed man — "to see that no one in this group causes a disturbance.

"I shall try again to commune with Little Flower. But first, I shall seek the manifestation of a friendly spirit that will protect us all against the evil forces."

He nodded toward his bonds. The nearest sitters, now calm again, examined the knots to see that the medium was securely tied. The hawk-faced man did not move from his chair. He sat still, with his bold eyes directed straight toward the sallow medium.

"Join hands," ordered Professor Jacques. "The circle must be complete while I am within it. Will you, Mr. Harvey, turn out the lights and then join the circle? Thank you."

The final statement was made while Harvey was on the way to comply with the request. The lights went out, and the voice of Professor Jacques sounded solemnly in the darkness.

"My strength has returned," he said. "But before I again commune with Little Flower, I shall call upon Temujin, the powerful, friendly spirit, to stand beside me. Often has he been of aid. Coming from the spirit plane, he can strike mortals as well as evil spirits.

"Should any one leave this circle, I cannot be responsible for his safety. Hark!" — the medium's voice became a prolonged moan — "I can hear the whisper of Temujin. He is beside me. I feel his powerful presence—"

As the medium's voice became indistinguishable, a suppressed gasp went around the circle. Hovering in front of the medium's form appeared a phosphorescent dagger — a sinister weapon wielded by an unseen hand!

"I feel Temujin's presence," came the medium's intonation. "It is above me — beside me — protecting me!

Let mortals beware. Let them beware! No force of evil can enter this room. Bound spirits of the other plane beware Temujin!"

The medium's voice became a groan. When that groaning ceased, all knew that the voice of Little Flower would manifest itself.

The threatening, luminous dagger made hands tremble in the circle. Yet its presence was welcome, for with it here, that unearthly mockery of before could not return.

The medium's groan was dying. The falsetto babble of Little Flower was wavering through the stillness. The phosphorescent dagger was almost motionless as it shimmered slightly before the medium's head.

"I am Little Flower—"

The babble ended as the chilling tones of a creeping mockery gathered through the room. It seemed as though some unseen powers were gathering the vibrations of the air together, to hurl them into one tremendous taunt!

The rising sound increased above the subdued gasps of the sitters. It grew louder than the babble of Little Flower's voice. It burst like the crest of a mighty wave — a startling, mirthless cry of wild, outlandish laughter!

Chairs fell backward as sitters clambered to the floor. Screams came spontaneously from the lips of frightened women.

The phosphorescent dagger trembled as though the unseen hand that held it was startled by that reverberating cry. Then it flashed in a menacing swing, as though seeking a hidden enemy. As the dagger wavered, something shot out of the darkness and gripped an arm beside the swinging blade. A loud, harsh oath was uttered.

The dagger was whirling, trying to escape an unknown grasp, as though two mighty, invisible forces were locked in supernatural conflict!

Now came a vicious curse from another voice. The mocking laughter burst forth in quick staccato as the dagger rose high above the floor. Amid the laughter came the thud of a falling chair — wild curses — the fierce sounds of a human struggle in the darkness.

The phosphorescent dagger whirled away in freedom. Striking from above, the blade swept downward like a dash of meteoric light. Its mission of vengeance ended as the blade was lost in thick darkness. A terrible scream came from beside the medium's chair. It sounded again, weakly, and ended in a hideous coughing gasp.

Something thudded heavily, and the glowing handle of the dagger reappeared, poised motionless, only a foot above the floor.

"Lights! Lights!" came the cry of the medium.

The frantic words were drowned with a new outburst of the demoniac laugh that had brought consternation to the room. From the walls and ceiling, impish echoes resounded in the blackness. A host of tiny tongues seemed to be pouring forth a message of sinister doom.

As the taunts died out, the lights came an. Castelle, white-faced, had reached the wall switch. The bright illumination revealed a startling scene.

The sitters were scattered about the room all in spots where they had fled for safety. Overturned chairs bore witness to their mad scramble from the seance circle.

The medium, his sallow face now a reddish purple, was struggling with the ropes that bound him. Amazing though these sights were, they could not compare with the sight in the center of the room. There lay the body of Herbert Harvey, face upward — the handle of a dagger projecting from a spot above the heart!

The man was dead — slain by that mysterious dagger, which no longer shone with phosphorescent light!

While astounded eyes gazed upon the horrible sight, fascinated by the pool of blood that gushed from the slain form, a weird, uncanny echo sounded from an unknown spot.

It was the last response of the strange mockery that had preceded this frightful scene! No one knew from whence it came. In the midst of that eerie sound, the medium's bulging eyes swept everywhere. His struggle stopped as he sought the source of those jeering tones.

He could see no one laughing. Only wild, white faces were in view. They were faces of the startled sitters. As before, these people were obsessed by fear.

From face to face, the medium glared, forgetful of the dead man on the floor, seeking only that hawklike visage that he feared.

But the search was in vain. The man with the firm, unyielding eyes was gone. All that remained to tell of his strange presence was the memory of a weird, sardonic laugh. A laugh so horrible that no one could believe had come from human lips.

It was like the laugh of a ghost. A mockery so grotesque that only a being from another world could utter it. An unearthly tone that even the cringing, faking medium believed had come from spirit lips. Like the laugh of a ghost it had come; like a ghost, it had returned. A man had vanished with it, as though he, too, belonged in some unknown realm of the universe.

Yet that laugh, ghostly though it had seemed, had come from human lips.

It was the laugh of The Shadow!

Chapter II — Spook or Shadow

Murdered by a ghost!

Of all the strange deaths that Detective Joe Cardona had investigated, the case of Herbert Harvey, stabbed to the heart with a keen-bladed knife, was the most mysterious.

To the ace of New York detectives, summoned to the seance room within half an hour after the murder, the situation presented baffling angles that afforded no tangible solution. After a night of witness quizzing, after an exhaustive search for clues, Cardona was back to the point from which he started.

In the morning, the detective was summoned to the office of Police Commissioner Ralph Weston. This, in itself, was sufficient to arouse Cardona's apprehensions. The police commissioner, despite his fastidious tastes, was a keen analyst of crime.

Weston relied on Cardona, but he had a habit of criticizing the detective's pet theories on those rare occasions when he and Cardona went into consultation.

Joe Cardona was a man inured to criticism; with most persons he was quick with a keen retort. But Weston played on the detective's weaknesses.

Now, as Cardona approached the office, he felt that he was due to encounter a barrage of well-founded disapproval.

Commissioner Weston, well-groomed and leisurely, smiled in friendly fashion when Cardona was ushered into the office. The detective knew that lulling smile. He was not deceived by it. He sat down on the opposite side of the glass-topped table, and watched Weston, while the commissioner studied a newspaper. Finally, Weston laid the journal aside and looked at Cardona.

"Well?" questioned Weston.

"I know what you want to know, commissioner," answered Cardona solemnly. "This Harvey case. Well" — he pointed to the newspaper with his thumb — "it's all there. For once, the tabloids have got it straight!"

An expression of amazement came over the commissioner's face. Cardona repressed a grim smile. He had dumfounded Commissioner Ralph Weston!

It was a full minute before the official recovered from his surprise. Then he thumped his fist on the newspaper and stared at Cardona defiantly.

"Do you mean to say," demanded Weston, "that this tommyrot about a killer ghost is all that you have discovered in this case? What has possessed you, Cardona?"

"Out of eleven persons present," declared Cardona, "ten bear witness to that fact. Only one offered a different theory."

"Ten fools!" exclaimed the commissioner. "Ten ignorant, stupid fools who—"

"Have you read their names, commissioner?" asked Cardona mildly.

"Yes," admitted Commissioner Weston reluctantly.

"I found those people very excited," said Cardona, in a quiet tone, "but I wouldn't like to say that any one of them was ignorant or stupid. They were very intelligent people, commissioner. People who have brains as well as money."

Weston folded his hands and sat back in his chair. He surveyed Cardona thoughtfully. He nodded slowly.

"Start with the beginning, Cardona," he requested. "I don't want to miss any portion of this case."

"The meeting was going on up at the Hotel Dalban," began Cardona. "That's where this Professor Raoul Jacques holds his seances, once a week, in a private room, off where they won't be disturbed.

"From what the witnesses say, most of the people were old customers. But they all didn't know everybody else the professor says he's glad to admit strangers. Claims he can get messages for any one.

"Well, last night, he was getting a contact for a new member of the ring. A Mrs. Henderson — she's in the list there, in the Daily Classic. Right in the middle of it, there was a lot of wild laughing. They got scared, and put on the lights. The professor claimed an evil spirit was jinxing the affair."

"Was that when the murder occurred?" questioned Weston.

"No," replied Cardona. "They started in again. The professor claims he called for a good influence to fight the bad. They saw a knife — a dagger— flashing in the air.

"Then came the laughs again. Someone yelled; they switched on the lights. There was Harvey, dead — and the laugh was still coming from somewhere. It stopped right after the lights went on."

"Is that where they evolved the ghost theory?"

"Yes. The professor says that two spirits were in conflict, the good and the bad. He claims that Harvey mixed in the mess, and got the worst of it."

"Preposterous!" exclaimed Weston. "A knife can't come out of nothingness, Cardona!"

"I am telling you what the professor said, commissioner. I started a cross-examination on the spot. When you quiz excitable women, they don't begin to cook up stories. I talked to them. Nine people besides the professor all had the same story. They lay it on the ghost."

"The professor told his story first?"

"Yes, commissioner," said Cardona wisely. "That's the wrinkle. I figured just as you are figuring — that he was keeping something back. If this spook stuff is a fake, he would be the one to know it. So he would be the bird to lay it on. But that part doesn't hold."

"Why?"

"The professor couldn't have done it. He was tied to a fare-you-well. Get this, commissioner. Someone gave the alarm. There were two house detectives there inside of three minutes — good men, both of them. They pay for good men at the Dalban.

"Nobody went out of that room after they got there. They watched the professor. He was tied in his chair — and when I examined the knots, they were plenty tight. He didn't have a chance to get out of them — let alone get back in again."

"You're sure of that, Cardona?" the commissioner queried.

"Positive. It took us five minutes to get him loose. Even a wizard like Houdini was couldn't have got out of that chair, let alone this professor. He's no weakling, but he isn't husky."

"I don't like his story," persisted Weston.

"Neither do I," returned Cardona. "I think he's stalling. But it's not because he did anything — as I said before, he couldn't have."

"What is his purpose, then?"

"That spirit racket is his living, commissioner. With nine other people laying it on the spirits, is he going to say different?

"The point is this, commissioner. He knows some real person did that job— not a ghost. But he doesn't know who the party is. Get the angle? What happens to his reputation if he lets that out?"

"I understand," said Weston, nodding. "You have landed something there, Cardona. The man must be a fraud — I believe most of these mediums are fakes. But with this murder happening right beside him— while he was bound and helpless—"

"That's just it," interposed Cardona, as Weston became speculative. "But don't give me too much credit until I tell you where I got the tip. I've got something up my sleeve, commissioner."

"Yes?"

"Yes, sir. And you won't find it in the newspapers, either! With ten witnesses shouting that a ghost was the killer, there wasn't much chance for the one who said different crashing into print, was there?"

"Ah! There was another—"

"Commissioner," declared Cardona gravely, "there were twelve people in that room when I got there. Twelve, including the dead man.

"The professor had his say. All the others together or apart — said the same. At first, that was. But later on, I got one man by himself."

"Who was that?"

"Benjamin Castelle, a big-money man. His name's on the list. You've got to figure this, commissioner. All those folks believe in spooks except Castelle."

"Ah! He is a skeptic?"

"Well, he thinks the professor is pretty much of a square shooter. Castelle says he's heard him tell some mighty remarkable things.

"But when it comes to ghosts slinging daggers, Castelle draws the line. He saw something there to-night that none of the rest of them noticed."

"At the time of the murder?" asked Weston.

"No. Before. I told you that there were twelve in the room, including the dead man. Well, Castelle tells me that there were thirteen!"

"He is sure of it?" The commissioner showed his interest.

"He counted them. The time the lights came on," Cardona went on. "He said the place seemed really spooky, after they heard the first laugh. He's a bit superstitious, Castelle is. He was looking around, and just naturally he counted noses. Thirteen there — something he swears he is right about."

"Then the thirteenth person—"

"May be the murderer!"

Weston stared reflectively. He seemed to be visualizing the scene as he had read of it, and as Cardona had described it. He looked at Cardona questioningly.

"What became of the odd person?" he asked.

"He must have left," returned Cardona. "Castelle isn't sure, but he thinks there were seven men and six women in the place. There were six men and six women — Harvey included — when the house detectives got there. That makes an odd man in the crowd."

"How could he have disappeared?"

"There's a mystery," declared Cardona. "It's pretty near as bad as the ghost theory. When he went, he must have slid out the door just after the lights came on.

"He had a straight hallway ahead of him. No doors on either side. He might have slipped along to the balcony above the lobby, then down the stairs at the side.

"Castelle grabbed a telephone, and called for help right after the lights came on. The house men were there mighty quick. But when you're dealing with an uncertain time element—"

"It would have been possible, however?" interjected Weston. "Possible for a man to have left by the hall?"

"Possible, yes," agreed the detective. "That was the only way. One door to the room.

Windows with locked shutters. Out through the hall— but if a man made his get-away there, he must have been a wonder. Nevertheless, Castelle has given me the tip. I figure he must be right."

"About the people in the room," began Weston.

"Commissioner," said Cardona, "there is not one suspect in the lot. Peas in a pod, all except Castelle. He's a skeptic as you say, but you can't hook up any motive for him."

"He speaks of an extra man. That might be a blind—"

"Not at all," said Cardona emphatically. "Castelle is talking straight. If he wasn't trying to help, he would have taken the easy route sided with the rest of them. He's right — absolutely.

"There was another man in that room, and he made his get-away. When we find him, we'll have the murderer!"

Weston picked up the newspaper. He made a study of the names in the list. He started a series of pointed questions regarding the various individuals. Cardona answered each query in methodical fashion. Weston dropped the newspaper and extended his hand.

It was a triumph for Joe Cardona — a glorious finish to this conference which he had approached so uneasily. Weston's conviction was evident.

"There was another man," declared the commissioner, with a note of final emphasis. "A man who wanted to kill Herbert Harvey. But why did he choose such a strange method?"

"That's easy," said Cardona, a slight smile upon his swarthy countenance. "It was a cinch, in the dark. They were all sitting around that circle. When the dagger began to float above, the only one who could have known it was phony was the medium.

"He says he had his eyes shut — always does when he is in a trance. The witnesses agree. But supposing he did catch a flash of that dirk. What could he do?

"If he squawked and hollered for the lights, it might have got him. He was helpless, tied up in the chair."

"Right again!" exclaimed Weston, in a congratulating tone.

"Yes," said Cardona, "the professor sat tight, afraid to squawk. That's the story. The rest were scared stiff — and I include Castelle with the lot. But he had enough sense to use his head."

"CardonaA," said Weston, standing beside the desk, "I aim giving you free rein in this matter. You have done wonders, so far. The case is in your hands."

"Thanks, commissioner," said Cardona, rising. "I'm glad you feel that way about it. I don't want to waste any time, yet I want to feel that I'm not rushed. This trail — if I pick it up — may lead anywhere."

"What do you propose to do? Hold any of these people?"

"Not a one. The professor lives at the Hotel Dalban. He's safe there. We'll give him leeway, but he won't have a chance to skip town. He'll be a good witness, later on. I'm going to let his story ride for the present.

"All the rest are safe enough. Castelle lives at the Merrimac Club. He's a big man, well known and well liked. I can talk with him any time. But right now, I'm going back and work on a clue that will lead me to this man who made the slip."

"Let me make one suggestion," said Weston seriously. "Some time ago, Cardona, you had a great failing. You were inclined to attribute certain unexplainable events to a nonexistent person whom you termed The Shadow. You have corrected that fault. Do not let it undermine your sound opinions in connection with this case."

Cardona's face lengthened for a minute; then the detective laughed in a forced manner.

"I've forgotten that, commissioner," he said. "Let's not talk about it."

"Agreed," smiled Weston, clapping the star detective on the back. "Go to it, my man! I am relying upon you. The case is in your hands. Find the missing murderer."

As Cardona left the commissioner's office, he wore a solemn look upon his face a look that Commissioner Weston would have eyed suspiciously.

For Weston's words had aroused the detective's intent memory. As he headed for the Hotel Dalban, Cardona was wondering deeply.

Some unknown being had figured in this crime. The tabloids were loud in their cry of a ghostly hand — a wild theory that looked good in print, but which Cardona had rejected absolutely. Yet the strange disappearance of the missing personage must either be supernatural or superhuman. Ghosts, Cardona had heard, were supernatural. The Shadow, Cardona knew, was superhuman. Spook or Shadow — which?

Cardona spoke his decision mentally.

"The Shadow!"

Chapter III–Cardona Receives a Present

Evening found Detective Joe Cardona worn and worried. From the time he had left Commissioner Weston's office, his mind had been working in forbidden channels. At the Hotel Dalban, he had searched for hidden clues. He had discovered none.

The Shadow!

That was the one thought that had impressed the detective more and more. With that mysterious name uppermost in his mind, Cardona had become singularly mute and unresponsive. He had gained the privilege that he had desired — complete freedom in the handling of the Harvey case. But he knew well that, should Commissioner Weston suspect the detective's mind was reverting to The Shadow, the solution of the crime would become the work of other men at headquarters. Often in his career, Cardona had seen traces of The Shadow. He knew well that the name alone could bring terror to the black hearts of hardened gangsters.

Crooks had died, gasping that strange name. Time and again, the plans of clever mobsters had been thwarted by The Shadow.

Who was The Shadow?

Cardona had no idea whatever. He knew simply that the strange man who identified himself by that name was the sworn enemy of crime.

A power of vengeance, he descended upon skulking criminals, and brought them to account for their misdeeds. Often had The Shadow's terrible automatics barked forth their message of doom to those who fought the law.

Yet, even the most crafty leaders of the underworld were totally at a loss concerning the identity of The Shadow. They knew him only as a man in black — a tall, weird figure that came from nowhere, and vanished into the thickness of the night.

Fiends of lawlessness had faced The Shadow. They had listened to his awe-inspiring voice. They had heard the sibilant whispers of his hidden lips. But those who might have answered questions regarding The Shadow did not live to yield such information.

Cardona, himself, had seen The Shadow. He knew that the man of the dark was no myth. But no one at headquarters could support the star detective's word. Cardona had seen lives saved by The Shadow. He, himself, had escaped destruction, due to the intervention of this mighty man. On other occasions, Cardona had solved mysteries that were seemingly unfathomable, through the secret aid of The Shadow. But Cardona, not The Shadow, had received the credit. Only The Shadow had known the truth — and The Shadow had never told!

Millions of people had heard the voice of The Shadow — were hearing it even now. For, once a week, The Shadow broadcast over the radio on a national chain.

Often had mobsters sought to gain a clue to the identity of the mysterious announcer who spoke from the silence of a black-curtained room. But ever had they failed.

Men lurking at the very door of the inclosed compartment had heard the mocking tones of The Shadow's laugh; and had entered quickly, only to find the room a void.

These facts were known to Joe Cardona, but they had brought him nowhere. Now, his day's work ended, he was seated at his desk in headquarters, staring glumly at the wall. His theories were vanishing like early snowflakes.

The laugh that had echoed through the seance room — it could only have been the laugh of The Shadow!

The amazing disappearance of the thirteenth man — only The Shadow could have accomplished it!

Only one of two men might have killed Herbert Harvey. One was Professor Jacques, the medium — and he could not have done the crime. The other was The Shadow — and he would not have stooped to murder.

Cardona had investigated Herbert Harvey. He had discovered that the man had money and good social standing, although the was alone in New York.

It was possible that Harvey might have been a crook. But it was not the way of The Shadow to strike from the dark, with the knife.

This knowledge brought Cardona back to the impossible. The hand of a ghost — or the hand of Professor Jacques, the pretended ghost maker? Neither could be possible.

What was the meaning of the crime? Cardona had a gloomy sense of foreboding. He had seen mysterious murders before — murders that had led to new killings.

The detective had left the commissioner's office that morning in a spirit of elation. Now, his sense of triumph was gone. He saw defeat— perhaps disaster.

IT was in this time of gloominess that a startling hope dawned within Cardona's brain. The evolution of the inspiring thought came through a slow and unexplainable process. A chain of ideas led to its inception.

First, Cardona thought of the presence of The Shadow. That presence showed crime and great crime. A single murder would not merit The Shadow's attention. Others were in progress; and unless The Shadow could thwart them, they would become new and difficult crimes for Joe Cardona to solve. Whatever the outcome might be, the detective faced a hazard. He saw hopeless days ahead, with clues dwindling and opportunities fading.

For once, Cardona had won Commissioner Weston's complete confidence. If he faltered now, that confidence would be lost.

The Shadow had helped Cardona in the past. Would he help him now? Cardona had that hope; but he greatly feared that The Shadow's aid would come too late. Perhaps only after Weston had decided that his judgment of Cardona's ability had been mistaken.

The Shadow's ways were mysterious. No one but The Shadow could govern them. But did The Shadow know Cardona's present situation? Perhaps, if The Shadow knew—

That was the thought that brought the inspiration. The Shadow would know if Cardona told him! The detective's mind centered on that point. How could he reach The Shadow?

Reflecting, Cardona knew that when a certain crime development aroused The Shadow's interest, no detail was too small to escape the notice of the man of mystery.

To-day, reporters had been clamoring for a statement from the star detective. Cardona had gruffly stalled them. He knew that they would call again to-night. They would want an interview. He would let them have one.

Although he was capable at solving cryptic statements, Cardona was no hand at making them. He began to scrawl on a sheet of paper. His first effort failed, and he scowled as he crumpled the paper and threw it away.

This experience was repeated. Before long, the place was littered with the detective's attempts to word a message that would have a special meaning to a person who could read between the lines. At last, with a much-penciled sheet before him, Cardona sat back in his chair and scowled. He heard a slight shuffling at the door, and looked up to see the familiar figure of Fritz, the taciturn janitor, who liked his job so well that he often spent evenings cleaning up at police headquarters. The sight of Fritz forced a grin to Cardona's perspiring face. For once in his life, the stolid janitor appeared nonplused. He was staring, in apparent bewilderment, at the havoc which Cardona had wreaked. Balls of paper everywhere.

"Clean it up, Fritz," said the detective. "Stick around a while. I'll have a lot more for you. I'm just playing a game by myself."

"Yah," responded the stoop-shouldered Fritz, stooping to pick up the crumpled sheets of paper. Joe Cardona, forgetting the janitor's presence, transcribed these words from the heavily penciled sheet:

Murder of Herbert Harvey New Elements Entering Death Hotel Employees Left Penniless Seance Had A Dozen Offhand Witnesses

A noticeable point about Cardona's writing was the size of the capital letters in the three lines beneath the top. These letters were so large that they spelled a statement in themselves. It read:

NEED HELP SHADOW

The weakness of the idea did not escape Cardona. He knew that the remarks, if they appeared in print, would appear with letters in lower case, instead of capitals.

He could not dictate just how type must be set up. It would give the game away. However, it was the best that he could do.

He transcribed the statements to another sheet, to see how they would look in print, and he shook his head mournfully at the result.

Reluctantly, he crumpled the capitalized sheet and threw it on the floor for Fritz to remove. Beneath the final, poorly formed draft, he wrote a few brief remarks along the lines suggested by the headings. He folded the weak effort in his pocket, and walked from the room, still shaking his head. Fritz continued his slow and laborious job. The last sheet of paper that the janitor picked up for his rubbish can was the one which Cardona had thrown to the floor before he left. Fritz did not drop this with the others. He placed it in the pocket of his overalls. Moving slowly from the office, Fritz made his way to a deserted locker room. There, he discarded his working clothes. His attire underneath was a well-fitting suit of black. He had simply covered it with his overalls.

Before he put the overalls into the locker, Fritz withdrew the crumpled paper and dropped it in his coat pocket.

A metamorphosis had come over the man. No longer stooped, he stood erect before the locker. From the depths of the iron box, he drew forth two objects— a black cloak and a slouch hat. A broad flash of crimson showed from the lining as the changed man flung the cloak about his shoulders. Then he was a form totally clad in black, from cloak with upturned collar, to hat with turned-down brim that completely masked his features.

Fritz, the janitor, had become The Shadow!

Silently, swiftly, the man in black swept from the locker room. He became a fleeting form as he moved down me corridor to the street door.

Then this mysterious being went out into the night, and not even a splotch of darkness indicated the course that he had taken!

Half an hour afterward, a click sounded in a little room. A circle of light appeared beneath a green-shaded lamp. The rays of illumination were centered on a table.

Two hands appeared. They were long, white hands, and upon one finger glowed a gem with changing, translucent hues.

It was the same gem that Professor Jacques had seen on the hand of the hawk-faced man who had disappeared from the seance room! It was a rare girasol — or fire opal — a stone unmatched in all the world. That gem, alone, was a single jewel that The Shadow wore!

Something plopped upon the table. It was Cardona's sheet of paper. A moment later, it was unfolded, and there the hidden eyes of The Shadow read the message meant for them.

A low, whispered laugh passed through the darkness of that room. Its tones were neither mocking nor mirthful. They seemed to carry a meaning that could not be defined.

Cardona's plea was whisked away into darkness. Had The Shadow ignored it?

His next action gave no clue to his purpose. A stack of typewritten sheets appeared upon the table. One by one, the hands went through them. They were confidential reports of The Shadow's agents — a small but efficient band of loyal henchmen.

The Shadow's hands stopped momentarily upon one sheet. The soft laugh was repeated. The papers disappeared. Now the hands had taken a new task.

The left hand held a small metal disk of a dull silver color. The right was poised with a small engraving tool between its fingers.

Carefully, the hand inscribed. The disk was cupped in the left hand so the letters were hidden as each was made.

Invisible eyes were guiding the task. Soon the work was completed. The light went out.

The soft laugh sounded and when its echoes died, the room was empty. The Shadow had departed. Morning found Joe Cardona entering his office with a folded newspaper tucked beneath his arm. His statement had been printed.

Despite his insistence to the reporter that he be quoted exactly, Cardona had found that his wording had been changed — probably by some one at the copy desk. His attempt at a message to The Shadow bad been badly garbled, although traces of it still remained.

Cardona was dubious. He knew The Shadow's skill at solving cryptic messages. But this had been a crude, poorly made attempt. The keenest mind in all the world could hardly see any meaning in such a pitiful endeavor.

A Detective, lingering within the door, pointed to a package on Cardona's desk. It had been there when the man had come in.

Wondering, Cardona looked at the small cardboard box. It bore no name or address.

Nevertheless, it would not be on his desk if it were not intended for him.

Cardona broke the string and opened the box. He fished through a layer of tissue paper, while his companion watched him.

A raucous laugh came from the other detective as Cardona's hand emerged. For Joe Cardona, hard-boiled sleuth, was standing stupefied, with a bunch of violets in his grasp!

The sole witness of this hoax shouted from the door, and other faces peered in to view the ridiculous sight. Angrily, Cardona strode toward the door. The laughers scattered, as they saw the savage fury on his face.

Cardona slammed the door. His face reddened as he glowered at the flowers. He drew back his arm to hurl the bouquet against the wall. His clenching fist crunched the tender stems. Cardona stopped his toss with arm still raised. Something was driving itself against the base of his thumb — a hard, edged object.

Bringing the violets below the range of his eyes, Cardona pulled the bouquet apart and let the flowers flutter to the floor. All that remained between his finger and thumb was a blank disk of silvery metal. Cardona stared; then turned the disk over. On the reverse side, he noted an inscription. He read this cryptic announcement:

SATURDAY PHILADELPHIA ANITA MARIE

Bewildered, Joe Cardona wondered. Then, almost mechanically, the answer dawned. A marked disk, tendered in a bunch of violets.

The Shadow's answer to Cardona's call for aid!

Chapter IV–Little Flowers Speaks Again

Saturday found Detective Joe Cardona in Philadelphia. The taciturn sleuth had said nothing about his trip from New York. Since the morning that he had received the bouquet of violets, Cardona had preserved an air of aloofness.

The name, "Anita Marie," had puzzled Cardona. When he reached Philadelphia, the detective knew nothing of its significance. He realized that he might be on a wild-goose chase; that the violets might have been the prank of a practical joker.

Nevertheless, a ninety-mile trip from Manhattan was nothing if the journey might lead to a clue concerning the now famous ghost murder in the Hotel Dalban.

In Philadelphia, Cardona knew that his position as a New York detective would enable him to secure the cooperation of the local authorities. But he did not wish to take this step unless absolutely necessary. Hence, he scanned the Philadelphia newspapers as he sat in his hotel room, seeking any item that might include the name of Anita Marie.

Obviously, Anita Marie might be a woman's name. But the name was incomplete.

Therefore, it could be the name of a shop, a tea, room— or even a ship in the port of Philadelphia. But the advertisements and news notes that Cardona read gave no clue in this direction.

The detective's mind went back to the first impression — that Anita Marie must be a woman. He suddenly decided that the name might be complete, after all.

He picked up the telephone book in the hotel room, and ran through its pages to the letter M. There he found the name "Marie" — followed by the first name, "Anita." Cardona was forced to smile at his stupidity. Anita Marie was the complete name after all. He noted the address, and the telephone number. It was evidently a residence in West Philadelphia. Cardona left the hotel, and rode westward in the subway. He reached his destination, and strolled down the street opposite the spot where the house was located.

There, on a small sign, he read:

Anita Marie Psychic Circle

Anita Marie was a spirit medium! Not only that, but she was using the same title that Professor Raoul Jacques had employed with his group of believers in New York.

Reaching the corner, Cardona drew a tabloid newspaper from his pocket. He had looked through the personal columns before, but he had not noticed anything of special interest, although he remembered that the word psychic had appeared there.

He discovered it again — in two or three announcements. One stated as follows: Psychic meeting to-night. Friendly visitors welcome. Eight o'clock.

Beneath the notice appeared the address of Anita Marie.

It was already late in the afternoon. Cardona decided to wait until eight o'clock. He found a restaurant in the vicinity and dined there. He was sure, now, that his mysterious tip-off had come from The Shadow. During his investigation of the Harvey murder, Cardona had realized that events in one seance room might have a possible connection with those in others. But the job of watching every medium in Manhattan and environs had seemed a ridiculous plan.

Cardona, in all his work, played for breaks that would lead him somewhere. He had found one now, and it was worth following.

Shortly before eight o'clock, he arrived at the home of Anita Marie. Cardona was astounded when he saw the rows of automobiles gathered on both sides of the street.

Evidently this medium did a rushing business at her Saturday-night seances. Cardona was impressed, in spite of himself.

He went up the steps of the house and rang the bell. The door was opened by a sharp-featured maid. Cardona, hat in hand, inquired if the seance had begun. The maid's reply was in the negative. She stepped aside, and the detective entered. The maid took his hat and ushered him into a large room. Some forty persons were seated in chairs around the walls.

Cardona took a vacant seat, and quietly eyed the other visitors. Most of them appeared to be persons of some intelligence. While he was studying his companions, Cardona noticed them glancing toward the end of the room. Staring in that direction, the detective viewed a woman who had just entered. SHE was the medium — Anita Marie. A tall woman, past middle age, and inclined to stoutness, she had an appearance of impressive dignity. But there was a defiant attitude in her bearing, and her eyes threw a sweeping challenge as they glanced about the room.

She had the manner of a school mistress looking warningly toward misbehaving pupils. Satisfied with her inspection of the assemblage, the medium took her seat behind a table. In a harsh, rasping voice, she informed the newcomers that it was customary for visitors to the circle to make a deposit of one dollar before the seance began.

This, she explained, was not a matter of profit. It was for the protection of the clients themselves, as the fee assured them that undesirable persons would not be present to disturb the meeting. The explanation seemed thin to Cardona. By his estimate, there were more than forty persons present, which meant a good evening's business for the medium.

The detective joined the group of persons who approached the table to place their money. He nudged elbows with another man as he did so. Turning, Cardona found himself staring into a pair of piercing eyes.

The appearance of the stranger whom he had thus encountered made a distinct impression upon Cardona. The keen, hawkish visage of the man — his cold, evenly molded features produced an immediate reaction in the detective's mind.

He was sure that he had never seen the man before, yet there was a haunting glint to those sparkling eyes that seemed vaguely familiar. A moment later, the man was gone, back to an obscure corner of the room.

When all were seated, the seance began. The medium opened with a jargon of talk that eventually formed itself into a message for some one.

A man stated that he recognized initials which Anita Marie was giving, and the medium concentrated her speech upon him. So long as the man agreed with facts she told him, Anita Marie spoke with assurance. When he mildly informed her that some of her statements were incorrect, she adopted a browbeating attitude.

"The spirits do not lie!" she cried. "Don't try to argue with me. I am right and you are wrong! You are trying to disturb the messages."

With that, she indignantly broke into a new line of chatter that wound up with a message for a more susceptible person. A young girl answered all of the medium's questionings in a breathless tone. Pumping her for information, Anita Marie managed to deliver some facts that seemed startling to the girl who received them. A buzz of approval rose from the faithful present.

To Cardona, it was a mass of drivel. He wondered what any one could see in this pure bunkum, and he shook his head as he eyed the faces of eager persons who seemed to admire the medium's self-proclaimed talent.

He caught a glimpse of the solemn-faced man in the corner. He noticed that the stern visage was immobile.

An hour passed, and the dull proceedings continued. The medium was working on the faithful — old customers whom she had impressed before. Her overruling tactics beat down the mild objections that arose occasionally.

Cardona was becoming weary. This affair promised none of the spectacular proceedings that had occurred in the strange seance held by Professor Jacques, in New York.

But then, Cardona remembered, the professor had charged fifteen dollars to each entrant in his circle. He was a worker of a more cunning sort, Cardona decided.

It was after nine o'clock when the seance began to take on a more lively aspect. Anita Marie was holding discussion with a middle-aged lady whose attire marked her as a wealthy woman. From the medium's coaxing, honeyed tones, it was evident that this woman was a frequent visitor to the psychic circle.

"Yes, yes!" she was agreeing to every statement that Anita Marie uttered. "This is wonderful! Please tell me more!"

Now the medium gazed triumphantly around the circle, with a look that was intended to wither skeptics who were present. Seeing that the majority of the persons were believers, Anita Marie decided to press her advantage.

"I'm agoin' to put myself under the control of a spirit," she asserted, in rapid, slurred tones. "With so many good people here to-night, I have been doin' my best for all. But this lady, here, is anxious for more advice. She has troubles, this lady has. I can see it. That's right, lady, isn't it?" The woman nodded.