The Shadow 097 by Maxwell Grant

Author:Maxwell Grant
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

ARRIVING at the penthouse, The Shadow stepped into a small reception room to find a stocky, solemn-faced menial awaiting him. This was Rathcourt’s valet, the fellow with whom The Shadow had talked by telephone.

While the elevator door was clanging shut, The Shadow inquired for Mr. Rathcourt. Before the valet could reply, a strained voice sounded from an inner room.

“Who is it, Manuel?” came the query. “Mr. Rettigue?”

The valet turned.

“Yes, sir,” he responded. “Shall I usher him in?”

“At once!”

The Shadow entered a living room to be met by a long-limbed, peak-faced man whose eyes blinked nervously. Elridge Rathcourt was chinless, his handshake flabby. With a shaky gesture, he urged his visitor to an inner room, which was larger than the first. Beyond it were curtained French windows that led to the penthouse veranda.

Rathcourt closed the door of this private living room. Still shaky, he produced a box of imported cigars.

“Have a corona, Mr. Rettigue. Then we can talk business. About bonds. You used to be with Voder & Co.?”

The Shadow nodded.

“We never had direct transactions, though? You and I?”

“No,” admitted The Shadow. “I simply obtained your name from Voder’s list.”

“I see, I see.” Rathcourt was biting at the end of his cigar. A match went out as he tried to light it. “You must excuse me, Mr. Rettigue. My nerves are bad. I need a rest. That’s why I went to Atlantic City.”

“Yesterday morning?”

“Yes. No, no - it was the day before. I wanted to stay there a while. But I had to come back. I rode in on the Blue Comet late this afternoon.”

Though his own attitude was listless, The Shadow could easily separate truth from falsehood as he listened. He knew that Rathcourt had actually gone to Atlantic City yesterday; not the day before. Fear that he might be connected with the voodoo cult had caused the man’s change of statement.

As for the time of his return, that was accurate. Rathcourt had shown relief when he spoke truth. The time element was also proof. The Shadow knew that the Blue Comet, crack flyer of the Jersey Central, arrived at the Jersey City station at about half past seven.

“I had dinner on the train,” continued Rathcourt. “I came here from Liberty Street. Manuel told me of your message. Of course I wanted to see you. But tell me one thing, Mr. Rettigue” - he paused, eyeing The Shadow quickly - “tell me just one thing. Your business concerns nothing other than investments?”

“Hardly,” replied The Shadow, with a sour smile. “Since I sell securities and you buy them, I could scarcely have another reason for coming here.”

“Of course!”

Rathcourt smiled in relief. The Shadow flicked cigar ashes into a tray.

“I felt privileged to visit you,” he stated in a precise tone, “because I previously had negotiations with your deceased uncle.”

Rathcourt suppressed a gasp of alarm.

“Your uncle’s death was most unfortunate,” added The Shadow. “It was heart failure, I believe?”

“Yes.” Rathcourt was fidgety. “Heart failure. Of course.”

“Many persons die of heart failure. That is, supposedly of heart failure.

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