The Ghost Makers

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.