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Lamont Cranston and too fatuous to pose problems of a personal sort.
    Barth’s mouth was open, as if his words about the war and Cranston’s unexplained disappearance had become lodged in his throat. Cranston released his hold, and Barth said, “In fact, I don’t want to know anything about what happened to you over there. Or where you went, or what you did. To be perfectly blunt, Lamont, there’s something unsettling about you that’s always frightened . . . your aunt Rose.”
    Cranston stared at him. “Aunt Rose, huh, Uncle?”
    Barth cleared his throat meaningfully. “But this business with Hadley Richardson is different. You have to understand that your life is bound up with the lives of your family. As sole trustee of the Cranston estate, which provides a monthly stipend to all your relatives, you have responsibilities, Lamont.”
    The Shadow’s whispered laugh of evanescent mirth almost escaped him. “Including you, Uncle.”
    Barth’s gesture of dismissal was not altogether convincing. “That’s hardly the point. You’re simply not qualified to select investments without knowledgeable counsel. That fly-by-night electronics company you just bought into, for example. What is it? IBT? IBS?”
    “IBM. And it’s not electronics, it’s business machines.”
    “That stock will be worthless in six months. Believe me, Lamont, the world will never be run by machines.”
    “Call it a hunch.”
    Barth sighed in exasperation. “Lamont, what do you have against taking advice? Why do you even continue to make plans for dinner when you know that you’re only going to arrive late because of ‘accidents’ on the bridge?”
    “Police Commissioner Barth?”
    One of the club’s messenger boys was standing over the table, a silver tray in hand. Muttering to himself, Barth began to read the neatly folded proffered note. Thankful for the opportunity, Cranston pretended disinterest. His eyes returned to the woman, who had been seated across the room, facing him. The tennis pro had come over to her table to light her cigarette and was leaning over her now, conversing in low tones, one hand on the back of her chair. She laughed courteously at something he said, then patted his other hand, sending him on his way. Her left leg was crossed over her right, her foot tapping to the band’s rendition of “Some Kind of Mystery,” the very picture of urbane sophistication. Her shoes were moiré pumps, dyed to match the dress. Twice, in eyeing the room, she glanced Cranston’s way, concealing the flirtation with strategic sips from her water glass. Just now she had the wine menu in hand.
    “What’s the matter, Uncle,” he asked Barth. “Cops and robbers business slowing down? Or has one of your canaries escaped?”
    Barth took a sip of water and shook his head. “Another sighting of that damned Shadow character.”
    Cranston set his martini down more forcefully than he meant to. “I thought you said The Shadow was just a rumor?”
    Barth’s blunt fingers flipped at the note. “He is a rumor. But all of a sudden Duke Rollins doesn’t think so.”
    “A duke, huh?”
    Barth’s expression soured. “A mobster we’ve been after. Wanted for murdering a cop. Half an hour ago he walks right into the Eighth Precinct and confesses, babbling that The Shadow made him do it. The desk sergeant says Rollins looked like he’d been thrown through a window. Rollins swears he’s going straight—if he doesn’t get the chair.”
    Cranston smiled to himself. When a crook went straight, The Shadow sometimes became his friend.
    “But this Shadow is really beginning to get under my skin. Tomorrow I’m going to appoint a special task force to investigate this guy. We’re going to find out exactly who he is, and we’re going to put a stop to his interfering with police business.”
    Cranston leaned out of the light of the small table lamp, back into shadow. He raised his left hand to his chin, aiming the ruby-red ring at Barth.