Free The Shadow by James Luceno Page B

could sense what I was feeling.”
    Was it telepathy, she wondered, or was her imagination getting away from her? Who had picked up whom in the Cobalt Club? And whose impulse had she been following when she hurried into his arms—his or her own? It was all too confusing. But she couldn’t get Lamont Cranston out of her thoughts; he was there, haunting the space behind her closed eyes like some specter.
    Margo heaved a dramatic sigh. “Now I’m completely and utterly depressed.”
    A calculation on one of the chalkboards had caught Lane’s eye, and he was staring at it. ‘That’s nice, dear,” he remarked.
    She looked over her shoulder at him and smiled to herself, recalling how frustrated her mother used to get with him.
    The Hotel Monolith had been the talk of the town while it was being built. Designed by one of the city’s finest architectural firms and financed by the city’s most colorful developers, the twelve-story edifice had been called “an Industrial Moderne masterpiece” by critics. Plans called for an Egyptian Revival façade and lobby, with gilded columns, elaborate cornices, and balustraded balconies, and—contained within a cylindrical, rooftop rotunda—the Moonlight Café, whose dark blue ceiling was to feature an artificial moon among a starfield of tiny white bulbs.
    But the hotel had never opened. Events took a tragic turn when the owner went bust in the Crash and later committed suicide. After languishing for two years, the Monolith was put up for sale and purchased by a wealthy Asian, who announced plans to complete it but had ended up razing it. One day the building was there, the next day it wasn’t, almost as if it had vanished. Now the lot on which it had stood, on the northeast corner of Houston Street and Second Avenue, was filled with rubble and garbage that had yet to be removed, and encircled by a high, wire-mesh fence topped with strands of barbed wire. Though why anyone would wish to venture inside was anyone’s guess.
    Nicky Dano, a ferret-faced hackie in the employ of Bluebird Taxi, normally didn’t question his fares about why they wanted to go to a particular place, but there was something about the bearded Chinaman who had waved him down fifteen minutes earlier, up near the Museum of Art and Antiquity. First off, what was the guy doing out on the streets at that hour of the morning? Then there was his getup—the shoulder-length, jet-black hair and the Oriental silk cape and skirt that made him look like he’d just stepped out of some Charlie Chan movie. All the way downtown, the guy’d been mum, but it was like his silence had filled up the whole cab. Nicky was glad to be giving him the air. Still, he couldn’t resist asking.
    “You sure it’s one -five- eight Second Avenue you want, pal?”
    The guy surveyed the vacant lot from the backseat. “That’s correct.”
    “Suit yourself,” Nicky said, shrugging and glancing at the meter. Because of the chill, he was wearing a brimmed cap and fingerless gloves. “That’ll be four forty-five,” he said, figuring a large tip for himself.
    The man opened the driver’s side door, as if he hadn’t heard.
    Nicky glanced at the rearview mirror. “What’s the matter, Charlie, you don’t parlay English? I said—” He met the man’s gaze in the mirror and had a sudden change of heart. “I said, this one’s on me . . . figuring the lateness of the hour and such.” Then, by rote, he reached across the front seat for his clipboarded call sheet and began to jot down the address.
    “What are you doing?” the Asian asked as he was about to exit the car.
    Nicky didn’t even look at him. “Just writin’ down the drop-off address, angel.”
    “You mean to say that you’re recording my destination?”
    “Taxi commission rale and company policy.”
    The man fell silent. When he had climbed from the cab, he stood by the driver’s window for a long moment, staring at something down the street. “Your auto needs