MANSION OF CRIME
by Maxwell Grant
As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," March 1, 1941.
Over this sprawling Long Island mansion came a pall of crime - and death!
Could The Shadow, master of darkness, lift aside this hideous cloak of evil and
save the innocent?
CHAPTER I
THE HOUSE ON THE SOUND
OLD Theodore Prendle stood at his study window and glared off into the
dusk. His view took in a sweep of lawn and shrubbery, well-kept woods and
driveways, all part and parcel of his extensive Long Island estate. Beyond that
landscape gleamed the broad blue waters of Long Island Sound, some portions
clearly visible, others peeking through the trees that lined the shore.
Though increasing darkness lessened the beauty of the scene, Theodore
Prendle was not disappointed. In fact, his eyes were not noting the graceful
features of the landscape at all. All that he saw, or could ever see, when he
gazed from that window was a double wall of high, dark hedges that flanked one
edge of the estate.
Beyond that double hedge, the distant tops of castlelike towers were
outlined against the glooming sky, indicating another mansion quite as large as
Prendle's own residence.
That other house belonged to Victor Thorndon, for years Prendle's
archrival in business. Even in retirement, the two had continued their
bloodless feud. The hedges had been built for spite; one by Prendle, the other
by Thorndon.
Usually, such hedges were clipped to a reasonable height; these had been
allowed to flourish until they had become as large as fair-sized trees, forming
an almost impassable thicket. Only by dint of careful search, could anyone have
found a route to crawl through that twofold wall.
When Prendle glared at the hedges and Thorndon's domain beyond, his heavy
face took on a squarish look, which was increased by the straight, set lines of
his lips. The expression gave Prendle's features a hardness, which was not a
true index to his nature. For Prendle was actually a friendly man, firm of way,
but not harsh.
Those who knew him well recognized that his bitterness toward Thorndon was
the result of accumulated experience. Prendle realized it, too, and usually
curbed his emotion, except in the presence of trusted friends who understood.
One such friend was Albert Carthwright, at present a visitor in Prendle's
study. Also a resident of this exclusive area, Carthwright was likewise a
retired businessman. Though not so wealthy as either Prendle or Thorndon,
Carthwright had done quite well for himself, and furthermore, had withdrawn
from active work much earlier.
Hence, in contrast to Prendle, whose age was visible in lined face and
white hair, Carthwright showed no traces beyond those of middle age. He was a
brisk man, Carthwright, with a lean, well-chiseled face and hair which showed
no more than streaks of gray.
"Thorndon! Bah!" Prendle always prefaced his criticisms of his rival with
such words. "He's copied everything I ever did, even to settling out here and
growing a hedge. He'd still do anything he could to spite me. That is why" -
Prendle lowered his booming tone - "I want to talk with you, Carthwright."
Before sitting down at his desk, Prendle stepped to a side door of his
study and opened it. He peered cautiously into a fair-sized room that served as
a library. It wasn't the only book room in the house, but it was the one where
Prendle kept his own private volumes.
Its main door, leading in from the large front hall, was permanently
bolted, hence it could only be reached from Prendle's study. There were
windows, of course, but they were tightly latched. Nevertheless, Prendle liked
to look into that library on occasion, to make sure that it was empty.
Satisfied that such was the case at present, Prendle returned to his desk.
There, he rang the buzzer for Blair, who arrived promptly at the main door
of the study, which led in from the hall. Blair was Prendle's butler, an old and
competent retainer, whose manner and tone were as dry as his withered face.
"Tell me, Blair," requested Prendle casually, "has anyone come home yet?"
"No, sir," replied the butler. "I believe that Mr. Jack is still at the
Beach Club, while Miss Helene is some where with Mr. Exeter."
"Very well, Blair."
PRENDLE dismissed the butler with an approving nod. He waited until
footfalls had died beyond the door; then he turned to Carthwright. Though
Prendle's tone was restrained, it still had traces of its booming note, as he
said:
"There are my two troubles, Carthwright: Jack and Helene. Having heard
what Blair just said, you should agree with me."
"I do, regarding Jack," conceded Carthwright, in his brisk way. "He does
spend too much time at the Beach Club -"
"And other places," inserted Prendle, "where stakes are higher than in
bridge games, drinks more frequent, and time more thoroughly wasted."
"I suppose so," returned Carthwright. "Yes, it will take Jack a long time
to settle down, if he ever does. But I can't understand your criticism of
Helene. Your daughter is a very lovely girl."
Prendle jarred the desk with his fist.
"That is not the issue!" he stormed. "Good or bad, bad or good, persons
must show judgment. Jack can hang around the Beach Club, or go the rounds in
New York, if only he will get down to business first. Similarly, all of
Helene's good qualities are wasted, while she prefers the company of
ne'er-do-wells like Reggie Exeter.
"Sometimes, I think that there is only one person in this house who has
any sense, besides myself. I'll tell you who that person is: Blair!"
Prendle's voice had been booming higher and higher. It ended in a blaze
that made the windows rattle. Then, after the brief pause that followed, there
came a cautious rap at the door. Prendle boomed for the person to enter. Blair
appeared, to question:
"Did you call me, sir?"
Carthwright held back a smile, realizing that Blair must have heard
Prendle's final shout. Bluntly, Prendle waved the butler away; but as soon as
the servant had gone, Prendle began a deep laugh, in which Carthwright joined.
Prendle rather relished jokes at his own expense; this one rendered him quite
convulsive.
Contrarily, Blair lacked such a sense of humor. Out in the hall, he could
hear Prendle's booming laugh and Carthwright's accompanying chuckle. Stiffly,
the butler strode off to the kitchen, too annoyed to glance about the hall, as
he usually did.
As soon as Blair was gone, a young man eased in from the front door and
gave a chuckle of his own.
The newcomer was Jack Prendle. The son had enough of his father's
appearance to prove the relationship. He was of slighter build, however, and
his lips had a way of turning down when they smiled. Jack was pleased by
Blair's departure and the stiff way in which the butler had gone. Pleased, too,
because he knew that his father was talking with Carthwright in the study.
From his shrewd look, his sneaky manner as he stole through the large hall
to the study door, Jack was following a preconceived design: namely, to listen
in on the conference.
Close to the study door, in the shelter of its deep entrance, Jack could
overhear the words that followed. Old Prendle had taken it for granted that
neither Jack nor Helene had yet returned, otherwise the fact would have been
mentioned by Blair. Hence, Prendle was talking a bit loudly, and Carthwright,
somewhat influenced, was doing the same.
"Getting back to Jack and Helene" - inside the study, Prendle folded his
arms as he sat erect behind the desk - "I am worried about their futures.
Should I divide my fortune between them, they would become babes in the woods,
to be devoured by the wolf."
"You mean that Victor Thorndon is the wolf?"
"Precisely, Carthwright," returned Prendle. "If he lives longer than I do
- and he may - he will assuredly try to gratify his one ambition, of tearing
down whatever I have built up."
"If you put your entire estate in trust -"
"I shall have to do that, Carthwright; in fact, I have already made such
provisions. But I do not like it. Living on trust funds, Jack and Helene will
be jellyfish for the rest of their lives. No, I would prefer, if I could, to
start them off with fortunes of their own while I am still alive."
OUTSIDE the door, Jack's face, glum at first, had taken on an increasing
gleam. Whatever his lack along some lines of judgment, he was an opportunist,
and his shrewdness was coming to the fore. He was particularly attentive as he
listened to the next words.
"Take Jack's case," boomed Prendle. "He wants money. I should like to give
it to him and set him up in business."
"You can't mean," exclaimed Carthwright, "that Jack wants money to start a
business?"
"Of course not," snorted Prendle. "He wants cash to make up for all that
he has spent. He is welcome to it - a hundred thousand to start, and more as
needed - if he will show the proper interest in things that count."
"Will he ever?"
There was a pause after Carthwright's question; then Prendle spoke, slowly
and speculatively.
"Jack might," he declared. "Perhaps what he needs is the proper example.
That brings us to Helene's case. If she would only meet the right man and marry
him! I could set up my son-in-law in business, and offer Jack the same
opportunity."
"But would Jack profit by it?"
"I think he would. He might see the value of Helene's marriage and find
the right girl for himself. Marriage is what Jack needs, even more than Helene,
in order to become stabilized."
Carthwright sat back in his chair and smiled. He looked at Prendle, as
though trying to picture him as Cupid in disguise. Prendle saw the reason for
the smile.
"No, Carthwright," he said. "I can't force either of my children into
marriage. I can only hope that they will think of it themselves, and choose
wisely. It may be that Jack will set the example in that respect.
"He seems to have no preferences at present, whereas Helene likes
scatterbrains such as Reggie Exeter. But when they are both married, and
properly so, they shall have fortunes in their own right. But until then -"
Prendle broke off, as a roar came from the drive, outside. A car with wide
headlights wheeled past the house and screeched to a sharp stop.
"Reggie Exeter," snorted Prendle, "bringing Helene home. Sometime, he'll
bring her right into the living room, car, wall and all! Bah! I'll speak to
that young fellow."
Prendle strode from the study. By then, Jack had stolen to the front of
the hall, where he stopped abruptly at a telephone table. Picking up the
telephone, he was half turned away when his father reached a door that led out
to the driveway. Prendle did not notice Jack, but the latter heard the door
chatter open. Still, Jack remained at the telephone.
It was Blair, coming from the kitchen, who noted Jack and stopped short.
Catching the mutter of a voice, the butler mistook it for Prendle's and
supposed that his employer was still in the study, making a call from his own
telephone. Then, in the same glance that showed him that the study door was
closed, Blair observed Jack.
Discreetly, the butler stepped back into the kitchen, for he made it a
point never to eavesdrop. That virtue on Blair's part was, on this occasion, a
failing.
If Blair had crossed the hallway and stopped in the shelter of the study
door, which was not far from where Jack stood, the butler would have heard some
startling things and grasped facts which had an important bearing on the future.
Facts which old Theodore Prendle would have thanked Blair for telling him.
A scheme was in the making; a scheme that was deep, though quickly formed, and
one that threatened crime and violence.
It hinged upon the call that Blair did not overhear. The servant, by his
very fidelity, was allowing a threat of doom to grow upon his master, Theodore
Prendle!
CHAPTER II
WORD TO MANHATTAN
LOUNGING in an easy-chair in a fancy apartment, Roger Frack was dangling a
cigarette in one hand and holding a hand-set telephone in the other. He was
wearing a dressing gown that suited his garish surroundings, and his face,
handsome in its dark way, was showing a very wise smile.
Frack's wisdom was more than superficial. He happened to be the smartest
confidence man at present operating in New York City. Whenever Frack was in
Manhattan, he always fixed up his place in lavish style. It went well with his
business.
The telephone, in the opinion of Roger Frack, was the greatest of modern
inventions. At present, it was bringing him important news from Long Island,
acquainting him with the plans of Theodore Prendle very soon after the
millionaire had propounded them.
Much was being said from the other end, though it came both rapidly and
cautiously. Frack, in his turn, was saying very little, except to acknowledge
the things he heard. For Frack happened to have a visitor who was concerned in
the matter under discussion, though the visitor did not yet know it.
The visitor's name was Stanley Wilford. He was younger than Frack, and
better-looking. In fact, Stanley Wilford, with his serious face and frank gaze,
seemed quite out of place in a confidence man's apartment.
Frack settled the telephone on its stand, took a puff from his cigarette,
and faced his visitor.
"A break for you, Stan," he informed. "I've just talked to the big-shot.
He mentioned you, and said he'll give you the chance he promised."
"Whatever the chance is," retorted Stan, "I don't want it. I've told you,
Frack -"
"So why repeat it?" interrupted Frack. "Its out of our hands. The big-shot
holds those phony checks of yours, to the tune of two thousand dollars, and what
he says goes."
Stan didn't agree.
"You know all about those checks," he insisted. "I thought I had five
thousand dollars coming to me, on a legitimate business deal. I gave the checks
out, and then found I was framed; that the money wasn't coming through. I was
tricked and you know it!"
"But the judge won't," Frack mocked. "If that ever gets to court, Stan,
you'll do five years work in a big house up a big river. So why not play ball
and clear yourself a lot easier."
"By putting myself in deeper," Stan brooded. "No, Frack, I don't like your
racket. I'm all set to leave town. If you want to go to the trouble of chasing
the law after me, it's your privilege."
His jaw set, Stan Wilford stepped toward the door. With quick strides,
Frack blocked him off.
"Why be a fool?" Frack snapped. "You'd never make a good con man. We want
you for a front, that's all. One job, and the boss will hand you back those bum
checks. That is" - Frack corrected himself - "I'll hand them back for him.
"Pass up this chance and you're a dope. We've got others on the list, we
always have. Somebody else will take over if you don't. As for clearing out, it
won't help. We can't afford to let guys like you clear out. If you try, you may
finish in the river, instead of up it!"
FRACK meant what he said. Never in his experience with this tool who was
working for someone higher up, had Stan seen Frack exhibit such determination.
He let Frack shove him back to a chair; there, Stan accepted the cigarette that
his persecutor offered him.
"It's a cinch," declared Frack. "All you've got to do is go out to Long
Island, to a place called Longwood, and put on a good show. You'll draw money
whenever you need it, so you can get in with the right people, particularly a
family named Prendle."
"And then?"
"You'll learn the rest later," Frack replied, studying Stan's sober face
with careful approval. "And I promise you this: you won't have to steal
anything, slug anybody, or do anything that can incriminate you in any way."
Stan was thinking it over. His bluish eyes had a sudden flash. He felt
that he could rely upon Frack's terms, though there would certainly be a catch
later. But the catch, as Stan foresaw it, would apply to Frack and the master
crook that the con man represented. Perhaps, once when he had slipped the mesh,
Stan could use the net himself and trap the bigger fish.
"All right," said Stan firmly. "It's a deal. When do I start?"
"Tonight," returned Frack. Then, cagily: "But you'll have company on the
way out. I'm sending Skeet along."
Stan merely shrugged. He knew Skeet by sight. The fellow was a small-fry
member of the confidence ring; he posed as a racetrack tout. But Skeet, with
others of his ilk, formed a compact mob. They were the sort that would be sent
along to see that Stan "played ball," as Frack had termed it.
"Where do I go with Skeet?" inquired Stan, a trifle tartly. "Is he going
to stay with me?"
"You stop at the Beach Club," informed Frack, "and Skeet comes back to
town. Your job will be to meet old Theodore Prendle, who has a son named Jack
and a daughter named Helene. Jack is probably the best bet, for a starter. He
plays cards at the club. Lose to him, and he'll like you. We'll pay the
freight."
Stan reached for his hat again, and Frack did not stop him. With a smile
of grim pleasure, as though the coming adventure intrigued him, Stan strode
from the apartment and gave a farewell wave, remarking that he would stop off
at his own apartment.
With Stan's departure, Frack picked up the telephone and dialed a number.
Soon he was talking cautiously with Skeet, smiling as he heard the things that
his tool had to tell him.
"Wilford is going through with it," informed Frack. "Packed his stuff, you
say?... You've been casing his place, I take it. He left the luggage at Grand
Central? Good enough. You can pick it up for him -
"Sure, you're going with him, but on the train... Yes, take him in your
car, out to Long Island... No, don't dump him... Just let him off at the Beach
Club, in Longwood... he's going through with it, I tell you... Yes, meet him
over at the apartment -"
Frack heard the thud of Skeet's receiver and could picture the fellow's
disappointment. Skeet was always hoping for a chance to dispose of persons like
Stan Wilford, instead of convoying them to a safe destination.
In fact, Frack could picture more. He could visualize Skeet, in the back
room of the joint where he hung out, mouthing that same disappointment to a
group of surrounding thugs.
THE picture was correct. Skeet was at the back-room table where he always
sat, and he had three men with him. Like Skeet, they were undersized but tough,
not the sort who looked like regular mobbies. Their appearance, like their size,
helped them a great deal, because the police regarded them as somewhat harmless.
Judging by the bulges on their hips, however, they made a specialty of
carrying lethal weapons. They were careful to suppress those bulges, as they
arose at Skeet's beckon.
"Frack says Wilford is coming along," undertoned Skeet, in the voice he
used for giving racetrack tips. "But you never can tell. The guy may pull a
run-out. So when I go up to talk to him, you birds close in. His joint is easy
to reach; it's Apartment B6, over at the Marbleton."
Lounging at the next table, under the wary eye of an aproned waiter, was a
long-limbed, ill-dressed customer who evidently patronized this place because of
its cheap prices. He was stretched half across his table, apparently the victim
of too many drinks, and the waiter was wondering whether the small change that
he fumbled was meant for another drink, or a tip.
Skeet and his pals didn't give that customer a further thought as they
sidled out through the rear door. Skeet, in particular, was quite sure that his
voice hadn't reached the stranger's ears.
But as soon as the undersized mobbies had left, the wayward customer came
to life. Pushing the change in the waiter's direction, he reached his feet and
shambled out through the front.
There, he practically stumbled against a cab that was parked in darkness.
Its door swung wide as he approached, released by the driver. It was the
stumbling man, however, who pulled it shut as he gave the whispered order:
"Marbleton Apartments."
The stumble-bum was The Shadow; this cab was his own. The driver, Moe
Shrevnitz, knew that the order called for speed. He whisked his chief the few
blocks to the Marbleton at such a pace that The Shadow had to use rapid action
to match it. The Shadow's action concerned a special drawer set beneath the
rear seat of the cab.
From that drawer, The Shadow was whipping garments of black - a slouch
hat, a cloak, and thin gloves. With them, he usually brought automatics, but on
this occasion none were in the drawer. They were already parked in holsters
beneath the shabby coat that The Shadow had worn when in the dive that Skeet &
Co. patronized.
The law hadn't spotted Skeet and his crew for what they were, but The
Shadow had, and therefore had been ready for them.
The only thing that The Shadow had missed was the telephone call that
Skeet received from Frack, because Skeet had taken it in a booth. But The
Shadow, hearing the name of Frack, had identified the con man, and therefore
had something of a line on Stanley Wilford.
This, however, was the first evidence that The Shadow had gotten regarding
mob connections in the racket with which Roger Frack was associated.
Cloaked in black as the cab slid up beside the old and squatty Marbleton
Apartments, The Shadow eased out into darkness and whispered a low laugh. His
course was plain: by reaching Stan first, he could wrench that young man from
the racket and take proper measures against Roger Frack, who, for some time,
had been on The Shadow's future list.
Skeet and his crew could report that their bird had flown. Any efforts to
retrieve Stan would simply bring them up against The Shadow. Surprises would be
due for men of crime, according to The Shadow's coming schedule.
But it happened that The Shadow had not yet met Stan Wilford, whose own
ways happened to be distinctly individual.
The surprise that was coming shortly, was different from the sort that The
Shadow would normally expect. It was to be a surprise for The Shadow, himself!
CHAPTER III
STRANGE ADVENTURE
THE front of the Marbleton was gloomy, as it always was at night, when
Stan Wilford arrived there. He had taken a cab from Frack's, but traffic had
delayed him in the Times Square area. The time-lengthened trip had given Stan
an opportunity to think things out, and he had gradually reconciled himself to
the adventure that lay ahead.
The more hazards it might offer, the better Stan would like it. He had
always looked for strange adventure and was willing to start from the wrong
side of the fence, since nothing better offered.
Things were quite to his liking, as he left the cab in front of the
apartment house. Stan could see lurking figures in the offing and knew that
Skeet and others were on hand. For their benefit, he paused outside the door,
then strolled into the Marbleton, as though the choice were entirely his own.
In fact, Stan regarded himself as a free agent, despite the threats that
Frack had broached. He intended to act the part, even while taking orders that
Frack relayed from higher up. It was just a case of gaining leeway all along
the line, until the time came to kick over the traces.
Meanwhile, he would play in with crime whenever necessary, not only to
learn what it was all about, but to satisfy a whim of his own.
Stan was thinking in terms of Theodore Prendle. He had recalled the name
while riding in the cab.
It went back to Oklahoma, where Stan had tried his hand at oil, only to be
frozen out, along with some other small independents, by certain large
corporations. True, the big ones had been wrangling among themselves, but that
hadn't helped Stan's case. They had raised money when they needed it, and had
finally fattened through their feud.
The money had come from New York, supplied by a banking house of which
Theodore Prendle was a director. The bankers had received interest for their
money, Prendle among them.
It was easy enough for Stan to argue, mentally, that others had a right to
wrest such funds from Prendle. Remembering his own prospects in oil, and how
they had been squashed, Stan conveniently decided that it was his money at
stake, not Prendle's.
Prendle had a family: a son named Jack, and a daughter, Helene. But why
should that change Stan's attitude? He pictured Jack as the typical rich man's
son, who would either squander a fortune, or, worse, push himself into a high
position through his father's backing and crowd out men of greater competence.
Toward Helene, Stan had even less sympathy. He had seen plenty of her
sort, out West. They came to the oil fields in airplanes and private cars and
looked at the derricks hungrily, regarding them as the producers of fur coats,
imported limousines, French maids, and Sealyham terriers.
These daughters of the rich had no sympathy for the men who sweated in the
fields; no regard for the ambitions of toilers. So Stan could see no reason why
he should hold sympathy for them. His contempt for Helene Prendle, the girl
that he had never met, was quite complete when he entered his apartment.
Except for the furniture, the little apartment was empty. Stan had packed
everything that afternoon. His trunk and suitcases were at Grand Central
Station, the checks in his pocket, along with a ticket for the West.
He had agreed to return to the apartment, simply so that Frack would not
suspect how far he had gone with his plan for departure to an unstated
destination. Taking the ticket from his wallet, Stan looked at it and laughed.
He folded it away, intending to redeem it later.
Longwood, fashionable suburb on Long Island, would be just as golden a
spot as somewhere in the West. There, if he could withstand his dislike for
surrounding luxury, Stan would redeem himself in his own way. He'd worked
himself into a mood where he detested persons like the Prendles as much as he
hated Roger Frack and the unknown big-shot behind the confidence ring.
Stan's eyes had at least been wide open when Frack had tricked him. It had
happened after Stan came East to invest his savings in a retail oil business.
Through Frack, Stan had been promised five thousand dollars, to be supplied by
a silent partner, cash on the line, provided all debts were clear. So Stan had
paid off the debts of his newly acquired business by overdrawing his bank
account.
Then the storm had struck. There weren't any debts, no silent partner. It
had all been a frame-up, and Stan's checks were in the hands of the man behind
the confidence ring. It was just a case of putting them into circulation and
letting Stan take the rap.
Frack had put the case quite coolly, along with his promise that there
would be a way out, if Stan chose to accept it. The way out was for Stan to
serve as wedge in a bigger game involving Prendle.
So what?
STAN asked himself the question, as he nosed around the apartment to make
sure that he hadn't left anything important. He opened a closet door, gave the
interior a glance, without bothering to look deeper. Then, as he was closing
the door, Stan did remember something.
He stepped to a small table, which had a slightly opened drawer. Pulling
the drawer out, Stan tilted the table forward. There was a clatter, as a .32
revolver slid forward into his waiting hand.
Stan had brought the gun to New York with him, and had stowed it behind
the table drawer as a good hiding place. At times, he'd regretted that he had
kept it, since revolvers were taboo in New York.
But he was glad, now, that he had it; pleased, too, that it was fully
loaded, a fact which he proved by cracking the gun open. Even if he did intend
to play along with crooks, it wouldn't do to trust them too far.
Stan, at that moment, was thinking in terms of Skeet, the man who was to
convoy him to Long Island. Closing the gun, he listened, and heard a creep from
the hall. It was probably Skeet, and the idea struck Stan that the gun would
make the right impression on that sneaky crook.
Yes, he'd show Skeet the revolver, muzzle foremost, then put the gun away.
Skeet would then know, and report back to Frack, that Stan had gone to Long
Island of his own volition.
Moving toward the door, his own steps stealthy, Stan unwittingly made a
progressive picture of a hunted man, ready for a last stand against odds. He
was practically deceiving himself, hence it wasn't surprising that he should
deceive an observer whose presence Stan did not suspect.
The closet door swung wide noiselessly. From the depths that Stan had
mistaken for mere darkness came a cloaked shape, advancing with swift, silent
glide. First to reach the apartment, The Shadow had witnessed Stan's arrival.
Knowing that a real threat lay over the young man, The Shadow was taking steps
to balk it.
First indication of The Shadow's presence became evident to Stan when the
latter gained the door. One hand reaching for the knob, Stan was holding the
gun in his other fist, when blackness intervened. The blackness wasn't solid;
it was The Shadow's own shadow, thrust ahead of the cloaked figure. It produced
the anticipated result.
Seeing the silhouette that spread against the whiteness of the door, Stan
turned. He gave his gun hand a natural sweep, twisting slightly backward as he
did. However quick he might have been with the trigger, the swing was needed
first. It came right where The Shadow wanted it: into a clamping trap.
Stan, halting, startled, found his wrist in the grip of a gloved hand that
had the power of a vise; a strength so numbing that it paralyzed Stan's fingers.
He couldn't have pulled the gun trigger had he wished.
Besides, a shot from Stan's gun would have been doubly useless. The Shadow
had stopped the weapon far short; it wasn't even aimed at the cloaked intruder.
But The Shadow's .45 was aimed straight between Stan's eyes.
Sight of the big muzzle made Stan quail. The Shadow could feel the young
man go limp. Coolly, The Shadow lowered his leveled weapon, though still
keeping his restraining grip on Stan's gun hand.
Then came whispered words - The Shadow's promise of co-operation against
crime. He was declaring himself a friend, and backing the statement with the
glow of burning eyes. He was offering Stan a way out, while he, The Shadow
remained to combat Skeet and the crew, should they offer trouble.
With sweeping gesture, The Shadow indicated a window which led to an
outside roof, the proper route for Stan to take.
TEN minutes before, Stan Wilford would have snapped at the invitation.
Even at this moment, his eyes showed interest. His lips were tightening, as
though fighting to curb a fear. Actually, Stan was striving to suppress
inclinations toward crime, the mood which The Shadow had not yet observed. In
fact, the thing that decided Stan was almost trivial.
It was The Shadow's gesture. To indicate the window, The Shadow used his
gun hand. The .45 was completely away from Stan at the crucial instant. As for
Stan, though his own gun hand was powerless, his other hand had reached the
doorknob.
Seized by a rebellious impulse, a sudden urge to go through with his own
plan in a way that would prove his pretended desire for crime, Stan whipped the
door open.
He intended the yank to carry him beyond the door, where he would be out
of The Shadow's sight. He expected the door edge, coming in between, to free
him from The Shadow's grip. It did, but not through Stan's own effort.
The Shadow was hauling Stan off balance as the door came inward, and
normally, Stan would have bashed against the door, slamming it shut again. But
there were other forces to contend with: Skeet and a pair of thugs. Though
scrawny, their combined weight was considerable as they threw themselves
against the door.
They saw The Shadow lose his grip on Stan. They heard Stan's hoarse yell
as the door flung him to the corner. The cry was lost in the laugh that The
Shadow gave, a mocking invitation for crooks to follow as he wheeled.
Then, as they took the invitation, lunging as they drew their guns, The
Shadow proved his move to be a feint. He was no longer wheeling across the
room; he was driving headlong into his attackers, meeting them just within the
doorway.
In the turmoil, the charging forms struck hard against the door, slapping
it wide against the wall. From the corner where he had landed on hands and
knees, groping for his gun on the floor beside him, Stan Wilford was a witness
to the sudden fray that his own impulse had produced.
More than a witness, he was to be a deciding factor in this battle between
The Shadow and men of crime!
CHAPTER IV
FLIGHT'S FINISH
THE SHADOW was hurling crooks like chaff, meeting them with hard-sledged
gun strokes, then plucking them, free-handed, to fling them one against the
other. They were slashing, too, trying to ward off his blows and get an aim at
him.
They were a rabbity tribe, unlike brawny thugs. They preferred to shoot
while on the dodge, and The Shadow recognized it. He wasn't giving them the
chance they needed.
As Stan was rising, one crook came spilling hard against him. It was
Skeet, and the fellow bounded like a rubber ball. He hoped to get a shot at The
Shadow, but the cloaked fighter was suddenly gone. Taking the two remaining
thugs in one swoop, The Shadow had tossed them bodily through the doorway and
across the outer hall, following them as part of his lunge.
Skeet made a spring for the doorway, stopping just short of the edge. He
heard The Shadow's taunting laugh and did not welcome it. Stan heard the
mockery, too, as he finally found his feet, with gun in hand. Caught by a new
impulse, Stan hoarsed:
"Look out, Skeet! Duck back here!"
Stan's tone was something of a give-away, though he didn't realize it. He
was trying to rectify the thing that he had done. His first surge of animosity
toward The Shadow had been a brief one, much like the instinct felt by a
trapped animal toward its trapper. He'd seen a way to elude The Shadow and make
a hit with Skeet; but Stan hadn't expected the things that followed.
The smash of the door, the fray that it produced, was Skeet's idea, not
Stan's. In witnessing the rapid strife, Stan had suddenly found himself in
favor of The Shadow. The cloaked intruder's friendly offer was still clear in
Stan's mind, and the fact that The Shadow had carried through the promise,
though one against three, was something to admire.
Stan's own career had always been on the uphill side. He wanted to help
The Shadow, and was doing it. Stan's yell to Skeet caused the fellow to
hesitate, instead of taking a quick gun jab at The Shadow.
Then it was too late for Skeet. The Shadow had flattened the others and
was wheeling toward the room, his laugh ringing with ominous challenge. The
Shadow was out to settle scores, and to Stan, the laugh was meant for him as
well as Skeet.
Stan couldn't realize that The Shadow had heard his yell and given it the
correct translation, for Stan himself had not fully interpreted his own cry.
He saw Skeet whip forward again in desperation. Stan, too, was on the
drive, hoping to reach Skeet before the fellow could fire; but it looked as
though The Shadow would smother the crook first.
Then, as gunshots sounded from the hall, The Shadow wheeled, forgetting
Skeet. He had a more pressing duel: Skeet's two reserves had arrived and were
opening fire from the end of the hall. The Shadow had to settle those
pint-sized marksmen before they found the range.
At that moment, Stan's brain was in a whirl. He was against the wall, his
free hand gripping the edge of the opened door. The Shadow was gone, but Skeet
was still a target. A shot at Skeet could count, but the echoes of The Shadow's
taunt still produced confusion in Stan's mind.
He couldn't discount his previous mistakes; if he fired now and clipped
Skeet, The Shadow would probably consider it another error. Stan had tagged
himself as a member of crime's faction, and logically should he shooting at The
Shadow. At least, so Stan believed The Shadow would define it.
There was one other course at hand. It was literally at hand, because it
involved the door, which Stan happened to be gripping. Otherwise, it might not
have occurred to him. Indeed, it came so spontaneously, that Stan started his
action while his thoughts still whirled.
He gave the door a huge slam, and as it was whizzing shut, Stan foresaw
happy consequences. The door would cut off Skeet from The Shadow. Stan himself
could then suppress Skeet, to prove which side he really favored.
THINGS didn't work that way.
Skeet, too, was spinning as Stan gave the door its fling. The door hooked
the human pint behind the shoulder and catapulted him across the room, at an
angle toward the window.
The door's momentum wasn't halted, for Stan had put plenty of beef behind
the sweep. The door closed with a slam that drowned the bark of guns from the
hallway.
Skeet was on his feet before Stan could reach him. The crook was at the
window, beckoning with his gun.
"Come on!" he urged Stan. "Say, The Shadow must have hit me hard. But I'll
bet he got his when you smeared him with the door!"
Engaged with The Shadow when the door swung, Skeet supposed that it was
the cloaked fighter who had flung him. After all, Skeet was still inside the
room and couldn't figure how the door, going the other direction, had put him
there.
Shooting from the hall had ended, and Stan, grimly fearing that The Shadow
had lost out, saw no other course than to flee along with Skeet. After all, it
had been his original intention, and at present, Stan felt fully branded with
crime. His only path to redemption was to go through with the thing, and settle
scores later. Stan felt that he owed it to The Shadow.
From the roof, which he reached with Skeet, it was an easy drop to an
alley below. Stan followed his scrawny guide to a waiting car, an old sedan
that had brought the thugs.
They found a groggy thug already there. Skeet addressed the fellow as
Terry, and shoved him into the rear seat. Skeet took the wheel, with Stan
beside him.
"We didn't get The Shadow," croaked Terry glumly, from the rear seat. "He
got us, that's what. Bowled me and Juke right down the stairs, and Juke lay
where he landed. If The Shadow hadn't gone up again after you guys, he'd have
got me, too. I thought Juke was playing possum, so I did the same. Only Juke
wasn't faking. He's croaked!"
Skeet received the news with alarm. He threw a glance into the mirror that
fronted the driver's seat, and sped ahead as he noticed a trailing cab. Skeet
shook off the cab, apparently, but the way he went through traffic lights
brought other pursuers.
Police cars were whining from the rear, when Skeet took to a dead-end
street near the East River and nosed the sedan into an old garage which was
deserted except for a few cars. Hopping out, Skeet rammed the door of the
garage shut.
"That will fool them," he told Stan. "While I call Frack, to tell him that
you rate one hundred percent, you can get that coupe in the corner started.
We'll go out the other way and start for Long Island."
Stan took the wheel of the coupe, with Terry beside him, while Skeet was
making the phone call. Then Skeet arrived and cautiously opened the rear door
of the garage, which gave access to another street.
Doing a lot of thinking, meanwhile, Stan was more than ever decided to go
through with the Long Island proposition. He felt that The Shadow's friendship
was a thing he might regain at the right time and place. It was welcome news,
the fact that The Shadow was still alive.
When Skeet hopped in the right side of the coupe, Stan followed
instructions and drove for an East River bridge. They passed police cars on the
way, but they paid no attention to the coupe.
Across the bridge, Stan picked a boulevard and made toward Longwood,
occasionally noting that cabs were in sight behind him. But he didn't connect
any of them with the cab that Skeet had suspected earlier.
They were well away from traffic, when Stan saw a uniformed policeman
blocking the road ahead. The cop was waving his arms, and there was a patrol
car standing by. Stan gave an anxious look toward Skeet, whose fist promptly
showed a revolver. Terry, too, was pulling a gun from his pocket.
"Slow up," ordered Skeet. "Terry and I will give it. Step on the gas as
soon as we let blast."
TENSELY, Stan obeyed the first instructions, swerving the coupe slightly
to the left; but before either crook could thrust a gun from the window, Stan
followed the later orders. His jab of the accelerator fairly lifted the coupe
on its way. The shots that Skeet and Terry fired were hopelessly wide and
belated.
In the mirror, Stan saw the cop jump back to the patrol car, which
immediately got under way.
"You dope!" snarled Skeet angrily. "We'd have croaked that bull, if you'd
given us the chance!"
"So what?" retorted Stan. "There were others in the car. We'd have them
after us, anyway. I saw my way to a better start, that's all."
Skeet glared suspiciously across Terry, then decided that the question
could be settled later. Stan was giving the coupe its best speed, which was all
Skeet could expect for the present. Leaning from the window, Skeet jabbed a few
shots back at the patrol car, which answered in kind. Terry had what seemed a
better idea. He rolled down the rear window and opened fire through the back.
"Keep it going, Terry," approved Skeet. "I'll take care of the loading."
Stan was giving the coupe all it had, with the special purpose of keeping
the car so far ahead that Terry's shots could not take effect on the pursuing
police. He saw a sign marking Longwood as a mile ahead, and took a road that
curved toward Long Island Sound.
By then, the police car had gained despite him, and was within revolver
range. But police guns packed a wallop that Terry's weapon didn't have.
There was a ping, as something smacked the windshield and turned the
center of it to a webbed mass of streaks. Another bullet, and Terry was
slumping silently between Stan and Skeet. Almost savagely, Skeet eyed the face
that had hit the cushion. Terry was dead.
"Hit for the shore," snarled Skeet. "We'll hop out of this buggy and grab
a boat somewhere."
The road was converging with another. Jamming the brakes, Stan made a
hairpin turn and zigzagged for a rough gravel drive that led down to an old
pier.
He didn't realize what the delay might mean, until he saw Skeet poke from
the window on the right and aim squarely at the police car, which had gone off
the road in trying to make the first turn. Stan's grab at Skeet's arm was just
in time to send the crook's shots high.
Stan's game was through, so far as Skeet was concerned, and the crook's
snarl told it. But Skeet was through, too, his savage outburst ending in a
gasp, as he swung about hoping to settle his companion.
Unheard in the volley of Skeet's wild shots, another gun had spoken, from
back by the turn. Its bullet had clipped Skeet at the window of the coupe.
As sequel to the timely shot, Stan was sure that he heard a laugh much
like The Shadow's, proof that the cloaked fighter had been on the trail all
along. But the mirth, if real, was drowned by the roar of new guns that
spattered the coupe and flayed Skeet's form, while Stan, ducking, sped the car
down the gravel road to the Sound.
These were shots from the police, who had jumped from their stranded car,
and it wouldn't do to halt and explain things to them. The police, quite as
much as The Shadow, would have every reason to list Stan with the mob.
So Stan calculated, as he took the blind road, wondering what it would
bring. He saw, within the next two hundred yards.
AHEAD, the gravel roadway ran directly onto the short, rickety pier, an
abandoned stretch of weather-beaten planking. With dead companions bouncing
against him, Stan did his best to brake the car; but the space was too short.
The pier crackled as the front wheels bore upon it, and with that token of
coming disaster, Stan yanked at the door handle on his side of the car. As the
coupe careened, he plunged outward.
The dive landed Stan on the pier, for the car was swerving to the right.
From where he sprawled, Stan saw the death car take a topple from the outer
corner of the pier. Its two occupants were already dead, as Stan knew; but had
either been alive, the chance for survival would have been nil.
For in the coupe's final careen to the right, the door on the driver's
side yanked shut, sealing the dead men in their bullet-riddled tomb.
There were bushes near the pier. Dizzily, Stan reached them. His clothes
were torn, his body battered, but he kept stumbling ahead through darkness.
Everything faded out behind him, but he still kept on.
Downgrade, he struck a little cove and waded through its water, which
revived him somewhat; then, ashore again, he continued through woods and
thickets, until he sank from sheer exhaustion.
The pier seemed very far behind him, and it was far, for by the time
Stan's staggering flight was ended, much had happened at the water's edge. The
police had sent for a wrecking truck, and a derrick was pulling the coupe up
from the shallow water off the pier end. As soon as the car was reclaimed,
officers yanked open its doors.
Inside, they found the bodies of Skeet and Terry, both bearing signs of
gun wounds. The police took it for granted that they were the car's only
occupants. Though they hadn't seen the car plunge from the pier, some of the
officers had heard its engine's roar end with a splash, and the closed doors
indicated that no one could have escaped.
The wrecker pulled away, dragging the death car behind it. The police car
followed, and again a peaceful quiet reigned along the Sound. Then, as if from
nowhere, a probing light appeared. It was a tiny flashlight, maneuvered by a
gloved hand.
Near the inner end of the pier, The Shadow detected broken bushes.
Following between them, he found footprints trodden in the earth. Following
such leads, The Shadow reached the cove where Stan had waded.
By then, The Shadow had found out two things: first, that Stan's course
had been staggering; second, that the distance which the fugitive had traveled
was proof enough that he still had recuperative strength.
The Shadow followed the trail no longer. Returning to the upper road, he
stepped into the waiting cab that was parked deep beneath the shelter of trees.
A low laugh stirred the darkness, its sound mingling with the purr of the
starting motor.
The police could count this case closed if they chose, but the part that
Stanley Wilford had played was one that would still be remembered - by The
Shadow!
CHAPTER V
NEW REFUGE
WITH morning, Stan Wilford crawled from beneath a clump of bushes and
surveyed the Long Island countryside. The sun was high, indicating that it must
be as late as ten o'clock, which did not surprise Stan at all. He could recall a
very uncomfortable night on the hard ground; so uncomfortable, that he hadn't
really managed to sleep until dawn.
At present, Stan was very stiff and bruised; his appearance, too, was
quite bedraggled. Groping back through vague dreams from the night, he recalled
the events that had started it all, and his worriment became real.
True he had survived the running fight in which Skeet and Terry had
perished, but that did not prove that he was in the clear. He could hope that
the law had forgotten him, but certainly Roger Frack hadn't. Stan felt himself
in the very middle of something he didn't like.
Even such middle ground could be uncertain, when Stan's reflections turned
to The Shadow. Whoever The Shadow was, he seemed to have a faculty for moving in
where least expected. In real alarm, Stan glanced about the landscape, almost
expecting The Shadow to step from behind a tree and give that mocking laugh of
his in broad daylight.
Then, finally deciding that he had temporarily eluded The Shadow, too,
Stan looked for a path that would lead him somewhere else.
He found a path. It led to a dirt road, where Stan saw the marks of tire
tracks. This wasn't the road that he had taken the night before. In fact, Stan
was quite sure that it must be a mile or more from the pier where he had
launched the coupe. Seating himself on a rock beside the road, Stan began to
reason things out.
First, he gradually assured himself that the law had overlooked him. The
conclusion became quite sound. To begin with, Stan hadn't used his own name at
the apartment where he stayed.
It was an apartment with a regular lease, used by Roger Frack to quarter
newcomers who worked for the confidence ring. Stan was quite sure that only
Frack, or someone higher up, would be able to release the name of the last
occupant.
Memories of the diving car, with its shutting door, gave Stan a true clue
to the police decision in the case. He was sure that the police regarded Skeet
and Terry as the only occupants; otherwise, they would have beaten through
these woods until they found another fugitive.
Since the police hadn't made a search, Stan felt that he could dismiss
them from his mind; and after further contemplation, he decided to forget The
Shadow, too, for the present.
Stan was right back where he had started. He was ready to go through with
the plan that Frack had proposed, until he could see all consequences that his
policy might produce. It wasn't wise to dally too long, however, because of
Frack.
He remembered that Skeet had called Frack from the old garage, to certify
that Stan was really working with the racket; but there were various ways in
which Frack might interpret the subsequent events.
The sunken car, with Skeet and Terry as its only tenants, was a damaging
matter, unless Stan could explain how it had happened. He was sure that he
could sell the story to Frack, omitting, of course, the detail of how he had
grabbed Skeet's gun hand at a vital moment.
But it was imperative to contact Frack without delay. How to do it puzzled
Stan for a short while; then enlightenment struck him.
He would find the Prendle house and talk to some of the servants. He could
claim that he had cracked up a speedboat on the shore - a story to which his
bedraggled appearance would testify. It might already be that Frack had posted
a man at Prendle's; if so, all the better. If not, Stan could certainly get
permission to make a telephone call, and thereby reach Frack.
Therewith, he could tell Frack that he was actually at the Prendle
mansion, the place where Frack wanted him to be.
The immediate problem was to find the mansion.
STAN took to the dirt road and limped along, hoping that it would come out
somewhere. He hoped, too, that he would meet someone and inquire the way to
Prendle's. He hadn't long to wait, for, as he turned a bend in the road, he
came upon a sporty yellow roadster parked beside the road.
There was a girl with the car, but she wasn't in it. She was standing
beside the roadster, gazing impatiently along the road as though expecting
someone.
The car was handsome, but the girl was gorgeous. Indeed, she was dazzling,
literally so. She was standing against the sun and the dazzle came from its
rays, which turned her light-brown hair into a burnished copper. The face
framed against that background was worthy of its setting; not only were the
features of excellent mold, they had expression as well as beauty.
From a distance, her dark eyes seemed firm in gaze, but as Stan
approached, he saw that they carried a mild query, while the girl's lips, half
opened, looked ready to give this stranger a friendly greeting.
Of medium height, the girl was shapely, a fact which could not be doubted,
considering her attire. She was wearing a riding habit, its trimness a sure
index to her own. Stan didn't ordinarily fancy riding habits, for he regarded
them as too masculine to go with feminine charm; but this instance was causing
him to reverse all previous opinions. The brown-haired girl with the deep-hued
eyes would be herself in any costume; of that, Stan was certain.
Then, realizing that it wasn't polite to stare, Stan spoke, quite
pleasantly, but with a note of weariness which was genuine.
"I'm a stranger," said Stan, "and I've lost my way. Perhaps you can help
me."
The girl's gaze was a further credit to her. She wasn't the sort to judge
persons by mere appearance, or lack of it. She was taking stock of Stan's
bedraggled attire and unshaven face, discounting them completely in favor of
his frank eyes and sincere smile. Graciously, she gestured toward the car.
"I can do more than that," she declared, in a tone as clear and lovely as
Stan expected. "Tell me where you would like to go, and I can take you there. I
am expecting someone here" - she paused, to smile - "but since he has kept me
waiting, I can let him wait, in turn."
Stan stepped to the car; then paused, hesitant. As a complete stranger in
the vicinity, he really wouldn't know where he wanted to go. The thought struck
him that he could modify the statement, by claiming a destination without
knowing how to reach it. But there, he was meeting with another snag.
He couldn't mention the Prendles, because he had never met them. If the
girl knew the Prendle family, as was probable, it would be a bad beginning for
Stan to ask her to leave him at the servants quarters.
As for the Beach Club, Stan didn't care to make his entrance at the place
in his present disreputable garb. As a result, he found himself stammering
excuses, which, for the first time, caused the girl to view him with doubt.
"If you'll give me a lift -" he began. "Well, say anywhere... that is,
wherever you prefer... or if you'd just direct me, I'd appreciate at. You see,
I'm a stranger -"
"You said that before," the girl interrupted. "Perhaps we should postpone
the trip until you become more specific - or coherent."
There was no anger in her tone; not even doubt of her previous impression
regarding Stan. The girl was simply showing the firmness that really lay behind
her friendly manner.
To emphasize it, she reached for the door which Stan had half opened and
started to draw it shut. Tightening his grip on the door, Stan decided to give
her the boat story.
"You see, I just cracked up," he said. "Not in a car" - Stan was hasty to
insert that point - "but in a speedboat down in the cove -"
The girl's eves were already shifting to Stan's clothes, noting that
though torn and bedraggled, they were dry. She was drawing the door more
firmly, her hand clenched tightly upon it, and Stan, in his turn, was holding
back, determined to complete his tale.
"- quite a while ago," he was adding. "Just about dawn. I started over
from Connecticut along about midnight. Foggy on the Sound, you know. It crept
in on me, and, without a compass, I was lost. Thought this was the Connecticut
shore -"
"At dawn, with the sun rising?"
"It was just before dawn," put in Stan, glibly. Then, seeing that the girl
didn't believe him, he added:
"Of course, the drinks had something to do with it. I took too many of
them. Nothing else to do, and with a bottle on the boat -"
"I'm sorry," interposed the girl, "but I can't believe you. I think you
had better go your own way."
SHE reached to press Stan away, and he raised his hand in protest. The
girl didn't misunderstand; in a way, she seemed sorry to find that this
frank-looking stranger had proven himself so unreliable.
The person who did misunderstand was a vapid young man who arrived that
moment, to overlook the situation. He had an excellent vantage point, for he
was mounted on a horse.
"Get away, you bounder!" he began harshly. "Why are you disturbing this
young lady? Who are you, anyway? What right have you to be here?"
Stan stepped back, annoyed by the fellow's poppycock attitude. He was
quite prepared to answer; ready, this time, to cut down his story to the simple
statement that he had lost his way and that how he had come here was his own
business. But before Stan could speak, the girl had intervened.
"It's all right, Reggie -"
There was almost a plea in her tone, an insistence that the disheveled
stranger had in no way sought to harm her. But Reggie, probably considering
himself a knight without armor, was intent upon dealing with the interloper as
he thought suitable.
"So you won't speak up?" he sneered. "Very well, you can have the
consequences!"
He wheeled his horse toward Stan, at the same time yanking his riding whip
into action. He had the whip reversed, and swung at Stan with the crop. It was a
hard blow, that wouldn't have been healthy for Stan's skull, had it landed.
But it didn't get that far. Stan warded Reggie's arm with his own; in the
same motion, he caught the fellow's wrist. Then, swinging his other hand into
play, he took a double hold and hauled Reggie from the saddle in a long, hard,
somersault.
With Reggie sprawled, Stan picked up the whip and handed it to the girl.
For the first time, Stan's tone had sarcasm, as he told the brunette:
"Better take the boy friend where he wants to go, and tell him he's lucky
that it isn't the hospital."
Turning, Stan was about to walk away, when he heard a clatter from beside
the car. He swung to meet Reggie. The horseless hero was coming in fists first,
his foremost hand carrying a fair-sized stone, for weight.
Stan ducked the clumsy blow and let it slide across his shoulder. With the
same motion, he roundhoused his own fist against Reggie's jaw. As Reggie
flattened, Stan turned to wave a farewell to the girl.
Something lashed his face from chin to ear. It was the riding whip,
handled by the girl, whose face was flushed with real anger. The sting was
sharp, and Stan could almost feel the welt grow on his cheek. He stood
stock-still, and the girl did the same. Their eyes met as they had not done
before, mingling all the emotions that only two impulsive natures could produce.
Then Reggie, rising groggily, let out a howl, and Stan heard the thuds of
horses' hoofs. Two grooms were riding up, bringing an extra horse in tow, and
both were huskies who might welcome a fight.
Not that Stan wasn't willing to take them on; he would have, ordinarily.
But the present time was certainly not right for a brawl that might require
explanation in a police station.
Suddenly remembering why he was at Longwood, and how he had actually
arrived there, Stan made a dive for the nearest bushes.
He heard the grooms come after him, with Reggie spurring them on with
shouts. Crashing through thickets in broad daylight wasn't the easiest way to
shake followers from the trail.
Stan could hear shouting from other directions and knew that more people
had been summoned to the chase. He saw a clear expanse of lawn, with men who
looked like gardeners dashing in his direction. Reversing his course, Stan took
to the woods again.
THE scrambles of followers dwindled, as Stan reached another space, to
find it deserted. He saw a large gray house; beyond it, a high hedge. Fully
exhausted because of his exertions the night before, he decided to cross the
lawn and work through the hedge. He wasn't more than halfway to the hedge, when
new pursuers tracked him.
These weren't men; they were dogs, huge mastiffs that issued thunderous
barks. On the run, Stan brought up against the hedge, but found it too thick to
push through. Before he could travel along to a spot that looked passable, the
bounding dogs were upon him.
Knowing the ways of mastiffs, Stan halted abruptly, hoping that the huge
beasts wouldn't go for his throat if he offered no resistance.
Great paws struck Stan's shoulders, but fangs stopped short of his neck.
Stan's quick thought had saved him momentarily, and his dilemma was ended when
a sharp call came from near the house. Hearing it, the dogs dropped away from
their human prey, and an elderly but agile man came trotting into sight.
His face was withered, crablike, the sort that Stan would not have liked
under less pressing circumstances. At present, however, he welcomed the crabby
man like a long-lost friend. Stan didn't express thoughts verbally; he
couldn't, for he was out of breath, but he did deliver a thankful gesture.
The withered man gave Stan a long look, then said in harsh, officious tone:
"Come with me."
They walked to the big gray house, the huge dogs following patiently. At
the door, the elderly man motioned for Stan to enter; then ordered the dogs
away. Following through the door, Stan's rescuer closed it.
Shouts from the woods had faded. Grimly, Stan hoped that this new refuge
would bring him real shelter from all pursuers, whether man or beast.
CHAPTER VI
STAN GETS ACQUAINTED
OLD Withered-face conducted Stan through a heavily furnished hall, to a
little door that led to a flight of stairs. At the top, they entered a room
which was quite obviously soundproof, for its walls were very thick. It was
furnished with many curios, from tapestries to statuettes, and made a very
picturesque den.
In the corner, however, Stan noted a desk, and an old safe behind it,
which meant that the room had office purposes, also.
The old man brought a bottle of brandy from an ornamental cabinet and
offered Stan a drink, which Stan accepted. The warmth of the brandy was
welcome; with it, Stan felt a new interest in his surroundings, particularly
the old man.
He noted that the withered fellow was studying him with sharp, beady eyes,
and the reason suddenly struck home. The old man thought that his dogs had
produced the rips in Stan's clothes, and was therefore trying to square the
situation.
"My name is Victor Thorndon," the old man announced abruptly. "I am sorry
because of what happened. It is too bad that you did not notice the signs that
I posted, warning trespassers to keep off this property."
The hint was obvious. Thorndon wanted no lawsuits. He was smart enough,
however, to promptly take cognizance of his visitor's plight.
"Of course," Thorndon added, "accidental trespassing can be excused. Let
us say that you are now my guest, and as your host, I feel quite responsible
for the damage caused. May I ask if you live near here?"
"No, I am something of a stranger," Stan returned. "I came to call on the
Prendles, and was asking my way, when -"
He paused. His mention of the Prendles had produced a peculiar effect upon
old Thorndon. Never had Stan seen a man's expression grow so canny, as
Thorndon's did. Still, he decided to stick with his new story.
"I've met them only casually," Stan continued. "But I understand that Mr.
Prendle is interested in oil, which used to be my business. I don't know Jack
very well, but I've talked with Helene quite often. In fact, it was she who
really invited me -"
Stan broke off as someone knocked at the door. The raps were heavy, but
barely heard through the thick barrier. Thorndon noticed them and went to the
door. Stan heard him conduct a conversation with a servant. Knowing that it
might concern a prowler who had fled into the woods, Stan congratulated himself
on having claimed an acquaintance with the Prendles.
"In fact," Stan continued, as Thorndon returned, "I thought this must be
the Prendle house. You see, Helene invited me -"
"Yes, yes," interposed Thorndon. "Helene Prendle knows you quite well, you
said."
"Yes, quite well."
"Very odd, very odd." Thorndon turned his beady gaze upon his visitor.
"Yes, very odd that she should not have recognized you when you accosted her on
the road, not long ago."
STAN'S gaze went blank. It had never occurred to him that the gorgeous
girl by the roadster could have been Helene Prendle. He had pictured her as the
snobbish daughter of a testy old millionaire, not as the real Helene that he had
so unexpectedly met. Out of his whirl, Stan heard Thorndon's voice again.
"My servants have just told me of that episode," Thorndon declared. "The
men searching for you did not care to meddle hereabouts, because of my dogs. So
we can call ourselves even on that score." Thorndon gave a chuckle. "And your
promise to forget my dogs will receive my agreement to forget that you came
here."
Weakly, Stan nodded. Thorndon poured another round of brandy, offering it
with one hand, while he laid the other on Stan's shoulder. Refusing the drink
with a headshake, Stan looked at Thorndon inquiringly.
"I take it, young man," said Thorndon, "that you are something of a
fortune hunter. No offense, at all. I was the same in my younger days. May I
ask your name?"
"Stanley Wilford."
Trying to make it positive that he had given his real name, Stan faced
Thorndon squarely. More than ever, he felt the gimlet bore of the old man's
eyes. Then, with a dry laugh, Thorndon swallowed the brandy himself, in the
fashion of a toast.
"Good luck to you, Wilford," he announced. "It pays to be truthful on
occasion."
Did the words mean that Thorndon already knew Stan's name, or that he had
judged all by his visitor's gaze? The thing was making a sudden difference in
Stan's own opinion, as he waited to hear what came next.
"You would like to meet the Prendles," declared Thorndon. "That much is
plain. Very well, I shall arrange it, for I would like to have you meet them.
Sometimes" - he chuckled significantly - "it is well to choose other people's
friends for them."
Stan began to understand that Thorndon did not like the Prendles; that in
furthering Stan's path to such a meeting, he was figuring on giving the Prendle
family considerable trouble. Meanwhile, another theory was growing larger in
Stan's mind.
"I can introduce you at the Beach Club," continued Thorndon. "You will
like it there, and you will meet the whole Prendle family, once you are living
at the club. First, you must make yourself presentable. You have other clothes
available?"
Again, the sharp eyes expected an affirmative answer. Stan gave it in the
form of a nod, and produced the baggage checks, which he handed to Thorndon.
"I was going West," Stan said. "Yes, fortune hunting. Last night, I
decided to remain and try the Prendles. My luggage is at Grand Central."
"I shall send for it at once."
Taking the baggage checks, Thorndon left. Alone, Stan decided that it
wouldn't be necessary to call Frack, after all. He was now quite sure that
Thorndon would do it for him. For the conclusion that Stan had reached, after
Thorndon's cross-examination, summed up itself in a fashion that Stan regarded
quite definite.
Victor Thorndon was the headman of the confidence ring!
WHEN Thorndon returned, his conversation convinced Stan further. The old
man had one theme: he discussed the Prendle family, giving Stan many pointers
that could prove valuable.
They lunched together, Thorndon and Stan, and afterward Thorndon
introduced his guest to a library, which, he casually remarked, could swallow
all of Theodore Prendle's much-prized books without showing visible signs of
the increase.
Stan's luggage arrived at midafternoon. Thorndon wanted to look over the
wardrobe, and after approving it, suggested a few additions. Thorndon insisted
on ordering the new clothes from his own tailor, and taking care of the bill.
He also thrust a few hundred dollars upon Stan, remarking that it was merely a
loan, which his young friend could increase, if required.
During their chat, Stan had learned the names of persons well acquainted
with the Prendles; hence when Stan arrived at the Beach Club, shortly before
dinner, he was on the lookout for such people.
It required no introduction to stop at the club, which operated partly on
a hotel basis, but Thorndon had evidently greased the way for Stan to form
acquaintances. The club steward introduced Stan to various members, among them
some of those mentioned by Thorndon.
At dinner, on the veranda which overlooked the Sound, Stan found himself
with several of his new acquaintances, and others, who had just arrived.
Around the latter was a brisk, lean-faced man who was introduced as Albert
Carthwright. The newcomer proved quite affable, which pleased Stan immensely,
for Carthwright was marked on his list, not only as a friend of the Prendle
family, but one who rated particularly well with Old Theodore Prendle himself.
The longer Stan chatted with Carthwright, the better he liked the man, and
his only regret was the fact that he felt he was using Carthwright for an
ulterior purpose.
Nevertheless, Stan quelled that thought with the hope that he could
rectify such matters later. He was still chatting with Carthwright, when a stir
came through the group. They looked up to see a scowling young man stride into
the club, and out again. The fellow's dark glance was increased by a black eye
which he couldn't cover.
"Young Reggie Exeter," remarked Carthwright to Stan. "He had a brawl with
some chap on the road, they say. Reggie always is too overbearing. Whatever
came to him, he deserved."
There was some discussion regarding Reggie's black eye. No one seemed to
believe a claim that Reggie had made earlier: namely, that the black eye had
come when he struck his face against a stone. Stan believed it, because he
remembered that his punch had reached Reggie's jaw. But he was equally certain
that the stone in question was the one that Reggie had introduced into the
scuffle.
If Reggie noticed Stan, he didn't recognize him; but it happened that
there were other matters on Reggie's mind, as Stan learned from Carthwright.
Theodore Prendle had refused Reggie the privilege of coming to the house, hence
Reggie had met Prendle's daughter, Helene, outside the grounds, to go riding
that morning. But Reggie's brawl had ended the romance.
"Helene now agrees with her father," chuckled Carthwright, "and I'm not
sorry. She's a lovely girl, Helene; too lovely to be wasted on a scatterbrain
like Reggie Exeter."
"I should like to meet her," remarked Stan. He looked at Carthwright
steadily. "Could you arrange it?"
Carthwright smiled. He liked Stan's frankness.
"I could," he said, "but it might be better done by one of the family.
Jack Prendle, for instance. Here he is - I'll introduce you."
THEY arose to meet a rather dapper young man who had approached the table.
When affable, Jack Prendle lacked the saturnine expression that characterized
his scheming moods. He shook hands with Stan, and Carthwright left them, but
not without some parting words to Jack.
"Wilford has just arrived from the West," said Carthwright. "He says he
may be here a while, so we're getting him acquainted. He might fit into one of
those parties that Helene gives at home."
"Good enough," returned Jack. Then, as Carthwright strolled across the
lobby: "How about tonight, Wilford? Helene just reminded me that her bridge
party will be one player short."
Stan held back a smile, as he soberly accepted the invitation. He was
quite sure that the absentee would be Reggie Exeter. Evidently, Helene had
counted on her father accepting Reggie as a caller again, until she had swung
to the same side.
"I'll have to run into town," remarked Jack, glancing at his watch. "I'll
call the house first and tell Helene you're coming. Carthwright will take you
up there. It's not out of his way, and he may be stopping off to see dad,
anyway."
Crossing the lobby, Jack met Carthwright coming back, and when Carthwright
reached Stan, his broad smile told that he had heard the news. Carthwright
gestured Stan out to the veranda.
"We'll finish a smoke," said Carthwright, "and then start up. Jack said
he'd call the house and tell his sister to expect you."
Stan finished his smoke ahead of Carthwright, who by that time was
chatting with others on the veranda. It struck Stan as the proper time to make
a phone call of his own. Knowing the direction of the booths, he went there,
only to stop short as he heard the voice of Jack Prendle.
Evidently, Jack had finished the call to Helene, and was making another.
Not wanting to eavesdrop, Stan stepped out to the lobby and waited until Jack
had gone. Then, entering the vacated booth, Stan called Roger Frack, to inform
him of the progress made at Longwood.
From Frack's tone, which Stan noted closely, it was plain that the con man
knew much about his progress. Frack spoke in short answers, which probably meant
that he had a caller, but those answers were a give-away. If Frack hadn't
learned the most important details, he would have asked Stan to call him later.
Jack was gone when Stan returned to the lobby, but Carthwright was ready
to drive up to the Prendle homestead. Arriving there, Stan felt a thrill at an
anticipated meeting, which promptly came. The meeting was his official
introduction to Helene Prendle.
By evening, the girl was even lovelier. Her low-cut evening gown revealed
a pair of exquisite shoulders that the riding garb had hidden. But Stan was
particularly interested in the girl's eyes, as they met his own.
Helene recognized him, though she tried not to show it during their formal
introduction. One thing did not escape Stan. It was the wince that Helene gave
when she saw the faint trace of a welt that flanked Stan's cheek.
The others were moving into the card room, when Stan felt a soft hand
clutch his arm. It was Helene's, and the girl was drawing him to a curtained
space in the hallway. Her words were as soft as her touch.
"I'm sorry," she said sincerely. "Really sorry. But it wasn't what you did
to Reggie that made me swing the whip. Reggie deserved all you gave him, and
more!"
The blaze of recollective anger that came to Helene's eyes was directed
toward Reggie, not Stan. The girl's next words were more apologetic than before.
"It was the way you looked at me," she said, "as though I, too, deserved
something. I couldn't quite stand it; I'm too impetuous. But you were right - I
deserved your contempt, and still do."
Abjectly, Helene lowered her gaze. Knowing the girl's spirit, Stan
recognized the fullness of her apology. Rather than reply, Stan did the better
thing. Gently, he took Helene's arm and turned her toward the other room. He
was smiling when she raised her face, and in that smile the girl saw that the
former episode was forgotten.
What she did not see was the bitterness that Stan repressed, not toward
her but toward himself. He had gained the perfect introduction to Helene
Prendle, one that would please such people as Roger Frack and - more important
in Stan's mind - old Victor Thorndon.
The trouble was, Stan didn't care how he would rate with them. He was
wondering, to his inward discomfort, how he would some day shape in the opinion
of a person known as The Shadow.
CHAPTER VII
THE OTHER ANGLE
STAN WILFORD had guessed wrong: Roger Frack did not have a visitor. It
happened, though, that Frack was waiting for an important phone call. It
explained why he had treated Stan's call in such short-clipped style.
Pacing his lavish apartment, Frack gave a bound when the telephone bell
finally rang. As he spoke, he heard a woman's voice come over the wire, and a
relieved smile covered Frack's face.
"Of course, Marcia," he said. "Yes, I can meet you there. No, I won't be
long... Yes, very important -"
Hurrying from the apartment, Frack called the first cab he saw and rode to
a night club called the Cafe Picaroon. The place was lined with booths, and in
one of them Frack found the girl who had called him. By then, he had dismissed
all thoughts of the cab which had brought him to the night club. The cabby,
however, had not forgotten Frack.
The cabby was Moe Shrevnitz, The Shadow's agent. At a telephone half a
block away, Moe was relaying word to his chief, telling where Frack had gone.
The Shadow could not have been far distant, for within five minutes he arrived
at the Cafe Picaroon, suitably arrayed in evening clothes.
As usual, when he visited such spots, The Shadow was guised as Lamont
Cranston, wealthy man-about-town.
Recognized by the head waiter, Cranston was offered the choice of any
place he wanted, except the orchestra platform. With calm eyes that gazed
deliberately from a mask-like face, he picked the booth next to the one
occupied by Frack and the girl.
In passing, he glimpsed the girl's face. She was attractive, smart, and at
moments, alluring, for she had black eyes that matched her raven hair.
The Shadow knew who she was, for she favored night clubs and rated well in
Cafe society. Her name was Marcia Kennerd, and she came from somewhere in the
Midwest. Just where, The Shadow had never bothered to find out, for black-eyed
Marcia, though possessed of an interesting personality, had seemed far removed
from byways of crime.
Even her acquaintance with Frack, which The Shadow had discovered for the
first time, did not label her as crooked. If Marcia had money, as everyone
supposed she did, it might mean that she was to become a dupe of the confidence
ring, rather than a member.
The booths of the Cafe Picaroon were made of very strong plywood, which
took a fine mahogany stain. They were thinner, however, than they looked, and
conversation penetrated them almost as well as it did the walls of a telephone
booth.
His ear tilted against the partition, The Shadow could catch all that was
said without recourse to a tiny sensitive earphone that he had brought along,
should it be needed.
"You're just the girl we need, Marcia," Frack was saying. "You've known
Jack Prendle for a long while, but you have gotten nowhere."
"I never get anywhere," returned Marcia, in a steady contralto, "until I'm
ready. That isn't very often. I find that a long-range trim is best. Men believe
you, when you say that you've wasted the best years of your life on them."
"Years is good!" Frack declared. "You've only known Prendle a year. You'll
have to wait one more, at least."
"It may be worth it. They say the old man is worth barrels, and Jackie is
the apple of his eye."
"The pineapple, you mean," retorted Frack. "Listen, Marcia; Jack Prendle
has been on our list for a couple of years. We know more than you do about him."
"Odd that you've done nothing about it. I thought the quick clip was the
standard system in your racket."
Frack did not reply for a few moments. The Shadow was getting ready to
adjust the tiny earphone, when the con man's voice arrived again.
"We had him first," reminded Frack. "How we choose to handle him, and
when, is our business. But it isn't healthy to muscle in on our game. The boss
is giving you a break, in asking you to work with us."
"Fair enough." Marcia paused to light a cigarette. Then, in a blunt tone,
she added: "Provided I know who the big-shot is. I don't work in the dark."
"You won't have to know," assured Frack. "Once you're in on this deal,
you'll stay. The boss wants you to marry Jack Prendle."
IT was Marcia's turn for silence. Frack's suggestion completely surprised
her. She couldn't seem to guess what lay behind the scheme, until Frack
obligingly supplied the details.
"Jack Prendle comes in for big dough," said the con man, "a hundred grand,
to start, provided the old man thinks he's gotten down to business. It turns out
that old Prendle figures Jack will never do it without an anchor."
"Who told you all this?" queried Marcia. "Jackie?"
"What made you think that?" Frack demanded.
"It's the way Jackie would talk," replied Marcia indifferently. "I was
just joking, so forget it. What makes you think I'd fill the bill?"
"The wife would need brains," explained Frack, "otherwise, it would be no
go with old Prendle. You've got brains, and plenty. What's more, you know how
to show them."
"But I'm not listed in the social register -"
"All the better. Old Prendle tore that book up today, when he handed the
permanent bounce to a blue blood named Reggie Exeter, who wanted a daughter's
hand and received a father's foot!"
Marcia's pose of indifference showed that she was really interested. She
finally made her mood apparent.
"A swell trim," she mused. "The son playing the old man for a sap, and the
daughter-in-law taking the cash from the son -"
"Not quite," put in Frack. "It would be you playing Prendle, right through
Jack. If Jack started pressing for more dough, Prendle would snap like a clam."
"I get it. The idea, that is. But how much of the take do I get?"
"Twenty percent. A good-enough cut. All you've got to do, Marcia, is beam
those soulful lamps of yours on Jack. You can bag him within a week!"
Marcia's laugh had a well-tempered modulation. It carried a world of
assurance, at first, then ended in a harshness. The Shadow heard her question:
"Have you forgotten Monte?"
The name struck home to The Shadow, just as Frack's had when mentioned by
Skeet, the night before. Monte was obviously a con man in some way associated
with Marcia, and among such swindlers, the name was uncommon. It smacked too
much of the confidence racket to be used, except by a cocksure expert, or by
someone who had it as a given name.
The Shadow knew of one who belonged in the latter class: namely, Monte
Garlan, who had been curiously inactive during the past few years. Evidently,
Monte had introduced Marcia as a con queen, and therewith retired on his
laurels, letting her handle the more artistic trims.
"Monte is over at the Hotel Brookwood," remarked Frack. "I've told the
big-shot. He said to take care of him."
Again, Marcia supplied a jangly laugh, as she said, "You don't know Monte
very well, do you?"
"I've met him a few times," returned Frack. "I know him well enough to
take care of him the right way."
"Just what do you consider the right way?"
Frack waited before giving his reply. When he expressed it, he did so very
coldly, in a single word:
"Permanently!"
That word meant murder, but Marcia accepted it with her former laugh, a
rather lovely one. Nothing, it seemed, could have delighted her so much as this
promise on Frack's part. It was the only thing needed to win her over.
"I'll start selling Jackie on wedding bells," she promised, "but if you're
only giving me a week, you'd better go after Monte sooner."
"It's curtains for Monte tonight," assured Frack. "The big-shot said to
swing it as soon as you signed up. Tune in on the midnight news broadcast, and
look for photos in tomorrow's newspaper."
"Jackie has a radio in his car," laughed Marcia, as she rose from the
booth. "I'm meeting him for dinner shortly, and I'll see that we're driving
around at midnight."
FRACK and Marcia parted as they neared the door. The black-haired girl
reclaimed a gorgeous leopard fur at the cloakroom, but The Shadow, strolling in
Cranston's fashion, did not stop to speculate upon the appropriate features of
the spotted coat.
Marcia wouldn't be using her claws this evening. The person to watch was
Frack, who had taken on the assignment of Monte's murder. Seeing Frack head for
a telephone, The Shadow assumed that the con man intended the deed by proxy.
Such proved to be the case. From an adjoining booth, The Shadow heard
Frack's guarded orders to a crook named Napper, who was evidently of a caliber
similar to the lamented Skeet.
Frack's instructions were very simple. Napper was to go to the Hotel
Brookwood, make sure that Monte was out, then plant the proper sort of
"pineapple." Evidently, Frack had mentioned the proper sort of bomb in an
earlier call, for he added no further specifications.
The Shadow was gone when Frack came from the phone booth. The crook saw
Cranston's back as the calm-faced customer strolled from the night club, but he
took The Shadow for just another patron.
Frack wasn't thinking much about The Shadow; he was too sure that the
cloaked fighter hadn't found the trail leading back from Skeet. Besides, Frack
was too pleased over the deal that he had made with Marcia, to think of
anything else.
As it stood, neither Frack nor Marcia had immediate cause to be worried
about The Shadow. Both were off his calling list, for the present. With Frack
still the go-between to a master mind higher up, The Shadow needed him around a
while. As for Marcia, she had a week's work ahead of her, and could also wait.
The Shadow's own plans concerned a murderous crook called Napper, and a
prospective victim, Monte Garlan, whose connection with the confidence racket
warranted punishment, but not so stern a sort as death.
The scene of The Shadow's next endeavor was to be the Hotel Brookwood,
Room 608, a number which Frack had obligingly mentioned to Napper. There, The
Shadow intended to guard against surprises of the sort he had experienced at
Stan's apartment, the night before.
Sometimes, surprises could come in reverse, but only when uncommon factors
were at work. How uncommon were the factors in this case, The Shadow was to
learn after he reached the Hotel Brookwood; not before!
CHAPTER VIII
EXIT THE SHADOW
MONTE GARLAN was pacing the lobby of the Hotel Brookwood when The Shadow
arrived there. The lobby was small, and Monte was recognizable halfway across
it.
A sallow man, with a short but bristly mustache, Monte had a stoop that
gave him the manner of a caged lion. Maybe he was worrying about the leopard
situation; whatever the case, his expectant stalk past the telephones indicated
that he awaited a call.
The Shadow, no longer Cranston, was fully cloaked in black. Peering from
the gloom of a rear entrance, he was quite invisible. To his right, he saw a
stairway which was poorly lighted. It offered access to the upper floors, so
The Shadow took to the stairway without watching further.
Monte did not see him, nor did the hotel clerk, with whom the mustached
man paused to chat. Few eyes could have discerned the cloaked shape that glided
upward like filtering smoke.
Room 608 was close to an inside fire tower, the route by which Napper
would probably come. It was highly improbable that Napper could have already
arrived, unless the fellow had been casing the hotel with a pineapple on his
hip, for The Shadow had made a short, quick trip from the Cafe Picaroon.
The first step, therefore, was to try Monte's door. It was locked, but The
Shadow settled that question with an adjustable key. The locks in the Brookwood
were quite old-fashioned.
Within the room, The Shadow locked the door and took his stand beside it.
In so doing, he had chosen the simplest, but best of hiding places.
At the end of five minutes, another key was cautiously working in the
lock. The door, when it opened, admitted a scrawny figure that reminded The
Shadow of Skeet, except that the newcomer, Napper, was more huddled.
Closing the door, Napper felt for the light switch and pressed it. He was
peering about the room as he did so, forgetting the area near the door itself.
As a result, Napper saved himself a shock which was to come later. The Shadow
happened to be standing right at the wary crook's elbow, with an automatic
muzzle mere inches from Napper's ribs.
Napper, himself, was carrying a load of metal in the shape of a bomb that
he clutched between his huddled arms. It had a magnetic effect, though Napper
did not know it. As the thug started to sneak about the room, the bomb seemed
to draw The Shadow's gun along with it. The Shadow, of course, came with the
automatic.
Napper must have thought that he was seeing his own shadow whenever he
glanced toward the floor, for he didn't learn the difference until he had found
the place where he wanted to plant the pineapple.
Napper's choice was a writing desk, near the corner, and as he stooped to
slide the bomb beneath it, he turned and saw The Shadow looming above him.
Sight of the black-cloaked invader fairly paralyzed the little crook, but he
didn't drop his burden.
Instead, Napper arose at The Shadow's whispered command and kept his arms
tight, afraid to make a further move. The Shadow motioned him out to the center
of the floor.
NAPPER was well named. His eyes had a sleepy look, despite their cunning.
He couldn't make up his mind what to say, so after a few feeble attempts, he
gave it up. The Shadow, meanwhile, took a new stance, half behind Napper, who
was faced toward the door.
"Just as you are, Napper." The Shadow's tone carried traces of a sinister
laugh. "No picture could be better. We shall see how it impresses our friend
Mr. Garlan!"
Hearing his own name, Napper managed a response.
"I don't know nothin'," he wheezed, in a peculiarly hoarse tone. Then, in
the same voice: "Who's Garlan?"
"Monte Garlan," supplied The Shadow. "I thought that Roger Frack told you
all about him."
"Never heard of Frack," hoarsed Napper. "Who's he?"
The Shadow's laugh toned close to Napper's ear. The bomb specialist didn't
like it. He quivered until the mirth subsided, but all the while, he retained
his grip on the explosive burden which represented his stock in trade.
It wouldn't be long before Monte returned to his room. When he arrived, he
would see a tableau quite different from the one that Stan had viewed the night
before. This wasn't a case wherein The Shadow would be accosting a man with a
guilty conscience, whose first thought would be fear of the intruder in black.
It was quite the reverse.
Crook or no crook, Monte would observe the signal service that The Shadow
was performing for him. Sight of a bomb planted in one's room would be enough
to win anyone's thanks toward the person who had trapped the would-be killer.
The Shadow preferred to leave the door unlocked and the lights turned on,
to further Monte's first impression. Afterward, when Napper would be plucked of
his bomb, Monte should be in a mood to talk.
There were footsteps outside the door; then an oily voice. It was Monte,
calling good night to the elevator man, then telling him to wait. Monte had
forgotten his key, apparently, but he finally found it. The key rattled in the
lock, while the con man was calling back to the elevator operator that it was
the right one. The Shadow heard the distant bang of the elevator door.
Then Monte, still busy with the key, was discovering that the door was
unlocked. Apparently undaunted, he opened the door and stepped into the room.
His sallow race went actually white, as he saw the scene arranged for him.
Trembling, Monte tried to back to the door; blundering against it, he sent
it shut. Weakly, the con man sank to a chair.
Half a minute had passed before some semblance of his color returned.
Then, shakily, Monte spoke.
"Thanks, Shadow," he said. "It's no use to try to fool you. You've got me
tagged, only" - he paused; his eyes went plaintive, like his tone - "only you
can't have it in for me too strong, or you'd let me have - that!"
By "that," Monte meant the bomb, which Napper was gripping as firmly as
ever. Monte nudged a thumb at the bomb, and Napper began to shift uneasily. The
Shadow stiffened him with a gun nudge.
"There's something you want to know, Shadow," affirmed Monte, somewhat
wisely. "If you didn't, you wouldn't be giving me a break. I'll come clean, so
shoot the questions. Mind if I light a cigarette? Some of the things you'll ask
may need a few puffs while I think them over."
Apparently, The Shadow did not mind, so Monte reached into his pocket.
Fumbling, he dropped a packet of matches to the floor, and stooped as though to
reach for it. But Monte's hand didn't go after the dropping match pack.
Instead, it snapped from his pocket in upward fashion, as the beginning of
a long dive that the crook made from his chair.
Monte's move was in the direction of the writing desk, which he wanted for
shelter. But his hand wasn't going in the same direction. It held a stubby
revolver which he was aiming at The Shadow, as he shouted:
"Duck, Napper! Get clear with the pineapple!"
THE split-second that Monte took for a side look at Napper was enough to
defeat the thrust. The Shadow wasn't where Monte had seen him. Away from
Napper, the cloaked fighter was coming in on Monte from the flank.
Instead of wasting time to reach his foe, The Shadow gave the writing desk
a hoist. It took Monte off balance, sending him on a long sprawl across the
room, the desk crashing with him.
More than quick work on The Shadow's part, the mode of attack had
important design. Whatever Monte's previous importance to The Shadow's
campaign, it was now tenfold greater, for the con man's surprise attack had
revealed a new and important fact.
Instead of being a real victim, marked for death, Monte Garlan was a party
to the bomb scheme arranged by Roger Frack at the order of someone higher up!
It showed the cunning of the master mind. A fake murder, craftily
conceived. Monte's presence in the lobby, his stall with the elevator man, were
but preludes to the climax.
Two witnesses - clerk and elevator operator - would swear that Monte had
gone up to his room, which he actually had. But neither would know that he had
gone there to meet the actual planter of the bomb that was due to blast soon
after, and that both Monte and Napper were intending to steal out by the fire
tower!
The Shadow knew. But he wanted more facts, that Monte alone could tell.
Sprawled on the floor, half groggy and hunting for his gun, Monte could come
later. At present, The Shadow was concerned with another, who constituted a
real menace. Napper was by no means out of the commotion. Quite the contrary.
Across the room, the bomber was trying to gain the shelter of a closet,
from which he could fling the bomb. He was hoarsing for Monte to get away
before he let go, and the con man, on hands and knees, was making for the door,
fumbling the revolver, which he was lucky enough to find along the way.
Desperately excited, Napper looked ready to fling the bomb anyway, as The
Shadow wheeled upon him. Darting sideways, the scrawny crook almost lost his
grip on the explosive missile.
The Shadow's cloak made a long sweep under the impelling fling of his arm.
It came upon Napper with enveloping effect, tangling the crook's arms in its
folds. Fighting to wrench clear of the shrouding snare, Napper twisted himself
further. He and The Shadow became a whirling pair amid blackness near the
opened door of the closet.
Monte snatched at the door to the hall and pulled it open. He took a long
dive through and turned with his gun, hoping to distinguish the cloaked shape
from the other. He couldn't see the closet, but he did spot the flying figure
that came twisting from it wearing the cloak. Monte gave a triumphant shout. He
had The Shadow as he wanted him.
It all flashed to Monte. Napper had managed to retain the bomb and scoot
into the closet. That left The Shadow one course only: to make for Monte's own
exit, the doorway to the hall.
But the cloaked fighter who headed Monte's way was temporarily
discommoded. High above his shoulder, the cloak was covering his face, as he
tried to wrest it clear so he could see the doorway.
Wildly, Monte fired; he saw the cloaked figure stagger. Still, Monte
wasn't sure that he had riddled The Shadow with those shots. The sprawl that
the cloaked target took could be a fake, for Monte had heard that The Shadow
used such tactics. Frantically, Monte cried:
"Chuck it, Napper! The bomb!" The pineapple scaled into Monte's sight.
Turning, the con man dived for the open fire tower; as he went, he heard the
sharp slam of the closet door in 608, the proper action for Napper, under the
circumstances.
Hence, Monte did not see the bomb when it reached the huddled shape of
blackness which formed an irregular blot on the floor of the hotel room. No one
saw its burst, not even The Shadow, but many heard what happened.
Blasting just before it struck, the bomb roared in an explosion that wiped
out the room and cracked every window in the old hotel. Breaking walls delivered
showers of plaster. Chunks of furniture, scattering through Monte's room, were
buried in a deluge from the ceiling.
The cloaked victim on the floor was gone; he had taken the bomb's full
force.
Stumbling through smoky fumes that filled the corridor, Monte Garlan
sniffed the clear air from the fire tower and coughed a laugh. Having found his
proper exit, Monte was thinking of the way The Shadow had gone.
The Shadow's exit, Monte could well testify, had been the route of death!
CHAPTER IX
CRIME'S HIDDEN FACTS
WHILE Monte, clinging to the fire-tower rail, experienced the imaginary
sensation of an entire hotel heaving like a storm-tossed ship, his thoughts
went back to Napper. Whatever credit Monte could take for finishing The Shadow,
it was Napper who had eradicated the evidence. Things had worked as Roger Frack
ordered them, and even better.
This wasn't just a case of a bomb-shattered hotel room, with a supposed
victim. There really was a victim, one whose remains, what little might be
found of them, would pass for those of Monte Garlan.
There wouldn't be much to find, which was a good point. Certainly the gush
of flame from the bomb must have consumed The Shadow's cloak and hat, which
alone could serve to identify the actual victim of the tragedy.
But Napper was another matter.
Clutching the rail, Monte found that the hotel no longer seemed to sway.
Anxiously, the con man stared back along the smoke-filled hallway, wondering
how Napper had fared. That slam of the closet door had given Napper a buffer
against the explosion, but it was possible that the scrawny bomber would have
trouble extricating himself from the wreckage.
Monte didn't care much about Napper. Not enough to go back and try to help
him out. In fact, if two bodies should be found in the hotel room, it wouldn't
matter greatly. But Monte had pictures of rescuers dragging out Napper, half
alive. In that case, Napper might be in a mood to denounce the pals who had
abandoned him.
As Monte hesitated, feeling himself in a real quandary, he heard sounds
from the blasted room. First came the thud of a falling door; then choky
coughs. After that, there were footsteps, uncertain ones, indicating that
Napper was picking his way through wreckage between the closet and the hallway
door.
Finally, another clatter, closer, told that the man had reached the
hallway and stumbled against a door that was hanging loosely on its hinges. The
door flattened, and evidently Napper did the same, for Monte could hear groping
sounds, accompanied by coughs from the floor level.
Crawling seemed to be Napper's best policy, as the fumes were not so thick
along the floor.
Monte gave a cautious whisper:
"Napper!"
A wheeze answered. The words weren't distinguishable at first, because of
the chokes that came with them. At last, however, Napper's hoarse, familiar
tone was plain.
"That you, Monte?"
"Yeah," returned Monte. "How you coming, Napper?"
"All right." Napper was close in the darkness, rising unsteadily as he
gripped the edge of the exit. Then, in anxious tone, his hoarse voice queried:
"Say, Monte, what are you sticking around here for?"
"To help you out," lied Monte. "We got The Shadow, didn't we? That makes
us pals for keeps."
"You gotta get going," insisted Napper, in his strained wheeze. "Getting
The Shadow was one thing, but it wasn't what we came here for. You can't risk
being seen around here. You're supposed to be croaked!"
Clangs were sounding from streets below. From the rail, Monte could see
the lights of fire apparatus a few blocks away. He heard sirens; that meant
police cars. He realized the importance of Napper's statement.
"Come on, then," began Monte. "You've got a car here somewhere, Napper,
with a crew. Get me to it."
"It would be a give-away," wheezed Napper. "You gotta pull a sneak, Monte.
You start ahead" - the wheezed tone interrupted itself with a cough - "and I'll
come along. If you see too many coppers, lay low until I draw 'em the other
way."
Monte felt a pawing hand urge him down the fire-tower steps. He heard
parting words, in Napper's wheeze:
"Get over to Frack's. Tell him I'll give him a buzz. We'll join up later."
Napper's coughs faded from Monte's ears, as the con man hurried down the
steps. When Monte's footfalls had dwindled in their turn, the wheezing cough
ended. Instead, the man who had remained in the darkness of the fire exit
delivered a low, whispered laugh. It was like a tone from the grave.
The laugh of The Shadow!
MONTE wouldn't have believed it, had he been present to hear the mirth.
Monte had last seen The Shadow sprawled on the floor of the hotel room. That
was, Monte had seen a cloaked figure that looked like The Shadow's, but Monte
had forgotten the preceding events, partly because he had not witnessed all of
them.
In struggling with Napper by the closet door, The Shadow had smothered the
scrawny crook with the cloak folds, much as one would gather a dangerous insect
in a cloth. The Shadow had done a thorough job of it, for Napper carried a
stinger in the shape of a bomb. In fact, The Shadow had whipped his cloak
entirely off, to roll Napper completely inside it.
By that tangling process, The Shadow had acquired the bomb out of the
folds which Napper was struggling against. Then, to keep his trophy secure, The
Shadow had flung Napper, cloak and all, across the room.
The tangled, writhing figure in black that Monte had spotted from the door
was Napper, not The Shadow. The shots that Monte fired were deadly ones. They
had riddled the man in the cloak.
There was one thing more.
Monte had shouted for Napper to fling the bomb. Actually, he had been
shouting to The Shadow, for Napper was dead. Since Monte had finished Napper
and was starting flight, The Shadow would normally have delayed the throw, had
he made it at all, until he, too, had reached the hallway, where, in the
darkness, he could have escaped Monte's recognition as well then as later.
It happened that at the moment of Monte's cry, The Shadow had heard a whir
within the bomb itself!
The "right sort of pineapple," so Frack had described it. The "right sort"
was a time bomb! No wonder Napper had hesitated about flinging it, for the act
would have been useless.
The scrawny crook had been fighting for time, all along, faking the
business of the throw. He'd been trying to get clear and leave the pineapple
with The Shadow at the final moment.
At that final moment, The Shadow did have it, but the door of the closet
was fortunately close by. Tossing the infernal machine, he had whisked into the
only shelter that offered. A close call, that one, for the bomb had exploded
before it struck beside the cloak-wrapped form of Napper. However, the closet
door, though battered, had proven sufficient buffer to preserve The Shadow from
the explosion.
During his crawl to the fire tower, The Shadow had heard Monte's whisper:
"Napper!" It gave The Shadow an inspiration. Monte thought The Shadow to be
dead; he could continue to believe so, and pass the word along to Frack.
Together, the two would soon be gloating over The Shadow's finish.
Then, a living ghost, The Shadow would drop in to see them. Clad in a new
cloak to go with the slouch hat that he still wore, this master of vengeance
would hear the confessions of both. It was the kind of visitation that would
loose a pair of tongues, particularly when The Shadow backed up his ghostly
pose with a brace of automatics.
Through his coming excursion, The Shadow felt sure that he would learn the
identity of the big brain behind the confidence ring.
From below, The Shadow heard a car roar away. It contained Napper's gun
crew; they weren't waiting for the bomber. The Shadow heard shots, the spurts
of other motors; police were on the trail.
Again, The Shadow laughed. This would further Monte's getaway, and also
The Shadow's own.
REACHING the street, The Shadow sidled through alleys and finally
contacted Moe's cab. Riding to the Cobalt Club, where he held a membership as
Cranston, The Shadow smoothed his attire and entered, having left his slouch
hat in the cab.
From a phone booth, he called Frack's number and spoke in Napper's wheeze.
He inquired if Monte had arrived, and received an affirmative reply.
"I'm going to lam," declared The Shadow, hoarsely. "The bulls went after
my crew. If they wise to who the bunch is, they'll have me tagged. They know my
racket is pineapples."
"Good enough, Napper," assured Frack. "See me when you get back to town,
in a month or so. You can count on plenty for the job you did, a lot more than
I promised you. Helping Monte get The Shadow calls for big dough. The boss
won't forget it."
Having thus disposed of the Napper proposition, The Shadow strolled from
the club. As Cranston, he entered a limousine, instead of Moe's cab. From
beneath the rear seat of the big car, he produced a reserve outfit of black
cloak, hat and gloves. He was ready for his excursion to Frack's.
Something was already happening at Frack's. From behind the window
curtains, Monte was peering anxiously to the street, where he saw police cars
halted. Anxiously, Monte pointed them out to Frack.
"You fool!" exclaimed Frack. "They must have traced that cab you took.
What did you do - get tough with the driver?"
"I had to nudge him with my gun," returned Monte, "because he got
suspicious after I'd sneaked into the cab. But he didn't get a look at my face."
"Come on!" snapped Frack. "Out the back way. Get into my coupe and lay
low. I'll join you."
Monte was crouched in the coupe, when Frack came sauntering from the rear
door of the apartment house. But Frack had hardly entered the car and taken the
wheel, when a shout came from the corner.
Seeing that the shouter was a patrolman, Frack spurted the car away. Shots
followed him, but Frack whipped around the corner, getting safely clear. Police
cars were belated in taking up the pursuit.
Ten minutes later, Cranston's limousine rolled through that same rear
street. From the stir in the neighborhood, and the blue-clad figures that he
saw at the windows of Frack's lighted apartment, The Shadow knew exactly what
had happened. In Cranston's tone, The Shadow spoke to Stanley, his chauffeur.
He told him to drive home, to New Jersey.
At midnight, The Shadow tuned in on the news broadcast. He heard the news
that Frack had promised Marcia, and more. Not only had Monte Garlan perished in
a hotel blast; the police had found his mangled remains, and had traced the
murderer. The bomb planter, according to the law's account, was Roger Frack,
another confidence man, long at odds with Monte Garlan.
IT was morning, when Lamont Cranston spread his newspaper across the
breakfast table and saw the photographs that Frack had also promised. The chief
picture showed the wrecked hotel room; and there was a smaller one, of Monte
Garlan. But there were other photos, that had not been planned. One was a view
of an apartment; the other, a portrait of its missing tenant, Roger Frack.
The Shadow toned a whispered laugh. No mention of Napper, the actual bomb
planter, who, though really dead, was supposed to be on the lam.
The situation, however, was even more curious, considering the hidden
facts with which The Shadow was acquainted. Roger Frack, murderer, and Monte
Garlan, his victim, had actually fled together and were hiding out somewhere,
one as anxious as the other to avoid the law!
Then, turning the page, Shadow saw another pair of portraits, those of
Jack Prendle and Marcia Kennerd. Here was more news that The Shadow had
expected, but not for a week, at least. Jack and Marcia had been married at
Greenwich, Connecticut, some time after midnight. Through influence, they were
able to have the waiting period waived.
Hidden facts went deeper. In the light of his own findings, The Shadow
could understand why Frack and Monte had faked a murder, which Marcia supposed
would be real. He was interested, too, in the marriage of Jack and Marcia.
Its swiftness indicated that Jack Prendle, for some reason, had probably
been quite as eager to begin the matrimonial venture as had Marcia Kennerd. But
behind it all was the evidence of a controlling hand, the hidden master of the
confidence ring, who kept the puppets dancing even though some strings had
tangled.
There would be other puppets on the go, before this sham drama was
concluded; among them, Stanley Wilford and Helene Prendle. But The Shadow
wanted to watch the dance a while, before intervening to grasp the strings. His
hand could work better hidden; since crooks supposed that their foe, The Shadow,
was dead, the opportunity would be perfect.
Again, The Shadow laughed.
He knew!
CHAPTER X
DAYS OF DOUBT
A DOZEN days had passed, days of doubt for Stanley Wilford, though he was
finding life quite pleasant at Longwood. Still a resident of the Beach Club,
Stan was seldom there. He was spending most of his hours at the Prendle mansion.
Jack and Marcia had returned from their honeymoon; together with Helene
and Stan, the steady visitor, they formed a rather happy group, much to the
pleasure of old Theodore Prendle, who beamed and boomed from the head of the
table when they all dined together.
It was plain to Stan that Jack had risen much in old Prendle's estimate;
but the reason was not Jack, himself. It was Marcia, and Stan could understand
why.
The black-haired bride with the flashing eyes was a creature of winning
charm. Marcia's poise was perfect; she kept her sophistication hidden under a
show of frankness. It pleased old Theodore Prendle, who was quite susceptible
to such graces. Stan, too, would have been wholly deceived by Marcia, if it had
not been for Helene.
To Stan, Helene had lost none of her initial loveliness. Her frankness
toward him had developed into trust. Often, when her eyes met his, Stan could
read the thoughts behind them; but always, he wondered if there might be more.
There was.
Helene had never forgiven herself for the incident that Stan had so
readily forgotten. The flush that sometimes came to her cheeks was induced by
recollection of a whip lash she had once delivered, but wished that she had
received instead.
Perhaps Stan no longer remembered the sting he had received, but Helene
could recall it and actually feel the cut that it must have given the man she
had come to love.
On his part, Stan was trying to restrain all surges of affection. He
couldn't mention his real sentiments while under a cloud. He wanted to be so
situated that he could leave Longwood forever, without making Helene bear the
burden of regret for his departure. The only way was to keep up a
matter-of-fact pose under all circumstances, which Stan had somehow managed.
Recognizing his mood, though not understanding it, Helene tried to help.
Always, as on this particular evening, she was ready to turn the conversation
to topics that concerned others than herself and Stan. Thus, noting that Stan
had become reflective, and not knowing what his thoughts might bring, Helene
mentioned the subject of Marcia, as she had before.
"I like Marcia," the girl declared sincerely. "In fact, I always shall
like her, unless she, herself, should force me to feel otherwise."
"Do you mean," queried Stan, "that Marcia strikes you as a doubtful
quantity?"
"She does," returned Helene. "She is a sleek creature with claws, that she
never uses. But if she does -"
"Someone will feel them," interposed Stan. "Probably it will be Jack."
"No, never Jack. Marcia does not love him enough for that."
Behind the paradox of Helene's words, Stan saw deep logic. His expression
became inquiring; he wanted to hear more.
"This business that father is backing," said Helene. "You know, he
advanced a hundred thousand dollars for Jack to start it. Do you think that he
talks to Jack about it?"
"I should suppose he would."
"He doesn't," Helene assured. "He talks to Marcia. She is the one who
discusses the expenditures, and listens to father's advice, while Jack sits
idly by."
"But Jack must in some way be responsible!"
"He will be held responsible," predicted Helene, "in case anything goes
wrong, later. Marcia will blame him for everything, whereas Jack's only fault
is that of spending more money wastefully than he ever did before."
"Because he is now on a salary basis?"
"Exactly! So the fault is not really his. Meanwhile, Marcia's in a
position to spend ten dollars where Jack wastes one, if she should care to do
so."
Stan thought it over, as they strolled across the moonlit porch. His car
was parked near, and Helene accompanied him, until they reached it. Then, Stan
asked:
"What are you going to do about Marcia?"
"Nothing," returned Helene. "Absolutely nothing, except to remind father
that he once said that whatever he did financially for Jack, he would do for
me. That may postpone matters for a while. Father hasn't yet lost control of
the cash that he advanced to Jack."
STAN drove away. He had told Helene earlier that he had an appointment at
the Beach Club. Actually, he had to stop at Thorndon's, as a matter of policy.
Finishing the roundabout trip from one estate to the other, Jack pulled up
in back of Thorndon's gloomy mansion. No dogs greeted him, for Thorndon had sent
the mastiffs away.
Ushered into Thorndon's soundproof den, Stan found Prendle's rival in a
very affable mood. Thorndon chatted about various matters, and occasionally
slipped in questions regarding Stan's new friendship with the Prendles. He
asked about Jack and Marcia, too, as though he wished all members of the family
well, with the exception of Theodore Prendle.
Answering the questions casually, Stan recognized all the while that
Thorndon was probing. On his side, Stan was seeking the purpose behind the old
man's game.
Ever since his installation at the Beach Club, Stan had been receiving
money without asking for it. Though it came anonymously, he attributed it to
Thorndon. On his rare visits to Thorndon's, the old man always inquired,
smilingly, if Stan required further loans, and seemed quite pleased when he
learned that Stan did not.
So far, however, Thorndon had not chosen to unmask himself as the real
head of the confidence ring. The only contact that Stan received had been
through phone calls from Roger Frack.
The first had been rather a nerve-racking experience, a chat with a hunted
murderer who was somewhere in hiding. But there had been no way of tracing Frack
from that call, or any of the later ones. With each call, Stan had supposed that
it would be the last.
On the first occasion, Frack had gloatingly informed Stan that The Shadow
was dead. It hadn't been a bluff to put Stan at ease; Frack really believed it,
or he wouldn't have said so, for Stan knew Frack's blunt ways.
Actually, however, the call had given Stan greater qualms than any he had
previously experienced. He felt that his strongest friend was gone, and the
belief accounted greatly for Stan's reserve toward Helene. He couldn't play
along with crime far enough to put Helene in any jeopardy, not with The Shadow
departed from the scene.
Stan's reflections were ended abruptly by Thorndon, when the old man
remarked:
"Since Jack Prendle is now a businessman, I must meet him. I may have a
business matter that will interest him. Perhaps you might drop in with him some
evening, Wilford."
"Jack isn't much of a businessman," countered Stan. "He's running the
business in his wife's name, from all I hear. Marcia must be a smart girl. Old
Prendle thinks so."
"No smarter than Jack, perhaps," affirmed Thorndon dryly. "Hasn't it
occurred to you that he might be responsible for the quick marriage? By
settling down as a domestic man, Jack found a way to open his father's coffers."
The new angle rather surprised Stan, until he realized it might be just
another display of old Thorndon's cunning. Still at loss for a reply, Stan was
saved the trouble when a servant knocked at the door.
Oddly, the message was for Stan. He learned that a friend was waiting for
him at the Beach Club; that the matter was urgent. About to depart, Stan turned
questioningly to Thorndon.
"Since I'm a friend of the Prendles," he demanded, "why do you suppose the
message came here, the one place where I probably wouldn't be?"
"They may have called there first," smiled Thorndon. "You must not forget,
however, that I really introduced you at the Beach Club. Of course, my call to
the manager was strictly confidential, but he is one person who might expect
you to be here."
As he drove to the Beach Club, Stan's thoughts turned to Jack. Perhaps
Jack was clever, as Thorndon suggested. Playing the stooge while his father
passed cash across the board to Marcia, was a neat game, but Stan was wondering
what would happen to the money later. Perhaps Marcia passed it along to someone
else, who would then deliver it to Jack -
No, the thing seemed too complicated. Stan preferred to accept Helene's
opinion: that Jack was simply urged by an immediate desire for cash, with
little regard for the future. So analyzing, Stan arrived at the Beach Club.
ENTERING the lobby, Stan looked about, but no one hailed him. He went to
the veranda, saw people that he knew chatting there, among them Albert
Carthwright. None of them seemed to be looking for Stan, so he went into the
lounge, hoping that he might find the "friend" that Thorndon's servant had
mentioned.
The lounge proved a blank, and Stan was more puzzled than ever, when he
suddenly remembered the telephone booths. He went there.
A man sidled from a booth to meet him. Stan stopped, frozen, as be stared
at the dark, wise-featured visage of Roger Frack!
"What's the trouble, Stan?" gibed Frack, in an undertone. "I'm no ghost.
You act like you'd seen The Shadow."
Shakily Stan darted a look toward the lobby. He saw several persons there,
most of them strangers. One in particular, a man with calm, hawkish features,
was comparatively close. He happened to be at the desk, arranging for a room.
Stan urged Frack deeper from sight and peered at the lobby again, waiting
until the hawkish stranger had gone upstairs, accompanied by a bellboy, with
his bags.
"Why did you come here?" Stan demanded, facing Frack. "You could have
phoned me."
"Not from where I am at present," returned Frack coolly. "It might be
traced. Besides, I've heard from the big-shot. He's ready with the proposition."
"I'm not sure that I want it, Frack."
"As foolish as ever, aren't you, Stan? Listen: You won't have to do
anything you wouldn't want to do. Nothing like robbery, or -"
"Or murder?"
Frack smiled away the reference that Stan inserted so sharply. Smooth as
ever, the go-between continued:
"No crime at all, Stan. You won't even have to act as front. We're letting
you out easy; that is, the big-shot is. He just wants to be sure that you stay
around, and when everything has blown over; you'll get your bum checks back."
Stan waited, knowing there would be more. Frack added it, coolly as ever.
"All you have to do," he said, "is ask Helene Prendle -"
Frack's words ended in a choke, as Stan's hands caught the fellow's
throat. Flaying the man back and forth beside the booths, Stan grated in his
ear:
"You leave Helene out of this!"
With that, he relaxed his grip. Frack sagged against a phone booth,
clutching his throat to ease the pain. His eyes glared; then, finding his
voice, he panted:
"You fool! Why couldn't you hear me through? You wouldn't want Helene left
out of it, not if you knew what we're asking. We're giving you the chance you've
hoped for. We want you to marry Helene Prendle!"
CHAPTER XI
ACROSS THE SOUND
THE effect of Frack's completed statement was exactly what the crook
expected. Stan Wilford went breathless with amazement, his eyes took on a
transfixed gaze.
Still rubbing his neck, Frack smiled. He had put the idea across as the
bigshot wanted, and he had realized something that he hadn't thought about
before. If entirely on his own, Frack would have sprung the proposition by
telephone; but it wouldn't have done.
Stan would certainly have hung up. The way that he had gone after Frack's
throat, was proof. Frack had simply underestimated Stan's impetuous way. In
fact, Frack was still underestimating it, as he was soon to learn. Stan's
present happiness, though genuine, was only temporary.
Peering out to the lobby, Frack saw that the commotion had not caused any
glances toward the phone booths, probably because there was considerable
conversation over by the doorway to the veranda. Turning again to Stan, Frack
found his companion quite calm.
"It sounds like a good proposition, Frack," Stan declared. "I suppose you
want my answer right away."
Frack nodded. He didn't recognize the turbulence that Stan's pose hid.
Once a first impulse had passed, Stan could cover up perfectly. Inwardly, Stan
was boiling, furious at the scheme. He understood, at last, that crooks were
really working through Marcia, to reach old Theodore Prendle, and that they
would have worked through Stan, had he married Helene first.
In light of what Helene had stated earlier, Stan was sure that crooks had
seen the one flaw in the game: namely, that Prendle might suddenly decide that
he was favoring Jack, at Helene's expense. So they wanted Helene married, with
Stan as the candidate, to keep peace in the Prendle family. With The Shadow
gone, the confidence ring expected no outside interference.
There was a way to balk them; to break the whole game wide open. Stan was
ready to start it, when he heard Frack undertone:
"No strings at all, Stan. Take your time, go away for a while, if you
want. We don't care what happens long as you don't take too long. Suppose we
give you a month; longer, if you really need it. But you'll be squared with us,
beginning with the day you marry Helene Prendle -"
This time, Frack saw what was coming - one of Stan's hands, instead of
both. But the one hand was clenched in the form of a solid fist. Frack ducked
the punch and countered. He wasn't a set-up, like Reggie Exeter. Stan's swings
were driving Frack away from the phone booths, out into the lobby, but the
crook had forgotten caution. He wanted space.
Frack found it. Warding off a few punches, he came in with a rush. He
might as well have tried to smash a stone wall, chin first. Frack's surge, in
which his own swings went wide, brought him squarely in line with Stan's
hardest punch.
Frack's feet went out from under him so swiftly that he thwacked the back
of his head against the tiled floor and rolled limp beside the desk, where a
startled clerk was grabbing for the telephone, shouting for police.
Club members rushed to grab Stan. They thought he had felled Frack
permanently. Albert Carthwright was among them, shouting for order, telling
them that he could vouch for Stanley Wilford. But there was another, ready to
testify in opposite style. The other was Reggie Exeter.
TO date, he had not recognized Stan as his assailant on the road, but
sight of Stan in action brought back Reggie's recollections.
"He's the bounder!" bawled Reggie. "The cad who would have murdered me, if
my grooms hadn't come in time! You've just seen how murderous he is!"
Half a dozen hands were gripping Stan, and Reggie was trying to put in
some punches, which Carthwright restrained, when Stan, finding his senses, gave
a nod toward Frack, who was rising slowly to his hands and knees.
"Don't hold me!" Stan shouted. "Grab that fellow! I had to slug him,
because I recognized him! He's Roger Frack, the fellow the police want for the
murder of Monte Garlan!"
Men turned, but they didn't let go of Stan. It was fortunate they weren't
holding Stan's feet, as well as his hands, for Frack, hearing the accusation,
whipped a revolver from his pocket and aimed it, madly. Then Stan's foot came
into play.
The kick he gave was lengthened, because his body was supported. His foot
reached Frack's gun hand and nearly broke it. The revolver went bouncing across
the lobby, toward the door.
Frack dashed after it, with Carthwright in hard pursuit. Stan, released at
last, was leading another surge, with others at his heels. But they weren't in
time to help Carthwright.
Gripping Frack as the fellow gathered up the gun, Carthwright was forced
to dodge a savage swing. Floundering on the lobby floor, he was a target for
Frack's gun; but Frack, seeing a crowd after him, made for the outer door.
Then Stan and others were stumbling across Carthwright as he sought to
scramble for safety. Picking themselves up, they ran outside just as a car came
driving up, with Jack Prendle at the wheel. With Jack were Marcia and Helene.
The girls were startled by the commotion from within the club,
particularly Helene, who saw Stan, much mussed and excited, at the head of the
mad throng. It was Jack who pointed, and shouted:
"He went that way!"
Stan and the rest followed the direction of Jack's pointed finger, but it
was wrong. Just then, a police car arrived in response to the clerk's summons.
Its spotlight, cutting at another angle, showed Frack making a wild dart toward
a car that was parked behind the clubhouse.
Stan decided that Frack must have reversed his course in the darkness; by
then, he and his crowd were well astray. Two policemen were leaping in ahead of
them, with drawn revolvers.
From the car behind the clubhouse came a sudden rat-tat-tat that sent the
officers ducking. It was the rattle of a machine gun, swinging into action.
Stan grabbed the men nearest him and rolled them to the ground. He thought it
was all up with the two officers. Then, his head tilted askew, Stan saw a
figure at an upper window of the clubhouse.
From Stan's angle, the form was visible against a dim light. It was a
cloaked shape, a figure that wore a slouch hat. Others might have masqueraded
in that costume, but only its real owner could deliver the laugh that came
above the machine-gun's tattoo.
The Shadow!
TWO hands launched thunderbolts from the muzzles of heavy automatics.
Those bullets, coughed from the throats of well-aimed guns, took immediate
effect. The rattle of the machine gun ended, its handlers downed before they
had swung their rotating weapon far enough to drill the officers with its fire.
Slumping men could be seen in the rear of the parked car. The Shadow had
picked them off with absolute precision.
The car's driver was busy at the wheel getting off to hurried flight,
while a gunner beside him was taking pot shots with a revolver back toward The
Shadow's window. But The Shadow was no longer there.
Looking upward, men beside Stan were wondering why the gunner was shooting
at the window at all. Unlike Stan, they hadn't seen The Shadow, in the first
place.
It happened that Stan had seen The Shadow then, and afterward. He had
watched the black-cloaked marksman finish those quick stabs with a sweep across
the window sill, an actual vault to the ground, some ten feet below. But The
Shadow was no longer in the hyacinth bed where he had landed. Stan caught a
glimpse of him rounding the rear of the club.
The Shadow was after Roger Frack!
The thing struck home to Stan, as he realized that Frack couldn't possibly
have reached the car. Playing a hunch, Stan pointed, and shouted to the others:
"There goes Frack! Down toward the shore!"
They were in luck, the moment they got beyond the clubhouse. Frack had
doubled back, temporarily eluding The Shadow, though it wasn't a fault on the
cloaked pursuer's part.
The Shadow had purposely gone far, when he heard Stan's yell, so as to be
sure of cutting Frack off from final escape. He was leaving it to Stan and the
rest to nab Frack, if the crook tried a reversal.
Unwisely, they came in a cluster. The hasty shots that Frack delivered
made the whole crowd dive. Profiting thereby, Frack leaped to a short pier and
took off from the end of it, landing in a speedboat that awaited him.
Almost at the shore, Stan felt a tight hand grip his arm. It was Helene,
who told him tensely:
"Come! Hurry!"
The girl took Stan to another speedboat, her own, which was at the near
end of the pier. With Helene at the wheel, they were roaring in pursuit of
Frack and his companion in the boat ahead. Both had turned, and were shooting
with revolvers. Helene was plowing right into the spatter of the bullets.
Stan saw the man with Frack, but it was impossible to distinguish his face
at that distance. It would have amazed Stan had he known who the fellow was.
Frack's companion happened to be Monte Garlan. The "dead man" had not deemed it
wise to show his face ashore.
"We're faster than they are," Helene was saying. "We'll overtake them,
Stan -"
The bullets were coming thicker. Deliberately, the man beside Frack was
rising, gripping a shotgun, ready to add its blast, when Helene's boat roared
up behind. Weaponless, Stan suddenly realized the predicament and grabbed at
Helene's hands. She wouldn't release the wheel, or even deviate from her
course, until, at the most needed moment, a swashing craft cut across the bow.
It was another boat, just out from shore, a cloaked pilot at its helm!
Beginning his own pursuit, The Shadow had seen Helene's folly and was
slashing across to stop her. The girl jerked the wheel, but not enough; it was
Stan who supplied the rest. He landed one sweeping hand against Helene's face,
flinging her aside; with the other, he hauled the boat about just as The
Shadow, maneuvering the other way, cut clear.
The sides of the two boats almost scraped; then they were spurting apart,
as Monte blasted with the shotgun.
Expecting a crash, Monte had hoped to get both boats at once; instead, his
pour of slugs found neither. Frack was speeding the fugitive craft away, and The
Shadow was resuming the chase, but the boat that he had commandeered was not
fast enough to overtake the one ahead.
By then, Helene's speedboat had swung completely from its course. Stalled
in the wake of the others, Stan realized that it was entirely out of the race.
TURNING to help Helene, Stan started an apology, when he saw her indignant
gaze. He was saying that he hadn't meant to slap her so hard, when he noticed
that the indignation had gone. It was Helene who murmured the apology, as she
nestled close to Stan.
"I was wrong," she insisted. "I was steering us right into trouble. As for
the slap, it merely evens up."
"Evens up?"
"Remember our first meeting?" queried Helene, her face turned upward. "How
quick I was with the whip?"
Stan smiled. A sudden thought was stirring him. It was the thing that had
begun the evening's trouble - Frack's suggestion that he, Stan Wilford, should
propose marriage to Helene Prendle. Whatever the game might be, Stan had been
sure that crooks were playing it only because they believed The Shadow dead.
But The Shadow was still alive, and closer to the game than ever!
Out of that came Stan's conviction that he was a free agent; even more, he
could reason sensibly that with The Shadow still alive, it would be possible to
balk crime thoroughly, by following the course that Frack had advised when the
crook supposed The Shadow to be dead.
Stan's gaze turned to the lovely eyes that looked up from his shoulder. He
couldn't have stopped the words that left his lips:
"Helene, will you marry me?"
For answer, the girl drew away, took the wheel and started the motor
again. As she spurted the speedboat forward, Stan saw that she wasn't heading
back to the Long Island shore but was veering out into the broad expanses of
the Sound.
"You're bound for Connecticut!" Stan exclaimed.
"Of course!" assured Helene. "Didn't Jack and Marcia get married in
Connecticut? Why wait, when we've made up our minds?"
"Why wait?"
Stan echoed the query as he looked back toward the Long Island shore, so
far behind them. He was hoping that The Shadow would fully understand.
CHAPTER XII
CRIME'S SHOWDOWN
THE honeymoon was over. Stan and Helene had returned to Longwood, after an
absence of less than two weeks. They couldn't have remained away longer, for
they were mutually agreed that their presence was needed. Telegrams from
Theodore Prendle, increasing in their urgency, stated that he was anxious to
start Stan in business, as he had Jack.
That Theodore Prendle approved of his new son-in-law was manifest on the
day that Stan and Helene returned. Stan's discovery of Frack, the wanted
murderer at the Beach Club, had given him a high rating, since no one presumed
that Stan and Frack had ever been friends. At least, none who might have
presumed it were willing to state their claim, with the possible exception of
Reggie Exeter.
Helene's former suitor had created quite a fuss, by referring back to the
day when he had first met Stan. He described Stan as a "tramp" and a "ruffian,"
but everyone laughed at the terms. They said that Reggie had probably viewed
Stan through a black eye, darkly, and besides, they discounted Reggie's
statements, because he had all the air of a rejected suitor.
Stan didn't bother to call Reggie to task for the remarks. He knew that
the effete society man would never back them up.
Furthermore, Theodore Prendle was highly pleased over the Reggie incident.
It was the first thing upon which he congratulated Stan. He admired Helene's
discretion in keeping it a secret, until Stan had become well established in
Longwood. Then Old Prendle changed the subject to a little matter of one
hundred thousand dollars, his wedding gift to the new couple.
Thus, Stan found himself in conference, one afternoon, with Prendle and
three others: Helene, Jack and Marcia. Prendle began by describing how he had
finally placed Jack in the brokerage business, with offices in downtown
Manhattan.
"The buying and selling of securities is still important," boomed Prendle.
"Of course, it depends upon knowing the market, and I am sure that Jack will
have good advice on that point."
Prendle looked approvingly at Marcia as he spoke. He couldn't look at Jack
because that young man had strolled into the library, to look over some of the
books, the kind that had interesting pictures. Stan was where he could see
Jack, and he caught a good glimpse of the young man's face. He noted Jack's
shrewd, sidelong look back to the study.
How far Jack's indifference went, Stan wasn't sure. To some extent, at
least, it was just a superficial pose. Of one thing, however, Stan was certain.
He knew definitely that Marcia was linked to the confidence racket, and it would
be a set-up for her to dispose of Jack's funds in seemingly legitimate style.
Faking sales of stocks and bonds at the wrong time was very, very easy.
While listening to Prendle's talk, Stan found himself staring across the
study, off through the window to a double line of high hedges, beyond which he
could see the turreted top of Thorndon's mansion, looming like some feudal
castle.
The other mansion seemed close to Prendle's, too close to suit Stan. He
was glad that the hedges intervened. They made it a long journey around. True,
one might find a way through the hedges, though Stan had never tried. Unlike
others who frequented Prendle's, Stan knew little about the grounds.
His strolls were always with Helene, and he found her far more worthy of
his admiration than trees or hedges. In fact, Helene was worthy of admiration
at this moment, for she was whispering softly to Stan, bringing his attention
back to the conference, so deftly that her father didn't notice that Stan's
thoughts had wandered.
WITH a jerk, Stan came from his reverie. He forgot the face of Victor
Thorndon, which he had been picturing as a thing with a devil's leer. Memories
of Thorndon's dry, sarcastic tone were fading, too, as Stan heard Prendle's
booming voice.
"You know the oil business, Stanley," Prendle was saying, "so I am putting
you into it. Pick out the properties you like, and buy them. Don't be cramped by
so small a limit as one hundred thousand dollars. It will be just an
experimental fund."
Stan turned to Helene.
"Looks like we'll have to take another honeymoon, Mrs. Wilford," he said.
"Most of the real oil properties are a long way from here."
"Very well," smiled Helene. "We can start whenever you say, Mr. Wilford."
Her tone was different from her smile. It carried warning which Stan
understood. Both he and Helene would have to remain at Longwood until other
matters were settled. Matters which concerned Jack and Marcia.
To Stan, it was like finding adventure on the doorstep. While stalling
along with the prospective oil business and letting Theodore Prendle retain the
funds, Stan's real interest would be in the stock market.
He was quite determined to see that Marcia did not take advantage of
fluctuations after they occurred, by pretending that Jack's business had lost
money on securities that went down.
Helene, of course, knew Stan's determination. Her words had simply been a
reminder. On later thought, Helene realized that Stan's mention of an immediate
trip to Oklahoma had just been a bluff.
Affairs in the Prendle household were of definite interest to certain
outsiders. One, in particular, was a guest at the Beach Club, who had come
there the night of Stan's run-in with Frack. That guest had liked the
atmosphere of Longwood, and had remained. His name was Lamont Cranston.
It was easy for Cranston to make acquaintances, once people learned who he
was. He was wealthy, and had quite a reputation as a globetrotter. Troubled
world conditions, it appeared, were the only reason why Cranston no longer
liked to travel.
It happened, however, that there was a real Cranston, who was still a
traveler. The genuine gentleman was at present in a spot where war had not yet
struck. He was scaling some of the most difficult peaks in the Himalaya
Mountains of northern India.
The guest at the Beach Club was Cranston's double. They weren't twins;
normally, they did not even look alike. But the duplicate Cranston was a master
of make-up, and he had played the part of Cranston so long that the two could
mistake each other for their own reflections in a mirror. This man who called
himself Lamont Cranston was The Shadow.
From his new acquaintances at the Beach Club, The Shadow had weeded out
those who did not count. Of the remainder, his very best find was Albert
Carthwright.
Genial, active, and always quite obliging, Carthwright was a natural
friend to choose; but those were not The Shadow's reasons, he had learned that
Carthwright was the one man in Longwood who actually enjoyed the full
confidence of Theodore Prendle.
This afternoon, Carthwright intended to take Cranston up to the Prendle
mansion and introduce him. He made a phone call first, to make sure that
Theodore Prendle was not engaged. Rejoining Cranston, Carthwright smiled and
said that the Prendle family had been in conference, but that their business
had just been finished.
Leaving the club, The Shadow and Carthwright stepped into a high-powered
roadster that bore the initials "L.C." With The Shadow driving, Carthwright
guided the way to the entrance that led into the Prendle grounds.
THEY found Theodore Prendle in his study, resting behind his desk. He
looked quite tired, but he beamed a greeting and gave Cranston a strong
handshake.
"I've just been putting my son-in-law into business," Prendle explained.
"He's going into oil. It interests him, and I am confident that he will
succeed. It is marvelous what business has already done for my son Jack. He
used to be lazy, and wasteful of money. Now, he is always alert, and securities
have become his only interest."
A snore interrupted. It came from the open door of Prendle's private
library. Rising abruptly, Prendle went to the door and looked through. The
words that he boomed were violent.
Past Prendle, The Shadow and Carthwright could see Jack spring to his feet
from the chair wherein he had gone to sleep.
Savagely, Prendle took the book that his son had been reading. It had
literary value, but that wasn't why Jack had chosen it. The book dated from a
period when writers had dealt with subjects which were nowadays taboo.
With the air of a boy who had been caught stealing apples, Jack went
slinking out through the study, while his father was angrily replacing the
volume where it belonged.
In Cranston's style, The Shadow flashed a look toward Carthwright,
indicating that he would prefer to be absent when Prendle engaged in epithets
regarding Jack. Carthwright nodded, and went into the library to soothe
Prendle, while The Shadow strolled out through the hall.
There was no sign of Jack, but The Shadow overheard voices from a sun
porch. The place was perfect for eavesdropping, and from all that had happened
in the Prendle family, The Shadow felt that the proper people should have
listened in to previous conversations; hence, he resolved to apply the policy
at present. Through the thick gloom of the big hall, The Shadow reached the
doorway to the sun porch.
Stan was talking ardently to Helene.
"It means a showdown with Marcia," Stan was saying, "and I'm the one to
have it."
"I could talk to her more tactfully," insisted Helene. "After all, I've
been in this family longer than she has."
"That's just the trouble," rejoined Stan. "What amounts to more, is the
fact that I'm in the same boat as Marcia. We are both newcomers. We won't have
to be nice."
"Very well," agreed Helene. "Marcia is in the cardroom playing solitaire.
I'll wait here, Stan."
The Shadow drew back, letting Stan move past. Instead of following
immediately, The Shadow kept his gaze fixed across the sun porch, through one
of the far panes. In the early dusk, he saw a man sneaking from the cover of
the high hedge that marked the edge of the Prendle estate.
It could have been Jack, off to sulk alone, but The Shadow decided
otherwise. He watched the man go from sight under the shelter of hedges closer
to the house.
Meanwhile, Stan had reached the cardroom, to find Marcia engaged in a game
of Canfield. He closed the door and Marcia heard it. She spoke without looking
up:
"Hello, hubby dear."
"Deal yourself another jack," returned Stan coolly. "Then take a look at
the joker in the pack. I mean myself!"
Marcia came about with a tigerish glare, very plain in the light of a
floor lamp. It was the first time since Stan had met her that she had revealed
such an expression. Knowing that she'd given herself away, Marcia slashed the
cards from the table and came to her feet.
"What are you doing here?" she hissed angrily. "You... you... why, you're
a crook yourself!"
"Harsh words, lady," Stan replied. "How are you going to back them?"
"I'll leave that to Jack -"
"By telling him what your real name is? I don't think so. That marriage
certificate of yours wouldn't be worth waste paper if you did!"
A look of sudden alarm gripped Marcia. Then her eyes brightened, as she
looked beyond Stan. In his turn, he heard the opening of a window, and for a
moment thought that Jack Prendle had chosen this unusual mode of entry.
Stan turned, quite confident that he could deal with his indolent
brother-in-law. But the visitor wasn't Jack.
A man with a gun had entered, his face wearing an ugly glare that was
meant for Stan. That darkened visage belonged to Stan's "friend," Roger Frack.
His glare, though it could have been a death threat, meant otherwise to Stan
Wilford.
With a sickening sensation, Stan realized that crime's showdown was due;
that he, for some reason, was to listen to terms, instead of making them!
CHAPTER XIII
THE TRAIL TO COME
As soon as he was sure that Stan did not intend to try his hand at
punches, Frack put away the gun. He gestured Stan to a chair, and the young man
seated himself stolidly. Frack gave a chuckle of relief.
"I thought I'd have to use that rod," he declared. "It would have been
tough for you, Stan, if I had."
Not so tough as Frack supposed. He was actually the man who had been
threatened. Indeed, Frack was still under the muzzle of a gun much bigger than
his own, a gun that he did not see. It was poked through the crack of the
cardroom door, gripped by an intruder who had gained that wedge while Stan and
Marcia had been exchanging ill-meant compliments.
The Shadow had decided that the man from the hedge was Frack, and had
promptly prepared for the fellow's entry.
The Shadow's position now served as a listening post from which he could
hear all phases of the coming conversation. He watched Frack open negotiations
with Marcia.
"How's it going?" queried Frack. "Is the draw string off the money-bag?"
"It will be," returned Marcia, in her cold contralto. "I figure I can
write off five grand a week for the next six months, without my dear
father-in-law losing any of his confidence in me."
"The boss thought you could," returned Frack. Then, turning to Stan: "You
ought to be able to work even faster."
"He will, if he goes to Oklahoma," informed Marcia, "and takes that
precious wife of his along. It will make it a lot easier for me, too. Of all
the -"
Frack interrupted by going for his gun. He meant the weapon for Stan, but
his snarl was directed toward Marcia. Half to his feet, Stan subsided, while
Frack let the gun drop back into his pocket.
"Thanks," said Stan to Frack. "I'm glad you remembered that I don't like
Helene brought into these conversations. As for you" - he looked at Marcia -
"we'll be seeing each other after Frack is gone. One more wisecrack, and as
soon as Frack leaves, I'll smash that card table over your head so hard that
your shoulders will be black and blue!"
"One happy family!" jeered Frack. Then, briskly: "Here's the whole story,
Stan. You did what was wanted - you got married. You knew that we were working
through Marcia, but you weren't sure that the big-shot intended to use you,
too. He does. I've talked to him this afternoon.
"We've known that you'd go in for oil. Making bum guesses in that dodge is
anybody's privilege. You'd better pick good ones on your own, though, because
you're going to buy a lot of lemons that the big boss shoves your way. We want
fifty out of that first hundred thousand. We'll talk over the next consignment
after you come back from the West.
"We'll help you alibi yourself. The bum wells won't look like lemons.
We've got some nice capped ones in the lot, that will gush long enough to
square you. Maybe you'll bring in some winners with your half, but if you do,
we'll expect fifty percent of any take."
Stan rose, carefully, so that Frack wouldn't pull the gun. Folding his
arms, he said firmly:
"No go, Frack. I'll take the rap on those phony checks, first. If I do,
I'll queer Marcia's set-up, too."
"You won't take the rap," smiled Frack. "Without mentioning any names,
there's somebody you care a lot for. Somebody you couldn't forget for five
years. You couldn't stand a trip to the Big House."
"I'm willing to chance it," returned Stan, his lips tightening as he
thought of Helene. "After all, if I crack this racket wide, maybe those checks
won't stand against me. Have you ever thought of that, Frack?"
"The big-shot has."
"Then tell him what I've said. And, by the way" - Stan decided to put a
hard shot home - "tell old Thorndon that I won't be dropping in to see him any
more."
STAN'S thrust electrified Marcia, more than Frack. With a gleeful gleam in
her savage eyes, the black-haired girl swung to Frack, exclaiming:
"So Thorndon is the big-shot! The guy that really has it in for old Papa
Prendle. I'm glad to hear it, Frack" - she paused, abruptly - "or am I?"
The doubt in Marcia's eyes caused Frack to play her against Stan.
"Thorndon is very smart," said Frack. "I know him. Remember, Stan, how you
got a phone call at his place, saying that I was down at the Beach Club?"
"I remember."
"You see, Marcia?" queried Frack. "Thorndon looks smart and acts smart.
He's smart enough to be the big-shot."
Never having met Thorndon, Marcia still clung to doubts that no longer
influenced Stan. In her own sharp style, she countered Frack's statement.
"I figure differently," she declared. "I'd say that somebody who looked
dumb and acted dumb might be the big-shot. It's a long way around to
Thorndon's, even though he lives next door. But maybe the dough takes a long
way around, too, and comes back to someone closer to home than Thorndon."
Stan's mind flashed promptly to his once-rejected theory that Jack Prendle
might be maneuvering the whole racket from under his father's wing. But he liked
this game of tit-for-tat, particularly as it enabled him to disagree with Marcia.
"I say that Thorndon is the big-shot," insisted Stan. "But why argue it?"
Frack's eyes showed a wise gleam. Somehow, he preferred Stan's bluntness
to Marcia's intuition. For one thing, he knew that if he said that Stan was
right, Marcia would not believe him, even if Frack did speak the truth. There
was something else in Frack's mind, too, that a keener brain than his had
originally suggested.
"You'd better call on Thorndon again," said Frack to Stan, "and ask him
for those checks of yours, that he's keeping in his safe. But don't make it
later than tomorrow midnight. You'll be leaving for Oklahoma the next morning."
Stan actually looked as though he was considering the proposition. With a
wise sneer, Frack turned toward the window. Marcia followed him and held him
back.
"You've forgotten one thing," said Marcia. "Those gambling markers of
Jack's. He wants ten grand to pay them."
"The big-shot says it's too much," returned Frack, "he knows all about
them. He says they aren't worth over five."
"More of Jack's bluff?"
Frack ignored Marcia's double-edged query. She tried another tack.
"If Jack's on the level," she insisted, "he really needs the dough. He's
been acting confidential; says his father would call off the business
proposition if he had to lift another IOU."
"Did Jack say who's holding those markers?"
"No," returned Marcia. "He won't tell me. That's why I put it down as some
more hooey."
"Better forget it," snapped Frack. "If Jack is as smart as you think he
is. He'll find an out. If he doesn't, we will. That sort of stuff is all doped
out ahead of time. The boss has a brain."
WHILE Frack was sliding through the window and closing it behind him, The
Shadow withdrew from the doorway. As Cranston, he strolled toward the closed
door of Prendle's study.
Hearing a booming tone from within, The Shadow paused to attract the
attention of Blair, who was coming from the kitchen. He did it by lighting a
cigarette.
"I'm afraid, sir," said Blair, approaching, "that Mr. Prendle is still
busy."
"Quite all right," assured The Shadow calmly. "Tell Mr. Carthwright that
I'll see him later at the Beach Club. I can arrange to meet Mr. Prendle
tomorrow evening."
"Thank you, sir."
Outdoors, The Shadow reached his car, released the brake and coasted down
the drive, with dim lights. Near the exit, he heard the roar of a motor from
somewhere along the road. Starting his own motor with a mild purr, The Shadow
soon picked up the trail of a car which he knew must be Frack's.
The trail that The Shadow followed was a comparatively short one. It ended
in a parking lot near a place that served shore dinners.
By the time The Shadow, cloaked in black, had left his roadster and
approached Frack's car, the fellow was gone. The hum of a speedboat from a
small pier told that his pal Monte had been waiting, and that the two were off
again. Back in the roadster, The Shadow slid from his cloak, as a hobbly man
approached and asked:
"Want to park, sir?"
"No, thanks," replied The Shadow. "I just wanted to chat with a friend of
mine, but he left in his speedboat."
"You'll have to wait until tomorrow night, then, when he comes back to get
his car. Every night, he comes back. Of course, if you know where he lives -"
"I don't. That's the trouble."
"Nor do I," said the hobbly man. "Can't be more than a few miles, though.
Some nights, when it's been quiet, I've heard his boat go sput-sput and stop,
somewhere up near the point."
Mentally pigeonholing that information, The Shadow drove back to the Beach
Club. He soon received a call from Carthwright, inviting him to return to
Prendle's house after dinner. The Shadow accepted in Cranston's tone, but his
whispered laugh was his own after he hung up the receiver.
The Shadow had intended to keep close vigil at the Prendle house tonight.
It would be easier from within as Cranston, than from without as The Shadow!
CHAPTER XIV
THE LAST NIGHT
STAN WILFORD had been glum for twenty-four hours, a condition which Helene
blamed on Marcia. Evidently, Stan had not managed well with his first encounter,
but Helene did not question him about it. Knowing Stan's determination, she was
sure that he would have another try, with better results.
Usually friendly, Stan had not been too affable toward a gentleman named
Cranston who had called the evening before. But this was a new night, and with
a formal dinner scheduled, Stan should be ready to come out of his mood. He was
putting on his Tuxedo, when Helene reminded him that Cranston was to be a dinner
guest.
"I'm afraid Mr. Cranston had a rather drab time of it," said Helene.
"Suppose we show a little more enthusiasm than we did before."
Fixing his bow tie at the mirror, Stan nodded, and Helene saw him add a
reflected smile. It faded, though, as soon as she looked away, a fact that the
girl did not observe.
At dinner, Helene found herself sandwiched between Stan and Cranston,
while Marcia, smiling sweetly from the opposite side, was flanked by Jack and
Carthwright.
Helene was wearing a golden evening gown, with slender shoulder straps,
one which some people would have defined as rather scant. She was wearing it
because Stan liked it, although she would have preferred another.
Helene's attire, however, was in no way daring when compared with
Marcia's. The black-haired beauty's gown matched her raven locks, and hadn't
any shoulder straps at all. In fact, when Marcia reached down to pick up a
dropped napkin, she reminded Helene of someone dipping in the bathtub to find a
cake of soap.
But the rest of the time, Marcia kept her shoulders high enough above the
table to reveal some of the gown beneath them.
Marcia seemed proud of those bare shoulders, the way she so often shrugged
them; but it didn't occur to Helene that she was displaying them for Stan.
Not because Marcia wanted Stan to admire them; she just wanted him to see
that they hadn't yet been marred by the wreckage of a card table, and her
shrugs indicated that she never expected that they would be.
There was to be a dance at the Beach Club that evening, and it was the
chief conversational subject. It was to be the first dance that Stan and Helene
would attend since their marriage, hence Helene was quite enthusiastic.
"We won't stay long after midnight," Helene promised Stan. "I know you're
keeping office hours."
"I thought Stan was going on a business trip," put in Jack. "Wasn't that
what you said, Marcia?"
A slippered foot caught Jack's shin beneath the table, but Marcia merely
smiled as she shook her head.
"Stan mentioned the trip himself," she told Jack, "and I told you about it
later. But it won't be for quite a while, I understand."
"But you said -"
From his place near the foot of the table, Jack caught a glint from the
eyes of Theodore Prendle. Stan had referred to the trip during the business
conference that Jack had missed while pursuing literary studies and catching up
on sleep.
"We'll go to the dance, too," Jack told Marcia, to divert the
conversation. "But I think we'd better get home before midnight. I'm keeping
working hours, too."
He smiled toward his father, hoping for approval, but Theodore Prendle
remained stern. Turning to Carthwright, Prendle talked of other matters, that
soon drew Cranston into the conversation.
They were still chatting when the dinner ended. With the others getting
ready for the dance, Prendle suggested that Carthwright and Cranston accompany
him into the study.
"Sorry, Mr. Prendle," observed The Shadow. "I shall have to run into town.
The trip will take me about two hours -"
"Then you'll be back afterward?"
"Won't it be too late?"
"Not at all," assured Prendle. "I always stay up after midnight on
evenings when the children are out."
His emphasis on "children" was given as Jack passed. Evidently Prendle
intended to check on his son's new policy of sleeping by night and working by
day. The term certainly did not apply to Helene, for she wasn't far away and
she gave her father a smile, which he returned.
Once away from the Prendle mansion, Cranston became The Shadow. He drove
his swift car to the shore restaurant; rolling past the parking lot, he noted
that Frack's car wasn't in the line. Swinging away, The Shadow traveled farther.
Near the point that the hobbly man had mentioned, The Shadow parked the
car beneath convenient trees and used a tiny flashlight to probe his way to the
shore. The ground was rocky here, with roads few and poor. The woods, however,
were thick all along the shore.
After searching the immediate terrain, The Shadow picked a jutting rock
above the Sound, there to watch for Frack's return by boat, with Monte.
NEARLY an hour of dancing was over at the Beach Club, when Helene
approached Stan, dangling a ribboned card. She showed him its name list, then
said:
"I still seem to be popular here. You're sure you don't mind, dear?"
"Not if you save me a few dances," spoke Stan, trying to smile. "After
all, I'm your husband."
"Only three others," said Helene. "They'll take about half an hour. The
next dance is yours, if you're still here to ask me for it. I'm keeping it
open."
Her eyes were sparkling with the merriment that she felt, and Stan did his
best to reciprocate. But he couldn't down the glumness which he felt.
"I'll cancel them all," began Helene. "Right away, if you want -"
"No, no."
"Then you're sure you don't mind?"
"Not at all!"
"Very well." Helene laughed, and supplied another of her quips. "I'll keep
them. After all, this isn't our last night together."
The first of Helene's three partners came to claim her. Stan's eyes
followed Helene as she walked away. Never had she seemed lovelier, not even on
that day when the sun had added the golden burnish to her hair. Stan liked the
golden gown because it reminded him of that first meeting with the girl who had
so willingly become his wife.
But Stan's thoughts were on the future, not the past. Dully, he repeated
words that Helene had just said:
"If you're still here... our last night -"
Stan wondered if he would be here after tonight; wondered if he could be.
Midnight, the deadline, was looming only a few hours ahead. Midnight, because
he'd have to be up early to catch a plane for his Western trip. By midnight,
crooks would know that Stan wasn't going West at all. They would carry through
their threat against him.
His last night for five years, perhaps forever! Much though Helene loved
him, Stan could never ask her to forgive him after crime's showdown was made
public.
The last night!
But not the last night for Jack and Marcia, who had stopped near Stan.
They had begun to wrangle, and their argument wasn't the first that had
disturbed their matrimonial career; nevertheless, Stan envied them.
He'd spoil Marcia's game - he'd see to that; but he doubted that any jury
would convict her. The confidence ring wasn't holding a sword over Marcia's
head, like the one that hovered above Stan's.
Words of the discussion reached Stan. Jack was tired of the dance and
wanted to start home. Marcia was suggesting that he go out in the car and sleep
for an hour, if he wanted; after that, she would be ready to leave.
Jack finally decided that it was a good idea. He left. With that, an
inspiration struck Stan.
He had only half an hour, but he could use it!
SLIDING through the nearest door, Stan went out to his own car. Five
minutes later, he reached the Prendle mansion. He stopped in back, and came in
through the door that led past the study. There, Stan paused abruptly.
Blair was crossing the hallway, to answer a summons from the study.
Watching, Stan saw the scene within. Theodore Prendle was stopping a chat with
Albert Cartwright. Booming at Blair, Prendle asked:
"Was that Mr. Jack who just drove in?"
"I don't know, sir," replied Blair. "I can look about and find out if Mr.
Jack is in the house."
"If he is," said Prendle, "send him here, to the study."
The door closed. Within the study, Carthwright shook his head. He could
foresee a stormy scene.
"I think you should prepare the figures," Carthwright told Prendle. "Show
Jack in black and white just what the brokerage business means. Make him
understand that he can't expect Marcia to do all his work for him."
"Marcia probably will, anyway," Prendle said. "Nevertheless, I'll try."
"Let me know when you have finished."
With a doubtful headshake, Carthwright went into the private library, to
mull among his favorite books, which he often did when Prendle was busy. Still
shaking his head, he closed the door behind him as he went.
Meanwhile, Stan had reached his room on the second floor. There, he
brought his .32 from a deep-hidden spot in the closet. He stole from the room,
the gun in his pocket, pausing only when he heard Blair coming up the steps,
calling:
"Mr. Jack!"
Dodging Blair was costing precious moments. Finally clear of the butler's
vicinity, Stan hurried outside. Instead of going to his car, he ran along the
driveway, keeping on the grass so that the pound of his feet couldn't be heard.
Past the big gate, he turned along the road and jogged to the entrance of the
Thorndon estate, where he turned in.
It would have been shorter, much shorter, through the spite hedges, but
Stan doubted that he could have found an opening. A good runner, he managed to
increase his pace, even on the upward slope to Thorndon's. He estimated the
time at some six or seven minutes, for, as Marcia had said, it was a long way
around to Thorndon's.
He could only spare a few minutes with Thorndon, if he wanted to get back
to the dance within the half hour; but Stan felt that the interview could be
extended. Once under way, the type of persuasion he intended would surely bring
results.
It wouldn't matter, then, if he kept Helene waiting. This would no longer
be their last night, once Thorndon handed over the incriminating checks.
Breathless, Stan paused outside the great gray house; then tried the door
through which Thorndon had once conducted him. It was unlocked, indicating that
the servants were still about, and Stan heard signs of these servants as he
sneaked through to the obscure stairway.
Stan reached the door of Thorndon's den and rapped, cautiously, as he had
heard a servant do.
There was no answer. Thorndon evidently couldn't hear so light a tap, and
Stan didn't want to hammer harder. He turned the doorknob, found that it
yielded. A moment later, he was inside the den, closing the door with one hand,
ready to draw his gun with the other.
He didn't see Thorndon, so supposed that the elderly man was out. Stan's
eye was attracted to the safe in the corner; he hoped that Thorndon had left it
open. It was worth a try; otherwise, Stan might have to wait until Thorndon
returned.
Stan was muttering imprecations toward Thorndon all the while that he
approached the corner. His mutters ceased abruptly when he passed the desk.
It wasn't fair to hate a dead man. Victor Thorndon was definitely dead.
Head on the floor, right under Stan's halted feet, crabbier in death than he
had been in life. Nor was the manner of that death a thing to doubt.
Someone had shot Thorndon right through the heart, here in this soundproof
room where no one could have heard, leaving the murdered man and his
bloodstained shirt front as bold and glaring evidence of crime!
It was the next man's task to wonder who had done the deed, and Stanley
Wilford happened to be next!
CHAPTER XV
WAYS IN THE DARK
THORNDON'S room was silent as a tomb, which indeed it was, considering
that it contained a stone-dead occupant. It had another, who was very much
alive: namely, Stan Wilford; but for the time being, he was as motionless as
the thing upon the floor.
Thoughts were crashing through Stan's brain like breakers hitting a shore.
The murder of Thorndon might mean the end of the confidence racket. Or was it
just the beginning? Had the big-shot died at the hand of some lieutenant,
envious of the master's power? Someone, perhaps, like Frack!
It might be. Still, there was another possibility. Thorndon's death might
mark him as a victim, not the controller, of the confidence ring. It was
difficult to picture Thorndon as a victim of anything, but the evidence was on
hand to prove that he was such. The evidence, in the form of Thorndon's body.
The case was no suicide. There wasn't a gun in sight, except the one that
was hanging limply from Stan's own fingers.
Death, itself, wasn't the thing that made Stan wilt. It was the mystery
behind it, the purpose of the killing, the fact that the crime had shattered
all of Stan's set notions. More than ever, he had to learn if Thorndon really
did control the confidence ring. The blackened safe, glistening from the
corner, might hold the answer!
Coming from his coma, Stan stepped over Thorndon's body and approached the
safe more closely. He still had wits enough to use a handkerchief before he
tried the big handle. The safe came open quite readily, to show an absolute
void.
Thorndon's murderer had rifled the safe completely, before making his
departure!
Something shot to Stan's mind: a hackneyed statement about murderers
returning to the scene of their crime. Stan didn't suppose that murderers ever
did; still, he could see a reason why this one might.
Thorndon's safe must have been well stocked, and the killer wanted
something of the many things within it. That being the primary motive, the
murderer had taken everything, to sort his trophies elsewhere. If he hadn't
found what he wanted, he might come back.
He might return, too, in order to suppress clues that he could easily have
forgotten in his haste. He must have been hasty, or he would have done the
sorting of the safe's contents while still here. All very logical, but Stan was
wasting time. Furthermore, he hadn't found what he had come for - his checks.
Then, one thought ruled above all.
That thought was Stan's sudden desire to clear these premises; to let the
future take care of itself. Thorndon's death might be the respite that he
needed, but it was imperative for Stan to cover the fact that he had come here
at all. He could do that only by getting back to the dance before Helene
discovered his absence.
Mechanically, Stan reached the door.
He pressed his handkerchief against the knob and wiped it. He would have
to do the same with the knob on the other side. Funny, how such details could
concern an innocent man. But Stan didn't feel wholly innocent.
He had come here to threaten Thorndon with a gun; maybe the man before him
had merely done the same. Unless that man was Frack, a crook already branded as
a murderer!
Stan's fingers hadn't turned the knob, yet it seemed to be moving under
them. A sudden alarm seized him. Leaving the handkerchief hanging as it was,
Stan leaped back, yanking his gun from his pocket. The weapon came upward
automatically, as the door swung inward. The words that left Stan's lips seemed
to be uttered by someone else:
"Stand where you are, Frack!"
Stan's hoarse challenge halted the man on the threshold. The fellow made a
move to dart away; then he let his hands go upward. Stan stared at the shrewd,
but startled, face in front of him, and his mind flashed back to a mistake that
he had made the day before. This time, he had done the same thing in reverse.
The fellow who was sneaking into Thorndon's den when Stan halted him was
not Roger Frack.
This man was Jack Prendle!
THAT Jack was scared, was evident. But he was scared in a rattish sort of
way, as though a guilt lay on his own conscience. The one thing that nerved
Jack was his sight of Stan's paled countenance. Jack became cool, even before
he noticed that Stan's gun hand was shaky.
"All right, Stan," said Jack. "You made Thorndon hand the stuff over. Pass
it along to me."
Stan stepped back, to get a new grip on his gun. Jack was showing the very
talents that Marcia had mentioned; he was certainly smarter than he had ever
been before. He poked into the room, looked at the safe, and totally ignored
Stan's gun. At last, he noted Thorndon's body.
"So you killed him," remarked Jack, turning about. "But it's all right,
Stan. I can't turn sorry over Thorndon. Give me what I asked for and I won't
talk."
"No wonder you won't!" retorted Stan, suddenly. "Why should any murderer
talk? You can't bluff me, Jack. You were here first. You killed Thorndon!"
"And came back?"
"Of course! Because you didn't find just what you wanted - or did you?
Wait a minute" - Stan was jabbing the revolver against Jack's ribs - "while we
talk this over. Maybe you came here to cover up some evidence of the crime
itself. In that case, you're just staging a bluff. I've heard that you can be a
good bluffer."
Swung completely to Marcia's theories; Stan could picture Jack the
big-shot in the confidence racket, a man who worked from the best of cover. As
a millionaire's son, with a fortune coming to him, Jack wouldn't be classed as
a murderous seeker after wealth.
Very clever, his scheme of bringing Marcia into the game, to play him as a
dupe in a system whereby Jack could rob his own father. But Stan decided that
Jack had gone too far with it.
The catch was, as Stan saw it, that Jack was after Helene's fortune as
well, and could therefore afford to pay Marcia a percentage in his own case.
This was to be the real showdown, with Stan the man in charge, but it could
better be decided in the Prendle mansion, where Jack, ahead of Stan at every
step, had doubtless stowed the contents of Thorndon's safe.
Contents that had never included Stan's own checks. Those must have been
in Jack's possession all along. No wonder Frack had said they were at
Thorndon's! The game had been to coax Stan here and let him be blamed for
murder!
"We're going out together," undertoned Stan, still prodding Jack toward
the door. "Very quietly, you understand" - he was plucking the handkerchief
from the inner knob - "so that no one will hear us."
Using the handkerchief, Stan turned and closed the door, wiping the outer
knob. His gun was just behind Jack's back; only inches behind it, Stan thought,
until he heard a clatter ahead.
Springing about, Stan saw Jack finishing a sneak to the stairs. Looking
back over his shoulder, Jack had stumbled on the top step!
Therewith, Jack was inspired by thoughts of flight alone, and Stan was
equally determined to overtake him. Jack was plunging down the steps, Stan
leaping after him, to seize him at the bottom. Stan was using his fists; one
still held a gun, purely because he hadn't had time to pocket it. But Jack was
grappling with a fury that Stan could hardly credit.
Slugging, warding, locking together at times, they reeled through the
hallway to the outer door. They heard shouts from behind them, given by
Thorndon's servants, who had heard the fray and were coming from all parts of
the house.
Crossing a step beyond the outer door, Jack tripped Stan neatly and sent
him into a stumble. When Stan caught his feet again, he saw Jack racing like
mad along the driveway toward his car, which was parked at the nearest clump of
trees.
BIG porch lights blazed suddenly from in front of Thorndon's house, and
Stan was dashing in the opposite direction to get clear of the glare.
Servants saw him and came shouting after him, though Stan, by then, was
beyond the range of the lights. They halted when Stan fired shots in the air;
then, to his consternation, Stan found himself against the double hedge.
He went clawing along it, hunting in the dark for openings. He used the
rest of his shots to keep the servants off. Then a space opened and Stan was
through one hedge, only to be blocked by the next. Darting along it, he finally
came to a gap in the farther hedge and broke through.
Halfway to the Prendle house, Stan halted and flung his revolver as far as
he could. The gun was empty and totally useless, even for scaring off pursuers.
A last dash brought Stan to the door that led past Prendle's study.
As he stumbled into the house, the study door wrenched open and he saw
both Prendle and Carthwright, alarmed by his sudden entry.
Just then, a car whipped into the drive. It was Jack arriving home,
proving that he had shown better judgment than Stan, in his manner of return.
Haltingly, Stan began to tell of trouble outside, of shooting that he had
heard from the direction of Thorndon's. Then Jack was rushing into the house,
stopping to stare at Stan and inquire what the trouble was.
Flashlights had broken through the double hedge. Thorndon's servants were
invading the sacred Prendle preserves. The hunt, it seemed, was closing in upon
Stan Wilford. He could hear the word "Murderer!" whispering in the very air.
The story which Stan would have to tell eventually was one that no one
would believe. No one, except a single friend, if that being could be found.
The hope that he might arrive flashed home to Stan as a last, desperate thought.
That one friend was The Shadow!
CHAPTER XVI
TWO MARKED MEN
AT the moment when Stan so badly needed The Shadow, his cloaked friend was
engaged upon another mission, several miles from Longwood. It was a task that
The Shadow had expected to accomplish long before Stan might require him, for
The Shadow had not expected Stan to move until midnight.
As usual, The Shadow had considered all factors in the case, including
Victor Thorndon, but he had classed Thorndon's situation as one that could also
wait. The Shadow intended to get back to Longwood soon, but believed that he
still had time to investigate a boathouse that was tucked deep in a cove on the
shore of the Sound.
The Shadow did not stumble on the boathouse accidentally. It was a result
of his policy to wait and watch for the return of the speedboat. Arriving soon
after The Shadow began his vigil, the craft had cut off its motor exactly as
the man at the parking lot had described.
By calculating the distance that the noise might have carried, and gauging
it in relation to the shore line, The Shadow was within a few hundred yards of
the spot where the boat landed. The discovery of the boathouse was a natural
consequence of his probe in that direction.
The place could not have been better situated to serve men of crime. The
shore of the cove was irregular, making a jut into a line of zigzag rocks. From
out on the Sound, the boathouse could not be seen, for the rocks looked like a
solid row. Once there had been a pier at the entrance of the tiny channel
leading into the boathouse, but it was gone.
Crooks had probably disposed of the last remnants, in order to make their
hide-out secure. Only by creeping along the shore, as The Shadow did, could
anyone have found the few bits of old planking that had been tossed among the
rocks.
Though it had been abandoned, the boathouse was in good condition. It was
a two-story structure, its upper floor supported between two rocks. The cleft
below was where the speedboat had gone, and the opening, by the time The Shadow
saw it, was closed again with a battered wall of planking.
The rocks were gray, the boathouse a weather-beaten white, hence all could
be seen whenever straggly moonlight filtered through the clouds. Trees formed a
solid background for the setting, and the woods flanked in upon the boathouse,
like some monstrous creature prepared to engulf the abandoned structure. There
were no lights whatever, though The Shadow was sure that the boathouse had
occupants.
At least two men. Two marked men: one, Roger Frack, branded as a murderer;
the other, Monte Garlan, listed as the victim of the very clime that had sent
Frack into hiding!
It was a question, whether there were others. That question had to be
settled. Remembering how crooks like Skeet and Napper had participated in
previous crimes, The Shadow knew that others might be around; perhaps some of
the leftovers who had served those two dead killers.
Nor had The Shadow forgotten the night when Frack had approached Stan
Wilford at the Beach Club. Then, Frack had been given support by
machine-gunners, who had not been heard from since. That mob had fled by car,
instead of boat, but they could have rejoined Frack later.
Keeping along the rocks, avoiding any use of a telltale flashlight, The
Shadow reached the upper level of the boathouse, to find it solidly walled. He
crept farther, came in back of the structure on the landside.
There, actually feeling the darkness ahead of him, The Shadow found a gap
among the trees. Something bulked in the darkness; it was a car.
An old car, The Shadow learned, as he used the flashlight guardedly,
keeping the glow within the folds of his cloak and staying close to the side of
the vehicle. The same car that had carried the machine-gunners from the Beach
Club. It was dented with bullets, some The Shadow's, others supplied by the
police who had fired after the fleeing car.
The Shadow whispered a laugh.
Crooks hadn't been free to abandon this rolling junk heap. Boxed in on
Long Island, they had been forced to hide it to create the impression that they
had gotten away. The heap was a fugitive, like the crooks themselves!
How they had brought it here, was plain, after The Shadow had made a short
excursion through the woods. There wasn't any road to the boathouse, but when
the place was built, materials had been dragged to it from the land side.
The route was still clear, a bumpy avenue that crossed tree roots and
dodged rocks as it worked its way through the woods. With not even ruts to mark
it, still it was wide enough to take a car through.
Crooks had probably found this ancient byway from the boathouse end. The
Shadow was willing to concede that the outlet, somewhere inland, would be
almost impossible to find. If underbrush did not hide it, crooks would
certainly have masked that outlet since the time when they had brought the
fugitive car to its present parking place.
IT was when The Shadow returned to the battered car, that he obtained his
first proof of men in the vicinity. Despite his precautions, his flashlight
must have given an unguarded blink, for it brought a response, like an
answering signal, from the brush a dozen feet away.
There was a slight crackle of the brush; the responding flashlight blinked
again, much closer. A hoarse whisper came:
"That you, Artie? This is me - Louie. Been up to the road, like you said -"
Louie was close enough by then to see that The Shadow was not Artie. A
chance blink of the fellow's flashlight gave him a view of the waiting form in
black. Sight of The Shadow usually froze crooks and stilled their tongues for a
short time. But it wasn't astonishment alone that kept Louie where he was and
prevented the outcry that he wanted to give.
The Shadow's flashlight was away, beneath his cloak, with his guns. His
gloved hands, free and rapid, had unlimbered from the ends of his long,
swift-moving arms. Close enough to spot The Shadow, Louie was also close enough
to be reached. The hands took him by the throat, suppressing even a tiny outcry.
The crook fought hard, but briefly. Scrawny, like the other mobbies that
the confidence ring preferred, he was being lashed about so rapidly that he
couldn't find a foothold: hence, his attempts at grappling were wild and
useless. The fray ended in a dull thud as Louie's head, impelled by The
Shadow's swing, caromed from the side of the old car.
Though somewhat muffled, the tinny sound carried. It brought a bob of
flashlights front the other side of the boathouse. One man was growling, as he
approached; the fellow was probably Artie, who seemed to be the leader of this
fugitive mob. Suspiciously, Artie and his crew crept in upon the car, some
skirting wide in order to surround it.
They weren't forming a complete circle. They thought they did not need to.
The wall of the boathouse completed the gap. It was the only spot that The
Shadow could reach without immediate detection, and he went that way, dragging
Louie's light weight along.
He wasn't heard, for the searchers were making more noise than he was. By
the time they closed in upon the car, The Shadow had gained the boathouse wall.
Propping Louie upright against the wall, where the stunned thug rested
stiffly, The Shadow reached for the roof. It was inches short of his stretch,
but he found a way to reach it.
A chunk of loose timber jutted from the frame of the windowless boathouse,
at the level of the second floor. It was a short two-by-four, which The Shadow
propped on end. Using it as a step, he made a rising reach against the wall,
caught the roof edge and clung to it with his fingers, as the two-by-four
tumbled to the soft ground.
Getting a better grip, The Shadow drew himself up to the roof and
flattened on its almost level surface, his hand reaching for a gun. Artie and
the rest might be moving this way at any moment. If they saw Louie's propped
form, they would suspect The Shadow's presence.
The lights were still at the car, probing inside it. Artie's growl told
that he wasn't convinced of something that the others had suggested: namely,
that some animal, from a stray cat to a wild deer, might have blundered against
the car and made the tinny noise.
Others were waiting in the darkness until Artie finished his search of the
car, and the interval was made to order for The Shadow. It gave him the chance
he wanted to suppress all evidence of his arrival and departure.
STRETCHING down from the roof edge, The Shadow reached for Louie. The
stiffish crook was swaying when The Shadow's hands touched him, and his
shoulders were too low for The Shadow to quite reach. Then, at the very moment
when the stunned thug began to sag, The Shadow clamped the fellow's chin.
Slowly, steadily, he drew Louie upward; shifted one arm beneath Louie's as
soon as it was possible. With a sideward roll farther onto the roof, The Shadow
brought his burden across the edge.
Louie stirred, tried to mutter something, which The Shadow promptly
suppressed by gagging him with a handkerchief from the thug's own pocket. Using
a loose rope and a spare belt of his own, The Shadow bound the prisoner hand and
foot.
All the while, flashlights were blinking against the side of the
boathouse, where crooks had finally come. But Artie and the rest saw nothing of
The Shadow or Louie. Both were above their level of vision.
Loss of the spare belt did not bother The Shadow. He always wore belts in
threes, since they took up practically no more space than one. They came in
handy in such cases as Louie's, especially when the prisoner happened to have a
belt, too, which meant that The Shadow needed to use but one spare.
By now, Artie's crew was around the boathouse. The Shadow saw their
quarters, an old work shack on the other side, visible from the boathouse roof.
They weren't going back to it, however, for Artie, still growling, had decided
to keep his men on patrol until Louie returned to report from the road.
Inasmuch as Louie wasn't going to return, the prospect was by no means
perfect for The Shadow.
The longer he waited, the more vigilant crooks would become. To start a
battle with them would be foolish, since The Shadow's actual mission concerned
Frack and Monte. Besides, The Shadow had no time to waste. He wanted to get
back to Longwood before anything happened there.
Something had happened, during the very minutes that The Shadow was
scouting around the boathouse. Thorndon was murdered, and Stan was in trouble;
but The Shadow still calculated that such events, if scheduled, would not come
until midnight.
In surrounding the boathouse, mobbies followed the same policy that they
had with the car. They formed a semicircle, instead of a complete one. Just as
the blank side wall of the boathouse had formed part of their earlier cordon,
so did the front of the structure serve when they girded the boathouse itself.
The channel leading into the boathouse was below the ground level, hence
hard for the crooks to reach. Besides, it was watery and could therefore be
watched from the rocks that loomed above the inlet.
It didn't occur to Archie's human watchdogs that the boat entrance could
be reached from one spot: namely, from the roof of the boathouse itself.
But it did occur to The Shadow, who happened to be upon the roof.
Leaving Louie helpless, The Shadow crept to the front of the roof and
peered down into absolute blackness. The moonlight, such as it was, couldn't
reach the water close to the boat entrance.
Easing over the edge, The Shadow began a two-story descent into a darkness
that would have suited a pit. The trip wasn't risky in itself, for The Shadow
would have fallen into water. But the splash would have made him a target for a
dozen guns.
There wasn't much of a surface to clutch, but, fortunately, the front of
the boathouse had a jutting ledge, which The Shadow's feet encountered just as
he was beginning to slide, despite himself.
From that level, the rest was easy. The planking which closed the boat
entrance, just beneath the ledge, was loose and easy to grip. Almost at water
level, The Shadow hooked an upright beam and wedged himself past the edge of
the shaky planking, into the boathouse itself.
He saw the speedboat drawn up beside a little landing, which had steps up
to the floor above. At the top of the steps, The Shadow found a door and tried
it. The door was unlocked, for Frack and Monte expected no trouble from that
direction. Opening the door a crack, The Shadow peered through.
IN a square room, filled with broken-down boat equipment and lighted by a
hanging lantern, he saw the two marked men. They had been playing cards beneath
the lantern, but at present, Frack had stepped away. He was unclamping a door at
the rear of the room, an affair that was hinged at the top, with the clamp at
the bottom.
From the back of the boathouse, which The Shadow had not closely
inspected, the odd door probably looked like part of the solid wall.
"Artie and the bunch are on the prowl," spoke Frack, his head cocked in
listening attitude. "I'm going out to see what's up. Stick here, Monte."
Frack slid out beneath the door. As it flapped shut, The Shadow stepped
into the room and gave a whispered laugh that brought Monte full about.
Seeing the black-cloaked avenger, Monte's sallow face made a quick change
to pallor. Half springing, half sprawling from his chair, the crook tugged a
gun from his pocket, only to let it slip from his fingers at sight of a muzzle
boring right between his eyes.
Without shifting aim, The Shadow made a deft, sideward shift, plucking
Monte's falling revolver from the air before the weapon could thump the floor.
The Shadow's laugh, though still low-toned, denoted coming triumph.
In capturing Monte Garlan, one of the two marked men, The Shadow had paved
the way to his taking of the other, Roger Frack!
CHAPTER XVII
A QUESTION OF TERMS
IN trapping Monte, The Shadow had taken the supposed dead man fully
unawares, and in more ways than one. The capture was one thing; bagging Monte
alone was an additional feature. Furthermore, The Shadow's next shift had a
purpose.
Swinging about, keeping Monte covered all the while, he put the crook's
face right into the light, while The Shadow himself kept to the fringe of the
glow. All that Monte could see were burning eyes - the glowing orbs of a
superhuman inquisitor.
Monte knew he had to talk. He wanted to talk; it was his only hope. He
spoke in a hoarse whisper, pleading at first and quite incoherent, but The
Shadow did not hurry him. The Shadow felt that he could spare a few minutes in
taking the facts as Monte preferred to give them.
Once Monte's testimony was registered, The Shadow would be ready for
Frack. When Frack talked, as he would under the right persuasion, The Shadow
could tally his statements against Monte's. Whatever did not fit, would be the
subject for further questioning, under additional persuasion.
"You knew I wasn't croaked," began Monte, keeping his hoarse tone low as
he saw a gun nudge from below The Shadow's eyes. "You're the only guy that does
know it, Shadow, except Frack and the big-shot -"
"And the big-shot -"
The Shadow's interruption, a repetition of Monte's words, carried a
question that Monte understood. The fellow licked his lips anxiously, putting
all the sincerity that he could into his rattish countenance.
"I don't know who the big-shot is." Monte's tone was anxious. "Honest,
Shadow! Frack knows because he's part of the outfit. I didn't belong. I was
brought into the mob, because -"
"Because -"
For a moment, Monte hesitated. Something told him that The Shadow had
already divined the answer to the fake murder which had taken Napper as an
unintended victim. He felt, too, that The Shadow could have named the big-shot
behind the confidence racket. Helplessly, Monte moved his lips.
A voice spoke, but it wasn't Monte's. It came in a vicious snarl from
behind The Shadow's back. The speaker was Frack; his words were cool:
"Don't budge, Shadow!"
A thump followed Frack's statement. It told that he had come up through
the hinged door, effecting a silent entrance that would have been impossible
with any other type of barrier. In turning Monte to the light, The Shadow had
put that door behind his own shoulder. He hadn't expected Frack to contact
Artie so quickly and return is so short a time.
With a side glance, The Shadow saw the glimmer of Frack's leveled
revolver. Frack could see The Shadow's automatic and was watching it fixedly.
Since The Shadow followed Frack's instruction and did not budge, the big .45
still kept Monte covered. Hence Monte, too, stood as he was.
The wavery glow of the lantern was revealing a remarkable tableau. The
Shadow had found two marked men; but, in turn, he, too, was marked. Monte was
helpless under The Shadow's gun, but Frack's aim toward The Shadow nullified
the situation for the present. How long the nullification would last, was a
thing to be learned. Frack tried to find out.
"Move away, Monte," growled Frack. "I've got The Shadow covered! Don't
worry."
The Shadow whispered a laugh for Monte's benefit. It promised Monte a
taste of something if he did move. So Monte stayed just where he was.
"A neat game, Shadow," complimented Frack, "but it won't work. If you
blast Monte, I'll blast you. I mean it!"
Frack did mean it, but the fact did not encourage Monte. He wasn't willing
to sacrifice his own life to end The Shadow's. The choice, however, was not up
to Monte at all. It lay with Frack.
"Suppose you hear my terms, Shadow," suggested Frack. "Maybe you know that
something is due at midnight. I went out to see if there was a message from the
big-shot, but there wasn't. So it means that the job will be handled like we
scheduled it. Sooner, maybe, than at midnight. It all depends."
Deciding that he had revealed enough, Frack came directly to the terms.
"We'll make a deal," he said. "You stay here, Shadow, until the job is
through. After that, we'll let you go, because you won't be able to bother us.
If you don't like sticking around, you can ride with the mob out toward the end
of the island. When they let you go -"
THE SHADOW'S laugh interrupted. The idea of any mob letting him go, once
they had control of him, was something for ridicule, even in a tight spot like
this. Hearing the laugh, Frack snarled angrily:
"You've heard my terms, Shadow! Remember, if you blast Monte, you're
through -"
Again, The Shadow interrupted, his strange mirth significant despite its
repressed mockery. Whether that laugh was prompted by a preconceived design, or
a sudden inspiration, only The Shadow knew. The tone, this time, was meant for
Frack, not Monte, for The Shadow's eyes were glinting half across his shoulder,
in Frack's direction.
As Frack stared, suddenly riveted by the whispering taunt, The Shadow
spoke.
"You are wrong, Frack," he toned. "If I blast Monte, you will be through."
Frack gave a nervous start. His eyes had lost their sharpness.
"You are known as a murderer, Frack," continued The Shadow. "The law is
hunting you and you do not like it. You have learned what it means to be hunted
and you are afraid. You are looking forward to the day when that hunt will
cease, and all the while, your only solace is the fact that you can prove, if
necessary, your innocence of the crime for which you are sought."
Those words, spoken deliberately, had a telling effect upon Frack. He
drank them in, despite himself; his changes of expression revealed how they
were drilling home. The Shadow waited for Frack's reply. None came.
"What good will crime's profits do you," queried The Shadow, "if your
whole future requires perpetual flight? For the brand of murder will be
permanent, Frack, unless Monte lives to testify that you did not kill him!"
Only a few minutes before, Monte hadn't been willing to sacrifice himself,
even if it meant The Shadow's death. Now, Frack was experiencing a similar
sensation.
The Shadow had analyzed Frack right; the con man wasn't a murderer by
nature. He'd be willing to kill privately, or in an open fray, but he couldn't
stand the gaff that an outright murderer would accept. Nevertheless, Frack made
an attempt to parry.
"You know I didn't kill Monte," he began. "You know it very well, Shadow -"
"But who else knows it -"
"The big-shot does!" returned Monte, in reply to The Shadow's sibilant
interruption. "Artie's mob doesn't, because I kept them out of it, like the
big-shot wanted. But he knows, and that's enough -"
"Enough to sign your death warrant, Frack. The brain behind your game is
too cunning to support a wanted murderer. You have one hope only, Frack: Monte
must live!"
Finishing those words, The Shadow deliberately moved his gun toward Monte,
who quailed in shivering fashion. But the effect upon Frack was even greater.
Numbly, Frack let his gun fall, to extend his hands piteously.
"No, no, Shadow!" he pleaded. "You give the terms; I'll take them.
Anything - if you let Monte live!"
The Shadow still kept Monte covered; for Monte, not Frack, had become the
man to watch. It was simply a case of keeping Monte cowed to a degree where it
would not be necessary to shoot him.
Meanwhile, Frack would obey The Shadow's mandates quite as much as if
under a gun point also. In fact, the muzzle that kept Monte in line was
controlling Frack, as well!
"Speak to Artie," The Shadow told Frack. "Tell him that you are leaving in
the speedboat; nothing more. Stay close, so that I can hear you.
Frack made a trip to the hinged door. He raised it slightly; stooping at
the opening, he called to Artie, who answered. Frack said that it wouldn't be
necessary to guard the boathouse any longer; that he was going out.
"What about Louie?" questioned Artie, from outside. "He hasn't come back."
Anxiously, Frack looked to The Shadow, who undertoned, so low that Artie
could not hear:
"Tell him you told Louie to wait along the shore; that you intend to pick
Louie up in the boat."
Frack passed the statement along to Artie, who went away grumbling that he
should have been informed on that point long before. The hinged door slipped
from Frack's wavering clutch. The Shadow told him to clamp it and come along.
PRESSING Monte ahead with the gun muzzle, The Shadow forced the fellow
down the steps and into the speedboat. Frack followed like a patient dog; when
The Shadow told him to open the barrier to the channel, he did so.
From the darkness of the speedboat came The Shadow's next whisper,
ordering Frack on board. Frack came with alacrity, and took the wheel when The
Shadow commanded.
Starting the motor, Frack guided the boat out through the channel. From
above, Artie's men couldn't make out the figures in the darkened cockpit. The
boat reached the Sound, where The Shadow gave Frack new directions. He was to
steer for Longwood, at top speed, and beach the craft at the nearest landing to
the Prendle estate.
A strange trio, the occupants of that speeding boat! The Shadow seated
between two marked men, heedless of Frack on one side, but keeping his gun
tight against Monte on the other.
Murderer and victim to the world, Frack and Monte were just another pair
of crooks to The Shadow, though the way in which he had bagged them was indeed
unique.
Likewise, the plans that The Shadow had for that pair were quite unusual,
as both were to learn when they heard more of The Shadow's terms.
CHAPTER XVIII
A MATTER OF MURDER
IN returning to the Prendle mansion, The Shadow was bound for a place
where crime was already under discussion. It had been that way for a half hour
or so, much to the amazement of Stan Wilford. His own blundering entrance into
the house had seemed a give-away to Stan; but it had not proven so.
Not yet.
Later, it would be remembered, that blundering arrival of Stan's, but for
the present, someone else was answering questions. Thorndon's servants had
arrived, first to say that they were hunting two unknown men who had staged a
battle in the neighboring mansion; later, to announce that they had found their
master dead in his den.
Such news had called for police investigation, and after a look at
Thorndon's body a rangy detective named Hewitt, who represented the local
force, had come over to the Prendle house to learn the situation there.
The man that Hewitt chose to question was, of all people, Theodore Prendle!
Stan couldn't believe it, at first, as he stared in through the study door
to see his father-in-law seated behind the desk, under cross-examination. Yet it
was logical enough, on second thought, for Prendle's dislike toward Thorndon was
a thing well known.
Fortunately, Theodore Prendle had an alibi and was able to sustain it,
thanks to the time element.
Thorndon's servants remembered when their master had gone up to his den,
and he had been there only fifteen minutes before the battle between two
intruders had led to the discovery of Thorndon's body.
None of the servants recognized Stan and Jack as the brawlers; they had
fled too quickly to be identified. They weren't even sure that the one who had
done the shooting was the murderer. It was certain, however, as Detective
Hewitt sagely stated, that the killer had entered, done his deadly work and
departed within a specified quarter hour.
That very quarter hour was a time which Theodore Prendle could account
for, with witnesses to support him. Prendle had been watching the clock on his
desk, as he always did when Jack had agreed to come home early.
"Thorndon must have been going up to his den when I heard the car drive in
here," declared Prendle. "The time tallies."
"It does precisely, sir," stated Blair, who was standing by. "I noticed
the clock in the hall."
"And you came back, Blair -"
"At five-minute intervals, sir, to report that Mr. Jack was not yet home.
Each time you answered me."
Prendle delivered Hewitt a stern glance, which somewhat satisfied the
detective. It was highly obvious that no one could have gone to Thorndon's,
committed a murder and come back with the contents of the safe in less than
five minutes, not even if he knew a short route through the hedge.
Hewitt calculated that it would take at least ten; however, he sent one of
Thorndon's servants to try it.
Hewitt announced that the servant's trip would be the final test of
Prendle's alibi; that further investigation could wait until the fellow
returned.
"Why wait?" It was Carthwright who put the query. "I can vouch for Mr.
Prendle. I didn't notice his clock, because it was turned away from me. But I
was here with Mr. Prendle all evening. He never left the study."
"You were here when he called Blair?" queried Hewitt. "You heard Blair
return to make those five-minute reports?"
"Of course!" returned Carthwright. "I said I was here all the while. I
would suggest that you proceed with other angles of the case."
HEWITT decided to do so. Looking about, he saw Jack, who was standing near
the door.
"So they thought you came in," stated Hewitt, suddenly. "If you did, where
were you when Blair looked for you?"
"I hadn't come in," returned Jack shrewdly. "In fact, I hadn't even left
the Beach Club. I must have been there while the mess was happening at
Thorndon's."
Jack sidled a glance toward Stan, as if defying him to dispute the
testimony. Naturally, Stan said nothing, but Marcia spoke up. She had returned
from the dance with Helene. In a very sweet tone, Marcia said:
"Of course, Jackie was at the club. He left only a little while before I
did. Poor dear, he was tired and I thought he ought to come home."
It was an absolute lie, but one that Stan could not afford to challenge
until he knew exactly where he stood. Prendle, with his usual look of approval
toward Marcia, believed the statement.
So did Hewitt, when he looked at Marcia. Dark eyes, black hair, and
shoulders that seemed ready to leap from the gorgeous evening gown, were
convincing arguments to the detective.
Eyes all for Marcia, Hewitt didn't notice the girl in gold who moved
closer to Stan's corner. But Stan did, for Helene was plucking his sleeve and
looking up appealingly. Her question was a whisper:
"What can I say, Stan? I know that you left early, because Reggie came to
ask me for a dance. He said that you had gone, and when I looked for you, I saw
that you had."
"Just tell the truth," responded Stan, in an undertone. "But wait until
you are questioned."
"You mean... that you went to Thorndon's?"
"I can tell you everything later, Helene. There are other matters to be
straightened first."
Helene's eyes carried something much like accusation. Uneasily, Stan
shifted away. Looking at the darkness outside the study window, he wondered
where The Shadow was. Stan still was counting on the cloaked friend who might
somehow be able to solve the riddle of the Thorndon murder.
At that particular moment, The Shadow was much closer than Stan supposed.
He was right outside the Prendle home, near the front door, and he had two
companions with him: one, a man who moved saggingly ahead of The Shadow's gun;
the other, a follower who kept close to The Shadow's heels.
"Far enough," decided The Shadow. "I shall wait here with Monte, Frack,
while you go inside the house."
Frack began to mouth protests. The Shadow promptly suppressed them.
"I'm giving you ten minutes," he told Frack. "When they find out who you
are, you can tell them all you know, including the name of the man you call the
big-shot."
"But I may get croaked -"
"Not if you watch yourself. Of course, Frack, you are free to do as you
wish. But if you try the wrong thing, you won't find Monte when you come back."
Nervously, Frack started away and approached the house. He gave a last,
worried look; then entered. The door had hardly closed behind Frack, before The
Shadow bore down on Monte.
Lowering his gun, The Shadow produced a belt, instead, caught Monte's
hands and strapped them. Next, he bound Monte's feet with the crook's own belt.
Losing his balance, Monte rolled to the soft ground of a shrubbery bed.
Kneeling upon the mobster's back, The Shadow gagged him with a handkerchief and
rolled him face upward. Helpless, Monte heard a laugh that seemed to fade.
MEANWHILE, Frack had stopped in the big hall of the Prendle house. He had
seen a man who looked like a servant coming in through a rear door. The man was
expected in the study, and Frack could hear someone questioning him.
Unnoticed in the hall, Frack took advantage of the break to grab up the
telephone. He knew something which The Shadow hadn't learned. Artie had tapped
a telephone extension and had run a connection to the old shack near the boat
house.
Calling Artie, Frack told him to bring the whole crew in the old car, a
trip which, even with the rough road for a start, should not take more than a
quarter hour. But Frack added that Artie and his men were to stay in the offing
until he called for them. If he didn't call, they were not to move, no matter
what happened. Frack wasn't taking any risks on the Monte proposition.
By the time the call was finished, five minutes of Frack's time was gone.
Nervously, he sidled toward the study wondering if he could manage a stall when
he arrived there. It wouldn't do to try much funny stuff; otherwise, The Shadow
might move in to take a hand - without bringing Monte.
In the study, Hewitt had finished talking to Thorndon's servant. The trip
by the short route had taken the man eight minutes at a fair pace. Prendle
couldn't have made it in less time, so Hewitt declared that the alibi stood.
Meanwhile, Stan, reluctantly keeping away from Helene, had come closer to
Jack. Stan saw his brother-in-law turn.
"Pass over the stuff from Thorndon's," side-mouthed Jack. "You'd better,
before you're searched. You can slip me the gun, too. I'll get rid of it for
you."
"Maybe you'd better slide the stuff to me," returned Stan. "They might
search you first. You've been questioned; a search ought to be likely."
"The won't find anything on me."
"Maybe they will on Marcia," suggested Stan, with a glance in the girl's
direction. "It wouldn't take long to search her. If you gave the evidence to
her, and they find it, her testimony will be blotto!"
Jack gave a shrug, and turned away. For the first time, Stan was glad that
he hadn't found his checks at Thorndon's. He was pleased, too, that he had
chucked his gun into the woods, even though it wasn't the weapon responsible
for Thorndon's death.
Stan looked at Hewitt, wondering what came next: at that moment, the rangy
detective was addressing Theodore Prendle.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Prendle -"
"You ought to be!" boomed Prendle. "Move some of these people out of here.
No, not that way! That door leads into my private library. As to my statement -"
"You've already made one, Mr. Prendle."
Prendle shook his head. He had come from behind the desk and was crowding
people toward the outer door. From that cluster, Stan saw Prendle pause, his
hand pressing the knob of the door that led into his precious library.
"I shall make an exact statement," insisted Prendle. "One that will stand
on permanent record. I shall prove that I never left this room. Blair will make
a similar statement, as will Carthwright. When their testimony is thoroughly
checked with mine -"
Something clicked sharply very close to Stan's shoulder. It was the light
switch and Stan thought, for the instant, that his shoulder, or Jack's, had
accidentally pressed it, bringing the immediate darkness. Then came proof that
a hand from the huddle had done the deed, with fell design.
Along with the sudden clatter of a door, a gun stabbed through the
darkness. Almost from Stan's elbow, the spurt was aimed toward the library
door, where Theodore Prendle had been standing. A quick, straight shot,
delivered by an unknown hand, with a prompt result to follow.
Hard upon the gun burst came a high, startled cry from Theodore Prendle,
broken by the thud of the elderly man's body as he tumbled in the darkness!
CHAPTER XIX
OUT OF BLACKNESS
The study was a madhouse in the darkness. Everyone was struggling, some to
get from the room, others to seek the shelter of the corners.
One person, at least, was after a murderer. Stan Wilford was doing his
best to find the killer. Stan had wheeled to grab for the gun, as a starter.
Stan found it, only to have it snatched away. He grabbed it back and tried
to punch the man who had it. He heard a snarl from Jack Prendle, who struck back
in return.
They grappled, Stan struggling with one hand only, for his other had found
the gun again. Right then, Stan realized that Jack was staging a one-handled
grapple, also.
They were bowling across the room, no longer wrestling. It was a struggle
for the gun, and Stan had both hands on the weapon, as did Jack. They
encountered lighter hands along the way, and flung them aside. Bringing up hard
against the desk, Stan and Jack were still at it, when the lights came on.
It was Carthwright who had pressed the light switch. Seeing the two
strugglers and what they were about, he yelled for others to grab them.
As Hewitt and a couple of servants sprang to the task, Carthwright came
with them. He managed to tug the revolver from the combined grasp of Stan and
Jack; in fact, both were willing to let him have it, rather than yield to the
other.
The revolver was larger than Stan's. It was a .38, of modern make, and
Stan was quite sure that it must be the death weapon that had killed old Victor
Thorndon. What it had done to Theodore Prendle, Stan couldn't tell as yet, for
people blocked his sight of the library door.
He saw Helene in a corner; she was rather dazed, and her golden gown was
rumpled, which made Stan realize that she must have gotten in the way of
himself and Jack. He was solaced somewhat when he saw Marcia, scowling while
she held her hand against her jaw. She had gotten in front of one of the early
punches, and Stan rather hoped that it was one of his own swings.
By then, Stan was being dragged to the center of the room, along with
Jack. Both were staring toward the library door which had gone open under
Prendle's falling weight. For Theodore Prendle was lying motionless, face
downward, well across the threshold of the library.
Stan glanced at Jack, who returned the look with visible signs of horror.
Neither doubted that the death gun had done service again, eliminating Prendle
like his rival, Thorndon. No one approached the body, for all eyes were
concerned with Stan and Jack. Of those two, one must be the murderer!
Laying the death gun on the desk, Albert Carthwright faced the pair. He
showed the solemnity of a judge, as he phrased the words that were in other
minds.
"One of you killed Victor Thorndon," Carthwright accused. "That same man
has just murdered Theodore Prendle in our presence. But whichever is guilty" -
his eyes swung from Stan to Jack and back again - "the other is to be
commended, insomuch as he tried to prevent this murder."
"I can take credit for that," put in Jack stoutly. "I might as well tell
the whole story. I was at Thorndon's, too. I tried to keep Stan from getting
away. We were the fellows who staged that fight there."
"You mean you killed Thorndon," retorted Stan, "and tried to plant the
thing on me! I was trying to stop you, when you tried to run. I should have
realized that with one murder to your discredit, you would be quick to make
another."
Carthwright motioned for people to hold the two young men apart.
"Either statement may be true," he declared soberly. "Jack Prendle never
agreed with his father on anything. It is quite possible that he could cast
relationship aside and actually murder his own father. On the other hand" -
Carthwright shook his head - "we must remember that Stanley Wilford is a
newcomer. For all we know, he may be an adventurous fortune hunter, with ugly
schemes in mind. Still, remember what I first declared: if one is wrong, the
other must be right. The difference is as sharp as black and white!"
NEVER before had Stan envied a person who could cringe and seek for
undeserved sympathy. But that ability actually proved to be a talent, the way
that Jack displayed it.
Timing his action neatly, Jack suddenly broke down, but not to make a
confession of guilt. Instead, he began to gush about his poor, dead father in a
manner that no one considered ridiculous - except Stan.
Even Helene was touched, as she naturally would have been, considering
that Theodore Prendle was her father, too. But when Jack's breakdown turned
everyone against Stan; when even Carthwright suggested that he be taken into
immediate custody, it was Helene who rallied to Stan's support.
Springing from the corner, Helene fought off Hewitt when the detective
tried to put handcuffs on her husband.
"Stan couldn't have killed father!" she asserted. "He couldn't have, any
more than Jack. No, no! You must listen! You must hear all that Stan has to
say. He may help you to find the real murderer!"
Maybe the fact that Stan was looking everywhere prompted Helene's final
words. Whatever the case, in his hunted search for another friend, Stan saw
what Helene wanted. He spied a man who, in Stan's estimate, could have slain
both Thorndon and Prendle.
The man was Roger Frack.
There wasn't any reason why Frack should be here, or anywhere else, except
for some purpose of crime. Maybe Thorndon was head of the confidence ring, after
all, and Frack had decided to take over the racket. Perhaps Prendle knew more
about Thorndon than people supposed, and was therefore the one person who could
have picked Frack as the murderer.
Stan, of course, was going on the supposition that Frack was already a
killer. Actually, Frack hadn't killed Thorndon, any more than he had murdered
Monte. Frack had been with the fake dead man, Monte, at the time of Thorndon's
death, for it had happened while the speedboat was entering the boathouse along
the Sound.
As for killing Prendle, it was ridiculous to blame the deed on Frack. He
was out in the hall when the shot was fired from within the study.
However, logic had gone to the winds. By identifying Frack, a reputed
killer who had no business here, Stan gained another break.
Letting go of Stan, Hewitt grabbed Frack instead and dragged him into the
study. Proud that he had bagged a man who was definitely a criminal, the
detective thrust Frack up to Carthwright, saying:
"Here's our man! He fired the death shot!"
Carthwright didn't agree. He saw that Frack could not have been in the
study at the time of the gunshot. He said that Frack's case could wait;
whatever bearing it had on the case was something to be discussed later. He
doubted that Frack could provide any worthwhile evidence, and hearing that
statement, Frack went silent as a clam.
So far, The Shadow had not appeared upon the scene, and considering all
that had happened in the past few minutes, Frack decided that he could stall
for a good while longer.
Stepping to the door, Carthwright stood solemn and erect. Raising one
hand, the grizzled man declared:
"Someone fired a shot from here. It killed Theodore Prendle over there -"
He turned as he spoke, bringing his hand downward like a pointing gun. The
gesture wasn't completed, before Carthwright halted. His eyes had a disbelieving
stare, as he looked toward the open door of the library.
All was dark in that other room, save for the glow of embers in a
fireplace; but Carthwright was not staring into the depths. He was looking at
the threshold.
Only a few moments before, Theodore Prendle had been lying dead upon that
threshold. Dead, so far as witnesses knew, though none had thought to examine
the body, because the quest for a murderer had occupied all attention.
They were as stunned as Carthwright, those others who turned to see what
he observed. If dead, Theodore Prendle had become a very active corpse.
PRENDLE was rising slowly to his feet. His hand pressed to his head, he
was muttering:
"The door... it gave way. I struck something... before he could catch me.
I remember... I was saying -"
Swaying, Prendle was caught by those nearby. They helped him to the chair
behind the desk, where he kept repeating the things that he had said before.
His sudden sprawl, which had rendered him temporarily unconscious, had been
enough to jolt his memory. It had been a lucky fall, however, for it had saved
Prendle's life.
Stan remembered how he had heard the clatter of a door before the gunshot.
It meant one thing only: that someone had been peering through from the library,
with the door a trifle ajar. Someone who, at the moment the lights went off in
the study, had yanked the door wide, so that Prendle would fall away from
danger.
Only one person could have acted with such foresight and precision.
The Shadow!
Blackness was The Shadow's habitation. Except for the trifling glow of the
fireplace, the library was a mass of darkness, the very place where The Shadow
would logically be. Stan fancied that he heard a weird whisper come from that
gloom. The impression proved more than fancy.
The strange mirth grew!
Then, as all eyes were fixed upon the opened doorway, the author of the
laugh appeared. He was like a batch of incoming darkness spreading into human
form. Cloaked shoulders cut off the feeble glow from the fire; then, like a
materialized ghost, The Shadow was complete. Fully across the threshold, he
stood within the study, where all could see him.
His eyes might have been blazing coals that he had borrowed from the fire,
so fierce was their burn. They were a threat to malefactors, those eyes, and
beneath them, thrust from a gloved fist, was an automatic, ready to speak at
its owner's wish.
The folds of The Shadow's cloak were stirred by a wavering breeze that
came through an opened window in the library, the route that The Shadow had
used for entrance.
Fading, The Shadow's laugh left indelible impressions upon all who heard
it. That tone was The Shadow's assurance that he, for one, could reveal the
brain behind crime - the murderer who had slain Thorndon, only to fail at death
to Theodore Prendle!
CHAPTER XX
CROSSED CROOKS
IT was Roger Frack who wilted first in the presence of The Shadow. Already
beneath the cloaked master's sway, Frack remembered that he had been tardy in
following The Shadow's orders.
Anxious to make peace with the black-clad avenger, Frack poured his own
guilt first, to make it clear that he was going through with a full confession.
"I started all this!" gulped Frack. "I talked Marcia into marrying Jack."
He gestured toward the couple, as he mentioned them: "What's more, I talked
Stan into marrying Helene."
"Not quite, Frack," put in Stan. "You may recall that I told you I
wouldn't marry Helene. There was another reason why I did."
"I was the reason," announced Helene, before Stan could continue.
"Whatever Stan has done, or might have done, he is my husband by my own wish."
There was a low whisper of approval from The Shadow, the real maker of the
match. Frack heard the whisper, too, and took it differently. To him, it was an
order to proceed, which he did gladly, for Frack was coming to the fact that
most concerned himself and his own future.
"I didn't murder Monte Garlan," Frack announced. "It was a fake job, the
whole thing. I can prove it by Monte. He's been hiding out with me, all along.
He's here somewhere. I know, because The Shadow brought him."
Frack looked toward The Shadow, but it was not the cloaked master's moment
to reply. Someone else was taking the floor.
"You double-crosser!" Marcia hissed, as she lurched toward Frack. "You
said you were getting rid of Monte. But you didn't trust me; you had to make
sure I'd pass over the dough. You knew I wanted Monte murdered -"
Jack had grabbed Marcia, to keep her from reaching Frack; but she,
herself, cut off her statement. If Monte should turn up dead, after all, Marcia
would be branded as a party to his death. Her admission had already gone too
far, and Frack was pleased enough to regain some of his suavity.
"I said I would take care of Monte," he remarked. "That was all. You
misinterpreted me, Marcia."
"You're still a double-crosser," snarled Marcia, deciding that discretion
no longer counted. Then, wresting herself from Jack's grasp, she wheeled on him
and added:
"That goes for you, too!"
"How?"
"Don't try to kid me, Jackie," sneered Marcia. "The way you jumped to this
marriage stuff, I should have known it was phony."
"I didn't pull a phony," Jack retorted. "I overheard my father saying that
he would start me in business if I married the right girl. I needed money badly,
to pay off gambling debts. I thought you were great, Marcia -"
"Sure, you thought I was great! That's why you had Frack fix it. But you
weren't worrying about gambling debts. You wanted to get all your father's
dough through me and Stan. You had to keep me in line and you knew you could,
by faking Monte's death. You knew that Monte was my husband; that while he was
still alive, you'd have an out -"
Again, Marcia was spouting too much. She realized it when she met Jack's
vacant stare. The angle of Monte was certainly new to Jack, but not to The
Shadow. His laugh told that he had divined the answer long before, the only
plausible answer, considering the circumstances.
By loosening Frack's tongue, as a start, The Shadow had forced Marcia into
the things she said, for he knew well what her fury would produce. But there was
more to come.
AT the desk, old Theodore Prendle had recovered from his lethargy. The
things he heard were shocking him into interest. Turning appealingly toward his
father, Jack saw that his one hope of regaining paternal forgiveness lay in
telling the real source of his trouble.
"Victor Thorndon bought up my gambling debts," admitted Jack. "He didn't
just hold one IOU - he had a batch of them. But he kept raising the price;
that's why I had to go and see him. It wasn't just the money, it was his
meanness toward you. Tonight was the deadline.
"You must have known it, Frack" - Jack was turning to glare at the con
man, who nodded reluctantly - "because only a smart crook would have made that
sale to Thorndon. Whatever you know, you'd better tell."
There was threat in Jack's tone, but it didn't count. Frack was taking
orders from The Shadow, whose gun gesture he saw. Frack promptly came clean.
"I sold those markers to Thorndon," he admitted. "But that was a long
while ago. We needed them back, after we got started on the bigger game. They
had to be gotten -"
"Along with my checks?" queried Stan hotly, as Frack hesitated. "If
Thorndon wasn't behind the racket, how did he happen to have the checks?"
"He didn't have," Frack replied. "The idea was to get you over to
Thorndon's, too. The big-shot wanted a real hold over you and Jack, he wanted
you both to think you were up against a murder rap. But I don't think" - Frack
was looking warily around the room and making uneasy shifts - "that he expected
you both to show up at once."
Matters were clearing rapidly. At that moment, The Shadow could have
pressed Frack's mention of a big-shot, and brought the final showdown. He
preferred, however, to let the case clear itself, for things were working as
The Shadow had planned them. Particularly, when Theodore Prendle began to speak.
"I understand you better, Jack," he said to his son. "What you have
admitted shows that I misjudged you. Any one persecuted by Thorndon has my
sympathy.
"As for Marcia, she has not only proven herself quite unworthy of our
trust; she has ended the problem of what to do about her case. Being already
married to a husband who is still alive, she can't worry us.
"As for you, Stanley" - Prendle turned to his son-in-law - "it is quite
evident that you were working against those who tried to control you and make
you party to their schemes. I feel sure that my original judgment of you was
justified, and I know that Helene agrees."
Helene did agree. She was at Stan's side, pressing his arm tightly. Helene
was smiling; she didn't notice that her father's face was still serious. Stan
saw it, and knew why.
The Prendle family had solved its own problems, but that would not
suffice. The question of Thorndon's murder still lay between Stan and Jack, for
both had admitted their trips to the other house.
THEODORE PRENDLE looked to The Shadow, saw encouragement in the eyes of
his rescuer. The Shadow was counting upon Prendle to dig deeper into the case
and bring up some new evidence from the past. A thought came to Prendle; he
turned to Jack.
"Tell me, Jack," he questioned. "Just how did you learn that I meant to
set you up in business, and do the same for the man who married Helene?"
"I heard you talking to Carthwright," replied Jack, a bit dejectedly.
"Blair would have caught me, if I hadn't bluffed him. I faked a telephone call
while he was watching. It was right after you went outside to bawl out Reggie
Exeter."
"I remember, sir," said Blair to Prendle. "Come to think of it, Mr. Jack
did seem to be using the telephone as a ruse."
"He called from in here?" queried Prendle, picking up the telephone.
"Didn't you think that it was odd for Jack to be using this phone?"
"He was calling from the hall, sir." Blair corrected himself: "That is, he
was bluffing, as he terms it, with the hallway telephone. The door to the study
was closed."
Prendle nodded.
"Of course it was," he recalled. "I closed it. You remember, don't you,
Carthwright" - he swung to his friend - "you must remember, because you were
here. I didn't mention my plans to anyone else."
"Yes," said Carthwright, "I was here."
"You were here this evening, too," mused Prendle. "I was just going into
details about that, when the lights went out. I fell through the door, and
heard a shot. But you weren't here all the time, Carthwright. You were in my
library for fully fifteen minutes, while I was going over figures and Blair was
trying to find Jack.
"Fifteen minutes, Carthwright, when it takes less than ten to go to
Thorndon's house and back. The library has windows, you know, Carthwright -"
The library did have windows. One was open and the breeze from it
apparent, for The Shadow had stepped clear of the connecting door. In fact, the
sweeping breeze seemed to catch The Shadow's laugh, when it picked up from
Prendle's pause.
It was The Shadow who had last opened that window, to look in upon the
study scene; but the fact didn't help Carthwright.
Prendle's pretended friend had opened the same window, earlier, to make
his secret trip to Thorndon's. Carthwright was the murderer who had left with
the papers from the safe!
IT couldn't have fitted better. Stan's return had been the cue for
Carthwright. He had expected to wait until nearly midnight, when Jack returned,
a time when Thorndon, who always sat up late, would be totally unprotected. But
Carthwright couldn't let the opportunity pass when Stan returned.
Knowing that Stan would take the long way around, Carthwright had found an
excuse to enter the library, leaving Prendle occupied. The short cut had enabled
him to reach Thorndon's house, force the victim to open the safe, and then
murder the old man - still with time for Carthwright to be out before Stan
arrived there.
As for Jack, his own trip to Thorndon's, direct from the Beach Club, was
luck upon which Carthwright had not counted, coming so soon after the murder.
Luck that had proven ill for Carthwright. Jack's meeting with Stan had
produced the brawl which placed both under suspicion, instead of carrying,
secretly and separately, the fear of being implicated in a crime. Carthwright
hadn't wanted a showdown while he still sought wealth, but it had come, leaving
him but one alternative: to alibi himself fully.
Hence Carthwright's shot at Prendle. He had turned out the lights and used
the death gun, then thrust it into the grabbing hands of Stan and Jack, each
snatching for the other! Carthwright needed to kill Prendle before the latter
detailed the facts of those vital fifteen minutes when Carthwright had been in
the library, instead of the study.
Carthwright's cringe was an unneeded confession of his part. He was the
brain behind the confidence ring, the big-shot whose name Frack soon would have
mentioned. Weakening, he began to slump near Prendle's desk; seeing him make a
reach to steady himself, Prendle scooped up the murder gun and stepped aside
with it.
Prendle forgot another gun, one of his own, that he kept in a desk drawer.
Having faked a failure under The Shadow's very gaze, Carthwright reversed his
style. He yanked the drawer open, snatched Prendle's gun and wheeled back to a
corner, foolishly thinking that he could beat The Shadow to the shot.
At that moment, Frack gave a yell. Windows crashed in and men came through
them: Artie and his crew.
Marcia, darting for a corner like the others, seized the revolver that had
originally been Carthwright's, but which was now in Prendle's hands. The
tigerish girl was so quick, that Prendle did not have a chance to keep the gun.
The Shadow was blasting at the windows, using two guns to drive back
Artie's tribe. They fell back like a wave striking a sea wall, literally wilted
by the hail of lead. The window sills were their high-water mark. The shots that
they fired were delivered while they hurtled backward. None of those bullets
took effect.
During that rapid interlude, The Shadow had no time to handle Carthwright
or Marcia. He was an open target for both their guns, yet neither weapon fired
in his direction.
On impulse, The Shadow decided to ignore them, for he knew their make-up.
Each would go after the most hated foe. In Carthwright's case, that foe was The
Shadow; but Marcia had another choice. Of all persons she detested, Carthwright,
the double-crosser, had first claim.
While Carthwright, determined upon another kill, was taking deliberate aim
at The Shadow, Marcia stabbed quick shots at the murderer. Riddled by the
bullets that kept coming until the gun was empty, Carthwright coiled on the
floor without firing a shot of his own.
THE room was clear, with Marcia holding the empty gun. Hewitt took the
weapon from her and slapped handcuffs on her wrists, while The Shadow, at the
window, was firing after the fleeing members of Artie's staggered and depleted
crew.
At the door of the study, Stan and Jack delivered Frack to the detective.
Unarmed, the con man had simply tried to flee, only to be tackled.
They went outside, to find Monte trussed beneath the shrubbery - a
pleasing discovery for Frack, whose life depended on it, though he was sure to
pay a penalty for other crimes now known.
For Marcia, it released her from complicity in a murder that had not
happened, but it marked the end of her hope to pillage the Prendle fortune on
her own.
In the study, The Shadow stooped above Carthwright's body and brought out
two slim batches of paper. He spread Jack's gambling markers in one hand, for
Theodore Prendle to see the trophies that Carthwright had brought from
Thorndon's safe. In the other hand, The Shadow made a fan of Stan's checks,
which Carthwright, brain behind the confidence ring, had been carrying all
along.
Stepping through to the library, The Shadow dropped both batches on the
embers in the fireplace, where Carthwright had burned the rest of Thorndon's
papers, after his return. Then, moving to the open window, The Shadow was
blotted by its background, the darkness of the outside air.
He was gone, through the window and beyond, when Stan and Helene came from
the study and stood by the darkened window. But the happiness of their reunion
was made complete by the fading tone they heard from somewhere in the direction
of the double hedgerow.
It was strange mirth, that throbbed a triumph over crime, yet which
carried assurance and approval for those who had striven on the side of right.
The farewell of The Shadow!
THE END