THE GOLDEN MASKS
by Maxwell Grant
As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," September 1, 1936.
The Golden Masks hid the faces of the most evil crew of killers The Shadow
had ever opposed! But concealed under cover of black cloak and hat, the Master
of Darkness unmasked the menace behind the gilded faces!
CHAPTER I
FACES OF DOOM
THE outer office of the Oceanic Steamship Co. was deserted. The lights
were out, but a big clock on the wall was visible. It showed the time as half
past seven. The glow that revealed the clock dial came from the frosted panel
of an inner office that bore the lettered statement:
JAMES LENGERTON
President
Within that private office, a tall, stoop-shouldered man was pacing the
room in front of a large desk. This man was James Lengerton; his face, though
firm, was haggard. At times, the steamship company president paused to thrust
long, nervous fingers through his hair.
There was a click at the glass-paneled door. The barrier opened inward.
Lengerton swung hastily; his face showed mingled expressions of suspicion and
relief as his eyes recognized the man who had entered. The newcomer was a
middle-aged man; square-built and of medium height. His face though passive,
was as strained as Lengerton's.
"What brings you here, Froy?" questioned Lengerton.
"I received another letter," announced Froy, in a worried tone. "It came a
short while ago. There was time to bring it here before eight o'clock."
"Let me see it." Froy handed an envelope to Lengerton. The latter noted
that it was addressed to Burris Froy, 582 Exton Avenue, New York City. With
shaking hands, Lengerton pulled the letter from the envelope; he scanned
typewritten lines. Mechanically, he returned the letter to Froy.
"It specifies no new terms," declared Lengerton. "It is simply a reminder
that I must have the cash ready by eight o'clock to-night."
"That is all," nodded Froy. "However, there is only half an hour remaining
until eight o'clock."
"I know that, Froy. The cash is here. I shall leave the office before
eight."
"Your decision is a wise one, Lengerton. I am sorry, though, that
circumstances forced you to make it."
With this statement, Froy pocketed the letter. He turned about and went
out through the door. He closed it behind him; Lengerton heard the footsteps
fade away, then the muffled closing of the outer door.
MINUTES ticked by, while Lengerton continued his incessant pacing. Seven
such minutes had passed when the glass-paneled door again opened. A
droopy-faced man entered, stared in surprise at the sight of Lengerton.
The arrival was Lengerton's secretary, Sampler. It was plain that he had
not expected to find his employer in the office. Stammering, Sampler stated
that he had come for a file of shipping reports that he had intended to take
home with him. The man's confusion was obviously honest. Lengerton cut Sampler
short with a sudden remark.
"Sampler," declared Lengerton, "I am going to take you into my confidence,
regarding a most serious matter."
Sampler nodded solemnly.
"Yesterday," reminded Lengerton, "a man named Burris Froy came here to see
me. You remember him, Sampler. You ushered him into this office. He is a
serious-looking chap. Very wealthy. A director in several banks."
Sampler repeated his nod.
"Recently," declared Lengerton, "Froy received an anonymous letter which
he saw fit to show to me. It referred to certain securities that I purchased by
proxy. Shares in Intercontinental Air Lines."
"You own such shares?" gasped Sampler, amazed. "Why, they have doubled in
value, Mr. Lengerton! But - but Intercontinental Air Lines are expanding so
rapidly that they threaten the shipping business -"
"Exactly," interposed Lengerton, tersely. "That is why I chose to control
Intercontinental Air Lines. My shares cost me five hundred thousand dollars.
To-day, they are worth a million!"
"But - but if it were known that you owned those shares -"
"My standing in the shipping business would be ruined. That is why the
letter was sent to Froy. It is blackmail, Sampler, with Burris Froy as the
unwilling go-between. The letter threatened him with death if he did not
communicate with me."
Turning about, Lengerton went to a safe behind his desk. He swung the
metal door open; it was unlocked. Sampler gaped at sight of stacked currency,
bundles of bank notes, all of thousand-dollar denomination.
"The terms were these," declared Lengerton, sourly. "I was told to unload
all my holdings in Intercontinental Air Lines, which I did to-day, through my
proxies. I was permitted to retain half a million, the amount of my original
investment. That sum has been placed in the bank.
"The rest - an equal sum, all profits - you see before you. At eight
o'clock to-night, the unknown blackmailer is to enter this office and pick up
the money unmolested. That gives us" - Lengerton glanced at his watch - "less
than twenty minutes to be out of here."
SAMPLER gaped helplessly. Lengerton seated himself behind the desk,
drummed for a few moments, then yanked open a drawer. From it, he produced a
stack of newspaper clippings, which he tossed on the desk with the comment:
"Look at these, Sampler."
The secretary did as directed. The clippings were ominous. They were of
various dates; they were from newspapers in different cities. Each clipping
carried its own strange tale. A few told of wealthy men, who had died suddenly.
Others mentioned important persons whose present whereabouts were unknown,
but whose absence carried no suspicion of foul play. There were a few clippings
that mentioned absent men who had returned; but who had refused to state where
they had been. Sampler remembered several of these cases from the current news.
"Those came with the letter that Froy received," remarked Lengerton. "He
believes that the people mentioned were victims of the blackmail ring. Some are
dead; others are missing. Only the ones who will not talk have been allowed to
return. Since their lips are sealed, it indicates that they must have
experienced some terrible ordeal."
Lengerton gathered the clippings, thrust them into the desk drawer and
angrily threw a sheaf of loose papers upon them. He glanced toward the open
safe and grimaced. Lengerton did not relish the loss of a cool half a million.
"A double-barreled threat," mused the shipping president. "First, because
I could not risk the exposure of my ownings in Intercontinental Air Lines.
Second, the veiled warning of death or injury if I did not comply. Oddly,
Sampler, it was the first threat that worried me. I would be willing to face
the second."
"The first threat is ended, Mr. Lengerton," said Sampler. "Since you have
already disposed of your airline holdings, there can be no exposure. At
present, it is simply money that you must protect."
A sharp gleam came to Lengerton's eyes. The gray-haired man pounded the
desk with his fist. Hurriedly, Lengerton glanced at his watch. It showed twelve
minutes before eight. Without further hesitation, Lengerton snatched up the
telephone. Sampler listened while his employer called police headquarters.
Lengerton's statement was brief. He said simply that he was threatened by
grave danger, that he must have protection before eight o'clock. After giving
his name and office address, be promised that he would explain matters when the
police arrived.
With a satisfied smile, Lengerton hung up the receiver. He glanced at his
watch again and spoke to Sampler.
"I talked to an inspector named Cardona," declared Lengerton. "The fellow
wasted no time over details. He says that he will be here with a squad of
detectives in less than ten minutes. We have tricked our enemies, Sampler.
"Since eight o'clock is the deadline, they will wait until after that hour
before they enter. If they are watching the office, they will probably think
that I accidentally stayed too long. While they continue their vigil, the law
will arrive."
Lengerton chuckled. His lips opened for another statement; suddenly, they
froze. From his desk, Lengerton stared straight past Sampler, toward the door
of the office. A horrified expression came upon Sampler's face, like a
reflection of the terror that Lengerton had registered. Mechanically, Sampler
turned about. He saw the sight that Lengerton had spied.
THE door of the office was open. Two men had silently stepped in from the
darkened outer office. As they moved forward, side by side, three others
followed, like slaves attendant upon their masters. The foremost pair had guns;
the rear trio carried a cubical wooden box that measured more than foot in each
direction. The box was black, of ebony.
It was not the sight of leveled revolvers or the ominous black box that
caused both Lengerton and Sampler to quail. The sight that horrified the
trapped shipping president and his secretary was the appearance of the invaders
themselves. They looked like monsters, those intruders; creatures who had shed
their human features.
Each was clad in a robe of dull gold, with cowllike headpiece that
encircled cheeks and forehead. Each wore thin gauntlets of the same material.
Their faces, amazingly lifelike, were also of gold. For a moment, Lengerton and
Sampler thought that these were real countenances, gilded.
The trapped men then realized that such was not the case. The answer lay
in the fact that every one of the five faces were identical. The leaders, with
their glimmering revolvers; the followers, with their ebony box - any one of
the group could have passed for another.
Each golden face carried an insidious expression. Each visage was perfect
in formation; that fact simply added to the demonish touch. Golden lips were
curved in half smiles that boded no mercy.
The only difference - and it was scarcely detectable - lay in the eyes
that stared from golden sockets. There was variance in the colors of the five
pairs of eyes.
The golden faces were masks, beaten from metal that was almost pure. Their
thinness gave them realism, despite the fact that the golden features were
immobile. Each mask hid the real face behind it; but the golden smiles seemed
to tell the feeling that was held by every evil heart.
These Golden Masks were fiends to the core. They had come to claim wealth
that they had demanded. Finding that their terms had not been obeyed, they were
prepared to deal punishment upon the pair of helpless victims who cowered by the
desk.
CHAPTER II
BEFORE THE LAW
As he shrank before the threat of the Golden Masks, James Lengerton
realized the error that he had made. He wished that he had closed and locked
the safe; to leave with Sampler and meet the police outside the building. Such
a move might have tricked these golden-garbed invaders.
Another thought flashed through Lengerton's brain. The Golden Masks must
have guessed that he intended to offset their game. The fact that he had
remained within his office almost until eight o'clock had been their cue for
entry.
One of the two leaders snarled a command that produced no motion of the
metal lips. Immediately, the three followers stepped to the desk. They placed
the ebony box there and opened it. Another snarl made Lengerton stare at the
enemy in front of him; hence the shipping president did not see what the box
contained. Sampler observed it, however. The secretary gasped. One of the
golden-faced servitors was removing a large glass cylinder from the box. The
cylinder was inverted; its mouth was covered with a sheet of rubber, that had a
central slit. Sampler saw a rubber hose stretch snakily from the box as the
Golden Mask lifted the cylinder high above his head. The hose formed a tubular
connection between cylinder and box.
The cylinder came downward. From in back of Lengerton, the man who held
the cylinder clamped it over the shipping president's head. Lengerton started a
struggle; the other two servitors promptly gripped him, one on either side.
Clamped between these captors, Lengerton could scarcely writhe.
The victim made a grotesque sight, his haggard face staring through the
rounded wall of glass. The rubber cap beneath the cylinder had tightened about
Lengerton's neck; his head was in an air-tight container.
The struggle that Lengerton made did not last long. The man who had capped
his head within the cylinder reached a golden gauntlet into the black box.
Fingers pressed a lever. A hissing sound followed.
Sampler saw a yellowish gas issue into the cylinder. The vapor coiled
about Lengerton's head; increasing, the yellow cloud obscured the victim's
face. Sampler caught one last glimpse of Lengerton's face; he could tell that
his employer's breath had given out. Lengerton was forced to inhale the
yellowish gas.
THE effect was completed in less than a minute. Lengerton's body sagged
back into the chair behind the desk. His head tilted sidewise, carrying the
glass cylinder to a precarious angle.
The men who held Lengerton let him slump; one of them caught the toppling
cylinder and lifted it clear of the victim's head. Lengerton's neck wobbled;
his head tilted backward and thumped against the back of the chair. One of the
Golden Masks placed the cylinder back into the black box.
The other two raised Lengerton. The victim was staring, with goggly eyes,
as though everything before his gaze was distorted. His muscles lacked action;
but his body was loose, like that of a jointed puppet. He seemed to understand
when one of the servitors snarled for him to walk; but he was unable to respond
to the command.
Supporting their victim, the two Golden Masks moved Lengerton away from
the desk. His legs acted mechanically, their footsteps draggy, as the two
servitors walked him toward the door.
The last of the three masked underlings closed the black box and lugged it
with him as he followed the others toward the door. Forgetful of his own plight,
Sampler stared after them. He heard the draggy footsteps cross the outer office;
he listened as the hallway door thumped shut.
Three of the Golden Masks had departed with their prisoner. Overwhelmed by
the strange gas, Lengerton had reached a condition that made his removal easy.
What Lengerton's fate would be, Sampler could not guess. Vaguely, the secretary
realized that the Golden Masks had conquered Lengerton within a few minutes
after their arrival. There would still be an interval before the police arrived.
During that period, Sampler knew that he would be at the mercy of the two
Golden Masks who had remained. They were the leaders of the insidious throng.
They stood with ready revolvers, holding Sampler prisoner. They did not intend
to give him the gas treatment; for the ebony box and its glass cylinder were
gone.
Had Sampler used reason, he would have seen that his own cause was not
hopeless. Lengerton's money was still in the open safe. The leaders of the
Golden Masks had further business here. It would serve them best to postpone
murder until they were ready for departure. Given five minutes longer, the
police would arrive.
Sampler's proper course was to stall, to plead with the Golden Masks; to
promise them anything that would delay them. In his terror, the secretary did
not grasp the possibilities that such a policy offered. He wanted a chance for
flight; and he thought he saw such opportunity.
The leaders of the Golden Masks had turned toward the door. They were
listening intently, even after footsteps had died. They wanted to be sure that
their followers had made an unhampered get-away with James Lengerton.
The fixed stares on the golden faces made Sampler think that neither of
the two men could see him. Shakily, Sampler edged along the desk. He gave a
sudden spring toward the man who stood nearest to him.
THE golden-masked rogue spun away, with a fierce snarl. Sampler lunged
wide. He was stopped by a sudden jab of the masked man's right hand. The Golden
Mask thrust his revolver muzzle against Sampler's ribs; the gauntleted fist went
deep beneath the secretary's coat. As Sampler tried to twist away, the Golden
Mask fired.
The report was muffled by the folds of Sampler's coat. The secretary
jolted; smoke coiled outward from his vest. With distorted lips that failed to
give cry, Sampler sagged sidewise, flattened on the floor in front of the desk.
The man with the gun looked down at his victim's sprawled body. The unchanged
smile upon the Golden Mask seemed to denote the murderer's evil pleasure.
The other Golden Mask looked toward his comrade. His metal smile looked
like an expression of approval. Calmly, both men put away their revolvers,
pocketing them through slits at the sides of their robes.
One went to the safe, brought out the wads of currency and placed the
money on the desk. The other found a cardboard box on a table in the corner.
Together, they thumbed the cash, then packed their ill-gained wealth in the box.
Sampler's death had produced one result. Because the shot had been
completely muffled, the Golden Masks showed no hurry. They were oblivious to
the fact that the law was on its way here. They took four full minutes for work
that they could have accomplished in less than two.
One of the evil pair tucked the pasteboard box beneath his arm. The other
went to the door, turned the knob, just as his companion pressed the light
switch. The inner office was plunged in darkness, just as the door came inward.
Simultaneously, the man with the box remembered an important item. He snarled
two words:
"The clippings -"
The other stopped him, with an evil hiss, pointed a gauntleted finger
across the outer office, toward the door to the hall. Though both offices were
almost completely dark, the rogue with the box detected his companion's gesture
and looked in the direction indicated.
The outer door had a glass panel, like the one between the offices. Beyond
it was the light of the hallway, dimmed because of the frosted glass.
Nevertheless, it formed a semitransparent frame. Against that glass, visible
from where the Golden Masks stood, was a shadowed outline that made both
villains reach instantly for their revolvers.
THE shadow against the glass was a silhouette that showed a hawklike
profile, topped by the brim of a slouch hat. Motionless, it formed an uncanny
symbol - a shape that might have stood alone, without human form to produce it.
Despite their evil prowess and the darkness that covered them, the Golden Masks
were halted by the sight.
The Golden Masks were men of crime. They recognized the silhouette that
blocked the hallway light. The hawkish profile told them that their trail had
been crossed, that their path was covered by a master foeman whose presence
meant destruction for workers of evil.
That superfoe had arrived just after the servitors had taken James
Lengerton away. Though too late to deal with minions, he was in time to meet
the perpetrators of crime, to halt the escape of the two leaders who had seen
to the murder of Sampler.
That sinister profile against the door belonged to The Shadow. It
symbolized a master of crime detection, whose ways were many, whose moves were
hidden. Other crooks had seen that silhouette that marked the advent of The
Shadow. They had learned - through their own doom - that it was futile to
attempt open battle with an enemy whose actual form they could not see.
Evil though they were, the two Golden Masks feared to move. They crouched
by their inner doorway, hoping to evade the search of eyes that they felt might
penetrate the frosted outer pane.
Their revolvers were drawn; but the fingers within the golden gauntlets
were numbed by fear. Neither rogue dared fire. A shot might prove useless; if
so, it would be answered by a peal of mocking mirth. The Shadow would know the
location of his huddled enemies.
Great was the terror that had gripped Lengerton and Sampler at the sight
of the Golden Masks. Much of that same horror now held the Golden Masks
themselves. Their golden garb was a mere masquerade that hid their actual
identities. The blackness that enveloped The Shadow was a shroud that rendered
him vague and invisible.
As the clock in the outer office ticked off the passing seconds, the
masked murderers waited, banking all upon the hope that The Shadow would
depart. That seemed their only chance of safety against this famed invader who
had arrived before the law.
CHAPTER III
THE LAW'S BLUNDER
TEN seconds passed. Staring, the Golden Masks saw a slow motion of the
silhouette beyond the frosted door. With eerie glide, the profile faded to one
side. It did not return. Complete silence persisted until a slight click
sounded from the outer hall. The dim light was extinguished. Total blackness
reigned.
Without knowing it, the Golden Masks had held a temporary advantage. The
Shadow had come to the office of the Oceanic Steamship Co.; just outside the
outer door, he had discerned the light from the inner office. About to
investigate, The Shadow had halted when the Golden Masks extinguished the inner
light and opened the connecting door.
With no chance to fade away unseen, The Shadow had held his ground. He
knew that men within the office would see his blackened silhouette; therefore,
he had remained motionless, to make them think that his outlined profile was a
ruse. The Shadow timed his stay to perfection; when he did withdraw, his
deliberate move still bluffed the Golden Masks.
It was not until The Shadow pressed the hall switch that the rogues
realized how close he had been to the outer door. Their knowledge came too
late. The Shadow had gained the element that he wanted: darkness. The Golden
Masks could risk no light. They were bottled in the office; there, The Shadow
intended to keep them until their nerves reached a breaking point.
The Golden Masks were in a tight spot. If this situation had continued for
a few minutes longer, they would have been due for a startling surprise. The
Shadow had outguessed them; luck was all upon which the Golden Masks could
depend. Chance favored them beyond all hope.
ONE minute after the hall light had gone out, the Golden Masks heard a
distant sound, like the thud of approaching footsteps. It lasted for a few
short seconds; The Shadow must have heard it also, for it came from beyond the
hallway door.
The noise ended; without warning, a glare of light flooded the outer hall.
Some one had approached to find the hall lights extinguished. The new arrival
had supplied the brilliance of a bull's-eye lantern.
The flooding light showed a sight that the Golden Masks had not
anticipated. The door from the hall was halfway open. Across the threshold was
an unmistakable figure, cloaked in black. It was The Shadow, his gloved left
hand upon the doorknob, his right gripping a mammoth automatic.
The light had come at a most inopportune instant. Had The Shadow been less
advanced into the office, he could have dived away along the hall before the big
light was flashed.
Had he been given a few seconds more, he could have sprung past the door
which he had so stealthily opened. By finding darkness in the office, he could
have shot it out with the surprised Golden Masks.
As it was, The Shadow stood trapped. His tall form was completely visible
to the Golden Masks. Shouts from the hall told that he had been spied by the
new invaders. The Shadow needed split-second speed in this emergency. He showed
it.
Counting the men within the office as the most dangerous, because of their
preparedness, The Shadow took his chances with those in the hall. Spinning
outward, he wheeled and dashed along the corridor, away from the revealing
light.
The Golden Masks came to life as The Shadow whirled. They fired rapidly
with their revolvers; but The Shadow was gone too rapidly. Useless bullets
bashed the far wall of the hallway, beyond the opened outer door.
The shouts in the hall were louder. Guns began to bark; at the end of the
corridor, The Shadow heard bullets whiz past him. He swung into a side passage;
heavy-footed pursuers dashed after him. The Shadow knew the false situation that
he had encountered.
The men with the lantern were headquarters detectives. Sent to cover
Lengerton's office, they had gone after the first intruder whom they saw there.
The shots fired by the Golden Masks had simply spurred on the excited dicks.
Without stopping to reason, they supposed that Lengerton and others who needed
help had opened fire on the black-clad intruder at the office door.
As The Shadow raced along the side passage, the light reached the turn
behind him. From a stairway ahead, two more detectives sprang up to block The
Shadow's flight. The Shadow met the first man head-on, sprawled him to the
stairs with a swift uppercut. As the second detective fired hastily, The Shadow
grappled with him and swung the man between himself and the light.
The detectives at the turn could not fire; for their comrade was toward
them. Hanging onto the fellow, The Shadow was prepared to haul him down the
stairs, away from gun range. Just then, a chance incident started a new
commotion.
One detective flashed a light back along the main corridor, to sight two
figures hurrying from Lengerton's office. One glimpse told him that they were
enemies. The Golden Masks were staging a get-away; they stopped the instant
that the light flashed upon them.
Both crooks fired. The detective with the light dropped, wounded. Brief
sight of the Golden Masks was lost; amid the gunfire, another detective doused
the bull's-eye lantern. Blindly, the detectives fired along the darkened hall.
The Golden Masks had dashed in the direction from which the headquarters men
had originally come. The crook who carried the swag clung to it.
NEW shouts arose as the Golden Masks reached the beginning of the
corridor. A loud, gruff voice was that of Inspector Joe Cardona. He had ordered
his men ahead; he was moving up with others when the Golden Masks encountered
them on a wide stairway by the elevators.
Arms slashed; guns blasted wildly; flashlights glimmered, to be knocked
from the hands that held them. Fleeing men clattered down the stairway. The
Golden Masks had broken through, unscathed.
Far distant, The Shadow heard the commotion. The detectives at the turn of
the passage were dashing to join Cardona in pursuit of the Golden Masks.
The Shadow flung off the man with whom he grappled, left him at the top of
the little stairway and dashed downward. It was The Shadow's only chance to head
off the Golden Masks when they reached the street.
There were three flights to the bottom. The Shadow came out through a
doorway that opened on a passage beside the building.
Shots were booming when The Shadow reached the front sidewalk. A big sedan
careened from the curb; revolvers spat from its windows as the automobile fled.
Cardona and three detectives fired wasted shots. The Golden Masks were off to a
get-away. No police cars were on hand to chase them, for Cardona had made his
approach to the building a secret one.
There was a taxi near the curb, a little below the building. Before the
police spied it, The Shadow sprang toward the cab. As he neared the taxi, he
came into view. A detective shouted as he saw The Shadow, raised his arm to
fire. Before the dick could fire, Cardona grabbed his arm and knocked the man's
gun upward.
Joe Cardona had also spied The Shadow. An ace sleuth, the inspector
recognized the cloaked combatant. Quicker in thought than the detective was
with the trigger, Cardona not only saved The Shadow from a chance bullet; he
also realized how great a mistake had been made.
If Cardona had guessed beforehand that The Shadow intended to visit
Lengerton's, the inspector would have ordered his squad to stay in the
background. Unfortunately, the law had bungled.
The Shadow snapped an order as be boarded the cab. The driver, a chance
hackie who had parked near Lengerton's building, was quick in response. He
heard a fierce whisper that commanded him to follow the car that had fled.
THE SHADOW'S commandeered cab sped past gaping detectives, who still could
not guess why Cardona had ordered them to stand by. The taxi took the corner;
the driver spied the car that carried the Golden Masks. The fleeing sedan was
turning a corner two blocks ahead. It had gained too good a start.
When the taxi reached that corner, the sedan was out of sight. Though he
did his best, the cab driver failed to pick up its trail as he threaded from
street to street.
The Shadow ordered him to halt the cab. The driver obeyed. A five-dollar
bill wavered past the hackie's shoulder and flipped to his lap. Clutching the
unexpected fare, the cab driver looked into the back of the car, hoping to see
his passenger. The cab was empty. The Shadow had dropped off into the night,
closing the door silently, behind him.
The Shadow, always in touch with important financial matters, had learned
earlier that large sales had been made in Intercontinental Air Lines. Through
confidential channels, he had gained sufficient data to link James Lengerton
with the stock sales. Scenting mystery, The Shadow had paid that surprise visit
to Lengerton's office. Ghostlike, he had arrived to trap the leaders of the
Golden Masks. But the law's blunder had allowed a pair of master crooks to
escape.
Though he had not even seen his superfoes, The Shadow had observed
previous evidence of their depredations. To-night, he had come closer to the
Golden Masks than before. The Shadow was confident that his next endeavor would
bring him face to face with these master criminals. All that The Shadow needed
was one more clue.
Strangely, that clue would soon be in the making. New twists of
circumstances were destined to bring The Shadow adventures of a sort that even
he had never before experienced.
CHAPTER IV
MASKED MEN MEET
IT was midnight. Four hours had passed since the events at Lengerton's
office. The early editions of the morning newspapers had reached the streets of
Manhattan; newsboys were already selling them at Times Square. These "bulldog"
extras carried sensational news concerning what had taken place at Lengerton's
office. It had been inserted as a stop-press item.
"Big skyscraper moider -"
As a newsboy shouted the statement, a peak-faced man stopped to purchase
an extra. The man was carrying a suitcase in his left hand; to it was attached
a tag that bore the printed name of Clifford Sulgate. The initials on the
suitcase corroborated the tag; for the letters were C. S.
With his free hand, Sulgate fumbled for change, found a quarter and gave
it to the newsie. He did not wait for the twenty-three cents that the newsboy
started to return to him. Instead, Sulgate walked hastily away and did not stop
until he had reached the nearest corner.
There, by the light from a pineapple juice stand, Sulgate scanned the
headlines.
Clifford Sulgate was the type of man whom one would expect to see near
Times Square at midnight. He was dressed in a tuxedo; over that attire he wore
a lightweight overcoat. His head was topped by an expensive Derby hat.
Apparently, he had been to the theater, for a program was sticking out from his
overcoat pocket. However, there was nothing in Sulgate's manner to indicate that
he had enjoyed the show. Sulgate's face was not only pale and dryish, but was
almost the color of the gray hair that showed below his Derby. His lips
twitched; his eyes kept blinking. As he studied the newspaper, he set down his
suitcase in order to adjust his rimless spectacles. He fidgeted with the
glasses until he had them as he wanted them; even then, his blinking and
twitching were as frequent as before.
Sulgate's lips ceased their twitching when the nervous man chewed them
tightly. Folding the newspaper, Sulgate thrust it into his pocket with the
program. He picked up his suitcase and hurried along Broadway, noting the
street numbers at each crossing. Several blocks above Times Square, Sulgate
turned westward.
On the dimmer street, he paused to look at parked taxicabs. Enterprising
drivers leaned out and called to the prospective passenger. Sulgate ignored the
hackies until be came to one who was at the wheel of a green cab. The driver had
his flag down, to indicate that the cab was hired. Spying Sulgate, the cab,
driver gave a nod of recognition. Sulgate entered the taxi.
THE cab started eastward; it turned right on Broadway, then right again,
on a westbound street. Away from the glare of Times Square, the driver calmly
pressed a special lever located at his left. The effect was unusual.
Thick, tight-fitting blinds dropped at every window in the cab. Clifford
Sulgate was confined in complete darkness. Moreover, sharp clicks denoted that
the pressure of the lever had locked the rear doors.
The driver chose a twisting course; he drove the cab steadily, but without
great speed.
Fifteen minutes later, the taxi pulled into a narrow alleyway between two
bare-walled buildings. Continuing through the close-walled channel, it came to
an inner courtyard. There, the cab wheeled about. The driver pulled the lever;
blinds came up and doors unlocked. Clifford Sulgate stepped out, carrying his
suitcase.
There was a dim door at one side of the court. Sulgate entered it, found
the door of an elevator. He pressed a button; an elevator thrummed downward, on
a long, slow trip.
When the car arrived, Sulgate opened the door and entered. The elevator
was dark. Sulgate closed the door behind him. That done, he pressed a light
switch. The elevator was illuminated; its glow showed Sulgate's twitching lips
and blinking eyes.
Hastily, Sulgate took off his spectacles and put them into a case which he
placed in an overcoat pocket. He doffed his overcoat and dropped it to the
floor, with his Derby. He pressed an elevator button that bore the word "Up";
as the car ascended, Sulgate hurriedly opened the suitcase.
Gold cloth glimmered as the nervous man drew a long robe from the bag.
Sulgate slipped the golden garb over his shoulders. From the bag, he brought
another article - a mask of thin, beaten gold. He placed the mask on his face;
kept it in place by adjusting the robe's hood about it. The edges of the hood
completely covered every trace of Sulgate's gray hair.
From a man of ordinary, almost shrinking appearance, Sulgate had become a
robed creature of insidious ilk. His metal face looked lifelike; its mold, its
smile were identical with those of the Golden Masks who had invaded Lengerton's
office.
The elevator reached the top of the shaft. The trip had been a long one;
the floor at which it finally stopped was certainly a considerable distance
above the ground. There was no way of determining the exact height, however,
for the walls of the elevator were entirely closed and gave no glimpse of the
floors that were passed.
Sulgate opened the door. He stepped into a gloomy, square-walled room,
that had a golden door on the opposite side. A huge African was standing there
as guard.
He was attired in a native costume, a leathery shirt crossed by a leopard
pelt. The native's arms and legs were bare; they glistened like ebony beneath
the light. The guard's muscles tightened; he raised a stocky war spear as
Sulgate approached.
The guard was a full six feet six in height; he towered menacingly above
the masked arrival. Sulgate stopped and spoke a password:
"Ashanti."
The guard lowered his spear. Sulgate approached the door and gave another
countersign:
"Kumasi."
The African guard gripped a knotty handle in the center of the golden
doorway. He pulled the barrier outward; let it close as Sulgate passed. That
done, the guard brought Sulgate's bag, coat and hat from the elevator and
stacked them with others that were in a corner by the elevator. The guard
closed the elevator door, went back to his post, to await newcomers.
SULGATE, meanwhile, had entered a room where a strange scene was in
progress. The room was well lighted; all about its walls were golden hangings,
costly draperies that reflected their dull, yellow hue. Within the room was a
throng of motionless men; more than a dozen, all attired in the same garb as
Sulgate.
Metal faces looked toward the new arrival; all bore she same half smile
that Sulgate's golden features carried. The only variance lay in the eyes that
stared through the masks. Clifford Sulgate had arrived at a meeting of the
Golden Masks; his own attire, his knowledge of the passwords, marked him as a
member of that evil band. It was necessary, however, that he identify himself
within the meeting room.
At the far wall stood a raised platform; it was set back in the wall like
a small stage. Two of the Golden Masks were seated upon that dais, each on a
golden throne. They were the leaders of the Golden Masks. Sulgate approached
them. He spoke to the Golden Mask who sat upon the left.
"I am Mu," declared Sulgate. His tone echoed, for the ceiling above the
platform was a low one. "I speak to Alpha."
"Alpha replies to Mu," returned the seated man, solemnly. "Mu will give
the first countersign."
"Ashanti."
Sulgate waited a few moments, then turned to the figure on the right. He
spoke again:
"I am Mu. I speak to Omega."
"Omega replies to Mu," answered the second leader. "Mu will give the
second countersign."
"Kumasi."
The procedure finished, Sulgate joined the crowd of Golden Masks who were
standing about the room. Like them, he faced the platform, where Alpha and
Omega sat with folded arms.
To Sulgate, the scene was not a new one; for he had long been a member of
the Golden Masks. Nevertheless, the setting chilled him. Faces of gold were
ominous; though he wore one that was identical, Sulgate felt a secret fear amid
this masked throng. Even to a member of the organization, the Golden Masks were
a mystery; for those like Sulgate had never gained complete initiation.
ONLY two of the group knew the real identities of all. Those two were
Alpha and Omega, silent upon their thrones. All others were forced to go
through the same routine as Sulgate; they were brought here by taxicabs, behind
shaded windows and locked doors. The taxi drivers knew the faces of the men whom
they were delegated to meet; but they did not know their names.
Those taximen were mere underlings, who knew the power of the Golden Masks
and feared it; they maintained secrecy also because they were promised
membership in the Golden Masks after their terms of apprenticeship were served.
Every member, like Sulgate, had a Greek letter name by which he identified
himself. While the group remained motionless, another Golden Mask entered. He
identified himself as Omicron, speaking to Alpha and Omega, as Sulgate had.
Sulgate often wondered who those leaders could be. All were capable of
treachery; all were obedient to orders. All felt security in evil dealings,
because of the protective power that the crooked society gave them. The Golden
Masks formed a chain of graspers who used crime for profit.
Sulgate was a member of that chain; but to-night, he felt that he might be
its weakest link. Sulgate had played a definite part in the move that the Golden
Masks had made against James Lengerton.
Sudden regrets had seized Clifford Sulgate. Remorse was not the only
emotion that gripped him. Sulgate was qualmish, fearful for his own safety. He
was satisfied with the wealth that was already his; he had gained all that he
wanted through association with the Golden Masks. Until this Lengerton affair,
Sulgate had not been used as an instrument in crime. His present fear was that
he would be employed again, more openly than before. That was more than he
wanted.
Thanks to his golden mask, none could see the twitching lips and blinking
eyes of Clifford Sulgate.
CHAPTER V
THE DESERTER
THE meeting of the Golden Masks had opened. A venomous voice was snarling
gloating words. Alpha was the speaker; his statements referred to to-night's
crime. The leader spoke facts that concerned Clifford Sulgate.
"Thanks to Member Mu," announced Alpha, "we learned that James Lengerton
held a controlling interest in Intercontinental Air Lines. Lengerton's position
in the shipping industry was such that he could not afford to let the fact be
known."
A pause. Sulgate saw eyes turn in his direction. He repressed the nervous
shudders that came over him. The tremor of his robed shoulders was scarcely
visible.
"We required contact with Lengerton," resumed Alpha. "We chose a man whose
complicity would not be suspected. He carried our message to Lengerton - and
handled it capably. Allow me to congratulate you, Member Delta."
With a golden gauntlet, Alpha indicated a robed man who stood close to
Sulgate. Member Delta gave a slight bow in acknowledgment, drew his shoulders
proudly upward. His mask formed an impressive screen in front of his actual
face. Had it been lifted, the features of Burris Froy would have been revealed.
Member Delta was the banker who had visited Lengerton with the anonymous
communications. Those had been faked for Lengerton's benefit. It was true that
no suspicion had been placed upon Member Delta.
Lengerton, in his talk with Sampler, had taken it for granted that Froy
had acted in good faith. In calling the police, Lengerton had not mentioned
Froy's name.
"We had trouble with Lengerton, however," concluded Alpha, dryly. "Those
difficulties were overcome through the power of the Golden Masks. Member Omega
will tell you how capably we handled the situation."
Omega bowed to Alpha, then addressed the throng in an insidious tone that
was the counterpart of Alpha's.
"Lengerton placed half a million dollars in his safe," stated Omega, "to
be there for our collection. Alpha and I went to the office in person,
accompanied by three of our members. We awaited Lengerton's departure. He
delayed.
"That delay was a sign that we did not like. It showed that Lengerton
lacked proper respect for our threats. We entered before the stated hour. We
found Lengerton in conference with his secretary. They had called the police -
a fact which we learned later.
"Alpha and I lost no time. We ordered our followers to give Lengerton the
proper treatment. They applied it and carried him away. We had been liberal
with Lengerton, allowing him to keep half of the proceeds from his stocks.
Since we hold him prisoner, we shall force him to disgorge the funds that he
preserved."
Gloated chuckles of approval came from the Golden Masks who stood about
Sulgate. The nervous man joined; his chortle was hollow, for his lips were dry,
were twitching inside their mask. Sulgate's fellow members did not note his
forced tone.
"As for the secretary," added Omega, "his death was necessary, for
Lengerton had confided in him. The secretary's name, so Member Delta tells us,
was Sampler. My companion, Alpha, disposed of Sampler with a single bullet."
There was a new buzz of commendation. Omega waited until all was quiet,
then added a triumphant sequel to his account.
"The police arrived to trap us," he announced. "They learned the futility
of combat with two members of the Golden Masks. We departed through their very
midst. With us, we carried Lengerton's half a million dollars as a contribution
to our cause."
THE proud statement brought restrained applause from the thronged members.
Alpha and Omega exchanged dark-eyed glances. They had agreed to create the
impression that they had handled a simple task. Wisely, they had refrained from
mention of the actual circumstances that had aided them: the presence of The
Shadow.
It was Alpha who broke the pause. He came to new business; a sort that
pleased the members with its promise of further gain.
"Through one of our members," announced Alpha, "we have learned of a man
who possesses great wealth that he can afford to lose. I shall not state the
name of the member who brought this information; nor shall I disclose the
identity of our future victim. I shall, however, appoint a member to contact
the person whose wealth we intend to gain."
While Alpha was speaking, Omega reached in the slitted pocket of his robe
and brought out a parchment scroll. He unrolled it; brought it to Alpha.
Together, the leaders studied the scroll and nodded. It was Omega who spoke.
Gazing at the throng he announced:
"As a reward to Member Mu for his past cooperation, we shall appoint him
to the duty of new contact. Member Mu, you will find your instructions on this
scroll."
Both leaders were looking straight toward Sulgate. The nervous man was
rooted where he stood by fear.
The evil leaders waited. Sulgate's legs came back to life. Swaying
slightly as he approached the platform, Sulgate steadied as he reached the
leaders. Summoning all his grit, he stared up toward the pair, reached out his
right hand and took the scroll with his golden gauntlet, then returned to his
seat.
The rest of the meeting was chaos to Sulgate. The leaders spoke of other
matters. Various members made reports. Sulgate scarcely heard a word that
passed. He managed only to thrust the scroll within his robe and maintain a
firm position on the floor.
When the meeting ended, Alpha and Omega resumed their thrones. The other
members started toward the door, leaving Sulgate resting alone and conspicuous
in the center of the floor. Suddenly realizing his position, Sulgate got up and
followed the departing members.
Sulgate was the last man to take the elevator. He sagged when he stood
alone; the car was halfway to the ground before he could summon strength enough
to divest himself of his mask and his robe.
THE outside darkness nerved Sulgate somewhat; for there was only one taxi
in the courtyard. It was the one that had brought him to the meeting. Sulgate
entered the cab; when the curtains clicked shut, he sank back upon the cushions.
During the trip, his breath sounded in long, deep gasps. Though he was
away from the meeting of the Golden Masks, Sulgate did not feel safe while
still within this vehicle that the organization owned.
The cab dropped Sulgate near Times Square. City lights gave him courage;
the glare also served as an excuse for the blinking of his eyelids, which be
could not control. Sulgate had put on his spectacles; they improved his vision
and gave him more confidence. Knowing that the taxi driver might be watching
him, Sulgate did his best to appear steady as he walked away with his suitcase.
Sulgate went directly to the taproom of a large hotel. The place was only
half filled; he chose a table near a side door and parked his hat and coat with
the suitcase, on a chair at the right of the table. The gray-haired man then
ordered a stiff drink; when he had finished it, he followed with another. Then
he got up and headed toward a phone booth.
His fingers shook badly as he dialed a number. He had to begin the process
over again. At last, Sulgate managed the connection. He seemed reassured by the
drawly voice that answered.
"Hello, Bronden..." Sulgate gulped as he spoke the name. "Yes, this is Mr.
Sulgate... Bronden, I - I can stand it no longer!... To-night is the time for
the break. I shall join you within the next hour...
"No, no!" Sulgate's tone was excited. "Not at home! I would not dare come
there, Bronden... Yes, you must leave at once. Be sure that no one knows that
you have left; that no one follows you... Yes, meet me at the apartment... You
say that everything is ready there? Good!..."
COMING from the telephone booth, Sulgate mopped his forehead with a
handkerchief. He returned to his table; a waiter approached and Sulgate ordered
another drink. Nervously, he polished his glasses, put them back on his nose and
looked about as if testing them. It was an excuse to see if any newcomers had
entered. Sulgate saw none.
When the waiter returned, Sulgate asked for the check and paid it. He
gulped part of his drink, but did not finish it. Just as some people walked in
from the front door, Sulgate picked up his overcoat and suitcase. He planked
his Derby hat on his head and made a rapid departure by the side door.
A taxi was pulling up to the curb, to discharge passengers at the hotel.
It was just the sort of vehicle that Sulgate wanted; for he knew that it could
not have been posted here by the Golden Masks.
Sulgate boarded the cab, gave the driver a fictitious address. His plan
was to change his destination later, then transfer to another cab in order to
reach the apartment that he had mentioned in his conversation with Bronden.
Clifford Sulgate was in flight from the Golden Masks. Depending upon
Bronden, a servant long in his confidence, he was bound for a hide-out where he
felt sure no one could locate him.
Like other lesser members of the Golden Masks, Sulgate had not heard the
full tale of the episodes that had involved the leaders. Therefore, the
deserter knew nothing of The Shadow's entry into the game. Had he heard of how
The Shadow had arrived to trap the leaders of the Golden Masks, Sulgate might
have lost much of his confidence.
The Shadow had located James Lengerton, whom the Golden Masks had
threatened. Similarly, The Shadow, wide in knowledge and versed in deduction,
might uncover Clifford Sulgate in the hide-out that the deserter had chosen.
CHAPTER VI
WHERE THE LAW HALTED
EVENTS of the next two days brought startling developments in the case of
James Lengerton. The Golden Masks, through their use of violence, had forced a
police investigation. Lengerton had disappeared; it seemed a certainty that he
had been carried away a prisoner. Sampler's murder strongly supported that
opinion.
There was a natural consequence. The proxies who had unloaded Lengerton's
holdings in Intercontinental Air Lines began to talk.
One rumor had it that Lengerton's associates in the shipping business had
learned that he was planning to jump to the field of air transportation, that
to block him, they had hired strong-arm men to make him change his mind.
Foreseeing trouble, Lengerton had unloaded his air holdings; but he had been
too late.
The other rumor was that big promoters in the field of aviation had
resented Lengerton's effort to snatch a large plum from their basket; and that
they - not the shipping men - were responsible for the trouble that had
occurred.
There was one man, however, who stoutly insisted that these rumors were
the bunk. That man was Inspector Joe Cardona. He was playing a hunch; and he
based it on certain evidence which he had discovered in Lengerton's desk. This
evidence consisted of the clippings that concerned other cases similar to
Lengerton's. Cardona believed that those clippings had been sent to Lengerton
as a warning. Government men and private investigators did not share Cardona's
opinion.
They considered the clippings as evidence of doubtful value. All related
to cases wherein there was no proof of crime; some had even been investigated
and cleared of any crooked connection. All investigators, except Cardona,
fluctuated between two opinions: first, that Lengerton had gathered the
clippings himself, because of some mental quirk; second, that the clippings had
been planted deliberately by the masked men who had seized Lengerton, as a
device to throw the law from the true trail.
Joe Cardona would have been pleased had he known that there was one
investigator who shared his opinion that the clippings were important;
particularly if he had been told that the investigator was The Shadow. Where
Cardona followed a hunch, The Shadow used a process of deduction.
The Shadow recognized that if Lengerton had been fearful, he would have
called the police sooner. He saw also that if the Golden Masks had chosen to
plant a false trail, they would have gone to greater measures. By this process,
The Shadow eliminated the other theories and accepted the one that Cardona held.
Although he had gained no details of such an organization as the Golden
Masks, The Shadow could picture such a society. Accepting the newspaper
clippings as evidence of their past activities, The Shadow knew immediately
that the members of the evil band were surely headed by supercriminals,
powerful and methodical. They had covered past crimes to perfection. Lengerton
had been their first slip.
There was a new bit of news that interested both Joe Cardona and The
Shadow. That concerned Clifford Sulgate, whose quiet disappearance caused some
comment, the day after James Lengerton was carried away by the Golden Masks.
Sulgate was a business promoter who had Wall Street connections. He also owned
a considerable amount of real estate.
When he suddenly slipped from sight, Sulgate left a few business matters
unattended. Those caused his disappearance to be reported. Joe Cardona was
assigned to the case; the inspector held a long conference with the police
commissioner. The result of that huddle was divulged by Cardona himself.
IT was eight o'clock in the evening, precisely forty-eight hours after the
fray at Lengerton's, when Joe Cardona stalked into his office at headquarters.
Stocky of build and brisk in action, Cardona nearly cracked his swivel-chair
when he sat down heavily in back of his old desk.
A satisfied smile showed on Cardona's swarthy face. It was noted by a
stolid man who had awaited his arrival. Joe's present companion was Detective
Sergeant Markham, the inspector's one confidant.
"How'd you make out, Joe?" questioned Markham. "Did the commissioner take
to your theory on Sulgate?"
Joe nodded.
"The commissioner agrees with me," announced the inspector, gruffly. "He
thinks I've found a link."
A streak of black slid across Cardona's desk. Joe looked up to see a
dull-faced man clad in overalls. The fellow had entered the office with mop and
bucket. He was Fritz, the janitor; he had overheard Cardona's statement and was
staring stupidly, moving his pasty lips, as if trying to make sense out of
Cardona's words. Cardona and Markham paid no further attention to the fellow;
Fritz was dumb and harmless to them.
"A dozen guys have told us that they unloaded stock for Lengerton,"
declared Cardona, to Markham. "As near as we can figure it, Lengerton took in a
million dollars in cash, through those proxy sales. He only banked half of it."
"What became of the rest?" queried Markham. "Was it grabbed along with
him?"
"We don't know," returned Cardona. "There's two things we've got to find
out. First, why did Lengerton unload in such a hurry? Second, what did he do
with one half of his dough?"
"Somebody ought to be able to answer one question or the other."
"Sure." Cardona nodded emphatically. "But maybe that somebody wouldn't
want to be asked. That's where Sulgate comes into the picture."
CARDONA opened a briefcase that he had brought with him. From it, he
produced report sheets and some heavier, folded papers. It was plain that he
had used every source to gain data that concerned Clifford Sulgate.
"Sulgate knew Lengerton," declared Cardona. "They weren't much more than
acquaintances; but they had a lot of friends in common. In the Wall Street
bunch, particularly. There's a chance that one of Lengerton's proxies let
something slip about that air-line stock. It may have reached Sulgate."
Markham nodded steadily as he heard Cardona's comment. Continuing with his
assumption, Cardona took up various theories.
"When I talked with the commissioner," said the inspector, "we agreed that
maybe Sulgate was the bird who threatened Lengerton. That seemed like a long
guess, though; too much like the stuff that the news hawks are shouting. A
better hunch, maybe, is that Sulgate was close to Lengerton. Maybe Lengerton
slipped him that missing dough, to try and buy back some of the stock. It might
have taken a nose-dive on the market, with so much of it being unloaded.
"Or maybe Sulgate has some cute business of his own; he may be in a jam
like Lengerton was. Whatever the answer, he's ducked out of sight. He lived out
on Long Island; we've made a thorough check-up there. We haven't landed a trace
of him."
Once again, Cardona had taken up the trail that The Shadow had also
followed. In some details, The Shadow had worked more thoroughly than the law,
in this search for Clifford Sulgate. But Cardona was coming to a point that had
as yet escaped The Shadow. It was something that Cardona had chanced upon by
luck, through one of the many men whom he had sent out to gain information.
"Look at this," announced Cardona, opening one of the folded papers, to
display a huge chart that was printed in several colors. "This is what made the
commissioner sit up and take notice."
"Looks like a map," interjected Markham. "A big one, too; but it only
shows a couple of city blocks."
"It's a fire insurance map," explained Cardona. "A new one, too. It shows
who owns the buildings. Look at this block, Markham; it's made up of old
apartment houses. Look who owns them."
"Clifford Sulgate!"
"That's right. He bought up every apartment house in that block, except
one. He did it through a little realty company that he owns. The commissioner
got a phone call from a cousin of Sulgate's who was going out of town; he said
he had some of Sulgate's papers in the house. We sent a man up there; he came
across the deeds to these properties."
"Then that shows that Sulgate was doing some buying on the side like
Lengerton. Only he was grabbing properties instead of stock."
Cardona shook his head.
"These old apartment houses aren't important enough to count," declared
Joe. "Sulgate didn't exactly cover the fact that he owned them. He just sort of
tucked the business into a pigeonhole. It gave me a swell hunch, though; but it
didn't work out."
Tapping each of Sulgate's properties that were indicated on the map,
Cardona added:
"I figured that maybe Sulgate had picked one of his own apartments for a
hide-out. The commissioner liked the idea; he sent a whole squad up there to
check on every apartment. The hunch was a fliv. They accounted for everybody in
every apartment. Sulgate wasn't living there."
Fritz had approached the desk to stare at the colored printing. Cardona
grinned as he saw the janitor study the map in puzzled fashion. With a gesture
to Markham, Cardona arose; both headed toward the door.
IT was after their footsteps had faded from the corridor that Fritz showed
an amazing change of expression.
The janitor's dull eyes lighted; his pasty lips pursed, to form a slight
smile. From those lips came the whisper of a strange, knowing laugh; a dim echo
of a strident tone that told the janitor's actual identity.
Fritz was The Shadow.
Stalled in his search of Clifford Sulgate, The Shadow had adopted this
disguise in order to visit headquarters. He had wanted to learn, at first hand,
if Joe Cardona had gained any important information on the subject of Sulgate.
The law had acquired such data; but it had halted at the point indicated by
Cardona.
Since a search of the apartment houses owned by Clifford Sulgate had
failed to reveal traces of the missing man, Cardona had decided to press this
clue no further. But The Shadow, as he viewed the large map on the desk, began
new deductions from the place where the law had halted.
In analyzing Sulgate's circumstance, The Shadow had picked the actual part
that the man played. The only way that the Golden Masks could have handled such
big blackmail jobs as the plucking of James Lengerton was through the
cooperative efforts of men whose own status held them above suspicion.
Clifford Sulgate could have known enough to be the betrayer of James
Lengerton. Since the deal had gone through, there was little reason to suppose
that crooks had turned upon the man who had aided their game.
Sulgate's disappearance indicated that he had become faint-hearted. His
nerve gone, Sulgate had decided to dodge the Golden Masks. But his hide-out
would have to be a clever one in order to escape both the police and the Golden
Masks.
On the very map that Joe Cardona had studied in vain, The Shadow saw the
one spot that a wise schemer could well have chosen. It lay in the block with
Sulgate's apartment houses. The Shadow rested his finger upon the one apartment
house that Sulgate did not own.
Where else could be a better place?
Cardona's searchers had ignored it. After combing the apartment houses all
about it, they had given up the hunt. Sulgate, in all probability, had counted
upon the Golden Masks to do the same as the law.
Moving quickly, The Shadow stepped outside. Reaching an obscure locker, he
donned his garments of black and let the overalls of Fritz slip to the floor.
The Shadow was now on his way to the old apartment house that Clifford Sulgate
could have chosen for a hide-out.
CHAPTER VII
THE FUGITIVE'S STORY
THE block indicated on Cardona's map lay east of Fifth Avenue. The
apartment buildings in that area formed an assorted lot. They varied from four
to six stories in height; all had been built during the days when automatic
elevators first came into vogue.
The one building that was listed under another ownership stood half a
story higher than the apartment houses on either side of it. Its floors were a
trifle squattier; hence the extra height included six stories instead of five.
That fact was scarcely noticeable from the street. Persons entering the
building weren't perplexed when they found that the automatic elevator went up
five floors only.
The apartments in this building were good ones; yet prospective tenants
never were shown the best that the place had to offer. The largest and most
ample apartment in the building was located on the unsuspected sixth floor. It
was reached in a most peculiar manner; by ladder through the top of the
elevator, when the car was halted at the fifth floor.
THE secret apartment was at present occupied. Two men were seated in a
plain, well-furnished living room, where blinds were drawn. One was Clifford
Sulgate; the bespectacled man was less nervous than usual. That was partly due
to the calmness of the man with him; a stocky, square-faced fellow who was
patient of expression. Sulgate's companion was his faithful servant, Bronden.
"I feel safe here, Bronden," announced Sulgate, in a confident tone. "We
have provisions enough to last us for two months. In case of an emergency, we
have the telephone" - he gestured toward the instrument, which stood on a handy
table - "and its number is unlisted."
Bronden nodded methodically. He stroked a squatty hand through his
short-clipped hair and settled back in his chair.
"To-day brought me an enjoyable experience," clucked Sulgate. "Watching
the police from this front window, while they searched every house but this
one. Even if they had come here, they would not have discovered this apartment."
Another matter-of-fact nod from Bronden. The servant was used to hearing
his master discuss this subject. Bronden seemed indifferent to any thoughts of
danger. Sulgate noted the servant's attitude and became emphatic.
"The Golden Masks are shrewder than the police," he insisted. "We must
never discount that fact, Bronden. I have told you enough about the
organization for you to recognize its power. You will recall how I insisted
upon the utmost secrecy in the preparation of this apartment. There must be no
slips."
"I followed every instruction, Mr. Sulgate," responded Bronden, blandly.
"There will be no slips, sir. You can depend upon me. But I advise you, Mr.
Sulgate, to make no error of your own."
Nervously, Sulgate began to wring his hands. Thought of the future made
him jittery. He turned to Bronden with a look of appeal.
"I've got to steady myself," asserted Sulgate. "It's this waiting that
makes me shaky. I shall feel more settled after the deadline has passed.
To-morrow night is the limit."
Steadying, Sulgate motioned toward the rear door of the room. "Make me
some coffee, Bronden," he ordered. "Black coffee, good and hot. It will steady
my nerves."
BRONDEN arose and went through the doorway, closing the door behind him.
Sulgate sat clutching the arms of his chair; restless, he came to his feet and
began to pace the room. He paused suddenly, conscious of a slight draught. He
eyed the window shades suspiciously, then resumed his pacing.
There was one thing that Sulgate had not noticed. One side of a window
shade had inched toward the center; its space no more than an eye's width. In
fact, as Sulgate turned away, an eye gleamed from that very gap. Like a
detached creature, a gloved hand crept through the space and grasped the window
sill. It moved along the bottom of the shade, waited there while Sulgate turned
about.
The nervous man did not observe the halted hand. He turned away again; the
black fingers slowly lifted the shade. There was no crinkle as the blind came
up; nor was anything visible beyond, except blackness. From that inkiness,
however, came a motion; as if a huge fragment of the night were taking living
shape. Blackness swung inward, over the sill; as the shade eased down behind
it, a tall form was revealed. Burning eyes bored straight toward Sulgate.
Turning about as he reached the door, Sulgate looked straight toward the
window. Horror froze the nervous twitching of his lips, caused his eyelids to
stop their blinking as if riveted in their open position. The gasp that Sulgate
delivered was spontaneous. His hands, as they clamped to his breast, acted of
their own, then stilled. For long, tense seconds, Sulgate stared. Slowly,
recognition dawned.
Clifford Sulgate had heard of The Shadow, even though the Golden Masks had
not mentioned the part that the black-clad avenger had played in the fracas at
Lengerton's. Sulgate knew that The Shadow was a crime-hunter. The fact that The
Shadow was here stood as proof that he had delved into the ways of the Golden
Masks.
Sulgate was sure that The Shadow knew all. Desperately, the hunted man
sought for some way to avoid The Shadow's wrath. His jittery brain grasped the
only answer. He must tell The Shadow the full truth.
As Sulgate tried to find words, The Shadow spoke in a sinister whisper.
His words added impetus to Sulgate's decision.
"Speak," ordained The Shadow. "State all facts concerning the organization
which you no longer serve."
Sulgate replied, in quavering tone.
"I served the Golden Masks," he told The Shadow. "There are - I mean there
were - at least twenty of us. All sworn to secrecy. Only Alpha and Omega, the
leaders, knew the identity of the others. We all had similar names; I was known
as Mu."
The Shadow's silence signified that Sulgate should continue.
"All members were gained by secret approach," resumed Sulgate, his lips
twitching as he spoke. "I received letters; telephone calls - from whom I do
not know - and though they were vague, they promised wealth. After I was
initiated to the Golden Masks, I learned that different members gave
information that led to helpless victims. I supplied the facts concerning James
Lengerton. I do not know who approached him."
Sulgate's tone was quavering, but sincere. As the deserter paused again,
The Shadow prompted him, with a statement that came as a command rather than a
question:
"Your meeting place -"
"I do not know its location," gasped Sulgate. "We were taken there
secretly. There were two countersigns: Ashanti and Kumasi. The masks that we
wore were brought from the Gold Coast in Africa."
This information told much to The Shadow. He was acquainted with the
African Gold Coast, a district peopled by a tribe called the Ashanti. Their
capital was Kumasi; gold was plentiful in that land. In fact, the Ashanti were
famous for their handicraft with the precious metal. The Shadow had seen thin
masks of beaten gold, fashioned by those natives.
"I feared the Golden Masks," gulped Sulgate. "I remained a member only
through dread. Knowing that matters would reach a crisis, I secretly prepared
this apartment as a hiding place. One man aided me - one whom I could fully
trust. He was my servant, Bronden, who is here with me."
His statement ended, Sulgate felt a surge of new fear. He had admitted his
complicity in the case of James Lengerton. He sought to make amends.
"I couldn't get out soon enough," pleaded the nervous man. "I had to
supply some information to avoid suspicion. I don't know what happened to
Lengerton. But I did desert the Golden Masks in time to avoid an ugly duty."
REACHING to a table, Sulgate managed to wrench open the drawer. He pulled
out the rolled scroll that the Golden Masks had given him; he uncoiled it and
thrust it before The Shadow's eyes.
"Look!" begged Sulgate. "Before to-morrow night, I am supposed to visit a
man named Roger Barfield, at the Hotel Romera. I am to advise him to buy
certain stocks for half a million dollars, securities that have already been
offered to him. Those stocks are worthless; if Barfield buys, the whole half a
million will be acquired by the Golden Masks."
"Should Barfield refuse -"
Again, The Shadow's words came like a command for Sulgate to proceed. The
deserter supplied the answer, by pointing to a paragraph on the scroll. The
Shadow had not deigned to read it; he had kept his eyes full upon Sulgate.
"The instructions are here," faltered Sulgate. "I am to prepare
threatening letters; anonymous ones mentioning a plantation in Dutch Guiana.
Barfield, I suppose, will understand; just as Lengerton did about the aviation
stock."
Sulgate's hands were shaking. The Shadow took the scroll; rolled, it and
placed it beneath his cloak. He had found a new and important mission - one
that could lead him directly to the Golden Masks. The sooner his move the
better.
The pressure upon Roger Barfield was different than that which had been
applied to James Lengerton. In this new case, Barfield was to be swindled
through a forced purchase. Since stocks had already been offered him, they must
have been handled by some other member of the Golden Masks. Through conference
with Barfield, The Shadow could gain the name of another member of the band -
one who was not a deserter, like Sulgate.
By moving quickly on this trail, The Shadow might be able to push
operations against the Golden Masks before to-morrow night. He could stir up
trouble for them - enough to make the organization worry about matters more
serious than the punishment of Clifford Sulgate for his desertion.
In fact, by quick moves, The Shadow would have a chance to render
Sulgate's position quite secure. The leaders of the Golden Masks might believe
that The Shadow had captured Sulgate; hence they would consider Sulgate a
prisoner rather than a deserter. It was obvious that no search had yet begun
for Sulgate; furthermore, the man had assured The Shadow of Bronden's fidelity.
Keen to visualize the trail ahead, The Shadow chose departure as the immediate
course.
Without a word to Sulgate, The Shadow turned about and glided toward the
window. He swung outward into darkness; his shape was blotted as Sulgate
stared. The blind came downward, followed by the click of the clamp as the
window was closed.
Sulgate stared after The Shadow in amazement, then looked toward the table
drawer for proof that his senses had not tricked him. He froze in his tracks; he
still seemed to hear that eerie whisper that no imagination could have produced.
Sulgate realized fully that his experience had been a real one. The
closing of the window was proof that The Shadow wanted the whole episode kept
silent. Sulgate resolved that he would not even speak to Bronden regarding the
strange occurrence.
CLOSING the table drawer, Sulgate went back to his chair and sat down, his
nervousness apparently ended after The Shadow's strange visit. The rear door of
the room opened. Expecting Bronden with the coffee, Sulgate turned around. He
faked a twitching movement of his lips as he swung about to face the servant.
The twitching became real. Gasping wildly, Sulgate came up from his chair.
Bronden had entered; but the servant was not bringing coffee. Instead, he
carried a leveled revolver; his usually sober face was wearing an ugly leer.
His head craned forward, Bronden came closer and closer. Sulgate raised his
quivering hands, tried to back away.
He staggered against the chair, shifted forward, to regain his balance,
just as Bronden arrived.
The servant jabbed the revolver muzzle against Sulgate's heart and pressed
the trigger before his master could twist away. The report was muffled;
Sulgate's gargled cry was but a trifle louder. As Bronden stepped back, Sulgate
staggered sidewise, twisted about and spread-eagled on the floor. He gave a
long, convulsive quiver; then stretched dead.
Bronden pocketed his smoking gun.
With a contemptuous snarl, he stepped to the wall, plucked away a large
picture and pulled down a microphone with its wires. That done, the
square-jawed man went to the telephone and dialed a number. He recognized an
easy voice at the other end of the line.
Bronden spoke a single word:
"Ashanti."
Across the wire came the answer:
"Kumasi."
"This is Gamma," announced Bronden. "I have important news, Omega. The
Shadow was here."
A sharp question followed; Bronden replied:
"Yes. He talked to Mu. I heard it over the dictaphone. I eliminated Mu
after The Shadow left. The Shadow is on his way to the Hotel Romera."
There was a pleased chuckle from the telephone receiver. It brought an
evil leer to Bronden's countenance. Bronden hung up, stared gloatingly at
Sulgate's body, as he planned for its removal.
Bronden, previously a member of the Golden Masks, had tipped the leaders
off to Sulgate's plans. They had let the deserter proceed under Bronden's
watchful eye, giving him the full time limit. The Shadow's visit had meant
death for Sulgate. Lone-handed, Bronden had not dared to act until after The
Shadow's departure.
The Shadow had set forth to deal with the Golden Masks. Posted by Bronden,
the members of that insidious band would be prepared for him. The Shadow was due
for danger that he had not yet divined.
CHAPTER VIII
THE SHADOW'S ROUTE
SWIFTNESS was The Shadow's forte. To-night, it had begun to serve him ill.
He had reached the roof, gone to another building and descended so promptly,
that he was out of hearing range when Bronden fired the bullet that ended the
career of Clifford Sulgate.
Near the apartment house where Sulgate had died, The Shadow boarded a
waiting cab. Its driver was one of The Shadow's own agents, Moe Shrevnitz, the
speediest hackie in New York. The cab headed for the Hotel Romera, stopped only
once, while The Shadow entered a drug store to make a telephone call.
On this brief mission, The Shadow presented an appearance quite different
from the guise in which Sulgate had seen him.
That visage was the one best suited for The Shadow's coming quest. It was
the countenance of a man named Lamont Cranston, a globe-trotting millionaire,
for whom The Shadow frequently doubled. The role of Cranston was the proper one
to impress Roger Barfield, whom Sulgate had mentioned as a traveler and man of
wealth.
Riding in the cab again, The Shadow reached the Hotel Romera, which was a
secluded but fashionable establishment. Peering from the window of the cab, The
Shadow saw a hunch-shouldered man slide way into a gloomy spot. That sight did
not disturb him. The man was his own watcher, a clever spotter named "Hawkeye."
Through the telephone call to his contact man, Burbank, The Shadow had arranged
for Hawkeye to be on the job. The Shadow wanted news of any events outside the
hotel while he interviewed Roger Barfield.
When he gave his name at the desk, The Shadow had only a short wait. The
news of a visitor was telephoned up to Barfield, who must have recognized the
name of Lamont Cranston. Soon, The Shadow rode up to the tenth floor in an
elevator. He eyed the operator, decided that the man was an ordinary employee.
Similarly, The Shadow looked over the tenth-floor corridor, en route to
Barfield's suite. He saw no signs of watchers.
KNOCKING at Barfield's door, The Shadow was promptly admitted, by the man
whom he had come to see. Roger Barfield was an eager-faced man of middle age,
thin-nosed and wide-mouthed, with eyes that carried a friendly sparkle. He was
partly bald; what hair he had was rumpled. That, and the hunch of his smoking
jacket, indicated that he had been drowsing when he received the call from the
desk.
"Glad to see you, Mr. Cranston," welcomed Barfield, in a booming tone. He
shook hands, closed the door and conducted The Shadow into the small living
room of the suite. "I have heard of you often, as a globe-trotter like myself.
I am pleased that our paths have crossed."
As The Shadow took a chair, Barfield tendered a box of expensive cigars,
and raised thin eyebrows, as if inquiring why he had been honored with a visit.
The Shadow's thin lips formed a smile.
"I have called to ask you a rather important question," stated The Shadow,
in a leisurely tone that was Cranston's. "Recently, I was offered some
securities of doubtful value by a man who talked across the telephone. He did
not give his name; but he stated that he was conducting a transaction with you."
Barfield pursed his lips and nodded. He inquired, dryly:
"What stock did the chap offer?"
"He spoke of several," replied The Shadow. "Metropolis Oil and Century
Motors were two of them. I find that both are bad."
"What kind of a voice did the fellow have?"
The Shadow shook his head.
"That is hard to tell," he replied. "I merely talked with him across the
telephone."
"Was it rather sharp?" queried Barfield. "Like this? Abrupt?
Short-clipped?"
He gave a good representation of an odd, thin voice. The Shadow nodded,
slowly.
"That's the bounder," chuckled Barfield, in his own, deep tone. "He wanted
me to buy shares in some Mexican mines that I happened to know about. They've
been forgotten for the past thirty years; so has the fact that they were salted
the last time that they were sold."
"Did the chap state his name?"
"Not at first. He sent me a letter, afterward. Oddly, he seems to be a man
of some importance; not a stock promoter at all. Wait until I show you the
letter, Mr. Cranston."
BARFIELD rummaged about the room, finally found the letter and gave it to
The Shadow. The letterhead bore the name of Sidney Tallam, with the address 685
Marview Place. There was little to learn from the letter itself; it simply
reminded Barfield that the offer was still open.
"That's his home address," announced Barfield, opening a telephone book.
"There is also a Tallam Manufacturing Co. listed in the directory. I have
learned that Sidney Tallam controls that business; its product is automobile
accessories. Apparently, Tallam is a wealthy man."
Closing the telephone book, Barfield puffed at his cigar, then shook his
baldish head.
"All I can guess," he announced, "is that Sidney Tallam has been stuck
with an over supply of bad securities and wants to pass them along. After all,
that is his privilege, if any dupe is foolish enough to buy."
"Perhaps," agreed The Shadow, "but certain forms of persuasion should be
taboo."
"What do you mean?"
"I had another telephone call," replied The Shadow. "It was also
anonymous. I was advised to purchase the stocks mentioned. I was told that
refusing such an action might give me worry about certain events that had
occurred in the past."
The Shadow's statements had been a probe; they were becoming more direct
as he learned facts from Barfield. The words took immediate effect. Barfield
glanced sharply toward his visitor, then chewed hard on the end of his cigar.
"I was afraid of something like this," he said, slowly. "Do I understand
you correctly, Mr. Cranston, when I think that you mean this game is blackmail?"
"You do," replied The Shadow. "I have had previous experience of this
sort. I felt that when your name was mentioned to me, the purpose was double. I
have been to Dutch Guiana, Mr. Barfield."
Barfield stared steadily for a moment; then his face registered
consternation. He tried to restrain himself; at last, nervous eagerness
overwhelmed him.
"I see," he nodded. "You would know that I might be blackmailed on account
of my experience in Dutch Guiana. That would make you think that you would be
due for the same dose, because of some similar episode in your own past."
The Shadow chanced a new remark; he phrased it in a subtle fashion, his
tone leisurely but filled with reassurance.
"Of course," remarked The Shadow, "I never owned a plantation in Dutch
Guiana, but -"
He stopped. Barfield's face had taken on alarm. The baldish man was shaky.
He sank to a chair, dropped his cigar to the floor. Leaning forward, Barfield
gripped his baldish head with both hands. "Yes, you have struck it, Mr.
Cranston!" He looked up suddenly, his eyes wild. "I've done my best to keep
that matter hushed! Tell me" - Barfield strained forward - "what do you know
about it?"
"Not a great deal. Enough to feel sympathetic toward you."
BARFIELD looked relieved. He sagged back in his chair, thought for a
moment, then spoke in frank tone.
"I bought that plantation in good faith," he affirmed. "It was the
treacherous overseer who misruled the men. He instituted what was practically
slave labor; he left the country when I found it out. I wrote some letters,
asking for advice. Later, I learned that I and members of my family could be
held culpable. The offense would be a penal one.
"My brother, my nephew are still at the plantation. If my old letters were
turned over to the Dutch authorities, both of them would be sentenced to prison.
My property would be seized; I would be ruined. I own lands in Sumatra, Java,
other Dutch colonies as well as Guiana. Yes, it would be worth a half a million
dollars to hush. That is the amount that Tallam wants for the Mexican stock."
Barfield again buried his head in his hands. The Shadow watched him
quietly, then asked:
"Had you thought of blackmail until I mentioned it?"
"No." Barfield looked up as he spoke. Trembling, he reached for a fresh
cigar. "But your opinion, Mr. Cranston, is sufficient to warn me. I am in a bad
mess. I hope that you are not so unfortunate?"
"My position is secure," announced The Shadow. "Therefore, I should be
able to help you, Mr. Barfield. Suppose I induce Tallam to concentrate upon me?
I may be able to learn more of the game."
"That might save me," agreed Barfield, eagerly. "Yes, your exposure of the
swindle would certainly end the operations of these rogues, if they are such.
But wouldn't Tallam be surprised, if you came to see him? You say that he did
not mention his name over the telephone."
"He named you. I can tell him that I dropped in to see you. That you gave
me his name. In fact, I think that I shall call upon Mr. Tallam this evening."
Noting the address on the letter, The Shadow returned it to Barfield. The
baldish man came to his feet, stammering his thanks. The Shadow halted him with
a quiet smile, clapped Barfield on the shoulder. They walked to the door
together; there, Barfield shook hands warmly.
DESCENDING in the elevator, The Shadow showed a slight smile. Everything
that Barfield had said fitted with the instructions given to Clifford Sulgate.
In his talk with Barfield, The Shadow had drawn the man out; everything fitted
perfectly to show this game as another crime attempt by the Golden Masks.
One point, however, impressed The Shadow. The Golden Masks, in all their
past activities, had been careful not to leave a trail. It was not likely that
they would appoint one of their number to the actual task of unloading bad
securities. Though The Shadow did not know the identity of Burns Froy, he was
positive that whoever had visited James Lengerton had done so in a friendly
fashion, claiming to be under threat; in as bad a boat as the victim.
This looked like a cunning reversal of the system. The Shadow pictured
Sidney Tallam as a dupe. His assumption was that the Golden Masks had forced
Tallam to buy bad stocks under threat; succeeding in that, they had told him to
unload his worthless holdings on Barfield and turn the new proceeds back to them.
Perhaps they would do the same with Barfield later, using him as a means
to shove the same stock on another hopeless victim.
The Shadow had completed these quick deductions when he stepped aboard his
cab. He left Hawkeye on duty, to watch Roger Barfield; for The Shadow expected
that soon some one might visit Barfield from the Golden Masks. The leaders
would have to appoint a substitute in place of Clifford Sulgate.
Seeing new possibilities in Sidney Tallam, The Shadow believed that the
retired manufacturer would merely be a link back along a chain of dupes.
Therefore, he regarded his coming visit as one that might not bring great
results. Keenly intent upon his new conclusions, uninformed of the fact that
Clifford Sulgate had been overheard and murdered by Bronden, The Shadow had
carried his previous deductions farther and farther from the proper course.
THE proof of this was demonstrated by Roger Barfield, soon after The
Shadow left him. Seated in the living room of his hotel suite, the baldish man
was listening intently for any sounds outside his door. Satisfied that there
were none, Barfield displayed a wide smile on his thin-nosed face.
He placed his finger on the opened page of the telephone book, noted
Sidney Tallam's number. He picked up the telephone, called the number. A crisp
voice gave an abrupt hello. Close to the telephone's mouthpiece, Barfield
uttered the word:
"Ashanti."
Tallam's voice responded:
"Kumasi."
"This is Omega," undertoned Barfield. "I have good news, Alpha. The Shadow
arrived here sooner than I expected; so I have sent him along to you. He calls
himself Lamont Cranston. Be prepared to receive him."
Cackled acknowledgment came from the receiver as Roger Barfield hung it on
the hook. Confident that his fellow chieftain of the Golden Masks would
overpower The Shadow, Roger Barfield leaned back in his chair and twisted his
wide lips into an insidious leer of triumph.
CHAPTER IX
WHERE BULLETS FAILED
THOUGH The Shadow's deductions had caused him to overlook an existing
menace, he did not neglect precautions in his coming mission. The Shadow
regarded Roger Barfield as a future victim of the Golden Masks; he was inclined
to class Sidney Tallam as a past dupe. The fact that there had been no spies
watching Barfield at the Hotel Romera did not lull The Shadow into the belief
that there would be none at Tallam's residence.
Just as he had put Hawkeye on watch at the Hotel Romera, so did The Shadow
decide to cover Tallam's home. He made another stop, put in a call to Burbank.
The Shadow ordered Harry Vincent on duty, to cover Tallam's. In choosing
Vincent, The Shadow had picked the most experienced agent who served him.
There was one important point, however, that The Shadow did not overlook.
Harry Vincent, though competent, did not possess Hawkeye's ability at slipping
out of sight. To watch Tallam's house, Harry would need a suitable hiding
place. Therefore, The Shadow gave instructions for Harry to contact Moe
Shrevnitz and use the latter's cab as a lookout post.
The cab reached Marview Place. Swinging a corner, it passed the front of a
tall, pretentious apartment house, where several taxicabs were lined up at a
hack stand. The Shadow whispered an order to Moe; the driver nodded. He was to
park in back of the other cabs, to await Harry Vincent. Moe might be able to
remain in that line for an hour or more without attracting attention.
Number 685 was farther on than the apartment house; and across the street
from it. Sidney Tallam's home was a huge, old-fashioned house with brownstone
front, that had once been the most impressive building in this neighborhood. It
fronted on the swanky street known as Marview Place.
Moe stopped his cab just past the entrance of the apartment house. The
Shadow stepped to the sidewalk; he was still attired as Cranston, but his move
was not conspicuous. With him, The Shadow was carrying the bag in which he had
placed his cloak and hat. His automatics were in special pockets under the coat
of his business suit. The Shadow waited until Moe had turned the next corner.
Then he strode across the street, slackened his gait and strolled past a
lighted patch in front of Tallam's.
The Shadow's stroll enabled The Shadow to note the house more closely. He
saw that it stretched deep back from the street. He noticed that there were
passages between it and the houses on each side. One of these, at least, must
lead to a side door in Tallam's house.
THE SHADOW ascended the brownstone steps and rang the door bell. He waited
half a minute; when the door opened, The Shadow was faced by a huge African
servant, who was more than six feet tall. Though the servant was garbed in
American attire, The Shadow recognized immediately that the fellow must be a
native-born African. His appearance tallied with statements made by Clifford
Sulgate. The Shadow identified this servant as a member of the Ashanti tribe.
As The Shadow stepped through the doorway, the servant spoke in slow
English; he inquired the visitor's name. The Shadow produced a card that bore
the name of Lamont Cranston; on it, he wrote that he represented Roger
Barfield. He requested the servant to take the card to Mr. Tallam. The Ashanti
ascended a broad stairway, leaving The Shadow in a sumptuous lower hall.
The presence of the Ashanti servant merely served to strengthen The
Shadow's recent deductions. Considering Sidney Tallam to be a dupe of the
Golden Masks, it seemed logical that the organization would have men posted in
Tallam's own home, particularly if they had already swindled him and had to
keep him silent. This African servant would be the best sort of watcher that
the Golden Masks could use.
While he waited, The Shadow momentarily compared Tallam's situation with
that of Sulgate; for he had not entirely rejected the possibility that Tallam
might be a lesser member of the Golden Masks. The fact that Sulgate had a
servant like Bronden; and had presumably had no Ashanti in his employ, was
sufficient to curb The Shadow's temporary suspicion.
Sulgate had been so emphatic regarding Bronden's supposed loyalty, that
The Shadow had taken the deserter at his word. Lacking suspicion of Bronden,
The Shadow had not gained the inkling that he needed.
The big Ashanti returned to the ground floor. Stolidly, he ushered The
Shadow upstairs, conducted him to a room at the side of the house. Entering,
The Shadow found Sidney Tallam; he also viewed one of the most curious rooms
that he had ever seen.
TALLAM was a stoop-shouldered man attired in a gray suit that exactly
matched the color of his thin hair. His face was sharp and pointed, its skin
smooth and dryish. Tallam's eyes were dark; they had a keen glint. His lips
were thin; they held a pursed smile. The hand that Tallam extended was scrawny;
but its grip was firm.
As for the room, it looked like a combination living room and library. Its
center portion was square-shaped; but small. The reason was that the room
possessed three deep alcoves, each a trifle higher than the regular floor.
One of these alcoves was at the far side of the room. In its center was a
desk; at the back were windows. On each side, the alcove had shelves of books
that towered to the high ceiling. There was a similar alcove at the front of
the room; it had bookshelves and windows; but no desk.
The alcove at the rear of the room had no windows, for it backed against
an inner wall of the house. The rear of the third alcove was composed of
bookcases; in its center was a chair and a table that supported a large
dictionary. This alcove also boasted a huge globe of the world. Almost a room
in itself, the alcove was the library; the bookcases in the other niches simply
held extra volumes.
Sidney Tallam waved The Shadow to a large armchair in the center of the
room. Taking a chair close by, Tallam looked quickly at the briefcase that The
Shadow had brought. Tallam's manner indicated that he expected his visitor to
discuss some business, that the briefcase contained documents that would be
produced during conference.
"I expected to hear from Mr. Barfield," announced Tallam, in a crisp tone.
"I wanted to see him in person. I mentioned that fact by telephone. Why have you
come instead, Mr. Cranston? Is Mr. Barfield ill?"
"He is somewhat indisposed," returned The Shadow, calmly. "Being
interested in the Mexican mining stock that you offered him, he consulted with
me. Like Barfield, I am a traveler; but I know more about Mexico than he does."
Naturally, The Shadow had taken a new tack with Tallam. He wanted the
retired manufacturer to accept him as Barfield's representative; should Tallam
call up Barfield by telephone, the latter would support The Shadow's claim.
That, at least, was The Shadow's logical assumption, since he had not yet
learned that he was dealing with the two leaders of the Golden Masks.
"I see." Tallam's words were abrupt; his nod a short one. "I presume that
you have looked into the mining propositions. I trust that you have recognized
its merits."
"On the contrary," informed The Shadow, quietly, "I have classed the stock
as very doubtful."
An expression of well-feigned worry showed on Tallam's dryish face. The
Shadow was not sure that it was an actual revealment of Tallam's feelings.
Nevertheless, there was a chance that it was real. The Shadow decided to sound
the man further.
"In fact," he declared, "I wondered how you happened to buy such stock,
Mr. Tallam. You have a surprisingly large amount of it; for Mr. Barfield
informs me that you want a half a million dollars for its transfer."
Tallam began to chew his lips. He was succeeding temporarily with his
bluff. Tallam's game was to make The Shadow think that he had expected no
difficulties in the deal with Barfield. That would fit with the idea that
Tallam was wise enough to know that The Shadow held: namely, the belief that
Tallam was but a helpless instrument in the toils of the Golden Masks.
"I cannot say why I bought the stock," began Tallam; pretending confusion,
he added: "That is, it would be difficult to recall the circumstances that
forced - or rather induced me to make so large a purchase. I was assured -
convinced, in fact - that the stock was good. Indeed, I am rather well
conversant with mining matters in all parts of the world."
"That interests me," asserted The Shadow, with a show of enthusiasm.
"Forgetting Mexico for the moment, Mr. Tallam, what is your opinion of the
fabulous claims concerning gold deposits on the African Gold Coast?"
TALLAM looked startled; he started to come up from his chair. His hands
twitched slightly; his eyes took on a faraway stare that indicated a fearful
recollection. Calming himself, Tallam shook his head.
"I know the rumors that have come from Africa," he declared. "How great
quantities of gold have been found in possession of the natives. There is some
tribe there that once had large amounts of gold. I forget the name of the
tribesmen -"
"The Ashanti?"
"That sounds like it. It seems to me that the British authorities once
instituted a search for some golden thrones that those natives were supposed to
own. Wait just a moment, Mr. Cranston; I can easily refresh my memory by
reference to the encyclopedia."
Rising suddenly, Tallam moved with spry step toward the alcove at the rear
of the room. In his haste, he let his face lose its forced expression. In a
single instant, The Shadow knew the truth. Tallam was dropping his role of
dupe; that indicated that he must be more than an ordinary member of the Golden
Masks.
The Shadow's mind flashed back to Clifford Sulgate. The Shadow had classed
the deserter as what he was: a rogue at heart, but a man who had feared for his
own hide. Though The Shadow had found Sulgate shivering with fear, there was a
chance that leniency had been a mistaken move on The Shadow's part.
Sulgate could have seen an opportunity to put himself back in the good
grace of the Golden Masks by passing the word that The Shadow had taken up the
trail.
Though The Shadow had not struck upon the actual truth, he had gained its
equivalent. It did not matter who had given the tip-off: Sulgate or Bronden.
The job had been done. Quick suspicion caused The Shadow to class Roger
Barfield as one of the Golden Masks. Just as quickly, he dropped all thoughts
of the man whom he had recently interviewed.
SIDNEY TALLAM was the man who mattered at this moment. The Shadow saw the
rogue for what he was: one of the leaders of the Golden Masks. Tallam's start
for the bookcase in the deepest alcove was proof that the crook intended
action. Coming up from his chair, The Shadow made a move of his own.
Whisking his briefcase open, The Shadow shot a glance through the open
door to the hallway as he pulled his black cloak into view and dropped it over
his shoulders. No one was in the hall; if Tallam summoned aid, The Shadow would
have time to meet him. Seizing his slouch hat, The Shadow clamped it to his
head; he looked straight toward Tallam.
The gray-haired crook had reached the bookcase at the back of the alcove.
He was drawing out a volume of the encyclopedia. Tallam's back was toward The
Shadow; his whole attitude indicated that he thought his visitor still duped by
his bluff. Tallam drew one hand away from an upright post of the bookcase. He
began to thumb the pages of the big book, still with his back toward The Shadow.
Calmly, The Shadow drew on black gloves. Edging backward, he watched both
the hall and the alcove. Though the light of the living room was subdued, both
the hall and alcove showed considerable glow. Tallam could not move; nor could
men approach, without The Shadow's observation.
Tallam laid the encyclopedia volume on top of the big dictionary. He
turned toward the globe; spun it and touched a spot with his finger, as though
looking for the Gold Coast in Africa.
The Shadow caught a partial view of Tallam's profile; he saw the smug
smile that the man's lips showed. Like a form of vengeance, The Shadow stood
motionless; one .45 leveled toward Tallam, the other automatic covering the
hall.
The Shadow was prepared to deal instant death if Tallam made a false move;
for Tallam was a murderer. Either he or his companion of the other night had
dealt the fatal shot that slew Lengerton's secretary, Sampler.
Tallam's move came. The gray-haired man shifted slightly, bringing his
back toward The Shadow. Tallam slipped one clawlike hand to the top of the
globe; suddenly, he lifted a portion of the big sphere, like the lid of a box.
Tallam's body did not quite cover the action. The Shadow saw the lid come up.
Tallam spun about. In his right claw, he gripped a .38 revolver that he
had snatched from the globe. Though he gave no utterance, though his motion was
strangely silent, Tallam displayed the venom that he felt. His lips had taken on
a leer, as if to deliver an elated snarl. His finger was on the trigger of his
revolver, itching for a quick tug. The muzzle was speeding its aim toward The
Shadow.
BEFORE Tallam could complete his aim, The Shadow fired. His right-hand
automatic delivered three shots with quick precision. At considerable range,
The Shadow was taking no chances with the murderer. He expected the arrival of
enemies from the hall; he wanted to deal with them without interference from
Tallam.
As his third shot echoed, The Shadow halted, staring straight toward the
alcove. Sidney Tallam still maintained his pose, leering and unwithered by The
Shadow's fire. Upon the floor at the step up to the alcove lay three small
objects, silvery and flattened. They were The Shadow's bullets. They had been
halted five paces short of Tallam, their flight stopped in mid-air!
Tallam, though he gloated, did not utter a sound; nor did he fire. Dark
faces appeared at the doorway to the hall. There, The Shadow saw the Ashanti
whom he had met below, accompanied by two others. One carried a revolver; the
second a dagger; the third held a spear. They made no effort to enter, nor to
use the weapons.
Their arrival had been soundless.
The amazing answer dawned upon The Shadow. Reaching the bookcase, Tallam
had pressed a switch. Unheard, unseen, sheets of bulletproof glass had slid
across to cover the front of the alcove and the doorway of the room as well.
Sidney Tallam, Member Alpha of the Golden Masks, stood protected and his
trio of Ashanti servants had the same security. Vicious in pose, Tallam showed
a hatred that was imitated by the savage faces of the tribesmen who served him.
The Shadow was trapped, in the power of the Golden Masks!
CHAPTER X
THE SLEEP OF SILENCE
CALMLY, The Shadow put away his automatics; he folded his arms as he let
his keen eyes gaze about the room.
Viewing the floor, he could discern the bottom edges of the glass barriers
that had enclosed him. He saw that the front and side alcove were also fronted
with plates of glass.
Thus there was no chance to reach the windows. The Shadow was confined to
the comparatively small area that formed the central portion of the room. Once
noting the glass, he could tell when any barrier started to slide back.
The Shadow hoped that his pose of indifference would coax Tallam to
silently open either his own glass door or the one that blocked the Ashanti.
This would allow an attack from either or both directions. By giving his
enemies what looked like an advantage, The Shadow saw prospects of a battle. If
it came, he could show his foemen that his quickness on the draw would block
them.
Tallam, however, did not budge the glass barriers. Instead, the Golden
Mask turned to the bookcase behind him.
He reached into the space from which he had removed a volume; there, he
pressed a hidden lever. The bookcase performed a slow revolution, showing a
room beyond.
Tallam went briskly through the opening. Soon after the bookcase had
assumed its original position, he appeared in the hallway with the Ashanti. The
Shadow saw him give an order. The tribesmen marched away and Tallam followed.
The Shadow approached the doorway to the hall, pressed his gloved hand
against the glass plate that blocked it. Men were gone from beyond; though the
barrier was heavy, The Shadow had a way to attack it when unobserved. In the
lining of his cloak, he carried two powders, which, when mixed, formed a
powerful explosive.
With these substances, The Shadow had disposed of heavy barriers in the
past. The glass wall, however looked more formidable than most. It had no
hinges; its upper and lower edges ran in grooves. It had moved deeply into the
far side of the doorway. Thus there were no weak spots in the barrier; no
crevices for explosive powders.
HENCE The Shadow was deliberate as he examined the barrier; it was a few
minutes before he decided upon his attempt. All would depend upon that single
stroke. The Shadow could not risk failure.
Stooping, he removed one glove, slid his fingers along the stretch where
the glass filled a metal groove in the floor. This was the spot to attack.
Should the glass crack, The Shadow could break through. He was confident that
explosives could succeed where bullets had failed. Stepping back toward the
center of the room, The Shadow moved behind a large armchair. He wanted to make
sure that no spying eyes saw him obtain the powders from the lining of his
cloak. He raised one side of the cloak, began to tug at the hem. Curiously, his
fingers slipped from the cloth.
The Shadow's hands were numb. As he moved his arms, he found them
strangely slow in motion. He felt his body sway; his legs were failing him.
Though mentally alert, The Shadow was becoming physically powerless. Steadying
himself against the armchair, he sensed the cause. A sweetish odor had begun to
fill the room; looking upward, The Shadow saw thin coils of yellow vapor
floating from the arms of a high chandelier, like incense from a burner. The
chandelier was beyond The Shadow's reach; though he might have attacked it
sooner, he could no longer do so.
The Shadow was experiencing the same ordeal that James Lengerton had
undergone. Sidney Tallam had released a soporific vapor that carried a
paralyzing effect. The Shadow felt a limpness throughout his entire body. He
gazed toward the doorway; beyond the glass, he saw the ugly face of an Ashanti
servant who had come to view the prisoner's plight.
Quickly, The Shadow considered the outcome. The fact that he still
retained mental alertness made him decide that the gas was not deadly. It was
probably an anesthetic; its effects would wear off within a given time.
Flashing to thoughts of the past, The Shadow recalled cases of men who had
disappeared, then returned to their homes, to maintain silence regarding their
absence.
Undoubtedly, they had been subjected to this gaseous treatment; threats of
its repetition had caused them to avoid all mention of what they had undergone.
The Shadow reasoned also that the length of time during which a victim would
remain powerless would be determined by the amount of gas he breathed.
To strive against the overwhelming vapor would be useless. A long fight
would only increase the succeeding period before recovery. If the Golden Masks
intended to slay him when he was powerless, The Shadow's doom was sealed. There
were reasons, however, why they would prefer to keep him prisoner.
They had probably guessed that The Shadow had agents who would search for
him; alive, be would be bait for the capture of such agents. Stronger, however,
was the fact that The Shadow had posed as a man of wealth.
Persons with money were the sort the Golden Masks required as victims.
Such men, when prisoners, could be forced to turn over their wealth. The Golden
Masks, though they had murdered often, preferred to let their victims live. They
applied death only to those who would not accept their terms; they had even
spared James Lengerton, although he had partly blocked them. They had slain
Sampler; but that was because they had considered the man as useless.
SAGGING as he watched the face of the Ashanti guard, The Shadow decided to
make the best of his plight. Slowly, he yielded the little strength that he
still retained. His hands lost their pressure against the chair; the weight of
his body did the rest. The Shadow lost his balance, tumbled helplessly to the
floor. Though he still was capable of slight motion, he did not show it.
The Ashanti loped away along the hallway. Staring upward, The Shadow could
see the yellow gas still wreathing from the chandelier. He could detect a slight
hiss that announced the escape of the vapor, which was immediately absorbed by
the air of the room. Soon, the yellowish curls were gone. Simultaneously, the
hissing ceased.
Sidney Tallam appeared at the doorway, then went away. Shortly after, the
bookcase revolved in the rear alcove. Tallam again stepped to view. He pressed
a lever; sheets of glass slid back. Tallam stepped forward to view The Shadow;
the three Ashanti entered from the hallway.
At Tallam's rasped command, the Ashanti lifted The Shadow, inert from the
floor. They tore away his black cloak, pulled away his gloves and gave these
garments to Tallam, along with The Shadow's hat. It had rolled from The
Shadow's head; one of the Ashanti picked it up for Tallam. The big natives
found The Shadow's guns; took them from him. They also gathered all the
contents of The Shadow's pockets.
Tallam spoke in the Ashanti tongue. He ordered the servitors to overlook
such minor items as The Shadow's watch and some coins that were in his pocket.
Tallam took the wallet that The Shadow carried as Cranston's; the crook decided
that it might contain papers that held useful information.
Carrying their prisoner, the Ashanti marched from the room. Tallam
followed them, bringing The Shadow's outer garments. The course led to the rear
of an upstairs hall; there, the carriers descended by a back stairway. They
reached a basement and stopped by a massive steel door, which marked the back
wall of the house.
Tallam unlocked the barrier and slid it back. The Ashanti descended a
short flight of steps; they came to a corridor that formed a long, dimly
lighted passage deep underground.
THOUGH he lacked all power of motion, The Shadow was conscious of all that
occurred during the trip. He saw doors on each side of the dim corridor. They
were of glass, like the barriers that had trapped The Shadow; but these
openings had steel doors, also. The spaces between the outer glass doors and
the inner steel ones measured approximately three feet.
Tallam stopped at one door. He pressed a switch beside it. The Shadow saw
the inside door slide back. The departure of the steel sheet revealed a lighted
dungeon; small, stone-walled and windowless. Motionless in a chair by the far
wall sat a haggard-faced man whose eyes stared bulgingly toward the door. The
Shadow recognized the prisoner as James Lengerton.
Hands moved feebly; lips tried to utter words. The Shadow knew that
Lengerton was recovering from a powerful dose of the yellow gas. Probably
Lengerton had inhaled a heavy mixture, the strongest that could be given. That
meant that the gas, applied to its fullest power, would render a victim
helpless for forty-eight hours.
Tallam pressed the switch that closed the steel door. Lengerton was behind
a double barrier. Stepping across the passage, Tallam reached another door;
there he pressed two switches. Glass and steel slid back. The Shadow was
carried into a lighted cell that resembled Lengerton's. He was dumped
unceremoniously upon a cot. Lying by the far wall, he was able to watch the
departure of his captors.
The Ashanti left the cell. The Shadow saw Tallam turn to speak to a
square-jawed man who had arrived. Tallam addressed the newcomer as Bronden; he
chuckled the name so that The Shadow could hear it. That information lifted the
last doubt concerning the tip-off.
Contemptuously, Tallam flung The Shadow's cloak and hat upon the
prisoner's cot, along with the black gloves. He and Bronden left the cell. The
two barriers closed when the switches were pulled.
The Golden Masks had acted as The Shadow had hoped. They believed their
prisoner helpless; they were confident that he could not escape the dungeon in
which they had placed him. Therefore, they had chosen to keep him alive.
WHEN the doors had closed upon The Shadow, Tallam abruptly ordered Bronden
to keep charge of the dungeon corridor. His duty of watching Sulgate ended, it
was obvious that Tallam intended to use the man at this headquarters.
Tallam and Barfield, Alpha and Omega of the Golden Masks, had taken Gamma
into their closest confidence. Bronden was the only one of the lesser Golden
Masks who had gained that particular honor.
Followed by two Ashanti servants, Tallam headed upstairs. He ordered one
to duty at the front door; the other, to go outside and make a short patrol of
the neighborhood. Tallam continued up to his living room. He took his place
behind the desk in the central alcove and began to prepare a letter. He stopped
this work to put in a brief telephone call to Roger Barfield.
Twenty minutes later, the Ashanti doorkeeper arrived to announce that
Barfield had entered. There was no need for Tallam to order that Barfield be
conducted upstairs. Tallam's partner entered while the servant was still making
his slow report. Motioning Barfield to a chair, Tallam ordered the Ashanti to
return downstairs.
As soon as the pair were alone, Tallam chuckled the details of The
Shadow's capture, which he had chosen not to discuss at length over the
telephone.
Barfield listened with an air of evil pleasure; when Tallam had finished,
he described points of The Shadow's visit at the Hotel Romera. That discussion
ended, the heads of the Golden Masks turned to the sort of talk that The Shadow
had anticipated.
"I sent Seeklat outside," declared Tallam. "I wanted him to make sure that
no spies are close at hand."
"That is not likely," assured Barfield. "I saw no suspicious persons when
I left my hotel."
"If The Shadow has agents," decided Tallam, abruptly, "they would probably
be competent enough to keep out of sight. It would be best for you to stay here,
Omega."
"As we originally planned," nodded Barfield. "Very well, Alpha. If The
Shadow does have workers, we should be able to trap them as easily as we did
their chief."
"More easily. We may find a way to lure them. We are wise to keep The
Shadow alive. For more reasons than one. He played the part of a wealthy man
to-night."
"Which may mean that he has money. If so, I think that we can manage to
acquire it."
Wise leers passed between the two conspirators. These men of the Golden
Masks had known success in the past, even when they had dealt with stubborn
prisoners. They were ready to try for results with The Shadow. Tallam's next
remark showed, however, that any such action would not be immediate.
"Here are the papers for to-night's meeting," declared Tallam, passing
them across the desk. "I am following your suggestion, Omega. We shall use
Member Epsilon, otherwise Jay Jaffley, as contact in our next endeavor."
"It will work well," assured Barfield. "Jaffley is a prominent insurance
man, which classes him as something of a conservative. Since we are after a
promoter like Freeland Ralbot, we need a contact man who will impress him."
"None could be better than Jaffley," agreed Tallam. "He poses as a man of
the utmost integrity. When he produces anonymous letters that hint of fake
promotions engineered by Ralbot, we can take it for granted that Ralbot will be
bowled over."
"It's always a good set-up," nodded Barfield, "having a contact who rates
higher than the fellow who pays the coin. Froy was a good bet with Lengerton.
Jaffley will be even better with Ralbot."
TALLAM swung the bottom of the bookcase at the right side of the desk.
From behind dummy volumes, he produced two flat suitcases and gave one to
Barfield. These bags contained the robes and golden masks that were worn by
Alpha and Omega.
"We shall go out by the long passage," remarked Tallam. "I shall speak to
Gamma, to tell him that he will not be needed at the meeting. While we are
below, Omega, we shall take a look at our prisoners. There is one whom you will
be greatly pleased to see. I doubt that he has yet become accustomed to his new
quarters."
With this reference to The Shadow, Sidney Tallam led the way downstairs.
Roger Barfield followed, his wide mouth spread in a grin that was as ugly as
Tallam's leer.
To these companions in crime, the capture of The Shadow was but another
link in a long chain of evil successes. Though they had been chilled by The
Shadow's arrival - the night when he had taken them unawares - they had played
their recent game well.
Forewarned, these evil geniuses had acted with perfect teamwork. They had
bluffed The Shadow, trapped him; small wonder it was that they had lost their
fear of the superfoe whom they had blocked. To their way of thinking, The
Shadow was in a snare that no living being could untangle.
In that surmise, the leaders of the Golden Masks were wrong. No trap was
ever hopeless to The Shadow.
CHAPTER XI
THE SHADOW'S RUSE
DURING the interval that he had spent in the underground cell, The Shadow
had experienced a slow but steady recovery from the effects of the gaseous
treatment. Lying upon his cot, he found that he could lift his arms, that they
were strong enough to half raise his body.
Relaxing, The Shadow indulged in a calm smile. He had acted wisely when he
had pretended total collapse in Tallam's upstairs trap. Through that ruse, he
had gained prompt removal from the gas-laden atmosphere. Tallam had thinned the
paralyzing vapor the moment that he had opened the glass barriers.
Because the process had been halted in its early stage, The Shadow had
escaped the usual result. Thus he possessed an advantage that the Golden Masks
did not recognize. The Shadow was no longer totally helpless; during the next
forty-eight hours he would be capable of action.
Tallam, himself, had given The Shadow a weapon. He had thrown The Shadow's
cloak upon the cot. Though guns were gone, The Shadow still had the explosive
powders that were hidden in the lining of his cloak. Unfortunately, those
materials had become useless to The Shadow.
This cell had a double barrier; steel within, bulletproof glass without.
There was a three-foot space between the heavy doors. Even if The Shadow
blasted the steel barrier, he would be blocked by the glass beyond it. He could
not hope to shatter both with one explosion.
Since the far door was glass, any guard who chanced to pass along the
outside corridor would see the wreckage of the steel door. The Shadow's
advantage would be lost before he could follow it through.
CONSIDERING his plight, The Shadow came to the conclusion that his best
policy would be to keep up a pretense of helplessness. Should he find a chance
for a break, he could use it. If the Golden Masks came to remove him, he would
be able to give battle once the doors were opened.
The only flaw in this plan lay in the fact that the Golden Masks formed an
active band. They would not be idle during the next two days. In all
probability, they would proceed with further crime; the very sort that The
Shadow had planned to prevent. The only way to thwart the Golden Masks would be
through some outside contact, gained without the knowledge of The Shadow's
captors.
There were other prisoners here. Tallam had let The Shadow see James
Lengerton. To The Shadow, it was obvious that other cells contained additional
captives. Some, perhaps, were helpless like Lengerton; others might have
already regained their power of locomotion, like The Shadow. Certainly, none of
them had managed a means of communication with the outside world; nor had any
thought out a plan of escape.
Those facts, however, did not deter The Shadow.
Looking about his cell, The Shadow noted its simple furnishings. In
addition to the cot, the room had a chair and a table. Both were flimsy; but
chair rungs or table legs might do for cudgels in a pinch. There was another
item, however, that pleased The Shadow more.
This was a wall bracket, made of brass. It had a curved arm, twelve inches
in length, that could be unscrewed from the plate that was fitted to the wall.
The bracket could be of value later. Its present purpose was to hold the single
incandescent bulb that provided the room with light. There was a small switch
attached to the bracket. Evidently, prisoners were allowed to choose either
light or darkness after they had recovered from the yellow gas.
Rising slowly, The Shadow walked shakily to the wall and examined the
bracket. He steadied himself; for a moment, his fingers touched the lighted
bulb. The Shadow was considering a plan; he decided to postpone it, until he
felt stronger. It was well that he made that decision.
As The Shadow moved back toward his cot, there was a click at the steel
door. It indicated that the barrier was about to open. With all the effort he
could summon, The Shadow threw himself upon the cot and rolled into the
position that he had formerly held. His eyes were toward the door. He saw the
steel sheet slide back.
Beyond the glass barrier was Bronden. The square-jawed man was beckoning
to others. As The Shadow stared, keeping his eyes in a fixed position, he saw
Sidney Tallam and Roger Barfield arrive beside Bronden. The appearance of
Barfield removed the last question concerning the set-up of the Golden Masks.
The Shadow knew positively that Tallam and Barfield must be Alpha and Omega.
Barfield smiled uglily as he viewed The Shadow. To him, the prisoner's
bulging gaze meant that the paralyzing gas had taken full effect. While
Barfield gazed gloatingly, Tallam spoke to Bronden.
Though The Shadow could not hear the crisp words that Tallam uttered, he
could observe the precise motion of the crook's pursed lips. Tallam's words
were plain.
"We are going to the meeting," Tallam told Bronden. "You will remain here,
in charge. Keep Lothkal on duty; to-morrow, Seeklat will obtain more men."
The names Lothkal and Seeklat would have been difficult to note, if they
had come from the lips of an ordinary speaker. Tallam's clippy pronunciation
made the names clear. The Shadow knew that Lothkal and Seeklat must be Ashanti
servants. Probably, Tallam and Barfield had decided to keep closer guard, since
The Shadow was among their prisoners.
It would be Seeklat's job to find more men of Ashanti origin, if any were
in New York. This indicated that the Golden Masks were not oversupplied with
tribal henchmen.
Tallam ordered Bronden to close the steel door. As Bronden went to obey,
Tallam motioned to Barfield. Together, the two walked away, taking the
direction opposite the one by which they had arrived. A few moments later, the
steel barrier slid shut.
THE brief interlude had brought important facts to The Shadow. The Golden
Masks were meeting to-night; that meant that his conjecture regarding new crime
was probably correct. The fact that Tallam and Barfield had continued along the
passage proved that there must be a secret exit that would bring them above
ground some distance from the brownstone house. Therefore, The Shadow's agents
would not observe the crooks when they departed.
Offsetting these two factors were others that The Shadow regarded as
advantages. With Tallam and Barfield absent, only Bronden would be in charge.
He was not as keen as either of his chiefs; a clever ruse might easily deceive
Bronden. Furthermore, the fact that Seeklat was to obtain new African henchmen
was something of great consequence to The Shadow.
In fact, it gave him the very thing he wanted. The Shadow had already
thought out a mode of communication to persons outside the house. The trouble
had been the choice of a message. That difficulty was ended.
The Shadow lay idle for a full ten minutes; the closing of the steel door
had made him safe from observation. He gazed toward the light that projected
from the wall; his lips, still those of Cranston, formed a slight but confident
smile.
When he was sure that Tallam and Barfield were well on their way, The
Shadow arose. His legs were stronger; his steps were unwavering as he went to
the wall.
There, The Shadow reached into the pockets of his vest. He found the few
ordinary items that Tallam had left him - a handful of small change and a gold
watch. Among the coins, The Shadow found a copper cent. He turned off the wall
light, unscrewed the bulb and inserted the coin. He screwed the bulb tight,
turned on the switch.
Instantly, a fuse was blown somewhere in the house. The Shadow had knocked
out an entire circuit. He unscrewed the bulb and let the coin drop into his
hand. He replaced the bulb, but kept the coin in readiness.
SEVERAL minutes passed. Suddenly, the light came on again. Its glow showed
The Shadow, standing with his watch in his left hand, studying the dial. His
right hand held the penny; quickly, that same hand unscrewed the bulb. Bringing
his hands together, The Shadow balanced the cent on the metal end of the bulb,
pushed both up to the light socket.
He accomplished this with amazing rapidity; in less than five seconds, the
bulb was back in position. The Shadow did not screw it fully into place; he
withheld the final action while he eyed the second hand of the watch. At the
proper instant, he gave the bulb a quick, short turn to the right.
Again, the lights went out.
Unscrewing the bulb, The Shadow caught the coin, he inserted the bulb
alone, so that it would bring the light the moment that another fuse was used.
The Shadow knew, from the light's behavior, that Bronden must have gone to the
fuse box when the lights blew for the first time. The new short circuit would
be followed by another replacement.
While The Shadow waited in darkness, his lips phrased a whispered laugh
that was confined to the stone walls of his cell. His present game would
necessarily be brief; probably too short to complete all that he wanted.
Bronden would not replace fuses indefinitely; sooner or later, the fellow
would look for the real cause of the extinguished lights.
That, however, would not matter. Confident that Harry Vincent was on
outside watch, The Shadow was sure that the present ruse would bring the result
that he required.
CHAPTER XII
THE AGENTS MOVE
THE SHADOW was correct in his assumption that Harry Vincent was on duty.
Harry had contacted Moe's cab soon after it had parked at the hack stand near
the big apartment house. Seated in the rear, Harry had joined Moe in keeping
watch on Tallam's house.
Both had expected The Shadow to reappear from the front door. A long while
had passed; then, instead of The Shadow, another person had approached the cab.
It was Hawkeye. The little spotter had trailed Roger Barfield from the Hotel
Romera. He had spied Moe's cab and come to contact.
Harry saw Barfield enter Tallam's. A brief chat with Hawkeye left Harry
undecided whether Barfield's arrival boded good or ill. Harry had decided at
last that The Shadow had sent for Barfield, in order to have a show-down with
Tallam. Nevertheless, Harry had suggested that Hawkeye prowl about the outside
of the brownstone house.
Hawkeye had returned to the cab just prior to The Shadow's action with the
lights. Joining Harry, the spotter whispered news.
"There was a big gazebo came out of the house," informed Hawkeye. "He took
a gander all around the place, like he figured somebody was casing the joint. He
nearly spotted me; I didn't lamp him at first, there in the dark. He looked as
husky as some of them Ethiopian soldiers they've been showing in the news
reels. Maybe he was one of them; but why's he here in New York?"
Before Harry could reply, Moe piped quick news from the front seat.
"See that?" queried the cab driver. "A bunch of lights just went out
downstairs. Take a look at the house."
Harry did. He noted the sudden absence of lower lights. Trained to study
any unusual occurrence, a prompt thought came to Harry's mind. Perhaps The
Shadow would want a later report concerning those very lights. It would be well
to know how long they remained extinguished.
HUNCHING low in the cab, Harry produced his watch and a fountain-pen
flashlight. He threw a glimmer on the watch dial. He estimated roughly that
eight seconds had passed since Moe had seen the light go off. He told Hawkeye
to write down figures when he gave them; he ordered Moe to report when the
lights reappeared.
A few minutes later, Moe snapped:
"They're on."
"Three minutes, twenty seconds," said Harry. "Put that down, Hawkeye. Then
wait while I check it exactly. I had to make a guess at the start -"
"Off again!" called out Moe, from the front seat. "They went out just like
before."
Moe's quick tone caught Harry's instant attention. His eyes already on the
dial, Harry noted the exact second with camera-eye accuracy. His voice showed
certainty as he spoke to Hawkeye.
"Leave it at three-twenty," said Harry, "as the time that the lights were
off. Put down ten seconds as the period that they were on again. I caught that
to the dot."
To Moe, Harry added:
"Watch for the lights to come on again."
Two minutes and forty-three seconds passed. Moe snapped the news that
lights had come on. As Harry announced the new time to Hawkeye, Moe ejaculated
that the lights were off. Again, Harry had it to the dot. He told Hawkeye:
"Five seconds." Two minutes marked the next absence of the lower lights.
Once more the glow reappeared. This time, the lights stayed on for exactly
eighteen seconds. Harry gave the figures to Hawkeye. Again, the agent waited.
The interval was longer than before.
There was a reason for the new situation - one that The Shadow recognized
within his cell. Standing in darkness, The Shadow heard the click that
announced the opening slide of the steel door. He knew at once that Bronden
suspected that the new prisoner was tampering with the lights.
Instantly, The Shadow made a sweeping dive for the cot. He did not have to
worry about the light bulb; that was in place, ready to tell when the new fuse
was inserted. His actions with the coin were to come afterward.
Just as the door slid completely open, the lights appeared, both in the
cell and the corridor. Holding his fixed stare, The Shadow saw Lothkal, the
Ashanti guard, staring through the outside glass. Half a minute later, Bronden
appeared, to question Lothkal.
Though he eyed The Shadow suspiciously for a short while, Bronden finally
decided that the prisoner could not have been responsible for the blown fuses.
He pressed the switch that controlled the steel door; The Shadow was again
confined from sight. He did not move, however, for he expected that Bronden
might again try to catch him off guard. Furthermore, The Shadow's progression
had been broken.
WATCHING from the taxi, Harry Vincent soon realized that such must be the
case. The lights had come on again, to stay. Studying the figures that Hawkeye
had transcribed, Harry could not fathom them, at first; suddenly a solution
struck him. He confided to Hawkeye and Moe.
"The chief is in trouble," informed Harry, bluntly. "I think he is a
prisoner. He knows that we are watching; the only way he could reach us was by
blowing the lights. If I'm right, that gives me an idea."
Holding his flashlight to Hawkeye's paper, Harry picked out the figures
that told how long the lights had been on.
"He couldn't have controlled the time that the lights were off," mused
Harry. "That's when some one inside was putting in new fuses. All that The
Shadow could do would be to extinguish the lights after they came on again.
"Ten - five - eighteen" - Harry named the numbers that Hawkeye had written
for those intervals - "those are all that count. Let's take them as letters,
according to the alphabet. Ten is J; five is E; eighteen is R."
"J, E, R," spoke Moe. "Guess there aren't many words that begin with those
letters. But what good will one word be, even if we do guess it?"
"Jer," remarked Harry slowly. "Jera - Jera - Jeri - I've got it! The word
is Jericho! The chief wants Jericho Druke!"
Moe and Hawkeye knew instantly that Harry had scored a hit. Both knew
Jericho Druke, a husky African who ran an employment agency in Harlem. On
several occasions, The Shadow had called Jericho into service, and had found
him capable and reliable.
It was up to Harry Vincent to guess why and how Jericho would be needed.
Fortunately, the answer was easy. Harry had been informed of recent events,
through Burbank. The Shadow had foreseen that facts might be useful to his
agent.
"The Shadow has been trapped," declared Harry, grimly. "Tallam must belong
to the Golden Masks; maybe Barfield does, too, since he came here in such a
hurry. That big fellow you spotted, Hawkeye, is one of the Ashanti.
"We can't try to crash that house, particularly if The Shadow is a
prisoner. There's no use telling the police; they would bungle matters worse
than we would. There's only one man who can get in there; and The Shadow has
named him. That's Jericho."
"I get it," put in Hawkeye. "If Jericho can meet up with one of this
Ashanti bunch - make them think he belongs to the same tribe -"
"They may able to use him," finished Harry. "The sooner we can stage the
stunt, the better. Slide out, Hawkeye, and keep watching the house. If you spot
any Ashanti leaving it, trail the fellow. Learn where he goes."
As Hawkeye edged from the cab, Harry leaned forward and spoke to Moe.
"We'll get away from here," declared Harry. "The less watchers, the
better; so the job belongs to Hawkeye. I'll call Burbank. He can get in touch
with Jericho and have him meet us."
Moe nodded. He waited a few minutes, for the cab ahead of him was about to
move farther toward the front of the hack stand space. As soon as the head cab
started, Moe wheeled his own machine out into the street and drove for the next
corner.
GAZING from the window, Harry took a last look at the brownstone house.
The old mansion looked grim and ominous; its windows were too deep for the
lights within them to give any view of the interior.
Harry was more convinced than ever That The Shadow was a prisoner. How
desperate his chief's plight, Harry could not guess. He knew, however, that The
Shadow's call for Jericho was the surest way to get results. With one worker
inside to aid him, The Shadow might accomplish huge results. If Jericho could
pass as an Ashanti, fine.
Particularly since Harry and the other agents would stay close by, with
Hawkeye watching the house. If he contacted The Shadow inside, Jericho could
pass word to Hawkeye, outside. The arrangement would be perfect, if it could
only be accomplished. That was the part that worried Harry Vincent.
If, at that moment, Harry Vincent could have gained a momentary glimpse
within The Shadow's cell, the agent's troubled mind would have been relieved.
The Shadow was stretched upon his cot, his eyes still gazing toward the light
that glowed from the wall bracket.
Motionless lips delivered a whispered laugh that chilled the confines of
the cell. The Shadow was confident that his trick-signaling had been noted and
understood by the outside watchers. He seemed confident that Jericho would
manage entrance to Sidney Tallam's stronghold.
Though he remained a prisoner of the Golden Masks, The Shadow was already
planning future moves to quell the activities of that insidious band.
CHAPTER XIII
THE NEXT MORNING
AT ten o'clock the next morning, Seeklat stepped from the side door of
Sidney Tallam's mansion. The big Ashanti was attired in American clothes; there
was nothing conspicuous about his departure from the house.
Part of Tallam's clever method was to let Seeklat come and go. The Ashanti
spoke English well enough to excite no suspicion. It was easy for him to pass as
an ordinary servant, employed in Tallam's household.
Moreover, Tallam was running no risk. Seeklat, like the other imported
tribesmen, was sworn to primitive loyalty. No amount of persuasion or torture
could induce any Ashanti to betray a chief.
If trouble should strike at Seeklat, it would simply give Tallam and
Barfield a warning of enemies. Though they pretended otherwise, the leaders of
the Golden Masks cared nothing about the fate of their Ashanti followers.
Tallam had told Bronden that Seeklat was to look for new recruits to serve
with the Ashanti servants. That was true; but Tallam had another purpose, also.
He believed that if The Shadow's agents were on watch, Seeklat might spot them;
or they might attack the Ashanti. In either case, Tallam would gain a lead
toward The Shadow's aids.
That was one of two reasons why Tallam sent Seeklat out by the side door
of the house, and not by the distant secret exit which Tallam had used last
night with Barfield. The other reason was that the Golden Masks wanted to
preserve the secret of the distant exit. They knew that if Seeklat used it and
was spied far from the brownstone house, observers might guess that the secret
way existed.
When he reached the front street, Seeklat walked southward. Though the big
Ashanti strode along with eyes straight forward, there was little that escaped
his observation. Seeklat had spent his boyhood with an Ashanti tribe; his
stride was the jungle stalk. While his gaze was ever prepared for sight of
prey, Seeklat also possessed the sense that told when he was watched.
Experience in civilized surroundings had not dulled this sense of
Seeklat's. It sometimes tricked him, however, for passers occasionally kept
looking at the huge Ashanti through curiosity. Seeklat's unusual height was the
cause of such stares. To-day, Seeklat felt that he was being watched. As he
turned a corner, he managed a glance over his shoulder that swept the street
that he had just left.
A HUNCHY, wan-faced man slid out of sight as Seeklat turned. It was
Hawkeye; the little spotter found refuge behind a pair of close-placed ash
cans. He was quick enough to escape Seeklat's gaze; but the Ashanti had not
finished.
At the end of the next block, he made another striding turn. This time,
Hawkeye outguessed him. The spotter was deep in a doorway when Seeklat looked
back.
Hawkeye was still on the trail when Seeklat reached an avenue that was
topped by an "el" railway. The Ashanti ascended the stairs on the southbound
side. Hawkeye scurried into a cigar store and made a quick telephone call. At
night, he would have risked following Seeklat aboard an "el" train; by
daylight, the chance of observation was too great. However, Hawkeye was playing
a good bet with his telephone call.
No "el" train had arrived by the time Hawkeye came from the cigar store.
It was several minutes before one arrived; soon after it had pulled away from
Seeklat's station, Moe Shrevnitz arrived with his cab. Hawkeye boarded it; they
sped along beneath the "el" line. The cab caught up to the "el" train at the
third station.
From then on, they kept at an even speed with the train. After a few more
stations, Hawkeye sighted Seeklat coming from an "el" station. The spotter
dropped from the cab, threaded a new trail. As before, he kept from Seeklat's
view. The Ashanti seemed less suspicious of followers at this distance from
Tallam's house.
The course led to the water front. Near a line of dingy, battered piers,
Seeklat entered the side door of a tawdry restaurant that was frequented by
seamen. Hawkeye congratulated himself on having kept clear of the Ashanti's
notice; for the spotter was now able to come from cover.
Hawkeye's own attire and appearance marked him as the sort found near the
water front. Boldly, the hunched spotter entered the eating place.
Rough-clad men were lounging at a long bar; others were seated at battered
tables. Hawkeye chose a corner near the back; he ordered a bowl of Chili.
Keenly, the spotter noted a door that led to a back room; also a telephone
booth in a corner beyond it.
A SQUATTY Portuguese was standing near the bar. He looked like the mate of
some tramp steamer. The fellow was chatting amiably, in good English. Every time
he threw his head back for a laugh, gold coins shook from the lobes of his ears.
As the Portuguese ended one guffaw, a barkeeper leaned forward and cupped his
hand above the Portuguese's earring. When the barkeeper whispered, the
Portuguese nodded. Hawkeye saw him head for the back.
Almost beside Hawkeye, the Portuguese opened the door toward himself; he
went through and pulled the door behind him. As the door was swinging freely
shut, Hawkeye shoved his foot forward to deflect it. The door stopped short,
not quite closed. Hawkeye hunched himself over his bowl of Chili; squinted
through the narrow opening.
The Portuguese had entered the back room to talk with Seeklat. Hawkeye
could see both men; he caught the words that passed between them.
"You bring men?" queried Seeklat, in a low but deep tone. "Three men?"
"I bring one man," replied the Portuguese. "But maybe I get two."
"I want three." In emphasis, Seeklat held up one hand. He used his thumb
to crook his forefinger inward, thus displaying his three last fingers. It was
the peculiar style used by native Africans to denote the number three. The
Portuguese shook his head until his earrings jangled.
"Bring one," he declared, emphatically. "One more, maybe. Best I can do."
With that, the mate of the tramp ship came out from the rear room. Hawkeye
let him swing the door entirely shut; he watched the Portuguese go out by the
front. Hawkeye saw instant opportunity. He hopped across to the telephone
booth; made a quick call to Burbank. If Jericho should come here promptly,
chances would be good for him to contact Seeklat.
IN about half an hour, a rough-clad African solemnly entered the eating
place and walked through to the rear room. Hawkeye was positive that the
arrival was an Ashanti. Probably the Portuguese ship had brought one such
native to America. There was no sign of the Portuguese mate. He had simply sent
the Ashanti to Seeklat.
That was just the way Hawkeye had wanted it.
The spotter paid for his Chili, left by the front door and stopped to
shove a cigarette between his pasty lips. Eyeing a near corner, Hawkeye saw a
stalwart African waiting there. It was Jericho; the man from Harlem was as
husky as any Ashanti, although he did not resemble the members of that tribe.
Hawkeye gave a signal, then moved on his way. The rest was up to Jericho.
Jericho stopped a moment, then entered. He saw the rear door, went through
it. He came upon Seeklat and the other Ashanti; Seeklat had just signed up the
new recruit. Seeklat eyed Jericho with a suspicious glare, then queried:
"You from ship?"
"Je ne comprend pas," grunted Jericho. "Mon pay est Abidjean, Cote
d'Ivoire. Je parle que Francais."
Seeklat recognized the names that Jericho uttered. The prospective recruit
was claiming that he talked French only; that he came from the town of Abidjean,
on the Ivory Coast; the latter being a French colony that adjoined the British
Gold Coast.
Seeklat was familiar with that portion of Africa. It seemed likely that a
Portuguese ship that had brought an Ashanti would have picked up a hand from
the Ivory Coast. In a native babble, Seeklat questioned the Ashanti whom he had
just recruited. The native looked at Jericho, gave a noncommittal reply. He was
not sure whether or not Jericho had been aboard the Portuguese vessel.
Ordinarily, Seeklat would have rejected Jericho, since he was not an
Ashanti. Two reasons made him decide to hire the new man. Seeklat needed
Jericho; furthermore, he was impressed by the latter's size. Jericho looked as
powerful as any of the Ashanti who served the Golden Masks.
Seeklat beckoned. Jericho followed him, along with the Ashanti. Seeklat
took the pair to the "el" station; they rode back to the original station and
walked to Tallam's. There, Seeklat took the two indoors, left them downstairs
while he went up to report to Tallam.
DURING this interval, Jericho remained as solemn as the Ashanti who stood
with him. There was a good reason for his soberness. Jericho had a ticklish
game to play. He knew nothing of the Ashanti language; in fact, little of any
native jargon used in Africa.
But in discussing that dilemma with Harry Vincent, Jericho had happened to
mention that he could speak some French. He had once been employed as doorman at
a French restaurant; through contact with waiters and chefs, he had picked up
phrases of the language.
That statement had given Harry an idea. He had instructed Jericho to pose
as a native of the Ivory Coast, to use his French to the best of his ability.
Thereby, Jericho could avoid questions put to him either in English or in the
Ashanti tongue.
When Seeklat returned, Jericho sensed that a test was to come. He and the
new Ashanti followed Seeklat upstairs; they were conducted to the living room.
There, they saw Sidney Tallam, seated at his desk. There was another man in the
room; Roger Barfield was looking through the books in the rear alcove that
served as a library.
Tallam studied the new Ashanti, spoke to him in the native tongue,
choosing words carefully and slowly. The Ashanti made a reply. Tallam was
satisfied. He turned to Jericho, put a slow question in French. Jericho
understood and answered. Tallam smiled.
He did not realize that if he had been able to snap the question more
rapidly, it would have slipped past Jericho's comprehension. Nor did the
poorness of Jericho's accent perturb him. Tallam's own French was none too
good; and he did not expect the glibness of a Parisian speaker from a native of
the Ivory Coast.
Telling Seeklat that both men would do, Tallam drew a revolver from his
desk drawer. He carried the weapon forward, let Jericho and the Ashanti examine
it to see that the cartridges contained solid bullets. By this time, Barfield
had turned about and was facing the living room. Tallam aimed toward his
partner in crime, deliberately fired the revolver.
LAST night's phenomenon was duplicated. The bullet never reached the man
in the alcove. It seemed to sing back in mid-air; as it fell gleaming to the
floor, Tallam fired again. Jericho and the Ashanti stared bewildered at sight
of bullets lying on the floor. They did not guess that a glass plate covered
the entrance to the alcove. Tallam had modulated the lights of the room.
Tallam spoke to the recruits. In Ashanti, then in French, he explained
that both he and Barfield were invulnerable, that they were potent witch
doctors, who could deliver death as easily as they could prevent it. Though
Jericho knew that the stunt must be a trick, he pretended the same awe as the
Ashanti, who thought the power real.
Barfield, meanwhile, had pressed a switch in the bookcase. Once the glass
barrier had glided back in invisible fashion, he came from the alcove. Tallam
ordered Seeklat to go downstairs and take the new Ashanti with him; in French,
he told Jericho to remain. As soon as the others had gone, Tallam made a remark
to his partner.
"We'll keep this fellow up here," said Tallam, indicating Jericho. "Since
he knows no English, he's a good man to have around. We can talk while he is
here."
"Maybe you'll need him as an extra guard," remarked Barfield. "Unless you
bring back one of the Ashanti at the meeting place."
"We'll use this fellow if necessary," decided Tallam. "But there's no use
pushing him. He can't talk Ashanti any more than he can English; so there's no
way for him to understand orders in either language. I'll keep him with me,
since I talk French."
With that, Tallam briskly ordered Jericho to patrol the hall outside the
living room. Jericho obeyed the command; as he paced the hall, he could catch
snatches of conversation between Tallam and Barfield. As time passed, Jericho
decided that he was doing the best that he could, for the present. Talk of
guards had convinced Jericho that there were prisoners, with The Shadow among
them. If the cells lay below, an attempt to reach them without proper orders
would be a foolish, perhaps suicidal, effort. It was better to stay here, close
to Tallam and Barfield.
These men, so Jericho had been told, were the leaders of the Golden Masks.
If harm was to befall The Shadow, it would be through their order. Thinking that
Jericho could not understand English, they would think nothing of discussing
their plans with him close by.
Until he learned that The Shadow's life was threatened, Jericho Druke
intended to play his part as a new and supposedly ignorant recruit in the
service of the Golden Masks.
CHAPTER XIV
CHANCE SERVES THE SHADOW
THE day passed slowly to Jericho, after his arrival at Tallam's. But the
passage of time upstairs in Tallam's house was rapid compared to the slow
monotony of life in a cell below. To The Shadow, the lingering hours spoke of
futility.
Though The Shadow had no way to learn whether or not his agents had
received his message, he believed that they had actually gained it. He was sure
that steps had been taken to put Jericho into Tallam's household; but there was
a chance that some hitch had delayed that game.
The Shadow realized also that Jericho might already be inside; but in no
position to reach the cell rooms below. Though The Shadow was confident that he
could eventually escape through Jericho's aid, he hoped for an earlier
opportunity.
For a while, no plan occurred to The Shadow. Retaining his fixed position
on the couch, he watched the occasional opening of the steel door. At those
times, spaced a few hours apart, either Bronden or Lothkal looked in to make
sure that The Shadow was still powerless.
It was when Lothkal made another such inspection that The Shadow learned a
new fact. As he held his fixed gaze, he saw through the glass outer door; there
he observed an Ashanti servant standing outside of Lengerton's cell. While The
Shadow watched, the native pressed a switch. The glass door of Lengerton's cell
slid open; but the inner steel one did not. The Ashanti stooped and picked up a
tray of dishes.
The Shadow's view was suddenly ended as Lothkal pressed the switch that
closed the inner door of The Shadow's cell. In that glimpse, however, The
Shadow had viewed enough to gain a plan.
Since Lengerton had recovered from his gas treatment, he was receiving
food. The system appeared simple. An Ashanti opened the glass door and placed a
tray there, then closed the glass door and slid back the steel so that the
prisoner could pick up the tray. Later, the steel door was opened, to let the
prisoner put the tray outside it. That done, the steel door would be closed.
The Shadow saw possibilities through this. He had two hours to wait; for
he could not try his plan until after the next inspection. Looking at his
watch, The Shadow saw that it was six o'clock.
That fact spurred him to his purpose. He was sure that the Golden Masks
plotted new moves. Night was the time when they would act. It would be wise for
The Shadow to move by eight o'clock.
TWO hours moved slowly. Promptly at eight, The Shadow saw the steel door
slide back. For the first time, he let Lothkal see that he was no longer under
the influence of the gas. Slowly, with pretended weakness, The Shadow came up
from his cot. Lothkal flattened his nose against the glass and watched.
The Shadow staggered toward the door, stopped suddenly and clapped his
hands to his eyes, as though the dazzle of the cell light troubled him.
Shifting toward the wall, he found the light switch, turned off the
incandescent. He continued toward the glass door, blundered against it and fell
back in the cell, within the line of the steel door.
Lothkal's large features showed a grin. Apparently, The Shadow had not
remembered the glass barrier. The big Ashanti slid the steel door shut. The
glow from the outer passage was ended. The Shadow lay in total darkness.
A few seconds later, The Shadow arose. He acted with great rapidity. He
sprang to the darkened wall, found the bracket and wrenched it with his fists.
He unscrewed the rod; ripped the wiring loose.
Reaching his cot, he seized his black cloak; he tore away a strip of the
sable-hued cloth. Working with all possible speed in the darkness, The Shadow
wrapped the brass rod in the strip of cloth. He donned his cloak and hat, put
the cloth-covered rod out of sight.
The Shadow completed his preparation in good time. The steel door slid
back again; this time, it was Bronden who peered through the glass. Lothkal had
reported The Shadow's recovery. Bronden wanted to see proof of it.
For a few moments, Bronden saw nothing, for the cell was dark. Bronden
thought nothing of that fact, for Lothkal had told him that The Shadow's first
act had been to turn off the light. As Bronden stared, he saw The Shadow.
Shakily, groggily, the cloaked prisoner again blundered up against the
glass door and sagged back, this time in the path of the steel doors.
Bronden leered. This interested him. He laughed at The Shadow's weak
effort. Wearing cloak and hat, the prisoner was trying to offer feeble
challenge, as Bronden saw it. Yet The Shadow was totally helpless, in the power
of the Golden Masks.
Bronden scowled a warning through the glass barrier. He intended to slide
the steel door shut. He motioned for The Shadow to move back. Weakly, The
Shadow obeyed, rolling into the cell. Bronden pressed the switch; the steel
door slid into place.
IN watching The Shadow, Bronden failed to notice something else. In his
fake sprawl close to the glass door, The Shadow had planted the brass rod on
the floor. Cleverly, he had shoved it against the side of the doorway that the
edge of the steel door was to meet.
Bronden did not see the cloth-covered rod, for it was black. Nor did he
hear the crunch that came when the steel door closed into its place. The outer
glass prevented the sound from reaching Bronden's ears; but The Shadow heard it.
On hands and knees, he probed the edge of the steel barrier, to discover a
slight crevice. The brass bar had stopped the steel door from coming fully shut.
Donning his gloves, The Shadow forced his finger tips into the tiny space.
At first, he could not budge the steel door. He shoved his knee sidewise,
against the inner end of the brass rod. The leverage helped; the steel door
gave a fraction of an inch. The Shadow squeezed his fingers through, gave every
ounce of his strength. The door slid farther open. The Shadow jammed his knee
into the space.
Once he managed to work himself to his feet, his task was ended. The
Shadow pushed his body between the door and the frame; he leaned against the
door edge with a powerful shoulder. The door opened farther.
The Shadow kicked the brass rod back into the cell. Squeezing completely
through, he pressed against the glass door and released the steel one. Massive,
hidden springs drove it shut with a muffled clang.
The Shadow was confined in closer quarters than before. He had left the
cell in order to occupy a three-foot air space between the steel door and the
outer glass one. Cloaked and hatted, The Shadow was invisible; for the surface
of the steel door was blackened. Moreover, The Shadow shifted to the side of
the space that was shaded from the nearest corridor light.
To keep himself unseen, The Shadow needed to remain absolutely motionless.
He did so; but for another reason, also. The air supply was limited between
these sealed doors. The Shadow was in the same situation as the Hindu fakirs
who allow themselves to be buried alive for hours.
The Shadow knew the secret of the fakirs, how they could endure such tests
without obtaining their fresh air. Complete immobility was the first
requirement; for motion would create friction and thereby use up precious
oxygen.
Slow breathing was also necessary. Steadily, easily, The Shadow drew in
his breath, held it, then exhaled with the same slow process. He waited several
seconds, then drew another retarded breath. He was conserving his air supply to
the limit.
An Ashanti paced into view. It was Lothkal, back on guard duty. The huge
watcher stopped at The Shadow's door, glanced at the glass and the steel within
it. Backed by a darkened barrier, the glass reflected the passage lights.
Lothkal did not see The Shadow. He paced onward.
SOON Bronden arrived. He spoke to Lothkal, gestured toward The Shadow's
door and shook his head. The two walked from The Shadow's view. Apparently,
Bronden had reported upstairs; he had been told to do nothing more about The
Shadow for the present.
It might be that Tallam and Barfield had decided to deny food to The
Shadow. If so, the glass door might not be opened until morning. That would
mean a twelve-hour stretch for The Shadow; a long period to remain rigid,
clamped between two barriers. A long time, too, to go without fresh air.
Nevertheless, The Shadow was prepared for the ordeal.
He had more space than in an ordinary coffin, wherein a living burial can
last for a few hours. Every additional square inch of space meant more oxygen.
As he calculated, The Shadow decided that under ordinary conditions, he would
have enough air to last from seven to eight hours.
He was determined to make that supply stretch to twelve if so required.
His breathing became slower than before, so slight that it was almost
imperceptible. Body rigid, eyes fixed, The Shadow had assumed an almost
hypnotic condition, with his face turned toward the inner steel door. He had
reduced his breathing to the absolute minimum. It would stay at that timing.
Minutes passed. The Shadow showed none of the strained impatience that
comes with close confinement. He counted upon time to bring its break; though
he was prepared for a twelve-hour wait, he believed that the break would come
sooner.
Perhaps Tallam and Barfield had merely postponed the matter of a food
supply. If they intended to fare forth to-night, they would probably make plans
concerning The Shadow before they left; for the matter of his early recovery was
something that they could not ignore.
By this time, Jericho might be in the house, almost prepared to make some
move that would bring aid to The Shadow. These were the possibilities upon
which The Shadow counted as he waited. The likelihood of one chance or another
had been the chief reason why The Shadow had undertaken this bold move.
Long hours of contemplation had not dulled The Shadow's keen perception of
the future. His senses were at their fullest sharpness. A break would come. The
Shadow could foresee it. When the time arrived, inaction would be ended.
Blotted from the view of men who stood five feet away, The Shadow was
prepared to use opportunity when it came.
CHAPTER XV
WORD FROM WITHIN
ASIDE from gaining an advantage place between the barriers of his cell,
The Shadow had hoped that word of his imprisonment would reach Jericho. It did;
and by a very direct route. Bronden had come upstairs to report immediately
after his inspection of The Shadow's cell.
Tallam gave the order that The Shadow was to receive no food for the
present. After Bronden had gone, Tallam began to discuss his decision with
Barfield. Standing as close to the living room door as he could, Jericho
overheard their conversation.
"His early recovery is not surprising," asserted Tallam. "This room has a
large cubic area. The vapor did not completely saturate it. I calculated that
the effects might pass in about twenty-four hours.
"Logical enough," agreed Barfield, "but since he has recovered, why not
feed him? You know how it has worked with the others. The better we treat them
for a while, the more they fear another gas treatment."
Tallam shook his head.
"This prisoner is a different case," he declared. "Soft treatment will not
lessen The Shadow's resistance. He needs another stretch of inactivity. We shall
give it to him."
Tallam opened a small cabinet beside his desk. Inside were knobs, each
marked with a number. They corresponded to the cells that held the prisoners.
Tallam chose the one that represented The Shadow's cell. He turned the knob.
"Five minutes will suffice," declared Tallam, tersely. "The cell is
filling with gas, enough to render him powerless for twelve hours longer."
"Unless," warned Barfield, "he manages to somehow plug the pipes."
"Impossible," explained Tallam. "The openings are high on the walls and in
the ceiling. They can scarcely be detected, and they are out of reach.
Furthermore" - he chuckled as he pointed to a dial above the buttons - "this
indicator marks the flow of gas. Any obstruction would produce a zero
registration on the dial."
Confident in his tone, Tallam sat back and watched the indicator; he timed
the period by a small clock on his desk. When five minutes had passed, Tallam
announced:
"That settles The Shadow for the next twelve hours. There is no possible
way in which he could have escaped the charge of gas. Remember, Roger, the
vapor will persist until the doors are opened. If our prisoner attempted to
hold his breath, he merely postponed the outcome."
Tallam turned off the knob. The dial dropped to zero. Barfield looked
pleased; he liked Tallam's precise methods. The keeping of the prisoners and
their treatment was Tallam's task. Barfield served as field general of the
Golden Masks.
"Cell five." Tallam spoke musingly, then turned another knob. "That is
where we have Gilden Cleatland, the Texas millionaire. He is supposed to be on
a yacht cruise; instead, he is enjoying our hospitality."
"You are giving him another dose of gas?" inquired Barfield. "I thought we
intended to talk to him to-morrow?"
"We shall," promised Tallam, "but he has experienced too long a recovery.
Twelve hours more of helplessness will convince him that it would be wise to
forget those oil options."
"And let us bag the million dollars that they will bring."
"Precisely. Keep your eye on the clock, Roger, while I watch the dial.
Tell me exactly when the five minutes are up."
JERICHO heard much of this conversation; but he did not grasp its
importance during the first two minutes. When the truth dawned upon him,
Jericho almost forgot himself. He was on the point of driving into the room;
battling it out with Tallam and Barfield. However, he managed to curb himself.
From what Tallam and Barfield had said. Jericho understood that The Shadow
was merely being reduced to helplessness, not receiving permanent injury. Since
Jericho thought that he would eventually have to manage a rescue entirely on
his own, he decided it best to let the present deed be done. Tallam and
Barfield would be less wary when The Shadow was helpless. That would give
Jericho a better opportunity for action.
Moreover, Jericho saw the futility of an attack. Barfield had been immune
from Tallam's bullets, while standing in the rear alcove. Chances were that the
leaders of the Golden Masks would be safe in the side alcove, where they were at
present. Jericho realized that if he attacked, he might be trapped; and his
service for The Shadow ended.
When Barfield announced the end of the five minutes, Tallam turned off the
knob that controlled the gas jets of Cleatland's cell. His chuckle told that he
thought two prisoners were immobile. Barfield thought the same. So, for that
matter, did Jericho.
It never occurred to Tallam and Barfield that The Shadow could have chosen
a new prison between the doors of his cell. In that air-tight space, he was
completely immune to the yellow gas that had filled his larger prison.
Tallam glanced at the desk clock and noted the hour.
"We must leave for the meeting," he told Barfield. "Bronden can remain
here as before. Member Gamma will not be missed. We shall have a while to wait
at the meeting place."
"Matters will go all right at Jaffley's," assured Barfield. "Ralbot is due
there within the next hour."
"Every detail is covered," added Tallam. "Member Epsilon is competent. He
will see to it that our new prisoner is shipped to the meeting place."
"The truck is ready," reminded Barfield. "It is stowed in back of the
garage by this time. It wasn't wise to let it be seen around Jaffley's house
until after dark."
"You put the usual driver on the job?"
"Yes. The fellow who used to handle the cab that brought Member Mu to the
meetings. It was best to arrange for him to take the truck to the meeting
place, rather than let him know about our headquarters here."
"Quite right. We can bring the prisoner here afterward. Well, Roger, let
us start. By this time Freeland Ralbot is on his way to visit Jay Jaffley. Good
luck to him."
THE two arose and walked from the living room. Jericho had resumed a slow
patrol by the time they arrived in the hall. Tallam spoke a few words in
French, ordering the new guard to remain on his present duty. Stolidly, Jericho
watched the two men depart toward the rear of the floor.
Jericho quickly guessed that he would not have a long time here alone.
Some one would have to take the place of Tallam and Barfield, in this vital
center spot. The only man who could act in that capacity was Bronden. He would
probably be upstairs within the next five minutes.
Believing that The Shadow was powerless, Jericho saw no chance for
immediate gain through a rescue of his chief. He wanted Tallam and Barfield to
be well away before he took up that task. But Jericho did see a present
opportunity. Stepping into the living room, he went to Tallam's desk, picked up
paper and pencil, to scrawl a note.
Jericho remembered what he had heard Tallam and Barfield say. A man named
Freeland Ralbot was on his way to visit another named Jay Jaffley. There was a
truck hidden behind Jaffley's garage, ready to receive a new victim, who would
be carried to the meeting place, then here. Jericho put down those facts.
The huge African stepped to the window in back of Tallam's desk. He
pressed against the pane, gazed downward into the area beside the house. Close
to the window, Jericho knew that he could be seen if any one happened to be
watching from below. Tallam had left the desk light burning; it gave sufficient
illumination to outline Jericho's form.
Three minutes passed. They were all that Jericho could allow. He hoped
that Hawkeye had sneaked along below, that the little spotter had spied him.
Taking a chance on it, Jericho tried to open the window. He found that the
heavy wooden sashes were bolted into place. The thickness of the glass
indicated that it was bulletproof.
Using his full strength, Jericho pressed upward against the lower sash.
The bulging of his huge muscles told that they possessed gigantic power. The
bolts were too solid, even for Jericho; the woodwork could not stand the
strain. It gave a trifle as the bolts resisted. The lower sash moved up a
fraction of an inch, the bolts loosening within it.
Jericho did not want to break the sash beyond repair; for it would attract
Bronden's attention when the lieutenant arrived. As the sash gave a trifle more,
it reached the condition that Jericho required. Though the bolts were still in
place, the wood about them had yielded.
Jericho forced the lower sash just far enough upward to produce a slight
crack between the sash and the sill. Jericho shoved the note through the space,
let it flutter down into the darkness.
Jericho gesticulated at the window; a signal to Hawkeye, should the
spotter be below. That done, Jericho eased the sash into its original position.
He eyed it, saw that it appeared to be in its solid condition. That meant that
Jericho would not have to fight it out with Bronden as soon as the lieutenant
arrived. Bronden would think that all was well; he would never guess that the
new guard had managed outside contact.
JERICHO returned to the hall; he had spent six minutes in his efforts.
Bronden had not arrived. Resuming his stolid pacing, Jericho made ready for the
man's appearance. Every time he passed the doorway of the living room Jericho
eyed a telephone that rested on Tallam's desk.
He would have liked to make an outside call, to Burbank; but he was not
sure that it would be safe. Tallam had so many mechanical arrangements in the
house that it was possible he had provided against any unauthorized calls.
Jericho could picture a glimmering light somewhere below, that would tell
Bronden if the telephone were in use. Therefore, he decided to depend upon
Hawkeye. Jericho had been assured that any signal he made from within the house
would be promptly noted.
Unfortunately, Jericho had not fully understood the import of the message
that he had sent. He was not to be blamed, for Tallam and Barfield had not been
too specific in their conversation. Their mention of Member Epsilon had made
their speech somewhat ambiguous. Odd consequences would be due as a result of
Jericho's message.
Offsetting that was the fact that other results were due within this very
house. They, too, were something that Jericho did not foresee. They concerned
The Shadow, whose present plight was far different from the sort that Jericho
had pictured.
The Shadow, like Jericho, had counted upon a break. He had forced it, by
letting his recovery be noted. Sidney Tallam, contemptuous of his prisoner, had
shot through another blast of paralyzing gas. His partner, Roger Barfield, had
witnessed the deed.
The Golden Masks had no suspicion of Jericho; they were totally untroubled
about The Shadow. Therefore, they felt full security. Their mental attitude had
reached the very state that The Shadow had hoped it would.
CHAPTER XVI
FROM THE DARK
STANDING encased between glass and steel, The Shadow was at that moment
watching men who stood in the passage outside his cell. Sidney Tallam and Roger
Barfield had reached the underground corridor. They stood in conference with
Bronden.
The Shadow's hat brim was pressed in front of his eyes; only the slight
up-tilt of his head enabled him to observe the men beyond the glass. At one
moment, Barfield glanced in The Shadow's direction; he saw nothing but the
blackness beyond the glass.
That was not surprising; for there were men present far keener of sight
than any of the Golden Masks. They were two of the Ashanti; Lothkal and the new
recruit who had come with Jericho. The Shadow saw Lothkal speak to the new
tribesman, as if instructing him. The Shadow knew that the man was a newcomer.
That meant that Jericho was quite likely to be within the house, since
Seeklat had obtained at least one new guard.
Tallam, as he spoke to Bronden, gestured toward two cells. One was The
Shadow's. Bronden nodded his understanding. Carrying suitcases, Tallam and
Barfield made their departure along the underground passage.
Bronden gave an order to Lothkal. The Ashanti went to the cell that Tallam
had first indicated. It was the one that held Cleatland, the wealthy Texan.
Bronden pulled one switch; the glass door slid back. He pulled the second
switch to open the steel barrier. Darkness showed beyond the gap; Bronden
entered and found the light. When he turned it on, The Shadow could see a
sprawled figure on a cot.
Cleatland had evidently been asleep, with the light out, when the new
shock of gas had overpowered him. Bronden ordered Lothkal to remain at the open
doors while the cell cleared of gas. He showed Lothkal his watch; tapped it, to
indicate the time that the doors were to remain open.
About to walk away, Bronden pointed to The Shadow's cell and made another
remark to Lothkal. Bronden headed in the direction of the house; The Shadow
promptly guessed the reason for the remark. He knew that Tallam had poured gas
into the cell that he had left.
Soon, The Shadow's cell would be opened; if the same process took place,
the glass door would slide first. That would leave The Shadow free. Time
lingered, however; it was fully fifteen minutes before Lothkal closed the doors.
The Ashanti could apparently tell time quite well without a watch.
Moreover, he seemed to expect Bronden's return. If Bronden came back before The
Shadow's cell was opened, it would mean a battle with three fighters: Bronden
and the two Ashanti. Eyeing the huge Africans, The Shadow saw heavy odds ahead.
He hoped that Jericho might manage to come along with Bronden.
WHILE The Shadow considered these possibilities, a different one took
place. Lothkal stopped by The Shadow's door, waited there impatiently. Finally,
he spoke to the new Ashanti, told the recruit to go upstairs and find Bronden.
Lothkal held up five fingers and the Ashanti nodded. Lothkal had signified a
number of minutes.
The recruit went from the passage. Lothkal stood stolid and immobile,
staring toward the closed doors of Cleatland's cell. The Shadow timed the
minutes with his slow drawn breaths. At the end of five, Lothkal stirred. The
Ashanti had counted the time interval almost exactly with The Shadow.
Lothkal scowled, seeing no sign of the recruit's return. He swung toward
The Shadow's cell, placed a huge hand upon the switch that controlled the glass
door. Lothkal waited, allowing almost a minute more. His hand seemed reluctant
to pull the switch; but finally his hesitation ended. Lothkal started the glass
door on its opening slide.
The Ashanti was looking straight toward the barriers as the glass one
opened. The removal of the reflecting surface gave him a chance to observe The
Shadow, for the darkness was less intense when the glass was gone. In fact,
Lothkal did see The Shadow; but his first glimpse came an instant late.
Just as the glass edge cleared him, The Shadow swung outward. His period
of immobility was ended. He snapped to action with the power of a long-held
spring. Whipping forward, he shot his cloaked arms toward Lothkal. Viselike
fingers gripped the Ashanti's throat before the fellow knew what was upon him.
That first advantage was vital to The Shadow. The fight that followed
proved it. Weaponless, The Shadow had attacked a formidable battler, who
towered a full head above him. Lothkal had more than sixty pounds of additional
weight. Moreover, he was schooled to bare-handed combat. Ignoring the grip upon
his throat, Lothkal seized The Shadow's shoulders, swept his cloaked adversary
in the air. He tried to fling The Shadow across the passage. He would have
succeeded, but for a quick move of The Shadow's left foot. Flying wide, The
Shadow hooked Lothkal's right knee.
THAT changed the combat. The Shadow had literally climbed up to the
Ashanti's height; and Lothkal could no longer shake him off. Desperately,
Lothkal performed a sidewise roll, flung himself to the floor of the passage,
in hope of crushing The Shadow beneath him. He was doubly foiled.
Not only did The Shadow maintain his hold; he kicked his foot free as they
fell. As Lothkal crashed face forward to the stone, The Shadow escaped his
weight with a sidewise twist. The only hold that he retained was that merciless
clutch upon Lothkal's windpipe.
Lothkal lashed about like a huge crocodile. The Shadow clung, twisting his
opponent's head at will. Lothkal's eyes bulged; big veins formed streaks upon
his forehead. He grabbed The Shadow with both his hamlike hands, hoisted him
straight upward in the air. The Shadow scaled feet first; but Lothkal could not
fling him away.
The Shadow's burning eyes met the Ashanti's s bulging gaze. Gloved fingers
jabbed harder, deeper. Lothkal rolled, relaxed suddenly. It was his last trick
and it partially succeeded. The Shadow's sideslipping weight caused him to
loosen his hold for the first time. It was Lothkal's opportunity; had he made
the most of it, the odds would have been his. But Lothkal tried to gain the
edge too quickly.
As he twisted his head sidewise, he hoisted up on one shoulder, shot a big
hand in to grip The Shadow's fingers. Instead of trying to regain his grip, The
Shadow let Lothkal's hand intervene, then jabbed both his own hands forward
with all his weight behind them.
Lothkal's head bobbed backward; his skull cracked against the stone wall
of the passage. Even that jolt could not stun the giant Ashanti; but it shook
him. His hand slipped away; The Shadow's fingers instantly regained their
former hold, to begin another grind.
HALF a minute later, Lothkal subsided. The Shadow arose and viewed his
prone enemy. He had all but choked Lothkal to death, for the big fighter had
resisted to almost the final moment. The Shadow observed that Lothkal was still
alive; he had reason to suppose that the Ashanti would soon recuperate.
The Shadow pulled the switch that controlled the steel door of his cell.
Grabbing Lothkal's body, The Shadow hauled the unconscious fighter through the
doorway. Holding his breath, The Shadow hunched Lothkal face downward; yanking
off his cloak, he threw it over the Ashanti's body and tossed the slouch hat to
the floor beside him.
Taking a breath as he reached the passage, The Shadow sniffed the strong,
sweetish gas that was coming from the cell. He closed the doors quickly, so
that the remaining fumes would be sufficient to overpower Lothkal. That
accomplished, The Shadow eased against the wall, to recover from the effects of
his battle. The struggle against Lothkal had stiffened him, for he had exerted
all the strength that he possessed in holding that neck clamp.
It was a few minutes before The Shadow could decide upon his next move.
There was no sign of Bronden or the Ashanti recruit. Though neither would prove
as formidable as Lothkal, The Shadow could see no wisdom in waiting for a double
struggle so soon after his tiring fray with Lothkal. If Jericho came with them,
it would put the situation in The Shadow's favor; but The Shadow was not sure
that he could count on Jericho's arrival.
The Shadow looked at the doors of other cells. Beyond them were prisoners
who needed release, but some were at present paralyzed by gas. If The Shadow
opened those doors, he would have to call upon the men who were fit to carry
out those who were not.
All this would mean immediate hazard. Any moment, some arriving Ashanti
might give an alarm. Meanwhile, Tallam and Barfield were on their way to plot
new evil with the other Golden Masks. As he considered the situation, The
Shadow saw where he held a marked advantage.
His victory over Lothkal; his planting of the victim in the cell might
keep Bronden lulled, until the return of Tallam and Barfield. Nothing would
happen to the men in the cells. The best plan was to take up the trail of the
men who headed the Golden Masks. If Jericho were here in the house, The Shadow
could learn that fact better by making outside contact than by attempting to
find Jericho himself. Present moments were precious; for they gave The Shadow a
last opportunity to depart before Bronden or others arrived.
CLOAKLESS, hatless, wearing the garb of Cranston, The Shadow hurried along
the passage, following the direction that Tallam and Barfield had followed. He
came to a closed door, found the switch that controlled it. Opening the
barrier, The Shadow descended to a narrower, lower passage; and closed the door
behind him.
The new passage ran for more than a hundred yards, with several short
turns, and occasional flights of steps. Its width varied, as did its height;
the lights that illuminated it were very few in number. At times, the walls
changed from brick to stone; their condition was not always the same. These
clues explained its construction.
The passage had been hewn between the foundations of old buildings in the
back streets. Tallam had probably picked the course, through a study of the
neighborhood, and had put Ashanti servitors to work. How long the job had
required, The Shadow could not tell; but it must have taken several months and
the feat was a remarkable one.
Nothing had been neglected. Certain walls had been patched, so that they
would not fall through into the cellars of houses. Where the passage crossed
streets, it dipped, to avoid water mains and gas pipes. The Ashanti must have
been patient as well as capable in order to complete this long burrow.
However, The Shadow had long since decided that Tallam held them in a
state of awe. Under the direction of a man whose power they dreaded, it was not
surprising that they had finished their assigned task.
The Shadow reached a final turn; the passage widened to form a small
square room. Despite his cautious tread, The Shadow clicked a loose stone;
before he could halt, a huge man stepped into view from beyond a corner of the
room.
The fellow was an Ashanti guard, dressed in leather shirt and leopard
skin. He held a sturdy war spear, with a sharp point; he had the weapon at
shoulder level, the instant that he appeared. Long fingers gripped the spear;
an arm was ready to drive the pike straight for The Shadow's body.
Attack would have been useless. A feint was almost hopeless. One move; one
step forward, The Shadow would have been an instant victim. Stopping where he
was, The Shadow still stood in danger. The Ashanti was giving him brief moments
only. That time space was sufficient. It made The Shadow know that the guard's
action was a challenge.
In the calm tone of Cranston, The Shadow spoke the first word that Sulgate
had mentioned as a countersign:
"Ashanti."
The jungle-garbed guard half lowered his spear. Meeting the Ashanti's
gaze, The Shadow added:
"Kumasi."
The Ashanti turned to a metal door. Above it, The Shadow saw a wired
object that looked like a loud-speaker. The guard drew a large bolt, pulled the
handle of the door and slid the barrier aside. The Shadow strolled through, came
into a small stone room. He heard the door slide shut behind him.
Outside of a few battered chairs, the room had no other furniture. There
was a slope in the corner that denoted a flight of stairs; and The Shadow saw a
small closet beneath the slant. He opened the door; probing deep in darkness, he
found wires and touched a tiny round microphone that was set in the baseboard.
Any one coming into this room from outside could gain admission through to
the passage quite easily. He had only to open the door of the closet and speak
the word: Ashanti; followed by Kumasi. The guard would hear and open the metal
barrier.
Because of visits from Barfield and Bronden, with other persons in
prospect, Tallam had instructed the distant guard to pass any one who gave the
countersign. That had served The Shadow well; by avoiding battle with the
outside guard, he had again managed to keep his escape unknown.
THERE was a door in the far wall of the room that The Shadow had reached.
Passing through it, he found himself in the rear of an old garage, which was
only about half filled with cars.
A partition cut off this empty section of the garage; and there was a back
door that could be reached without going past the cars. The Shadow chose that
secluded exit; reaching a street, he took survey of his whereabouts. He knew
the neighborhood well enough to recognize that he was almost two blocks from
Tallam's house.
With swift strides, The Shadow made in the direction of the brownstone
house. There was no need for stealth, for this neighborhood was unwatched. It
was not until he turned the corner of Marview Place that The Shadow slackened
his stride.
He saw Moe's cab at the hack stand across the street; he was about to bead
for it when he noted a hunched figure edging out from beside Tallam's mansion.
Close to the wall of another building, The Shadow made a half a dozen quick
strides. A wizened face turned suddenly toward The Shadow; a quick hand jabbed
to a jacket pocket.
The Shadow caught the moving arm; in hissed tone, he gave the command:
"Report."
Eyes blinked both wonderment and delight. The Shadow had encountered
Hawkeye; the spotter was completely flabbergasted to find his chief at large.
For a moment, he could not speak; then, flattened against the wall, he
whispered hoarsely.
"I got a tip from Jericho," the spotter told The Shadow. "Shot it to
Burbank; he sent Vincent on the job. Here it is."
Hawkeye pushed Jericho's message into The Shadow's hand. Pocketing the
paper, The Shadow ordered the spotter to join him in the cab. Both took a
separate course; they arrived almost without notice. Moe heard the opening of a
door, however; he turned around, then gave an audible gasp as he heard The
Shadow's hissed whisper.
The Shadow ordered Moe to drive to the garage two blocks away. As they
rode past the lighted corner, he held Jericho's message to the window; read it
by the light of the street corner. The cab reached the garage and stopped
there. The Shadow ordered Hawkeye to leave the cab and keep watch near the rear
door of the garage.
As soon as Hawkeye had left, the cab rolled away. Upon the seat, he
discovered a bag which he knew contained hat, cloak and guns. Burbank had
ordered Moe to carry this new outfit in readiness. No matter what plight The
Shadow might find, Burbank always anticipated his return.
The cab reached a corner drug store. The Shadow alighted, entered the
store and went to a telephone booth. He dialed Burbank's number. A methodical
voice responded:
"Burbank speaking."
"Report."
THE SHADOW'S whispered word did not astonish Burbank. Stationed for long
intervals in a hidden contact post, handling the threads that linked The Shadow
with his active agents, Burbank was too methodical to be astonished. It was his
task to move the active agents during intervals when The Shadow was unable to
give instructions.
"Vincent has gone to Jaffley's," stated Burbank, taking it for granted
that The Shadow had already learned of Jericho's message. "Address 810 Shore
Road, Silverbrook, Long Island. Telephone temporarily disconnected. Impossible
to communicate with Jay Jaffley, except by personal call."
The Shadow questioned Burbank as to the time of Vincent's departure. He
learned that the agent had left fifteen minutes before, in his own car.
Briefly, The Shadow gave new instructions to Burbank; told him to have agents
in readiness for new action. That done, The Shadow came from the drug store.
His leisurely manner ceased the moment that he boarded the cab. His call
was for speed, and Moe gave it. The cab wheeled eastward, headed for the
nearest East River bridge. It was bound for Silverbrook, a Long Island suburb
within the New York City limits. Moe could reach Jaffley's within the next half
an hour.
Temporarily, The Shadow had dropped Sidney Tallam and Roger Barfield, the
insidious chieftains who ruled the Golden Masks. They could come later; for the
present, The Shadow was faring forth to block a scheme of crime. Alone, Harry
Vincent might fail. He had gone to carry a warning to a victim threatened by
the Golden Masks. That was not enough.
Knowing the insidious measures of which the Golden Masks were capable, The
Shadow saw the need of action. Moreover, in his brief reading of Jericho's note,
he had found its details meager. Much might be beneath the surface of the
scheduled episode at Jay Jaffley's Long Island residence.
The Shadow knew. He had been at grips with the leaders of the Golden
Masks. He knew their subtle methods. The Shadow alone could offset the strategy
of the Golden Masks. From the dark, he had struck to gain escape. From the dark,
The Shadow would strike again.
CHAPTER XVII
THE COMING VICTIM
AT the very time when The Shadow was starting his swift trip to Long
Island, a coupe pulled up in front of Jay Jaffley's home at Silverbrook. The
young man who alighted from the car was Harry Vincent. The Shadow's agent had
made an unusually rapid trip to his destination.
Harry had started from the Hotel Metrolite, in New York; he had been
there, temporarily off duty, when he had received Burbank's call. Harry's coupe
had been outside the hotel; he had taken a direct street to an East River
bridge. On the Long Island side, he had caught traffic at an ebb. As a result,
Harry had not lost a single minute in his trip.
As he viewed Jaffley's house, Harry recalled certain facts that Burbank
had given him over the telephone. At his contact post, Burbank kept stacks of
reference books from which he could obtain needed information. The contact man
had gained data concerning Jay Jaffley and Freeland Ralbot, for both were men
of some prominence.
Jaffley rated high. He was an insurance man of considerable standing.
Ralbot, on the contrary, was a promoter of questionable record. Several of his
enterprises had been investigated; and although Ralbot had been cleared in
every case, he was not the sort to be accepted with full confidence.
Therefore, Harry had formed a definite idea of the set-up. Jay Jaffley, a
wealthy man of a conservative type, was to receive a visit from Freeland
Ralbot, a man of doubtful character. Secret steps had been taken to post a
truck in back of Jaffley's garage; in readiness to receive a captured victim.
Unquestionably, underlings who served the Golden Masks would be on hand to make
the seizure.
Noting the secluded situation of Jaffley's house, Harry saw how easy it
would be for a man like Ralbot to take Jaffley unaware. Aided by a strong-arm
crew, Ralbot would have no trouble carrying Jaffley from the house. Harry
pictured Jaffley as another Lengerton, due for serious trouble if he failed to
accept the terms offered by the Golden Masks.
There were no cars in front of the house. Harry took it for granted that
Ralbot had not arrived. Knowing that time was short, Harry went directly to the
front door and rang the bell. He was admitted by a butler, who nodded when Harry
asked if Mr. Jaffley was at home. Harry gave his name; the butler went away and
returned to announce that Jaffley would see him.
HARRY found the insurance man in an enclosed sun parlor near the rear of
the house. Jaffley was short of stature, keen-eyed and dark-haired. He received
Harry with an affable handshake; but it was apparent that he wondered why this
stranger had come here. Harry waited until the butler was gone, then opened
conversation.
"Mr. Jaffley," he said, "I understand that you expect a visit from a man
named Freeland Ralbot."
Jaffley nodded. His face looked puzzled. He seemed to wonder how this
visitor had learned of to-night's appointment.
"I suppose that Ralbot will be here shortly," resumed Harry. "Therefore, I
should like to give you a warning before his arrival. The man is not to be
trusted."
Jaffley smiled indulgently. He seemed to be impressed by Harry's clean-cut
appearance and obvious sincerity. Otherwise, he might have displayed anger at
Harry's blunt statements.
"I know all about Ralbot," remarked Jaffley. "The fellow has a doubtful
past. Men like myself have invested in his enterprises, and have lost money
doing so. I do not intend to make a similar error. I thank you for your
warning, Mr. Vincent; but unless you have new and startling information
regarding Ralbot, we will simply waste time in discussing him."
Harry took the opening that Jaffley's statement offered.
"I have new facts," declared The Shadow's agent, slowly. "Startling ones,
too. Freeland Ralbot is more than an ordinary swindler. He is linked with a
criminal band that has managed to evade the law in all its operations."
The insurance man registered intense interest.
"Let me mention the most recent case," declared Harry, making his tone
more brisk. "A shipping man named James Lengerton was forced, under threat, to
dispose of a million dollars' worth of air-line stocks. Lengerton has
disappeared; his secretary was murdered."
"I know!" exclaimed Jaffley. Then, in a startled, tone: "You believe that
Ralbot was responsible?"
"Not necessarily," returned Harry. "But I believe that he is linked with
the organization that threatened Lengerton. Tell me, Mr. Jaffley; have you
received any veiled threats from an unknown source?"
"None at all."
"Then Ralbot is probably the missionary of the group in question. He will
make the threats."
"If he does, I shall turn him over to the law."
Jaffley spoke with assurance. His smile showed a contempt for any threat
that Ralbot might make. Harry saw need to play a stronger hand.
"The threats will come," he promised, "but Ralbot will probably be cagey
enough to insist that he is acting against his will. He will deliver an
ultimatum from the criminal band. If you refuse it, you will suffer."
Jaffley laughed; his tone showed disbelief and annoyance. He acted as
though he took Harry for a crank.
"Tell me then, Mr. Vincent," suggested the insurance man. "If such an
organization exists, what is the name of it? And how could such a band manage
to harm me? Why do you think that they would strike immediately? Answer those
questions, and perhaps I may believe you."
HARRY hesitated a moment; then, realizing that Ralbot might arrive at any
minute, he staked everything on a complete reply.
"The organization is called the Golden Masks," he declared solemnly. "It
is composed of criminals who have harmed others, and can, therefore, molest
you. As proof that the Golden Masks intend to strike to-night, you will find a
truck hidden in back of your garage, ready to carry you away if necessary."
Harry's words hit home. Jaffley came to his feet in alarm. He started to
call a servant. Harry halted him.
"I would not advise sending men to the garage," warned Harry. "A dangerous
squad may be posted there. Your best step, Mr. Jaffley, is to leave here at
once. Tell your servants that you will return shortly, that you want Ralbot to
wait for you. You can go with me, in my car. We can call the police, have them
capture Ralbot and his crew."
Jaffley nodded, then paused. He eyed Harry sharply, then questioned:
"Just how do you think Ralbot would work his game?"
Harry decided that a prompt answer would be the best method to convince
Jaffley that departure was necessary.
"He will blackmail you," Harry told the insurance man. "That is the method
that was used with Lengerton and others. Ralbot may know something that you
would prefer to have forgotten."
Jaffley shook his head emphatically.
"My past is entirely clear," he declared. "That could not be Ralbot's
method, Mr. Vincent."
"Then he will simply demand a sum of money -"
"Wrong again, Mr. Vincent. Your answers do not fit the circumstances. I
suppose you think that Ralbot approached me regarding his visit here tonight?"
"Of course."
"The case is quite the opposite." Jaffley's smile became hard. "Ralbot's
visit is of my arrangement. He is coming here with cash and stacks of
securities, which he intends to show me as proof that he is worthy to be my
partner in a huge enterprise.
"When Ralbot arrives" - Jaffley reached to a table and picked up a small
folio, from which papers protruded - "I shall show him these. Ralbot will read
confidential reports and affidavits concerning some of his past promotions.
These papers are faked; but Ralbot may not suspect it."
Laying the folio aside, Jaffley indulged in a harsh laugh.
"Freeland Ralbot will either turn over to me the quarter of a million that
he has with him," declared Jaffley, "or be will become a victim. You are right,
Mr. Vincent, when you say that the Golden Masks are dangerous, that they have
made arrangements to carry away a victim. But I shall not become the prisoner.
The man who will be taken is -"
"Freeland Ralbot!"
EJACULATING the name, Harry came to his feet. In an instant he had seen
through the game. It was Jaffley, not Ralbot, who worked with the Golden Masks!
The whole situation was the reverse of the one that Harry had pictured!
With Jaffley at their service, the Golden Masks had the edge on Ralbot.
Jaffley was a man with a high reputation, falsely built. Ralbot was one upon
whom doubt had been cast. No one would ever suspect that Jaffley, man of
supposed integrity, had been instrumental in an attack upon a person of
Ralbot's poor repute.
Just as The Shadow had walked into trouble with Barfield and Tallam, so
had Harry entered a mesh by this visit to Jaffley. With his quick realization,
Harry saw need for fast action. He jabbed his hand to his coat pocket, gripped
an automatic with his fingers. His only chance was to whip out a gun and cover
Jaffley before the crook could move.
Harry never pulled the weapon. As Jaffley leaned back to deliver a
disdainful laugh, two husky servants pounced through from the house door.
Jaffley had witnessed their sneaky arrival, while Harry had not. The brawny
pair was upon The Shadow's agent before Harry could bring his hand from his
pocket.
Though his arms were clipped from in back, Harry put up a fierce struggle.
He twisted half free, dragged his foemen in Jaffley's direction. Then Jaffley
himself came into the fray. He jabbed stout hands for Harry's throat, choked
the prisoner into submission while the others stopped Harry's flaying arms.
As he sank back in the grip of his captors, Harry saw Jaffley step to a
cabinet at the side of the porch. From it, the crook brought a huge glass jar
inverted, and with a rubber-sheeted bottom. A coiled hose unwound as Jaffley
came toward Harry.
While the servants gripped their victim, Jaffley clamped the jar over
Harry's head. Rubber edges rubbed against Harry's face, then formed a collar
about his neck. Another servant arrived to steady the glass jar while Harry
tried to struggle. Jaffley sprang back to the cabinet, pulled a lever there.
Gas hissed about Harry's ears. His nostrils scented a strong, sweetish
odor. The scene faded in a cloud of yellowish vapor which swirled before
Harry's eyes. Through it, he caught glimpses of Jaffley's leering countenance;
he could see the grinning faces of the servants who held him.
WEAKNESS followed. Harry's whole body seemed paralyzed. His eyes bulged;
they could stare, but he could not move them. His neck loosened; Harry's head
thumped the inside of the glass jar. He could not feel the thud.
Yellow blurred his eyes; he was lost in a swirling chaos. Harry's sense of
time was gone; the period that followed seemed interminable, for Harry had no
way of measuring the minutes that passed.
Actually, the time of Harry's ordeal was short; for Jay Jaffley was in a
hurry to dispose of this victim. The dark-haired man choked off the gas within
four minutes after the flow had begun. Jaffley gauged his action by watching
for the sag of Harry's body.
Once the gas was off, Jaffley wasted no additional time. He ordered the
man who held the cylinder to lift it. Away it came; the servants cleared it by
spreading the rubber bottom. The gas that drifted out was quickly absorbed by
the air of the enclosed porch.
Hurriedly, Jaffley replaced the cylinder in its cabinet, along with the
coils of hose. Harry, his eyes fixed in a rigid stare, could see the events
that followed. Though his body seemed nonexistent, his mind was clear. He heard
the order that Jaffley gave.
"Take him out to the truck," rasped the self-admitted crook. "Tell the
driver to take him to the appointed place, then return at once. There will be
another man for him to carry."
The servants lugged Harry through the door to the house, choosing that
route to gain a back door that led outside. Propped between two huskies, Harry
was no burden. His legs dragged, walking almost of their own accord, as
Lengerton's had done that night when he had been removed from his office. Like
Tallam and Barfield on that other night, Jaffley watched the victim's departure.
Standing with one servant still beside him, Jaffley listened. Soon, he
heard the throb of the truck's motor. In less than fifteen minutes after his
arrival at this house, Harry Vincent was being carried away, a prisoner of the
Golden Masks.
The truck's motor faded into the distance. As the sound ended, a new noise
came. It was the tingle of the front door bell. With a hard grin, Jaffley turned
to the servant beside him.
"It is Freeland Ralbot," remarked Jaffley. "Admit him and bring him here
at once."
As the servant left to obey, Jaffley's hard manner altered. Once again, he
was smugly pleasant, as he awaited his next victim. Jay Jaffley felt sure that
the leaders of the Golden Masks would express their full approval of Member
Epsilon's smooth work to-night.
CHAPTER XVIII
THE ASHANTI MASK
HARDLY had Jay Jaffley seated himself beside the sun-porch table when the
servant reappeared, bringing a portly, gray-haired man. Jaffley looked up to
see a pudgy, wide-smiling countenance. He recognized Freeland Ralbot. Jaffley
arose to shake hands with the visitor.
Ralbot looked the part of a glib promoter. He was jolly, affable, warm
with his handshake. He placed a briefcase beside his chair, sat down and began
to put an unnecessary apology for being late.
"I just left a big conference," confided Ralbot. "Whatever your
proposition is, Mr. Jaffley, I can line up half a dozen investors who will be
waving money in their fists. Stock promotion is my specialty."
"So I understand," remarked Jaffley, in a dry tone. "I have heard a great
deal regarding your former enterprises."
Ralbot showed a flicker of worry, then shook his head and smiled.
"They didn't all pan out," he admitted. "When a big deal falls through,
there are always squawks. I didn't make it a practice to be too particular in
choosing investors. Some of them talked big, then didn't put up money when it
was needed. Whenever a proposition flopped, they blamed it on me."
"I understand."
"I know you do, Mr. Jaffley." Ralbot spoke in a tone of real sincerity.
"That's why I agreed to put up a quarter of a million of my own money, to match
the amount you've promised. With half a million as a starter, we can get plenty
more investors interested in this new mutual insurance company. Insurance is
your business. You stand high in that line."
Ralbot paused to motion toward the briefcase.
"The funds are there," he told Jaffley. "The total profits from all of my
promotions that turned out successfully. I'm putting it all in your hands. Just
give me full receipt; and sign our business agreement. If -"
Jaffley waved an interruption. A servant had stopped by the door; he could
hear the others coming into the house.
"You have the key to my coupe?" queried Jaffley, speaking to the servant.
Then, as the man nodded: "Very well. Drive it into the garage. Return here
afterward."
As the servant went away, Jaffley turned to Ralbot, to ask:
"Did you drive here?"
"I came by train," replied Jaffley. "A cab brought me up from the station.
Say - it's great out here in the country. Fresh air everywhere."
He paused to sniff; his fatty forehead furrowed.
"You must have some fine flower beds, Mr. Jaffley," remarked Ralbot.
"There seems to be a perfume in this sun porch."
"Yes," agreed Jaffley, with a slight smile. "You must come here in the
daytime, Mr. Ralbot. The flower gardens are magnificent. But let us get back to
business, Mr. Ralbot. Before we proceed further, I want you to look over these."
JAFFLEY handed Ralbot the folio that was on the table. The promoter drew
out papers with his pudgy hands, began to study the documents. His gaze
narrowed; his lips stiffened as they lost their smile.
"These are lies!" exclaimed Ralbot. "I never swindled the investors who
put money into those Pacific Coast companies! I can disprove every statement!"
"Some of those are signed affidavits," remarked Jaffley, indicating
certain papers. "Look them over more carefully."
"The men who signed them have committed perjury!" stormed Ralbot. "These
are lies, I tell you!"
"What if they were made public?" queried Jaffley, in a speculative tone.
"Do you think they would help us in the promotion of a new insurance company?"
"Of course not," retorted Ralbot. "But there is no need to make them
public. They would cause me annoyance, of course."
"I see. Then they would just about ruin any new promotion that you might
undertake."
Ralbot chewed his fattish lips. He saw Jaffley's point. Spiking these
charges would be a difficult task; one that might not work out to Ralbot's
benefit. Jaffley emphasized it.
"If the signers of these affidavits appeared in court," he told Ralbot,
"and stood by their sworn statements, the burden would be thrown on you.
Perhaps those men believe that they were swindled. I think that a jury would be
inclined to stand by them. Of course, if we could manage to get new affidavits
from the same persons, repudiating those, matters would be better. Similarly, I
think that the confidential reports could be forgotten."
"Maybe you're right," admitted Ralbot. "You want me to settle these
matters before we go ahead with our new promotion. Very well. Twenty or thirty
thousand dollars would do it. I can scrape that together, without touching the
quarter million that I am turning over to you."
"You misunderstand me," returned Jaffley. "The terms are these, Mr.
Ralbot. You can keep these affidavits and reports. I shall obtain retractions
and forward them to you. Everything will be perfectly smoothed, out of the
money that you leave with me to-night."
"About twenty thousand dollars of it?"
"No, no. All of the quarter million. It is quite simple, Mr. Ralbot. I
keep your funds, but give you no receipt. You leave here, a bit wiser than
before you came. Wise enough, in fact, to say nothing about the matter -"
Ralbot bellowed an interruption as he came to his feet. He shook a fat
fist in Jaffley's face.
"This is a holdup!" roared Ralbot. "You're a crook, Jaffley, but you can't
get away with it! I'm too wise for you! There are securities here that need my
signature for proper transfer -"
"So I supposed," interposed Jaffley. "Of course, you will sign them?"
"Never! No threat can make me do so!"
Jaffley snapped his fingers. His three servants appeared with precision.
Ralbot turned clumsily about, gaped as he saw the strong-arm crew in the wide
doorway.
"Will you sign over your securities, Mr. Ralbot?"
"No." Ralbot scowled the retort, in reply to Jaffley's question. "You
can't thug me into it, Jaffley. If this mob of yours murders me, the law will
know that something is wrong. You'll never cash that stuff, Jaffley. It will be
too hot for you."
"You will be persuaded later," remarked Jaffley. "Fortunately, I know that
you have wisely refrained from telling any one that you had business with me. I
know a form of treatment that makes men glad to do as they are told, and keep
quiet into the bargain."
ANOTHER snap of Jaffley's fingers. As one, the three servants sprang upon
the pudgy man. They buckled Ralbot's arms behind him, stifled the cries that he
tried to give. Two were enough to hold Ralbot. The third servant produced the
gas cylinder. Jaffley nodded for them to proceed. Calmly, he walked into the
house.
Purple of face Ralbot collapsed before the cylinder was clamped over his
beefy head. He was no match for the men who grappled with him; the two who held
him were actually propping his shaky body when the third applied the big glass
jar. Substituting for Jaffley, that third servant turned on the gas. A new
supply of the yellowish anesthetic enveloped Ralbot's head. The servants gave
good measure. Five minutes were gone before the cylinder was lifted. Two men
still supported Ralbot; the third drew away the big glass. Ugly-faced,
Jaffley's servitors surveyed their handiwork, jesting as they looked at
Ralbot's bulgy eyes, which formed a ludicrous sight as they stared from above
the victim's fatty cheeks.
The man with the cylinder turned away, just as the others swung Ralbot
about. He chanced to observe the inner door before the others. The gulp that he
gave was so sudden that it halted the others in alarm. They saw their comrade
staring with a glassy gaze that was as fixed as Ralbot's. For a moment, they
thought that he had received a dose of the paralyzing gas.
Then their own eyes bulged.
This trio had expected Jaffley to return. Instead, an intruder had stepped
from the house door. He had come like a ghost, this invader, and his garb made
him appear as a being from another plane. He was cloaked in black from head to
foot.
Jaffley's minions were faced by The Shadow. Eyes burned upon them. Looming
automatics displayed their yawning muzzles.
A hissed command told crooks to stand as they were. The two who held
Ralbot trembled; the bulky man slipped slowly from their clutch, to flop in
huddled fashion on the floor. The third man was shaky; the glass cylinder
nearly clattered from his hands. The Shadow stepped forward, to back him to the
table.
The Shadow gestured with a gun; trembling, the servant turned to set down
the cylinder. The jar gave a clang as it thumped upon the table. The glass
delivered a sharp echo; it was that resonant sound that changed the situation.
The peculiar clang drowned another noise; that of approaching footsteps.
The Shadow did not hear them for the moment. He was an instant late when he
sensed the approach of danger. The Shadow wheeled about, in the very midst of
his three foemen, to see another enemy coming from the house door.
It was Jay Jaffley. He had arrived, carrying a suitcase with him. At sight
of The Shadow, Jaffley had leaped forward. The bag bounded from his hand and
fell to the floor; with his other fist, Jaffley whipped forth a revolver from
his pocket.
JAFFLEY'S attack was instinctive. Another fighter might have depended on
his gun alone, or made a bare-handed forward spring. The Shadow could have
frustrated either form of attack. But Jaffley's double mode of action put The
Shadow at a disadvantage.
For the instant, he could risk neither a quick shot nor a grapple. The
Shadow faded; in so doing, he sidestepped almost into the arms of the men who
had dropped Ralbot. He twisted, expecting to be away before they saw their
opportunity to fall upon him. A hoarse shout from Jaffley inspired them to
action.
One from each side, the bruisers grabbed for The Shadow's arms. Each was
lucky enough to gain a hold. As they wrested The Shadow back, his gun hands
swung up; the weapons pointed above Jaffley's head. With a snarl, Jaffley
aimed; his men bent at The Shadow's arms, to poise their prisoner in front of
Jaffley's gun.
The Shadow doubled as the grip tightened. He lunged forward; his feet
swung up from the floor. Jaffley, jabbing his gun close to The Shadow's chest,
was at the very spot The Shadow wanted him to be.
As the weight of his body lurched him from the clutching servants, The
Shadow hit Jaffley's shoulder, feet foremost. His body had the drive of a
battering ram. Jaffley spun about, hit the floor. His revolver clattered away.
Coming to hands and knees, Jaffley saw his gun lying six feet distant.
Twisting into a sprawl, The Shadow was throwing his body upon the weapon,
hauling the men who grasped him. They were stumbling with their temporary
prisoner. Neither one dared to loosen his grip.
The third servant had dived for the corner where the cabinet stood. He was
reaching in his pocket for a revolver. Jaffley saw the futility of shots while
The Shadow was twisted in a struggle with two men who were too valuable to
lose. He roared a command to the man at the cabinet, telling him to start the
gas.
The servant obeyed. Jaffley seized the glass cylinder; he pounced toward
The Shadow, coming low, to avoid the gun muzzles that still pointed upward.
Gripped tightly, The Shadow was motionless for the moment. Jaffley saw his
chance to jam the hissing cylinder over the head that wore the slouch hat. With
a long sweep of his arms, Jaffley brought the big jar forward.
With a hand that was tight against his body, The Shadow pressed the
trigger of an automatic. His aim was not for Jaffley; he fired at a closer
target. Tilted at the upward angle of a howitzer, The Shadow's .45 was set for
a mark it could not miss.
Flame tongued straight for the glass-filled cylinder. A bullet crashed the
rounded object, shattered it in Jaffley's very grasp. Glass clattered
everywhere; chunks pummeled The Shadow's hat as he ducked his head. Large
slivers rattled about Jaffley as the dark-haired crook sprang back with a loud
cry. Unlike the barriers that were in Sidney Tallam's house, the glass jar was
not shatterproof. The Golden Masks had not foreseen a catastrophe such as this.
In one well-chosen shot, The Shadow had changed the entire fray.
Like Jaffley, the men who grappled with The Shadow tried to avoid the
chunks of flying glass. It was an instinctive move on their part - one that The
Shadow himself might have performed, had he not known that the smash was to
come. In that brief falter, the servants lost their hold upon The Shadow; for
his lurch was a forward one.
The only man who could have stopped The Shadow was the servant by the
cabinet. He not only saw the cloaked fighter snap upward, free and ready for
battle; he spied the end of the hose that had been attached to the gas
cylinder. From it, a sweep of yellow vapor was pouring into the confines of the
enclosed porch.
THE fellow tried to perform two actions at once. He aimed for The Shadow
with his gun; with his other hand, he grabbed for the valve that controlled the
gas. Hastily, he snapped the revolver trigger; a bullet sizzled six inches wide
of The Shadow's cloaked shoulder. That one shot was the servant's last chance.
The Shadow stabbed a reply. His bullet clipped the man's gun arm; sent the
rogue spinning to the floor, howling as he fell. The wounded man forgot the
lever on the cabinet. The flow of gas maintained its hiss.
The two men who had grappled with The Shadow were coming to their feet,
while Jaffley dived to regain his lost revolver. The Shadow drove directly
toward his foemen. As the first tried to grab him, bare-fisted, The Shadow
sprawled him with a sledgelike blow from an automatic. The other servant
stopped halfway to his feet, yanking a revolver, to aim. The Shadow beat him to
the shot, winged his shoulder with a scalding bullet.
Only Jaffley remained. He had taken his revolver on a pick-up; he had the
gun leveled as he swung about in the doorway. Jaffley hoped to drop The Shadow,
then take to flight. He saw The Shadow spinning toward the wall, almost beside
him. They were separated only by the width of a door that was opened outward,
flat against the wall of the sun porch.
Gripping an automatic, The Shadow's left hand had reached the wall to stop
his spin. His right was still aiming its gun toward the man whom he had wounded.
Instead of pausing to aim, The Shadow hooked the loose door with his left hand
gun, swung it shut with a terrific slam. Jaffley ducked sidewise from the
doorway, stabbing vicious shots. Like the man at the cabinet, he made the
mistake of trying two moves at once.
Jaffley had not only lost his aim; by leaping back to a corner of the
porch, he had increased the range. His shots zimmed wide. Right-handed, The
Shadow fired for Jaffley's body. The single bullet found the crook's heart.
Jaffley's leap ended in a long dive to the floor. A member of the Golden Masks,
Jaffley was a murderer. His doom was earned.
The Shadow viewed the three servants. One was stunned; the wounded men
were groaning as they crawled along the floor. Those two had no fight left.
Their gasps were coughed; for yellow gas was forming a rising layer on the low
level of the floor. Thrusting his automatics beneath his cloak, The Shadow
hoisted Freeland Ralbot.
The Shadow breathed the full strength of the sweetish gas as he stooped to
the floor; but his stay was only a matter of seconds. Shoving Ralbot's loosened
form through the doorway, The Shadow stopped inside the house. He closed the
porch doors; through the glass, he saw Jaffley's servants succumbing to the
creeping gas. Soon they would forget the pain of their wounds. None of them
would talk or act for many hours to come.
Leaning Ralbot's body against his shoulder The Shadow steadied the gassed
man in balanced position. With a free hand, The Shadow picked up Jaffley's
suitcase, then walked Ralbot along in mechanical fashion. Halfway to the front
door, The Shadow was met by Moe Shrevnitz, who had dashed in from the cab after
hearing the shots. Together, they took Ralbot out to the taxi.
COMMOTION had begun in a neighboring house. Shots had been heard; probably
a call had gone to the police. The Shadow ordered Moe to drive for Manhattan, to
place Freeland Ralbot in some safe spot. With that, The Shadow moved away in
darkness, taking Jaffley's bag with him. The cab sped off.
Soon afterward, sirens sounded. The Shadow heard them, from a lurking spot
behind a hedge, where he had a distant view of Jaffley's house. Far enough away
to elude any searchers, The Shadow shielded a flashlight and focused its rays
upon Jaffley's suitcase. He opened the bag. Gold glimmered from within.
There, set upon a crinkly robe, was an Ashanti mask; the one that Jaffley
wore as Member Epsilon. Golden lips wore their half smile. That fixed face
seemed to express the insidious spirit that guided the Golden Masks in their
reign of crime.
Jericho had written the title of "Member Epsilon" in his note to Hawkeye.
The Shadow knew that it was the name that Jay Jaffley bore. As Member Epsilon,
Jaffley had intended to attend tonight's meeting of the Golden Masks.
That was a fact that would be useful to The Shadow; but there were other
facts that he also recognized. The Shadow knew that Harry Vincent must have
been captured and carried away, a prisoner in the truck. Since Freeland Ralbot
was to be a later victim, the truck would soon return.
Posted on the route by which the truck was due to come, The Shadow
intended to await later developments. He needed a trail to the hidden meeting
place of the Golden Masks; and he had chosen the best way to gain it.
The flashlight's glimmer ended. The lid of the suitcase closed. The Shadow
waited silently. His vigil was intent as the minutes passed. Opportunity had
come The Shadow's way, and it was a golden one. Golden in the shape of an
Ashanti mask that was to become The Shadow's passport to a throne room of crime.
CHAPTER XIX
THE DOUBLE TRAIL
ONE factor had aided The Shadow immensely in his escape from the dungeon
of the Golden Masks. The Ashanti whom Lothkal had sent upstairs to Bronden had
not returned within the specific time. That was why Lothkal had decided to open
the doors of The Shadow's cell, for no word had come to restrain him from that
task.
There was a simple reason why the new Ashanti had not returned. He had met
Jericho in the hallway on the second floor.
Jericho had let Bronden pass through to the living room, for he knew that
the lieutenant was too important a person to be dealt with early in the game.
With Tallam and Barfield gone, Jericho had formed a simple and primitive plan.
That was to dispose of persons who would not soon be missed, taking them one at
a time. While still debating on the merits of such policy, the arrival of the
recruit had caused Jericho to proceed.
Meeting Jericho in the middle of the hall, the Ashanti had stopped to talk
in sign language. He pointed toward the doorway of the living room, to indicate
that he had a message for Bronden. Jericho had answered with a headshake, and a
pointed finger toward a side door that led into a darkened bedroom.
Wondering, the Ashanti had entered; and Jericho had followed, to close the
door after him. When the door had opened a few minutes later, only Jericho had
returned, to resume his patrol in the hallway.
During the next hour, Jericho stopped often at the living room, to see
Bronden seated at Tallam's desk, deeply engrossed with stacks of papers. At
intervals, Jericho had been tempted to creep in upon him; but he had remembered
the peculiar immunity that the alcoves offered. Therefore, Jericho waited.
It was Bronden who ended the idle spell. He appeared suddenly at the
doorway; looked at Jericho and demanded:
"Where's Lothkal? Didn't he come up here?"
Jericho looked blank. "Did he send that fellow who was with him?" queried
Bronden. "I told him to let me know before he opened the other cell."
Jericho stared soberly. Bronden suddenly recalled that this new servitor
did not speak English. With an impatient gesture, he ordered Jericho to follow
him. Wisely, Jericho obeyed. He guessed that Bronden was going down to the
cells. This would be a good opportunity to see what could be done to aid The
Shadow.
WHEN they reached the cell passage, Bronden stared in puzzlement. He had
expected to see Lothkal. Motioning to Jericho to remain on guard, Bronden went
to the front of the passage, opened the big door and raised a shout for
Seeklat. Soon, the fellow appeared from somewhere. Bronden questioned him in
English.
"Where is Lothkal?" demanded the lieutenant. "He was supposed to be in
charge here, with the new man."
"Not see Lothkal," replied Seeklat, solemnly. "Me sleep."
Bronden looked toward The Shadow's cell. Angrily, he thrust his hand into
his pocket and brought out a large revolver. Ordering Seeklat to back him,
motioning Jericho to do the same, Bronden pulled the switches that controlled
the doors of The Shadow's cell. Ready with his revolver, he produced a
flashlight as soon as the door came open. Flicking the light, Bronden threw the
glow upon the floor.
The lieutenant chuckled harshly when he saw the prone, cloaked figure. He
waited for the gas to thin. All the while, Jericho was tightening in
preparation for a double struggle. If harm threatened The Shadow, he intended
to take out Bronden first.
About to enter the cell, Bronden stopped. He turned to Seeklat.
"This doesn't tell us where Lothkal is," snarled Bronden. "He knows enough
to stay on duty. Where could he have gone to, Seeklat?"
Bronden had brought away the flashlight; but the glow from the passage
stretched across the threshold of the cell, once the doors were opened. In
answer to Bronden's query, Seeklat stared. Trained to sharp observation,
Seeklat had noticed a bulkiness about the cloaked figure on the floor. He
pointed; then announced:
"Look there."
"Where?" demanded Bronden. He turned the flashlight toward the walls of
the cell. "Lothkal isn't in here. Wait, though - there's something -"
Bronden had spotted the broken wall bracket. He went over to examine it.
Sensing that something was wrong, he turned about to see Seeklat stolidly
stepping into the cell. Framed against the light from the passage, Seeklat
pointed to the cloaked shape and again stated:
"Look there."
With a sudden understanding, Bronden came over with his flashlight. He
stopped and pulled away The Shadow's hat and cloak. He fumed as he saw the
figure beneath. There was the face of Lothkal, staring upward with huge,
bulging eyes.
Bronden stood dumbfounded. The odor of gas still persisted in the room;
Lothkal was plainly paralyzed by the fumes. Yet The Shadow had managed to
withstand the dosage, to overpower Lothkal and leave the Ashanti in his place.
Jericho viewed all this from the door. He repressed the elated grin that
crept to his lips. To Jericho, also, the escape was a mystery; but he was used
to such exploits on the part of The Shadow.
Events had taken an amazing turn. If any one should be blamed for
cooperating in The Shadow's escape, it would be the new Ashanti, whom Jericho
had left in an upstairs closet. Bronden himself knew that Jericho had been
guarding the second floor. Bronden, however, was too excited to think of
anything but the fact that The Shadow was at large.
"You stay here, Seeklat," snapped the lieutenant. "Keep this big fellow
with you. Better wake the other men who are asleep. Have every one ready when I
get back."
Bronden hurried to the rear of the corridor; there, he stopped to open the
door of an unoccupied cell. He brought out a suitcase of his own, then headed
toward the distant exit. He was off for the meeting of the Golden Masks, to
inform the leaders that The Shadow had escaped.
Seeklat motioned to Jericho. His gestures signified that the latter was to
stay on patrol duty in the passage. Seeklat intended to rouse the remaining
Ashanti tribesmen, to have them ready when Bronden returned. That would mean a
search of the house, for traces of The Shadow.
Jericho regretted that he had been lenient with the recruit whom he had
bound and gagged upstairs. If the fellow could be found unconscious, his plight
might be attributed to The Shadow. But Jericho felt sure that the recruit had
recovered; he knew that the man would tell who had attacked him. Foreseeing
trouble, Jericho took the best way out.
He sprang for Seeklat, as the huge Ashanti was turning toward the front of
the passage. Seeklat sensed the attack, swung quickly to meet his antagonist.
JERICHO was powerful; he had proven that in his quick disposal of the man
upstairs. There, Jericho had dealt with an opponent just about his equal in
size. Seeklat was more formidable. The huge Ashanti was almost the twin of
Lothkal, whom The Shadow had overcome only by a superhuman fight.
Inches taller and pounds heavier than Jericho, Seeklat had an advantage as
the battle began. He did not have the edge that Lothkal had held over The
Shadow; for Jericho was heavy enough to hold his footing when Seeklat tried to
sling him. Nevertheless, the fray looked hopeless for Jericho.
It was a strange match, this one. Seeklat fought with the savage instinct
of a jungle battler. Jericho used methods that he had employed against thugs.
In the back of Jericho's head were recollections of surprising methods that he
had seen The Shadow introduce in conflict.
The fighters were eye to eye; Seeklat glaring like a savage war dancer,
Jericho grinning as though he enjoyed the fray. They staggered back and forth
across the passage, each trying to hurl the other against a wall. Each stopped
himself by a brace whenever his back neared the wall. Both were able to absorb
the jolts.
Though the fight was equal for the first few minutes, it was obvious that
Seeklat would wear down Jericho. The latter knew it. He watched for a break.
One came, just as Seeklat jammed Jericho against the wall beside Lengerton's
door.
As he took the jolt and rallied, Jericho saw beyond Seeklat's shoulder.
Across the passage was the doorway of the cell that had once held The Shadow.
Bronden had left the two doors open.
The space became Jericho's objective.
Heaving against Seeklat, Jericho drove the Ashanti backward. Seeklat let
himself be shoved, expecting a quick opportunity to rally. As they reached the
far side of the passage, Seeklat braced. He prepared for a rebound when his
shoulders struck the wall.
Jericho gave harder impetus. Seeklat let his shoulders go back. Instead of
encountering solid wall, they went through the open doorway. The huge Ashanti
toppled off balance; Jericho hurled him to the floor inside the cell, only
three feet from Lothkal's prone body.
Seeklat was not through. His hands grabbed for Jericho's throat. Seeklat's
head came up; Jericho drove a big fist to the Ashanti's jaw. The blow flattened
Seeklat; but failed to stun him.
Jericho was smart enough not to try again. Instead, he sprang away from
Seeklat's clutch and leaped from the cell before the Ashanti could regain his
feet. Jericho yanked the lever that controlled the steel door.
Looking toward the cell, Jericho caught a last glimpse of Seeklat's
glaring face beyond the closing barrier. The Ashanti was too late to make the
exit. He pounded against the steel door from inside. Jericho pulled the second
lever; closed the glass barrier. It deadened any noise that Seeklat made.
The gas had thinned within the cell. Seeklat would not succumb like
Lothkal. Nevertheless, he was bottled up helplessly. He had lost his chance to
rouse the other Ashanti servants. Jericho began to pace the passage. His idea
was to be on duty when Bronden returned, to dispose of the lieutenant when he
inquired for Seeklat.
THERE was a reason, however, why Bronden did not return. The lieutenant
had headed for the meeting of the Golden Masks, to appear there as Member
Gamma. Bronden had passed the secret exit; he had gone through the side door of
the garage. Carrying his bag, he was walking briskly, pausing at intervals to
make sure that no one was on his trail.
Bronden soon satisfied himself that he was unfollowed. He was wrong.
Hawkeye had spotted him and was artfully keeping him in sight. The course led
along secluded streets; darkened flights of steps and doorways gave the trailer
an easy task. Following Bronden was much simpler than trailing Seeklat.
After a circuitous route of nearly one mile, Bronden came to a large
warehouse. He turned and entered an alleyway between the warehouse and another
building. Listening, Hawkeye heard the echoes of Bronden's quick footsteps,
then noted that the sound made a sudden fade-away.
Hawkeye guessed that there was a larger area at the end of the alley. He
was right. Bronden had gone to the same place where Sulgate and other members
of the Golden Masks had traveled by cab. Holding the full confidence of Tallam
and Barfield, Bronden had been given the location of the meeting place.
Hawkeye decided to enter the alleyway. He reversed his decision suddenly,
as he saw headlights swing from a corner of the outer street. Diving away,
Hawkeye made for the building across the alley from the warehouse. He found a
doorway and hunched himself there.
The headlights were those of a truck. The vehicle slowed as it came to the
alley; it turned in and rolled through to the courtyard. Hawkeye bobbed from his
hiding place. He peered into the alley, saw the truck's tail-light, stopped some
distance ahead. Hawkeye crept in the direction of the truck.
When he reached the side of the truck, Hawkeye heard mumbled voices from
the front seat. Edging closer, he caught snatches of conversation between two
men.
"Take the note up in the elevator," growled one speaker. "Give it to the
big guy there. He'll recognize you."
"Maybe I'd better wait there -"
"Not a chance. The guard won't let you stay. We gotta scram and stow this
truck somewhere."
"But we was supposed to bring in another mug from Long Island -"
"And we couldn't get near the house. The bulls was there. That's all in
the note. If we're needed, they'll know where they can get us."
One man alighted, while the other remained at the wheel. Hawkeye edged
back along the truck; he stopped abruptly as his ears caught a slight sound
near the back of the vehicle. Hawkeye breathed tensely; his presence was
suddenly detected. Not by the truck driver, but by an unseen being who stepped
from behind the truck.
AN action that had occurred more than an hour ago was suddenly repeated. A
gloved hand clamped Hawkeye's arm. Hard-pressing fingers were as sure a symbol
of identity as was the subdued hiss that sounded in Hawkeye's ear.
The Shadow had come from the truck. He had boarded it on Long Island, near
Jaffley's house. He had ridden into Manhattan, straight to the meeting place of
the Golden Masks.
The Shadow drew Hawkeye out through the alleyway. They stopped in the
doorway; there, Hawkeye heard a suitcase thump as The Shadow set it down. In
brief tones, The Shadow gave instructions. Hawkeye was to report to Burbank,
with orders for the contact man. Hardly had The Shadow completed his
instructions before a whine sounded from the alley. The truck was backing out
to the street.
Both The Shadow and Hawkeye escaped observation as the truck pulled away.
The Shadow gave a commanding hiss; it was the order for Hawkeye to start off
and deliver his call to Burbank. Nodding, Hawkeye stepped from the doorway. He
darted a look up and down the street, to see that the way was clear. He paused
a moment, to blink; he turned toward the doorway and saw its dim outline in the
darkness.
The Shadow was gone, taking along the bag that he had brought. Though The
Shadow had stepped away, Hawkeye had not seen him in those sharp glances along
the street. The answer dawned on Hawkeye as he started off upon his mission.
There was only one place where The Shadow could have gone so suddenly.
That was into the alley that led to the courtyard. Realizing the fact, Hawkeye
gained an inkling of The Shadow's own plans.
The Shadow had gained the end of a double trail; one that both he and
Hawkeye had traced. Lone-handed, The Shadow was going to the meeting of the
Golden Masks.
CHAPTER XX
THE MASKS REPORT
WITHIN their room of gilded draperies, the Golden Masks were in session.
Upon their platform, with its crimson backdrop, stood Tallam and Barfield.
Masked, their identities were unknown to their followers. Here, Tallam and
Barfield were known only as Alpha and Omega.
Except to one man, who stood near the platform. He was a member who had
but recently entered, to identify himself as Gamma. This man was Bronden;
called to the dais, he had delivered a confidential report to the leaders.
Tallam was speaking, in the harsh voice of Alpha. His words came through
the fixed smile of motionless metal lips.
"Member Gamma brings an unusual report," rasped Tallam. "He states that a
prisoner has escaped us. Such an event has never occurred before. Nevertheless,
it gives us no occasion for alarm. The prisoner was an enemy who sought to
thwart us. While he was making his escape, we captured another who will serve
as hostage in his place."
Tallam turned about; Barfield did the same. As token of their mutual
authority, Alpha and Omega each gave a clap with their golden-gloved hands.
Crimson curtains parted, to show a room beyond. From it stepped two Ashanti
warriors.
Across their shoulders, they carried two spears, like the bars of a
stretcher. Thongs formed a crude resting place between the spears. Upon the
improvised stretcher lay the prisoner. The captive was Harry Vincent.
Advancing to the front of the platform, the two Ashanti set the stretcher
near the edge. They lifted Harry from it, placed him at the feet of Alpha and
Omega. Lifting the lashed spears, the warriors went back through the curtains.
The draperies closed.
Tallam gestured a gauntlet toward Harry, while the Golden Masks thronged
slowly forward to view their prisoner. In the tone that he used as Alpha,
Tallam pronounced:
"This prisoner is a tribute from Member Epsilon. Soon we shall have
another captive; the one whom Epsilon was assigned to bring. Our new prisoner
will be Freeland Ralbot, whose capture will produce a quarter of a million
dollars for our coffers."
There were subdued buzzes from the lesser Golden Masks. Some of them had
heard of Ralbot. Tallam silenced the slight commotion, then looked toward the
door as Barfield pointed in that direction.
THE Ashanti who guarded the outside barrier had entered. Spear in one
hand, he was placing the fingers of his other hand to his forehead, as token of
his servitude. Tallam noted a sheet of paper that the Ashanti clutched in the
hand that held the spear. He sent Bronden to bring it. As soon as Bronden
received the paper, the Ashanti retired to his post.
"Let me have the message, Member Gamma," ordered Tallam. Receiving the
paper, he opened it, then said to Barfield: "Read it with me, Omega."
The two studied the paper. It was the message from the truck driver.
Tallam crumpled the sheet, rasped a command for silence.
"Our plans have been hindered," he informed. "Men went to gain the
prisoner we wanted; but they have not brought him. Possibly Member Epsilon has
failed to capture Freeland Ralbot. Since Member Epsilon has not appeared, this
meeting must be adjourned."
Deep silence gripped the Golden Masks. Lying on the floor, Harry Vincent
could sense the stillness. His eyes, staring upward, saw the gold faces of
Alpha, Omega and Gamma. Harry knew that all the other members must be wearing
identical masks.
In his urge to count the remainder of the throng, Harry instinctively
turned his neck. He had moved it but an inch when he found himself wondering at
his own action. Ever since he had been paralyzed by the gas, Harry had realized
the futility of attempting motion. At times, he had felt a slight bodily
sensation, but had classed it as his imagination.
The response of his neck had told him the truth. Jay Jaffley had been too
brief with the gas dosage. He had removed the cylinder the moment that Harry
had become limp. Instead of being under for a forty-eight-hour spell, Harry had
already recovered.
Elation seized Harry, then faded. Though he wanted to rise, he restrained
himself. He kept his eyes straight upward, fighting against a growing desire to
blink them. None of the Golden Masks had noted Harry's slight motion. It would
be suicidal to let them know that he had recovered.
Harry's only hope was to pretend that he was helpless, on the chance that
he would be able to make a break later on. He was too concerned with his own
situation to wonder about what had happened at Jaffley's. Harry still thought
that The Shadow was a prisoner. Harry had taken it for granted that his own
mistake had made Ralbot's capture a certainty.
Barfield, as Omega, pronounced his agreement with Alpha's order for
adjournment. The lesser members stepped back to the center of the room; Bronden
joined them, for as Gamma, he was but one of the group. The leaders went through
a brief ritual, turned about to take their places on their thrones, as final
token that the meeting was ended.
AT that moment, the outer door opened. Tallam and Barfield halted, as a
new member of the Golden Masks stepped into view. The only absentee was Member
Epsilon. The leaders gazed with eyes that showed elation as the newcomer
approached the platform. They were ready to receive Jay Jaffley's last-minute
report.
Approaching Tallam, the final member paused; in low monotone, he
pronounced:
"I am Epsilon. I speak to Alpha."
"Alpha replies to Epsilon," voiced Tallam, eagerly. "Epsilon will give the
first countersign."
"Ashanti."
The newcomer turned to Barfield:
"I am Epsilon. I speak to Omega."
"Omega replies to Epsilon," answered Barfield. "Epsilon will give the
second countersign."
"Kumasi."
Immediately, Tallam and Barfield hissed in low tones. Breathlessly, they
called for Epsilon's confidential report. Bronden edged forward, to try and
overhear it. To Harry Vincent, lying face upward at the very feet of the men on
the platform, all the words were plain.
"Ralbot offered trouble." The words were calm as they came from the mask
of Member Epsilon. "Others came to his aid. I was forced to carry Ralbot away
myself."
"Your servants?" queried Tallam. "What happened to them?"
"I left them to explain matters to the police. There was a great commotion
at the house. People reported it."
"Ralbot's money?" quizzed Barfield. "Did he bring it?"
"Yes. I acquired it. I have placed it in a safe spot. Ralbot received the
gas treatment. I have put him where no one will find him."
WORDS of approval came from Tallam and Barfield. Their eyes glistened with
evil delight. Harry Vincent, looking straight up, saw the eyes of Member
Epsilon. He seemed to sense that they were looking downward toward him. By this
time, Harry could no longer repress a blink. He winced as his eyelids closed. He
thought his game was finished.
Instead, Harry heard another low tone from the metal lips of the arrival
who called himself Member Epsilon.
"I brought certain of Ralbot's documents with me," announced the newcomer,
"so that you would have proof of my success. Let me give them to you, Alpha.
Then you and Omega can announce that all went well."
As he spoke, the masked arrival drew away his golden-hued gauntlets. He
performed the action with his hands palms upward. Tallam and Barfield saw the
gold circle of a ring within the third finger of his left hand; to them it
meant nothing.
To Harry, staring upward, unnoticed by any save Member Epsilon, the ring
revealed the truth. He could see a glimmering stone on the lowered back of the
hand. The gem was a resplendent fire opal that showed depths of ever-changing
hues. Harry recognized the jewel the instant that he saw it.
The gem was The Shadow's girasol! Lone emblem of The Shadow, that stone
was a mark of identity. It meant that Member Epsilon was The Shadow.
Alone, The Shadow had come here not only to effect Harry's rescue, but to
deal with the Golden Masks within their own domain.
CHAPTER XXI
MASKED BATTLE
QUICK realization came to Harry Vincent. He knew that The Shadow must have
escaped from imprisonment; also that his chief had reached Long Island in time
to conquer Jay Jaffley and take the latter's place.
The flash of the girasol told all that; it specified more that Harry
understood. The Shadow had seen Harry's motion; he knew that his agent was
recovered and ready for action. Harry gave a response.
Tightening, he set his muscles, delivered a slight nod with his head
against the floor. This signified that his recovery was complete. The Shadow,
however, had taken that for granted. He had experienced a prompt recovery of
his own, after the gas treatment in Tallam's house.
Stepping down from the platform, The Shadow thrust his ungloved hands into
the slitted pockets of his golden robe. His move was not too hasty, for he was
still playing the part of Jaffley. The Shadow was actually reaching for
automatics, not for documents. Before he could gain them, a sudden interruption
came from Bronden.
The lieutenant saw Harry move. Bronden uttered a warning cry. Tallam and
Barfield thought that the warning referred to a false move by Member Epsilon.
They reached for their own guns, just as The Shadow whipped forth his weapons.
A laugh burst from the false lips of Jaffley's mask. Weird and shivering,
it echoed from above the platform.
Half turning, The Shadow aimed one gun for Tallam and Barfield; he pointed
the other .45 toward the lesser members, congregated in the center of the room.
TALLAM and Barfield sprang back, their guns unleveled. The Shadow stabbed
his first shot toward the murderers. He wanted to drop those leaders, knowing
that their fall would throw confusion into the ranks of the Golden Masks. He
fired one shot at random; he had Barfield covered for the second.
But as The Shadow pressed the trigger, a chance attack spoiled his aim.
Bronden was leaping for The Shadow. Though wild in his dive, he managed to
clutch the robed fighter's arm. The bullet that The Shadow dispatched went wide
of Barfield, who made a dive after Tallam, toward the curtains.
The Shadow flung Bronden aside. Harry, rolling from the platform, pounced
upon the fellow, snatched away a gun that Bronden tried to draw. The Shadow
aimed for the curtains; just then, a darkish face and ebony arm appeared
between them. One of the Ashanti had arrived with a war spear. He flung the
weapon for The Shadow.
Diving forward, The Shadow was beneath the spear as it slithered toward
his robed form. The point barely grazed the cowl above The Shadow's golden
mask. Almost to the platform, The Shadow aimed, ready to riddle the crimson
curtain with a fusillade of shots.
From the edge of the dome, a glass curtain thudded to the platform. Either
Tallam or Barfield had pulled a switch, to release one of their bulletproof
barriers. The leaders of the Golden Masks were cut off from The Shadow's
vengeance. They were ready for flight by another exit, trusting to their
followers to dispose of The Shadow.
In this swift conflict, The Shadow had not forgotten the danger from the
horde behind him. The rest of the Golden Masks had waited momentarily, dazed
and startled by the kaleidoscopic shifts near the platform. The Shadow's shots;
Bronden's leap; the dive by Tallam and Barfield; the fling of the Ashanti's
spear - all had come within scant seconds.
Nevertheless, the horde of Golden Masks had moved by the time The Shadow
wheeled. Most of the crooks were armed; more than a dozen of them were whipping
revolvers from the pockets of their robes. Had The Shadow halted against such
numbers, he would have been doubly doomed. First, from the crowd itself; again,
from some return attack by Tallam and Barfield, who had delayed their flight to
watch through the glass barrier.
Harry Vincent had rolled to a corner, dragging Bronden. Half shielded by
the prone lieutenant, he was ready with the revolver to give The Shadow aid.
For the moment, the odds seemed hopeless to Harry. Then came the move that
changed the entire scene.
The Shadow flung himself squarely into the ranks of the aiming throng.
Guns barked; they were too late. The Shadow had arrived. From then on, the
crowd of Golden Masks began to break.
Grappling with the first foemen whom he met, The Shadow stabbed shots;
slashed with his automatics; pitched men into sprawling groups. He was wheeling
through the melee, first low, then high. Guns were aimed too late in his
direction; slugging fists missed him as they descended downward.
For The Shadow had a perfect camouflage. Every face about him was the same
as his own. All lips wore the leering smile that adorned The Shadow's mask.
It was like a battle in darkness, where one fighter, sought by a group,
holds a marked advantage. To The Shadow, every leering face of gold represented
a foeman. To the Golden Masks, only one was the enemy they sought; and there was
no way to single him from the rest.
But, where darkness would have forced The Shadow to hit or miss tactics,
light did not. Every shot he fired, every blow he sledged, was a perfect hit.
From beyond their screen of glass, Tallam and Barfield saw that the outcome
would be victory for The Shadow.
They could not intervene. If they raised the glass and tried to mow down
The Shadow along with all their followers, they could expect sudden bullets in
their own direction.
Tallam and Barfield dropped their curtains, took their path to flight.
Harry saw them go; he turned to watch the battle on the floor. He could not
fire to aid The Shadow; he was unable to pick out his chief.
Some of the Golden Masks ripped away their Ashanti faces, shouting as they
did so. They thought that they could thus confine attention to The Shadow.
Nearly a dozen of the fighters were down; of the eight who remained, only two
retained their masks. One of the masked men shouted to get both.
Five unmasked men sprang upon the pair; riddled them with bullets. As they
stepped back, sure that one of the victims was The Shadow, a fierce laugh made
them turn. They saw one robed fighter standing alone, unmasked.
The Shadow had whipped off his mask with the others, knowing that they
could not recognize one another. He had revealed the face that he had worn at
the time of his capture: the visage of Lamont Cranston. Five members of the
Golden Masks had taken him for a bona fide member of the band. They had
slaughtered two of their own number.
Bewildered, the five survivors were covered by The Shadow's guns. Some of
them had used all their bullets in that last slaughter. The others were too few
to fight. Harry had sprung forward to join The Shadow, bringing a third gun into
play. Sullenly, the five Golden Masks let their revolvers drop to the floor,
amid the sprawled bodies of their comrades.
At this moment of The Shadow's triumph, there came a double attack that
threatened disaster. Bronden, flattened upon the floor, came to hands and knees
unnoticed. He recognized The Shadow. With a quick move, Bronden snatched up a
revolver that a Golden Mask had dropped.
Simultaneously, the outer door swung wide. The Ashanti guard was there; he
singled out The Shadow. Viciously, he raised his arm to fling his spear.
The Shadow spotted both moves from where he stood. He picked the Ashanti
as the more formidable. An instant more, both spear and bullet would be on
their way. There was a chance to stop the Ashanti's lunge; but it was
impossible to prevent Bronden's snap of the trigger.
Fading, The Shadow fired. He clipped the Ashanti; the big warrior twisted
to the floor. His lunging aim went sidewise; the spear skidded from his hand
and pierced a curtain on the far side of the room. As the spear slithered wide,
Bronden's gun barked. The Shadow's feint was sufficient. The bullet hardy grazed
his golden robe.
THE SHADOW delivered an answering shot as Bronden tried to take new aim.
So did Harry, for he had spotted Bronden's move. These bullets spelled the end
of Member Gamma. Bronden's supporting arm gave way; his chin thudded the floor.
Others of the Golden Masks, about to leap for revolvers, stopped short.
With Harry following, The Shadow circled to the outer door. He and his
agent passed through the opened doorway, covering the remnants of the Golden
Masks. The Shadow gave a command; Harry clanged the big door shut and bolted it.
Five Golden Masks were trapped in their meeting room, between bolted door
and locked glass barrier. With them were the dead and wounded who had lost out
in the fight against The Shadow.
In the outer anteroom, The Shadow ripped away his golden robe. He yanked
open a suitcase that was in the corner; from it, he drew garments of black. He
and Harry entered the elevator; The Shadow donned his own garb and they
descended.
Outside the alley, The Shadow contacted Moe's cab. He and Harry boarded
it. There was no need to inform the law of what had happened. Already, sirens
were sounding close at hand. The heavy barrage of shots had been heard, despite
the thickness of the warehouse walls. Soon, the meeting place of the Golden
Masks would be uncovered.
Moe expected a command to start. Instead, The Shadow ordered him to wait.
A whispered laugh sounded within the taxicab. The tone carried deep
significance.
The Shadow had another quest; the pursuit of Sidney Tallam and Roger
Barfield, leaders of the Golden Masks. He was willing that the law should share
in the final victory.
That was why The Shadow ordered the cab to wait.
CHAPTER XXII
THE SWIFT TRAIL
THE wait that followed The Shadow's command was of less than one minute's
duration. That interval ended, a police car wheeled suddenly into view from the
nearest corner. It stopped near where Moe's cab was parked.
The lights of the taxi were out; but the headlamps of the police car
showed that the vehicle was a cab. A burly policeman came from the patrol car,
flashed a light into the front seat. Moe held his arm before his eyes to avoid
the light.
"How long have you been here?" demanded the policeman. "Hear any shots?"
"Some were fired in the warehouse," came a calm reply from the back seat.
"You will find an elevator entrance in the courtyard at the end of the alley."
The policeman flashed his light toward the rear seat, wondering about this
speaker who seemed to know so much. As the glow fell upon The Shadow, the
cloaked passenger gave a single word to the driver:
"Start."
Moe shot the car ahead, snapping on the lights as the gear whined forward.
The policeman fell back from the running board, shouted madly for the patrol car
to take up the pursuit. It did; but Moe had wheeled around the corner by the
time the pursuit began.
More police arrived. The lone cop informed what had happened. Another
police car went off in pursuit; a squad of bluecoats hastened through the
alleyway to investigate the warehouse.
Matters had worked as The Shadow wanted them. Riding ahead, he knew that
the law would find the trapped members of the Golden Masks. But although the
cab had gained a long start on the first cab, The Shadow did not call for full
speed. Instead, he ordered Moe to slacken.
Within a few blocks, the police car gained close range, picking up the
trail through Moe's obedience to The Shadow's order. Guns began to pop; Moe
wheeled around a corner. The Shadow ordered him to increase speed to the limit.
As the cab roared for the next corner, The Shadow added:
"To Tallam's."
NEW police cars joined the chase within the next three blocks. Moe stuck
to his task, changing his course to avoid a blocking car. The direct route was
closed; but Moe still had a chance to make a circuit that would bring him to
Tallam's house.
The Shadow counted Moe to be the speediest taxi driver in Manhattan. Moe
proved the claim on this night. He sped through red traffic lights; took
corners on two wheels. He hit the straight stretches like a racer.
Shrieking sirens followed close behind, with gunshots punctuating their
wails. Moe outdistanced the pursuers; when he cut back toward Tallam's, he was
a full block ahead of the nearest police car.
The cab came into Marview Place from the wrong direction; but that was a
small matter. Moe whizzed across the path of another car, skidded his cab to a
stop on the left side of the street, squarely in front of Tallam's brownstone
steps. The door on the sidewalk side swung open; The Shadow propelled Harry
Vincent to the curb, then followed.
"Through by the near side of the house," ordered The Shadow. Harry made
for the spot indicated. To Moe, The Shadow added: "Travel. Lose the trail."
The cab shot away. The Shadow sprang for the brownstone steps. He fired
two shots, just as the first patrol car swung from the corner. Instantly, the
officers saw that the cab had discharged its passenger. The headlights of the
police car gave a momentary view of The Shadow, on the house steps.
As the police car halted, The Shadow sprang from the side of the steps. He
swung away through darkness to join Harry. Officers piled out, focused their
flashlights upon the spot that The Shadow had left. They saw no one. A bluecoat
pointed to the house door.
"He must have gone in there -"
The suggestion was sufficient. The police hammered at the door. Others who
arrived took to the spaces beside the house, searching for other means of entry.
They were too late, however, to find The Shadow and Harry.
The Shadow had led the way through to a rear opening between two
buildings. With Harry following, he threaded a swift course for a new
objective: the garage that offered secret access to Tallam's home.
More police were coming; they were forming a cordon around the block; but
The Shadow whisked Harry across a street and off through a darkened stretch
between two old houses. The Shadow and his agent had a clear path.
ON the street in front of Tallam's, a car pulled up. It had come from
headquarters; the man who stepped from the machine was Joe Cardona. The
inspector received a prompt report, then turned to Markham, who was at the
wheel of the headquarters car.
"Get this, Markham," stated Cardona. "I told you The Shadow was on the
move, when we heard about that find on Long Island. Well, they saw The Shadow
up by that warehouse that's been raided. They grabbed a bunch of phonies with
gold faces when they broke in there.
"Now The Shadow's been seen here. They think he's gone into this house. If
he has, he's got some more of the tribe to handle. We're going in there and give
him a hand."
With that, Cardona issued an order for the police to smash down the front
door without delay. Bluecoats set to work, while Cardona stood with ready
revolver, to be the first man through.
MEANWHILE, The Shadow and Harry had reached the old garage. Stopping in
darkness, they heard motion ahead. Hawkeye's whisper came to The Shadow's ears.
The spotter had spied Harry, even though he had not seen The Shadow.
"They blew in here a couple of minutes ago," voiced Hawkeye. "Two of 'em,
with a couple of those big guys that work for 'em. They left their car in the
garage."
"Marsland and Tapper," returned The Shadow. "Where are they?"
"Due any minute."
"Wait for them."
Ordering Harry to follow, The Shadow entered the garage. As he had
expected, Tallam and Barfield had experienced a delay in getting a car for
themselves and the two Ashanti who had fled with them. The delay had been even
longer than The Shadow had estimated. There was still a chance of overtaking
the leaders of the Golden Masks.
The Shadow reached the room outside the secret entrance. Harry saw him go
to the door of the closet, open it and speak one word:
"Ashanti."
A pause. There was no response. The Shadow added:
"Kumasi."
Nothing occurred. The Shadow knew then that Tallam and Barfield had
ordered the inside guard to admit no others. A huge door blocked further
progress; but The Shadow had provided for it.
He had provided for other things as well, such as a call by Burbank to the
police, telling them where they could find Freeland Ralbot, the owner of money
and securities that had been recovered at Jaffley's Long Island home. But most
important for the present was a means of entry through this secret door that
led to Tallam's dungeon room.
There were hasty footsteps from the rear of the garage. Hawkeye arrived,
followed by two others. One was Cliff Marsland, square-shouldered and firm of
jaw. Cliff was a good teammate for Harry in the attack that was to come. The
other was "Tapper," a man whom The Shadow seldom used. The Shadow had ordered
Tapper on duty to-night; and he had brought a useful service along with him.
AT The Shadow's order, Tapper opened an elongated box that he had gingerly
placed on the floor. He produced a drill, approached the metal door and quickly
cut three short holes. From the box, he brought a container that held a
powerful charge of explosive far more potent than the powders that The Shadow
ordinarily used.
The Shadow stooped forward. A fuse fizzed. As The Shadow gestured, his
agents hurried out into the desolate garage. The Shadow followed them, closed
the door of the little room. Quietly, he commanded Harry and Cliff to be ready
with him; he ordered Hawkeye and Tapper to remain here on guard.
Only the burning time of a short length of fuse remained. When that period
had ended, The Shadow would be ready for his final foray. He had coaxed the law
to the task of battering in through the front of Tallam's house. While that
attack was in the making, The Shadow had prepared this surprise.
Soon Tallam and Barfield, leaders of the Golden Masks, would find
themselves harassed from two directions. Yet The Shadow did not count the
conflict won. Even though he had vanquished the massed horde at the meeting
place, he knew that there would be heavy strife ahead.
The final battle would come inside the portals of a stronghold where
Tallam and Barfield were prepared to resist attack. The lives of helpless
prisoners were at stake. Vast wealth, the swag reaped by the Golden Masks,
would be on hand.
The Shadow knew that strategy, as well as force, would be the deciding
element in the final fray.
CHAPTER XXIII
THE LAST TRAP
TALLAM and Barfield had stopped when they reached the passage between the
dungeon cells. They had good reason for their halt. They wanted to talk with
Seeklat, to learn if Lothkal had been located. They wanted to find out what
else had happened since Bronden had brought news of The Shadow's escape.
With Tallam and Barfield were the two Ashanti warriors who had come with
them from the meeting place. The four made a formidable group. Tallam and
Barfield still wore their golden robes, though they had stripped the masks from
their faces. They were carrying revolvers; the native-garbed Ashanti had their
short spears.
Tallam and Barfield had not found Seeklat. The only man whom they
discovered was Jericho. Standing on sentry duty, the big African looked like a
loyal guard. In fact, Bronden had reported him as such.
In English Tallam queried for Seeklat. Jericho stared, expressionless.
Tallam put the question in French. Jericho pointed to the door at the front of
the passage. Tallam went through the door; beyond it, he raised a shout for
Seeklat.
Soon, two Ashanti appeared. They were the men whom Bronden had ordered
Seeklat to summon. They shook their heads as they returned with Tallam. They
had not seen Seeklat. Nor had they seen Lothkal. They had been asleep.
"We know where The Shadow stowed Lothkal!" snarled Tallam to Barfield. "In
his own cell, for that's where Bronden found him. But what's happened to
Seeklat?"
"Maybe The Shadow came back here," suggested Barfield, "and managed to
handle Seeklat like he did Lothkal."
Tallam nodded slowly, then looked toward The Shadow's cell. He reached for
the levers that controlled the sliding doors. Jericho saw the action; his
muscles tightened. Jericho pressed a revolver that was in the pocket of his
coat.
He was in a bad spot. There were six enemies against whom be must contend.
Once Seeklat should be questioned, Jericho's part would be known. Jericho saw
hopeless battle due within the next few minutes. All that he could hope for was
to thin the ranks of the enemy before he fell.
A LUCKY interruption halted Tallam. There was a clatter at the rear of the
long passage. In came the Ashanti who guarded the rear exit. He was shaking his
spear, babbling his native dialect.
One of the other Ashanti translated the words:
"Him say man speak through wire. Give words the same like you give."
"What else?" demanded Tallam. He spoke to the arriving guard. "Tell me the
rest yourself."
The guard thought slowly to find the English words.
"Make noise, man do," he declared. "Noise on door. Noise like I make here."
To illustrate the sound, the big guard scratched the point of his spear
upon the stone floor. Barfield interjected a statement to Tallam.
"They're going to blow the door!" he exclaimed. "We'd better get back
there!"
"Wait," suggested Tallam. "We can handle them later."
He pulled the levers on which his hands rested. The door of the cell slid
open. From within came Seeklat, blinking at the light. Seeklat's face showed
viciousness and anger. Just as Tallam was about to question him, a distant
rumble sounded. It came from the rear corridor, the long echo of a heavy blast.
There was a quiver of stone under foot.
"They've blown it!" shouted Barfield. "Quick, Tallam! We've got to stop
them!"
"The prisoners!" bellowed Tallam. "Get them through to the front! We'll
hold the door between here and the house!"
Tallam gestured to Seeklat, to help him open the cells. The order was
useless at that moment. Seeklat, staring past the Ashanti warriors, saw
Jericho. With a savage roar, Seeklat forgot all else. He drove between the
warriors, his hands shooting straight for Jericho.
THIS time, Jericho had no need for silent action. His revolver was out; he
was prepared to meet others after Seeklat. Jericho fired a shot straight for
Seeklat. The bullet found the Ashanti's body, but did not stop his charge.
Plunging on, Seeklat fell squarely upon the enemy who had crippled him.
As Jericho rolled to the floor, Seeklat's two Ashanti sprang for him.
Jericho gave two shots; one Ashanti staggered. The other grabbed Jericho's
throat with one hand, wrenched away his gun with the other. The Ashanti
warriors leaped up with their spears.
Shots ripped from the rear of the passage. Tallam and Barfield leaped
toward the front of the passage, shouting for the Ashanti to forget Jericho. It
was too late.
Three invaders were closing the range, firing as they came. The Shadow was
foremost, his automatics blasting. Cliff and Harry were close behind their
chief. Their guns were booming past The Shadow's shoulders.
Ashanti warriors swung to hurl their war spears. One managed the deed; but
his throw was short, thanks to the low ceiling of the passage. Then he sprawled
wounded with the others, who were already crumpling beneath a hail of
high-aimed bullets.
Shots were devastating along this corridor. At long range, the bullets
ricocheted. Jericho lay safe beneath Seeklat's body; falling Ashanti sprawled
about him. Only Tallam and Barfield were safe, for they were protected by the
bodies of their servitors.
The golden-robed men dived through the door to the house. They had no
chance to close it. The Shadow prevented that with his swift fire. The leaders
of the Golden Masks were off to flight.
The Shadow paused, only to order his agents to remain below. Their task
was to release the prisoners, to see that the wounded Ashanti offered no more
fight. Jericho was on his feet, beside Harry and Cliff. Promptly, Harry and
Cliff took charge of the passage, with Jericho standing by to follow orders.
AS The Shadow reached the first floor of the house, he heard the front
door shatter. A flood of police poured inward; shouting, they took to the
stairs. The Shadow knew that they had spied Tallam and Barfield at the top. The
crooks had reached the second floor. The Shadow headed for the rear steps.
Foremost in the law's charge was Joe Cardona. He had spotted the leaders
of the Golden Masks, making for the front of the second floor. Joe took the
step by twos, a whole squad behind him. He reached the hallway where Jericho
had once stood guard. Cardona saw the light of the living room.
He reached that objective, paying no heed to closed doors on the way. As
soon as he entered, Cardona saw Tallam and Barfield. They had reached the
alcove at the rear of the room; they had donned their golden masks, to face the
police.
Twin faces showed their half smiles. Hands that wore golden gauntlets were
raising revolvers. Cardona and seven of his men aimed to fire at the Golden
Masks, hoping to riddle them where they stood. Tallam gave a tug at the rear
bookcase.
Police revolvers spoke. Bullets mashed flat, seemingly in mid-air. Glass
barriers had dropped in time to save the Golden Masks. Cardona and his men
gaped, amazed; then they sprang forward.
One member of the squad blundered against the glass sheet that protected
Tallam and Barfield. He sank back. Another officer discovered the glass that
barred the doorway to the hall.
There was a hiss from the chandelier. Greenish vapor poured forth; Cardona
detected an odor that resembled chlorine. This was not the yellowish gas that
paralyzed its victims for a temporary period. It was a deadly vapor that would
kill within fifteen minutes.
The Golden Masks had pronounced doom upon the men whom they had trapped.
To ridicule their victims, they hauled away books at the sides of the alcove.
They brought forth bundles of crisp cash; huge stacks of gold; tray-loads of
resplendent gems.
Tallam tugged a cord. The floor of the alcove jolted; it quivered upward.
The floor was an elevator that could carry the Golden Masks to a heavily barred
third floor. By an exit through the roof, they could escape across the tops of
adjoining houses, carrying their swag with them. These partners in crime
intended to divide the shares that they had promised to the lesser members of
their band.
Cardona fumed as he held his useless revolver. The Golden Masks stared
through the glass, their eyes glowing with delight at the sight of men who were
to die. Intent upon that view, they did not notice what occurred behind them.
Only Cardona saw the next event.
Slowly, the center of the rear bookcase began a revolution. It was high
enough from the rising floor to do so; but as it turned, the floor reached it.
The pressure of the heavy bookcase stopped the elevator's rise. Instantly, the
Golden Masks wheeled.
ON the threshold of a dim room beyond the bookcase stood The Shadow.
He had guessed the game that the Golden Masks would play. He had picked
the right room; the one by which he himself had once seen Tallam make an exit.
Entering that room, he had solved the secret of a hidden spring that operated
the bookcase.
Tallam and Barfield did more than turn. They leveled their revolvers as
they wheeled. Simultaneously, The Shadow raised his automatics; but not with
long sweeps of his arms. He tilted them upward from his hips, tugged the
triggers as he aimed at two angles. His short move enabled him to beat the gun
thrusts that Tallam and Barfield offered.
Joe Cardona saw silent flames spout from the muzzles of The Shadow's guns.
No flashes came from the weapons held by the Golden Masks. Instead, the robed
men sagged. One dropped his revolver and huddled motionless upon the stopped
floor. The other tried to hold his balance, also attempted to deliver a shot.
He failed in both endeavors. His efforts ended with a headlong spill.
No crash or thud marked those falls. The heavy glass deadened the sound,
just as it had blocked the roar of The Shadow's guns. Cardona saw The Shadow
manipulate hidden levers, then step away, through to the rear room.
The hiss from the chandelier ended. The greenish gas faded. A click
reached Cardona's ears; it marked the closing of the rear bookcase. The fact
that he had heard the sound made Cardona guess something else that had
occurred. Springing forward, Joe reached the alcove. No barrier stopped him.
The Shadow had raised the sheets of glass.
Golden masks, hastily donned, had fallen from the faces that wore them. No
longer were Sidney Tallam and Roger Barfield an insidious, smiling pair, whose
countenances made them appear as a pair of demonish twins. Their own faces were
on view; Tallam's vicious, with its pursed lips; Barfield's drawn into a
contorted smile that showed fiendishness rather than mirth.
The faces of these supermen of crime were fixed in death, like the golden
masks that they had worn in life. Their long career of evil had been ended by
The Shadow. With the death of its founders, the organization of the Golden
Masks was dissolved, never to be revived.
SOON afterward, Joe Cardona and a squad of men found the dungeon rooms in
the passage that led underground from the house. There they were greeted by
James Lengerton and half a dozen other prisoners who had been released. Men of
prominence - some whose disappearance had not yet been guessed - began to pour
their stories to the law.
All had the same tale. They had failed to listen to threats. All had been
treated with the paralyzing gas and then imprisoned. During each respite, they
had been subjected to new demands. Failure to agree had been followed by
another period of forced immobility.
In three cells, Cardona found prisoners who were undergoing the treatment
that the Golden Masks had devised. One was Gilden Cleatland, the last to be
gassed. Cardona knew that these men would recover within the next two days.
Then their stories could be recorded like the others.
The Shadow and his aids were gone. The ex-prisoners had been placed in
charge of the wounded Ashanti servants, who had become peaceable when told that
their masters were dead. Staring along the passage, Cardona saw the door at the
rear. He knew that The Shadow had come from far beyond it, and had gone again
by the same route.
As he listened, Cardona fancied that he heard a quivering tone that echoed
from some distant underground corridor. Faint, fading, it formed an evanescent
peal of mirth that spoke of final victory.
Though other listeners had not caught it, Cardona was sure that he had
heard The Shadow's laugh of triumph.
THE END