THE CRIMSON PHOENIX
by Maxwell Grant
As originally published in The Shadow Magazine, April 1st, 1938.
The Crimson Phoenix entangles The Shadow in claws dripping with the poison
of international intrigue!
CHAPTER I
TEN GRAND
A MAN was walking slowly along the fashionable section of West End Avenue.
The morning sunlight was not very strong, yet this furtive little man kept his
hat brim turned down as though to protect weak eyes from the slanting sunshine.
His eyes were neither weak nor nearsighted. On the contrary, they blazed
with a ruthless light. He knew he was about to do something that would place his
life in terrific peril. But his avarice and the itching desire for ten thousand
dollars was stronger than his fear. He intended to deal himself into a grim
criminal game in which he was convinced he held all the aces.
The name of this broad-shouldered little crook was Leo Barry.
The street sign at the corner was marked Du Pont Place. Leo Barry turned
into a quiet street that was, if anything, more fashionable than West End
Avenue. Except for a florist shop on the corner, there was no evidence of
business or trade. Private dwellings lined Du Pont Place, the homes of people of
wealth and social distinction.
That is, all except one.
Midway down the block was a house owned by the most notorious racketeer in
Manhattan: "Duke" Duncan!
Duncan lived there openly, sneeringly. He had thought it a great joke to
house himself and his henchmen in such a spot. He had purchased the property
through a dummy. He owned it free and clear, paid his taxes promptly and laughed
at the real-estate association and the police.
Well-known killers conferred with Duke Duncan and his lieutenant, "Snap"
Carlo. A staff of shrewd lawyers took care of the legal end for Duke. He and his
gang had turned racketeering into a fine art. A score of brutal murders had cut
down every trace of underworld opposition to Duke.
It was this powerful figure of crime that Leo Barry was planning to visit.
He was going to force a private interview for himself. More daring than that, he
was going to put the heat on Duke Duncan. To the tune of ten thousand dollars!
There was a hollow post at the foot of the front stoop next to Duncan's
brownstone headquarters. Leo Barry crouched warily as he passed it. With a quick
flick of his hand, he drew a gun out of a shoulder holster and dropped the
weapon inside the hollow post.
He breathed a shuddering sigh as he walked unarmed up the steps to Duke's
front door. He was taking a desperate chance. But to make his impudent blackmail
demand with a gun on him would have been absolute suicide!
His jaw clenched stubbornly as he thought about the document in his inside
pocket. He rang the bell.
The door was opened by a butler. The servant said nothing at all. He merely
closed the door behind the caller and preceded him along a magnificently
furnished foyer.
At one side of the hall, Leo could see a billiard room through an open
door. Half a dozen well-dressed men were knocking the polished balls about. None
of them took the trouble to glance up as Leo passed the doorway.
But there was one other man who did. He was seated on a chair near the foot
of the staircase. At his elbow was a small table on which rested a telephone and
a .45 automatic. He looked like the mildest man who ever breathed - except for
the cold, restless glitter of his eyes.
Leo recognized him instantly. He was Tommy Parr, the most trusted and
ruthless of Duke Duncan's three personal bodyguards.
PARR came forward so noiselessly that he seemed to float on the balls of
his feet. The .45 was gripped in his lean fingers. Parr stepped directly in
front of the visitor.
"I don't know you, pal. What's your name?"
"Leo Barry."
"Want to see somebody?"
"Yeah. Duke Duncan."
Parr grinned by pulling his lips briefly away from even white teeth. His
free hand took ten seconds to make sure that Barry was unarmed.
"You got an appointment with Duke?"
"No."
"O.K. Scram!"
Leo Barry's face was very pale, but he stood his ground.
"You better call Duke on that phone," he muttered. "It'll be tough for him
if he refuses to see me. Tell him I want to talk to him, personally! About a
murder job - the one for which a guy named Jack Skelly is waiting to die in the
electric chair!"
Parr's face was suddenly like a cold slab of stone. His finger tightened on
the trigger of his pointed weapon. He stood motionless for a breathless second.
Then he turned and went back to the table with the telephone.
His voice rustled over the wire. When he hung up, there was almost a trace
of humor in the rasp of his voice.
"You got a reprieve, pal. Up them stairs - and walk ahead of me."
Barry ascended slowly, his feet making no sound on the rich carpet. On the
top floor, Parr turned him down a long hall. Passing an open door, he was
startled to see a breathlessly beautiful woman in a filmy lace negligee,
reclining on a lounge. Her henna-stained toes were extended lazily in front of
her on a small footstool. A maid was clipping her toenails. This was Dolores
Maguire, Duke Duncan's woman.
She yawned as Barry's gaze flicked toward her. She made no effort to draw
the parted negligee across her bosom. Her bold eyes met Leo's with no more
expression than if he were a worm.
The next instant, Tommy Parr was knocking on a steel door at the end of the
corridor. It slid open. The inside was an anteroom to a closed chamber beyond.
Two gunmen were sitting on hard chairs, their faces alert. At a desk, a
heavy-set, swarthy fellow lifted lidded eyes and gave Barry a cold scrutiny.
Then:
"Spill your business and make it brief! I'm Snap Carlo."
Leo didn't need to be told that. Snap's grim photograph was in the
newspapers almost as much as Duke Duncan's. He was Duke's chief lieutenant.
According to veiled rumors in the underworld, Snap Carlo had his ambitious eyes
fixed on Duke's leadership - and the shapely Dolores Maguire as well.
Leo Barry repeated his cool demand to see Duke. Snap listened. Then his
thick lips writhed briefly over a small metal box on his desk.
"Wanta see him, Duke? Or do you want the punk attended to?"
"Bring him in. He's got me curious."
The voice was Duncan's. It issued apparently from the smooth surface of the
rear wall. The wall slid suddenly aside, revealing a square opening. The two
gunmen made up the rear of the grim little parade.
THE private office of Duke Duncan was flooded with harsh, blinding light
that fell full on Barry's face and made him blink. But the glow where Duncan sat
was soft and diffused. His pink, close-shaven face looked almost sleepy. Snap
Carlo was a big man, but he looked small alongside the sinister Duke.
The two gunmen moved respectfully into the background. Snap remained at
Barry's side. A knife appeared in his swarthy fingers. Snap rather fancied
himself as an expert with cold steel. He was not a stabber, but a thrower.
Barry took a bulky envelope from his pocket. He laid it on the desk in
front of Duke Duncan. He knew that a single false move, a wrong intonation in
his voice would doom him to instant death.
Coolly, he accused Duke of committing the murder for which a young man
named Jack Skelly was now awaiting death by electrocution. The proof of it was
in the typewritten document lying on the polished desk. The original of those
photostatted pages was in a bank vault, where Barry had secreted it under an
assumed name. The price for the copy and the original was ten thousand dollars,
payable at once. In cash!
"Blackmail, eh?" Duncan breathed. "You really think you can get away with
it - on me?"
"I think so," Leo said shakily, "or I wouldn't have been stupid enough to
come here."
"Take him, Snap!"
Carlo leaped forward with a hiss of murderous pleasure. His stubby fingers
clutched Barry by the hair, bent his head back. The blade of the knife glittered
above the drawn flesh of the blackmailer's throat.
Barry made no effort to fight his executioner, but his yell was like the
bleat of a terrified animal.
"Don't - don't, till you read the evidence!"
The knife blade nicked Leo's gasping throat. A trickle of blood ran down
inside his collar. Then Duke Duncan spoke curtly.
"Wait! Let him alone, Snap!"
Carlo's mouth snarled. The two gunmen looked puzzled. But there was no
disobeying Duke's command. Leo Barry rested a trembling palm on the desk in
front of him. He watched Duncan reading the typewritten pages.
He saw Duncan's eyelid twitch as the racket chief read the final paragraph
of the document. It was on that apparently unimportant paragraph that Leo Barry
had staked his life.
Duke chuckled suddenly. He laid down the sheets of paper.
"Looks like you've got the goods on me. You're a smart guy, Barry! What's
your price for the original evidence in your bank vault?"
"Ten grand." Leo mouthed huskily. He had thought over the price, too,
during that last tense week of nerving himself. Not too much to enrage Duncan;
not too small to make him suspicious.
"O.K., it's a deal. I'll buy."
SNAP CARLO stared, open-mouthed, at his chief. But Duke apparently did not
notice his anger or disgust. He pulled open the drawer of a filing cabinet and
lifted out a thick roll of currency tied with a heavy rubber band. Every one of
the bank notes was a crisp thousand-dollar bill. He stripped off ten and pushed
them across to Barry.
"Tony - Rocco - you two guys go with this fellow to the bank. Make sure he
doesn't hand you blank paper. Open the envelope when you get him outside the
bank."
He held up the page in strong, steady fingers.
"If it's exactly like this one, let this mug go free - and bring the
envelope back here.
The pair nodded. But their gaze flicked questioningly toward Snap Carlo.
Snap's face was white with fury.
"What's the idea, Duke? You going soft or something? Don't you know that if
you knuckle down to a punk like this, you'll -"
"I know plenty!" Duke said, in a queer, drawling voice.
He got up from his desk and walked leisurely toward his henchman. There was
disloyalty in Snap's swarthy face, murder in the rigid manner in which he
gripped his knife. But Duke's open palm swept swiftly above the arm and knife,
struck Carlo a stinging slap in the face.
"When I want advice from you, I'll ask for it! In the meantime, do as
you're told!"
The mark of Duke's palm made a crimson splotch on Snap's skin. His knuckles
tightened on the knife. Then, with a convulsive effort of his will, he managed
to force a smile. He put the knife away and bowed with a cringing duck of his
head. He pretended not to notice the sneer on the faces of Tony and Rocco.
The two gunmen slipped in on either side of Leo Barry. They walked him to
the wall. The panel slid open; the trio went through.
Duke grinned at Snap. His tone was entirely friendly, as if nothing had
happened between them.
"Take a look at that blackmail evidence. Maybe you'll see why I think it's
a cheap buy at ten thousand bucks."
Snap Carlo read it swiftly. The document riveted the guilt of murder on
Duke Duncan. It exonerated completely a young "fall guy" named Jack Skelly, whom
Duke had framed for the rap. Skelly was now awaiting death in the electric chair
at Sing Sing.
The police and the newspapers were convinced of Skelly's guilt. The real
truth was known only to Duke's gang - and the clever blackmailer, Leo Barry.
"I still think it would have been safer to kill Barry," Snap muttered.
"I don't! What I'm after is that original document in his bank vault. When
I get the original I'll have something worth at least a million bucks!"
Duke's heavy forefinger pointed to a paragraph on the last page.
"Read that again - slowly. Notice the name of a guy called John Marsley..."
"Sure! But I don't see just what that -"
SNAP CARLO was suddenly excited. The innocent paragraph over which he had
skipped in the first reading took on a grim importance. It linked John Marsley
with a killer named "Spud" White, and placed both at the scene of the crime for
which the unfortunate Jack Skelly was now awaiting execution.
Snap realized now that the document Duke had just purchased doomed John
Marsley to the chair - unless he was willing to buy his safety from Duke Duncan.
Leo Barry had apparently failed to realize the significance of that innocently
worded paragraph. He had sold for ten thousand dollars something that in the
hands of a resolute criminal would be worth a million!
For John Marsley was a multimillionaire banker. He controlled steamship
lines, railroads, industries. He was a leader in finance and politics.
And Duke Duncan had the evidence to electrocute him for murder!
"You should have socked me harder than you did," Snap Carlo grinned. "I
missed the play completely! I hope you forget the dumb way I shot off my mouth.
From now on, I'm taking orders and liking it!"
His flattery blended with Duke's complacent chuckle. But his hand rubbed
instinctively at the cheek where Duke had struck him. But Snap didn't utter any
of the ugly thoughts that seethed back of his smiling eyes. He was thinking of a
crooked multimillionaire named John Marsley and a chance at a million-dollar
take.
Snap had plans of his own!
CHAPTER II
CRANSTON BUYS A GARDENIA
LAMONT CRANSTON was purchasing a gardenia to place in his lapel. He stood
close to the window of the florist shop, to satisfy himself that the flower
looked well enough in the bright morning sunlight.
The clerk didn't mind his distinguished customer's delay. He was well aware
that this tall, handsome gentleman was Lamont Cranston, millionaire sportsman
and well-known man-about-town.
The clerk stood discreetly in the background. For that reason, he was
completely unaware of the scrutiny that Cranston was giving a certain house a
few doors away on the opposite side of Du Pont Place.
Cranston's interest in Duke Duncan's headquarters was born of a shrewd
knowledge of crime and criminals.
For Lamont Cranston was The Shadow, crime-fighter extraordinary! Mysterious
being of blackness, his very name struck terror to the underworld.
Lamont Cranston had been driving slowly along West End Avenue when he had
noticed the furtive figure of Leo Barry. That much was coincidence. The rest was
a product of exact knowledge.
Cranston knew Barry was a slippery and successful crook who specialized in
blackmail. He watched him turn the corner into Du Pont Place. He saw him hide
his gun in the hollow post at the foot of the front stoop adjoining the swanky
headquarters of Duke Duncan.
He watched him enter the mob leader's house.
Barry's queer behavior interested Cranston. It seemed incredible that any
one - even a desperate crook - should have the nerve to try to blackmail a
killer like Duncan in his own guarded headquarters. Yet there was no other
explanation. The hiding of the gun confirmed The Shadow's theory. Leo Barry knew
he was facing sudden death, and was taking no chances of having a gun found on
him.
Meanwhile, Cranston waited in the florist shop, through whose window he had
such an excellent view across the street. He tried three gardenias before he was
satisfied. Before he paid for his purchase, Leo Barry emerged from Duncan's
house.
Barry was grinning triumphantly. Two men walked with him. They were the two
henchmen, Tony and Rocco, who had been ordered to accompany the smart little
blackmailer to the bank.
Cranston, of course, knew nothing, as yet, of what had happened inside that
sinister house. But Barry's grin was the tip-off that his daring feat had been
successful. He bent furtively and regained the gun he had cached in the empty
stoop post. Neither of his two guards interfered. The trio walked calmly onward
to the corner and disappeared southward.
Lamont Cranston followed.
He used the fast little car he had parked at the curb. It was a dangerous
type of tailing, but The Shadow's car could be throttled down almost to a crawl.
And the trio ahead of him hurried along with brisk strides. The Shadow's
surveillance went unnoticed.
The goal of the thugs was the stone portals of the Midtown Trust Company.
Leo Barry went in alone. Rocco and Tony waited outside.
But not Lamont Cranston. He had left his car a block away. He walked calmly
into the bank, almost on the heels of Barry. The little blackmailer went to the
rear, to the safe-deposit vaults.
Cranston drifted across to a table and pretended to fill out a deposit
slip. He was able to see Barry over the slant of his arm. The blackmailer had
already emerged from the vault with a tin box. He opened it and withdrew a bulky
envelope. Then he returned the box to the attendant and started forward.
He was terribly nervous. In stowing away the envelope in his pocket, he
dropped a roll of bills to the floor. One of them was visible as Leo clutched at
it. It was a thousand-dollar denomination!
The Shadow's eyes grew grimmer. He was aware of Duke Duncan's weakness for
thousand-dollar bills. It was added proof that blackmail money had been passed
to Barry, and that the envelope contained information of tremendous value to the
biggest racket chief in New York.
Through the bank window, Cranston saw Barry rejoin Tony and Rocco. They
slid in on either side of their captive and the envelope changed hands.
Tony tore open one end and examined the contents. He and Rocco were
apparently satisfied. They allowed Barry to walk alone to the corner and hail a
taxi. They themselves turned and retraced their steps toward Du Pont Place.
The Shadow slid swiftly into his parked car. But this time, he didn't
follow the two gunmen. He sped ahead of them. He knew exactly the route they
would take to return to their grim employer.
The Shadow had a daring plan in mind. He intended to intercept them and
read the contents of that mysterious envelope. And he meant to do so without
having Duke Duncan realize that The Shadow had entered this queer tangle of
crime.
The swift little car halted near a garage a block or two away from the
corner of Du Pont Place.
The garage was empty. It was due soon to be torn down to make room for
improvements. Its doors were locked. Skeleton keys took care of that. The Shadow
peered inside, made sure the watchman was nowhere in sight. Then he closed the
door gently, from the outside.
By the time Rocco and Tony appeared along the sidewalk, Lamont Cranston was
pleasantly drunk. It would have taken an experienced eye to detect that his
drunkenness was a sham. Tony and Rocco grinned as they saw him.
Cranston beckoned to them. He was clutching at his pocket for a visiting
card. As he drew it out, he spilled his wallet to the sidewalk and the green
glint of currency became visible. He picked up the money with drunken fingers
and shoved it carelessly into his pocket.
Rocco glanced at Tony. Tony nodded. Dough was dough to these two worthies -
and a sap was a sap! They felt even surer of it when they heard Cranston's
drunken request. He was seeking an address. The address scrawled on the visiting
card was the garage itself!
"We'll take care of you," Tony breathed.
"Yeah." Rocco grunted, his eyes veering for an instant over his shoulder.
They tried the door of the garage. It opened readily. A cinch!
Rocco attempted to hold on to Cranston as they entered the dark interior.
But with drunken petulance, Cranston wriggled out of his grasp.
"Where is he?" Tony snarled. "Don't let him pull a sneak!"
"It's O.K.," Rocco rejoined. "He's paralyzed! Wait till I find the light
switch."
A click sounded. An overhead light filled the garage with brilliance. But a
quick gasp of rage issued from the lips of the two gunmen. Their intoxicated
victim was gone. He had vanished completely.
AN instant later, Rocco gave a cautious exclamation. His stubby finger
pointed. Across the bare floor of the deserted garage was a small boxed-in
office. It was near the corner where the men's wash room was located. Either one
of these two hiding places must be where the wealthy drunk had staggered. He had
no time to climb the stairs in the rear that led to the second floor.
Both thugs darted toward the office, threw open the door. Instantly, they
yelled with surprise and fear. They shrank back from an awesome figure that
emerged to confront them.
A black robe covered the tall figure from head to foot. The brim of a
slouch hat screened burning eyes that seemed to writhe with a piercing flame.
Black-gloved hands held twin automatics. Sibilant laughter made a whispering
sound above the black muzzles.
"The Shadow!" Tony gasped.
Not for an instant did he or Rocco dream that the figure who confronted
them was the drunken gentleman they had lured into the garage. Cranston was
apparently lying on the office floor in a stupor. His clothing was dimly
visible, his hat jammed over the spot where his face should have been. The
effect was entirely convincing, although it had been hastily arranged with the
speed of lightning.
The voice of The Shadow issued a grim order. Rocco and Tony elevated their
arms. In Tony's uplifted left hand was the envelope he had taken from Leo Barry.
He had drawn it from his pocket at the order of The Shadow. Cursing, he opened
the envelope and held the papers wide so that The Shadow could read the contents
over the steady barrels of his guns.
The keen eyes of The Shadow read every word of the blackmail evidence. It
was impressed indelibly upon his memory. Again, the sibilant laughter of The
Shadow made rustling echoes in the garage.
His laughter was abruptly cut short. He threw himself sideways with a rapid
motion. A shot had roared from the darkness at the foot of the rear garage
stairs. A bullet whistled past the body of The Shadow.
The bullet came from the gun of the garage watchman. He had heard the
intruders from above. He had descended silently, to discover what he thought was
a holdup of two innocent citizens by a robed criminal.
THE watchman sprang forward with a yell as The Shadow whirled and fled. The
door of the wash room in the corner slammed and locked. The Shadow was availing
himself of the only cover left to him. He didn't want to risk harming the
watchman.
Rocco reached instantly for his gun, but Tony restrained him with a
whisper. Tony was a wise crook. He pretended fright as the watchman ran forward.
He told a glib story. He and Rocco had been lured into the garage, he said, by
the killer who had just fled.
As the watchman listened, Rocco stepped casually behind him. The butt of a
gun struck the man a terrible blow on the skull. He collapsed without a sound.
Over his fallen body, the two mobsters leaped. They raced toward the locked
door of the men's room, to corner The Shadow.
"Open up, or we'll fill you with lead!" Tony snarled.
No answer.
The roar of gunfire filled the garage with thunderous echoes. Splinters
flew from the door. No human being could withstand such a grim barrage of lead.
From inside the tiny room, a shuddering groan echoed for an instant. Then
there was silence.
Rocco had reloaded his gun. His face was pale with the knowledge that the
uproar would bring police racing to the garage. Tony also was aware of their
peril. But both gunmen were savagely ready to take a chance with cops.
They had to make sure that The Shadow was dead. It was the opportunity of a
crooked lifetime. It would bring them prestige in the underworld, and a juicy
reward from the delighted Duke Duncan.
The lock burst away from the door under the ripping impact of bullets. The
door was wrenched open. Tony leaped in, with Rocco on his heels.
There was no bullet-riddled body on the floor. The Shadow was gone!
His route was easily discovered. He had wriggled to freedom through a tiny
overhead window in the rear of the small room; it opened onto an alley.
TONY skipped across the floor of the garage and locked the front door. He
was, barely in time. Police clubs began to smash at the barrier. The shooting
had been heard. The alarm of pedestrians outside had brought a prowl car to the
scene.
Tony and Rocco went head-first through the narrow window to the alley
outside. They swarmed over a rear fence and doubled back on their tracks through
a cellar.
Cops were already converging on the rear entrance to the alley, but they
found no prisoners; By the time a thorough search of the premises had been made,
Rocco and Tony were six blocks away, panting and thoroughly alarmed at the
closeness of their shave.
The envelope that Tony had received from Leo Barry was still in his
possession. It was the only reassuring thing about the whole mess.
Both crooks knew the grim treatment they would get, if Duke Duncan
suspected the truth. They dared not admit to him that they had allowed The
Shadow to intercept the blackmail evidence and read it.
They decided to conceal what had happened between the bank and gang
headquarters. They would merely hand the evidence to Duke and tell him
everything had worked out well.
This was exactly what The Shadow had foreseen. His grim laughter issued
from a trim little car that scudded innocently through the sunlight of a quiet
avenue far to the south of the garage. The clothes he had left in that garage to
be found by the police could in no way implicate him. There were no tailor's
marks in those garments. They were impossible to trace.
The suit that Lamont Cranston was now wearing had come from a small recess
under the seat of his car. The robe and gloves and the black slouch hat were
stowed away out of sight.
The name of a wealthy and socially prominent international banker made a
vivid glow in the mind of The Shadow. Like Duke Duncan before him, The Shadow
realized instantly the value of the evidence that linked John Marsley with
murder.
The Shadow had never been convinced of the guilt of Jack Skelly, who was
now awaiting death in the electric chair in Sing Sing.
But he had never dreamed that John Marsley might be implicated.
CHAPTER III
A MILLION IN CASH
JOHN MARSLEY was nervous.
The enormous private office in which he sat had been designed for comfort
and convenience. Opposite his desk was a tall window that gave a splendid view
of New York harbor. Without moving from his chair he could see ocean liners,
steamships and tugs, many of which belonged to his far-flung empire of finance
and commerce.
Yet John Marsley was far from happy. The hand that toyed with a pencil
quivered. He rose from his ornate chair and began to pace up and down the room.
Two objects in his office seemed to engage his attention. One was an
electric clock, the other was a calendar. His gaze kept moving from one to the
other, as his restless feet carried him up and down the length of his priceless
imported rug.
He drew a black pencil line across a date on the calendar. All the dates
preceding it had been so marked. Turning the page, he exposed the sheet
underneath. One of the Tuesdays was circled in red ink. He counted the days
between the red-inked date and the last pencil mark he had made. There remained
an interval of thirty-seven unmarked days.
In thirty-seven days a young man named Jack Skelly was doomed to be put to
death for a murder he had never committed. Marsley could save his life by
picking up one of his telephones and speaking a dozen words to the office of the
district attorney. Yet he had no intention of so doing.
He muttered harshly to himself, as he halted opposite the clock. The hands
pointed to seven minutes of ten. It was exactly twenty-four hours since Leo
Barry had blackmailed Duke Duncan.
John Marsley shivered. He expected a visitor. Duke Duncan himself was about
to pay a business call. Few visitors ever penetrated to this swanky skyscraper
office. But Marsley knew he was going to receive Duncan. He had to!
The thought made him grind his teeth with rage. A sudden knock at the door
changed his expression. He forced a smile on his hard lips.
"Come in," he said, gently.
It was Hoskin, his confidential clerk.
"Visitors to see you, sir," Hoskin said.
"Visitors?" Marsley chopped out the word. He glanced toward the closed
drawer of his desk where a loaded pistol lay with its safety off. "You mean
there's more than one man?"
Hoskin was startled by the savage tone of his employer. But before he could
reply, a girl's laughing voice floated through the partly opened door.
"Is there a rule against women, dad? Come on in, Stanley. Dad won't eat us
up. His bark is worse than his bite!"
A VERY pretty girl came into the room, accompanied by a good-looking young
man. She darted across to Marsley, kissed him with mock anger, rumpled his hair.
Under cover of the confusion, he managed to get a grip on himself. He held out a
friendly hand to his daughter's companion.
"How are you, Mr. West? Glad to see you! Golf today, eh? Lucky man!"
"That's what we dropped in to see you about," Stanley West grinned. "We're
going to play a round on the Fairlawn links in New Jersey. Viola had a happy
idea that perhaps you might join us -"
Viola Marsley chimed in impulsively, "Come on, dad! Be a sport! Play
eighteen holes with us. The links are just across from that cottage you've
rented."
Marsley shook his head.
"Sorry," he said. "Some other time. Today, I'm quite busy."
Viola pouted, but her father had little trouble getting rid of his daughter
and her companion. He escorted them to the door and gave Viola a brief kiss. He
held Stanley West's hand a shade longer than was necessary.
This young man puzzled the banker. West had plenty of money, and moved with
ease in the best circles. Yet Marsley had a definite feeling of peril the first
time he had laid eyes on him. He couldn't exactly tell why.
He never mentioned this feeling to his daughter. Viola was quite fond of
Stanley West. There was danger she might unconsciously warn West that her father
mistrusted him. And Marsley preferred not to put West on his guard - not yet, at
any rate.
He watched his daughter and her escort until they vanished from the outer
office into the corridor.
He told Hoskin, his secretary, with a grim snap to his voice: "I'm
expecting another visitor. When he arrives, show him in at once."
MEANWHILE, Viola Marsley and Stanley West had descended to the lobby of the
skyscraper. Viola was laughing at a joking remark West had made. He was witty,
as well as handsome. He laughed with her, but his eyes were alert. Viola's
friendship with him had ripened rapidly, but he was eager to go farther than
that.
He was desperately anxious for Viola to fall in love with him. When that
happened, he'd be ready to make his first move against her father. He had waited
patiently. Now, he was almost ready.
So closely did he watch Viola that he was entirely unaware of another pair
of eyes near a newsstand in the busy lobby.
Lamont Cranston was loitering there, apparently scanning a morning paper.
He studied Stanley West's crisp, curly hair, his straight nose, the line of
his mouth and chin. The gray eyes gave an impression of steadiness and
dependability but they were set quite close together with an expression in their
depths that Lamont Cranston didn't like.
Cranston drifted toward the street entrance and saw the laughing couple get
into a superb cream-colored roadster and drive off in the direction of the
Holland Tunnel. Cranston uttered an almost soundless chuckle. He resumed his
patient vigil in the huge lobby of the skyscraper building.
A few moments before Viola and Stanley West had appeared from aloft, a more
interesting figure had gone up in an elevator in an adjoining shaft. The man was
Duke Duncan. Cranston was not surprised. He had expected this visit.
He pretended to examine the bronze directory of tenants on the wall. He
glanced at his tiny wrist watch. The hands pointed exactly to ten o'clock.
The electric clock in Marsley's private office also pointed to ten. Marsley
turned with a start, as his door opened without a knock. It was Hoskin, and he
was very disturbed. That was why he had neglected to knock before entering.
"Your visitor, sir, is here!" Hoskin stuttered excitedly. His face was
pale. "He's a criminal, sir! I - I've seen his pictures in the newspapers. His
name is Duke Duncan! I thought you might not be aware of - of -"
"Duke Duncan, eh? A criminal, you say? Stuff and nonsense! I expect to talk
with him concerning a routine matter of stocks and bonds." Marsley laughed
indulgently. "Let him in!"
Hoskin cringed at the fierce gleam in his employer's flinty eyes at his
last words. He backed out hastily. A moment or two later, Duke Duncan appeared.
THE millionaire and the racket leader eyed each other warily.
Duncan wasted no time getting to the point of his visit. His voice was
crisp. After a brisk interchange of low-toned words, Duke tossed an envelope on
the banker's rosewood desk.
"That's the photostat copy. I've got the original. Read it!"
Marsley studied it word by word, sentence by sentence. His face was haggard
when he finished.
"How much?" he whispered.
"One million dollars! Cash! Delivered to me by yourself in person. Alone.
At midnight tonight."
There was an ugly pause. Marsley eyed the drawer of his desk, where a
loaded gun with the safety off lay within reach of his muscular hand. But he
made no move to snatch for the weapon.
"That's a lot of money, Duncan."
"Sure it is! What the hell do you think I play for? Apples?"
"It'll be hard to get it in cash."
"That's your business."
"Why so soon? Why tonight?"
Duncan laughed harshly. "That's my business. Yes - or no?"
"You know well I dare not say no," Marsley grated. Every bit of color had
faded from his cheeks. "I'll pay, and I'll pay tonight. But I reserve the right
to dictate the terms of the transfer."
Duncan scowled. "For instance?"
"An even exchange of the document and the money. No witnesses. I come alone
to the rendezvous. So do you.
"And the place of the transfer must be picked by me. I don't dare to take
the slightest risk of discovery!"
"If I say yes, where will it be?"
"In a cottage I own in New Jersey. It's situated on a lonely lane that runs
past the eleventh hole of the Fairlawn golf links."
Duncan nodded. "It's a deal. And it'll be too bad for you, if you try to
double-cross me!"
"And Heaven help you," Marsley said in a husky undertone, "if you try to
hold back on that blackmail evidence after I've turned over the cash!"
WHEN the racketeer had left, Marsley muttered under his breath: "Fourteen
hours until midnight."
He glanced at the calendar which he had marked so queerly. He was still
staring at it when his secretary Hoskin entered in response to a ring of the
desk buzzer.
"I want a million dollars made available for me before bank closing this
afternoon. In cash, do you understand?"
"Cash, sir?"
"You heard me." His purring words were like velvet. "Are you good at
arithmetic, Hoskin?"
"I - I believe so, sir."
"Then I need scarcely explain to you that fourteen hours is a hell of a lot
shorter than thirty-seven days."
"I don't quite understand."
"I don't expect you to."
Left alone again, Marsley walked to the window that overlooked the busy
activity of New York harbor. Again he thought of his vast business that was
linked by steam, gasoline and electricity with every quarter of the globe.
He dictated a cablegram in code to one of his banking representatives in
the Far East. The message seemed to reassure him. His face hardened.
He took his pistol out of the drawer of the desk and examined it carefully
with eyes like flint.
CHAPTER IV
SMART BLONDE
LAMONT CRANSTON observed Duke Duncan emerge from a descending elevator. The
big racket chief looked supremely satisfied with the result of his interview
with John Marsley. He strode toward the exit.
Cranston didn't delay an instant. Careful plans had been made. He himself
moved rapidly to the sidewalk, passing a man who was loitering outside.
The man was Snap Carlo, Duncan's lieutenant.
Cranston sauntered toward the curb. His fingers fumbled with a slightly
wilted gardenia in his lapel. Over his shoulder, he was aware that Duncan and
Snap Carlo were now conferring in a hasty whisper. A broad smile spread over
Snap's face. Both men started forward.
Cranston instantly threw his gardenia into the gutter. He turned lazily on
his heel and walked away.
Almost before he had vanished, a taxicab slid slowly along the curb toward
the spot where Cranston had been standing. It came to a halt as Snap and Duke
Duncan looked around expectantly.
"Taxi, sir?"
"Yeah" Duke grunted.
The two crooks climbed into the cab. They had a little trouble giving the
address to the driver. He was quite deaf. From his left ear, a tiny wire
descended along his lapel to the pocket of his coat. The driver tapped his deaf
ear apologetically. The cab shot away from the curb.
The driver of this cab was the shrewdest hack driver in Manhattan. His
name, printed on the license card in the back, was Moe Shrevnitz. It didn't mean
anything to either Duke or Snap. But it held plenty of meaning for The Shadow.
Moe Shrevnitz was one of The Shadow's trusted agents.
Moe had been waiting patiently to receive that gardenia signal. He was
aware of the dangerous passengers he was carrying. Information concerning the
preceding day's events had been relayed to him. He knew that the address he had
been given was the hotel where a wise little blackmailer named Leo Barry was
registered under another name.
Moe was, of course, far from deaf. The wire that descended from his ear to
his pocket was a dictaphone connection. The plug in his ear was a tiny listening
device.
The wire passed under Moe's coattail, through the upholstery of the front
seat and backward under the floor covering of the cab, to a microphone that
picked up the slightest sound.
"Do you think Marsley will come through with the dough?" Snap whispered.
"A cinch! He's a pushover!"
They both chuckled.
Details of the blackmail arrangements between Marsley and Duncan became
evident to Moe Shrevnitz. He learned that a million dollars in cash was to be
passed at midnight, in exchange for evidence that threatened Marsley's security.
He became aware of the lonely cottage owned by the millionaire opposite the
Fairlawn golf course in New Jersey.
"Am I in on it?" Snap's voice was curiously eager.
"You sure are!" Duke replied. "I told Marsley I was going alone. But I
ain't taking no chances on a frame."
His tone grew lower. He gave Snap instructions how to find Marsley's lonely
cottage in New Jersey.
"Ain't I driving out with you?" Snap asked.
"No. I want you to check up on this wise little louse, Leo Barry. I'll drop
you off at the corner nearest his hotel. I'm puzzled about that guy. Barry may
be wiser than we figure. He's disappeared, since he got his ten grand from me.
He may be up to something.
"Stick around the hotel and if Barry shows, I want you to trail him and
find out where he goes and who he meets. I'll see you at twelve tonight in front
of Marsley's cottage out at Fairlawn. I've written the directions down on this
sheet of paper. Keep it."
The paper passed between them and was stowed out of sight in Snap's pocket.
A moment later, Duke ordered the taxi to stop.
Snap got out; Duke gave Moe Shrevnitz a second address - this time, the
mobster's own headquarters on Du Pont Place. The cab shot obediently away.
SNAP walked into the corner cigar store and bought a pack of cigarettes. In
doing so, he failed to realize a very important fact: another taxi had been
cleverly trailing the one driven by Moe.
A girl alighted, paid her fare. Then she walked slowly toward the door of
the cigar store.
She was a blonde, and very pretty. Her figure was flawless, her mouth a
provocative scarlet. She looked as if she might be a pleasant - and easy - girl
to know. That was exactly the impression she hoped to convey to Snap Carlo.
As Snap came out of the cigar store, she stepped forward so quickly that
she bumped awkwardly into him, knocking the cigarettes out of his hand.
"Oh, I'm terribly sorry! Please excuse me!"
Her body brushed Snap's for an instant. He became aware of her warmth and
the perfume of her hair. Snap fancied himself as a lady's man. He grinned.
"That's all right, babe! Did any one ever tell you that you're a blond
knockout?"
Her blue eyes seemed to caress him. "You're not so bad looking yourself."
"How about a little drink?"
"Now you're talking my language!"
"What do you work at? I'll bet you're an actress, huh?"
She laughed gaily. "Thanks for the compliment, mister. I'm really just a
secretary. My name is Alice Dodge. I work for a rich dame named Viola Marsley."
Snap Carlo's eyes blinked. Here was a stroke of luck he hadn't figured on -
a chance to get a new line on the banker and his daughter through this gay,
dizzy, blond secretary, who looked as if she was probably man-crazy! And a
chance to have a little fun with the blonde herself.
Snap forgot his usual caution. He consented to have a drink with Alice
Dodge in her near-by apartment. The kind of apartment Snap liked: no girl
friend; no maid.
They had one drink. Then another. Snap's arm slid around Alice's pliant
waist and he kissed her. Then the girl eluded his clutch. She skipped across the
room and turned on the radio. Swing music filled the room.
"Pour another drink," she murmured. "Then we'll dance. Excuse me a moment.
I've got a cute little house robe that I know you'll like."
"Atta baby!" Snap chuckled.
Alice Dodge gave him a warm smile and disappeared into her bedroom.
But the moment the door closed behind her, her whole attitude changed. She
became at once cold, grim, alert. She pulled off her dress with a swift gesture.
From a closet she took a robe - a daringly low-cut garment that revealed the
curves of her figure in a candid way that made her blush with embarrassment.
But she had no intention of quitting her dangerous plan now.
She was deliberately using this gauzy robe to draw attention to her figure,
rather than to her hand. In her left hand was a hypodermic needle and syringe
which she had taken from a drawer of her bureau. She concealed it in the bunched
folds of a handkerchief.
Standing in front of her mirror, she took a deep, shuddering breath. But
she conquered her fear with a grim effort. When she skipped gaily out to the
room where the radio was noisily playing, she was a picture to set any man's
heart on fire.
Snap didn't even see the handkerchief in her hand, let alone the hypo
needle concealed in its folds. His eyes stayed on her pretty face and her
gorgeous figure.
They danced. Snap held the girl unpleasantly tight. But Alice Dodge endured
it stoically. She was waiting for her chance.
THE chance came as they whirled in a corner of the room. The balled
handkerchief fluttered from her hand that rested light on the back of Snap's
hunched shoulder. The hypo needle crept to the spot on Snap's neck where the
drug would most easily enter his blood stream and paralyze his muscles.
Snap gave a shrill yelp of astonishment and pain, as the strong needle
rammed home. A colorless liquid was expelled through its hollow point.
He sprang at her, his eyes black with rage. Too late, he realized that he
had been played for a fool. His clutching hand missed Alice's throat and ripped
the frail robe from her shoulder. But it was a weak and impotent gesture. The
drug which had passed into Snap's blood stream converted him almost instantly
into a wobbly man with legs and arms like rubber.
He fell in a squirming huddle on the floor. For a moment, his eyes opened
and closed convulsively. Then a shudder passed over him and he became rigid and
unconscious.
Alice Dodge bent swiftly over the fallen mobster, searched him thoroughly.
She found the paper that had passed between Duke Duncan and Snap in the taxicab.
The sight of it turned her blue eyes to ice. She read it.
She had known that at midnight a million dollars was to be passed in
exchange for a document that she was ready to risk her life to obtain. Now she
knew about the lonely lane that ran outside the Fairlawn golf links, beyond the
wall where the eleventh hole was located.
Alice Dodge rushed swiftly back to her bedroom and stripped herself of the
tatters of her robe. Then she dressed rapidly, making a complete change of
garments. The rest of her clothing and belongings went into a suitcase. She had
rented this apartment under an assumed name. There was nothing left to trace her
real identity when she had finished.
Quickly, the girl left the apartment.
SNAP CARLO didn't recover his senses for nearly an hour. Slowly, his glassy
eyes opened. He gave a weak groan and staggered to his feet.
Rage and fear whipped away the cobwebs in his brain. He rushed through the
apartment, seeking some trace of his clever foe. But Alice Dodge had left no
clue.
Snap cursed in a spasm of helpless rage. Then he saw a telephone on a low
stand in a corner of the room. It gave him an idea, immediately.
Picking it up, he called the town home of John Marsley. A butler answered.
Snap Carlo asked to speak with Miss Alice Dodge.
"I'm afraid you have the wrong number, sir. This is the home of John
Marsley."
"I know that," Snap gasped. "The girl I'm asking about lives there. She's
Viola Marsley's secretary."
Again the butler's calm voice replied:
"I'm sorry, sir. I'm afraid some one has been - er - spoofing you. No one
named Alice Dodge lives here. And Miss Marsley doesn't employ a secretary."
The servant hung up. Snap Carlo stared at the useless receiver in his hand.
He had already searched his pockets and knew that the paper that Duke Duncan had
entrusted to him was missing. The wise little dame had stolen it!
Who the hell was this Alice Dodge? He made one more phone call, one that
cost him a grim effort. It was a confession to Duke Duncan that a woman had made
a complete sap of him. Duke's savage comments on the other end of the wire
didn't help.
He cursed Snap in a way that made the ears of the henchman tingle with
rage. He ordered Snap to get back on the job and keep his eye on the hotel
apartment of Leo Barry. To Duncan, the whole thing looked like a hookup between
Barry and the shapely little blonde.
CHAPTER V
FIVE - AND ONE
THE blackness of midnight had settled on the lonely countryside of New
Jersey. The figures of two crouched men made formless blots in the gloom. They
stood together under the thick branches of an elm that grew at the side of a
lonely lane.
Bordering one side of the lane was a low stone wall. Beyond the wall was
the deeper blackness of the eleventh hole of the Fairlawn golf course.
Along the opposite side of the rutted lane was a picket fence. It closed
off the lawn of a cottage set a hundred feet back amid a protecting screen of
shrubs and trees. This was the cottage which John Marsley had selected as the
spot where he was to transfer a million dollars.
The men waiting under the elm swore viciously. It was already past
midnight. Marsley was late for his appointment. The two crooks were beginning to
suspect a double cross.
One of them was Duke Duncan. The other was Snap Carlo. They made no effort
to lower their voices. They were sure they were unobserved. Duke had examined
the stone wall of the golf links and the rough ground that lay beyond. Snap had
taken a swift survey of the cottage and the lawn. They were grimly content with
the result.
However, their fancied security was merely the result of overconfidence.
Keen ears listened to every syllable of their conversation. A hidden watcher was
directly over their heads, screened by the leafy branches of the elm.
Even had Duke lifted his eyes he would have been unable to detect that
figure above him. It was robed from head to foot in a cloak of inky black. A
broad slouch hat covered the figure's head. Its brim shadowed a pair of burning
eyes. The eyes and the strong beak-like nose were the only indication of
humanity in the man hidden in the elm.
The Shadow!
Moe Shrevnitz had done his job well. The Shadow was aware of what was
arranged for tonight. He was here to learn more of the hidden motives that
linked Leo Barry with Duke Duncan and the millionaire John Marsley.
The talk of Duke and Snap didn't make things much clearer. They were
worried because Marsley was late. They were puzzled about a mysterious woman
named Alice Dodge. The Shadow learned for the first time how neatly Snap had
been tricked by the young woman.
After a brief interchange of talk, the two crooks under the tree separated.
Snap climbed over the picket fence and disappeared into the darkness at the rear
of the cottage. Duke waited.
Suddenly, Duke gave a hissed exclamation. Far down the rutted lane, two
bright lights glowed. They were the headlights of an advancing automobile. A
moment later, they disappeared. But the automobile continued to advance.
The Shadow in his tree could hear the faint murmur of the motor.
THE car halted almost directly under the branches of the elm. Its
headlights flashed on. So did the dome light inside the car. John Marsley was
clearly visible behind the wheel. He was exposing himself deliberately, so that
Duncan could be sure he was alone as he had promised.
Duke appeared like a tall wraith in the glow of the lights. There was a big
automatic in his watchful hand.
"You got the dough ready?"
"Yes. It's in three suitcases, in my cottage. Is any one with you?"
"No," Duke lied.
He climbed to the running board and rode with the car along the narrow
driveway entrance to the cottage grounds. The car vanished behind the house and
its lights snapped off. Silence followed in the bleak darkness.
The Shadow dropped swiftly, silently from his concealment among overlapping
branches. Like a part of the night itself, he glided across the road. He crept
cautiously toward the rear of the house.
No lights showed in any of the windows. Marsley's parked car was empty.
Footsteps in the soft earth showed where the millionaire and the racket chief
had gone. The prints led straight to the closed rear door.
Trying the knob with infinite care, The Shadow discovered that the door was
locked on the inside.
He moved onward to the other side of the house, toward the kitchen wing.
His plan was to gain access to the house by means of the pantry window. But when
The Shadow reached it, he found the pantry window wide open!
Some one had jimmied it cleverly. There were marks on the wooden sill that
showed where pressure had been applied.
The Shadow had anticipated that three men were now inside the dark cottage.
He had seen Marsley and Duncan enter the grounds in the car. He knew Snap Carlo
had already sneaked inside, probably with the aid of skeleton keys. Who, then,
was the fourth intruder who jimmied the window?
The Shadow had no answer to this important question. He determined to wait
a moment before entering the open window. The thing might be a trap to entice
him inside for an ambush.
He glided silently toward the protection of the encircling shrubbery. He
barely vanished when he heard the stealthy sound of feet. The Shadow's interest
grew. The trespasser's face was clearly visible as she crossed the lawn to
approach the open window. A girl!
The Shadow noted her prettiness; her blond hair. Remembering the snatches
of talk he had heard from Duke and Snap, he was convinced at once that this girl
was the smart and dangerous Alice Dodge.
ALICE wasted no time. A lithe leap lifted her to the sill of the pantry
window. A moment, and she was gone. All that was left to The Shadow to prove
that a girl had passed so swiftly from his sight was the memory of her pale
face.
He knew that she was nerved to a desperate pitch - to a pitch where she
would kill, if necessary, to gain whatever ends she was after.
Alice Dodge made the fifth visitor to enter this lonely cottage. Four men
and a woman converging in the darkness of midnight for the lure of a million
dollars in cash.
The Shadow made himself the sixth. His entry through the window was
soundless. He found himself in a room floored with squeaky boards. But he
managed to reach an open door without betraying his presence, and to gain the
confines of a narrow hall.
The darkness was profound. Not a sound echoed anywhere in the house. But
The Shadow took no chances. He searched every inch of the ground floor. His
eyes, accustomed to darkness, satisfied him that he was alone.
He climbed a flight of stairs to the floor above. Here, his progress was
infinitely careful. It was justified, for suddenly his sharp ears caught the low
inflection of a human voice. It was the voice of John Marsley. It came from
behind a door almost at the elbow of The Shadow.
A hairline of yellow light showed under the door. The rumble of Duke
Duncan's voice added itself to the more cautious whisper of Marsley.
Gently, The Shadow crouched. He applied an eye to the keyhole; he could see
both Marsley and Duncan. They were standing in the center of a lighted room.
There was no sign of the furtive Snap Carlo, nor of the mysterious Alice Dodge.
The voice of John Marsley sounded crisp, and oddly triumphant, to the
attentive ear of The Shadow.
"I told you that I'd come here alone - and I've kept my word. The money is
here, every penny of it! It's yours, as soon as you hand over that blackmail
evidence."
"Show me the dough first" - cautiously from Duncan.
Marsley laughed softly. "I expected you to say that. The money is in three
suitcases hidden in a small niche behind the east wall of this room. If you'll
notice, the baseboard that circles the wall just above the floor is a rather
ornate one. It's decorated with carvings of leaves and flowers stained the same
color as the wood."
"So what?"
"Those carvings were put there to serve a purpose." Marsley explained,
patiently. "One of the flowers is slightly larger than the others. It is, in
reality, a knob that controls the action of a hidden spring. By turning it, I am
able to open a section of the wall and expose the suitcases that contain the
ransom money. If you will permit me to show you..."
He stepped forward. But Duke Duncan caught at his arm with a tigerish
gesture, pulling the banker back on his heels.
"Not so fast, wise guy! If you don't mind, I'll turn that knob! And if
you've got a dick inside there, with a gun, it'll be just too bad for him and
you!"
A PISTOL glinted in Duke's big fist. He approached the wall warily.
Dropping to his haunches, he swayed his body aside so that only his extended
hand was in front of the panel where the carved flower was clearly visible in
the woodwork.
He turned it with a click. The wall slid smoothly aside.
At the sound of the click, Duke Duncan darted swiftly aside from the panel.
He waited for the hidden roar of a gun. But nothing happened. Only silence
filled the room.
He peered cautiously into the open niche. It was black inside the wall, but
the dim light from the room itself was sufficient to identify the objects that
were visible in the opening.
Leather suitcases! Three of them!
Marsley gave a metallic laugh of derision.
"You act as if you were afraid of a million dollars! Pull one of those bags
out and have a look."
Gingerly, Duke slid the nearest of the heavy suitcases out onto the floor
in front of himself and Marsley. His eager hand reached for the attached key.
At that very instant, the light in the room went out!
There was a gasp from Marsley, a roaring yell of alarm from Duke. It was
followed by the echoing thunder of gunfire.
The Shadow, crouched at the keyhole of the hall door, recognized the nature
of that grim explosion: the roar of a shotgun. He could hear the impact of the
scattering leaden pellets that cut short the strangled cry of Duke Duncan.
It was followed by a weird silence.
The Shadow sprang to his feet. His gloved hand sent the hall door flying
open. Into the blackness of the room he sprang, both hands extended grimly
before him. His right hand held an automatic. From his left darted the
pencil-like radiance of a pocket torch.
The beam fell upon a horrible sight. Duke Duncan lay at full length where
he had fallen. Buckshot had torn his head almost to pieces. Blood spattered the
floor in a ghastly puddle.
There was no sign of John Marsley. He could have vanished into only one
place: the dark niche in the wall.
The Shadow bent over the body of the slain Duncan. Black-gloved hands
swiftly searched his pockets. There was no envelope where one should have been.
The document for which Marsley had offered to pay a million dollars was gone -
stolen!
In an instant, The Shadow hurdled the dead body. His flash filled the niche
in the wall with brilliant light. He saw what he expected to find: a flight of
narrow stairs inside the wall. The stairs led downward into pitch-blackness.
The light of The Shadow's torch winked out. Stealthily, silently, he began
to descend the staircase inside the wall.
CHAPTER VI
THE CEILING GUN
FOR almost a full minute after The Shadow had vanished through the panel
opening, the pitch-dark room he had quitted remained as silent as a grave. Then
a faint creak echoed from the door leading to the hall.
Some one had slyly turned the knob and was cautiously entering. Then the
beam of an electric torch glowed.
The torch was held in the quivering hand of a girl. Her eyes gleamed like
frozen stars under the curling wave of her blond hair. The girl was Alice Dodge.
She cringed as the light fell full on the shattered head of Duke Duncan.
Her left hand jerked to her mouth, choking off the cry of horror that bubbled
from her throat. The dead man was a ghastly object to contemplate.
There was no sign of the suitcase Duke had dragged out from the open niche.
Nor were the remaining two suitcases visible. All three had been whisked away by
the cunning murderer of Duncan.
Conquering her horror, Alice Dodge forced herself to kneel beside the body
of the almost headless racketeer. She searched Dukes body. Her fingers explored
every pocket of the bloody corpse.
But she found nothing.
She rose to her feet, had barely straightened her bent legs, when a tiny
noise across the room turned her face sharply backward across her shoulder.
She saw the outline of a door that, in her excitement, she hadn't noticed
before. The door was set flush into the wall. Its inner side was plastered white
exactly like the wall. And now the camouflaged door was partly open.
A man's face peered into the room. The light of Alice Dodge's torch fell
full on his swarthy countenance. The man was Snap Carlo.
Recognition was mutual. Snap recognized the girl who had drugged him
earlier in the day. Now he saw her pale face across the room, twitching with
terror behind the glow of her flash.
His hand moved aloft so fast that the gesture was a swift blur. There was a
knife in that poised hand. A swift toss, and the knife would fly like a
steel-shod arrow toward the rooted victim, turning over once in the air before
it plunged into Alice's throat and pinned her dead to the wall.
Snap grunted as he threw the knife.
The moment it left Snap's hand, Alice doused her light and dropped it. She
gave a bubbling scream that was cut sharply into silence in mid-utterance.
SNAP began to creep forward. His low chuckle of murderous delight sounded
ghoulish in the black void of the room.
Alice Dodge heard the laugh. She was flat on the floor, where she had
dropped a split-second before the thrown knife reached its target. Its handle
was still quivering on the wall above Alice's head. But the blade had missed her
throat.
She crawled silently across the floor to where the body of Duke Duncan lay.
Snap was moving in a straight line toward the unseen wall where he expected to
find the girl pinned in bloody death.
Alice was no longer terrified to the point of paralysis. Danger acted like
a splash of cold water on her nerves. As Snap approached the spot where she lay
waiting, her icy hand reached quietly outward. A creak of the floor boards
helped her to gauge exactly where Snap had planted his foot. She caught hold of
his ankle and yanked desperately with every ounce of her strength.
Snap's feet went out from under him. He fell heavily to the floor - and
Alice Dodge dived silently at his sprawled body.
For a second or two, there was a grim life-and-death tussle. It was over,
almost before it began. Snap had recovered his nerve as he recognized the soft
pressure of a woman's body. His strength was no match for Alice. He wriggled
sideways and his hand darted from his hip pocket with a gun. He reversed the
weapon, as he swung it upward for a bone-crushing blow.
The butt came down with a whizzing impact.
It struck only the floor. The loud thumping echo disconcerted Snap. He had
expected to kill the girl with one swift smash, and the girl was no longer
there!
Alice Dodge was substituting brains and guile for the strength she lacked
in a battle with a powerful brute like Snap. At the moment Snap had raised his
gun, Alice had wriggled silently away from him on her stomach. It was so swiftly
done that before the uplifted gun of Snap crashed against the empty floor
boards, Alice Dodge's questing fingers had touched the baseboard of a
shade-drawn window.
Curtains draped the sides of that window. Their stiff folds swept the
floor. Alice stepped instantly sideways and slid behind the protection the left
curtain afforded.
She had hardly vanished when there was a faint click. Light flooded the
room, from the torch Alice had dropped when the knife was thrown. Snap had found
it and was moving the bright oval nervously about the room.
SNAP gasped shrilly as the yellow beam exposed the bloody pulp of what had
been Duke Duncan's head. Shuddering, he cringed away from the crimson horror
beside him. His motion sent the bright beam of the torch veering across the
room.
It was a purely involuntary action, but it sealed the doom of Alice Dodge.
The toe of one of her slippers protruded from beneath the folds of the draped
curtain.
Snap Carlo charged forward with a yelp of triumph. He was reaching for the
curtain, when his hand froze in midair. Something happened outside the room to
disconcert the snarling murderer. The crash of a pistol made an abrupt, roaring
echo in the empty house.
The explosion came from somewhere below. From the ground floor, apparently,
in the region of the kitchen and pantry. The sound whirled Snap around on his
heels, his mouth agape with surprise.
It afforded Alice Dodge the split-second for which she was praying.
She did the thing Snap had intended to do. She ripped fiercely at the
window curtain that shrouded her body. Her strength was equal to the emergency.
The draped material was torn from its support and fell in a heavy billowing
mass. But it didn't drop about the head and shoulders of the girl. She threw
both arms outward and shoved the clinging stuff over the head and shoulders of
the half-turned killer.
Caught off balance, his ears still tingling from the echo of that pistol
roar downstairs, Snap fell a victim to the girl's swift action.
The curtain swathed him like a mummy. He bent, trying to tear the folds
away from his head and eyes - and Alice kicked him as hard as she could in the
stomach.
He went down, in a heap, writhing in agony. But the pistol still quivered
in his clenched hand. He tried to fire into the soft body of the girl who stood
over him. Alice's heel smashed down on the hand, pinning it flat to the floor.
Fear gave her strength. She wrenched the gun from Snap's momentarily slack grip,
lifted it high and smashed down, on Snap's jerking head.
Snap collapsed. He lay motionless on the floor, not six feet away from the
body of his dead chieftain.
FOR an instant of reaction, Alice was unable to move. Then, abruptly, she
heard the roar of a speeding automobile from somewhere in front of Marsley's
cottage. It was followed by the crash of splintering wood.
Intuition told the startled girl what had happened. Some one was escaping
in a car from the murder scene. The automobile had driven at full speed into the
picket fence that divided the property from the lane outside. The fence had gone
down like matchwood. The hum of the disappearing car vanished in the distance
like the sighing of a swift wind.
Uncertain what to do, Alice hesitated. The creak of a man's footsteps
roused her from frozen paralysis. It was from that black wall niche opening that
the whisper of ascending footsteps came. Someone was climbing stealthily upward
from the kitchen below.
Alice whirled back toward the window with a gasp of terror. But she didn't
hesitate. She threw herself outward through the window in a jangling of broken
glass. Her body struck a slanting roof and slid at frightful speed down the
steep black incline.
She plunged partly over the rusty gutter before her fingers caught the
frail hold for which she was clutching. She felt thin, curved metal under her
tense grip. The metal creaked, but it held. Her body lowered itself from the
sagging gutter. She hung at full length over the black turf somewhere below. She
had no idea how far the fall would plunge her.
Her white teeth gritted. She let go.
WHEN The Shadow had descended those narrow hidden steps inside the wall,
his movements were silent, but as swift as the wind. He found an open panel at
the bottom of the long flight. Stepping cautiously through, he entered the
kitchen of Marsley's cottage.
Someone ahead of him had turned on a dim ceiling light.
There was no sign of the fugitive millionaire, nor of any of the other
intruders in this house of mystery. But there were bulky leather objects on the
kitchen floor that made The Shadow's eyes gleam with understanding.
Three suitcases. All three had been burst recklessly open, exposing their
contents. There was no sign of the money that Marsley had supposedly crammed in
those bags. All that was visible were neat packets of ordinary newspaper. They
were scattered all over the floor.
The rear door of the cottage was open. A quick look convinced The Shadow
that Marsley couldn't have fled out the rear door because of the nature of the
prints in the soft earth. They all pointed inward toward the house. Also, the
millionaire's car still stood empty and dark where he had parked it.
A narrow hallway led forward from the kitchen to the front of the cottage.
The light was very dim from the single ceiling bulb. The Shadow approached the
beginning of the narrow hall with wary attention. He suspected a trap.
His suspicion was justified.
Across the width of the passage, about a foot above the floor, a taut black
thread had been stretched. It was almost invisible. The leg of a hurrying man
would instantly snap that frail barrier.
The Shadow snapped it, but not with his own body.
Darting across the kitchen to the stove, he picked up a long metal poker.
He stood with his cloaked form carefully bent aside from the hall passage. His
arm stretched outward. A quick jerk of the hooked poker broke the black thread.
Instantly, from the ceiling of the dark passage, a shot roared. A bullet
thudded into the floor at the exact spot The Shadow would have stood, had he
advanced as recklessly as a cunning murderer had intended him to do.
The Shadow's sibilant laugh made grim, clipped music. Once more by quick
thinking he had anticipated and outguessed his mysterious foe. Was that foe
Marsley? The Shadow was not yet prepared to answer the question. Convinced that
the way ahead was clear, he raced to the front of the house.
It was the explosive report of the ambushed pistol that the frightened
Alice Dodge had heard upstairs. The Shadow's brains had actually saved the
girl's life, but, as yet, he was unaware of the tense drama that had developed
on the top floor of the house.
Through the open front door of the house, The Shadow leaped into the
blackness of the open grounds.
An automobile was racing into view from behind a tangle of bushes. It sped
straight for the picket fence, smashing it flat under its spinning wheels as it
whizzed to the black lane outside the golf course.
The escaping car vanished down the black lane with a hum of power that
rapidly drifted into nothingness.
THE SHADOW had no chance to halt that desperate flight. He knew, however,
the identity of that crazy motorist. He had caught a revealing glimpse of a
pale, ratty face, twisted with triumph.
It was the little blackmailer who had started this whole train of
conspiracy and murder by his daring visit to the headquarters of Duke Duncan on
Du Pont Place.
Leo Barry. He was the cunning fugitive who had fled into the shrouding
darkness of the New Jersey countryside.
The Shadow could have stopped that car with a swiftly aimed bullet into one
of the spinning tires. He deliberately refrained from doing so. The Shadow
wanted Leo Barry to escape. The case had not yet developed to the point where
The Shadow wanted to apprehend this man.
He was turning on his heel to glide back inside the house, when another
unlooked-for event changed his purpose.
A window on the top floor of the cottage had been shattered to pieces with
a loud jangle of falling glass. Through the broken window, a dark slender body
hurled itself. It rolled over and over, down the steep slant of the extension
roof.
The Shadow raced forward to come to grips with this new enemy.
CHAPTER VII
THE SAND PIT
THE crash of glass that had drawn The Shadow to the south side of Marsley's
cottage came from Alice Dodge's desperate dive through the window.
The Shadow witnessed her swift, rolling descent down the steep extension
roof. She was preparing to drop to the black turf below.
Her clenched fingers let go their grip. Downward through space she whizzed,
struck the dark earth with both feet. She was clever enough to bend her silken
knees in an effort to cushion the fall. But the impact was terrific, none the
less. It pitched her forward on her face.
Alice managed slowly to regain her feet. The Shadow watched her chafe
circulation back into her numb ankles. One of them seemed to be slightly
sprained from the impact. But, obviously, no bones were broken.
Alice Dodge began to hobble away, increasing her speed with each faltering
step she took. Her goal was the thick tangle of shrubbery that lined the side of
the cottage property. The black woods swallowed up her fleeing figure.
The Shadow did not attempt to cut her off. He could easily have done so,
but he had a double purpose in mind. His first was to find out if possible the
unknown leader of crime for whom this desperate girl was working.
The Shadow eliminated the dead Duke and Snap as her possible confederates.
Could it be John Marsley? By following Alice, he hoped to find the answer.
The second restraining factor in The Shadow's mind was the matter of
geography. From the direction of Alice's flight through the woods, he calculated
that she would break through to the road at almost the exact spot where The
Shadow had parked his own car.
The Shadow took the clear, unimpeded route through the cottage grounds,
rather than the bramble-twisted path the girl had taken. No sound came from his
feet in the rutted lane. He reached the car and found it empty, as he had left
it.
Far back in the tangled shrubbery, he could hear the approaching feet of
the girl.
In a trice, The Shadow opened the door of his car. His slouch hat and his
black robe slid away from him. The disguise was thrust into a hidden compartment
with one swift gesture. The Shadow was now Lamont Cranston.
But a ripple passed over his mobile face. His mouth and features seemed to
writhe. Without changing anything save the habitual expression of his face,
Lamont Cranston also vanished.
In his place was a smiling stranger. A man whose mouth looked weak, whose
expression seemed almost timid. Well-dressed, faultlessly groomed, he seemed
like a harmless, good-natured citizen whose car had broken down on a lonely
country road.
He drew himself out of sight behind the car.
THE next instant, bushes crackled and waved. Alice Dodge sped breathlessly
into the open. A gasp of delight burst from her lips as she saw the motionless
car. She sprang inside. Her trembling foot pressed viciously against the starter
pedal.
But before the engine could catch, she was restrained by a soft clutch at
her arm. A nimble gentleman had slid out of darkness to the seat beside her - a
very peaceable and inoffensive man in a light-gray suit of expensive cut.
"You surely wouldn't try to steal my car, young lady?"
"Who - who are you?"
"Peter Lane is my name. I hope I didn't frighten you. I got out to look at
my gas tank. What's wrong? Are you in trouble?"
"Yes!" The Shadow was conscious of her sharp, shrewd glance at his mild
face. He could see her mind swiftly fashioning lies to fool him.
"My name is Marie Endrick," she said, glibly. "I went to a country-club
dance tonight with a boy friend. He asked me to take a drive afterward in his
car. He - he said that cottage back yonder was his, and he invited me in for a
drink. He - he tried to - to make - Oh, it was horrible! I broke away and fled
through the woods. Listen! He's coming after me, now! Save me! Don't let him
harm me!"
The sound of a heavy body threshing through the bushes was distinctly
audible. The Shadow thought instantly of Snap Carlo. Snap must have seen the
girl make her leap from the top-floor shed roof, and was racing to capture her.
"Place your head on my shoulder!" The Shadow whispered, gently. "Perhaps we
can fool this fellow."
The pursuing figure appeared suddenly from the dark screen of shrubbery. It
wasn't Snap Carlo. In spite of the fact that he was panting and his face was
scratched by brambles, there was nothing of the criminal look about him. It was
John Marsley.
The Shadow pretended not to recognize the international banker.
Marsley blinked and hesitated. He saw Alice Dodge's head reclining
amorously on the shoulder of an inoffensive-looking stranger.
"Who are you?" he growled. "What are you doing, parked here on a dark road
like this?"
"Peter Lane is my name. This is my fiance, Marie Endrick. We stopped here
for a moment for personal reasons. Do you object?"
Marsley's answer was vicious. A gun whipped from his pocket with lightning
speed. He held the muzzle pointed toward Peter Lane and the girl.
"You're a liar!" he snarled, "You're both liars! The girl is Alice Dodge!
She's a thief! She tried to rob me back there in that cottage! Get out of that
car with your hands up high, or I'll blow your head off!"
THIS last savage injunction was addressed to Peter Lane. The Shadow obeyed.
He could see pitiless death in the banker's cold eyes. He stepped obediently
from the car, and under the menace of the gun, moved slowly around to the front
of the parked automobile.
The gun barrel followed him like the needle of a deadly compass. So intent
was Marsley on his captive, that he failed to keep his mind on the girl. It gave
her an opportunity that she was quick to use.
She pressured the starter pedal, rammed the car into gear.
It leaped forward with a swift jerk that almost crunched The Shadow beneath
its wheels. He threw himself headlong aside, rolling over in the dirt. The car
roared away with a screech of accelerated speed.
Marsley didn't fire a single shot after the vanishing girl. He had a double
choice of victims, and he made it with criminal instinct. His gun muzzle was a
pointing circlet of death, as The Shadow sprang to his feet.
"Don't move, Mr. Peter Lane! Walk ahead of me!" Marsley growled, "Straight
ahead! Climb slowly over that stone wall of the golf course!"
The Shadow obeyed. He was seeking additional information about this
sinister John Marsley, who seemed to be an international banker of repute by
day, and a murderous rogue by night.
The strange procession led through unkempt grass and weedy patches of
underbrush. The Shadow was forced to advance toward a deep sand trap near the
eleventh hole of the golf course. He halted at its lip.
"Slide down!" the inexorable voice behind him ordered.
The Shadow descended, feet-first, in a cloud of dislodged sand particles.
Marsley followed. There was a queer smile on the banker's pale face. He had
barely reached the bottom when he did a strange thing.
He placed the gun back in his pocket and began to laugh with a shrill,
nervous tone.
"Is this a joke?" the voice of Peter Lane asked.
"The grimmest joke you will ever come in contact with in your whole life!"
Marsley rejoined. "I have no intention of killing you, Mr. Lane. I was afraid
only of that girl in your car. I wanted to get rid of her. I brought you here,
to this lonely spot, because I've got to talk confidentially with you. I've got
to entrust to you a secret that affects the well-being of our country, perhaps
the peace of the entire world!"
It was impossible to guess whether Marsley was serious or lying. He pointed
toward the soft bottom of the sand trap with a quivering finger. The clouds in
the dark sky overhead had parted momentarily. The rays of a crescent moon showed
the ground with milky indistinctness.
Marsley's finger was pointing toward something that looked like a golf ball
half covered with loose sand.
"That golf ball you see lying there is hollow," he whispered. "It contains
a secret that must be forwarded to Washington - tonight! The ball is a thin
metal container, and the top unscrews. Inside it is a single sheet of onionskin
paper that contains a message written in Oriental characters. I have no longer
any real hope of getting it to Washington, alive. I want you to take this secret
message to a man whose name I will give you."
Marsley reached down to pick up the golf ball. But he didn't touch it.
Turning, he clutched at The Shadow and shoved him viciously to one side.
THE SHADOW saw something else in the sand. A slight lump was evident below
the spot where his foot was descending. But he had no chance to regain his
balance. The foot came down hard, and there was instantly a snap from a
concealed steel spring.
Jaws of tough metal closed over The Shadow's foot. Those jaws were edged
with sharp-pointed teeth. They bit through the leather of his shoe and sunk with
bloody persistence into the flesh of his foot.
He went down as if he had been shot. Pain wrenched upward through his leg.
It brought the sweat of agony to The Shadow's brow. He rolled over and lay
perfectly still, knowing that useless twisting might snap his ankle as it would
a pipestem.
The device that held him was a steel-jawed animal trap. It had been
cleverly planted near the golf ball. A light sifting of sand had concealed it
from view in the shifting moonlight.
John Marsley bent over and disarmed The Shadow. Again, the banker's whole
manner had changed. He no longer looked terrified. The fright and fear in his
eyes when he had bent for the golf ball was now replaced by cold ruthless
satisfaction.
"I don't quite know who you are, Mr. Lane, and I don't much care. I'd kill
you right now, only I can't afford to risk the noise of a pistol shot."
His laughter purred harshly.
"Unless I'm mistaken, Snap Carlo should be somewhere in the vicinity. He's
a handy man with a knife, they tell me. I'll leave you to Snap's grim mercy!
Good night!"
He went clawing up the steep side of the sand pit, squirmed over the edge
and vanished. For a moment the retreating footsteps could be heard faintly, then
there was silence.
The Shadow managed to writhe painfully to his knees. The bone of his ankle
was not smashed, as he had feared, but his shoe was bloody and his trapped foot
was in bad shape.
He reached for the golf ball. In spite of Marsley's lying speech, it was
exactly what it appeared to be: an ordinary pitted golf ball. The Shadow
clenched it in strong fingers. He hoped to be able to use it as a lever to force
open the steel jaws of the trap.
Suddenly, over his head, The Shadow heard a low chuckle. Lifting his face
from the sand, he saw a dark, murderous countenance peering down at him from the
edge of the pit. Moonlight glittered on the blade of a knife.
Snap Carlo!
CHAPTER VIII
MOONLIGHT MADNESS
SNAP leaped grimly over the pit's edge, came sliding down in an avalanche
of sand. He rushed toward The Shadow.
His eagerness gave The Shadow a slender opportunity. The golf ball he had
picked up was still in his hand. He leaned backward, his elbow bent. When the
arm straightened, it was like the crack of a whiplash. He threw the golf ball
with every ounce of strength he possessed.
It landed exactly where The Shadow aimed - against the left eye of the
charging killer.
Snap was temporarily blinded with pain. Reeling, he clapped a hand to the
damaged eye.
The steel jaws of the trap kept The Shadow from gaining his feet. But his
long arm snaked out with a lightning gesture. He caught Snap's ankle, pulling
him headlong to the sand.
The fierce exertion had taken grim toll of The Shadow's waning strength.
The bite of the steel jaws on his foot was more than human flesh could stand.
A wave of nausea swept over him, loosening his grip on the criminal. Before
he could recover, Snap was squatting over his helpless foe like an ugly toad.
The knife lifted in Snap's grasp. He clutched The Shadow by the hair,
holding his head tilted so that the glittering point of the blade would plunge
deep into the flesh of the throat.
The knife descended. The hand of The Shadow moved so fast that it was a
blur in the pale moonlight. He stopped the plunge of the knife, but only for an
instant. His strength was no match for his fresh and vigorous foe.
Again, the knife lifted.
This time, Snap himself halted the death blow. A shrill, triple sound made
the tense killer swear with sudden fright. The sound came from the lane that ran
past the stone wall of the golf links. A police whistle! The three quick blasts
were unmistakable.
It changed the cocksure Snap from a merciless killer to a cowardly
fugitive. He had no desire to tangle with State cops. He knew that the corpse of
Duke Duncan in the cottage would give the police a long-sought opportunity to
shove him straight into the electric chair.
It would be a cinch to convict him, guilty or not.
Snap beat a cautious retreat. He clawed quietly up the side of the pit,
bellied over the edge. His bent figure vanished noiselessly into the darkness,
toward the opposite side of the deserted links.
THE Shadow, too, was desperately anxious not to have himself found by State
troopers. His fake identity as Peter Lane would be hard to maintain. His real
personality was in danger of complete exposure.
He did what he had planned to do before the savage attack of Snap Carlo. He
used the golf ball - which had fallen to the sand, after striking Snap's eye -
as a lever to help him pry apart the closed steel jaws of the trap on his foot.
It was hard work, but The Shadow was nerved by his immediate peril. Bit by
bit, he managed to force the notched jaws slightly apart. He jammed the golf
ball into the aperture and rested for an instant.
His stiffened fingers cracked under the effort he was making. The golf ball
dropped loose to the sand, but before the jaws of the trap could spring back
again, The Shadow pulled his shoe loose from the notched steel.
Squirming over the lip of the crater, dizzy from pain and exhaustion, he
moved silently through darkness toward the road beyond the stone wall. He was
able to rest his weight on both feet now.
He could see the tracks of footsteps in the soft turf. They were his and
Marsley's, made when The Shadow had been forced toward the sand pit by the wily
banker. The Shadow avoided making return prints by stepping carefully on firm,
grassy tufts.
He reached the stone wall, dropped low. There were chinks in the loosely
piled stones and The Shadow was able to peer through. He saw at once that Snap's
fear was justified.
A police roadster was parked in the lane outside the grounds of Marsley's
cottage. Beside it stood a State trooper. He was still holding in his hand the
whistle on which he had blown three signal blasts.
The signal had been meant for the ears of the trooper's comrade. A second
uniformed man was hurrying out to the road from the cottage grounds.
"I was afraid something was wrong," the trooper with the whistle said.
"Nobody came out since you went in. The house looks damned quiet. Was that phone
call a fake?"
"No fake, Tom. There's murder inside that cottage - and a pretty dirty job
of murder, too! Whoever Stanley West is, he sure had the right dope when he sent
us that warning phone call!"
The Shadow, listening intently behind the wall, creased his forehead in a
thoughtful frown. Stanley West was the sleek boyfriend of Viola Marsley. The
pair had passed The Shadow that very morning in the lobby of the banker's
skyscraper on their way to these same golf links! Was West, too, in this
murderous riddle? And Viola - what of her?
It seemed ridiculous to suspect a daughter of trying to betray her own
father, but The Shadow never eliminated anyone from suspicion, until he was
certain of his facts. Emotion or guesswork played no part in The Shadow's
methods of detection.
He added Stanley West and Viola to his list of people to be investigated,
while he listened to the whispered talk of the two troopers in the dark road
beyond the wall.
"I found tire marks outside the back door. A big car left there in a hurry
after a swift change of tires."
"Who's been murdered?"
"Duke Duncan! How do you like that for a sensation?"
There was an exclamation from his big partner. But the trooper who had
searched the cottage cut him short with a quick recital of what he had found
inside the house. He swore excitedly, ended his story with:
"This is the screwiest murder case I ever ran into!"
THE SHADOW agreed with him - but the next instant, he was ducking his head
and flattening his body on the soft grass behind the stone wall. His motion was
a second too late. The trooper, turning his head, had evidently heard a restless
movement of The Shadow's, behind the wall.
He yelled a warning and drew his gun : "There's a guy behind that wall!"
Twin muzzles pointed at the spot where The Shadow lay concealed.
"Come out of there with your hands up, or we'll blow you apart!" yelled the
second trooper.
No answer.
The nearest trooper began to advance, slowly, zigzagging as a precaution.
His companion darted aside and ran toward the shaggy outline of the elm tree.
Screened by its massive trunk, he leaped over the low top of the wall.
The beam of his torch fell full on the spot where the movement had been
heard.
There was no one there!
The Shadow had not wasted a second. While the troopers were calling
uselessly for him to surrender, The Shadow had made his swift way along the
inner side of the wall. The barrier bent sharply a few yards onward, following
the course of the crooked country lane. When the trooper went over the wall from
behind the protection of the elm, The Shadow went over it in the opposite
direction. He dropped into the dust of the black road. The darkness and the
curve in the lane protected him for the moment.
Everything hinged on the next movement of the two troopers.
They did what The Shadow hoped they would do. A cry from one of them
indicated that they had found footprints in the soft turf of the golf links.
They were the marks that John Marsley and "Peter Lane" had made. They led
straight onward toward the sand trap near the eleventh hole.
The Shadow rose from his concealment at the outer side of the stone wall.
Crouching, he saw the disappearing backs of the stalking troopers. They had
separated. They were approaching the sand pit like cautious Indians, their guns
ready for action.
It was all The Shadow needed to know. His cautious flight along the road
made no sound. He ran straight toward the parked car of the troopers. In a
single bound, The Shadow gained the seat and slid behind the wheel. He awoke the
engine to life. The car shot forward under the grim pressure of The Shadow's
unhurt foot on the gas pedal.
At the noise of the motor, there came a double yell of alarm and rage from
the two troopers in the sand trap. Orange flame spurted in the darkness. Bullets
whistled toward the flying car. One of them struck with a loud thwack! But it
missed The Shadow's bent head as it ripped through the metal side of the car.
The rest of the hastily aimed slugs whined harmlessly through the air.
The car was too far away in the blackness now, for a lucky shot to pierce
one of the tires.
THE SHADOW'S desperate purpose had succeeded. He had gained a method of
escape - and he had left his pursuers stranded on foot in a country road. Their
only recourse was the telephone.
The Shadow had seen no phone in Marsley's cottage. If his observation was
correct, it would mean considerable delay in spreading an alarm ahead to stop a
stolen police car.
It was ahead of him that The Shadow's greatest danger now lay!
But ahead of him lay also his greatest opportunity. He was thinking of the
mysterious Alice Dodge and the car that she had taken: The Shadow's own car.
Alice had fled down this same road, taking the exact route that The Shadow
was now taking. There was an excellent chance that The Shadow might, by high
speed, overtake her before she could vanish completely.
As soon as the country lane swerved into the highway leading toward New
York, The Shadow forced every atom of speed the police car could muster. Every
once in a while he swept through a tiny sleeping village. He had a hunch he was
going to find his own car empty and abandoned in one of these dark villages.
Alice Dodge would be afraid to stick to it too long. She'd be apt to rely
on the surer protection of a train ride to New York.
The fourth village in which The Shadow slackened his speed showed him what
intelligence had already anticipated. There was a railroad station on the left
side of the road, a mere shed with a platform. Behind the platform was the dark
shape of a parked automobile. One that The Shadow recognized!
Grinding to a quick stop, The Shadow changed cars. He was now in his own.
The police knew nothing of this machine.
The Shadow continued through the darkness at a more reasonable pace.
Shortly, he gave a low-toned chuckle. He had noticed the pale glint of white
paper in a crack at the side of the seat upholstery. A small envelope and a
sheet of white paper had slid downward and become jammed out of sight, with only
its corner protruding.
Alice Dodge, in her fear and excitement, had failed to notice her loss. The
Shadow knew the letter was hers the moment he glanced at its outside. It was
addressed to her, in care of general delivery.
The note inside was typewritten and very brief. Just two sentences. But
those two typed sentences and the name signed at the bottom brought a cold gleam
to the eyes of The Shadow:
Very much interested in your proposition.
If I get what I want - you'll get what you want!
STANLEY WEST
Again the name of the sleek playboy friend of Viola Marsley was popping up
in this tangled case. The Shadow hadn't forgotten that it was Stanley West whose
telephone warning had brought the police racing to Marsley's isolated cottage.
What was West's game? And who was this Alice Dodge?
The girl had made a proposition and Stanley West had accepted. Was this the
true explanation for Duke Duncan's murder? Alice had escaped in The Shadow's car
before he had much chance to study her appearance. But a swift glance or two was
all The Shadow usually needed.
The girl's clothing was significant. She had seemed to him to be queerly
like Viola Marsley. That was because she was wearing clothing that was almost
the exact counterpart of the costume the banker's daughter had worn when she had
left her father's office early in the morning to play golf at the Fairlawn
links. Was Alice Dodge attempting to impersonate Viola?
The Shadow had plenty to think about, as he drove steadily back to New York
with an aching and badly swollen foot.
CHAPTER IX
LEO BARRY RETURNS
A LITTLE after nine o'clock on the following morning, a sleek roadster
halted in front of the imposing townhouse of John Marsley. Stanley West
alighted.
There was a pleased smile on his handsome face. He acted like a clever
young man who was thoroughly satisfied with the world and himself. He crossed
the sidewalk with brisk strides and rang the bell.
The butler who answered his quick, positive ring seemed a trifle ill at
ease. But West's cheery smile and his fresh morning face chased the gloom from
the butler's sallow countenance.
"Good morning, sir."
"Is Miss Marsley ready for her morning's golf?"
"I suppose so, sir." The butler hesitated. "She's in the library with her
father. Perhaps I'd better -"
"Don't bother, Craig. I know the way to the library."
He clicked blithely down the hall and knocked at a closed oaken door.
Marsley's voice called out, "Come in!" and West entered.
He seemed surprised at the pale, unhappy look on Marsley's usually
impassive face. Viola, too, seemed worried. Her glance moved from the young man
to her father. Then it returned to a pile of newspapers on the library table.
Flaring headlines covered the front pages. The mysterious murder of Duke
Duncan in New Jersey the night before, had hit the news with a bang.
"Where in the world have you been all morning, Stanley?" Viola cried,
anxiously.
"At my apartment. Why?" His voice was suave.
"I tried to get you on the telephone. Your line has been busy for the past
two hours!"
"I don't wonder at that," West grinned. "I've had reporters and detectives
buzzing around me like flies! They all seemed to think I had something to do
with the murder of that fellow named Duke Duncan."
"The papers say it was you who telephoned the tip about the killing, from a
pay station in New Jersey, last night," Viola faltered.
"Some rascal impersonated me," West replied, quietly. "He was afraid to
give his own name to the police, so he picked a name at random from the phone
book. Unluckily, he happened to pick mine. But, luckily, I have a complete
alibi. I was in Manhattan all last night, and I have friends to prove it. Don't
worry about me. How about our golf game, Viola?"
She didn't answer Stanley. She seemed to have forgotten him. She was again
gazing at her father.
"Dad. I'm going to ask you something that may seem silly, even crazy. But I
have a reason for asking. Do you know anything at all about the murder of Duke
Duncan?"
Marsley didn't seem annoyed by his daughter's accusing question. On the
contrary, he forced a wan smile.
"If you mean, do I have an alibi like Mr. West, my answer is yes. Like him,
I was lucky enough to be in Manhattan last night. I have witnesses to prove it,
if necessary. Why do you ask?"
He was amazed by the deep breath of thankfulness Viola uttered.
"Thank God." she murmured. "I knew that woman was lying! I could tell it
from the sound of her shrill voice over the phone."
"WOMAN?" Marsley echoed. His face seemed to turn gray in an instant. Fear
showed in his eyes. "Who called you, and what did she say?"
"She said her name was Alice Dodge. She declared that she had evidence that
would send you to the chair for murder! She - she accused you of killing Duke
Duncan! She said you were talking to him at the cottage when he was murdered.
She promised to keep quiet, if I meet her at a tea room uptown. She has a
proposition she wants to make me."
Marsley's emotion at the mention of Alice Dodge was impossible to conceal.
"I forbid you to leave the house!" he said, hoarsely.
"It sounds like a kidnap scheme," Stanley West remarked.
"Exactly! Alice Dodge is a criminal! Had you gone to that tea room, she'd
have kidnapped you and held you as a pawn to force me to do certain things -
things I have no intention of doing!"
"How can you be so sure this Alice Dodge is a crook?" Stanley West asked,
quietly. His narrow eyes regarded the older man cunningly. But he masked it with
a polite shrug that turned his face away.
"Because she was at the cottage in New Jersey last night," Marsley
asserted.
"But - if you yourself weren't there, how do you know that?"
Marsley walked abruptly to the closed door of the library. He opened it
quickly with a sudden gesture. The butler was nowhere in sight. Closing the
oaken door, Marsley returned to face the polite West and his wondering daughter.
"I was in the cottage last night," he said in a low voice. "My alibi story
is not true. That cottage was purchased by a dummy employed by me. I went there
last night to pay Duke Duncan one million dollars in cash! He had certain
information I wanted to obtain. I tricked him and didn't pay - but I failed to
recover the document I was after."
"You - killed Duke Duncan?" Viola gasped.
"No. It was done in the dark. I don't know who fired the shotgun that
ripped his head apart. I'm - I'm in a terrible spot! I dare not go to the
police. And unless I can regain a certain blackmail document from the crooks,
I'm literally faced with the unpleasant fate of death in the electric chair!"
Stanley West shook his head with a slow gesture that was meant to be
reassuring. Marsley raised his hand to ward off any interruption.
"I want you to know certain facts - in case I'm killed," he continued. "The
blackmail paper to which I referred contains seeming proof that I was involved
in another murder some months ago, for which a young man named Jack Skelly is
now awaiting death at Sing Sing. That particular murder was arranged and carried
out by Duke Duncan. I give you my solemn word that I'm innocent - as innocent as
Jack Skelly."
"But if Skelly is innocent," Viola cried, "why can't you clear his name and
stop his execution?"
"Because to do that, I'll have to expose a secret that I've sworn I'll
never do. If saving him means the exposure of my secret, Skelly will have to
die!"
"Father, that's murder!"
"Call it what you like," Marsley growled, his eye on West. "In the vast
network of conspiracy into which I've unwittingly entangled myself, Skelly's
life is unimportant. So is mine."
Viola crept sobbing into the arms of her defiant father.
"I THINK you had better tell me exactly who were present in your Jersey
cottage last night," West said, in a persuasive voice.
His hands were clenched behind his back. He didn't want Marsley to realize
the eagerness that was flooding him. But Marsley was in no condition to detect
anything unusual in West's manner.
"Duncan, of course, was there," he said. "So was Snap Carlo. Alice Dodge
makes three. The fourth was a smooth scoundrel in a parked car by the name of
Peter Lane. And a thin-faced little fellow named Leo Barry."
He choked on some hidden rage.
"Personally, I'm convinced that Leo Barry is the man back of the whole
conspiracy. I've had private detectives on his trail. I know he visited Duncan
the day before Duncan came to see me. I've found out the name of the hotel where
Barry lives -"
"What hotel is he living in?" West interrupted.
Marsley named it: a second-rate place on the West Side.
"Leo Barry has disappeared since he saw Duncan, two days ago. But I'm sure
he'll return. When he does, I'll take care of him! I'm going to kill that
crooked little rat without hesitation!"
For an instant, the banker was like cold stone. Then the mood passed. He
patted the arm of his shivering daughter.
"I want you to leave town, Viola. Stay away until this horrible danger
blows over. You've got to!"
"I fancy Viola will be safe enough if she remains indoors," West remarked,
placidly.
Viola took the cue West offered. In a tearful voice, she refused to leave
New York. Marsley was unable to shake her determination to remain at his side.
West smilingly agreed not to leave his own apartment for the next few days,
when Viola insisted that he himself might be in peril because of his association
with her. When he left, it was with a low-voiced promise that father and
daughter could count on his cooperation and help.
His smile at the butler, who let him out, was as cheerful and bright as
when he had entered. If anything, it was brighter. He climbed into his shiny
roadster and sped away.
But for a gay and carefree young man, his actions were peculiar. He drove
to a garage and parked his car. Then he walked a couple of blocks and engaged a
taxicab. He changed cabs twice on the relatively short trip he made. His journey
took him in a roundabout route back toward the same neighborhood where John
Marsley maintained his expensive town home.
Stanley West walked the last two blocks to his apartment - or, rather, the
apartment of a friend of his. It was in a building that attracted no particular
attention to itself. It was neither swanky nor dilapidated. The elevator which
Stanley West took to an upper floor was self-service.
He knocked on a smooth door with a casual rat-tat of his knuckles. The
sound was so quickly made that what was really a signal sounded like an ordinary
summons.
The door opened promptly. It swung wide in the hand of an eager and very
pretty girl. She had soft honey-blond hair and deep-blue eyes. Her figure
outlined under the silken robe she wore was as lovely as a professional model's.
Snap Carlo would have ground his teeth after one quick look at this demure
beauty. She was Alice Dodge.
STANLEY WEST grinned at her, as he stepped across the threshold and shut
the door swiftly behind him.
"Well - what luck? What did you find out?"
"The kidnap scheme failed," West admitted.
He didn't seem downcast. His eyes radiated a glow of satisfaction. "But
something else happened that made my visit to Marsley a most fortunate one. The
old boy was so scared, he talked. I've found out the address of Leo Barry! And I
repeat what I've promised all along: If you'll help me, I'll help you."
Alice shot a harsh question at him. But he shrugged and shoved past her. He
picked up the phone book, found the number of a certain West Side hotel. When he
had it, he spat the number over the wire like a bullet.
His talk was brief and peculiar. He got the man he was calling, but he
didn't converse with him. He merely listened to the sound of the voice and
murmured quickly, "Excuse me - wrong number." Then he hung up.
"Leo Barry has returned to his hotel suite," he told Alice tonelessly. He
jammed on his hat and started for the door.
"Where are you going?"
"I'm going to pay a call - after some minor arrangements are made - on Mr.
Leo Barry."
His whispered words were like velvet. "You stay here, darling. Barry has
stolen something that I need very much, if I'm to conquer John Marsley. So I'm
going to finish Mr. Leo Barry, once and for all!"
CHAPTER X
THE SECOND MURDER
DARKNESS filled a mysterious room. It was a blackness akin to that of a
closed grave or a sealed burial vault.
Suddenly, a sibilant laugh echoed. It was followed by the sudden glow from
a single, shaded blue light hanging over a desk.
The Shadow was in his sanctum! - secret abode in the heart of Manhattan.
His laughter signified that a period of almost deathlike concentration was now
over. He was now ready to summarize his thoughts concerning five men and two
women.
The hand of The Shadow moved purposefully to the rear of the desk. When the
fingers returned, they were holding a sheet of paper. Next came pens and
disappearing ink.
The Shadow picked up one of the pens and wrote. A name appeared on the
white paper: "DUKE DUNCAN." Through that name, a black line was instantly drawn.
The line was a symbol that death had already removed Duke from the mystery.
The Shadow thought about the queer blackmail set-up that had preceded
Duncan's death. Obviously, Duncan had been used as a cat's-paw in a conspiracy
that aimed itself at John Marsley. The Shadow knew the nature of the blackmail
evidence that Duke Duncan had bought for ten thousand dollars from Leo Barry. He
was aware that Marsley had been ready to pay a million in cash to get it back.
But was this evidence the basis of the carnival of crime that had since
developed? The Shadow did not believe so. He sensed something deeper, something
that was far more deadly.
He bracketed with the name of Duke Duncan, the name of his chief lieutenant
in crime: Snap Carlo. Snap was a disloyal henchman. The Shadow knew Snap's
ambition to take over Duke's power and profit. To Snap's greed was added the
more ruthless motive of desire. He wanted Duke's woman - and Dolores Maguire
wanted Snap. It was a perfect motive for murder.
Yet The Shadow did not believe this was the answer. The names of Duncan and
Snap Carlo faded from the paper. The calm laughter of The Shadow indicated that
his suspicion of the woman-chasing Snap had faded, also.
He wrote now the name of Leo Barry. He was convinced that the little
blackmailer was the key to the whole puzzle. The Shadow knew that, behind his
unimpressive physical appearance, Barry was a man of brains. If Marsley had a
guilty secret that promised rich pickings, Barry would be clever enough to use
Duncan and his organized gang to do the dirty work.
The Shadow had no proof that it was Barry who had fired the fatal gun shot
in Marsley's cottage in New Jersey. But he suspected he was the one who had
attempted to steal the three suitcases; and the one who had planted the gun
which had failed to kill The Shadow in the dim passageway beyond Marsley's
kitchen.
Again, The Shadow inscribed a name on his sheet of paper, a woman's name
with a question mark immediately after it: "ALICE DODGE?"
There was no proof yet as to who this Alice Dodge really was. The note
found in the seat lining of The Shadow's car seemed to link her with Stanley
West. But Stanley West already seemed linked with another woman: John Marsley's
own daughter! The Shadow's busy pen showed the relationship between Stanley West
and the two women.
The name of John Marsley finished the list. The Shadow had personal
experience that the banker was ruthless to the point of murder. And he was
willing to let Jack Skelly go to the chair in Sing Sing.
In the sand pit on the golf links Marsley had hinted at foreign intrigue
that involved the safety of the United States. This seemed to The Shadow to be a
lie to divert the true course of investigation. Marsley had tried to
double-cross Duke Duncan.
He was almost at the racketeer's side when the shotgun had roared. He could
easily have snapped the light and fired the hidden weapon. He had, therefore,
both motive and opportunity.
But when Marsley's name had faded from the paper, one of the preceding
names still remained, black and clearly defined. The Shadow had written that
name with a pen he had not used for any of the others. The name was Leo Barry.
The Shadow's immediate suspicion had narrowed down to the foxy little
blackmailer, quartered slyly out of sight in one of the city's West Side hotels.
It was against Barry that The Shadow intended to move.
THE SHADOW'S move was immediate. The light above the desk vanished. Silence
and darkness returned. Even the sound of breathing was absent. The Shadow had
departed his sanctum. The Shadow proceeded swiftly uptown to a hotel on the West
Side.
He went neither as The Shadow, nor as Lamont Cranston. The inoffensive
Peter Lane took that journey through the noisy streets of Manhattan. He looked
more timid than ever.
A quick survey of the hotel led The Shadow to the rear court in the gloom
of a brick wall. He didn't attempt to climb the hotel fire escape. He took the
darker route of the slanting steel fire ladders on the rear face of the
adjoining brick warehouse.
The court was narrow. Only five or six feet separated the two buildings. A
jump could be made by a resolute man at the proper level; and the fact that the
rear rooms of the hotel were dark and airless, made it hard to rent them. No
eyes saw the dapper Peter Lane ascend.
He made the leap across space successfully. He already knew the room Leo
Barry occupied. Lifting the window with a small but tough steel implement, he
slipped silently into the dark suite. Barry was evidently away from his hangout.
The Shadow drew down the shade and prepared to make a thorough search. He
found the light switch and turned it on.
With the click of the switch, he froze into immobility. He stood for a long
time perfectly rigid. His gaze remained intently on the floor at a spot near the
foot of the bed.
A man was huddled there in ghastly death. Death had come to Leo Barry in
exactly the same way it had come to Duke Duncan. Scattering lead pellets from a
shotgun had all but torn off the blackmailer's head.
He lay twisted in a pool of blood. Evidently, he had realized his doom a
second too late. He must have thrown up his arms to protect his face, for wrists
and hands were terribly mangled by the charge from the shotgun. They hung in red
shreds of flesh. The Shadow made an instant deduction. The murder could not
possibly have happened in this hotel room. The noise of the shotgun blast would
have been terrific. Guests would have heard it; an alarm would have been
instantly given. Yet the hotel was drowsy and calm.
The killing had been done at some other spot. The dead man had been brought
to this room inside a conveyance of some sort; probably a trunk.
But where was the bloody trunk now concealed?
THE SHADOW had not attempted, as yet, to figure who might have killed
Barry. A glance at the paper on the wall near the corner where the lavatory was
built provided a partial answer to that question.
It was a grim, boastful answer that plunged the case into deeper mystery
than ever. Death had exonerated Leo Barry from guilt. The real criminal was
self-exposed in the red-scrawled signature of a peculiar name "The Phoenix."
Such was the name the burning eyes of The Shadow saw on the papered wall.
The message above it was a challenge to The Shadow himself! He read the two
lengthy sentences with rigid attention:
It has become necessary to my safety to remove Leo Barry as I
have already removed Duke Duncan. This is to announce to the
police and the newspapers that my third and final victim will
be that very annoying personage who calls himself The Shadow.
THE PHOENIX.
The message was proof to The Shadow of what he already suspected. He was
warring with a conceited super-criminal!
Marsley was the name that first occurred to The Shadow, because of a small
object he found wedged in the dusty crack at the edge of the bedroom rug. It was
a stickpin with a tiny emerald. It had evidently fallen there from the shaking
hands of a man who had washed his hands at the lavatory sink and rearranged his
tie.
The gray fluff adhering to the edge of the rug had hidden the telltale
flare of the emerald. It glowed like cold green fire in The Shadow's palm. He
himself had seen that stickpin ornament in Marsley's tie, on the night of
Duncan's murder in the New Jersey cottage.
Was this clue a real one? Or was it the cunning device of a shrewd murderer
to lead the trail to the banker?
No answer was visible in The Shadow's eyes. He let himself softly out of
the room to the deserted corridor outside. He was trying to recreate for himself
the probable path the departing murderer must have taken. He found it in the
rear of the hotel corridor.
There was a freight elevator shaft there. It was self-service, for the
convenience and speed of busy porters.
The Shadow pressed a button alongside the shaft and stepped swiftly into
the empty car when it appeared.
He pushed the "basement" button on the inside panel. The murderer must have
come and gone that way. So did The Shadow. But before he left the elevator, he
found another clue to a man's identity, that brought a cold smile to his lips.
This clue was not one readily recognized, as was the emerald pin. It was a
cigarette stub, smashed flat under the foot of some smoker. It was not a popular
brand. On the contrary, The Shadow had seen it only once in the last week.
That was the time he had watched Viola Marsley and Stanley West leaving the
corridor of Marsley's office building for a round of golf. Both of them were
smoking this expensive imported brand.
The crushed butt went into the pocket with the emerald pin.
THE cellar exit from the freight elevator was a concrete passage that led
to a side alley. Adjoining the alley was a low board fence penning in what
looked like an abandoned parking lot.
The Shadow slipped silently over the fence, as he believed a cunning
murderer had done before him. The lot was covered with unkempt weeds. Near the
street side was the empty shack of an abandoned filling station.
But the first thing that caught the observant eye of The Shadow was a
closer object amid the weeds. A wardrobe trunk! The Shadow wasted no time
forcing open the lid. He knew that the killer would be smart enough to leave no
prints. The gloved hands of The Shadow gave him similar protection.
His tiny electric torch lighted up the inside of the trunk.
It was a grisly sight. It was soaked with blood. The inside was lined with
a double layer of rubber sheeting, which explained why no blood had seeped
through to betray the killer's ghastly freight.
The Shadow had barely glanced inside when he heard a shout. His torch in
the darkness had attracted attention. A policeman was racing across the weeds
from the filling station entrance.
The Shadow snapped off his torch and whirled. He fled. His action convinced
the cop that he was dealing with a criminal. Bullets whizzed through the
darkness. But The Shadow had gained the rear fence. He melted into obscurity,
using a convenient cellar entrance and a maze of back yards to cover his trail.
The cop had caught a glimpse of the bloodstained trunk as he passed it. He
raced back. His own flash showed him the ugly sight The Shadow had uncovered.
He waited for the appearance of a second patrolman, before he dashed off to
a police alarm box. He was able to give no clear description of the man who had
fled. But his report to headquarters created instant excitement. Police cars
shot uptown with screaming sirens.
The Shadow, too, was making swift use of a telephone. A quarter mile away,
he stepped timidly into a public booth in the character of Mr. Peter Lane. He
made two hurried calls. One was to the swanky town house of John Marsley; the
other was to the apartment occupied by Stanley West. Neither were at home.
The Shadow was not surprised. His sibilant laughter echoed faintly in the
closed booth.
Leo Barry was no longer a menace. Death had removed him in the same bloody
manner as Duke Duncan. An anonymous supercriminal had at last been forced into
the open. The Phoenix admitted the commission of both crimes. From now on, it
would be grim and unrelenting warfare to the death.
The Shadow versus The Phoenix!
CHAPTER XI
THE PHOENIX
JOHN MARSLEY found plenty to worry him, the next day.
It wasn't that he feared the police. He had been away from his home most of
the previous night, but he was satisfied he had covered his movements perfectly.
It was the accusing gaze of his daughter Viola that he found hard to meet.
Viola knew her father had not been home last night. He refused to answer
her anxious questions.
The morning newspapers were again black with headlines. The discovery of
Leo Barry's shotgun-torn body linked him at once with the similar murder of Duke
Duncan. The red-ink message on the wall, from The Phoenix, made it certain.
In his spacious living room, John Marsley puffed moodily at a cigar and
tried to parry his daughter's worried questions. He succeeded, until she
mentioned The Phoenix. Then his own intense excitement forced him to talk.
Viola said faintly, "Do you think The Phoenix is the one who's trying to
send you to the electric chair for a murder you didn't commit?"
Marsley laughed bitterly.
"Forget that! It was only the beginning of the conspiracy. It was a method
used to force something else from me. The Phoenix is not interested in
railroading me - or the innocent Jack Skelly - to the electric chair. He and I
are both interested in something else."
He went on talking in a nervous undertone.
"I expect a coded cablegram today from a banking agent of mine in the Far
East. If I can get that cable and decode it promptly, The Phoenix will have lost
- and I will have won!"
"That should be simple enough," Viola said. "If the cable is on its way
now, and you have the code book..."
"But, I don't!" her father groaned. "The code book was stolen from this
house, two days ago! Without it, the message will be meaningless. Worse than
that, I suspect The Phoenix may already have the code book."
His voice hardened.
"I'm explaining this for an important reason. I want you to stay here and
take that cable message when it comes."
"You're going out?"
"Yes. I think I know the thief. If I work fast, I hope to recover the
book."
TWENTY minutes after Marsley departed, the doorbell rang. Viola hurried to
answer it. But quick as she was, the butler, Craig, was even quicker. He had
already signed for a yellow envelope. He was slipping it quickly into his
pocket.
He frowned, as the girl held out her hand and asked for it with a steady
voice.
"I'll keep it for your father," Craig muttered. "There's no need for you to
bother. I'll lock it for safe-keeping in Mr. Marsley's study."
"You'll give it to me!" Viola snapped. "Give me that cablegram!"
"Very well," Craig said, quietly. His voice was submissive, but the gleam
in his eye was ugly. He handed over the yellow envelope and retired to his
quarters at the rear of the house.
Viola had always taken Craig for granted as a meek servant. Now she found
herself suspicious of him. She decided to hide the important missive, not in her
father's study, but in the wall jewel safe in her own bedroom.
She was lifting her hand to the combination of the safe when she heard a
creak outside her door. She turned suddenly. Her footsteps on the thick rug made
no sound. Throwing open her door, she peered quickly into the hall. Craig was a
few feet away, toward the head of the stairs. He seemed disconcerted as he saw
the girl's rigid face.
"I - I thought I heard you ring," he said. "Did you want me?"
"No. I'm tired and I want to sleep. Please don't disturb me, for any reason
whatever!"
"Very good," Craig murmured.
He descended the stairs. Viola trusted him less than ever. She had a
feeling he would sneak back, the moment her bedroom closed. Again, she went to
her wall safe. But this time it was for purposes of deception.
She no longer desired to hide the cablegram in the safe. But she wanted
Craig to think she had. To this end, she opened the safe noisily, waited a
moment, then closed it with a metallic bang. The envelope remained in her hand.
Viola decided on an entirely new plan. She would not stay in this house
another moment. She would ignore the warning her father had given her. Craig's
behavior convinced her that the envelope would be safer if she took it away,
hidden on her own person.
She thought of a haven immediately. She would wait at the apartment of
Stanley West until her father returned.
The thought spurred her to speed. Her fingers lifted to the fastenings of
her dress. In a trice she began to disrobe, throwing her garments recklessly
aside. She stripped completely, as if preparing for a bath. But a bath was far
from her mind.
Like a slim pink-and-white wraith, she tiptoed naked to her garment closet
and rummaged with nervous fingers. She found what she wanted and drew it from a
hanger.
It was a cute yellow bathing suit.
She donned the suit. The daring little wisp of yellow fabric emphasized the
charms of her boyish figure. But Viola didn't glance at her mirror with approval
for her slim curves. Her eyes in the glass were wide with fright.
She pulled the zipper on a small pocket near the belt of the swim suit.
This zipper pocket was her reason for the change of clothing. The cablegram went
into the pocket and fitted flat and snug.
She dressed, and slipped on hat and coat. There was triumph in her face, as
she hurried downstairs. Had she known the truth, she would have been less
satisfied with her cunning.
A FACE had witnessed Viola's swift disrobing. Watchful eyes saw the yellow
swim suit slip snugly over her white body. A man had poised outside the
curtained window, on a narrow stone ledge that ran along the flank of the stone
dwelling. Viola had been unconscious of his surveillance.
His eyes saw the cablegram disappear into the zipper pocket of the bathing
suit. Before Viola was fully dressed and unlocking her door, the figure outside
the curtained window had disappeared.
Craig was nowhere in sight when Viola, downstairs, rang for him. He
appeared presently, panting a little. Viola told him that she had changed her
mind and was going shopping. She asked Craig to have her father telephone her as
soon as he returned.
"I beg pardon, miss. How will he be able to reach you?"
"As soon as I make a purchase or two, "Viola said steadily, "I'm going to
the apartment of Mr. Stanley West. My father can reach me there."
"Ah!" Craig breathed. He said no more.
Stanley West's apartment was at no great distance from the Marsley home.
Viola reached it by taxi in a few minutes. She was smiling with relief when she
rang his bell. But her relief changed to quick disappointment. No one answered
the summons.
She was afraid to leave. She could think of no other place where she could
be safer. But after three fruitless rings, she was turning away, when her eyes
lighted up with delight.
The door of the automatic elevator was opening. Stanley West emerged with
brisk strides. His face was grim at sight of the pretty girl outside his
apartment house door. But the expression was a fleeting one. It was replaced by
the usual sunny smile of a carefree young man.
"Viola! How charming of you to pay me a visit! Come in!"
She followed him inside, and up to his apartment. Her explanation for her
visit was vague and a bit breathless. But West didn't seem very curious. He was
a little breathless himself.
It was Viola herself who finally brought up the real reason for her call.
When she came to the subject of the cablegram for her father, and the peculiar
behavior of the butler, West frowned.
"You should have taken it with you," he said, slowly.
"That's just what I did!" she smiled.
She told West about her happy idea of the swim suit. She explained to him
that the envelope was concealed in a zipper pocket, where no one would dream of
looking for it.
West laughed admiringly. He seemed startled that so clever a device, and so
simple, should have solved Viola's difficulty. He fidgeted for a moment, then he
uttered a polite exclamation. He glanced at his watch.
"By jove! I'm terribly sorry - but I wonder if you'd mind my deserting you
for a moment or two? I meant to stop in at the tailor's down the street. He has
a suit I particularly want this afternoon. I'll be back in a jiffy. Do you
mind?"
It didn't occur to Viola that tailors maintain delivery service. Her mind
was on the envelope she had concealed. She nodded. West fixed her a drink and
handed her a magazine. Then he deftly excused himself and vanished.
WEST had hardly left when Viola sighed and put down the magazine.
A curious feeling of uneasiness began to possess her. She wished that she
had accompanied Stanley West to the tailors. She was afraid to wait here alone.
The air of the apartment seemed surcharged with a cold chill of peril.
Suddenly, she had an inspiration. She hurried into the adjoining bedroom of
the suite. She had a nervous desire to rid herself of the dangerous document she
was carrying. She looked swiftly about for a better spot to hide it. The bedroom
rug attracted her eye.
In an instant, she made up her mind. Her silk legs showed candidly as she
lifted her skirt. She fumbled at the zipper pocket of the bathing suit and
removed the cablegram. She shoved it under edge of the rug, far enough back so
that questing fingers would not be able to reach it.
Viola felt better, as she tiptoed back to the living room and reached for a
magazine on the low table.
Her fingers halted before she touched it. She swung around to face the
foyer leading to the apartment door. A key was rattling in the lock. Viola felt
a great surge of relief.
"Stanley!" she cried. "Back so soon? You're fast! You must have run all the
way!"
No answer came from the foyer. The hall door closed. Then feet padded
forward with an odd, stealthy swiftness.
Viola's mouth flew open as she saw the intruder. It wasn't Stanley West at
all!
An eerie figure in crimson was confronting her. A man robed from head to
foot in a metallic red cloth that glittered when he moved. Red slippers peeped
from under the hem of his robe. An automatic pistol jutted ominously from a hand
gloved with the same twinkling material.
There was nothing human about this strange figure, except the glare of
slitted eyes. An enveloping hood gave no clue to the size or shape of the
concealed head.
The Phoenix!
No sound came from Viola's parted lips. Terror paralyzed the cords in her
throat. She stood rooted as the armed figure advanced.
A voice snarled at her. It was husky, blurred, a sound like that of a
tongue-tied man.
"The cablegram - quick! I have no time to lose! If you try to delay, I'll
kill you like Duncan and Barry!"
"I - I haven't it," she gasped. "I gave it to Stanley West for
safe-keeping! He took it with him when he left!"
"You lie!" A grim chuckle made the crimson hood ripple. "It's hidden on
your body. Remove your clothing!"
The gun pointed ominously. Modesty made Viola hesitate. Also, she thought
that delay might bring help from the returning Stanley West.
She fumbled deliberately at the fastenings. She removed her dress and let
it flutter to the floor. Reluctantly, her slip followed. With flushed face, she
stood attired only in silk stockings, shoes and the little swim suit.
The Phoenix sprang closer. His hand jerked open the zipper pocket. He
cursed as he saw that it was empty.
"Where have you hidden that cablegram?"
"I told you I gave it to Stanley West."
"We'll soon see. Take off that bathing suit!"
VIOLA shrank back, her pale arms crossed desperately. Fingers thrust her
protecting hands away. With a furious gesture, The Phoenix caught at the narrow
yellow strap across the girl's white shoulder. He was jerking it loose, when
suddenly he uttered a cry of alarm.
The telephone bell began to ring. At the same instant, Viola found her
voice and raised it in a piercing scream of terror.
The Phoenix fled. He raced with thudding feet through the foyer to the
apartment door. The door opened and closed with a click that was drowned out by
the sound of the ringing phone.
The half-fainting girl collapsed into a chair.
How long she sat there, she had no idea. No help came to her from outside.
The soundproof walls of the apartment had deadened her scream.
Presently, a key grated in the hall door lock. Stanley West hurried into
the living room with a smile on his handsome face.
His jaw dropped as he saw the half-fainting Viola sitting weakly in a
chair. She was clad only in the yellow swim suit, with one shoulder strap
hanging loose. Viola replaced the strap with a shaking hand, as she noted the
direction of West's gaze.
She swayed to her feet and the young man ran forward. He supported her with
a strong arm.
"Viola Are you hurt? What happened?"
CHAPTER XII
A DANGEROUS WOMAN
WEST'S voice was tender, full of solicitude. But Viola no longer trusted
this man. His sudden leaving of her was queer; his quick return even queerer.
Instead of describing what had happened, Viola asked him a question.
"How did you get back so soon? You're out of breath. Did you run?"
West hesitated.
"I had a queer feeling that something was wrong. I telephoned to see if you
were safe. When there was no answer to my ring, I raced back."
His story sounded fishy to Viola. Had he framed it because he knew the
phone had rung while The Phoenix was in the room? Was West himself The Phoenix?
Slowly, Viola described the attack on her. She lied about the cablegram.
She told West that the crimson apparition had found it in the zipper pocket of
her swim suit and had fled with it.
West didn't question her further about the loss. He merely suggested that
she remain at his apartment until she had more fully recovered from her shock.
Viola declined. Suavely, he insisted. The shrill ring of the telephone
created a diversion. West took a quick step forward. But Viola, who was closer
to the instrument, beat him to the table. She was overjoyed to hear the distant
voice of her father.
"Viola! What are you doing in the apartment of Stanley West? Craig just
told me. Make an excuse and come home at once! You're in danger!"
"I'm just about to leave, dad," Viola replied. Her quiet laughter gave West
no clue to what was being said on the other end of the wire.
"I telephoned you before," Marsley continued. "You didn't answer. Why?"
"I'm coming home now. Good-by, dad."
She picked up her outer clothing from the floor. West made no effort to
stop her as she walked toward the bedroom. But she knew now he had lied about
the phone bell. It was her father who had called!
With the bedroom door locked behind her, Viola tiptoed to the edge of the
rug and found the envelope she had hidden. She tucked it back into the pocket of
her swim suit. Then she dressed hurriedly and emerged.
Viola left West standing in his doorway, staring after her. With beating
heart, she summoned a taxi and sped to her own home. The thought that she still
had the cablegram filled her with a tingling thrill. But the moment she saw the
pale, drawn face of her father, she knew disaster had struck from another
quarter.
MARSLEY drew her into his private study. His voice was low.
"Burglars were here while you were away. They opened the wall safe in your
bedroom. Craig was asleep and didn't hear a thing. We've lost the Cablegram!"
Viola shook her head. She explained the trick she had played on Craig. The
butler thought the envelope had gone into the safe and had promptly burglarized
it himself, throwing the blame on outside crooks.
"You're wrong," Marsley replied. "The butler has been with me too long to
suspect him of disloyalty. I believe him. Some one else cracked that safe."
He listened to Viola's account of what had happened at West's apartment.
But there was no elation in his eyes at the fact that she had managed to outwit
The Phoenix. He took the cablegram envelope from her with fingers that seemed
dead and wooden. Viola couldn't understand his apathy.
"You've got both the message and the code book now," she cried, eagerly.
"All you have to do is compare the two and reduce your message to English."
Marsley groaned.
"I haven't the code book," he admitted. "My suspicion of its whereabouts
was wrong. The person I suspected didn't have it. The cablegram you saved is of
no use to me."
He took the envelope, however, and placed it in a drawer of his study desk.
Viola, peering, saw something else that was jammed inside the drawer. The sight
of it brought a startled cry from her.
Marsley tried to close the drawer, but the girl was on her feet pointing
with a rigid forefinger. Rolled tightly together in a shapeless mass, was a
bundle of red cloth. Viola clutched it and drew it out.
She recognized the color and the peculiar metallic sheen of the stuff. It
was an exact duplicate of the crimson robe The Phoenix had worn in his attack on
her at West's apartment.
"Father, where did that come from?"
"I - I don't know. It was there when I opened the drawer."
The blood left his face, when his daughter told him what it was.
"The Phoenix must have been the one who tried to rob the safe upstairs," he
muttered. "He left his robe here in an effort to incriminate me."
"Why should he do that? He wouldn't expect me to betray you would he?"
"I don't know."
A dozen questions trembled on Viola's lips, but she choked them down. Her
father's face seemed to reflect guilty confusion. The girl's shoulders slumped.
She was suddenly very tired. Without a word, she moved from the room.
Her father let her go without raising his head. He was still staring at the
red cloth from the open drawer of his desk.
His whisper was inaudible to the girl ascending the stairs in the hall:
"Fool! What a fool I've been!"
Viola was so deathly tired that she stumbled over the threshold of her
bedroom. She thought that if she didn't try to rest, she'd go mad with worry.
She locked the door and went to her wardrobe closet for a negligee.
But the closet door opened of itself. A pistol pointed at the pale face of
Viola. She found herself confronted by a pretty blonde with thin lips and
merciless blue eyes.
"Quiet or I'll kill you instantly!" It was Alice Dodge. She backed her
victim to the bed and forced her to sit down with hands elevated.
"I want that cablegram!" she snapped. Exhaustion fled from Viola at sight
of her feminine foe. Here was a flesh-and-blood criminal whose lurking presence
in the house seemed to clear her father of suspicion. Viola didn't make any
attempt to grapple with Alice. She knew that would be suicide. But her voice was
hard and scornful.
"You're too late. I haven't the cablegram."
"Where is it?"
"Ask Stanley West."
"He hasn't got it. You're lying!"
"You ought to know whether he has it or not. You're in cahoots with him!
You know he's The Phoenix, don't you, you crook!"
Viola's scorn seemed to infuriate Alice Dodge. Her blue eyes flashed; color
flamed in her pale face.
"You talk of crooks, and your own father a murderer!"
"You can't pin the death of Duke Duncan on him," Viola cried. "The Phoenix
killed Duncan - and Leo Barry, too! You know that! You were in the New Jersey
cottage when Duncan was slain!"
"I'm not talking about Duke's murder," Alice Dodge said, tensely. Her low
voice was so menacing that it brought fear to the girl sitting on the edge of
the bed with upraised hands.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that John Marsley killed a man three months ago and framed another
victim to take the rap. That innocent victim is in Sing Sing, right now. His
name is Jack Skelly. He's doomed to the chair unless your crooked father
exonerates him by confessing. That's why I'm here. I intend to force your father
to confess!"
"It's a pack of lies! Skelly is guilty!"
The gun barrel in Alice Dodge's hand was no colder than her reply.
"You'd have to live a million years to convince me of that. I love Jack
Skelly! I know the fine man he is. He's not going to die to protect a wealthy
criminal like your father. He's going to be exonerated before morning. He's
going to walk out of Sing Sing a free man - and I'm going to marry him.
Proudly!"
Her left hand jerked forward, dragged Viola from the bed. Her gun pointed
toward the bedroom telephone. "I happen to know that you brought the cablegram
back here with you from West's apartment. You gave it to your father,
downstairs. I want you to pick up that telephone and call your father's study."
Alice's laughter purred.
"And be sure it's the study switch that you set. I'm perfectly familiar
with the way these house phones work."
"Suppose I refuse?"
"I'll count to ten before I shoot. One - two -"
There was no bluff about it. The blonde was nerved to kill.
"What - what shall I say?" Viola faltered.
"Tell him to bring the cablegram up here, to your bedroom. Tell him you've
suddenly thought of a way that it might be decoded without the stolen book."
VIOLA hesitated. Death faced her unless she obeyed, and she knew it. But
more than that, was her unwilling realization that Alice Dodge was not a crook.
The blonde was a desperate girl fighting to save the life of a man she knew was
innocent.
Viola, too, knew Skelly had been framed. She had heard her father say so.
She picked up the phone and summoned Marsley. She was impelled to do so by
Alice's tense whisper, that all she really wanted was to save the life of her
sweetheart. Alice disclaimed any real interest in the contents of the cablegram.
Footsteps sounded down the hall. Alice softly unlocked the door. As the
banker stepped in he saw only the pale face of his daughter. Viola's arms were
lifted stiffly above her head. She was staring past Marsley's shoulder.
Marsley whirled. As he did so, Alice Dodge sprang at him. She snatched the
yellow envelope from his hand. Her gun jabbed him viciously, forcing him
backward alongside his daughter.
"It won't do you a bit of good," Marsley said. "Without the code book, you
can't translate the message." Alice began to laugh stridently, her weapon poised
to spit death at the slightest move of either of her prisoners. All the smooth
beauty seemed to vanish from her face. Murder crawled in her blue eyes.
"I've got the code book!" she jeered. "I'm the one who stole it! I've got
the whiphand at last, you damned murderer! I'm going to use the information as
ransom for my sweetheart's life!"
"What - what do you mean?" Marsley was tense.
"You're going to confess to the police that Jack Skelly is innocent, and
that you're guilty! Unless I hear the newsboys shouting the extras on the
streets before midnight, I shall decode the cablegram and have your secret
published in every paper in town! You can have it back unread - if you exonerate
Jack Skelly. The choice is yours."
Marsley began to splutter. Viola began to plead. But Alice refused to
listen.
"Turn around! Both of you!" The shining gun made resistance hopeless. "Walk
slowly ahead. Into that clothes closet!"
With father and daughter in the recesses of the clothes closet, Alice
locked the door on them.
Alice sped to the bedroom window and peered out. The coast was clear. The
shadowy lawn below the window offered an easy escape. She reached it without
trouble by making use of a knotted rope that hung down from a stout hook used by
window cleaners to anchor their safety belts.
As she fled across the lawn toward a low masonry wall flanked by
evergreens, she met unexpected peril. A figure rose from concealment directly in
front of her. A fist struck her in the face, dazing her. The gun was wrenched
savagely from her slack hand.
Snap Carlo stood over the fallen girl.
SNAP searched her with grim haste. He snatched the envelope which Alice had
risked her life to obtain. A quick upward leap, and Snap was over the stone wall
that paralleled the sidewalk outside.
A car was waiting close by, its engine running smoothly. Snap slid behind
the wheel. The car sped away. It was a sweet scram job, as clever as Snap had
ever pulled.
Inside Marsley's stone wall, Alice Dodge staggered dizzily to her feet. She
was moaning faintly. She no longer had a single hold on John Marsley. Her story,
that she had stolen the code book, was a lie. She had never seen it. Now the
cablegram, too, was gone. Her sweetheart, Jack Skelly, was doomed!
Heartsick, she pulled herself over the low wall and dropped to the
sidewalk, began to walk slowly toward the corner. She was still sick with nausea
from the vicious blow Snap had dealt her.
Suddenly, her heart jumped as she heard a faint sound behind her. Stealthy
footfalls! Turning, she saw a darting figure.
CHAPTER XIII
THE SHADOW'S TWIN
MEANWHILE, Snap Carlo was apparently making a successful get-away.
But unknown to Snap, the watchful interest of The Shadow was concentrated
both on the car and the crook.
A second car was following Snap's. The timid-looking Peter Lane was behind
the wheel of that innocent coupe. He had watched Snap's every movement for the
past twelve hours. He was still grimly interested in this ambitious henchman of
the late Duke Duncan. He suspected a new tie-up between Snap and The Phoenix.
The trail wound in and out of streets, went east and west without apparent
sense. Snap never took chances, even when he fancied himself safe.
Finally, Snap paused, made a phone call from a drug-store booth. Emerging,
he sent his car racing ahead again. The car no longer dodged around corners. It
took a straight course at high speed.
The Shadow guessed almost at once where the crook was heading: the Triboro
Bridge!
The calm Peter Lane instantly divined the truth behind this change of
tactics. The phone call and the straight route Snap was now taking convinced The
Shadow that his trailing of Snap had finally been noticed. Snap had called up
The Phoenix for instructions. He had obviously been advised to feign complete
innocence, and to try to lure his pursuer into a prearranged trap.
The Shadow's sibilant laughter eddied from the quiet lips of Peter Lane. He
was willing to take the risk of falling into a trap - if it would lead to
personal contact with the supercriminal who called himself The Phoenix.
The trail led to the Triboro Bridge as The Shadow had expected. Snap
crossed the East River to the Astoria terminus in Queens. Through the gathering
dusk, he drove mile after mile past frame two-story houses and the more ornate
structures of apartment buildings.
Almost to Sunnyside, the grim chase proceeded. The Shadow knew every
section of the city like a book, from his constant study of accurate maps in his
sanctum. His forehead frowned as he saw Snap's car halt in front of a group of
magnificent apartment buildings. Could this unusual spot be the secret hangout
of The Phoenix?
The Shadow didn't think so. Hard-working and successful business executives
lived here. A criminal would find it difficult to operate in so law-abiding a
community.
Snap's actions proved this deduction correct. He had paused merely to
encourage further pursuit. The Shadow smiled at his clumsiness.
In the bright light of an ornamental entrance lamp, Snap was pretending to
read the address on the cablegram envelope. He held it out the window of his car
as he studied it. Then he drove abruptly away.
A few blocks onward he slowed. Ahead of him was a two-story frame cottage,
dark from cellar to roof except for a single dim light on the top floor. A
vacant lot flanked it on either side. There was a third weedy lot in the rear.
Neighbors would be no problem in a place like this.
As Snap drove nearer, he dimmed his headlight swiftly. The light on the top
floor of the cottage went out. Evidently, a signal had been passed to some one
that the car was Snap's.
THE swarthy mobster entered the front door ostentatiously, using a key.
A moment later, a bedroom upstairs glowed with light. Snap began to
undress. The uplifted shade showed that. A moment later, the shade was pulled
down. The silhouette of Snap was clearly revealed drawing a bathrobe over his
naked body. The bedroom light went out and then the ground-glass window of the
bathroom became brilliant.
The watchful Shadow was not deceived by these maneuvers. He knew what was
expected of him. He was being encouraged to sneak into the cottage and steal the
cablegram while Snap was busy taking a bath.
Circling the dark cottage, The Shadow found a rear cellar window
conveniently open. But he didn't make use of this inviting route. Returning to
his car, he took certain objects from a concealed space under the seat. He did
something very strange.
Instead of taking his black cloak and Slouch hat, he took two cloaks and
two hats!
He had already formulated a clever mode of attack.
He made his entrance into the cottage from the vacant lot on the south
side. Projections of timber and a squat extension roof offered no real
resistance to the silent upward climb of the master sleuth.
Like most carelessly protected upper windows, the metal catch of this one
was only partly shoved into its slot. Rust had prevented that. The Shadow worked
the catch noiselessly aside and lifted the sash. He was in a dark room on the
far side of the lighted bathroom.
His movements were infinitely cautious. No sound indicated that a cloaked
intruder was now inside the cottage. No noise came from the rubber-soled feet
that tiptoed to the hall doorway. The hall itself was clearly visible in the
light that streamed from the bathroom door.
Snap was not taking a bath. He was not even naked. He had dressed rapidly
after his cunning attempt to deceive The Shadow.
Rigid, silent, Snap was at the head of the staircase, glaring downward. He
didn't seem to be watching - he was listening. His very ear lobes seemed to
quiver with murderous concentration.
A gun glittered in Snap's hand. He was ready to race down those stairs at a
moment's notice. The signal for which he waited had not yet been given.
Remembering the conveniently located cellar window, The Shadow was fairly
certain what Snap anticipated. He saw the metallic sheen of a bell on the wall
near the door of the bathroom. If The Shadow entered that open cellar window, as
his enemies hoped, the bell would ring a warning.
Snap would dash swiftly downward, his luring job done. He would join The
Phoenix in the cellar, and both would gloat over the helpless figure of the
captured Shadow. Murder would follow with grim speed.
The Shadow's brain had ordained otherwise. He began to creep silently
forward behind his racketeer foe.
Snap's profile was partly turned, but the strong light from the bathroom
doorway was in his eyes. The Shadow had a narrow margin of safety before he
could get close enough to spring.
But the ears of the crook were like that of a wild beast. He heard the
almost inaudible movement of The Shadow's feet. He whirled, his teeth bared like
fangs. The gun in his heavy hand pointed.
THE SHAD0W'S rush blanketed the gun and twisted it from Snap's hand. The
weapon fell to the floor before Snap could squeeze it into the roaring thunder
of a shot.
Snap went backward under that savage onslaught, reeling against the smooth
wall of the passage above the stairs. Before he could clutch for his dropped gun
or launch himself forward, The Shadow averted both perils.
His gloved hand sank into the flesh of Snap's throat, choking off the cry
that bubbled from wide-open lips. He bent the mobster backward across the wooden
rail of the stair well. Almost mad with the agony of that spine-snapping
pressure, Snap tried to scream aloud. But, the gloved fingers on his throat
prevented even a gurgling whisper.
Soon his face began to turn purple. His tongue protruded. No longer was
Snap trying to scream. The agony of trying to breathe made him twitch like a
sawdust dummy.
Soon even the twisting ceased. Snap was unconscious. The Shadow let Snap
slump to the floor of the hall. The crook lay there motionless, his unconscious
eyeballs staring, his swarthy features bluish.
He was lifted immediately in a strong grasp. The Shadow carried his
prisoner along the hall and poised him on the sill of the bedroom window.
From under The Shadow's robe, a strong, light rope appeared. Snap's body
was lowered to the darkness of the vacant lot beneath the window. The Shadow
followed him down.
A waving jerk of his hand, and the special knot he had tied aloft came
loose. The rope fell to the weeds and was swiftly coiled and replaced under The
Shadow's robe.
Then the reason why The Shadow had brought a second disguise with him was
made clear. He dressed Snap Carlo in the counterfeit appearance of himself. He
turned up the collar of the robe to hide the killer's chin. The brim of the
slouch hat shrouded forehead and eyes, leaving only the nose and mouth exposed.
To a casual observer, two Shadows waited in the darkness - one of them limp
and unconscious, the other strong and purposeful.
Back to the cellar window in the rear went The Shadow, carrying Snap's
inert body. The grass deadened his footfalls. Standing prudently to one side, he
held Snap upright as if the crook were standing alone, attempting to peer
cautiously through the dark cellar opening.
Suddenly, The Shadow shoved forward with both hands.
Snap Carlo vanished inward through the window. He fell into invisibility.
FOR a second or two, there was no sound of impact. Then the delayed echo
came. Not from the cellar floor but from a spot much deeper. The unconscious
Snap had fallen into a pit dug directly inside the window opening.
The Shadow was not surprised. He had expected some sort of reception like
this, prepared cunningly in advance for himself. As he waited, he heard the
faint clangor of the bell upstairs. The trap had been sprung, the signal given.
But it was Snap who lay helplessly in the dark cellar pit - not The Shadow!
No sound came from the cellar itself. The Phoenix was evidently hidden
prudently somewhere else. Perhaps there existed a secret underground entrance to
the floor of the death pit.
The tiny beam of The Shadow's torch probed through the window into the
cellar. The place was empty. There was no sign of a yawning hole beneath the
window. However, The Shadow had heard the faint sound of a wooden lid closing
and he knew where to look.
Entering the cellar, he found that the lid of the shaft was painted to
resemble the concrete that floored the rest of the cellar. Lifting the wooden
cover, he exposed the pit. His light showed him the inert figure of Snap lying
at the bottom.
Cleats were nailed into the side of the shaft, to allow a man to descend
from above with safety. The Shadow went down quickly.
He noticed instantly that the square sides of the pit were enclosed with
boarded timbers. He noticed something else. At one side was the unmistakable
outline of a door without a knob. The Shadow took one keen look, then he
darkened his torch.
He was just in time.
From the other side of the flat door he became aware of the shuffling of
approaching feet. Some one was moving through a tunnel toward the enclosed
bottom of the pit. Faint light flickered through the tiny cracks that outlined
the door.
The Shadow did quick, noiseless things with the limp body of Snap. Then he
backed away from his captive and waited in utter darkness.
The tunnel door opened. The beam of a flash flared through the opening.
It was held in the hand of a figure dressed from head to foot in a robe and
cloth helmet of shimmering red. The light from the torch made the metallic cloth
seem to writhe and twinkle. There was nothing human about that awesome visitor
from the depths of the earth, except the baleful glare of slitted eyes behind
the tall, pointed headgear.
The Phoenix chuckled, as he saw The Shadow sprawled with his back to the
wall, apparently unconscious.
He glided into the pit.
Then he heard a sibilant whisper of mocking laughter. He whirled, and a
yell of amazement bubbled from his startled lips.
He was facing two Shadows!
CHAPTER XIV
DEATH SPARK
AT the same instant, a cry came from Snap Carlo. Snap had recovered
consciousness. He had kept his eyes closed and had played possum, in a crafty
effort to regain his strength. His shout was uttered in an effort to disconcert
The Shadow and permit The Phoenix to pump flaming lead.
The crimson-clad finger of The Phoenix jerked convulsively on his trigger.
A bullet ripped past The Shadow's hawklike profile. Another flicked like a
red-hot razor slash across the flesh of his extended wrist.
But The Shadow had not allowed himself to be flurried by the cry of Snap
behind him. His own gun roared. The bullet that left the steady muzzle sped
straight toward its target. It was aimed to disable, not to kill. The Shadow
wanted to capture The Phoenix not to destroy him.
A paralyzing blow struck the weapon in the arch-criminal's grasp. It flew
end over end and landed on the floor of the pit.
The Shadow whirled. Snap was drawing a hidden gun. His brain was tuned to
swift murder, but his muscles were weak. The Shadow's second bullet pierced the
soft flesh of the thug's upper arm.
The menacing weapon fell. So swift was The Shadow's defense that Snap
hadn't fired a single shot.
Both crooks were defenseless and they knew it. They remained with impassive
faces, listening to the stern orders of The Shadow.
Calm words were addressed to The Phoenix. He was told to lower his uplifted
right hand and rip the red hood from his head. Indomitable eyes emphasized that
order. The Phoenix dropped a reluctant hand to obey.
He was crafty to the core. His lowered hand moved to the hood that
concealed his head - then with a gesture of lightning swiftness, the fingers
darted to the wall behind his shoulder.
Instantly, he vanished! So did Snap. Darkness covered the pit at the touch
of that finger on a concealed button. The Shadow could see nothing. He fired
flaming spurts that showed him by fitful gleams that the pit was now empty.
He noticed something equally strange. The bullets he pumped at the wooden
shaft wall where The Phoenix had vanished did not pierce the soft timber. On the
contrary, they struck with a brittle ping and rebounded. Something a lot tougher
than wood now intervened between The Shadow and his foes.
It was glass! A strong light had suddenly glowed. The figure of the Phoenix
was disclosed standing upright and unhurt behind a thick panel of bulletproof
glass. The powdery spots where The Shadow's bullets had struck were clearly
visible.
Snap Carlo was crouched on trembling knees, where The Phoenix had dragged
him to safety.
A VOICE issued sneeringly from behind the glass panel. The words were
hoarse and slurred. The Phoenix was as usual, taking no chance on vocal
recognition. He was talking through a tiny microphone sunk flush with the
surface of the glass.
He demanded that The Shadow produce the code book stolen from John Marsley.
The Shadow did not reply in words. Laughter was all that issued from his lips.
"I think perhaps I'd better rely on torture," The Phoenix snarled.
Physical torture, he admitted, was useless. That had been tried, vainly, by
countless other crooks. The Phoenix was going to rely on mental torture!
He revealed a hideous fact. Alice Dodge was a helpless prisoner in a crypt
adjoining that where The Phoenix now stood gloating. He repeated things of which
The Shadow was aware: namely, that Alice was not a criminal, but a loyal and
innocent girl, desperate to save her doomed sweetheart from execution.
"She was captured and brought here to bring pressure on you," The Phoenix
growled. "Her hands and feet are bound to a table of my own invention. She has
been stripped naked from head to foot, so that certain implements attached to
that table may the more easily tear her soft flesh!
"Unless you produce at once Marsley's missing code book - or tell where it
is, so that agents of mine may recover it immediately - Alice Dodge will die
slowly from unspeakable torture to her body! It's up to you. Yes or no?"
The Shadow's head moved slowly from left to right. His answer to the
challenge was negative.
With a vicious laugh, The Phoenix pressed a button.
Instantly, through the wooden wall of the shaft, came a shrill scream of
human agony: the high shriek of a girl in mortal pain.
The light behind the plate glass went out. But the shrieks from the
partition beyond continued. It was a sound that quivered in The Shadow's ears
like the plea of a soul in hell. He sprang toward the wooden wall of the pit
from behind which those screams bubbled.
His shoulder smashed against the timbers. They were frail and they cracked
under the savage onslaught of his hard, athletic body. Again he hurled himself
forward. With a ripping of smashed wood, the barrier fell inward, carrying The
Shadow forward on his face.
He was on his knees in an instant, whirling to regain his feet. Two figures
prevented that. They dived grimly to the attack. Bludgeons smashed at The
Shadow's skull. The blows were delivered with paralyzing strength and The
Shadow's head dropped. He slumped forward into unconsciousness.
WHEN he recovered, The Shadow was standing upright. But his feet and arms
were immovable. He was tied to a stout wooden pillar that rose vertically
between the earthen floor and ceiling of a large, windowless chamber.
He heard the cold laughter of The Phoenix and the yapping of Snap Carlo.
The two thugs who had smashed The Shadow into unconsciousness were there, too.
He recognized them as a couple of Snap's mobsmen.
There was no sign of Alice Dodge, naked or otherwise. The Phoenix had lied.
The Shadow realized the nature of the cunning trap that had been set for him,
when he saw a huge phonograph cabinet with a record on its quiet turntable.
The whole torture story was a fake. Alice had not been captured. Her
supposed voice was a mechanical record.
The hand of The Phoenix replaced the record with another one on the
turntable. There was something grim in the manner he adjusted this new disk. He
examined the inner rim attentively. He was careful to replace the old needle
with a longer and slightly more massive one.
The Shadow knew this was a death device.
The Phoenix proved it with a snarling explanation. He declared savagely
that he already had the cablegram. He expected to recover the code book after
The Shadow's death. In the meantime, he was now ready to get rid of The Shadow
forever in a gigantic explosion.
He went into boastful details. There was nothing recorded on the flat disk
now in the machine. The needle would travel to the inner rim in silence. But
instead of stopping there, a groove had been cut so that the needle would hop to
a small metal tray alongside the disk hole, which was slightly enlarged.
An electrical contact would be made. A spark would ignite a powder train.
The spark had been calculated to run at the proper rate of speed to enable The
Phoenix and his henchman to escape the imminent blast. That roaring detonation
would blow The Shadow to crimson tatters of flesh.
The powder line led across the floor to a tiny opening in the earthen wall.
Far back of that hole, under the foundations of the house, the explosives were
stored. Once the spark passed inside the hole, no power on earth could hinder
the race of flame to the stored dynamite.
As The Phoenix talked boastfully, The Shadow watched him. He paid
particular attention to the arch-criminal's crimson cloth helmet, and his shoes.
Either alone might have escaped the shrewd analysis of a deductive mind.
Together, they afforded an instant clue. It was the first definite due to The
Phoenix's identity The Shadow had been able to obtain.
In a flash, he guessed the identity of The Phoenix! It was an identity that
defied logic and general appearances. The Shadow, however, was certain he was
right. The shoes and the helmet proved what he had already divined in the
darkness of his own sanctum.
THE SHADOW was given no chance to meditate. The Phoenix started the deadly
needle whirling in the grooves of the flat phonograph disk.
The crooks fled. They raced with frightened steps through the opening in
the wall, which The Shadow's plunging attack had made. They vanished up the
cleated steps to the top of the cellar pit. The lid banged down. Silence
followed, except for the slow whirr of the revolving disk.
The Shadow heaved mightily at the pillar to which he was tied. It was
merely a loose brace between the earth floor and ceiling. The needle on the
whirling phonograph record continued its deadly path to the inner rim of the
disk. It was a race between the human strength of The Shadow and the mechanical
perfection of an oiled machine.
Chunks of loosened earth dropped from the ceiling. The pole was moving -
slipping sideways. Suddenly, it came free altogether. It fell with a crash to
the floor, carrying the trussed figure of The Shadow with it.
At almost the same instant, the needle hopped from the inside of the record
and dropped into a metal tray. An electrical contact was made. A spark flared
like a tiny star. The star grew to a bud of crimson.
Flame had touched the end of the powder train. It began to crawl lazily
along the floor.
The Shadow paid no attention to that powder chain. His desperate eyes
veered for an instant to the floor near where he lay. He saw a small pebble
lying close at hand, but too far for his trussed fingers to reach.
Grimly, The Shadow began to inch his bound wrists downward along the
pillar. He did the same with his kicking feet. He was racing against time, to
slip his feet and his hands from the butt of the fallen pole to which he was
tied.
Sweat dripped into his eyes. Splinters tore his flesh. But not for a
split-second did his sliding exertions cease. Across the earthen floor the
sputtering spark of the fuse was like a darting crimson will-o'-the-wisp.
It was perilously near the hole in the wall when The Shadow's joined ankles
slid bleeding from the end of the pole. His hands followed. He made a convulsive
grab forward with his trussed wrists. He clutched the small stone which he had
noted earlier, heaved it with all his strength at the smoldering spark of the
powder trail.
The spark was almost out of sight. It flickered less than an inch from the
tiny tunnel in the earth wall that led to stored explosives tamped down under
the house foundations.
The pebble struck the glow of the spark. But it was not a perfect shot. It
hit glancingly and bounced away. For an instant, the spark dimmed and seemed to
go out. Then it ate greedily into the dry powder of the fuse and sprang again to
life. It disappeared into the hole!
The Shadow had lost his gamble!
With almost the same motion that sent the pebble whirling toward the
burning fuse, he rolled to his side. His joined hands dipped into a pocket of
his twisted robe. They came out with a flat silver object. Pressure brought a
keen blade jutting from the sheath of that deceptive-looking knife. The blade
was as thin as a razor, and as sharp.
Bending double, The Shadow slashed it across the cords that confined his
ankles. It was harder to free his hands, but he did so, thanks to the careful
training of wrists and fingers.
Freed, he sprang to the shaft in the earth and raced like a madman up the
nailed cleats to the cellar. A battering of his sinewy fists and the flat
covering of the pit shot upward. In two jumps, The Shadow was past the sill of
the rear window and racing away with pumping heart and straining muscles.
He was crossing the open lot in the rear of the doomed cottage. Tangled
weeds tore at his feet and threatened to trip him headlong. His panting breath
and the swish of the weeds were the only sounds in a queer stillness. An eerie
silence seemed to hang in the darkness.
Suddenly, The Shadow threw himself forward.
BEFORE his falling body could belly the earth, The Shadow was hurled a
dozen feet by a roaring wind like a hurricane. It was followed by a gush of
flame from the cottage. The cottage seemed to rise in a single mass in the heart
of spouting flame. Then it dissolved into mist like mud in a spray of water. The
roar of a gigantic concussion rocked earth, air and sky.
The Shadow lay weakly where he had been hurled. An indentation in the
ground protected him from the rain of debris that plunged out of the black sky.
Then there was blank, shuddering silence. The Shadow still didn't move. The
blast had temporarily paralyzed him.
By the time he had staggered to his feet and was able to make his way over
the debris-littered ground, the neighborhood was an inferno of sound. Women
screamed. Men were shouting. In the distance came the advancing wail of a police
siren.
A vast blackened crater was the only indication that a two-story house had
stood at this spot. In the street beyond, frightened tenants were racing in all
stages of undress from near-by apartments.
The Shadow passed unnoticed through the growing throng. He was no longer
robed in black. This was a limping, apparently timid man who seemed no different
from any one else in the street. As Peter Lane, The Shadow regained without
notice the car he had parked a block away.
A sibilant laugh echoed from his lips, as he drove swiftly from the
neighborhood. Behind the face of Peter Lane, the matchless brain of The Shadow
was content.
He no longer had to temporize or delay. He knew the identity of The
Phoenix! He had a plan to draw The Phoenix out of the obscurity where he had
fled. That plan would probably bear fruit promptly - as soon as tomorrow's late
newspapers appeared on the streets.
Peter Lane crossed the bridge to Manhattan. He stopped at an all-night
newspaper advertising agency. He inserted a last-minute "personal notice," to
appear in bold type in every New York paper.
The Shadow was now ready to move swiftly to a climax. He was preparing for
a final clash with the most deadly criminal genius he had ever encountered!
CHAPTER XV
THE VOICE IN THE WALL
MORNING sunlight flooded Manhattan. It touched every spire and peak of the
greatest skyline in the world.
But there was one spot in Manhattan where sunlight didn't penetrate: The
Shadow's sanctum!
Underneath the blue-shaded light, The Shadow's long-fingered hands were
sorting newspaper clippings. There were six or seven of the clippings. They lay
in a neat pile. All were exactly alike. They had appeared in the "personal"
columns of every newspaper in the city.
The Shadow's keen eyes scanned the sample clipping he had selected for
reading. It was as follows:
HENRY:
All is forgiven. Need you.
Communicate at once. Hudson 7-2119.
PETER LANE
Grim laughter eddied from the lips of The Shadow. He had baited a trap to
lure The Phoenix into the open. The newspaper was the trap. The innocent-looking
"personal" was the bait. The name of Peter Lane was no longer a secret to The
Phoenix. He would know instantly that the ad had been inserted by The Shadow
himself.
But like most cocksure criminals, The Phoenix would not be content with
mere knowledge. He would be tempted to guess. The ad was intended to encourage
him to guess. It looked like an undercover device by which The Shadow could get
in touch with one of his agents. The Phoenix would immediately assume that
"Henry" was a code name.
The chances were excellent that The Phoenix would regard the message as a
stroke of pure luck. He would pretend to be the mythical "Henry." He would
telephone Peter Lane and attempt to hoodwink him.
Such was The Shadow's sure belief. It was based on accurate psychology. He
waited grimly for a tiny indicator light to wink at his elbow. The rapid winking
of that light would mean that Hudson 7-2119 was being called.
It would do a criminal no good to attempt to trace that telephone number.
It belonged to an office in the building next to the shrouded sanctum where The
Shadow sat. The phone was connected by a temporary hookup to the instrument
before which The Shadow waited. His sanctum telephone was a private wire,
unlisted, unknown.
Suddenly, The Shadow's rigid pose changed. The tiny signal light was
winking furiously. Tapering fingers moved forward. Headphones lifted to The
Shadow's head and were calmly adjusted.
"Yes?"
"Henry reporting!"
The voice was crisp. It carried the respectful intonation of an underling
addressing his chief. The Shadow smiled. He played the farce through.
"Report acknowledged. Important developments ready to be acted on. Where
are you now?"
The voice told him swiftly. Too swiftly. There was an undercurrent of
eagerness in the racing reply. The Phoenix had expected to be asked that
question. His ambush was ready.
The address he gave was that of a private house in the suburbs. Its
location was far up in the Bronx, just across the Westchester County line. It
was a dreary, undeveloped spot in a region of scrub oak and unpaved streets.
The Shadow made a note of the address. He tested his telephone caller by
one more question. The question would disclose whether or not he was a fake.
"What time will suit you best?"
"Nine o'clock."
Again, eagerness was apparent in the clipped voice. The Phoenix didn't know
it, but he had committed a blunder. No genuine agent of The Shadow ever
suggested time or place when meetings were necessary. Obedience to The Shadow's
will was their first requisite. They never suggested or advised. They listened
and obeyed.
"Report received," The Shadow said. "Stand by!"
He broke the connection. The headphones were removed and replaced in their
desk cradle.
THE SHADOW rose to his feet, reached for a sheaf of documents and a
dictionary.
He consulted the dictionary for a queer reason. He used it to amplify the
clue the shoes of The Phoenix had suggested to him. Again, logic was triumphant.
The facts fitted together. Without knowing it, The Phoenix had for a second time
tipped his secret and exposed his identity.
The documents The Shadow now studied formed a complete life history of the
suspect. They had been gathered and assembled by Rutledge Mann, an insurance
broker, a clever and loyal agent of The Shadow.
The documentary evidence was not only a man's history; it was an expert
character analysis. The suspect was, as The Shadow had surmised, a warped and
dangerous genius. He had turned his talents to illegal ends. He had amassed
plenty of wealth in the process, but it was power he wanted. Power was the
sinister star that led him on.
The Shadow sat a long time, musing over that strange case history. Tonight
at nine, the riddle would be solved. Two men of superior attainments would meet:
The Phoenix versus The Shadow! All the cards in the game were seemingly in The
Phoenix's hands. He had selected the time and the place. He had prepared his
ambush.
But there was one compensating factor. The Phoenix was completely deceived
by his cunning telephone call. The Shadow was not!
RAIN slashed out of a black sky over a dreary countryside. The long roll of
thunder echoed above tossing trees and bushes. A clear sunny day had turned into
a wet and dismal night.
It lacked five minutes of being nine o'clock.
The man who verified the time was parked under a dripping covert of leaves
at the edge of a lonely clay road. His car was without lights.
He watched through a partly opened window the black shape of a house across
the road. Not a light showed in the cottage. But the darkness might be
misleading. Shutters were tightly closed on all the windows. Probably shades
were drawn behind those shutters.
It was the house that the fake "Henry" had selected for his meeting with
The Shadow.
The Shadow was watching for arrivals at the lonely house. He anticipated
more than one visitor tonight. Nor was he deceived. Presently, a car drew up out
of the fury of the storm. A man alighted. He was enveloped in a black raincoat,
but The Shadow had no trouble identifying him. It was John Marsley.
The banker hurried through sheets of rain to the front door of the house.
He rang the bell.
The door opened immediately. But no one stood on the threshold to welcome
the furtive visitor. Light from within showed an empty hallway. Marsley stepped
inside and the door closed at once behind him. The automatic lock clicked.
Marsley's gaze dropped to the floor. It was bare of covering. But a few
feet in advance of the spot where the dripping banker stood, a strange symbol
was visible. It had been drawn neatly with chalk, so that it pointed down the
hall as a silent marker. It was a combination of the letter "P" and an arrow
tip.
Marsley followed the unusual marker as if he were not at all surprised.
Down the hall was another symbol like the first. It led to a third, which
pointed to a closed door of solid wood. Seemingly, the arrow-tipped "P" was
pointing the way to The Phoenix.
Marsley had no need to turn the knob of that locked door. As he stepped in
front of it, it unlocked and opened of itself. It closed at once behind him. The
click of the lock seemingly made him a prisoner in the room.
But no fear was evident on Marsley's face. He was staring calmly about him
at the interior of this well-lighted, conformable chamber.
Like the hall, the floor was bare of rugs. On one side of the room a queer
device was fitted into the wall. It was a tiny metal flap, exactly like the
cover of a mail box. But it was large enough for a fairly big object to be
passed through the slot. Marsley lifted the flap, saw only darkness, and closed
it.
To the left of this peculiar adornment was a square metal grille set in the
same wall. The grille was intricately carved, the metal design so closely traced
that it was impossible to see through it into the darkness beyond. It looked
like the fancy covering of a radio loud-speaker.
Marsley smiled. His eyes lifted to the ceiling. There were flat brackets
set along the molding. The ceiling was high, well out of reach of Marsley's arm,
but the nature of those brackets was immediately evident.
On each bracket, a pistol was poised. Ten of them! Three on each of the
side walls; two on the end walls. Their motionless and silent muzzles covered
every inch of the floor below, except a single spot opposite the loud-speaker
grille - if that was actually what the device was.
Marsley moved at once to this protected spot. He had barely reached it when
the door of the chamber again opened. It closed swiftly behind a second visitor.
Marsley cried out hoarsely as he recognized who it was.
It was his own daughter!
VIOLA'S face was pale with fright. Her clothing dripped from the soaking
rain outside.
"Viola! What are you doing here? How did you find -"
"I followed you," she cried, tensely. "You sneaked away from home like a
thief! Dad, what is going on tonight in this horrible house? Does it belong to
you? Why are you here?"
Marsley seemed hesitant, shaken. Finally, he drew a letter from his pocket
and handed it to Viola. It was unsigned. It promised Marsley he could have the
stolen cablegram and code book which meant so much to him, if he came to this
particular house at nine p.m. and exchanged information with his unknown host.
"You think it's - The Phoenix?" Viola faltered.
"Who else? I'm of the opinion that he -"
The sentence was broken off. Another visitor was entering the room:
Snap Carlo!
Snap glared at the banker and his daughter. A gun in his hand menaced them
both. He turned warily, as if meditating an escape through the electrically
controlled door, but the heavy barrier was already locked.
"So it's Marsley, after all!" Snap snarled. "Are you The Phoenix? Don't try
to kid me, pal! I'm jittery and I might shoot if I get worried!"
Marsley denied the half-admiring accusation. He asked Snap if he had
received a letter and the mobster nodded shrewdly. He showed the banker the
message. It was a replica of the one Marsley had shown his daughter, except that
it promised Snap ten thousand dollars as a goodwill payment to bind his
partnership with The Phoenix.
Again, footsteps were heard in the hallway outside. A fourth visitor
entered, stared an instant, screamed. Alice Dodge!
ALICE, too, had a letter from The Phoenix. After she had fought off her
terror at the unexpected sight of Snap Carlo, she showed the missive.
Snap had leaped forward to strangle the blonde who had twice made a fool of
him, but a grim warning look from Marsley made the thug change his mind.
Marsley nodded, smiling a little. The note to Alice promised her the life
of her condemned sweetheart, Jack Skelly, in exchange for the code book which
she claimed to have.
"For the love of mud," Snap growled uneasily, "how many people are coming
here tonight? There's four here now!"
He had barely spoken - when there were five! The smiling and very debonair
Stanley West entered the electrically guarded chamber. Like the others, he was
soaked with rain. The smile whipped from his face for an instant, then deepened
at sight of Alice Dodge.
"I suppose you received a letter, like the rest of us, Mr. West?" Marsley
said, softly.
"I did."
"May I see it?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"None of your damn business!" West snapped. He was no longer concerned
about his polite playboy mask. He looked suddenly years older, with haggard
wrinkles about his eyes and mouth.
"A regular party," he sneered. "Five of us, eh?"
"I beg your pardon, Mr. West. Six is the correct number."
The voice was a bland murmur behind the group in the room. It was
punctuated by the closing click of the door. A smiling man stood with his back
to that door. He looked as meek as a mouse, except for a certain restless flame
in the depths of his eyes.
Peter Lane had arrived to keep his appointment.
AT sight of him, Marsley gave an oath of rage. Alice Dodge looked
frightened. Her glance moved questioningly toward West.
Stanley West didn't quiver a muscle. He was as calm as Peter Lane, but the
expression of his close-set eyes was murderous. He remained calm only because he
was a man of rigid self-control.
Snap Carlo was a more primitive type.
He echoed Marsley's grunt of rage. He crowded forward, his gun a dull
glitter in his fist.
"You dirty louse! I'm glad you showed up!"
Peter Lane's only reply was a chuckle.
It infuriated Snap. But West's calm hand on the mobster's shoulder
prevented him from springing forward in attack. Peter Lane had made no move to
draw a gun. For reasons of his own, he had come into this sinister house
unarmed.
"Let him alone." West advised suavely. "I rather think The Phoenix will
take care of him."
"Yeah?" Snap grated. "The hell with The Phoenix! I'm sick of being lied to
and double-crossed! I was told there would be no one here but me. And what do I
find? - five of you punks! Which one of you is The Phoenix? I got ten grand
coming to me! I want to get down to cases."
"Aren't you interested in The Shadow?" John Marsley asked.
Viola emphasized her father's accusation. She was pointing with a quivering
finger at Peter Lane's smiling face.
"The Shadow - that's exactly who he is! And he's no detective, as he
claims. He's a crook, a murderer! He's here tonight because he's in league with
The Phoenix."
Alice Dodge gave an unintelligible cry. Her blue eyes were blazing. Like
the others, she had crowded forward in a menacing half circle that hemmed in
Peter Lane.
"He was in that Jersey cottage the night Duke Duncan was murdered!" Alice
charged. "He was at the hotel when Leo Barry was killed. I saw him race away
from a cop in the parking lot outside. I was watching!"
Snap Carlo's bull voice roared out an oath of satisfaction: "Get back,
everybody! I'll handle this mug!"
His free hand struck out sideways, driving Marsley and West back on their
heels. Viola crouched with a cry of fear beside her father. Alice Dodge threw up
a defensive arm. The only perfectly calm person in the room was Peter Lane.
He stared at the muzzle of the gun in Snap's jutting fist. His body was
tensed, ready for instant action. But Snap didn't know that. The finger on his
trigger tightened imperceptibly.
"The Shadow, huh? I've always had a yen to kill you! A wise guy, butting in
to help the cops. Can't mind his own damn business. Always sending good guys to
jail, some of 'em pals of mine! O.K., wise guy! You're gonna get it, right now -
in the gut!"
Still The Shadow didn't move. He had seen that peculiar metal grating in
the wall. His eyes turned toward it.
He could see nothing behind it save darkness. But as the murderous finger
of Snap Carlo began to squeeze his trigger, a voice issued from the wall with
grim, menacing distinctness.
"DROP that pistol, Snap!"
The thug's mouth flew open with a gasp of wonder. His face turned. So did
the face of every person in the room.
"Drop that pistol or I'll riddle you with bullets from those bracket guns!
When The Shadow is to be killed, I'll attend to it personally!"
"Who the hell are you?" Snap roared. His pistol muzzle was pointing toward
the mysterious loud-speaker grille.
Laughter gurgled from unseen lips. The blurred and familiar tongue-tied
voice that Viola Marsley had heard in the apartment of Stanley West proclaimed
its identity.
"I am your unseen host. The power that brought all you fools here tonight!
I am The Phoenix!"
CHAPTER XVI
"STRIP - OR DIE!"
SNAP CARLO hesitated. The Shadow saw doubt, rage, fear blur together in his
crafty eyes. Snap no longer trusted the good faith of The Phoenix. He believed
now that he had been betrayed, brought here like the others - for death!
His gun flamed toward the hidden voice.
But the slug that sped from the kicking muzzle did not penetrate the grille
that protected the loud-speaker. It slanted harmlessly into the ceiling. A
second pistol report covered the explosion of Snap's.
A bullet had struck Snap's extended gun whirling it out of his grasp. The
same bullet could just as easily have pierced Snap's heart, had the hidden
marksman desired that.
Snap was quick to realize his peril. He stood, white-faced, his jaw agape
with terror.
"There are ten pistols on those high brackets. They cover every inch of
this room," the voice reminded its victims. "You will do well to obey orders
promptly. Snap Carlo, pick up your weapon from the floor. By the barrel, if you
please!"
Snap obeyed.
"Now, drop it into that slot in the wall."
If ever a man wanted to kill, it was Snap. But he walked to the metal flap,
lifted it, and allowed his gun to fall into darkness. There was a thump as it
landed in a hidden container. Snap started away. But the voice was not yet
through with him.
"Take that second weapon out of your vest pocket and put it with the
other!"
Again, Snap unwillingly obeyed. A derringer - a tiny, deadly little thing -
appeared in his fingers, was thrown in the slot.
"I know the exact number of weapons carried by each of you. A photoelectric
eye searched you automatically as you passed through its invisible beam in the
hallway outside. With the exception of Viola Marsley and Peter Lane, every one
in this room is armed. You will deposit your weapons, one by one. John Marsley
first!"
One by one, they did what Snap had been forced to do. All dropped their
arms in the slot except Alice Dodge. She had a small, thin-bladed knife, and the
voice sneeringly told her exactly where it was hidden.
With a flushed face, Alice was forced to lift her dress to her thigh to
remove the weapon. She drew a knife from a sheath attached to her pink garter
elastic.
The Phoenix laughed as the knife vanished into the wall slot. His next
statement was a verbal bombshell.
"Perhaps it will interest you to know exactly where I am. It wouldn't be
polite for a host not to mingle with his guests. And I am a most polite man. My
voice, as you have probably guessed, is issuing from a mechanical device in the
wall. But not my body; I am one of the four men now in this room!"
THE effect was startling. Viola backed away from the strange expression on
her father's face. Alice Dodge recoiled from the icy smile at Stanley West.
It was these two men that the eyes of The Shadow studied. He paid no
attention to the brutal Snap Carlo. Snap was just a stooge.
Marsley was glaring at Stanley West. The millionaire banker looked as if he
were about to fly at the fake playboy's throat. It was a grim tableau
interrupted only by the husky intonation of the hidden Phoenix:
"One of you guests has a certain code book. If the owner - man or woman -
will drop it in the same slot where you were kind enough to deposit your
weapons, you will be permitted to leave this house unharmed. If not, every
living being within this room will die! Except, of course. myself. I will give
you two minutes to obey."
A feverish argument started between West and Marsley - an argument in which
Peter Lane took no part. He had moved closer to the wall toward a spot where he
had noted the bracket guns did not cover.
"Give him the book, Marsley!" West growled.
"I haven't got it. You've got it, you crook!"
"In other words, you admit that you're The Phoenix," Marsley said.
"You lie! You are! I suspected you from the start. I should have killed you
when I -"
West's words were interrupted. Snap Carlo's sudden rush toward the locked
door brought a murderous climax. Snap's courage had cracked under the terrific
nerve-racking tension. Like all ignorant men, he was terrified of forces he
could not see. And he was wildly afraid that he had been double-crossed by a
criminal master who no longer had use for his crooked talents.
Snap threw himself against the door with an attack that made the stout
timbers creak. Twice, he tried to smash his way to freedom. The second time, the
thud of his body was drowned by the stunning roar of a pistol shot.
Snap staggered backward. A gush of blood dripped from a hole between his
shoulder blades. He whirled, his face stupid with the glaze of death. He went
down to the floor in a heap. He had been killed instantly.
The savage suddenness of Snap's end brought silence into the room. The glow
of the ceiling light showed strained, watchful faces on the remaining men and
the two women. Then every face vanished with startling abruptness.
The ceiling light had gone out. The room was plunged into blackness.
There was a scream from Viola. Alice cried out in fear. A hoarse
exclamation came from one of the men. Then, with the same swiftness with which
light had vanished, it reappeared. The room was flooded with revealing
brilliance.
The light disclosed an ominous figure with two steady guns pointing from
outstretched hands. The hands were gloved in red. A crimson robe and a tall,
pointed hood concealed the face and body of that figure, but not his identity.
The Phoenix!
THE PHOENIX was standing erect and motionless, with his back to the wall.
The shimmering cloth of his crimson robe twinkled faintly. Mirth crawled in the
eyes behind the slitted openings in the hood. But it was murderous mirth. It
matched the unpleasant menace in the laughing voice:
"Good evening - and be careful! I told you that I was in the room with
you!"
John Marsley found his voice first. There was rage in his shaking cry,
accusation in his pointing finger:
"West - that's who you are! You're Stanley West! He's no longer in the
room!"
It was true. The handsome playboy with the grim mouth and haggard eyes was
gone. The same interval of darkness that had produced The Phoenix, had removed
all bodily traces of Stanley West.
The Phoenix chuckled, and did not deny the accusation. His voice rasped a
command for silence.
"You see, I am determined to recover that missing code book. I am certain
that one of you has it. The way to find it is to search each of you separately.
And when I say search, I mean that literally and exactly! I am going to strip
each one of you naked!"
Alice Dodge paled. Viola Marsley swayed closer to her father. His arm was
hooked protectingly about her.
Peter Lane was closest to The Phoenix. But he was unarmed. A forward rush
was hopeless at this time. It was plain suicide. He relaxed visibly, and The
Phoenix laughed.
But the relaxation of Peter Lane meant no surrender of his will. It was
deliberately done. The half-bent knees were poised for action. The slightly
retarded left foot was planted solidly against the floor, in anticipation of a
thrusting effort.
Peter Lane suspected what would necessarily have to happen, and was
preparing to take advantage of an approaching opportunity.
The next words of The Phoenix verified that forethought.
"As a gentleman, I will follow the usual course in emergencies. Ladies
first! I will begin my search with the lovely Alice Dodge."
ALICE was standing with frozen despair, midway between Peter Lane and the
hooded criminal. She screamed; but she didn't move. The twin guns prevented
that.
The Shadow gave no encouragement to the appealing glance she shot toward
him. Apparently, he had abandoned her to whatever fate The Phoenix chose to mete
out to her.
"Alice Dodge, step forward!" the thick voice ordered. "Your modesty is
praiseworthy, but you needn't worry. My search will be conducted in privacy.
Your charms will be revealed only to me. Stand directly in front of me, with
your shapely back to my gun muzzles!"
A faint smile of relief flickered for an instant into the keen eyes of
Peter Lane. He had gambled on the fact that The Phoenix would attempt to take
Alice from the room for her ordeal. His quick stare signaled to the trembling
girl to obey the order of her captor.
She backed up until she was directly in front of the red-robed figure. One
of his guns dug with painful pressure into her spine. The other peeped over her
soft shoulder and menaced the rest.
The Shadow's bent knee tensed. His muscles were quietly ready to send him
hurtling forward in a headlong dive. So imperceptibly was it done that The
Phoenix had no suspicion that the mild Peter Lane was about to risk everything
in a frontal attack.
The heel of The Phoenix kicked lightly at the base of the wall.
What happened next was a wild melee of lightning-swift events. Behind the
crimson-robed killer, the wall seemed to suddenly slide apart. As it did, the
body of The Phoenix pivoted. The gun above Alice's shoulder flamed. She was
shoved so brutally that she spun around, almost falling to the floor under the
thrust of that powerful push.
But her falling body was caught in mid-air. The Phoenix sprang backward,
through the wall opening, with Alice's limp body sagging over one arm. The
closing panel crashed shut.
But it closed on three figures, not two!
At the exact instant that The Phoenix caught the toppling girl, The Shadow
dived forward. The bullet that had flamed from the robed criminal's gun was
aimed directly at Peter Lane. His twisting advance, however, jerked him
sideways.
He ducked a half-inch under the leaden slug. Almost before the echo of the
shot had roared, The Shadow had reached the wall opening and was plunging after
the girl and her hooded captor.
It was a tight squeeze - one that would have met with failure had The
Shadow been a fraction of a second too slow in his calculation. The closing
panel struck him. The impact, however, was against his left shoulder blade. The
rest of his wriggling body was already through the opening. The blow threw him
forward in the direction he wanted to go.
When the lock of the panel snapped, John Marsley and his daughter were the
only living persons left behind. They stared with bulging eyes and wordlessly
open jaws at the smooth surface of an unbroken wall.
Peter Lane was on the other side of that wall. He was at grips with The
Phoenix!
CHAPTER XVII
"I AM THE PHOENIX!"
THE room on the other side of the barrier was a dimly lighted square
chamber, with heavily draped walls. It was like the soundless chamber of a
broadcasting studio.
But there was neither microphone nor signs of machinery of any kind. Not a
stick of furniture was evident in the strange, padded interior of the rooms. The
floors were covered with the same thick material that hung in dark folds along
the four walls.
Apparently, the room contained no exit.
The Shadow did not consciously notice these details. They flooded into his
eyes with the automatic perception of a trained observer. He was conscious of
them in the split-second that hurled him through the panel opening and sent him
plunging at the snarling figure in red.
The Phoenix dropped Alice Dodge to the floor. Her body struck with a thump.
As she writhed, her dress climbed high on her shapely limbs. Silken legs and
clutching arms made a wildly gyrating blur. The courageous girl was attempting
to grab at The Phoenix and drag him down to the floor with her.
He was too deft to be caught that easily. But his twist and his backward
leap above Alice's sprawled body threw him off balance. He was able to fire both
guns as The Shadow darted at him. However, he was not able to aim those guns
properly, and the bullets went wide and high.
The Shadow's bent head struck his opponent in the stomach. It knocked the
breath partly out of The Phoenix. But it was not sufficient to hurl him to the
floor. The Shadow accomplished this second victory by a swift snakelike clutch
of his hands.
His heaving jerk brought both men down in a squirming huddle.
One of the guns was knocked from a crimson-gloved hand by the force of the
impact. The second gun flamed again. The Shadow had no time to protect himself
from certain death. It was Alice Dodge who came to his assistance.
She had crawled like a silken-legged serpent across the floor from the spot
where she had been hurled. Her teeth sank into the murderous wrist that held the
gun. She tasted the warm, salty wetness of blood.
The Phoenix screamed. His arm jerked wildly and the searing passage of the
bullet speckled The Shadow's cheek with powder marks and scorched him with hot
flame.
Almost blinded, The Shadow did not flinch. He took advantage of the
opportunity Alice's courage gave him.
His fingers closed over the weapon.
He twisted it from the killer's grasp. He rolled to his knees, whirling the
muzzle around to point at the red-hued criminal. The Phoenix, however, was just
as fast as The Shadow. He leaped to his feet as he felt the gun tear loose from
his grasp. As The Shadow pivoted on his knees, The Phoenix dealt him a vicious
kick in the stomach, pitching him forward on his face.
The Phoenix fled toward the unbroken surface of the draped walls. He lifted
a loose segment of the heavy material and it dropped smoothly into place behind
him. His escaping feet had made no sound on the padded floor of the room. His
vanishing was equally noiseless.
WITH a bound, The Shadow was after his foe. The sight of the crook's swift
retreat galvanized The Shadow's aching body into grim strength. He lifted the
cloth where The Phoenix had vanished.
There was no wall behind that section of the drapes. Instead, a narrow
doorway showed the exit through which the criminal had escaped from a seemingly
solid room.
The opening led to a narrow hall. No doors or windows showed along its
dimly lighted length. It was completely enclosed. But the swift race of The
Shadow's feet brought him to another unsuspected exit at the end of the
corridor.
A closet door was partly open. Swinging it wide, The Shadow peered. One of
the guns The Phoenix had dropped was now in the grim clutch of The Shadow. It
jutted as his blazing eyes examined the interior of that closet.
It was a closet without a ceiling. It extended far upward, like the empty
shaft of an elevator. There was no platform, rope or cable by which a man might
scale that shaft. But The Shadow knew the feat had been done, and done swiftly.
In an instant, he saw how. Wooden circles like enormous curtain rings had
been nailed, one above the other, against a side of the shaft. They formed an
easy ladder aloft for a man of active muscles. The Shadow went up quickly.
The top was open. It was the dim light filtering down from this upper
opening that had enabled The Shadow to realize the extent of the "closet" and to
see the ringed wooden cleats.
He bellied to the floor of an upper room - a bedroom. The bed was in the
center of the chamber. One or two chairs and a bureau were against the wall.
Curtains blew fiercely in the draft caused by an opened window. Rain poured in
from the storm outside. The flash of lightning and the roll of thunder showed
that the storm was still raging with unabated fury.
To a casual observer, it was plain that the fleeing Phoenix had dived
recklessly outward and down into the pelting storm.
But The Shadow was not a casual observer. He knew the window had been
lifted to deceive him, and to cause him to waste precious time by racing to a
false clue. His eyes jerked back to the floor of this innocent bedroom.
It was bare except for a single small rug. The rug didn't look quite right
on so large an uncovered surface. It had been placed there, not for decoration,
but for purpose.
Lifting the rug, The Shadow discovered a trapdoor!
The Phoenix had not left by the opened bedroom window. He had descended to
the lower floors of the house by a means identical to that used by him to climb
to this bedroom.
The Shadow followed. He climbed swiftly downward on more of the circular
wooden cleats.
He emerged in a narrow passageway that extended a few yards and then bent
sharply. An open door led to another corridor out of the square emptiness of a
closet.
The Shadow took one look and his eyes glinted with grim understanding.
There was a familiar appearance about this dim corridor. It was the same one
through which The Phoenix had fled on his way to the bedroom above!
A wily criminal had cleverly doubled on his tracks. He was returning to the
same draped chamber in which he had left the sprawled figure of Alice Dodge.
Confident that the deluded Shadow was stumbling through the rainswept darkness
outside the cottage, he was grimly returning to finish his enemies and insure
his own escape.
DOWN the long hallway The Shadow could see vaguely the opening behind the
concealing drapes of the room where Alice Dodge had been dragged. Somewhere
beyond a paneled wall, John Marsley and his daughter were also trapped
helplessly. They were in the room with the loud-speaker grille and ten grimly
aimed pistols on ten brackets.
The Shadow, however, did not race heedlessly forward. He had seen something
that had eluded his attention on that first mad dash through the corridor.
A small, horizontal opening was dimly visible in the baseboard of the
hallway wall. Dropping on his knees, The Shadow found that a flexible,
shutter-like device was concealed in the wall. A touch of his fingers lifted it
like a compressing accordion. A space was revealed through which a man might
easily crawl to a chamber beyond.
But The Shadow did not pass through. Only his grim gaze darted through that
aperture. It was enough to show him how The Phoenix had been able to send his
voice through the loudspeaker grille in order to taunt his assembled victims.
The inside of the grille was visible. Electrical connections joined the
speaker with a phonograph machine of unusual size and design. A flat record lay
on the turntable. It was not in motion.
An empty chair was behind a flat and narrow-topped desk. There was a row of
black buttons across the surface of that desk. The Shadow counted the buttons
from where he lay peering. There were ten of them. Ten buttons - ten guns poised
outside in the adjoining room on smooth brackets!
This, obviously, was how The Phoenix had operated.
A faint rustle drew The Shadow's face away from the opening. Turning
noiselessly on his knees, he saw a stealthy shape at the far end of the hall in
which he was crouched. A crimson shimmering robe glistened.
The Phoenix was peering down the long hall. But he failed to see The
Shadow. Darkness protected the master sleuth from discovery.
Rigidly alert, The Shadow saw The Phoenix pass through the draped entrance
and vanish. The heavy curtain dropped behind his weird figure.
Instantly, The Shadow darted forward. In a few rapid strides, he reached
the curtain and passed through on the very heels of The Phoenix.
But The Phoenix had seemingly evaporated into thin air. It was the room
where Alice Dodge had been left. There was no sign of the criminal or the girl.
Both had disappeared.
A CLICK in the paneled side wall, however, revealed where the nervy Alice
had gone. The panel opened. It was the same one through which The Phoenix had
dragged Alice.
At that time, she had been terrified, half fainting, in the ruthless
embrace of a killer who had sworn desperately to strip her stark naked in a
search for the missing code book. Now, Alice was courageous again, eager,
triumphant.
Behind her stood the wondering figures of John Marsley and his daughter
Viola. Relief swept over their faces at sight of Peter Lane. They no longer
feared him as a criminal. They had seen him risk his life in a single-handed
attempt to capture The Phoenix.
To Peter Lane, the triumphant Alice showed the secret of the panel
mechanism. A spring concealed in the baseboard was operated by a brisk tap of
the heel. The Shadow had observed the mechanism when The Phoenix had worked it.
But he did not spoil Alice's triumph by mentioning that fact. He merely asked a
swift question.
The question puzzled them. They shook their heads. None of them were aware
that The Phoenix had returned on his trail. None had seen him reappear.
Peter Lane smiled. The answer narrowed his search. Stepping quickly back to
the curtain-shrouded room, he began to circle the walls. His hand plucked at the
heavy material. For half the circuit of the room, nothing happened. Then a
portion of the drape came away. It disclosed a shallow recess in the wall.
A man was lying there in a limp huddle. His pale, frightened face brought
an oath of rage from John Marsley. The hidden man was Stanley West.
He wasn't as weak or exhausted as he pretended to be. He fought viciously
as Marsley clutched at him. The two men reeled in silent combat about the room.
Then Peter Lane's muscular arm came between them and separated them.
West was wearing the same expensively cut suit which he had worn when he
had first appeared in the cottage. There was no sign of the shimmering red robe
of The Phoenix. With an ugly snarl, West denied that he was the missing
master-criminal.
His story was simple. He claimed that at the moment the lights had gone
out, following the swift murder of Snap Carlo, he had been struck a disabling
blow in the darkness.
He had had no warning. Dazed, he fell to the floor. A powerful arm scooped
him up and carried him to the curtained niche. He had collapsed there, helpless,
while The Phoenix had made his appearance in the sudden glow of lights beyond
the panel.
Such was West's story. Marsley didn't believe it. Nor did Viola or Alice.
They stared at the dapper young playboy with hate and loathing.
Unexpectedly, Peter Lane came to West's defense.
"He's telling the truth," he said, mildly. "Stanley West is not The
Phoenix!"
WEST began to splutter unintelligible thanks for this new, and welcome,
ally. But Lane's next words drove the smirk from his lips and changed his
smiling eyes to the muddy glint of murder.
"You are not now, and never have been, The Phoenix," Peter Lane declared,
calmly. "But you are almost his equal in devilish cunning. You're a vicious
criminal in your own right! You're an international spy, a free-lance killer,
and you've been working for the same ugly purpose that brought The Phoenix into
this case!
"You're an enemy of the United States and of humanity! To gain dirty
millions, you were prepared to plunge the world into another blood bath of an
international war. You came here from Europe to steal Marsley's code book. But
you failed - for I have that code book and the cablegram from the Far East!
Marsley's secret is safe!"
Stanley West screamed with rage. He launched himself at the body of Peter
Lane.
But he was fighting a man prepared. The Shadow had expected that assault.
His rippling muscles made short work of the frantic spy. He broke the hold on
his throat. With calm dexterity, he converted his foe into a sodden huddle of
flesh, a man moaning and semiconscious from scientific punishment, intelligently
applied.
A light, pliable cord, taken from West's own pocket, trussed him tightly.
He twitched feebly on the floor, unable to move an inch.
"He's not really The Phoenix?" Alice Dodge gasped.
Marsley echoed that wondering question. So did Viola. Peter Lane bent over
the prisoner, to make sure that the cords could not be shifted. He shook his
head.
"Then who is The Phoenix?" Marsley cried.
Before Lane could reply, the question was answered from a totally
unexpected source.
"I am!" a throaty voice croaked behind their backs.
Jeering laughter met them as they whirled. A figure in shimmering crimson
was standing ominously on the other side of the opened panel in the wall.
The Shadow, glancing at the shoes and the hood of the robed figure, knew
that true words had been spoken. The Phoenix himself - the real Phoenix - was at
bay!
The Shadow uttered a warning hiss to his companions to remain quiet. He
himself did not move for an instant. The Phoenix had no guns in his gloved
hands. What he held brought a gasp of terror from Marsley.
It was a frail glass bottle, swung high in the air so that a single gesture
of The Phoenix would bring it crashing to smithereens on the floor.
The fluid in that bottle was colorless. It looked like dirty and stale
water. But The Shadow was not deceived. Nor was John Marsley.
Nitroglycerin!
CHAPTER XVIII
SIXTY SECONDS TO LIVE!
THE sight of that deadly high-powered explosive held in the uplifted hand
of a ruthless criminal, at bay, was enough to freeze the opponents of The
Phoenix into quiet rigidity.
There was desperation, madness, in the eyes that glowed through the suited
openings in the crimson hood. But the voice was steady. Every word crackled with
menace.
"I want that code book! One of you is going to produce it and toss it over
here at my feet. If you don't, it means death for all of us! I'll admit I'm
cornered; but the same is true for you. I'll give the person who has that code
book sixty seconds to obey. At the end of that time, I shall smash this bottle
on the floor and blow every one of us to chunks of bloody flesh!"
John Marsley began to plead hoarsely. His voice rose in a terrified scream
as the figure in red began to count ominously.
"One - two- three - four -"
"I haven't got the code book." Marsley pleaded. "It was stolen by Snap
Carlo! He -"
"- Thirteen - fourteen - fifteen -"
"Search Snap's body," Alice Dodge begged. "Snap double-crossed you! Stanley
West never found the book. Nor did I. I was lying when I -"
"- Twenty-two - twenty-three -"
The ugly voice behind the red hood continued counting like a mechanical
metronome of death. The muscles of the robed arm that held the frail bottle of
nitroglycerin aloft were tensed to hurl the deadly fluid at the end of that
measured count.
The Phoenix had sensed his doom. He was staking his own life against the
fear of death in the hearts of his enemies. Laughter bubbled in the intervals of
that slow counting. The Phoenix had a will of chilled steel. He expected to win
his gamble with death.
He failed to notice an important fact. Peter Lane was no longer in the
anteroom with the others. The Phoenix merely thought he was.
Slitted eyes glared at the tied and helpless figure of Stanley West on the
floor of the curtain-shrouded chamber beyond the panel opening. Behind West a
crouched figure seemed to belly out one of the curtains.
The Phoenix thought that Peter Lane, terrified for his life, was squeezing
himself into a ridiculous hiding place to flee from the range of the glass bomb.
PETER LANE, however, had left the chamber under cover of the confusion
caused by that first snarling challenge of death. He slipped noiselessly into
the corridor down which he had pursued The Phoenix after he had saved Alice
Dodge from being stripped nude and then killed.
His flying feet made no sound. His goal was clearly distinct in his mind,
his purpose accurately formed. Crouching close to the floor of the corridor, he
wriggled swiftly through the opening he had discovered earlier. He entered the
chamber where the loud-speaker apparatus of The Phoenix was located.
He glided like a ghostly apparition to the desk behind the dark interlacing
of the grille in the wall. The grille was so contrived that from the outer room,
it was impossible to see through the metal tracery.
But The Shadow could see with clear fidelity the shoulders, the
crimson-swathed back and the uplifted hand of the master-criminal. A clever use
of a light-refracting device produced this uncanny one-way view; It explained
why The Phoenix had been able to see his victims without their being able to see
him.
"- Forty-nine - fifty - fifty-one -"
On the flat desk surface, under the eyes of The Shadow, was a row of ten
polished black buttons. They controlled the triggers of the guns mounted on the
wall brackets of the outside room. But not one weapon pointed at The Phoenix.
He had stepped to the spot in the chamber not covered by those carefully
pointed gun muzzles. Their snarling crossfire would leave him unharmed.
The Shadow knew that only quick thinking and bolder action could save the
lives of Marsley and the two girls. It involved the risk of The Shadow's own
life. He took that risk immediately - as he had done countless times to protect
innocent victims of crime.
He waited for the full effect of surprise, by delaying grimly for the
psychological moment when the wings of death brushed closest. The uplifted
clenched hand of The Phoenix was quivering. The bottle in his grasp was ready to
be hurled.
"- Fifty-nine - sixty -"
"Surrender, you stupid fool! The game is up!"
The voice of Peter Lane issued clearly from the black grille of the
loud-speaker. There was calm command in it. There was insulting derision, too.
The Shadow had called his foe a "stupid fool" deliberately. He was prodding a
madman at his weakest point: his vanity.
IT worked! It produced the exact reaction The Shadow had been praying
silently for. With a gasp of rage, The Phoenix whirled toward the voice behind
the grille. He had recognized the calmly superior tones of Peter Lane.
Their very calmness infuriated The Phoenix. It told him that there was one
man in the world who did not fear him. Peter Lane actually despised him, had
called him a fool!
He took a leaping step forward. The hand with the bottle whirled to throw
the explosive in a shattering crash against the grille.
But that one leaping step forward brought The Phoenix away from the safe
spot where he had stood. He was now in accurate line with the rigid barrels of
ten bracket guns connected with ten buttons on the desk behind the panel.
The palm of The Shadow slapped down on all ten buttons with a single
impact. Every gun in the adjoining chamber spoke simultaneously with a
shattering echo.
The Phoenix tottered, pierced by a barrage of steel-jacketed slugs. The rip
of those bullets through flesh and bone, paralyzed the murderer. The fingers
holding the bottle did not relax for an instant. They closed tighter, for a
second, by the convulsive action of dying muscles.
The Phoenix slumped to the floor as one knee buckled under him. With a last
dying effort, he tried to hurl the bottle from him toward his hidden conqueror.
His hate was incredible. But it was unequal to the task. His heartbeat stopped
forever as he dropped to the floor.
The dead fingers, opening jerkily, allowed the bottle to fall toward the
hard polished boards.
John Marsley uttered no sound as he saw the deadly liquid drop. He was too
far away to dive forward and catch the missile in soft hands. White as paper, he
waited a split-second for annihilation.
But the frail glass container didn't shatter on the hard floor. The Shadow
had known from his study of ballistics and gunshot wounds exactly how that
riddled criminal would collapse and fall.
The bottle landed with a soft thud on the prone body of the dead Phoenix.
It rolled gently to the floor beside him.
The irony of fate had used a criminal to achieve its just ends. By the
interposition of his own dead body, The Phoenix unwittingly saved his victims
from the horror of being torn to blood-spattered fragments in the ruins of a
spouting cottage.
IT was the very calm Peter Lane who picked up the deadly little container
and placed it gingerly in a safe spot.
Viola had fainted. Marsley was frozen on his feet, incapable of motion.
Alice Dodge was moving chalky lips, as if reciting an inaudible prayer.
"There is no need for further alarm," a quiet voice told them. "This case
is ended."
They stared at Peter Lane. The piercing flame that had seemed to leap from
his eyes as he raced back to the room and picked up the deadly explosive, was
now gone. His eyes were again timid, his manner almost apologetic.
He bent over the crimson robe and concealing hood of the dead supercriminal
on the floor. He sounded like a mild professor expounding a lesson in a college
classroom. Tapering fingers clutched at the border of the hood. But they did not
draw it away, for a moment.
"Allow me to present to you the man who started this whole carnival of
crime, beginning with the death of Duke Duncan. A man who was clever enough to
fool even me, in the beginning. Blackmailer of John Marsley - killer of Duke
Duncan and Snap Carlo - false murderer of himself in a hotel room: Mr. Leo
Barry!"
A ripping motion tore the mask away from dead, waxen features. The snarling
face of The Phoenix was at last exposed. Peter Lane's quiet prediction was
correct.
The dead criminal was Leo Barry!
CHAPTER XIX
THE END OF PETER LANE
"BUT - how - I don't understand I - I thought -"
John Marsley's voice was shaky. He had recovered slowly from the shock of
deadly terror. His arm was around his daughter, holding her trembling body close
to him. Viola had recovered from her swoon.
Alice Dodge was tremulous, too. She leaned against the wall, one palm flat
against its surface, as if she derived strength from the feel of its cool,
smooth expanse against her flesh.
The even tones of Peter Lane filled the chamber. There was a soothing
quality in them that calmed the people who listened. His words brought clarity
and knowledge out of darkness and confusion.
He had, Peter Lane declared, suspected that Leo Barry was The Phoenix, from
the very moment of Barry's supposed death in his hotel room. The shotgun-torn
head of the victim - and particularly the mutilated hands and finger tips -
suggested a substitute corpse. Probably an unfortunate bum, picked up on the
Bowery and lured with a twenty-dollar bill to his death.
Peter Lane pointed toward the hood The Phoenix had worn. It was tall,
pointed - too tall for any real purpose except deception of those who
encountered him on his attacks. The shoes on the body were queer, too. Their
soles were much thicker than the soles on normal shoes. They were equipped with
high heels. The reason was obvious.
Barry, a man slightly less than medium height, wanted his victims to think
he was taller. He had cleverly managed to simulate the height of John Marsley
and Stanley West. He knew both were deeply implicated in the case, and he wanted
suspicion to fall on each of them.
"But - how - did you first deduce -" Marsley again stuttered.
He was handed a small sheet of paper. It was a typewritten sentence or two
taken verbatim from a dictionary:
Phoenix, n. (Myth.) 1. A bird, the only one of its kind, that
after living five or six centuries in the Arabian desert, burned
itself on a funeral pile and rose alive from the ashes with renewed
youth, to live through another cycle. 2. A person of rare and high
excellence; a prodigy of intelligence.
Peter Lane smiled grimly. He had suspected a pun on the name, the moment he
had read on Leo Barry's hotel wall the strange pseudonym of the unknown
criminal. The name was too unusual not to have hidden meaning. It was a grim
joke by an intellectual man who had gone wrong.
Rutledge Mann, The Shadow's agent, had found out the facts of Barry's
earlier career, after The Shadow had put him to work uncovering the truth in a
small New England university town, where Barry had taught. Barry had apparently
murdered himself, only to rise from his dead ashes in the guise of another
personality.
He was aware of the ancient legend of the Phoenix. He took the name as a
sneering challenge to opponents he considered stupid and of inferior
intelligence to himself. A business man like John Marsley would not have
remembered the classical allusion to the fabled bird. Nor was the name in
character with what The Shadow had learned of Stanley West.
Barry's choice of the name was his first revealing blunder!
PETER LANE continued his calm analysis of the case. Hours of concentrated
thought in the secluded darkness of The Shadow's sanctum, now had their
justification.
Leo Barry, he declared, had started the web of murder and intrigue. He had
come into possession of facts that seemed to prove John Marsley a murder. An
innocent youth named Jack Skelly had been condemned to the electric chair for
that murder.
The document Barry possessed riveted the guilt on Duke Duncan; but there
was also a paragraph that seemingly implicated John Marsley as well.
Barry saw possibilities for huge profit. He decided to use Duncan and his
gang to get at Marsley. So he took the blackmail evidence to Duke's hangout and
pretended to sell it to Duke for ten grand. What he really wanted was for Duke
to realize the case against Marsley - and Duke did. Duke paid ten grand to Barry
for a chance at a million from Marsley. He went after the banker at once - and
Barry's plan began to work like a charm. All he had to do was to let Duke put on
the heat and collect.
It was Leo Barry who killed Duke from the dark recess in the wall of the
New Jersey cottage. But Marsley had stuffed the suitcases with newspaper instead
of money, and Barry was foiled. However, he was able to escape from the cottage
and to flee in his car, not forgetting to telephone the police from a lonely pay
station and to bring Stanley West's name into the crime.
He mistrusted and feared West, and hoped to frame him by this device. But
he failed, because West had an alibi ready for the police.
Barry's fear of Stanley West was justified. The man was an international
spy, posing as a playboy. West was after even bigger profit than Barry. He knew
something that, in the beginning, even Barry didn't realize: John Marsley was a
trusted secret agent, working without pay for the United States government! The
president had summoned Marsley to Washington and had asked him to perform a
tremendously important service for his country.
"That fact is true, is it not?" Peter Lane murmured.
"It's true," Marsley whispered. He explained hidden things that the patient
investigation of The Shadow had already uncovered.
A new and terrible war threatened the peace of the world. It was being
deliberately fomented in the Far East. The United States was one of the victims
to be attacked. But government agents found themselves blocked.
So John Marsley used his vast network of international banks and trusted
employees abroad as a private agency to uncover the war plot and nip the
imperialistic scheme in the bud.
He succeeded! The evidence was in a long, coded cablegram sent to him from
one of his branch banks in the Far East. But before he could receive it, Duke
Duncan had accused him of murder and had asked a million in blackmail Marsley
agreed to pay. He had to!
He knew he was innocent of the murder for which Jack Skelly had been
convicted. But to prove his innocence - and Skelly's - would be to publish
prematurely the diplomatic secret the president had entrusted to him. Marsley
preferred to die - and to let Jack Skelly die - rather than do that. An advance
leak of the cablegram would mean world ruin!
"IT was then that my code book was stolen," Marsley cried. "I never was
able to discover who took it. But I knew that The Phoenix had made an attempt to
steal the cablegram from my daughter in the apartment of Stanley West; and
failing, had sent Alice Dodge to my home to snatch it. It was Alice who finally
got hold of it. I suspected then that Stanley West was really The Phoenix."
Peter Lane shook his head. Facts that puzzled Marsley were as clear as
crystal to The Shadow.
"Leo Barry," he declared, "was the crimson-robed figure who subjected your
daughter to so embarrassing a disrobing scene in West's apartment. He entered
and escaped with a pass-key before West returned. He had searched West's private
papers and had learned the vast war secret the spy was after.
"From that moment on, Barry was no longer concerned with blackmailing a
single millionaire. He was now coolly prepared to blackmail the nations of the
world!"
From an inner pocket of Peter Lane's coat, two objects appeared. One was
the missing code book; the other a lengthy cablegram. Marsley gave a choked cry
of anxiety at sight of them.
"That message must be sent to Washington at once!"
"It has been sent," The Shadow informed. "A copy of the decoded message
reached the president of the United States this afternoon. The president has
already called a defense conference of the threatened democratic nations. War
had been averted - because its success depended on a surprise aerial attack
without a second's warning. You need worry no longer, Mr. Marsley. Your
patriotic job has been done, and done well!"
There were tears in the banker's eyes.
"What about Skelly? I've got to notify the governor and arrange a pardon
for him. Skelly is one of my agents. He - he begged me to let him die, rather
than expose the secret. Now I - I can talk and save him without breaking my
pledged word to the president."
"He has already been saved," Peter Lane said. "A message went to Albany
from Washington one hour after the receipt of the cablegram. Jack Skelly will be
released quietly, on a technicality. No foreign nation will guess his real work.
He is in no danger of assassination from spies."
"Thank God!" Alice Dodge cried. "I knew he was innocent! I did the ugly
things I did, because I thought Jack was being framed by a crooked banker to
hide a murder."
Viola Marsley put her arms around the sobbing Alice.
"You're a brave, loyal girl," she breathed. "In your place, I'd have done
the same things you did!"
Her glance veered with a quick motion toward the trussed and vicious figure
of Stanley West on the floor. Horror flooded her eyes.
"A foreign spy!" she gasped. "I might have married him! Thanks to Peter
Lane, my eyes have been opened to the truth in time."
MARSLEY was gazing with awe at the face of the quiet man who had wrought
all these miracles.
"You call yourself Peter Lane," he said, slowly. "I thought you were a
thief, a murderer - I don't know what! Who - who are you?"
He received a wordless answer. Sibilant laughter filled the room with
rustling echoes.
Without moving from the spot where he stood, Peter Lane disappeared
forever. His timid face seemed to writhe and change. The lips were tightly
compressed. The eyes blazed with a piercing inner flame. His face radiated
power, strength, intelligence.
He seemed to grow inches in stature. Tall, masterful, he gazed with
reassurance at the innocent persons whose lives and happiness he had saved.
There was no anger in him, as he stared calmly at the dead face of Leo Barry.
Nor did he frown at the profanity that bubbled in a foul stream from the lips of
Stanley West.
The Shadow was above personal feeling. He had met the challenge of crime
and conquered it. That was all that mattered.
A hand lifted in a gesture of farewell. On a finger of that hand, a
precious stone glittered. It was a girasol, the only one of its kind in the
world. It flamed yellow, crimson, and changed to a deep purple as The Shadow
glided silently toward the exit.
He had taken a key from the pocket of the dead Phoenix. He unlocked the
door, and no one made a move to detain him. The flashing girasol on his finger
was the hallmark of a dread identity.
"The Shadow!" John Marsley breathed. "It was The Shadow!"
Outside the cottage, a roaring hurricane of wind still flung sheets of
drenching rain from a black sky.
The figure that emerged into the storm was blacker than the sky and the
tempest. He moved majestically through the turmoil, as if he were a part of the
wild night itself.
Rain slashed at the brim of his slouch hat. His black cloak fluttered
witch-like in the wind. But his step was human and steady. He glided to where a
car was hidden under a covert of leafy boughs. He slid behind the wheel and the
car shot out of concealment. It raced onward down the muddy road. Headlights
bored into the darkness ahead.
Peter Lane had served his purpose.
There was no longer any Peter Lane.
The Shadow alone remained. The Shadow always would remain!
When new crime threatened and the police were powerless to prevent it, The
Shadow would once more appear from the enveloping darkness that now swallowed up
a car and driver on a lonely country road.
THE END