THE FIFTH FACE
                                 by Maxwell Grant

       As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," August 15, 1940.

     Was it the face of death? Only The Shadow knew!


     CHAPTER I

     THE FIRST FACE

     THREE men were gathered in a garish apartment that had an appearance of
past glory. Gold-braided curtains were frayed at the edges; mahogany chairs
were scratched and battered. Even the fancy wallpaper looked ready to peel
itself.
     As for the men, they had a shabby touch. They were playing cards around a
table, and each had a stack of bills along with his chips. But they were
harboring their cash, and the sharp looks that they exchanged marked them as a
trio of leeches, each intent to bleed the others.
     Three big-shots who hadn't made the grade. The term defined the trio to
perfection. All were men of evil ambitions, but with balked careers. They had
been in the money once, but never to the extent they wanted.
     The man at the left was Grease Rickel. His nickname, Grease, was a
shortened term for Grease-ball. His fattish face was oily, ugly, and his
slicked hair, black like his eyes, merely added to his unlovely appearance.
     In his palmy days, Grease had specialized in the hat-check racket, gaining
"concessions" from restaurants. Smiling girls had coaxed sizable tips from
patrons, and Grease, as owner of the concession, had collected ninety cents on
the dollar. But the racket was all over. Restaurants weren't letting out
concessions to Grease Rickel any longer.
     Opposite Grease was Banker Dreeb. He was long-faced, solemn, and looked
something like a banker, which, in a sense, he had been. A few years ago, when
certain people wanted money they borrowed it from Banker. The certain people
were crooks who were in trouble, and Banker supplied them bail money, along
with special services.
     In brief, Banker had operated as a professional "springer" who could get
friends out of jail. But the law had become very suspicious of Banker's money
and would no longer take it. The old-line politicians who had formerly smoothed
Banker's path were no longer connected with civic affairs.
     Third in the group, the man who faced the door, was Clip Zelber. He was
sharp-faced, shrewd of eye, but quite as seedy as his two companions. Clip had
once been a very crafty fence who disposed of stolen goods, but had lately
found such merchandise too hot to handle.
     The three were snarly as they talked. From their very manner, they
recognized that their card game was futile. They wanted better prey than
themselves, and when a cautious rap came at the door, the trio came to their
feet, exchanging eager looks.
     "It's Jake Smarley," chuckled Grease. "You guys know Smarley, the bookie.
I told him to come around."
     "So you said," nodded Banker. "Smarley is hitting it tough, too. He had to
close his horse parlor. He's doing his own legwork, coming around to collect
bets from guys like us."
     "Yeah," agreed Clip, in a short tone. "Let Smarley in. It makes me happy
to see that old sourpuss. He'll probably put on a crying act before he leaves
here."
     Grease went to the door and opened it. He was right; the visitor was
Smarley. No one could mistake the decrepit bookie, who was living on the small
bets that he collected on a flimsy percentage basis.
     Smarley was shambly and stoop-shouldered. His face was dryish, gaunt, with
deep furrows stretching downward from his eyes, like waiting channels for the
"crying act" that Clip had mentioned.
     From a pocket of his shabby overcoat, Smarley produced a newspaper and
placed it on the table. His dryish lips were straight, as his beady eyes looked
from man to man. Grease picked up the newspaper and started to thumb through the
pages.
     "We'll take a look at the races, Smarley," Grease began, in an indulgent
tone. "Maybe we can spare some dough for the ponies, if you give us the right
break -"
     "Wait!" Smarley's tone was a cackle. "Take a look at the front page first,
Grease. It's got something extra special."
     Flattening the paper, Grease scanned the front-page headlines. Banker and
Dreeb peered over his shoulders, fascinated by what they saw there. It was
Grease who voiced:
     "One hundred grand!"
     "Better read about it," crackled Smarley. "Maybe it will give you fellows
an idea."


     ANYTHING involving a hundred thousand dollars could give ideas to the ugly
three. Their faces showed elation as they read the preliminary details. The
hundred thousand was the present property of Arnold Melbrun, head of the United
Import Co., and the sum was entirely in cash.
     It had to deal with the steamship Anitoga, which, along with its valuable
cargo, had run into war-zone troubles. For weeks, the ship had been tied up in
a belligerent port, its fate a matter of doubt. Finally, it had been released,
and the owners of the cargo had agreed to pay the crew members a substantial
bonus as soon as the Anitoga docked in New York.
     They had turned the money over to Melbrun; he had put it into cash, which
was guarded in his office. The Anitoga was due this evening, and the money was
going to the pier by armored truck.
     There, police would be on hand while the crew members received their cash
awards. The sum total came to approximately one hundred thousand dollars.
     "Say, Clip," began Grease, turning to Zelber, "if you could round up those
rats who used to work for you, they'd make a slick mob. They could pile onto
that ship and take the dough off the sailors -"
     "With the coppers on the job?" demanded Clip. "Not a chance! Banker, here"
- he nudged toward Dreeb - "is the guy to handle it. Those smoothies that work
for him could grab off the dough while it's going to the dock."
     As he finished, Clip gave Banker a sharp-eyed glance, which the
solemn-faced man returned in a cold fashion.
     "My bunch couldn't knock off an armored truck," declared Banker. Swinging
to Rickel, he continued: "I'm passing the buck to you, Grease. Send some of
your strong-arm boys over to Melbrun's office and grab the dough before it even
starts."
     Grease appeared to be considering the proposition; then his oily-lips
formed a smile, as he shook his head. His smile, however, was not a pleased
one. With Grease, a smile usually indicated the opposite of pleasure.
     "It would be a give-away," declared Grease. "It says here that the dough
is being watched. Melbrun has some private dicks on the job. I'll agree that
the office is the best place to stage the grab, but we can't get anybody who
will do it. They'd be marked as soon as they stuck their noses in the place."
     There was a glum silence, which ended when Grease crumpled the newspaper
and flung it on the floor.
     "This town has gone to pot!" snarled Grease. "There used to be a chance to
get away with anything. Plenty of soft pickings, until one guy put the crimp in
it. The Shadow!"
     Banker and Clip acknowledged the name with scowls; nevertheless, they gave
reluctant nods.
     "It was The Shadow who swung things the wrong way," continued Grease. "He
kept busting into everything, and that got the coppers on their toes. He's
still in it, too, The Shadow is. That's why nobody will take chances, unless
they've got a perfect set-up.
     "Suppose we three did the job ourselves. We couldn't go to Melbrun's
office wearing masks, or we wouldn't get inside. So we go as ourselves, and
then what? We get the dough and lam with it, before the bulls can nail us. But
we're marked, and there's one guy that will never forget us."
     Pausing, Grease stared from Banker to Clip, then snarled the name that
both of his pals had in mind:
     "The Shadow!"


     IN the following silence, the three forgot Jake Smarley. They didn't
remember the sad-faced bookie until he broke the spell with one of his crazy
cackles.
     "Three big-shots!" jeered Smarley. "Three big guys, chopped down to
midgets! Maybe you'd be useful, though" - his dryish lips took on a grin - "if
a real big-shot let you work for him. Suppose a real brain came along. Would
you play ball?"
     Puzzlement, then interest, showed on the faces of the three listeners. It
was Grease who gruffed:
     "On what kind of terms?"
     "Forty percent for the big-shot," proposed Smarley. "You three divide the
other sixty. The big guy walks in and gets the hundred grand, and you three
have your outfits outside, to cover his getaway. And this" - Smarley was
crouched forward on the table - "won't be the only job."
     No vote was needed. Grease, Banker, Clip, all voiced their instant
agreement. They were willing to serve as lieutenants under such a chief, if
Smarley could produce him. When they inquired who the bigshot was, Smarley gave
them a dryish grin.
     "Call him Five-face," suggested the bookie. "Because he's got five faces -
get it? He gets spotted when he grabs the mazuma, sure, but even The Shadow
won't find him. Because Five-face will wipe off his map, like this" - Smarley
started to spread his hands across his face - "and be another guy!"
     An instant later, the lieutenants were gawking in amazement. They weren't
looking at Jake Smarley any longer. His face had changed; it was shrewd, rather
than drab. As the three men squinted, Smarley's hands made another sweep.
     His face seemed to enlarge, to become fuller and more genial. Then, as his
hands performed another swing, he turned his head and gave them a brief view of
a set profile that wore an expression of disdain.
     One more quick change came, as the face turned toward them, but before the
three lieutenants could gain more than a vague impression, a sweep of the
swift-moving hands restored the drab features of Jake Smarley.
     "That's just the general idea," cackled Smarley. "From now on, you'd
better call me Five-face. Because, after tonight, you won't see Jake Smarley
again. I'll need some make-up, and a reasonable amount of time, to make each
face look permanent."
     Thoroughly amazed, Banker and Clip finally turned to Grease, expecting him
to be their spokesman. With a glance at his companions, Grease took the
assignment.
     "Listen, Five-face," said Grease. "You mean you'll pull this job as
Smarley, get the dough, and come back here as another guy?"
     The man who looked like Smarley was nodding as Grease spoke. With a half
gulp, Grease continued:
     "And then you'll pull another job, in the open, and show up different.
You'll keep on -"
     "Until I've done four jobs," inserted Five-face, in Smarley's wheezy
style. "I'll get rid of four faces and show up with the fifth. That's when
we'll make the final settlement. But, meanwhile, you three have got to cover
for me. The kind of jobs I pick" - the crackly tone was sharp - "will mean some
swift getaways. I'll need guns and plenty of them."
     Grease shoved his hand across the table. The man called Smarley received
it with a scrawny grip that suited the bookie's style. Banker and Clip
proffered their hands to seal the bargain. Each was conscious that Five-face
was giving them a shake that went with his present role of Smarley.
     Then, with a final chortle, Five-face stepped to the door. He looked like
Smarley, he acted like the bookie, but the lieutenants accepted him as a master
hand of crime, a brain that they were ready to serve. Their new leader, the man
of marvels, gave them a final admonition.
     "Get posted at six," ordered Five-face, "outside of Melbrun's building.
I'll be Smarley when I go in, and Smarley when I come out. Tell your crews to
cover for Smarley; nothing more. Let them think they're working for Smarley;
they can spill that to the coppers, if any of them are ever asked."
     The door half opened, Five-face paused. Still wearing the withery look of
Jake Smarley, he added:
     "Because it won't matter in the future. After tonight, no one will ever
see Jake Smarley again - not even The Shadow!"


     CHAPTER II

     CRIME TO COME

     IT was midafternoon when the incredible Five-face changed the ambitions of
three lesser crooks and made them glad to be lieutenants, instead of big-shots,
on their own. The plan that Five-face proposed - that of crime at six o'clock -
was quite in keeping with the situation, and therefore satisfactory to all.
     By six, darkness would arrive, offering suitable surroundings for the
lieutenants and their followers. But there was also a chance that other things
could happen prior to the hour that Five-face had set. Crime's new brain had
not fully calculated the effect of the newspaper report that told of cash in
the office of the United Import Co.
     Shortly before five o'clock, a car pulled up in front of the building
where the importing company was located. Two private detectives, stationed near
the building entrance, gave the car a wary eye, until they recognized its
occupant. The man who alighted was Arnold Melbrun, head of the United Import Co.
     Melbrun was middle-aged, but he had the buoyancy of youth. Tall,
broad-shouldered and erect, he displayed the true manner of a business
executive. His face was broad and strong-chinned, marking him as a man of
action. But his gray eyes, quick and restless, were those of a deep thinker and
matched the tapering shape of his features.
     From the people thronging from the building, Melbrun promptly picked out
the private detectives and drew them to one side. From beneath his arm, he
brought a newspaper, showed them the headlines. The detectives began to
understand Melbrun's worried air.
     "I don't like it," declared Melbrun, in a crisp tone. "The newspapers were
not to know about this matter until the Anitoga docked. I'm going up to the
office, to learn who let the news out. Meanwhile, I expect the utmost vigilance
from both of you."
     The detectives assured Melbrun that they would be on their toes. Entering
the building, Melbrun waited while an elevator disgorged a load of workers who
were going home. Riding up, he reached his own suite of offices, to find
another pair of detectives on guard. He showed them the newspaper account, and
repeated the admonition that he had given to the men below.
     The employees of the United Import Co. were still at their desks. They
often worked late, and Melbrun had insisted that they stay on the job this
evening, without telling them why. As he glanced from desk to desk, the half
dozen men busied themselves, as they always did when Melbrun was about.
     Near an office marked "Private" was a single desk, with a sallow man
behind it. The fellow was Melbrun's secretary, Kelson. His eyes shifted when
Melbrun's met them.
     Without a word Melbrun opened the door of the private office and beckoned
for Kelson to follow. When Kelson entered, Melbrun spread the newspaper and
ordered the secretary to read it.
     "I'm sorry, Mr. Melbrun," pleaded Kelson, in a weak tone. "The newspapers
called up this afternoon and asked me -"
     "About the money!" snapped Melbrun. "And like an idiot, you told them!"
     "But they knew about it," insisted Kelson. "They mentioned the armored
truck that was coming here, and the fact that the Anitoga was due to dock."
     Melbrun stroked his chin, reflectively. Anger faded from his eyes; still,
his tone was brusque.
     "I can't hold you to blame," he told Kelson. "Still, I wish that you had
used better sense. It isn't wise to let a whole city know when you have a
hundred thousand dollars in your custody."
     Turning to a large safe behind his massive desk, Melbrun turned the
combination. Kelson watched, his face quite worried, while the importer opened
a metal box that contained stacks of currency.
     Melbrun was thumbing through the cash, nodding because he found it quite
intact, when he noticed Kelson watching him.
     "Don't stand there stupidly!" snapped Melbrun. "Go to the outside office,
Kelson, and tell the rest of the employees about the money. Show them the
newspaper, and admit that it was partly your mistake. Explain that I kept the
matter secret so they would not worry. But since all New York knows that I have
the money here, the office staff should be informed."


     BY the time Kelson had given the news to the interested office force,
Melbrun appeared. He was carrying a suitcase that he always took on business
trips. He laid it aside, while he assembled the employees and took up the story
where Kelson had left off.
     "The truck will be here at eight," announced Melbrun. "It will take the
money directly to the pier, because the Anitoga will be docked by then. I shall
be at the pier, and afterward, I intend to leave on a business trip to Boston.
     "Meanwhile, I am depending upon all of you to be watchful. I have placed
detectives on duty, and the job is really theirs; but, since you know the
facts, I expect your cooperation. Remember to keep at your work, as usual;
receive any visitors cordially and in the accustomed fashion.
     "But watch them! If you have any suspicions of anyone, report promptly to
Kelson. This newspaper story means that we must adopt additional precautions. I
shall tell the detectives that they can depend on all of you, if needed."
     Before leaving, Melbrun called police headquarters and talked to an
inspector named Joe Cardona. From Melbrun's conversation, the office workers
learned that Inspector Cardona was the official in charge of arrangements at
the pier; that everything was satisfactory there.
     However, Cardona had seen the newspaper account and agreed with Melbrun
that there might be an earlier danger.
     Over the phone, they concluded new arrangements, which were satisfactory
to Melbrun. His call finished, the exporter sat at Kelson's desk, stroking his
firm jaw and nodding in a musing fashion. Finally, Melbrun arose and picked up
his suitcase.
     "Inspector Cardona is detailing two men to watch the building," he
explained. "That will give us added protection outside, as well as in here.
Later, the inspector will arrive in person, and he has promised to have a full
squad on duty by the time the armored truck appears.
     "I am depending upon you, Kelson." Melbrun turned to the sallow secretary.
"You have the combination to my safe. But do not open it until Inspector Cardona
gives the word. Turn over the cash box to him, for delivery at the pier."
     As he concluded, Melbrun dangled a ring of keys, and Kelson nodded at
sight of one he recognized. It was the key to the cash box in the safe, a
special key that had no duplicate. The contents of the cash box would certainly
be intact, when the box itself was delivered to Melbrun at the pier.
     Methodical to the last degree, Arnold Melbrun contacted the private
detectives as he left the office, and told them of the amplified arrangements.
As he entered his waiting car, Melbrun glanced at his watch and noted that the
time was five twenty.
     His suitcase on the seat beside him, he glanced back at the office
building as he rode away. Despite his new precautions, Melbrun's face looked
troubled.
     The day was cloudy. Early dusk was already gathering about the building,
where only a few lights remained, those of the exporting offices. Though the
building was not large, it had taken on a vast appearance against the darkening
sky, and other buildings looked like crouching creatures, ready to devour it.
     Melbrun could picture certain loopholes in his plans, and he wondered just
how well he had provided against them. Nevertheless, his final expression was a
smile, which he delivered as his car neared a hotel not far from his office
building.
     The custody of one hundred thousand dollars was no longer weighing heavily
on Arnold Melbrun, as he strolled into the hotel and left his suitcase at the
check room.
     If crime should come, Melbrun was quite sure that crooks would be
disappointed as a result of his precautions, plus those provided by the law.
     In fact, there seemed but little reason why anyone should be worried about
crime in Manhattan. It had been spiked very effectively during recent months,
and New York City, criminally speaking, was much like a millpond. Such
calmness, however, necessarily had an answer.


     THE answer, at that moment, was riding in a large limousine that was
coming across the New Jersey Skyway, en route to the Holland Tunnel entrance to
New York City.
     His name was Lamont Cranston and he was a gentleman of leisurely manner,
who seemed quite at home in his elegant surroundings.
     Cranston's face was hawkish, and had a masklike appearance. When he was
alone, and therefore unobserved, Cranston's eyes often took on a burning glint;
their gaze became a piercing sort that seemed capable of penetrating darkness.
     Had certain persons seen him at such moments, they would have realized
that this person who posed as Lamont Cranston was actually The Shadow.
     His was the hand that banished crime. The Shadow was the reason why the
law prevailed. He had weighed the balance in justice's favor, and was keeping
it there. This present trip, at dusk, was another evidence of his foresight.
     The Shadow had learned of the cash that was in Melbrun's custody. He
recognized its importance. Not only was it the very sort of loot that crooks
would most prefer; the theft of that cash would mean something more. It would
mark crime's comeback. A criminal thrust, involving sure, quick profit, would
embolden hordes of skulking mobsters throughout Manhattan.
     Long had human rats been waiting, hoping for the call of some Pied Piper
who would lead them anew along a route of crime. They would be willing, ready,
to follow such a leader blindly, once he proved himself a master of crime.
     To start a new reign of crime, a supercrook would first have to score a
success despite The Shadow. Melbrun's money would prove a great inducement for
anyone who sought to be an overlord of crime.
     Leaning forward a bit, Cranston thumbed a dial. A voice came across the
air, tuned in by short-wave radio. It was the quiet tone of Burbank, The
Shadow's contact man, giving reports from various of The Shadow's secret
agents. They had checked the news account in the afternoon paper and had not
determined the source of the leak.
     There were many channels through which it could have come. It might have
drifted from some shipping office, or been given out by someone with the
steamship company. The banks which supplied the cash knew all about it, as did
the trucking company which was to furnish the armored car.
     Any one of several dozen persons could have been responsible, but that did
not explain why the facts had been released in the first place. Behind that
point, The Shadow could see intended crime as a motive.
     More reports came by short wave. Agents had checked on Melbrun's building.
The exporter's office was on the sixth floor. Next door was a building that had
a roof on the same level, and also offered a view of a fire tower that showed a
rear exit from Melbrun's building. The adjacent roof was the very sort of post
that The Shadow wanted.
     The limousine was entering the Holland Tunnel. Turning off the radio,
Cranston leaned forward and noted the clock on the dashboard in front of the
chauffeur.
     Reaching lazily for the speaking tube, he instructed the chauffeur to take
him to an address near Melbrun's building. The clock said quarter of six; ten
minutes would bring the big car to its destination.
     Cranston's leisurely pose ended as the car sped from the tunnel. His hands
slid open a drawer beneath the rear seat, whipped out a black cloak, which he
whisked across his shoulders. Opening a flattened slouch hat, Cranston clamped
it on his head. Drawing thin black gloves over his hands, this man of sudden
action reached for a brace of .45-caliber automatics and slid them beneath his
cloak.
     A whispered laugh stirred the darkened interior of the car. Darkness had
settled over the city, too, and it furnished the very element that this
black-cloaked master wanted. Should crime be scheduled for this evening, it
would find trouble in the gloom.
     The Shadow, master of the night, was on his way to combat crime!


     CHAPTER III

     TWISTED BATTLE

     AS The Shadow's car was nearing the vicinity of Melbrun's building, a
shambling figure sidled in from the darkness and paused before the lighted
entrance. He was promptly recognized by men already on the ground: the private
detectives stationed by Melbrun. The arrival was Jake Smarley, the bookie.
     One of the dicks acted as if he owned the building. Accosting Smarley, he
asked him what he wanted. The stooped bookie whined that he was going up to
Melbrun's office to see Mr. Kelson. He argued that Kelson would be there,
because he always stayed until six o'clock.
     From across the street, two plainclothes men shifted into sight. They
recognized Smarley, too, and gave the private dicks a nod. Smarley, the bookie,
wasn't the type who could start trouble. It was better to pass him through and
find out what he really wanted.
     Upstairs, Smarley encountered another pair of watchers, who gruffly
demanded what he wanted. When they learned that he was going to the offices of
the United Import Co., they pointed out the door to him. As soon as Smarley
entered, the dicks moved to the door, opened it a trifle and looked in on what
followed.
     The employees recognized Smarley and exchanged grins, with the exception
of Kelson. The secretary was seated at his desk, wiping a pair of spectacles.
He squinted as he saw Smarley; putting on his glasses, he recognized the
bookie. A squeamish expression promptly decorated Kelson's sallow face.
     "Hello, Kelson," wheezed Smarley, in an almost fatherly fashion. "All
through your work? We can have a little chat."
     "Not today, Smarley," pleaded Kelson. "I've got a lot of things to do for
Mr. Melbrun."
     Smarley gave a sharp look toward the door of Melbrun's office, then
inquired in a low voice:
     "Is Mr. Melbrun still in there?"
     Kelson nodded. He figured that it would support his argument. On previous
visits, Smarley had always called up first, to make sure that Melbrun wasn't
in. Since his business with Kelson was a personal matter, involving unpaid
racing bets, he had not wanted Melbrun to know about it. But on this occasion
Smarley went against form.
     With an ugly, dryish grin, Smarley arose from the desk and turned toward
Melbrun's door, saying, loud enough for the rest of the office force to hear:
     "This has gone far enough, Kelson. You haven't paid me what you owe me, so
I'm going to take it up with your boss."
     "No, no!" Kelson rose, excited. "I forgot, Smarley. Mr. Melbrun went out -"
     By then, Smarley had opened the private door. He peered into Melbrun's
office, saw that it was empty. His face showed reproval, as he turned to Kelson.
     "So you lied to me," whined Smarley. "Tried to trick a poor old man who
trusted you. Look at me" - he tugged his pockets, turning them inside out; then
extended his hands, palms upward, letting them tremble - "a poor old man who
hasn't a cent of his own! Yet you owe me money and -"
     "I'll pay it, Smarley," inserted Kelson, anxiously. "I'll let you have
some cash, right now. Here!"
     He pulled two ten-dollar bills from his pocket. Smarley eyed the cash as
though he wanted to cry, much to the amusement of the other men in the office,
who enjoyed Kelson's plight. In the hallway, the detectives closed the door and
went back to the elevators, laughing at the situation.
     It was really funny, to learn that Kelson had played the races and lost to
a bookie like Smarley. Kelson was the sort who tried to act like a human
machine, as though he didn't have a single fault or weakness. Having found out
what Smarley's business was, the private dicks were quite willing to let him
thrash it out with Kelson.
     As for the office force, they were quite delighted. They disliked Kelson,
and were finding out, to their great glee, why Smarley had come to the office
other times when Melbrun was out, to hold conferences with the private
secretary.
     To their enjoyment, Smarley shook his head at sight of Kelson's twenty
dollars.
     "It won't do, Kelson," whined Smarley. "I want the full amount, two
hundred and fifty dollars."
     "But I don't have it, Smarley -"
     "Then you can give me a note for it," inserted the bookie, loudly. "A
promissory note, for thirty days. You ought to have some of those in your desk
- the blanks, I mean."
     Kelson shook his head; then, deciding that a signed note would certainly
end the frequency of Smarley's visits, the secretary changed his gesture to a
nod.
     "I'll sign the note," he decided. "Wait here, Smarley, while I get a blank
from Mr. Melbrun's desk."


     PUSHING past Smarley, Kelson entered the private office. Solemnly, Smarley
eyed the other office workers, and received their approving grins. Reverting to
his suspicious attitude, the bookie looked into Melbrun's office again; then,
entering, he closed the door behind him.
     It was done neatly, so naturally that the men in the outer office did not
link Smarley's action to anything more sinister than a desire to collect money
that was really owing to him.
     Nor did Kelson guess Smarley's purpose. At Melbrun's desk, Kelson was
writing out a promissory note; he scarcely noted Smarley, as the withery bookie
stepped past him.
     There was a strong door in the rear corner of Melbrun's office; a barrier
that was heavily bolted. Smoothly, Smarley pulled back the bolts. Despite his
care, the last one grated, bringing Kelson around. Anxiously, Kelson gasped:
     "What are you doing, Smarley?"
     Whipping from his crouch, Smarley sprang for Kelson with a speed that left
the sallow secretary breathless. As he came, the bookie pulled a revolver from
his hip. Reaching the desk, he planted the gun muzzle squarely against Kelson's
ribs.
     "Get busy on that safe!" hissed Smarley. "Open it up! Hand me over the
Anitoga cash!"
     Kelson gulped loudly, then:
     "But I don't know the combination!" he panted. "Honest, Smarley, I don't.
Mr. Melbrun was coming back."
     With all of Kelson's pretense at sincerity, Smarley was not deceived.
     "No stalling," he prompted. "Get busy, I tell you! If you don't, I'll
shoot!"
     Quivering, Kelson approached the safe. He fumbled at the dial, as though
trying to get the combination by guesswork. Smarley nudged harder with the gun.
     "Start over." The bookie's tone was low and harsh. "No fake stuff, Kelson.
I want results in a hurry!"
     Light from a floor lamp showed the tenseness of both faces. Kelson's
sallow features were twitching; Smarley's visage was hard. It looked like a
devil's mask, that first face belonging to the man who boasted that he had five.
     The tense pair were between the floor lamp and the rear window of the
private office. The window shade was drawn; Melbrun had lowered it earlier,
when he turned on the office lights. But the shade, thanks to the position of
the floor lamp, did not hide the scene in Melbrun's office.
     The Shadow had arrived upon the adjacent roof. He was viewing a drama
silhouetted against the yellow shade. Enlarged, the shadows of Smarley and
Kelson looked grotesque, but their actions were portrayed in excellent detail.
     Kelson's moving hands told what they were doing. At moments, The Shadow
could see the shading from the safe dial, a lump of black against a smooth,
upright block. Smarley's hand was plain, too, and as it shifted, the outline of
his revolver was quite visible.
     A move at this moment would be fatal for Kelson. Awaiting the proper time,
The Shadow gauged the distance from his roof to Melbrun's window. It wasn't far;
a spring would carry The Shadow to the window ledge, which was fairly broad and
below the level of the roof where The Shadow crouched.
     The problem was to remain on the ledge, and The Shadow had a simple plan.
Drawing an automatic, he reversed it, clutching the barrel and raising the
handle of the gun as though it were the head of a hammer.
     As The Shadow watched, a big shape of enlarging blackness blotted out the
silhouettes of Smarley and Kelson. It was the safe door, swinging open.
     With a lunge, The Shadow left the roof. He swished through the darkness,
at a downward angle toward the window ledge. His arm was swinging as he came;
his gun struck glass an instant before his feet landed on the window ledge.
     That sledging blow shattered the glass in the upper window sash; the
descending gun caught the woodwork like a grappling hook. The Shadow's cloaked
form gave a backward sway, that would have pitched an ordinary jumper to the
depths.
     But this strange venturer did not fall. He still gripped the gun barrel,
and its handle served him as a brace, hooked to the stout woodwork where the
window sections joined.
     The Shadow's recoil served merely to give him impetus for another lunge.
His free hand whipping his cloak across his face, he drove in shoulder first.
His new momentum carried him right through the window.
     Amid a terrific crash of woodwork and a clatter of glass, the shade
rattled upward. Continuing his lunge, The Shadow struck the floor and made a
rapid roll for the shelter of Melbrun's big desk.


     THINGS were happening as The Shadow wanted. In opening the safe door,
Kelson had gained its partial shelter. Smarley's gun was no longer pressing the
secretary's back, because the bookie was grabbing the metal cash box. Matters
were just right for Kelson to make a break, if he had nerve to try it.
     By his sudden entry, his dive in the opposite direction, The Shadow added
to the opportunity. Smarley saw the black-clad shape come crashing through the
window and recognized The Shadow, even before he heard the cloaked fighter's
defiant laugh from beyond the desk.
     Forgetting Kelson, Smarley began to shoot, wildly, as he shifted for the
rear door that he had opened.
     Another gun gave immediate answer. The Shadow was juggling his automatic
as he rolled, catching it deftly with the muzzle frontward, his finger on the
trigger. He stabbed a shot above the level of the desk; one that came
surprisingly close to clipping Smarley, considering the guesswork behind The
Shadow's aim.
     The Shadow wasn't counting on that first jab to stop the mobster. He
simply wanted to get into rapid action, to keep things safer for Kelson.
     Unfortunately, the secretary grew surprisingly bold, when he saw the spurt
from The Shadow's guns and its result on Smarley. The bookie went frantic, as he
snatched at the knob of the rear door. His gun in one hand, the box under his
other arm, Smarley was in a fumbling mood.
     Leaving the safe, Kelson drove across the path of The Shadow's fire, to
grapple with Smarley.
     As the two locked, The Shadow vaulted the desk, to drive into the fray.
Kelson had Smarley's gun wrist; the crook made a downward swing. Poking his own
gun in between, The Shadow stopped the forceful blow; but Kelson, ducking in the
wrong direction, received a glancing stroke.
     Madly depending upon luck instead of common sense, Smarley shouldered
Kelson toward The Shadow and made for the front door of the office, instead of
the rear exit. His reversal of direction gave him a temporary leeway, and
during the interval Kelson became the crook's unwitting ally.
     Half groggy, Kelson grappled with the first person at hand, who happened
to be The Shadow.
     There were shouts from the outer office that seemed to blend with The
Shadow's mocking laughter. Smarley was heading straight for a trap. Men had
heard the fray and were coming in to learn the trouble. Dragging Kelson with
him, The Shadow made for Smarley as the bookie fumbled with the doorknob.
     It was then that Smarley made his smartest move, his one clever stroke
amid the twisted battle. Almost under the muzzle of The Shadow's looming gun,
the bookie yanked the door open and sprang away from it, still clutching his
revolver with one hand and catching the slipping cash box with the other.
     With a mere shift, The Shadow had the thug covered, but his own move came
too late. Smarley's tug at the door had released a flood of office workers,
followed by a pair of detectives. They saw only Kelson and The Shadow, engaged
in what seemed a grapple.
     As The Shadow whirled Kelson away with one hand and aimed for Smarley with
the other, he was flattened by a human avalanche of misguided attackers who
mistook him for a foe intent on crime!


     CHAPTER IV

     MURDER WITHOUT PROFIT

     FROM the moment that they sprawled The Shadow beneath them, eight
attackers found that they had taken on an unruly bargain. They were unarmed,
for even the detectives had shoved away their own guns at sight of a lone
fighter going floorward.
     The Shadow did not drop his gun, nor did he put it away; he needed it for
Smarley, later. Nevertheless, he handled his present adversaries in a gunless
style.
     Doubling his knees, The Shadow drove his legs between a pair of plunging
men and found two others. His feet met them so hard that they were hurled back
into the mass behind them.
     With a sideward roll, The Shadow took care of the two who were already
upon him. Grabbing one, he flung the fellow against the other, so suddenly and
vehemently that both were sprawled.
     Out of the human tangle, The Shadow extricated himself, like a living
knife slashing its way to freedom. He had not reached his feet yet, but it did
not matter. He was able to deal with his quarry: Jake Smarley.
     Profiting by the brawl at the doorway, the bookie cut across the room,
past Melbrun's desk, timing his flight well. The crook had escaped the notice
of the new invaders; Kelson saw him, but the secretary's shouts went unheard.
     Smarley was counting on a clean getaway, through the rear door that he had
previously unlocked. But The Shadow still could reach him.
     This time, Kelson wasn't in the path of the black-cloaked marksman's aim.
Nor did others interfere with The Shadow's thrust. The private detectives saw
him, but the point of his automatic indicated Smarley. Seeing the metal money
box beneath the bookie's arm, the dicks realized that they had grabbed the
wrong invader.
     They had heard of The Shadow, master avenger who battled crime. They
expected him to drop Smarley with a single blast. He would have accomplished
the worthwhile deed, if the dicks hadn't yelled encouragement.
     Hearing the shout, Smarley wheeled about just short of the rear exit. The
Shadow's gun blasted just as the bookie turned. With the spurt of the .45,
Smarley staggered backward. His stumble was accompanied by a resounding clang.
     Luck was still with Smarley. His twist had put the metal cash box between
his body and The Shadow's gun. Already a trophy of crime, the box served
Smarley as a shield that stopped the bullet inches short of his heart.
     Smarley's stagger carried him part way through the door. Instead of
pursuing him, The Shadow took a long, upward spring toward the center of the
room, ending with a vault across the desk. He was choosing the open door of the
safe as a new barricade from which to reopen fire.
     The Shadow wasn't thinking of his own protection. His gun was enough
defense against Smarley's fire. He was considering the men behind him, those
invaders from the outer office. Wild shots from Smarley's revolver might clip
them. The only course was to draw the crook's fire to another quarter.
     Smarley fell for the game. He was wasting bullets, when The Shadow cleared
the desk. His last shots pinged the safe door after The Shadow was beyond it.
Smarley was yanking at a useless trigger, when he heard The Shadow's laugh,
sinister and sibilant, a promise of coming doom. Frantically, Smarley turned
and ran.
     One shot was all The Shadow needed; he took deliberate aim, hoping to
bring Smarley down. As yet, he did not regard Smarley as a master crook, but
simply as a fugitive who had accomplished a crude, though somewhat daring,
theft.
     Straight through the doorway lay the fire tower, a dim background against
Smarley's approaching figure. The mobster's back made a perfect target; as he
ran, he was clutching the box in front of him, and therefore no longer had a
shield.
     It seemed that Smarley's new career of crime was due for a sudden finish,
considering The Shadow's skill as a marksman.
     Then intervention came, from a new source - the fire tower itself.


     TWO thuggish figures leaped forward as Smarley neared them. Passing the
running crook, they converged, opening fire as they came. They had spotted The
Shadow's head and shoulders, rising above the top of the open safe door.
     Their target was gone before they fired. Dropping instantly to the floor,
The Shadow was out of sight as bullets whined above the huge safe door, which
was ample enough for shelter. The gunners aimed lower, but their slugs merely
pommeled the metal barrier. Again, they heard The Shadow's taunting laugh.
     Then, almost from the floor, a gun fired upward. By a dipping twist, The
Shadow had poked from cover below the level of the opposing fire. He was
putting in quick jabs, with double purpose. Not only were the gunning thugs
blocking his path to Smarley; their presence had become dangerous.
     The two private detectives were hustling across the room, guns in hand,
making for the rear exit. They thought that they could handle the opponents who
had failed to nick The Shadow. But the dicks didn't stand a chance against such
opposition; they were blundering right into serious trouble. The Shadow had to
take a risk to save them.
     Trained in all varieties of trick marksmanship, The Shadow's quick hand
performed in a superhuman style. There were yells from the hallway, as crooks
sprawled. Beyond the floundering thugs, The Shadow saw Smarley on the top step
of the fire tower. The stoopy crook was turned about, a smirk on his face,
watching to see The Shadow's finish.
     When he saw his own gunners sprawl, Smarley did not wait for a further
climax. He took an agile dive down the stairway, dropping from sight like a
figure in a puppet show.
     Smarley was quick enough to escape the shots that The Shadow delivered a
few moments later. Immediately, the cloaked marksman halted fire. The private
dicks were at the rear door and were dashing through, in pursuit of Smarley.
     With them went another man, who scooped up a revolver that a wounded crook
had dropped. The third man was Kelson; the sallow secretary was anxious to
redeem himself.
     The Shadow followed. He trailed the chase to the street, stopping briefly
at floors along the way. The Shadow foresaw a difficulty that the others did
not anticipate: the prospect of other marksmen, down below. At one floor,
through a window, he saw huddling men edging forward from a parked car across
the way. The Shadow fired two quick shots that scattered them.
     Still lower, The Shadow spied a rakish automobile wheeling in from a
corner. He jabbed shots that caused the driver to whip the car across the
sidewalk, so that occupants could leap out the other side and take to shelter.
     Then, as The Shadow neared the ground, he heard a volley of shots,
accompanied by the whining sirens of police cars.
     Inspector Cardona was on the job. From out front, he had heard the sounds
of battle high up in the building. He and his men knew what it meant and had
smartly made for the rear of the building. More police were coming up to aid
them, in what promised to be a major battle against hordes of crimeland.
     Smarley had reached the street and was jumping into a waiting car. He was
yelling something about The Shadow, and thugs in other cars could hear his
shouts. Among those listeners were Smarley's three lieutenants: Grease, Banker,
and Clip. In their turn, they were bawling orders to the various thugs and
snipers they had supplied for the present enterprise.
     Things weren't panning out as Five-face had promised. This wasn't a mere
cover-up job. It was the type of fray that might disclose the identities of the
lieutenants, along with that of Smarley.
     Naturally, Five-face did not worry over his dilemma, for he intended to
drop the guise of Smarley, anyway. But discovery could prove disastrous to the
three lieutenants.
     They hit upon a compromise. While yelling for men to cover Smarley, they
put their own cars in motion. Opening fire upon police cars, they made it look
as though they were trying to clear a path for others to follow. Actually, they
were trying to save their own hides and faces.
     Of course, they wanted Smarley to get clear, too, and he had a chance to
make his getaway at the expense of the thugs who were out of their cars and
spread along the street.
     But Smarley hesitated. Thrusting his face from the window of his car, he
waved his empty gun, pointing it toward the ground floor of the fire tower. At
Smarley's yell, shooting thugs quit aiming at police cars.
     They heard his shout:
     "Get the guy with the specs!"


     THE "guy with the specs" was Kelson, who had reached the street along with
the private dicks. Smarley's shout was followed by a quick-hissed order that
came from the steps of the fire tower. The dicks heard it - The Shadow's
command - and grabbed Kelson, to haul him back to safety. But the maddened
secretary showed a sudden savagery.
     Spinning about, he slashed his gun at his friends; as the dicks ducked, he
lurched from their grasp. Taking the last half dozen steps in a long leap, The
Shadow made a grab for Kelson but lost him, as a stumbling detective blundered
in between.
     What happened in the next half second was something that even The Shadow
could not prevent.
     Springing wildly for Smarley's car, Kelson was met by a concerted
fusillade from half-a dozen directions. Flayed by bullets, the sallow man
jolted; twisting, he stumbled across the curb and sprawled in the gutter, to
the tune of triumphant howls from the outspread firing squad.
     Smarley's car was in motion; the master crook had dropped below the
window. Maybe others still thought of him as Smarley, the fugitive, but The
Shadow had him classed as a criminal of a fiendish caliber. Though others had
fired the shots that killed Kelson, the real murderer was Smarley. He was the
man that The Shadow wanted.
     Springing from the fire tower, The Shadow reached the moving car. He was
on its running board before the outspread snipers spied him. At sight of their
archfoe, thugs wheeled to aim. The Shadow gave them no attention; he knew that,
by this time, the stings were gone from that crew of murderers.
     The Shadow was right. Other guns were talking as he boarded Smarley's car.
The police had spotted the killers who put the blast on Kelson. Aiming thugs
were hitting the asphalt and the sidewalks before they could tug their gun
triggers.
     Cardona and his amplified squad were performing double service: avenging
Kelson's death and giving The Shadow a clear path to Smarley.
     Yanking open the car door, The Shadow lunged for Smarley. In the front
seat, a cowering mobster clung to the wheel, trying to get the car around the
corner.
     Smarley, in his turn, yanked open the door on the other side. When he saw
The Shadow's big gun loom for him, he hurled the metal cash box at the weapon's
muzzle.
     The Shadow's bullet plunked the dented box and dropped it to the floor of
the car. Leaping for Smarley, who was diving to the street, The Shadow hooked
the box with his foot and brought it along. It clattered the curb and lay
there. Ignoring Smarley's lost trophy, The Shadow continued his pursuit.
     Smarley was just past the corner when The Shadow fired. This time, a slug
nicked chunks of brick from a building edge. Again, Smarley had managed to keep
a mere jump ahead of The Shadow, and the crook's luck held up.
     Reaching the corner, The Shadow was greeted with shots from across the
street; he dropped back to cover before foemen could find the range.
     Those shots came from two cars: Grease commanded one, and Banker the
other. There was a third car, even closer, with Clip in charge. As Smarley
reached that car, all three vehicles sped away. They had doubled their tracks,
escaping the police cars, and were off again before The Shadow could halt them.
     A few unwise snipers were still about, which was why The Shadow could not
follow. Arriving police spied the crooks shooting at an imaginary target.
Somehow, somewhere, The Shadow had whisked to cover like a wraith of
evaporating smoke.
     There were shots from somewhere in the darkness; yells, as ugly-faced
gunners came tumbling into sight from doorways where they lurked.
     Then a strange, mocking laugh - a promise of vengeance upon other men of
crime, who had escaped along with Smarley. Listening police heard the trail of
The Shadow's eerie taunt; it seemed to blend with the distant sirens of patrol
cars that were hunting for a trail.


     INSPECTOR CARDONA reached the corner. He was a stocky, swarthy man, his
expression a poker face. He listened while the private detectives told him
about Smarley's raid, The Shadow's intervention, and Kelson's death.
     By then, an officer was approaching with the much-battered cash box. The
private detectives promptly identified it as the box containing Melbrun's
hundred thousand dollars.
     "The money is safe, anyway," decided Cardona. "It doesn't make up for
losing Kelson; he was a game guy. Still, he wanted us to get this box back, and
we did, thanks to The Shadow."
     Eyeing the lid of the cash box, Cardona saw that it was loose on its
hinges. As a mere matter of routine, to certify before witnesses that the money
had been saved for Melbrun, Cardona inserted a revolver muzzle under the lid and
gave a wrench.
     Then Cardona's poker-faced expression was gone. He was staring with eyes
as wide in amazement as those of the men about him. If ever Cardona had seen
proof that crime did not pay, this was it. Crime couldn't have paid Smarley,
even if he had taken the cash box along with him.
     Instead of crisp green currency, the box was stuffed with blank checks and
old receipts. Tilting the box, Cardona let the worthless paper flutter to the
sidewalk.
     Except for the valueless contents, the box was entirely empty. Robbery had
been forestalled even before it was perpetrated, producing a mystery that the
ace police inspector could not fathom!
     From somewhere - perhaps in his own fancy - Cardona thought that he heard
the whispered laugh of The Shadow!


     CHAPTER V

     CRIME'S RIDDLES

     THE exclusive Cobalt Club, to which Lamont Cranston belonged, was noted as
a gathering place for limousines.
     Sometimes the fancy line-up was jarred by the presence of a big official
car which belonged to Police Commissioner Ralph Weston, who was also a member.
However, the commissioner's car was tolerated. It looked enough like a
limousine to pass muster.
     This evening, when Cranston arrived at the club, the commissioner's car
was present. However, the doorman had a pained look on his face and was
glowering at the commissioner's car. The Shadow understood the reason when he
glanced across the street.
     Parked on the other side, between two limousines, was an armored truck
that had evidently come here at the commissioner's order.
     In Cranston's strolling style, The Shadow entered the club. He knew that
he would learn the reason for the armored truck as soon as he met Commissioner
Weston.
     Not only did Weston esteem Cranston's acquaintance, the commissioner was
constantly trying to interest his wealthy friend in facts concerning crime.
     Such matters seldom intrigued Cranston, which was why Weston pressed them
all the more. By playing the indifferent role of Cranston, The Shadow therewith
received much information concerning police investigations.
     Commissioner Weston, long impressed by The Shadow's uncanny knowledge,
would have been amazed to learn that he made personal contributions to it.
     Though he had not expected to see the armored truck, The Shadow had struck
upon a simple explanation for its presence by the time he reached the grillroom,
where the commissioner held important conferences.
     Commissioner Weston was at his usual table. Seated opposite him was a
dignified gentleman, whose keen, broad face and strong chin marked him as a man
of action. Though he had never met the visitor, The Shadow could have named him.
     Weston's companion was Arnold Melbrun.
     As The Shadow joined the pair at the table, Weston hastened to introduce
Melbrun to his friend Cranston. Melbrun gave a smile as he shook hands, but his
face immediately saddened. His hand, too, lacked the strong grip that should
have come from a man of such commanding presence.
     Melbrun's sorrowful expression was explainable. He had just heard the
details of Kelson's death and was taking it as a severe blow.
     "Poor Kelson!" he said sadly. "If I could only have foreseen the fate to
which his loyalty would bring him -"
     "You are not to blame," interrupted Weston. "You did the best thing under
the circumstances, Melbrun. Thanks to your foresight, Smarley not only showed
his hand but was doomed to failure. If others had only done their part -"
     "Which they did not do," inserted Melbrun. "As a result, Kelson is dead."
     Melbrun's voice was choky. It took an effort for him to recover his
composure. Meanwhile, Weston was explaining matters to The Shadow, recounting
the details from the start.
     He told of the crew-money story that had appeared in the afternoon
newspapers; how it had induced a crook named Jake Smarley to raid Melbrun's
office, with gunners waiting to aid his getaway.
     Coming to the climax of his tale, the commissioner announced:
     "Yet the box which Smarley took was worthless, Cranston. When Inspector
Cardona recovered it, he found the money missing -"
     "Because Mr. Melbrun had previously removed it," interposed The Shadow, in
a casual tone. "Fearing that criminals might make a thrust, he wisely took the
funds with him when he left the office."
     The commissioner stared, astonished. Such knowledge on the part of
Cranston amazed him. Slowly, Weston began to nod; then, finding his voice, he
demanded brusquely:
     "Who gave you those details, Cranston?"
     "I saw an armored truck outside the club," returned The Shadow, "and I
find Mr. Melbrun inside. As for that suitcase" - he gestured, as he lighted a
cigarette - "it isn't yours, commissioner. It happens to have Mr. Melbrun's
initials on it."


     THE suitcase was standing beside Weston's chair. With a cross between a
grimace and a smile, the commissioner lifted it to the table. Opening the bag,
he showed stacks of money, all in neat bundles.
     "Your guess was right, Cranston," conceded Weston, in a depreciating tone.
"Melbrun took the cash before the robbery and checked his bag at a hotel. When
he called my office, asking for an escort to take him to the pier, I told him
of the robbery."
     "If I had only called sooner," groaned Melbrun. "But I dined first. I knew
there might be trouble at the office, but not the serious sort that occurred
there."
     "You left enough men to handle matters," insisted Weston, "and the dummy
cash box was excellent bait. It made Smarley show his hand, and your whole
office staff, as well as the private detectives, made an earnest effort to save
the box, thinking it was really valuable."
     Weston's argument did not help Melbrun. He felt that his strategy had been
a mistake; that it was the direct cause of Kelson's death. Naturally, Kelson's
ardent pursuit of Smarley was based upon his lack of facts; but had the
secretary used good judgment, he would still be alive. So Weston argued, and
Melbrun finally began to believe him.
     "Take the money to the pier," ordered the commissioner, pushing the
suitcase to Melbrun. "You will be quite safe in the armored truck, and the pier
is thoroughly guarded. Proceed with the distribution of the bonus money to the
crew of the Anitoga, and stop worrying about Kelson. The chap is dead, Melbrun,
and it can't be helped."
     Soon after Melbrun's departure, Inspector Cardona arrived. Cardona had
been quizzing wounded crooks, and doing a rapid job of it. Riddled with police
bullets, in addition to the slugs that The Shadow delivered, the thugs had been
dying off while Cardona questioned them.
     "All they could say was 'Smarley'," growled Cardona. "It was Smarley who
hired them; Smarley, who was out to grab the dough; Smarley who made the
getaway."
     "Quite correct," nodded Weston. "What else could the hoodlums say?"
     "They could have told me how Smarley got hold of them," snapped Cardona.
"They never worked for him before. You can't build a mob up overnight,
commissioner."
     "I never intend to do so."
     "Sorry, commissioner. I was referring to Smarley. We know what he was - a
bookie, running a small-time horse parlor. All of a sudden, he sprouts out like
a big-shot. Where did he get all of those mobbies?"
     The commissioner had an answer. Crime had been quiet over a long period.
It would have been easy for Jake Smarley, or anyone else, to enlist a thuggish
horde. The fact that the gunners were of varied types, merely supported
Weston's theory. Apparently, Smarley had approached any who were on the loose.
     "They were men who placed bets through Smarley," analyzed Weston. "That is
how he learned about them, inspector. If he paid them in advance, which is
probable, he naturally would not have told them where he intended to go.
     "Your job is to find Smarley. Use every means to do so. Treat him as a
public enemy, a lone wolf bent on murder. But from all descriptions of the
fellow" - the commissioner's tone became contemptuous - "he is an amateur at
crime. You will probably find him cowering in some hide-away that your stool
pigeons will uncover."


     WESTON and his ace inspector were still discussing matters, and getting
closer in accord, when The Shadow left the Cobalt Club. He was Cranston when he
stepped into his limousine; but after a ride of a few blocks, he became a figure
cloaked in black.
     The Shadow had not forgotten the armored truck, with its
hundred-thousand-dollar load. Though the police commissioner had taken full
precautions to insure its arrival at the pier, The Shadow did not regard the
delivery of the cash as a certainty.
     In The Shadow's opinion, Jake Smarley was more than a small-fry criminal
who had attempted a robbery through sheer bravado.
     Smarley's quick-witted work in Melbrun's office, his coolness under fire,
and his disposal of Kelson showed how dangerous the man could be. His getaway,
accompanied by at least a dozen followers, proved Smarley a skillful organizer.
     In short, The Shadow, while in the thick of battle, had recognized
something that had entirely escaped the police.
     The Shadow knew that lesser crooks had been left to take the brunt; that
the cream of Smarley's forces had gone with him. He sensed, too, that the
repeated name of "Smarley!" that dying hoodlums had squawked in parrot fashion
could be a cover-up for certain lieutenants who had provided Smarley with his
mob.
     As the core of a compact criminal organization, Smarley could attempt new
crime despite the law. He still had plenty of shock troops at command, and The
Shadow could conceive of Smarley ordering another, and more daring, thrust to
get Melbrun's funds this very night.
     Near the North River, The Shadow left the limousine. He became a gliding,
fleeing shape that followed an untraceable course to a darkened pier, where a
skeleton force of guards kept watch over a huge liner that had been interned
because of war.
     Slipping through the thin cordon of guards, The Shadow boarded the great
ship. Reaching the liner's superstructure, he had a perfect view of an
adjoining pier.
     There, The Shadow saw the steamship Anitoga, dwarfed beside the great
vessel which he used as his observation post. The decks of the Anitoga were
brilliant with light. More than a hundred men were clustered there, like
figures on a stage.
     Among one tiny batch, The Shadow spied Melbrun, together with the shippers
who had provided the bonus money for the crew of the Anitoga. Sailors were
stepping forward, one by one, while Melbrun, as spokesman for the shippers,
gave them their awards.
     While the hundred thousand dollars was being pieced out to the men who
deserved it, The Shadow's eyes roved the pier from the land end to the river.
     Police were on hand, a score of them, ready for any emergency. The pier,
however, provided a long stretch to patrol. Should crooks choose some salient
point and make a concerted attack, they would have a chance of driving upon the
unarmed ship crew before the officers could halt them.
     Thus The Shadow held real command of the situation, from his shrouded
lookout post. His laugh, and a few well-directed shots, could frustrate any
invasion and bring the police to the vital spot before crooks might gain a
foothold. The Shadow was ready, vigilant, awaiting such attack.
     The moment did not come. Nothing disturbed the scene upon the pier. The
money was distributed; some crew members went to their quarters, while others
came ashore, where police escorted them away from the treacherous waterfront.
     Arnold Melbrun and the shipping men drove away in their cars. Lights were
extinguished on board the Anitoga. Deep quiet lay along the river.
     Guards about the interned liner were puzzled by a whispery laugh that came
from the ship's bridge, like a ghostly echo. They made a search, but found no
one. By then, The Shadow was gone. His parting laugh had a significance which
the men who heard it did not understand.
     It was a tone of prophecy. The Shadow foresaw that crime would strike
again. Melbrun's cash was a thing of the past, so far as crooks were concerned.
Their next effort would involve larger game. Meanwhile, it would be The Shadow's
business to locate the missing man who managed crime, Jake Smarley.
     The law had chosen the same quest, and regarded it a simple one. The
Shadow felt that it might prove more complex than the police supposed, for he
credited Smarley with foresight in choosing a suitable hideaway. Nevertheless,
The Shadow's whispered laugh denoted confidence.
     As yet, The Shadow had not struck upon the crux of the whole case. He did
not know that in searching for Jake Smarley, he would be hunting a man who no
longer existed!


     CHAPTER VI

     THE SECOND FACE

     THREE glum men sat in their customary meeting place, glowering at one
another. They were the lieutenants who had taken orders from the mysterious
crook who called himself Five-face, and they were beginning to regret their new
alliance. Their apartment looked shabbier than ever; they had less money in
their card game.
     It was Grease Rickel who broke the monotony, by slapping a fistful of
cards upon the table. Rising with a growl, the slimy-faced racketeer stalked
the room, then began a verbal outburst.
     "Jake Smarley!" sneered Grease. "A flash in the pan! A guy who couldn't
deliver. We were boobs to join up with him!"
     Banker Dreeb did not fully agree. His solemn face was thoughtful. At last,
he spoke dryly:
     "Why blame Smarley? He worked the game as well as he could. It just
happened that Melbrun outfoxed him."
     "Yeah?" Clip Zelber put the sharp query. "Smarley didn't know the cash box
was a dummy, did he?"
     "No," admitted Banker, "I guess he didn't."
     "Then what did he drop it for?" snapped Clip. "I'll tell you why. Because
he was yellow! He met up with The Shadow, and he couldn't stand the gaff.
Smarley, the bigshot! We were lugs to waste a bunch of good trigger men helping
that guy."
     Outvoted two to one, Banker became silent. Both Grease and Clip continued
to gripe. Three days had passed since the raid at Melbrun's. The whole thing
had been a fluke. The only luck lay in the fact that their own parts in the
crime lay undiscovered. At least, they had managed to cover their tracks, but
that was small comfort.
     They needed cash, and said so. The argument was one that Banker could not
dispute. Plucking a newspaper from a table, Grease shoved it under Banker's
nose and pointed out two photographs on the front page.
     "There's the guy that claimed he had brains," sneered Grease, pointing to
Smarley's picture. "Look at that dried-up map of his. Five grand reward for
Jake Smarley. Say - if he comes crawling in here, the best thing we could do
would be grab him and collect the dough.
     "When it comes to brains, here's the fellow that really has them." Grease
tapped the other picture. "Arnold Melbrun, who is putting up the reward. You
know why he's offering it - because Smarley was dumb enough to put the blast on
that secretary, Kelson. That was the biggest boner of all."
     Banker was seated at the table, shuffling the pack of cards. He invited
Grease and Clip to join him, but they saw no reason for the game. As Clip put
it, they were tired of passing money around the triangle and borrowing it back
from each other. Banker smiled at Clip's remark.
     "We'll get some new money into the game," he said dryly. "I just heard
that Flush Tygert is back in town."
     Mention of the name brought eager looks from Grease and Clip. They
remembered their last game with Flush, a few months before. It had proven
profitable to everyone except Flush Tygert.
     "A funny gazebo, Flush," chuckled Banker. "Card hustling is his racket. He
used to trim the chumps every time he took a boat trip. But he never could make
dough playing poker straight. It kind of annoyed him."
     "I remember," nodded Grease. "He said he liked to join a game with guys
like us, just to see how it felt being on the losing end. There's one thing I
never could figure out. If Flush was so smart, why couldn't he trim us?"
     "Because he didn't have a shill," explained Clip. "He always signed up a
stooge when he rode the packets to Europe. I guess you weren't here, Grease,
the day he showed us the flush trick. That's the one that gave Flush his
moniker."
     Grease showed new interest.
     "I heard it different," he said. "I thought they called him Flush because
he always looked flush. You know, with diamonds sticking all over him and wads
of dough bulging from his pockets."
     "That's the story he tells the chumps," explained Banker. "Flush had to
have some alibi for his moniker, after the other hustlers pinned it on him.
When Flush gets here, Grease, we'll have him show you that pet trick of his,
just to put him in the right mood."


     THE three lieutenants were deep in a new card game, when a knock at the
door announced the arrival of Flush Tygert. They were due for a disappointment,
as soon as the gambler entered.
     Flush looked the same as ever: tall, thin-haired, with a long, sallow face
that wore a perpetual gold-toothed smile. But his blue serge suit was shiny; its
glitter took the place of diamonds. As for his pockets, they hadn't the
slightest sign of a bulge.
     It was quite plain that Flush Tygert had fallen on bad times. His roving
eyes were actually greedy, as they studied the few hundred dollars of cash that
lay on the card table.
     Grease Rickel gave a snarling welcome, which brought him a shin kick from
Clip Zelber. Meanwhile, Banker Dreeb covered the incident by extending a glad
hand to the visitor.
     In this instance, Banker and Clip were outvoting Grease. They considered
it good policy to give Flush a welcome, even if he did look broke. Flush had
quick ways of getting into the money. He might come back within a week quite as
flush as ever.
     "Sit down and play a few hands, Flush," suggested Banker. "Your credit is
good, if you need any. By the way, before we start, show Grease the flush
trick. He was asking how you trimmed the chumps so easy."
     A pleased gleam showed on Flush's face, as apparent as the glitter of his
gold teeth. He took a chair and invited Clip to sit opposite, to assist him in
the stunt. Then, gesturing toward Clip, Flush stated in a smooth but drawly
tone:
     "The stooge wins, see? But I do the dirty work. Here's how. In a poker
game, a guy often gets a four flush but finds it hard to fill when he draws the
extra card. I take care of that problem."
     He gave Clip four hearts and a spade, and took a five-card hand for
himself. He tossed a few cards on the table, to represent a discard.
     "There's four signals," continued Flush. "Hold those cards square; that's
it, Clip. Left thumb, right thumb, both thumbs, no thumbs. Those mean clubs,
diamonds, hearts or spades."
     Clip promptly poked both thumbs above the top edge of his cards. Flush
gave an approving nod.
     "That means you need a heart," he said, "and I've got one. I cop it, here
in my right duke, the face of the card against the palm. Meanwhile, you've got
to slide off that odd spade of yours and slip it face down with the discards."
     Clip managed the maneuver; as Flush explained, the process was easy,
because people wouldn't be expecting a player to get rid of one card from a
legitimate hand of five. As it now stood, Clip had an incomplete hand of four
hearts.
     "Plank them face up on the board," ordered Flush. "Tell everybody you've
got a flush. Say it like you meant it."
     When Clip gestured at the four cards that he laid on the table, the only
objector was Flush himself. In his smooth drawl, the gambler said:
     "Spread 'em out, fella! Always spread 'em out, so everybody can see 'em.
Maybe there's a wrong card in that mess."
     Before Clip could move, Flush spread the cards himself. His right hand
snaked forward, gave the four hearts a wide sweep. With the movement, Flush
added the extra heart from his own palm, so deftly that the onlookers blinked.
He didn't simply drop it on the other cards; he sliced it right in among them,
so that it formed the center of the five.
     "All hearts," admitted Flush, in a grieved tone. "The pot is yours, old
man. Worse luck next time."
     Such skill won immediate approval for Flush Tygert. He had shown the stunt
to Banker and Clip once before, and they agreed that he had repeated it in the
same slick style. The compliment produced another gleaming grin from Flush.
     "You can't always win, you know," drawled the gambler, "even with the best
of set-ups. I ought to be in the money right at present, but I'm not. I played
what looked like a sure shot, but it didn't work out."
     The listeners looked interested.
     "I was out to get a hundred thousand bucks," added Flush. "But the dough
was gone before I could grab it. Besides -"
     Flush went no further. It wasn't necessary. He had changed his tone from a
drawl to a half whine. The men who heard it recognized that voice.
     It was the voice of Jake Smarley!


     THE missing bookie had returned in the guise of the slick gambler. Jake
Smarley and Flush Tygert were the same. But neither of those names sprang to
the lips of the three amazed men who viewed the smiling visitor before them. In
concert, they exclaimed a bigger, more important name:
     "Five-face!"
     "I told you I'd be back," drawled the master crook, in the style of Flush
Tygert. "You can forget Jake Smarley. He's the same as dead and buried. I'm
only sorry that he didn't grab off Melbrun's cash and split it with you fellows.
     "Anyway, he made his getaway. That's why I'm here. And remember" - the
speaker raised his left hand and bent his forefinger inward - "the Melbrun job
was only the first one. There are four more to come" - he was counting his
fingers, one by one - "and I'll use a different face for each."
     Eagerly, the lieutenants gathered close. Lowering his drawl to an
undertone, Five-face began the details of the crime next on the list. As they
listened, Grease Rickel and Clip Zelber exchanged approving glances that
pleased Banker Dreeb, the lieutenant who had been confident that Five-face
could come through.
     New crime was in the making - crime that would require the mobbies that
the lieutenants could supply. Crime without mercy toward anyone who might
oppose it. Five-face, at present known as Flush Tygert, was including all
factors in his plans.
     There would be a surprise for all foemen who crossed crime's coming path;
even for The Shadow!


     CHAPTER VII

     CROOKS ON THE MOVE

     THE black-walled room was thick with darkness, except for a corner, where
a bluish light gleamed upon the polished surface of a table.
     Deflected downward, the bluish rays made little impression on the deep
gloom; in fact, the whole room seemed a mammoth shroud encroaching upon the
spotted light. A figure stood beside the table; yet it was invisible against
the darkness.
     Living things came into the light: a pair of hands that moved like
detached creatures. They were slender hands, yet sinewy, showing power beneath
the velvety surface of the long, tapering fingers. Upon the third finger of the
left hand shone a strange gem, with ever-changing hues that ran the gamut of the
spectrum.
     The stone was a girasol, a magnificent fire opal, unmatched in all the
world. The iridescent gem proclaimed the identity of its owner, but only to the
privileged few, who knew the significance of the gleaming token. The girasol was
The Shadow's token.
     This room was The Shadow's sanctum, a hidden headquarters where darkness
always persisted. Buried in the heart of Manhattan, its very location a
deep-guarded secret, the sanctum was the place wherein the master avenger
formed his plans to frustrate men of crime.
     Newspaper clippings moved about under the touch of The Shadow's fingers.
He was arranging them along with report sheets from his agents: stacks of data,
that often proved important.
     Tonight, they meant nothing.
     The quest for Jake Smarley had been fruitless. The missing bookie had
completely vanished. The Shadow's competent agents had scoured hide-out after
hide-out ahead of the police, and had found no trace of crime's new overlord.
     Nevertheless, a whispered laugh stirred the sanctum's blackness. The
Shadow had probed crime's depths, and understood. He was no longer thinking in
terms of Jake Smarley; he was considering the possible moves of a supercrook
who had discarded the bookie's guise.
     Negative results had told The Shadow that he was seeking a criminal who
had more faces than one. He had therewith instructed his agents to drop the
search for Smarley. Instead, they were watching for massed moves on the part of
lesser crooks, as sure proof that crime's master hand would again be conniving
evil.
     A tiny light twinkled on the sanctum's wall. Lifting a pair of earphones,
The Shadow clamped them to his head. As the light extinguished itself, a
methodical voice came over the wire:
     "Burbank speaking -"
     "Report!"
     At The Shadow's command, Burbank, the contact man, gave long-awaited news.
Crooks were on the move; their destination had been discovered. The Shadow's
agents were covering the scene, awaiting the arrival of their chief.
     A long hand lifted itself from the table, vanished into darkness. There
was a click as the bluish light went off. A low, weird laugh stirred the
sanctum, fading with The Shadow's departure.


     WITHIN the next quarter hour, a taxicab swung from a side street and
followed the Bowery, moving slowly along that famous thoroughfare.
     There was a double reason for the cab's slow progress. An elevated railway
ran above the Bowery, impeding speed. In addition, the street was a favorite
haunt for shambling bums, who crossed the thoroughfare with little regard for
traffic.
     Besides those reasons, there was a third cause for the cab's reduced speed.
     There was a passenger in the cab, though it looked quite empty. Seated
deep in the rear seat, The Shadow, fully cloaked, was enveloped in darkness as
he gazed from the window. His keen eyes were studying lights along the street.
For the most part, the Bowery was gloomy, but one building showed a stretch of
brilliance.
     It was the Diamond Mart. Oddly situated in this doubtful section of
Manhattan, the Mart formed an exchange where huge deals in gems were transacted
daily. Its ground floor teemed with booths, the headquarters of merchants who
displayed their diamonds and serenely made sales totaling many thousands of
dollars, as if dealing in mere trifles.
     The evening being early, the Mart was still open. Its doorway was wide;
the portals seemed to welcome visitors. But the Diamond Mart was as closely
guarded as the United States Mint. To start trouble within its walls would be
akin to suicide.
     Along the Bowery, The Shadow saw policemen, who were regularly assigned to
guard the Diamond Mart. They were like figures in a guessing puzzle; there were
about twice as many as the eye would ordinarily suppose. In addition to the
bluecoats, plain-clothes men were on duty. Patrol cars were also in the
neighborhood.
     It happened that The Shadow's present destination was a block south of the
Diamond Mart. Knowing that crooks were about, he wisely gave the Mart a careful
inspection as he passed. Had anything disturbed the calmness of the scene, The
Shadow would have paused for further study; but it happened that the building
was as serene as he had ever seen it.
     Inside the Mart were special watchmen, who spotted suspicious customers at
sight. Knowing their capability, The Shadow spoke a low-toned order to his
driver and the cab proceeded onward. The next place that needed observation was
The Shadow's special goal, an arcade that ran from the Bowery to another street.
     The arcade formed a contrast to the Mart. Long, low-roofed, it offered
shelter to the riffraff of the neighborhood, and such characters were plentiful.
     At this hour, the arcade was rather dark, and as he passed it The Shadow
noted that it held more than its usual quota of human drifters. He observed,
too, that many shamblers were circulating about, always keeping within close
range of the arcade.
     Among these, The Shadow recognized his own secret agents, four in number.
Two of them frequently patrolled the badlands, and were therefore quite at
home. The other pair were posing as panhandlers and were doing a good job of
it, but they were careful to remain in the offing so as not to be too
conspicuous.
     Reports were correct: crooks were assembling at the arcade. They were
passing themselves as the lowest of human scum, which wasn't difficult, for
they were rats by trade. But the arcade, itself, offered no target for crime.
     Having covered the Diamond Mart, The Shadow decided to take a look at
Chinatown, only a few blocks away.
     The cab in which The Shadow rode was his own. Its driver, Moe Shrevnitz,
was one of The Shadow's agents and a very capable hackie. At his chief's order,
Moe weaved the cab into Chinatown, where a slow rate of speed was natural.
     Chinatown proved as quiet as the Diamond Mart. Along the curve of Doyers
Street, The Shadow saw patrolmen on their regular rounds. All was quiet near
the corner of Mott and Pell, the real center of the district. Moe continued his
roundabout course, finally making another trip past the Diamond Mart.
     The cab halted there, abruptly, to let another cab stop. The Shadow saw
the man who alighted, watched him wave an affable greeting to a detective who
shifted into sight. The dick recognized the arrival; so did The Shadow. The man
from the cab was Flush Tygert.


     HE was a different Flush Tygert from that afternoon. He was more
prosperous in appearance. Flush was wearing a natty-looking suit; the lights
from the Mart brought a gleam from a diamond on his finger, and his cuff links
showed the same sparkle. Moreover, Flush had cash. He showed a bundle of it
when he paid the cab driver.
     Flush peeled his bank roll like a head of lettuce. He had thumbed through
ten-dollar bills and twenties before he found a stray five among the fifties.
He used the smaller bill to pay the driver. While the cabby was finding
difficulty in making the change, Flush stuffed the big roll back into his
pocket.
     Chance played its hand right then.
     A scrawny bum was slouching past the Diamond Mart. The shambler showed
interest at sight of the cash. He shoved himself toward Flush, mouthing
something about "sparing a dime." Flush gave a glance at the fellow's pasty
face, then told him to be on his way.
     The detective stepped forward; the bum made a quick scramble. A little
farther along, he stopped to tell another panhandler what had happened. Both
threw quick glances back at Flush.
     This episode had all the markings of a well-timed act. It looked as though
the two bums were on hand to spot how much cash Flush had with him. The
gambler's bank roll certainly ran into thousands of dollars, big enough game to
account for the assemblage down in the old arcade.
     Diamond cut diamond; crook rob crook. The set-up impressed The Shadow, as
his cab wheeled away. Flush Tygert was certainly flush tonight, and the news
had been passed along.
     As for Flush's presence at the Diamond Mart, it was natural enough. The
Shadow had listed Flush and his habits, long ago. Records showed him to be a
gambler who played the ocean liners, varying his trips, traveling to Europe and
South America. When he came back with big winnings, Flush always invested them
in diamonds.
     Not having seen Flush that afternoon, The Shadow naturally assumed that
the gambler had been lucky on his last South American excursion, since European
voyages were no longer popular. Therefore, his trip to the Diamond Mart was
logical.
     Flush might rate as a crook on boats beyond the twelve-mile limit; on
shore, he passed muster. The Shadow classed him as a normal customer at the
Diamond Mart.
     Elsewhere, Flush might be prey, either for his cash or his diamonds,
particularly if he passed the old arcade after he left the Mart.
     On the chance that such might be the case, The Shadow decided to drop in
on the meeting place where he had seen too many mobsters. At his order, Moe
swung the cab past the next corner.
     Flush Tygert had not seen The Shadow. It was unfortunate, therefore, that
the unseen cab rider had not waited a little longer. For Flush performed his
next action in a fashion that was a trifle too dramatic. Pausing in the doorway
of the Diamond Mart, the crook tried to light a cigarette with a lighter that
worked too well.
     Several times, Flush's ticking thumb produced a flame, which he promptly
suppressed. He didn't want his light as soon as he was getting it. An elevated
train was approaching, high above. As it came by, Flush finally let the
cigarette lighter work, and held the flame steadily until the train had roared
beyond him.
     Then, with a gleaming smile, the man who called himself Five-face stepped
into the welcoming portals of the Diamond Mart. Flush Tygert had used his
cigarette lighter to touch off crime of a most unusual sort.
     Things about to come would reveal the planning of a master plotter whose
tricky schemes were to convince The Shadow that a real brain had designed them.
     Crime was due, in the very presence of The Shadow, before he could reach
the main scene of its action!


     CHAPTER VIII

     CRIME IN REVERSE

     IT took The Shadow just three minutes to reach the vantage point he
wanted: the rear street in back of the old arcade. During that interim, the
elevated train stopped at a station and an oily faced man stepped off.
     The passenger was Grease Rickel; he had caught the signal given by Flush
Tygert with his cigarette lighter.
     In his turn, Grease was spied by crooks below. He didn't have to leave the
elevated platform. He merely stepped to the rail and gave a quick gesture. It
started the real fireworks. Flush had supplied the flame; Grease was the fuse.
     Instantly, a brawl broke loose outside the old arcade. It looked as though
two bums had started to grab for a loose dime that they saw in the gutter and
their scramble brought a flood of others, like sparrows flocking for a crust of
bread.
     The sudden strife brought shouts from policemen, followed by the pound of
footbeats. Then, as the brawl increased, a whistle sounded.
     Fighters accepted the police signal as their own. Not only did they break
apart; there was a flash of revolvers, followed by quick-stabbed shots in the
direction of the officers. Diving for shelter of doorways and elevated pillars,
the police pulled their own guns, to return the fire.
     Like a thing rehearsed, the swirl of shabby men went into the entrance of
the arcade. Thinking the opposition poorly armed and in retreat, the officers
followed, their own fire bringing up reserves, who were prompt to aid them.
     No outside aid could have stopped the coming slaughter. The charging
police were thrusting themselves into the ugliest ambush ever designed in the
badlands.
     Seldom did crime's success depend upon such wholesale killing. Few big
brains of crime, no matter how fiendish or desperate, cared to stir the
vengeance of the law by a massacre of policemen. But tonight's crime had a
reverse twist which slaughter would aid, and it was being managed by a
supercrook who could laugh at the law after the deed was done.
     The police would never find Five-face, no matter how far they looked for
him. He had wiped out one personality, that of Jake Smarley. He could as easily
dispose of his present guise. With crime done, Flush Tygert would no longer
exist.
     Five-face had given the word for slaughter in the name of Flush Tygert,
and gleeful mobsters were eager to deliver death. Banked within the entrance of
the old arcade were two squads of marksmen, four to a side, waiting for the
decoys to bring the police into the fatal mesh.
     No longer posing as bums, the killers held big revolvers of .45 caliber.
They had chosen the "smokewagons" as weapons in order that their bullets would
produce a fuller share of carnage. As the last batch of decoys came diving into
shelter, a harsh voice gave the word:
     "Give it!"
     With the signal, assistance came to the officers, who were already in full
sight. It didn't come from outside the arcade; that was impossible. The men who
sprang the surprise were in the very midst of the crooks.
     Four in number, The Shadow's agents. One pair had entered the arcade
earlier; the other two had hurried in with the decoys. But all four had the
same objective.
     Whipping out guns of their own, they flung themselves upon the firing
squads, slashing hard at heads and arms, determined to prevent the reception
that the crooks intended for the police.
     Guns blasted, wildly. The whole arcade roared, its confines magnifying the
fusillade to the tumult of a cannonade. Stabs of flame issued in all directions,
except the one that crooks intended.
     Bullets were digging the low roof and walls of the arcade; slugs were
whistling over the heads of the police and ricocheting from the sidewalk. But
the charging police were still coming, unscathed by the fire!
     They saw what had happened; how a few valiant men had hurled themselves on
twice the number. The officers weren't shooting any longer; they didn't want to
harm their friends. But the police were blocked when they tried to return the
rescue.
     A veritable flood of howling hoodlums gushed from the arcade, pouring down
upon the forces of the law. Guns were everywhere, slugging at close quarters. In
a trice, the officers were fighting for their own lives against a formidable
horde. It looked like sure death for the four unknown valiants who had spoiled
the ambush.
     Then, supreme amid the tumult, came a battle challenge that drowned all
cries and shots. It broke from the very heart of the arcade, signifying an
attack that was coming from the rear.
     It stood for a lone fighter; a champion of justice who cared nothing about
odds, a warrior whom crime had never conquered. Alone, he was more formidable
than an entire squad; his very strength lay in his solitary ability to be
everywhere, yet nowhere, when he hurled himself against a mass of foemen.
     The battle laugh of The Shadow!


     IN answer to that taunt, crooks forgot all else. The Shadow's agents were
hurled aside by men who wanted to get at crime's archfoe. Fighting police
suddenly found that they were struggling only with thugs who couldn't get loose
to return into the arcade. Like a massive tide, the pour of killers had reversed
itself.
     Mobsters couldn't see The Shadow. They knew only that he was somewhere in
the darkened arcade, and they wanted to smother him en masse before he could
escape. They had turned themselves into a living juggernaut, numbering more
than a score. No one, not even The Shadow, could stand against such a surge. So
crooks thought, but they were wrong.
     They were met by blasting guns, a brace of .45 automatics that The Shadow
handled with utter ease. His shots were directed at the very center of the
overwhelming wave, while thugs were clumsily trying to get their big revolvers
into play.
     The tide broke as men stumbled, and The Shadow lunged into its very
vortex, like a diver going beneath a sweep of surf.
     Snarling crooks wheeled from the flanks. The thing had happened at what
seemed the very start of battle. The Shadow had gone almost before they
realized it, but they knew where to find him: somewhere in their own midst.
     A clever trick on The Shadow's part, but only a temporary stopgap. A
suicidal move, if ever a fighter had made such.
     Crooks had forgotten the cops out in the street. Outnumbering the few
thugs who had remained to battle them, the police were free for another charge.
They made it, at the very moment when the billow of crooks reversed itself to
trap The Shadow. Under the unexpected drive, the maddened thugs were caught
entirely off guard.
     They were surging again toward the rear of the arcade, but not at their
own desire. They were being propelled by a storming mass of blue-coated
warriors, whose guns were stabbing devastating close-range shots that thinned
the swirl of hoodlums.
     Given a foothold by The Shadow, the police were turning the fight into a
rout. Mobsters, not officers, were taking the brunt of bullets before they
could reply with their own guns.
     Along with the blast of guns, staggering crooks heard The Shadow's laugh,
mocking in its triumph, from somewhere near the front of the arcade. The police
had literally bowled the enemy clear of their black-clad prey!


     WITHIN the Diamond Mart, sounds of battle were quite audible, but by no
means ominous. Most of the shooting was muffled within the arcade, the guns
that the diamond merchants heard seemed sporadic in their fire.
     Behind a little counter that barely gave him room to spread his portly
elbows, one fat-faced jeweler turned his head and smiled blandly at his
neighbors. He was old Breddle, who had been in business at the Diamond Mart
almost since its opening day. Rioting in this neighborhood did not disturb him.
     In Breddle's opinion, a fight a block away was as remote as the European
war zone. His bland smile widened as he heard the gunfire dwindle. The fray was
bearing off in another direction, probably toward the twisty streets of
Chinatown, where rioters could find holes and scurry into them.
     Breddle gave a wise nod that calmed the neighboring merchants. They passed
the word along the booths. No need to worry any longer; old Breddle had given
the nod. Glancing in Breddle's direction, other diamond sellers saw that the
old-timer was talking with a customer as ardently as if the noise outside had
been nothing more than a few firecrackers.
     It chanced that Breddle's customer was Flush Tygert. The gambler was
interested in buying diamonds in a big way. Practically all of Breddle's best
gems were on the counter, but Flush wasn't satisfied.
     Glancing at the adjoining booths, Flush quietly asked if Breddle could
make deals with his nearest neighbors, provided that they had what Flush
wanted. Figuring that his own stock would stand up in comparison, Breddle
nodded. Beckoning to the other two merchants, he invited them to show the best
they had.
     None of the diamond sellers observed the thing that Flush took in with a
casual glance out toward the street. Only Flush knew the size of the arcade
battle; he was looking to see if it had produced the required result.
     It had. The fray had drawn all available police from their usual posts,
plain-clothes men as well as bluecoats. For once, the street in front of the
Diamond Mart was totally unprotected.
     Trays of diamonds came across the sides of Breddle's booth, thrust there
by the adjoining merchants. They wanted Flush to compare their wares with those
that Breddle offered. With a grin that lacked gleam because of the glittering
diamonds, Flush drawled:
     "Thank you, gentlemen. I think that I can take all your gems!"
     Had Breddle and the other merchants stared Flush in the eye, they might
have guessed a most important secret. His features were undergoing a series of
changes. He was Five-face, rather than Flush Tygert, though the gambler's
countenance predominated during his facial betrayals.
     But none of the three merchants was meeting the gaze of Five-face. They
were staring at a gun muzzle that poked from the edge of Flush's coat.
Snakelike, the revolver wangled back and forth under its owner's skillful hand.
The gun point carried the hypnotic threat of a cobra's eye.
     "Bring out the old valise," Flush told Breddle. "The one you always keep
handy. Open it and put it on the floor below the counter."


     BREDDLE followed instructions without a murmur. As he glanced at his
fellow merchants, his eyes warned them not to make an unwise move. No one could
get away with wholesale robbery, here at the Diamond Mart. Flush Tygert would be
stopped before he could leave the building. Placing the valise as Flush ordered,
Breddle politely awaited the crook's next order.
     "Start to put your trays away," said Flush. "When you get them below the
counter, dump them into the bag. Don't let any of the gems splash over. I might
miss out on one I particularly want. In that case, Breddle, I'd have to give you
a bullet as a reminder to be more careful."
     Tray by tray, the old merchant poured diamonds into the waiting bag. Even
at Breddle's prices, which were low, the gems he had displayed ran close to two
hundred thousand dollars in total value. When Breddle had finished with his
trays, Flush told him to take those that the other merchants held handy.
     More diamonds went into the bag, and Breddle left the empty trays beneath
his own counter. With the natural smile of Flush Tygert, Five-face told the
other merchants to relax and looked unconcerned while Breddle handed over the
valise, which now contained a quarter of a million in loot, at rock-bottom
prices.
     Straightening up from the counter, where he had leaned as though
inspecting diamonds, Flush let his gun slide from sight. His last words were a
warning that he would hold Breddle responsible, should any alarm be given. The
threat meant nothing by the time Flush had carried the bag halfway to the big
doorway.
     With a gesture, Breddle ducked beneath his counter, and his neighbors
followed his example. Breddle pulled a switch that gave an automatic alarm.
Customers at the Diamond Mart were instantly treated to a demonstration of how
rapidly things could happen in those preserves.
     To the strident clang of alarm bells, merchants scooped up trays and loose
diamonds, to shove them into safety. Guards appeared as if from nowhere - a few
from behind counters, others among the customers, additional men through doors
that bobbed open along the walls.
     They almost blocked the outer door before Flush could reach it. Only by a
rapid dash did the lone crook get there first.
     By his spurt, Flush gave himself away as the thief they wanted; but he was
smart enough to yank out his revolver and brandish it with one hand, while he
swung the jewel bag across his body, exactly as he had done with Melbrun's cash
box when passing as Jake Smarley.
     Flush fired, aiming for counters, not for the guards. It was a cute trick,
for it threatened the lives of merchants and customers. On that account, the
guards gave him leeway. They wanted him outside, where he could do no damage.
     To a man, they thought that the foolhardy gem thief would run right into
the arms of the police. But when they reached the door themselves, they saw
Flush leaping into a taxicab parked a short way up the street.
     The guards aimed; before they could fire, guns roared from two low-built
sedans that wheeled in from a side street. Before they could drop back, the
guards saw the muzzle of a machine gun thrust out from one car, ready to rake
them.
     Down the street, police were piling from the old arcade, too far away to
give rescue. The aid that came was from a different quarter.


     A CLOAKED figure sprang into sight from the gloom of an elevated pillar
only a dozen yards away. A fierce laugh, taunting, defiant, made the
machine-gunners swing their formidable weapon toward the attacker in black.
Automatics spurted, in tandem style, from the gloved hands of The Shadow.
     The men at the machine gun were withered. Their car kept on, following the
cab that Flush Tygert had taken. The other sedan also sped along, to cover the
getaway. A third automobile was cutting in from another street. Mobsters had
literally whisked themselves away from The Shadow's range.
     But they couldn't escape this master foe who had arrived to take up the
duty that the police had dropped. With the law triumphant in the arcade, The
Shadow had sensed what was due at the Diamond Mart. Not quite in time to
prevent the actual robbery, he was prepared, nevertheless, for the chase.
     A cab lurched into view, arriving in almost as surprising a fashion as The
Shadow. Moe Shrevnitz was at the wheel; he had been cruising, looking for his
chief. The rear door slashed open; the cab seemed to swallow The Shadow as it
passed him. Momentarily jabbing the brakes, Moe let the swinging door slam shut.
     Again, a strange, weird laugh quivered the gloom beneath the elevated, as
gloved hands poked from the cab window, gripping a brace of automatics that
still showed wreaths of smoke coiling from their muzzles.
     The Shadow was on the trail of Five-face, the crook of many parts, who had
staged crime as Flush Tygert. How long the man of crime could retain his
quarter-million-dollar loot was a question soon to be decided!


     CHAPTER IX

     VANISHED BATTLERS

     VEERING westward from the Bowery, the chase covered a few dozen blocks in
uneventful style, while The Shadow kept close tabs on the speeding cars ahead.
Ironically enough, the pursuit passed very close to police headquarters, on
Centre Street, without producing a ripple.
     Five-face had planned well. The battle in the old arcade, staged by
riffraff acquired through the master crook's lieutenants, had drawn patrol cars
in the wrong direction. If The Shadow hadn't come along to take up the pursuit,
the getaway would have been perfect.
     News was just reaching police headquarters when the caravan went by. In
the radio room, dispatches were going out to patrol cars to pick up a fleeing
taxicab and three convoying sedans. Perhaps crooks realized it, for they were
increasing their pace, to get as far away as possible.
     Unquestionably, they hoped to find a hiding place before the law was in
full cry. The Shadow was preventing it, by his policy of dogging their trail.
Thus crooks were caught between two problems: that of being spotted by their
speed, as soon as the full alarm went out; and the alternative of letting The
Shadow overtake them.
     They feared the first proposition less. The Shadow's victory at the arcade
seemed a superhuman accomplishment. People who stopped to get The Shadow usually
stayed too long. The Shadow would certainly draw patrol cars with his gunfire;
after that, the crooks would be trapped.
     So the speeding cars kept right ahead, and while Moe clung to the chase,
The Shadow leaned through the front window and inquired how his other agents
had fared.
     They were all right, Moe reported. He had contacted them, somewhat
battered and bewildered, outside the arcade, but on their way to safety.
     Rescued by The Shadow, the agents had survived the police onrush by the
simple expedient of lying low at the sides of the arcade and letting the surge
travel past them. So many thugs had been fighting the police hand to hand that
the agents had easily escaped notice.
     Sirens were wailing as Moe finished his report. Patrol cars were on the
job, searching for the fleeing caravan. Leaning from his window, The Shadow
tried long-range fire at the wheels of a crook-manned car.
     The vehicle was too far ahead, but the shots counted. Sounding loud in the
narrow side street, they were sure to be reported to the police when they cut in
along this route.
     Results came sooner than The Shadow hoped. As his cab passed a corner,
patrol cars appeared. Fortunately, they recognized that The Shadow's cab held a
pursuer, not a fugitive. Soon, they were actually gaining on The Shadow, a fact
which was quite important.
     It meant that the last car in the caravan must have slowed somewhat, since
Moe was guiding by its pace. Thus, when that car swerved a corner, The Shadow
ordered Moe to keep ahead.
     Crooks fired a volley as The Shadow's cab whizzed by, and he returned the
fire. The lone car fled by the side street, its occupants unrecognized.
     Grease Rickel was in command of that car. He had found it waiting for him
near the Bowery elevated station. Grease snarled curses as he took to flight.
It had been his job to decoy The Shadow and the police cars, getting them away
from Five-face and the swag. The Shadow had seen through the ruse.
     Only a few blocks along the straight route, Moe was picking up the real
trail again. He had spurted the cab, drawing away from the police cars, but
they were again beginning to gain. The fact told The Shadow that another trick
was coming. When he saw the last car of the caravan keep straight ahead at a
street crossing, The Shadow ordered Moe to turn.
     How The Shadow guessed the correct direction was a mystery, even to Moe;
nevertheless, the black-cloaked observer picked it. This time, it happened to
be Banker Dreeb who staged the dodge. Like Grease, Banker was angry because he
managed to get clear so easily.
     Only one car still clung to the cab that carried Flush Tygert. The man in
charge was the third lieutenant, Clip Zelber, and he was in a dilemma. He
didn't know whether to stay along with Five-face and protect him or to make
another effort to divert the trail.
     Clip hadn't expected the chase to reach its present state. While he was
puzzling over the situation, The Shadow solved it for him.
     Knowing that only one car lay between him and the fugitive cab, The Shadow
ordered Moe to overtake it. As Moe made a marked gain by a swift turn at a
corner, The Shadow opened a bombardment.
     Had Clip allowed it to continue, he and his companions would have found
themselves in a wrecked car, for The Shadow had neat ways of puncturing tires
and crippling drivers at the steering wheels.
     Frantically, Clip ordered his driver to take the next corner. The sedan
scudded for safety, leaving The Shadow a clear route to the cab ahead.


     IN that cab, Five-face rode alone. The term suited him better than his
recent identity of Flush Tygert, because Five-face no longer looked like Flush.
He had started to change his personality with the aid of materials from a
make-up box.
     He was using a fake chin and a molding substance that looked like putty.
He spoke in the tone of Flush, however, as he ordered his driver to start
dodging corners.
     Oddly, the driver of the fugitive cab was not a thug. He was simply a
scared cabby, who had been drawn into this mess by chance. Choice of the cab
was another tribute to the mastery of Five-face. The chameleon crook had
foreseen that a threatened driver would show more speed than any other, and the
cabby was proving it under the present strain.
     He took corners on two wheels, whizzed right through traffic lights,
jounced the curb in order to escape blocking traffic. In the course of a dozen
blocks, the fellow actually gained a few on Moe Shrevnitz, which was a very
remarkable feat.
     The numbers on the street corners were clicking past like those on a
roulette wheel. Almost finished with his make-up, Five-face glanced from the
window. He couldn't spot the street numbers, but he recognized the district. He
was very close to the destination that he wanted.
     With one hand, Five-face gripped the jewel bag beside him; then, in the
tone of Flush Tygert, he ordered:
     "Take it easy, jockey. We're getting too near Times Square to raise hob
with the traffic. You know where Lody's Cafe is?"
     The cabby gulped that he did. The fellow's tone brought one of Flush's
typical laughs. Lody's was noted as a hangout for mobsters of a deluxe sort,
but patronized only by those against whom the law had no definite complaints.
Despite its glitter, Lody's was a joint, and recognized as such.
     "We're going to Lody's," came the assuring tone of Flush. "Nice and
properlike, understand? Pull up in front and drop me like I was any ordinary
customer."
     The cabby began to stammer that they were east of Lody's, and that it
happened to be on an eastbound street. It wouldn't do for an ordinary cab to be
bucking traffic. Flush's tone cut the driver short.
     "Don't you think I know it?" drawled the big-shot. "Take the first
westbound street before you get to Lody's, then swing around to the place."
     As he finished, Five-face threw a glance to the rear. He could see The
Shadow's cab and hear the sirens of the police cars behind it. Nevertheless, he
laughed and leaned forward to the front seat.
     "Remember that gat I showed you?" he inquired. "Here it is again, where
you'll remember it. Take it easy, jockey, in case I want to jump out in a
hurry."
     The cabby quivered as he felt the cold ring of steel that pressed against
the back of his neck. The gun had worried him enough; the pressure of a muzzle
completely cowed him. Still, he found strength enough to follow orders. He
idled the cab the moment that he swung the corner, reducing it almost to a
crawl.
     By the time the cab had turned the next corner, The Shadow's taxi swung
the first one. The next block was very short, along an avenue; the cab
navigated it and took the turn that brought it in front of Lody's. By then, Moe
had overtaken it, and sirens could be heard from the avenue.
     Hurling a door open, The Shadow reached the other cab just as it stopped.
He saw the driver sitting stiff, his hands upraised. Hearing his own door
clatter open, the fellow pleaded:
     "Don't start nothing! He's got me covered; he'll croak me! He's poking my
neck with a gun -"
     The Shadow's laugh intervened; it came as a reassuring whisper. Glancing
in the mirror, the cabby saw to his amazement that his recent passenger was
gone. In place of Flush Tygert was a black-clad rescuer, who was calmly telling
the cabby to pull ahead.
     As he spoke, The Shadow placed his gloved fingers against the back of the
driver's neck and plucked away an object that was stuck there.
     It was a dime that Five-face had pressed against the cabby's neck, instead
of a gun muzzle. Pushed slightly upward, it had adhered to the fellow's
perspiring skin. The cabby felt it each time his neck tilted back against his
collar.
     By so placing the coin, Five-face had kept the driver on his way after the
master crook had found a chance drop off from the cab.


     WHILE the cabby was staring at the dime that The Shadow dropped into his
hand, the police cars swerved into the side street. Springing to the curb, The
Shadow waved arms to flag them.
     He didn't want them to open fire on the empty cab, which no longer
contained the crook they wanted. The wanted man must be somewhere in the
vicinity, the bag of diamonds with him. The next step was to block his escape
from the neighborhood.
     Five-face had foreseen that prospect.
     As the white-topped police cars were halting at sight of The Shadow, a
hard-faced waiter in Lody's was answering a telephone call. Hanging up, the
fellow stepped to a table where three men were dining. Their Tuxedos did not
disguise the fact that they were mobsters of the first water.
     These three did not belong to Five-face nor any of his lieutenants. They
were ex-racketeers, still living on ill-gotten cash, like most of the patrons
in Lody's.
     "Just got a tip-off, gents," informed the waiter. "The Shadow is outside.
Thought you'd like to know it."
     They did like to know it. Nowhere was the name of The Shadow voiced more
venomously than at Lody's. These has-beens of crime belonged to the same ilk as
Grease, Banker, and Clip. They happened to be dining at Lody's because they
still were prosperous. With each day, they had been looking forward to the time
when someone would settle The Shadow once for all.
     They didn't regard the waiter's tip-off as a hoax. It wasn't healthy to
play practical jokes on the crowd that dined at Lody's. These crooks deluxe saw
their opportunity to deal with The Shadow personally. Instead of mobbies, they
could depend upon a score more of their own kind, who were also in the
restaurant.
     The word passed instantly from table to table; with one accord, Tuxedoed
rats came to their feet and started out to the street. Undaunted by the
arriving police, they whipped revolvers from their pockets the instant that
they saw the cloaked figure outlined in the lights of the patrol cars.
     The first member of the throng gave the cry to which all responded:
     "The Shadow!"
     With the cry, the cloaked figure wheeled. The Shadow knew instantly that
Flush Tygert had phoned the word to Lody's after dropping off from his cab. He
recognized, too, that these attackers were not part of the big-shot's horde.
Again, the touch of the master hand; he was playing it safe, turning a crowd of
volunteers upon The Shadow.
     The shout gave the attack away, but not well enough to save The Shadow.
Too many guns were on the draw for him to remain as a target. As for blackness,
there wasn't any close enough for The Shadow to make a quick fade. His only
system was to provide darkness by beating the crooks to the shot, and he did.
     Whipping both guns from his cloak, The Shadow blasted the lights of the
nearest police car, producing a swath of blackness into which he dived. The
instant that the gloom swallowed him, he reversed his course. He was speeding
out again, into the light, as the Tuxedoed marksmen dented the hood of the car
into junk.
     Another shout; the crooks wheeled; too late. The Shadow reached the cover
that he needed - the cab that Flush had used. Its driver was gone, running
along the street. Springing into the cab, The Shadow turned it into an
improvised pillbox.
     It had a slide-back top, which enabled the cloaked sharpshooter to fire as
if from a turret. When crooks blazed bullets for the cab top, The Shadow's hands
jabbed from one window, then the other, poking quick shots from ever-ready guns.
     By then, the police were in it. At first, they thought that shots were
meant for them. They had mistaken The Shadow's strategy for an attack. But when
the cloaked fighter had diverted the fire, the officers knew how matters stood.
     They were out of their cars, charging the frenzied men in Tuxedos exactly
as they had gone after the pretended bums in the arcade.
     Crooks surged for the cab, hoping to get The Shadow at any cost, while
others were fighting off the police. When they reached the cab, The Shadow was
gone again. He had chosen the moment of the police surge to spring to the
sidewalk and take a new vantage point in a narrow alleyway. He was sniping off
his foemen in a fashion that promised them sure defeat.
     Then came a quick end to the battle, through aid from a unique and
unexpected source.


     NEXT door to Lody's was an upstairs gymnasium, rather well known in the
vicinity. It was a boxing stable managed by a fight promoter named Barney Kelm,
a familiar figure on Broadway, whenever he was in New York. Barney happened to
be on hand tonight, and shooting didn't bother him any more than the boos of a
prize-fight audience.
     Portly, wide-shouldered, with a broad, bluff face beneath his derby hat,
Barney Kelm stepped to a little balcony that fronted the gym. He scanned the
street and saw what was going on - a frenzied, slugging battle between
uniformed police and men that he knew as hoodlums.
     There was no sign of The Shadow. From his balcony, Barney could not
observe the telling shots that the hidden marksman delivered. Turning back to
the gymnasium, Barney gave an ardent bellow, along with graphic gestures. A
dozen boxers quit skipping rope and punching away at bags. With Barney among
them, they dashed downstairs to the street.
     They were pulling off their gloves, to get in punches that would hurt.
Grabbing men in Tuxedos, the pugs gave them expert treatment. Hard uppercuts
counted more than the wide swings of police guns. With Barney cheering them and
waving his own pudgy fists, the boxers made short work of the mob from Lody's.
     Soon, the police were carrying away the wounded, while the pugilists were
dragging slap-happy crooks from gutters. More patrol cars were arriving, to
give the law full control. His guns stowed away, The Shadow saw Inspector
Cardona step from a car and start shaking hands with Barney Kelm.
     The fat-faced fight promoter was taking credit for having quelled the
fray. As far as The Shadow was concerned, Barney Kelm was welcome to it. The
Shadow was more interested in learning what had become of Flush Tygert. With
that purpose in mind, he glided away into blackness.
     Two battlers had vanished: one, The Shadow, a figure in black, his real
identity unknown; the other, Five-face, who changed his personality after every
deed of crime.
     When, where, and how they would meet again, neither could foretell; but
the fact that there would be such a meeting was something that both knew!


     CHAPTER X

     THE PUBLIC HERO

     SEATED in the library of the Cobalt Club, Lamont Cranston was scanning two
newspapers. One was several days old, telling of the foiled robbery at the
United Import Co. It showed the photo of Jake Smarley, the missing bookie,
beside the picture of Arnold Melbrun, the man who had outguessed the vanished
crook.
     The other newspaper was recent. It had two front-page photographs. One
portrayed Flush Tygert, his long face displaying its habitual smile; the other,
the fat, serious features of Barney Kelm, who rated at a public hero.
     Like Smarley, Tygert was wanted, but to a greater degree. Where Smarley
had missed out on a robbery, Flush had succeeded. It would go hard with both,
however, if they were found, for there were manslaughter charges against them,
too.
     Folding one newspaper, Cranston placed it on the other, so that only the
two pictures showed, those of Smarley and Flush. Side by side, they made an
interesting contrast. Facially, there was nothing in common between Jake
Smarley and Flush Tygert; the remarkable thing was that both had disappeared.
     Very remarkable, considering that they had not been highly rated in the
underworld until their recent exploits. Neither Smarley nor Flush should be the
sort to have an airtight hide-away; yet, apparently, each had one. Not a trace
of either criminal had been found by the police.
     Placing the newspapers aside, Cranston drew a notebook from his pocket.
With a fountain pen, he wrote the two names in a vivid blue ink:

     Jake Smarley
     Flush Tygert

     Alone in the library, Cranston phrased a whispered laugh. Its low, uncanny
tone identified him as The Shadow. So did the ink with which he had inscribed
the names. As it dried, it faded, obliterating itself completely.
     It was the special ink that The Shadow used for important messages. He
employed it, too, when he transcribed his impressions into written words.
     The names linked. The Shadow had divined that Smarley and Flush were one
and the same. His keen brain was visualizing the next step in the process;
namely, that by this time, neither Smarley nor Flush existed; that the master
criminal must have adopted another identity.
     In tracing this vital fact, The Shadow had pictured two events from the
past.
     He remembered how Smarley had cleverly used Melbrun's cash box as a shield
to deflect bullets. Flush had done the same thing with the bag of gems when he
fled from the Diamond Mart.
     In flight, Five-face had been off guard, and each time, The Shadow had
spied him. Though The Shadow did not know the title used by the master crook
and therefore could not tell how many faces the criminal had, he was certainly
on the correct track in the detection of crime's greatest secret.
     An attendant entered the library, carrying an envelope. He saw The Shadow
and approached on tiptoe, carefully trying not to disturb the quiet of the
room. The Shadow was rising, in the leisurely style of Cranston, before the
attendant arrived. Cranston's lips showed a smile as he scanned the note.
     It said that Commissioner Weston was in the grillroom and would like
Cranston to join him. Apparently, the commissioner had something to tell
regarding the police investigation of the recent robberies.


     IN the grillroom, Weston had a pile of police reports, stacked six inches
high. Cardona was with him, and the two were thumbing through the papers.
     Again, there was a resemblance between the raid at Melbrun's and the
robbery in the Diamond Mart. Small-fry crooks had been quizzed, with only one
answer.
     First it had been Jake Smarley; now it was Flush Tygert. In each instance,
thugs blamed all crime on men whose identity the police already knew.
     "Perhaps the two are working in cahoots," said Weston, suddenly. "They
might even be sharing the same hide-out. An excellent theory." Weston nodded,
proudly, as he turned to Cardona and added: "Make a note of it, inspector."
     While Cardona was making the note, two men entered. One was Arnold
Melbrun; the other, old Breddle. The commissioner introduced the importer to
the diamond merchant.
     "Sorry about your misfortune, Mr. Breddle," condoled Melbrun. "I was lucky
to save the money that had been intrusted to me. I wish that you had experienced
the same good fortune."
     "You took the right precautions, Mr. Melbrun," returned Breddle. "I was
just unfortunate, considering how well the Diamond Mart was guarded."
     Weston was laying out photographs on the table. He was anxious to link
Jake Smarley with Flush Tygert, though he did not realize how closely the two
could actually be identified.
     Looking at Smarley's pictures, Melbrun gave a slow nod. From descriptions
given by the office workers, the pictures showed Smarley, well enough. But when
he saw photographs of Flush Tygert, Melbrun shook his head emphatically. He
declared that he knew nothing at all concerning Flush.
     In his turn, old Breddle looked blank when he saw the Smarley pictures,
but became quite voluble at sight of those portraying Flush. Unfortunately,
Breddle had never seen Flush, except when the gambler came into the Diamond
Mart; therefore, he could offer no worthwhile information concerning the
mobster.
     Both Melbrun and Breddle were rising, when Weston stopped them with a
gesture.
     "Another man will be here, soon," announced the commissioner. "Barney
Kelm, our public hero. He and his boys gave us some very valuable assistance. I
would like you both to meet him."
     Melbrun happened to have an appointment and could not stay. He regretted,
however, that he could not meet the famous Barney Kelm.
     "Give the chap my congratulations," said Melbrun, "and say that my door is
always open to all fine citizens like himself. I know that our friend Breddle" -
he turned to the jeweler - "will give Kelm proper thanks. Kelm came close to
catching Tygert for you, Breddle. I wish he had been around when Smarley tried
to rob my office."
     With Melbrun gone, Breddle was anxious to learn what progress the police
had made toward reclaiming the stolen diamonds. Weston went over the police
reports in methodical style, but he wasn't halfway through the batch before
Breddle's face showed absolute gloom.
     The jeweler recognized that the commissioner was simply trying to show
that the law had done its utmost, though no real progress had been made.
Patiently, Breddle let Weston continue.
     It was half an hour before the process was completed; all that while, The
Shadow sat silently by, his mind engaged in other matters.
     Thinking in terms of a disguised master crook, The Shadow was wondering
how many faces the man could display and what identity he might be using at
present. Even more important was the question of coming crime: whether the
unknown could risk another daring robbery, and, if so, what it would involve.


     A BIG-TONED voice brought The Shadow from his reverie. Barney Kelm had
arrived; the bluff-faced fight promoter was receiving a welcome. When Breddle
shook hands, Barney clapped a broad hand on the jeweler's shoulder.
     "Sorry my boys weren't down at your place," declared Barney. "They'd have
stopped Flush Tygert in a hurry. They've been talking about him all afternoon.
Say - if we could only locate Flush, I'd like to let them loose on him. They're
like a pack of wolves, those boys, when I let them loose!"
     Weston was introducing his friend Cranston. Barney gave The Shadow a
powerful grip. Seating himself at the table, Barney tilted his derby hat back
over his head and began to look at the police reports. Mention of his own name
pleased him.
     "So I'm a public hero," he chortled. "That's swell! They'll be pointing me
out when I walk along Broadway. You know, I was thinking of moving that
gymnasium of mine. I didn't like it, because my boys were so close to Lody's.
     "A bad influence, that place, but I'm glad I stayed. A good thing that I
was there. Good, too, that I keep an eye on whatever is happening. When I heard
that shooting, I knew that something big was up. I took a look outside and saw
Lody's door bust open. When those rats tried to put the cops on the spot, I
knew it was up to me to stop them."
     Barney's bluster was rather painful to old Breddle, who was still thinking
in terms of his lost diamonds. Cranston, too, seemed bored by all the palaver.
When Breddle decided to leave, the commissioner's friend went along. In the
foyer, Cranston paused to make a phone call, then went out to his limousine.
     Inside the big car, he slid open the drawer beneath the rear seat and
rapidly cloaked himself in black garments. Watching from the window, he saw old
Breddle turn the corner, walking toward the subway. Opening a door with one
hand, The Shadow reached for the speaking tube with the other. He spoke to the
chauffeur, using Cranston's tone.
     "I think I shall remain at the Club, Stanley," said The Shadow. "See if
you can overtake Mr. Breddle before he reaches the subway. Tell him that this
is my car, and that I instructed you to take him wherever he wants to go."
     Stanley heard the slight slam of the rear door and started the limousine
forward. It happened that the closing door was on the street side of the car.
The figure that left the limousine wasn't Cranston's. It was The Shadow who
whisked himself away toward the darkness across the street.
     While Stanley thought that Cranston had actually gone back to the club,
the doorman and others on the sidewalk supposed that he had left in his
limousine. Instead, The Shadow had taken up an unsuspected vigil. Obscured in
the opposite darkness, he was watching the entrance of the Cobalt Club!
     A taxicab coasted into sight. It stopped when the driver saw a tiny red
gleam from a special three-colored flashlight. Moe Shrevnitz was the driver of
that cab; The Shadow had summoned him through a call to Burbank.
     But even Moe was rather amazed to learn that The Shadow was spying on the
Cobalt Club, the place to which he had access as Cranston any time he wanted it.
     The reason was explained when a burly man with a tired derby hat stalked
from the club and strode manfully along the street. Instantly, The Shadow's
light flashed green, but followed with a cautioning blink of yellow.
     It meant that The Shadow was taking up a trail on foot, but wanted Moe to
be close, ready if needed. The Shadow had used that system frequently; hence
the process offered no surprise. The astounding thing was the nature of The
Shadow's trail.
     The master of darkness was playing a long hunch. He was picking up the
trail of Barney Kelm, the public hero who rated as a champion of law and order,
not as a man who dealt in crime!


     CHAPTER XI

     THE THIRD FACE

     GREASE RICKEL was in an impatient mood. The living room wasn't large
enough to hold him. Pacing back and forth, he slashed aside the curtain of the
wide doorway that led into a dinette. He kept on pacing through to the kitchen.
     Looking at Clip Zelber, Banker Dreeb gave a shrug. They could hear Grease
yank open the door of the electric icebox; they heard the rattle of ice cubes,
the gurgle of liquid from a bottle. Grease was fixing himself another gin buck,
the sixth that he had sampled in the last hour.
     "Don't blame the guy," said Banker. "Why should he keep sober? There's not
much chance that Five-face will be needing us."
     "I don't think Five-face has lammed," returned Clip. "He's got a schedule,
like he told us."
     "Like he told us, yeah," repeated Banker, with a snort. "But that may have
been the old baloney, sliced nice and thin. Maybe he was just counting on one
big job, instead of four."
     "And playing us for suckers," said Clip, with a slow nod. "That's what
Grease thinks, although he hasn't said so."
     The two silenced, as Grease came storming back. Slashing the curtain shut
with one hand, Grease gestured a half-filled glass with the other. Turning, he
took a gulp of liquor, then wagged a forefinger in emphatic fashion.
     "Flush Tygert has pulled a runout," voiced Grease, thickly. "He'll clean
up a couple of hundred grand out of those rocks he grabbed from old Breddle. He
won't ever show his face around here; his own, or any other -"
     A heavy thump interrupted. It came from the apartment door. Clip was the
first man to reach it; as he opened the door, he heard a snarl from Grease.
     Flinging his glass aside, Grease started forward with a drunken lunge,
trying to tug a revolver from his pocket. Banker jumped in front to intercept
him. Unable to guess what it was all about, Clip pulled a gun to cover the man
who had entered. Seeing the fellow's face, Clip mouthed:
     "Barney Kelm!"
     Banker had Grease under control and was shoving him to a battered sofa.
Nudging the door shut, Clip concentrated on Barney. Ordinarily, such a
situation would have called for smart bluff work, but it was useless, now that
Grease had given things away. Clip came to the real point in a hurry.
     "Hello, public hero!" he snapped. "Think you're a copper, too, don't you?
Figured we were working with Flush Tygert. Well, that means it's your own idea,
or the bulls would have come here ahead of you."
     Barney's big lips spread in a wide grin.
     "Suppose I told you that this joint was covered," he said, "with coppers
all around, outside. What would you guys do about it?"
     "We'd put the blast on you," informed Clip, "and then shoot it out with
them. Only, you haven't got those coppers with you, Barney. You thought you
could bluff us better alone."
     Barney said nothing. He simply stepped to the table and picked up a greasy
pack of cards. He picked out four spades, showed them in his left hand, then
dropped them faces upward.
     "Spread 'em out," said Barney. His voice had lost its boom and was taking
on a drawl. "Show all of 'em, fella."
     His other paw showed sudden skill, as he made a deft sweep across the four
cards. There they lay, spread wide, before the astonished eyes of Clip and the
other lieutenants.
     Not four spades, but five!
     Only one other man could perform that gambler's trick to such perfection:
Flush Tygert. To see it duplicated by the seemingly clumsy hand of Barney Kelm
was proof of the visitor's real identity.
     Flush Tygert and Barney Kelm were the same. Like Jake Smarley, they were
Five-face. Crime's new overlord was again with his lieutenants, displaying the
third face in his collection.


     "QUITE a surprise, eh?" chortled Five-face, reverting to the boastful tone
of Barney. "Maybe some of it needs explaining, so here goes. First I was
Smarley, then I was Flush. The next step was to be Barney Kelm.
     "That's why I headed for the gym. But I couldn't shake The Shadow off the
trail. It didn't worry me a lot, though. I had my boxing stable close to Lody's
just in case that joint would come in handy, some day."
     The lieutenants began to understand. They realized how well the part of
Barney Kelm fitted Five-face. It wasn't so much the matter of his disguise,
though that detail was perfect. The important thing was that Barney Kelm was a
rover, like Jake Smarley and Flush Tygert.
     As a bookie, Smarley had kept his office in his hat most of the time, and
was often hard to find. Flush, the gambler, was in New York only between boat
trips. Barney also traveled frequently, promoting fights throughout the
country, and his friends heard from him only at intervals. All such factors
were a tribute to the ingenuity of Five-face.
     It was plain, too, that Five-face had considered the welfare of his
lieutenants, after he had robbed old Breddle. First Grease, then Banker,
finally Clip, had left the caravan, like tail men in a game of crack the whip.
     Simply carrying the burden himself was not enough for Five-face. He had
kept two thoughts in mind: to eliminate The Shadow, and to pin the blame on
persons who knew nothing about him or his lieutenants.
     The crowd at Lody's were made to order for that little game. With another
laugh, Five-face described the final touch that he had provided.
     "I was Barney when I ducked out of the cab," he boasted. "I bluffed the
hackie into keeping on around the block. He thought I was still with him when
he pulled up at Lody's. Meanwhile, I'd gone into the gym, by the back door.
     "I wish that Lody crowd had croaked The Shadow. I phoned the tip-off that
started them in the right direction. When I saw that The Shadow had ducked out
on them, I figured I might as well make myself a public hero.
     "So I gave the word to the boys, and they did the rest. I took the credit"
- Barney dug his thumb against his chest - "and I'm going to play it to the
limit! Say - if there's anybody that people will trust, it's Barney Kelm. What
a set-up the next job will be!"
     Both Banker and Clip agreed. Their doubts of Five-face were completely
dispelled. Eagerly, they looked forward to further service with this crime
master who had covered their part in such skillful fashion. The only dissenting
voice came from Grease.
     Rising unsteadily from the sofa, the oily faced lieutenant approached his
chief.
     "Listen, Five-face," said Grease, thickly. "You're talking about the next
job. What about the last one?"
     "You mean down at the Diamond Mart?"
     "That's it." Grease shook his glass, which he had reclaimed. The glass
clinked, and Grease eyed the ice cubes that were in it. "I'm thinking about
ice," he said. "Not ice cubes" - he pointed to the glass - "but another kind of
ice. Diamonds!"
     Grease looked at Barney as though he expected the big-shot to disgorge a
glittering shower. Barney shook his head and gave a bland smile.
     "I've just been with the police commissioner," he said. "I met a
stuffed-shirt friend of his, a guy named Cranston. Old Breddle was there, too,
and our pal Joe Cardona. I couldn't have lugged any sparklers along with me.
     "Suppose I'd pulled a handkerchief out of my pocket" - Barney illustrated
the statement - "and spilled a lot of Breddle's rocks on the table. Don't worry
about the diamonds. You'll get your split on them, when the time comes.
Meanwhile -"
     Pausing, Barney produced a roll of bills. He began to peel off currency of
high denomination, but soon he came to a thick batch of one-dollar bills.
     "There's a lot of leaves in this cabbage," said Barney, ruefully, "but
they're mostly small. This is the wad I used to bluff Breddle. I can let you
fellows have a grand or so - say twelve hundred bucks - to pay off your hired
help.
     "The next job will be for cash. Real mazuma, and plenty of it! You'll hear
from me when I'm ready, and it will be soon. This dough" - Barney distributed
four hundred dollars each among the lieutenants - "will hold you over until
then."


     GREASE RICKEL was standing stock-still as he received his share. The oily
racketeer was staring at the curtain that blocked off the dinette. Grease
thought that the curtain bulged; he remembered that there was another entrance
to the apartment, by way of the kitchen.
     Lowering his gaze, Grease blinked at a patch of blackness on the floor. He
thought that it formed a silhouette.
     Actually, Grease's imagination was at work, but his guess happened to be
correct. The Shadow was behind that very curtain; he had entered by the rear
route.
     The Shadow had overheard every word between the master crook and the
lieutenants, and he had learned the name under which crime's overlord traveled.
     Five-face!
     Jake Smarley, Flush Tygert, Barney Kelm - those were three of the
identities. A third crime was due, to be maneuvered by Barney Kelm. Afterward,
a fourth crime, by some new personality. Then the fifth face -
     Forgetting the future, The Shadow concentrated on the present. Barney Kelm
was leaving; it was just as well to let him go. Having found the three
lieutenants, The Shadow could keep tabs on Barney Kelm.
     Easing back from the curtain, The Shadow was turning away, toward the
kitchen, when he noted that Grease was going along with Barney, apparently to
hold a conference in the hall.
     The Shadow waited; then, listening intently, he stirred the curtain. His
lips gave a low whisper.
     Banker and Clip were counting their money. It was Banker who lifted his
head.
     "Hear that, Clip?"
     "Out in the hall?" queried Clip. "It's only Grease talking to Barney."
     "What I heard came from the dinette -"
     Both thugs looked toward the curtain. They heard creeping sounds beyond.
Banker made a quick leap, grabbed the heavy drapery, wrenching it from its
hooks. As Banker sent the curtain to the floor in a tangle, Clip charged in
with a drawn gun.
     Figures were lunging through the dinette, to meet the drive. Fortunately
for them, Clip tripped across the curtain; otherwise he would have drilled his
opposers. Losing his gun as he hit the floor, Clip was flattened by two
adversaries, who grabbed Banker as he joined the pile-up.
     Men were rolling across the dinette, while a big voice boomed for them to
quit the fight. Coming to hands and knees, Banker and Clip saw Barney Kelm
facing them, with Grease seated on the floor beside the big-shot.
     Barney and Grease had come around through the kitchen, to see if anyone
was hiding behind the curtain. The Shadow, hearing them, had lured Banker and
Clip to an attack. The result had been a floundering fray involving Five-face
and his lieutenants, which had almost ended in disaster.
     Grease was blaming Clip and Banker for the mix-up; they argued that the
thing was his fault. Barney put an end to the altercation.
     "There's nobody here," growled Five-face. "Grease had too many drinks;
that's all. But you fellows" - he swung to Clip and Banker - "didn't use your
brains any too well. Lay off the dumb stuff in the future!"
     Five-face stalked out, the lieutenants following, all eager to curry favor
with the big-shot and have him forget the misguided combat. The dinette looked
quite empty; in fact, it was well lighted, because the glow from the living
room now came through the wide doorway.
     A singular thing occurred. Silently, the crumpled curtain uncoiled itself.
Out of the fallen drape emerged a figure clad in black: The Shadow. His ruse had
deceived the crooks entirely. Caught between them, The Shadow had wrapped
himself in the curtain and tumbled with it when Banker snatched it loose.
     His black cloak had not shown amid the snarl of dark velvet, which formed
a sizable shroud when he had lain on the floor. Fixing the curtain to resemble
its former crumple, The Shadow glided to the kitchen just as the lieutenants
came back into the living room, from the hall.
     Five-face was gone; so was The Shadow. Their next meeting would come when
crime was again on the move. Then would be the time when The Shadow could trap
the supercrook in deeds that would lay bare the past and expose the methods
that the evil master used.
     For the first time, the advantage would lie with The Shadow; but he did
not regard victory as assured. Uncovering Five-face had been no simple matter;
trapping him in crime might prove even more difficult.
     The Shadow knew!


     CHAPTER XII

     THE SUDDEN STROKE

     THREE faces were staring at The Shadow from the table in his sanctum. They
were photographs, all different, yet they represented one man: Five-face.
     Jake Smarley, Flush Tygert, Barney Kelm -
     There would be two more, and that fact made The Shadow ponder. Nothing had
been heard of Barney Kelm during the past week. Barney was still a public hero,
yet he had vanished like Smarley and Flush.
     People acquainted with Barney said that he had gone on the road to promote
some prize fights. Despite his bluster, Barney was a very modest and
self-effacing chap, his friends claimed. He didn't like to be in the public
eye. Too many people had pointed him out, so Barney had just dropped out of
sight.
     The rumor did not please The Shadow.
     He knew how self-effacing Barney Kelm could be; that the man was able to
obliterate his identity entirely. It was possible that Barney had dropped out
of sight altogether. If so, The Shadow's plans for trapping a master criminal
called Five-face would probably fade away to nothing.
     Reports from agents. The Shadow studied them beneath the blue glow. They
were encouraging in one respect. Plans for future crime were being made by
Five-face's lieutenants.
     The Shadow's agents were keeping close tally on Grease, Banker, and Clip.
The lieutenants had spent nearly all the money that Five-face had given them,
lining up thugs to be ready on call.
     Checking on such activities was an easy matter for certain of The Shadow's
agents. One agent, Cliff Marsland, had quite a reputation in the underworld.
     For a long while, Cliff had been gunning for The Shadow and boasting about
it to mobsters. Anyone who could get away with such talk in the badlands
necessarily had to be tough. Naturally, Cliff's immunity existed because he was
in The Shadow's service; but no one suspected the fact.
     Working on The Shadow's information, Cliff had met up with hoodlums who
worked for Grease and Clip and had learned enough to give regular reports to
The Shadow.
     Aiding Cliff was Hawkeye, a clever spotter who could follow a snake's
trail through the grass. Hawkeye roved the toughest districts, spotting snipers
who worked for Banker. His reports, though less frequent than Cliff's, were
quite as reliable.
     Nevertheless, there was one question.
     Did the activity of the spendthrift lieutenants mean that Five-face
actually intended new crime?
     At their last meeting, the lieutenants themselves had expressed doubts
about Five-face. They had been ready to brand him a double-crosser, until he
had appeared as Barney Kelm.
     They trusted him again, this time implicitly. Yet there was a chance that
Five-face, playing the Barney role, had bluffed his lieutenants, after all -
and had, at the same time, deceived The Shadow!
     Grim, sinister, The Shadow's laugh throbbed through the sanctum. The
bluish light went off with a sharp click.
     The Shadow was not pleased by the idle week that he had spent. Unless this
night developed something new in crime, he would have to change his policy and
carry through a search for Five-face, rather than await the reappearance of
Barney Kelm.
     Meanwhile, the evening promised one slight possibility. Perhaps a chat
with Commissioner Weston would produce a trifling result. So far, the law had
been going around in circles looking for Jake Smarley and Flush Tygert, always
regarding them as separate individuals. Yet out of such a whirligig might come
a flash of something worthwhile to The Shadow.


     REACHING the Cobalt Club in the guise of Cranston, The Shadow found the
police commissioner poring over some recent reports, that might as well have
been blank papers. Inspector Cardona was sitting by, poker-faced and taciturn.
     Weston finished his review of the reports and was about to say something,
when an attendant entered bringing a note.
     "It's from Arnold Melbrun," stated Weston, after reading the message. "He
wants me to meet him at his office. He will be there in half an hour. He says
that the matter is urgent. Perhaps Melbrun has learned some new facts regarding
Smarley."
     Concluding, the commissioner invited his friend Cranston to go along to
Melbrun's office. The Shadow delayed long enough to telephone Burbank and learn
that the agents had reported nothing new.
     Arriving at the offices of the United Import Co., the visitors were
received by Melbrun's new secretary, Boland. He told them that he had heard
from Melbrun, but knew nothing about the matter that was to be discussed.
However, after the visitors had seated themselves in the private office, Boland
remarked:
     "Mr. Melbrun received a special-delivery letter just after he returned
from Norfolk, this afternoon. It was from that man they call the public hero."
     "Barney Kelm?" inquired Weston.
     "Yes," nodded the secretary. "Mr. Melbrun put the letter with some other
correspondence from Kelm. I suppose that I could show it to you, commissioner."
     Before Weston could reply, the telephone bell rang. It was Melbrun,
calling from his home; he had not been able to leave there as soon as he
expected. He wanted to talk to Weston, if the commissioner had arrived. When
Weston took the telephone, the first thing that Melbrun mentioned was the Kelm
correspondence.
     "Get those letters, Boland," ordered Weston. "Mr. Melbrun wants to talk
about them over the telephone."
     Soon, the letters were spread on the desk. In Cranston's casual style, The
Shadow glanced over Weston's shoulder and noted what the letters said. It was
apparent that Barney Kelm had taken advantage of his position as a public hero,
as well as pushing his brief acquaintance with Melbrun.
     In the letters, Barney proposed that Melbrun and five other wealthy men
contribute fifty thousand dollars each, toward the promotion of a championship
prize fight to be held in the Middle West. Barney could guarantee them a high
return upon their money, so he said. A guarantee was needed to make the
championship bout possible; after that, all would be plain sailing.
     Considering Barney's status, the commissioner saw nothing wrong with the
proposal, and so stated to Melbrun. Listening, with quite different thoughts,
The Shadow learned that Melbrun agreed with Weston. The thing that bothered
Melbrun was another phase of the matter.
     Melbrun's voice was audible through the receiver; The Shadow caught every
word, along with Weston.
     "Look at the last letter, commissioner," insisted Melbrun. "The one that
came this afternoon. Kelm wanted us all to bring our money in cash. I arrived
too late to go to the bank, so I decided to wait until I heard from Kelm again.
     "It seemed dangerous, having all that money loose. I wanted to tell Kelm
so. If such men as Jake Smarley or Flush Tygert should hear of it, they would
attempt another of their daring crimes. Then it occurred to me that you should
be the person to warn Kelm."
     There was a pause. Weston inserted the words:
     "Quite so, Melbrun."
     "I was just about to leave the house," continued Melbrun, "when I received
a call from Kelm. He tells me that he is at the Hotel Clairmont; that the other
five financiers are with him. They have all brought their money, and are simply
waiting for me."
     "Did you tell Kelm you would come?"
     "Yes," returned Melbrun. "I told him to wait; to do nothing until I
arrived. It will take me at least twenty minutes to reach the hotel,
commissioner. But you are nearer; you could get there in a quarter hour."
     "I'll see you there, Melbrun."


     HANGING up, Weston turned to Cardona. The commissioner expostulated on the
importance of the news.
     Meanwhile The Shadow, glancing toward the window, saw a blink of lights
below. Moe's cab had parked in the side street; the driver was flashing a
signal. Unnoticed, The Shadow strolled from the office.
     "Suppose that crooks have been watching Barney Kelm," Weston was saying.
"They might be watching him, too, hoping on revenge because of what he did to
them at Lody's. If so, they have learned of tonight's transaction. Call
headquarters, inspector, and order some picked men to meet us at the Clairmont.
We must start there, at once."
     While Cardona was phoning, Weston looked about, then questioned Boland:
     "Where did Cranston go?"
     Boland replied that the commissioner's friend had gone back to the Cobalt
Club; that he would meet Weston there later. The commissioner gave a
contemptuous snort; then, as Cardona finished the headquarters call, Weston
dismissed thoughts of Cranston and told the inspector to come along.
     Before Weston and Cardona had reached the street, a cab was pulling away.
Its passenger was Cranston, but Weston would not have recognized his friend.
Already, Cranston had become The Shadow. Garbed in black, he was tuning in his
shortwave radio, to get Burbank's latest word.
     Reports from agents. The lieutenants who served Five-face had suddenly
begun to move. Driving separate cars, the three were picking up thugs as
passengers. As The Shadow listened, Burbank relayed a report from Hawkeye. The
spotter had learned where the crooks were heading - to the Hotel Clairmont.
     According to Arnold Melbrun, the Clairmont could be reached in fifteen
minutes from his office. In Moe's cab, with the speedy driver at the wheel, The
Shadow expected to cut the trip to ten. Those minutes would be precious.
     Barney Kelm was already at the Hotel Clairmont, chatting with the five
financiers who had brought fifty thousand dollars apiece. Barney Kelm wasn't
the public hero that the law supposed. He was Five-face: Jake Smarley, Flush
Tygert and Barney himself, all rolled into one, the most dangerous master crook
in all America!
     Would Barney wait for Melbrun to appear? If he did, all would be well. If
not, even The Shadow, with all his speed, might be too late to prevent the
theft of another quarter million by the public enemy who basked in a hero's
guise.


     CHAPTER XIII

     CASH IN ADVANCE

     FIVE men were seated in a little room on the mezzanine floor of the Hotel
Clairmont, bundles of cash piled in front of them. They had brought their
money; they were waiting for Barney Kelm to finally sell them on his
proposition. A few details, certain guarantees, were all that had to be settled.
     The financiers felt quite secure. This conference had been kept strictly
private; it seemed impossible that news of it could have leaked out. The doors
of the room were bolted and the windows had grilled gratings, for this room was
specially designed for conferences.
     Besides, the very presence of Barney Kelm was a guarantee of safety. These
financiers did not share the qualms of Commissioner Weston. They did not think
of Barney as a man hounded by criminals. They regarded him as a man who could
settle crooks; for he had proven his ability in that line.
     Down in the lobby were half a dozen of Barney's "boys," tough-fisted pugs
who would rally the moment that their boss called them. The financiers had
looked those young chaps over when they entered, and felt quite happy because
such guards were on hand to protect them.
     There was a heavy knock at the door, repeated in the fashion of the
signal. A gray-haired man opened the door and admitted Barney. Wearing his
derby hat, the smiling promoter strolled cockily to the table.
     "I just called Melbrun," said Barney. "He was at his house, and he says
he'll be coming down here. But he came in late from Norfolk, and from the way
he talked, I don't think he'll have his cash with him."
     Sharp looks passed among the financiers. This was to be a strictly cash
transaction; one man mentioned it, and Barney nodded his approval.
     "We don't need Melbrun," he decided. "This is a quarter-million-dollar
deal, and we've got that much right now. Here are the papers, gentlemen. Look
them over."
     Barney placed an old valise on the conference table. Oddly, it was the
same valise that Flush Tygert had carried away from the Diamond Mart. Old
Breddle hadn't given a good description of that bag, so it excited no
suspicion. Still, it was curious that Barney should be using an item that might
link him with Flush.
     There was a reason. Like nearly every big-time criminal, Five-face was
superstitious. As Flush, he had lugged that valise through a very tough tangle
of circumstances, and had wound up with a successful getaway. As Barney, he
wanted his luck to hold, and the valise was a good token.
     In addition, Barney knew of only one person outside of Breddle who would
recognize the valise. Barney was thinking of The Shadow. He was positive that
on this occasion the cloaked fighter would not cross his path.
     From the valise, Barney took stacks of papers that looked like contracts
and handed them around the circle. Strolling across the room, he stopped near a
side door and took a cigar from a box that lay on a table. Lighting the
perfecto, Barney leaned against the door and let one hand steal behind him.
     He was sliding back the bolt, leaving the door unlocked. Thus, he was
opening a route by which others might enter, when he called them. The room,
therewith, would have two exits, for the front door was merely latched, not
bolted.
     Surprised exclamations came from the men about the table. The documents
that Barney had given them were merely blank contracts, specifying nothing
regarding the promoter's proposition. Hearing queries, Barney responded in
booming tone:
     "It's all right, gentlemen! Just a trifling mistake! I can explain
everything -"
     He was stepping forward, reaching in his pocket. From behind him, Barney
heard a slight creak of the door. The thing that he drew from his pocket wasn't
a contract, but it was quite the thing to seal a bargain. It was a .45 revolver,
that Barney flourished under the noses of the astonished financiers.


     BEFORE the group could come to their feet, two other men entered the room.
They were thuggish men, ill-clad, who wore handkerchief masks across their
faces. Like Barney, they carried revolvers, but of a lesser caliber.
     Though Five-face still preferred a big smoke-wagon, for the show it made,
he had instructed his lieutenants to let their trigger men bring whatever
weapons they chose. Big guns hadn't proven their worth during the battle in the
old arcade, wherein The Shadow, almost single-handed, had routed fighters who
carried oversized revolvers.
     The two men who now flanked Barney were ordinary thugs, delegated to this
duty. Clip Zelber had provided them, but with instructions that, whatever
happened, they were to blame the mess on Barney Kelm.
     Their eyes, peering through the masks, showed surprise when they saw that
they were actually siding with Barney. They had taken Clip's instructions to
mean that they were framing Barney, not helping him.
     But when they glanced at Barney, they understood. His face didn't wear the
smile that went with his pose of a public hero. Bearing down upon the cowed
financiers, Barney was showing an ugly leer that was quite out of character.
With his present manner, Barney could have kept the financiers under full
control without any assistance.
     However, Barney had other work to do. He told the masked men to herd the
victims into a corner. Quaking, the financiers retreated, leaving their money
on the table. Stacking the piles of currency into the valise, Barney strolled
to the front door of the room and laid his hand upon the knob.
     "Stay just as you are, gentlemen," he sneered, "but put your hands in back
of you. My men are going to tie you up. Don't try to make a break, because" - he
gestured toward the side door - "we have a few more on hand, to keep you
covered."
     At Barney's back, the door swung open to admit another pair of gunmen. The
first two put their guns away; brought out coils of wire and rolls of adhesive
tape from their pockets. Bundling the victims together, they began to bind and
gag them.
     Barney opened the front door of the room and sidled through, pushing the
valise ahead of him. He poked his head back into the room, to take a last look.
     Then, as an afterthought, Barney again addressed the helpless prisoners.
     "Blame me for this," he chuckled. "Anybody would turn crook, if the stakes
were big enough. That's the whole story. My boys downstairs are going to be as
surprised as you fellows -"
     Barney halted, staring at a window straight across the room. Outside the
pane, he could see the dull gleam of the bronze grille. It seemed to blacken as
Barney watched it. He didn't like the looks of the thing; it reminded him too
much of The Shadow. Then Barney chuckled.
     The Shadow wouldn't be at that window. There was a little balcony outside;
one that extended away from the window's edges, and therefore offered a good
lurking spot. But the bars weren't the sort that could be filed or pried loose.
Such a process would take a long time and make a lot of noise.
     It would be funny, Barney thought, if The Shadow really happened to be out
there. When Barney reached the street, he would signal his lieutenants and point
out the balcony. The Shadow would be a fine target, on that unprotected ledge.
     Unwittingly, Barney pushed the door a trifle wider, exposing the valise
that he carried, though he didn't know it. Then, stepping out into the hall, he
slammed the door behind him.
     Chuckling, Barney visualized the room just as he had left it: Five
prisoners in the corner, being bound by two thugs; another pair of armed
guards, at the side door across the room.
     The window did not matter; not in Barney's calculations. Nevertheless, the
window was to prove important.


     HARDLY had Barney stepped from sight before darkness shifted away from the
bronze grille. Something still remained near the bottom bars - a roundish
object, that gave a slight sputter.
     Barney would have noticed that tiny squidge of light. But the thugs who
had taken over for him were not in positions to observe it. Something was about
to happen very suddenly.
     Five-face was wrong, when he supposed that it would take a long while to
crash through the heavily barred window. He was right, however, in his guess
that noise was necessary.
     A huge flare of light blazed beyond the darkened pane, lighting the room
vividly, along with the outdoor scene. The gush of brilliance was accompanied
by a huge roar - the explosion of a powerful bomb that twisted metal bars into
hanging strands. Smashing inward, the blast blew the window into fragments,
turning the glass pane into powder.
     Like the men who were binding them, the prisoners in the corner were
flattened by the powerful concussion. The masked guards at the side door were
staggered. They clawed at the handkerchief masks that slipped across their
eyes. They didn't see the figure that came from the outer shelter of the
balcony, leaping through the gap that had once been a window.
     They heard him, that challenger who had blasted his way into the scene of
crime. They recognized him by the laugh that quivered, a fierce, challenging
crescendo amid the echoes of the bomb's explosion.
     Only one fighter could deliver such strident mockery, the taunt that all
men of evil dreaded.
     The Shadow!


     CHAPTER XIV

     CROOKS IN THE DARK

     A SWEEP of blackness in a room where lights seemed dim. Such was The
Shadow, as he wheeled beneath the tilted chandelier in the center of the
conference room.
     Though half shaken from its moorings, the chandelier still had lighted
bulbs; but their glow was feeble to the thugs who were yanking away their masks.
     The brilliance of the blast had dazzled everyone, except The Shadow. He
had held his cloak across his eyes, out on the balcony, while the short fuse
was completing his brief fizz. He had counted upon dazzling the crooks;
otherwise, he would not have made his tremendous entry, with the lives of five
prisoners at stake.
     Some of the financiers were bound, and the rest were practically helpless.
So The Shadow went to their rescue, first, completing it in rapid style. The
thugs who were doing the binding had put their guns away; they had barely
managed to get the weapons from their pockets, when The Shadow was upon them.
     He settled that pair with hard blows from his guns. Shots would have
betrayed his position, and he wanted no firing in this direction. Thugs at the
door across the room were still wondering where The Shadow was. Half blindly,
they turned toward the ruined window, supposing that he was keeping to its
shelter.
     Instead, The Shadow was skirting wide along the front of the room. Again,
crooks heard his laugh, almost at their elbows. They turned, tugging their gun
triggers, trying to aim point-blank at swirly blackness.
     The Shadow was on them before they fired. He sledged the pair out through
the door, driving them as human blockades against reserves who were lunging in
from a stairway.
     Guns roared at close range. New gunmen, who could see to fire, drove their
bullets home. But it wasn't The Shadow who received those deadly slugs. The
shots found the thugs that he had shoved ahead of him. His guns, blasting in
reply, sent sizzling bullets past the human shields and clipped the marksmen
beyond them.
     There was the sound of bodies tumbling down the stairs; shrieks that
turned into groans.
     Wheeling full about, The Shadow saw the room again. He hadn't heard the
front door rip open, but he guessed that it would be wide. On the threshold
stood Five-face, still in the guise of Barney Kelm, aiming his big revolver,
hoping to find The Shadow. He heard the tumble of bodies, saw the swirl of
returning blackness.
     Five-face dodged as he fired. The shot from his .45 went wide. Like the
mobbies who had perished in his service, crime's overlord was learning that a
heavy gun couldn't be handled quickly enough in combat with The Shadow. With a
smaller weapon, he might have been able to jab in a telling shot as he made his
dive.
     He was smart enough, however, to yank the door with him as he went.
Otherwise, The Shadow would have clipped him. The heavy door took the bullets
that The Shadow meant for Barney and splintered big chunks from the woodwork.
Racing across the room, The Shadow yanked the door open.
     Five-face had reached a stairway, leading down from the mezzanine. He had
left the valise at the top, and was scooping it up as he went. He disappeared
as The Shadow aimed.
     Pausing, the cloaked pursuer motioned for the rescued prisoners to follow,
which they did, some tugging themselves from the half-twisted wires that
partially bound them.
     Dashing down the stairs, The Shadow saw Barney darting across the lobby,
still lugging the valise. Barney was shouting something, and as The Shadow
aimed, a flood of punching men flung themselves in the way. They were Barney's
"boys," who still thought that their boss was honest.
     They were sluggers, those boys from Barney's stable, but they couldn't
reach The Shadow with their punches. Weaving among them, The Shadow made long
sweeps with his arms, and his guns gave him a much longer reach than his
opponents. Barney's boys were bouncing all around the floor, and Five-face did
not wait to see how they fared.
     He was gone, with his valise out through the rear exit, just as
Commissioner Weston and Inspector Cardona came in through the front of the
lobby, followed by a squad of headquarters men.


     IT was a puzzling sight: The Shadow scattering a crowd of earnest boxers,
who had so recently proven their ability to aid the law. One of those cases
wherein The Shadow might have been mistaken for a crook; for there had been
times when men of crime had donned black cloaks and hats, solely to confuse the
police.
     But The Shadow had foreseen a circumstance such as this, and had provided
for it.
     Hearing wild shouts from the mezzanine, Cardona looked up and saw five
frantic men, who could only be the financiers that Melbrun had mentioned in his
phone call to Weston. They were yelling something about Barney Kelm and a bag of
missing cash.
     As The Shadow turned toward the rear of the lobby, Cardona beckoned to his
men and gave the word:
     "Come on!"
     The police followed The Shadow through the exit, spilling rising boxers
who tried to stop them. Reaching the rear street, they were greeted by a
hurried fire from cover-up cars.
     There wasn't a sign of Barney, nor of The Shadow. But the cloaked fighter
suddenly denoted his presence, by opening fire from across the way. The Shadow
had made for the opposite darkness, to wait until crooks showed their hands.
     Again, the lieutenants who served Five-face were trying to spring a
surprise on the police, and The Shadow was turning the game on them. The crooks
didn't wait around, when they recognized the laugh that came with The Shadow's
gunfire. They spurted their cars for corners, glad to get away.
     Only a handful still remained on the scene; the usual brand of small-fry
who could be sacrificed to save the others.
     Police were spreading, to deal with those scattered foemen. Picking spurts
of thuggish guns, The Shadow supplied timely shots that picked off the nearest
snipers. The rest took to flight, with Cardona's men in full cry. Alone, The
Shadow began to scour alleyways in search of Five-face.
     This time, Five-face had made a rapid getaway, probably to a car parked in
another block. In his hunt, The Shadow was joined by Cliff Marsland and Hawkeye,
who had been on the outer fringes of the mob and had filtered through when the
cars sped away. Cliff only remembered the lieutenants and their cars, but
Hawkeye recalled another automobile in the offing.
     It had sped away during the brief fray in back of the hotel, and while
Hawkeye hadn't seen Barney Kelm, he had heard someone running toward the car in
question. Hawkeye's testimony settled the problem of Five-face. The master crook
had completed escape, along with robbery, despite The Shadow.
     Hearing spasmodic firing from the street that fronted the hotel, The
Shadow started in that direction to take a final hand. He arrived in time to
witness a near tragedy.
     Arnold Melbrun had just reached the hotel, and was stepping out of his
car. Melbrun wasn't alarmed by the excitement, until a pair of thugs bobbed
into sight and flung themselves upon him.
     They wanted Melbrun's coupe and were trying to slug him, to get the keys
he carried. Melbrun had a heavy cane with him and tried to ward off the attack.
People from the hotel were jumping in to help him, and with figures intervening,
The Shadow was unable to aim at Melbrun's attackers.
     It was Joe Cardona who brought the real rescue. He had been chasing the
thugs, and he was close enough to grab one who was shoving a revolver against
Melbrun's ribs. Hotel attendants captured the other hoodlum, but Melbrun was
shaky when people hauled him to his feet.
     He asked what had happened, and Cardona told him. All the while, the
captured thugs were snarling at detectives who had taken charge of them. All
that the thugs would mention was the name of Barney Kelm.
     "Sure, we was working for Barney," voiced one. "So what? He got away,
didn't he? He was lucky and we wasn't. It wasn't Barney's fault we didn't get
away."


     THE financiers were crowding about Melbrun, bewailing their ill luck.
Commissioner Weston joined them and explained that if they had shown the same
judgment as Melbrun, their money would be safe. But Melbrun shook his head,
when he heard the truth about Barney Kelm.
     "I suspected trouble," he said, "but not from Kelm. I would have trusted
him fully. I still have my money, commissioner, but only because the bank was
closed when I arrived from Norfolk."
     Blood was trickling from Melbrun's forehead, where one of the thugs had
given a glancing blow with a gun. When Weston offered to have a detective drive
him home, Melbrun gratefully accepted the offer.
     The coupe pulled away, with Melbrun leaning back beside the driver's seat.
Turning matters over to Cardona, the commissioner summoned his official car.
     By then, The Shadow had glided away toward a solitary taxicab parked down
the street. His next destination was the Cobalt Club, where, as Cranston, he
would hear Weston's version of new crime.
     But The Shadow was looking beyond this night, to a time when Five-face, no
longer Barney Kelm, would reappear in another guise, intent on further crime.
     Despite handicaps, The Shadow had nearly ruined the robbery at the Hotel
Clairmont; but he knew that Five-face, overconfident because of success, would
not admit the fact. The Shadow was sure that the master crook would strike
again, as boldly as ever before.
     One move more could be one too many for the intrepid criminal who had
dared The Shadow's might!


     CHAPTER XV

     CRIME ON THE SIDE

     THE evanishment of Barney Kelm was no more singular than the
disappearances of Jake Smarley and Flush Tygert. By this time, the public was
getting used to crooks who staged one big thrust and then evaporated. Such
things, criminologists said, always came in cycles.
     It was all very plausible. Nobody in the underworld had ever rated Smarley
high. Though he fluked his robbery at Melbrun's, he had managed to hide himself
completely away; therefore, a smarter crook, like Flush, had thought it easy to
follow Smarley's example, with better success.
     Barney Kelm was a different sort of case. A professor was writing a book
about him, using long words, like egocentrism and megalomania, to show that
acclaim had gone to Barney's head and twisted his brain. Public hero or public
enemy, only a hairbreadth separated them, according to the professor.
     All this was a tribute to Five-face, though neither the public nor the
professor knew it. The master criminal had done far more than disguise himself
facially. He had established and effaced three different personalities as
widely separated as the points of a triangle.
     In fact, Five-face had his lieutenants guessing. Gathered in their shabby
apartment, the three were speculating heavily as to what had become of their
chief.
     "It's been three days, now," argued Grease, "and we haven't heard a thing
from the guy. It's giving me the jitters!"
     "It was a week last time," reminded Banker. "So why should we worry?"
     "Because we need dough," put in Clip. "Five-face knows it. He's got dough,
too, from the last job. Two hundred and fifty grand of it."
     Banker shook his head. Reaching for a newspaper, he pointed to a paragraph.
     "The cash is hot," he stated. "Those Wall Street guys gave Barney big
bills right out of their banks. They didn't expect Barney to grab the mazuma,
but they had the numbers listed, just the same."
     Clip was still in an argumentative mood.
     "We need dough," he insisted. "We've had to hire some new torpedoes, to be
ready for the next job. What are we going to pay them with?"
     "They'll wait," returned Banker. "Take that guy Cliff Marsland, for
example. We were smart, hiring him. He wants to get in a lick at The Shadow,
and knows we're the fellows who can put him in line for it.
     "The little guy, Hawkeye, is another good bet. Dough doesn't worry him. He
gets lonely unless he's trailing somebody, and we've promised him a lot of work,
which is what he wants. Say - I'll bet Hawkeye could even pick up The Shadow's
trail and keep it!"
     "You'd better put him on the trail of some hamburgers," snapped Clip. "We
won't be eating after tonight, unless we hear from Five-face."
     "Hamburgers sound good," spoke up Grease, "with onions on the side."
     Banker was looking at the newspaper. His eyes, narrowing, showed a gleam,
as he heard what Grease said.
     "Something on the side," remarked Banker. "Say - that isn't a bad idea.
While Five-face is going after hamburgers, we can try onions."
     The others thought that Banker was trying to be funny, but he wasn't. He
showed the newspaper and said:
     "Take a gander at that guy, Clip."
     "Which one?"
     Clip chuckled as he put the question. He was looking at a row of three
photographs, showing Smarley, Flush and Barney, with the caption: "Three Wanted
Men."
     "I don't mean those photos of Five-face," said Banker. "Over here, Clip,
on the other page. This glamour boy with the fancy moniker: Count Raoul
Fondelac."


     THE picture showed a man with a foreign face, high aristocratic nose, thin
lips that had a bored droop at the corners. Count Fondelac fitted his name; he
looked like a nobleman. His age was problematical. He could have been called a
young man who looked oldish, or an old man who looked youngish.
     "His nibs is stopping at the Hotel Bayonne," declared Banker, "a very
exclusive place. You couldn't walk through the lobby without a dress suit, but
I'll bet it would be easy to sneak in the back way."
     "To rob the guy?" demanded Clip. "Counts and such don't have a dime; not
the sort that hang around New York. They're big-time panhandlers, that's all
they are!"
     "Count Fondelac is engaged to Albertina Adquin," continued Banker,
referring to the newspaper. "You've heard of that dame, Clip. She's had three
husbands, worth about ten million bucks apiece. Now she's buying a fourth one."
     "Yeah. So what?"
     "I'm just wondering," said Banker, "Why she shouldn't buy him from us."
     Clip brightened instantly, and Grease showed sudden interest. It was Clip
who queried:
     "You mean, why don't we snatch the guy?"
     "That's it!"
     The three men scanned the newspaper eagerly. They learned that Count
Fondelac was to be the guest at a reception in the Adquin mansion at ten
o'clock in the evening. It was only half past seven, which gave them plenty of
time to operate.
     Leaving the apartment, they contacted men across the street, told them to
follow in another car. Among the small group of hirelings were Cliff and
Hawkeye, who had worked themselves into the service of the gang lieutenants, at
The Shadow's suggestion.
     It wasn't until they stopped near the Hotel Bayonne that The Shadow's
agents learned what the game was to be. Banker Dreeb had taken charge; he
posted Cliff and others near the rear of the hotel, and sent Hawkeye ahead to
reconnoiter a route to Fondelac's hotel suite. During that trip, Hawkeye
performed a double job.
     Not only did he find a service entrance that connected with a rear
stairway; he crawled out through a window and took a passage to the front
street, where he sneaked up to a taxicab that had parked in the hack stand.
     Moe Shrevnitz was the driver of that cab; he had trailed the cars after
they left the old apartment.
     Small, hunch-shouldered in manner, Hawkeye poked a wizened face in through
the cab window and gave the facts to Moe. By the time Hawkeye was sneaking back
to join Banker and his companions, Moe was driving away to put in a call to
Burbank. The way matters were fixed at present, such a call would bring The
Shadow in rapid order.
     Hawkeye made a lengthy report that stalled the expedition for several
minutes. Having finally impressed the details on Banker, Hawkeye joined the
cordon, taking the next post to Cliff's. Both agents watched Banker enter the
service door of the hotel, followed by Grease and Clip.
     The waiting period seemed long, though it was a very few minutes. There
came a whisper from the darkness, one that drew Cliff and Hawkeye close
together. They couldn't see The Shadow in the gloom, but they could sense his
presence. Hawkeye gave the necessary details; a cloaked figure glided forward.
     There was dim light near the service entrance. It had shown the gang
lieutenants plainly when they entered. But The Shadow passed that hazard,
observed only by his own agents. To others, posted by Banker, the blackness
that glided beneath the light was nothing more than a flicker of the light
itself.


     THE SHADOW quickly made up the few minutes that he had lost. When he
reached Fondelac's floor, he saw a valet come out from the suite, and knew from
the man's manner that nothing could have happened yet.
     Choosing the next door, The Shadow picked its lock with a tool that
resembled a tiny pair of tweezers. He stepped into a bedroom of Fondelac's
suite.
     From there, The Shadow looked into a lavish living room. He saw the count
standing in front of a mirror, admiring his evening clothes. From a vase of
flowers, Fondelac tried to choose one which suited his present mood. Had he
continued to look into the mirror, he would have noticed something that The
Shadow saw.
     The window in another room was opening. Into the darkness of the room came
three men, one by one. Despite the gloom, The Shadow could see the glitter of
their drawn revolvers.
     Coolly, The Shadow drew an automatic from beneath his cloak. His doorway
had a perfect background of almost solid blackness. Since crime was in the
wind, The Shadow was quite willing to abolish a few of Five-face's lieutenants,
if occasion demanded.
     Still, he was hoping that things might work out. These crooks would be
satisfied with carry-over money; perhaps a robbery would suit them, instead of
a kidnapping.
     Provided that Fondelac had any money. That was the real problem.
     As the crooks moved in on the unsuspecting count, The Shadow's hopes were
dwindling, for he could see eagerness in the eyes of the men who planned the
abduction. As Fondelac happened to glance into the mirror, The Shadow's hand
was tightening on its gun.
     Then, with a sweep, The Shadow slid the weapon beneath his cloak and eased
back into the darkness!
     Whatever happened, The Shadow was willing to be a mere witness to the
affair. Count Fondelac had seen the mobsters in the mirror, and his face had
registered an expression that was sufficient for The Shadow.
     This was to be crime with a most curious twist, that promised the very
results The Shadow wanted!


     CHAPTER XVI

     THE FOURTH FACE

     HIS fingers placing a flower in his buttonhole, Count Fondelac let his
sleek hands turn palm forward. They were not only empty, they were practically
raised, when he happened to turn in the direction of the invaders.
     Seeing the three crooks, Fondelac gave a gasp to denote surprise and let
his hands move slowly apart. He stood quite helpless, and made no effort to
change his predicament. Except for the trifling gasp, the count remained silent.
     Banker moved forward, as spokesman for the three.
     "Just take it easy, count," he said. "We want you to come along with us."
     "Why so, m'sieu'?" queried Fondelac, in a rather mild tone. "I already
have an engagement."
     "Yes, and you can keep it," declared Banker, "provided that you can make
the future countess listen, when you call her on the phone. We're going to hold
you until she coughs over some big dough, pretty boy!"
     "Dough?" Fondelac looked puzzled. "Ah, oui." He nodded. "You mean money.
What is it we shall do - play that game with the cards, that you call poker?"
     "That's it," put in Clip, giving Banker a nudge. "We want to deal you in
on a poker game, over at our place. If you lose, you can call up your girl
friend and tell her to send over what you owe us."
     Grease was grinning from the background. He was beginning to see how this
kidnapping job could be managed without Fondelac ever realizing what it was.
Apparently, the count thought that poker parties were something like a
fraternity initiation.
     "I shall go," decided Fondelac. "But there is one thing which I must
remind you. I have played this game of poker" - he gestured toward a table and
a pack of cards upon it - "and I have found one thing strange."
     Fondelac was reaching for the cards. Guns nudged close to him, in case he
reached for one of his own. But the visiting crooks weren't expecting trouble
from the count. They simply thought it best to humor him, to help their own
game along.
     "There is a hand like this," said Fondelac. He counted four clubs face
upward on the table. "But it is not enough. You must have five, I am told. So -"
     Laying the pack aside with his left hand, he swept his right over the four
clubs. The bunched cards spread apart; in their midst was a fifth club. In
perfect fashion, Count Fondelac had executed the stunt that Flush Tygert had
made famous!
     Guns lowered in the hands that gripped them, as though the sheer weight of
the weapons had carried them down. Three astounded thugs had lost their muscular
control, though one of them, Grease Rickel, still had vocal cords that
functioned. He blurted:
     "Five-face!"


     COUNT FONDELAC gave a grin that was anything but aristocratic. It was the
grin that belonged to Barney Kelm. When he spoke again, he used a drawl that
was reminiscent of Flush Tygert, though there was something of Jake Smarley in
his voice, as well.
     "I was going to call you tonight," said Five-face, "after I got away from
this shindig that Albertina Adquin is throwing for me. It's kind of tough,
being Count Fondelac. I have to stick around Park Avenue. It would look funny
if I barged into your place."
     He gestured for his lieutenants to sit down. Then, stroking his chin,
Five-face remarked slowly:
     "A cute idea, trying to kidnap me. Only, it wouldn't work. That fool
Albertina would call up all the lawyers in town, and hire a special train to
bring the F.B.I. in from Washington. No, I'd better go through with the next
job the way I planned it."
     "What's that to be?" asked Clip. "Are you going to marry the dame?"
     "Not a chance," returned Five-face. "All she'd ever hand me would be
allowance money. I started this Fondelac racket one time when I was abroad.
There was a real Count Fondelac, and he faked it for me to be his successor.
     "I paid him, of course, and he did what I expected. Finished himself off
by drinking absinthe as fast as he could buy it. So I became Fondelac - when I
wanted to be - and it was worth the price. You see" - he gave a broad smile -
"Fondelac and Flush often traveled on the same boat. A good out, in case of
trouble."
     Banker put a query:
     "How did the Adquin dame get hold of you?"
     "By accident," replied the fake count. "I thought it was a good break, but
it didn't turn out that way. I've got to get rid of her, and the only way is to
get rid of Fondelac."
     "Like you did the other faces," nodded Banker. "What's the next job - to
trim the dame out of a lot of dough?"
     "It won't work," replied Five-face. "No, the racket is this: I rate high
as Fondelac, and a lot of people think I already have nicked the dame for
plenty. Tonight, I'm going to put the clamps on some guy with plenty of dough,
and hook him. I'll sell him fake bonds, telling him that Albertina gave them to
me."
     "Good enough," agreed Banker, "but how do we come into it?"
     "The same as usual. If the guy gets wise, I'll have to lam like I did
before. It means a cover-up, because if the victim won't hand over the cash,
I'll take it from him."
     Lieutenants showed their approval of the scheme. While they were nodding,
Fondelac drew some money from a wallet and distributed a few hundred dollars to
each man.
     "That will carry you over until tomorrow night," he said. "I don't know
who the dub is going to be yet, but I'll pick one out at the reception. I'll
add the take to the rest of the loot, and we'll split afterward.
     "I couldn't keep the stuff around here, not with the snoopy valet that I
hired. Don't worry, though. I've got it stowed away, and I know how to freeze
the hot stuff. So let's have a drink before I start to the reception."
     Five-face folded back a screen, to display a miniature barroom, with an
array of bottles and glasses on shelves behind the mahogany counter.


     WHILE Count Fondelac was mixing drinks for his uninvited friends, The
Shadow left the suite by his own route. Descending the stairway, he reached the
ground floor.
     There, instead of leaving through the service entrance, The Shadow peered
into the hotel lobby. He saw the porter's room, empty and dark as he expected.
In hotels like the Bayonne, the porter was seldom in his quarters. Usually, the
clerk summoned a porter when guests called for one.
     Crossing the dim lobby of the Bayonne was easy for anyone inside the
place, since only the doorman kept tabs on unlikely strangers.
     Reaching the porter's room, The Shadow used his tiny flashlight and found
exactly what he wanted: a cardboard box of the size used by florists. Removing
his cloak, hat, and other accouterments, he packed them in the box and wrapped
it.
     He was Lamont Cranston when he stepped from the porter's room, the box
beneath his arm; but the clerk did not notice his arrival until he was almost
at the desk. Seeing a gentleman in evening clothes, the clerk supposed that he
had entered by the main door.
     Giving Cranston's name, The Shadow asked for Count Fondelac. The clerk
called the suite where Five-face was entertaining his lieutenants, and soon
announced that Mr. Cranston could go upstairs. Before turning to the elevators,
The Shadow laid his package on the desk.
     "Kindly call the Cobalt Club," he requested, in Cranston's style. "Ask
them to send my limousine over here. And by the way, will you turn this package
over to your doorman and ask him to deliver it to my chauffeur?"
     Upstairs, Five-face was stepping out from behind the bar, which filled an
alcove in his living room. He was urging his lieutenants to finish up their
drinks. Gesturing to the alcove, he added:
     "Get in here, all three of you, and keep quiet. I know this fellow
Cranston; he's worth a few million bucks, and he's been invited to the
reception. That's why he's stopping by. Watch me handle him."
     The lieutenants moved behind the bar. Five-face pulled the screen in
place, completely hiding them, though they were able to see through the cracks
and watch what happened in the living room.
     There was a buzz from the door. Five-face answered it. Immediately, he was
Count Fondelac, sophisticated of face, bowing in manner, as he shook hands with
the gentleman whom he addressed as "M'sieu' Cranston."
     Behind the screen, the lieutenants watched in admiration. It was
impossible to guess that Fondelac was anyone other than himself. The same
applied to Cranston, though they did not guess it.
     Here was a historical meeting: The Shadow, foe of evil, shaking hands with
Five-face, master of crime, under the gaze of the super-crook's own lieutenants!
     Fortunately, only The Shadow knew the full details of the situation.
Neither Five-face nor the others guessed his real identity.
     Posing as Cranston, The Shadow invited Fondelac to ride with him to the
reception, and the count agreed to go. But behind the mask of Fondelac, a keen
brain was at work, and The Shadow knew it. He had expected that it would be.
Five-face was taking The Shadow's bait.
     "Ah, M'sieu' Cranston" - Fondelac's tone had a pleasant purr - "this is
one excellent meeting. You are the man who can tell me what I wish to know. I
have some French government bonds, which Albertina gave me, of which I must
dispose, since Albertina insists that I never return to la belle France.
     "Perhaps they would be a good exchange for some American securities. But I
know nothing" - he shrugged - "of your investments here. I may lose money, but -
pouf!" He snapped his fingers. "What is money to me, when I have my Albertina?"
     The question was logical enough, and provided its own answer. No one ever
thought of Albertina Adquin except in terms of money, and that in big figures.
As Fondelac expected, Cranston showed immediate interest.
     He asked more about the bonds. Fondelac recalled their year of issue, and
finally set a price on them, which was about two thirds their actual value.
What he did not mention was the fact that he had already told his lieutenants;
that the bonds in question were counterfeits.
     "Suppose we meet tomorrow night," suggested Cranston. "We can get together
at the Cobalt Club, say about eight. Bring the bonds along, Count, and I shall
have some American securities to show you."


     THE two were talking in hundred-thousand-dollar terms, as they left the
suite together. It was Fondelac who closed the door; his face dropped its
suavity, as he grinned back toward the screen and gestured to the hidden
lieutenants.
     Cranston had set the place, even the hour, which was all the lieutenants
had to know. As soon as the door went shut, they came from hiding. Pushing back
the screen, Banker suggested that they have another drink before they cleared
out.
     "We'll do a sneak from here," declared Banker, "and get the mob away. This
Fondelac stunt is the best bet that Five-face has staged yet. He can count on us
at the right time tomorrow."
     Outside the hotel, two members of the picked mob had sneaked away from the
rest. Cliff and Hawkeye were conferring in an alleyway, wondering why they
hadn't heard from The Shadow. The lapse of time made them think that Fondelac
had been abducted, and that The Shadow had run into grief trying to save him.
     Suddenly, Hawkeye gripped Cliff's arm, pointed from the mouth of the alley
to the front of the hotel. The Shadow's agents stared in utter amazement at two
men who came from the main door and entered a waiting limousine.
     One was Lamont Cranston, otherwise The Shadow. He was arm in arm with a
suave-looking friend, who could only be Count Raoul Fondelac. Rescuer and
victim were leaving the Hotel Bayonne as if nothing at all had happened!
     There was added mystery when the agents rejoined the mobbies and found
that the lieutenants had returned. It was Banker who simply said that the job
was off and that the crew could have cash that had been promised them.
     That Fondelac was Five-face did not occur to Cliff and Hawkeye. The fact
would have puzzled them even more, considering Cranston's friendly departure
with the pretended count. It would have told them, however, that tonight's
strange events would bode even stranger consequences.
     With The Shadow and Five-face matching wits in each other's company,
anything might happen!


     CHAPTER XVII

     BEFORE EIGHT

     IT was late afternoon and Commissioner Weston was leaving his office,
accompanied by Lamont Cranston. All afternoon, Weston had been talking to the
financiers who had been robbed by Barney Kelm, trying to get any sort of clues
regarding the missing fight promoter.
     With the Barney matter a total blank, Weston decided to check on previous
cases, as a matter of routine, even though he had no expectations of results.
     "We'll go to Breddle first," said the commissioner, "and see if anyone at
the Diamond Mart can remember anything about Flush Tygert. After that, we can
drop in at Melbrun's office and thrash over the case of Jake Smarley."
     The Shadow smiled at the commissioner's use of the word "thrash." The term
"hash" would have been better. Nevertheless, The Shadow was willing to encourage
Weston. He wanted the commissioner to be in the proper mood for the coming
evening, when The Shadow intended to introduce the law to Count Fondelac and
surprise the pretended nobleman in a fashion that would end his career as
Five-face.


     THE trip to the Diamond Mart took more than half an hour. It was nearly
six when the commissioner and Cranston arrived at Melbrun's office, to find the
importer hard at work.
     Melbrun was planning a trip to Buenos Aires, to open up new channels in
South American trade. He had practically forgotten the matter of Smarley.
     "I'll be tied up here for the next couple of hours," said Melbrun.
"Suppose I see you tomorrow, commissioner. Of course, if the matter is
important, I could stop by at the club this evening."
     "It is not important," returned Weston. "Besides, I shall not be at the
Cobalt Club tonight. I have been invited to a banquet, and will have to go
there."
     "Why not stop off anyway, Melbrun?" inquired The Shadow, in Cranston's
fashion. "I happen to have something urgent on my mind, and you are the very
man to help me with it."
     "What can that be, Cranston?"
     "Some French government bonds," replied The Shadow. "I intend to exchange
some American securities for them. I would like the opinion of a man versed in
international exchange. You are the very person, Melbrun."
     Melbrun agreed to be at the club soon after eight o'clock. The visitors
left, and Weston promptly inquired why Cranston happened to be buying foreign
bonds. The Shadow mentioned that he was purchasing them from Count Fondelac.
     "I might suggest that you slip away from the banquet shortly before
eight," added The Shadow. "I would like you to be present, too, commissioner."
     "Just why?"
     "Because I don't trust Fondelac," was the reply. "It would also be an
excellent idea to have Inspector Cardona outside, with a picked squad. But
impress upon him that he is to restrain himself. Fondelac is very clever; he
might have friends on hand to warn him if police were about. The fellow strikes
me as being an experienced swindler."
     The thing intrigued Weston. Watching the commissioner, The Shadow noticed
his flickers of expression and read them correctly. Weston did not, in any
wise, class Count Fondelac with such crooks as Smarley, Flush and Barney.
Therefore, the commissioner could be depended upon to handle his part of the
job in smooth style.
     Weston could be smooth enough under proper circumstances; and that applied
to a chance meeting at the Cobalt Club, where the commissioner was a member and
therefore likely to drop in at any time.
     Dropping off at the club, The Shadow strolled about, looking over
strategic spots. He knew that tonight's task would be no set-up. It wasn't just
a case of dealing with a smart swindler, as The Shadow had led Weston to
believe. Five-face would have his usual quota of reserves, headed by his three
lieutenants.
     The master crook was anxious to dispose of the Fondelac personality; to
efface it forever, as he had three others. He wouldn't care if he identified
himself with mobbies in a spectacular style. The law had not guessed that three
previous crimes had been staged by one master crook.
     Fondelac, of all people, would never be linked with Smarley, Flush or
Barney, no matter how he staged the coming crime.
     In looking over the setting, The Shadow remembered that his agents would
be present, as actual members of a crooked horde. He saw ways in which they
could play a part. When he called Burbank, The Shadow included special
instructions that were to go to Cliff and Hawkeye.
     Others, too, were given orders. Harry Vincent, long in The Shadow's
service, was an agent who could come to the Cobalt Club at Cranston's
invitation. Clyde Burke, a reporter on the New York Classic, was another who
could logically be in this neighborhood. As for Moe, he and his cab would
certainly be on hand.
     Down the street was a small apartment house where a uniformed doorman
could take a post without exciting suspicion. Tenants in the building would
merely think that the management had decided to make the place fashionable. So
The Shadow ordered Burbank to contact Jericho, a big African, and tell him to
put on a fancy uniform for this evening.
     Five-face would be walking into a double mesh when he came to the Cobalt
Club as Count Fondelac. The police formed one net; The Shadow's agents, the
other.


     DINING as Cranston, The Shadow forgot the clock. Fondelac was to arrive at
eight, the hour that The Shadow had set for Melbrun. If anything, the count
would probably be late, in keeping with his rather indifferent character.
     Hence it was a mild surprise, even for The Shadow, when an attendant
entered the grillroom, at quarter of eight, to announce that Count Fondelac had
arrived to see Mr. Cranston.
     The grillroom was the proper meeting place. Telling the waiter to clear
the table, The Shadow gave word to show Count Fondelac downstairs. When
Fondelac arrived, he saw Cranston rising from the table, holding a leather
portfolio beneath his arm.
     "Sorry to be early," purred Fondelac. "But it is on account of Albertina.
She insists that she must go to the theater this evening. So instead of coming
at eight o'clock, I find that I must leave by then."
     There wasn't a slip in Fondelac's manner to indicate that he had obtained
any knowledge of The Shadow's preparations. It might be that his mention of
Albertina was the truth, and not an alibi. In his turn, The Shadow was very
careful to give no indication that he wanted to hold Fondelac past the hour
stated.
     Five-face produced the French bonds. They were very clever counterfeits,
but they did not deceive The Shadow. He had been to his bank that afternoon and
had examined French bonds thoroughly. Glaring from Fondelac's bonds were various
errors, tiny to the ordinary eye but magnified to The Shadow's gaze.
     In the detection of false securities, The Shadow had no equal. At
Cranston's home in New Jersey he kept a collection of counterfeit stocks and
bonds, trophies of his battles against crime. He had gone over them thoroughly,
this very morning, looking for samples of French forgeries.
     There had been none in The Shadow's collection, though he had many
varieties of worthless paper. At least, Five-face was using judgment in
peddling a new brand of counterfeit, which had never before been foisted in
America. But The Shadow's inspection of genuine French bonds enabled him to
know that Five-face was going through with the swindle.
     Five-face was supremely clever. Smart enough, in fact, to change his game
at the last minute. The Shadow had foreseen that the crooked count might even
walk in with genuine bonds, if he suspected Cranston's bait. To make this
transaction complete, The Shadow had to be sure that the bonds were
counterfeit, before he took them. That part of the game was certain.
     Fondelac rated the bonds at two hundred thousand dollars, a third less
than their face value. They were an issue that was soon to mature, and the
French government would surely meet its obligation, Fondelac insisted, despite
wartime conditions. Apparently convinced that the deal was a good one, The
Shadow opened his portfolio.
     He spread various issues in front of Fondelac: stocks in copper mines and
established oil companies; bonds guaranteed by large, thriving concerns. He
even helped Fondelac pick out the ones that seemed best. Then, in Cranston's
style, The Shadow remarked:
     "But this is only my opinion, Count. For your benefit, I have invited a
gentleman named Arnold Melbrun to join us. I think that he will render an
impartial judgment."
     There wasn't the slightest change on the face of Fondelac. His expression
indicated that he had never heard of Melbrun. In fact, The Shadow did not
expect such mention to bother Five-face. But there was another reason for
Fondelac's indifference.
     "I must keep my engagement," the crook insisted. "I am sorry, but I cannot
remain to meet your friend - What was his name, m'sieu'? It has slipped me."
     "Arnold Melbrun," repeated The Shadow. "He should be here at any moment.
Wait, Count - here he is!"


     IT wasn't Melbrun who stepped into the grillroom. The arrival was
Commissioner Weston. Again, The Shadow was watching the features of Fondelac;
they were not at all perturbed. In fact, Five-face simply gave a pleased nod
when Cranston introduced Weston as the police commissioner.
     "It is one honor, M'sieu' Commissioner," said Fondelac, with a profound
bow. Then, turning to The Shadow: "I shall take these that you offer."
     This time, The Shadow caught a sudden gleam from the eyes of Fondelac.
Five-face was watching Cranston put away the French bonds. On the table lay
Cranston's securities, double the amount that the trade required.
     To give Fondelac his choice, Cranston had brought negotiable stocks and
bonds that totaled considerably more than half a million dollars!
     Would Five-face walk out with only half of those, letting the transaction
appear bona fide until the fraud of the French bonds was discovered?
     Or would he show his hand in full, by seizing all of them and taking to
headlong flight, as he had done on other occasions?
     The Shadow already knew the answer. Five-face would swallow the full bait.
Nevertheless, he knew the risk and sensed that this might prove a trap. To some
degree, he had to play the role of Fondelac; even more, he wanted to know that
flight would prove sure.
     It was Weston who paved the way for Five-face. Turning to The Shadow, the
commissioner remarked in a brisk tone:
     "Inspector Cardona is coming here, Cranston. I told him that I wanted him
to wait outside for Melbrun. I've been worried about Melbrun lately."
     Weston meant what he said. Rather than crimp the Fondelac matter, he had
actually told Cardona to look out for Melbrun. The commissioner did not realize
that such instructions could nullify the trap, so far as the law was concerned.
But Five-face recognized it.
     Like a flash, the slow-moving Fondelac became a human dynamo. With a sweep
of his left hand, he scooped all of Cranston's bonds from the table and jammed
them underneath his coat. Spinning toward the stairway, he whipped his right
hand from his coat tail, bringing out a revolver.
     There was a murderous glint in the eyes of Five-face, as the supercrook
began his sensational departure. He was ready to kill if either Commissioner
Weston or Lamont Cranston made a single gesture to halt him!


     CHAPTER XVIII

     THE BANISHED TRAIL

     UNTIL that instant, Five-face could not have known that Cranston was The
Shadow. If he had, he would have shown his hand before. In all his guises,
Five-face had encountered stern opposition from The Shadow, and could have
asked nothing better than to slay his mortal foe in combat.
     Had Cranston's hand gone for a gun, Five-face would have known what it
meant. His own revolver already drawn, the master crook would have been prompt
with the blast. It was impossible, under present conditions, for The Shadow to
stop the pretended Count Fondelac.
     Such a move, however, was possible for Cranston. He showed just what could
be done, in a very surprising style.
     Cranston was seated; his hands, having laid aside the portfolio, were on
the table edge. They clamped, as he made an upward, forward lunge. The light
table came with him, launched in a powerful fling for the darting figure of
Fondelac.
     Completing that upward hurl, The Shadow ended it with a dive to the floor,
tripping Weston with a side-swinging foot.
     Five-face didn't see that clever finish, which might have told him that
Cranston was The Shadow. Half dodging, Five-face opened fire, splintering the
cloth-covered table that was flying toward him. He thought that those bullets
would reach the men beyond, not knowing that they had flattened beneath the
level of his fire.
     The bullet-ripped table struck the crook's shoulder. It wasn't heavy
enough to floor him. It was merely a portable table, of very light
construction. But the tablecloth flapped forward, covering the head and
shoulders of Fondelac.
     It was like a living shroud that had flopped in from space, to play its
part in ruining crime. As Five-face tried to snatch the cloth away, he merely
wrapped it tighter. He was blundering toward the stairway, mouthing muffled
yells. In a way, the thing was ludicrous.
     The Shadow had counted on the table; not the cloth. His purpose had been
simply to spoil an enemy's aim. Instead, he had entangled Five-face in a mesh
that rendered the criminal physically helpless. In trying to reach the stairs,
Five-face stumbled, and lost his gun as he struggled against the tangle.
     With a shove, The Shadow thrust Commissioner Weston to his feet, sending
him after the master crook, It was the simplest possible job for Weston. All
that he had to do was tighten the cloth that already held Five-face half
smothered.
     Having propelled Weston in the right direction, The Shadow came full about
and drove for the kitchen door. He knew that Five-face had yelled with purpose;
that the tangled crook expected prompt aid. Such assistance could be coming
only from the kitchen.
     The door came flinging inward. Catching it with a side step, The Shadow
slashed it shut again, ramming it against the faces of two thugs who were
driving through. Then, pulling the door wide, he hurled himself upon the
staggered pair, slugging them with a gun that he yanked into play.
     Other invaders were in the kitchen, lunging toward The Shadow. He met them
with bullets, and new guns echoed the blasts. Cliff and Hawkeye were with the
mob, nicking crooks in expert style.
     The surge became a sprawl of bewildered, wounded thugs. The way trouble
overtook them, they thought that The Shadow must have started it; yet they
couldn't see a sign of any cloaked opponent!
     Leaving the crippled crooks to Cliff and Hawkeye, The Shadow wheeled back
to the grillroom, still Cranston to all who saw him. As he shoved through the
door, a hurtling figure met him and began to grapple. Twisting his foe about,
The Shadow met him eye to eye.
     The face of Lamont Cranston was thrust squarely against the countenance of
his friend, Commissioner Weston!
     They broke apart. Showing Fondelac's gun, which he had picked up from the
floor, the commissioner tried to explain things.
     "I thought they had trapped you, Cranston!" he panted. "I saw them yank
you into the kitchen. In my excitement, I forgot Fondelac -"


     THRUSTING Weston aside, The Shadow started for the stairway. Snapping from
his stupor, the Commissioner followed. The tablecloth was lying on the steps,
but there was no sign of Fondelac. He had dashed up to the foyer, carrying
Cranston's stocks and bonds with him.
     Things hadn't happened as Five-face wanted. He had expected to be well
away before the commotion started below; more than that, he had counted upon
his gun, which he no longer had.
     He crossed the foyer at a lope, clutching the bonds beneath his coat. As
he reached the outer door, a squatty man shoved in to block him.
     Inspector Cardona had heard the shooting within the Cobalt Club and was on
hand, with a squad behind him.
     "Quickly, inspector!" exclaimed Five-face. "I'm Count Fondelac. The
commissioner sent me up to find you. He said to rush your men downstairs and" -
faltering, the crook gave a wince - "and to help me out of here. I'm wounded."
     Cardona pointed his men through the doorway. Turning, Joe rushed Fondelac
out into a waiting squad car. He knew who Fondelac was, and he didn't want the
Count to die on his hands.
     Joe Cardona believed that Fondelac was really wounded, because he had
noticed how the man was clutching his hands tight against his side. Joe didn't
guess that the count was really hanging on to a bundle of stolen securities
that he had pilfered from Lamont Cranston.
     Once in the car, Fondelac relaxed and sat back with a long sigh. Cardona
told the driver to get them to the nearest hospital in a hurry. He didn't hear
the shouts that came from back at the Cobalt Club, where the inrushing squad
had met Cranston and Weston coming out.
     The squad car was around the corner, halfway along the block, when
Fondelac pointed to a cab parked in front of a small hotel. He gestured for
Cardona to stop the squad car.
     "I am better now, inspector," informed Fondelac. "I can go to my apartment
in the taxicab. The commissioner wants you to return. He said that you are to
wait for M'sieu' Melbrun."
     "Forget Melbrun," snapped Cardona. "You've got to get to a hospital,
Count, because of that bullet."
     "Bullet?" Fondelac looked puzzled; then he laughed lightly. "Non,
inspector. The ruffian did not have a gun. He used his fist, this way" - he
clenched his hand - "and gave me one big punch."
     The car had stopped. Count Fondelac stepped to the street; Cardona saw him
wince and tighten his hands, as though the punch still hurt him. Cardona was
still staring, when Fondelac entered the cab and rode away.
     Joe turned to the driver of the squad car.
     "A punch in the belly!" growled Cardona. "I ought to have handed that
sissy another on the jaw! Say, if Fondelac didn't get hit, I wonder what all
the shooting was about."
     Abruptly, Cardona quit speculating about the past. He had the present to
think about. More shooting was in evidence, from the direction of the Cobalt
Club.
     Remembering that the commissioner had ordered him to cover Melbrun's
arrival, Cardona promptly forgot Fondelac, except to congratulate himself that
he had sent the softy from harm's way. Joe ordered the driver to speed around
the block and get back to the Cobalt Club.


     THINGS were happening very rapidly outside the club. Two groups had
witnessed Fondelac's departure with Cardona and had been puzzled because of it.
     One group consisted of the lieutenants who served Five-face. They were
afraid to take pot shots at Cardona, because of Fondelac. The fact that
Five-face had not called upon them to open fire was sufficient to keep them
quiet.
     The other watchers were The Shadow's agents. Farther away, they supposed
that Cardona had taken Fondelac into custody. Thus, everything had remained
latent, until a surge of men appeared on the sidewalk. Commissioner Weston was
with Cardona's squad, yelling for cars in which to begin pursuit.
     Guns talked promptly from across the street. The commissioner dived for
shelter and the detectives scattered. They were saved only by the intervention
of a friend who had followed them from the club: Lamont Cranston.
     From the doorway, which offered satisfactory cover, The Shadow picked out
the source of the first wild shots and responded with a prompt fire.
     Though The Shadow's bullets took effect, he was unable to get the result
he wanted; namely, a prompt pursuit of Five-face. Grease, Banker, and Clip were
at least giving their chief the support that he needed for a getaway.
     Moreover, the lieutenants were unusually bold tonight. They and their
henchmen were ready to dare the shots offered by the lone marksman in the
doorway of the club.
     Piling in from many angles, they made for Weston and the diving
detectives. The attackers were too many, too widespread, even for The Shadow to
stop them, particularly as snipers had begun a fire toward the doorway, to hold
back the lone sharpshooter.
     Perhaps The Shadow's laugh would have diverted the surge, but he preferred
to count on other assistance, while he adhered to the part of Cranston.
     In came the aid The Shadow wanted, provided in prompt and efficient style.
Harry Vincent and Clyde Burke popped out from doorways and opened a flanking
fire on the charging crooks. Around the corner came Cliff Marsland and Hawkeye,
finished with the thugs back in the kitchen. They added telling shots.
     All the while, The Shadow was shooting from the doorway. The lighted space
in front of the Cobalt Club might well have been marked with a gigantic X, for
it indicated a spot where bodies would be found if any crooks came that far.
     The few who reached the fringes of the light were staggered by The
Shadow's direct fire, while his agents were working the flanks.
     Leaders of the scattering mob were shouting for reserves. A car came
roaring up the street, but it never reached the Cobalt Club. Moe's cab whipped
in from a corner and diverted the car across the street.
     A batch of thugs leaped out, intent upon many things; primarily, they
wanted to obliterate the cabby who had stopped their course.
     That was just the time for Jericho. He was pacing in front of the
apartment house, just beyond the corner. With a gleaming grin that matched the
glitter of his goldbraided uniform, the giant African reached the batch of
crooks and went to work with bare hands.
     Jericho cracked two heads together like a pair of eggshells. He grabbed a
third mobbie, used him to bludgeon a fourth. There was a fifth man among the
reserves, but he didn't wait around. He scudded for an alleyway, leaving
Jericho in full possession of a sedan equipped with a pair of machine guns.
     Other cars were starting away. Cardona met them with the squad car, around
the next corner. Brakes shrieked as the squad car drove one automobile into a
wall. The Shadow and his agents riddled another car with bullets.
     But the third car managed a getaway, for the squad car offered a barrier
between it and the marksmen, who now included the intrenched detectives who had
come out from the Cobalt Club.
     In the fleeing car were the three lieutenants who served Five-face. Banker
was at the wheel, Clip on the seat beside him. Grease was lucky enough to reach
the running board just as the car sped away.


     RETURNING to the club, Commissioner Weston found Cranston standing idly in
the doorway. The commissioner knew that his friend had joined in the fire, but
had no idea that Cranston had been the mainspring of the whole affray.
     While Weston was offering congratulations for what he considered a rather
trifling service, a coupe pulled up in front of the Cobalt Club.
     Arnold Melbrun was in the car; he was amazed when he learned the full
details of the battle. He wanted to know who had returned: Smarley, Tygert, or
Barney Kelm.
     When Melbrun learned that a new king of crime had taken over the scene, he
stood bewildered. Like nearly everyone else, he had heard of Count Raoul
Fondelac, and the fact that such a celebrity had gone crooked merely added to
Melbrun's daze.
     The size of the robbery was also something to talk about. At least, Lamont
Cranston could congratulate himself upon having kept Fondelac's bonds, in place
of his own, although their value totaled less. But when Melbrun saw the French
bonds, he shook his head. In his opinion, they were fraudulent.
     It was curious how lightly Cranston took the news. He turned the bonds
over to Weston, requesting the commissioner to look into the matter. Then,
tired by the evening's excitement, Cranston decided to go home.
     Riding away in his limousine. Cranston gave a regretful laugh. It wasn't
the sort of laugh that one would expect from a man who had lost half a million
dollars. Neither the bonds nor their cash value was the cause of Cranston's
regret.
     The Shadow simply regretted that he hadn't stopped Five-face before the
master crook had tricked Joe Cardona and led the ace inspector to banish
crime's trail.
     It meant that special measures would be needed, if The Shadow hoped to
meet Five-face again. This evening's events had definitely clarified certain
puzzling matters.
     The Shadow's laugh changed to a strange comprehending whisper, as this
master of the night began to plan his coming ventures, which - he hoped - would
lead to the final trapping of Five-face!


     CHAPTER XIX

     OUT OF THE PAST

     ARNOLD MELBRUN was right. The French bonds were fraudulent. Count Raoul
Fondelac had turned a swindle into whirlwind crime.
     As a result, the newspapers estimated that Lamont Cranston had lost half a
million dollars. Coupled with thefts committed by Flush Tygert and Barney Kelm,
this latest exploit raised crime's recent total above a million dollars.
     Still, the public did not connect those deeds with one man. Jake Smarley
was practically forgotten; Flush and Barney almost so. All talk concerned Count
Fondelac, who had proven himself quite as slippery as his predecessors. From the
moment that he had said good-by to Inspector Cardona, Fondelac had completely
disappeared.
     The cabby remembered driving to Fondelac's apartment, but the count had
left the cab somewhere on the way. There wasn't a scrap of evidence in the
apartment itself that offered the police anything resembling a trail.
     Three men were distinctly interested in what had become of Fondelac. They
were the lieutenants who knew him as Five-face. Grease, Banker, and Clip
regarded themselves as very fortunate to have escaped unscathed and
unrecognized. Still, they prided themselves on having remembered the importance
of a getaway, just as Five-face had.
     It was Banker who broached the subject of the future, when the three
gathered, at nightfall, in their dilapidated headquarters.
     "Four faces gone," tallied Banker, counting, his fingers, "which means
that Five-face has got just one left; his last one."
     "Yeah," put in Grease, "and maybe he's scared to show it. Ever think of
that, Banker?"
     "He'll show it to us," asserted Clip. "Why shouldn't he offer to divvy,
with all the dough he's grabbed?"
     Banker began to stroke his chin. Meanwhile, Grease put an answer to Clip's
question.
     "We've got nothing on Five-face," snarled Grease. "It may look like we
have, but we haven't. What if we squeal on him, supposing he doesn't show up?
He won't care if people find out that he was four different guys. Any one of
the four would be bad enough for him, if the cops put the arm on him."
     "Five-face thinks in big terms," insisted Banker, slowly. "Remember, he
told us there would be another job. I think there will be. He won't have to
show his face."
     "Why not?" demanded Grease.
     "Because he'll turn the job over to us," explained Banker. "That's when we
want to be smart. Unless it's as safe for us as it is for him, we want to say
nix."
     The three began to discuss the new angle that Banker had suggested. They
were in the middle of their parley, when a rap came at the door. All three were
congregated close, when Banker opened the door. With one accord, the trio
stepped back.
     On the threshold stood a man with a face so ugly that no one could have
blamed him for changing it whenever occasion offered.
     His forehead bulged above his eyes, which were as small as gimlet points;
his nose had a sideward twist. His lips were large, but widespread; they showed
a clutter of misshapen teeth, that seemed to fill the ugly face.
     The lieutenants knew that face. They had never expected to see it in life
again. Banker's voice was hoarse, barely audible, as he spoke for his pals:
     "Blitz Bell!"


     THE ugly man stepped into the room and closed the door. His gait was
crablike; one shoulder drooped, as he made his way to a chair. He didn't speak;
he simply picked up the greasy pack of cards and performed the flush trick,
slicing a fifth club in among four others.
     If he hadn't given that demonstration the lieutenants would never have
granted that Blitz Bell could be Five-face.
     "Go ahead, say it," asserted Blitz suddenly, in a raspy tone. "You thought
I was croaked, didn't you? Like everybody else, you fell for that story about
the Feds getting me, a couple of years ago. Well, they got Blitz Bell - in a
way."
     With both hands, Blitz stroked his face; the pressure seemed to mold it
into a smoother visage. Then he let the bloated features return, in rubbery
fashion.
     "Here's the lowdown," he rasped. "I had a face lift, see? Before the Feds
caught up with me. They thought I blew myself up along with the dynamite shack,
when they surrounded me. But that was because they didn't see anyone around who
looked like Blitz Bell.
     "I had a good job done on this mug of mine. Ever since then, I've been
able to change it into five, including my own. Funny, ain't it, the face I've
had the most trouble with is my own? Only, I like it, and I don't give a bang
if nobody else does."
     In his speech, Blitz Bell showed a confidence which the listeners shared.
The lieutenants had taken it for granted that Five-face would adopt an
unexpected personality for the climax that he had planned. The guise of Blitz
Bell fitted the bill to perfection.
     Supposedly dead, Blitz was beyond the reach of the law, provided he could
keep his secret. Grease, Banker, Clip were seeing a man who had stepped from
the past; and even with Blitz's explanation, the thing still awed them.
     They would never have dreamed that Five-face could be Blitz Bell, the
notorious public enemy that the Feds had supposedly eliminated years ago!
     Yet, on the table lay proof that Blitz was Five-face: those outspread
playing cards with which he had demonstrated his identity. They were glad that
Five-face had used his skill to prove who he was. It was a better token than
any other.
     To a man, the lieutenants were willing to follow Blitz wherever he
suggested. They were anxious to learn what new crime he intended. Remembering
Blitz by reputation, as well as sight, they knew that he would not rest on past
success. If opportunity offered - and Five-face had promised that it would -
Blitz was the man to make the most of it.
     With a wide-lipped smile that exposed his fanglike teeth, Blitz Bell
spread a newspaper on the table. He pointed to a picture of Count Raoul
Fondelac and gave a raspy laugh. He tapped the teeth that bulged from his mouth.
     "Plates," explained Blitz. "I had them made to match my own, before I got
rid of the real ones. My teeth were bum, anyway. I've been four other guys
lately, but I can still be myself when I want."
     Blitz thumbed through the newspaper, came to the page he wanted. Then, to
the listeners:
     "I said we'd pull a big job for a payoff," spoke Blitz. "That's what we
will do, but we'll be after more than dough. I'm going to get back at the one
guy who was lucky enough to stall us off!"
     Alarm showed on the faces of the lieutenants. They thought that Blitz
meant The Shadow. They didn't like the idea of hurling a challenge at so
formidable a foe, even with Five-face as their leader. Blitz understood.
     "I don't mean The Shadow," he asserted. "I mean this guy" - he pointed to
a photo in the newspaper - "Arnold Melbrun. He's the bird who outguessed me
when I was Smarley, and saved a hundred grand for those friends of his.
     "But we're going to get that dough, and a lot more. At the same time,
we'll fix Melbrun permanent. Look at what it says here: Melbrun is leaving for
South America, tonight, to put over some big business deals.
     "He's chartered a special plane for the trip. Do you know what that means?
I'll tell you: dough! He's probably carrying a pile of it, because money talks
in South America, like it does here. He's taking off at midnight, so we'll show
up before then."


     SWEEPING the newspaper to the floor, along with the pack of cards, Blitz
strode to the door. There, he turned to face his lieutenants and give a final
word.
     "Get all the mobbies you've got left," said Blitz. "Have them cover the
airport. I'll have the take from the other jobs, all packed in a bag, when I
meet you guys. We'll ride right through and take over Melbrun and his plane.
     "I used to fly crates, years ago. I can handle that plane. I know a lot of
landing spots that nobody else ever heard about. We'll grab Melbrun's dough and
make our getaway, all in one whack. When we get to where we're going, we can
divvy all the swag, including what we take from Melbrun."
     The door closed on Blitz Bell. Three astounded men stood silent for a
dozen seconds, then went mad with glee. Even Banker, usually reserved, caught
the fever from Grease and Clip.
     Greater than any of the previous crimes engineered by Five-face, tonight's
proposal promised success without a flaw. In this final stroke, Blitz Bell and
his lieutenants would move with rapid speed.
     It was crime that showed the conniving of a master brain; the sort that
would render pursuit impossible, even by The Shadow!


     CHAPTER XX

     THE FIFTH FACE

     GLISTENING under the glare of floodlights, the silvery plane was ready for
its midnight take-off. Luggage had been loaded aboard, and Arnold Melbrun was
shaking hands with the business associates who had financed his trip to the
Argentine.
     Very soon, the plane would be carrying the importer on the first hop of
this important journey. Melbrun had long looked forward to the trip, and his
associates were assuring him that it would result in new and greater trade
relations with South America.
     There were other men whose plans did not coincide with Melbrun's. If all
worked as Blitz Bell had promised, the ugly-faced big-shot and his lieutenants
would make a flight in Melbrun's stead. So far, however, Blitz & Co. had not
appeared.
     Among the idlers on the fringes of the airport were hard-faced men who
indulged in muttered comment. They were the left-overs of the various mobs
supplied by Grease, Banker, and Clip. They hadn't been too eager to take on
this job tonight, until they learned that it involved wide open spaces where
flight would be easy.
     The thugs had cars available near the airport. All that they had to do was
cover the fringes, while their leaders made the real attack. That in itself was
a novelty, so the trigger men had agreed to be on hand.
     They knew nothing about the intended flight. That would appear to be
something produced by necessity. Later, perhaps, the small-fry thugs would be
paid off with hush money sent by the lieutenants. But even that detail might be
overlooked. Safely gone with Five-face, the lieutenants might dispense with such
payments.
     Cliff and Hawkeye were with the cover-up crew. They knew that Harry and
Clyde were in Moe's cab, which was parked nearby. They were quite sure, too,
that Jericho was on the ground. Still, The Shadow's agents were somewhat
mystified.
     They had learned that strife was due at the airport and had reported the
fact to The Shadow. Whether he knew more than they did was a question. Keeping
close to the apartment where the lieutenants had their headquarters, neither
Cliff nor Hawkeye had seen any sign of The Shadow.
     Their report included details of a muffled visitor, evidently Five-face.
But they hadn't seen the face of Blitz Bell when the big-shot entered and made
his departure. As a man returned from the grave, the owner of that face had
been very careful to keep it obscured in public.
     The agents were sure, however, that The Shadow would arrive before the
zero hour of midnight. They knew, too, that police would later be on hand, for
Burbank was to phone a well-timed tip-off to the law. Spectacular things were
due, and for once, The Shadow's aids were impatient, wondering just what their
chief intended.
     The plane's big propellers were spinning. Melbrun had turned away from his
friends, to enter the ship, when a low-built sedan sped in from a roadway,
swerved, and suddenly cut across the field itself.
     There were four men in that car: Banker at the wheel, with Grease beside
him; Clip in the rear seat, with Blitz Bell.
     Crouched low, Blitz was clutching a heavy bag. It wasn't the valise that
Five-face had carried from the Diamond Mart, and used later at the Hotel
Clairmont. Five-face no longer regarded luck as essential. He considered his
plans too complete to be spoiled by anyone, even The Shadow.
     While men were dashing out to yell at the crazed car, it came to a stop
not far from Melbrun's plane. Looking from the rear window, Blitz Bell gave a
raspy chuckle at sight of the approaching airport guards. They looked like
pygmies, they were so far away; and in number, they were very few.
     "Get Melbrun!" ordered Blitz. "I'll snipe those saps from the hangar,
while you're taking over the plane. Then I'll join up with you, bringing this -"
     He lifted the bag, let it sag again with a thud that made it bulge. Sight
of the bag pleased Blitz's three companions. They liked the way that it was
stuffed. Diamonds, cash and bonds could all be unloaded after they were
divided. But the boodle from the past did not make them forget the present
opportunity.


     REMEMBERING that Arnold Melbrun was awaiting them as another victim, the
three lieutenants leaped from their car and started toward the plane, only
fifty yards away. They didn't care if the floodlights showed their faces and
their guns. This attack was to be short, swift, and sure.
     Melbrun's friends stood astonished, until revolvers spurted. Then, with
one accord, they fled. So did the airport crew around the plane.
     Only one man was caught flatfooted where he stood. That man was Arnold
Melbrun. He hadn't a chance to flee, and he realized instantly that the gunners
were after him.
     Other shots were sounding from the car, where Blitz had remained. They
stopped suddenly, as the bigshot heard the approach of distant sirens.
Immediately, shooting began along the fringes of the airport. Covering thugs
had heard the sirens, too, and were starting to make trouble.
     Of the three lieutenants only Banker sensed what had happened. Letting
Grease and Clip dash ahead of him in their quest for Melbrun, Banker looked
across his shoulder. He saw wavering figures in the distance, men sprawling,
guns in their hands, though the police had not yet arrived!
     Instantly, Banker understood. The Shadow must have planted members with
the mob! For the first time, Banker realized why other attacks had faltered,
particularly that last one, at the Cobalt Club. With a snarl, Banker dashed
after Grease and Clip. This job would have to be even speedier than Blitz Bell
had ordered.
     Arnold Melbrun had taken the only route to temporary shelter. Dodging the
aiming guns of Grease and Clip, the importer sprang into the plane. He tried to
get its sliding door shut, but by that time the attackers were too close.
Melbrun took the only course that offered.
     With his luggage was a large wardrobe trunk, which stood on end, just
within the plane's door. Ducking beyond the trunk, Melbrun hurled his full
weight upon it, shoving it toward the door, as a blockade. Bound on a trip
which offered hazards, such as a forced landing in the Amazon Country, Melbrun
was equipped with a revolver. He yanked the weapon and began to fire from
behind his improvised barricade.
     By then, airport attendants, some with guns, had reached the car where
Blitz Bell had stayed. The fight on the fringes of the airport had broken all
apart. Wild mobsters were in flight, pursued by The Shadow's agents. Police
cars were roaring in through the gates; people were guiding them toward
Melbrun's beleaguered plane.
     There, Melbrun had gained a moment of success. From behind the big trunk,
he had nipped both Clip and Banker with quick shots, but the hits were
superficial. Grease had escaped bullets by lurching forward, so that he was
under the very shelter of the trunk itself. Seeing Grease's move, Banker and
Clip copied it.
     Viciously, the three grabbed at the trunk and the sides of the doorway,
hoping to pull the barrier away and get at Melbrun. The importer was fighting
hard to hold out until rescue came. But the trunk was slipping. Melbrun needed
quicker aid than the arriving police could provide.
     Then, at this most vital moment, came a challenge that made all others
puny. Melbrun heard it, a titanic laugh that brought snarls from the three
crooks beyond the trunk. Seemingly from nowhere, a black-cloaked figure was
sweeping into the floodlights, bearing down upon the three attackers who held
Melbrun trapped.
     There was no mistaking that mighty fighter, whose big fists wielded huge
automatics. He was The Shadow, master of the night, from which he had appeared
as suddenly as though projected from an outer space!


     FOR an instant, the three thugs outside the plane turned, as though
willing to combat this mighty foe. Then, seeing the big guns aim, realizing
that they were open targets, they grabbed at the trunk again, madly trying to
wrest it free so that they could reach the shelter inside the plane.
     Melbrun let them have the trunk, with a shove that pitched it full upon
them. The three crooks went sprawling as the bulky object struck them, spinning
sideward as it came.
     Half lurched from the doorway, Melbrun caught himself. He was an open
target, but he didn't care. The Shadow had stopped short, his guns trained on
the three sprawled mobsters.
     They were the sort, those killers, who could expect no mercy from The
Shadow. Melbrun wasn't the only man who foresaw their instant death. Joe
Cardona, approaching in a speeding police car, would have sworn that sure death
was due.
     Then a strange thing happened. The Shadow faltered, seemed to sidestep, as
though seeking shelter. Perhaps he had sensed guns trained from a distance;
weapons that no one else guessed about. Such was Cardona's opinion, at the
moment; and The Shadow's odd shift startled Melbrun, too.
     At the very moment of rescue, Melbrun was abandoned. It didn't seem to
matter, considering that he had bowled over his attackers; but there was one
point that Melbrun missed.
     The Shadow's sudden change of course gave a respite to the three crooks on
the ground. Melbrun's own course, his only sensible one, was to dive back into
the plane, seeking shelter beyond other luggage, until the police could take
over where The Shadow had left off.
     Melbrun hesitated only half a second. It was too long. From the ground,
half-rising crooks delivered a volley at the plane's doorway. Banker was
sagging badly; Clip was wabbly; even Grease had a jerky aim. But the range was
too short to matter.
     Taking bullets in the chest, Melbrun pitched forward when further shots
flayed him. His body tumbled headlong upon the big trunk that lay, half broken,
on the ground.
     Cardona and others were blasting away. Their shots riddled the three
killers, but came too late to save Melbrun. Then, surveying the dying figures
on the ground, Cardona left the crooks and their victim to his squad. He
hurried over to the sedan from which crooks had attacked.
     Puzzled men were staring into the car. It had no occupant; merely an
opened bag stuffed with paper, but with a space near the top. With a slow nod,
Cardona went over to the plane, to view the result of the battle there.
     Melbrun was dead. Of the three who had slain him, all were dying, and only
one could talk: Grease Rickel. He was the sort who would believe that he had
been double-crossed, if properly questioned; particularly since Banker Dreeb
and Clip Zelber could no longer advise him to shut up.
     Cardona began his persuasive effort, and Grease responded. He was
muttering names of Smarley, Flush Tygert, Barney Kelm, even Fondelac. In
between, he kept repeating the name: "Five-face."
     "I get it, Grease." Cardona was playing a hunch. "All of them were
Five-face. He's the guy who double-crossed you."
     "Yeah." Grease's tone was a gaspy sigh. "Blitz Bell... back in the car...
with all the swag -"
     That was all, but the name of Blitz Bell did not score with Joe Cardona.
He couldn't believe that Blitz had come back to life, nor that the fellow could
have vanished in mysterious style. Besides, Cardona had seen the present
contents of Blitz's bag.
     A name sprang to Cardona's mind. He actually voiced it:
     "The Shadow!"
     That explained it! The Shadow had visited these crime lieutenants as Blitz
Bell. He had made the crooks believe that he was Five-face. Cardona didn't know
about the gambling stunt that Five-face used to identify himself; if he had, it
would have strengthened his opinion. The Shadow was clever enough to duplicate
any such trick.
     Cardona was thinking of something else. If Blitz was not Five-face, who
was? Staring groundward, Cardona saw the answer. It came with a flash, as he
remembered the Shadow's strange act when the cloaked fighter had suddenly
abandoned the rescue of Arnold Melbrun.


     HEFTING the importer's body to one side, Cardona yanked open the broken
trunk. He tugged at locked compartments and smashed them.
     From one came a flood of diamonds: Breddle's. Another disgorged the cash
that the financiers had yielded. Cranston's bonds slid in big batches from the
third.
     As he gathered up those trophies of supercrime, Cardona stared at the dead
criminal. Tense in death, the features of Arnold Melbrun were no longer wholly
his own.
     His face looked long, gaunt, like Smarley's; wise, like the countenance of
Flush. Its grimacing lips belonged to Barney; yet Cardona saw a smoothness, too,
that reminded him of Fondelac.
     To Cardona, The Shadow's triumph had been a stroke of proper justice,
wherein the master fighter had let Five-face find his death at the hands of the
very men whom the criminal overlord had sought to double-cross!
     Belated on the scene came Commissioner Weston, who had been returning from
a late trip out of town. With him was Lamont Cranston, who had met the
commissioner at the Cobalt Club. They heard the facts that Cardona had pieced
together. It was amazing how smartly Five-face had played his game.
     Smarley's crime had failed, so planned by Melbrun to cover up his real
identity. He had succeeded as Flush Tygert, then as Barney Kelm, but in the
latter case he had been most clever.
     Melbrun hadn't called his office from his home. He had made that call from
a pay booth in the Hotel Clairmont, where he was in the guise of Barney!
     As Fondelac, Five-face had been in a dilemma. Cranston had insisted that
Melbrun come to the Cobalt Club. But Fondelac could not have met Melbrun, any
more than Barney could have.
     "You didn't realize what a jam you put him in, Mr. Cranston," said
Cardona, turning to the commissioner's friend. "But The Shadow must have
checked on it, and guessed the answer. What's more, The Shadow figured that
Five-face planned a double cross."
     "Quite obvious," observed Cranston, coolly, "considering that The Shadow
had identified Melbrun as Five-face. Melbrun had already arranged to leave for
South America. The stage was set for him to walk out on his accomplices."
     "So The Shadow took over," nodded Cardona. "That business of coming in as
Blitz Bell was perfect. What a surprise he rigged on Melbrun! Even then,
Melbrun didn't guess it. He thought that his bunch were coming on their own.
When he saw The Shadow, Five-face actually counted on a rescue!"
     Cardona was opening a bundle as he spoke. From it, he took a big batch of
sorted securities, that bore figures up in the thousands. They added up to more
than half a million dollars, those stocks and bonds that Cardona handed over,
with the comment:
     "These are yours, Mr. Cranston."
     "Thanks, inspector," returned The Shadow, calmly. "I'll put them back in
my collection."
     "Your collection?" queried Weston. "What collection, Cranston?"
     The Shadow's lips showed a Cranston smile.
     "My collection of counterfeits," he explained. "Worthless stocks and
bonds, from many sources. I was doubtful about Fondelac, commissioner. I
thought it best to let him have these, until I found out if his French bonds
were genuine."
     "Remarkable!" exclaimed Weston. "Remarkable foresight, Cranston!"


     REMARKABLE foresight. Cardona agreed with the opinion, as he watched the
commissioner and his friend stroll to the official car, with Cranston
carelessly carrying the worthless bonds that had been reclaimed from Five-face.
     Cardona was wondering if The Shadow had mysteriously warned Cranston to
beware of Fondelac. If so, The Shadow must have known much about Five-face,
even before he had identified the master crook as Arnold Melbrun.
     As Cardona pondered, he heard a parting tone that seemed to quiver in from
outer darkness, beyond the floodlights of the airport. Cardona stared.
     He didn't realize that the whispery laugh was from the direction of the
commissioner's car, where Cranston had gone on alone, while Weston stopped to
talk to the airport authorities.
     Cardona recognized it only as the laugh of The Shadow - a singular,
mirthless note of triumph from the lips of the master fighter who had turned
Five-face over to the double-crossed lieutenants, as their victim, instead of
their leader.
     Five faces. Four had belonged to Arnold Melbrun; but the fifth - that of
Blitz Bell - had been The Shadow's. As the false Fifth Face, The Shadow had
actually revealed the true one!
     A knell, that mirthless laugh, for Arnold Melbrun and three others who had
been finally trapped together by the design of The Shadow!


     THE END