THE HOUSE ON THE LEDGE
                                 by Maxwell Grant

       As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," April 15, 1941.

     Money thrown to the winds - because it was counterfeit! And The Shadow,
last hope of the law against a shrewd criminal ring, finds this the hardest
battle of his career!


     CHAPTER I

     COUNTERFEIT CURRENCY

     TED LINGLE stopped his rattletrap car in front of the brownstone house and
glanced nervously along the darkened street. He was glad that the streetlamps
did not throw too much light upon his weather-beaten car which was occupying a
space usually reserved for limousines.
     Sliding from the car, Ted ascended the brownstone steps and rang the bell
of the Kelwood mansion. He was trying to be nonchalant, but he could not shake
the impression that eyes were watching him from across the way.
     In fact, eyes were.
     Two pairs of eyes, representing lurking men with low, ugly voices.
     "Sit tight, Bolo," one voice was saying. "It's only that guy Lingle. That
dope that comes to see the Parnal dame."
     "Yeah?" queried the other. "Maybe you've got him wrong, Juke. He might be
going in to gab with old Kelwood."
     "Not a chance, Bolo! He's daffy over the doll, that's all. Curt Hulber
says so."
     There was a note of finality to the tone, as though anything Curt Hulber
said must be right. In this case, the opinion was correct. Ted Lingle was more
than daffy over Isabel Parnal. He was madly in love with her.
     This wasn't Ted's first visit to the mansion where Isabel lived with her
guardian, Stephen Kelwood. But Ted, as he stood on the doorstep, found that he
was still nervous despite those previous visits. Being in New York, calling on
a wealthy girl who had promised to marry him, was something of an impossible
dream to Ted Lingle, despite the reality of the situation.
     Ted himself was a small-towner. He'd met Isabel the summer before at the
farm where she was staying, and had supposed that she came from a small town,
too. Perhaps each should have recognized that the other was from a different
world, because of the very attraction that had drawn them together. But Ted
hadn't realized it, not even when he learned that Isabel came from New York.
     His first visit here, to the home of Stephen Kelwood, the banker, had
awakened him, and since then Ted had been traveling in a wide-awake daze. He
knew that Isabel really loved him; but, considering his own limitations, he had
begun to wonder why.
     Here, on the threshold of another meeting, Ted was almost ready to turn
abruptly, dash down the steps, and drive off in his ancient car, when the door
of the mansion opened. Then, like a man in a trance, Ted was entering a large
reception hall, ushered there by a servant in livery.
     The luxurious surroundings gripped Ted, as they had before. He heard the
servant say something, but didn't catch the words, nor think of them, until he
looked to find that the flunky had gone. Then, noticing a light from a
curtained room on the right, Ted walked slowly in that direction, remembering
that the room was the library in which Isabel had been waiting on his previous
visit.
     At the doorway, Ted stopped. He saw two men seated in the library, engaged
in serious conversation. One was Stephen Kelwood, a gray-haired man with long,
aristocratic features, rendered prominent by a high-bridged nose. The other was
a swarthy man, whose bluff face had a dark mustache. Both were too concerned
with their own affairs to observe Ted's arrival in the doorway.
     Nor did Ted stir farther, either to advance or retreat. His gaze was
transfixed by a sight of something that lay between Kelwood and the other man.
On a low table, Ted saw money spread all about - crisp, green dollar bills by
the hundreds. Even Kelwood's connection with the banking business did not seem
sufficient to explain such a strew of wealth.


     "SO there you are, Marquette," Kelwood was saying in a serious tone.
"Though I am no longer active as a banker, I have continued my study of
currency and can pride myself on my ability to detect counterfeits. When I
chanced across these" - he plucked bills from the pile and flourished them - "I
thought that it was time the government should know about them."
     Marquette gave a nod. Shifting in his chair, he reached to take the bills
that Kelwood handled. Ted saw the glint of a badge as Marquette's coat slid
farther open, and suddenly realized that the swarthy man must be a government
investigator.
     "I wouldn't have believed it," declared Marquette abruptly. "And frankly,
Mr. Kelwood, after I left here the other night I thought you were crazy. Even
under a microscope those bills stood up."
     "Except for the serial numbers -"
     "Except for the serial numbers," nodded Marquette. "Nine figures instead
of eight. A perfect job, except for that. I wonder how the counterfeiters
happened to muff it."
     Kelwood stroked his long chin.
     "I think the mistake was intentional," he declared. "It prevented any
duplication of numbers that are on existing bills. Not one person in a thousand
would bother to count the figures on a dollar bill, or notice anything wrong if
he did."
     "Not one person in a million," returned Marquette grimly. "In fact, Mr.
Kelwood, you're the only person in the country who was smart enough to spot it.
We've been missing it for a long time. A very tong time!"
     "You mean that a great many of these bills are in circulation?"
     "Too many! Look at all you've found out of this batch." Marquette
indicated the table with a sweep of his hand. "We can only hope that it's a
local proposition, around this territory."
     "New York is pretty big territory."
     Marquette arose, nodding solemnly. For the first time Ted recognized his
own position as an eavesdropper. Then, thinking it too late to retreat, he
started to step forward, hoping he could find proper words of apology. At that
moment Marquette turned to Kelwood.
     "We've taken the first step," Marquette declared. "A ten-thousand-dollar
reward for a real lead to these counterfeiters. It's official, but we aren't
making it public just yet. We don't want to throw a scare into the whole
country."
     "Quite right," agreed Kelwood. "If you had a lead to the counterfeiters
first -"
     "We'd have public confidence with us," inserted Marquette, "and the reward
could go for any further information. But we haven't much time to work. This
thing can't be kept hushed for more than another week -"
     By then Ted had gone into a retreat. He was back from the curtains, easing
out into the hall, and the curious thing was the sound that came from behind
him, as though his own footsteps were creaking their way across the floor.
Suddenly conscious that his footsteps couldn't be moving faster than he was,
Ted wheeled.
     He found himself face to face with a sallow man whose eyes had an owlish
look behind their round-rimmed glasses. The man was baldish; his lips wore a
smug smile beneath a small, tufty mustache.
     Ted had met the fellow once before; his name was Therman, and he was
Kelwood's secretary. Having disliked Therman at first sight, Ted wasn't at all
pleased to encounter him under the present circumstance.
     Therman, however, looked pleased. His eyes narrowed as his lips
straightened. Therman wasn't overlooking the fact that he had caught Ted as an
eavesdropper; he was simply putting it away for future reference. Then, in an
oily tone, the secretary said:
     "Good evening, Mr. Lingle. I believe that Miss Parnal is waiting for you
in the conservatory."
     Half turning, Therman gestured across the great hall, and Ted went in that
direction. He could hear voices behind him, and was conscious that Kelwood and
Marquette must have come from the library. Ted heard his own name muttered in
Therman's oily tone, knew that Kelwood must have asked the secretary who it was
that had just gone across the hall.


     TED was glad when he found the conservatory door. Then Isabel was stepping
up to greet him, smiling at the embarrassed look Ted gave her. She had observed
before that Ted was uncomfortable in these surroundings, but tonight Isabel did
not know the full reason; nor did Ted enlighten her. Instead, he managed to
clear away his troubled expression by returning Isabel's smile.
     They formed an attractive couple as they sat down together. Ted Lingle
wasn't just handsome; his wavy hair was more than matched by blue eyes that
showed frankness, a square jaw denoting determination.
     As for Isabel Parnal, her charm lay in the depth of her brown-eyed gaze
and the gentle expression of her smile, as much as in the actual mold of her
delicate features.
     Many men had admired Isabel as the perfect brunette type, but Ted's
thoughts went deeper. He was thinking of the girl's future happiness when he
spoke:
     "I was wondering a little, Isabel, just how -"
     "How soon we will be married?" queried Isabel sweetly. "As soon as you
think best, Ted."
     "It wasn't that," Ted confessed. "I was wondering about the small town
where we will have to live. After all this" - he looked around - "you may not
like it."
     "I liked the farm last summer," Isabel reminded him. "You must remember,
too, that this isn't my home. I'd rather have that little house you talked
about."
     "I'll have to get it first," declared Ted, soberly, "and my business isn't
the sort that brings in money fast. Putting cigarette machines in service
stations, lunchrooms, and whatnot means a lot of work. It will take a long time
to save up a few thousand dollars."
     "But I can wait, Ted."
     Isabel's words seemed to come from far away. Ted's thoughts, like his
eyes, were fixed. He was staring at the darkness of the windowpanes in the
glass-walled conservatory and his mind was flashing back to something that he
had heard not long before.
     Ten thousand dollars!
     Such was the reward arranged for the unearthing of the counterfeiters who
were flooding the country with spurious dollar bills, distinguishable by an
extra figure in the serial numbers. By next week, thousands of people would be
seeking the source of that fraudulent currency - unless, as Marquette hoped,
results could be obtained before then.
     Until this moment, Ted had thought only in terms of the Feds and the
results that they might obtain. It was striking home, very suddenly, that
someone like himself might provide the needed lead. A long shot, but
considering Ted's type of business, there were chances in his favor. Getting
around the way he did, he might stumble on something that others - even the
Feds - would miss.
     Out of the distance came the sound of the closing front door, and Ted knew
that Marquette had gone. For the moment, Ted was restless; then, realizing that
his own quest could not begin until tomorrow, he turned to Isabel with a
confident smile.
     "Perhaps we won't have long to wait," said Ted, in a tone of assurance. "I
have an idea that may work out. But don't ask me what it is, Isabel, because
we'll both have to wait awhile before we know."


     TED had forgotten the darkness that lay outside the conservatory windows.
It did not occur to him that the shrouding night was hiding the beginning of a
trail that lay much closer than he thought. Ted might have realized it had he
remembered the impression of spying eyes outside the Kelwood mansion.
     Those eyes, belonging to Juke and Bolo, were at that moment observing
Marquette's departure. As the swarthy Fed walked past Ted's parked car and gave
it a sharp survey, Juke plucked Bolo's arm and low-toned the words:
     "Come on!"
     By the time Marquette was halfway to the corner, the pair were upon his
trail, shiftily dodging from sight whenever they thought that the Fed was about
to look back. It was easy enough, in their opinion, to follow a man ahead
without letting their quarry know it.
     Easy for two to follow one, but easier for one to follow two. Such was the
experience of another figure that emerged from darkness to take up the double
trail of Juke and Bolo. For, in so emerging, the new trailer never actually
left the sheltering folds of night. His was a shape so fleeting, so elusive,
that no one could have trailed him.
     Cloaked in black, a slouch hat upon his head, this newcomer moved like the
shadow that he was. Foe to crime, ever ready to aid those who served the law, he
had somehow learned of Marquette's important mission and had trailed the Fed to
Kelwood's, to learn if crooks would cross the path.
     Whatever their link to crime, Juke and Bolo would soon provide the answer
to this master of night, The Shadow!


     CHAPTER II

     COVERED CRIME

     BLOCK by block, The Shadow was finding the trail more and more to his
liking. It was becoming a game wherein the element of protection lessened in
necessity, thereby enabling The Shadow to keep well behind the men ahead. For
The Shadow, whenever he set out upon a trail, took full cognizance of all
others involved, and made due allowances.
     The Shadow was well acquainted with the ability of Vic Marquette, the Fed
who had unwittingly picked up a pair of trailers. Though Marquette was
strolling along casually, he had left the darkness of side streets and had
reached a lighted avenue.
     There was very little reason to worry for Vic's safety on a well-traveled
street. With shop windows to attract him, Vic Marquette had a way of pausing to
glance at panes that served as improvised mirrors.
     Whether habit or suspicion was responsible for Marquette's action, his
system brought results. The two men trailing him were forced to remain well
behind, even to the point of seeking lurking-spots in doorways for fear that
Vic would see them. Moreover, Marquette worried them so much that they became
easy for The Shadow.
     At moments when the black-cloaked trailer closed-in upon the men ahead,
The Shadow was so close that Juke and Bolo were almost within touching distance.
     Had The Shadow chosen to throw consternation into the crooks, he could
have done so. But it happened that he was more anxious to learn the reason why
these denizens of crimeland had not only wandered far from their usual terrain,
but were taking on the audacious task of tailing an operative of the Secret
Service.
     Juke and Bolo provided the answer as they crouched in a doorway. Their
hoarse whispers reached The Shadow, who had paused in the darkness just
outside, so flattened against the wall that his cloaked form seemed a part of
it.
     "The T-guy is wise," croaked Juke. "We gotta quit tailing him double."
     "How about me sliding across the street?" suggested Bolo. "Then we can
take turns picking up, whichever way he goes."
     "Not a chance," returned Juke. "The Feds were the guys that started using
that dodge. He'd get hep quick."
     "But Curt Hulber said not to lose him," reminded Bolo. "How are you going
to answer that one?"
     Juke answered it in preliminary fashion, with a quick hiss that meant to
sneak along to another doorway before Marquette could slip them entirely. The
two crooks made a quick shift and a rapid scramble, whereupon The Shadow glided
past the doorway that they had left, up to the new one that they had chosen.
There he caught a resumption of the conversation.
     "Maybe he ain't wise," remarked Juke. "Anyway, I'm the guy to find out,
one way or the other. You know the way I can slide into joints and out of them."
     The Shadow knew, even though the statement was not addressed to him. He
had recognized Juke as an underworld character and remembered the fellow's
specialty. As a snooper, Juke had a high reputation in low society. Alone, Juke
could probably trail Marquette much better than when handicapped with Bolo as a
running mate.
     Bolo must have known it, too, and did not like the implication. His
undertone came in a growl.
     "So you're going to trail him, huh?" queried. Bolo. "For what? Suppose you
catch up with him, Juke. What'll you do then, without me and - this?"
     By "this," Bolo referred to a knife that came gleaming from his hip. It
was a wide-bladed weapon, a savage contrivance. It was a Filipino bolo, which
could hack as well as carve. Preference for such a knife was the reason why
Bolo had gained his nickname.
     Moreover, use of such a blade made Bolo more than dangerous. It rendered
him of special value to such employers as Curt Hulber, who was a racketeer of
considerable importance. When Bolo finished with victims, they might have been
hit with anything from a sledgehammer down, judging from appearances.
     But it seemed that Juke wasn't interested in Bolo's skill as a killer; at
least not in the present case.
     "Curt didn't say to start croaking Feds," argued Juke. "He sent you along
just in case I got in a jam. I'll find out where Marquette is going; that's
enough."
     "Yeah? And what do I do?"
     "Pipe a call to Curt," replied Juke. "Tell him we spotted Marquette at
Kelwood's again. I'll join up with Curt later on."


     THE next door was that of a cigar store, which happened to be open.
Marquette was turning the corner, so Juke gestured Bolo into the cigar store,
then continued on the Fed's trail. Knowing that Marquette wouldn't be in any
danger from Juke alone, The Shadow waited for Bolo to reappear.
     Coming from the cigar store, Bolo gave a glance along the street without
noticing The Shadow. Turning on his heel, the ugly-faced killer started across
the avenue and took to a side street. His stride was rapid, indicating that he
had considerable distance to walk, but because of his haste Bolo gave no
thought to anything behind him.
     With a glide that matched smoothness with speed, The Shadow kept close
behind, blending with darkened house walls like a slice of night adrift. This
course promised The Shadow results that could prove prompt as well as important.
     Crime was in the air. The Shadow had known it ever since he learned that
Vic Marquette had arrived in Manhattan. Unfortunately, news of Vic's advent
hadn't reached The Shadow until after the Fed's first visit to Kelwood's house.
     Tonight The Shadow had trailed Marquette to the place where crooks were
already posted, which was how the trails had crossed.
     The Shadow knew Stephen Kelwood by reputation. A man of long-standing in
banking circles, Kelwood made a specialty of handling estates and trust funds.
Such work did not overtax him, and Kelwood had therefore found time for heavy
research into the subject which so greatly interested him - the history of the
nation's currency.
     Few men were better posted on the subject than Stephen Kelwood. His
collection of old currency issues was one of the largest in the United States.
Frequently Kelwood made headlines by discovering freak forms of bank notes, or
specimens of forgotten money.
     But Marquette's interest in monetary issues was of a more timely sort. His
specialty was looking into spurious types of currency as produced by
counterfeiters.
     It was obvious to The Shadow that Marquette could only have visited
Kelwood because the latter had discovered something amiss with notes now in
circulation. This meant that a counterfeiting ring was probably operating in
high gear, and the presence of lookouts like Juke and Bolo pointed directly to
the fact.
     As for Curt Hulber, the man that the two crooks had mentioned, he was just
the sort who might be "shoving the queer," as crooks termed the passing of
counterfeit money.
     Long absent from New York because of his unpopularity with the police,
Curt wouldn't have returned unless something big had brought him. From all
appearances, Curt was handling something very much bigger than anything that he
had previously undertaken. All that The Shadow wanted was a lead to Curt Hulber,
and Bolo, at present, was obligingly providing it.
     The trail came to a sudden end on a side street near an avenue. Bolo
stopped in front of a door that bore the sign: "Travel Bureau." He rapped and
was admitted, although the place was dark.
     Peering through the broad front window, The Shadow saw huge travel
posters, pictures of steamships, and racks of travel circulars. Off past a
counter, he spied huddly figures, Bolo among them, as they moved toward a rear
room.
     Trying the door, The Shadow found it locked, but opening it was simple.
Sheltered in the darkness of the doorway, he used tiny picks and keys with
adept precision, and soon effected an entry of his own. His figure wasn't
noticeable in the main room, for he kept close to the walls, reaching the inner
door by a circuitous route.
     There at the end of a narrow passage, The Shadow found a door leading into
a lighted office. The light showed because the door was ajar so that the men
inside could hear others knock as Bolo had. Probably they were waiting for
Juke, and since that thug was still trailing Marquette to the hotel where the
Fed was stopping, The Shadow had a safe interim, during which he could look
into the conference.


     CLOSE to the inner door, The Shadow's cloaked figure seemed like the
blackness of the passage. The burn of his keen eyes was well-shielded by the
brim of his slouch hat. Viewing the office, he saw half a dozen men, most of
them of a type like Bolo.
     Lacking enough chairs, some were seated on desks, while others had chosen
stacks of heavy-wrapped bundles as slouching places. Of the group, but one man
was important. He was seated in a chair behind the central desk.
     The man was Curt Hulber.
     He looked the part that he was playing as head of the travel bureau.
Heavy-set, steady of eye and square of jaw, Hulber had an air of confidence;
yet with it an affable manner. At intervals he stroked back his sleek black
hair and gave a pleasant smile, as though dealing with customers across the
counter instead of crooks in the back room. But behind that pose lay hardness
that did not escape The Shadow's observation. Curt was listening to Bolo's
description of the vigil outside Kelwood's, and the details - or lack of them -
did not please him. However, Curt's smile was all the more noticeable when Bolo
finished. It was when the big shot spoke that his true feelings first impressed
themselves upon the gathered crooks.
     "So you learned - nothing!" Curt addressed his sarcastic words to Bolo. "I
suppose that you think I put you on the job with Juke for nothing."
     "I didn't think so," returned Bolo. "I was only doing what Juke said."
     "And he said - nothing?"
     "Well, no. He said he'd follow Marquette himself. Back to the hotel, I
guess. Maybe he'll pick up something there, when Marquette talks to the other
T-guys."
     "Very likely," sneered Curt, rising behind the desk. "They'll probably
invite Juke in to have a drink with them and then get chummy! No" - Curt shook
his head doubtfully - "I guess not. When you two were hiding in doorways, you
should have picked a hockshop. If you'd cracked the window you could have
swiped a couple of badges, so you'd be able to make friends with Marquette."
     The sarcasm began to tell on Bolo. He winced at the grins of the others.
Glaring at his listeners, then at Curt Hulber, Bolo decided to get tough.
     "What could we have done?" he demanded. "Try and crash the gate at
Kelwood's? Or bust some of the windows in that hothouse porch where the Parnal
dame was waiting for her boyfriend, Lingle?"
     "You might have had a look-see into the place," returned Curt. "That's why
I sent you along - to cover Juke if he had trouble with the flunkies. Still" -
Curt's tone was easier - "it doesn't matter. You've found out all I need to
know."
     Bolo stared, puzzled, as did some of the rest. Curt gestured to the
packages on which mobsters were seated.
     "Clear the stuff out," he said. "This racket is finished. We're through
shoving the queer for awhile."
     Protests came from several throats. Curt silenced them with a hard glare.
     "Old Kelwood has spotted the phony mazuma," Curt declared. "He wouldn't be
sending for Marquette if he hadn't. That old crab knows money like he invented
it! New York is big territory, but not big enough for him and me. I should have
known it."


     BOLO reached for his wide-bladed knife, muttering something about going
back to Kelwood's and making the town big enough for Curt. But Curt simply
shook his head, then reached for the telephone.
     Crooks sat silent while Curt dialed; their faces, Bolo's included, were
set dumbly. They regarded the dialing of a telephone as something unimportant.
     Not so The Shadow.
     He was listening to the return clicks from the dial, counting them
adeptly. As plainly as if he had watched Curt's finger, The Shadow was picking
up the important features of the phone number. He could even guess the name of
the exchange, which gave him an absolute clue to Curt's call.
     "Hello, Gorvey." Curt's tone was low. "Yeah, it's Curt... Closing up the
joint. Tonight. Hang on to any mail orders that come in at your place... Yeah,
I'll call you and check on any that come in. Still filling them?... Sure, I'll
attend to that. With some personal service, just to make sure there'll be no
leaks."
     Even before Curt had hung up the receiver his ears caught an outside
sound. The Shadow heard it, too, for he was closer than Curt. The sound came
from the street door of the travel bureau. Someone was entering quite
stealthily. The Shadow presumed that it was Juke, back from his useless
trailing of Vic Marquette.
     There wasn't time to look. With a quick twist, The Shadow was out of the
little passage and behind the counter of the travel bureau proper. As he went,
he heard Curt's growl from the inner office:
     "Juke's coming in. Slide out to meet him, Bolo. Make sure he isn't being
trailed. Sometimes the Feds get smart to things."
     From behind the counter The Shadow could see Bolo sneaking from the
passage to meet the man who was creeping inward. A face came into view just
above the counter level. The Shadow saw it first, recognized the swarthy
countenance, and was rising suddenly in darkness when Bolo gave a snarl.
     Then figures were lunging, the intruder swinging with a gun as Bolo, in
one quick sweep, produced his wide-bladed knife for a throw to a victim's
heart. It wasn't Juke who had entered; it was another man, recognized by Bolo
as a person he particularly wanted to meet.
     The intruder from the street was Vic Marquette!


     CHAPTER III

     NOTHING FROM NOTHING

     QUICK though Marquette was with his gun, he could not match Bolo's speed
with the knife. Ordinarily, perhaps, Vic would have had a chance; but these
circumstances were not ordinary. Bolo had spotted Marquette first, while Vic
hadn't even picked out the door from which his enemy lunged. The darkness in
the travel bureau was difficult for eyes less probing than The Shadow's.
     Sound alone was guiding Vic Marquette; his own lunge was simply an
instinctive response. He was faced the wrong way when he started, which made
his gun swing a long one. His wheel toward Bolo was a mistake; it was carrying
him into danger, instead of away from it.
     In all, Marquette was giving Bolo a half second to get in the first thrust
- and such a thrust, at this close range, could be a final one.
     It happened that The Shadow dealt in time splits much shorter than half
seconds. He proved it in a way as daring as it was uncanny.
     A swish of blackness marked The Shadow's intervening drive, an amazing
whirl, in Bolo's direction first. The assassin's hand, finishing an overhand
knife throw, was met by an upswing of an automatic that The Shadow whisked from
beneath his cloak. The blow caught blade as well as hand. The knife scaled high
from Bolo's hand above Marquette's head.
     Only a rapid reverse spin could have saved The Shadow after he disarmed
Bolo. The Shadow made it, continuing his gun swing in a full-around backhand
fashion that culminated in a powerful downstroke.
     Again metal clashed metal. This time The Shadow's heavy automatic found
Marquette's aiming gun. The Shadow's weapon bashed Vic's downward just as the
Fed pulled the trigger. A bullet chewed the baseboard near the door.
     It wasn't to save Bolo. The Shadow's stroke was for his own personal
benefit. He had no other choice. To save Marquette he had been forced to hurl
himself into Bolo's path - and therewith The Shadow had placed his own life in
jeopardy at the point of Marquette's gun. The only way to stay alive had been
to disarm Vic as well as Bolo.
     Bolo's howl and the roaring blast of Marquette's gun produced reactions
from two directions. The front door of the travel bureau smashed open and other
Feds lunged into the place with flashlights, dragging a prisoner with them in
the person of Juke. At the same time there were shouts from the rear room; with
them, the office lights went off and men began an outward scramble.
     The confusion was broken by another sound - the tone of a rising laugh.
Weird, challenging, it came from the lips of The Shadow, the mid-figure in the
scene. Rising in a fierce crescendo, the mockery spelled doom to men of crime.
It brought a momentary halt to the charge from the rear room. With that
strident mirth, The Shadow had thrown the balance to the law.
     Despite that fitting result, The Shadow's laugh had another and more
important purpose.
     As before, The Shadow recognized that he would be useful only if he
remained alive. His mirth was a declaration of his identity to Marquette's
reserves. They had trapped Juke and made him bring them here to find crooks.
They hadn't expected a meeting with The Shadow.
     Sight of Marquette, reeling in the flood of flashlights and clinging to
his gunless hand, was enough to make the Feds suppose that all others were
enemies, even the blackish fighter who was sidesweeping from the path of light.
     But the taunt that The Shadow delivered was enough to stay all trigger
fingers. Feds knew that they had an ally when they heard that peal.


     SHOTS ripped from the rear room. The fusillade riddled nothing except the
front window with its display of travel posters. No one was in line with the
doorway through which the fire came. The Shadow had wheeled from the danger
path, and the Feds had not reached it.
     Then, as The Shadow turned and tried a shot, the Feds followed suit.
Edging for the door, they began to pepper the inner darkness.
     It wasn't healthy for Curt Hulber and his mob, and they seemed to know it.
They were in retreat, or about to be, and the Feds were straining, counting on a
chance to surge after them. Bolo had already fled through the door to the inner
office and had been lucky enough to reach his goal just before the shooting
began.
     Now it was Juke's turn.
     A lull in the firing caused Juke to look for The Shadow. He saw the
cloaked fighter, gliding toward the front door and understood the reason. The
Shadow intended to get out and around; to halt Curt Hulber and the rest while
they were making their departure by the rear.
     With The Shadow actually gone, Juke discounted other dangers. Shots were
spasmodic, as though Feds and crooks were feeling each other out. Juke decided
that he could profit by the situation.
     Wresting himself from between two gripping Feds, Juke made a frantic dash
for the connecting door and reached it ahead of the shots that his captors
fired to halt his mad flight.
     Safely away, Juke was starting a laugh of his own, one of ridicule for the
Feds behind him, when an interruption came. The roar of guns drowned Juke's
cackle; he jolted, pitched forward among the very men who had wilted him with
the barrage.
     Curt Hulber and his crew had mistaken Juke's dash for a charge by the
Feds. From their darkened stronghold, they had blasted right through the
doorway, to meet Juke as he came.
     Gun reclaimed, Vic Marquette crept close to the door edge. He could hear
Juke's dying coughs; the crook was gasping information to the pals who had just
eliminated him from their number.
     Vic couldn't make out what Juke was saying, nor did he guess it, for Vic
had not witnessed The Shadow's gliding departure. But the stir from the back
room told that mobsters had suddenly decided to abandon it, for there were
shuffling sounds moving in the opposite direction.
     To the Feds clustered near him, Vic Marquette undertoned:
     "Let's go!"
     They went. The surge was sudden enough to take the crooks by surprise. In
the glare of their own flashlights the driving Feds spotted the men they
wanted. Urged by the harsh shouts of a leader who was already out through a
back door, the thugs were trying to get away with big, paper-wrapped bundles
which they used as shields while turning with their guns.
     Hesitation might have been disastrous, so Vic and his squad did not wait.
They hurled themselves upon the clustered crooks, profiting by the clumsiness
that the packages caused. Before other guns could aim, the Feds were snatching
away the shielding bundles and slugging at the men who lost them.
     Two thugs tried to grapple, and therewith took the brunt of the attack.
Their guns spurted wide, but those of the Feds delivered accurate shots. The
pair crumpled.
     Across their bodies, and that of the other dead man, Juke, the Feds went
after the rest. Carl Hulber had reached a truck in the back alley, along with
henchmen who included Bolo. Bundles were going on board, and in the darkness it
seemed that the crooks were following.
     The Feds charged anew, only to find themselves suddenly flanked by savage
men who came in slugging with their guns.
     It was Bolo's idea, this. Most vicious of the thuggish crew, he had been
assigned to lead the flank attack. Had he still possessed his chopping knife,
and had the rest been similarly armed, Bolo would have given his companions
some lessons in the art of literally carving foemen to pieces. But The Shadow
had deprived Bolo of his favorite weapon.
     Instead of a knife, the crook had a revolver and was slashing with it as
an example to the crew. He thought that they could slug the Feds into
submission and save bullets for later battle.
     Marquette's men weren't so easily slugged. Though off guard, they battered
back and managed to ward off the clubbing guns.


     THE fight was spreading, and battlers on both sides were starting to take
quick shots at their opponents, when the laugh of The Shadow again dominated.
     This time it came from the darkness of the alley itself, a spot that The
Shadow had reached on his roundabout trip. He knew the effect that such a
challenge could have upon thuggish battlers. Again, it was the element that
might turn the fray in favor of the Feds. But The Shadow's laugh, as before,
brought results beyond expectations.
     Bolo and his bunch did not even turn to shoot into the dark. Instead, they
scrambled pell-mell for the truck and rolled into the back, along with piles of
paper-wrapped bundles.
     From the interior, Curt Hulber hoarsed an order; a driver, up ahead, put
the truck into motion. Curt had a gun and used it, not to shoot at the Feds,
but toward the spot where he thought The Shadow was.
     Chilling mockery greeted Curt's gun bursts. It was as if The Shadow told
Curt that such bullets were wasted. The mirth was an invitation to try shooting
elsewhere, which Curt did, for he hadn't any idea just where the laugh was
coming from.
     Actually, Curt Hulber was making himself the goat. His first shots, blind
though they were, had been close to The Shadow's real position, forcing the
cloaked fighter to wheel into shelter. Once Curt's aim changed, The Shadow was
able to sweep out toward the truck.
     Here was opportunity to drill the fugitives, their leader, Curt Hulber,
included; but the chance was gone before The Shadow could use it. Feds,
springing into the truck after the crooks, became barriers to The Shadow's aim.
     From the ground, Vic Marquette was shouting after his men to drop off,
knowing that they were outnumbered by the men in the truck, and realizing, too,
that they were cramping The Shadow's marksmanship.
     Vic's men came flinging out, bringing some of the precious bundles, which
helped them as buffers when they hit the paving; but by then, mobsters were
away. The truck was turning the corner when the last Fed dropped off, and The
Shadow's shots, though jabbed rapidly, were unable to get results.
     A laugh from the darkness betokened The Shadow's own departure, and seemed
to carry a note of reproval with it; a tone that Vic Marquette felt was
especially meant for himself and his overardent squad.
     Bringing the bundles, Vic's men accompanied him into the rear office of
the fake travel bureau. Turning on the light; Vic saw the other packages and
ordered his men to tear into both batches. Exultantly, he was exclaiming:
     "Here's where we find some of that nine-number paper, the kind that
Kelwood uncovered for us! A whole load of it -"
     By then the packages were open, their contents strewing the floor. His
mouth halted half open, Marquette stared at batches of timetables and travel
circulars; nothing more. There wasn't a sign of a dollar bill, real or
counterfeit, in the whole truckload.
     Gradually something dawned on Vic Marquette.
     These bundles were a blind for others that could actually hold counterfeit
cash. But the big shot in that racket had been smart enough to ship the other
packages when he learned of Marquette's first visit to Kelwood.
     Tonight, on the occasion of Vic's second chat with Kelwood, the
counterfeiters had decided to close out the fake travel bureau as well. Rather
than leave peculiar evidence, they had tried to take along the surplus bundles
of innocent material. Such was the stuff that the Feds had obtained.


     GLUMLY, Vic Marquette surveyed the sprawled body of Juke, which was quite
as dead as two others that the crooks had left on the field. Marquette was
chiding himself for a very bad mistake.
     He hadn't taken time to quiz Juke. Vic had simply spotted the trailer,
signaled a few Feds from the hotel lobby, and taken up Juke's trail himself.
They had bagged the crook almost outside the travel bureau, and Vic had wasted
no time in entering the place.
     Though sure that this was the headquarters of a counterfeiting group of
which Juke had been a member, Vic hadn't an idea that Curt Hulber was the man
who had managed the pretended travel bureau. In fact, Vic had no real evidence
that the place was an unloading station for the queer money.
     "He told us nothing." Marquette's eyes were on Juke. He shifted his gaze
to the scattered timetables and folders. "And we found - nothing."
     Those words were heard by a listener who had returned from the night to
pause in the darkness of the alley door. From Vic's statement, The Shadow knew
that the facts which he himself had learned were still exclusively his own.
     The Shadow knew the name of the man that Marquette wanted: Curt Hulber.
Likewise, The Shadow had the name and phone number of Gorvey, to whom Curt had
assigned the task of gathering up loose ends and handling mail orders until the
counterfeiting racket could be resumed.
     There was a swish of a departing figure from the alley door; the whispered
tone of a strange, prophetic laugh as The Shadow blended with the blackness of
the night.
     Nothing from nothing totaled nothing, by Marquette's mode of calculation.
But The Shadow had gained something while Vic had been drawing double zero.


     CHAPTER IV

     ALONG THE ROUTE

     To Ted Lingle the business of installing cigarette-vending machines in
out-of-the-way places had become a habit, though a rather tiring one. Even the
task of collecting dimes, nickels and odd pennies was something of a drudge.
But Ted had at last found a way to relieve the monotony.
     Ted's territory was a rather thinly settled section of New Jersey, and
most of the customers who used his machines liked to keep a supply of change on
hand. Hence it was Ted's policy to take dollar bills and leave the smaller cash
with the customers. For three days he had been pressing that system to the
limit.
     In fact, Ted had purposely oversupplied himself with small change. He not
only took the bills that were offered him, but asked if people could supply him
with more. He preferred one-dollar bills and was getting plenty of them. He
plucked each batch as though looking for four-leaf clovers.
     Funny business, this, hoping to find counterfeit money instead of real!
Every time that Ted came across a bill that contained nine figures in its
serial number it cost him just one dollar, for Ted's sense of honesty wouldn't
let him pass such currency on anyone else.
     However, he regarded the bills as a good investment, for they were clues
that might lead him to his goal. Ted was careful to label those dollar notes
with the names of the places where he had received them.
     One place stood out among the others. It was the B & B Service Station,
that did a fairly profitable business at a country crossroads. It was called B
& B because of the partners who ran it: Bleban and Brenlow.
     Bleban was always at the service station. He was a cagey man,
blunt-featured and apt to talk but little. Brenlow, who was seldom in the
place, had some other job and apparently only took over when Bleban wanted a
day off. Ted had met Brenlow twice and remembered him as a talkative chap whose
voice had a touch of shrewdness.
     It was with Bleban that Ted had made a deal two days before. The reason
for the deal was because Bleban had given him ten bills with nine-figured
serial numbers, which the blunt-faced man had taken from a special drawer in
the desk.
     Ted had remarked that he could use a lot of ones, sometimes as much as
five hundred dollars' worth, whereat Bleban's eye had taken on an avaricious
gleam. The service-station man had suggested that Ted stop by on Saturday
evening, a time when the B & B Service Station might have more cash than it
required.
     So here it was, Saturday evening, and Ted was taking advantage of the dusk
to watch the service station from across the way.
     He could see Bleban whenever the blunt-faced man came out to service a
car, and Ted noticed that the fellow was impatient. Evidently he was waiting
for Brenlow to show up and relieve him before the time that he expected Ted.
     This pleased Ted, for he was afraid that he hadn't arrived early enough.
His object, of course, was to find out where and how Bleban intended to get
five hundred dollars in brand-new currency that had nine figures in every
serial number.
     All along, Ted had been worrying that Bleban might go after the
counterfeit cash earlier than Saturday evening, but apparently Bleban hadn't.
So Ted's hunch was working out, and he felt himself already on a trail that
promised a ten-thousand-dollar reward.
     There were moments when Ted felt small about the thing. The idea of
snaring a man like Bleban to make a personal profit wouldn't ordinarily have
occurred to Ted. But he felt that it was balanced by the fact that he would be
doing a public service, a deed that was almost a duty.
     That cleared Ted's mind on the subject, and left him free to consider
something else - namely Isabel Parnal.
     Ted's love for Isabel wasn't selfish. He knew that she cared for him
deeply, and considered their marriage essential to her happiness. Isabel's
parents had died some years ago, and though she regarded Stephen Kelwood as a
friend and adviser, she had never found real understanding from anyone until
she met Ted.
     She was staying at Kelwood's only until she could arrange her future
plans, and she hoped that such plans would start with her wedding day.
     So did Ted, but he wanted to be established first. It would take him a
year or more before he would have enough money to make a down payment on a
home. But such a wait would be unnecessary if Ted found a windfall to the tune
of ten thousand dollars. It would be better than borrowing money from Isabel,
which she wanted him to do, only to have him refuse.


     THE sudden arrival of a car across the road brought an end to Ted's
reflections. The car was Brenlow's, for Ted saw Bleban's shrewd-eyed partner
get out and enter the service station.
     Deep in his own car's front seat, Ted expected to see Bleban come out, but
the fellow didn't. From the way heads bobbed inside the station, Ted decided
that the pair were holding a conference.
     It struck Ted suddenly that Brenlow might be the man who provided Bleban
with the counterfeit cash. Deciding to find out, Ted slid from his car and went
across the way. From a side window of the service station, he looked in upon the
scene. Partly opened, the window allowed him to hear the words that passed.
     At first there was nothing important, except that Ted's new hunch faded
when he saw that Bleban was anxious to leave the place, while Brenlow, for some
reason, was trying to hold him back. Then, when Bleban had his hat on and was
starting for the door, his partner suddenly demanded:
     "What's the hurry?"
     "I've got a date," returned Bleban gruffly. "Got a right to one, haven't
I, the way I stick around here all the time?"
     "Maybe," said Brenlow smoothly, "provided you don't blow the five hundred
bucks that you drew out of our account down at the bank."
     Bleban decided to sit down.
     "Yeah, I found out about it," Brenlow continued. "A check of mine bounced
back. Got it around suppertime from the guy that couldn't pass it. Called one
of the bank tellers, and he said you about cleaned things out a few days ago."
     Brenlow's tone became threatening. He was advancing, ready to make a grab
for Bleban, when the latter blurted:
     "I'll come clean!"
     "You'd better do more than that," Brenlow argued. "You'd better come
through with the cash!"
     For answer, Bleban reached a desk drawer, brought out a folded sheet of
paper that looked like a letter. Spreading it, he asked:
     "Remember this?"
     "Do I remember it!" Brenlow snorted. "I ought to. When a guy who calls
himself Specialized Process, Inc., offers to sell you ten dollars for one, it's
nothing but a sucker racket!"
     "But he sent some dollar bills with the letter," Bleban reminded. "He
admitted they were counterfeits, but he said they were so perfect that I could
pass them for a test."
     "So you passed them. Sure! It's called the green-goods game, that racket
is, and they send you real cash, not phony. That gets your confidence and you
pay for a whole pile of the stuff. Do you know what they send you then? I told
you once: blank paper! That leaves you holding the bag, because if you squawl,
you're admitting you tried to swindle the government."
     Brenlow finished his oration in a wise-toned style, but all he received
from Bleban was a head shake.
     "You don't get blank paper," said Bleban. "Not from these fellows. I tried
it with a hundred bucks and got a thousand back."
     Brenlow stared, incredulous.
     "Not just once," added Bleban, "but three times. Remember the dough I said
my uncle left me? That was it. I bought the new car, lifted the mortgage on the
house, and did a few other things besides, all with that three thousand in
counterfeit."


     BRENLOW'S hand went for his partner's collar. He caught Bleban and hauled
him to his feet. Brenlow's face was no longer shrewd; it had turned ugly.
     "You louse!" he grated. "You were in on something real and wouldn't tell
me! You call yourself my partner -"
     "I was going to tell you," interrupted Bleban. "But I blew the dough so
fast it left me woozy."
     "So you went after more, still without letting me know."
     "You were away," argued Bleban. "If you'd been here Thursday -"
     "What's Thursday got to do with it?"
     "A lot," Bleban insisted. "That guy Lingle came in, the one who has the
cigarette machine" - he nudged toward the corner of the room - "and was saying
he could use a lot of one-dollar bills. Said he'd be around tonight and would
take five hundred. It looked like a quick way to get an investment back, so I
drew five hundred dollars from the bank."
     "And sent it to New York?" Brenlow queried. "To get five thousand of the
counterfeit?"
     "That's it," replied Bleban. "This time we can go fifty-fifty on it."
     Brenlow's shrewd look returned.
     "Sixty-forty," he suggested. "I'm to have the big end to make up for what
went before. In the future it will be fifty-fifty."
     "All right."
     Friends again, the two partners exchanged grins that ended all of Ted's
qualms concerning his own plans. They were showing themselves for what they
were - crooks as bad as those who were behind the game. But Ted had learned
something else that quite amazed him.
     He had heard of the green-goods game, a specialty with confidence men. But
never before, to Ted's knowledge, had it been worked on the up-and-up. Some real
brain of crime, engaged in actual counterfeiting, had struck upon a grand idea,
as efficient as it was vicious. He was using the green-goods game to actually
unload millions in fraudulent currency. A sucker racket, being worked without
suckers!
     The huge proportions of the thing left Ted aghast. Through men like Bleban
and Brenlow - scores of them throughout the country - the counterfeiters could
unload their wares everywhere. Ten dollars for one was bait that no one with
crooked tendencies could resist, particularly when it was backed by the
promised goods, in counterfeit dollars that could actually be passed.
     This was the sort of game that would lead to repeat orders from men who
would stay mum. Bleban's own statements, given only under pressure, proved that
he had been close-mouthed. Brenlow's eagerness to share in ill-gotten profits
showed how easily new customers would come into the fold.
     "I was coming back," Ted heard Bleban say. "I'd have to come back to be
here when Lingle shows up. The stuff is down at the express office. Look,
here's the card."
     "How soon is Lingle coming?" asked Brenlow.
     "He won't get here before nine," replied Bleban. "He never does."
     "Then I've got time to go along with you," decided Brenlow. "Let's close
this dump until we get back. I like your idea of letting Lingle finance the
deal. We'll get our five hundred back in real cash" - he was finishing with a
chuckle - "and still have forty-five hundred of the phony."


     THE two went out to Brenlow's car. Ted waited until they had started away,
then slid back to his own coupe. There was no use to hurry; caution was
preferable, for Ted knew the way to the railroad station where the express
office was located.
     Ted Lingle also knew what was to be done when he reached that destination.
Though it was something like taking the law into his own hands, he felt that the
result would justify the action. Reaching to a pocket in the door beside the
driver's seat, Ted drew out a .32 revolver and transferred it to his coat.
     Tonight Ted intended to trap a pair of rogues. Men who wanted to swindle
him, as Ted could prove, for there had been witnesses in the service station
the other night when Ted had talked to Bleban in terms of five hundred dollars.
     To confront this pair and hold them was all that would be necessary. After
that, the law could do the rest, and Ted felt confident that the payment of a
ten-thousand-dollar reward would be an ultimate result.
     With the secret of the counterfeiting game exposed, Ted was sure that the
Feds would swiftly crack the ring and credit him with having paved the way.
     Unfortunately, Ted Lingle knew nothing of the hidden factors in the game,
which were to turn his quest into a sequence of misfortunes.
     In taking up a simple trail, Ted Lingle was thrusting himself into paths
of adventure wherein the space between life and death would be measured by the
thinnest margin!


     CHAPTER V

     A MATTER OF PROTECTION

     THE agent at the railway station was about to close up when Bleban and
Brenlow arrived there. They hadn't hurried because they knew that the agent
lived just across the tracks, where they could reach him any time. He
recognized the pair when they arrived and gave them a book to sign.
     "The package is out in the express office," he said. "It's the only
package there. I was going to lock the door on account of it. I'll go and get
the package for you."
     "Never mind," said Bleban. "We can get it ourselves."
     "Then you won't have to lock the door," added Brenlow. "So you can save
yourself some extra trouble."
     Quite pleased, the agent closed the station and went across the tracks,
while the two partners were finding the light in the express office, which they
reached by way of the station platform
     They saw the package; it was a chunky one, much like the bundles which Vic
Marquette had found at the travel bureau in New York.
     "I'll take the package," said Bleban to his partner. "You turn off the
light."
     "Wait a minute," argued Brenlow, cagily. "I've only been going on your
say-so. I'd like to have a quick look at what we've got."
     He ripped the cover of the package. The green hue of currency greeted
Brenlow's gaze. He peeled a few bills from the stack and examined them. The
money looked real, almost too real. In fact, Brenlow couldn't see a thing wrong
with it, inasmuch as he did not count the figures in the serial numbers.
     "It's too good to be phony," Brenlow undertoned. "Maybe we've been gypped,
after all."
     "How?" inquired Bleban.
     "These bills may only be the outer layer," Brenlow told his partner.
"That's an old dodge with the green-goods experts. They plank a few bills -
real ones - on a stack of blank paper. Let's have a better look."
     He ripped the cover of the package and let the stacks spread. The wider
the contents went, the more green Brenlow saw. Like a miser counting gold,
Brenlow began to paw through the counterfeit currency, and Bleban, seized with
the same urge, stooped to help him. Both were breathless when a cool voice
spoke behind them.
     "Stay right as you are!"
     Startled faces bobbed about. The service-station owners recognized Ted
Lingle, though they only took a brief look at his face. The thing that worried
them more was the muzzle of Ted's .32 that pointed right between them, close
enough to shift toward either on an instant's notice.
     Shaky hands lost their grip on the wads of long green. Crinkly bills
floated from numbed fingers as Bleban and Brenlow raised their arms. Ted Lingle
had taken them thoroughly by surprise.
     If the devil himself had popped into sight, the connivers would not have
been taken more aback. To see the man upon whom they expected to foist five
hundred dollars of the fraudulent cash was something quite beyond their range
of imagination.
     Cool as ever, Ted raised his gun above the heads of the startled pair.
     "Stay just as you are," he repeated. "I'm going to fire a shot and bring
our friend, the station agent. I want him to see what was in that little
bundle."
     Bleban and Brenlow had stiffened. So did Ted, before his finger could
press the trigger. He didn't see the thing that petrified him; he felt it, a
gun muzzle right against his neck, cold as the point of an icicle.
     Then came a growled tone:
     "All right, wise guy! Turn around, so I can get a gander at your mug! Try
to get a peek at mine!"


     TURNING slowly, Ted let his numbed fingers spread. His own gun clattered
to the floor while he was staring at a masked man who had him covered. The mask
was a handkerchief and it hid the face of Curt Hulber.
     Beyond Curt, Ted saw others, likewise masked. Some had guns, but one was
holding a wicked, wide-bladed knife. Bolo had provided himself with another of
his favorite carving irons.
     Leaving Ted under control of his band, Curt stepped aside to confer with
the partnership of Bleban and Brenlow.
     "I thought you might need protection," said Curt. "Just as a little
special service. We give it with orders of half a grand and up."
     Bleban looked dazed and Brenlow nodded.
     "What is this guy?" Curt nudged at Ted. "A Fed?"
     "I don't know," returned Brenlow. "My partner here had him listed as a
sucker."
     "So that's the gag." Curt glared at Ted. "I guess you are a T-guy, pulling
that stuff. What did you do - look in on Gorvey's office?"
     Ted didn't seem to understand. Curt caught him by the coat lapel and
yanked him into the light. He gave Ted's coat a backward wrench to see if it
concealed a badge. There was none which rather puzzled Curt. He thought that
Ted, if a Fed, would certainly be wearing one to flash when the right time came.
     At that moment Bolo stepped forward and took a look through the eye slits
of his mask. Bolo's ugly gaze was centered on Ted's face.
     "It's Lingle!" gruffed Bolo. "The dope that came to Kelwood's to see the
Parnal dame. Juke told me about him."
     "So you're Lingle," sneered Curt. "I've heard about you. An amateur dick
who thinks he can move faster than the Feds and us!" Studying Ted, Curt turned
suddenly to Bleban and Brenlow: "What did this mug tell you guys?"
     "He said he'd take five hundred bucks in ones," replied Bleban, finding
his voice. "His business is placing cigarette venders. I thought he was on the
level, so I sent you an order."
     "For five grand of queer," nodded Curt. "I get it. You wanted to have
Lingle pay the freight. Maybe we'll let him" - swinging suddenly, Curt jabbed
his gun against Ted's ribs - "and maybe we won't!"
     It was Brenlow who sprang forward in protest. For a moment, Ted thought
that he had been wrong in considering the fellow to be a full-fledged rat; but
Brenlow soon corrected the point. He wasn't concerned over a mere matter like
Ted's life.
     "Not here!" exclaimed Brenlow. "It would bring the station agent sure!
Take Lingle somewhere else."
     "We can handle the counterfeit money," added Bleban. "Only we don't want
anything to happen that might give us trouble. Brenlow is right."
     Curt's harsh laugh told that he approved the opinion of the two buyers.
Curt turned to Bolo and nudged toward Ted. Without a word, Bolo placed the
point of his big knife against Ted's spine and started the prisoner toward the
door of the express room. Curt motioned for Bleban and Brenlow to gather up the
stacks of counterfeit currency.
     To Ted, as he walked mechanically forward, it seemed that darkness was
prepared to swallow him into absolute oblivion. Thoughts of reward money had
already winged from his mind. He was picturing a last image of Isabel, for he
expected death quite soon.
     Curt's willingness to avoid gunfire on these premises had given Ted a
momentary hope, but it was gone under the pressure of Bolo's knife.
     Ted knew instinctively that he couldn't escape that heavy blade. If he
tried to run, Bolo would hack him.
     Actually, Ted was pressing back against the knife-point, figuring it the
safest way to avoid immediate death. He took three steps into the darkness,
expecting that each stride would bring a thrust. Yet his knees couldn't gather
strength to turn his slow walk into a run.
     It came, the thing that surely promised death.
     The point of the knife left Ted's back. It could only mean that Bolo had
whipped the blade away, intending to deliver a slash.
     Frantic, Ted made a wild spring forward, ducking as he went. He crossed
the edge of the platform, tripped on the rails, and rolled face up between the
tracks. He thought that he saw Bolo lunging after him; fancied that the
assassin's knife was whizzing for his ribs.
     But the knife did not come.
     Half propped upon the ties, Ted stared. Against the light from the baggage
room, he witnessed something that the men inside could not see. Bolo's lunge had
turned into a stagger; the knife was slipping from the killer's hands.
     Out of blackness had come an avenging figure, a weird being cloaked in
black. A gloved hand had delivered a hard stroke to Bolo's skull, flattening
the masked assassin with the weight of a heavy automatic.
     The stroke from the dark had saved Ted's life, but it hadn't fully escaped
the notice of the men within the baggage room. They must have heard the thud of
Bolo's form upon the weather-beaten platform for they were wheeling even as
Curt Hulber voiced an order. There wasn't time for Ted to cry out to his
rescuer.
     No shout was needed. The figure in black wheeled toward the express room
as though expecting trouble from that quarter. It was Ted's rescuer who
delivered the challenge that came a strident peal of sinister mirth that threw
terror into the crooks who heard it.
     The laugh of The Shadow!


     CHAPTER VI

     GONE WITH THE DARK

     CURT HULBER provided the example which his henchmen followed. He dived for
the depths of the baggage room, and the other masked mobsters did the same,
leaving the startled partnership of Bleban and Brenlow gaping toward a
blacked-out figure that they could not see.
     On hands and knees, the two receivers of counterfeit cash were easy
targets for The Shadow; but he ignored them. He was after more important prey:
Curt Hulber and the masked crew. The Shadow's automatic, blasting sharply,
nipped one thug who hadn't made a quick-enough dart for cover.
     If Curt or any of the rest had tried to answer that shot they would have
found their finish. Once The Shadow had the edge, he kept it. Curt was quick to
recognize the fact and to guess that the corner of an empty express room wasn't
sufficient shelter when the place was lighted.
     Curt did more than prove himself a marksman; he showed good choice of a
target. From his corner he aimed for the hanging light that illuminated the
express room and cracked the bulb with his first shot.
     More guns began to blaze. They were seeking The Shadow, an action which
seemed safe enough in darkness. Crooks forgot that the spurts from their gun
muzzles could reveal them. The Shadow's fire found them while Curt was howling
for his crew to keep on dodging. Crippled thugs obeyed, but when they dodged;
they missed The Shadow with their own shots.
     Desperately, Curt did the unexpected. Trusting that shots from his own
crew wouldn't clip him, he lunged from the express room, making straight for
the spot where Ted had sprawled. He wanted to get hold of Ted, to use him as a
shield against The Shadow.
     On the way, Curt tripped over Bolo's rising form; but the mishap helped.
It lurched Curt directly upon Ted.
     The Shadow wheeled in as he heard Curt shout for aid. Curt dodged away to
avoid a sledging gun. By then his thugs were coming from the express room,
shooting blindly as they made for their cars across the tracks, carrying Bolo
along with them.
     In his turn, The Shadow caught Ted and yanked him off through the
darkness, spinning him to a safe spot along the station platform. Then, cutting
across the tracks, The Shadow sought to head crooks off.
     A figure met him head-on. It was the station agent, coming from his house.
A distant rumble came through the night as The Shadow tried to fling the man
aside and head after the scattered crooks who were howling for Curt to guide
them. By the time The Shadow was freed of his tenacious attacker, a light
sliced from the approaching rumble.
     It was the headlight of the night freight, just swinging the bend. The
blaze showed more than glistening rails. It revealed the groggy station agent
wavering in the middle of the track; some distance from him the cloaked figure
of The Shadow, a weird specter, though plainly outlined.
     The sight rallied Curt and his half-crippled crew. Madly they opened fire
at the cloaked target, only to see The Shadow wheel in the one direction they
did not expect: straight toward the approaching locomotive.
     Before they could guess what his purpose was, The Shadow had completed it.
Twisting sideways, he bowled the station agent to the safety of the platform,
where Ted was standing, stupefied. Then, clear of the searchlight's mighty
flood, The Shadow wheeled against the station wall to deal with crooks again.
     Only the arrival of the locomotive saved the fugitive crew. Its bulk came
thundering in between The Shadow and his quarry, with a trail of box cars
following it.
     Grabbing for the nearest ladder, The Shadow went scrambling to the top of
a freight car, hoping to resume the shooting when crooks least expected it. His
laugh came, strident, above the train's loud rumble. A laugh that made crooks
stare, bewildered, from the cars that they had reached.
     They did not see The Shadow as he aimed for them with two guns that still
had plenty of biting bullets. He saw the cars and was aiming for them, knowing
that shots in that direction would lay low the intervening foemen.
     But The Shadow did not see another automobile that was racing from the
railroad station alongside of the pounding train.


     BLEBAN and Brenlow had reached their car and were trying to escape with a
portion of the counterfeit money that they had purchased. Bleban was plucking
loose bills from his partner's hands while Brenlow handled the car.
     Both wanted to get far away, but it was Brenlow's idea to pick the route
across the tracks. He must have thought that it would be safer to follow along
with Curt Hulber.
     Perhaps it would have been safer had Brenlow been able to manage it. But
things had been going too swiftly for him. They were still going too swiftly,
particularly the locomotive, when Brenlow jerked the car across its path.
     The engineer saw the doomed automobile and applied the air brakes. The
brakes merely made the locomotive jolt of its own accord as it smashed into the
car. Bleban and Brenlow were flung a hundred feet forward, their car going with
them, twisted into wreckage as mangled as the bodies that it contained.
     The Shadow was flung a dozen feet ahead. His jolt wasn't serious, for he
was simply atop a box car, but the sprawl he took did not help his aim.
     The Shadow's guns went off at upward angles, with no target to receive
their bullets. The sudden deaths of Bleban and Brenlow brought security to Curt
Hulber and his outfit, as their cars sped away unmolested by The Shadow.
     Rolling from his box car, The Shadow broke his fall by catching ladder
rungs on the way down. He struck the cinders and ran back along the roadbed to
the station platform where he found Ted Lingle in the clutch of the excited
agent.
     Ted was trying to explain things truly, but it was in an unsatisfactory
fashion. The Shadow shoved the station agent aside and started Ted along the
platform.
     They were as far as Ted's car before the young man began a protest. Ted
clutched angrily for The Shadow and was met by a gloved fist that simply waited
to receive Ted's jaw.
     As Ted crumpled, The Shadow rolled him into the coupe and sprang to the
wheel. Members of the train crew arrived in time to see the taillights
disappear, but not across the railroad tracks. The halted train was blocking
off that route.
     When Ted came to his senses he listened to the steady tone of the rescuer
who was carrying him away. The Shadow did not bother to explain that he had
checked on orders received at Gorvey's office and had picked the destination of
a special shipment as a likely place to meet up with Curt Hulber.
     Gorvey hadn't made that shipment personally. He had simply mentioned the
address to Curt when the latter telephoned him from some unknown location. Curt
himself had addressed the green-goods to Bleban, and The Shadow had decided to
witness the delivery.
     Outside the express room he had heard enough to know that Ted's own
position was none too enviable; that, in the light of all that happened later,
it was better for Ted to be absent from the scene of investigation. Such were
the points that he made clear to Ted as The Shadow halted his car a few miles
from the railroad.
     "Stay here," he told Ted. "Wait until I return. We are close to a town,
but we are off the main road. No one will find you while I am gone. Later we
can make the proper plans. You understand -"
     The final words were not a question. They were a command. Ted gave a nod.
He understood. Then The Shadow was gone and Ted heard another car drive away
through the night.
     Somehow the fade of the motor cleared Ted's senses. He began to piece the
past and The Shadow's admonition became quite definite.


     TED LINGLE had meddled with things that did not concern him and would
probably take an undeserved share of the blame. Bleban and Brenlow were dead
and would be branded as distributors of counterfeit cash.
     The local authorities would check back on matters and learn that Ted had
talked to Bleban regarding a matter of five hundred dollars. Those witnesses
upon whom Ted depended would give damaging testimony instead of good.
     They would brand Ted as a lesser agent in the counterfeiting racket rather
than a man who had tried to uncover the game. No wonder The Shadow had advised
Ted to stay under cover!
     His own plight did not bother Ted very long. He began to think of Isabel.
He was sure that she would trust in him, but that wasn't the great problem.
Ted's thoughts flashed to the future actions of the masked crooks who had
captured him before The Shadow came along.
     They knew who Ted was, and they had mentioned Isabel as well! To Ted that
thought meant one thing only: that Isabel was in danger. He wondered if The
Shadow knew.
     Ted should have realized that The Shadow did but it happened that Ted was
not in a reasoning mood. He intended to obey The Shadow's injunctions as far as
he could; but anything concerning Isabel would have to be handled first.
     There was only one thing to do. Ted would have to leave the car, walk to
the town that The Shadow had mentioned, and call Isabel by long distance to
warn her. After that, he could return to the car and await The Shadow's arrival.
     Dominating Ted's thoughts was the conviction that Curt Hulber and the
members of his partly-crippled crew were driving for New York to take care of
matters there. It should have occurred to Ted that, in that case, The Shadow
would be speeding for Manhattan, too.
     Had he realized that fact - which he did not - Ted Lingle might also have
recognized that The Shadow, master of the night, could always travel faster
than men of crime!


     CHAPTER VII

     THE SHOT FROM THE DARK

     ISABEL PARNAL was feeling very lonely. So lonely that she was forced to
smile as she gazed reflectively at the darkened windows of the conservatory. It
was odd to feel lonely; quite as odd as it was to be lounging in a sun parlor
after dark.
     Being lonely was almost a new experience for Isabel. She could remember
being unhappy and dissatisfied. Often she had felt the need for new and
different companionship, but never actual loneliness. In fact, Isabel had
frequently felt that she knew too many people. Had she been able to picture
herself as others did, Isabel might have understood the reason.
     She was indeed a picture as she relaxed in her wicker chair. Isabel was
wearing lounging pajamas which she had chosen because she thought them
attractive. It hadn't really occurred to her that when she occupied them, the
pajamas would acquire an attraction that would make viewers forget them.
     Clad in those garments, Isabel's lithe figure showed its shapeliness to
full perfection. It was the same with almost all the apparel that Isabel chose,
and it explained why men smiled in rapture when they met her. Which, in turn,
explained why Isabel considered all men alike, with the exception of Ted Lingle.
     Ted was serious always. He never stared except at Isabel's eyes. He didn't
talk of moonbeams and honeysuckle, which did not long remain in season. He
discussed permanent things, like a home in the country and the furnishings
which it could contain. He talked in terms of dollars and cents, all of which
he intended to provide and would.
     In fact, Ted acted as if Isabel hadn't any money of her own, and Isabel
liked it. So much that she hadn't dared to let Ted know how wealthy she really
was. Isabel admired Ted's independence and wanted him to keep it.
     She was thinking of Ted when the telephone bell rang. Subconsciously,
Isabel must have known that Ted was calling for she came in from the
conservatory and answered the telephone herself. Her greeting was happy as she
heard Ted's voice; then Isabel realized that his tone was more serious than
ever. She found herself repeating Ted's words aloud.
     "Danger?" she queried. "Here?... Yes, Ted, I understand. I am to tell Mr.
Kelwood to call Marquette... Because men may be coming here to murder Mr.
Kelwood? But, Ted - it's incredible!"
     The phone went dead in Isabel's hand and a chill gripped her as though a
cold breeze had stolen through the hall.
     "Danger may be close!"
     Ted had ended his conversation with those words, and danger did seem
close. It dawned on Isabel that she had just heard something other than Ted's
words - a sound in the hall itself. A sound she suddenly recognized as the
creep of stealthy feet.


     ISABEL knew of only one person who could move with such a sneaky tread.
That person was Therman, the dapper, catlike secretary who worked for Stephen
Kelwood.
     Often, Isabel had wondered why Kelwood kept the fellow in his employ,
until she had reasoned that Therman's efficiency rendered him indispensable.
     Of late years, Kelwood's only business had been the handling of large
estates, like Isabel's; and with matters of investment, taxes, and a thousand
other details, he needed expert aid.
     Therman, it seemed, was a man with a photographic memory and a card-index
brain. Often Isabel had heard Therman reel off important data at Kelwood's
request.
     Still, that did not excuse the secretary's snooping habit. Isabel had
every reason to chide the fellow, and she turned to do so, only to find that he
wasn't in sight. The thing was so startling that Isabel dropped back; one hand
went to the smooth throat above her low-necked pajama jacket as she choked back
an involuntary cry.
     The creep came again. It was from the stairway, almost above her, which
explained how Therman could have gone from sight. Unable to tell whether the
man was moving up or down, Isabel stole to the stairway to see. She was too
slow. There was no one on the stairway when she viewed it.
     It all seemed very simple. Therman must have gone upstairs, and since
Kelwood was also up there in his study, Isabel had every reason to follow. If
she overtook Therman, she could ask him what he meant by playing the sneak.
Should she find him in the study, she could make the accusation in front of
Kelwood.
     But Isabel hesitated, despite herself. She thought she heard the creep
again, from this very floor!
     Glancing toward the door of the dimly-lighted library across the hall,
Isabel actually fancied that she saw the curtains stir. It couldn't be that
Therman had crossed the hallway openly, yet such was Isabel's impression. The
thing was ghostly, and it frightened her.
     Starting toward the library, the girl suddenly lost her nerve. She turned
and dashed up the stairs like mad, her bare ankles twinkling above the slippers
that threatened to trip her as she fled.
     Stephen Kelwood looked up from his desk as the frightened girl flounced
into his study. He smiled indulgently at what appeared to be an exhibition of
childish caprice on Isabel's part.
     Her fling of the door had been so sudden that she stumbled, losing one of
her slippers as she came toward the desk. Kelwood expected her to stop and put
it on, but Isabel didn't realize that the slipper was gone.
     She halted, her hands against the desk, and Kelwood noticed that the girl
was breathless. His face sobered as he asked what the trouble was.
     Isabel hesitated, to glance about the room. Therman wasn't in the study,
which meant that he might still be downstairs, and it struck Isabel that to
accuse the secretary of playing the snoop would be one thing; that of playing
the ghost another.
     She couldn't expect Kelwood to believe the latter story. The only thing to
do was to forget Therman and tell Kelwood about Ted's call.
     Still breathless, Isabel described the telephone conversation. Kelwood's
face showed frank amazement.
     "How did young Lingle learn these things?" he queried. "Do you suppose" -
momentarily Kelwood's face furrowed in a glower - "that he was eavesdropping
the other night when Therman met him outside the library?"
     Isabel started an indignant response. Without giving specific instances,
she was classing Therman as a snooper, whose word couldn't be taken regarding
the shortcomings of anyone else. Kelwood interrupted the outburst.
     "Never mind," he said. "The important thing is that Lingle has discovered
something. The danger that he mentions may be real. I shall call Marquette at
once."
     "You mean that men are really coming here?"
     "I do," Kelwood replied. "They were here the other night. They followed
Marquette after he left. Marquette happens to be a government operative who is
on the trail of counterfeiters whose methods I exposed."


     ISABEL stared as Kelwood reached for the telephone. She heard him call a
number, introduce himself and hold a brief conversation. Finishing the call,
Kelwood was more serious than ever.
     "I talked to one of the Federal men," he said. "Marquette just raided an
office on a tip-off that apparently came from The Shadow."
     "The Shadow?"
     "Yes. He is an independent investigator who frequently aids the law. The
office that Marquette raided appears to be a place where counterfeiters take
mail orders for fraudulent bills. Unfortunately, Gorvey, the man in charge of
the office, managed to get away."
     "Then Gorvey may be coming here!" exclaimed Isabel. "He could be the man
that Ted warned me against!"
     "I hadn't thought of that," said Kelwood slowly. "I was thinking in terms
of others. The operative told me that some trouble had been reported in New
Jersey involving counterfeit currency. There was gunplay at a railroad station
and a mob fled, apparently heading back to New York."
     "Ted could have called from New Jersey!"
     "Perhaps he did," nodded Kelwood. "However, Marquette is coming here, and
we can discuss it all when he arrives. As for Gorvey, if he comes first he
won't be able to get into the house, so there is no need to worry."
     Kelwood raised the shade of a rear window, looked across a little yard to
a low fence that followed the rear street. The street was fairly well-lighted,
and no one was in sight. Satisfied, Kelwood stepped around the desk and
gestured Isabel to the door.
     Limping as she reached the hall, Isabel realized that she was shy one
slipper. Turning, she saw Kelwood smile as he passed her the slipper with one
hand while closing the study door with the other.
     "I am going downstairs," Kelwood told her, "to make sure that all the
doors are locked. Meanwhile, I want you to get dressed and packed. We are going
to Gray Haven."
     "To Gray Haven!" Isabel exclaimed. "You mean the great house on the ledge!
The house which my father built -"
     "And which you still own," inserted Kelwood, "although I have been renting
it to pay for the cost of upkeep. I want you to see Gray Haven and decide what
should be done with it."
     "Of course," agreed Isabel. "But why should we go there at present?"
     "We have every reason to go there," explained Kelwood. "Gray Haven is
practically a fortress. We shall both be safer there because" - he laid his
hand gently on Isabel's shoulder - "you may be in danger, as much as I."
     Isabel did not understand until Kelwood made the point clearer.
     "If I put myself away from harm," he said, "these enemies might try to
reach me through you. They will probably attempt to kill me if they can. Should
they fail, it is likely that they would seek to kidnap you. The fact that Ted
Lingle has in some way become involved tends to prove my point."


     IT was quite logical. As Kelwood went downstairs, Isabel hurried to her
room and packed everything she needed except the clothes that she intended to
wear, which she laid upon the bed.
     It didn't take her long, for she knew that she could send back for things
that she might need and have her maid bring them to Gray Haven.
     Opening the door to the hall, Isabel listened to what was happening in the
house. She hadn't heard Kelwood return to his study, but he might be at the
front door, for someone was knocking there.
     Listening breathlessly, Isabel heard the front door being opened, then
caught a voice she knew: Marquette's.
     Danger seemed over, and Isabel was glad. Closing the door of her room, she
slipped from the lounging pajamas and began to dress as quickly as she could so
as to be ready in case Marquette should decide that she and Kelwood must start
to Gray Haven without delay.
     It didn't occur to Isabel that danger might be closest when security
seemed sure. However, she might have felt uneasy had she left her room to
glance down the front stairs. It wasn't Kelwood who had met Marquette at the
front door. Therman was the person who had admitted the Fed.
     "Mr. Kelwood is making sure that the house is properly locked," Therman
was explaining to Vic. "He asked me to attend to the windows in the
conservatory, which I did. Perhaps by this time Mr. Kelwood is back in his
study. We can see."
     They went upstairs and reached the study door. Therman stopped to knock,
with his other hand ready to turn the knob. But Marquette was too impatient to
stand on formality. Brushing Therman aside, Vic strode into the study, to find
it lighted but empty.
     Kelwood hadn't yet returned. That fact flashed to Marquette in an instant,
for he had only an instant to think about it.
     Indeed, the door was still swinging under Marquette's thrust when the next
thing happened.
     There was a sharp report from a gun out by the rear wall of the yard, a
crash of the study window that had the raised shade. A bullet whistled past
Marquette's ear to bury itself in the wall beside the door.
     The shot had missed, but Vic made a roundabout jolt as sharp as if the
slug had found him. He hurled himself upon Therman to fling the secretary back;
in that dive, Vic saw the light switch and hooked it as he passed.
     Darkness blanketed the study. Pulling Therman to hands and knees,
Marquette went scrambling through the study to reach the window, with the
secretary following after. Therman stopped to paw in Kelwood's desk for a gun
that his employer kept there.
     At the window, Marquette couldn't see anyone along the lighted street, so
decided that the sharpshooter must be in the shelter of the wall; but Vic
didn't have time to take a further look.
     Someone was opening the door of the study which Marquette had slammed
shut. Remembering his own experience, Vic sprang out to halt the entrant.
Across the threshold he encountered Isabel, who was attired in a pink slip.
     Shoving the startled girl away from the doorway, Marquette turned to meet
a new arrival who was dashing in from the rear of the hall, having come up the
back steps. The newcomer was Stephen Kelwood.
     "The shot was fired from out back!" Kelwood exclaimed. "I heard it just
after I'd bolted the back door. Like a fool, I'd left my gun in my desk -"
     "Where Therman found it," interrupted Marquette. "He and I can take care
of this. You two stay here."
     Driving back into the study, Marquette was just in time to hear Therman
give an eager call. The secretary was at the window, a revolver glistening in
his fist. Therman's hand was moving to aim as he voiced:
     "I see him! Out in the street, past the wall! I'll get him!"
     Unsure that Therman could pick off the assassin, Marquette came tearing
past the desk, his own gun thrust ahead of him. But instead of aiming at the
outside target, Vic turned his lunge into a twist that carried him full upon
Therman just as the triumphant secretary was pulling the revolver trigger.
     Marquette was just in time. Therman's shot spurted upward as the fellow
sprawled.
     Vic Marquette had prevented a tragic mistake. The target that Therman had
picked wasn't that of a would-be assassin; could not possibly be. Therman had
been aiming at a cloaked figure weaving in toward the wall from along the
lighted street.
     For the benefit of Therman, as well as Kelwood and Isabel, Marquette
voiced the name of the arrival whose life had been in jeopardy:
     "The Shadow!"


     CHAPTER VIII

     NIGHT FLIGHT

     OBVIOUSLY The Shadow must have heard the shot from the yard and was
closing in to hunt down the man who had fired it. Since The Shadow himself was
coming along the street, his quarry could not have fled in that direction. When
it came to a man hunt in the dark, The Shadow needed no assistance.
     Hauling Therman from beside the window, Marquette drew him to the hallway
so he could hear the explanation that Vic intended to give Kelwood.
     "It must be Gorvey who took that potshot," stated Marquette. "He was
finishing a phone call when he ducked out from his office. Telling somebody
that he'd meet up with them. He must have come here first."
     "Because this is where they're coming!" Isabel exclaimed. "That's what Ted
told me over the telephone."
     "The Shadow must have beaten them to it," put in Kelwood. "In that case,
they'll be here shortly. You've got to start for Gray Haven, Isabel, at once!
The car is out front, so hurry and put on your dress. I'll send Therman with
you and I'll stay here" - grimly Kelwood plucked his revolver from Therman, who
was holding the gun stupidly - "and help Marquette."
     Isabel reached her room and slid her arms into the waiting dress with one
quick sweep. She was smoothing the dress with one hand, picking up the bag with
the other, when Therman arrived at the door.
     "Mr. Kelwood has already ordered the car," explained Therman. "He says
it's probably out front. So hurry to it, Miss Parnal, and I'll follow with the
suitcase."
     Isabel dashed out through the hall; as she reached the front stairs she
saw Kelwood and Marquette going to the back staircase. They were probably
heading for the kitchen to make sure that Gorvey didn't come through some open
window that Kelwood might have overlooked.
     The car was out front - a limousine, with the chauffeur, Randolph, at the
wheel. Isabel entered it and Therman followed with the bag. But the car wasn't
halfway to the corner before Therman called for a halt.
     "The conservatory windows!" he exclaimed. "I hadn't locked all of them
when Marquette came. I'll have to run back and tell Marquette. You keep right
ahead without me."
     Those windows weren't quite as important as Therman indicated. The Shadow
had already noticed them while probing the rear yard for the man who had fired
the shot at the study window.
     There was a light in the conservatory and it showed an open window; but
the light itself was a discouragement for anyone to use that route.
     Still, there was a slim chance that someone could have gone through the
conservatory, since the yard itself seemed empty. The lights, too, showed a
passage that went by the house, beneath the conservatory; and though the
passage was barred by high iron pickets, a thin man could have squeezed between
the uprights.
     The Shadow had moved to block off those unlikely outlets before resuming
his search of the yard when he heard the throb of the departing limousine.
     Not knowing what had happened in the house itself, The Shadow could well
assume that the sniper had reached the front street and was using a car placed
there for a getaway. But even if the car was being used by someone else, as
happened to be the case, The Shadow had good enough reason to follow it,
inasmuch as its departure seemed prompted by the shot that had been fired at
Kelwood's window.
     Crossing the darkened yard, The Shadow vaulted the low wall and reached a
cab parked near the corner of the rear street. The cab was The Shadow's own;
its driver one of his agents. Seldom did The Shadow lose a trail when he took
to it in that cab.


     MEANWHILE, Isabel Parnal was settling back in the comfortable limousine,
rather pleased by the latest turn of events. It was a long way to Gray Haven,
the great house that Isabel's father had been building when he died;
practically an all-night drive.
     Isabel was glad that she wasn't going to have Therman for company on the
trip. She much preferred to ride alone.
     The trip, however, was to last only for about three blocks instead of
covering some three hundred miles.
     As Randolph neared a corner he stopped the big car rather than cut across
the path of others that were roaring up at far too rapid speed.
     Brakes shrieked suddenly as the lead car halted. Its driver had recognized
Kelwood's limousine. There was another man in the arriving crew who spotted
Isabel. The other car slapped to a stop; men came leaping from them, men whose
faces were covered with handkerchief masks.
     The first of that tribe reached the limousine and yanked open one door
before Isabel could get the other side open. Randolph, springing from the
wheel, was flattened by hard-fisted punches.
     Then Isabel was clutched by heavy hands and dragged unceremoniously to the
street where her valiant struggle to escape simply landed her flat on the paving
only to be hauled to her feet by a pair of masked captors who started her toward
their car.
     These were the men meant by Ted's warning! Isabel could tell which was the
leader though she couldn't see his face. Curt Hulber was finding it convenient
to keep his identity unknown, though he didn't mind voicing his purposes.
     "No use in going after Kelwood," gruffed Curt. "We don't have to croak him
to keep his trap shut. Snatching this dame will shut him up -"
     A blaze of light interrupted. It came with a roar as a cab bore down upon
Curt, the mobbies, and Isabel, as well. The girl gave a shriek when the
headlights were almost upon her, and her cry seemed to make the cab veer.
     Actually, the cab driver had intended that jerky turn before reaching
Isabel. His purpose was simply to scatter crooks and keep them apart, which he
did quite satisfactorily.
     Curt and most of his crew were on one side of the cab. Isabel and the two
crooks who held her were on the other. It was upon that side that a cloaked
figure emerged from the cab itself; a long, black-clad form that flung itself
upon the thugs who held Isabel prisoner. Two slugging fists, weighted with
automatics, beat down the warding arms of Isabel's captors.
     The girl was free, foolishly starting back to the limousine, when Curt
Hulber came around the rear of the cab and met her with a swinging gun. Isabel
tried to dodge; Curt caught her with his free hand. Just then he heard a
fierce, defiant laugh which told Curt something that he had not seen: namely,
what had happened to his two followers.
     Only one foe could have voiced that sinister challenge: The Shadow!


     YANKING Isabel aside, Curt tossed her to the hands of other arrivals as he
aimed for the fighter in black. Curt was wise enough to dodge as he fired;
otherwise the shot that came ahead of his would certainly have flattened him.
     Turning his dive into a sprawl, Curt didn't have time to aim again, for by
then The Shadow was driving down upon him.
     The thugs who gripped Isabel tried to intervene, hauling the girl with
them. They saved Curt, for The Shadow was more concerned about the girl. He
made a slash at one crook which made the fellow release his grip.
     Seizing the girl, The Shadow wrenched her from the clutch of the other.
Spinning, he was back into the shelter of the cab, blasting a shot that felled
the first crook who tried to aim for him.
     Isabel gave another shriek as she saw a man lunge across the hood of the
cab, wielding a knife that had a bulgy blade. It was Bolo, attempting a quick
thrust at The Shadow, but again he was too late.
     The Shadow was giving Isabel a lurch that sent her headlong through the
open door of the cab, where she landed propped against the front, with her feet
up on the rear seat.
     The girl saw The Shadow taking a reverse twist as a knife whizzed past
him. In lunging away from Isabel, he had recoiled clear from the path of Bolo's
hurl. At that, the knife should have come much closer than it did, but The
Shadow had received some special assistance. The aid was provided by Moe
Shrevnitz, The Shadow's cabby.
     Leaning from the front seat, Moe had given Bolo a passing tap with a heavy
monkey wrench. Isabel saw the thug come reeling past the rear door. The Shadow
did not pause to add a finishing touch. He had other matters that concerned him.
     Making for the front of the cab, The Shadow opened fire across the hood at
the cars which contained Curt's reserves.
     Curt had enlarged his crew upon arrival in New York, but had kept a few of
his cripples. They were in the cars, serving as cover-up men, and they were in
good-enough condition to supply some marksmanship.
     Moreover, they were desperate, for they were men who could not run, and
therefore had to combat The Shadow. But Curt, by that time, had decided that
flight was a more preferable course than battle.
     He was shouting for the cars to get started, and they did, with Curt and
others boarding them as they went past. Bolo managed to grab for a door and go
away on the running board of the final car, men from within supporting him.
     Ordinarily, The Shadow would have followed, even though it would mean
taking Isabel along as supercargo in the cab. But there were other points to be
considered.
     Curt had abandoned some of his thugs, chiefly those that The Shadow had
staggered. They were ready to resume the combat, and The Shadow had to oblige
them. He could not afford to let himself become a target back in the cab with
Isabel. Either he or the girl might get crippled while Moe was trying to get
started.
     It was better to draw all fire away from the cab which The Shadow did by
weaving across the street, shooting back at men who fired in his direction. His
strategy promised a slow but effective elimination of the scattered foemen. But
the task was cut short by the arrival of other cars.
     One was a police car with its crew. The other contained Vic Marquette and
Stephen Kelwood, both with guns. Therman was with them, but being weaponless,
the secretary huddled in the back seat while his companions joined the shooting
party.


     NOT asking for quarter, mobsters didn't get it. They went down from their
propping elbows, snarling as they lost their falling guns. The only man who
offered to surrender was a rather squatly fellow who wasn't masked.
     He darted suddenly from a doorway near a corner and tried to flee, but he
was spotted by his light-gray suit. Hearing shouts to stop, he halted, turned
about as though willing to give up.
     Then, changing his mind, he opened fire with his gun as he dashed toward
an alley across the street. There was only one way to stop him - with bullets.
The Shadow let Marquette and the officers handle it - which they did too well.
Their blazing shots stretched the gray-suited fugitive on the curb, where his
portly body rolled face upward in the gutter.
     During that final spat, The Shadow reached the cab and drew Isabel from
it. He started the girl toward the limousine, where Randolph, coming out of his
daze, saw her and started to open the door of the big car.
     Stepping into the cab, The Shadow gave an order to Moe. The cab wheeled
away, and above the spurt of its motor came a parting tone, strange and
sinister, which made fitting sequel to the ended gunfire.
     It was the strange laugh of The Shadow, the token of a new triumph over
men of crime.
     Kelwood reached Isabel, found that she was unhurt. Her dark traveling
dress was considerably rumpled, but it had stood the strain of tugging hands.
She was ready to go on to Gray Haven, but first she had something to say.
     "They tried to kidnap me," said Isabel. "They were the men that Ted
mentioned when he called. The ones that he wanted us to get away from."
     Kelwood was nodding slowly; but Marquette, arriving at that moment, spoke
bluntly.
     "Lingle's advice didn't turn out so good," said Vic. "It kind of shoved
you right into the middle of things, Miss Parnal. It was The Shadow, not Ted
Lingle, who got you out of it."
     "But Ted would have tried, if he had come here -"
     "Which he didn't," Marquette interposed, "for a very good reason. He's
mixed up in this thing himself. We've had a report on him from New Jersey.
Either he was trying to stage a highjack on his own or he's in the
counterfeiting racket."
     "But why would he have called, then?"
     "To alibi himself," retorted Marquette. "Not only for what happened
earlier, but for this. He's shown himself for what he is, Lingle has. The proof
is the fact that he came to Kelwood's the other night not to see you, but to
check on what Mr. Kelwood and I were doing."
     Isabel's eyes flashed with disbelief, nevertheless she could not criticize
Marquette's bluntness. It was better, she decided, that he should have told her
what the law believed about Ted Lingle rather than try to keep her in
ignorance. She looked to Kelwood and received a sympathetic headshake.
     "I'm afraid Marquette is right," said Kelwood. "Nevertheless, I shall
remain open-minded, Isabel. But tell me something." His expression stiffened.
"Why did Therman desert you?"
     "He wanted to go back and close the conservatory windows," explained
Isabel. "I said it would be all right."
     Therman, standing by, showed a smug smile at finding his story supported.
Marquette gave Therman a steady look, then he turned to view the body of the
portly man in the gray suit which was not far away. Vic nodded as he looked at
the fattish face.
     "Gorvey," he said. "He was the fellow who tried to snipe you, Mr. Kelwood.
He must have cleared out before The Shadow showed up. He was trying to meet the
others before they got here."


     SATISFIED that the unknown mob had fled to stay awhile, Marquette decided
that Kelwood and Isabel could go on to Gray Haven, taking Therman with them. He
arranged to have a carload of Feds join them on the way.
     The limousine started. Just around the corner, a cab was waiting. In the
back seat was The Shadow. His departure had been only temporary. Close at hand,
The Shadow had listened in on recent discussions and then returned to his cab.
     He told Moe to trail the limousine until it met up with the convoy of
Feds. After that The Shadow intended to rejoin Ted Lingle, who would certainly
need a friend.
     As he rode along, The Shadow considered many points, beginning with Ted's
phone call; next the shot that had been fired at Kelwood's study window;
finally, the finding of Gorvey's body among the identified dead men from Curt
Hulber's crew.
     Those details, plus certain actions such as those of Therman, brought a
strangely whispered laugh from The Shadow's unseen lips. What the laugh meant,
only time - and The Shadow - could tell!


     CHAPTER IX

     CRIME'S SEQUEL

     IF Ted Lingle hadn't tried to crack the counterfeit ring alone, there
wouldn't have been any battle at the railroad station in New Jersey, nor any
attempts at murder or kidnapping in New York. Ted was somewhat responsible for
those occurrences, even though he did not bear the dye of crime that Vic
Marquette supposed.
     Those things seemed inconsequential, however, in the light of tremendous
events that followed. In a way, Ted was also responsible for crime's sequel and
the nation-wide furor that it created.
     Vic Marquette had hoped to wait a week before making public the activities
of the counterfeiting ring. He had hoped, during that period, to get a direct
lead to the culprits. When Ted bungled it, there was only one thing to do:
facts had to be disclosed.
     Local Jersey authorities knew that Bleban and Brenlow had met their deaths
in a mix-up over money that had come to them by express. The New York police
wanted to know why masked men were riding rampant, shooting through windows of
homes like Kelwood's, and trying to kidnap girls like Isabel Parnal.
     So Marquette told all.
     Newspaper headlines blazed with talk of counterfeit currency, bills
identifiable by the fact that they had nine serial numbers instead of eight.
One-dollar bills, the kind most in circulation, that looked like real money but
were not. Bills so easily recognized once their flaw was known that there could
not possibly be a mistake about them.
     All persons were informed that such currency was worthless; that even its
possession could prove to be a nuisance, since Feds were seeking, through those
counterfeits, to check back to green-goods buyers.
     The result of such broadcasts confounded Vic Marquette. He hadn't believed
that he could touch off so much dynamite.
     Usually, counterfeit cash was detected before it spread too far. In this
instance, the opposite was the case. The racket wasn't just starting; it had
actually passed its peak. Millions of nine-number bills were in circulation,
and they weren't confined to special sections of the country.
     Thanks to the green-goods system, Curt Hulber had made shipments
everywhere, to hundreds of little men who had put the stuff into circulation
and paid in their ten percent.
     America adopted a new national sport.
     The game consisted of examining dollar bills and counting the figures in
their numbers. If there were only eight such figures, the examiner could count
himself in a dollar. If there were nine, the player was a dollar out.
     People were literally matching the dollar bills in their own pockets to
find out how much they could win or lose. There was only one thing the loser
could do - tear up the phony bills and throw them away.
     Most people made a show of it, for which they couldn't be blamed.
Proprietors of stores and restaurants opened their cash registers, took out the
false bills and tore them up in the presence of customers. Men walked along the
street letting fragments of green paper trickle from their fingers, just to
prove they did have money once.
     Not only in New York, but elsewhere, it was a common sight to see
fluttering bits of so-called dollar bills in gutters. College students pasted
pieces of them to their cars; novelty shops stamped counterfeit dollars with
big letters that said, "Phony - Phooey," then framed them and sold them for a
dime, the cost of the frame, not the waste paper it contained.
     It was worse than the Wall Street crash of '29. Then, big investors had
seen their wealth deflate. In this instance, little people as well as big were
met by a dwindling in what cash they had. It hurt the small man most, for his
cash was largely in dollar bills, and crooks had not counterfeited higher
denominations.


     NEVERTHELESS, the public took it cheerfully. All were in the same boat and
had to make the best of it. For awhile it threatened to be a national
catastrophe. Rumors got about that there might be other styles of counterfeits
among the bills that contained only eight figures.
     With everyone turning to silver currency instead of dollar bills, the mint
was overworked and couldn't supply the demand. Dollar bills seemed jinxed, and
the situation was really serious until a surprising solution offered itself.
     For years the public had hated two-dollar bills, claiming that they
signified bad luck. But that curse was suddenly ended. Men who had twos were
proud of them; they flourished batches of such bills, saying: "Bad luck? I'll
take all that I can get!"
     Banks warmed to the popular theme and began to put stacks of twos in
circulation. Down in Washington, big presses battered away, turning out
millions of the newly favored currency.
     The stepchild of the monetary system, the hated two-dollar bill had
suddenly come into its own and was favored above all. The "almighty dollar" had
doubled up. Prices were quoted in terms of two dollars instead of one. New words
sprang into usage to define a two-dollar bill. It was called a "double dollar,"
a "twin," and a "twice," along with other nicknames.
     It had all happened almost overnight.
     When Ted Lingle read about it in the newspapers, he was amazed, but he
wasn't pleased because his part in the thing had been so big. Ted wished that
he hadn't mixed in it at all. His own name was still in the newspapers,
somewhere around page ten, but it was mentioned too often even there.
     The hunt was on for Ted Lingle. The Feds wanted to know why he had moved
in on matters in New Jersey. Witnesses had related how Ted had approached
Bleban and said that he would take five hundred dollars in ones if the
service-station partner could provide them.
     No one in his right senses would have asked for counterfeit cash. There
was only one answer: namely, that Ted was crooked. He was branded as the scout
of the counterfeiting ring, perhaps its real leader. For there wasn't a doubt
that Ted knew about the queer money. His visit to Kelwood's the night that
Marquette had been there was enough.
     Thus Ted's hopes had vanished. He felt he would never have a chance of
collecting the reward of five thousand "double dollars" - ten thousand dollars,
old style - that the Feds were offering. Not unless he gave himself up and
proved that he was the not big shot of the phony-money racket. He could do the
first part, but not the second; and Ted was really willing to give himself up.
     The Shadow advised otherwise.
     He and Ted were quartered in a little cabin in the woods not far from Gray
Haven, the last vicinity where anyone would look for Ted Lingle. The Shadow
hadn't reproved Ted for making that phone call to Isabel.
     He understood Ted's sentiments and made allowance for them. Furthermore,
the call had proven a boomerang, and Ted was thereby cured. He had promised
absolutely to follow The Shadow's advice in the future.
     It was The Shadow's claim that Curt Hulber and his crew might show up
sooner or later. They still had their feud with Stephen Kelwood, and with their
racket broken, Curt might decide to settle the personal affair. On that chance,
Ted was willing to wait as long as The Shadow so advised.


     TED would have felt a real enthusiasm had he known how close Curt Hulber
and his crowd really were.
     They were in Westford, a town of some twenty thousand population, no more
than fifty miles from Wilderness Lake, where Gray Haven was situated on its
high ledge.
     Curt had opened a business in Westford. He was posing as a real-estate
promoter. Members of his crew who looked respectable enough were supposed to be
salesmen. Others, like Bolo, were listed as repair men, whose job would be to
put in shape whatever houses Curt might buy, if any.
     On this evening, Curt was holding a conference in the room above the
main-street office of the newly formed Westford Development Co. He was reading
them portions of a letter that he had received that afternoon, and he was
making up the gaps in his reading by bragging in a style that was distinctly
his own.
     "I'm the brain in this racket," boasted Curt, "and it's my business to see
that the printers can turn out paper that you fellows can shove. They tell me
that they're all ready to have us meet the truck, like we used to."
     There were mutters from the listeners. They could see no use in meeting
the truck, now that the racket had been ruined. Curt heard mention of Kelwood,
and knew that his men were anxious to settle that score as a matter of sweet
revenge.
     "Forget Kelwood!" snapped Curt. "We'll handle him later if we have to, but
maybe it won't be necessary. You think I'm through shoving the queer? Not a
chance! Listen: the way things have been going, it's all made to our order.
     "This letter from the printers gives us the dope. Never mind where they
are; maybe I don't even want to know myself. All that counts is what they tell
me. They say they've made up some new stuff that will stand the test. Queer
dough that can be pushed so fast it will be a shame!
     "We'll put it out on consignment, get the idea? Let the right customers
try it and then pay up. They'll pay up, too, because they'll have to in order
to get more.
     "If you birds knew who these customers are going to be, and how much dough
they're going to take, per each" - Curt was chuckling - "well, you wouldn't want
to argue about anything else."
     Picking up his hat, Curt picked out a few members of his crew, Bolo among
them, and told the chosen ones to come along. They went out the back way and
entered a seven-passenger sedan, though there were only four in the group, Curt
included.
     Picking back roads, Curt drove for an hour and finally pulled up in back
of a deserted farmhouse.
     A truck was waiting there. Its driver was a brawny man whose face was
hidden under the visor of a cap. He waved a shirt-sleeved arm toward the truck.
Curt ordered the crew to make the transfer. Soon the sedan was so loaded with
bundles that its passengers could hardly find room to seat themselves.
     The truck driver waited for the sedan to wheel away, which was always his
process. The idea suited Curt's plans, for he wanted no one to know where the
counterfeit currency came from. In fact, Curt argued that he himself didn't
care where the plant was located.
     "Results are what counts," stated Curt. "We're going to get them. Crack
open one of those bundles, Bolo, and show the boys the sort of paper that's
inside it. You'll see what I mean."
     Curt heard the bundle crinkle open. He also heard the pleased ejaculations
that came from the men in back. The big shot grinned at himself in the car
mirror as he swung the sedan along the road to Westford.
     Whose idea the new game was, Curt did not say, though his men naturally
assumed that credit belonged to Curt himself. But that wasn't the reason why
Curt was so pleased. He was thinking of the future, not the past.
     The racket was off to a new start in a way that Curt was sure would
thoroughly baffle the Feds and everyone else.
     To Curt Hulber, "everyone else" specifically included The Shadow.


     CHAPTER X

     THE SHADOW LEARNS

     ANOTHER week.
     Ted Lingle sat on a rock, shielded by clumps of alder, and stared between
the branches. He was looking across Wilderness Lake to Gray Haven, the house on
the ledge.
     It was an imposing sight, Gray Haven.
     The cliff that the house occupied was famed in Indian legend from the days
when Wilderness Lake had actually been far off in the wilderness. Towering two
hundred feet, the rock had been the suicide leap for Indian chiefs whose tribes
had repudiated them and for Indian princesses whose lovers had deserted them.
     It was called Ledge Cliff because of the halfway mark in the mass of
grayish granite that cascaded down from the mass of green trees and blue sky
above; and the ledge was the thing that had meant sure death to all who took
the leap. Chiefs and princess had taken severe bounces when they struck that
ledge, and had scaled off to the depths below.
     Alfred Parnal, Isabel's father, had lessened the menace of the ledge by
building his house upon it. Like the rock on which it wedged, Gray Haven had
the same color, gray, but of a darker hue. Hence its walls, buttresses, and
squatly towers were embossed upon the front of the cliff and made a grim but
imposing sight.
     It might have been carved from the living rock, Gray Haven. The house
could be reached by a path up from the south side of the cliff, but no other
way. That path, Ted had learned from The Shadow, had been blocked off as soon
as Kelwood and Isabel took residence at Gray Haven.
     There were fissures in the rock on the north side above a little cove that
lapped in from the lake, but the cracks were too far apart for anyone to use
them as a climbing method. Straight front, Gray Haven had an outlook over the
lake with a hundred feet of rock that was sheer, except for jagged projections
near the bottom.
     No one would ever try to crawl straight up from the lake to reach Gray
Haven.
     As for the cliff above, it was protected by a great picket fence that ran
along the brink. Invaders would have to get through that fence and slide down
to the mansion. It was something that bold venturers might try, for it was the
route of least resistance; but, fortunately, the occupants of Gray Haven had
foreseen the danger from that direction.
     The fence was patrolled day and night by Feds that Vic Marquette had
supplied. Watching from across the lake, Ted could see tiny figures moving
along the line of the fence and knew that watchers were on patrol.
     Glumly, Ted arose and took a last look at Gray Haven in the afternoon sun.
It wasn't any comfort to know that Isabel was so close. She might as well be
thousands of miles away as at Gray Haven, the place which was so inaccessible.
Ted had about given up hope of ever reaching the girl he loved and explaining
the true facts of his predicament.
     Of course, Ted could still count on The Shadow. But The Shadow wasn't at
the hidden cabin when Ted arrived there. In fact, The Shadow had been gone
since last night, and the only explanation seemed to lie in the stack of
newspapers that the black-cloaked investigator had been reading before he left.
     Those newspapers were lying open at the sporting pages. The racing season
was at its height and, for some reason, The Shadow was interested in the
horses. Ted had never played the ponies but he understood that the habit, once
acquired, could seldom be shaken off. It seemed as if The Shadow had a
weakness, after all.
     Ted had to admit that the headlines were intriguing. For some reason, the
public had gone mad over the races. Perhaps people were trying to recoup their
losses of counterfeit one-dollar bills. At any rate, according to the
newspapers, the amounts bet on the pari-mutuels hadn't merely doubled during
the past week; the total had more than tripled.
     So The Shadow had gone to the races. Ted turned on the radio and decided
to listen to the results to find out what made the sport of kings so attractive.


     THE real fascination of the racetrack couldn't be learned by radio. At the
track itself, The Shadow was studying the more intriguing features first hand.
He was behind the grandstand, watching floods of men place their bets, and he
noticed that they favored the two-dollar windows.
     Of course, The Shadow wasn't cloaked in black. He was here in the guise of
Lamont Cranston, a personality which he frequently used. To all appearances he
was a very prosperous individual whose hawkish features denoted a calm reserve.
     When he wanted, The Shadow, as Cranston, could easily attract the usual
racetrack touts who liked to give tips on the ponies in return for a percentage
of the gain. But today The Shadow was finding no luck.
     The touts were too busy placing bets themselves. They were jostling to the
windows, pushing money through, and getting tickets in return. They were betting
with two-dollar bills, which was quite usual at racetracks; and today, the twos
were being flashed in abundance, probably because so much currency of that
denomination had recently found its way into circulation.
     Still, that did not explain the way the touts were betting. Slicing from
window to window, the same men put up new money on other horses. It wasn't
logical the way they had gone wild. No one could beat the pari-mutuels by
betting on a dozen horses in one race. The machines were geared to take care of
just such things as that.
     By the time a man had placed a bet on every horse in a given race, he
automatically made himself a loser. He'd get back some of the money he put in,
but the rest would be the percentage that the machines always gobbled. But
these fellows, who knew all about it, were trying to beat the robots at their
own game.
     Naturally, none were placing all their bets at the same window. They were
spreading them and thereby avoiding any suspicion from the cashiers, who were
rushed to death and paying no attention to the faces that poked at them through
the grilles.
     Only The Shadow, who was neither giving money nor receiving it, had
opportunity to check the situation in its fullest. He stayed around the windows
watching the men who placed their bets and when they came back to collect on
winning tickets.
     When the last race was over and dusk was settling over the track, The
Shadow strolled out with the throngs. He passed certain men, who caught the
signals he gave them.
     Those men were agents of The Shadow; he was assigning them to trailing
duty. The Shadow was pointing out various touts and other betters who had been
putting their money an every horse.
     The trails separated, only to rejoin. When The Shadow reached the
pretentious Turfview Hotel, a half mile from the track, he was on the trail of
a wizened tout who entered the lobby, gave a sneaky look about, and took an
elevator to the third floor.
     By then others were coming in, tagged by The Shadow's agents. Signaling
for his own men to leave, The Shadow sat down and watched the parade.
     He hadn't needed a trail at all.
     It was simply a case of checking them off when they went by, some two
dozen of the bet-placers, who had gambled on whole stables instead of
individual horses. By the time the last had come in, The Shadow went up to the
third floor himself, took a look along the hall, and saw the door where they
went in and out.
     Going up to the fourth floor, his own, The Shadow obliterated the guise of
Cranston with a black cloak and slouch hat. Looking through the window, he
laughed softly at sight of thickening darkness. Stepping to a fancy balcony,
The Shadow let himself over the rail.


     IN a suite on the third floor, Tim Felbright, big-time horse manipulator,
was counting the afternoon's take. Tim was a big bluff man who usually did
things in a big way, and he was living up to form.
     On his table were huge piles of money, mostly in fives, tens, and
twenties. These were the pay-offs on the two-dollar bets that the touts had
placed that afternoon. Aided by a wise-faced ex-jockey named Dilk, Tim was
already putting the count past the twenty-thousand-dollar mark.
     "With a couple dozen guys pushing a few grand each," declared Tim, "this
racket is good for pretty near fifty grand a day, allowing for what the
machines clip off."
     Dilk gave a wise nod.
     "The main trouble is at the windows," continued Tim. "Even with me having
the exclusive at this track, it crowds a lot. But the boys are working faster
than they did before. Tomorrow is the last day, but they ought to unload the
rest of the shipment."
     Tim nudged a heavy thumb to the corner where a stack of paper-wrapped
bundles lay. Dilk wasn't the only person who looked in that direction. Other
eyes saw the bundles - eyes that peered in from the window: The Shadow's.
     His count of the big bills finished, Tim turned to a heap of twos that the
boys had brought back from the track. He thumbed through them rapidly, keeping
the green sides upward. He wasn't counting them; he was studying some feature
of the bills themselves and leaving the count to Dilk. There were some bills,
mostly crisp specimens, that Tim laid to another side.
     "Got to weed these out," he grumbled. "Can't help it if some bounce back.
It wouldn't do to let the boys have the inside now. They think I'm just trying
to figure out some way to beat the machines. So we'll let it go at that."
     "You can push those extras through with the new shipment," suggested Dilk.
     "Good enough." The counting finished, Tim took the profits in big bills
and stowed the money in a large suitcase. "Open the bundles, Dilk."
     Dilk opened them. Within, The Shadow saw stacks of two-dollar bills, crisp
and new, and all counterfeit! He didn't have to examine the currency to know the
answer. The Shadow had figured it beforehand.
     Curt Hulber and his crowd were at work again, featuring a new issue. With
one-dollar bills disliked throughout the country, the public had shown its
preference for twos. So had Curt Hulber. He was shoving the new counterfeits
right down the alley that changed conditions had opened wide!
     "A great idea, this!" spoke Tim Felbright, with a boom of approval. "We've
got to give credit to the guy who rigged it, whoever he is."
     "He runs an outfit called the Westford Development Co.," said Dilk.
"That's what the label on this package says."
     "Burn that label!" ordered Tim. "We don't want some wise guy to get hep."
     Dilk tore the label from the package and applied a match to it. While the
evidence was burning, Tim arranged the fraudulent two-dollar notes in little
clumps to give to the touts when they came for them in the morning.
     "Smart business," continued Tim in a reminiscent tone, "those guys sending
me fifty grand of this queer on consignment. What had I to lose? Nothing! After
I shoved it, I paid up by sending them ten percent."
     "Suppose you hadn't," suggested Dilk.
     "Then I wouldn't have got another shipment," returned Tim. "It's the
credit plan, same as big mail-order houses are using. You get goods for a
start. When you pay up, your credit is good again for the same amount."
     "But what about the last shipment?" queried Dilk. "This one, for instance.
Suppose you leave them holding the bag?"
     "I could," nodded Tim, "but I won't. They've made theirs on half a dozen
shipments, so it wouldn't hurt them too much. But it might hurt me more.
Suppose I want to pick up the racket where I left off at some other track? I
want to be in right, don't I?"
     Dilk agreed, but his wise face looked troubled.
     "It's been high-pressure stuff, Tim," he said. "Moving so fast, it kind of
knocks the wind out of you. Like giving some odd plug a speedball so he'll win a
heat. Try that with a hay burner and you'll have the commish on you. This racket
broke well, but it's going to be tough when it hits the stretch."
     "You mean the Feds will get wise?"
     "They're bound to," argued Dilk. "They, or somebody else. I'm getting the
jitters, Tim, like any minute some guy was going to pop in and hand us the
ha-ha -"


     FROM the shape of Dilk's suddenly frozen lips, Tim thought that the laugh
he heard was the ex-jockey's imitation of the promised ha-ha. Only it wasn't
the sort of laugh that Dilk would give, and it didn't come from the right
direction. Those points came home to Tim as the mockery increased.
     Strange, sinister, it seemed to permeate the entire room, creeping in from
the walls, shuddering the atmosphere as it did the listeners. Dilk was staring
rigid at something that he saw, and Tim instinctively wheeled about to view the
same intruder.
     Tim saw The Shadow!
     In from the window, the cloaked invader held both Tim and Dilk covered
with a single gun. They were practically on a line, which made the action
simple. The Shadow's other hand was reaching for the telephone amid the bundles
of counterfeit two-dollar bills that were banked on Tim's table.
     "No... no -"
     Tim was blundering forward, his hands half raised, his face purple. He
wasn't offering fight; actually, he was pleading. The accusing tone of The
Shadow's laugh made Tim falter and drop his hands to the table edge, which
quivered under his shaky grasp. The Shadow's hand lifted from the telephone.
     He didn't want to expose Tim Felbright's end of the new counterfeiting
racket - not yet.
     The right system was to hold Tim helpless, and Dilk with him, while The
Shadow followed up the Westford clue. The simple way was to march Tim and his
accomplice from the hotel and turn them over to his agents, who would take care
of them until The Shadow returned.
     If The Shadow gave them hope, Tim and Dilk would do anything he wanted.
That was why The Shadow lifted his hand from the phone.
     At that moment the door of the room swung inward. The Shadow hadn't heard
its clatter because of Tim's cry. In from the hall sprang two men, a pair of
recruits who had learned that Tim wanted stooges to place bets for him and were
coming to sign up. They weren't the usual type of racetrack tipster; they were
tougher.
     They saw The Shadow and drove for him, only to dodge as he gestured with
his gun. Big Tim suddenly sent the table flinging forward and hurled his great
bulk upon The Shadow. Tim's arms were wide, his hamlike hands trying to clutch
the black-clad challenger who threatened to expose his racket.
     But The Shadow wasn't where Tim expected him to be. He was twisting away
toward the window, not only to avoid Tim's bulk, but to place the big man as a
block between himself and the pair who charged in from the door.
     With Tim's surge, a revolver crackled; not just once, but three times in a
row. The spurts came from a gun that Dilk had yanked; the shots were meant for
The Shadow, but did not reach him. Dilk, like Tim, had failed to find The
Shadow; but Tim, the closer, guessed the direction of the cloaked vanisher's
fade.
     That was why Dilk's last two shots found a mark in a target he didn't
want: Tim Felbright. They couldn't miss Tim's elephantine figure as the big man
veered jerkily to change his lunge in The Shadow's direction. Arms sprawling
ahead of him, Tim struck the carpet, writhing amid the bales of counterfeit
bills that he had tumbled from the table.
     The men from the door stopped short. They saw that Tim's wounds were
mortal. Dilk didn't wait to apologize for his mistake. He darted for the door
and reached it, thanks to the intervening men.
     Shouts came from the hallway as Dilk fled, telling that he was spotted and
that a chase was on. Rather than stay and take the blame for Felbright's death,
the two touts turned and fled, intending to join the pursuers who were after
Dilk.
     Alone by the window, The Shadow saw Tim's prone figure give a last
convulsion. With Tim dead and Dilk gone, there was no one to testify as to the
real graft behind Tim's betting activities. It might take days, perhaps longer,
for the police to uncover the counterfeit angle. The Shadow did not need days;
hours were all that he required to reach Westford and move in on Curt Hulber
and his unsuspecting crew.
     It was hundreds of miles to Westford, but The Shadow had a plane available
and knew that he could find a landing field near the town. Out through the
window, down to the ground, The Shadow glided off through the darkness.
     He was leaving the Turfview Hotel and the turmoil that Dilk's flight had
caused. The Shadow, master of the night, was off to conquer crime!


     CHAPTER XI

     AT GRAY HAVEN

     THE same dusk that marked The Shadow's meeting with Tim Felbright was
bringing a new vigil to Gray Haven. Until dark, The Feds kept merely casual
watch; but at night they really patrolled the high fence on the cliff brow
above the gray stone mansion.
     Nightfall was also the time when Vic Marquette arrived, not only to check
on the six-man squad that he had posted, but to talk over important matters
with Stephen Kelwood.
     Gray Haven was a remarkable edifice. The ledge which supported it was not
exactly flat; hence the structure was buttressed all along its foundations. In
those foundations were cellars, quite irregular, and on different levels.
     Alfred Parnal had been a collector of every type of rarity from Egyptian
mummies to medieval silverware. He had built Gray Haven to house his
collections and knew that he would need storage room; hence the multiple
arrangement of the cellar chambers. Parnal's sudden death a few years ago had
ended the whole plan.
     Most of his collections had gone to museums. Gray Haven, still
uncompleted, had become a white elephant on the hands of the estate, which was
managed by Stephen Kelwood. To help things along and bolster up the investments
that Parnal had made for his daughter Isabel, Kelwood had tried to rent the
house on the ledge.
     Failing to find regular tenants, Kelwood had rented it to himself at
intervals and had kept the place in good condition toward the day when it could
be sold.
     So much for the cellars. Marquette had gone through them, found them
spick-and-span. No one could hide in the empty cellars, and reaching them
seemed an impossible task. Some of the cellars had windows, but they were only
narrow slits that opened upon the sheer cliff below.
     As for the mansion proper, it was divided into two sections. The front
portion had two complete floors. On the first was a library, well-stocked with
books that Parnal had collected and kept. Next to the library, but not
connected with it, was a room which Kelwood used as a study whenever he resided
at Gray Haven.
     Knowing that he would have to stay at Gray Haven indefinitely, Kelwood had
sent to New York for his files and records, and they were installed in the study.
     The second floor front had bedrooms, and the present occupants were
Kelwood; his secretary, Therman; Isabel and her maid, Celeste. As for the rear
section of the house, it quartered Brackley, the caretaker, and a few helpers
who acted as servants; two handy men and a woman cook. Randolph, Kelwood's
chauffeur, lived in the servants' quarters whenever he was at Gray Haven.
Marquette had gone through these quarters with Brackley and found everything
quite satisfactory.
     Brackley himself was a find. He was a square-built man, husky, as well as
efficient. He knew the house and its surroundings and was a great help when it
came to posting the Feds. Brackley fixed up some of the unfinished third-floor
rooms into lodging quarters for Vic's squad and saw to it that they were
comfortable.
     Thus, with Gray Haven itself quite shipshape, Marquette was able to
concentrate on other things.


     ON this visit, Marquette found Isabel in the library, mulling through the
many books which it contained in its numerous high-shelved alcoves.
     Returning to the hallway, Vic stopped at Kelwood's study and knocked on
the door. He was admitted by Therman.
     Kelwood was at the desk in the center of the room. In front of him lay
currency of various denominations - specimens of genuine money that Marquette
had brought on his last visit. Kelwood was holding a microscope, which he laid
aside to rise and shake hands with Marquette. Therman, meanwhile, stood by,
staring through his glasses until Kelwood noticed him.
     "Get back to work, Therman," Kelwood ordered. "You have much to do. While
we are here, I intend to straighten out the details of Miss Parnal's estate."
     "I've done most of it, sir," returned Therman. "The estate shows an
increase of more than twenty thousand dollars."
     "But how much more?" queried Kelwood. "I want you to detail it to the last
penny, Therman. I intend to transform the assets into cash as soon as possible."
     "The records show that you have," declared Therman. "I can give you the
figures of what is already owing to Miss Parnal."
     "They can wait until all is settled," stated Kelwood. "I can then pay Miss
Parnal the entire amount. All the more reason, Therman, why you should return to
your work. There are other estates that must be broken up and liquidated. The
sooner the better, because then everyone will know how well I have managed
them."
     Drably, Therman went back to the files, but he kept stealing sly glances
toward Kelwood and Marquette as they chatted at the desk. Therman, it seemed,
was quite as interested in their discussion as in the work that Kelwood had
assigned to him.
     The discussion concerned the bank notes that Marquette had brought earlier
for Kelwood's examination.
     "We haven't forgotten how you spotted the phony dollar bills," declared
Marquette. "You've built yourself a rep down in Washington, Mr. Kelwood."
     "And this, I suppose," smiled Kelwood, waving his hands toward the money
on the desk, "is the result of it?"
     "That's right," affirmed Marquette. "The way those ones swept the country,
we're afraid that the counterfeiters are slipping something past us in the
higher bills. If they are, we want to nail them."
     "They haven't tried it so far," Kelwood declared emphatically. "I have
gone over these samples in microscopic detail and find no flaws."
     Marquette was more than pleased; he was enthused. The opinion of an expert
like Kelwood was exactly what the Treasury Department wanted. Vic waited until
Kelwood had gathered up the questionable bills, arranging them in rotation from
fives and tens up to denominations as high as a thousand dollars. Then Marquette
brought a thick wallet from his pocket.
     "Some more of them, Mr. Kelwood."
     Wearily, Kelwood sat back in his chair. Then, with a smile, he obligingly
took the bills that Marquette proffered and began to examine them with the
microscope.
     Marquette was pleased by the meticulous care that Kelwood displayed, and
the nods satisfied him, too. Each nod meant that a sample bill was genuine. At
last Kelwood queried:
     "Any more?"
     "I guess not," Vic replied.
     "Haven't you any cash of your own?" Kelwood asked. "After all, if
counterfeits have been put in circulation, they might show up anywhere."


     MARQUETTE pulled some bills from his trousers pocket and tossed them on
the desk. There were three fives among them, and a ten. The rest were twos,
which Marquette retained and folded to replace in his pocket.
     "What is the matter with those?" queried Kelwood.
     "Nothing is the matter with them," returned Marquette. "They're two-dollar
bills, the old jinx money that's become everybody's sweetheart. Do you know,
there was always one thing good about two-dollar bills in the old days. Nobody
wanted them, so nobody faked them. Deuces always rated high with the Treasury
Department on that account. But the way they're printing them off now, they're
getting to be a headache."
     Kelwood buried his long chin in his hand, stared reflectively at Marquette.
     "The old days," quoted Kelwood. "You mean last month, before the
counterfeit cyclone blew so many one-dollar bills out of circulation. So twos
are popular now -"
     He paused, reached his other hand to take the bills that Marquette was
folding away. Vic gave them up, wonderingly.
     "I hadn't thought of it before," asserted Kelwood. "There were no twos
among the bills you brought me, and naturally there wouldn't be. No one would
have counterfeited twos in the old days. But these are new days, Marquette.
     "Two-dollar bills have come into their own. Vast numbers of them are being
put in circulation daily; all new notes, crisp and fresh, the kind that
counterfeiters prefer to imitate. Suppose that these particular counterfeiters
guessed or foresaw the popularity that twos would gain. They might have
provided for it in a very large way."
     Kelwood was laying Vic's bills side-by-side. There were six of them and
Kelwood used his microscope to compare them. He saw no differences in the
portraits of Jefferson, nor any variance in the signatures or other details of
engraving. Turning the bills over, Kelwood examined the green sides; then laid
away his microscope.
     "No difference," he began. "I suppose that my apprehensions were unfounded
-"
     Stopping as he pickled up the bills, Kelwood stared. He was looking at the
engravings of a mansion that appeared upon the reverse of the bills. The mansion
was Monticello, Jefferson's home. It showed four front pillars over its colonial
portico, with two others in the background. That is, there should have been two
pillars in the background. But on some of Marquette's bills the rear pillar at
the left was missing!
     So conspicuous was the difference that Kelwood had skipped right over it
with the microscope. It was the sort of error that would only be noted at
longer range. Even then, at straight sight, the picture of Monticello looked
quite normal, despite the missing pillar. Comparison alone could make it stand
out. Kelwood happened to be comparing a genuine two-dollar bill with a spurious
one.
     He showed the pair to Marquette and pointed out the difference. Vic came
bounding to his feet like a man gone mad. The queer-money racket was at work
again right under the law's nose. It left Marquette quite bewildered, but he
managed to sit down when Kelwood urged him to be calm.
     "These couldn't have gone into circulation until recently," Kelwood
argued. "As you have said, two-dollar bills weren't popular enough. It must all
have started within the past ten days."
     "But how?" demanded Vic.
     Kelwood shook his head. The answer was outside his province. It was a
riddle that Marquette could better solve. Vic began to rack his brain.
     "It can't be!" Marquette exclaimed. "They couldn't have started the
green-goods stunt working again so soon; not after what happened to those
service-station guys. It doesn't make sense unless they found some way to
unload two-dollar bills in big batches. But you don't see two-dollar bills -"


     AGAIN Marquette was thinking of the old days, and this time the error was
in his favor. He remembered places where the two-spots had once been popular;
where Vic himself had seen them in abundance.
     "Except at racetracks!" Marquette shouted. "That's where they could shove
them! Say - they've just been winding up the season with the biggest week
they've ever known! I was reading about it -" Vic stopped to look for a
newspaper; seeing none, he queried: "Where's the radio, Mr. Kelwood?"
     The radio was in the library. Kelwood accompanied Marquette out through
the hall, and when they reached the library they interrupted Isabel, who was
listening to a musical program.
     Muttering as he thumbed the dials, Marquette found it was too late to get
the racing results, but he finally muddled into a news broadcast and stayed
with it on the chance that he might hear something important. Vic was lucky
enough to pick up a random news flash.
     "Big Tim Felbright is dead," spoke the news announcer. "Noted sporting man
and big plunger, he was slain on the eve of what promised to be another
clean-up. Noted for the huge bets he placed, Big Tim was trying another system,
manipulating small bets by the thousands.
     "He was found in his room at the Hotel Turfview, almost buried in layers
of two-dollar bills that he intended to parcel out to his workers before
tomorrow's races. All week he was playing the same mystery game, aided by a
former jockey named Dilk, now sought as Felbright's slayer."
     The theme switched. Marquette cut off the radio and made for the
telephone. He put through a long-distance call and began to talk to the police
at the Hotel Turfview.
     They took Marquette's word for who he was and examined the two-dollar
bills at his request. Hearing the report across the wire, Vic turned to Kelwood
and informed:
     "Phonies! The kind you just uncovered. Thousands of them!"
     Shooting questions again, Marquette kept the police busy. Vic wanted to
know a lot of details that didn't make sense to them; things about Felbright
that couldn't have anything to do with his murder. Such things, for example, as
express shipments that Big Tim had received or made.
     He learned that Felbright had received goods by express and had mailed out
several packages by parcel post. One of the bellboys happened to remember the
address of a package, for he had taken it to the post office. The package had
gone to the Westford Development Co.
     "That's it," asserted Marquette when he hung up the receiver. "Tim wasn't
buying real estate. He was shipping cash, good cash, for more loads of the
queer. That town of Westford isn't much over fifty miles from here. We can make
it in an hour and a half easy. This thing is worth looking into."
     Kelwood agreed that it was. Isabel, however, was apprehensive when
Marquette stated that he intended to take most of his squad along with him. She
asked what would happen at Gray Haven if crooks came and found the place
unguarded.
     "I'll leave two men," promised Marquette. "One up by the fence and one in
here."
     "Brackley can help patrol the fence," assured Kelwood, "and we can depend
upon Therman as an inside guard. I shall post him outside my study door."
     Therman showed a smile as he received the assignment, and Isabel did not
like the secretary's sly expression. Mentally, however, she conceded that
Therman, if loyal, would certainly make a good watcher. The trouble was, she
questioned his loyalty; nevertheless, since Kelwood was satisfied, Isabel had
to pretend that she was, too.
     It was Marquette who provided the clinching argument.
     "If we get to Westford first," he said, "we'll have a chance of trapping
that outfit before they can start anywhere else. After that, neither of you" -
he was looking from Kelwood to Isabel - "will have anything more to worry
about."
     The Feds had assembled. Vic Marquette left with the four that he had
chosen. They took the barred path down from Gray Haven to the place where they
kept their cars along the lakeshore. They left in haste, for Marquette regarded
this expedition as a race against time.
     It was more than that. It was a race against The Shadow!


     CHAPTER XII

     TOO MANY TRAPPERS

     A TINY light was blinking from a special short-wave radio set that The
Shadow had left with Ted Lingle. Putting on earphones, Ted thumbed the dial
until he heard a chatter that sounded like a monkey cage in a menagerie. Noting
the number on the dial, Ted turned another knob to match it, then pressed the
button.
     The voice became clear above a very slight whir within the shortwave set.
The device was equipped with a mixer and only by operating the special
apparatus attached to this set could the voice be brought through. Ted was to
be the only listener who would understand the conversation.
     It wasn't The Shadow's voice. Instead, Ted heard a methodical tone:
     "Burbank speaking. Instructions."
     Ted knew about Burbank. He was The Shadow's contact man who relayed
special orders when needed. It wasn't important to know where Burbank was
calling from; the thing to do was listen to the instructions and remember them.
     They were clear enough. Ted was to leave the cabin, pick up his car from a
clearing a half mile away, and drive to an airport near a town called Westford.
There he would meet The Shadow.
     Ted was mentally noting all that when the voice paused. Then it came again:
     "Burbank speaking. Instructions."
     The orders were repeated in case Ted hadn't heard them the first time.
Since they included the word "immediately," Ted assumed, quite correctly, that
Burbank had waited until a set time before calling. Evidently The Shadow had
gauged Ted's driving speed in relation to the roads around Westford.
     Why Westford was important, Ted did not know. His best guess was that it
had something to do with Curt Hulber and the band who peddled the counterfeit
cash. And again Ted had made a correct surmise.


     IN Westford, Curt and his company were assembled in their usual council
room above the fake real-estate office. They were talking over something that
they had heard by radio - the same news flash that had impressed Vic Marquette
with its report of Tim Felbright's death. Worried mutters were passing among
the group when Curt silenced them.
     "What difference does it make?" he sneered. "All we lose is the payoff on
the last shipment that Tim got. We stood to lose that anyway if he didn't want
to come through. Five out of six is a good-enough average."
     By the light of a desk lamp, Curt referred to a little book that he took
from his pocket.
     "We've got about twenty other customers like Tim," he declared, "and
they've averaged better than twenty grand apiece in real dough. Half of that is
ours; the other half goes to the guys who print the paper for us. There's plenty
for all."
     The listeners agreed. The division of a quarter million was something that
pleased them. The other half had gone out the night before when Curt met the
truck again and brought in a new supply of counterfeit twos.
     At present, there were two stacks of bundles in the room, both large. In
one pile, uniformly wrapped, were false two-dollar bills intended for new
shipment. The other bundles, more loosely arranged, contained the real cash
that Curt intended to divide.
     Curt had a way of holding back on payments. It kept his followers whetted
for the future. He was able to maintain his policy because he had added new men
to his crew.
     Privately, Curt told his veterans that it wouldn't look right to pay them
off too quickly, while getting the confidence of the recruits. To the newcomers
he implied that he couldn't hand them cash right at the start because the
regulars would object. Thus did Curt keep all his followers satisfied to some
degree.
     In fact, they would have been satisfied at present except for their worry
over the matter of Tim. Curt decided to humor them along.
     "Most of the big tracks are closing," he stated. "The cream is off the
game, but we ought to stick and try the milk. Maybe it's gone sour; if it has,
we'll quit. But only if I say so!"
     He finished with a glare meant for certain members of the crew. Still
posing for their benefit, Curt pulled a big revolver from his hip and juggled
it.
     "D'you know why they call me Curt?" he queried. "It's short for Curtains.
That's what I give lugs I don't like - curtains! I'm kind of noisy sometimes,
but when I don't like noise I leave it to Bolo."
     He gestured to Bolo as he spoke and the ugly crook produced his big knife
with the same flourish that Curt had used with the gun.
     "There's a moniker that's short and plain," approved Curt. "Bolo. That's
what they call the knife, and the same handle does for the guy that uses it.
O.K., Bolo. The boys understand."
     Revolver and knife went back to their respective pockets. Curt began to
speak in a milder tone.
     "Another week of this," he said, "and I might even forget Kelwood. He
queered the other racket for us, but not until the tail end. If he queered this
one right now, he'd be too late to spoil the best part of it. But since we can
lick Kelwood without going after him, we might as well let him live.
     "He and the dame don't matter much. Neither does that Lingle gink. He's
sort of a fall guy, the way he's got the Feds looking for him instead of us.
But I'm telling you this: No matter how things go, I'll have an answer.
     "One reason we came here was to get close to Kelwood, and I can move in
closer if I want to. So close that we'll be sitting in Kelwood's lap; me on one
knee with a gat and Bolo on the other with his dirk.
     "But who's going to bother us? Not Kelwood, nor the Feds, either. Why,
this town's so quiet you could hear anybody coming from a mile away -"


     AS if to illustrate his point, Curt paused. The others, listening, could
hear motors from the highway that passed the town. From somewhere they caught a
faint thrum that sounded like an airplane passing over Westford.
     Chuckling, Curt went to the corner that contained the counterfeit money
and began to toss the bundles around so that others could address them.
Presumably these were circulars being sent out to customers by the Westford
Development Co.
     There was an odd bundle left when the others were addressed. It would
ordinarily have been labeled to Tim Felbright, but his name was now off the
list. Curt was tossing the bundle to one side when he heard a cautious knock
from the door at the top of the stairs. Curt answered the summons.
     "Some guys snooping around," a voice informed. "They ain't townies, and
none of 'em look like tin-stars. They might be T-guys."
     Curt motioned for mutters to cease.
     "Get downstairs," he told his men. "Behind the desks and those file
cabinets the way we practiced it. Let them come in, then pop out on them. They
can come upstairs if they want. Bolo and I will be waiting for them."
     As the thugs started downstairs, Curt stepped to a rear corner of the
room, drew back a window shade a trifle, and took a look at the low roof of a
shed next door. He could see the ground, too, because some new building boards
were lying on it and showed a creamy white.
     No one was in sight, and considering the distance from the window to the
shed, Curt decided that anybody who tried that route wouldn't be able to clear
the gap.
     With the rest downstairs, Curt left the room lighted and motioned Bolo out
to the landing. Curt set the door a trifle ajar so that the light would serve as
bait; then, drawing Bolo farther back, Curt found enough darkness to satisfy
him. He and Bolo crouched to await developments below.
     They could hear the sounds of men, entering, and Curt could tell that
there were not many. He whispered that fact to Bolo, beside him. Both faced the
stairs to listen, still keeping back from the narrow wedge of light that sliced
out from the upstairs room.
     Suddenly Curt stared. The wedge of light had widened. He looked at Bolo,
saw that his companion was close to the doorway.
     "Don't shove the door," undertoned Curt. "We don't want too much glim out
here."
     "I ain't showing it," retorted Bolo. "I'm outside, ain't I? It's in the
room, and I'd have to reach to push it."
     "Take a look, then."
     Curt pointed to the illuminated strip on the landing. It had widened
farther, and as he and Bolo stared they saw it stretching inch by inch.
     Suddenly alarmed, Curt came to his feet and Bolo swung up with him. The
clatter that they made defeated their effort to surprise a hidden antagonist.
     He was no longer hidden. With a final sweep, he had brought the door fully
open with his elbow and was covering the two crooks with a pair of guns. The
only darkness that remained on the landing was that cast by a cloaked figure
who stood master of the scene.
     The Shadow!


     NO laugh came from the cloaked arrival's hidden lips. This was a time for
silence, for in trapping Curt and Bolo The Shadow knew that others must be
about.
     Why the rest should be downstairs was something seemingly unimportant. It
happened that The Shadow, coming from the back, had missed any indications of
stealthy entrants from the front.
     The Shadow was not alone. At his whisper, Ted Lingle stepped into sight.
Curt saw the simple but effective way in which the two had entered.
     They had come by the shed, and the gap between it and the window had
proven no problem at all. They had brought up some of the loose boards from the
ground and silently placed them as a bridge.
     Withdrawing to let Ted pass, The Shadow told his companion to disarm Curt
and Bolo. An easy thing for Ted to do while backed by The Shadow. He could then
keep both men covered while The Shadow went downstairs and checked up on the
other crooks - which would prove a very unpleasant proceeding for them.
     Never before had The Shadow arranged such a perfect set-up, only to have
it ruined by the mistake of someone else. The thing happened just as Ted was
reaching to pluck Curt's gun.
     There was a click of a light switch below, a blaze of glare that filled
the real-estate office. With it came shouts, and sounds of a wild scramble. It
was Vic Marquette who had turned on the lights, but his Feds weren't the only
ones who raised the commotion. Curt's crew, springing from their hiding places,
were in on the hubbub.
     Guns ripped wildly as Ted, turning instinctively, saw men springing to the
stairs from below. They weren't crooks who were coming his direction; he
recognized Vic Marquette at the head of a band of Feds. Vic saw Ted, in turn,
and knew who he was.
     "It's Lingle! Get him!"
     The Feds drove upward, partly at Vic's order, partly to shake off the
mobsters below. If Ted had left the situation to The Shadow, it might have been
redeemed, for The Shadow was making the right move.
     Cloaking one gun, he had caught Ted with his free hand to haul him into
the upstairs office; while, with the gun he still held, The Shadow was prepared
to clip Curt and Bolo before they could get into action.
     But Ted hadn't forgotten those two.
     Jerking from The Shadow's clutch, Ted started to wave his gun while
shouting to the Feds:
     "Here are the men you want!"
     The gesture wasn't understood; the cry was drowned by the roar of guns as
the Feds opened fire at Ted, the man they thought they wanted. Curt and Bolo
flattened to escape the bullets and they expected Ted to come toppling their
way as a shield. The reason Ted didn't was because The Shadow hooked him bodily
and rolled him into the room.
     Fortunately, the Feds had hurried their first shots, which enabled The
Shadow to get Ted away in time.
     From the room came The Shadow's laugh, which the Feds took as an
encouragement in their dash to overtake Ted. Actually, the mockery was a
reminder to Curt and Bolo that The Shadow could still handle them. It held them
back until the Feds were full upon them. Then the pair sprang to grapple with
the men from the stairs.
     Marquette shoved Curt's gun aside, while another Fed took a grip on Bolo's
knife hand. The pair lunged frantically, starting their opponents back down the
stairs. They needed the Feds as shields against The Shadow and wanted to get
downstairs with their crew
     Their drive succeeded; by bowling two Feds against the others, they
started a pell-mell tumble down the steps.


     EXTINGUISHING the light in the upper room, The Shadow sprang out to the
landing. He had made it dark, but he could see the crooks at the bottom of the
stairs because the lights were on below.
     Crooks couldn't shoot, for Curt and Bolo were howling for them to lay off
rather than be made targets with the Feds. Similarly, The Shadow couldn't risk
shooting at the strugglers on the stairs.
     Instead, he took a high step to a rail at the stair top, gave himself a
cross lift to press his free hand on the wall at the other side. From that
elevation, The Shadow ripped shots above the heads of the tumbling mix-up to
drive back the waiting crooks at the bottom.
     One of that group sprawled, another staggered. All heard The Shadow's
laugh accompanying the blast of his big gun.
     Crooks fled, and as they went, one snapped off the lights. The darkness
ended The Shadow's chance to continue the fray. He heard shouts from below,
followed by gunfire, and knew that Curt and Bolo had disentangled themselves
and were fleeing along with the crew.
     The Feds were doing the shooting, but they only followed to the outer
door. Telling the rest to keep firing from there, Marquette took one man and
started back upstairs.
     By then, The Shadow was in the room using a flashlight to find that Ted
was missing. The Shadow had not told him to wait, so it was obvious that Ted
had gone out by the window route.
     It wasn't cowardice on Ted's part, as The Shadow was to learn. Following
through the window, The Shadow dropped to the ground and took a shortcut to the
front street.
     There he saw Ted dashing toward some departing cars. Gun in hand, Ted was
going after the thugs alone. They weren't bothering to shoot back, which proved
to Ted's disadvantage. It made him look as though he was trying to overtake the
counterfeit crew and go along with them.
     The Feds thought so.
     They opened a barrage in his direction and sent him dodging for shelter
that he never could have reached except for The Shadow's intervention. The
Shadow intervened by stabbing shots around the doorway where the Feds were. The
clatter of plate-glass windows sent them into cover, enabling Ted to rejoin The
Shadow.
     It was too late to explain things. Introducing Ted to the Feds wasn't on
The Shadow's calendar unless he had a few captive crooks on hand to spout the
name of their real leader, Curt Hulber. Nor would The Shadow's own position be
too enviable if the Feds found that he alone had slowed their effort to prevent
a getaway of counterfeiters.
     Shoving Ted into his car, The Shadow took the wheel and drove off into the
night. The delay, though short, was costly, for there was no longer a chance of
tagging Curt and his escaping band.
     Nevertheless, The Shadow laughed. His whispered mirth carried a
significance that Ted Lingle understood. The Shadow was still confident of
settling scores with crime in a way that would free Ted of complicity.
     How that could be accomplished was beyond Ted Lingle. Yet, low though his
hopes had sunk, The Shadow's tone revived them!


     CHAPTER XIII

     THREAT OF VENGEANCE

     EACH day had grown long for Isabel Parnal. Despite the comfort and
security of Gray Haven, she considered herself about the most unfortunate girl
in the world. The law's gain had been Isabel's loss.
     It didn't matter to her that Vic Marquette and his Feds had driven unknown
counterfeiters into deeper hiding, acquiring a few hundred thousand dollars in
real cash, along with stacks of evidence in the form of fraudulent two-dollar
bills.
     What mattered to Isabel was the fact that Ted Lingle stood branded as the
one known man, and probable leader, of the counterfeit tribe. She couldn't
believe it, but no one else felt as she did, not even Stephen Kelwood. However,
Kelwood was at least sympathetic.
     This evening, Isabel was talking to Kelwood in his study. The gray-haired
man shook his head when the girl argued in Ted's favor.
     "I should like to share your confidence in young Lingle," Kelwood
declared. "Unfortunately the evidence is all against him."
     "Circumstantial evidence!" Isabel exclaimed. "Not one bit more!"
     "I agree." Kelwood nodded. "But when such evidence repeats itself it
becomes very strong. Nevertheless, I should be willing to listen to Lingle's
story and give it credence if he could show facts to support his innocence."
     "He's trying to produce facts," insisted Isabel. "Facts in the form of
those crooks that the government wants. It's plain to me, Mr. Kelwood. Can't
you see that Ted is trying to do the one thing that would clear him; that he's
out to capture the counterfeiters? That's why he was in the fight in New
Jersey. It's why he appeared in Westford."
     "An interesting theory, Isabel," said Kelwood. "I hope it's correct. I
shall mention it to Marquette when he comes here this evening. But I doubt that
it will impress him."
     Isabel arose and opened the door. She paused, listening to creaky sounds
in the hall. Therman's snoopy steps; he had been listening outside the door and
was trying to sneak away.
     Isabel threw a quick glance to the desk, hoping that Kelwood would hear
the steps, too, but the gray-haired man had started to look through stacks of
papers on his desk and was engrossed in that work.
     At that moment, Therman's sneaky steps changed to brisk ones. The smug
secretary appeared at the door itself as though he had come all the way along
the hall instead of doing a sudden turn-about. In his oily style, he said:
     "Good evening, Miss Parnal."
     Isabel gave Therman an accusing look that she hoped Kelwood would
understand. But there wasn't any suspicion in Kelwood's eyes when he looked
Therman's way. It happened that Kelwood had been expecting the secretary.
     "Marquette will be here shortly," Kelwood told Therman. "I want you to
meet him at the barred gate and carry whatever packages he is bringing."
     Therman turned and went away. Coming to the door, Kelwood placed his hand
on Isabel's shoulder.
     "I shall speak to Marquette," he said. "But I am sure it will be useless.
He has other things on his mind. Twice now I have detected counterfeit currency
that was being foisted on the public. As a result, I have been recognized as an
outstanding expert on the subject. My advice is being asked on all matters
pertaining to currency.
     "A few nights ago Marquette left these with me" - Kelwood stepped to the
desk and produced some one-dollar bills of a style that Isabel had never seen
before - "specimens of a new currency issue that is to replace the old.
     "I have approved them, and Marquette is bringing other samples for further
inspection. There is one way whereby counterfeiting can be defeated: that is to
recall the currency frequently and replace it with money of a new design."


     ISABEL wasn't interested. She went upstairs and decided to go to bed.
     From her window she could see the lake below the cliff, and the glisten of
the water allured her. She no longer wondered why the legendary Indian
princesses had taken that leap. Perhaps if one kept the water in mind, a
landing on the rocks would not be too horrible.
     However, Isabel did not jump. She decided that bed would be more
comfortable and was tucking herself into it when a hopeful thought struck her.
There might be an argument that would influence Vic Marquette. That argument
was Therman.
     If Vic became suspicious of the secretary, as Isabel was herself, he might
listen to reason regarding Ted.
     Putting on a fluffy negligee and pair of high-heeled slippers, Isabel
started downstairs. She was just in time.
     Marquette had finished a brief visit with Kelwood and was about to leave.
He had come from the study and was closing the door behind him when he heard
the clatter of Isabel's high heels.
     To avoid further noise, Isabel stayed where she was, and Marquette
approached the beckoning vision. Sitting on the steps, Isabel undertoned her
opinion.
     "It's Therman," she said. "I don't trust him. After all, Mr. Marquette, he
knew before Ted did that you were visiting Mr. Kelwood."
     Marquette grunted. He caught the idea. Isabel was trying to alibi her
boyfriend.
     "That night in New York," Isabel reminded, "when someone almost killed you
instead of Mr. Kelwood. Therman let you go in the room first, didn't he?"
     "Not exactly," replied Vic slowly. "I shoved myself in."
     "But Therman didn't hold you back. What's more, he left the conservatory
windows open so that man Gorvey could go through. He slid out of the limousine,
too, just before men tried to kidnap me."
     Vic shook his head.
     "A lot of circumstantial evidence, Miss Parnal."
     "Which is exactly what you've built against Ted," flashed Isabel. "If you
apply it in one case, why not in the other: I'm not accusing Therman, you
understand. I just want you to know, though, that he's the world's champion
snooper! I've noticed -"
     Suddenly, Isabel gripped Vic's arm. She was seated on the steps, staring
downward, while Vic, standing a few steps below, was facing her. Vic turned;
like Isabel, he saw projected blackness on the floor.
     It was moving, and it made Vic think of The Shadow, the cloaked intruder
who might be anywhere. But The Shadow never made noise when he moved about.
This person did.
     As the streak moved away, both Vic and Isabel heard a creeping sound, a
token of stealth that wasn't perfected. It was the girl who recognized the
tread and spoke in a positive whisper that convinced Marquette.
     "It's Therman!"
     "Just outside the library," undertoned Vic. "I thought he'd gone down to
the gate. Maybe he sneaked into the library instead and thinks I'm still in the
study. Wait, let's hear if he goes there."
     Those whispers could have carried, for the stairs were something of a
sound box. Therman's footsteps halted, then moved away instead of crossing to
the closed door of the study.
     "He's wise," declared Marquette. "He's either sneaking down the hall or
back into the library. Come on!"


     ISABEL sprang to her feet as Marquette started. Her clattering heels
echoed Vic's thumping strides. They were too late to see Therman, but there
were only two places where he could have gone: down the hall or into the
library. Vic kept to the hall, pointing Isabel to the library door.
     There was a turn at the end of the short hall. Vic reached it, looked past
the bend. If Therman had gone that way, he had reached the stairs beyond. A
chase would only bring Vic to the gate below, where Therman was supposed to be.
     Remembering the library, Vic decided it was a better bet, particularly as
he was worried about Isabel. If Therman happened to be crooked, he might go
berserk if trapped.
     Dashing back to the library, Marquette found Isabel there. She was
standing in the center of the room, and she shook her head when Vic arrived.
     "Not here," said the girl. "He must have hurried down again."
     Vic nodded.
     "Not a word to the fellow," he confided. "You keep tabs on him, Miss
Parnal, but don't go banging around in high heels like those. They were the
give-away. If there's any trouble, tell my men. When I get down to the gate
I'll act as if nothing happened."
     They were at the library door. From across the hall, Kelwood opened the
door of the study and peered out, his face worried.
     "What was all the clatter?" he queried. "Didn't I hear someone running?"
     Isabel slid herself into Marquette's arms, much to Vic's astonishment.
Nevertheless, he played his part well - or, rather, Isabel did for him. It
might have been the snuggle of her shoulders that attracted Vic's hands so
spontaneously. It made an excellent tableau, as though Vic were actually
soothing a rather frightened but grateful girl.
     "I tripped coming downstairs," spoke Isabel. "Because of these high heels"
- she was extending one foot toward Kelwood, leaning more on Vic as she spoke -
"and Mr. Marquette caught me. I... I'm rather out of breath; that's all."
     Kelwood suggested that Isabel come into the study, so Marquette guided her
there. The three were chatting, and Isabel seemed quite herself again when
Therman appeared suddenly at the door to find out what had delayed Marquette.
     "I was afraid something had happened," said the secretary, glancing
anxiously from one person to another. "I haven't forgotten what you told me,
Mr. Kelwood - that we are under greater threat than ever since you have
thwarted the counterfeiters a second time."
     "No need to worry, Therman," gruffed Marquette. "Miss Parnal just had a
slight fall coming downstairs. As for those crooks we're after, they're five
hundred miles from here by this time. If they're out for vengeance, they'll be
a long time delivering it."
     Vic went along with Therman, chatting pleasantly all the way to the gate.
Going down the path, he reached his car, where other Feds were waiting. These
were new men, additions to the squad already on duty.
     "I want you fellows to patrol the path," Marquette told them. "Keep a
close watch on that gate. We're not going to let anybody pull an inside job on
us. I'll be back tomorrow to stay awhile. Trouble may be a lot closer than we
think."


     TROUBLE was closer than Marquette thought. As he drove his car along the
shore, he passed a side road that was little more than a pair of wheel tracks
curving among the bushes.
     Men, peering from the brush, glimpsed Vic's swarthy face as he drove by.
They slid back to a car of their own, coasted it out to the road.
     Curt Hulber was at the wheel of the silent car. He continued to coast
until Vic's motor had faded ahead, then Curt let his own car come into gear.
Curt's own voice was a purr, much like that of the idling motor, as he let the
car ease slowly along.
     "We're going back to the cave," said Curt to the men with him. "This route
is no good. We'll have to use the one I figured first - down from the top of the
cliff."
     "With the Feds and the fence," spoke one of Curt's companions, "it's going
to be tough."
     "Not very," retorted Curt. "Marquette can't figure that we're around here
or he wouldn't be driving off alone. I told you that the smart stunt was to get
as close as we could to Gray Haven. This is the one territory where nobody would
think of looking for us just yet.
     "Those Feds on the fence are watching for snoopers, not for a mob. We'll
land on them like a ton of bricks, get through the fence, and go down over the
edge with ropes. Some of you guys can go into town in the morning and buy the
ropes at different places. Because we're going after Kelwood tomorrow night."
     The car's speed had increased. Darting a look back from the mirror, Curt
made sure that no other machine was following him. The leader of the
counterfeit mob gave a satisfied laugh.
     That laugh wasn't echoed. It was revoked by a strange tone in the
darkness; mirth so low that it did not reach the ears of Curt Hulber and his
companions. The low-voiced mockery came from back near the forgotten side road,
where a cloaked figure had arrived.
     Unlike the law, The Shadow had no doubts as to the whereabouts of Curt
Hulber and his band. For the past few days he had been scouring the region
around Wilderness Lake to gather facts regarding them. Though just too late to
uncover Curt's car on this occasion, The Shadow could piece the things that
Curt had said.
     The Shadow knew that crooks would forego the pathway route. As for coming
up from the lake front to reach Gray Haven, they would regard it as impossible
because of the sheer cliff. That left but one choice: the route over the brink.
     Having divined the plan of Curt Hulber, The Shadow would be ready to meet
the threat of vengeance!


     CHAPTER XIV

     THE WAY FROM BELOW

     IT was late afternoon, and a light was burning in the little cabin where
The Shadow and Ted Lingle were quartered. The light was needed because the
cabin was deep in the woods and had very small windows, hence it became gloomy
before dusk.
     Under the light, The Shadow and Ted were studying a map of the territory
around Gray Haven.
     On the contour lines that represented a hillside a few miles away, The
Shadow rested a pencil point. Ted knew what it meant: the location of the cave
where Curt Hulber and his outlaws had their present headquarters.
     "They move tonight," spoke The Shadow in a low, even tone. "They will come
here" - he moved his pencil to the cliff above Gray Haven - "and then down.
Midnight will be the zero hour."
     Ted knew how The Shadow had acquired the information. Not only had The
Shadow covered the terrain; his agents were posted hereabouts. Ted had met only
one of The Shadow's agents, a keen young chap named Harry Vincent. If the rest
came up to Harry's caliber, they must be a dependable band indeed.
     From a town near Gray Haven, agents had reported that mobsters were buying
rope, which fitted with The Shadow's assumption. Rope with which they would hang
themselves, Ted hoped.
     How The Shadow had picked midnight as the zero hour was something of a
mystery, but Ted assumed that the cloaked investigator had gone to the cave the
night before and overheard some talk among guards posted by Curt Hulber.
     In fact, while Ted was so thinking, The Shadow mentioned the cave itself.
He brought out a lot of yellowed newspaper clippings and spread them on the map.
     "The cave is not unusual," The Shadow said. "It is but one of many in this
area, and Curt Hulber chose it merely for convenience. It is an impregnable
place, for it can be reached only through cracked openings in the rock."
     "Like those in the cliff below Gray Haven?" queried Ted Lingle. "Why, then
-"
     "Exactly!" There was mirth in The Shadow's whisper. "It is probable that
there is a cave beneath Gray Haven, though no one has uncovered it. We might
term it a grotto rather than a cave, since it probably contains water."
     Ted's interest increased, particularly when The Shadow began to spread the
clippings. They were from old newspapers, and they mentioned legends of
Wilderness Lake. Reading them, Ted was highly impressed.
     One told of the mysterious Indian chief, Selango, who had appeared one
night of the full moon upon the ledge where Gray Haven now stood. Another
mentioned an early settler who, while paddling along the lake, had eluded a
fleet of Indian war canoes by slipping from their very midst.
     Referring to the map again, The Shadow checked the cove near the foot of
the cliff below Gray Haven. Ted remembered it as a wooded spot where bushy
foliage seemed to cling to the water's edge.
     "This could be the entrance to the grotto," stated The Shadow. "If the
grotto exists, the Selango legend indicates that there are fissures from it up
to the ledge. The story of the settler may mean that the way into the grotto is
above water level at some periods of the year. It happens that the lake is at
its lowest point at present."


     TED'S heart jumped. This promised the very thing he wanted - a way to get
into Gray Haven. Once there, he could talk to Isabel, assure her of his
innocence and enlist her aid toward clearing him with the law.
     Then Ted steadied. The choice wasn't his. It belonged to The Shadow.
Though Ted didn't realize it, keen eyes were watching his facial expression.
Away from the lamplight, The Shadow used that mode of observation often. He
read Ted's thoughts on this occasion as plainly as if the young man had
expressed them.
     The Shadow pushed the yellow clippings aside and spread more recent ones
upon the table. They had to do with Gray Haven itself, for they were newspaper
stories dating from the time when Alfred Parnal had begun to build the mansion.
     "The Parnal estate includes considerable acreage above the cliff,"
remarked The Shadow. "The fence along the brow is not the boundary. It was
placed there simply to keep marauders from the mansion where Parnal intended to
house his valuable collections."
     Ted nodded. How useful that barrier had become! It was sheltering Parnal's
daughter, at present, instead of the vanished collections. Yet the great fence
itself would prove inadequate tonight, even with Feds on guard, unless The
Shadow took steps to meet the massed invasion of criminals bent on vengeance;
which they would certainly apply to Isabel as well as to Stephen Kelwood.
     "This clipping is interesting," resumed The Shadow. "It mentions what
Parnal termed the 'Summit House,' which he intended to build back from the
cliff. At a high elevation it would have afforded a full view of the lake once
the trees were cleared.
     "You will note that the foundations of the Summit House were actually
laid. They are concrete and include a cellar with low walls that rise a few
feet above ground level. The foundations were boarded over at the time of
Parnal's death. Most of the boards are gone, but the foundations remain intact."
     It occurred to Ted that The Shadow must have paid a visit to the
uncompleted Summit House. Picturing the foundations as The Shadow had described
them, Ted exclaimed:
     "Why, those concrete walls would be useful as a bulwark against gunfire!"
     "That is why I mentioned them," returned The Shadow. "Before midnight you
are to go there and join my men, who expect you. This is the signal that you
are to give them."
     Producing a flashlight, The Shadow gave a series of repeated blinks, which
Ted checked mentally. Ted was enthused over The Shadow's plan of putting a small
but capable squad in a stronghold from which all of Curt Hulber's band could
never dislodge them.
     When The Shadow marked the position of the Summit House upon the map, Ted
was even more elated.
     By flanking out from their citadel, The Shadow's men could force Curt's
band to take the route between as the easiest way of escape. It would bring
them squarely against the old foundations, which they had never heard of.
     By then The Shadow's agents, Ted with them, could be back behind their
bulwark, ready to stop the fleeing crooks head-on!
     The Shadow, however, had no intention of counting unhatched chickens. He
had finished discussing the plan of battle, which circumstances might change.
Looking from the window, he noted that the dusk had thickened. Steadily, The
Shadow spoke to Ted:
     "There is much time before midnight. This will be our last opportunity to
search for the grotto."


     THEY went from the cabin to the lakeshore, where Ted, holding a little
flashlight close to the ground, watched The Shadow inflate a rubber boat with a
pump.
     They launched the craft, which was oval-shaped, the inflated wall around
it. The Shadow used a short paddle at the stern of the boat, while Ted sat in
the bow.
     The Shadow's mode of paddling was absolutely silent. He stroked the boat
forward, turned the paddle inward to get the back leverage that straightened
the course, then, without lifting the paddle from the water, he sliced it
forward to begin another stroke.
     As efficient as the churn of a propeller, but without the slightest trace
of foam, those strokes carried the rubber boat to the little cove.
     Silence and darkness. Both were needed, for Ted noted flashlights along
the jagged rocks below the cliff and knew that Feds must be watching the water
route, as well as the cliff top.
     He conjectured, therefore, that the Feds expected trouble, but had no
surety that it was due. Otherwise they would probably be concentrated on the
brink high above, which Curt Hulber had picked as the spot for an attack at
midnight.
     Had the search for the grotto been his own idea, Ted would have given it
up at the end of the first hour. Sheltered in the cove, he and The Shadow
picked their way, inch by inch, among the projecting trees and brush, sometimes
getting out of the boat when it grounded.
     There was no sign of an opening among the rocks; nevertheless, The Shadow
persisted in retracing the whole course. At last, while they were in the boat
again, he turned a flashlight's gleam upon the water, tore up a small sheet of
paper and let the pieces drop.
     They drifted toward the rocks, were caught by a tiny eddy, and disappeared
between two large stones. It struck Ted, then, that The Shadow had detected the
current by the boat's drift. Grounding the boat, they got out and began to work
at the stones.
     Past a small clump of alder, under the very stretch of a leaning birch,
they pulled stones from the turf, and the water gurgled. The larger stones were
harder, but they brought the best results.
     The process was opening up a channel that the stones, sliding from above,
had covered but not blocked. Here was the secret route of Chief Selango when he
made his appearances upon the ledge; the channel that a lucky settler had found
when dodging war canoes!
     The boat itself was drifting in upon them; boarding it, they squeezed
farther through between screening bushes and pressing rocks. Then Ted flashed
the light ahead to see the channel widen underground, and The Shadow poled hard
with the paddle to lunge the boat through.
     Watery passages among the great slopes of gray rock. Inlets that were
narrow but deep. The one that The Shadow took curved back to the others until
the way was finally blocked by solid rock ahead. But when Ted turned the
flashlight upward he saw that this was indeed a grotto.
     It wasn't dome-shaped; it was more like the interior of a steeple, but
very irregular. High above were cracks, the sort that showed on the outer
surface of the cliff. One of those cracks must lead to the Gray Haven ledge.
     Leaving Ted on the narrow shore, The Shadow moved the boat back to the
outlet. Ted could see him blinking his flashlight from the shelter between the
rocks and was quite sure that answering flashes came from somewhere across the
lake, on a prearranged line, for there were long pauses between The Shadow's
signals which indicated a conversation.
     Then The Shadow returned partway. Ted could hear his whisper; the walls of
the grotto carried it. He was telling Ted to remain here while he, The Shadow,
contacted his agents and made a check-up on the outside situation.
     Ted voiced his agreement to wait; he listened and heard the rubbery
squeezes as the boat went out into the cove.


     ALONE, Ted turned his flashlight up to the grotto roof. A few hours yet
until midnight, and Ted wondered if The Shadow would use that time, when he
returned, for a trip up to Gray Haven.
     The jagged interior of the grotto offered good opportunities for a climb;
in fact, some spots looked as if they were steps once shaped by old Chief
Selango.
     Ted decided to have a try at them. It wouldn't do any harm, and Ted's
success might impress The Shadow. Even with midnight approaching, Ted couldn't
suppress his wish to reach Gray Haven and talk with Isabel. He would be willing
to forego it, if The Shadow ordered otherwise. But The Shadow had said nothing
on that point.
     The climb proved easier than Ted expected. Finding himself at the fissure
near the pointed dome, he squeezed through. The crevice curved, and suddenly
Ted thrust his head and shoulders into open air.
     He was dizzy when he looked down, for he could see the sharp rocks at the
water's edge. But he noted that the surface of the cliff itself was rough and
slightly slanted backward.
     It reminded Ted of steep roofs that he had climbed, and when he looked for
a goal, he saw the very one he wanted. It was the slit of a cellar window in a
buttress of Gray Haven, a dozen yards away, higher up, and reachable by an
angled climb!
     Ted didn't fully realize his folly until he had started for that goal. At
moments his position was precarious, and he realized that while going up was
possible, coming down might not be.
     On the climb, he could see the place he had to reach, but to try the thing
in reverse would be a blind task. He didn't dare turn his head over his shoulder
as he clawed close to the cliff.
     He reached the buttress in nightmarish fashion, maneuvered one hand up to
the narrow window, and managed to get the other with it. A hard pull, a tight
squeeze, and Ted rolled through to the cellar floor.
     After he had found his breath, he looked out. He didn't like the way back
at all. It would be folly to attempt it until he regained his strength, as well
as his nerve.
     Meanwhile, crouching in this cellar, hiding from people who didn't suspect
his presence, seemed quite a useless policy. He was in Gray Haven; the thing to
do was make the most of it. Ted believed that The Shadow would understand.
     Gun in one hand, flashlight in the other, Ted began a search for stairs
that would take him upward, invading these premises which, to date, even The
Shadow had avoided!


     CHAPTER XV

     DEATH IN THE DARK

     As a sleuth, Isabel Parnal considered herself a hopeless loss. She hadn't
managed to keep watch on Therman at all. When he was around, there was no use
watching him; and when he was gone, he went so suddenly that there was no way
to find him.
     Always, when Therman reappeared, to knock at Kelwood's study or enter the
library, he had some smug explanation of where he had been.
     Vic Marquette was soon due to pick up specimen plates of the new currency
that he had brought the night before for Kelwood's examination. The plates were
in the package that Therman had carried up to the study. Deciding that a watched
pot made only the watcher boil, Isabel had given up the Therman proposition and
had really gone to bed.
     But she couldn't sleep. Everything exasperated her, from Therman's cunning
to the fact that the night was pleasant, with lovely starlight on the lake. She
was even exasperated when she thought of Vic Marquette; because, as Isabel knew
too well, the suspicions that she had directed toward Therman hadn't changed
Vic's opinion of Ted at all.
     Isabel could guess just how Vic figured it. He had two suspects instead of
one, and was checking on Therman to find out if he happened to be an inside man,
employed by the outsider, Ted Lingle. Such thoughts changed Isabel's
exasperation to anger, until she suddenly decided that she would have it out
with Marquette.
     There was a wedge that might work. When Vic arrived, he would expect
Isabel to report on Therman. That, at least, would enable them to discuss the
situation anew.
     Putting on the fluffy negligee and the high-heeled slippers, Isabel
started downstairs to see if Vic had arrived. At the stair top, the click of
her heels made her remember last night's mistake.
     It might be that Therman, knowing that he was now unwatched, had gone back
to his snooping game. On that chance, Isabel slid the slippers from her feet and
left them at the stair top.
     Stealing downward, she was pleased by her own stealth. The stairs didn't
creak under the light tread of her bare feet. If Therman happened to be on the
snoop, she would hear him, but he would not hear her.
     Isabel heard nothing, but she saw something that intrigued her. It was a
light from the library; not one of the stationary lamps, but a moving glow that
indicated a flashlight. Therman must be up to something very special, Isabel
decided, otherwise he wouldn't be using a flashlight.
     Entering the library, Isabel watched the glow turn toward a bookcase; she
approached very close, intending to learn all she could.
     The man with the light was stooping toward the floor and Isabel
miscalculated his next move. Turning suddenly, he swung in her direction,
jostling the girl before she could step away. Something glittered in the light
and Isabel recognized it as a gun aimed in her direction.
     She didn't realize that it was pointed accidentally. Thinking surely that
the man was Therman and that he was bent on murder, Isabel grabbed for the
weapon, hoping to wrest it from the secretary.
     Immediately she was hurled backward. Gun and flashlight were gone; in the
darkness, the man was trying to silence the excited girl by clutching her with
one hand, clamping her lips with the other.
     Isabel did manage a shriek which would have roused the entire household if
it hadn't been suppressed quite suddenly. Though stifled, she was still
struggling when she recognized the quick, excited tone of the man who sought to
quiet her
     It was Ted's voice.


     GLADLY, Isabel went limp, to indicate that she wouldn't struggle further.
Ted released her near the lighted doorway, where he had dragged her, hoping
that Isabel would see his face. But the girl feared that the light would betray
them. She drew Ted back into the darkness, where she whispered the very words
that he wanted to hear.
     Ted didn't have to ask if Isabel trusted him. She was answering the
question before it was put. In the joy of their reunion it was difficult for
either to remember the causes of this surprise meeting, but the sense of stark
reality finally returned.
     Ted told Isabel how he had found his way up into the mansion. He explained
his reason for being in the library. Having found the room by chance, Ted had
decided to look for any books that might pertain to the region around Gray
Haven in hopes that he might glean new information for The Shadow's fund;
things that might justify Ted's present expedition.
     In her turn, Isabel was detailing her suspicions of Therman when she
remembered something that might prove useful to Ted.
     "There are some old papers," recalled the girl. "Maps, architects' plans,
and letters, on a shelf near the window. I found them the other night -"
     She was turning Ted toward the library window when the room was
illuminated by a frightening blaze that revealed every detail of the huge
book-walled room. It was a flash of lightning, followed by a smash of thunder
that could have drowned a dozen shrieks like the one that Isabel gave despite
herself.
     Ted's arm tightened around the girl's quivering shoulders; as the
thunderclap faded, Isabel steadied, spoke with only a trace of tremolo:
     "It startled me, Ted, that was all. I can't get used to the sudden way
that storms arrive over Wilderness Lake. Only a little while ago I looked out
and saw the starlight. I hadn't an idea that a storm was coming."
     "I know," returned Ted. "They've surprised me, too, over at the cabin. But
this means that I'll have to hurry, Isabel, before the storm breaks. The Shadow
will be expecting me. Where are the papers you mentioned?"
     Isabel found them in the darkness. A lightning flash, less lurid than the
last, showed the papers as she handed them to Ted. There weren't many, so he
folded them and stuck them in the pocket on the left side of his coat.
     Reaching to his other pocket, Ted found it empty; he remembered then that
he had dropped his gun back in the rear extension of the library, where Isabel
had found him.
     Trailing thunder had died. Before Ted could speak, Isabel whispered
tensely:
     "Listen! Those footsteps!"
     It was a creepy tread, difficult to locate; the sort that Ted knew must be
Therman's, from Isabel's description. Ted started to draw the girl away from the
window, and Isabel whispered something about the door.
     They were moving there when the lightning flashed anew; this time the
rolling thunder was followed by a patter of rain. With those sounds; all traces
of Therman's creep were obliterated.
     Isabel peered out into the hall, then returned.
     "I don't see Therman," she undertoned, "but I'm sure he's somewhere about.
I'll go out to the stairs, and if he comes, I'll call to him. I'll find some
pretext to hold him until you go."
     "All right, Isabel."


     TED waited just inside the door. Isabel reached the stairs, paused halfway
up, then hurried to the top. She picked up her slippers, carried them in her
hands down to the halfway mark, where she sat down to put them on.
     If Therman appeared, Isabel didn't want him to know that she was snooping,
too. In this case, the clatter of the heels would make matters seem quite normal.
     If it hadn't been for a roll of thunder, Isabel would have heard Therman
sooner. When she did hear his creep, it had come along the hall and was very
close to the library door. On her feet, Isabel clattered downward, calling:
     "Therman!"
     She saw the secretary turn his face about, for he was actually in the
doorway of the library, reaching for a light switch. Isabel's cry was
appealing, almost desperate; it rather startled the fellow. He might have
turned back from the library if the opportunity had been his.
     But the call came too late.
     The flame of a gun knifed suddenly from the darkness of the library.
Therman jolted upright, went pitching forward into the darkened room, clawing
wildly with his hands. Isabel heard Ted's shout, a sudden scuffle. She was at
the door when another blaze of lightning came.
     Something was bouncing along the floor; it proved to be Ted's gun. He was
using both hands to grapple with Therman, who was struggling with the madness
that only a wounded man could display.
     Wrenching free from Therman, Ted reeled toward the door. Floundering,
Therman made a desperate grab after him and caught his ankle. Ted sprawled,
came scrambling ahead on hands and knees, scooping up the gun as he came upon
it.
     He was on his feet, darting along the hall, half turned as though
expecting other opposition, when Isabel, back near the stairs, called on him to
wait.
     Ted didn't wait. He couldn't.
     He saw Therman first, staggering from the library, coughing blood from
lips that were mouthing incoherent words. Therman alone seemed bent upon
overtaking Ted, but his effort ended in a long plunge that was definitely a
dying sprawl. But Therman was only the first of Ted's challengers.
     The study door whipped open and Kelwood appeared there with a revolver. At
the same moment, a man arrived from a rear passage; he was Brackley the
caretaker, with a shotgun.
     Ted fired wildly along the hall, aiming for the ceiling; his shots caused
both Kelwood and Brackley to drop back, while even Isabel crouched upon the
stairs. Then, as Ted turned to run, a solidly-built man shoved into his path.
The blocker was Vic Marquette, arriving at Gray Haven.
     With a slash of his own gun, Ted knocked aside the one that Marquette
drew. Shoving past Vic, he fled for stairs that led down to the cellar. Vic was
firing wildly and his shots were bringing other Feds, while Ted, well ahead, was
blazing back to discourage the pursuers. Actually, Ted's foolish shots were
merely showing Feds the trail.
     Flinging his gun as he went through the final doorway, Ted found the
proper window by a lightning flash and squeezed straight through it. In his mad
desire for escape, he was willing to risk the hazards below.
     Twisted about so that his feet were downward, he was sliding as he
clutched the sloping rock, trying haphazardly to take the angle that would
carry him to the crevice above the grotto.
     Instinct was succeeding where reason failed. A vivid streak of lightning
showed the cellar window, with Marquette peering from it. Ted's course was the
one he wanted, but Vic spotted him, and Ted, seeing the Fed's drawn gun, tried
to speed his own descent.
     A mad policy under the circumstances. The beating rain had soaked the
rock, making it slippery. Losing his grip, Ted slipped downward, outward, his
arms flinging high.


     MARQUETTE'S hasty, misdirected gunshots were lost in the roll of thunder.
Like drums of an orchestra, the sound seemed an increasing accompaniment to a
death plunge. Gone with the last flash of light, Ted Lingle seemed slated for
the rocks below the cliff.
     It would have been impossible for him to reach the saving crevice a few
yards to his side, under his own effort. But there was something that Marquette
did not see in the last glint of lightning.
     The something was a rope that snaked from the crevice. A loop, like that
of a lasso, was bound for Ted's head and shoulders as they wavered outward from
the slanted rock. The loop scored a perfect ringer; its tightening coil was
drawn in by strong, quick hands.
     Literally jerked from the air, Ted scraped the rock again, his hands
hitting the crevice as they passed it. Thanks to his grab and the pull of the
rope, he clung there.
     Then Ted was dragged into the rift itself, where he heard a voice speaking
from the blackness: The Shadow's. A moment later lightning blazed anew, and Ted
saw his cloaked friend beside him in the cleft. But Marquette, staring from the
slitted window of the Gray Haven cellar, saw only space.
     To Vic, Ted was a murderer who had gone to a just death. Only Ted Lingle
could have slain Therman, from Marquette's own knowledge of the case. But Ted
Lingle, wrenched from a plunge of death, was to tell a different story - to his
rescuer, The Shadow!


     CHAPTER XVI

     CHANGED STRATEGY

     SAFE in the protecting depths of the grotto, Ted Lingle was fumbling for
the papers that he had brought from Gray Haven. More than ever, he felt that he
needed them to justify himself with The Shadow.
     Ted's expedition, as he now considered it, had been a very unwise one. So
unwise, that if The Shadow had disclaimed further interest in Ted's cause, Ted
himself could not have blamed his cloaked rescuer.
     Not only had Ted delayed The Shadow's own plans, he had put himself
completely out with the Feds. If, through some sheer freak of fancy, Vic
Marquette would have been willing to cross former evidence off the books, he
certainly could not do so now.
     Therman's death was something more than circumstantial. Marquette had
practically witnessed it himself and considered Ted the killer.
     In fact, in talking to The Shadow, Ted wasn't entirely sure as to his own
innocence.
     "I remembered my gun," he told The Shadow. "It was on the floor somewhere
with the flashlight. Not having the flashlight, I couldn't find the gun. I saw
Therman at the door; I heard Isabel call. Maybe she was just trying to attract
Therman's attention, but, from the way she clattered down the stairs, I thought
that something serious must have happened.
     "Anyway, I swung at Therman and the gun went off. How it went off, I don't
know. Guns have a habit of doing that, they say, but not when you aren't holding
them. I'd swear I didn't have the gun right then, except that later I did have
it. I think I picked it up at the door, though."
     Ted rubbed his head. It was still aching from a jounce that he had
received against a bookcase during his wrestle with the dying man, Therman. It
must have been that blow, Ted decided, that had led to his folly in trying to
escape through the cellar window, down the cliff that provided an almost
impossible return.
     About the only thing that made sense to Ted was the way that The Shadow
had rescued him. Amid his bewilderment, Ted realized that The Shadow would
naturally have been awaiting him. Having found him absent from the grotto, it
was obvious to The Shadow that Ted must have gone up to the house on the ledge.
     Quite natural, too, that The Shadow had brought a rope along.
     Crooks had been buying rope, so The Shadow had ordered his agents to
acquire some, too, in case it might be needed. Wiser than Ted, The Shadow had
seen a possible use for rope in scaling to Gray Haven.
     Bringing a rope, he had found a use for it in rescuing Ted, for which the
young man was duly grateful. Yet Ted felt that it was only another reason why
The Shadow should find fault with him for having gone to Gray Haven at all.
     It didn't occur to Ted that The Shadow always made allowance for the
deficiencies of others. That fact, as much as reliance on his own prowess,
accounted for The Shadow's success in battling crime. To The Shadow, the human
element in any situation was the primary basis from which all other factors
should be considered.
     Receiving the papers from Ted, The Shadow went through them under the glow
of a flashlight. They were interesting, for they showed plans of Gray Haven as
Alfred Parnal had made them, along with suggestions regarding the improvement
of both Gray Haven and the projected Summit House on the cliff above.
     The most interesting thing about all this information was that it told The
Shadow practically nothing that he did not already know.


     TED, studying the papers as The Shadow went through them, was highly
disappointed. He was surprised when he heard The Shadow give an approving laugh.
     "Quite curious," observed The Shadow, "that with all his plans for the
Summit House, Alfred Parnal provided no way to reach it from Gray Haven."
     "But he could reach the Summit House from outside," put in Ted, pointing
to a plan. "He was going to run a new road through the woods."
     The diagram showed the road in question, but The Shadow laid the chart
aside. He picked out certain letters that people had written to Parnal, along
with the carbon-copy replies. The Shadow pointed to a paragraph in one of the
originals that mentioned the difficulty of shipping certain goods by truck.
     "The answer to this is missing," stated The Shadow. "But the next letter
states that the shippers will be ready to send the goods upon receipt of word
from Parnal."
     "Then Parnal must have mentioned something in his own letter to them -"
     "Yes," interposed The Shadow. "Something that concerned an improvement of
the road. But there is nothing to indicate that Parnal intended to improve the
present road to Gray Haven."
     Out of that cryptic statement Ted gathered that the new road might be the
one along which the trucks would come when Parnal gave the word. But the new
road led to the Summit House, not to Gray Haven. Which brought everything back
to the starting point. There would have to be some way from Gray Haven to the
Summit House in order to arrange matters the other way about.
     "These papers have been weeded out," declared The Shadow. "Whoever did it
missed an indirect inference that explains why certain documents were removed.
Let us look at the plans again."
     They looked, and The Shadow found another thing. The plans that bore the
earliest date showed sketches of the entire mansion; while later ones were
incomplete. They did not include the servants' quarters, where Brackley, the
caretaker, lived.
     Folding the papers, The Shadow gave them back to Ted. He pointed his
companion to the rubber boat, reminding him that he had a rendezvous at
midnight. There was less than an hour remaining, which meant that Ted would
have to start out from the grotto in order to join The Shadow's agents before
Curt Hulber and his crew arrived.
     The Shadow, however, remained in the grotto. Pushing off in the rubber
boat, Ted heard a parting laugh that seemed to echo from high in the great
vault.


     THERE was more than illusion to that laugh. The Shadow was actually
climbing within the grotto's pointed dome. He was taking the trail that Ted had
followed earlier, up to Gray Haven itself.
     Reaching the crevice, The Shadow pushed out into the rain, which had
lessened to a drizzle. His was the task of scaling to the cellar, as Ted had
done before.
     A more difficult task, it seemed. The cliff was no longer dry, which added
hazards to a climb. Below, flashlights were bobbing along the shore; at times
they glared upward toward the cliff. Feds were searching the jagged rocks,
looking for Ted's body, wondering why they couldn't find it.
     Though their flashlights couldn't show the entire cliff, it was certain
that they would spot any gleam that The Shadow might produce for his own
benefit.
     From his cloak, The Shadow produced four rubber suction cups, nested like
saucers. Attaching them to hands and feet, he moved in beetle-fashion along the
cliff. The very factor that made an ordinary climb hazardous worked to The
Shadow's advantage. The factor was the rain.
     Its dampness helped the suckers take hold. They clung to the rock as if
glued, and The Shadow's only problem was that of twisting them loose, each in
turn, as he proceeded.
     As for a light, it would have been superfluous. All that The Shadow had to
do was find the buttress of the mansion and work along it to a cellar window.
     Reaching one of the slits, The Shadow entered. He put away the suction
cups and went up through the house. He was in the hall outside of Kelwood's
study when he paused. The door was open and The Shadow could hear voices.
Kelwood and Marquette were discussing Therman's death.
     "He was loyal, poor fellow," declared Kelwood. "Loyal until he died. It
grieves me to lose Therman."
     "Well, we nailed Lingle," returned Vic. "I know that doesn't make up for
it, but it's some satisfaction."
     The Shadow wondered how much satisfaction it would be to Isabel Parnal. It
happened that the girl, for the present, was The Shadow's chief concern. Gliding
to the library door, he paused there. The room was dark, but The Shadow caught
the tone of a sob, then a sliding noise that could only be the opening of a
window.
     Darkness merged instantly with darkness. A single twist was all that The
Shadow needed to disappear into the gloom of the library. His swift strides
were not heard by Isabel as she thrust herself across the sill of the opened
window.
     This time The Shadow had no lariat to prevent a plunge, but his rapid
spring served instead.
     Gloved hands caught Isabel's shoulders as she tried to pitch herself from
the window, to reach the rocks where she thought that Ted's body lay. Hands
more expert than Ted's, for not only did The Shadow clutch the girl completely,
he suppressed the outcry that she tried to give.
     Then Isabel was listening to a whispered tone that told her Ted was still
alive.
     The Shadow!


     REMEMBERING Ted's mention of a mysterious friend, Isabel not only listened
to The Shadow's questions, but undertoned responses. She believed that Ted had
killed Therman, but excused it, claiming that she was to blame because she had
classed the secretary as a menace.
     "Only Ted was in the library," Isabel whispered. "Mr. Kelwood came from
his study. Marquette was coming up from below. Brackley arrived from his own
quarters -"
     "But you were the only one who saw him," interrupted The Shadow. "The
others might believe that Brackley was in the library if you said so."
     "They might. But Brackley wasn't in here."
     "You can show doubt on that point. Insist that Brackley might be the
murderer. Demand that they search his quarters."
     "But what good would a search do?"
     The Shadow's laugh was his response to Isabel's question. With the strange
whisper, she felt a cold touch against her hand. She was holding a revolver,
which happened to be Ted's gun. The Shadow had come across it in the cellar,
where Ted had flung it before going through the window. In pressing the weapon
upon Isabel, The Shadow had a purpose.
     "Take this with you," The Shadow told the girl. "Place it somewhere in
Brackley's room so that Marquette will find it. Let Brackley explain its
presence himself."
     Wondering, Isabel stood staring at the gun, for she could see its glitter
by the light from the hall. She turned to speak to The Shadow, but he was gone.
To her amazement, his whispering laugh came from outside the window. The Shadow
had taken the route that Isabel had wanted, but he was going up instead of down.
     With his suction cups, The Shadow was scaling the high wall of Gray Haven
to reach the cliff above. There he intended to keep his own midnight
appointment with invaders who represented crime!


     CHAPTER XVII

     CRIME'S CHOICE

     STEPHEN KELWOOD looked up in surprise when Isabel Parnal stopped in front
of his desk. The girl had entered the study like a ghost, and her face was
white enough to belong to one.
     Kelwood didn't realize that Isabel had come very near being a ghost only a
short while before. Slipperless, so that Kelwood and Marquette could not hear
her, she had stolen into the library, only to have her suicide halted by The
Shadow.
     Intent upon following The Shadow's instructions, Isabel didn't realize
that she was as stealthy as before. She had come direct from the library, and
her mind was concentrated upon her coming task.
     Isabel's arms were folded, as though her fluffy negligee had proven
insufficient against the cool night air. Her real reason for the pose was to
conceal the gun that The Shadow had given her. Isabel was hiding it from sight
beneath the negligee.
     "What is it, Isabel?"
     Kelwood's rather startled tone brought Marquette about. Vic was wrapping
the currency plates that Kelwood had approved, intending to take them along
when he left Gray Haven. Like Kelwood, Marquette was rather startled at sight
of Isabel.
     "I don't think that Ted killed Therman," declared Isabel slowly. "I am
sure that the murderer was Brackley."
     It was difficult to force words that she did not believe, but Isabel's
reticence only added to their effect. Kelwood stared, as though ready to nod,
but finally he shook his head.
     "It couldn't have been Brackley," he argued. "Why, you said yourself that
he came from the rear passage."
     "I saw him come from there," admitted Isabel, "but he might have run from
the library first. After all, I didn't see Ted until he was well down the hall."
     Kelwood still shook his head, but Marquette became interested. He hadn't
forgotten Isabel's earlier suspicions of Therman. Figuring that Therman might
be an inside man, Vic decided that Brackley might have guessed it, too. In that
case a bit of competent persuasion might produce some interesting facts from
Brackley.
     "I want you to search Brackley's quarters." Isabel's color had returned;
her words were firm. "Find out if he has a revolver that he might have used to
kill Therman."
     "Brackley brought a shotgun," returned Kelwood. "What makes you think he
would have a revolver, too?"
     It was Vic Marquette who answered. Isabel's positive tone had impressed
him.
     "If Brackley has a revolver," said Vic, "it's funny that he grabbed a
shotgun instead. You don't go bird hunting indoors. Maybe he does have a
revolver. We'll ask him about it, anyway."
     Kelwood pondered, then shrugged his willingness to question Brackley.


     THEY went out through the hall and turned along the rear passage that led
to the caretaker's rooms. A knock at the front door brought Brackley, in his
shirt sleeves.
     Marquette put the proposition tactfully. Brackley seemed quite willing
that a search should be made. He showed Marquette from one room into the next,
Kelwood following along. Isabel was in the background, and as Kelwood stood in
the doorway the girl saw her chance.
     There was a large tobacco humidor, a metal one, on a table in the corner,
with its lid slightly tilted. Approaching the corner softly, Isabel lifted the
lid, brought the revolver from her negligee and slipped it into the jar.
     There was just enough tobacco in the bottom to prevent a thud, and Isabel
slid the cover back as she had found it.
     Then, with the same soft-footed tactics, she stole across the room behind
Kelwood's back and perched herself in an easy-chair, where she tucked her feet
under her, partly because they were cold and partly because she wanted no one
to notice her lack of slippers, which might produce a guess as to her stealthy
methods.
     All the while Brackley was opening drawers of bureaus and tables to show
Marquette that none hid a gun. The clatter had helped Isabel considerably, for
Kelwood, watching the men in the inner room, hadn't heard the slight sounds
that Isabel made behind his back.
     Having finished with the inner room, Marquette came out. He started to
look around the outer room, and Brackley helped him. In fact, it was Brackley
who lifted the top of the big tobacco jar, a grin on his face as he said:
     "Nothing in here."
     With the same motion, Brackley was starting to replace the lid, while
Marquette was nodding. But Vic, to make his search official, poked his head
forward at the same time. Brackley, thinking that the humidor was really empty,
was a trifle slow in closing it.
     With a sudden jab of his hand, Marquette caught Brackley's wrist and
thrust it back. Vic had caught a glimmer from within the jar; a moment later he
was pulling the revolver into sight.
     "Only a shotgun?" queried Vic. "That's all you use, eh? What kind of a
shotgun is this?"
     He cracked the revolver open and found that its chambers contained empty
cartridges. The gun had evidently been recently fired.
     Marquette didn't stop to reason that it had taken only one shot to kill
Therman, that this would be Ted's gun more logically than Brackley's. He was
more interested in the fact that Brackley had disavowed any ownership of a
revolver, yet that one had been found in the fellow's room.
     It didn't occur to Vic that Isabel, cuddled so cutely in the chair across
the room, could have planted the gun in the humidor. Nor did Brackley suppose
the girl to be responsible.
     Brackley's stupid stare turned to a glare, first at Vic, then at Kelwood,
who was coming forward to look at the revolver.
     "Why, you -"
     Brackley did not finish. He heard footsteps at the door. Feds were
returning to report the mysterious disappearance of Ted's body from the
lakeshore. Brackley took it that Marquette had arranged their arrival at this
moment; he thought his own outburst was the signal that brought them.


     HURLING himself at Marquette, the caretaker pushed Vic aside and grabbed
for his shotgun that was in the corner. Kelwood sprang to stop him, pulling a
revolver of his own. Swinging the shotgun by its barrels, Brackley sent Kelwood
dodging and dived through to the inner room.
     Quick with his trigger, Kelwood splintered the door as Brackley slammed
it, but he was too late to down the fugitive. Shouting for Kelwood to hold his
fire, Marquette drove through at the head of the Feds.
     Smart enough to yank off the lights, Brackley was lost in the darkness of
the inner room, but the gleam from the doorway enabled the Feds to find their
way.
     There was only one place where Brackley could have gone - into a closet at
the rear of the room. Shouting for Brackley to come out, Marquette leaped ahead
under the protection of his men, who were ready to blast if Brackley made a
move. But when Vic boldly yanked the door open, the closet proved empty.
     Vic called for lights. They came. Staring into the closet, Marquette
looked for a clue to Brackley's disappearance and saw one. The rear of the
closet looked more like a barrier than a wall; in fact, this wasn't a closet at
all. It was a passage that had been blocked off, a route that led to somewhere
deeper in the cliff behind the caretaker's quarters.
     Turning to his men, Marquette told them to bring axes, so that they could
chop their way through the stout panel that Brackley had closed behind him.
     Quite amazed by the turn of events that The Shadow's instructions had
produced, Isabel watched through the doorway of the outer room. As the Feds
returned with axes and other tools, she heard a clock striking twelve.
     Crime's zero hour!


     ON the cliff brow above Gray Haven, The Shadow knew that midnight had
arrived. He needed no clock to tell him; he learned the fact from the
flashlights that blinked along the high fence.
     No Feds were on guard; all had gone below to help hunt for Ted's body.
Curt Hulber and his crew of outlaws were finding what seemed an easy route to
Gray Haven.
     Almost too easy to suit Curt. He was holding his men back as they started
to squeeze between the pickets, telling them to "Go easy on the glims."
     Darkness, thickened by the clouded sky, gave Curt an impression of danger
close by. In fact, Curt was almost thinking of The Shadow when the hidden
fighter's challenge came.
     A weird laugh, as ominous as the thunderclaps that had so lately battered
the atmosphere around Gray Haven. Mockery that rose in an eerie crescendo, only
to break into an uncanny pitch that awakened echoes from surrounding rocks, as
though a horde of ghoulish tongues had answered.
     To every listener it seemed that the tone was meant for him. The strident
mirth sent crooks dodging, scattering, flinging away their flashlights as they
pulled their guns. Blindly they blasted into the darkness.
     The only accurate shots were those that replied - stabs from The Shadow's
deadly guns.
     He was spotting crooks as was his style, taking them by surprise, though
he was only one in opposition to more than a dozen. His gun bursts were his
taunts, transformed into metal, which picked off foemen with a precision that
seemed super-human.
     The Shadow was on the move along the cliff edge, dropping, fading, coming
up again, always evasive; whereas his enemies, counting on their numbers, were
firing flatfooted. Their blazing guns made targets where The Shadow's did not.
     So timely was the thrust that it came almost in the middle of Curt's
outspread crew. The crooks broke for the only cover that offered - the trees
behind the cliff brow. To their amazement, they heard The Shadow's shots echo,
not from rocks, as the laugh had, but from other guns that supplied an
additional hail of bullets. Frantic men took deeper to the woods, and Curt fled
along with his stampeding crew.
     They saw a low wall loom from the brush. Guns spoke from the top level of
the bulwark. Dropping, Curt's men spent useless shots trying to find hidden
foemen in the dark. Only Curt's snarl rallied them. In desperation, he ordered
his fighters to rush the wall ahead. Hearing The Shadow's laugh behind them,
thugs made the mad attempt.
     In a wave, they reached the wall before the flanking members of The
Shadow's squad had time to rejoin the few who were in the stronghold.
     Ted Lingle was among the group behind the wall; he heard Harry Vincent,
the man beside him, telling him to come along. The Shadow had instructed his
agents to fall back from their defenses if crooks came in a surge.
     For some reason, The Shadow himself had forced that issue by pressing in
so swiftly upon Curt's fleeing tribe. The Shadow's laugh, resounding from the
darkness, bore a tone of triumph which Harry understood, though Ted did not. It
was a token of changed strategy that called for the co-operation of the men who
were abandoning the Summit House.
     How it could work was plain to Ted when he hard rolled across the wall
with Harry and the others. The agents had not given up the cause. Instead, they
had turned the foundations of the Summit House into a trap.
     Except for those who strewed the ground behind them, Curt and his crew
were all across the wall, with no chance of getting out, for The Shadow's aids
were at every angle, keeping up a constant barrage into the squarish, low-built
structure.


     CURT HULBER recognized the snare. He dropped to the depths of the
foundations, shouting for his men to do the same.
     The Shadow's laugh had trailed away, as though the cloaked fighter had
gone from the scene, but guns were ripping steadily from the ground above.
Getting into the mess had been bad enough; Curt knew that climbing out would
prove worse.
     His only chance was to find some other outlet. Blinking a flashlight on
the weather-streaked concrete floor, Curt looked for a hole into which he and
his fellow rats could dive. He saw cracks that formed a rough square and pried
at them, to no avail. Curt was giving it up when the very floor began to heave.
     Impelled by a mechanism below, the square slab lifted. Into the range of
Curt's flashlight poked a squarish face that would have ducked again but for
the cry of recognition that Curt gave. He knew the man from below. He was the
trucker who had so often brought the shipments of counterfeit bills.
     The man was Brackley. Escaped from the Feds, he had come into another
danger zone. But the men trapped in the Summit House were the very
reinforcements that Brackley had needed below in Gray Haven. He beckoned them
through the opening to a shaft beneath.
     Two strokes at once. Crooks were out of the trap and on their way to
surprise Vic Marquette and the Feds. Such was the reversal of events that The
Shadow's strategy had finally produced!


     CHAPTER XVIII

     LAIR OF DOOM

     DOWN in Gray Haven, Marquette and his squad had broken through the wall.
They found themselves in a large room where bulky objects showed dimly in the
gloom. Turning on a light, Vic discovered what the place was, and the sight
halted him in complete amazement.
     The bulky shapes were printing presses. About them were stacks of blank
paper, and others of counterfeit money. This hidden lair in back of Brackley's
was the real headquarters of the counterfeiting ring!
     As his men spread to look for Brackley, Marquette turned back to Kelwood,
who was standing in the jagged opening that the Feds had cut.
     Kelwood's face was a study in bewilderment. He couldn't seem to take in
Marquette's explanation that Brackley, the trusted caretaker, was in league
with the counterfeiters.
     "Therman must have been wise," stated Vic. "That's why Brackley got rid of
him. Maybe you're right, Miss Parnal" - Marquette was looking past Kelwood to
see Isabel's amazed face - "about young Lingle. He may have been the fall guy."
     Two Feds were calling, saying that they had found what appeared to be
another false wall. Marquette told them to keep hammering at it, while the
others searched the counterfeiting room. Then, remembering that it was wise to
have all outlets covered, Vic delegated Kelwood to keep watch on Brackley's
rooms in case any of the man's accomplices should show up from that direction.
     With Kelwood on duty, Marquette turned to find out how the two men were
faring with the new barrier that they had discovered. As Vic approached, the
question suddenly settled itself.
     With a rattle, the smooth wall became a door that slid open, to reveal a
batch of armed men who, for the first time, were showing their faces in full
light.
     Curt Hulber; his lieutenant, Bolo; and the remnants of their mob had
arrived with Brackley as their guide. Too late to prevent the Feds from
entering the counterfeiting lair, they were at least in time to open battle
with the invaders. In this case, unlike their set-to with The Shadow, crooks
held the edge.
     Marquette and two others were diving for the shelter of the presses. The
remaining Feds were close enough to use those barricades and fire shots that
made crooks scatter for similar cover, meanwhile giving Marquette and his two
companions time to get to safety.
     But the crooks still held the advantage. In spreading, they were able to
focus their fire upon the Feds and force them into a cluster.
     There was only one way out. It would have to be a dash through the rooms
that Kelwood guarded. It meant running the gauntlet of a crossfire, but
Marquette was daring enough to try it.
     To set the example, he edged out from behind a press, ready to start the
dash. He was calling upon his men to provide a barrage as they followed when a
harsh call came from Kelwood:
     "I have them trapped from here! Close in on them at once! Do as I say. I
am the man who organized this business. I intend to continue it!"


     REAL enlightenment dawned on Curt Hulber. One look at Brackley told him
that the sullen-faced caretaker was not of the caliber that meant a big shot.
These presses and the equipment that went with them could never have been
purchased and installed by Brackley. It took a brain to do such things, and
Kelwood had the brain.
     Curt had led his own men to believe that he was the real head of the
entire counterfeiting racket. Actually, he was merely the man in charge of
distributing the false currency.
     His even split - half to the printers, as he termed it - was an actual
procedure, but Curt had never tried to find out just who the printers were. It
was from them that the counterfeit money came, and its manufacture was their
own idea.
     Of course, Curt had credited them with having a brain, a man who took the
major share of the profits. But he hadn't figured that the honor went clear
around the circle and came to Stephen Kelwood, the man who was so adept at
discovering the methods of the phony money-maker.
     Things cleared rapidly for Curt. Kelwood hadn't exposed the dollar bills
with extra serial numbers until the market had been really glutted. In so
doing, he had really aided the counterfeiting cause, for he had paved the way
to a newer and swifter clean-up through the imitation twos.
     Again Kelwood had broken that game only when it was starting to decline.
In all probability, his purpose had been to clear the way for something even
larger.
     It was quits on Curt's feud with Kelwood. Curt gave a gesture to his men,
signifying for them to flank the Feds, as Kelwood wanted. Only Brackley
objected; he jumped out in front of them, waving his arms as he shouted:
     "Don't trust Kelwood! He's a double-crosser!"
     A gun barked. Vic Marquette had poked from cover to aim for Brackley. He
clipped the caretaker neatly, lessening by one the number of the opposition.
     But Vic's move wasn't as timely as he thought. In dropping Brackley, he
removed the one man who refused to accept Kelwood's leadership, and who
therefore could be of some use to the Feds.
     Moreover, with that sniping shot, Vic, though wary of Curt and the
latter's crew, had put himself in serious danger. He gave Kelwood the very
chance that the big shot wanted. A side step through the broken wall and
Kelwood had Vic covered.
     Finger on gun trigger, Kelwood was ready to deliver death, not to avenge
Brackley, who had so stupidly deserted him, but to convince Curt and his crew
that they had really met the hidden master in whose service they had gained
huge profits.
     The Feds would have been rendered leaderless if it hadn't been for Isabel.
She flung herself for Kelwood and grabbed his gun hand as he fired. Not only did
his shot spurt wide; Kelwood found himself too close to the path of Marquette's
rapidly changing aim.
     Angrily, Kelwood twisted back to the broken wall, hurling Isabel ahead of
him.
     Crooks heard the girl's scream, punctuated by the sudden blast of a gun.
To Curt it meant that Isabel's case was settled, that Kelwood would be back
again. He snapped the order to his followers:
     "Come on!"


     THEY drove for the presses, catching the Feds off guard, for Marquette had
started a mad dash toward the spot where Kelwood disappeared, hoping to somehow
rescue Isabel. The way was cut off by the crooks; there was nothing to do but
turn and battle them, which Vic and his squad did.
     They were back to shelter, but their enemies were boxing them, bullets
clanging a tattoo against the presses. The flank was wide open when Kelwood
came lunging into sight again.
     Marquette took a quick aim toward the big shot. It wasn't necessary.
Before Vic could pull the trigger, Kelwood staggered. There was blackness, not
light, behind him, and from it came a challenge that marked the real turn in
the fray.
     Never had that laugh been more awesome, more toned with chill, than when
it now broke through the low-roofed room where cornered Feds were staving off
crime's most vicious thrust.
     The Shadow had returned, to swing the balance that Kelwood sought to sway.
That single shot had been his. He had staggered Kelwood before the self-styled
big shot had been able to settle Isabel.
     For, as The Shadow wheeled in from the doorway, Marquette saw Isabel
behind him, picking up Kelwood's gun. Only then did Vic realize that Kelwood
had been weaponless when he made that sudden return.
     Crooks swung in answer to The Shadow's challenge. They put themselves in
trouble that went double. The Shadow's guns were already in action, flaying men
who tried to aim. In their turn, the Feds gained just the edge they needed; with
Marquette in the lead, they sprang across the presses, shooting as they came.
     Curt Hulber was right in the midst of things, caught by a crossfire from
both directions. He sprawled, riddled with bullets, among his toppling
followers. Crime's cause was lost, and only one man refused to recognize it.
     Stephen Kelwood was coming to his feet again, roaring like a wounded bull,
to make a last clutch at The Shadow.
     Kelwood wasn't the only man who sought vengeance on the foe in black.
Another, the wariest of all Curt's tribe, had reached the elevator and was
completing a long, wide fling of his arm. The man was Bolo, and the thing that
he flung was his wide-bladed knife.
     The weapon arrowed just as Bolo had intended it, but The Shadow did not
need to dodge it. Kelwood had blundered up into the weapon's path, while Bolo
was snaking the turn-around throw.
     Buried deep between Kelwood's shoulders, the massive blade flattened the
headman of crime with the force of a sledgehammer's stroke. The slashing door
of the elevator blocked off the vicious leer of disappointment that Bolo
delivered toward The Shadow.
     Bolo had a gun in addition to his knife, but didn't care to use it once
his hurl had failed. Escape had become his one desire.
     Flight did not carry Bolo far.
     By the time the Feds had suppressed the few wounded crooks who still had
ideas of fight, the elevator door slid open again. The car had made a trip to
the top, only to come down. For Bolo had met with prompt opposition at the
upper outlet. His one-gun attack hadn't scored a hit on the half a dozen foemen
who awaited him - The Shadow's agents.


     BOLO was stretched on the elevator floor, weighted down with bullets, and
Harry Vincent had deputed Ted Lingle to return with the trophy.
     As Ted stepped from the elevator he was greeted by Vic Marquette, who
could no longer doubt that Ted was on the side of justice. But Ted shook loose
from Vic's handshake the moment that he saw Isabel.
     She was staring out through Brackley's room, a wondering gaze upon her
face as she alone witnessed the departure of crime's Nemesis, The Shadow. So
fixed were her thoughts that she was startled when she felt Ted's hands grasp
her; then her gasp turned to a happy sigh when she saw the man she loved.
     There were matters still to be settled at Gray Haven, and Vic Marquette
attended to them. Chief among their finds in the counterfeiting lair were
duplicate plates of the new bills which the government had requested Stephen
Kelwood to approve.
     The master money faker had been all prepared to stage the most unique of
crimes - that of having counterfeit cash ready for circulation before the
originals were off the government presses!
     But that was for the future. Of equal interest were the facts of Kelwood's
past. Examination of his files in the study revealed interesting details.
     It was plain from entries in his ledgers that Kelwood had robbed estates
like Isabel's to finance his counterfeiting schemes. Though he had later
replaced those funds, the transactions had not escaped the notice of Kelwood's
shrewd secretary, Therman.
     Kelwood had needed to get rid of Therman. Vic Marquette remembered the
shot from the dark, fired in New York. Kelwood himself had fired it from the
yard, and had come in, locking the back door behind him. His purpose - to fake
an attempt on his own life, and get Therman instead, using a gun other than his
own to complete the sham.
     When Marquette had pushed into the room ahead of Therman, Kelwood had
purposely diverted his aim, for he counted upon Vic being a dupe in later plans.
     After Vic Marquette pieced that one, Isabel Parnal provided another clue.
She realized that Kelwood must have been faking Therman's creep at certain
times. Two creeps tonight at the time when Ted had talked to Isabel in the
library indicated that both had been about. Somehow Kelwood must have sneaked
into the library, then back into the study.
     Investigating that point, Marquette found that the rear wall of the study
closet was fixed to a hinged bookcase, giving access to the library.
     Kelwood had managed, at last, to murder Therman by using Ted's discarded
gun from the darkness of the library, tossing it to the door where Ted could
stumble on it, and then returning to the study by his special route.
     The Shadow must have fitted those facts just as he conjectured the
existence of an elevator from the hidden rear room of Gray Haven to the Summit
House.
     Kelwood's repeated detections of counterfeit currency had been too
remarkable to suit The Shadow. Classing Kelwood as the brain behind the game,
The Shadow had deduced that Brackley must be the man in charge of the plant.
Hence The Shadow's orders to Isabel: a perfect thrust against Kelwood.
     Suspecting that Kelwood had murdered Therman, Brackley had supposed that
the planted gun was Kelwood's work, too. An idea whereby Kelwood could shift
the blame for murder to Brackley.
     On such an assumption, Brackley had done exactly what The Shadow expected.
He had sought the quickest way out of Gray Haven, and had therewith led the Feds
along the trail to the counterfeiting lair.
     To Ted and Isabel, those cleared facts spelled a happy future, which they
discussed while seated at the library window. All traces of the storm had
passed; clear starlight had its twinkling reflections in the waters of the lake.
     But there was one tiny spot of light that moved across the water, then
suddenly dwindled into blackness. It marked The Shadow's parting voyage from
Gray Haven, the strange house on the ledge where harbored crime had ended with
the coming of The Shadow!


     THE END