THE MUGGERS
                                by Maxwell Grant

       As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," November 1943.

     Who was the mastermind behind the seemingly unrelated murders that were
committed by The Muggers? A ruthless band of night marauders stalk the
blacked-out streets of New York robbing and killing until The Shadow uncovers a
savage organization.


     CHAPTER I

     CRIME ON THE RUN

     LAMONT CRANSTON stumbled as he groped his way toward the faint lights that
represented the Cobalt Club. It was difficult, negotiating Manhattan streets
under dimout conditions; difficult at least for the average man, so Cranston
had to pretend that the same applied in his case. For Lamont Cranston was
meticulous about behaving as a normal person would, under undue circumstances.
     In brief, Cranston was playing a part. Actually, he was someone other than
Lamont Cranston, though he fulfilled his present character to perfection. In his
other self, he was The Shadow, master hunter who tracked down men of crime
through the jungles of Manhattan. Between times, it was expedient to pose as
Cranston, particularly in the neighborhood of the swank Cobalt Club; where
Cranston was listed as a member.
     So though the eyes of The Shadow saw the huddled figure of the beggar who
was perched on a low, wheeled board, the feet of Cranston made a deliberate
move as if to trip across the fellow. Then, catching himself, Cranston acted as
though taken aback. He dodged, as a man would to avoid a pointed gun, when the
beggar pushed a rounded object up from the sidewalk's gloom and whined
plaintively:
     "Buy a pencil, mister?"
     There was a basso laugh almost at Cranston's elbow. Recognizing the tone,
Cranston could afford to identify the man who delivered it, even though his
face was obscured in the dimness. "Oh, it's you, Harland."
     "That's right, Cranston." Again, Harland chuckled, with a heavy tone of
satisfaction. "Rather startled you, didn't it, tripping over this beggar?
That's one of the things I've complained about to our friend Commissioner
Weston. Too many beggars in New York, along with more dangerous undesirables."
     "This fellow looks harmless enough." Taking the pencil with one hand,
Cranston used the other to plunk a quarter in the beggar's tin cup. "I think
you'd do better, Harland, to keep concentrating on the mugger situation."
     "Maybe the two things fit," snapped Harland. "Encouraging beggars is bad
business. When you pay a quarter for a five-cent lead pencil -"
     A clatter interrupted. It came from the roller skates under the beggar's
wheeled board. Deftly slithering his curious vehicle around the corner, the
beggar yelled back across his shoulder, in words meant for Harland:
     "You're wrong, mister. At the five-and-dime you can buy them pencils three
for a nickel."


     IT was Cranston who was chuckling when he and Harland entered the lighted
foyer of the Cobalt Club. Cranston's nonchalance had returned and, in contrast,
Harland's indignation was at a fever heat. Big, broad-shouldered and with a face
so bluff that it was almost savage, Harland began to harangue the first man they
met, who happened to be Police Commissioner Ralph Weston.
     Brusque and military in bearing, Weston twitched to the points of his
short-clipped mustache during Harland's tirade. Equally annoyed by Harland's
manner was a swarthy, poker-faced man who stood in the background. He was
Inspector Joe Cardona, the ace of Weston's staff, and Joe found it difficult to
maintain his dead-pan attitude while Harland shouted the beggar nuisance as
though the thing were an absolute menace. All the while, Cranston's masklike
face retained its calm immobility. When he had fixed a cigarette in a long
holder and applied a flame from a platinum lighter, Cranston intervened:
     "You are employing the wrong nomenclature, Harland. These men that you
term beggars are actually peddlers. The commissioner will tell you that they
all carry licenses."
     "Licenses for what?" sneered Harland. "To charge outrageous prices for the
petty goods they pretend to peddle?"
     "They have no fixed fees," returned Cranston, "any more than you do,
Harland. The reformers that you represent tell me that they pay you whatever
sums you demand, without further question." Pausing, Cranston met Harland's
glare with a puff of smoke from the cigarette holder, then added, impassively:
"Do you have a license, Harland?"
     A smile twitched along with Weston's mustache and Cardona suppressed a
grin. To Harland's credit, he was either willing to acknowledge himself
outmatched, or was smart enough to recognize the disadvantage that further
argument would bring him. Abruptly, Harland boomed:
     "You are right, Cranston. The Citizens' Reform League has employed me for
more important duties. About this mugging question, commissioner" - Harland
wheeled to Weston - "have you quarantined those districts where thugs and
bandits, styled muggers, have been committing assault and robbery?"
     "Technically, yes," replied Weston. "But before making the order final, we
would like to give you a demonstration of our methods. My official car is
outside. Suppose we drive to one of the notorious areas under discussion."


     FIFTEEN minutes later, Weston's big car came to an inconspicuous halt on a
side street in the Hundreds. From the window, Cranston saw the white top of a
patrol car across the way. There were other things his keen eyes noted, points
that Harland did not observe. As if by prearrangement, figures began to emerge
from doorways and fall in line as they moved along the street.
     The procession was paced by a squatty man, who kept glancing nervously
across his shoulder. To all appearances he was an ordinary wayfarer, navigating
this neighborhood. After he had passed, three others pushed themselves into
sight. They had the manner of lurkers transforming themselves into beasts of
prey.
     A hollow whisper came from Harland:
     "Muggers.
     "Sit tight, Harland," insisted Weston. "Everything is quite under control.
Observe the precision with which we operate."
     The squatty man turned the corner and the stalkers did the same.
Immediately the police car nosed into life and took up the trail at a snail's
pace, without using lights. As soon as the white-topped vehicle turned the
corner, Weston's chauffeur put the big official car in motion and it brought up
the rear of the procession.
     There was a lighted store window halfway down the next block, so
conveniently placed that Cranston's lips relaxed into a smile. He had begun to
understand what Weston meant by a "demonstration," though the fact had
apparently escaped Harland. Keeping his eyes on the patch of light, Cranston
was all set to witness what promptly happened.
     As the squatty wayfarer reached the glow, two stalkers overtook him. From
each side one grabbed an arm of the victim and bent him backward. The third
stalker moved forward as the prey was wheeled around, whisked out a small
knife, flipped open its blade and pressed the point to the victim's throat. It
was a silent but telling threat of death, should the victim resist while the
footpads robbed him.
     A terrified gargle caught itself in Harland's throat as though his own
Adam's apple felt the pressure of a knife point. He lurched forward to spring
from the security of Weston's car and dash to the aid of the victim. Cardona
hauled Harland back and gruffly told him to watch. This mugging wasn't going to
be completed.
     The white-topped patrol car was at the scene. From it sprang a pair of
uniformed police. One of the muggers must have seen them, for instantly the
trio shoved their victim at the cops and made a dash for a handy alleyway.
Unfortunately the rescued man blundered against his friends who represented the
law. They had to shove him aside to reach the alley, where they fired shots into
the darkness. At the gunfire, the squatty victim took alarm and fled in another
direction.
     Clambering from his big car, Weston reached the officers as they returned.
They saluted apologetically, regretting that they had failed to overtake the
muggers. Usually critical on such occasions, Weston reversed his usual self and
commended the officers highly. Turning to Harland, the commissioner queried:
     "How did the demonstration impress you?"
     "It was excellent!" boomed Harland. "The Citizens' Reform League will be
elated. The apprehension of culprits is not the major issue; the discouragement
of crime is what we desire. You have performed that service adequately,
commissioner."


     WHILE riding from the scene in the commissioner's car, Harland discoursed
further on the subject of quarantining districts like those where the mugging
incident had just occurred. Weston assured him that the ruling was practically
in effect; that police cars were in abundance in every area where muggers had
instituted a campaign of terrorism. It would take a considerable percentage of
the available patrol cars, but the result would be worth it.
     Quite pleased, Harland was expressing further congratulations when the car
stopped at the apartment house where the reformer lived. Alighting, Harland
boomed "good-night" and the official car swung back toward the Cobalt Club. It
was during that last stage of the ride that Cranston made his first comment.
     "Let me add my congratulations," said Cranston. "It was a nice show,
commissioner."
     "A nice show!" blustered Weston. "What do you mean by that?"
     "Merely that you planted everything," remarked Cranston. "The victim was
obviously one of your headquarters men. The fake muggers disguised themselves a
little better, but that business in the light was certainly a fixed job. The
most ludicrous part was the way the two patrolmen fell over each other to let
the muggers get away."
     Weston would have blustered it out, if Cardona hadn't intervened. Knowing
Cranston to be a close friend of the commissioner, Cardona decided to admit the
truth.
     "We had to satisfy Harland," explained the inspector. "The demonstration
was my idea. You'll remember, Mr. Cranston, that we didn't call it by any other
name."
     "I remember."
     "Harland has become a nuisance," put in Weston. "We wanted to prove to him
that the crime quarantine could operate. I think the method was legitimate."
     "Quite," agreed Cranston.
     "Harland is convinced," emphasized Weston, "and everybody is happy.
Tomorrow the newspapers will admit that we've done something about the mugging
question."
     The car was stopping in front of the Cobalt Club as Cranston spoke in a
warning tone.
     "You have done a great deal," he declared. "By choosing those areas and
quarantining them, so that no suspicious characters can enter, you're laying
the rest of the city wide open. This is one time, commissioner, when a
quarantine will result in an epidemic. I should advise you to change your
policy."
     Stepping from the car, Cranston turned away, leaving Weston fuming in a
style that would have better befitted Harland. In Weston's opinion, Cranston's
notions were absurd and the commissioner wanted Cardona to agree. But the ace
inspector remained silent, unwilling to commit himself. Just as he knew that
Weston would not change his policy, so was Cardona beginning to believe that
Cranston was right.
     Joe Cardona would have been thoroughly convinced had his eyes been able to
penetrate the darkness across the street.
     There, the strolling figure of Lamont Cranston had merged with a blackness
that represented substance. Beside the open door of a parked and darkened cab,
Cranston was producing garments that he kept handy in this cab which was at his
beck and call. Those garments consisted of a black cloak and a slouch hat.
Garbed in them, Cranston became practically invisible against the darkness of
the dimout; that is, if he still could be termed Lamont Cranston.
     Rather, he had become The Shadow, that master who used paths of darkness
to further ways of justice. Mysterious, silent and untraceable was the course
that the cloaked figure took as it went along the street. Then, from a corner,
came the only trace of this mighty presence who stood for right.
     Back from the thickening darkness floated a weird laugh, toned with a
whisper that awoke responsive echoes. Strange, creepy, that mirth was unreal,
the sort that would make listeners wonder if they heard it. As those echoes
faded, The Shadow was gone.
     His mission was to protect the public in a case where the police were
bound to fail because of their acceptance of the policy that Harland's reform
group had thrust upon them.
     The Shadow knew!


     CHAPTER II

     THE WAYS OF THE SHADOW

     IN a room that he called his sanctum, The Shadow was studying an immense
map of Manhattan that hung in the glare of a blue lamp, trained upon a
black-curtained wall. There was such a map at police headquarters and like The
Shadow's, it was blocked off into sectors; but with that the resemblance ceased.
     The Shadow's map bore marks that represented the results of his own unique
investigation, consisting of personal trips to certain districts to check upon
reports furnished by skilled agents. Having first marked off the sections where
the presence of police would automatically discourage muggers, The Shadow had
tabbed three other sectors, all fairly close together. These, in The Shadow's
opinion, were the spots where muggers would flock to find new happy hunting
grounds, now that a closed season was declared on their old preserves.
     There was a whispered laugh as The Shadow turned the blue light on a
polished table. The cause of his grim mirth was a pile of clippings that lay in
view. During the past twenty-four hours, the newspapers had been shouting the
death of the mugging menace, commending the law on the demonstration of the
night before and feeding the public with promises of future safety.
     Harland had fed the press with last night's story, through a bulletin
issued by his reform committee. Since Harland termed the mugging incident as
genuine, Weston had seen no reason to declare otherwise. Instead, the
commissioner had announced the beginning of the quarantine and stated that the
public could end its self-imposed curfew in areas where until last night, it
had been unsafe for wayfarers to wander. The muggers, not the respectable
citizenry, were the persons who could no longer consider themselves safe,
according to Commissioner Weston.
     Oddly, among those recent clippings was an old one that bore the yellow
marks of time. It was from a newspaper a hundred years old, a clipping that The
Shadow had dug from his copious archives. It told of daring footpads called
"muggers" who had molested Manhattan in the 1840s. These muggers patronized
grog shops where they drank from big mugs that they carried away with them. On
the street, they would clout passers-by with the mugs and rob them of all their
valuables. When reported in one area, the muggers would merely move to another
and renew their operations.
     A century had changed the favored weapons from mugs to knives, though the
modern muggers were unquestionably the successors of the older clan. The nub of
the old clipping was the fact that the muggers were smart enough to change
territory when occasion required. The present-day breed would certainly be
clever enough to use the same stratagem, as The Shadow had already warned the
police.
     From across the table came the glimmer of a tiny light. The Shadow reached
for earphones and spoke in a whispered tone. At his word "Report" a methodical
voice came over the wire. It was Burbank, The Shadow's contact man, giving
reports from agents in the sectors marked as new danger spots on The Shadow's
city map.
     They were all on the job tonight, those agents, working in pairs. They
were checking on special spots that The Shadow himself had picked as likely
gathering places for muggers. Analyzing these reports, The Shadow not only saw
the symptoms he expected; reaching up to the map, he laid a gloved finger on
the three areas in turn, while he spoke to Burbank.
     The Shadow was predicting the time element, based on the number of
suspicious characters reported in each of these districts that the police
ignored.
     He was telling Burbank what his own route would be; how the agents were to
post themselves in helping him meet the menace in one-two-three order. Finishing
his instructions, The Shadow whispered a laugh as he turned off the blue light.
When echoes faded, the cloaked avenger was gone from his mysterious sanctum.


     THERE was one proof that Commissioner Weston had given some heed to his
friend Cranston's advice. Through the dimmed thoroughfares of Manhattan, police
cars were on the prowl. In clamping down on the neighborhoods known to be the
resorts of muggers, Weston had done so thorough a job that extra police cars
were unnecessary there, so they had been assigned to more mobile duty. They
were plentiful enough to be mistaken for taxicabs, but there was no method in
their patrol. They were simply seeking places where they might be needed, with
no idea where those places would be. Such was The Shadow's analysis as he
observed them from the window of his limousine.
     The limousine was Cranston's and except for its chauffeur, it looked
empty, the reason being that its only passenger was The Shadow, fully cloaked.
The big car continued a northward course, then veered west until the calm voice
of Cranston announced through the speaking tube:
     "Stop here, Stanley."
     The chauffeur complied. He wasn't one of The Shadow's agents, but he was
used to the eccentric ways of Mr. Cranston, who had a habit of bobbing in and
out of the limousine at the most unexpected places. The present locale was a
fairly respectable section of the West Side; still, Stanley couldn't recall
that his employer had any friends hereabout. Nevertheless the trip was over, so
Stanley relaxed behind the wheel, without even glancing back into the rear seat
to look for a passenger who was no longer there.
     Why The Shadow had picked this area became apparent as he glided along a
silent street. Though the buildings were still presentable, most of their
basements had been converted into business places including barber shops, pool
parlors, laundries and small lunchrooms. Others, with blackout curtains
constantly drawn, were more questionable establishments where doubtful
characters could easily arrange a rendezvous. It was all made to order for mobs
of muggers.


     TAKING a short cut through an alley, The Shadow blinked signal flashes
with a tiny light that flickered red and green. His blinks were answered from
two spots along the street. One represented Cliff Marsland, the toughest
fighter in The Shadow's corps; the other was Hawkeye, Cliff's side-kick, one of
the best spotters who ever roved the badlands. The Shadow had assigned that pair
to this sector, first choice on the list of new mugging territory.
     The quick, somewhat nervous response of Hawkeye's flashlight, ending with
sharp red blinks, indicated that the spotter had observed something. Moving
rapidly and invisibly along the house fronts, The Shadow drew an automatic in
readiness. While still on the way, he heard quick footsteps that weren't
Hawkeye's. They signified a man who had personally scented trouble and was
anxious to get out of it.
     As the fellow came in sight, The Shadow's keen eyes sighted three others
in the background, moving faster and more stealthily than their prospective
prey. The quick man wasn't acting in the routine fashion that Weston's stooge
had demonstrated the night before. This chap was really scared to the point of
panic. He suddenly quickened his pace to a half run, which practically served
to beckon his enemies.
     They swooped, those vicious birds of prey, to put the clamps on a helpless
victim. Things happened in a manner more sudden than even muggers could expect.
With a dart, a little wizened man tackled the nearest mugger. The arrival was
Hawkeye and he spilled his antagonist in expert style.
     Caught by the other arm, the victim wrenched free and tried to spring
across the street. The second mugger bounded after him only to be overtaken
with a sledge-hammer blow delivered by a husky who drove in from the other
direction. Cliff Marsland was on the job, displaying the old team work that he
and Hawkeye had long practiced. Clubbing one enemy, Cliff wheeled to down the
first man who was climbing to his feet from the spill that Hawkeye had given
him.
     It was nice work, but it didn't save the victim. He was stopping short
with a frightened cry as he reached the opposite curb. The third mugger was
intercepting him and there was enough light for the unfortunate to see a knife
blade snapping toward his throat. A snarl from the mugger told that a quick
slash was intended, but the intention ended with the snarl.
     Pressing the back of the mugger's neck was a weapon more potent than a
button-bladed clasp knife. The muzzle of an automatic was declaring its
presence with a coldness that resembled white heat. Any doubt that the mugger
might have felt regarding the efficiency of that weapon was dispelled by the
sinister whisper that accompanied the automatic. The clasp knife dropped from
the mugger's hand as his gulping lips made motions to phrase the dread name
that his voice could not articulate:
     "The Shadow!"
     Issuing from solid darkness, The Shadow's whisper was enough to frighten
friend as well as foe. As the mugger stood petrified, the rescued man took to
his heels. He was spurred on by two shots that reverberated along the street to
the accompaniment of an eerie laugh. Those shots were The Shadow's way of
bringing the nearest patrol car. They were fired in the air, not into the
hapless mugger's neck, but when the disarmed brute decided to run, he found
that The Shadow was still at hand. Plucking the mugger's arm, The Shadow gave
it a complete twist that spun its owner in a sidewise somersault ending with a
headlong jounce upon the asphalt. The Shadow didn't have to slug this foeman;
he simply helped the mugger knock himself out.


     CLIFF and Hawkeye were dragging their trophies across the sidewalk when
The Shadow flung them his addition to the collection of exhibits. Hearing their
chief's instructions, the agents produced handcuffs from their pockets and set
to work. Meanwhile, a car came racing swiftly from the corner to be received by
colored blinks from The Shadow's flashlight. It wasn't a patrol car, for the
nearest of those was betokened by an approaching siren attracted by the shots.
This was a taxicab, The Shadow's own, driven by Moe Shrevnitz, the speediest
cabby in Manhattan.
     The Shadow was climbing into the cab as the searchlight of a patrol car
defied dimout regulations from the corner. At the same time, the scurry of feet
told that Cliff and Hawkeye were dashing off through the alley, their work
completed. The cab spurted away as the police car roared up to the scene of The
Shadow's recent triumph. There was a screech of brakes as the white-top halted,
its driver quite convinced that he did not have to follow the taxicab that was
veering the next corner.
     For the glare of the patrol car's searchlight showed that crime had been
frustrated. Slumped with their backs against an iron picket fence that had
survived the junk metal collections, were the three unhappy muggers, unable to
flee even if they had been less groggy. They were linked together by two pairs
of handcuffs which in turn were interlaced between the pickets. The cuffs were
of the standard pattern carried by the police, inviting them to unlock the
prisoners and take them away.
     Back from the corner trailed a weird triumphant laugh, marking the
disappearance of the taxicab. That peal betokened that The Shadow and his
agents had settled the mugging question in this neighborhood and were leaving
further operations to the police. But there was still another message in The
Shadow's laugh.
     His first score settled, the master of darkness was bound for the next
area marked upon his infallible map; there to prove that his calculations were
still defeating crime!


     CHAPTER III

     TWO MODES OF RESCUE

     FULLY a mile from the scene of The Shadow's first quick triumph, another
stalking party was in progress. It was happening in a vicinity where mugging
seemed less likely to anyone except The Shadow, but a man of hurried manner was
beginning to worry about his immediate future. He was a well-dressed man, this
victim marked for trouble, and he was realizing that his attire might have
something to do with the way three loungers had shifted from a very dark
doorway and started on his trail.
     Like a moth lured by the flame, this victim turned toward the only lighted
store window that he could see. It was nearly half a block away and his chances
of reaching it unmolested were absolutely nil. Professional muggers didn't
loiter in the absurd fashion of Weston's stooges. Changing their own pace to a
lope, the three ghouls showed a speed their prey did not expect. One passed
him, while a second came up behind, the third taking a detour across the
street, to be in a strategic position for the climax.
     It was deftly planned, this business of two muggers boxing their victim
like an insect in a funnel-shaped trap. The point of that funnel was to be the
knife-man, key member of the group. They had even picked the spot for the
robbery that they intended to back with the threat of death - a basement entry
a few steps down, where if need be, they could dump the body should it prove
necessary to slit the man's throat. No muggers ever hesitated at delivering
swift death when a victim showed fight.
     Another factor spurred the closing of the trap. Across the street a
taxicab was pulling to a stop. Its dimmed headlights failed to show the mugging
that was in progress and the frightened victim wasn't aware of the cab's
arrival. Therefore it behooved the muggers to have their prey clutched and
threatened with the knife point before he could realize that a quick yell might
bring help.
     A call for aid was not needed.
     From that halting cab the keenest of eyes had already spied the evil deed
in progress.
     The eyes of The Shadow!
     Like a human avalanche, a mass of living darkness surged from the cab,
clearing half the street at a single leap. Hurtling onward The Shadow reached
the victim just as two converging muggers caught his arms and twisted him
around so his back was toward the blackened basement steps. Hooking the
terrified man with one long cloaked arm, The Shadow spun him from the clutching
hands and precipitated him to the other side of the street. Completing his
whirl, The Shadow met the pair of muggers as they lunged at the living
blackness that they so far had not identified in the gloom.
     The Shadow's other hand was in action. It was tightened in a fist that
contained an automatic. To the left, then to the right, that fist swung in
battering style. It actually bounced from the jaw of one mugger to the chin of
the other, reeling the pair back. Immediately The Shadow reversed his spin,
knowing that he would find a third enemy with whom he must deal. The surmise
was correct; the knifeman was already on the lunge, jabbing his blade ahead of
him, aiming for The Shadow's throat.


     IT was the reverse twist that fooled the mugger. The blackness that
represented The Shadow unclouded from the fellow's beady gaze. In jerky
fashion, the assassin changed the knife's course, probing for the figure that
had seemingly vanished. The delay was all to the mugger's disadvantage, for The
Shadow's shift had totally outsmarted him. The Shadow had not thinned to
nothingness; he was still a mass of fighting blackness, thrusting from another
angle. A gloved hand plucked the mugger's wrist, gave it a sharp wrench that
forced the fellow's fingers to drop the knife. Then, instead of somersaulting
his foe, The Shadow shoved him straight back between the other two, who were
recuperating to resume their attack.
     With his thrust, The Shadow hissed an order that brought remarkable
results.
     Neither of the flanking muggers moved another inch forward. They couldn't
because something gigantic had risen from the depressed entry behind them. It
was the figure of Jericho Druke, mightiest of The Shadow's agents. Jericho was
a huge African who could do the work of two men or more, hence he had been
assigned to watch this district alone. Along with his great bulk, Jericho owned
proportionate hands the size of hams that could singly wrap themselves around
the average neck. That was exactly what Jericho's hands were doing at present.
     Each was gripping the neck of an unruly thug. Half choked into submission,
the two muggers were frozen in their tracks when The Shadow twisted the third in
between. As the mugger's head bobbed into position, Jericho clapped his hands
without relaxing his grip. The action swung two heads together like a pair of
cymbals, banging the third that had come between. Jericho could do large things
in a deft way, as he demonstrated on this occasion. All The Shadow had to do was
set up the third head where Jericho could perform the skull-clapping trick.
     Two muggers stayed erect because Jericho still gripped them. The third
sagged at the giant's feet, only to be scooped up by The Shadow. As Jericho
stepped aside, carrying his human burdens with him, The Shadow descended into
the basement entry and flung the third mugger into a space beneath a high
flight of brownstone steps. At a whispered command from The Shadow, Jericho
added the other two to the collection, whereupon The Shadow clanged a grilled
gate that turned the space beneath the steps into an improvised prison cell.
     This cell lacked one qualification; it had no lock. So The Shadow used
Jericho as an instrument to remedy the deficiency. At another summons from his
chief, Jericho stepped over, gripped the latch of the gate and twisted it
halfway to a pretzel shape.
     Nothing less than a crowbar could pry the latch loose, hence the stunned
prisoners would certainly remain there until the police arrived.
     Across the street, the man rescued by The Shadow was hurrying toward Moe's
cab. Just as he reached it, the cab started the other way, for Moe had caught a
signal from The Shadow. Again two gun stabs sounded in the night, a summons for
police to come to a scene where crime had been conquered and its participants
left helpless on the battle ground where they had fared so ill against The
Shadow!


     WELL away before police cars appeared, Moe's cab was soon traversing new
territory where crime had not yet reared its head. The Shadow was the only
passenger, having dropped Jericho on the fringe of the previous district to
intercept any additional muggers who might have fled at sound of The Shadow's
gun. Here in an area where there were several small hotels along with private
residences and warehouses, it would seem most unlikely that muggers would
abound.
     The Shadow never went by general appearances. He had studied this portion
of the city in relation to those adjacent to it. All around were little pockets
that formed perfect lurking places from which malefactors could emerge. Like the
hub of a wheel, this section offered many spokes, giving muggers opportunity to
leave by a different route. Nevertheless they would be cautious when testing
such a crossroad, which was why The Shadow had marked it third and last on
tonight's list.
     Two of The Shadow's agents were keeping a constant patrol until their
chief arrived. One was Harry Vincent, the most experienced of The Shadow's
aids; the other was Clyde Burke, who doubled as a newspaper reporter. Both were
specially suited to their present assignment, which was to draw muggers on their
trail, should the lurkers come into the open. According to the time sheet, The
Shadow was nearly due, so Harry and Clyde were beginning to stage a
well-rehearsed act.
     First Harry appeared from the front door of an apartment house. He made a
clean-cut figure as he strolled along the sidewalk. Next, Clyde came from a
hotel across the way and started walking in the same direction. Both turned a
corner and continued around the block, always keeping on opposite sides of the
street. They were working the old system of watching the man ahead, alternating
in that duty by frequently changing pace or taking short cuts so that they
preceded each other in turn.
     This mutual course brought them back into the original block, but through
zigzag tactics they were coming from the opposite direction. Moreover the pair
had changed their technique. Harry was well ahead of Clyde, so far ahead that
most of the block intervened. Practically out of contact with each other, they
were laying themselves open to attack, which happened to be part of the scheme.
Nearing a corner, Harry turned suddenly beside a warehouse and started back
toward Clyde, who at that moment was passing a similar spot on the same side of
the street.
     It was a neat device, suggested by The Shadow. If muggers were about to
pick up Harry's trail, Clyde would spot them and come to aid. On the other
hand, if they had let Harry pass along in order to get at Clyde, Harry's sudden
return would enable him to stage the rescue act.
     At that moment Clyde spotted danger that neither had foreseen. From beside
the warehouse where Harry turned, three men were lunging out to the sidewalk.
They had hesitated when Harry first passed them; now they were taking advantage
of his chance return. Knowing that the trio must be muggers, Clyde gave a
warning yell.


     THAT shout was misunderstood by another mob of muggers who happened to be
stationed beside the warehouse that Clyde himself was passing. Thinking that
they were spotted, this second trio made a rapid drive. Luckily Harry
understood what Clyde's yell meant and therefore knew that Clyde was not aware
of his own danger. Starting on the run, Harry gave Clyde a call of warning that
gave the reporter an equal urge for speed.
     A moment later, both The Shadow's agents were dashing full tilt toward
each other, each trying to outrace a tribe of muggers close at his heels!
     Once together they'd have a better chance, though neither Harry nor Clyde
had bargained upon meeting a double mob. The two bands of muggers weren't
working as a single crew; it was merely chance that had brought them to the
same vicinity. But it was a sure conclusion that they would gang up on two
victims under circumstances such as these.
     Brief though the dash was, it proved maddening. All the way, both Harry
and Clyde were counting on something better than battling back to back against
these human wolves. Each agent remembered one outlet in this block, a narrow
parking lot across the way. The lot was deserted except for a few cars, but
those would help as temporary shelter while Harry and Clyde hauled out guns to
meet the ready knives that muggers had already drawn. Though too breathless to
give further shouts, the speeding agents veered by mutual consent and raced for
the parking lot. The blackness offered them a welcome refuge until from its
midst sprang three men as savage as the other six pursuers.
     Harry and Clyde were rushing squarely into the arms of another batch of
muggers whose gleeful jeers and drawn knives announced that they expected a
share in the profits of the coming robbery that would include a double murder!
     Stopping in their tracks, the agents threw all caution to the winds. They
swung about with flaying fists that punched the first faces that glared into
theirs. It was only a momentary respite, for sheer force of numbers soon would
tell against the two men who were struggling to beat off nine.
     At least they would go down fighting, these agents of The Shadow, though
it seemed too late for Harry and Clyde to hope for rescue. Often in tight
places they had heard the weird laugh that meant their chief's arrival, so they
were battling on the slim chance that it would come again. Perhaps they could
meet death imagining that they heard The Shadow's laugh; such a thought was
helpful against the threat of the ugly knives that were already stabbing toward
the doomed men.
     That last wish was realized. As they swung their arms to brush off the
first blades, both Harry and Clyde were gripped with the same illusion, that of
a sudden, shivery mockery rising in their very midst. A moment later, reality
took the place of imagination.
     The strident peal was actual! Only The Shadow himself could voice that
fierce war cry that spelled disaster, not to his helpless agents, but to the
vicious muggers who were about to murder them. As they heard that challenge,
murderous men forgot their victims and turned to give battle to The Shadow,
that dread avenger arrived from nowhere!


     CHAPTER IV

     WAYS OF DARKNESS

     THE only key to The Shadow's strange arrival was the direction from which
his whirling drive began. Harry and Clyde had been surrounded by a triangle of
muggers, representing the three groups that trapped them. There was a gap in
the middle of one group, namely the crew that had surged from the parking lot.
Silently, invisibly, The Shadow had slugged down the central man of that tribe.
Therefore he must have been right behind them when they launched forth at sight
of prey.
     Other details were unimportant for the moment. Of real consequence was The
Shadow's mode of battle. He didn't just fling fists, he hurled himself into a
fray that was startlingly one-sided in The Shadow's favor. There were times
when odds worked against the men who had them, and this was just such an
occasion. With Harry and Clyde forced down to their knees, The Shadow could
swing his heavy guns at face level, knowing that every man around him was an
enemy. In contrast, the muggers were afraid to jab their knives blindly, for
the chances were nearly eight to one that they would stab one of their own men
rather than The Shadow.
     Furthermore, this crowd did not constitute an organized mob. Used to
operating in independent groups of three, they were totally unable to cope with
their present problem. Following the line of least resistance, they found
themselves spreading apart under the battering swings of The Shadow's gun fists.
     Rats to the core, the disorganized muggers scattered, taking the course of
every man for himself. Then, free of the melee, they turned in vicious style,
each hoping to spot The Shadow and come jabbing back at crime land's greatest
foe. Quick though they were to try such tactics, their effort came too late.
Having cleared a space about him, The Shadow was voicing a new challenge, not
with a laugh, but with the chatter of his deadly automatics.
     Each .45 jabbed tongues of flame that stabbed the darkness with an
accuracy no mugger's knife could hope to match. From hands and knees, Harry and
Clyde joined the barrage with their guns, picking off spinning figures that
became conspicuous each time The Shadow clipped one. The street seemed to reel
with muggers who jounced to the tune of the spurting guns. The way this fray
had developed made it seem a certainty that the police would find nine cripples
on the scene.
     Suddenly, in the midst of dealing with this outlaw tribe, The Shadow
hooked his arms around the men beside him. With the speed and strength that
only he could display, the cloaked fighter took Harry and Clyde in a headlong
dash that ended with a dive into a deep doorway. It wasn't until they landed
that the agents saw the new menace from which they had been saved.
     A huge truck was slithering from a warehouse across the way. It was
showing no lights and it was bearing down full tilt upon The Shadow when he
caught the tumult of its motor above the bark of his own guns. Only by a few
scant feet did The Shadow escape the lumbering juggernaut as he carried his
agents with him. Even then, the truck would have swerved to bash them against
the building wall, if its driver hadn't seen the diving figures fling into the
narrow doorway. He saw two figures, those of Harry and Clyde.
     The Shadow went with them, but he was practically invisible in the gloom.
Perhaps that was why the truck veered toward the parking lot. The driver was
sure The Shadow must be somewhere around and was hoping to crush the cloaked
fighter before he could escape. At any rate, the truck's new course took it
beyond the angle of The Shadow's aim.


     SCATTERED muggers saw the rear of the truck fly open as the big wheels
jounced over the rise to the parking lot. The few who had so far escaped The
Shadow's gunfire needed no further invitation. They sprang for the truck,
dragging some wounded comrades with them and were hauled on board by helpful
hands that stretched out to receive them.
     The Shadow's cab was in the parking lot with sharp-eyed Shrevvy at the
wheel. To all appearances it was just another car among those parked there for
the night. From the time when Shrevvy had eased in with his mysterious
passenger, The Shadow, he had been waiting eagerly, knowing that his chief
might soon need him. Hardly had the truck lurched past, when Moe had the cab in
motion. He was darting quick looks for The Shadow when the door was opened by an
unseen hand. Then Harry and Clyde sprang into sight at The Shadow's call. Their
chief shoved them into the cab and Shrevvy heard a slamming door, denoting that
The Shadow had joined them. The cab took a rapid spurt after the big truck which
by then had crossed the parking lot and was making a sharp turn into the next
street.
     Though the truck was setting a breakneck pace, it could never have
outdistanced Moe's cab if a combination of circumstances had not intervened. To
begin with, The Shadow jabbed two shots from the cab window as the truck was
turning from sight. He wanted to hold the edge should a duel of guns develop,
but his calculations proved ahead of schedule. As the cab came from the parking
lot it was sighted by a patrol car at the next corner.
     The arriving police took it that the truck was running from a mob attack
inspired by the occupants of the cab. Letting the truck swing the corner, the
patrol car bucked the one-way traffic and headed along the street to meet the
cab. Police guns were answering The Shadow's fire when Moe performed gyrations
with the wheel and spun the cab in the other direction. Whipping into high
speed, he not only outdistanced the patrol car, but cleared the range of its
gunfire.
     Ordinarily, Moe could have rounded the block and picked up the truck's
trail anew, but the repeated gunfire was bringing more patrol cars to the
scene. Moe ran into a regular tangle of them that forced him to zigzag the cab
from one sidewalk to another. Bouncing in the rear seat, Harry and Clyde
thought surely that the trap would close on them, but The Shadow's whispered
laugh told differently. He had confidence in Shrevvy and it proved well
founded. Like a jackrabbit scooting from a field of greyhounds, the cab
suddenly found an opening and whipped along a side street. From then on there
was no question but that Moe would outdistance all pursuit; in fact, the patrol
cars were blocking one another in their individual hurry. The one trouble was
that Moe's outlet had taken him the wrong direction; any chance of finding the
truck and its load of rescued muggers was completely gone.
     From the lips of The Shadow came a singularly cryptic laugh, a grim tone
that he always uttered when the unexpected brought new factors into his schemes
of thwarting crime. That business of the truck was totally at variance with
circumstances. Footpads of the mugger category would never have shown the
foresight to have a truck in readiness for a getaway, particularly when they
represented three separate groups of marauders who had not shown any real
co-operation.
     What it all signified was still a mystery and such problems intrigued The
Shadow, even when they disturbed his well-laid plans. The Shadow's laugh
carried a note of prophecy, signifying that his next effort would be to track
down this particular mystery.


     IF the intervention of the truck was something of a puzzle to The Shadow,
it was a complete riddle to the muggers who had profited by it. They were
huddled in the very truck that had rescued them, staring at gun muzzles in the
hands of masked men. As the truck took a tortuous course away from the region
where police sirens wailed, the muggers began to think that they had been
tricked into a new type of trap that represented a theatrical demonstration on
the part of Commissioner Weston.
     This impression was furthered when the truck rolled into a blind alley and
the masked men growled for the muggers to hop out. Pointing guns indicated
basement steps that looked like an entrance to a dungeon. When the muggers
hesitated, the masked men urged them to "get going" in tones that put an end to
all uncertainty. In shambling fashion, the dejected footpads obeyed the orders
of their captors.
     The basement proved to be a long, dismal passage, through which the
muggers were herded by the prod of guns. They went up another flight of steps
and across a street to an alley on the other side. Next, they were shoved down
a ladder below an opened grating, which in turn led to another underground
route. Their trip finally ended in a basement room that looked like an empty
pool parlor, except for a few cots that stood along the walls.
     Pushed toward the cots, the muggers seated themselves in uncomfortable
rows and watched the masked men move to the corners where they still kept
fingering their guns. A door opened and with its creak the muggers turned to
see a stocky figure emerging from a flight of stairs. Moving into the light,
this arrival showed an ugly, darkish face marked with a livid scar that formed
a white belt from his chin to the point of the sideways-tilted cap that covered
a patch over the man's right eye.
     Whatever the darkish man's right eye lacked, his left eye supplied. The
glare he gave was sharp and thorough, quite suited to the leer of his thick
lips. There was a twist to the man's lips that was accentuated by the jut of
his irregular teeth. If his purpose was to prove himself uglier than any of the
muggers, he was succeeding, though the order was a difficult one, considering
the faces that were on display.
     Pasty faces as well as sallow; eyes that were shifty, yet vicious; lips
that had the quiver of a snarling dog - such were commonplace among the
visitors that the masked men had rounded up and brought to this den where their
one-eyed chief held rule.
     "So you are these muggers." The darkish man spat the words in a peculiarly
foreign accent. "Bah! It is foolish that the police should fear you. I have
heard so much about you that I thought you would be brave, because I knew you
were not clever."
     The muggers shifted uneasily as the scoffing man strode close to them. One
sallow visitor gave a sudden snarl and whipped a clasp knife from his pocket,
pressing the button that controlled the blade. Before he could even point the
knife at the darkish man, the mugger decided to let it drop.
     The darkish man was more than a jump ahead. From his hip, he had snapped a
knife three times the size of the mugger's puny weapon. The big knife was flying
open as it came and its blade was as large as a dagger. All in one motion, the
man with the ugly eye was drawing his knife across the mugger's throat. He
laughed as the fellow recoiled with a howl.
     "This is the way of Alban Leroc," announced the darkish man. "This time I
use the back of my knife, that is all. If you try more funny business it will
be the sharp side next time. You understand, eh?"
     The crouching mugger gave a ginger nod as though to learn whether his head
still happened to be on his shoulders.
     "You have heard of Alban Leroc, non?"
     The mugger's response was a slow headshake. Having found that his head
still operated on the vertical, he was beginning to worry about the horizontal.
     The darkish man displayed an expression of contempt. He flung aside his
cap and the eye patch went with it, revealing an eye that had a drooping lid,
marked by the end of the scar that decorated the man's face. Long, sleek hair
fell forward over the man's forehead, making a singular contrast to his tough
face. Smoothing back his hair, he announced proudly:
     "I am Alban Leroc!"


     THE name still meant nothing to the listening muggers. Tilting his head to
favor his droopy eye, Leroc proceeded to further identify himself in harsh-toned
style.
     "Alban Leroc, the Apache," he continued. "You have heard of us, non,  the
Apaches of Paris? Of course not, or you would be more clever. You would use
blades like this surin" - Leroc flourished his long knife - "and you would play
le coup du Pere Francois and other tricks that we Apaches have invented. I could
teach you all those as I learned them in L'ecole des Apaches, our own training
school in Paris.
     "But why waste time?" Leroc gave an exaggerated shrug. "Your methods are
good enough, here in New York, where there are many of you and the police are
so stupid. Good enough, except that you do not understand le pas du transfuge,
which in your language means the way of the rat. We Apaches know how to vanish
after we have done our work. In Paris, we have the advantage of the sewers,
where we know all the underground routes; but here in New York, with the
dimout, I can arrange ways of escape that will be easy for you."
     There were eager glances from the muggers as they realized that Leroc had
already displayed his ability when he rescued them with the truck from the
warehouse. Leroc understood their faces.
     "Bah! Tonight was crude!" voiced Alban Leroc. "In the future, my methods
shall be better, because you will await my orders before we move. I shall send
you places where even The Shadow will not expect you and you will be gone
before he arrives. Is it understood?"
     The muggers nodded more eagerly than before. Leroc gave a gesture of
dismissal and the marked men ushered out the muggers by an underground route,
at the same time arranging where and how to reach them, when Leroc would be
ready to start them on the move.
     Alone, Leroc reached for a telephone that was in a corner of his lair. It
began to ring as he picked it up and Leroc recognized the voice that answered
his own. Questions came from the other end and Leroc responded in simple
monosyllables. The last word that he said before hanging up the telephone was,
"Bon!"
     In the dull light, Leroc's nasty scar seemed to widen, along with his
equally ugly lips. His droopy eyelid quivered as though it were laughing too.
From Leroc's smiling lips came a snarly, satisfied laugh, his contempt for all
persons who stood for right.
     To Alban Leroc, all such contempt was heaped upon a single individual of
justice:
     The Shadow!


     CHAPTER V

     THE LAW'S DILEMMA

     COMMISSIONER RALPH WESTON owed a great debt to The Shadow, along with many
previous favors that had never been repaid. If Weston had deliberately planned a
campaign of gaining popular acclaim he could not have fared better than he had,
through the aid The Shadow had furnished unrequested. According to New York
newspapers and radio news flashes, the police had cracked the mugger problem in
thorough style. The escape of a few malefactors was not only discounted; it was
almost overlooked. Nobody had checked the total number of muggers on the final
battleground - that was, nobody except The Shadow - and therefore it was fair
to assume that none had actually escaped.
     In fact, Commissioner Weston was personally ready to believe that the
roundup stood complete. The thing that bothered Weston was something else
entirely. Privately, he knew that the police would not have gathered in a
single mugger, except for the service rendered by The Shadow.
     Perhaps the same thought was in the mind of Howard Harland as the
bombastic reformer wagged a heavy finger across Weston's desk.
     "You were lucky, commissioner," Harland argued. "You quarantined some
districts, so the muggers went to others. Your roving patrols merely happened
to pick those new neighborhoods as likely places where muggers would appear."
     Weston shifted uneasily, knowing that his patrols hadn't thought along
those lines at all.
     "Tonight, the muggers will pick new neighborhoods," predicted Harland,
"because there still must be hundreds of those malefactors at large. The task
will prove more difficult for your patrols; therefore, you must strengthen your
campaign."
     "Just what would you advise?" queried Weston, testily.
     "A complete roundup of all beggars," argued Harland. "I am still convinced
that they work hand in glove with the muggers."
     The old argument had begun again and Weston went at it in brusque style.
He pointed out that no beggars had been reported in the mugging areas the night
before, but that fact did not impress Harland, who retorted that the beggars had
doubtless picked the spots and left as soon as they had passed the word along to
the muggers. When Weston claimed that Harland's theory was entirely unsupported,
the reformer invited the commissioner to put it to the test. Harland declared
bluntly that if Weston took all the beggars out of circulation, he would soon
learn who was right; that if mugging ended therewith, Harland's claim of a link
would be proven.
     Weston's answer to that argument was a despairing shrug, directed toward
Cranston and Cardona, who were present in the office.
     "All right," decided Weston. "We'll consider your suggestion, Harland -
after we've seen King Franzel."
     "King Franzel?" queried Harland. "Who might he be?"
     "The big boss of the beggars," put in Cardona. "Whatever he says goes with
them. If King calls all peddlers off the street, we won't have to round them
up."
     "A beggar king," scoffed Harland. "What do we have to do? Put on old rags
to meet him?"
     "On the contrary," returned Weston, "Tuxedoes will be in form. We shall
find King Franzel at Club 88, the most exclusive cafe in New York, where only
visitors in evening clothes are admitted. Suppose we meet there for dinner,
Harland. I should like you to be with us, Cranston."


     HARLAND went from the conference muttering to himself. The new angle of a
beggar king was something almost beyond his comprehension. As he and Cranston
parted, Harland remarked that if beggars owed loyalty to an overlord, perhaps
muggers were similarly organized. Cranston made no comment, but while riding
away in his limousine, he weighed Harland's statement. It fitted closely with
Cranston's own conclusions, gained the night before while he was garbed in
black and fighting as The Shadow. The timely truck that had rescued a crop of
muggers was certainly an indication of a hand that worked from higher up, yet
The Shadow was inclined to regard an association of muggers as something in the
making rather than an accomplished fact.
     Whatever the varied opinions of those present at the commissioner's
conference, they were quite in harmony when they met at Club 88 a few hours
later. All four, Weston, Cranston, Harland and Cardona were conforming to the
conventions of the fastidious night club, and Cranston was meeting further
requirements. In keeping with the traditions of cafe society, he was bringing a
lady to the party, in the person of Miss Margo Lane.
     An attractive brunette who looked well in a minimum of evening gown, Margo
Lane added a distinct charm to the group, though Commissioner Weston did not
appreciate the favor. It was Weston's opinion that Cranston wasted too much
time taking Margo to night clubs; time that could be better spent if Cranston
held conferences on crime with Weston. Often, the commissioner had claimed that
his friend Cranston had the making of a remarkable criminologist if he would
only cease giving his attention to unimportant matters, in which category Margo
was included.
     Though Margo was quite aware of the commissioner's animosity, she greeted
him with a cordial smile. When introduced to Harland, the brunette retained her
smile, but the cordiality was gone. Despite his pomposity, Harland had too much
of the wolf-look to be encouraged. As for Cardona, he simply received a nod
from Margo. Smiles were wasted on the poker-faced police inspector.
     Inside the glittery night club, a request to meet King Franzel brought the
visitors to a ringside table, where a thick-set man wallowed to his feet to
shake hands with the commissioner. This was King Franzel, and at first sight he
looked like a giant turtle, from the way his head poked between his broad,
hunched shoulders. But there was nothing slow about Franzel's eyes, nor the
expression of his face. He gave his visitors a quick round of glances, as sharp
as his high-bridged nose and as direct as the straight lips that crossed his
broad visage.
     When Franzel politely invited Margo to a chair beside him, the girl made
no objection. King had given her the same glance that he extended the others
and his gaze lacked the wander of appraisal in which Harland specialized.
Indeed, Margo was a trifle piqued by King's lack of notice, a fact that
Cranston observed and liked. Whenever Margo became puzzled or annoyed by
trifles, she was apt to remain alert until she explained them to her
satisfaction. Having brought Margo on an expedition where he expected her to be
alert, Cranston was naturally pleased.
     Though Harland, a man who represented wealth and affluence, was at first
impressed by King Franzel, it wasn't long before he came to the purpose of the
interview. A beggar lacking rags was something of a paradox, but since Franzel
chose to class himself a mendicant, Harland resolved to treat him as such.


     "THE commissioner tells me that you represent beggars, Franzel," began
Harland abruptly. "Therefore I have asked him to remove your followers from the
streets, since they in their turn represent a menace."
     "A menace?" King Franzel raised his broad eyebrows. "That is putting it
rather strongly, Mr. Harland."
     "Not strongly enough," corrected Harland. "We see your beggars as spies,
working with the thugs called muggers."
     King Franzel tilted back his head and laughed. Then:
     "Has it occurred to you," he asked, "that licensed peddlers - in your
parlance beggars - stand more to lose than anyone else while muggers are
abroad? That where another man's money is in his pocket, the coins collected by
my followers are on view in tin cups, where they are a sight for hungry eyes?
Have you considered that while the average pedestrian is strong and able to
run, many of these beggars are frail, helpless and frequently lame?"
     Driving those points home, Franzel's eyes took on a fanatical glare from
which Harland was inclined to shrink. Then, with a side gesture of his heavy
paw, Franzel added:
     "Ask the commissioner. He will tell you that I appealed to him to do
something about the mugger question long before your so-called reform committee
was even organized!"
     Turning a questioning eye at Weston; Harland received a slow nod from the
commissioner.
     "I suppose Franzel is right," conceded Weston. "He did call at my office
several times, to complain that the streets were not safe for beggars -"
     "Not safe for beggars!" broke in Harland, in an outraged tone. "Since when
have beggars been recognized as privileged persons?"
     "The streets are either safe for none or all," argued Franzel. "I suppose,
Mr. Harland, that by your logic, muggers should be allowed to prey upon certain
classes of society, but not others."
     "According to you, Franzel," retorted Harland, "beggars serve as an
inducement for muggers who are at large. The more beggars, the more easy prey -"
     "And therefore the more chance of trapping the criminals," completed
Franzel, with a heavy-toned interruption. "Protect my followers and you will
catch the muggers. Or better still, let these much despised beggars do their
share toward restoring law and order."
     The final comment caught Weston's interest. Brushing off Harland's next
speech with a gesture, the commissioner concentrated upon Franzel.
     "Just what do you propose?" queried Weston.
     "Simply this," returned Franzel. "I shall instruct my followers to be on
the lookout for suspicious characters. In their legitimate occupation as
licensed peddlers, my beggars - as Harland calls them - cover nearly every
portion of the city. They will be more than glad to report groups of muggers,
should they see them. Shall I give the order?"
     It was a telling stroke on King Franzel's part, as Cranston, otherwise The
Shadow, could well understand. At a total loss on the mugger problem, Weston was
only too glad to accept the widespread aid that Franzel offered. As for The
Shadow, his own investigations would be furthered, rather than retarded, by
Franzel's suggestion. So it behooved The Shadow, as Cranston, to support
Franzel's offer if Weston hesitated.


     WESTON did not hesitate. Abruptly, he accepted the proposal, stating that
it bore some promise of results, as opposed to Harland's plan of clearing all
beggars from the streets. With a nod of appreciation, King Franzel turned his
back upon his visitors as though ending the interview.
     It was Margo who saw the real reason for Franzel's curt dismissal of the
question. Even though he had received police approval for his plan, it wasn't
good policy for him to behave so rudely. In a sense, Franzel wasn't being rude;
he was simply remembering what might be termed another appointment.
     The floor show was beginning and, from a doorway, a gorgeous blonde was
strutting into view in a costume which was a singular combination of poverty
and riches. Though formed of ragged silk, the costume was so adorned with
jewels that but for its brevity it would have weighted down its wearer. In a
soulful contralto voice, the blonde began a song about having "nothing to wear
but jewels" and when the spotlight struck her, the words seemed accurate, for
the gems gave such a glitter that the rest of the costume seemed to fade.
     The others were leaving and Margo found herself going along, Cranston's
hand guiding her elbow as she looked back at the floor show. One glance at King
Franzel enabled Margo to observe his fascinated stare. She knew then why Franzel
was not interested in brunettes. His eyes were glued to the rhythmic blonde,
whose arrival on the floor was his reason for patronizing the Club 88.
     At the door, Margo heard Cranston's calm tone, saying:
     "Rather dazzling, wasn't she, Margo?"
     "Yes," conceded Margo, fighting down her natural antipathy toward blondes.
"But who is she?"
     "There's her name in lights," replied Cranston. "Loraine Rue, the girl
with the jeweled voice. But they have another name for her. They call her the
Beggar Princess."
     "Because of King Franzel?"
     "Yes. There is an interesting story of how he helped her rise to fame.
Consult your favorite columnist for further details. I'll see you later, Margo."
     "But, Lamont -"
     Before Margo could say more, she realized she was talking to thin air.
Even as Cranston, The Shadow had ways of stepping off in an unexpected
direction, leaving persons wondering where he had gone. In this instance, Margo
had reason to be further irked because she was wondering who was going to take
her to dinner, now that Lamont had so suddenly disappeared.
     Then, as memories of the chat with King Franzel flooded back to Margo's
mind, she was willing to forgive her neglectful escort. Even if King Franzel
should forget a blonde named Loraine Rue just long enough to order his beggars
to be on the alert, The Shadow could not afford to lessen his own efforts at
forcibly settling the mugger question.
     Dusk was already deepening over Manhattan. It was time for The Shadow and
his agents to resume their secret patrol against coming crime!


     CHAPTER VI

     THE THIRD ELEMENT

     THE SHADOW was studying his wall map of Manhattan, in terms of the present
evening. The map had undergone pronounced changes since the night before; then,
only a few squares had been marked with yellow, now there were three more. The
yellow stood for quarantine and The Shadow had added the districts where he had
operated, because the police had taken over in conformity with Weston's plan of
putting headquarters men in every area where muggers were known to have
appeared.
     In brief, Commissioner Weston was following the old mistake of locking the
barn after the horse was stolen, but The Shadow was hardly in a position to
criticize. Modernizing the "barn and horse" adage, he regretted that he hadn't
locked the garage of a certain warehouse before an unexpected truck had been
stolen from it. Still, the mystery of the rescue truck was leading to muggers
and more.
     The Shadow was actually considering the case of Alban Leroc, though as yet
The Shadow had no evidence that the notorious Apache had come to America. What
The Shadow did know was that some clever hand was at work, organizing the
muggers to an extent that later events might fully reveal.
     There were reports from agents on The Shadow's table. From Hawkeye had
come word of an underground lair, now deserted, that could have been the haven
that the muggers reached after abandoning the borrowed truck. Who had occupied
those temporary premises was still a mystery, but it formed a part in The
Shadow's calculations.
     Instead of following his former rule of marking specific squares upon the
map, The Shadow had listed a dozen probable areas. He was positive that whoever
was banding the local muggers would try to outguess all comers, which included
The Shadow most specifically. Therefore, The Shadow had placed his own agents
on a roving basis, with arrangements for rapid contact through Burbank, should
they find traces not merely of muggers, but of other doubtful characters.
     Tapping one square, then another, The Shadow traced a zigzag pattern that
was to be his own itinerary. He wasn't taking various districts in a regular
rotation; instead, he was gauging his own trip to a time schedule marked in the
squares themselves. There he would contact agents, obtain their last-minute
reports, and send them along their own routes, which were designed to
interweave his own.
     When it came to designing such a system, The Shadow was a past master.
     Again, the bluish light clicked off and Stygian darkness caught the
departing mirth of The Shadow. Tonight his whispered laugh carried a
speculative note, which stood as his acceptance of a stronger, deeper challenge
from unknown men of crime.


     HOW well The Shadow had gauged the situation could be judged from a
conference in progress elsewhere. In a basement room that had once been the
kitchen of a now defunct restaurant, Alban Leroc was seated beside a telephone,
addressing a group of men who stood around the walls. These were the same masked
henchmen who had formed the truck crew, the night before, but they were no
longer wearing their bandanna disguises. Their faces revealed, they formed an
unusual group; unusual at least in terms of Leroc.
     These men were not Apaches that Leroc had imported with him, nor were they
the slinky type that characterized all muggers. They were men of good
appearance, well dressed and confident of manner. In a word, they represented a
class that anyone would brand as likely victims of the mugger clan!
     With the twisted smile that skewed his livid scar, Leroc surveyed these
members of his inner circle.
     "Tonight we are ready," announced Leroc. "For weeks I have taught you the
tricks of the Apaches. Remember: each of you will have his turn, so do not
become impatient. You shall draw lots from this bag and the red ball wins!"
     Producing a small bag, Leroc shook it with a clatter. The men approached
and dipped their hands into the bag, each removing a tightly closed fist. When
the hands were opened, one hand showed a red ball the size of a marble, while
the rest were all blue. Leroc gestured to the man who held the red.
     "Rouge!" exclaimed Leroc. "He is the lucky one. Tomorrow the rest of you
will draw. Now, Monsieur Rouge, spread out the map, while I dial the telephone."
     The man termed Monsieur Rouge spread a large city map upon the table.
Oddly, it was marked with squares quite similar to The Shadow's map and Leroc
chuckled when he saw it. There was a guttural tone to Leroc's laugh that marked
him as an adopted member of the Paris underworld rather than a native, but the
listeners did not note it. They were not interested either in Leroc's real name
or his actual nationality; rather, they were keyed to the business that
concerned Monsieur Rouge.
     All the while Leroc was dialing his number. Soon someone responded, though
the group could not hear the voice across the wire. Leroc talked in terms of
"oui" and "non" until he hung up with another chuckle.
     "The police have obtained new allies," informed Leroc. "The beggars of the
city have been enlisted to watch for muggers. Bah! It is an old trick, used
often by the French Surete. It will not annoy us in the least."
     Turning to the map, Leroc placed his forefinger on the exact spot where
the present headquarters was located. From there he traced a course to a fairly
distant street corner, which was away from any of the districts where muggers
might be expected.
     "Your appointment is there, Monsieur Rouge," declared Leroc. "It will be
in approximately one hour. You will recognize the man by his gray hat, light
checkered suit, and a black brief case which he always carries. The brief case
is important. You understand?"
     Monsieur Rouge gave a nonchalant nod.
     "Immediately afterward," continued Leroc, "you will leave by this route."
Leroc drew a course in pencil on the enlarged map. "Others will be on hand to
help close the path after you have gone by. And now" - Leroc turned to the rest
of the group - "it is time to call our friends, the muggers, at the numbers
which they gave me and send them to the same place at the appointed time. Since
they will be needed again, give them these additional instructions covering
their departure."
     Leroc handed around a set of typewritten slips which his chosen underlings
read carefully and placed in their pockets. As a final point, Leroc verbally
gave them the address of the next headquarters. True to the Apache traditions,
Leroc preferred to be always on the move.


     DURING the ensuing hour, strange things took place in the Manhattan
dimout. An almost invisible figure was weaving through the streets, pausing at
spots where his presence was indicated only by the men who approached in answer
to the colored signal blinks from a tiny flashlight. The Shadow was contacting
his agents, checking their reports and moving along to other fields.
     All during his ramble, The Shadow was passing patrol cars that were
keeping regular routes between the quarantined areas. It was Weston's theory,
substantiated by Cardona's opinion, that muggers would prove themselves
creatures of habit. In seeking new hunting grounds the footpads would probably
approach the old and shy away only if they saw men who looked like detectives.
Perhaps on the outskirts of the old districts, muggers would run afoul of the
patrol cars. At least the idea was hopeful from the police standpoint and since
patrol cars were available, it was a good way to use them.
     Far better was The Shadow's plan of playing the game ahead, that of being
places where muggers were actually likely to arrive, yet he - like the police -
had so far discounted the third element: King Franzel's beggars.
     The beggars were everywhere, though not in great abundance. The Shadow
spotted them in doorways that he passed, though they failed to observe his
passage. The beggars were quite aware of the roving police cars, but gave them
only scant attention. Pursuant to the order of King Franzel, the mendicants of
New York's sidewalks were on the lookout for muggers alone.
     How well this third element was operating, was proven just before the
hour's end, and the man who received the evidence was Commissioner Weston.
Since it was after office hours, Weston had told King Franzel that he would be
at the Cobalt Club, so the beggar king had instructed his cohorts to make all
calls direct to that number.
     The call that came was plaintive, so much a whine that Weston expected the
caller to ask for a dime as replacement for the nickel spent in the telephone
booth.
     "Muggers, commissioner," the voice said. "I seen them along Bracken Street
heading for the corner of West Side Avenue. I'm phoning, like King Franzel told
me -"
     The rest of the call was lost. Weston bolted from the lobby booth of the
Cobalt Club and dashed for the door, waving for Cardona to follow. The corner
named was well off the routes of the patrol cars; it belonged in a neighborhood
where muggers would be least expected, yet the corner was close enough for
Weston to handle this assignment in person.
     There was a siren on Weston's official car and the commissioner told the
chauffeur to use it amply when cutting through the dimout. With a wail that
predicted disaster to all muggers, the big car started on its way, carrying
Weston, Cardona, and a third man as a trouble-shooting crew.
     "Harland will be pleased when he hears of this," assured Weston. "It will
change his attitude toward Franzel and give him confidence in us. That about
covers it, inspector."
     Cardona responded with a noncommittal grunt. The ace inspector was not too
sure that his superior had covered everything. As often, Joe Cardona was
thinking in terms of an unpredictable factor known as The Shadow!


     CHAPTER VII

     DEATH BY NIGHT

     THE man with the gray hat and the black brief case was crossing the
intersection of Bracken Street and West Side Avenue. He was swinging his cane
carelessly, indicating that he was quite unperturbed. This happened to be a
very respectable neighborhood, dominated by tall apartment buildings that in
themselves denoted security. About the only thing to fear was traffic on the
dimmed-out streets and the man with the gray hat had studied it carefully
before crossing.
     The faint glare from a partly-covered traffic light showed the initials J.
A. on the black brief case. The gold letters stood for James Anstead, a name
that was to appear in headlines the next day. For the trustful Mr. Anstead felt
doubly secure because another pedestrian, as well-dressed as himself, was also
crossing the same street intersection. Muggers, if there were any in this
neighborhood, would never attack men who walked in pairs. So Anstead fell in
step with the other pedestrian, never suspecting that his traveling companion
owned the doubtful title of Monsieur Rouge, so designated by an Apache named
Alban Leroc.
     It happened only a few yards from the corner. By seeming accident, the
other man fell a pace behind Anstead. At that specific moment, Monsieur Rouge
was toying with a large and fancy scarf that he wore around his collar, a
proper item of apparel for this chilly weather.
     What Monsieur Rouge did with the scarf was known in Apache parlance as le
coup du Pere Francois.
     Taking the scarf by its corners, the assassin swung it over his own head
with a long, looping throw that cleared Anstead's head as well. All Anstead saw
was a blur of silk, obscurely visible in the dimout; then, before he could halt
his pace, he had walked neck first into the noose. By then, Monsieur Rouge was
crossing his wrists and with a sudden turnabout, he stooped. Choked by the
twisted scarf, Anstead came backward against the assassin's shoulders, hosted
like a potato sack. [For the inexperienced to attempt anything of this sort is
dangerous business, for serious injury may result if something goes wrong.
Unless you are acquainted with this method of fighting, do not attempt to
duplicate any of these feats.]
     The struggle was brief and all one-sided. Carrying his burden toward a
basement railing, Monsieur Rouge let Anstead struggle it out alone. The victim
thrashed the air with his cane and flapped the brief case wildly until his
despairing hands lost both of them. From then on, Anstead clutched at nothing,
his efforts becoming increasingly feeble. When they had ceased entirely,
Monsieur Rouge gave a forward heave that flung Anstead across the railing to a
skull-cracking landing in the space outside the basement door. Picking up the
cane, the killer tossed it after the victim, then snatched up the initialed
brief case and hurried along the street. He disappeared into a basement
doorway, which formed the beginning of the route marked by Leroc.
     Around the corner, all was silent, with no sign of loiterers along the
street, not even any of the beggars who obeyed King Franzel's rule. It was a
quiet street, which seemed secure despite its gloom, yet there was something in
the silence that resembled a lull before a coming storm. Perhaps the death
agonies of James Anstead had electrified the atmosphere with some peculiar
influence as substitute for the screams that the strangling victim would have
given if he could. Yet for the present, all was quiet.
     So far there was no sign of Commissioner Weston, racing hither in his
official car. The murder assigned to Monsieur Rouge had been completed during
the minutes immediately following the tip-off that Weston received at the
Cobalt Club.


     NOW, briefly, the side street showed traces of shadowy forms, moving in
from the flanks of large apartment houses. It was curious the way those lurking
shapes emerged and dwindled, yet if anything, the technique was poor. On a
street as dim as this, cautious prowlers could easily have stayed completely
out of sight. In a setting so lulling, even muggers were casting aside
discretion.
     There was an explanation for the sudden way in which the lurkers shifted
back to cover. A clatter of heels was coming from the next corner, accompanied
by a whistled tune. A pedestrian was walking along Bracken Street toward West
Side Avenue. There was nothing forced about the tune he whistled; even less
than Anstead did this new wayfarer sense danger in this neighborhood. Perhaps
that was because he was approaching home ground, as indicated by an apartment
key that he drew from his pocket. When the man hesitated, it was not because of
anything he heard close by; the sound that made him halt was that of a police
siren, with an increasing trill that announced an approaching car. The man
shrugged; he had heard other sirens during his evening's stroll. To him, the
sound simply meant that the police were vigilant.
     The muggers heard the note of the siren and identified it in their own
terms. To them it signified a patrol car off its course, since this section of
the city was not under close surveillance. It could be meant for them, though
they definitely doubted it. Their cue was to act swiftly, before the car
arrived in the immediate vicinity. Instantly, the street became alive with
darting forms, making for a single focal point, the man who was pausing near an
apartment house door, quite close to the street corner.
     As muggers converged, they realized instantly that they represented at
least three bands. They weren't at all surprised, because they knew that Leroc
had organized them on a wide scale. Under their new regulations, the muggers
had intended to take turns with victims, hence they showed brief hesitation in
their dash across the street. By then, the victim caught signs of their
approach and turned in frantic haste toward the doorway.
     That alone was enough to produce concert among the muggers. There was
another factor that likewise spurred them to combined endeavor. The siren
wailed anew, much closer. There was time only for a single job and the more the
hands, the quicker it could be accomplished. Like a living deluge, the riffraff
flung themselves upon their prey.
     Only by inches did the frightened man reach the doorway ahead of the
converging mob. That scant interval saved him, for before the muggers could
follow him inside, big headlights burned from the corner. Those lights belonged
to Weston's official car, which was violating all speed regulations that applied
to normal patrol. The glow revealed the muggers as a living mass that broke
apart as if the light itself had dissolved it.
     Those lean, scattering figures in modified zoot suits spelled "muggers" at
first sight. The big car jarred to a stop almost at the doorway where the victim
was safe at last. The door that clattered open belonged to the car itself and it
disgorged three men in the order named: Cardona, Weston and the accompanying
detective. They were hopping out on the street side, those three, all with
drawn revolvers, intent upon personally depleting the ranks of Manhattan's
muggers.


     HAD Weston and Cardona been with The Shadow on the evening previous, they
would have realized the folly of their present tactics. Though the New York
muggers knew none of the tricks of Parisian Apaches, they could boast a
fighting instinct that even Alban Leroc would have admired. In dealing with
ordinary victims, muggers operated on a three-to-one ratio. Sight of a weapon,
even a gun, simply spurred them to more daring tactics.
     As a combined group, they still had the usual ratio in their favor,
something that Weston and Cardona overlooked. They classed muggers as human
rats, who would scurry away at almost any provocation; but they forgot that
rats would fight when cornered, a rule that applied at present. For these
muggers were literally pocketed in this section of the street and lacked time
to regain cover before the shooting started.
     That was why the muggers acted as they did. Hardly had the car door opened
before the darting figures were returning with a surge. So rapidly did they
arrive that none of the men from the car were able to open fire, before their
hands were shoved straight upward, aiming guns in a direction where bullets
would not count. Twisted in the grip of savage muggers, Weston, Cardona and the
detective could feel the needle points of sharp knives at their throats, the
whole action occurring with a breathless rapidity.
     The law's whole campaign was in the balance, ready to topple in the wrong
direction. This act of assassination, if completed, would leave the police
force minus its most important members. There was no reluctance on the part of
the muggers regarding such a heinous deed; the pause they made was merely a
gloating period. They wanted their victims to feel the full horror of their
helpless plight.
     When that idea had jelled, it would be death for the two men most hated by
the muggers - except for The Shadow. In this moment of evil's triumph, thoughts
of The Shadow were in every mugger's mind. They were considering this a
prologue to the time when they would hold the cloaked avenger in a similar
plight.
     Only a chance to settle scores with The Shadow could have induced these
murderers to forget their present prey. That was the reason why the opportunity
arrived.
     From somewhere very close at hand came a strident laugh, a challenge that
pierced the night air with an increasing power denoting rapid approach. Fierce,
dooming in its tone, the taunt invited men of crime to deal with its author now
or never. Time taken for murder would be to The Shadow's advantage; such was
the message that the pealing mirth carried.
     Death to the others could wait, otherwise The Shadow would wreak swift
vengeance. With that unspoken message, The Shadow drew upon himself the burden
of a single-handed battle with a criminal horde!


     CHAPTER VIII

     TRAILS OF MYSTERY

     THE stir produced by The Shadow's laugh gave Weston and Cardona an
immediate respite. They could feel the knife points leave their throats; they
found that gripping hands had relaxed. They began a new struggle that would
have been short-lived, but for the fact that The Shadow's mocking challenge was
still on the rise. As Weston twisted free, the muggers shoved him instead of
trying to regain their grip. As the commissioner sprawled, he was flattened
under Cardona's tumbling figure. A moment later, the detective was slung upon
the pair of them.
     All three were gunless, having lost their revolvers immediately after the
muggers attacked them. Those guns were now in enemy hands and the muggers were
using them with full force. Stabs of flame were punching the darkness, but they
weren't stopping The Shadow's laugh. His taunts continued to the tune of his own
guns, big automatics that were changing position so rapidly that they gave the
impression of half a dozen marksmen working at once.
     More than a fray of guns, this was a battle of wits. The Shadow's main
purpose was to outguess his opponents.
     By moving back and forth across the street, The Shadow was always ahead of
the enemy's fire. Muggers were seldom good marksmen and they hadn't a chance of
clipping a target they could not even see. The Shadow was gone each time they
aimed and his jabbing return fire was driving the murderous tribe farther from
the car where Commissioner Weston was crawling into safety and urging his
companions to do the same.
     The Shadow was demonstrating his full ability to take care of himself. The
best way for the threatened men to help, was to remove themselves from any
danger zone.
     There was an explanation for The Shadow's timely arrival. Down the street
stood a cab from which he had sprung while voicing his fierce challenge. In
picking his own route through the city, The Shadow had picked up the trail of
Weston's car. In following, the cab had chosen a parallel avenue, so it had
swung into Bracken Street from the far corner, just when the muggers were
taking control. Having left the cab, The Shadow was attempting to herd the
muggers back toward West Side Avenue, the thoroughfare from which Weston's car
had originally turned.
     All of a sudden, the muggers broke. The Shadow's shots had clipped a few,
but none were seriously wounded. However, they were the first who preferred
flight and their howls, along with their panic, inspired the rest to the same
idea. But in taking flight, the disappointed assassins did a most curious
thing. Instead of spreading back to the corner of the avenue, they went in the
opposite direction. Forming a single file, they raced past The Shadow, along
the opposite side of the street, protected only by a wild barrage supplied by
the three muggers who had grabbed the police revolvers.
     To The Shadow, they were ducks in a shooting gallery, though they were
difficult to pick off in the dark. Big guns delivered alternate jabs while the
fleeing men went by; then, with a mocking laugh, The Shadow took up the chase.
Weston recognized that The Shadow was in pursuit, by the way his laugh trailed;
Cardona, meanwhile, was counting muggers as they dashed by the dim lights of the
halted cab, and Joe saw that there were less than formerly. Since The Shadow was
setting the pace, Cardona decided to follow and help round up the remnants.
     In less than a block, Cardona was treated to a disappearing act.


     IT wasn't astonishing for The Shadow to vanish; in fact, in his black
cloak and hat, and the darkness of the dimout, he had scarcely been visible at
all. What nonplused Cardona was the way the muggers evaporated. They were gone,
all of them, from in front of an apartment house where there was neither door
nor side passage to admit them. Hurrying on to the corner, Cardona gawked in
all directions, but saw no traces of the vanished mob.
     Where Cardona should have looked was back at the spot where he had last
seen the scudding file. Joe's oversight did not apply to The Shadow; he had
already reached the spot in question. The wall was very dark, composed of grimy
bricks, so it wasn't surprising that the muggers should have slipped from sight,
but their complete evaporation was something else again. The Shadow gained the
answer when he heard the muffled clang of metal, underfoot.
     In the sidewalk, close to the apartment house wall, was the flat door of
an elevator. It was one of those sidewalk contrivances used to take freight to
and from the cellar. Quite obviously that trapdoor had been open when the
fugitives reached it, though the elevator must have still been downstairs. The
muggers had dropped through the trap like sailors diving into a hatchway and
the last man had pulled the metal door shut.
     Most sidewalk elevators had automatic doors, so this particular trap must
have been fixed beforehand. What was more, it didn't yield when The Shadow
tugged it, so he suspected that it had an automatic latch. What The Shadow
needed was another entrance to the cellar, so he hurried back along the front
of the building, turned into a narrow blind alley and found a cellar window
which he rammed open with the butt of an automatic. A few seconds later, The
Shadow was in the cellar.
     From somewhere in the distant darkness came the echoes of hoarse but
muffled voices that ended in a clang. Taking that direction, The Shadow came to
a barred door near the rear of the cellar, the outlet that the muggers had used.
It took him nearly a minute to pry it open; beyond the door, The Shadow found a
ladder leading to the top of a ventilating shaft. Soon The Shadow emerged upon
a roof, two stories above the street.
     There were no muggers anywhere in sight. Apparently they had retraced
their course up to a higher roof that could be reached by the grille of a
barred rear window. But on the higher roof, The Shadow discovered nothing but a
sheer wall, that extended several stories upward. This would have been a
baffling problem for anyone but The Shadow. His verdict was that since muggers
couldn't fly, they might have tried the next best thing. On the roof was an
ornamental cornice. Attached to the cornice were two heavy guy cables that
formed the equivalent of metal loops between the cornice and the roof proper.
     Behind the cornice, The Shadow found a board with cleats on the under side
of each end. The length of the board, less the cleats, measured the same as the
distance between the guy cables. Across the street was the dim hulk of an old
garage, its roof a story lower than where The Shadow stood. From there on, The
Shadow could picture the rest.
     Between the cables there had been a loop of strong wire, forming a double
track across to the roof of the garage. Unquestionably there had been a pile of
cleated boards, awaiting the fugitives. By simply slapping the board across the
wires, anyone could hang on and perform a rapid slide down across the street,
the cleats preventing the improvised trolley from jumping its double track. The
extra board that The Shadow found had been intended for a fugitive who didn't
come along.
     The wire was gone, which furnished another reason why a double track had
been preferred. With all the fugitives across, someone had cut the wire and
hauled it to the other roof. This has been accomplished while The Shadow was on
his way up, and by now the muggers and any of their friends were probably
several blocks away. It was neat business, getting from one block to another by
an overhead route invisible in the dimout, the sort of thing that would have
left the police searching until doomsday on the theory that by surrounding the
apartment house and its adjacent buildings, all escape would be cut off.
     Low, significant was The Shadow's laugh, as he retraced his own route.
Though the muggers were adopting new methods, The Shadow had learned those ways
for future reference. Also, his discovery was a clue that might lead him to the
man who had sold the muggers on such new ideas.


     BACK by the official car, Inspector Cardona was reporting the
disappearance of the muggers. Nodding as he listened, Commissioner Weston was
gloomily surveying two muggers who still remained upon the scene. Both were
dead and beside them lay revolvers belonging to Weston and Cardona. These were
two of the marksmen who had tried to clip The Shadow while running the gantlet
of his fire. They had missed, but he had scored direct hits in return.
     "Those two won't talk," said Weston, glumly. "I've sent Jackson around the
block to see if any others dropped along the way. I prefer dead muggers, but I'd
like them to live long enough to tell us what they know. Perhaps Jackson has
found a wounded specimen. Here he comes now."
     Jackson was the detective who had accompanied the commissioner. He was
arriving on the run and as soon as he found his breath, he told of a new
discovery.
     "Around on West Side Avenue!" panted Jackson. "Over on the other side. A
dead man, lying in front of a basement door. The muggers must have got him
before we came along."
     Weston and Cardona went with Jackson to view his discovery. Behind them
stalked a figure that might have been a part of night itself. The Shadow,
returned from his own investigation, had arrived in time to hear the news that
Jackson brought. When they reached the basement on the avenue, Cardona stooped
to study Anstead's body.
     "A victim all right," declared Joe. "He wouldn't be a mugger, not dressed
like this. Besides they all ran the other way. Maybe he has cards on him,
telling who he is."
     There was motion amid darkness as The Shadow, unseen member of the group,
moved farther along the avenue. Finding an empty basement, The Shadow tried the
door. It was locked, but by probing with a special pick, The Shadow soon opened
it and glided through. At the rear of the basement, he emerged into a blind
alley leading to another street. Across that street was a vacant house that
offered a further basement route.
     Whoever had slain the victim on the avenue, would have used this path more
readily than any other. The question was: Why hadn't the muggers chosen the same
course, rather than run the gamut of The Shadow's gunfire?
     The question had a simple answer. The muggers hadn't known of this route.
Whoever was guiding the destinies of the muggers was delivering only a partial
service; he had told them too little and had let them arrive too late.
     The whispered laugh that sounded in the darkness was proof that The Shadow
was divining a deeper game behind the mugging racket. He had pegged another clue
to his credit in his effort to uncover the hidden hand of Alban Leroc!


     CHAPTER IX

     THE SHADOW'S POLICY

     KING FRANZEL was holding court at Club 88. His friends were congratulating
him on his part in curbing the mugger menace, for the news of last night's
tip-off had been made public by the police. Nevertheless, King Franzel was
quite loath to receive personal congratulations.
     "I don't deserve the credit," said Franzel, modestly. "I simply gave the
order for my followers to watch for muggers. One of them spotted some and
phoned the commissioner. My part was trifling. In fact I didn't leave this
night club during the evening."
     There were reporters present, among them Clyde Burke. Two of the news
hawks put a question to King Franzel. Both of them wanted to know the name of
the beggar who phoned the tip-off. Sagely, Franzel shook his head.
     "It wouldn't do to name him," he said. "The chap would be marked for death
by all muggers who could find him." He turned to the patrons of the night club,
who had congregated about him. "If you want to do the right thing," Franzel
added blandly, "just think of all my followers. Remember them when they try to
sell you pencils or shoelaces. The more you encourage them, the more they will
try to track down the muggers."
     Commissioner Weston was approaching the ringside table while King Franzel
was delivering that final proclamation. With the commissioner was Howard
Harland and the reformer was close enough to overhear what Franzel said. It
seemed to impress others, but not Harland.
     "A noble sentiment, Franzel," observed Harland, bluntly, "but it has a
commercial taint. The more money your beggars receive, the bigger your profits
to throw away at places like this. In my opinion, Franzel, you are running a
very nasty racket."
     "Maybe you are thinking of your own," snapped Franzel, in prompt
retaliation. "There's nothing phony about my business. If I can increase the
receipts of street venders, I am entitled to a reasonable percentage. But as
far as I can see, you are giving the Citizens' Reform League a lot of unpaid
bills, with nothing to show except a barrel of hot air."
     For a moment the two big men appeared ready to go at each other, fists
first. Then Weston stepped between them and motioned them to chairs. Gesturing
for others to leave, the commissioner turned to Cranston and Cardona, asking
them to join the group at the table. Franzel threw a glance around the circle
to make sure that his unexpected guests were wearing evening clothes. He looked
disappointed when he saw that Harland was clad in a Tuxedo; then, in an
indulgent tone, Franzel inquired:
     "You are dining with me, gentlemen?"
     "Not I," boomed Harland. "Why should I dine on pennies donated by poor
beggars?"
     "You shouldn't mind," retorted Franzel. "You wouldn't be using any of your
own money. I can't picture you donating any pennies to charity."
     "So you admit that your beggars are charity cases!"
     "I admit nothing, Harland. If you are squeamish about who pays the dinner
check, why not take it yourself, and charge it to the Citizens' Reform League?"
     Before Harland could answer, Weston closed the issue by declaring that he
and Harland were dining elsewhere. Weston had stopped by to express official
approval of the cooperation supplied by King Franzel. While Harland glowered,
Weston put his sentiments into words.
     "Last night's work was excellent," said Weston. "Your followers are
certainly alert, Franzel. We could not have hoped for a more timely tip-off."
     "You are forgetting one thing, commissioner," put in Harland. "Though you
arrived soon enough to rout the muggers, you were not in time to save Anstead's
life."
     "Anstead was probably ambushed," argued Weston. "The surgeon's report
shows that he was choked to death. By flinging him out of sight, his murderers
escaped detection. I am not surprised that such a crime was not reported."
     "It doesn't speak well for the beggars," persisted Harland. "If they saw
one thing, they should have seen another. I still claim that they are a public
nuisance."
     "Like reform committees," suggested Franzel. "I tell you what,
commissioner. I'll be glad to call my followers off the streets at night, just
to learn if Harland is right - or wrong."
     "No, no," expressed Weston. "We need them, after what they did last night.
I regard their work as efficient, even though Harland doesn't."
     King Franzel gave a nod of appreciation. At that moment the orchestra
started and Franzel turned to watch for the floor show. The others did not
remain to witness the entrance of the ravishing blonde who appeared under the
name of Loraine Rue. They had other appointments, particularly Lamont Cranston.


     LEAVING Club 88, Cranston went directly to an investment office in a
towering office building, where he found a chubby-faced man who was working
after hours. The chubby chap was named Rutledge Mann and he interspersed his
working hours as an investment broker with special duties for The Shadow. Like
Burbank, Mann was a contact agent; though most of his work was office duty, he
was an important cog in The Shadow's machinery of agents.
     Today, Mann had been compiling reports on James Anstead, last night's
solitary victim of the mugging epidemic. Though Mann's findings were quite
sketchy, they were more than the law had uncovered. Classing Anstead as a
typical mugging victim, the police had not bothered to theorize regarding his
case.
     "Anstead was an inventor," stated Mann, in a methodical tone. "Something
of a crackpot, according to my accumulated information, but there were several
investors ready to buy his inventions, if they worked. The trouble with Anstead
was that he always held back, fearing that he would not receive his proper
share."
     Cranston reached for the papers from which Mann's information had come.
None of the informants knew of anyone that Anstead would be likely to visit in
the vicinity of West Side Avenue. They did admit, however, that Anstead was
always bobbing up with new clients, most of whom he eventually mistrusted.
     While Cranston pondered, Mann waited, knowing that he would soon hear The
Shadow's analysis of the case.
     "Let us assume one thing, Mann," declared Cranston, in his even tone.
"Whoever Anstead was visiting, he was probably carrying important documents
covering his latest inventions."
     "Very probably," agreed Mann. "One of the men I phoned told me that
Anstead usually carried a black brief case."
     "In that same brief case," continued Cranston, "Anstead could have had the
correspondence from the man who summoned him where he was going last night. Thus
the thief who took the brief case gained not only Anstead's plans for new
inventions, but closed the trail to Anstead's client."
     Mann's eyes opened wider. Then, in his cautious fashion he furnished an
objection.
     "It was a long risk -"
     "Not exactly," interposed Cranston. "Perhaps Anstead was on his way to a
fictitious address to meet an imaginary person. If so, any correspondence would
have proven troublesome if found, but it would not have revealed Anstead's
murderer."
     "You believe that Anstead was decoyed to West Side Avenue?"
     "Precisely. It was the last spot where any of us expected muggers to
appear, and therefore an ideal place for murder. Besides, Anstead's death was
not a mugging case, even though the police believe so. It reminds me of the
sort of thing that used to happen in Paris, when the Apache were at their
worst."
     "Then other deaths may be expected!"
     "They may be attempted, but I think we can forestall them, with so many
beggars working with us. By this time, the man behind the mugging racket should
be suspicious of all beggars and that lessens our task. We shall avoid beggars
too."
     Mann didn't quite understand what Cranston meant. With a slight smile,
Cranston put it in the form of an order.
     "Instructions to agents," he announced. "They are to make a general survey
of all sections where beggars are absent and confine their watch to those
districts. Between the police, the beggars - and ourselves - we may gain a jump
on the next crime."
     Glancing from Mann's window, Cranston saw the Manhattan skyline blurring
into dusk. It was time for him to resume the regalia of The Shadow and join in
the new campaign. As the door closed behind Cranston, Mann reached for the
telephone to contact the active agents and assign them to their new duty.


     MATTERS were already shaping up somewhat as The Shadow supposed. In a new
headquarters, Alban Leroc was discussing this night's business with the members
of his chosen circle. This headquarters was shabbier than those that Leroc used
previously, which was an indication that the Apache was burrowing deeper after
every crime. His surroundings, however, had no effect on Leroc's mood. He
seemed more cocksure than ever.
     The bag was passing among Leroc's followers. A stolid man who looked like
a storekeeper was the one who drew the red ball. The man's smooth face showed a
flicker of satisfaction which greatly pleased Leroc. He clapped a hand on the
man's stooped shoulder.
     "Ah, tonight you are Monsieur Rouge, since you have drawn the red ball,"
commended Leroc. "Tonight you shall have grand opportunity. Be careful, though,
that you do not let beggars see you. Bah! Ces gueux, they have caused us too
much trouble. So we shall make it easier for you, our new Monsieur Rouge!"
     Turning to a man who held a blue marble, the only one of its kind in the
bag, Leroc drew the fellow forward.
     "This is Monsieur Bleu," explained Leroc. "He has drawn the blue ball. He
will accompany Monsieur Rouge and be ready to assist him. Already I have
received our orders for tonight. Your work lies here, Messieurs Rouge and Bleu.
There will be others close at hand to help your rapid escape. Ah, tonight we
shall really show them les pas du transfuge. We shall be rats, all of us, but
especially you, Monsieur Rouge."
     Drawing the chosen assassin forward, Leroc suddenly flipped a long-bladed
knife close to the fellow's throat. The man did not wince; apparently he was
accustomed to Leroc's playful tricks. His own hand flipped forward, producing a
knife that matched Leroc's both in size and maneuver. Leroc grinned as he felt a
sharp blade graze his own neck.
     "You have learned well," commended Leroc. "Le coup de la petite
guillotine, we call this trick in Paris." Leroc stepped back, folding his knife
as it went to his pocket. "But remember, Monsieur Rouge, you must be swift, so
swift that the victim cannot turn and tilt his head.
     "When I first came to Paris, they tried la petite guillotine on me. But I
was too quick for them and this was all that happened." His eyes gloating with
the recollection, Leroc drew his finger along the ugly scar that streaked the
side of his face, dismissing it as one would a scratch. "So I am still alive,"
he continued, "but the Apache whose knife missed is dead. I saw to that. So
take my advice, Monsieur Rouge, and do not miss tonight."
     The gloat in Leroc's eyes was reflected by the gaze of the man who had
been elected to the office of Monsieur Rouge. Having finished his pep talk,
Leroc became more confidential.
     "It will be easy," he assured. "Your victim is a man named Wilbur Pell. He
will wear a black hat, the kind you call a derby, and he will also carry a small
satchel, as doctors do. It is likely that Pell will also have a revolver, but
what is that to you, Monsieur Rouge? Those who are treated to la petite
guillotine waste time if they think of their guns!"
     A muffled phone bell was ringing from a corner of the underground room.
With a pleased leer, Alban Leroc turned to answer the call that would give him
final details regarding the proposed assassination of one Wilbur Pell.


     CHAPTER X

     COUP FOR COUP

     IT was very dark along the dead-end street. So dark that The Shadow could
have readily tossed hat and cloak aside, to fare about as Cranston, and yet
remain unseen. That he insisted on retaining the personality of The Shadow was
proof that he sensed trouble brewing in this East Side neighborhood.
     The district itself was a paradox.
     All around stood old houses that had been remodeled into small apartment
houses that commanded high rentals. This was distinctly an "address" street,
namely, one where a resident gained prestige by having so fashionable an
address. Quiet, secluded, with the river furnishing both breeze and view, the
apartments in this neighborhood were preferred by persons of wealth and
discrimination.
     Such residences occupied several blocks along the river front. The
southern boundary of the area was marked by the looming hulk of an abandoned
brewery, while the northern barrier was the huge approach to a great suspension
bridge that crossed the river. To the police of the precinct, this was regarded
as the best beat in the city. Instead of calling it by its advertised title of
Surrey Place, they termed it Barney's Sidepocket in honor of the cop who
originally patrolled it.
     Blocked at both ends, with the river terminating the dead-end streets, the
"sidepocket" could be covered from the avenue that ran parallel to the river. It
was the last place in Manhattan where crooks of any description would care to
find themselves boxed. That was one reason why The Shadow had chosen it for his
own patrol, for he was playing hunches somewhat in reverse tonight.
     There were no beggars hereabout, for they weren't popular with the
janitors of the apartment buildings. Nor were there any signs of muggers, which
was likewise true to form. However, The Shadow's theory was that wherever
beggars were absent, muggers were likely to appear, and there was no better bet
than Surrey Place.
     Crime's problem was The Shadow's too. Unless this dead-end district
revealed an unsuspected exit, nothing would happen here. In that case, The
Shadow could write off Surrey Place, and resume his investigations elsewhere.
On that account, The Shadow was spending valuable time feeling his way about
the sidepocket, in the hope that he had actually found the scene that fitted
with his theory of hidden crime-to-be.
     It was near the water front that The Shadow made his important discovery.
Along a cement walk that flanked a building and ended in a high iron fence, The
Shadow felt a slight quiver of the stone beneath his foot. Stooping, he probed
the spot with a tiny flashlight that cast a gleam no larger than a silver
dollar. The ray of light trickled along a crack in the cement, at first sight
seemingly a mere division between two blocks. But when The Shadow dug a gloved
forefinger into the crack and brushed away the dust, he saw that the cut went
deep.
     This was a loose block, like a trapdoor in the paving. Close against the
fence, it was in a place where people seldom went and therefore quite unlikely
to be detected.
     It would prove difficult to raise the block except from below, a point
that gave The Shadow a further notion. Extinguishing the flashlight, he placed
his ear close to the block and listened. At first, he heard only the muffled
swash of the river, which had apparently oozed in beneath the sidewalk. Then
there came dull sounds, much like footbeats, that ended with a slight tremble
of the stone.
     Drawing away, The Shadow took an angled position that enabled him to use a
concrete wall as a background beyond the cement trap. As he watched, he heard
the slab grind upward; then from the hole emerged a stoop-shouldered figure
that was visible, though only vaguely, against the concrete wall.
     This was The Shadow's first meeting with the man that Leroc had designated
as Monsieur Rouge for this night's ugly work.


     CLEAR of the slab, Monsieur Rouge let it settle back in place. He was so
meticulous about that detail, that it would seem he had used this route merely
to reach Surrey Place and was intending to leave by a different outlet. Since
The Shadow was seeking every possible fact concerning these New York Apaches
whose activities he had suspected, he moved aside and let the crouched man
pass, so as to carry the trail still farther.
     Apparently Monsieur Rouge had been delayed along the way, for he moved
with the hurry of a man keeping an appointment. Turning away from the water
front, he started toward the avenue, making little effort to deaden his
footfalls. The Shadow marked that point as further evidence that if muggers
appeared upon the scene, they would be serving as a blind for the undercover
work of the Apaches. Thus in the ordinary course of things, The Shadow was
gaining a better picture of a hidden factor named Alban Leroc.
     At the avenue, Monsieur Rouge paused to watch. He had chosen a poor
corner, simply because it was on his own side of the street. That was quite to
The Shadow's advantage, because it gave him the other corner, where a
convenient doorway at the top of some steps allowed a better range of view.
From his vantage spot, The Shadow could see a head poke out and in from beside
the opposite corner, though at no time was it possible to distinguish the
features of the lurking assassin.
     The Shadow's plan was fixed.
     Unquestionably the assassin expected a victim of the Anstead type. Swift
work in the dark, all would be over, and the assassin on his way. Such, at
least, was the crime schedule.
     That routine did not include The Shadow. He, too, could work quickly in
the dark.
     An automatic drawn in readiness, The Shadow was prepared to gear this
affair in reverse. There would be a dead assassin, a rescued victim, and The
Shadow would be free to clamp the muggers who arrived to cover up the Apache's
unfinished work.
     All the scene needed was a victim, and he was approaching at this moment.
Across the street, Monsieur Rouge was craning from his corner to look for a man
whose footsteps could already be heard. The Shadow, more alert than the
assassin, not only heard the footsteps; he made out the figure of the man meant
for murder.
     The man was coming down the avenue. He looked thin and frail as he
nervously stepped away from a dim-lit doorway, and he failed to obscure his
outline. The man was wearing a derby hat and carrying a small black satchel.
Those features identified him as Wilbur Pell, whose name was known to Alban
Leroc but not to The Shadow.
     It was curious that Pell should be behaving so suspiciously, since this
neighborhood seemed so unlikely as a mugging ground. It might be that he had
read of Anstead's death and therefore considered no place safe. However, The
Shadow interpreted Pell's actions differently. From the way Pell paused at the
far corner and stared toward the dead-end street, it appeared that he was
looking for some person rather than an address.
     This linked with the Anstead case.
     Unquestionably Pell had come to Surrey Place on some unusual business that
smacked of a lure which Pell himself did not suspect. He was making it very
simple for the assassin, whom he could easily mistake for the man he expected
to meet. Monsieur Rouge was behaving in itchy fashion, as though anxious to hop
across the avenue and meet Pell halfway. Finally curbing that desire, the
lurking assassin shifted back into the dark.
     Pell was already making up his mind, and quite abruptly. He was starting
from the curb to cross the avenue at a brisk, determined pace, and he was
heading for The Shadow's corner. At the same moment, the assassin began a slink
across the darkened side street, to reach the same focal point.
     Victim and killer were about to place themselves within reach of The
Shadow, that master hand at cheating murder!


     THERE wasn't one chance in a hundred thousand that Leroc's hireling could
deliver death under these conditions. Yet it was not The Shadow who forestalled
the coming crime. Another chance was on its way.
     From his doorway, The Shadow could hear the approach of a lumbering truck.
Such vehicles were not uncommon on this avenue, which formed a short route for
travel to Long Island. The truck was coming from below The Shadow's corner and
apparently Pell heard it too, for he was quickening his pace. But Pell wasn't
even noticing the truck's approach.
     All Pell was thinking about was the darkness of the sidepocket. He
couldn't see The Shadow, blended in the darkness upon the house steps, nor did
he spy the assassin who was sneaking toward the same objective. Pell simply
remembered that it was good policy to be cautious where darkness was concerned
and he forgot that the same rule applied to traffic. Unexpectedly, Pell stopped
short before he reached the curb.
     Before The Shadow could spring out to seize him, the truck reached Pell.
There was a shriek of brakes and with it, a wild, terrified yell from Pell. The
man was jolted by the truck front and hurled like a straw figure, halfway across
the street, where he struck the paving headfirst with a sickening crack. That
explosive sound denoted a smashed skull. Death was instantaneous for Wilbur
Pell. An accident, not The Shadow, was the thing that intercepted murder.
     Pell's satchel scaled from his hands clear to a house wall opposite.
Striking there, it bounced back to the street, where Monsieur Rouge, watching
the satchel's flight, turned and scooped it up as his prize. Momentarily,
Monsieur Rouge hesitated, looking from Pell's still body to the truck that was
stopping farther up the avenue. Then deciding that luck had saved him trouble,
he started down the dead-end street, back toward the rat hole from which he had
originally emerged.
     Quicker of decision was The Shadow. Leaving his doorway, he was already on
his way to cut off the escape of the man who had dropped the role of assassin to
play the thief. Swift in the darkness, The Shadow was first to reach the little
promenade by the water front. Wheeling into that cul-de-sac, The Shadow halted
just short of the cement trap and turned to await Monsieur Rouge.
     Hurried footsteps slowed as the man with the satchel turned the final
corner. Feeling himself safely out of sight, the fellow began a cautious creep.
His breathing became tense, heavy, louder than the river's swash. Then into that
sinister setting came another sound, the creak of yielding stone. It was well
under way before The Shadow sensed it; when he turned to look behind him, he
saw the outline of a head and shoulders coming from the cement trap.
     This was Monsieur Bleu, the man assigned to aid the departure of his
teammate, Monsieur Rouge!
     A snarl came from Monsieur Rouge, bringing The Shadow full about. The tone
was answered by a sharp response from Monsieur Bleu as he lunged upward from the
rat hole. Like The Shadow, these de luxe Apaches had trained themselves to see
in gloom and though they lacked unsurpassed sight, they had spied enough.
     Between the raised slab and the building wall, both white backgrounds,
they distinguished a blurred shape that they knew must be The Shadow. With one
accord, these bold and deadly killers were springing upon The Shadow, hoping to
deliver quick-death tricks, the coups taught by Alban Leroc!
     Unless The Shadow could retaliate with coup for coup, this spot beside the
water front would be remembered as the last stand of the cloaked avenger known
as crimedom's greatest foe!


     CHAPTER XI

     TWO WAYS OUT

     ALREADY, Monsieur Rouge was on the lunge. In his hand he wielded the
razor-edged knife, for the stroke that Leroc termed la petite guillotine.
Sighting the arm poised for its swing, The Shadow had only one course, a quick,
backward shift that meant momentary safety, even though it threw him to the
mercies of Monsieur Bleu. At least the latter wouldn't be trying a knife slash
from behind.
     The Shadow's guess was right. Monsieur Bleu preferred the coup attributed
to Pere Francois. Out from the hole, Monsieur Bleu was already flinging a long
silk scarf in a loop that cleared The Shadow's head. Since The Shadow was
coming toward him, Monsieur Bleu couldn't trust the victim to lunge into the
noose, so the assassin furnished a sideways twist that served the same purpose.
Snared by the tightening scarf, The Shadow made a sudden stagger in the same
direction. As he went off balance, his hat flew from his head. Momentarily,
Monsieur Rouge, ready with his knife, saw a blur that represented The Shadow's
face.
     That pale target was enough for the knife specialist. Remembering the
orders of Leroc, the killer made his stroke, aiming for a spot just below The
Shadow's chin. That slash seemed certain to arrive and it would have with any
victim other than The Shadow. Looped by the choking scarf, The Shadow should
have been struggling forward, as victims always did. Therefore his very efforts
should have aided the collaboration of the assassins labeled Rouge and Bleu.
     Instead, The Shadow was staging a trick of his own. He was yielding to the
tug of the noose, letting himself go with it. He even added an exaggerated spin
to the twist that Monsieur Bleu was giving him. This happened as the knife was
slashing home, and the knife of Monsieur Rouge missed The Shadow's throat by
the scant fraction of an inch.
     A close miss could be as good as a long one. This time a close miss was
much better.
     Grazing The Shadow's turning face, the slashing knife came down past it
and met the looped scarf that gripped the victim's neck!
     The blade cut the silk as cleanly as it had cleaved thin air. It missed
The Shadow's shoulder because he was free the moment that the scarf was
chopped. His spin flung him into an immediate sprawl, clear away from the
murderous knife. The stroke of Monsieur Rouge had not only failed; The Shadow
had turned it into a coup of his own that released him from the toils of
Monsieur Bleu!
     The man with the knife flung aside the satchel that he was carrying in his
other hand. Savagely, he tried a long-range slash at The Shadow. It was a futile
attempt, for Monsieur Rouge was chopping at blackness that might have been
vapor, though he guessed that The Shadow was part of the gloom along the
darkened edge of the paving. The Shadow was there, as his attacker guessed, but
he was finishing a roll that brought him face upward. Spotting the gleam of the
knife, The Shadow stopped its backhand slash with trip-hammer speed by snagging
the wrist that accompanied it.
     Under the clutch of The Shadow's gloved hand, Monsieur Rouge performed a
long somersault, such as The Shadow's iron grip had often applied to foemen.
The knife scaled into the river as its owner slid clear from the cul-de-sac,
out toward the street.


     COMING to hands and knees, The Shadow produced an automatic in the same
action and looked for Monsieur Bleu. That rat was behaving true to form. He saw
a way out and took it, the hole through the cement walk. He was jumping down
into the gap before The Shadow could take aim, but in making his departure,
Monsieur Bleu felt it necessary to justify his desertion of Monsieur Rouge. His
excuse was the satchel; it was lying where he could grab it as he dived, so
Monsieur Bleu took it with him.
     The Shadow's gunshot bashed against the cement slab as it was dropping
into place, released by the diving Apache. With a leap, The Shadow stopped the
slab before it slammed, by poking his gun into the closing crevice. He fired
another shot that brought muffed echoes from below, in the hope that a
ricocheting bullet would clip the fugitive. Then, prying the slab open, The
Shadow dropped through, letting the trap fall in place above him, thus cutting
off this route for Monsieur Rouge.
     The Shadow's flashlight revealed an underground passage connecting with
the river. It was a drainage pipe that took the surplus of a long-buried brook.
There was a grating, blocking the outlet to the river, so The Shadow went in the
opposite direction, hoping to overtake the man with the satchel. The fugitive
was no longer in sight but his whereabouts were disclosed by a clang that came
from a smaller tunnel leading into this large one. Reaching the turn The Shadow
encountered a vertical grating that had locked automatically after Monsieur Bleu
slammed it behind him.
     That passage led up a flight of crude steps down which water trickled.
Another clash of a closing grating told that a second barrier had been slung
across the way. The Shadow could hear voices accompanying the scurry of feet,
proving that more Apaches were in reserve. To force the barriers and engage in
underground battle would be folly. Probably the crooks would decide not to
wait. To The Shadow it seemed that there might be better opportunities above
ground than below, so he retraced his way back to the cement trapdoor.
     Opportunity was already at hand above ground.
     Up by the corner of the avenue, a glum-faced truck driver was staring at
Pell's body. He was wondering if the police would believe his account of the
accident and while he was debating how to reach them, the police came in
evidence. Sounds of patrol-car sirens whined from side streets, apparently
coming toward the river.
     As the truck driver looked around, he saw huddled figures moving from
those very streets and instantly linked them with the sirens. Those figures
were muggers, operating in this neighborhood, and the police must have received
a tip-off telling where they would be found. So far the muggers had found no
prey, though they might be considering the truck driver eligible, but the
approach of sirens made them hesitate and they showed symptoms that indicated
they would scatter. Then, one pointed suddenly across the avenue.
     A chance victim had unfortunately thrust himself in sight. He'd seen the
muggers, heard the sirens, and he was undergoing a mental stampede. If he had
only shown sense enough to dodge into a doorway and wait until the muggers ran
away, things would have gone quite well. Instead, the man gave a sudden call
for help; turning in one direction, he dodged back, as though scared by his own
imagination. Next, in his frantic efforts to escape, he was doing the worst
thing possible. He was running right into a vortex formed by muggers who
immediately converged at sight of such easy prey.


     THE startled truck driver saw the victim receive the clutch of hands that
bent his arms behind him. A sallow mugger produced a button knife and flipped a
blade point to the man's throat. A pleading voice changed to the chatter of
teeth, when the victim heard his captors say to shut his mouth unless he wanted
his throat open. With practiced skill, the muggers went through the man's
pockets, taking everything of value, while the truck driver did not dare to
stir.
     Having caused Pell's death, the truckman didn't want to add another
tragedy. He was sure that if he tried to chase the muggers, they would slay
their victim before turning to a new attack.
     All the while, those sirens were getting closer!
     Their prey properly plucked, the muggers kicked his feet from under him
and left him floundering in the street. Murder wasn't part of their line, when
a victim didn't fight. Stuffing the man's money in their pockets, they started
running northward up the avenue, passing the truck where the driver huddled,
clutching a big monkey wrench.
     That was when the driver yelled, hoping his shout would be heard by the
cars that were almost at hand. The muggers turned, intending to gang the
trucker, when they heard a sound that gave them chills of their own.
     The laugh of The Shadow, coming from the darkened street that led to the
river!
     With mad accord, the muggers dashed along the avenue, spurred by the laugh
that still pursued them. They were sighted by police cars swinging a corner and
the vehicles took up the chase, with one exception. The last of three cars
halted, signaled by the truck driver, who was over beside the mugging victim,
helping the bewildered man to his feet.
     Three streets farther up the avenue, the muggers were turning toward the
river. Police cars roared after them, thinking the fugitives could be boxed at
that dead end. But when the first car halted at the river bank, there wasn't a
sign of any muggers. Three in number, they had timed their dash to a perfect
getaway.
     How long that perfection could have lasted was a question. The cops kept
flickering flashlights toward the river, thinking the muggers might have jumped
there. But the mucky waters showed no trace of swimming forms, nor did doorways
reveal any signs of lurkers. Perhaps the police might have begun to look in the
right direction, before it was too late, but that was rather doubtful;
nevertheless they became alert enough when all was pointed out to then.
     First came a weird laugh, from somewhere back along the water's edge. It
was The Shadow's mirth, for he had gone back by his street and had climbed the
high fence just past the cement trapdoor. Suspecting that muggers, like
Apaches, would have a way out, The Shadow wanted a preview of it and had gained
one.
     Following the laugh, The Shadow delivered a pistol shot. Police not only
heard, but saw it, for they had turned at The Shadow's call. The gunshot
arrowed upward, like a pointer in the night, and when the officers
instinctively looked in the indicated direction, they observed what The Shadow
wanted them to see.


     LIKE ancient warriors making a surprise attack upon a battlement, a file
of muggers were scaling the buttress of the great river bridge that marked the
northern boundary of Surrey Place. They were weaving like flies upon a window
curtain, stirred by a breeze. The reason, though not visible, was quite
apparent. Hanging from the rail above that buttress was a rope ladder with
wooden rungs that had been specially dropped for the benefit of these departing
criminals!
     Only one trio of muggers had accepted tonight's opportunity, but so far
they were getting service, as rendered by Alban Leroc. They were almost at the
end of their rope, the end that they wanted. If The Shadow hadn't spotted them,
they could easily have reached the rail and lost themselves along the
blacked-out bridge, where the police would never have thought to look for them.
     Now, all that was altered. Police guns began booming with a vengeance. The
fire was wild at this long range, but it sufficed. The Shadow, who could have
clipped the figures that had halted at his discovering shot, was willing to
leave the rest to the law. The bullets that were peppering the buttress were
actually beating out a message that the muggers could understand. They were
being told to come down from their ladder and surrender.
     Instead, they showed signs of continuing upward. It was their own choice,
so they deserved the consequences. Abetted by new arrivals, the police
increased their gunfire, with better accuracy, since they were getting the
range. One bullet winged a mugger and the man let go the ladder with a shriek
that carried all the way during his eighty-foot plunge to the paving below the
bridge approach. Another crook began a mad scramble upward and received a
deluge of fire that brought him to earth in headlong style.
     The third was hesitant, almost willing to give up, but when he started to
come down the ladder, he turned to wave a signal of surrender. The crackle of
bullets must have unnerved him, along with sight of the depths below. The
ladder was swinging precariously, wavered by the forms that had left it. The
third man lost his grip, pitched headlong with a mad but futile grab, and
furnished the third wail that ended in a bone-crushing crash.
     Grim was The Shadow's laugh, a mirthless tone of retribution. The officers
who heard it took it for approval of their work, but it meant more than that. It
told of The Shadow's own purpose.
     The police could deal with muggers who were the "front" for deeper crime.
The Shadow's campaign would concern the Apaches, those hidden criminals whose
ways went deeper. No matter what that depth, those undercover actors would
experience an avenger's wrath.
     Such was the edict of The Shadow!


     CHAPTER XII

     THE HUMAN CLUE

     COMMISSIONER WESTON was holding session at the precinct station near
Surrey Place. Weston was grilling a very unhappy truck driver who kept telling
the same story over and over, with no variation whatever. In an effort to end
the mugging racket, Weston was accusing the trucker of many things that didn't
hold, just in the hope that the man might turn out to be a lead.
     It was Weston's argument that the truck driver could have brought a load
of muggers to Surrey Place. In that case he would have run down one victim
deliberately and let the muggers handle another. The truck driver continued to
protest his innocence, so Weston finally dropped the quiz and decided to hold
him only on the accident charge.
     As soon as the truck driver had gone to a cell, Weston sought an opinion
from Cardona.
     "What do you think, inspector?"
     "The story stands up," replied Cardona. "The truck was coming along the
avenue and Wilbur Pell stepped in front of it. That happens a lot in these
dimouts. Besides, Pell wasn't robbed. His wallet, his money, everything else
was on him. That's how we identified him."
     Nodding slowly, Weston didn't see his friend Cranston who had just entered
the station. In time to hear what Cardona said, Cranston noted that there was no
mention of Pell's satchel. From his own observations while cloaked as The
Shadow, Cranston did not feel that the omission could be charged against the
truck driver. It simply proved that the driver hadn't seen the flying satchel
that bounced off a house wall while the truck was halting farther along.
     More important was the fact that the police had learned nothing of Pell's
satchel from papers or other data in the dead man's pocket. They had missed
badly in the matter of Anstead's brief case; they were doing worse with Pell's
satchel. To The Shadow, those were vital clues with human angles; namely,
Anstead and Pell themselves.
     However, from the human standpoint, there was a clue that could count for
more than either of those dead men.
     With accustomed nonchalance, Cranston inquired about this evening's
events. He had stopped at the Cobalt Club, so he said, and had learned that
Weston had sallied forth quite suddenly. Cranston was anxious to know the
reason.
     "It was another tip-off," explained Weston. "The same as before, from one
of King Franzel's beggars. The fellow didn't give his name, but he said he'd
seen muggers hanging around Surrey Place. So we radioed the patrol cars to go
there and made for the spot ourselves."
     "With what luck, commissioner?"
     "Good luck. A man named Pell was killed, but his death was an accident.
Maybe muggers were responsible, because Pell might have been dodging them. But
we rescued another victim, a chap named Waverly."
     "Lee Waverly," stated Cardona. "Only we didn't exactly rescue him. The
muggers let him go after they robbed him, because he didn't holler. We settled
the muggers; picked them off when they were climbing a bridge approach. Here's
Waverly's money and his wallet" - Cardona produced the items - "whenever he
wants to claim them."
     Cranston gazed casually about the police station as though expecting to
see Waverly. Cardona understood the glance.
     "Waverly went back to his hotel," explained the inspector. "I told him to
phone after he got there, in case we had anything to tell him. He's stopping at
the Everglade." Cardona plucked a cardboard from among Waverly's reclaimed
belongings. "Here's his credit card."


     FROM Cranston's manner, he was no longer interested in the subject of Lee
Waverly. The precinct phone was ringing and Cardona suggested that it might be
Waverly, but it proved to be Harland. The reformer had heard about the
happenings in Surrey Place and wanted to talk to the commissioner. After a
brief conversation, Weston announced that they would meet Harland at Club 88.
     "I suppose Harland intends to apologize to Franzel," declared Weston. "I
am glad that he has come around at last. Summon my car, inspector, while I have
a brief talk with that truck driver and relieve his mind of too much worry."
     Temporarily alone, Cranston used the opportunity to call Burbank. In a low
tone, very much The Shadow's whisper, Cranston gave important instructions to be
relayed to his agents. During that conversation, Cranston specified one name.
     The name was Lee Waverly.
     When Weston's car arrived, Cranston was gone. The desk sergeant told the
commissioner that his friend would meet him later at Club 88. Weston's response
was a disapproving grunt. He was sure that Lamont Cranston had gone somewhere to
find Margo Lane and bring her along to the night club for purely decorative
purposes.
     On one count, Weston was correct. Cranston had stopped by for Margo, but
his reason was more important than the commissioner supposed. As they rode
along in Cranston's limousine, the gentleman who doubled as The Shadow was
entertaining his girl friend with an account of his recent adventures. In a
sense, "entertained" was not the word, for the little gasps that Margo gave
were proof that she was experiencing horror rather than enjoyment.
     "Those hidden assassins!" exclaimed Margo. "Apaches, or whatever they are!
You mean they are the real menace in all these crimes?"
     "Exactly," replied Cranston, "and they are working with deep purpose.
Whoever trained them and gave them immediate orders, is merely a lieutenant in
the game. The muggers are being bluffed into acting as a front and behind it
all is a brain, much higher up."
     "But who could the man be, Lamont?"
     "Someone with an eye for big business. A man crafty enough to coax Anstead
into town with a brief case filled with plans for salable inventions."
     "And Pell's satchel?"
     "The same applies. I shall have Mann track down its specific contents.
Unquestionably Pell was also lured to New York. It would be helpful to have him
still alive so we could hear his story."
     Margo brightened with a sudden idea.
     "Why there is a victim who might tell you something!" the girl exclaimed.
"This man Lee Waverly looks like a victim too. No" - Margo's forehead wrinkled
with a frown - "that won't do. Waverly only ran into muggers, not Apaches."
     "A good thought, Margo," approved Cranston, calmly. "Waverly did run into
muggers, purposely."
     Margo's frown increased its puzzlement.
     "I spoke of two Apaches at the water front," reminded Cranston. "After
encountering them, I followed one along an underground route that I closed for
the other. When I returned, the police were already closing in around Surrey
Place. By the time their blockade ended, I had searched the entire sidepocket,
but there was no trace of the missing Apache."
     "Then where did he go?" queried Margo. "If he eluded you, why didn't the
police find him?"
     "I believe they did," replied Cranston. "I think that he accompanied them
to the local precinct, but left before I arrived there."
     The riddle suddenly broke apart for Margo, as she exclaimed:
     "Lee Waverly!"
     "Most probably the man we want," nodded Cranston, "which would indicate
that these Apaches are Americans, trained here in New York, and not an imported
breed. That takes us a few more steps along the trail."


     HOWEVER important the trail, it had an immediate interlude. The limousine
had reached Club 88, where Cranston and Margo entered, to find Weston and
Harland at Franzel's table, telling him about the latest mugger depredations.
Learning that a beggar had again phoned a timely tip-off, Franzel leaned back
in his chair and swelled his chest with satisfaction.
     "In face of proof like this," he boasted, "I think that everyone should be
satisfied, including Harland."
     "Why should I be satisfied?" boomed Harland, taking immediate exception.
"Mugging is trifling, compared to murder. Two violent deaths have occurred on
two successive nights."
     "Anstead may have been murdered," admitted Weston, "but Pell's death was
accidental -"
     "By whose testimony?" broke in Harland. "Only that of a truck driver who
admits he didn't see what was happening, otherwise he wouldn't have struck
Pell. The victim was probably running from muggers, the way Waverly was."
     Weston didn't correct Harland on the Waverly statement. Instead, he argued
that it couldn't have been a double job, since there was only one batch of
muggers on the scene. That called for another boast from Franzel.
     "Hear that?" inquired Franzel. "The mugging menace is as good as finished.
They are afraid to move in throngs, now that my followers are on the job. They
go everywhere that muggers do."
     "Agreed," said Harland, suddenly, as he drew an envelope from his pocket.
"Franzel has said precisely what I wished to hear. Look at this list,
commissioner. The reform league went at great pains to compile it; a list of
beggars who are outright fakes, pretended cripples, fake blind men -"
     "I know about that list," interrupted Franzel. "You can disregard it,
commissioner. Besides, what could it prove?"
     "I can tell you," retorted Harland. "It proves that your beggars are
double-dealers. These pitiable figures who rove the streets so freely could
quite easily be the very muggers that the police seek. As long as they are at
large and paying tribute to Franzel, he is responsible for their frauds."
     There was an indulgent laugh from Franzel.
     "I should instruct my followers to betray one another?" he scoffed. "Your
idea is preposterous, Harland."
     "Not in the least," Harland argued. "To keep your fake beggars in
circulation, so they could double as muggers, you had to promise to aid the
law. So you told your honest followers to watch for muggers and they did better
than you wanted. If you think that this is mere theory, commissioner" - Harland
swung to Weston - "order Franzel to take his beggars from the street. The
mugging outrages will cease like that."
     Hardly had Harland snapped his fingers, before Franzel came through with a
stormy assertion.
     "Do it, commissioner," he said. "Make a general roundup between now and
tomorrow night. I shall give you my complete lists, to check with Harland's.
The public may suffer, but my followers will be exonerated, and with me, they
come first."
     Under such double pressure, Weston could do nothing but agree, even though
his manner was reluctant. The glares that passed between Harland and Franzel
were evidences of a mental duel in which both seemed confident of the outcome.
Weston threw an appealing gaze at Cranston, but found his friend's face
immobile. Cranston knew the chaos in Weston's mind, how the commissioner,
despite Harland's arguments, still felt that Franzel's beggars were essential
in tabbing the mugger question. Then the cloud faded from Weston's face, as
though in answer to Cranston's unspoken suggestion.
     Commissioner Weston was thinking in terms of another ally, whose ability
at spotting crime had proven its full worth tonight. Weston's mind was
concentrated upon The Shadow.
     "Very well," agreed Weston, addressing both Harland and Franzel. "You have
settled one question, by being in accord. The beggars will be rounded up
tomorrow."
     As though approving Weston's decision, the orchestra burst loose,
announcing the late floor show. King Franzel swung in his chair to watch the
sparkling entrance of glorious Loraine Rue. Margo gave a disappointed shrug,
thinking that she was again to miss the blond contralto's act. Then, before she
could rise from the table, Margo felt Cranston's hand on her arm.
     Cranston had just come back to the table, though Margo hadn't realized he
was absent.
     "Stay here, Margo," Cranston said. "I'll join you before the show is over.
I've just received a report on Waverly. They've located him at his hotel."
     Cranston's hand relaxed and Margo turned about with a slight shiver.
Somehow, she felt that Cranston was undertaking an expedition that promised
more than usual danger, even to The Shadow. Margo couldn't restrain her worry.
     "Be careful, Lamont -"
     A blare from the orchestra drowned Margo's useless words. All that she saw
were the patrons who thronged the ringside tables and Cranston wasn't among
them. He had been swallowed by that sea of faces and was gone into the maw of
blackness beyond them.
     Cranston was gone, like The Shadow!


     CHAPTER XIII

     DEATH'S TRAIL

     LEE WAVERLY was nervous. His smooth face was twitchy, like his hands. Bad
signs, both, for Waverly was usually poker-faced and his hands, trained to
slash with the knife, were usually quite steady. But Waverly had lost the
sangfroid that he had shown while filling the capacity of Monsieur Rouge.
     There was one fault in Leroc's training. He could never teach his students
to forget failure. It did not go with the bravado that was the first essential
of the capable Apache.
     Waverly was through and knew it. Much though he blamed his teammate who
had served as Monsieur Bleu, his nerve was completely gone. To his credit was
the clever way in which he had bluffed the police, by making himself a mugging
victim. In a sense, that had taken nerve, for the muggers would have murdered
Waverly upon the instant, had they known that they were stooges for the game he
played. But it wasn't the sort of nerve that went with the Apache.
     Often, Leroc had demonstrated the Apache swagger and boasted how the
denizens of the Parisian underworld had carried it from police courts through
higher tribunals and under the blade of the great guillotine itself. There were
two things for an Apache to do when trapped: say nothing and take anything.
Instead, Waverly had reverted to his very canny self, as he had been before he
entered Leroc's school and therewith he had lost the benefits of all that he
had learned.
     Twitching for the telephone, Waverly's hands stopped short. He wanted to
call the precinct station and learn if any of his belongings had been
reclaimed. But the mere thought of his wallet, with its business cards and the
roll of money that accompanied it, was enough to give Waverly a new chill.
     How could he explain the cards that identified him as a wholesale drug
salesman with an upstate concern that he had left months ago? As for the money,
how did it fit with the fact that he hadn't done a stroke of work during that
same period? On the contrary, if Waverly didn't phone the precinct, they might
call him. The longer he waited, the more certain Waverly became that his name
was at present undergoing rapid investigation.
     The Hotel Everglade was small and rather shabby. Everything about it, even
the neighborhood, began to impress Waverly as the sort that would excite
suspicion. This fourth floor corner room was the best the place could boast,
but it wasn't good enough. From its windows, Waverly looked at shoddy buildings
that appeared dilapidated even in the dimout.
     As for the people that Waverly noticed on the street, they bothered him.
They were all types, from shamblers up to respectable-looking folk. One species
was as bad as the other, for Waverly could imagine headquarters dicks in almost
any guise. Though it was hard to distinguish individuals in the dimness below,
Waverly felt that he was seeing the same persons over and over, as though they
were keeping a vigilant patrol around the block where the hotel stood.


     THE only light in Waverly's room came from a desk lamp between the corner
windows. At present that light was playing curious tricks that Waverly didn't
notice. Its glow had a flicker that carried across the floor, to the dimness of
the door, giving a curious impression of motion that applied to the door itself.
At moments, Waverly turned to look from the rear window, which bothered him
worse than the one at the side. In back of the hotel was an empty brownstone
house that seemed to bulge its bay windows in Waverly's direction. After a
suspicious glance at the slate roof topping the brownstone, Waverly went back
to his former post.
     In passing fashion, Waverly noticed the door, and stiffened, his fingers
numbing as they reached to his hip pocket. The chill of a gun butt sent its
freeze into the laugh that grated between Waverly's clenched teeth and his
shoulders relaxed to their accustomed stoop. The door wasn't opening as Waverly
thought; it couldn't be, or he would hear its hinges creak. Besides, the door
was locked and the key was in plain sight. It was just Waverly's imagination
that seemed to make the door move; that and the poor light which Waverly didn't
care to increase.
     Looking at the key, Waverly gave another nervous laugh. Funny, the way the
light glittered from the key. It made it look as though the key were turning,
which couldn't be, because it was on the inside of the door and Waverly didn't
believe that there was a ghost here in the room with him. So Waverly forgot the
key and took another look from his side window.
     The key continued its slow turn.
     There was a way to make a key turn from the other side of the lock, though
Waverly didn't know it. A thin, elongated pick, shaped something like a pair of
tweezers, could do the trick to perfection. Furthermore, the action was
entirely silent, when a skilled hand performed it. Such arts were not part of
the Apache's training, hence Waverly wouldn't understand it.
     This business of operating keys through their own locks was a specialty
practiced by The Shadow.
     When the key finished its turn, the door inched open. Its hinges lacked
the creak that Waverly thought was certain; for The Shadow knew that secret
too. Firm pressure with one shoulder was a way in which the creaks of an
average door could be cured and the rule applied in this case. In opening, the
door merely exaggerated the common illusion given by the wavering desk lamp and
when it closed again, the door was only briefly blurred by the solid blackness
that had entered.
     Blackness that blended with the floor, approaching with a creeping
silhouette that was oddly hawklike, particularly when its profile reached
Waverly and began to climb the stooped man's back.
     It was the shadow before The Shadow!
     A slight shift of Waverly's shoulders sent that silhouette against the
window frame. There for the first time Waverly noticed it and as the blackness
grew before his staring eyes, the amateur Apache gave a startled gurgle.
Spinning about with the speed that he had cultivated, Waverly might have shown
fight if he'd still had his knife. But he wasn't accustomed to the clumsy
revolver that he had taken from his suitcase and pocketed, as soon as he
returned to the hotel.
     Burning eyes were close to Waverly's, beneath them loomed the business
section of an automatic. The muzzle of that .45 reminded Waverly of the tunnel
that he had traveled while he was still Monsieur Rouge. The hand that stopped
at Waverly's pocket began rising with the other while the forceful argument of
The Shadow's gun backed Waverly toward the corner of the room.
     There, the light was cut off partly by Waverly's own shoulders, while The
Shadow's cloaked form smothered it still further. Still, those avenging eyes
burned from the artificial gloom, with a piercing force that seemingly probed
Waverly's thoughts. The whispered words that The Shadow spoke with unseen lips,
prompted Waverly to answer. Not that they were questions, those words put by The
Shadow; rather, they were revelations that demanded a response.


     THE SHADOW was reminding Waverly of Anstead's death. Without accusing
Waverly of that particular crime, The Shadow recounted the essential details,
along with the reason why Anstead had been slain. The fact that plans of
valuable inventions had been gained with Anstead's brief case was something
that Waverly had learned and found himself admitting.
     Then came The Shadow's accusation:
     "You were to murder Pell -"
     "No, no!" protested Waverly, hoarsely. "I wouldn't have had to kill him.
All I wanted was the satchel -"
     "With its contexts," added The Shadow. "Money that Pell would not have
yielded without a struggle. Ill-gotten money."
     Waverly's eyes were goggly. From Leroc he had learned something of Pell's
case, since one of Leroc's rules was to tell much about a victim, on the basis
that men acted according to their characters. Despite himself, Waverly began to
corroborate The Shadow's statements.
     "It was money Pell embezzled," stammered Waverly. "He was supposed to meet
somebody who was to help him cover up. All part of the deal - that's what I was
told."
     There was a low laugh from The Shadow. His own observations of Pell had
given him the theory which he had just tested. A fat satchel such as Pell
carried was a likely moneybag. The fact that the man had walked to his
destination instead of taking a cab was proof of a secret meeting, even though
such had not materialized.
     "You were told too much," declared The Shadow, "and yet too little. You
have never met the man who originated this game of murder. All your information
comes secondhand from a man who is double-crossing you, the way he has tricked
the muggers."
     There was a certain harshness in the tone that rendered Waverly savage.
Only briefly did the assassin gain some vestige of his former nerve, but he
didn't realize that The Shadow was deliberately inspiring it.
     "You lie!" snarled Waverly. "Leroc wouldn't double-cross any of us -"
     The whispered laugh that interrupted was enough to douse Waverly's
short-lived flare. The Shadow had tricked the man into revealing a much-needed
fact, the name of the only leader that Waverly acknowledged. That laugh began
as the name "Leroc" slipped from Waverly's lips and it rose as Waverly caught
himself. All that it did for Waverly was prove one thing: namely, that The
Shadow did not know all the facts, or he would not have chosen to coax them out.
     Fear, anger, plus a dash of his regained savagery, spurred Waverly to
action. There were things in Leroc's brutal training that a pupil could retain,
even when he had lost the full Apache spirit. In Waverly's case, there was a
curious factor, the thought of his previous failure to show the spirit that he
had never really gained. To a degree his mind was maudlin, working in fits and
staggers, for Waverly exhibited both.
     A fit of rage caused him to fling himself upon The Shadow despite the
latter's looming gun. Staggered by fear, Waverly reeled away without receiving
a stroke, for The Shadow had simply melted with a fading twist, to turn the
attack into a travesty. Instead of blundering against the opposite wall where
his surge should have carried him, Waverly was headed toward the rear window,
his flight so cowering that he seemed about to pitch himself through, rather
than again face The Shadow.
     With a quick sweep, The Shadow overtook the man who had failed as an
Apache and brought him around by doubling his arm in back of him. Waverly
shrank cowering, the direct antithesis of his bolder self, quailing as The
Shadow's hand descended to pluck him by the collar and bring him up again.
There was just one thing that Waverly's huddle accomplished, though it was not
intended. Dropping completely below the window level, Waverly for the first
time failed to block off the figure of The Shadow as seen within the lighted
room.


     THE SHADOW saw the knife blade coming.
     Not from Waverly's fist, for he had no knife. This weapon fairly zinged
from the eaves above the bay window of the brownstone house. It was flung with
a venom that spelled action from the moment of its start, yet there was one
mistake in its delivery. The flinger forgot the light from Waverly's window, a
glow that showed the blade's glitter before it left the hand that hurled it.
     There was a whirl of blackness that carried The Shadow to the corner of
the room and in the same trice, Waverly again reversed his form. He came up
with a madman's spring and in the midst of it started to turn the course of the
lunge that he was not to finish. The knife did the rest.
     Jolting upright, Waverly went stiff. Pivoting like a toy top, he performed
a double twirl that brought him face foremost upon the floor. He hit with the
impact of dead weight and between the shoulders that he had so convulsively
narrowed was the answer to his sprawl. It was a knife handle that went with a
long Apache blade, driven as deep as it could possibly go. That coup was one
that Alban Leroc had not yet taught his henchmen. He had meant it for The
Shadow and found Waverly instead.
     With a long dive that brought him below the sill of the rear window, The
Shadow propped his automatic across and began to flay the slate shingles from
the house out back. Despite the darkness, The Shadow was tracing the course
that Leroc must take up from the bay window to the roof ridge above. The
distance was short and therefore to Leroc's advantage. The Shadow caught one
glimpse of a vaulting figure that went over the ridge ahead of a ricochet shot.
With that Apache leap, Leroc was gone.
     Men were in motion on the street below, the same men that Waverly had eyed
suspiciously not long before. Like the police who had followed the direction of
The Shadow's shots against the river bridge, these men were taking their cue
from his latest gunnery. With a grim laugh that could have been a knell for
Waverly, The Shadow opened the door and merged with the darkened hallway.


     THE floor show was ending at Club 88, its climax a gypsy dance in which
Loraine Rue was the star performer. Margo was giving the blonde the benefit of
some applause when a familiar hand rested on her arm. Turning, Margo displayed
her delight at Cranston's return.
     Nonchalantly, Cranston eyed the departing performers with jeweled Loraine
in their midst. Perhaps he was referring to the entertainment at Club 88, but
he could have been speaking for The Shadow, when he said:
     "It was a good show, Margo, but it ended too soon."


     CHAPTER XIV

     CRANSTON'S CLINIC

     RUTLEDGE MANN was quite surprised.
     He had expected it to be the other way about, when Lamont Cranston called
at noon. Phone calls, wires, confidential reports were stacked on Mann's desk,
disclosing a lot of facts about Wilbur Pell that the police didn't know, purely
because they hadn't investigated. People didn't like to say unkind things about
a man who had become a mugging victim, but Mann had learned, through devious
sources, that Pell was guilty of embezzlement in the town from which he hailed.
     "They found his private account books." Such was Mann's statement. "Pell
lost thirty of the fifty thousand on the races; he squandered another fifteen
thousand; to make himself look honest he paid off debts with the remainder -"
     "And kept the whole," was Cranston's interruption. "All in a little black
satchel, plus any returns he may have made on his secret investments. That
private account was just part of the cover-up, Mann."
     No wonder Mann was surprised, hearing that Cranston already knew that Pell
was a crook, which Mann thought was his exclusive information. Mann didn't know
that Cranston had checked his own theories with Waverly, corroborated certain
facts and pieced new ones to fit with them.
     "Pell wanted to disappear," added Cranston. "He had a deal with somebody
who could help him. The man in question was a much bigger crook than Pell, so
he ordered an Apache named Alban Leroc to eliminate Wilbur Pell and bring in
the booty. But from our standpoint, Pell was another victim like James Anstead,
who happened to be honest. We are tracking down murderers, beginning with Lee
Waverly. We can afford to treat their victims impartially."
     While Mann stared open-mouthed, Cranston handed him his hat and opened the
office door. Downstairs a cab wheeled up and they were halfway to their
destination before Mann inquired where they were going. He received another
surprise when Cranston told him:
     "The Jonas office."
     Located in the vicinity of Twenty-third Street, the Jonas office was still
a mystery to Mann. He had often visited it, but had never entered its door. In
fact, Mann doubted that anyone had opened that door in the last fifteen years.
Its cobwebs alone looked at least that old.
     When they reached the decrepit building that housed the office, the cabby
followed them upstairs, which wasn't surprising because he happened to be Moe
Shrevnitz. The office with the name "B. JONAS" bore its usual wealth of cobwebs
and Shrevvy grinned at Mann's expense, while Cranston inserted a key. Moe knew
what was coming, though Mann didn't.
     As the door creaked inward, the cobwebs stretched. Walking under them,
Mann stared upward, unbelieving. Cranston held the door open long enough for
Mann to study the cobwebs thoroughly; they contracted when the door went shut.
     "Artificial spider's webs," explained Cranston, tersely. "Their principal
constituent is rubber cement. When it comes back in circulation, we can
manufacture more of them."
     The office was filled with The Shadow's active agents, all smiling like
Moe. For quite a while they had been using the Jonas office as an assembly room
and all the while Mann had considered it to be nothing more than a collection
box where he dropped reports into the mail chute for The Shadow to pick them
up. Mann had always supposed that The Shadow reached this office by a secret
door, which he did when occasion required, but that didn't mean the front door
was as impassable as it appeared.
     "I call this place the crime clinic," Cranston told Mann. "A convenient
place where we can gather to make a thorough diagnosis of certain crimes. We
vary our methods according to occasion and at this time it will be appropriate
to use a device much favored by the French Surete of Police."
     There was a large upright frame at one side of the wall; it measured about
three feet square and beside it was a table holding a flat box. From this box,
The Shadow's agents began to pick three-inch squares like the pieces of a
jigsaw puzzle, except that all were shaped alike. The men thus engaged included
Cliff and Hawkeye, who were most active in choosing the wooden blocks. Harry and
Clyde made occasional additions, while Moe stepped up to pick a few small
blocks. All these were placed in the large upright frame.
     The agents were piecing a large-sized human face, filling in the gaps from
individual recollections. Their work was much like Mann's daily task with
newspaper clippings and other data that he fitted for The Shadow's information.
     "They were all around the Hotel Everglade last night," Cranston told Mann.
"You didn't know about it because the orders went through Burbank. They caught
various glimpses of the killer who escaped over the roof of the house in back,
after he reached the next street."
     Mann showed new perplexity.
     "But I thought -"
     "You thought the police really figured that one," interposed Cranston.
"They believe that assassins sneaked up to Waverly's room and murdered him
there. Odd how the police develop facts according to new suggestions that are
fed them."
     There was a nod from Mann. Back on the desk in his office were clippings
that represented the "last word" in the Waverly case. The police had tagged it
vengeance on the part of muggers. But there had been no muggers around the
Hotel Everglade, though beggars were common in that vicinity. It was easy to
place the man who had inspired that suggestion: Howard Harland. Probably
Commissioner Weston had appreciated it as an excuse for the general roundup
that he had ordered for today.


     THE picture in the wall frame was shaping well. There were a few
differences of opinion among the agents, particularly regarding a disfigurement
on one side of the face. They had to pick out special slabs from among the
hundreds of blocks that were arranged in proper groups for each segment. When
the agents finally concurred on such matters as width of forehead, contour of
chin, and whether eyes were wide or narrow, the picture was almost complete. It
only remained to drop in blocks that filled the few remaining spaces and were
therefore obvious.
     It was Harry who performed that final task, while Cranston was focusing a
movie projector on the wall beside the frame. He pushed in a slide and a face
appeared upon the wall, matching the framed patchwork portrait in size. That
however was not the only point of likeness.
     Detail for detail, the pieced-together face was identical with the picture
on the slide, which The Shadow had found among his European files.
     Both were Alban Leroc.
     It was an interesting check-up because it proved that if The Shadow had
not heard Leroc named, he could have identified the man through the fleeting
descriptions gathered by his agents. However, the matched portraits proved
definitely that Leroc had personally murdered Waverly instead of delegating
that job to an underling. This was a further lead for Cranston.
     "Leroc is beginning to mistrust his men," Cranston declared. "Waverly
proved a disappointment, as did his teammate, who thought it more important to
carry off the satchel than to stand by a fellow Apache. Furthermore, there is
an opening in Leroc's organization."
     With this reference to Waverly's death, Cranston surveyed his companions.
Until yesterday, Harry Vincent would have been the ideal man to make the
acquaintance of Leroc, whose American Apaches had to pass as straightforward
citizens. But from now on, Leroc would want them tougher. Clyde Burke, the
reporter, was wiry and wise, but those weren't the best requisites.
     Cranston's gaze rested on Cliff Marsland. Here was a man who purposely
looked tough, because his business was to hobnob with the hardest characters in
New York while gathering information for The Shadow. However, when Cliff was
away from the underworld, his hard-boiled manner dwindled; with enough
inducement, he could entirely discard it. Summed up, Cliff could appear quite
as presentable as men of Waverly's type, thus filling the old qualification.
     As for the new, Cliff would certainly meet Leroc's needs. Not only did he
have a reputation in crimedom, he was recognized as a lone wolf. Leroc himself
was something of the same and he would therefore appreciate Cliff as a recruit.
What Cliff might lack in Apache training, he could supply from his own
experience. Such a member would be a stiffening influence upon Leroc's whole
band.
     Drawing the slide from the projector, Cranston replaced Leroc's photo with
a colored map showing a sector of Manhattan. Enlarged upon the wall, the map
gave a detailed version of the area to which The Shadow's agents had trailed
Leroc after he fled the vicinity of the Hotel Everglade. Hawkeye was the man
who had kept the trail the longest and The Shadow was choosing him to team with
Cliff.
     "Contact Leroc," came Cranston's calm tone. "Probably you can manage it
only by proxy, but in any case it will be your job, Marsland, to join with the
band. Hawkeye can help in the preliminaries, afterward he will remain in the
offing, to carry any word that you may gain."
     The clinic was over. While Cranston dismantled the projector, the others
scattered the slabs that formed Leroc's pieced portrait. They still had The
Shadow's imported photograph to go by, but they would not need it. Etched in
the memory of every agent, was the ugly image of Alban Leroc, complete to the
scar that accompanied the Apache's leer. He was the murderer that they must
find.
     At that, the game would not be over. There was still the master brain
behind it, the man who had already gained large profits through the deaths of
Anstead and Pell. He would be hungry for more such gains, this crafty schemer
who was cloaking the activities of Apaches under the surface of muggery. How
The Shadow intended to reach that master schemer, whether through Leroc or
other channels, was still a mystery.
     A mystery at least to all except The Shadow!


     CHAPTER XV

     A QUESTION OF BEGGARS

     ALL that afternoon the roundup of beggars continued until the precinct
stations were filled with the most motley tribe of men that they had ever held.
Since there were no charges against King Franzel's followers, arrangements were
being made to keep them as guests. Some were housed in cells with unlocked
doors, others were installed in cheap hotels and flop houses.
     Technically they were under custody, but it was on a basis of keeping all
present and accounted for, rather than actually imprisoning them. The beggars
themselves were rather pleased to have free lodging for a change, but they
regretted loss of the evening's receipts. However, as luck would have it, the
weather softened the ordeal. A chilly drizzle settled in, threatening to coat
the sidewalks with a thin layer of ice. This promised the sort of night when
beggars would have to keep to doorways, lessening their profits.
     Shortly before dusk, Cranston completed a tour with Weston. The
commissioner was going the rounds of the precincts to check the lists of guests
and see that all were satisfied. During that tour they crossed two other trails.
     The first belonged to Howard Harland. Its prelude was a great chorus of
boos and catcalls that issued from a precinct station before Cranston and
Weston entered. Inside, they found Harland trying to retain his pompous air
while the outburst of Bronx cheers arose from benches and cells where beggars
were in abundance. The tumult lessened when Weston appeared and Harland was
able to voice a protest.
     "Hear that, commissioner?" he demanded. "What motley rascals these beggars
are! The moment they saw me, they began their hubbub. I am sure that Franzel put
them up to it!"
     Barks came from the beggars. Such terms as "chiseler," "stuffed-shirt" and
"weasel" were among the milder epithets, all directed at Harland.
     "I have assured them that the Citizens' Reform League has their welfare in
mind," declared Harland, importantly. "My present tour is all on their account,
conducted at considerable expense -"
     Harland was drowned with a burst of shouted queries. Beggars wanted to
know where the money came from, how Harland made new donors fork over, and the
size of the cut he took for himself. All these shouts merged into a chant:
     "Five Grand Harland - Five Grand Harland -"
     "They've heard about the contribution that the C.R.L. received today,"
explained Harland in an annoyed tone. "Five thousand dollars in cash came from
an anonymous contributor, who apparently believes that we are rendering a
service to the community. Our policy regarding such donations -"
     "Doughnuts to you, Harland," interrupted a scrawny pencil peddler from his
bench. "What did you do, fork back some of your cut?"
     "Yeah!" shouted another. "Maybe you drew the dough and tossed it back into
the kitty just to encourage other suckers."
     Harland turned on his heel and marched haughtily from the station house
while Weston and Cranston continued their rounds. Farther along they heard loud
cheers coming from a station and they met King Franzel making his departure.
     "Apparently I'm still popular," said Franzel, with a broad smile. "I
thought the boys would be sore about this roundup, but they aren't. By the way,
they have a new nickname for Harland. They call him Five Grand, but I haven't
learned why."
     Weston explained about the donation that the reform league had received
from an unknown source which the beggars claimed was Harland himself. Franzel's
eyebrows lifted in perplexed style, then narrowed again. Something was going
through his mind, though he decided not to state it. Instead, he simply
remarked that he was going back to Club 88, though he would probably be late
for the first show. He added that he could be reached there later, if Weston
wanted him.
     All the while, Cranston maintained silence. He didn't mention that he
intended to visit Club 88 after he finished his tour of the precincts. It
happened that Cranston had already posted an observer there, in the person of
Margo Lane, who tonight could be regarded as a most important agent.


     JUST how she could prove important was a puzzle to Margo as she finished
her solitary dinner at the de luxe night club. The cafe was quite crowded and
Margo was so far back that she could scarcely see the floor show, but she knew
from the music that it was going into the finale, the gypsy dance in which
Loraine Rue starred.
     That music was a cue for Margo. Cranston had told her to slip back to the
dressing rooms as soon as the entire cast was on the floor, and the finale was
her only opportunity. So Margo left her table, circled the dark wall of the
night club and reached the screen that flanked the exit to the dressing rooms.
A few seconds later, she was in a deserted corridor, flanked by the open doors
of empty rooms.
     One such door showed a star and Margo knew it must belong to Loraine.
Stepping inside, Margo changed the position of a screen so that it almost
touched the edge of the door, which opened inward. Clutching her handbag
tightly, Margo wormed behind the door intending to shift from there to the
screen when occasion so demanded.
     There was a muffled chord from the night-club orchestra, followed by
distant applause. Then came the click of high heels, the chatter of voices as
the performers arrived back at their dressing rooms. Doors slammed one by one
and when Loraine entered, Margo had an idea that she would swing her door shut
too. About to shift behind the screen, Margo paused, watching between its edge
and that of the door.
     Instead of closing the door, Loraine sank to a chair in front of the
dressing table and gave a tired sigh. In the brilliant light above the mirror,
Margo gained a revealing view of Loraine's face and became both surprised and
envious. Hitherto, she had supposed that much of Loraine's floor-show beauty
was due to make-up, but the case was otherwise. The blonde's features were
really lovely, as gorgeous as the shapely figure that she displayed in
considerable detail.
     Margo gave a sudden start as a knock sounded at her elbow. It was only
someone rapping Loraine's door, but Margo was so close to the door that she
could touch it, hence the sound was sharp. In the mirror, Loraine's face
brightened; reaching for a dressing gown she slid it over her shoulders, then
turned around.
     "Come in, King," she said, in her most soulful contralto. "Leave the door
open; the others are all closed. What is it, something important?"
     "Very important." King Franzel's tone had a low, confidential roll. "This
is going to be a bad night, Loraine."
     "I'd say it was a bad night," laughed the blonde, shuddering slightly as
she looked at the window, where the rain was beating hard. "It's just as well
they had that roundup. The poor peddlers are better off in the police stations."
     "Other people are apt to suffer," declared Franzel, solemnly. "It's a
great night for muggers, Loraine, now that they know my followers are not
watching for them."
     "Maybe you shouldn't have let Harland have his way."
     "I couldn't help it. When he cast suspicion on us, I had no other choice.
Tonight we are proving that peddlers are not muggers and the public can take
the consequences."


     THERE was an odd rumble to Franzel's tone that Loraine seemed to
understand. Turning in her chair, the blonde spoke in a sympathetic undertone:
     "Out with it, King. You have something in mind, something that will give
you the edge on Harland. What is it?"
     King Franzel delivered a basso laugh.
     "I knew you'd guess it," he said. "I played into Harland's hands because
he asked for it, but I wasn't forgetful of the public duty that he talks about
so much, but doesn't mean. There are still plenty of peddlers available tonight
and you know the ones I mean."
     "The women?" echoed Loraine.
     "Of course," replied Franzel. "They weren't included in the roundup,
because they couldn't be muggers. I've given them the order to be on the
lookout and call me if they spot anything wrong."
     "What a grand idea, King!"
     "There's one drawback, Loraine. I'll be tied up with all sorts of calls
from precincts and hotels if any of the crowd become unruly. I can't waste time
getting word through to the commissioner."
     "Why not have the tip-offs go direct?"
     "You can't depend on the women," returned Franzel. "Some of those old
crones would be scared to call the commissioner and others can't, because he
wouldn't understand their cackle. There's only one person who can handle it.
That's you, Loraine."
     Margo saw Loraine's face flinch. Evidently Franzel was proposing something
that rather horrified her. A few moments later, the blonde shook off her mood.
     "I owe you a great deal, King," said Loraine seriously. "Those years were
miserable, when I was a little girl, peddling matches, gardenias, or whatever I
was told. When I grew up it was the only thing I knew and it became impossible.
How I came to have good looks, I don't know, but I attracted too much
attention."
     "I know," nodded King Franzel. "That's why you became Old Gert."
     "It was something of an inspiration," Loraine admitted, "to make up as a
hag and live in a basement hovel. People were sorry for me, the way I shambled
around, wrapped in an old shawl. I hated that life, King, trying to look old
before my time."
     "But you learned one thing, Loraine. You became an actress and a good one.
When I became king of the beggars, I learned your game and it amazed me. When I
found that you could sing and dance, as you did when you were a child, I saw
that you had a future."
     "Don't talk of the future, King. It might mean that I would some day grow
to look like the Old Gert that everybody thought I was. And now tonight you
want me to play Old Gert again."
     Franzel gave a slow nod as he leaned forward and patted Loraine on the
shoulder.
     "You'll have to do it," he insisted. "It will really pep up the women
peddlers to see Old Gert in circulation again. If she can go out tonight,
they'll be willing to do the same. Once you have them on the move, you can get
back to the old basement, because that's where they're supposed to phone. When
the call comes - if one does come - you can relay it to the commissioner. Your
voice will really impress him."
     "You mean Old Gert's voice?"
     "That's right. It has the eager whine. Get started now, Loraine, and
you'll be back in time for the late show. Nobody will ever learn that Loraine
Rue and Old Gert are the same."
     "But those old clothes of mine, where are they?"
     "Still in the same basement," said King with a smile. "I've been paying
the rent there ever since you left. After all, I talked you into becoming
Loraine Rue, so I thought I ought to leave the door to Old Gert open, in case
your memories haunted you. So get started, while I go and call the commissioner
and ask how his guests are enjoying themselves."
     King Franzel had risen and was turning toward the door. Loraine overtook
him and laid her hand upon his arm. Through the door crack, Margo heard the
blonde say softly:
     "You're the only man I've ever trusted, King. I owe you plenty and I won't
forget it. We'll see this through until we've proved who's right."


     THIS time, Loraine closed the door, but Margo had slipped behind the
screen while the blonde was still following King Franzel with admiring eyes as
he walked along the corridor. Once the door was shut, Margo found new worries,
for Loraine's street clothes were parked behind the screen and she would have
to come there to get them. Fortunately, Loraine decided not to waste time in a
double change of costume, here and at the place where she had once lived as Old
Gert.
     Not bothering to remove her jeweled costume, Loraine calmly slid her arms
into a mink coat that she wrapped tightly about her. With short kicks, she
disposed of her dancing slippers and stepped into another pair which were
suitable for street wear. Leaving the dressing room, the blonde made a hurried
exit through a door to the stage alley. As soon as the quick footsteps faded,
Margo followed.
     It couldn't be far to the old basement, or Loraine would have dressed more
elaborately before venturing through the city streets. Margo could see the mink
coat, bobbing vaguely through the drizzle, so she decided to trail it to the
destination. Now that Margo realized the important part that Loraine could play
in matters pertaining to crime, she understood why Cranston had regarded Club 88
as an essential place to watch.
     Again, The Shadow's foresight was in evidence. He had solved the question
of beggars beforehand and left it to Margo to find out the rest!


     CHAPTER XVI

     ROUTE TO CRIME

     SUAVE despite his sneer, Alban Leroc was addressing his crew of amateur
Apaches, showing slight traces of sarcasm in his tone, yet driving home his
words with the same skill that he could give a knife thrust. It was important,
this conference, because true to tradition Leroc intended to have his followers
draw for the privilege of being Monsieur Rouge, and therefore he could risk no
shaky hands among them.
     "I shall use you all tonight," assured Leroc, "but there is one who will
be lucky." As he spoke, Leroc rattled the bag that contained the colored balls.
"Before we draw, let me show you where we intend to go."
     Leroc turned to a map that was a patchwork of yellow squares, representing
the total districts that the police had placed under strict surveillance. Those
quarantined areas were so numerous that it was taking most of the available
police to cover them and the latest addition to the lot was Surrey Place.
     "Separately, we could go wherever we pleased," assured Leroc, with a
glance at the respectable faces of his crew, "but it is better that we should
travel somewhat together. Therefore we shall take a roundabout way." On the
map, Leroc traced a course that threaded among the yellow squares. "That will
bring us here, not far from the Yorkshire Village, the apartment house where
our friend Harland lives."
     The listeners began to exchange knowing looks at Leroc's mention of
Harland. Catching them with his quick eye, Leroc smoothly amended his statement.
     "Yes, Harland is our friend," affirmed Leroc, "but he would be the first
to deny it. In suspecting the beggars, he aids us, because with the beggars
gone, the muggers will be on the streets, and without the muggers, we could not
pursue our own profession. It is on this corner" - Leroc tapped the map - "that
a gentleman named Morton Joyce will meet our Monsieur Rouge."
     Leroc continued with a brief description of Joyce, who proved to be a
gentleman of middle age, quite burly, but deliberate of pace. Unlike Anstead
and Pell, Joyce would be carrying nothing resembling a brief case or a satchel,
but there would be valuables upon his person which would make a search of his
pockets a matter of course. Discoursing thus, Leroc shook the bag and passed it
around the circle.
     At one point Leroc hesitated, then went along without extending the bag.
The man he passed was a new member of the band, a poker-faced individual whose
square jaw spoke the same determination as his steady eyes. That description
exactly fitted Cliff Marsland.
     "You are new among us." Leroc purred the reminder. "I could not assign you
to the work of the usual Apache. I have a special ball reserved for you." From
his pocket, Leroc produced the pellet and dropped it in Cliff's hand. "I shall
tell you its purpose later."
     The red ball showed in the hands of a drab-faced man, whose thin lips
tightened in a smile that pleased Leroc, who clapped the winner on the back.
     "Ah, Trevol, we are both lucky," expressed Leroc. "You, to become Monsieur
Rouge; I to have you as such. You are good both with the noose and the knife, so
you may use either as you choose. Should anything go wrong, call at once upon
Monsieur Bleu."
     Leroc gestured toward Cliff who opened his hand and found a blue marble
lying there. In recognition of the honor, Cliff slipped his hand to his pocket,
where the bulge of a gun butt showed. The action brought a further smile from
the man addressed as Trevol, who was still worrying about the Waverly affair.
Leroc's face grew hard and keen, both signs that he was highly pleased.
     He had shown judgment, Leroc, in accepting Marsland on sight. He had
anticipated that tonight's Monsieur Rouge would be worried about Monsieur Bleu.
So alike had the Apaches become under Leroc's training that they shared each
other's apprehensions. As an individual murderer, each was competent; their
weakness lay in team play. They still thought of guns, despite the drills Leroc
had given them with knife and noose.
     So Leroc was introducing what they wanted, a man with a gun. If the
novelty proved successful, Cliff would have a permanent job as Monsieur Bleu.


     APPARENTLY Leroc had timed proceedings to an incoming telephone call,
which arrived soon after the drawing. From Leroc's manner, Cliff knew that he
was chatting with the chief who really ruled the Apaches. That call finished,
Leroc made a few calls of his own, to hangouts favored by muggers. In purring
style, he assured them that tonight's forays would offer no obstacles, since
spying beggars were off the streets. Setting the time and place, Leroc finished
with the muggers and gave a contemptuous laugh.
     "One thing I did not mention," remarked Leroc as he and his men started
from their underground lair. "They will not be far from Club 88, where King
Franzel is so often found. They would like nothing better than to meet the man
they blame for their recent troubles."
     The Apaches weren't quite convinced that Leroc was right. They felt that
The Shadow was a stronger factor in stopping crime than King Franzel could ever
be. Certainly he was the chief foe of the Apaches themselves and with that
thought, they grouped closer as they left this headquarters.
     So compact was the crew that Cliff was unable to draw away and contact a
lurking figure that followed close behind the group. But Cliff felt his
opportunity would come soon enough to forewarn The Shadow. Hawkeye was not only
persistent, but crafty; he would tag along without giving himself away.
     The Apaches were nearing the block of apartment buildings known as
Yorkshire Village, when Leroc gave a warning hiss that caused some quick slides
along the slippery sidewalk. They were out of sight when Leroc pointed to a
shambling figure across the street; that of a hobbling old woman, whose head
and shoulders were covered by a shawl. A basket that the woman carried, marked
her as a peddler.
     "Franzel still gives us trouble," snarled Leroc. "We have forgotten that
there are women beggars too. Follow her, two of you, and rejoin us later. The
rest of us can separate and stroll through the courtyard of the apartment
building. We are respectable enough to belong there."
     Despite the term "we," Leroc did not include himself. He became a skulker,
going around the block, while two others trailed the old woman with the shawl.
Already assigned to the part of Monsieur Bleu, Cliff went through the
courtyard, but on the way he paused to light a cigarette. The weather being
damp, Cliff chose a darkened doorway for that purpose; as he expected, Hawkeye
soon sidled up beside him. Briefly, Cliff undertoned the details of tonight's
expedition and Hawkeye shifted away as neatly as he had arrived.


     FOUR blocks from Yorkshire Village, the old lady with the shawl turned
into a squalid street that was a misfit in this neighborhood. The street lay
between the well-populated thoroughfares that were lined with ritzy cafes like
Club 88 and the pretentious squares surrounding Yorkshire Village. The police
deemed it unnecessary to watch either of those sectors and this intervening
street was regarded purely as a dividing line, quite too limited to attract
muggers. Reaching the steps beside a battered basement door, the old woman
descended, not even bothering to use a key to enter what must be a hovel too
poor for thieves to bother about. Across the street, a girl was standing in a
doorway, shielding her face against the drizzle. She appeared merely to be
someone who had stepped out of the rain, but her purpose was more subtle.
     Margo Lane was watching the return of Loraine Rue, alias Old Gert, to the
basement from which the night-club star had set forth to contact members in the
sorority of beggars.
     About to step from the doorway, Margo waited while a man walked along the
street. He was well dressed and was glancing at the houses as though looking
for an address number. Along the street came another man of equally respectable
appearance. The first stopped the second and made some inquiry, after which they
continued onward in opposite directions.
     What Margo took for a chance meeting, happened to be a double check by two
of Leroc's gentlemen Apaches, who were now on their way to rejoin their ugly
leader. Rather than attract any attention, Margo waited until both had turned
their corners; then hurriedly, she crossed the street to Old Gert's hovel.
     Margo's greeting was the ringing of a phone bell, from deep in the
basement. Creeping through the darkness, Margo listened for Loraine's voice but
did not hear it, until she reached another door. She caught the words "good-by"
in Loraine's tone and peered through the slightly opened door. There, she saw
Loraine hang up the telephone, lift the receiver again, and begin to dial a
number.
     The room was dim, yet its light showed Loraine's face, or rather, the
visage of Old Gert. Margo was amazed that make-up could produce such a change.
The face of Old Gert was gray, lined with wrinkles that looked real; her hair,
well sprinkled with powder, was almost white. Though the effect looked genuine,
Margo suspected the powder because of the way Loraine kept the shawl around her
head.
     As she watched, Margo began to doubt that the crone with the crabapple
countenance could really be Loraine Rue.
     Then, as the stoopish creature finished dialing and sat down in a creaky
chair, Margo saw the evidence that proved the double role. Loraine's mink coat
was hanging on a nail in the corner; tucked in its pockets were the slippers
that she had also worn from Club 88.
     A sharp cackle interrupted Margo's thoughts. More clever acting on
Loraine's part, for the voice of Old Gert was an utter contrast to the golden
tone of the popular night-club vocalist. But the cracked words were plain
enough to Margo as they doubtless were to the person who received the phone
call.
     "Commissioner Weston?" queried the forced voice. "This is Old Gert... Ask
Inspector Cardona who I am. He used to buy my gardenias... Yes, I'm a beggar
and it's lucky we aren't all in jail... I know, you wonder if I've seen any
muggers and I have -
     "Lots of muggers, commissioner" - the voice became a confidential whine -
"over near Yorkshire Village... Better hurry, commissioner, if you want to
catch them. I'll be around to point out any that try to get away... Hurry,
commissioner!"
     Reverting to her crackly tone, Old Gert hung up the receiver and came
toward Margo's door. Stepping away into the darkened room, Margo again doubted
that this creature in petticoats and shawl could be Loraine, until she noted a
passing trace of the singer's favorite perfume. When the front door closed
behind Old Gert, Margo hurried to the telephone and called the Cobalt Club.
     Margo didn't ask for Commissioner Weston. She wanted to know if Lamont
Cranston was there. A polite attendant stated that Mr. Cranston had left and
when Margo asked if he had gone with Commissioner Weston, her informant replied
in the negative. Mr. Cranston had left the Cobalt Club at least ten minutes
before the commissioner.
     Sinking to Loraine's chair, Margo Lane gave a gratified sigh. Rapid though
the law's response might be, it had a habit of proving just too late. Tonight,
The Shadow's agents must have beaten the tip-off that Loraine had relayed as
Old Gert.
     Again, The Shadow was traveling ahead of crime!


     CHAPTER XVII

     VICTIMS IN REVERSE

     CRIME'S schedule was behind time. Close by a designated corner, a man
named Trevol was waiting impatiently, his fingers twitching the corners of his
scarf. As Monsieur Rouge, he should have gained his opportunity, but Joyce, the
victim, had not arrived. The slippery sidewalks were the reason; they were
beginning to get icy.
     Across the street, Cliff Marsland was crouched in the alleyway that marked
the first stage in a getaway route all planned for Trevol. As Monsieur Bleu,
Cliff was calculating differently than Monsieur Rouge, or rather he was
carrying his speculations further. The same causes that delayed Joyce would
apply to others. Muggers would be slower reaching the scene; so would the
police, if a tip-off reached them.
     Likewise, delay could bother The Shadow.
     A figure appeared near the dim corner. Cliff distinguished a burly man,
whose pace was very slow, even allowing for the slippery going. The man was
Joyce and he was moving straight toward Trevol. It wouldn't do for Cliff to
dash across the street just yet, because Apaches down the alley were watching
and would wonder at his premature surge. Gauging the distance to Trevol, Cliff
coolly figured the required time and waited for his moment.
     With a plod, Joyce reached the spot assigned for assassination. Trevol
lunged from hiding, flaunting his scarf as a dacoit would fling a strangling
cord. Cliff made a long leap toward the curb, struck a glazed patch of sidewalk
and skidded headlong to the street. He had calculated everything except hazards
that applied to himself.
     Had all depended upon Cliff, murder would have been under way before he
again reached his feet. But there was an element in this affair that even Cliff
had been unable to observe. Before Trevol's noose could produce le coup du Pere
Francois, Joyce took an unexpected twirl away from the descending scarf.
     From a core of blackness, a living figure had materialized, to spin the
victim from the threat of doom.
     The Shadow!
     Things happened crazily along the sidewalk. On its slippery surface, The
Shadow took an unexpected whirl while Trevol, recoiling from the cloaked
menace, was sliding clear across the curb. By chance, the two figures arrived
in the exact position from which Trevol could deliver the Francois coup, with
The Shadow as its target. Here, Trevol's footing was firm against the curb as
he flung the scarf over The Shadow's slouch hat, down to the cloaked shoulders
below.
     One Apache could prove better than two. This time there was no other to
spoil one's work with a knife slash. Though Cliff was on his feet, he was
distant, and his faulty drive was bringing other Apaches from the alley. If
Cliff tried to aid The Shadow, he would be smothered by an avalanche of killers.
     The situation was totally reversed. Trevol's noose had tightened and the
Apache was turning to apply the fatal haul that would hoist The Shadow to a
helpless position. Only the unexpected could save the cloaked victim and he was
the person who supplied the needed element. What The Shadow did was provide an
antidote for the Francois coup that was not in Leroc's instruction book.


     THE SHADOW simply pancaked forward into a wide-armed dive, kicking his
feet up in back of him. Nobody had ever before applied that system, because it
had never been thought out. Apaches who used the scarf trick brought the
victim's weight straight back, whereas The Shadow was throwing his whole
poundage forward. The slithery condition of the sidewalk, previously a
disadvantage, now served to speed The Shadow's process.
     It was Trevol who came flying upward. His legs received a kick that
knocked them from under him; his body flipped across The Shadow's shoulders to
be grabbed by hands that now could reach it, since they were working from
propped elbows. The fling that The Shadow applied sent Trevol somersaulting
clear across the sidewalk, down into the very basement where the assassin had
originally intended to dump Joyce.
     Rolling over, The Shadow saw Joyce almost beside him and applied a
scissors clip with his legs, to spill the burly man beside the curb. Joyce was
not a foe, but that was the more reason to eliminate him from the coming fray.
In dumping Joyce, The Shadow finished with a twist that brought him to his own
feet. Out to the center of the street, he purposely met Cliff Marsland and
hissed a swift command into his agent's ear.
     Guns began to talk. Their shots sizzled toward the alley from which Leroc
and his Apaches issued. They laid those shots to The Shadow and assumed that
Cliff was grappling to stop them. Cliff's gun was pumping too, in the same
direction as The Shadow's, but that wasn't apparent to the men who hastily
dived back to cover.
     Under gunfire, Leroc could play the rat as quickly as his subordinates.
They were away, full tilt, and Cliff found himself skidding after them, under
The Shadow's urgent shove. Close on the heels of the fugitive crew, Cliff kept
shouting for them to come back and help him fight The Shadow, but none heeded
the request. For The Shadow, Cliff's shouts were a helpful guide, but he had
work to do before he followed.
     Moe's cab was wheeling the corner. Pulling Joyce to his feet, The Shadow
propelled the burly man in through the opening door. As the cab sped off, The
Shadow turned to look for the inevitable stooges who were sure to arrive when
the Apaches left. He saw them sneaking in from nearby corners, groups of
muggers, out in full force, lured by the word that Leroc had passed them.
     Neatly, The Shadow began to stab shots with his guns. Those reports
drowned the approach of cars that tonight were wisely keeping their sirens
silent. The Shadow saw the arriving lights just as the dodging muggers became
suddenly bold, through numbers, and began to converge upon him with a massed
drive.
     With a taunting laugh, The Shadow vanished.
     That, at least, was the effect produced by his rapid whirl toward the
narrow passage reserved for the Apaches. Hearing a steely clang, the muggers
veered in that direction only to encounter a metal gate that the Apaches had
forgotten to close in their haste. Frantically, the disorganized thugs reversed
their direction toward a basement across the street, a route Leroc had promised
them. As they went, they met a lunging figure that they mistook for one of The
Shadow's agents, trying to follow his cloaked chief.
     With happy snarls, the muggers prodded their prey with knives and flung
him lifeless in the path of an arriving patrol car. Their swift, savage work
saved The Shadow the trouble of later vengeance, for the muggers were disposing
of Leroc's abandoned follower, Trevol, the unfortunate Monsieur Rouge in this
night's tragedy of errors.
     The scene was set for a clean-up by the law, since police were arriving in
sufficient force to overwhelm the muggers who had delayed too long. But the
drivers of the patrol cars were too quick with their brakes, considering the
freezing street. Cars twirled like scooters at an amusement park, banging each
other half across the sidewalk. Leaping from them, the officers only added to
their troubles, for they lost their footing on the icy paving.
     The street was filled with skidding cops, shooting wildly from all
postures at a flock of human jackrabbits who took long, sliding dives down into
a basement where an open door gave them safe conduct through a cellar where the
cement floor was dry and therefore helpful. The police had completely lost
their opportunity for a mop-up.


     A FEW blocks away, a woman who posed as Old Gert was waiting on a corner
hoping that muggers would appear, but all had gone another direction. All
Loraine saw were running men who looked like victims who had managed to escape.
Not knowing that they were Leroc's Apaches, of whom she had never heard, the
girl in the shawl decided that her chance to aid the law was over. In hobbly
style, Loraine began her trundle back to the basement, glad that her job as Old
Gert was finished.
     The term "finished" threatened to apply in permanent style, though Loraine
did not realize it. The person who recognized such a prospect was Margo, who had
returned to her lookout post across the way. Hardly had the shawled figure of
Old Gert descended the basement steps, before Margo observed newcomers in the
street. At first, Margo mistook them for respectable wayfarers, until she
realized why.
     They were the same two men who had passed along this street before. A
chance stroll wouldn't be repeated, except by design. Furthermore the men were
pausing and now, as Margo eyed them with suspicion, it became apparent that
they were beckoning to others, pointing out the basement where Old Gert lived.
Abandoning their more gentlemanly style, the group became skulkers, who
withdrew to house walls.
     Apaches!
     The word shouted through Margo's brain when a lone man came creeping
toward the center of the block. There was so much of the snake about his
stealthy movement that Margo realized he must be the notorious Alban Leroc
whose name Lamont had mentioned. It would be like Leroc to leave his more
polished but less skilled followers in the background while he personally
handled the murder of a helpless victim. But the very fact that the others had
moved from sight meant opportunity for Margo.
     Nerving herself, the brunette crept from her doorway just as Leroc's form
dipped into the basement opposite. From her handbag, Margo produced a little
automatic, hoping her nerve would back it, if the time came to use it. She kept
her footing as she crossed the slippery street and made a grab for the iron
railing by the basement entry. In turning down the steps, Margo didn't realize
that a crouched man was encroaching into the darkness right beside her, the
first of Leroc's followers to move up behind the leader.
     As Margo released the rail, she stumbled. Her arm was caught with a sudden
clamp that frightened her. Though she tried to repress a startled cry, Margo
couldn't entirely halt it and it was helpful that she didn't, for the sharp
gasp was natural enough to identify her. A cool voice responded:
     "Steady, Margo. We'll see this through together."
     It wasn't The Shadow's whisper, but it was the next best tone that Margo
could have heard. The man who had overtaken her was Cliff Marsland, purported
follower of Alban Leroc, actual agent of The Shadow!


     CHAPTER XVIII

     COVER OF DARKNESS

     LORAINE RUE hadn't lost a moment in abandoning the part of Old Gert. Her
first action was to mop her face with a cloth that bore cold cream, eliminating
her wrinkled make-up in one sweep. Her ragged attire followed next and as she
shed Old Gert's regalia, Loraine flung the detested garments into the old box
that had held them. Out of those rags she emerged a lithe, sleek creature, with
only her scant dancing costume, who seemed an impossible occupant of the shawl
and petticoats that signified Old Gert.
     Giving her head a forward fling, Loraine flounced her hair with both
hands, producing a powdery white cloud that almost obscured her. Like a Naiad
fading into the mist of a waterfall, Loraine reached the closet where hung the
mink coat with the pocketed slippers. As the white dust settled, the girl
reappeared, wrapped in mink. She was stooping as she turned, sliding her bare
feet into the slippers.
     Loraine was glad that she'd decided on a costume suited to such rapid
change. The hours spent as Old Gert had cut deeply into the time before the
next show at Club 88, so she'd have to be back there soon. Besides, Loraine
could picture this neighborhood soon filling with police, who might be
questioning everyone they met. Rather than lose more time, Loraine started
toward the door, but before she reached it, she was riveted to the spot.
     A man with a very ugly leer had stepped into the room, closing the door
partway behind him. He was toying with a knife of such long-bladed pattern that
Loraine's mink coat wavered from the chills that shivered her spine. If there
was any doubt that this man knew what such knives could accomplish, one look at
his face dispelled that doubt. From chin, past ear, terminating on his very
eyelid, the man wore a livid scar that only a knife slash could have produced.
     The man centered the gaze of his wide-open eye upon Loraine, but his
droopy optic also caught the glitter from the oil lamp burning on the soap box
that had served as Old Gert's table. In that upright box, Alban Leroc saw a
telephone, quite unusual for so squalid a setting.
     Glancing from the telephone to Loraine and back again, Leroc included Old
Gert's clothes box in his survey. Linking all three, he gave a knowing laugh
that carried a wolfish snarl. As if in response, the phone bell jangled.
     It was Leroc who answered the call. Loraine couldn't budge a step in her
petrified condition. Recognizing the caller, the Apache held a brief
conversation, then turned to Loraine as he hung up. In the polite manner that
he could often display, Leroc folded his clasp knife and dropped it in his
pocket endwise, the only way that it would fit.
     Beyond the door that stood ajar, Margo repressed a sigh as relieved as
Loraine's. But Leroc's manner didn't fool Cliff Marsland. His hand clutching an
automatic, Cliff gave brief orders to Margo.
     "When I shove the door, get to that lamp and smash it. I'll handle Leroc.
Right now he's more dangerous than ever. Watch!"
     Leroc was bowing as he reached Loraine. One hand behind her, the blonde
was groping for the knob of a battered door in the rear corner of the room.
Apologetically, Leroc extended his open hands and for a moment, Loraine's
fear-stricken face relaxed.
     To Margo, Cliff said: "Now!"
     As Cliff kicked the door inward, Margo dashed for the lamp. At that
moment, she heard a scream from Loraine. Margo didn't stop to see what caused
it; instead, she sent the lamp flying from its improvised table. Leroc's
action, that Margo didn't see, was done with the speed of a whippet and the
slither of a snake.
     Leroc simply plucked the collar of Loraine's fur coat and gave it a quick
haul across her head. As the girl flung herself about, with the scream that
Margo heard, Leroc pirouetted in the style of an Apache dancer and twisted the
coat around Loraine's head, muffling her shriek with mink. It was the coup
d'etouffement, or smothering trick used by the Apaches to produce suffocation
after a few minutes of useless struggle by the victim.
     All went black for Loraine under the hooded folds of her cloak, but the
darkness wasn't limited to that small degree. As Loraine's scream stifled, the
lamp crashed and the whole room went dark. Leroc, turning while he twisted the
coat collar, was too late to see Cliff's coming charge. In the blackness, Cliff
arrived with a slugging gun stroke that reeled Leroc around the other way, the
twist of the coat unwinding.
     The battered door slammed behind Loraine, who went scudding through
without her cherished mink. She'd whipped her arms from the sleeves when the
coat uncoiled, and Leroc was just as pleased. He was using the heavy garment
against Cliff, flipping it over his attacker's head. Slugging upward, Cliff
hooked the coat from Leroc's clutch and dropped away to aim at the Apache.
     Landing in Old Gert's clothes box, the lamp produced a sudden flare from
its dying flame. In the flicker from the igniting rags, Margo saw the glitter
of Leroc's knife, about to flip at Cliff, whose head was still half buried in
the mink. As Margo shrieked a warning, knowing that Cliff's aim was late, Leroc
made another pivot and sped his knife hand in her direction.
     Cliff's shot, wild and belated, couldn't have changed Leroc's hurl. What
did deviate the Apache's knife hand was a fierce challenge that rang through
the confines of the room. It was a laugh that belonged to blackness and
actually seemed to produce it, for at that instant, the flame from the clothes
box died.
     The laugh of The Shadow!
     It came from the front doorway of the room, but Leroc didn't guess it, for
the laugh seemed everywhere. Thinking Cliff must be The Shadow, Leroc did not
pause his twirl as he let the knife fly. Carried just too far before the
Apache's fingers loosened, the knife whizzed a few inches to Margo's left and
buried itself in the wall behind her.
     Meeting Cliff with a quick grapple, Leroc flung him full about, showing a
strength that was surprising. Cliff spun farther than The Shadow expected, so
far that he came headlong against his cloaked chief. Amid the darkness, Leroc
took a long, kicking leap out through the doorway at the front of the room. The
Shadow's gun spoke after him, but Leroc was away.
     Ordering Cliff to join him in the pursuit, The Shadow told Margo to look
after Loraine. Making for the rear door, Margo stumbled across the mink coat
and gathered it up. Through the door, she came upon some cellar steps and heard
a bleat from Loraine, who had halted close against the cellar door, afraid to
risk a dash outdoors, since she was attired not as Old Gert, but in her
bejeweled dancing costume.
     Taking greater fright at Margo's approach, Loraine threw aside discretion
and began to thrust out through the door. Margo overtook her with the coat and
flung it around Loraine's shoulders with the encouraging words:
     "There's your mink and don't hurry. Everyone has gone the other way, so
we're safe. But it won't do to attract too much attention."
     Hearing a girl's tone, Loraine calmed. Wrapped in her coat, she guided
Margo through a rear alley, but drew back suddenly when they reached the next
street. A cab with dim lights was coming down the block and Loraine was afraid
it contained Apaches. Margo had an idea that it was Shrevvy's cab, the one most
likely to be nearby when The Shadow roved, so she stepped into sight and hailed
it.


     AS the cab stopped, Margo saw her hunch was right. Moe opened the door and
the two girls stepped into the cab. Settling back, Loraine nonchalantly gave the
address of the stage door of Club 88. Loraine was hoping that the driver would
not connect herself and Margo with any excitement in a neighboring street. She
didn't realize that this cab was another arrangement in connection with the
rescue service supplied by The Shadow.
     Around the block, the cab was halted by police, who were arriving in large
numbers. The officers insisted upon looking into the cab, but seeing only two
girls, one wearing a fur-trimmed cape, the other a mink coat, they waved the
taxi along. Margo took it that the police had appeared just when The Shadow
began his pursuit of the Apaches, which probably meant that Leroc had escaped
along with his tricky followers.
     That supposition was substantiated after Margo delivered Loraine in back
of Club 88. Leaving the grateful blonde, Margo entered the front door in ample
time to view the floor show. She found Cranston there, extending a surprised
greeting to Commissioner Weston who had just arrived. As they approached the
table where King Franzel was settling down to await the floor show, Howard
Harland stormed into the night club.
     The big-voiced reformer was angry. The mugging outrages had gone too far,
invading such exclusive districts as the area around Yorkshire Village.
Stormily he demanded that Weston put the whole city under surveillance until
the menace could be eradicated. When Harland included Franzel in his general
glare, King Franzel offered a deep-toned reminder.
     "You asked for it, Harland," said Franzel. "It was your idea to take the
peddlers off the street and advertise it in the newspapers. Fortunately you
forgot that there are women peddlers too. I had them on the watch tonight."
     "That's right," corroborated Weston. "One of them phoned me the tip-off.
Her name was Old Gert."
     Harland didn't reply, for the orchestra blared loudly as Weston finished
speaking. From Harland's glower, it appeared that he would like to meet Old
Gert, the lady who had justified King Franzel's status with the law. Then
Harland's features lost their angry look, as his eyes began to beam upon a
jeweled beauty that was scintillating into the spotlight.
     The attraction was Loraine Rue, in the gem-studded trappings that added to
her natural glamor. Turning toward Cranston, Margo saw the slight smile that was
forming on his lips, and understood it. Though he didn't know it, Harland was
looking at Old Gert.
     That was certainly worth a whimsical smile from the lips of The Shadow!


     CHAPTER XIX

     CRANSTON PROPOSES

     THREE days had passed, along with nights that were free of further
muggings, only because the police had taken on the large-scale project that
Harland had demanded. In effect, Manhattan had become an armed camp, its police
force increased to an unparalled state.
     To patrol widespread areas, Commissioner Weston had recruited thousands of
auxiliary police, putting them into a department that already existed for
emergency. These auxiliaries, identified by white arm bands, were assigned
solely to mugging patrol, which covered all but the very center of the city,
Times Square, where the streets already teemed with throngs and therefore
weren't the sort of territory that skulking muggers would choose.
     Half of the cabs in town had been detailed to the auxiliary police. This
was a good move, since it meant that every cab would frighten away muggers.
There was just one flaw in all the ointment; it couldn't last forever. As one
newspaper put it, the police were using pile drivers to hunt rats and the
expense could not long continue. Nobody realized that fact better than
Commissioner Weston.
     Naturally, the muggers were lying low. So, for that matter, were the
Apaches. Cliff had escaped recognition by Leroc and was still in the latter's
good graces, but he had received no word to report at a new headquarters.
Everything was in a static condition that boded future ill, for it was obvious
that when the police would be forced to gradually relax their vigilance, crime
would resume its operations.
     On the third day, Cranston brought a gentleman to see Weston. The
visitor's name was Morton Joyce and Cranston introduced him as a mining
engineer from Nevada. Remarking casually that Joyce had been in the vicinity of
Yorkshire Village on the night when muggers had marauded that terrain, Cranston
let the visitor tell his own story.
     For a start, Joyce produced a batch of documents.
     "It's this way, commissioner," Joyce declared. "I've an idea those muggers
were set to trap me."
     Weston showed a sudden interest, only to have it fade.
     "They took a victim," he reminded, "a man named George Trevol, who had
just sold out his restaurant in Chicago."
     Joyce didn't change a flicker of expression. He knew that Trevol belonged
to the Apaches, because Cranston had so informed him, but they had agreed to
ignore that point where Weston was concerned, on the assumption that the
commissioner would probably not believe it.
     "That supports my theory," asserted Joyce, catching a prompting glance
from Cranston. "Maybe they were set for Trevol too, but only managed to get one
of us. You see, commissioner, I had these in my pocket."
     From the documents, Joyce brought a batch of mining stock totaling better
than one hundred thousand dollars. After examining the stock, Weston realized
that it was of the type that anyone could sell, with no questions asked, a
thing that Joyce corroborated.
     "This letter will interest you, commissioner."
     The letter did. It was addressed to Joyce and signed by a man named
Clement Cranshaw, who gave his residence as Apartment 15-K in Yorkshire Village.
     "No one named Cranshaw lives in those apartments," remarked Cranston, "and
there is no Apartment 15-K. The numbers indicate floors and the buildings are
only twelve stories high."


     IMMEDIATELY alert, Weston began to pound his office desk. That duty
finished, he reached for the phone and summoned Inspector Cardona. When Joe
arrived, Weston showed him the data and promptly announced:
     "Harland lives in Yorkshire Village! He ought to know about this!"
     "I wouldn't tell Harland," observed Cranston. "It might strike too close
to home. Besides, I've already told him about something else that might
interest him more."
     The first part of Cranston's statement impressed Weston. Tilting his head,
the commissioner asked sharply:
     "Do I infer that you believe Harland is behind this mugging racket,
bringing dupes to town and having muggers rob them? Men like Anstead and Pell?
Or Waverly and Trevol?"
     In replying, Cranston ignored the last two names that Weston mentioned,
but did not specify the fact. He simply stated:
     "It could be, commissioner."
     "I'll say it could be," broke in Cardona, playing one of his famous
hunches. "What a cover-up! First, Harland raises a howl about muggers, which
seemed sensible enough, with him a reformer. We started quarantining districts
and of course that made the muggers hop around. They wanted to be organized so
Harland fixed it for them and fixed them too, though they didn't know it."
     Pausing, Cardona looked for commendation and received it in Cranston's
glance. Thus supported, the inspector warmed further to his theme.
     "Franzel's beggars nearly queered it," summarized Cardona. "Only they
didn't quite, and that was enough for Harland to argue us into taking them off
the streets. The muggers were losing heart, that night when only one batch
showed up at Surrey Place. Something had to be done to keep the racket going
and that something was to call off the beggars. You've hit it, Mr. Cranston.
Harland is the big shot behind the mugging racket, using his reform league and
those phony contributions it receives, to make the dough he gets look honest!"
     Triumphantly, Cardona stared at Weston and found that for once the
commissioner was accepting a hunch. Privately, however, Cardona was forced to
modify his triumph when he remembered that he had simply detailed the subtle
points that Cranston had already suggested.
     "And now, commissioner," asked Cranston, "would you like to know what I
did tell Harland when I saw him at noon today?"
     Weston was all interest, so Cranston continued.
     "I mentioned that I'm leaving for Washington this afternoon," Cranston
said, "to pick up government reports on the local black market, for my friend
Senator Releston. I said I would be glad to turn over those confidential lists
to Harland, for the Citizens' Reform League."
     "A good idea," commended Weston. "Harland will have to make his league do
something honest, once he has those lists. If he destroys them, he will prove
himself a crook."
     Cranston shook his head.
     "Harland will never receive them," he declared. "They will be intercepted
on the way. Think how well they would serve the head of the mugging ring!
Persons named on those lists could be blackmailed, induced to bring money to a
given place, and on the way -"
     "They would be mugged," broke in Cardona. "But if you're bringing those
lists, Mr. Cranston, you'll be the first to suffer. That is, if we let you."
     "Which you won't," said Cranston, with a smile. "Look, commissioner" - he
turned to a map on Weston's wall - "suppose when I return from the airport, I
stop at the Metrolite Hotel, then walk from there to Harland's. Here is the
route that I should normally follow for a dozen blocks, until I cross Times
Square -"
     "And by then," interrupted Weston, "the muggers would be right behind you
- if you told all this to Harland."
     "I did tell him," nodded Cranston. "I further encouraged him by saying
that the black marketeers are checking to see who brings those lists. That
leaves plenty of loopholes in the proposition, because a dozen people could be
blamed for what might happen to me. But it will be your job to pick off those
muggers before I reach the safety of Times Square."


     WHILE Weston hesitated, Cardona voiced grim assurance that regular police
as well as auxiliaries would be on the job. However, when it came to risking
Cranston's life, the commissioner wasn't willing to be sure of anything. It was
Cranston himself who offered the next suggestion:
     "What about asking King Franzel to lend you some of his sharp-eyed
beggars?"
     Weston was reaching for the telephone, before Cranston finished the
question. He called Franzel and asked him to come to the office. That done,
Weston began a study of the map, to pick out Cranston's route beyond Times
Square in case the muggers would be gathered on the other side of that neutral
section. Weston was still working on the proposition when King Franzel arrived.
     With a gesture, Weston let Cranston do the talking.
     Detail for detail, Cranston gave his theory and explained how Harland
fitted in the scheme of things. He mentioned that he had told Harland of the
trip to Washington and pointed out the loopholes that would cover any
individual's connection with the mugging racket. Franzel listened; then shook
his head.
     "I don't like Harland," he asserted, "but I can't believe he's that bad.
Still, your plan would be to his benefit if he is on the level, because if
nothing happens he will be exonerated. But I can't supply my followers to help
you, for two reasons."
     He gave the reasons. One was that muggers would spot beggars as their
logical enemies and might withdraw to avoid the trap. The other was that
Harland would blame any attack on the beggars, should Cranston actually become
a victim. That made it Weston's party and after due consideration, the
commissioner decided to undertake the job, since Cranston was willing to accept
the risk.
     The conference ended when Cranston glanced a his watch and found he had
just time enough to catch the Washington plane. He stated that he would reach
the Hotel Metrolite at half past eleven and begin the march that would prove a
lure to crime.
     Shaking hands all around, Cranston left the commissioner's office, smiling
as he went. Deeper by far than the plan that he had expressed as Cranston, was
the master stroke intended by his other self, The Shadow!


     CHAPTER XX

     THE STROKE AT MIDNIGHT

     SOON after dark, the hidden wheels were turning in anticipation of
tonight's event. The machinery of the law was secretly at work, but it
represented a mere third of the total in progress. The second element in the
case was that of the mugging ring, which was stirring to new life, along with
its inner circle of Apaches.
     Cliff had received his summons from Leroc. He found the Apache leader in
the deepest and most commodious of hide-outs, the forgotten cellar of a
building that flanked Times Square. A few years ago, the original building had
been torn down and replaced by a smaller structure called a "taxpayer" which
was to stand until real-estate values rose. The deep cellar of the former
building had been blocked off, but the ingenious Leroc had found a way inside,
through a boarded passage connecting with the subway.
     To his followers, Leroc was explaining the night's job in terms of
Cranston, whose picture, clipped from a newspaper, was passed from hand to
hand. Having thus identified the coming victim, Leroc named the time and place.
     "The police are fools!" scoffed Leroc, "They think that muggers will
venture in the open. They would even suppose that we would do the same. All the
while, they have provided the perfect spot for our work. It will happen at
midnight - here!"
     Laying his finger on the wall map, Leroc pointed to the only black spot
that remained amid a spread of yellow. That spot was Times Square!
     The third element was The Shadow's. Already, his active agents, except for
Cliff, were assembled on the verge of Times Square, where thousands of people
were jostling in throngs through what was actually the darkest portion of
Manhattan. Though dimout regulations applied to all the city, Times Square was
the place that received the strictest surveillance. For nearly two years, it
had stood as an absolute blotch in the vague lines of faint light that
represented Manhattan Island at night.
     The Shadow had called the turn to perfection. He knew exactly how much
crooks would - or would not - risk. The papers that he, as Cranston, was
supposed to bring from Washington were too great a prize for crime's master
schemer to ignore. The Shadow was therefore crediting that brain with a
calculative ability somewhat on a par with his own.
     The answer was Times Square - or would be, when the final report came
through.
     That report was already on its way, along with the tribe of shifty Apaches
who were leaving Leroc's handy headquarters. As they straightened into
respectable citizens, the Apaches became strollers going toward a subway exit,
forming a screen for Leroc, who was too ugly to escape attention. One of those
Apaches paused to light a cigarette, the simplest of signals.
     The flicker of the match was noted by Hawkeye, who was out of sight behind
a newsstand that had closed for the night. Cliff's flash meant that Leroc had
given the expected word. The time was midnight; the place Times Square.
Scudding up another entrance, Hawkeye forked his way through the crowds coming
from the theaters and reached a drugstore that boasted a line of telephone
booths.
     Those booths were filled, as usual, and this was a moment when delay could
prove serious. There was, however, an empty in the line, the last booth on the
end, because its telephone bore a placard stating: "Out of Order." Hawkeye
entered the booth, removed the dummy card that he had planted hours before and
put in a quick call to Burbank.


     THERE was one spot in Times Square that should have had a big white X
painted on it. This was a traffic island, formed where a cross street sliced
the prolonged intersection of Broadway and Seventh Avenue, which by their
extensive merger form the sizable area generally known as Times Square.
     A little triangle of cement, bounded by a high curb, this spot could be
considered one of the real sights of Manhattan. Though located where real
estate is valued by the square inch, the tiny island stands completely bare,
being too small to accommodate a structure. In years gone by it was a sight by
night as well as day, this almost-forgotten blank that people overlooked, but
under dimout conditions it had become no more than a stumbling spot.
     No longer did the three-sided isle bask in the brilliance of the great
advertising signs that gave Times Square a greater brilliance by night than by
day. Those flashing lights were suppressed for the duration. Times Square had
become a gloomy "ghost walk" where visitors found sport in blundering through
the gloom. Comparatively few crossed at the tiny traffic island, never enough
to make it teem with people, as it commonly had during the period when it
afforded the perfect central spot to admire the sights of Times Square, now
taboo for the duration.
     The forgotten island was exactly on the route that Lamont Cranston was to
take when strolling from the Hotel Metrolite to Yorkshire Village!
     Commissioner Weston had overlooked the island's existence. Indeed, Weston
was completely discounting Times Square itself, so far as crime might be
concerned. As he sat in the Cobalt Club, studying the latest police map, he
decided that the Square had value only as a base. Weston expressed his thought
to King Franzel and Inspector Cardona who were seated at the table with him.
     "We'll ride in my car to Times Square," decided Weston. "We can park near
the middle of the Square and pick up the short-wave reports. If Cranston runs
into trouble before he reaches the Square, we can speed over to meet him. If he
is not molested coming there, we can be ready to pick up his trail after he
emerges from the other side."
     The plan pleased Franzel, but Cardona wasn't too convinced. He reminded
Weston that Harland might be stopping at the Cobalt Club and would wonder why
the commissioner wasn't there. Before Weston could decide on that problem,
Harland himself settled it by arriving in person. Immediately, Weston became
very affable.
     "Hello, Harland," said the commissioner. "We're glad you joined us. We
were just about to start out in my official car and see how the auxiliaries are
doing. It's almost midnight, when they change shift, so we thought we'd travel
here and there -"
     "And hit or miss," interposed Harland. "That's the way you're doing
things, commissioner. I have a better plan than all this auxiliary patrol,
though I had to contact Albany to arrange it."
     Weston gave Harland a cold stare. He didn't like this business of the
reformer going over his head and arranging things at the State capital. Still,
it fitted with Harland's smart methods. As secret head of the mugging ring,
Harland would naturally find it policy to keep going higher up. Thanks to
Cranston, Weston had outdone that game. Cranston's contact was with Washington,
a great jump higher than Albany.
     "Gun permits are the answer," assured Harland, bluntly. "I want you to
issue them to the right people, commissioner."
     "I already have," reminded Weston. "You happen to be carrying one,
Harland, and so are many of your friends."
     "But not enough! If every respectable citizen had a gun, how could muggers
ply their evil trade?"
     Cardona wanted to answer that one. He was going to suggest that muggers
might borrow or steal such guns, permits and all, and go back to the days of
gang law. The present prevalence of knives was merely a way of getting around
the Sullivan Act that made it a criminal offense to carry a gun. In substance,
Harland was seeking to nullify that law. As a man engaged in true reform, his
idea could be honest enough; but tagged as head of the mugging racket - as the
law now listed him - he could be voicing his plan to aid crime rather than
destroy it.


     THAT could all be settled later. At present it was close to midnight, and
muggers were due for a jolt that might set Harland on his heels as well. So
Weston nodded as though he approved Harland's plan as something for the future.
Rising, the commissioner remarked that his car was waiting and as they walked
through the foyer, Weston added quite casually:
     "I wonder where Cranston is. I haven't heard from him all day. Have you,
Harland?"
     "I couldn't have," rejoined Harland, promptly. "I took the nine o'clock
train to Albany and Cranston never gets up that early in the morning. I
intended to be back sooner, but the legislators and State department heads
seemed to delight in keeping me waiting for appointments."
     Weston flashed a knowing glance at Cardona, who met it in poker-faced
style. Only King Franzel showed traces of a disdainful smile which he kept away
from Harland. Since Cranston had personally seen Harland at noon, according to
his own testimony, it stood to reason that Harland was cooking up some sort of
alibi, whatever his ultimate purpose. Once the group was in the car Weston told
the chauffeur he would guide him, which meant that, through seeming chance, they
would eventually reach Times Square.


     ALREADY, the death trail had begun. True to his promise, Lamont Cranston
was strolling from the Hotel Metrolite, carrying a brief case that shouted its
contents to anyone who knew about them. Important lists from Washington, naming
the principal operators in the black market, documents that any men whose names
were listed therein would pay a fortune to suppress!
     So, at least, had Cranston described those papers to Commissioner Weston
and King Franzel. Inspector Cardona had been present at the time, so he was in
on the secret too. Otherwise, no one in New York could know of the papers
except Howard Harland, since Cranston had declared that he mentioned them to
Harland only. If word had leaked, Cranston's own testimony would be used
against Harland. If Cranston lived, he could repeat that testimony personally;
should he die, reliable witnesses would declare it for him.
     During the several blocks to Times Square, nothing sinister shrouded
Cranston's stroll. The only men who watched him pass, or took up his pace for a
block or so, were representatives of the law, headquarters detectives or
hand-picked auxiliaries. These trusted men knew nothing of what was inside
Cranston's brief case. Their job was simply to see that nothing happened to the
commissioner's friend, before he reached Times Square.
     From a side street, Cranston entered the massive gloom that represented
the heart of Manhattan.
     Human bloodhounds dropped from the trail. Cranston would be safe until he
reached the other side, where a new group of trained protectors would take up
convoy duty.
     So far the law was clicking perfectly.
     Or was it?


     KEEN eyes had spotted Cranston. From the throngs of Times Square, silent
men detached themselves and moved close behind him. From the concrete triangle,
a stooped figure saw the approaching group and beckoned the other way. The man
who beckoned was Leroc and he promptly edged away while others of his Apaches
were approaching from the far side of the broad intersection to box Cranston in
a trap.
     Though traffic wasn't moving, Cranston suddenly quickened his pace. As he
reached the darkened curb of the island, he stumbled purposely, his hands
opening the brief case. No papers rustled from the interior; instead, Cranston
whipped out a black cloak that he flung around his shoulders, along with a
slouch hat that he clapped upon his head.
     It was as if Cranston had disappeared into the darkness itself, unless it
could be believed that solid concrete had swallowed him. It was a perfect
setting for him to become The Shadow!
     Scant seconds had done the trick, but in those seconds men were lunging,
Leroc among them. Men with vicious knives and strangling scarfs, as eager as
the performers in a Spanish bull ring. As they charged from every side, they
heard a challenge from their hidden opponent. Above the thrum of Times Square
traffic came the weird, fierce laugh of The Shadow!
     Then did Apaches realize that they had been tricked, but the knowledge did
not stop them. The Shadow was somewhere in that darkness and now was the time to
settle him forever. What they didn't expect was the solid swirl that met them,
with wide sweeping guns, plucked from the handy brief case. In a setting to his
choice, The Shadow was sprawling Apaches all about him, before a single knife
could be driven home, or a scarf flung for its victim.
     Through every mind, Leroc's included, came a frantic madness for escape.
The Shadow's laugh rang louder, for at its first call other sounds had ceased,
traffic stopping, pedestrians halting, startled by the eerie mirth. Something
new was in the air, something as unexpected as it was tremendous.
     It came, a blaze of light that staggered everyone with its terrific
dazzle. In one flash, the blackness of Times Square was gone, and the old scene
had been restored, that of night brightness surpassing daylight. Great electric
signs flared in myriad colors, spreading their neon glare into a multitude of
other lights, all awakened from months of slumber.
     Some of the largest ones had been dismantled for the duration, but to make
up for their lack of brilliance, special floodlights had been set up on
different vantage spots to add to the brilliance. Times Square had sprung up
from its darkness of the dimout into greater brilliance than it ever had before!
     On the central island people saw a tribe of half-sprawled Apaches all
dazed by the brilliance, among them a cloaked avenger, whose laugh was reaching
a triumphant crescendo. Having scattered his foemen in darkness, The Shadow was
prepared to mop them up in light.
     Never before had men of evil been so suddenly and completely revealed in
the very midst of an attempted crime.
     This was the master stroke of The Shadow!


     CHAPTER XXI

     DEATH'S TRIANGLE

     THIS was the arrangement that The Shadow, as Cranston, had made through
Washington to end crime in New York. He had done it secretly, instead of
working on black-market lists, which were only a hoax to draw crooks into crime.
     All had been fixed for Burbank to pull a master switch in a building
overlooking the concrete triangle. As a result, The Shadow commanded the center
of a massive stage, where he was rounding up a horde of renegades in no
uncertain style. Aiming his guns at the pavement, The Shadow fired bullets that
ricocheted among the stupefied Apaches and sent them scattering farther into the
light that blinded them.
     From side streets, men surged in to trap the fugitives. The arrivals were
the detectives and their auxiliaries, assigned to protect Cranston. What had
become of their ward, they didn't know, but they saw the killers who had been
sent to assassinate him. So the police and their reserves went after the
enemies in question.
     That was just part of the mighty roundup.
     Among the lights that came to new life was the news sign on the Times
Building at the lower end of the Square. Within a few moments, people were
pointing out the message that ran in moving letters across the surface of that
sign.
     The message said, in huge capitals:

     MUGGERS ARE AMONG YOU... LOOK FOR THEM AND WEED THEM OUT... TURN THEM OVER
TO THE POLICE... MUGGERS ARE AMONG YOU...

     The sign told the truth. Muggers were everywhere as The Shadow knew they
would certainly be, as a cover-up for Leroc's attempted exploit. This was more
than conjecture on The Shadow's part; a report from Cliff had substantiated
everything. It was the old game with a new twist.
     Leroc had convinced the muggers that Times Square would be a perfect
hunting ground, where people could be snatched from throngs and easily handled
in doorways or vacated movie lobbies. Even taxicabs were good spots, since
those frequenting Times Square had not been commandeered by the police. Of
course it was the intention to have Leroc's crime get lost amid the excitement
that would follow the mugging activities. But Leroc's attempt to assassinate
Cranston had failed.
     And now the muggers were meeting the same fate.
     The one thing muggers feared was light and they were getting the largest
amount of it that had ever been assembled in an individual locality. So far the
muggers were simply lurking in clustered batches, about to pluck their victims
at the zero hour of midnight. When voices, inspired by the news flash, raised
the one cry: "Muggers!" the skulkers gave themselves away.
     Trios began to scatter, their members flinging away the folded knives that
would incriminate them. Immediately they were smothered by swarms of solid
citizens who overwhelmed the rats and gathered up the evidence that they had
flung away. All the muggers in New York were here in Times Square, and though
there were scores of them, they were far outnumbered by the thousands who
formed the usual midnight throng. In a space of mere minutes, a general roundup
was completed.


     IN those same minutes, The Shadow was staging a personal duel. Only one
Apache remained on the island where crime had been so thoroughly spoiled. That
man was Alban Leroc and he was determined to settle his long score with The
Shadow. Since Cliff had purposely lingered behind the Apaches rather than be
rated one of them, The Shadow was entirely alone when Leroc sprang from the
curb and pitched himself for the cloaked victor.
     Ahead of Leroc came his Apache knife, but he was not letting the surin
skim from his tight fingers. A fling might miss so elusive a foe as The Shadow,
despite the way his form was etched amid the brilliant light. Besides, Leroc was
eager to feel the crunch of ribs when the knife drove home. Seeing The Shadow
turning, Leroc veered his savage thrust.
     It was a neat ruse by The Shadow. He heard the clatter of Leroc's feet and
purposely feinted one way, only to spin the other. Stabbing empty air, Leroc
snarled as his passing wrist was grabbed by a gloved hand that had the power of
metal, coated with velvet. Leroc went into a whirl that only the skill of an
Apache dancer could nullify. Finding his feet after a crazy somersault, Leroc
looked again for The Shadow.
     Leroc's view was blocked by a big car that had wheeled up to the island.
From it were coming two bulky men, King Franzel and Howard Harland; behind them
Inspector Cardona. On the wrong side of the car, Commissioner Weston was
shouting for his companions to grab the ringleader, forgetful in the excitement
that he should be mistrusting one of them; namely, Harland.
     The Shadow was gone, apparently merged with the black-painted side of
Weston's official car.
     First to grab Leroc was Franzel. He gripped the Apache from behind and
swung him around. Leroc's knife, wagging in the air, was pointing toward
Harland and Cardona when an automatic jabbed from behind Weston's car. The shot
cracked Leroc's wrist and spoiled the thrust he might have given.
     Still, the knife was flipping forward when Leroc's fingers loosened. As
Cardona made a snatch for the weapon, the bursts of a revolver accompanied him.
Harland was using the gun that his police permit allowed him to carry, and his
bullets were meeting Leroc point-blank. With an ugly snarl, the scarred
assassin coiled to the concrete, a fitting victim for the triangle of death.
     The car door opened on Weston's side. In stepped Cranston, carrying his
bulging brief case, which again contained the regalia of The Shadow. Hugely
relieved to see his friend alive, Weston was about to blurt out statements when
Cranston's gesture halted him. In an undertone, Cranston said:
     "Leave it to King Franzel. He is the man who has the most to settle with
Harland. Let's hear what he suggests."
     King was clapping Harland on the back as they stepped into the car. Behind
them, Cardona was tossing a glance at Leroc's body as police arrived around it.
From Cardona's glance, it was plain that he was working on a hunch.
     So was King Franzel.
     "Suppose we drive over to Club 88," suggested Franzel. "My followers may
have phoned some facts to help us with this riddle. That man on the island
certainly wasn't a mugger. He looked like a different sort of villain."


     THEY reached the cafe and took their places around Franzel's favorite
table, the management overlooking the fact that these distinguished patrons
were not wearing evening clothes. Noting that Harland was properly flanked by
Weston and Cardona, Franzel responded to the commissioner's nod.
     "All right, Harland," said Franzel, coolly. "The jig is up."
     Harland began a startled sputter.
     "You gave it away," continued Franzel, "the way you killed that fellow on
the triangle."
     "He was trying to knife me!" argued Harland. "If you'd grabbed his hand, I
wouldn't have had to fire."
     "I let you have that chance," smiled Franzel, "to see if you would get rid
of the one man who could squeal about your racket."
     Before Harland could bluster, Franzel laid home the theories as worked out
by the law. There wasn't a flaw in any of his statements and to conclude the
case, he gestured to Cranston.
     "You fell into the trap, Harland," declared Franzel, as Weston nodded
approval, "when Cranston met you at noon today and told you about his coming
trip to Washington and its purpose."
     "But I didn't meet Cranston!" stormed Harland. "I told you I went to
Albany in the morning!"
     There were smiles of doubt upon the faces of men who had already heard
Harland's alibi. The only person who didn't smile was Cranston. Instead, he
spoke quite solemnly.
     "I owe you an apology, commissioner," said Cranston. "You see, I was so
anxious to have my plan go through that I told you I had already mentioned
facts to Harland. I would have held that interview after I left your office,
but I found that Harland had gone to Albany."
     Totally disregarding the astonished looks about him, Cranston settled back
in his chair and continued to speak calmly.
     "I went through with the plan," said Cranston, "because I figured it would
work either way. If someone tried to kill me, we would know that our theories
about Harland were wrong, because knowing nothing, he could not arrange the
crime."
     "But Harland could have found out!" broke in Franzel. "Maybe he had
informants down in Washington. Perhaps he heard from some of the men whose
names were on that black-market list!"
     "There was no list," declared Cranston, "nor did I go to Washington. It
was all a hoax, to serve as bait for crime. You swallowed it, Franzel!"


     CRANSTON didn't have to speak another word. The whole game was plain, with
King Franzel as its head.
     He, like Harland, had every opportunity to use Leroc as a lieutenant in
the Apache raids that were accomplished under cover of the mugging jobs also
arranged by Leroc at Franzel's behest.
     The beggars who had worked for Franzel were just part of the blind.
Indeed, their operations, when analyzed, showed that Franzel had a stronger
opportunity than Harland. Always, their tip-offs were accurate but late; a
point which Cranston had not failed to notice, and which now was clear to all.
     "You were the better bet, Franzel," stated Cranston. "As for taking your
beggars off the streets, you practically prodded Harland into demanding that it
should be done. Your game was slipping because the beggars worried the muggers.
     "Odd about those tip-offs, always naming places where beggars weren't
around. You must have phoned them yourself, Franzel, right from here. Of course
the last one was different, when you counted on the women peddlers. Or should I
say, you counted on one!"
     There was a crash of music from the orchestra, announcing the floor show.
Coming to his feet, Weston shouted for the orchestra to cease, which it did.
Loraine Rue halted as she made her entrance, then seeing a stir at Franzel's
table, she walked in that direction, slowly, steadily, her wide eyes staring
straight ahead.
     King Franzel tried to smile at the girl in the costume of rags and jewels,
but Loraine stiffened. Looking at the other faces, she saw Cranston's, and
relaxed when he smiled. Cranston knew quite well that Loraine must have
received a recent visit from Margo, who had specific facts to tell her.
     "You couldn't phone the night of the roundup," Cranston told Franzel,
"because it had to be a woman's voice. Joyce, near Yorkshire Village, which you
had framed an excellent trap for, would point to Harland. But you needed someone
to stooge for you, so you told Loraine Rue to double as Old Gert."
     Joe Cardona blinked. He'd never realized that the trappings of Old Gert,
the gardenia seller, had packed anything resembling the lithe figure of Loraine
Rue.
     "Tell us the rest, Loraine," suggested Cranston.
     "It was King who phoned me," said Loraine, solemnly. "I hadn't seen a sign
of any muggers. How King knew where they were going to be, I don't know, but I
trusted him, so I relayed the call to Commissioner Weston."
     "What else?" inquired Cranston.
     "King told me to look for more muggers," responded Loraine, "so I did.
When I came back, I found I had been spotted by an Apache named Leroc. Someone
called up on the telephone and ordered Leroc to murder me."
     Cranston wheeled to King Franzel.
     "You installed that telephone," accused Cranston. "It was you who wanted
Loraine murdered after she had served her part as Old Gert. You thought that no
one would believe it possible that you ordered the death of a girl who
fascinated you. Just more of your pretense, Franzel, this business of sitting
here night after night, lost in admiration for a girl whose career has been
bringing you profit, and nothing else."


     FRANZEL reeled to his feet, his face going purple as hands clamped his
arms. Cranston's words were still driving home.
     "It was a death triangle, Franzel, and the points were you, Leroc, and
Harland. One point had to be eliminated and it was. I worked to prove Harland's
innocence, not his guilt, and I succeeded."
     The table crashed under a violent kick from Franzel. In the confusion he
wrenched from the gripping hands. As Franzel lunged past the table, he met
Harland, trying to stop him. Franzel's hand was flourishing a quickly drawn
gun, but Harland was producing the same revolver that he had used to stop Leroc.
     Slashing at Harland's hand, Franzel knocked the gun away. Savagely, he
wheeled to aim, and went sprawling headfirst, clear across the table. What
Franzel had met was Cranston's foot, casually stretched across his path. His
chance to murder Harland was gone.
     Coming out from a mass of smashed dishes, Franzel still had his gun, while
Harland's was lying on the floor. Loraine scooped up the loose weapon and turned
to meet Franzel's aim. A gun roared and Franzel's hand dropped; a moment later,
Loraine's revolver spoke. More shots were drowning it and the girl stood
horrified, thinking that she was somehow responsible for the entire outburst.
     Loraine wasn't.
     Lamont Cranston, otherwise The Shadow, had left the final job to Inspector
Cardona, whose revolver had come to hand during that brief encounter between
Franzel and Harland. Joe's first shot had snagged Franzel and the rest of the
bullets had finished the master crook. Loraine's one delivery had hardly
counted, for Franzel was sprawling, his own gun useless, when the blonde fired.
     From the lips of Lamont Cranston came a faintly whispered laugh as he
viewed the dead form of King Franzel, despoiler of beggars, overlord of
muggers, and secret chieftain of a now defunct band of Apaches organized by
Alban Leroc.
     That whispered laugh was like an echo of the mirth that had risen strident
in the brilliance of Times Square, where The Shadow's might had cracked crime's
regime, as a prelude to the exposure of evil's hidden master, King Franzel!


     THE END