Charg, Monster

CHAPTER I. EYES OF THE NIGHT

“FIVE million dollars.”

The man who uttered these words was seated behind a mahogany desk. His square-jawed face was domineering. His words were raspy as they came from curling, puffy lips. His eyes — almost glaring — were focused upon the man before them.

“I am not interested, Mr. Thorne.” The reply came in a positive tone. It was voiced by the man in front of the desk — a pale, bespectacled fellow who returned Thorne’s glare in owlish fashion. Yet there was a determination in the answer that brought a scowl to Thorne’s dark features.

“You are a fool!” The man behind the desk was harsh and outspoken. “You are deliberately destroying the greatest opportunity of your life. Here in this desk” — Thorne’s heavy fist clenched and pounded the woodwork — “I hold the contract, ready for your signature. One simple word of agreement — you, Meldon Fallow, will become a millionaire.”

“Like Frederick Thorne.” There was unveiled scorn in Fallow’s reply. His eyes, too, showed a glare.

“You want to make me like yourself — another plutocrat. You want me to grind my share of profit from the weary and the oppressed. Unfortunately, Mr. Thorne, you have met the wrong man.”

THERE was silence. In this oak-paneled room that served as office in his home, Frederick Thorne, multimillionaire capitalist, was receiving a rebuke from a man whom he considered no better than a pauper. With vast wealth held as a lure, this domineering man could not shake the will of Meldon Fallow.

It was Thorne, however, who ended the pause. The millionaire’s fierce glare seemed to fade. His fist unclenched. Thorne settled back into his swivel chair, as a smile formed slowly upon his lips. Fallow watched. He suspected new strategy in the millionaire’s act.

“Let us consider this less tensely,” suggested Thorne, in a voice that showed smoothness. “You and I, Fallow, should be friends. It is prejudice which places us at odds. Your ideas, it seems, conflict with mine.”

“And always will.”

“I scarcely think so.” Thorne shook his head. “Perhaps, Fallow, our views may be more similar than one might suppose. We are both creatures of an existing economic system. Modern conditions have brought you tribulation and misfortune; to me, they have meant the acquisition of tremendous wealth. I have conformed where you have not — that is all.”

There was persuasion in Thorne’s tone. It was the same smooth system that had enabled this successful capitalist to gain his millions. Fallow knew that fact, yet he could not avoid the reasoning power of Thorne’s argument.

Frederick Thorne was rising from his desk. His height was imposing; it gave him an advantage as he gazed at a downward angle toward Meldon Fallow. Clad in tuxedo, Thorne had the appearance of a dramatic actor as he stood before the velvet curtains that covered the broad window of his paneled office. The electric lamps that illuminated the room showed the deepness of the maroon draperies that hung behind the millionaire.

“Years ago” — Thorne paused reflectively with hands behind his back — “I began a career as a financier. You, Fallow, were then beginning your work as an inventor. I have gained the ultimate in money. You have reached the zenith of creative effort.

“You seem to think that our paths have differed. In a sense, they have; but basically, they have not. Both of us — Frederick Thorne and Meldon Fallow— held the same ambition. We have gained it. Our ambition was success. Remember that, Fallow. Success!”

Thorne paused emphatically. For a moment, Fallow seemed fully swayed by the millionaire’s words.

Then the bespectacled man swung back to his antagonism.

“Success!” Fallow’s exclamation was scoffing. “Call success our mutual ambition. But while I toiled, while I starved, while people hooted me as a crack-brained inventor, you enjoyed luxury. You were the object of envy — a demigod in the minds of those who worshipped wealth.”

“Quite so,” agreed Thorne. “That, however, does not change the circumstances. We followed different roads, that is all. Mine was smooth and comfortable; yours was hard and trying. Nevertheless, the fact that we meet in private conference here is proof that we have both arrived at a common destination.”

Thorne was strolling forward as he spoke. The blackness behind him — the space where his body had cut off the light began to fade as he reached the desk. The maroon curtains again showed their deep red hue.

Yet a patch of darkness still remained. Fixed on the floor was a long streak of black, extending inward from the curtains. Its dark shape ended in a silhouette.

THAT projecting blackness was the token of another presence in this room. It told of hidden eyes, peering from between the junction of the curtains. Frederick Thorne and Meldon Fallow were not alone.

“My success has been wealth.” Thorne was speaking suavely as he seated himself at the desk. “Yours has been creation. While I have been gaining millions, you have produced the last word in scientific marvel.

“Your concentrated fuel; the mighty engine which it can drive; these will revolutionize the most vital of all modern utilities: power. Under the existing conditions of society — which we must recognize as real — your invention can be transformed to wealth.

“That is why I sent for you. It is why I insisted upon negotiations. I can offer the maximum of wealth. It is plain business — profitable to us both. I have five million dollars, ready for immediate payment. You cannot do better elsewhere.”

Perhaps it was Thorne’s tinge of satisfaction; perhaps it was his reference to money as the final basis — whatever the cause, the effect upon Fallow was electric. Instantly, the bespectacled inventor regained his former challenge. The lure of millions lost its final chance.

“Wealth!” Fallow’s words came with a sneer. “You judge all by that one term, Thorne. You are the fool — not I. You say that I cannot do better elsewhere. You are wrong. I shall do better — I have already done better.”

Fallow paused and his lips formed a triumphant smile. Again, the poor inventor was taunting the man of wealth. Fallow seemed to gloat over his ability to pass up the chance for fortune.

“Why do you want my invention?” jabbed Fallow, bitterly. “I can answer. You see a chance to make more millions. You see new masses of wealth for your bulging coffers. Through my invention you can drive other corporations out of business. Power plants will lie idle. Present machines will become obsolete. Small capitalists will be ruined.”

“What of it?” interposed Thorne, with a hard smile. “You do not like capitalists. You will kill a budding crop of them if you sell me your invention.”

“Kill them for your benefit!” retorted Fallow. “Turn them into fodder that you may fatten. Let you control a greater aggregate of wealth — you alone — than they all possess together.

“They are not the ones whom I consider. I am thinking of the workers. Thousands upon thousands of men now working in factories will be thrown out of jobs if you gain my invention. That is why you will never have it!”

With that final statement, Meldon Fallow arose. He plucked his shabby hat from the edge of Thorne’s desk. He backed away, a queer, bow-legged figure. His eyes, through the thick lenses, were those of a zealot.

“The world must progress.” Thorne was rising as he made his last insistence. “The misfortune that the masses suffer cannot be avoided. Economic conditions are adjusting themselves to meet the world’s advance. Why show folly, Fallow? This offer of which you speak — it cannot equal mine — it must also cause temporary misfortune—”

“It will bring happiness!” interrupted Fallow, as he stood with his right hand on the door knob. “A group of honest men have gained the rights to my invention. They will not exploit it. Money!” Fallow’s tone showed contempt. “The little that I need will be supplied me. The rest will go to those who deserve it — to the workers, to their superintendents, to salaried officers of honest concerns. Not one penny of profit will be gained by exploiters like yourself!”

Fallow turned the knob. He stepped through the door, regardless of Thorne’s angry protest. The barrier slammed shut. Frederick Thorne was alone.

RESENTMENT showed upon the millionaire’s sallow face. Pacing across the room, Thorne indulged in furious scowls. Viewed from the slit between the curtains, Thorne’s countenance was venomous. A purplish shade had come to the millionaire’s forehead; veins swelled as he clenched his fists in fury.

Striding suddenly to his desk, Thorne pressed a button. A few moments later, the door opened. A liveried servant stood in view.

“Mr. Fallow left?” quizzed Thorne.

“Yes, sir,” replied the servant. “He seemed in a hurry, sir — and very angry—”

“That will do. Summon Mr. Shelburne. He is in the library.”

“At once, sir.”

The door closed. Thorne paced more calmly. His course carried him across the path of darkness on the floor. The millionaire, deep in thought, did not notice that motionless sign of an ominous presence. He swung as the door opened.

A smug-faced man had entered. Tall, stoopshouldered, the visitor had a manner that was half humble, half crafty. Shelburne was of middle age; baldheaded, he made an odd figure as he tilted his pate forward and peered upward toward Thorne.

“You were right, Shelburne.” Thorne resumed his seat as the baldheaded man approached. “There is no chance of changing Fallow’s decision. The man is a fool.”

Shelburne nodded in agreement.

“I was wise enough not to question him at length,” resumed Thorne, opening a desk drawer and bringing out a packet of papers, “but what he said substantiates your reports. He talked of the committee and intimated that he had given them full rights to his invention.”

Again, Shelburne nodded.

“The committee is our only chance.” Thorne was looking through the reports as he spoke. “These men have judgment. They are not fools, like Fallow.”

“You will not gain results through them,” interposed Shelburne, with a reluctant shake of his head. “I have warned you, sir. You will find that my reports are accurate. They are determined to carry out the arrangements which they have made with Fallow.”

“Perhaps,” remarked Thorne, dryly. “But when Fallow fades from the picture, it may be possible to deal with them. I am relying upon you, Shelburne.”

“Yes, sir.”

Thorne flung the packet back into the drawer. He arose and made a gesture.

“It is time for you to leave,” he said to Shelburne. “Return with a new report tomorrow.”

Shelburne bowed himself out.

THORNE strolled about the room. At last he went to a corner closet, brought out a hat and light overcoat and donned the garments. Thorne pressed the buzzer; he was at the door when the servant arrived.

“I am going out,” he told the man. “Straighten the office; then lock the door. I shall not be back until midnight.”

“Yes, sir.”

The servant’s work was brief. A few minutes later, he, too, had left.

It was then that the maroon curtains moved. From their rustling folds appeared a figure that seemed like the solid counterpart of the silhouette which now shifted on the floor.

It was a form clad in black. Shoulders were concealed by the folds of a sable-hued cloak. The upturned collar hid the features above it; so did the projecting brim of a slouch hat. A soft laugh came from hidden lips.

That sound — a shuddering whisper — was token of the stranger’s identity. This mysterious visitant was The Shadow. Supersleuth opposed to crime — a master fighter who warred in behalf of justice — The Shadow had an uncanny ability of prying into crooked schemes.

Black gloved fingers held a thin, curved pick of steel. With this instrument, they opened the lock of Thorne’s desk drawer. In the mellow light, the packet of papers came into view. Gloved hands spread the documents while keen eyes, burning from inkiness beneath the hat brim, studied the reports.

His inspection finished, The Shadow replaced the papers. The drawer clicked shut. The Shadow merged with the darkness of the curtains. A window sash raised noiselessly; then lowered.

The side wall of Frederick Thorne’s Manhattan residence adjoined an unlighted courtyard. Unseen against the blackened surface, a batlike figure moved downward from the window. Squidgy sounds — lost in the murmur of the street — were indications of the suction cups which The Shadow had placed on hands and feet.[1]

Off in the distance was the glow of Times Square. The glare of the metropolis did not reach the narrow space beside the building. The Shadow was shrouded in blackness when he reached the courtyard. Only the faint swish of his cloak betokened his departure toward the thoroughfare.

Eyes of the night! Such were the eyes of The Shadow. They had spied tonight, while listening ears had heard the conversations in Frederick Thorne’s paneled office.

Meldon Fallow had left; so had Shelburne. Frederick Thorne had departed. Last of all had gone The Shadow. His was the final part in a drama that had opened with the rejecting of a five-million-dollar offer.

His would be the final part should the play become a tragedy of crime!