Charg, Monster

CHAPTER XVIII. AGENT VERSUS AGENT

IN a time space of one second, The Shadow had learned the power of Charg. The master sleuth had divined that Charg’s killers were creatures of small size but excessive weight. He had not, however, counted upon their expansive qualities.

Meldon Fallow had been crushed by beating arms of steel when a robot killer had popped from the rear portion of his desk. Herbert Whilton had been slain by a device which must have acted in a forward fashion, issuing from the box on the dumbwaiter lift.

The robot which The Shadow now fought was one of the type that had slain Fallow. It had been placed here in an apartment which was a trap. The taboret was anchored to the floor.

To The Shadow’s quick brain, all was apparent; moreover, another factor was explained. The starter of the robot was the vibration of a voice. Fallow’s slayer had been tuned to the inventor’s mumble; Dyke’s to the chemist’s basso; this slaying machine to The Shadow’s laugh!

Recorded sounds had been arranged to put machinery in motion, each for the particular victim whom the robot was set to kill. The robot would not respond to other sounds. This mechanical creature which The Shadow fought was here to encounter him alone!

Though such thoughts flashed through The Shadow’s brain, his physical form was busy with a desperate task. Fighting furiously, The Shadow was trying to break loose from this mangler that held him. His automatic, descending, clicked against a plunging arm. The weapon clattered to the floor.

Two viselike rods encircled The Shadow’s body. Crushing, they gripped against his ribs while the other pair of metal plungers swung downward toward his head. With superhuman strength, The Shadow warded off the beating blows; with one arm dropping, he jolted a rod that gripped his body.

Metal hands, clawlike and sharp, clutched for The Shadow’s throat. The black form twisted in the lower grip. The hands ripped away the collar of The Shadow’s cloak. Then, as The Shadow vainly sought to catch a rising arm, a steel rod pounded downward toward his skull.

A fling of The Shadow’s arm; the fabric of the felt hat; these were all that stopped the full force of the robot’s blow. The stroke that fell upon The Shadow’s head was stunning, but no more. Groggily, The Shadow balked another swing. Writhing, he tried to offset the force of lower pistons that were aiming for his ribs.

OTHERS had succumbed rapidly to the robot method of attack. Only a fierce fight — action as rapid as that of the mechanical killer itself — could save The Shadow from terrible death. Battling with all his might, The Shadow was holding his own, despite the pounding that he had received.

But bone and flesh could not stay steel indefinitely. Though The Shadow put the fight on even terms, he could not harm the robot. Moreover, The Shadow’s strength was due to weaken; the mechanical killer could keep on indefinitely.

Twisting in the grip of the lower rods, The Shadow surged upward. He jammed a knee against a mechanical arm. He caught the smashing upper pistons with his powerful fists. It seemed a hopeless effort; yet it was a tribute to The Shadow’s unyielding spirit.

Ready for death, grimly battling against an irresistible force, The Shadow sought a last triumph. He would, at least, hold Charg’s killer at bay if only for a fleeting instant.

Plunges shortened. Gripping rods were stayed. Pounds were caught by The Shadow’s gloved fists. With slouch hat tilted over his eyes, with cloak half ripped from his body, The Shadow forced a temporary stale-mate.

Like a man of iron, he gripped this killer of steel. With head bent forward, he became a living statue. The lamplight showed a strange, unbelievable tableau; a figure, in tattered black, rigid in the grip of a four-armed thing of steel.

Motion ceased as The Shadow flung his last ounce of strength into this hopeless contest. He had gained the only victory that he might have — a triumph that could last for seconds only, against the pounding, battering fury of those metal arms.

Then, of a sudden, came the strangest feature of the conflict. Steel arms shot inward from The Shadow’s grasp. The black form lost its hold and tumbled to the floor as the steel cylinders dropped downward.

The robot’s head clicked into its body. The open portions of the taboret fell into place.

The mechanical killer had disappeared. It had given up the fight. Only The Shadow remained in view, a crumpled form upon the floor. His strength was spent. His final effort had left him half-unconscious, battered and bruised, yet released from the relentless arms which had encircled him!

Through sheer endeavor, The Shadow had gained a result which no other had ever obtained against Charg’s killers. The robot had been designed to spring forth at the sound of the proper voice vibration. It had been set to pummel and smash its victim to death. But also, it possessed a third mechanical action — a simple device that the designer thought was perfect.

These robots were made to fight only so long as they encountered motion. With Fallow and Dyke, mechanical killers had battered their victims to death; when the bodies had stilled, the robots had automatically released and dropped into their cramped hiding places.

Such would have happened with The Shadow, had he merely kept on struggling. But through his strength; through his mad desire to show that he could stay those pounding arms, though only for mere seconds, The Shadow had brought a temporary cessation of action.

The designer had believed that this could only happen when the victim’s death had been gained. The Shadow had proven otherwise. He had held the robot stationary long enough for the final mechanism to respond. Charg’s killer had gone back into its box. The Shadow, though bruised and helpless, was alive and safe!

MINUTES passed. The Shadow did not move. Crumpled face downward on the floor, his body sprawled in twisted fashion, he lay huddled beneath the spread folds of the torn cloak. The effect of the pounding blows was showing at this belated period.

More minutes passed. The Shadow did not stir. To all appearances he was dead. The door of the apartment opened. Two men entered. Laffan and Daper, servants of Charg, had come as their master had bidden. It was eleven o’clock.

Laffan eyed the crumpled body on the floor. Daper, pulling a revolver from his pocket, made as though to aim. Laffan stopped him.

“He’s dead,” declared the stocky man. “Why try to shoot him?”

“Might as well make sure,” snarled Daper. “You know who it is — The Shadow!”

“Make sure, eh?” quizzed Laffan. “While this is still here?” He pointed to the taboret. “Come along. Let’s lug it out.”

“You’re coming back?”

“Sure. That’s the orders. If shots are needed, I’ll fire them then — when I can scram without carting a ton of iron along with me.”

Daper nodded. It was good logic. It was his job to get the taboret away. Motioning to Laffan, Daper moved to one side and wrenched away the fastenings that held the taboret upon the floor. Laffan did the same at the other side. Together, they carted the heavy taboret from the room.

Few people lived in the Aurilla Apartments. Had any seen Laffan and Daper, they would have decided that the pair were moving men, taking out furniture for another departing tenant. However, no one observed the agents of Charg until they reached the street.

There, they put the taboret aboard a light truck. They had chosen the side door as their exit. There were no passers to see the loading. But there were eyes across the street. Harry Vincent whispered to Cliff Marsland. The latter mumbled a reply.

As Daper climbed aboard the truck, Harry sidled from his hiding spot and did a sneak to the corner.

There, he entered a coupe. The truck pulled away from the Aurilla Apartments. As Laffan stood near the passage to the side door, Harry’s coupe appeared upon the street.

For a moment, Laffan stared suspiciously. He wondered why the coupe had appeared so promptly; then he decided that it could only be a chance car that had turned in from the avenue. Laffan looked across the street. Seeing no one in plain view, he turned and entered the side door of the apartment building. He was cautious as he ascended the stairs.

A FEW minutes later, Laffan was viewing The Shadow’s huddled form. An evil smile showed on the lips of Charg’s henchman. To all appearances, The Shadow was dead, but Laffan intended to make sure. He stooped to roll the body on its back. As he succeeded, The Shadow’s shoulder hunched. Laffan leaped away, toward the wall.

The Shadow’s cloak was wound about his throat and face. His slouch hat had been pounded firm upon his head. The brim was ripped; through the crevice, Laffan saw a pair of burning eyes. A hand moved upward. It was drawing an automatic!

Laffan yanked his gun from pocket. At that instant, The Shadow’s fist relaxed. The automatic fell heavily to the floor. The eyes closed. The Shadow sank and lay gasping. His last effort had failed.

Laffan’s lips were gloating. His finger found the trigger of his gun. Ready to make a get-away, Charg’s agent desired to be sparing with his shots. He took careful aim for The Shadow’s heart.

A creaking sound, accompanied by a whirl of air. Laffan swung toward the outer door — almost a complete turn from where he stood. He was face to face with a man who had swept the barrier open — a firm-faced intruder whose hand clutched an automatic.

As Laffan’s hand came to aim, as his finger sought to yank the trigger, the automatic boomed. Laffan’s finger faltered. His arm sagged; his trembling hand loosed the revolver; the weapon clattered to the floor.

Gasping, Laffan clutched both hands to his breast. With a convulsive shudder, he floundered forward and rolled upon the floor, still clasping his body in mortal agony.

Agents had met. Jerry Laffan, servant of Charg, had encountered Cliff Marsland, henchman of The Shadow. Harry Vincent had taken up the trail of Daper; Cliff Marsland had decided to see what Laffan was about.

Noted as a steady gunner, experienced in the service of The Shadow, Cliff Marsland had served his master well. He had gained the draw on Laffan. He had drilled the man with one well-aimed shot.

A feeble laugh from the floor. The Shadow’s form was moving. Keen eyes were upon Cliff Marsland; flashing eyes that told their commendation. Half rising, his strength returning, The Shadow crawled to the spot where Laffan lay.

THE blazing eyes of the fighter who had come from the realm of death were staring into the glassy gaze of the rat who was going to his doom. The Shadow was recovering, Laffan was dying.

“Speak.” The Shadow’s tone was sinister. “Tell me of Charg — of Charg, who could not save you.”

Laffan was moaning. In the throes of death, he yielded to these forceful words. He began to gulp short, sinking phrases.

“Tomorrow — Charg.” Laffan’s eyes were yellowed. “Eight — eight o’clock. Charg.”

“You will be with Charg,” came The Shadow’s hiss. “Speak as you will speak to Charg.”

“Charg. I–I am the servant — of Charg,” choked Laffan. “My token — is three — always three. When Charg — Charg commands — his servants obey.”

The speech stopped. Laffan’s lips wavered. The Shadow’s whisper sounded in the dying ear.

“Obey,” responded Laffan. “Obey. To — to linger with — with Charg means— means death!”

With the final gasping word, Jerry Laffan expired. The Shadow’s laugh came as a weird echo of the last uttered breath. The Shadow knew that Laffan had been repeating a set formula. The servant had been talking as he would have talked with Charg.

The Shadow arose. His tall form wavered. Cliff Marsland caught The Shadow before he could weaken.

Moving toward the door, gripping the shoulders of his trusted agent, The Shadow was leaving this spot where death had at last gained a victim.

KEYS came forth in The Shadow’s hand. They dropped into Cliff’s grasp. While The Shadow leaned against the wall, his agent locked the door of the apartment.

Then the descent. Cliff’s shot had evidently not been heard. Aided by his agent, The Shadow reached the street. They gained the corner; when they reached a coupe that Cliff had parked there, The Shadow was the first to enter.

The black-clad fighter’s grogginess was gone. Bruised though he was, he had regained sufficient strength.

His voice came in tones that were a steady whisper from the gloom inside Cliff’s car.

“The car will be returned tomorrow,” announced The Shadow. “Report to Burbank tonight. Await new instructions.”

Cliff nodded. The coupe moved away from the curb. The Shadow’s agent stood amazed at the recovery of his chief; then, with a grim smile of satisfaction, Cliff turned and strode along the avenue.

A laugh sounded within the rolling coupe. The Shadow — with Cliff’s aid— had scored a double victory.

Laffan’s body would remain undiscovered. Charg would not know that his agent had been lost.

A new opportunity lay ahead. Tomorrow night, at eight o’clock, The Shadow might meet Charg himself!

Cliff Marsland had performed real duty. If Harry Vincent should report success, the way would be paved.

One o’clock. A bulb glowed on the wall of The Shadow’s sanctum. Earphones clattered. A voice came over the wire:

“Burbank speaking.”

“Report.” The shuddering whisper of The Shadow spoke.

“Report from Vincent.”

“Report.”

“Vincent trailed the truck. He followed the man who drove it. The man went to an apartment house just off Tenth Avenue—”

Burbank’s tones continued while The Shadow listened. The final step was complete. The Shadow knew that the other minion — Harry had not gained Daper’s name — had reported to Charg.

With what The Shadow had learned from Laffan, the stage was set. The meeting was assured. A laugh came strident through the sanctum as the bluish light clicked off.

Tomorrow night, at eight o’clock, The Shadow would be face to face with Charg. In the confines of a hidden lair, The Shadow would encounter the fiendish chief whose orders were those of murder.