Charg, Monster

CHAPTER II. A MASTER OF CRIME

IT was precisely nine o’clock when The Shadow made his departure from the home of Frederick Thorne. The mystery of The Shadow’s presence; the keenness with which he was investigating the millionaire’s affairs — these were indications that the master sleuth suspected evil to be afoot.

Yet The Shadow had gained no evidence that immediate crime was pending. He had seen Fallow leave in indignation; he had seen Shelburne depart to act the part of spy; he had seen Thorne follow with the air of a man who intended to await developments.

The Shadow, therefore, was planning his own efforts along the channel of investigation. Until he saw a move that promised menace, it was his game to watch the factors whom he might uncover.

Fallow — Shelburne — Thorne — three men involved in negotiations that involved five million dollars! The fact that Fallow had spurned Thorne’s offer did not alter the value of Fallow’s invention. The rejection of millions actually added new worth to the inventor’s creation.

Desire for possession, craving for wealth — these were factors that could mean the beginning of crime.

Force could gain where other measures might fail. As yet, however, The Shadow had gained but one important fact: namely, that Shelburne was a spy in the employ of Frederick Thorne.

Actual agents of crime — men who could be depended upon for theft and murder — were lacking in the game. The Shadow knew that they might already be on the move; to trace them at present would be impossible. Hence The Shadow, after leaving Thorne’s, had no new lead to follow.

IT was half past nine when a stocky man appeared from the obscurity of a side street and began a strolling pace northward on Tenth Avenue. This section of Manhattan was far from Thorne’s.

Unwatched, unsuspected, the stroller continued at an easy pace. Street lights showed the hardened features of his face. Blunt-nosed, with protruding jaw, this man carried an expression that seemed both challenging and hostile.

At times there was something almost furtive in his bearing. Quick glances over his shoulder showed that he was on the lookout. When he passed a corner where a uniformed policeman was standing, the man showed no concern. It was evident that he had no present fear of the law. If a criminal, this stocky stroller was certainly one who had managed to avoid clashes with the police.

Slackening his pace, the stocky man turned a corner. He gave a quick, searching glance. His pace became more brisk. He walked half a block, passed a decrepit garage and entered an old-fashioned apartment building. Here he found a secluded door in a back hallway. He produced a key and unlocked the door.

The man turned on a light switch. Dull illumination showed a poorly furnished room; there was a door at the further wall. It proved to be an entry to a bedroom beyond. The visitor, however, stopped midway.

He opened an obscure closet door; he found a hook and twisted it. Then, with methodical precision, he gave three short presses, as one would signal with a button.

There was a short interval. Then came a dull, humming sound. A click; the wall descended like a panel, revealing a small elevator. The man entered. The panel closed of its own accord and the car descended.

The shaft was about a dozen feet in depth. The stocky man arrived at an opening into a small anteroom, with rough stone walls. There was a door straight ahead, revealed by a single light. He advanced and gave three short jabs to a button beside the door. He waited; then came a sharp click.

The barrier moved upward, evidently into a wall of the apartment above. The visitor stepped forward into a strange, subterranean room. The door dropped behind him. He stood in a mellow light, his hard face solemn with awe.

THE room, despite its stone-walled simplicity, was impressive. Its first oddity was its shape. The room was roughly triangular. The door through which the hard-faced man had entered was in the middle of one side of the triangle.

Similar doors showed in each of the other walls. But the visitor’s eyes were not turned toward either of these inner barriers. The man was looking straight ahead, toward the apex of the triangle. That corner of the room was occupied by a peculiarly woven screen.

The dull illumination came from shaded lamps — one in each corner of the room. That which occupied the central corner was above the level of the low screen.

As the visitor, hat in hand, approached the screen, there was a click from beyond. Two lamps sent their glow through the fantastic design of the curtained screen.

The visitor stopped short. His manner showed that he did not dare advance closer. Through the screen, he could observe the dim outline of a seated figure. The white folds of a turban were discernible above the head; glittering spots denoted jewels in the Oriental headgear.

The arrival waited. He could sense two steady eyes, fixed in a stare from beyond the screen. He knew that the light of the room, greater than that of the small lamps behind the screen, made his own features plain to any one who might be beyond.

Hence he, the visitor, was fully visible, while the seated being was to him no more than a dim outline. All that the standing man could catch was the motion of an arm, apparently returning from the switch that the hand had pressed.

“Who are you, intruder?” came a steady, raspy voice from behind the screen.

“I am Jerry Laffan,” returned the standing man in a subdued tone. “I am the servant of Charg.”

“Your token?”

“Three.”

This was the number which Laffan had signaled by the pressure of the hook and later with the button.

The questions and the replies were routine ones, given as signs of identity…

“Make your report,” came the commanding voice.

“The work is done,” declared Laffan. “I have seen no changes since the delivery. All is ready for the moving men. They are due tomorrow.”

“That is well,” came the voice of Charg. “Prepare for orders. Are you ready?”

“Yes,” responded Laffan. “I am ready, Charg.”

There was a slight pause; then in its harsh, monotonous tone, the voice issued its command.

“You will await the removal of the furniture,” were the words from the screen. “Do not be disturbed if circumstances cause delay. Immediately after removal, be prepared to purchase the desk.

“Be prompt in bringing it to the appointed spot. Remember: you, alone, are acquainted with that place. Are my instructions plain?”

“They are,” responded Laffan.

There was another pause. The moments seemed tense to the hard-faced man, despite the fact that he had obviously held previous interviews of this sort. He seemed to be expecting ominous words.

“Charg has commanded,” came the voice from the screen.

“When Charg commands,” returned Laffan, “his servants obey.”

“Then go.” The words came in a deep monotone. “To linger with Charg means death.”

Laffan saw the arm move behind the screen. A hand clicked off the inner lights. The fantastic surface of the screen was no longer transparent. Laffan, however, did not wait for further observation. Those final words had been significant.

Laffan turned. He heard a click; the outer door was rising. With hastening steps, Charg’s servant made his prompt exit. The barrier dropped a scant two seconds after he had passed.

ENTERING the elevator, Laffan went up to the apartment. The way to the little passage was open; the wall closed as soon as Laffan was clear of the elevator. The hook turned automatically into place.

Laffan left the apartment. He was cautious when he reached the street. Satisfied that no one was present to witness his departure, Charg’s servant walked hastily away. His heavy shoulders shrugged with a nervous twist.

Despite the fact that he was in Charg’s service, Jerry Laffan, hard though he was, had undergone a nerve strain during his brief visit to the subterranean abode. Such was the power of Charg over this henchman.

Cold, steady orders: Charg’s words had been forerunners of crime. They had been the utterances of a master mind; the statements of a grim personage whose commands meant life or death.

From a strange adobe beneath a secluded apartment, the orders of Charg had been issued in a tone of finality. By tomorrow, the scheme of the plotter would be nearing its fulfillment.

Death. Charg had given the word as a sinister threat to his agent. If Charg ruled through death, it was certain that murder formed the theme of coming crime. Death was in the making. It would be certain death, dealt through the cunning of a crafty brain.

Such was the menace that existed unknown to The Shadow. Charg, strange exponent of evil, had spoken. His hidden hand had already prepared the stroke.