Charg, Monster

CHAPTER VI. THE BROKEN TRAIL

A LIGHT was burning in The Shadow’s sanctum. White hands were at work; their long fingers sorting clippings that lay upon the polished table.

Twenty-four hours had passed since Rutledge Mann’s visit to the building on Twenty-third Street. In that time the contact man who posed as an investment broker had sent more packets through the mail chute of the office that bore the name B. Jonas.

The Shadow’s clippings had come from Mann. Though cut from New York newspapers, most of them dealt with news from another city. The entire country had been electrified by dispatches from San Francisco.

There, the headquarters of a notorious dope ring had been uncovered on the outskirts of Chinatown.

Men, long sought by the government, had been found dead. Some terrific battle — its cause unknown — had ravaged the lair of the evil band.

It was supposed that the conflict had been between members of the crew itself. The laugh that whispered through The Shadow’s sanctum came as the master’s eyes were reading this report. The Shadow knew the truth; it was he who had tracked the desperate crooks to defeat them in their den.

The Shadow had departed; he was three thousand miles from San Francisco. His efforts had remained unknown. His laugh, alone, was the grim recollection of a swift fray that he had fought and won against odds.

The San Francisco clippings slid aside as The Shadow finished with them. That work was done. Newer and more sinister duty lay ahead. Here, in New York, The Shadow was seeking a foe who struck by stealth. He had taken on a task of vengeance. He must find the man responsible for the murder of Meldon Fallow.

CLIPPINGS told but little. More important was the note that had come from Rutledge Mann. That message lay upon The Shadow’s table. It was a blank paper now; for its coded lines had faded after The Shadow had read them. In all correspondence with his agents, The Shadow made use of a special ink that disappeared shortly after contact with the air.

There was a paper, however, that had not turned blank. This was the typewritten list of the furniture that Clyde Burke had seen at Fallow’s. With each item was a brief description of the object itself and its position in the murdered man’s apartment.

Through the newspaper reports, The Shadow had gained a thorough knowledge of the circumstances, so far as the police had viewed them. Cardona still held to the theory — obvious in his opinion — that the murderer had entered Fallow’s apartment to deliver death.

Lacking knowledge of a motive, the ace detective had inclined to the theory of a maniac.

The Shadow, however, knew more concerning Fallow than did Cardona. The Shadow could see the reason for the inventor’s death: namely, Fallow’s unyielding decision that his supermotor must never be used for the gain of wealth.

With knowledge of this motive, The Shadow sought subtlety behind the murder. Brutality in the killing of Fallow seemed at odds with the purpose that must exist. Why a killer of vicious strength — a mauler whose clumsiness must certainly mean stupidity?

How could such a man have prowled, unseen, into the apartment house, there picked a strong lock, and later have made a clean departure? How had the dragnet failed to pick up a brute of such description?

The Shadow sought the answer. He was looking for the methods of a schemer. The very fact that the police were looking for a strangler was proof of strategy that had swept the law’s endeavor into a hopeless path.

One fact impressed The Shadow. Fallow’s death had been coincident with the sale of furniture. Any one concerned with the inventor’s affairs could have learned that Fallow intended to move.

One by one, The Shadow eliminated the items in the list. There were objections to all, except the desk. It was the object before which Fallow’s body had been found. Could it have formed a hiding place for the killer?

The question produced a paradox. The brutal manner in which Fallow had been mangled suggested the power of a giant — not the limited strength of a midget or a dwarf. Yet paradoxes, to The Shadow, often pointed toward the solution of a crime.

Subtlety again. A slayer of small proportions, depending upon a cramped hiding place, would do well to make his work appear as the efforts of a mighty strangler. Such was the reasoning that brought a new laugh from The Shadow’s unseen lips.

The bluish light clicked out. The laugh was repeated. Shuddering echoes died. The Shadow had departed. His sanctum, a room hidden somewhere in Manhattan, was an empty, black-walled chamber that held the stillness of a tomb.

IT was dusk in Manhattan. The gloom of night had been approaching while The Shadow had been in his sanctum. Lights were gleaming on Ninth Avenue when a taxicab stopped in front of a decrepit furniture store. Ephriam Goggins, the toothless, bewhiskered proprietor, shambled toward the door of his shop as a tall man entered.

Goggins saw chances for a worth while sale. The stranger looked like a good customer. In the gloom of the dimly lighted shop, his features seemed like the chiseled countenance of a statue. His tall form cast a weirdly shaped shadow along the grimy floor.

“Good evening.” The customer spoke in a steady, quiet tone. “I have come to look for furniture.”

“Like what?” questioned Goggins, with a pleased grin. “Chairs— tables— anything.”

“I require a desk,” stated the stranger. “Something substantial, of good quality—”

Goggins stroked his whiskers. He nudged his thumb over his shoulder. Turning, he led the way toward the rear of the shop; then into a side room. An array of desks — from battered relics to modern office equipment — was before the customer’s eyes.

Keenly, the tall visitor studied the furniture. Goggins watched him, hoping that he would see the desk he wanted. At last, there was a shake of the firm head.

“I have seen desks,” said the stranger, “that have drawers of double width — but at one side only. Desks with ornamental tops divided with patterned lines.”

“Such a desk!” exclaimed Goggins. “I had one like it only to-day. It came in here from the truck last night. Today — it is gone.”

“Too bad.” The potential purchaser shook his head. Then, in a quiet tone, he added: “Who bought it?”

“Some new customer,” informed Goggins, with a shoulder shrug. “He came in this morning. He looked around. He saw the desk and took it.”

“You delivered it, I suppose?”

“No. He sent a truck of his own. Two men came in and carried it out. He paid cash — gave no name.”

The stranger turned and strolled toward the outer door. Old Goggins followed, insisting that a similar desk might be obtained later. Then the customer was gone. Ephriam Goggins blinked as he stared from the door of his shop. The tall visitor had vanished like a specter.

THE disappearance was not so mysterious as it had seemed to Goggins. Leaving the door of the shop, the stranger had paced along the street. In almost instinctive fashion, he had edged toward the inner portion of the sidewalk to merge with the gloom of dark-fronted buildings.

Such was the method of The Shadow. Though he had come to the furniture shop in disguise, posing as an ordinary customer, he made his departure in a fading, inconspicuous fashion. Even without his black-hued cloak and hat, The Shadow’s swift leave-taking had been deceiving to the blinking gaze of Ephriam Goggins.

In his brief visit to the old man’s shop, The Shadow had substantiated his theory of a concealed killer in Meldon Fallow’s apartment. He was convinced, however, that Goggins had been an innocent factor in the affair.

Some one had planted the desk in Fallow’s place. Perhaps the inventor had bought it at some shop.

Possibly he had received it as a gift; or its purchase might have been suggested by a supposed friend or acquaintance. There was also the possibility that a substitution had been made during the inventor’s absence from the apartment.

Fallow, himself, might have been able to tell the story of how he acquired the desk. The inventor, however, was not alive to speak. The important point, to The Shadow, was that the desk had unquestionably figured as a hiding place for some murderous monster.

The brain in back of Fallow’s killing had learned that the furniture had been sold to Ephriam Goggins. He had let the old dealer’s movers carry away the desk; then he had arranged its prompt purchase. The Shadow had arrived too late to uncover the desk at the furniture shop.

Full night had fallen. Blackness was the shroud beneath which The Shadow could travel cloaked in black.

Following his departure from the furniture shop, the singular being was untraceable. It was not until an hour afterward that his phantom form manifested itself. A silent shape moved through the darkness of the courtyard beside the secluded home of Frederick Thorne.

As on his previous visit to the financier’s residence, The Shadow scaled the wall with ease and agility. He reached the window of the office. His gloved hand thrust a thin wedge between the portions of the sash.

The window yielded.

Gaining the inner ledge, The Shadow peered through the heavy velvet curtains. Clad in his black garments, he formed an invisible figure. His keen eyes saw the lighted room. The place was empty; but everything indicated approaching occupancy.

The Shadow waited. A sinister figure from the night, he was again present to learn the affairs of Frederick Thorne, the man of wealth who had shown such interest in Meldon Fallow’s invention.

The Shadow’s trail was broken. The removal of the desk from the shop of old Goggins had left no evidence or further trace. Clues might be sought later; for the present, The Shadow could profit best at Thorne’s.

Thus he remained, a specter of darkness. The master of the night was seeking shreds of evidence that might enable him to piece the chain of crime.

The Shadow was seeking the unknown.