Charg, Monster

CHAPTER VII. HENCHMEN MOVE

WHILE The Shadow, lurking behind the folds of the maroon curtains, was awaiting the return of Frederick Thorne, a strange scene was taking place in another portion of Manhattan.

The setting was the lair of Charg. A wiry, shock-headed man was standing before the ornamental screen behind which sat the chief. Like Jerry Laffan, this minion of Charg was awestruck as he viewed the hazy form beyond the semitransparent barrier.

“Who are you, intruder?”

It was the rasp of Charg. The standing man chewed his puffy lips. Hardened of face, with the pug-nose of a prize fighter, he did not look like a man who would yield to fear. Yet his voice gave a quiver as he replied:

“I am Bart Daper. I am the servant of Charg.”

“Your token?”

“Two.”

“Make your report.”

“All is ready.” Daper’s voice was steadying. “I have the truck. I picked up the box. It is loaded.”

A pause. Then came Charg’s harsh tone.

“You will wait for Laffan. He will meet you at the appointed spot. Follow his instructions. Make your report tomorrow night. Are my instructions plain?”

“They are.”

Another pause. Daper waited tensely, expecting words that he knew would come, yet which he seemed to regard as fearful and ominous.

“Charg has commanded.”

“When Charg commands, his servants obey.”

Bart Daper blurted his reply to Charg’s sinister statement. He swung quickly toward the door as he heard the final intonation from behind the screen:

“Then go. To linger with Charg means death.”

Daper did not wait to see Charg’s arm reach for the light switch. He was already on his way to the door when it raised. He passed the lifted barrier and heard it clang behind him. He shuddered as he departed by the elevator.

Evil was afoot tonight. The fact that two minions had reported to Charg was proof of it. Insidious work was under way, unknown to The Shadow. Had the master sleuth encountered luck in his visit to Ephriam Goggins, he might even now be on the trail of Charg’s hard-faced henchmen.

But The Shadow’s trail had ended; and at the very time when Bart Daper departed from Charg’s lair, The Shadow was engaged in watching another type of henchman — one who served Frederick Thorne.

THE SHADOW was still concealed behind the curtains of the paneled office. Shelburne had entered the room, accompanied by a servant. Apparently, Shelburne had been ushered in here to await Thorne’s arrival. This was proof that the man of wealth would soon appear.

Minutes ticked by. Ten — fifteen — twenty. Shelburne busied himself at times by reading over papers that he had placed on Thorne’s desk. At intervals, however, the spy became impatient. He arose and paced the floor; a troubled expression showed on his sly, smug face.

Thirty minutes. The door opened and Frederick Thorne entered. The multimillionaire was attired in tuxedo. He nodded curtly to Shelburne and walked to the desk. The smug spy stood aside while Thorne took his swivel chair.

“Sit down,” ordered Thorne.

Shelburne took a chair opposite. His face was toward the curtains. The Shadow could watch his change of expression. By this, in a sense, The Shadow could gain a reflected picture of Thorne. The millionaire’s back was toward the window; but through Shelburne, The Shadow could divine the indications that Thorne might register.

“I must leave very shortly,” announced Shelburne, in a pleading tone. “The committee meeting will take place in half an hour. Towson may question me if I am late.”

“I understand,” growled Thorne. “I expected to be here sooner. I was delayed in an appointment. A man came to see me — at the club— and he was late. Well, Shelburne, keep your eyes and ears open. That’s all.”

“I understand, sir.”

“Remember one thing,” warned Thorne, in a serious tone. “Meldon Fallow has been mysteriously murdered. So far, the police have found no reason for his death. Actually, there is none so far as I can see.

“Nevertheless, Fallow’s affairs have been partly my concern — and, therefore, yours. It behooves both of us to proceed with caution.”

“Yes, sir.” Shelburne nodded and his face showed worriment. “Did the police question you about Fallow being here?”

“They did. I told them that I was negotiating with him for an invention that was as yet undeveloped. That statement was satisfactory. Your reports” — Thorne paused to thumb papers before him — “show that the police also talked with Bryce Towson. No mention was made of my name?”

“None, sir. I was present at the time. You see, Towson called Dyke after he heard of Fallow’s death. Dyke advised him to call Whilton. Towson did so; and Whilton said that it would be unwise to give any details concerning the supermotor.

“It belongs to the committee now that Follow is dead. They intend to discuss it tonight. That is why I must be there—”

“All right,” interrupted Thorne. “You can leave in a few minutes. What did Towson say to the police?”

“He simply told them that Fallow had consulted with him. He was quite upset over Fallow’s death. He called them voluntarily, you see, to tell them that Fallow had visited his home earlier in the evening.”

“You are sure that he said nothing more?”

“Absolutely, sir.”

FREDERICK THORNE had arisen. He was pacing back and forth across the room. His face was stern.

Suddenly, he wheeled toward Shelburne. The Shadow noting the spy’s face, knew that an expression of ferocity must have come over Thorne’s countenance, for Shelburne quailed involuntarily.

“Fallow was a fool,” stormed Thorne. “I told him so the night that he was here. I offered him five million dollars for his invention. Now he is dead— little better than a pauper.”

A harsh laugh came from Thorne’s lips. Then, in a fierce tone, the millionaire resumed his discourse:

“I am the only man,” he declared, “who could offer that price. I did not tell Fallow why — it would only have increased his insane stubbornness. But you, Shelburne, can understand what is at stake.

“I have gained a grip upon power industries throughout the country. Those interests are too big for one man to control. I can become the greatest of power magnates, should I persist, but never dictator, unless—”

Shelburne nodded. He understood. Thorne, nevertheless, completed his statement.

“Unless,” added the millionaire, “I gain control of Fallow’s invention. With that one instrument, I can demand my terms.

“Fallow, the fool, thought that I intended to revolutionize all industry. I could not argue with him, for my actual scheme would have incited him fully as much. I would run existing power plants out of business yes — but only those which would not meet my terms.

“With massive motors built from Fallow’s plans” — enthusiasm was Thorne’s ruling tone — “I can compete with power plants and cut costs to the marrow. They will be forced to sell to me.

“Gradually, perhaps, I can change the industry, introducing supermotors instead of heavy turbines and costly water power plants. All that belongs to the future. I shall have my way. I shall become the greatest of all power magnates!”

Shelburne listened. His face showed the reflection of Thorne’s enthusiasm. Tool though he was in the millionaire’s gigantic plan, Shelburne could see reward for himself. Thorne was coming to that point.

“Shelburne.” Thorne leaned upon the desk and wagged a stern finger toward his henchman. “Your part is important. As secretary of the committee which now owns the Fallow motor, you can observe any change which may become evident in their plans.

“I have read your reports. I know that the three men — Dyke, Towson and Whilton — have agreed to keep the invention from control such as mine. But all decision rests with them.

“Fallow is dead. How and why — those factors do not matter. He was the chief obstacle to my plans. Of four, I have only three with whom to deal. The most rabid one of the group has been eliminated.”

Thorne paused and eyed Shelburne shrewdly. The power magnate had turned slightly; his profile was toward the window. The Shadow could see the curl of his puffy lips. Thorne’s sallow face had become threatening in expression.

“It is unfortunate,” rasped the magnate, in sarcastic tones, “that Meldon Fallow should have died. Unfortunate, yes, but not without certain benefit. Throughout my career, Shelburne, I have taken advantage of events as they occur.

“Meldon Fallow was murdered. His death may be the work of some unknown enemy. Perhaps” — Thorne paused reflectively — “the menace which hung over Fallow may strike at some one else. Whatever the case, Fallow’s death should have some bearing on the attitude of the committee. So be observant, Shelburne: observant — and silent.”

With his final statement, Thorne became rigid as he stared toward his listening spy. There was an insidious glare in the power magnate’s eye. The Shadow, like Shelburne, could observe it.

Shelburne arose. He knew that the interview was ended. It was time for his departure. He bowed and left the office. Thorne’s servant entered.

“I shall remain here for the evening,” announced the power magnate. “I am expecting visitors from Chicago — representatives of an Illinois electric power concern. Usher them in when they arrive.”

Maroon curtains trembled slightly as Thorne took his swivel chair behind the desk. The power magnate did not observe the motion. He did not know that another visitor had taken departure.

The Shadow, like Shelburne, had reason to depart. The master sleuth, like Thorne’s spy, was interested in the affairs of the committee that had gained full control of Meldon Fallow’s remarkable invention.