The Key

CHAPTER II THE SHADOW ENTERS

NIGHT in Manhattan. The glare of the metropolis cast a flickering glow upon the walls of massive buildings. Light, reflected from the sullen sky, gave artificial dusk to silent offices that would otherwise have been filled with inky blackness.

A blackened figure was moving through the gloom of a long corridor. Like a phantom of darkness, the mysterious shape approached a door and paused, crouching. Dully, words showed upon the glass panel of the barrier:

A soft laugh shuddered in the corridor. The phantom shade came close to the door. Soft clicks sounded as a blackened hand worked upon the lock. The barrier gave. Entering the office of the International Import Company, the gliding figure straightened as it neared the window. Momentarily, it was revealed as a form clad in flowing cloak, with head topped by a dark slouch hat.

The Shadow!

Weird prowler of the night, strange adventurer whose paths were those of danger, this sinister visitor had come with some known purpose to the office of the International Import Company. He had picked the lock of the door; his next design would soon be evident.

For The Shadow was a master who battled crime. A lone wolf amid the towers of Manhattan, a traveling, living phantom who could fade into unseen hiding places, a fierce, ready warrior who could spring into view with the same startling rapidity, The Shadow had chosen a career that meant death to crooks.

His presence in this office could mean but one thing. The Shadow had come to forestall crime. A master investigator, aided by capable agents who did his bidding, The Shadow had a remarkable ability for ferreting out the truth in evil schemes. Crookery was afoot tonight. The Shadow was ahead of it.

Gliding from the window, The Shadow reached a corner where the heavy door of a vault showed dimly in the gloom. While distant electric signs brought dull flickers to the office, The Shadow’s flashlight directed a steady beam upon the combination. His right hand held the torch; his left, ungloved, was working with a knob. A sparkling gem — The Shadow’s girasol — glittered changing hues amid the light.

THE SHADOW’S touch was uncanny. A soft laugh came from above the flashlight. The left hand slipped into its thin black glove. The same hand drew open the door of the vault. In the space of half a dozen minutes, The Shadow had solved the combination.

A locked gate showed within. The Shadow made short work of it. He found the combination of this second barrier. He stepped into the vault. The flashlight glimmered upon metal drawers set in the wall. Suddenly, the light clicked out.

Swishing toward the front of the vault, The Shadow drew the outer door shut. This done, he softly closed the metal gate. Dropping to the rear of the vault, he crouched in Stygian darkness. His keen ears had told him of approaching footsteps in the outer corridor.

The Shadow had acted with swift precision. Less than five seconds after the big door of the vault had closed, a key clicked in the office door. Two men entered. One crossed the room and drew the shades. The other then turned on the office light.

“Open the vault, Hurnor,” ordered the man who had gone to the windows.

“All right, Frenchy,” replied the other, in a cautious tone. He strode across the room, turned the combination and drew back the heavy door. He paused, with hand upon the inner gate.

“Ready?” he asked.

“No,” returned “Frenchy.” “Just wanted to make sure your vault was locked. We’ll wait for Lapone.”

The interior of the vault was blackened, hence The Shadow was invisible to the men in the office. They, however, were plainly in view to The Shadow. Keen eyes that stared from beneath the hat brim were studying the waiting men.

One, a bald-headed man of portly build; was Cyrus Hurnor, who owned the International Import Company. The other was Frenchy Duprez, a crook known in Europe as well as America; a man who had cunningly evaded the law by scampering from one continent to the other when places became too hot for him.

“Worried, Hurnor?” Frenchy laughed in grating tone. “You don’t need to be. Lapone and I have been behaving. We’re supposed to be has-beens so far as crooked work is concerned.”

“But both of you were in wrong—”

“A year ago. They thought we had a lot of stolen rocks on us. That’s when we unloaded the swag to you for safe keeping. Don’t worry about Lapone and me. We’re ace high right now. I’ve got a clean bill of health in Europe; he has the same in South America. We’re going back where we belong. You’ll get your cut when we fence the stuff. It’s cold now — those jewels have been forgotten in a year.”

Hurnor nodded. His doubts were fading. His face, however, showed one last qualm.

“But you come here at night,” he protested. “That means that you think some one may know—”

“I’m taking no chances,” interposed Frenchy, “and neither is Lapone. I don’t think any one is on my trail; neither does Lapone. I called him at noon to-day.”

“Was that necessary? I thought you arranged this meeting last night.”

“We did. I called Lapone on another matter—”

A soft tap was sounding at the outer door. Hurnor shivered. Frenchy smiled and nodded.

“It’s Lapone,” he stated. “Let him in.”

HURNOR went to the door to admit a tall, dark-faced fellow who looked like a Spaniard. Lapone waved a greeting to Frenchy. With Hurnor, he approached the vault.

“I’ll open the gate,” said Hurnor, nervously. “Are you ready?”

“Wait a minute,” interrupted Frenchy. Then, to Lapone: “Did you send that cable?”

“Sure,” grinned the dark-skinned man. “Here’s the copy of it.”

Frenchy took the paper. He nodded as he read the message; then tore the sheet in quarters and threw the pieces in the wastebasket.

“You’re sure your friend in Rio will understand it?” questioned Frenchy.

“Positive,” replied Lapone.

“He’ll be sure to find Warren Sigler?” came the next inquiry.

“Why not?” demanded Lapone. “You said Sigler’s at the Hotel Nacional. That’s the first place my friend will pick.”

“All right.”

“What’s this about?” The question came nervously from Hurnor. The fake importer wanted an explanation from Duprez. “I thought you fellows were keeping clear of complications. You weren’t to unload the swag yet—”

“Easy, Hurnor,” interposed Frenchy. “This has nothing to do with the jewels.”

“What is it then?”

“Lapone has contacts in South American cities. Friends, like I have in Europe. What’s more, we’ve both got friends in New York. This morning, I received a call from a man whom I know. He wanted a job done — an important one — down in Rio. It was something that he had anticipated. I had already told Lapone to notify his contact in Rio, should a message be going through. Well — the message came to me — I called Lapone and he sent it. That’s all.”

“But why didn’t this man send the message himself?”

“You were never cut out for real work, Hurnor,” returned Frenchy, sadly. “My friend did handle his own communications until this one was necessary. Then he wanted something that couldn’t be traced. He had a job, I tell you. A job to be done. That’s why the word was to be passed by Lapone.

“It’s got nothing to do with jewels. So keep your shirt on. Let’s get busy. Open that gate. Lapone and I will each take half of what’s inside.”

“We’ll let Hurnor make the division,” suggested Lapone.

“No need,” decided Frenchy. “We’ll get it fifty-fifty, in a rough way. In a hurry, too; there’ll be no time for argument.”

The gate had swung open under Hurnor’s pull. The portly man had pressed a light switch. His bulky form obscured the view of the others. Suddenly, Hurnor emitted a gasping cry. He came staggering backward from the lighted vault.

“Get him!” he screamed. “Get him! Quick!”

Frenchy and Lapone had thrust hands to pockets even before Hurnor shouted. As the stout man cleared the opening by his backward motion, both crooks aimed for the vault, knowing that an enemy must be within. As Hurnor’s words rang in their ears, they saw their rising foeman.

THE SHADOW was in the center of the vault. A blackened outline, his shape made a perfect silhouette target for the upcoming guns. Snarling vicious oaths, Frenchy and Lapone sought to fire.

One revolver spoke. It was Frenchy’s. The crook loosed his first shot too quickly. A bullet winged the side of the vault. Lapone, determined upon perfect aim, pressed finger to trigger a half second after Frenchy’s futile shot.

To The Shadow, half seconds were long intervals. Between Frenchy’s shot and Lapone’s attempt, The Shadow acted.

Long tongues of flame spat from his extended hands. The roars of twin automatics came cannonlike from the echoing hollow of the vault.

Lapone’s finger wavered. Frenchy lost his hold upon his gun. Side by side, these crooked pals went slumping to the floor. They had shared the spoils of crime in life. They had gained their reward — death — together.

Frenchy and Lapone had found the contents of the vault. They had split fifty-fifty, in a hurry, and in a rough way that they had not expected. Each, instead of stolen jewels, had received a hot bullet from an automatic.

It was Hurnor, roused by the shots, who provided the most startling opposition. Wildly, the false importer leaped forward as his companions fell. Lunging through the door of the vault he hurled his huge bulk upon The Shadow.

As Hurnor grappled for an automatic, his adversary whirled in his grip. Together, The Shadow and his bulky antagonist came spinning from the vault. Gloved fists opened. Automatics clattered to the floor. Hurnor screamed in triumph as The Shadow’s form sank beneath him.

Then came a wild gasp from the big man’s lips as the black-garbed form shot upward like a massive spring of steel. The Shadow’s hands gained their grip. Hurnor rose struggling toward the ceiling. His body did a cartwheel as snapping shoulders acted beneath the black cloak.

Landing flat on his back, Cyrus Hurnor lay stunned. He did not hear the ring of a distant alarm; the response of a whistle from the streets. But The Shadow heard. He knew that a watchman in the building had caught the sounds of the fray.

Whirling toward the wastebasket, The Shadow stooped and gained the pieces of the cable message. Yellowed paper disappeared beneath the black cloak. Swiftly, the black-clad figure, clearly outlined in the lighted office, moved toward the outer door.

THREE minutes passed. Cyrus Hurnor moved. He came up to a seated position and rubbed the back of his neck. He stared at the prone forms of Frenchy and Lapone. Footsteps were pounding along the corridor. Wildly, Hurnor looked about him. He saw that The Shadow was gone. These were human enemies who were arriving!

Gaining his feet, Hurnor grabbed Frenchy’s revolver. Hurnor knew that the police investigation would uncover the wealth in stolen gems that lay within the opened vault. Caught with the goods, Hurnor swung to the door just as a policeman hurled the barrier open.

Hurnor fired. The excited shot went wide. The policeman responded. Hurnor fired again, but he was slumping. The bluecoat, pumping lead into the big target before him, had gained the edge in the fight. Hurnor’s spasmodic, dying shots were useless.

The Shadow had broken the jewel ring. He had dropped two enemies who had sought his life. He had left the third to meet the law. His hand remained unseen. By the cards, tonight should have ended The Shadow’s work.

CROSSING trails, however, had changed the story. While the police were studying the scene of death in the import office, The Shadow was studying the clue to other crime. A bluish light was burning in a black-walled room. Its rays, focused upon a table, showed hands that held torn sheets of paper.

The Shadow was in his sanctum — a hidden abode which he alone could enter. Before him, on the table, his hands placed the fragments of Lapone’s cable to Rio de Janeiro. The message read as follows:

To The Shadow, this cable, apparently addressed to a concern in Rio de Janeiro, was the tip to crime. “Executive” meant some one to be eliminated; “representative” signified a person en route to Brazil.

The Shadow recalled words uttered by Duprez, in questioning Lapone. Frenchy had made it plain that the instructions were not for the man to whom the message had been sent — Guyon — but for another whom Frenchy had named.

Upon a blank sheet of paper, The Shadow inscribed the name that he had heard Frenchy mention; with that name, the address:

A soft laugh whispered through the sanctum. The writing faded from the paper — a peculiar phenomenon due to the special ink that The Shadow used in transcribing written thoughts.

Hands stretched forward and gained earphones. A little light glowed on the wall. A quiet voice came over the wire:

“Burbank speaking.”

In a weird, clear whisper, The Shadow began to speak. To Burbank, his contact agent, he was announcing his intended plans. Danger — joined with crime — lured The Shadow. He was responding to the beck.

The Shadow was setting out for Rio de Janeiro. On the morrow, a swift plane would be carrying him en voyage to the Brazilian capital. The master who hounded men of crime was ready to take the course that Edwin Berlett had already begun.

Twenty-four hours behind the corporation lawyer, The Shadow would be on the trail of crime! The Shadow had entered the field where insidious evil lurked.