The Killer

CHAPTER I AT THE PIER

BILLOWS of heavy fog were swirling from the North River. The low-hanging clouds that had swept Manhattan with an early evening drizzle were dipping to meet the waters of the harbor.

Trapped smoke which could not rise amid the moisture-charged atmosphere, added a smudgy tone to the thick mist. The fog seemed a living monster. From its depths came the hoarse, raucous blasts of steamship whistles, accompanied by the high-pitched, staccato blares of tugboats. These penetrating sounds, their sources invisible, gave the fog a weird existence that might well have been its own.

Moreover, the fog possessed a motion. The piers along the Manhattan river front broke its creeping mass; from the rifts thus caused came little swirls of dense mist that resembled the clutching tentacles of a mammoth octopus.

This illusion was most apparent upon the lighted stretch of the Central American Shipping Pier. Powerful incandescents, set at regular intervals, seemed feeble as they battled against the blotting inroads of the fog. One gust of thick cloudiness stretched its enveloping folds completely along the pier; it cleared reluctantly, and left spots of misty blackness that dispelled themselves like vanishing ghosts.

A dock worker, pushing a trunk truck along the pier, stopped suddenly to stare at an obscure corner where a patch of fog was melting like black smoke. The truck pusher’s jaw dropped. His hands became momentarily inert.

In the center of that dissipating mass the man had seen a pair of burning eyes, fixed upon him in a steady gaze!

As the dock worker managed to grip the handles of the trucks the weird hallucination ended. Only shadowy blackness remained where fog had been. There was no further sign of the brilliant orbs. They had vanished with the haze, as if some phantom creature had returned to the spaces from which it had materialized.

The dock worker moved along. He shuddered as he threw a quick glance back over his shoulder. His footsteps dwindled with the squeaking roll of his truck. Then, from that obscure corner came a sighing sound, a soft, throbbing laugh that was audible only in the proximity of the spot where it was uttered.

OUT of the blackness stepped a figure. A phantom shape of blackness, it moved along the pier with silent stride. Its form became evident as it stopped between two piles of boxes. Revealing light betrayed its characteristics, but none of the men upon the dock could see it because of the stacked boxes.

Even under flickering glare, the creature which had come from the blotted corner seemed more spectral than human. Tall, motionless, this being was a statuesque form clad entirely in black.

A long cloak of sable hue hung from hidden shoulders. Hands were garbed in thin black gloves. The upturned collar of the cloak hid the face of the personage who wore it. The broad brim of a black slouch hat completely obscured the upper portion of the apparition’s features.

Strange though this shape appeared, there were men in New York who would have known its identity had they been present at this spot. Evil men would have recognized the masterful personage, but they would not long have lingered had they been here to view the spectral being.

The figure clad in solid black was The Shadow. Mysterious master of darkness, he was one who warred with crime. Where evil brewed, The Shadow appeared. Silent, invisible in motion, The Shadow was the most dreaded force that battled with the hordes of New York’s underworld.

Many had heard of The Shadow; few had seen him. Minions of crime who had met him eye to eye had never lived to tell the details of such meetings. The Shadow, when he watched, was a fleeting shape of blackness. The Shadow, when he struck, was a being of wrath who came from darkness and returned to it when his work of justice was accomplished.

What was The Shadow’s purpose on this North River pier? Only The Shadow knew, and the soft tones of whispered mirth that came from his hidden lips were the token of The Shadow’s readiness. Those throbbing touches of mockery were the echo of shrill blasts which came from the whistles of panting tugboats, just beyond the pier.

Pale lights revealed a massive bulk that came swishing slowly inward. Spattering wavelets licked greedily against walls of steel. A large steamship, its twenty thousand tons exaggerated by the effect of the fog, was being warped beside the pier.

Cleaved fog billowed. The ship seemed to cut the atmosphere as it did the water.

As mist swirled everywhere, The Shadow stepped from behind the boxes. His tall form glided toward the edge of the pier, swerving with the eddies of blackened mist, unnoticed by any human eye. The Shadow reached a large post near a light. There his form merged with the darkness. Stationed invisible, The Shadow could see all that happened within the sphere of flickering illumination.

Cries along the dock. Men were mooring the liner. A gangplank clattered from the side. Sailors appeared. Their hats bore the wording that named their boat — the steamship Yucatan.

Luggage was coming from the ship. Suitcases and trunks, lettered with identifying labels, were stacked upon the pier. Customs officials were ready. Passengers appeared upon the gangplank.

THE SHADOW’S piercing eyes were steadily turned toward one stack of luggage that lay beneath a placard which bore the letter “M.” The pile of baggage was no more than a dozen feet from the post where The Shadow stood. The invisible watcher had chosen this vantage point with definite purpose.

Two men walked into the light. One, his overcoat buttoned tight against the chilling mist, was tall and stoop-shouldered. His face set beneath the brim of a gray fedora hat, showed him to be an individual of determination. At the same time, his quick, shrewd glances marked him as one who had the ability to keep his own plans to himself. Even in the dim light, the man’s visage showed a tan that could only have been gained by long sojourn in southern climes.

The other man who approached the pile of baggage was obviously a Mexican — the servant of the first. He was short, squat, and placid of manner, but his face showed the crafty steadfastness that betokened Indian ancestry. The man was a mestizo — one of the inter-racial group that make up the bulk of Mexican population.

A customs officer approached the pair; simultaneously a ship’s officer hurried from the gangplank and approached the customs man. He offered words of explanation to the government agent.

“This is Mr. Mullrick,” said the ship’s officer, pointing to the tall man with the buttoned overcoat. “Harland Mullrick. The Mexican is his servant man, Pascual. All the luggage is together.”

The customs officer returned a mumbled reply. He conversed with the ship’s officer, then nodded and began an examination of the baggage. Evidently all had been arranged for Pascual’s entry into the United States.

The examination completed, the customs officer applied the necessary labels. Mullrick’s luggage was loaded on a truck. With Pascual at his heels, the tall man walked along the pier.

The Shadow followed. His fleeting form became a thing invisible as it swerved to the very edge of the pier and glided along beside the black hulk of the Yucatan.

There were hundreds of eyes upon the ship and the pier, yet not one pair viewed the phantom that traveled almost through their midst. When The Shadow had reached the bow of the ship, he was ahead of Mullrick and Pascual. There, against the blackened wall of the passenger room, he swung inward toward the gate, where Mullrick’s baggage was being checked for its customs labels.

The small truck that carried trunks and bags was between The Shadow and the customs checker. As Mullrick, Pascual, and the official watched a dock worker push the truck through from the pier, The Shadow, with a stooping glide, swept forward and passed the watchers under cover of the luggage. Beyond the gate, The Shadow reached an obscure spot among a row of motor trucks.

Peering from darkness, The Shadow surveyed a man who had alighted from a taxicab. This individual was a hard-faced fellow of medium height, who wore a heavy overcoat and leather gloves. He was looking for someone coming from the gate.

The Shadow’s piercing gaze, turned toward Mullrick and Pascual, found the same objective which the waiting man had chosen. As Mullrick advanced, the man from the taxi grinned and peeled off his right glove. He sprang forward to shake hands with the passenger from Mexico.

“Hello, Jerry,” was Mullrick’s greeting. “Thought you’d be here. I see you have a cab.”

“Sure thing,” returned Jerry. “I didn’t want to chance you missing me by calling my hotel.”

MULLRICK turned to Pascual. He spoke to the servant in a mixture of Spanish and English, finishing his remarks by indicating the man who had come to meet them.

“Senor Herston,” explained Mullrick. “They say ‘Mr. Herston’ here in New York. Savvy, Pascual?”

“Si, senor,” responded the impassive servant. “Senor Herston. He ees Meestaire Herston. He ees the man you have call Jerry.”

“Right,” commended Mullrick. “What about the luggage, Jerry?”

“I’ll give them the address,” responded Herston. He walked to the dock man who stood beside the truck, and wrote an address on a large sheet of paper. “You can arrange for the delivery?” he questioned.

The attendant nodded. Herston handed him a tip.

The man laid the sheet of paper on a trunk and fumbled in his pocket for tags to attach to the various pieces of baggage. Mullrick and Pascual were on their way to the cab. Herston turned to follow them.

A gloved hand came from darkness. Creeping forward, it plucked the sheet of paper from atop the trunk. The eyes of The Shadow read the address which Jerry Herston had written. “Apartment 4H, Belisarius Arms,” a street address in the Nineties; this was the information which The Shadow gained.

The shipping man had found his tags. He looked for the sheet of paper. Not seeing it on the trunk, he looked toward the flooring. As his glance went downward, the sheet of paper suddenly crept upward, projected by an invisible hand. It again lay upon the trunk. Standing up, the dock man noticed it. He scratched his head as he laid the tags beside it.

How that paper had gone and returned was a mystery to him. He wondered if his eyes had deceived him. His eyes, again, were missing something. They did not see the obscure form that dwindled off toward the street beyond the pier. The Shadow was making his departure.

The taxicab had gone. The Shadow had seen it turn up the broad avenue which follows the North River. Again, The Shadow’s form was momentarily in view as it passed beneath a light, then it faded.

A MINUTE afterward, a trim coupe pulled away from a parking space, and took the direction in which the cab had gone.

Guided by a driver whose form was lost in its interior, the coupe whirled northward, picking spots through the occasional traffic, gaining swift headway as it neared the incline leading to the elevated express highway along the river front.

Its motor humming, the coupe shot by a taxi that was on the upper highway. The Shadow’s sparkling eyes glimpsed the occupants of the cab. Harland Mullrick, Jerry Herston, Pascual — the trio formed a silent group. The Shadow’s laugh came softly as his coupe sped ahead.

A meeting at the dock; three men riding to an apartment; The Shadow already cognizant of their destination. There could be but one answer to the situation. The Shadow had an interest in the affairs of these three.

When The Shadow sought the answer to a problem, it was because he scented impending crime. Stealthy and invisible, he had a way of discovering secrets which would enable him to work in the cause of justice. A lone wolf who battled crime, inspired by reasons of his own, The Shadow used methods that baffled all who encountered him.

There was a reason for the meeting between Harland Mullrick and Jerry Herston. When they reached their destination, these two men would discuss affairs. That conference would be illuminating. Therein lay the cause for The Shadow’s speed.

When Harland Mullrick and Jerry Herston talked together, they would be in the presence of an unseen listener. Whatever passed between the two would be known to The Shadow!