Atoms of Death

CHAPTER XXII WITHIN THE HOUSE

“COME on, you!”

Rutledge Mann raised his head from between his hands. He looked up toward the doorway to see a rough-faced fellow who had growled the command. Mann arose dejectedly from the dilapidated chair on which he had been seated.

Ever since his arrival in the house on Long Island, Mann had been kept alone in a little, barren room. His captors had carried him there through a hallway. They had cut his bonds, ungagged him and shoved him in the chair.

Barred windows and bolted doors had made escape useless. Mann had waited patiently for new developments. At last some crisis had arrived. Slowly, the chubby-faced prisoner walked out into the hallway that his summoner indicated. A revolver muzzle jabbed Mann’s back. He was urged along the hall.

Light showed from an opened door. The mobster behind him urged Mann through the opening. Blinking in brilliant light, the captive investment broker stepped into an oddly arranged room.

White plastered walls showed on all sides, except where doorways broke the calcimined spaces. A few chairs were located in one corner; in one of these was Basil Tellert, his face drawn and troubled.

In another corner was a flat-bowled projector that reminded Mann of a circular electric heater, built on large scale. Mann, informed by The Shadow, knew that this must be one of the disintegrating ray machines that could eat away substances that came too close to its wide mouth.

In another corner, partly covered by a torn canvas, was another device. It was an elongated projector shaped like the shell used in a field gun. It was more than three feet in length and its mouth was a foot in diameter.

Mann knew that this was an experimental atomic gun, an attempt by Professor Jark to amplify the work of the disintegrating ray. Apparently, Jark had been experimenting of late, for a heavy, insulated wire was attached between the atomic gun and the floor plug.

The tough looking mobster jostled Mann into a chair beside Tellert. As he sat down, Mann noted others who were standing about. Pacing the corner near the atomic gun was a white-haired individual whom Mann knew must be Professor Jark.

Leaning against the wall was a tall, heavy-browed fellow who answered the description of Matt Theblaw. Near him was a long-jawed onlooker who Mann decided was Luke Cardiff. Then a door opened and a short, sandy-haired individual stepped into view. A half-smoked cigarette dangled from the newcomer’s pasty lips. Digger Wight, decided Mann.

Matt Theblaw looked toward Professor Jark. The old man nodded wisely; then stepped forward and studied Mann through thick-lens spectacles. Mann met the professor’s gaze. He realized immediately that he was facing a man of shrewd instinct.

“Good evening, Mr. Mann,” began Jark, with a chuckled cackle. “I regret exceedingly that your presence here has been a matter that involved forced action. Nevertheless, it was imperative that I interview you.”

“I understand,” remarked Mann, serenely.

“Mr. Tellert has explained to me,” declared Jark, “that he received word from Bruce Duncan, my former secretary. The word came through you. I might mention” — Jark’s manner was leering — “that I had already formed the theory that Duncan had communicated with you and Tellert.

“It required considerable persuasion before our friend here” — Jark indicated Tellert — “was willing to admit that my assumptions were correct. But I finally convinced him that it would be wise to speak the truth. That advice, Mr. Mann, will apply to you also.”

Mann nodded soberly as Jark paused for a response.

“You received a letter from Bruce Duncan,” asserted Jark, his cackle slightly harsh. “You were asked to communicate with Mr. Tellert.”

“That is true,” admitted Mann.

“The letter,” resumed Jark, “requested you to denounce me as a man of crime. You and Tellert decided to brand me as a swindler.”

“In a way, yes,” returned Mann, slowly. “We issued statements to the newspapers.”

“But you mentioned nothing about Bruce Duncan.”

“No. We thought it unwise until we managed to locate him.”

“Very good. Where is Duncan?”

“I do not know.”

Mann had come back with a prompt reply to Jark’s quick question. The professor scrutinized the prisoner closely; then nodded in satisfaction. His eyes became narrow through their lenses as he started a new tack.

“Bruce Duncan,” asserted the old man, “was rescued by a person who calls himself The Shadow. Tell me: who is The Shadow?”

“The Shadow?” echoed Mann, his round face puzzled. “The name is strange to me.”

Jark stared closely to see if the investment broker might be bluffing. Mann retained his composure. Jark raised a hand and motioned to Digger Wight. The short man opened a door. Mobsters shoved Cliff Marsland into view.

“Do you know this man?” snapped Jark.

MANN studied Cliff soberly, as the mobsters forced the prisoner forward. In easy, methodical fashion, he eyed every feature of Cliff’s face. Then, as if troubled by his own inability to give an affirmative reply, Mann shook his head.

“I am sorry,” he told Professor Jark. “This gentleman is an absolute stranger.”

The old inventor eyed Mann as keenly as the investment broker had studied Cliff. Jark rubbed his chin reflectively; then turned to Theblaw and gave a shake of his shocky head.

“Neither Tellert nor Mann knows Marsland,” decided the professor. “I think it would be best to offer terms. Do you agree?”

Matt looked to Luke, who nodded. Digger joined in the nod. Jark swung about to Tellert and Mann.

“I am willing,” he stated, “to release you if either of you can offer proper bond. By that I do not mean cash. I require some form of assurance that will make it impossible for you to betray me.

“On that account, I shall allow you to talk matters over, together. I promise you that your conference will not be disturbed. Moreover, I shall place Marsland with you. Perhaps you may wish to hear his opinions, for he has been a prisoner before tonight.

“Moreover, he is an agent of a certain meddlesome party who calls himself The Shadow. We know that fact, although Marsland has not chosen to admit the connection. Perhaps, by this time” — Jark chuckled, gloatingly — “Marsland is convinced that not even his mysterious chief can aid him. That is why I think it wise to leave him with you.”

Jark waved toward a door behind the prisoners. Digger walked over and opened it. Mobsters made nudges with revolvers. Mann and Tellert went into a room beyond the door. Cliff followed. The door closed behind them; the three men heard a bolt click shut.

A DIMLY lighted room, with three chairs. Barred windows as in Mann’s former prison. Seating themselves, the trio looked at each other. Tellert, after studying Cliff, spoke in a whisper to Mann.

“Be careful,” urged Tellert. “We may be overheard. What is more, this other man may be a spy.”

Mann nodded.

“If you know him,” added Tellert, his lips scarcely moving as he whispered, “ask him for a cigarette.”

Mann made no move. He deemed it unwise to give even Tellert the true information. The promoter had weakened under a previous grilling, according to Jark’s statement. Having told old facts, he might tell new.

“We’ve got to get out of this, Mann,” asserted Tellert. “What do you think of this offer of terms? Can you give Jark the security he wants?”

“I don’t see how,” replied Mann, soberly. “Have you any way to help yourself out?”

“Yes.” Tellert considered. “One time, Mann, I was connected with a certain enterprise which failed. If facts concerning my connection were known, it would be damaging to my reputation.”

“How damaging?”

“Very little.” Again Tellert was almost inaudible; yet Cliff could hear him as well as Mann. “Nevertheless, I can convince Jark that I would be branded as a criminal if the news came out.”

Tellert concluded with a slight nod. Mann caught the cue. Picking up his question, he asked, in a raised voice.

“You mean you might go to prison for your former connection?”

“I do,” replied Tellert, his voice also raised. “I was connected with the Augustine Gold Company, Mann. They sold watered stock; and if I mention that to Jark, he will know that he has the goods on me as much as I have on him.”

“Then he will release you,” agreed Mann. “But why will he do so?”

“In order that I can squash future stories in the newspapers,” rejoined Tellert. “That is his game, Mann. I suppose he will also want me to cover up your absence. I can do that for him also.”

Rising, Tellert paced the floor in front of Mann and Cliff. His figure was between them and the bolted door, the only entrance to this room. Again in his whisper, as he faced the others, Tellert spoke:

“Once free, I cannot talk to the police. Who else can I inform? Who can aid you?”

Mann shook his head soberly. Cliff Marsland was staring straight at Tellert.

“Write something,” urged the promoter, “while I am covering you. Drop it in my pocket as we go back to the other room.”

Again Mann shook his head; but this time, Cliff’s hand stole to his coat pocket. His captors, after searching him, had left him objects which seemed unimportant. Among them were the short pencil and the pad.

“Shall we go out?” questioned Tellert, in a normal voice.

Mann nodded. Cliff arose. As Tellert went toward the door, Cliff followed. Mann, rising, came behind them. He saw Tellert knock at the door; then he saw Cliff’s hand ease over and drop something into the promoter’s pocket.

A psst from Cliff; a nod from Tellert. Then a bolt clicked; the door opened. They stepped out into Professor Jark’s improvised laboratory.

A STOOP-SHOULDERED gray-haired man was standing near the professor. The moment that the prisoner arrived, Jark eyed them and indicated the newcomer.

“Do any of you know this man?” queried the professor.

No one responded.

“No one knows Doctor Nordis Baird?”

No response. Jark looked at the physician, who shook his head to indicate that he knew none of the trio. Jark’s trick had failed.

“I can offer surety, professor,” declared Tellert, suddenly. “If you will release me, I can convince you that I shall be unable to betray you. That is, I can convince you that I would suffer more than you would, should all facts come out.”

Jark made no reply. He eyed Tellert as though expecting that a game was up. He studied Mann and Cliff as well. Then his gaze turned as a door opened in the far corner of the room. A mobster was entering. It was Matt Theblaw who spoke to him.

“Hello, Louie,” greeted Matt. “Where’s Pete? Wasn’t that him coming in?”

“He’s right here behind me,” returned Louie.

Another figure entered. Matt recognized the features of Pete. The second arrival was wearing an old brown coat and had a square package tucked under his arm.

“What kept you so long, Pete?” demanded Matt, while Jark remained silent until this palaver had ended.

“Louie, for one thing,” growled The Shadow, in a tone that answered for Pete’s. “I was out front there. He didn’t show up to open the door.”

“I didn’t hear you honk,” put in Louie.

“Why should I honk?” queried The Shadow, in his disguised growl. “That would have meant noise.”

“Pete’s right,” broke in Matt. “How about Nicky, Pete?”

“Couldn’t get him. That was another reason it took me so long.”

“You got the cigars, though,”

“Yeah. Where’ll I put them?”

“Over on the window sill.”

Jark turned to speak to the prisoners; then paused again as Matt offered another query.

“Did you bolt the inside door, Pete?” he asked.

The Shadow, back to the crook, gave a shake of his head. He was putting the package on the window sill as he growled:

“Thought Louie was to do that.”

“Guess it’s my job,” vouchsafed Louie. “I’ll go down and bolt up, Matt.”

This time Jark waited to make sure there would be no interruptions. Then, in a sarcastic voice, he queried:

“So you are anxious to leave us, Tellert?”

“Quite anxious,” admitted the promoter. “Let me explain, Professor Jark—”

“Sounds phony, prof,” inserted Matt, stepping forward. He gave beckoning signal to Luke and Digger. “Let’s see what this guy’s got on him. Search his pockets while I hold him.”

“No, no!” protested Tellert, wildly. “No, no, I tell you—”

Matt muffled Tellert’s mouth while Digger dug into the promoter’s pockets. The little crook gave a chuckle of elation as he brought out a tiny wad of paper. Matt pounced upon it and opened the pellet.

“Here it is, prof!” he exclaimed. “We got it! It says: ‘Call Shadow’ and it gives a phone number. It came from Marsland. Is that right, Tellert?”

THE promoter nodded weakly. Matt looked jeeringly at Cliff, who made no comment. Mann was tense. He had expected some result such as this; but he had gained no chance to give Cliff warning of his fears.

“You’ll spill more from now on, Marsland,” sneered Matt. “Bring the mob in, Luke” — he pointed to the door to the hall — “and tell them to start the heat. We’ve got the wedge we want. We’ll make Marsland squawk.”

Of all the mobsters, only one was present; hence Matt had given Luke the order to bring in the rest. That lone underling was Pete, standing by the window sill. His hands were coming from his coat, as though to be ready with guns if needed.

But this was not the real Pete. It was The Shadow. He was prepared to make an unexpected thrust; to mow down opposition before Luke could give the call. He was waiting only until crooks stepped away from the prisoners. Digger, alone, had drawn a gun, to urge Cliff forward. Opportunity was almost in The Shadow’s grasp.

Then, at this critical instant, the corner door burst open. Two men came hurtling inward, each with a revolver. They had come up by the stairway from the garage. The foremost was Louie; behind him was the real Pete!

By some freakish chance, Louie had heard a noise from the rear of the coupe. He had found Pete and released his pal. The two had dashed up, Pete giving his story on the way. Right now, Louie was crying the truth as he thrust his gun toward the figure by the window sill.

“That’s not Pete!” howled Louie. “He’s The Shadow! The Shadow, I tell you! Get him!”

Hard upon Louie’s damaging words came a response from the false Pete. The Shadow’s disguised lips delivered a laugh that left no doubt. As he whisked two huge automatics from beneath his coat, The Shadow still raised his mocking challenge in defiance of the odds that he must face.