Atoms of Death

CHAPTER III THE BLIND TRAIL

BRUCE DUNCAN’S diagram was an odd one. The Shadow recognized that fact as he surveyed the rough chart beneath the rays of a blue-bulbed lamp. In his sanctum, hidden headquarters somewhere in Manhattan, the mysterious master was studying his single clue.

Of Bruce Duncan’s loyalty, The Shadow had no doubt. He had rescued Bruce from danger in the past. Then Bruce had gone his way; even Harry Vincent’s contact with the young man had ended. Tonight, Bruce Duncan had bobbed back into view in most unexpected fashion.

Harry Vincent had relayed word to The Shadow. The chief had seen no reason to change his agent’s plans for meeting Bruce Duncan. In fact, the very strangeness of Bruce’s situation had indicated to The Shadow that the young man’s predicament was genuine.

The Shadow, too, had headed for the meeting point. His rescue of Bruce Duncan had been timely; the fact that evil workers had nearly murdered Bruce was capping proof that the young man’s danger had not been exaggerated.

Hence The Shadow, as he consulted the diagram, was convinced of two points. First, that its purpose was important; second, that no time should be lost in following the clue which this chart offered.

Though The Shadow felt confident that Bruce would recover from the blows that thugs had dealt him, he knew that the victim’s condition was serious. There would be no chance of getting a statement from Bruce Duncan for at least twenty-four hours, if that soon. In the meantime, Bruce’s chart represented the only fragment of the important knowledge which the thugged man had somehow gained.

THE diagram was obviously the floor plan of a house. It showed three entrances: front, back and side, thus indicating that the chart marked the layout of the ground floor only. Both the front and back doors were marked with the letter “S.” Below the chart was the brief statement that “S” represented “signal.”

The front door opened into a large hallway, with a staircase indicated at the inner end. At the beginning of the stairs, Bruce had marked wavy lines, with the letter “D.” This was explained by a bottom notation, “D” meaning “danger.”

Similar lines appeared just within the back door of the house. Even less leeway was afforded at that point. But, the side door, obscure at the edge of the chart, bore neither the letters “S” nor “D.” It led, apparently, to a totally detached section of the building. A second stairway was marked just within the door. An arrow pointed inward.

A soft laugh betokened The Shadow’s understanding. The objective must be the second story of the house. It could not be safely reached by either of the regular entrances. Only the obscure side door would provide sure access. Probably a secret entrance, it had been left unprotected.

At the very bottom of the sheet, Bruce Duncan had scrawled the notation: “18 Delavar.” That provided information regarding the location of the house itself. Delavar Street was a short, one-block thoroughfare that lay in a crisscrossed district below the numbered streets of Manhattan.

The Shadow recalled the street as one of those forgotten spots where a few old residences lay hemmed in between warehouses and loft buildings. In fact, the name of the street had been dropped, except for address reference concerning the few houses that still remained in use. Familiar with the most isolated sections of Manhattan, The Shadow could picture the very building to which Bruce Duncan’s chart referred.

It was obvious that Bruce must have come from 18 Delavar. Either he had known how to pass the danger zones at front and back; or he had taken that unprotected side exit as his means of departure from the building where menace lurked. The fact that Bruce had been trailed and thugged was proof that his absence was known.

Until this night, The Shadow had heard nothing of a lurking menace at the house on Delavar Street. Bruce Duncan’s call for help had come from clear sky. The diagram which The Shadow had gained gave no further information concerning the hunted man’s dilemma.

Mystery like this intrigued The Shadow. Not only because his chief investigations concerned the unusual; but because the most dangerous of crimes invariably lay concealed behind masked fronts. To The Shadow, one course alone lay open; namely, an excursion to the house on Delavar Street.

WHILE The Shadow was thus engaged in mapping his campaign, a tiny bulb glittered on the wall across from the table. The Shadow reached for earphones. He spoke; a voice responded across the wire:

“Burbank speaking.”

“Report,” ordered The Shadow.

“Vincent at the Metrolite,” came Burbank’s words. “Marsland and Hawkeye at the Black Ship. Marsland reports being recognized by Stinger Lacey, mob leader.

“Report, from Burke. At headquarters. Stinger Lacey one of those killed in the Third Avenue fight. Wounded prisoners taken by the police admit Stinger to be their leader. No other information.”

A soft laugh was The Shadow’s answer. Some of the would-be killers had survived that fray in which Bruce Duncan had been rescued. But the only one who could have passed Cliff Marsland’s name to the underworld was dead.

Cliff, with “Hawkeye,” the third agent in the fight, was now stationed at the mobland dive called the “Black Ship.” That meant he would soon report to Burbank for new instructions. Clyde Burke, reporter of the staff of the New York Classic, had covered detective headquarters to get information there.

All was well, despite the fact that one mobster had fled and others had been crippled but not eliminated. Apparently the crew had taken orders direct from Stinger Lacey. This, though it meant complete coverage of The Shadow’s agents, also signified that there could be no tracing of the connection between the mob and events at the house on Delavar Street. Stinger was the only man through whom such information might be gained.

Burbank’s voice came once more. This time the contact man was making a report of his own. He stated in quiet tones:

“Call made to New Jersey. Richards has received word from Lamont Cranston. He will arrive within the next half hour.”

A pause. The Shadow was considering this information. Tonight, as often, he had played the role of Lamont Cranston, taking the personality of a millionaire globe-trotter who seldom lived at his New Jersey home. The Shadow had been ready to discard his part immediately upon Cranston’s return.

Burbank, as a radio technician, visited Lamont Cranston’s home on occasions, to take charge of a sending station that the millionaire had installed in his mansion.

Tonight, therefore, Burbank had been posted to keep tab on the real Cranston’s return. Doing so, he had just learned that Richards, Cranston’s valet, had received a wire from his employer. The Shadow laughed in whispered tones as he thought of the servant’s perplexity. Richards had believed that his master was in New York.

“Call the Cobalt Club,” ordered The Shadow. “Leave word that Mr. Cranston wants his limousine brought to New Jersey. The message must be given to Stanley, as soon as he arrives at the club.”

“Instructions received,” replied Burbank.

“New instructions,” announced The Shadow. His right hand was inscribing words upon a sheet of paper. “Agents to go on special duty at midnight. Details as follows—”

The Shadow paused as his hand wrote on. Then he spoke again; the words that he gave were those that he had written in ink of vivid blue. Singularly, his hand continued writing as his voice spoke. One step ahead in his thoughts, The Shadow was passing his orders on to Burbank.

At times, the hand slowed, indicating that The Shadow was contemplating some detail. Then, before his voice approached that point, his hand sped its work, driving further ahead. Oddly, too, the writing on the paper was fading, line by line. Such was the way with the ink The Shadow used.

Thus The Shadow was making swift plans; he was repeating those that he had completed, that Burbank might follow them; and automatically, all written traces of The Shadow’s campaign were disappearing from view.

The writing ceased. The Shadow’s steady voice kept on speaking for five full seconds. Then the tones stopped. Written lines faded; as the last was disappearing, Burbank’s voice gave acknowledgment across the wire:

“Instructions received.”

Earphones moved across the table. Enshrouding darkness echoed a solemn laugh. The Shadow had completed his plan of campaign. Information from Burbank had given him an unusual opportunity. The Shadow was ready to take up his dangerous mission.

The blue light clicked out. There was movement in the darkness; then, moments later, came the hush that indicated the departure of The Shadow. He had left this hidden, blackened room by his own secret exit.

HALF an hour later, a taxi stopped a few blocks from the shortened thoroughfare that was known as Delavar Street. A tall passenger alighted, paid the driver, and strolled away in leisurely fashion. Garbed in evening clothes, he was an unusual sort of visitor in this grimy district.

The black of the evening clothes merged oddly with darkness in front of buildings. The stroller had pressed his coat lapels together. His garb had the same blackness of cloak and slouch hat. Only The Shadow could have blended with gloom in such unaccountable fashion.

A few minutes later, this same shape was gliding past a darkened warehouse that marked the corner of Delavar Street. Enshrouded by darkness, The Shadow reached an old, two-story brick house. He saw dully lighted windows on both stories; he noted a glass transom above the closed front door. Against the light that showed through the transom, he discerned the faded number “18.”

There was a narrow passage space between the house and the corner warehouse. That opening loomed black, to The Shadow’s liking. Cautiously, this strange prowler entered the narrow passage. A flashlight flickered its rays close to the brick side wall.

A glimmer showed an alcove. It was a peculiar niche with steps that led downward. The Shadow took this course; it ended with a door at the bottom of the steps. The location of this barrier corresponded with the side door on Bruce Duncan’s diagram.

The Shadow tried the door. He laughed softly as he found it unlocked. He stepped into a little entry and closed the door behind him. The flashlight showed another door at the left. This, too, opened at The Shadow’s touch.

Straight ahead was a stairway illuminated by a single light at the top. It offered access to the second floor of the building. With easy, steady stride, The Shadow ascended the steep stairs to reach a landing at the top.

Here another door led inward to the house itself. The Shadow tried the knob. This door was locked. A thin smile appeared upon the lips of the steady countenance which The Shadow wore. Again, the tall visitor placed hand to knob. At that instant, the landing light clicked off.

The Shadow wheeled about in darkness. He was too late to reach the stairs. Clicks came from portions of the wall; there was a flash of blinding light from every side. The atmosphere was charged instantly with the odor of ozone.

Huge arcs had shot a powerful current through the landing. As flaring carbons faded, new clicks announced the closing of the walls. The landing light came on. It showed the tall figure in evening clothes flattened on the floor, motionless.

The knob of the single door was opening. A trap had done its work. Entering by the path that Bruce Duncan had marked as safe, The Shadow had encountered an overwhelming snare.

Rendered helpless by a terrific electric shock, the master investigator had become a prisoner. The Shadow had fallen into the hands of those from whom Bruce Duncan had fled.