Chain Of Death

CHAPTER XXI THE SUMMONS

To the three men who manned the boat that had rescued Richard Glade, the appearance of The Shadow was unexplainable. To Glade, himself, the answer to the riddle came with drumming realism.

Glade knew that this amazing enemy must have followed him overboard; that The Shadow had easily spied the bobbing trunks and had clung to the side of the buoy opposite Glade himself.

Glade had been on the near side of the trunks when the searchlight had played upon them. When the trunks were hauled aboard the launch, The Shadow had dived under them. The resistance of the trunks, when they balanced on the side of the boat, had been due, in part, to The Shadow’s added weight.

Glade had no weapons. He had dropped his revolver when he had plunged from the Mauritius. He did not realize that The Shadow, too, was weaponless. Plunging to safety when Raoul Darchonne’s shot nicked the pillar beside him, The Shadow had let his automatics go.

His weird, vengeful laugh, delivered toward Glade and the crew of the launch, was an act of important purpose. Glade’s three companions were rooted as they viewed this brine-dripped shape half crouched upon the side. Against the dullish sky, The Shadow’s cloaked shape seemed bulky and formidable as it rose upward with long, spreading arms.

One man acted. That was exactly what The Shadow wanted. Hand to pocket, the startled member of the crew began to yank a gun. The deed marked him as The Shadow’s first antagonist. The black form plunged forward into the cockpit, landing squarely upon the hapless victim.

As the fellow dropped, another man fumbled for a gun while the third dived into a low cabin at the front of the cockpit. The Shadow, swinging up from his first victim, delivered a sweeping blow that sent the second man sprawling against the side. A gun clattered from the fellow’s hand. It landed at the feet of Richard Glade.

Desperately, the crook pounced to clutch the weapon. He would never have reached it had it not been for the unexpected intervention of the third member of the crew. As The Shadow swung toward Glade, the man who had dived for safety came lurching from the cabin, swinging the huge crank handle of the motor.

BEFORE The Shadow could stay the stroke, the husky man brought the metal bar forward with a mighty swing. It passed beneath The Shadow’s rising arm. With a crackling thud of rib-breaking force, the handle smashed against The Shadow’s side and sent his tall form sprawling toward the stern.

Glade had gained the gun. He fired late at the falling form in black. Once — twice — his hand paused for a certain aim as The Shadow’s body slumped in the rear of the cockpit! As Glade’s gloating lips oathed their triumph, as his finger rested on the trigger of his gun, The Shadow’s hand swung upward.

A twist of the wrist; the glitter of the revolver which The Shadow still clutched safely — these came almost simultaneously with a rapid shot. Aiming fast while Glade steadied, the black-garbed fighter beat the snarling crook to the all-important shot.

Glade never pressed a trigger again. His form crumpled. The revolver left his hand. He had thought The Shadow incapable of meeting his attack. Yet The Shadow, despite the terrific impact of the flying crank handle, had delivered the needed stroke.

Two men were lying half-unconscious in the cockpit. The third, the big fellow with the crank handle, was staring into the muzzle of The Shadow’s revolver. Before him lay the huddled form of Richard Glade. The crook had received The Shadow’s bullet through the heart.

The Shadow arose. His triumphant laugh broke weirdly above the swell. The man who had struck him down stood helpless before the pointed gun, wondering how any living being could have withstood that mighty blow.

“Start the motor.”

The hissed command came from The Shadow’s lips. Backing from the tall, bulky warrior in black, the man inserted the crank handle and obeyed The Shadow’s order. Stooped above the motor, he did not see The Shadow’s next maneuver.

Spreading his dripping cloak, The Shadow released straps that hung across his shoulders. The reason for his bulkiness was explained as a thick, sturdy life belt plopped down in the cockpit.

The Shadow had anticipated a trip overboard. He had girdled himself with the belt when he had donned his black attire in Harry Vincent’s stateroom. The Shadow had not needed the life belt in the water, for his silent swim to the floating trunks had been a short one; but it had served him in good stead later on.

Those thick, pleated sections of compact cork had been as effective as armor against the hard swing of the crank handle. The blow had sent The Shadow sprawling. It had not crippled him.

The man at the motor had given up all thought of resistance. He had drawn the crank handle from its shaft. Submissively, he tossed his erstwhile weapon back into the cabin. The Shadow, looming high in the rear of the cockpit, was at the tiller.

The other men were coming to their senses. Like their fellow, they decided to offer no attack. The Shadow’s right hand kept the revolver in readiness. His hissed tones warned them to stay where they were.

THE SHADOW had guessed the mettle of these men. They were not gangsters; they were of less dangerous ilk. The launch was an ex-rum runner; its crew, furtive men who had eked a living by meeting ships outside the twelve-mile limit, to bring contraband cargo ashore.

Richard Glade had evidently hired them to trail the slow-moving Steamship Mauritius as soon as it had left the harbor. They had been paid their price. They did not even know the contents of the trunks that Glade had brought aboard. They were counting, perhaps, upon a further payment when they landed. That was all.

Cowed by their fear of the strange being who had followed Glade aboard, the three men awaited further orders as The Shadow turned the boat toward the Long Island shore. They did not know their destination; they could see, however, that the new pilot was steering for some defined objective.

From each rising swell, The Shadow was guiding by a distant headland that showed black beneath the moonlight. The launch, well-motored, purred rhythmically onward. It neared the shore.

A hissed order. One of the men slowed the motor. The Shadow piloted the launch between two points of land. The lights were out by his order; the moon provided sufficient illumination for The Shadow to watch his prisoners and to guide the craft as well.

The launch had entered a small cove. The motor was stopped at The Shadow’s bidding. The boat grounded on a level, sandy beach. It swung sidewise, due to a final twist of the tiller. Three men arose as The Shadow hissed an order. They pitched the trunks over the side with the willingness of seamen ridding themselves of a Jonah.

“A flashlight,” hissed The Shadow.

One man produced the required object. He gingerly extended it toward the being at the tiller. The Shadow clicked the switch. He blinked a signal beam toward the shore. Thudding footsteps sounded on the sand.

Two men arrived. They were Clyde Burke and Cliff Marsland, agents of The Shadow, who had been stationed here through final instructions from Burbank. They hauled the trunks ashore. At sight of two new enemies beneath the moonlight, the crew of the launch remained motionless, even though The Shadow no longer held his gun.

The Shadow was leaning over the dead form of Richard Glade. He was drawing water-soaked papers from the crook’s pockets. He found a wallet among these effects. The rays of the flashlight were focused steadily upon Glade’s dead face.

A soft laugh rippled from The Shadow’s lips as keen eyes took in every feature of the dead man’s countenance. The members of the crew shuddered at the sound. The Shadow picked up the gun that lay beneath Glade’s body. Leaving the crew weaponless, he stepped forward; three men shuffled aside as he advanced.

The Shadow reached the cabin. He stepped upon its roof. With a single leap, he gained the shore, where Clyde and Cliff were standing by the lashed trunks. The men on the boat, realizing that they were free, hurriedly started the motor. The former rum runner chugged in reverse. Its occupants were wild in their effort to get away from that spectral shape which stood upon the shore.

Cliff and Clyde nodded as they heard The Shadow’s whispered command. They unlashed the trunks while The Shadow’s figure faded in the darkness. When the agent brought the first trunk toward a spot where each had left a car, they heard one motor leaving. The Shadow had taken a coupe brought by Cliff. He had left Clyde’s sedan.

The trunks were too large for the sedan. The Shadow’s agents opened them and removed the contents. They loaded the car and consigned the trunks to the bushes. Clyde took the wheel and headed in the direction which The Shadow had taken toward Manhattan.

TWO hours later, a spectral figure entered an apartment in the nineties. The Shadow had arrived at the residence of Richard Glade. He had learned the address from the dead crook’s papers. Methodically, the investigator began a search of the place.

An electric heater, designed in imitation of a coal-grate, was standing in a fire place. Its upper section was filled with chunks of darkened glass that looked like lumps of coal. With a soft laugh, The Shadow stooped and tipped the heater forward. The false coal came clattering to the hearth.

Lying on the wire screen above the unused heater was a large envelope. The Shadow ripped it open. He found a stock certificate labeled Aztec Mines. He found a document inscribed in the blocked code which he had deciphered. He found two smaller envelopes which he opened.

The Shadow’s laugh reechoed softly through the room. At intervals, the reverberation was repeated, while The Shadow studied the coded by-laws that he had uncovered. At last, the hands of The Shadow appeared, ungloved, beneath a desk lamp in the corner of the room.

In Glade’s documents, The Shadow had learned the names of the dead crook’s contacts. He had also discovered the names of two men beyond, through the inner envelopes with their coded messages. He had also discovered points of interest regarding the working of the chain to which Glade had belonged.

The Shadow inscribed a message in the blocked code. He added another — a trivial cryptogram with the circled code — to serve as the blind that went with all messages sent through the chain. He folded these sheets and inserted them in a plain envelope that he found in a desk drawer.

The Shadow duplicated the messages and sealed them in a second envelope. He addressed each letter separately. Gathering envelopes along with documents, he pressed out the light.

Faint light of dawn showed through the window when The Shadow raised the shade. The tinged rays revealed a vague form of black, making its departure. The laugh of The Shadow whispered its forbidding chill.

The Shadow’s mirth was again an omen. It was inspired by the letters which this master sleuth had prepared. Those coded messages were to carry news along the chain of evil workers.

There was good cause for The Shadow’s laugh. The master fighter had profited through the death of Richard Glade. With craft and with certainty, The Shadow had issued a summons that Crime Incorporated would obey!