Chain Of Death

CHAPTER III THE DEPARTURE

THE detectives had left the door of the elevator open. The operator, no longer languorous, was lingering in the corridor until their return. He did not have long to wait. Two detectives came on the run from 3318.

“A guy’s been murdered,” one of them informed. “You’re going to take me down to the lobby, so I can bring up the rest of the squad. Say — we’ll have to start a search of this whole blamed building.”

“You’re right,” returned the other dick. “Have ‘em keep a close watch in the lobby all the while. There’s no way for the murderer to get out of this building except by the elevators. That’s a cinch.”

“This is the only car that’s running,” remarked the operator. “The others are all down in the basement.”

“Good,” commented the detective.

While this conversation was under way, The Shadow had reached the floor above. At a spot directly over the heads of the detectives and the operator, he had laid Howard Norwyn on the floor. Strong hands were at work on the closed doors of the elevator shaft. With an instrument of steel, pried between the sliding metal barriers, The Shadow released the catch.

The doors opened; peering downward, The Shadow saw the top of the elevator a few feet below. He could hear no sound of talk; for the elevator was a solid car that completely filled its portion of the shaft.

Easing downward, The Shadow gained a footing on the top of the elevator. His strong arms stretched forward and drew Howard Norwyn into the shaft. The Shadow rested the young man on the car; his gloved hand eased the doors shut.

In the midst of solid blackness, The Shadow crouched to the top of the elevator and gripped Howard Norwyn in a firm grasp. The space was ample; so long as The Shadow held Norwyn on his precarious perch, no harm could befall the man who had been rescued.

Yet The Shadow was not a second too soon. Hardly had he completed his preparation before the muffled clang of the doors sounded from the thirty-third floor. The elevator began a record drop on its way to the ground floor.

The Shadow clutched Howard Norwyn tightly during the three-hundred-foot descent. His grip was firm as the car came to a stop at the lobby. Doors clanged again. Footsteps shuffled from the elevator; but voices could not be heard in the lobby.

THE SHADOW was counting, however, upon another interval. Sliding over the side of the car, he slipped downward until his feet rested upon the top of an elevator that was on the basement level. From this adjoining shaft, The Shadow could just reach Norwyn’s feet. He drew the young man toward him as Norwyn’s body came limply from above. The Shadow caught it and rested the stupefied man upon the lower elevator.

Seconds passed; then doors clanged. A whirr of air as the first elevator sped upward. Its shaft was clear. The Shadow edged over the side of the basement elevator and worked upon the lower doors. They came open. The Shadow dropped to his objective.

Getting Norwyn through was a more difficult task. The Shadow was standing at the edge of the shaft which contained the one operating elevator. Below was a pit of considerable depth. The Shadow was equal to the job. He brought Norwyn’s light form over the edge of the elevator, caught the slumping body and swung it to safety. In the basement, The Shadow closed the doors to the shaft.

During the day, the basement of the Zenith Building served as a concourse to the subway. At night, however, heavy doors were closed at the top of the stairs to the lobby. Hence the basement was deserted; not only that, the police who had arrived in the building had not started a search in this direction.

Howard Norwyn was coming to his senses. The whizzing trip down through the elevator shaft had produced a reviving effect. But The Shadow gathered him as before and carried him along the deserted concourse.

A turn in the wall brought The Shadow to a heavy barrier. A pair of metal doors, dimly discernible outside the range of the basement lights, were closed and locked. These, during the day, stayed open against the walls. At night, they were shut. A huge bar, dropped from one door into a catch on the other, added strength to the lock.

The Shadow again rested Howard Norwyn on the floor. By this time, the young man was almost entirely conscious. He was rubbing his chin ruefully, trying to take in his surroundings. He stared toward The Shadow, who was by the doors, but he could barely discern the black-clad shape.

The Shadow was picking the lock. Clicks responded to his efforts. He forced the big bar upward and poised it carefully as he opened the door on the right. Turning, The Shadow gazed toward Howard Norwyn. His gleaming eyes saw that the young man was recovered, but still dizzy. The Shadow stepped beyond the door.

There he dropped coat, hat and gloves. The black garments went into the unfolded briefcase. Depositing the bag, The Shadow stepped back through the door and approached Howard Norwyn.

“Come.” The Shadow’s voice was a quiet, commanding tone, different from his sinister whisper. “We must leave. Do not delay.”

Howard Norwyn nodded. He sensed that this was a friend. The Shadow aided him to rise. Norwyn passed through the open door. The Shadow drew the barrier slowly shut; then gave it a quick jerk that caused a slight clang. From inside came the answer; the poised bar dropped from the jolt and clattered into position. The doors were barred on the inside as before!

THE SHADOW and Howard Norwyn were in a gloomy underground passage, where the only light came from a hundred feet ahead. The Shadow paused to work upon the lock that he had opened. With the aid of a special key, he again locked the door. Picking up his briefcase, he gripped Howard Norwyn by the arm. Together, they made their way along the underground passage.

Norwyn blinked as he came into the light. For the first time, he realized where he was. They were entering the subway station, one block from the Zenith Building. The Shadow had opened the way between the skyscraper and the station.

Howard Norwyn followed his rescuer through the turnstile. A train was coming into the station; The Shadow urged Norwyn aboard. As they stood on the platform of the car, Norwyn studied this stranger who had brought him here.

He did not recognize The Shadow as the one who had encountered him at the door of the vault room. Nor did Norwyn recall the strange journey through the elevator shaft. He remembered, dimly, that he had found George Hobston dead. He could recollect an enemy striking him down; then this friend who had brought him to the subway.

The face that Norwyn viewed was a singular one. It was a countenance that might have been chiseled from stone. Thin lips, inflexible features; these formed the masklike face. Most noticeable, however, were the eyes that burned from the sides of a hawklike nose.

Those steady optics held Howard Norwyn with their gaze. Dizzy as he clutched the inner door of the speeding subway car, Norwyn lost all sense of other things about him. The roar of the train precluded speech. The dominating eyes commanded trust and obedience.

The express came to a stop. A sliding door moved open; The Shadow’s hand caught Norwyn’s arm. Nodding, the young man followed his commander to the platform. The Shadow headed for an obscure flight of steps. He and Norwyn reached the street.

They were at Fourteenth Street. Half a block from the station, Norwyn’s rescuer stopped beside a limousine. A chauffeur bounded to the street. He opened the door. Norwyn felt a steady hand thrust him into the car. Then his companion joined him.

“New Jersey, Stanley,” spoke a quiet voice through the speaking tube.

THE car rolled away. Howard Norwyn settled back in the cushions. He began to feel a sinking sensation. The back of his head was aching as a reminder of the pounding that it had received from the antagonist in Hobston’s office.

“Where — where are we going?” questioned Norwyn, faintly.

“You will learn later,” came the quiet reply.

“But — but what has happened to Mr. Hobston?” protested the young man. “Who — who killed him?”

“That we shall discover.”

“But I–I should be back there. I–I must explain to the police. If they — if they—”

“If they find you, they will hold you for murder.”

Howard Norwyn clutched at the strap which hung beside the window of the limousine. He tried to bring himself up from the cushions to stare at the quiet speaker. All he could see was the outline of the other rider.

The words still rang in Norwyn’s ears. Sickened, the young man dropped back. He realized the truth of those steady words. He understood what the murderer had intended. Much had been stolen from Hobston’s vault. Enough, however, remained to incriminate whomever the police might have found in the vault room.

“The revolver!” gasped Norwyn, suddenly. “I–I had it in my hand. Was it — was it—”

“It was the gun that killed George Hobston. It was in your possession. I have brought it with us.”

A sigh of relief came from Howard Norwyn. It was followed by a groan as the young man realized that a predicament still existed. Norwyn’s aching head rolled back against the top of the seat. Dazedly, his mind was yielding to drumming thoughts of new danger.

A hand stretched forward. It held a small vial. As Norwyn grasped the little bottle, he heard the command from beside him:

“Drink.”

Norwyn pressed the bottle to his lips. He swallowed its contents. His head became light. The vial slipped from his hands. Swimming thoughts faded; under the influence of the opiate, Howard Norwyn slumped against the cushions and became quiet.

His worries were ended for the night. On the morrow, The Shadow would hear his story. The limousine had passed through the Holland Tunnel. It was heading into New Jersey, carrying its pair of passengers from Manhattan.

Howard Norwyn was traveling from the scene of crime. His course would not be traced. The Shadow had brought him from the spot where he had been left to bear the brunt of crime. Yet The Shadow knew that Norwyn’s safety could be no more than temporary until the real murderer should be uncovered.

A soft laugh came from the darkness of the limousine. The whispered mirth of The Shadow faded. The rescue of Howard Norwyn had been effected. Work of more importance lay ahead.

That laugh presaged determination. It was The Shadow’s challenge to hidden plotters who had gained their aim of crime. Against them, The Shadow had scored one point: the rescue of the man on whom they had sought to shoulder murder.

There was other work to be accomplished. The murderer of George Hobston must be discovered; with him all who had concerned themselves with that crime. The Shadow could foresee a mighty task.

Perhaps it was the subtlety of the murder itself; perhaps it was quickness with which the actual murderer had made his get-away — either of these points might have impressed The Shadow. Whichever the case, there was something strangely grim about The Shadow’s laugh.

The master of darkness recognized that he was dealing with unusual crime. He could see that this episode might be but one in a sequence of malignant events. The Shadow knew the need for counterstrokes against a hidden menace.

Well did The Shadow divine hidden facts! To-night, he had encountered a phase of crime that was merely the surface indication of what lay beneath. The Shadow had but reached the threshold beyond which he was to find insidious evil.

For in his rescue of Howard Norwyn, The Shadow had gained only a first and minor thrust against the most amazing organization of crime workers that he had ever encountered!