Charg, Monster

CHAPTER XVI. THE SHADOW SCHEMES

THREE men were seated in Bryce Towson’s conference room. Herbert Whilton and his friend Lamont Cranston were talking with the consulting engineer. The time was the evening following the affray at Whilton’s home.

“Poor Randham.” Whilton’s crackly voice was sorrowful. “He died fighting enemies who came to kill me. He killed one of them, however.”

“Have the police identified the man?” questioned Towson.

“Not yet,” stated Whilton. “However, one point is most fortunate. Although you and I, Towson — and you, too, Cranston — know that I must certainly have been marked for murder, the police are holding to the theory that robbery was intended.

“They have seen no connection with Fallow and Dyke?” asked Towson.

“None at all,” asserted Whilton, emphatically. “Since there was no strangler involved, they evidently did not suspect a relationship. So the secret of our motor is still to be kept.”

Towson nodded. This point was satisfactory. But the engineer’s face showed worriment. Both Whilton and Cranston noticed it as Towson spoke.

“Unquestionably,” decided the engineer, “your life was at stake, Whilton. That means that you are still in danger.”

“And so are you,” observed Whilton.

“Perhaps,” admitted Towson, “but as yet no thrust has been made against me. My position is better than yours, Whilton. I am in Manhattan; not in a secluded portion of Long Island. I have a compact house, with servants ready. Your most trustworthy man has been killed. Do you have another as dependable as Randham?”

“No,” replied Whilton, in a serious tone. “I have not. I have discussed that fact with Cranston; we dined together before we came here. I must admit that I am apprehensive. Therefore, I suggested a plan, which Cranston thinks is a good one.”

Bryce Towson nodded with interest. The three men were prepared for a close discussion. But all the while, there was an unobtrusive listener; one whom Lamont Cranston silently noticed while the other men ignored him.

THAT listener was Shelburne. The baldheaded secretary was stooped before the filing cabinet. He was arranging papers and making notes on a sheet of paper. To Cranston’s keen eyes, Shelburne’s real actions were plain. The secretary was jotting down each point of information that he overheard.

“I am going away,” declared Whilton. “While I am gone, the affairs of our committee will rest entirely in your hands, Towson. I shall give you full power to act while I am absent.

“Of course, there is a proviso. You must not depart from the agreements which we established without first notifying me. You will send all communications to my home. They will be forwarded to me.”

“Is that wise?” questioned Towson, in surprise. “If your servants know where you are—”

“They will not know.” It was Cranston who put the interruption. “I, alone, will hear from Mr. Whilton. He has given me full power to obtain his mail; to open it if I so choose; to forward it upon learning where he is.”

“Such is my plan,” added Whilton. “I chose Cranston for the duty and he accepted. He is not in danger. I did not wish to place the burden upon you, Towson.”

“I think you are wise,” decided the engineer. “Let me get this situation right. Cranston is to serve as your proxy?”

“More than that.” The assertion came in Cranston’s quiet tones. “Mr. Whilton is no longer a young man. It is not right that a menace should hang over him. During his absence, I shall act in his stead. He will not return to New York for months to come.”

“Exactly so,” corroborated Whilton. “I made a mild suggestion. Cranston decided to carry it to the limit. In fact, should any harm befall me—”

“Your affairs,” came Cranston’s interposition, “will be transferred to me. This will be arranged legally before Mr. Whilton leaves.”

“It seems a very good idea,” declared Towson, nodding. “So far as it concerns this committee, Whilton, I am in accord. That makes a unanimous voice.”

Whilton arose when Towson finished. He extended his hand to both the other men. There was weariness in his tone as he spoke in parting.

“I am tired.” The old philanthropist’s words came with a quaver. “I feel that I must leave. You can remain, Cranston. Perhaps you would like to talk with Towson. Good-night, gentlemen.”

THE old man departed. Cranston and Towson resumed their seats. Cranston’s masklike face wore a steady, serious expression which Towson was quick to notice. The engineer raised his eyebrows in an inquiring fashion.

“Towson,” came Cranston’s steady tone, “there was more to that affair last night than Whilton supposes. I was at his house before the trouble started. I noted something that he did not observe; something that the police have not discovered.”

“What was that?”

“The attitude of his servant, Randham. Whilton thinks the man was trustworthy. I am sure that he was not. Randham was planning something — I could tell it.”

“But Randham fought the burglars!”

“So it is supposed.” A quiet smile showed on Cranston’s lips. “Yet if you will read the newspapers, you will find that Randham’s revolver was discovered in his pocket. Not a single shot was missing.”

“I read that. The police theory is that Randham grappled with one man and wrested away his gun. He shot and killed the second burglar; then the first slew Randham and took the weapon.”

“An attempt at reconstruction of the scene. A very absurd theory, unwarranted by fact. It was dependent purely upon Whilton’s firm insistence that Randham was reliable.”

“You have another theory?”

“Yes.”

“What is it?”

There was a pause. Lamont Cranston’s smile persisted. His face, in the table light, took on a hawklike expression that made Towson stare. Shelburne, returning to the table for some, papers, noted it also.

“Did you ever hear of The Shadow?” questioned Cranston, slowly.

“The Shadow?” Towson looked puzzled. “Yes. I have heard his voice over the air. He broadcasts, I believe, on a mystery program. But I never knew that The Shadow—”

“The Shadow,” came Cranston’s quiet statement, “is a figure dreaded by men of crime. He ferrets out the schemes of crooks. He meets steel with steel. It is my belief” — the smile was steady — “that The Shadow, not Randham, disposed of the would-be murderers at Whilton’s.

“I have not mentioned my idea to Whilton. I thought it best that he should leave town without further worry. But I am sure of one fact. Whoever the murderer may be, he will have to deal with The Shadow before his evil schemes are consummated.

“To you, Towson, this belief should be encouraging. It would have heartened Whilton also, if I could have advanced it without shattering his faith in his dead servant, Randham. Remember what I have told you. If you wish to reach Whilton, address him as before. The communications, however, will go through me.”

With this, Lamont Cranston arose. He shook hands with the engineer. He left Bryce Towson seated in deep thought. The engineer was pondering over Cranston’s statements.

It was Shelburne who brought Towson to attention. The secretary finished with his notes and filing. He thrust some papers slyly in his pocket; then approached the table.

“Is all finished for tonight, sir?” he questioned.

“Yes,” nodded Towson. “You may go, Shelburne. One minute! Remember: whatever you have heard here tonight must be kept in strict confidence.”

“Yes, sir.”

SHELBURNE departed. Half an hour later, he appeared at Frederick Thorne’s. He was admitted to the office of the overbearing power magnate. Standing before Thorne’s desk, he produced the papers that he had brought from Towson’s.

“This is what I learned tonight, sir,” he reported.

“Hm-m.” Thorne pondered as he read the penciled notes. “So Whilton is going away, eh? Well” — Thorne laughed harshly — “a trip will do the old man good. That mess at his house last night — bah! — it was nothing but a burglary.”

“They thought differently down at Towson’s, sir.”

“Maybe they did. Fallow and Dyke were murdered, but there was no strangler at Whilton’s. Why should any one want to kill that doddering old fool? He’s dying on his feet.”

Thorne resumed his reading of the notes. He settled back in his swivel chair and delivered a raucous laugh.

“The Shadow!” Thorne’s voice was contemptuous. “This is a real laugh, Shelburne. Of all the crazy theories! The Shadow talks over the air — once a week. These people think that he spends his spare time hunting trouble!”

Thorne’s laugh continued. The magnate shoved the papers in the desk drawer. He waved his hand toward the door.

“Good-night, Shelburne,” he snorted. “Good-night. Be on your way. Don’t dream about The Shadow.”

Shelburne left. Thorne settled back in his chair. His face became serious. He yanked open the drawer and removed the papers. He read his spy’s notes more carefully.

“The Shadow.” Thorne uttered the name aloud. His lips moved, in an unintelligible mumble. He put the papers away; then arose and paced the room. He summoned his servant.

“I am going out,” declared Thorne. “If there are any calls, simply say that I am not at home. I don’t know when I shall be back— possibly in less than an hour; perhaps not until some time after midnight.”

With that, the power magnate walked from the room.

The curtains at the window trembled. A shadow shape moved from the floor and blended with the maroon hangings.

Outside, a batlike figure began its descent of the wall. As The Shadow reached the courtyard, the sound of a purring motor came from the street. It was Thorne’s car, departing.

A soft laugh faded in the courtyard. A distant clock chimed the hour of ten. Then all was silent. There was no token of The Shadow’s presence until an hour later, when an announcer, at a broadcasting station, recited these words:

“The voice of The Shadow. Listen. You shall hear it.”

The microphone was switched off. The next announcement was to come from a small room, set apart within the studio. That room, to which no one was admitted, had a secret, undiscovered entrance in its blackmasked walls. It was the hidden spot from which The Shadow spoke over the air.

A WEIRD laugh sounded. The tones of that eerie mockery was broadcasted throughout the land. The words which followed came in sneering, sepulchral tones. The voice of The Shadow!

Listeners shuddered. Crooks in the underworld snapped off their radios as they heard the reminder of the enemy they feared. The voice of The Shadow! Many knew it; yet none had encountered its author, face to face!

But in one spot in Manhattan, a strange event was under way. A dim light showed beside a radio set. In front of the loud speaker was the revolving disk of a phonograph record. As The Shadow’s voice came over the air; as the sinister tones ended with a creepy, sardonic laugh, every note was caught and transcribed to the record.

The radio snapped off. The task was ended. A fiendish chuckle sounded as hands stopped the phonograph and removed the disk. An insidious task was done.

The Shadow had predicted that Charg would be forced to deal with him. The prophecy was on its way to a completion.

That disk which had caught the tones of The Shadow’s laugh was to play a part in the next attempt at murder — which would come from the lair of Charg!