Charg, Monster

CHAPTER III. THE SHADOW DEPARTS

IT was ten o’clock. A group of three men were assembled in a small but sumptuous conference room. A long mahogany table occupied the center of the chamber. About it were chairs; beyond were bookcases; while a large radio cabinet occupied one corner and a filing cabinet another.

Seated at one end of the mahogany table was Meldon Fallow. The inventor’s expression was as owlish as it had been at Thorne’s. With his present companions, however, Fallow showed no antagonism. The light in his bespectacled eyes showed kindliness and enthusiasm.

One of Fallow’s companions — the man midway at the table — was a silent person who seemed preoccupied with his own thoughts. His rumpled coat; his shaggy, unkempt hair, gave him the appearance of a scholar who concerned himself with little other than his own affairs.

The other man — at the end of the table opposite Fallow — was both dignified and keen of manner. His well-molded face showed traces of practical genius. His air of authority made it evident that he was host to his two companions. His nodding head indicated approval as he listened to Fallow’s technical discussion of motive power.

A telephone rang. The instrument was on top of the radio cabinet. The dignified man was closest to that spot. With a gesture that stopped Fallow’s discourse, he arose to answer the call.

“Hello…” The dignified man spoke in a brisk tone. “Yes. This is Mr. Towson’s residence… Yes, I am Bryce Towson… I see… I see… Very well. Thank you for the message…”

Hanging up the receiver, Bryce Towson turned to his companions. His features wore a pleasant smile that signified good news.

“Herbert Whilton is on his way here,” stated Towson. “The call was from the Cobalt Club, where he stopped to meet a friend.”

“Some one is coming with him?” questioned Fallow, anxiously.

“Apparently,” answered Towson. “I can see no objection. Do you, Mr. Dyke?”

The question was put to the preoccupied man who sat at the side of the table. It brought a shake of the shaggy head. Dyke had no objection. Fallow appeared mollified.

As Bryce Towson was resuming his seat, the door of the room opened and a stoopshouldered figure entered. The newcomer was Shelburne, Frederick Thorne’s spy. The man advanced toward the table; then stopped to speak to the seated three.

“How soon will the conference begin, gentlemen?” he questioned. “Shall I have the papers ready?”

“Yes, Shelburne,” responded Towson. “Mr. Whilton will arrive shortly. The conference will begin as soon as he is here.”

Shelburne nodded. With catlike tread, he advanced to the filing cabinet and opened a drawer. He began to draw papers from the files.

“Let us resume our discussion, Fallow,” suggested Towson, with a nod toward the inventor. “You were talking about the improved concentrate when we were interrupted.”

“Yes,” declared Fallow. His eyes shone with enthusiasm. “I was returning to the theory which first inspired my invention. Internal combustion is the secret of practical power. Therefore, I considered the extremes. First: a gasoline motor, in which much fuel is required; second, a motor utilizing nitroglycerine, in which a minimum of fuel would be needed.

“The motor, itself, was the problem. Modern motors are far beyond the strength required to withstand the combustion of gasoline. But could any motor ever hold against the racking force of nitroglycerine?

My answer was no. But I saw the potentialities of a fuel somewhere between the two. I produced such a fuel and built a motor to withstand it. The fuel was M 7.”

“Yet M 7 did not prove satisfactory,” observed Towson. “It was not until you developed a less powerful concentrate — F-M 5—that you were sure of success.”

“That is true,” nodded Fallow. “F-M 5 showed its worth. One pint of it could equal ten gallons of gasoline. Yet FM 5 presented a problem which I was wise enough to foresee.”

“Distance strain?”

“Exactly. My motor, though strong enough to withstand the explosions of F-M 5 over a distance of ten thousand miles, would begin to crack after that goal had been gained. F-M 5 is excellent for demonstration purposes. For practical results, we must use my newest fuel — Q-M 1.”

“What is its power relation to F-M 5?”

“Approximately one half. We may say, roughly, that one quart of Q-M 1 will outperform ten gallons of high grade gasoline.”

“Without damage to the motor?”

“Not within a range of one hundred thousand miles.”

“This is wonderful!” Towson’s exclamation came with enthusiasm. “Do you hear that, Dyke? Q-M 1 will show performance up to one hundred thousand miles! It’s advantage over gasoline is forty to one!”

“Fallow is a genius,” returned Dyke, in a rumbling tone. “I expected him to produce such a fuel.”

“I owe much to your aid, Towson,” broke in Fallow. “The use of your equipment — of your laboratory—”

Towson waved his hands to suppress the inventor’s thanks. As Fallow reluctantly subsided, the door opened. A servant appeared to announce the arrival of Herbert Whilton. A moment later, two men entered. The servant stepped aside while Towson sprang forward to greet the visitors.

THE first was an elderly man, whose thin lips formed a perpetual smile. He was leaning on a cane; his parchment face and pure white hair were evidences of his advanced years.

With him was a tall, firm-faced companion. The latter was attired in evening clothes. His features were masklike, yet impressive. Keen, burning eyes, peering from beside a hawklike nose, were steady in their observation of the room and its occupants.

The first man — the elderly one — was Herbert Whilton. He shook hands with Bryce Towson; then turned to introduce his friend.

“This gentleman,” explained Whilton, in a crackly, almost whining tone, “is Lamont Cranston. He is wealthy and his great interest is exploration. Mr. Cranston has long been a friend of mine. He is an aviation enthusiast; the very man — I believe — to put our new motor to its first tests in foreign climes.”

Advancing with Cranston, Whilton introduced his friend to the others. Lamont Cranston shook hands with Meldon Fallow, the inventor; also with Loring Dyke, the famous consulting chemist. Formalities ended, the two visitors took chairs opposite Loring Dyke.

It was then that Bryce Towson, at his end of the table, made a bow to Herbert Whilton. With a sweep of his hand, Towson indicated that he wished the old gentleman to occupy the head chair.

“No, no!” crackled Whilton. “Remain there, Mr. Towson. You are our host—”

“But you are the chief,” interposed Towson, with a smile. “To Herbert Whilton, the philanthropist, we owe the actual formation of this committee which has enabled Meldon Fallow to complete his inventive work.”

Rising, Whilton yielded to Towson’s insistence and took his place at the head of the table. Beaming upon the others, he spoke in reply to Towson’s eulogy.

“I am no more important,” declared Whilton, “than any other member of this group. To Meldon Fallow, we owe the invention of the supercombustion motor and its fuel. To Loring Dyke, the famous chemist, we owe the knowledge and advice that Fallow needed to perfect his formula.

“To Bryce Towson, consulting engineer, we owe the use of the laboratory and its equipment; also the right to convene in this conference room—”

Towson was interrupting with a protest. Meldon Fallow broke in to support what Herbert Whilton had said.

“All must take their credit!” asserted the inventor. “My first experiments were crude. I brought them to the attention of Mr. Whilton. Through him, I met you, Towson; and I met you, Dyke. I learned new facts in motor design and in chemical reactions. My work is now complete — and to you three, my friends, I have given full rights to aid me in benefiting mankind through my inventive efforts.”

Towson bowed in reluctant acknowledgment. Dyke rumbled a few words of appreciation. The matter settled, Whilton rapped upon the table. Quiet followed. Shelburne came from beside the filing cabinet and took a chair close to Loring Dyke.

“Here is the agreement, sir,” said Shelburne. He drew a paper from a small stack and handed it to Whilton. “It is a copy of the signed document.”

Whilton nodded. He adjusted a pince-nez to his nose and read the paper. Then, in a methodical tone, he spoke to his companions.

“WE are all familiar with this agreement,” said the old man. “We four constitute a committee which holds sole rights to the development of the Fallow Supercombustion Motor. We have agreed that it will not be exploited. Any future decision rests upon unanimous agreement.

“Should any of us, through death or resignation, no longer be a member of the committee, the control of the supermotor will rest with those who remain. Unanimous agreement will always be required in any step that may be taken.

“All this is plain. Our agreement has become a legal document. We are ready, at any time, to proceed with the production of the motor. Are there any remarks?”

“Yes.” The statement came from Meldon Fallow. The inventor had risen from his chair. “Tonight, gentlemen, I was offered five million dollars for my invention. I gave a flat refusal.”

“The offer came from Frederick Thorne?” questioned Herbert Whilton, in a sharp, crackly tone.

“Yes,” responded Fallow.

An ugly challenge showed on Whilton’s smiling lips. The old philanthropist turned to Bryce Towson.

“What would be your answer to Thorne’s offer?” questioned Whilton.

“An absolute refusal,” returned Towson.

“And yours?” Whilton spoke to Dyke.

“The same,” stated Dyke. “Refusal.”

“My answer would be identical,” crackled Whilton. “You see, Fallow, we are all in accord. My wealth cannot equal Thorne’s; but the few millions that I possess will always be used for the benefit of mankind — not for exploitation.

“Since the offer came to you, Fallow, after the legal formation of this committee, our vote was necessary. Your dissent automatically rejected the offer; but I know that you will be pleased to know that the rejection was unanimous.”

“There may be other offers,” stated Fallow, in a worried tone. “Thorpe may try again — perhaps by proxy—”

“And a new rejection will be made,” rumbled Dyke.

“My vote will always be refusal,” declared Towson, quietly.

Whilton nodded in agreement. Fallow sat down, his owlish face reflecting satisfaction. Whilton awaited new remarks. There were none. The elderly philanthropist stated that adjournment was in order.

THE committeemen arose and Lamont Cranston followed. Only Shelburne remained seated. He was making complete notes of the brief meeting. Cranston’s keen eyes watched the stoopshouldered man; then, as Bryce Towson opened a door at the side of the consulting room, Cranston turned to follow the others.

They arrived in a room which evidently adjoined a laboratory. Set upon a platform was a huge motor.

Above it were two glass tanks. One contained a greenish liquid; the other a purplish fluid.

“This is the motor, Cranston,” explained Whilton. “Those tanks contain the component parts of the explosive agent. They are kept separate until they flow into the chambers of the motor.”

“To avoid danger,” put in Fallow. “The present fuel is F-M 5. My newer fuel, Q-M 1, is superior. It eliminates overstrain upon the motor.”

The inventor pressed a starter. The motor coughed; then began a rhythmic purr. Huge cylinders were at work. The observers watched the liquids tremble in their tanks.

“You may watch it for an hour,” asserted Fallow, “yet you will see no appreciable lessening of those liquids. With either fluid — F-M 5 or Q-M 1—I could drive an airplane around the world in a non-stop flight!

“Yet the tanks would be no larger than those required to fuel an airplane with gasoline for a journey of a few hundred miles!

“Moreover” — the inventor’s eyes were gleaming — “the tremendous power of F-M 5 will make possible speed beyond all dreams. I have literally concentrated a force like that of dynamite — have harnessed it, in safety — to produce the greatest power that mankind could ever wish!”

HALF an hour later, Bryce Towson’s guests passed through the conference room. They were making their departure. Shelburne was no longer there. Lamont Cranston noted the man’s absence.

“I shall notify all of you,” stated Herbert Whilton, “when it is time for another conference. I think that some time early in the coming week would be most suitable.”

“Do you have my new address?” questioned Meldon Fallow. “I am moving tomorrow — that is, selling my furniture and taking a furnished apartment —”

“You mentioned it at our last meeting,” interposed Whilton. “Shelburne made a note of your new address. I shall notify you there.”

Herbert Whilton and Lamont Cranston departed. They reached the seclusion of the side street, in front of Bryce Towson’s home. A large but antiquated structure, Towson’s residence loomed like a mammoth relic of old Manhattan. It was a building of nineteenth century pattern that the consulting engineer had converted to serve as laboratory and office as well as residence.

Whilton and Cranston entered the philanthropist’s limousine. As they rode downtown, the old man remarked pleasantly concerning their short visit to Towson’s.

“A wonderful thing,” was Whilton’s comment. “A committee formed of men who are willing to forego millions to benefit humanity. We are enthusiasts — all four of us.”

“Who was the fifth man?” questioned Cranston. “Shelburne, I believe you called him?”

“Simply a secretary,” explained Whilton. “We hired him to attend our conferences and to keep our records. He has access to the conference room, which Towson has now reserved for the exclusive use of our committee.”

The limousine reached the Cobalt Club. Lamont Cranston said good-night to Herbert Whilton and alighted. But the calm-faced explorer did not enter the club. He waited until the limousine had rolled away; then he strolled into the darkness.

A soft laugh sounded in whispered tones. It came from the lips of Lamont Cranston. It was the same laugh that had shuddered, earlier this night, through the paneled office of Frederick Thorne.

Lamont Cranston — or the person who played his part — was The Shadow. Through acquaintanceship with Herbert Whilton, he had attended the conference of the four men who owned full rights in Meldon Fallow’s invention.

This explained the situation. Cranston had heard the story of the supermotor and its amazing fuel. As The Shadow, he had picked up the trail of Meldon Fallow, the inventor. He had witnessed events at Thorne’s; then, again as Cranston, he had observed the other camp.

He had picked Shelburne as the hidden link between Frederick Thorne and the men whose invention Thorne was determined to obtain.

SHORTLY afterward, a light clicked in a darkened room. White hands appeared beneath bluish rays. A glimmering gem — a rare fire opal called a girasol — appeared upon a finger of the left hand.

The hands of The Shadow! They were busy, as they handled clippings upon the polished surface of a table. Newspaper items referred to unsolved crime in San Francisco — mysterious murders in the city on the Pacific Coast.

The Shadow placed the clippings in an envelope. His hand inscribed a coded message; then sealed it.

This was to go to a New York agent. It would carry instructions that must be followed during The Shadow’s absence.

Crime called. The Shadow had work to do, three thousand miles away. While he was gone, trusted operatives could keep tabs on the doings of Frederick Thorne and his spy, Shelburne. The Shadow, however, did not expect present trouble from that quarter.

The Shadow had learned that further time would elapse before Meldon Fallow’s completed inventions would be put to practical use. Intrigue — cross-purposes — menace — these were factors that as yet seemed latent. Further investigation could wait until the next meeting of the committee.

So The Shadow thought. As proof of it, one hour later, a big monoplane took off from the Newark airport. Westward bound, the ship was beginning the first hop of a swift cross-country journey.

The Shadow was on his way to deal with crime in San Francisco. From his study of newspaper reports, he believed that he could pick the men responsible for murder. Like an avenger from the skies, he was traveling to deal surprise and destruction to men of evil.

Yet, while The Shadow was westward bound, crime was striking in New York. Already, the cunning measures loosed by a master of evil were threatening the fate of Meldon Fallow’s invention.

The Shadow, believing that all was well, had departed while a stroke was under way. Though he suspected the existence of a menace, The Shadow, as yet, had not gained an inkling of its terrible reality.

Crime was to win in its first endeavor. It was to follow with repeated strokes which The Shadow, alone, could meet. Those blows were to be the work of a master who commanded the efforts of the most amazing enemy whom The Shadow had ever encountered.

Insidious crime — baffling crime — such would be the elements of a coming problem. To uncover them, The Shadow would be forced to solve the methods of Charg.