Circle of Death

CHAPTER XII WITHIN THE CIRCLE

DETECTIVE JOE CARDONA was seated in his office. He was studying notes that he had scrawled upon a pad. Cardona’s face was glum. The detective picked up a newspaper and read the headlines.

A news account told of Bigelow Zorman’s death. Physicians had attributed it to the effect of poison. Yet there was no evidence that such a dose had been administered. Bigelow Zorman, a stranger in New York, had succumbed in mysterious fashion.

It was possible, Cardona knew, that Zorman could have received the poison in some food or drink. That death might have been due to a queer accident. Such, apparently, was the cause. There was no way to tell where Zorman had dined on the evening of his death.

He had come to his hotel room from the Times Square area. He might have stopped at any of one hundred places. He might have met any one of thousands of people. His death was of mysterious origin.

Fortunately, in Cardona’s opinion, the newspapers had rejected certain facts which the detective considered as important. No connection had been noted between the deaths of Bigelow Zorman, Maurice Bewkel and Dustin Cruett. Yet Cardona saw a link. He, for one, had gained a suspicion of the truth.

Somewhere, somehow, death could be delivered in untraceable fashion to persons who entered a certain zone near Times Square. Joe Cardona had no idea of the confines of that zone. He had refrained, for the time, to detail his growing suspicions to Inspector Timothy Klein.

As he arose from his desk, Cardona wore a grim expression on his face. Once again, the sleuth was faring forth on a seemingly hopeless task. He was going to place himself within that district where death had taken hold; yet where not one suspicious person could be located among the passing thousands.

As he left his office, Joe Cardona experienced an odd recollection. He remembered a hawklike face that he had seen near Times Square. Was that a mere coincidence? Cardona did not think so. He was more convinced than before that he had seen The Shadow.

Time and again, crimes that had seemed unsolvable had yielded when The Shadow had stepped upon their trail. Cardona, much though he prided himself upon his ability as a sleuth, was wise enough to know that he could not match his own skill with that of The Shadow. Secretly, the detective held the hope that The Shadow, too, was on this trail of death.

CARDONA’S hope was a reality. As the detective was leaving headquarters for his nightly patrol of Times Square, The Shadow, too, was making plans. Within his secret sanctum, this supersleuth was studying the latest reports received from those who worked in his behalf.

Harry Vincent had uncovered but little at South Shoreview. The plant of the Electro Oceanic Corporation was closed, pending the raising of new capital. The death of Bigelow Zorman had dropped like a bomb-shell there. Perry Harton, the plant manager, had left for the North. Harry could not learn whether or not the man had gone to New York.

Through Rutledge Mann had come important data. He had worked upon the names that The Shadow had given him. Rightwood — the first name uttered by Zorman’s dying lips — had proven to be Channing Rightwood, who was, at present, in Chicago. Rightwood, Mann had learned, was a stockholder in Electro Oceanic.

Following this discovery, Mann had taken the incompleted name which Zorman had pronounced as “Tress.” He had decided that this must mean Felix Tressler, wealthy investor who was also a purchaser of Electro Oceanic.

Beneath the blue light of the sanctum, The Shadow had considered all this data. Now, with weird whisper, he was speaking across the wire to Burbank. The Shadow was giving orders which concerned two other agents.

Earphones clattered. The tiny bulb went out. The blue light disappeared. A soft laugh — that was the final sound. The Shadow had departed. Like Joe Cardona, he was faring forth toward Times Square. Unlike the detective, The Shadow was bound on a definite purpose.

Two names of potential victims! Those were all that The Shadow needed. One man, Channing Rightwood, was in Chicago. He was away from the area of danger. The other, Felix Tressler, was close at hand. The Shadow had taken steps for his protection.

STROLLING up Seventh Avenue, Joe Cardona had a strange impression that he was being watched. He paused at intervals to glance over his shoulder. The impression became more evident just as Cardona arrived at the spot where he had previously spied Henry Arnaud — at the corner where the Chromo sellers were shouting out the merits of their drink.

Joe Cardona had just crossed a side street. He wheeled. As a taxi whizzed past, he caught a short glimpse of a visage with an aquiline nose. It was the same countenance that he had seen before — even to the eyes that sparkled like the weird optics of that mysterious being, The Shadow!

The person whom Cardona spotted was on the other side of the street. A truck lumbered between. When it had passed, the detective no longer saw the face of Henry Arnaud. This, to Joe Cardona, was the final proof that he had seen The Shadow!

Who else could have disappeared in such mysterious fashion? True, the street was thronged; nevertheless, an interval of only two seconds had elapsed during the passage of the truck. Cardona looked everywhere. He saw no sign of the face for which he was searching. Glumly, the detective strolled along his way.

Hardly had he passed beyond the Chromo stand before a tall figure emerged from a spot of blackness near the corner. The projecting wall of a building had formed a single place of concealment in this illuminated district. That was the spot which The Shadow, as Henry Arnaud, had chosen to escape Joe Cardona’s view.

A soft laugh rippled from thin, firm lips. A passing stroller started. He stood still and looked in vain for the source of the uncanny sound. Meanwhile, Henry Arnaud was moving along the side street, away from the roar of Seventh Avenue.

Tonight, The Shadow had started forth to study the route of Bigelow Zorman. He had given up that task for the moment, due to his sighting of Joe Cardona. He picked his way along the side street, found a passage beside an old theater building, and through it reached another street.

Here The Shadow paused. A flickering match, applied to the tip of a cigarette, lighted up the features of Henry Arnaud. The Shadow was standing in front of the narrow but pretentious building known as the Hotel Delavan.

Turning, The Shadow entered. He went through the lobby, purchased a newspaper and strolled out. In that brief inspection, he had observed that two elevators were in use. Besides these, he had spied a shaft which had no opening in the lobby. It was evidently a service elevator.

That was not all. The Shadow had noticed a young man seated in a lounging chair, reading a magazine. Of medium height, quiet in demeanor, yet noticeably observant to one who viewed him closely, this chap could have been identified as a newspaper man.

It was Clyde Burke, police reporter of the New York Classic; also one of The Shadow’s agents. The thin smile showed on Henry Arnaud’s lips as the tall visitor strode to the street.

A car was parked opposite. It was a coupe, and a man was leaning back behind the wheel. This fellow was of a different type than Burke. His face, though well-featured, bore a chiseled hardness that showed unusual determination. The smile remained upon Henry Arnaud’s lips.

This man was Cliff Marsland, another agent of The Shadow. Usually delegated to duty in the underworld, The Shadow had brought Cliff to this vicinity. A pair of trusted agents were on the alert, ready to observe all who might enter the Hotel Delavan.

This was a follow-up of Rutledge Mann’s information that Felix Tressler occupied the penthouse of the tall hotel. Yet The Shadow’s men, observant though they were, had not for one moment suspected that this stroller who bore the countenance of Henry Arnaud was their master.

The Shadow seldom revealed his various identities to his agents. To them, he was a mysterious specter of blackness. Confident though they were in The Shadow’s power, they had never met him face to face except in guises which The Shadow chose. That of Henry Arnaud was one which The Shadow had not disclosed.

LATER, Henry Arnaud might have been seen in the vicinity which Joe Cardona had left. Back to his original purpose, The Shadow followed a course up Seventh Avenue to the Hotel Goliath. He turned and retraced his steps.

The big sign which served as signal to the members of the death circle was gleaming white tonight. Agents of doom were quiet. Did The Shadow know that fact? The strange smile which showed on Henry Arnaud’s lips might have been evidence of such knowledge.

The Shadow’s course became untraceable. Even when he appeared in a guise such as that of Henry Arnaud, he still possessed a strange ability in disappearing from view. It was more than an hour later when The Shadow again manifested his presence — this time in his sanctum.

The bluish light clicked on. Beyond the table, a tiny bulb was glowing. The Shadow took the earphones and spoke. Burbank’s voice responded.

A report. The Shadow wrote it as he listened to Burbank’s voice. This was word from Clyde Burke, stationed at the Hotel Delavan. It concerned the affairs of Felix Tressler.

Burke had learned that the millionaire never left the penthouse. He had found out that Tressler’s secretary, Wilton Byres, occasionally appeared in the lobby.

Burke had gained a description of Tressler, as well as one of Byres. The Shadow’s writing gave terse details as they came from Burbank. This information completed, The Shadow disposed of the earphones. His eyes again read the notes that he had made. The writing faded, word by word.

The large map of Manhattan came into view. This time, The Shadow marked it with three white pins and three of black. More than that, his hand traced courses through the thoroughfares near Times Square, to mark the paths that three men had followed to their doom.

Dustin Cruett, Maurice Bewkel, Bigelow Zorman: all had died within the space of a few blocks. They had come into a realm of disaster. Certainly, there must be an explanation of these odd fates which had gripped the unfortunate trio.

The Shadow’s laugh was a token of growing understanding. The pins were plucked from the route-marked map. The bluish light went out as the paper crinkled. The laugh still persisted. It rose to a shuddering crescendo.

Something swished in the darkness. Then came silence, with sinking echoes of the taunting laugh. Garbed in cloak and hat of black, The Shadow had departed.

Agents of The Shadow were within the circle of death. They were watching the strategic spot which The Shadow had picked for them. It was their task to report concerning Felix Tressler. Channing Rightwood, still out of town, was under The Shadow’s care.

Yet the foreboding tone of The Shadow’s laugh gave a strange impression that continued until the final whispered echo had ended.

The circle of death remained a menace. Its threat would strike again. When that occurred, The Shadow intended to be ready to meet the hordes of doom!