Circle of Death

CHAPTER XVII THE SHADOW ORDAINS

THE SHADOW spoke. His voice came in a sinister whisper. Coupled with the gloom near the door, the sound of his words created an uncanny effect upon the man who listened.

“Death.” The Shadow’s word was ominous. “It awaits you here, Channing Rightwood. It is the fate which befell four others, among them two whom you knew well.”

A pause. Channing Rightwood shuddered as the quivering echoes of The Shadow’s whisper persisted from the walls.

“Maurice Bewkel died.” The Shadow’s voice was a sepulchral one. “Bigelow Zorman died. You, Channing Rightwood, are to be the next!”

Rightwood’s fists began to clench. For a moment, the startled man sought to shake off the spell of those hypnotic eyes and that dread tone. His fevered brain caught the fearful thought that if death awaited, this black-cloaked being might be its messenger.

“Death!” gasped Rightwood. “You — you are here to kill me—”

The Shadow’s answer was a whispered laugh. It bore a sneer; yet Rightwood understood that the disdainful mockery was not intended for him.

“You shall live.” The Shadow’s pronouncement was emphatic. “Death will not strike while my protection lasts. You must obey my injunctions. Remember, Channing Rightwood; you must obey!”

“I am safe!” Rightwood blurted a challenge. “There is no danger here and—”

“No danger!” The Shadow’s gibe was scornful. “Already you have made the first step toward your doom. I have heard your words. You have talked with Logan Mungren.”

“Logan Mungren!” Again Rightwood gasped. “You mean — you mean that Mungren—”

“Mungren is awaiting your visit,” pronounced The Shadow. “From your own words to him I learned his purpose. Should you visit him tomorrow; should you persist in your plan of purchase, the death trap will be laid.”

“Mungren!” Rightwood’s voice was a challenge. “He — he seeks to do me harm? I am not afraid!”

The thought of Logan Mungren, an ordinary person, was a proof of Rightwood’s nerve. In the presence of The Shadow, appalling being clad in black, Rightwood had no qualms when the name of the stock promoter was uttered. Rightwood was convinced that The Shadow’s words were true. Eagerly, he took up the challenge created by this being from the night.

“I shall see Mungren.” Rightwood’s tone was determined. “If he has some secret plot against me, I shall learn it. I shall visit his office tomorrow. Nothing can stop me!”

The Shadow’s shuddering laugh added sudden pallor to Rightwood’s peaked face. The burning eyes fixed in a more potent stare.

“Tomorrow,” so announced The Shadow, in a prophetic tone, “Channing Rightwood will visit Logan Mungren.”

“As I have stated!” blurted Rightwood.

“Not as you have stated,” corrected The Shadow, in his presaging voice. “Channing Rightwood will meet Logan Mungren; but Channing Rightwood will not be present!”

RIGHTWOOD stood bewildered as he heard this paradoxical statement. There was prophecy in the utterance. Rightwood accepted it as true. Yet it bordered on the unexplainable. By his emphatic words, The Shadow had cast a new aura of unreality about this scene.

Channing Rightwood felt himself upon the threshold of the unknown. He seemed to be in an atmosphere charged with mystery. He was dominated by a ghostly presence. His own identity seemed to fade. He pictured himself as a nameless person, confronted by a being from another world.

“Channing Rightwood will visit Logan Mungren,” repeated The Shadow. His voice carried the note of a sneering laugh. “That is something which I shall prove. Would you like to see Channing Rightwood? To speak to him and learn this thing from his own lips?”

Involuntarily Rightwood nodded. The Shadow’s words were incredible. Yet Rightwood could not challenge them. He felt a sudden increase of the unreality that had gripped him. The next action was so startling that Rightwood, in his fevered gaze, became no more than a living automaton.

A gloved hand swept upward. The slouch hat fell away. The folds of the cloak collar dropped. Channing Rightwood’s breath came with a deep, convulsive heave.

As clearly as if he had been staring into a mirror, Channing Rightwood saw his own pallid countenance. Like a reflection of his own image, that face showed above The Shadow’s cloak. In detail, it was perfect. The large nose; the long chin; even the pointed mustache of auburn hue!

This was why The Shadow had observed Channing Rightwood so closely in the hotel lobby. During the twenty minutes that Rightwood had been in the room, The Shadow, on the same floor, had discarded the features of Henry Arnaud, to replace them with those of Channing Rightwood.

“You — you—”

The man from the West was convulsive in his gasps. He expected to hear The Shadow’s tones again. Instead, he stood dumfounded as he listened to a voice which he recognized as his own.

“I am Channing Rightwood,” announced The Shadow. “I have come to New York. I have made an appointment with Logan Mungren. I shall keep it.

“It is I who shall enter the trap of death, in your place. Others have died. I shall take that risk. Do you prefer to leave the task to me — or do you wish to die?”

The last sentence was a question; yet there was no interrogation in The Shadow’s tone. The words were spoken as though the false Channing Rightwood knew what the answer would be.

“I am Channing Rightwood.”

The Shadow repeated his pronouncement. The real Rightwood nodded. He felt a strange realization that matters were beyond his comprehension. By his nod, he expressed his willingness to obey The Shadow’s order.

A gloved hand moved beneath the cloak. Channing Rightwood stared astonished as it reappeared with a brimming glass of water. None of the liquid had spilled. It was one of those deft actions which The Shadow executed when occasion required such performance.

The other hand appeared. It dropped three capsules, one by one, into the glass. The liquid clouded; then began to effervesce. Bubbles hissed upon the surface. The Shadow extended the hand that held the glass.

“Drink!”

THE word was pronounced in The Shadow’s tone. Rightwood gripped the glass. His hand shook. Some of the bubbling liquid spilled upon his hand.

“Drink!”

Again, the ominous order. Rightwood, his mind a haze, raised glass to lips. He felt a sudden surge of strength as he sipped the strange elixir.

“Drink!”

Rightwood raised the glass again. He quaffed the fluid with long gulps. He drained the glass. His grip tightened; then relaxed. The glass fell from his hand and bounded upon the carpeted floor.

For a moment, fierce delirium ruled the man. He stared wildly at his own face that he saw before him. He leaped toward The Shadow. The blackclad watcher swept aside. Rightwood plunged against the wall. The room was whirling; his head was swimming. He looked for his own face in the gloom.

He saw it moving, like a floating head in space. He clutched for it; then staggered. Like a drunken man, he sidled across the room. Catching himself against the wall, he paused in his tracks.

Turning, he saw the face staring through a doorway, close beside. With a wild gasp, Channing Rightwood leaped with vengeful force. He plunged against a solid barrier. He collapsed upon the floor, his fingers scratching against a smooth, glassy surface.

A soft laugh sounded from behind the spot where Rightwood had dropped. The frenzied man, in his bewildered whirl, had observed his own reflection in a full length mirror upon the closet door. Thinking it to be the countenance of the impostor to whose bidding he had yielded, Rightwood had plunged against the door.

The Shadow’s cloak raised about his face. His black hat came down upon his forehead. Standing like a visitant from the tomb, this weird creature of darkness studied the man upon the floor. The first exuberant effects of the elixir had ended. When Channing Rightwood slowly raised himself, he wore a dull, blank stare.

Rightwood’s eyes turned toward The Shadow. Stooping, the black-garbed king raised the man to his feet and helped him to a chair. Rightwood sat with eyes half closed. The Shadow’s gloved hand produced an envelope. The Shadow placed the envelope in Rightwood’s now flabby hand.

Pressing the man’s fingers shut, The Shadow lifted Rightwood’s arm and made his hand put the envelope in the inside pocket of the coat which Rightwood had put on a chair. The Shadow’s strong grip raised Rightwood to his feet. A blackened finger pointed to the chair where the coat was resting.

Swaying dizzily, Rightwood obeyed the indicated order. He took his coat and vest from the chair. He donned the garments. He managed to button his vest; then, with definite recollection, he fumbled in the inside pocket of the cloak to make sure the envelope was there.

The Shadow’s hidden lips were close to Rightwood’s ear. The man could hear the whispered voice that impressed its slow message with an emphasis that could not be forgotten.

“Go down stairs.” Rightwood was nodding as The Shadow spoke. “Take a cab. Grand Central Terminal. Midnight Limited. Show the ticket. It is in the envelope.”

The Shadow drew back and watched the effect. There was no need for repetition. Rightwood was nodding. Again, his hand was clutching for the envelope. The potent draft which The Shadow had forced upon him had taken full effect on Rightwood.

Energy; dizziness; those sensations had passed. Rightwood was lethargic. His brain, its swimming ended, was capable only of holding the definite orders which The Shadow had impressed upon him.

The Shadow opened the door. Rightwood felt a puff of fresh air from the corridor. It seemed to revive him momentarily; more than that, it gave him purpose. Picking up the hat that lay upon the telephone table, Channing Rightwood moved out into the hall.

BURNING eyes, peering from the door of the room, watched Rightwood’s progress along the corridor. The man reached the elevator shaft. He stood stupidly for a few moments, then pressed the button.

A car arrived. Rightwood entered.

The door of the room closed. A soft laugh sounded from The Shadow’s unseen lips.

Down in the lobby, the elevator operator watched Channing Rightwood as he walked toward the outer door. There was a slight falter in Rightwood’s stride. The operator laughed. He spoke to the dispatcher.

“That guy must have hit a bottle heavy,” he remarked. “Looks like he’s picked up a good bun.”

The dispatcher nodded as he caught a glimpse of Rightwood’s stoop-shouldered figure passing through the outer door. On the street, Rightwood steadied at sight of lights and the coolness of the outer air.

“Let me see,” he muttered. “Taxicab — hey! Taxi!”

Rightwood entered a cab as it stopped. He mumbled his order to the driver:

“Grand Central Terminal.”

Ten minutes later, Channing Rightwood appeared in the upper concourse of Grand Central Terminal, the place which he had left not more than an hour before. Fumbling in his pocket, he produced his envelope as he approached a gate which bore the sign:

Rightwood’s motions were mechanical as he delivered the ticket and received the stub. He walked steadily but slowly through the gate. His staring eyes were like those of a man in a trance.

Wearily, he plodded to his car. The porter conducted him to a lower berth. Rightwood tumbled in upon the mattress and managed to draw off his shoes. Raising his hand, he fumbled with the berth light and extinguished it.

Channing Rightwood’s head plopped upon the pillow. His energy exhausted, the man breathed heavily as he fell asleep.

Channing Rightwood was bound back to Chicago. The Shadow had taken the place of the man from the West!