Circle of Death

CHAPTER XVIII THE SHADOW’S CIRCLE

IN Room 2016 at the Hotel Metrolite, Channing Rightwood was removing articles from his suitcase. At least, the person who was performing this action appeared to be Channing Rightwood. The Shadow, in the new guise which he had taken, was a perfect double for the man whom he had sent back to Chicago.

Even here alone, The Shadow was copying the gestures which he had noticed as part of Rightwood’s personality. When The Shadow dealt in impersonation, his clever skill could not be detected.

The clothes which the false Rightwood wore were not identical with those in which the man from Chicago had been garbed. That, however, was not a necessary part of the imposition. Rightwood might well have been wearing any suit.

In Rightwood’s bag, The Shadow discovered a telegram. It was to Channing Rightwood from Bigelow Zorman. It stated the importance of Rightwood’s option and advised the recipient that Zorman would communicate with him when he reached New York.

It was not at all singular that Channing Rightwood had heard no news of the deaths of Maurice Bewkel and Bigelow Zorman. Those deaths had been local items in New York newspapers; they had been copied by smaller cities but had evidently not taken much space in Chicago journals.

There was no trace of any option in Rightwood’s bag. The Shadow assumed that Rightwood must have a safe-deposit box in a New York bank. Two pass books on Manhattan trust companies indicated this possibility.

Half an hour had passed since Channing Rightwood’s odd departure when The Shadow folded black cloak and hat. With these garments beneath his arm, he peered out into the corridor; then followed the hallway to Room 2020.

A bag lay open on a chair in the room that Henry Arnaud had taken. It contained various articles and a piece of folded wrapping paper. The Shadow removed the last from the bag. He pressed the slouch hat flat and wrapped it, with cloak and gloves, within the paper.

A few minutes later, Channing Rightwood appeared in the corridor, carrying a neat package under his arm. He went to the elevators, rang for a car and descended.

The dispatcher stared a moment as he saw the face of Channing Rightwood. He had not seen the man return. He decided that Rightwood must have come in and was now going out again. Fresh air must certainly have had a reviving effect upon him, for the stooped shoulders were steady and the gait was not uncertain.

OUTSIDE the Metrolite Hotel, the false Channing Rightwood hailed a cab. He gave a destination. In the taxi, he unwrapped the package which he carried. As the cab sped along a side street, the folds of the cloak opened. The garment slipped over shoulders. The black hat pressed upon The Shadow’s head.

The cab stopped near a corner. A bill fluttered from the front window into the driver’s hand. The taximan started to make change, watching for his passenger to alight. There was no motion in the rear of the cab. The driver stepped to the street and yanked open the door. To his amazement, the cab was empty.

The Shadow had stepped forth in his mysterious and invisible fashion. The driver’s eyes stared as his ears heard a vague, creepy sound. It was like a fading laugh; yet look where he might, the cabby could see no one who might be the author of that mirth.

Pocketing the bill, the driver leaped back into his cab and drove away. He did not see the flitting streak of black that was moving along the sidewalk, nor did he observe the phantom shape beside it.

The Shadow merged with darkness.

Some time elapsed before his presence was again manifest. A click within the walls of his sanctum was the token that The Shadow had returned to the mysterious abode where his plans were formulated.

Clippings fell upon the table. The girasol sparkled as The Shadow moved them with his hands. These news notes concerned the mysterious death of an unknown man found in a taxicab near Times Square. They were items like the one which Channing Rightwood had noticed in the New York newspaper.

The Shadow studied these reports. Puzzling though they were to the police, they meant much to The Shadow. He knew the identity of that slain man: Wilton Byres, secretary to Felix Tressler. To The Shadow, the death of Byres was another key to the complicated case upon which he was working.

Ear phones clicked. A tiny bulb showed against the wall. A quiet voice announced:

“Burbank speaking.”

“Report.”

“Reports from Burke and Marsland. Identical. No one has come to Tressler’s. No one has left.”

“Single shifts,” ordered The Shadow, in a hissing whisper. “Outside the Hotel Delavan until tomorrow at six o’clock. Then resume double duty.”

“Instructions received,” replied Burbank.

After his call to his contact man, The Shadow opened an envelope from Rutledge Mann. It contained only a coded note from Harry Vincent — a summary of that agent’s work in South Shoreview and Chicago. The writing faded. The Shadow’s agents, like their master, used vanishing ink in their communications.

Paper crinkled. The map of Manhattan unfolded upon The Shadow’s table. White pins and black; this time there were four. Each white pin marked the location from which a doomed man had begun his journey in the zone of danger; each black pin pointed out the spot where death had struck.

NOW came other pins. These had green heads; and The Shadow inserted them at carefully-calculated spots. A soft laugh rippled through the sanctum as The Shadow worked. These pins were the result of his observations within the district where hidden death ruled.

The Shadow’s hand marked lines to trace the course taken by Wilton Byres. This, added to those of Dustin Cruett, Maurice Bewkel and Bigelow Zorman, produced a series of interwoven channels along the streets that were shown on the map.

Long, careful study followed. At times, The Shadow shifted positions of certain pins. At last, a triumphant laugh resounded. The Shadow had completed his calculations.

A dripping pen appeared in The Shadow’s hand. Its long quill was crimson. The ink upon its point was of the same bloody hue. The left hand lifted certain pins. The right, with a steady, well-guided stroke, drew a perfect circle upon the map of Manhattan.

Back went the pins. The Shadow viewed his handiwork. A circle of blood-red color! Well did it define the deeds that had transpired within that area of doom! One spot remained conspicuously blank. It was the very center of the circle.

Again, The Shadow laughed. His left hand appeared, bringing a pin larger than the others. This pin had a large head, of the same crimson that characterized the ink. The Shadow thrust it squarely in the center of the blood-colored circle.

Again the laugh. This time, its ominous tone was explained. With one stroke, The Shadow had automatically added the final touch to his discoveries. That lay in the position where the red-topped pin projected.

On the map, that pin located the Hotel Delavan — the building upon which Felix Tressler dwelt in the security of his protected penthouse. The Shadow’s own map was a small-sized edition of the huge chart that hung from Tressler’s wall — a map which The Shadow, as yet, had never seen.

Keen eyes studied the map with its crimson ring. The light clicked out as strident mirth broke forth with prophetic mockery. Within the black walls of his sanctum, The Shadow had marked his circle.

The Shadow’s circle was identical with the terror zone of Manhattan — Felix Tressler’s circle of death! That was the area where battle soon would come — where The Shadow, master of vengeance, would fare forth to balk the fiend who ruled the circle of death!