Circle of Death

CHAPTER XXII THE SHADOW MOVES

A FIGURE was standing by the window of Room 2016, in the Hotel Metrolite. The face of Channing Rightwood was staring out toward the blazing skyline of Manhattan. The eyes that watched were not the eyes of Channing Rightwood. They were the eyes of The Shadow.

Nor was the utterance that came from the lips beneath the false mustache a sound that Rightwood could have uttered. That burst of whispered mirth was the laugh of The Shadow!

The clock upon the Paramount Building was past the hour of nine. A huge electric sign with white corners and white borders seemed a glowing challenge. The circle of death was expectant, The Shadow would not keep it waiting longer.

The stoop-shouldered figure moved. The false Channing Rightwood stalked from the room and closed the door behind him. His footsteps faded as they headed toward the elevators.

Two minutes after The Shadow had left, the telephone began to ring. It remained unanswered. Burbank, relaying a report from Clyde Burke, was just too late to reach The Shadow with news of visitors at Felix Tressler’s. Perhaps The Shadow had anticipated that Logan Mungren and Perry Harton would be in the penthouse. He had certainly not gained an inkling that Joe Cardona would be with them.

The false Channing Rightwood passed through the glittering lobby of the Hotel Metrolite. He reached the street and followed a course very close to the one that Logan Mungren had advised. He made a conspicuous figure — one that could be easily recognized by any persons who had been given a description of the real Channing Rightwood.

ONE thousand miles away, the Midnight Limited was pulling into Chicago. The real Channing Rightwood was rising from his seat. He could see lights through the window of the Pullman. He was rousing himself from a lethargy which had persisted ever since he left New York.

“My bags — ” Rightwood was speaking to the porter.

“You have no bags, sah!”

“No bags? Who took them? Here we are, coming into New York—”

“Dis is Chicago, sah!”

“Chicago! I left there last night!”

“No, sah! You left New York.”

The real Channing Rightwood slumped, bewildered. All recollection of his arrival in New York, his meeting with The Shadow and his strange departure had faded like a forgotten dream. His confused mind could find nothing but a scattered medley of incidents.

The drugged liquid which he had quaffed at The Shadow’s bidding had left no ill effects. It had simply put Channing Rightwood into a state of clouded bewilderment that would continue while he tried to recall the events of his meeting with The Shadow.

It was fortunate, perhaps, that Rightwood, in his hazy state, was not in New York. Had he been there, he might have seen the startling spectacle of his own self walking along Seventh Avenue.

The Shadow, impersonator who lived the parts he played, was the absolute double of Channing Rightwood. He had chosen this role for the definite purpose of entering the circle of death.

DANGER lured The Shadow. Ofttimes, he met it in his garb of black, appearing as a sinister creature of the night, to strike down hordes of evil. On this occasion, he was dealing with foemen of a new ilk.

Skulkers, watchers, fiends disguised — these were the enemies The Shadow must encounter. They did not expect The Shadow. One glimpse of the black-garbed warrior would warn them. They wanted Channing Rightwood. The Shadow had chosen that identity that he might meet them.

Nine o’clock. Rightwood was expected at that hour, if not before. It was after nine now. The circle of death was tingling. Never before had the hidden minions of Felix Tressler been so expectant, so ready to loose their subtle snares of death.

The Shadow knew this. In the guise of Channing Rightwood, he was beginning the most startling adventure of his remarkable career. He was nearing a zone where he would be surrounded by camouflaged enemies. Any person among thousands might be one set to launch at him some design of death!

The Shadow had traversed the district that he was now entering. Here was a huge electric sign. Its corners were solid white. Its borders were unblinking.

There was the token against the sky — the signalboard that would aid minions of evil in their vicious fight against a lone victim. A soft whisper came from the lips of Channing Rightwood. That whisper was a laugh.

UP in the penthouse atop of Hotel Delavan, Felix Tressler’s eyes were glued upon the big map of Manhattan. A frosted bulb, stationed on the red circle, glimmered with a single blink. A cry of elation came from Felix Tressler. Leaping to the map, the master fiend pressed a switch.

The trail had begun. Channing Rightwood was trudging to his doom. The first minion of murder had spotted him. The neon light began to move along one of the glass tubes that represented Manhattan streets.

Gloating faces peered over Tressler’s shoulders. Perry Harton and Logan Mungren, lieutenants of the superfiend, were sharing in their master’s glee. They knew the meaning of the blink; they knew the purpose of the neon light.

So did Detective Joe Cardona, staring from the corner where he lay in helpless plight. Like the others, he was sure that a living man was doomed. Like them, he knew that a new victim had entered the circle of death!