Circle of Death

CHAPTER XXIII THE SHADOW KNOWS

THE man behind the soft-drink counter at the corner of Seventh Avenue was the one who had spotted the arrival of Channing Rightwood. This villain had already received commendation for the murder of Bigelow Zorman. He was anxious to repeat his former triumph.

He had pressed the switch beneath the counter. A single signal had been given. This had taken place while the stoop-shouldered form of Channing Rightwood was visible across the street. As Rightwood neared the drink counter, the huge sign near Times Square suddenly changed its hue. Green corners replaced white. Then came the blinks of the borders that told the location where Rightwood had been spotted.

“Get your creamy Chromo!” The vender’s cry was innocuous. “Step right up. Big drink for a nickel!”

The man saw Channing Rightwood approach. A nickel fell upon the counter. The Chromo seller reached beneath and produced a hidden glass. His hand covered the lower portion of the container.

Keen eyes were on that masking hand as the Chromo seller siphoned foaming fluid into the glass. The man behind the counter set the glass in front of Channing Rightwood. As he stooped beneath the counter to arrange other glasses, he anticipated the result. He pressed the switch twice and a grin covered his face.

As the man bobbed up from behind the counter, he stared toward the sign that served as beacon. Already his report had been received. The center light of each corner had turned to red. This was the token that a death thrust had been made.

The Chromo man turned toward Channing Rightwood. He stopped as he met the blaze of a pair of flashing eyes. The glass was gripped in Rightwood’s right hand. It still contained the foamy, white-frosted drink.

The murderous drink render did not move as he saw those burning eyes before him. His startled brain realized that the game was known.

Before the man could make a decision, The Shadow acted. Playing the part of Channing Rightwood, he swung his right arm and sent the contents of the glass full in the face of the man behind the counter. Then, with a downward sweep, he crashed the glass upon the marble and shattered it into flying pieces.

With this gesture, The Shadow turned and moved toward the side street. The drink seller was clawing frantically. His face and lips were dripping with the poisoned liquid that he had intended for a victim. He grabbed a towel and mopped his mouth.

People were stopping to learn the cause of the commotion. Channing Rightwood was nowhere to be seen; but the balked murderer saw a policeman turning toward the corner where excitement reigned. Ducking beneath the counter, he pressed the switch once; then scrambled for a door in the wall and made his get-away.

THE SHADOW, strolling along the side street, turned his eyes upward. He watched the sign and saw the red centers of the corners turn back to solid green. A soft laugh came from the lips beneath the false mustache. The first trap had failed. The fiend who controlled the circle of death had recalled his signal.

Well along the block, a panhandler approached the personage who looked like Channing Rightwood. He whined for a dime. The Shadow slowed his pace and reached into his pocket. They neared the corner while coins were jingling.

The clerk in a cigar store saw Rightwood stop. He caught a motion of the panhandler’s arm. Reaching into the cigar case behind the counter, the cigar clerk pressed a switch. This was the signal of location. A pause; the clerk pressed the switch twice; for he knew that murder was on the way.

Border lights blinked on the sign that neither The Shadow nor the panhandler were noticing. Then came red centered in corners of green. Channing Rightwood’s hand had come from his pocket. It was stretched toward the panhandler. A quarter lay in the open palm.

As the panhandler reached to grip the coin with his left hand, his right came from the pocket of his grimy coat. A hypodermic syringe flashed in the man’s fingers. His hand rested above The Shadow’s shoulder, ready for the jab.

An ordinary passer would not have noted the coming act. The Shadow, however, was waiting for some such gesture. The panhandler had used his left hand for taking the coin. The Shadow knew that the right must be acting also.

Quick as a flash, The Shadow’s hand closed over the coin just before the murderer’s fingers reached it. The Shadow’s arm swung upward with the power of a rifle-kick. The malletlike fist landed squarely on the panhandler’s jaw.

The fellow was lifted clear from his feet. Landing flat on his back, he rolled unconscious as his head struck the solid paving. A laugh ripped from The Shadow’s lips. Swinging, The Shadow headed straight for the cigar store.

The clerk saw purpose in this action. Frantically, he pressed the switch a single time to reverse the word that he had sent before. He ducked out through a side door. Still uttering his whispered laugh, The Shadow strode past the store.

Green corners with red centers — again they changed to solid green. The second delivery of death had failed. An unconscious panhandler lay on the paving; a cigar-store clerk was in flight.

THE SHADOW had reached another corner. The big sign was blinking a word. Pausing to play the part of Channing Rightwood, The Shadow waited at the crossing. Another passer joined him; together, they began the crossing.

“Look out!”

A big truck was lumbering down upon the two figures that stood in its path. The man beside The Shadow threw out his arm as if to protect his chance companion. At the same instant he leaped forward.

Had the man’s action succeeded, The Shadow would have remained within the truck’s path — although a stranger would have gained credit for attempting to save him. But The Shadow was ready. His strong grip caught the leaping man’s arm. With a forward motion on his own part, The Shadow sent the would-be murderer spinning backward, while he, himself, sprang for the curb ahead.

The truck driver jammed the airbrakes. He, too, was in the game. He had seen the wrong man swing into his path. His action, however, was too late. The minion of crime went hurtling as the fender of the truck propelled him. The huge vehicle shot toward the curb.

People scattered as the truck mashed against a wall. A deluge of falling bricks descended as the truck toppled over on its side and crashed into the street, its driver trapped within.

Blinking borders — corners with red centers — corners that turned green again. Once more the alert watchers within the circle of death had sent a false alarm. The Shadow had turned their own traps against minions of doom!

The Shadow’s course had changed. Boldly, this stranger who feared no danger was touring through the circle. In the middle of a block, a group of workmen shoved a barrier away from a grating. The foreman who had ordered them to do so was at the machine which controlled the electric drills.

He was watching the approach of Channing Rightwood. Eagerly, he had flashed his first signal. So sure was he of success, that he sent the second, just as the tall, stoop-shouldered walker reached the barrier that would force him to the grating.

As the foreman’s hand gave the switch the second press, a long arm shot forth. The tall body of The Shadow doubled. Hands caught the would-be murderer. The foreman uttered a choked cry as he was lifted high above the barrier. With a powerful swing, The Shadow hurled the man flat upon the grating.

Dazed, the frustrated murderer clawed at the bars while workmen were dashing to his aid. His fingers encountered the bar at the end of the grating.

A surge of gas came upward. Gasping, the foreman rolled away. Dazed, he clutched the electric machine and pressed the switch. The workmen looked on stupefied as the foreman arose; then gasped and fell. He had inhaled the noxious gas intended for the victim whom he had failed to snare.

Angry cries came from the workmen as they stared about for the man who had attacked their chief. The tall form of Channing Rightwood had ambled along the street. Another death trap, previously infallible, had been reversed when The Shadow had encountered it!

Excitement reigned within the circle of death. Minions of crime were in confusion. Men were obeying new blinks from the border lights. They were doubling their tracks, wondering as red centers changed back to green.

The doorman at the Hotel Zenith was watching the sign against the sky. So was the sandwich-board man who stood near by. Both wore ugly, puzzled faces as they realized that the quarry might soon be with them.

The Shadow, traps of death sprung uselessly behind him, was nearing the outer limit of the circle of death!