Dead Men Live

Chapter XVIII — Orlinov's Threat

It was long past midnight. Orlinov's gray castle stood bleak and barren in the flooding moonlight. Its stone walls were deserted; yet its sullen battlements and sturdy towers spoke of hidden men-at-arms, ready to rise should the ramparts be threatened by an enemy.

A heavy truck glided up to the massive gate that bore the half-defaced name "Glamartin."

The lights clicked off and on. In response to the signal, the gate opened, and a stocky man stepped out and walked to the side of the big vehicle.

The watcher had recognized the truckmen who were bringing a new shipment to the castle. All three two truckmen and one watcher — were handpicked gorillas in the service of Biff Towley. The truck passed on. The gate clanged behind it. The truck stopped in front of the stone building. Men came from the door. Strong hands unloaded the heavy box from the truck.

Through the door went the box, into the hallway, then to the security of Orlinov's living room.

The handlers noticed the heavy fastenings of the box, its long pivot hinge, its solid padlocks. The burden rested on the floor as they surveyed it. Then the men left, locking the door of the room. There was no light in the living room, save the dying glow of embers in the fireplace. The mysterious box loomed large in the vague light. The only tokens of activity were the flickering, changing shadows that wavered across the floor in response to the faint glow from the large fireplace. Strange shadows in a strange room! Shadows that varied with the dying of the coals. Shadows that flitted like ghostly, goblin shapes. Shadows that were unreal, yet shades that seemed possessed of an uncanny life.

The faint crackling of the embers; the occasional creaking of the floor; these were the only sounds within that room. Then, shadows and sounds took on a more eerie trend. They were vague and uncertain as the firelight dwindled almost into nothingness.

One might have thought that elfin footfalls were creeping through that room, that the heavy door that led to the hall had opened, and then closed.

In the mystery wing of the house, a lone gangster patrolled the dim, lengthy corridor. His vigil took him from the second floor to the first; then back up to the second.

On the upper story, he stopped frequently to lift up square panels in the centers of certain doors, to make sure that no lights glimmered from the rooms within.

Calloused and unimaginative, this watchman was unperturbed by the creaking of the floor beneath his feet, and the strange, grotesque shadows that he encountered in the gloomy light. Fantastic silhouettes did not impress his sordid mind.

He was alert, but calmly so, as he patrolled his course. Reaching the end of the corridor, he turned and went back over the route that he had covered before.

Within a veritable cellroom, Cliff Marsland lay half awake upon a corner couch. The flicker of dim light passed over his eyes as the watching hoodlum lifted the panel in the door that led to the hall. Then the panel closed.

A short time later, Cliff opened his eyes, fancying that another beam of illumination had strayed into the room. Then he felt that he must have been mistaken, for all remained dark by the door. Cliff pitched restlessly. He was wearied by this captivity. He had found himself in this room, weak and pepless, after he had recovered from the effects of the hypo jabbed into his arm.

He had remained here a long while — weeks, it seemed — and his jailers had been uncommunicative. Actually, Cliff realized, his confinement had been a matter of days only; but time had passed dully. He had eaten the food that was furnished him. He did not fear poison for he knew he was completely in the power of his captors. He had realized that he had been receiving a mild opiate for he had constantly lacked strength since his capture.

Even now, although aroused and disgruntled, Cliff could not overcome the drowsiness that gripped him. His restlessness ended. He slept.

Shafts of morning light flung a melancholy glare through the high, glass-barred slits that served as windows in Cliff's prison. The captive awoke and again — as on previous mornings — realized his plight. Cliff was in the same predicament as those other men whom Orlinov had shown him. He was one of the dead who lived.

Cliff raised his head and adjusted his pillow, preparing for another doze. His hand struck something. He raised the pillow; then quickly dropped it while he stared toward the door of the room to make sure that no one was watching him.

Beneath his pillow was a pocket-model automatic pistol! Half dazed, Cliff remembered a vague fit of wakefulness during the night, followed by a hazy dream that someone was in the room. He rose quickly from his bed and dressed.

With another glance at the door, he raised the pillow, half expecting to find nothing there.

He had not been mistaken. His hand clutched a gun.

A pocket .32, flat as a book, its magazine loaded to eight-cartridge capacity. Standing by the bed, Cliff slipped the handy weapon into his hip pocket. With the revolver was a box of cartridges. He dropped this in the other pocket. Also, he saw an envelope.

With his back toward the wall, Cliff removed a message from the envelope. It was written in code, in ink. It bore these words, as Cliff translated them.

A message from The Shadow! Cliff was elated. Somehow, his leader had managed to penetrate to this isolated spot; to bring him a weapon; to leave him instructions. Cliff understood.

He slipped his hand to the window ledge, found the key, and left it there.

Sometime tonight, The Shadow intended to open an attack. Fiends of crime would meet their match, elsewhere in this strange, castle-like abode. This wing would be under guard. It was Cliff's appointed task to spring a surprise attack, to gain control of the wing, and hold it for whatever purpose The Shadow intended.

Thus The Shadow would strike from two directions. He himself would come from without; Cliff Marsland would hammer from within.

This place was a vital spot. Cliff, by a sortie, could control the wing for The Shadow, and thus protect the other prisoners.

Cliff foresaw a struggle against giant odds, and the thought elated him. He knew well that he could hardly hope to fight his way safety from this place, with nearly a score of enemies to block his path. But with The Shadow beating down the opposition, matters were quite different.

The Shadow alone was match for half a hundred hoodlums.

Cliff pondered. A pistol shot was to be the signal. He doubted that he could hear it. Then he remembered the exact wording of the message, which had disappeared from the sheet of paper he had read.

The Shadow, should he open an attack, would meet with a cannonade from Orlinov's henchmen. Cliff would hear that, surely. There was also the possibility of The Shadow waiting until midnight. Cliff knew the exactness of his mysterious chief. Midnight would be the zero hour, if nothing transpired before then. Cliff buried the envelope within the pages of a book. He thrust the paper with some other sheets. He sat down in a chair and puffed at an unlighted cigarette. He was allowed no matches here. The door opened, and Petri stepped in, carrying a tray of breakfast. Cliff looked stupidly toward the solemn-faced Russian. He knew that Petri was backed by a mobster in the corridor. He ate his breakfast after Petri had gone. He drank but little of the coffee furnished him, for he was convinced that it was doped.

The day wore on. A second meal at noon. Cliff busied himself reading various books that were in the room. A long afternoon dragged by. Dinner. Then evening.

Now, Cliff was tense. He realized well the security of his position. There was nothing in this room that could be used as a weapon, save the gun that he had obtained without the knowledge of his captors. It was safely tucked in his pocket. Orlinov and Petri were the only ones who had keys to this room. Any search of the prisoner would be unnecessary.

During the day, Cliff had come to the conclusion that The Shadow must have worked through one of Orlinov's henchmen. He did not believe that The Shadow could be here; nor was it likely that he had sent another operative to the castle.

Tonight, The Shadow would attack from without, knowing that Cliff would be on hand to take charge in the vital section of the castle. It would not be a question of Cliff fighting free; it would be The Shadow's work to battle his way inward.

Eight o'clock arrived, then nine neared. Cliff was anxious and on edge. While he was trying to maintain his composure, he saw the door move. It opened. In stepped Ivan Orlinov It was with difficulty that Cliff restrained himself from action. He might have overpowered the bearded Russian by a quick encounter, but he deemed it best to wait. He must not spoil The Shadow's well-laid plans.

Orlinov walked toward Cliff and stood glaring at him. The big, bearded man was a menacing figure. Cliff met his sparkling gaze with calmness. He saw one of the mobsmen in the background, holding a revolver in readiness.

This was a time for tact. Yet Cliff was perturbed. He feared that something must have gone awry; that Orlinov had learned that events were scheduled for tonight.

"Marslandt," growled Orlinov, in his deep bass, "I haff come here to speak with you. It iss wise that you should tell me tings that I haff not yet asked to know."

Cliff made no reply. He stared coldly toward his inquisitor. He was tempted to draw his automatic, but knew that such action would provoke a crisis. It was not until the Russian spoke again that Cliff fully understood the import of his visit.

"You haff come here," Orlinov declared, "to make trouble because someone hass sent you. We know who it iss who hass sent you. He iss called The Shadow."

The speaker paused, and his harsh eyes shone furiously as he advanced.

"You will tell us," he hissed. "You will tell us, Marslandt. Who iss The Shadow?"

"I know nothing of The Shadow," Cliff answered.

"We shall see," declared Orlinov, in an ominous growl. "Let me tell you this Marslandt. We haff ways here that can make you tell!"

He uttered loud words in his native tongue. It was a call to Petri. The second Russian appeared from the corridor. In his hand he held a revolver.

Again a command from Orlinov. Methodically, Petri approached and jabbed the muzzle of his gun into Cliff's back. Orlinov pointed toward the door. Petri nudged Cliff in that direction.

What did this mean?

Cliff realized that he was being forced into a predicament that might prove as dangerous as it was unexpected. His guard shoved him into the corridor; there a gangster waited, also armed. Along the corridor, past the rows of silent doors then down the stairs they went, to the ground floor. It was too late now to make a break for safety. There was nothing for Cliff to do but wait. At least his captors did not know that he was armed, and there would be no occasion to search him. Cliff's ears were keen, in case they might hear the report of a distant gun — the signal that would denote the arrival of The Shadow.

Orlinov passed the little group when they reached the first floor. He unlocked a panel in the wall. The barrier slid back to show a flight of stairs descending into the cellar. Cliff advanced when he heard the order. He entered the gloomy well and went down the steps, still feeling the threat of the revolver that pressed his back.

Petri was a vigilant captor. Not for one instant did Cliff have an opportunity to reach for his gun. He kept on his way until they reached a stone-walled room that had the mustiness of a dungeon. It was lighted by a single incandescent. Through a door they went, into another room, which also had a single large lamp.

Cliff's lips pressed firmly together. He realized the purpose of this journey. They had reached a veritable torture chamber, below the ground. At one side was a flat, spike-studded table. Across the room stood a coffin-like contrivance, upright, with a hinged door.

Here was a post, with manacles attached; there a yawning pit in the floor. Cliff's destination was a spot against the wall, where four metal loops dangled on the ends of ropes which passed through pulleys. In another moment, Cliff was backed against the side of the room, with Petri's revolver pressing the pit of his stomach.

Now the gangster member of the trio was covering Cliff. Orlinov stood by while Petri stooped to attach the lower bands to Cliff's ankles. Next came the wrists.

Petri walked to one side and turned a winch. It drew Cliff's body toward the right; as the rope went upward, his arm was raised above his head.

Methodically, Petri strode toward the other side of the room, and turned a second winch.

Cliff's left arm was hoisted forcibly. He stood spread-eagled in the clutches of the locking bands, while Orlinov's black face remained motionless. At length, the bearded Russian spoke.

"You see?" he questioned. "We haff placed you where you can tell. This iss how it hass been done in Siberia — many years ago. People have found it wise to speak when the torture hass been close to them." He motioned the gangster to the other winch. With Petri at one side, and the gunman at the other, both winches could be operated simultaneously.

"I haff given you the chance!" hissed Orlinov "Speak! Tell me: Who iss The Shadow? What haff you known about him? Speak!"

Cliff remained obdurate. Orlinov signaled his men. They turned the winches. Cliff felt a terrific agony as his limbs began to draw from his body. A gesture from the bearded Russian stopped the barbarous torture.

"You haff tasted what iss to follow," said Orlinov. "You shall haff more — unless you speak—" Cliff's answer was a furious scowl. He was determined to withstand this barbarity.

Orlinov watched him. Red lips leered through the jet-black beard. A sign from Orlinov, and the winches turned farther. As the strain ceased a second time, Cliff's maddened brain began to formulate a plan. He was willing to bear the agony until it killed him; but that seemed a futile plan.

His duty tonight was to serve The Shadow. Crippled and helpless, he would be of no use.

It was a long time until midnight. His endurance had not yet been fully taxed. Let them turn the winches farther; then he would offer to speak.

He could tell Orlinov of The Shadow — for Cliff's information would at best be barren.

Like the other agents of The Shadow, he knew little of the mysterious man's ways. Yes, that was the best course: to hold out; then pretend to cry for mercy.

While Cliff Marsland was thus planning, Orlinov, too, was scheming. He was a master of the almost extinct art of torture. He intended to let Cliff Marsland suffer a while; then to ease him, that he might experience the temporary relief that would make the thought of further barbarity unendurable. It was a battle of wits, with Orlinov the master. The huge Russian had looked forward to this hour, ever since Cliff had been made a prisoner. At his urging, Tremont had given him free rein. Whether The Shadow was alive or dead, Ivan Orlinov would force statements from the lips of his helpless agent. Such work was a pleasure to the bearded fiend.

The Russian spoke in his native tongue, and Petri nodded understanding.

The grim game began again. The winches tautened the ropes. Cliff Marsland set his lips.

Ivan Orlinov grinned in anticipation. He saw success.

Tonight, he would learn the truth about The Shadow!