Gray Fist

CHAPTER VII THE HOME THRUST

A FEW hours after the capture of The Shadow’s agents, a large limousine pulled up in front of a Manhattan night club. A tall, dignified man spied the car from the doorway of the club. A smile appeared upon his lips — thin lips beneath an aquiline nose. Sharp eyes sparkled as the gentleman stepped out to the car.

The chauffeur had reached the curb. He opened the door of the limousine, and allowed the waiting person to step in. As he closed the door, the chauffeur questioned the destination.

“Twenty-third Street,” the passenger replied. “You can take the car home from there, Stanley. I expect to remain in town to-night.”

“Very well, Mr. Cranston.”

Stanley climbed into the front seat. He swung the limousine around a corner, and headed for the destination which his master had given.

To Stanley, his employer, Lamont Cranston, was a most unusual personage. Cranston was reputed to be a multimillionaire. He lived in a large home in New Jersey. He came in and out of New York frequently, when he was living at home.

His usual destination was the Cobalt Club; on other occasions, Cranston simply ordered Stanley to let him off at Twenty-third Street. Sometimes, however, Cranston chose most remarkable places. The night club, for instance, was an unusual one. It was a spot where the elite of the underworld were apt to be found — scarcely a place which a gentleman of Lamont Cranston’s discrimination would frequent.

Little did Stanley realize that the personality of Lamont Cranston was merely one which his master chose to adopt as a mask for his real identity. This quiet, leisurely multimillionaire was one who lived a much more exciting life than Stanley supposed. The personage who posed as Lamont Cranston; the being who was at this moment riding in the darkness of the limousine was none other than The Shadow!

While Stanley’s eyes were watching ahead, a silent motion was going on in the back seat. From a suitcase which had been left there, black garments were coming forth, drawn by swift-moving hands. As the limousine neared Twenty-third Street, those garments were donned. A spectral, black-garbed being sat shrouded in the rear of the car. Lamont Cranston had become The Shadow.

The Shadow had been investigating on his own to-night. He had chosen the glittering night club as a place where much might be secretly learned concerning doings in the underworld. He had sought to listen in on any talks which might refer to the missing racketeer, Seth Cowry.

The Shadow’s work had brought no results. Hence The Shadow was on his way to tap other sources of information. A secluded office in a dilapidated Twenty-third Street building served as a spot where Rutledge Mann put in reports from The Shadow’s agents. That was to be the first stopping point.

THE limousine slowed on Twenty-third Street. Stanley was not quite sure where his master wished to leave the car. While the chauffeur waited some word from the rear seat, the door of the limousine opened softly. A mass of darkness poised upon the step; then dropped from the car while the door silently closed.

Stanley continued for half a block; then stopped. He looked into the rear seat, switched on the light, and stared blankly. His master had left the car! Shaking his head, Stanley drove on. He headed homeward, wondering.

He realized that he had seen the result of another of his master’s eccentricities. The employer whom Stanley knew as Lamont Cranston had a habit of appearing and disappearing in mysterious fashion.

Passing blackness on the sidewalk was the only token of The Shadow’s presence after the master of darkness had stepped from the limousine. The blackness faded. The Shadow had merged with the front surface of a scarred-walled building. After that, the passage of the mysterious traveler was untraceable.

Such was the way of The Shadow. His destination was the unknown sanctum wherein he laid his plans for fighting crime. His course to that point could not be followed. Half an hour after his disappearance, The Shadow manifested his presence within the walls of his secret room.

The click of a switch sounded amid darkness. Bluish light glared upon The Shadow’s polished table. White hands — one with its sparkling girasol — appeared and opened an envelope. A report fell upon the table.

The Shadow scanned the lines. The writing faded. This report had come from Clyde Burke, through Rutledge Mann. The Classic reporter had been keeping tabs on Joe Cardona. So far, the detective had made no new move.

Reports from Cliff Marsland and Harry Vincent were absent. They, like Clyde Burke, had evidently learned nothing concerning Worth Varden, who had vanished as completely as Seth Cowry. The hand of The Shadow stretched forth and grasped the ear phones.

No light glowed upon the wall. There was no voice across the wire. For the first time in The Shadow’s weird career, communication had been broken over this line. There was no response from Burbank!

A chilly stillness followed. The blue light clicked off. Shrouded in complete darkness, The Shadow was as silent as death. Keen ears were listening in response to an amazing emergency. Long, tense minutes passed undisturbed.

A soft laugh sounded in the gloom. The laugh lacked mockery, yet it carried a bold challenge. Even its echoes seemed absent, as though The Shadow expected human voices to cry back an answer in place of the ghoulish reverberations which so often leaped from those pitch-black walls.

Still silence. The Shadow moved unheard within the darkness. The swish of his cloak was inaudible. The touch of his hand against a spot upon the wall was an action which no eye could have seen, nor any ear have heard.

A slight click came. Instead of the bluish light above the table, an indirect glow came into being. A spectral, bluish illumination pervaded the entire sanctum, casting its rays from shaded spots about the blackened walls and ceiling.

The Shadow, standing silent upon a tufted carpet of inky hue, appeared as a tall, supernatural creature amid this strange setting. His very presence would have chilled the hearts of hardened foemen. Here, in his sanctum, The Shadow had created a mellow glow which showed him as a terror-dealing power.

It was The Shadow’s challenge to all who might dare his might. It was the action of a superbeing who feared nothing. It proved The Shadow’s readiness to meet all who might seek to cross his purpose. It was also a signal of The Shadow’s knowledge that some one sought to defy his strength.

The Shadow was seeking the answer to his thoughts. The answer lay before him. There, upon the floor of The Shadow’s unknown sanctum, was a sight that brought the instant glare of The Shadow’s burning eyes.

A figure of a man lay flattened on the floor. A white face was staring upward from the tufted blackness. A gaping mouth was open. Glassy eyes were fixed in sightless death.

Here, in The Shadow’s secret abode, was the corpse of a murdered man!

THE creepy, whispered laugh that echoed from The Shadow’s lips was one that betokened understanding. Despite the unexpectedness of this discovery, despite the amazing fact that some one had penetrated to this secret sanctum, The Shadow’s keen eyes were studying the man who lay dead before him.

The identity of the victim was certain. That pale visage, with its thin gray hair, could be the face of no one but the man whom The Shadow and his agents had been seeking.

The man on the floor was Worth Varden. The importer had met death because he had sought to betray the fiend who held him under sway. He had met his end through deliberate murder, the very means of which was viewed by The Shadow’s eyes.

For the glassy stare of Worth Varden was that of a doomed person who had seen the approach of death. Driven deep into the heart of the dead importer was a knife blade, its upper portion gleaming dully under the strange light that pervaded The Shadow’s sanctum.

The handle of the knife projected like a pointer — a reminder of some fierce hand that had dealt the death stroke. So had death come to Worth Varden; yet in the very deed of doom, the enemy who had ordained that death had meant it as a token to The Shadow.

Below the handle of the knife, pressed against Worth Varden’s bosom, and pierced by the blade itself, was a sheet of paper that showed its grayish color even in the weird glow of the sanctum.

Upon the dull surface of the paper were written words that stood in black inscription. The paper which had been skewered above Worth Varden’s heart was a message.

Such was Gray Fist’s challenge to The Shadow!