Master of Death

CHAPTER XIII. WORD TO THE SHADOW

Two days had elapsed since the eventful evening when Doctor Joseph Barratini had died and Doctor Rupert Sayre had fallen into the toils of Eric Veldon. The evanishment of the two prominent physicians had become Manhattan’s newest mystery.

In an office situated high in the towering Badger Building, a chubby-faced man was busy at his desk. The great buildings of upper New York formed an amazing sky line when viewed from the window by the man’s side; but this lethargic, slow-moving individual paid no attention to the scene without. He was entirely occupied with a newspaper, clipping long paragraphs from it.

A stack of items formed a little pile upon the desk. The chubby-faced man slipped them together and inserted them in an envelope. Just as he was about to seal this, there was a rap at the door. In response to the man’s query, the voice of the stenographer announced that a visitor was outside.

The lethargic individual showed unusual haste as he dumped the bulky newspapers into a wastebasket and laid the envelope at the side of the desk. He arose from his chair and opened the door into the outer office. A tall, bluff-faced man arose to meet him.

“You are Mr. Rutledge Mann?” inquired the stranger.

“Yes,” acknowledged the chubby-faced man.

“I am Holbrook Edkins,” explained the visitor.

“Ah, yes!” exclaimed Mann. “The gentleman who is interested in inventive investments. Come in, Mr. Edkins. Come in.”

Seated in the inner office, Edkins looked quizzically at the investment broker. He expected to hear Mann begin a sales talk. On the contrary, the investment broker opened conversation along a different trend.

He seemed anxious to learn something about Edkins.

“You have made previous investments of this nature?” inquired Mann. “Specifically, have you ever financed inventions which offered definite possibilities?”

“A rather unusual question,” laughed Edkins. “I hardly see what that has to do with the present matter.”

“A great deal,” explained Mann, seriously. “You must understand, Mr. Edkins, that I usually deal in gilt-edged securities. I would not recommend my present proposition to any one who is unfamiliar with the risks incurred in purchasing rights to new inventions.”

“Very fair of you,” agreed Edkins. “However, Mr. Mann, I can satisfy your apprehensions upon that point. I have already successfully invested money in various inventions.”

“This one,” announced Mann, “relates to certain X-ray devices which may revolutionize the present appliances used in hospitals. I have already interested one client—”

The investment broker stopped short. Holbrook Edkins was offering an interruption. Mann’s statements had apparently aroused his entire interest.

“X-rays?” queried the prospective investor. “Can you be more specific, sir? I am very much interested in developments of that sort.”

“Ah! You have already investigated that field?”

“I have received recommendations of certain X-ray appliances.”

“Indeed,” said Mann. “I did not know that other investment brokers were offering such propositions.”

“This did not come through a broker,” explained Edkins. “In fact, I am not at liberty to state the complete details. I can explain the situation in a few words, however.

“I am worth more than a million dollars, Mr. Mann. I made my money through wise choice in the development of useful inventions. I formed contact with certain promoters who had access to different inventions. Through one of these men, I recently learned of a new and practical X-ray device. I have advanced money toward its completion.

“Naturally, I am interested in any other device of the sort. I cannot name the promoter with whom I have been talking. Nevertheless, I should like to consider the merits of any device which might duplicate, or parallel, the effects which this promoter promised.”

“VERY fair,” decided Mann. “I think, Mr. Edkins, that it would be wise for you to meet my first client — the one who has already expressed an interest in the new proposition.”

“Who is he?”

“A gentleman named Lamont Cranston. A multi-millionaire who lives in New Jersey.”

“I have heard of him. A great traveler, is he not? A member of the Cobalt Club?”

“Yes. Mr. Cranston holds an option for one half of the new stock issue. I would prefer to have you talk with him. He is investing in the X-ray — not promoting it. He understands its merits. His enviable reputation…”

“I should be glad to meet Mr. Cranston,” interposed Edkins. “Very glad. I have heard that he has been highly successful in unusual investments. Your suggestion is a good one, Mr. Mann. When can this meeting be arranged?”

“Mr. Cranston will be in New York this evening,” returned Mann. “Will you be at home, Mr. Edkins?”

“Certainly,” said the millionaire, “Could you arrange to have Mr. Cranston call at my residence?”

“I shall telephone the Cobalt Club,” assured Mann, “and have him communicate with you, Mr. Edkins.”

The interview ended, Rutledge Mann returned to his desk and began to prepare a report. His role of investment broker was ended. He was acting as The Shadow’s agent.

Sealing his report in another envelope, Mann picked up the one that contained the clippings and sealed it, also. He noted by his watch that it was nearly five o’clock.

The investment broker took a cab to Twenty-third Street. He entered a dingy building and went to an upper floor. He stopped before a deserted office, where a dirty, cobwebbed glass panel bore the name:

Mann deposited his envelopes into a small chute. He left the building. The slot that allowed the passage of messages into an empty office constituted The Shadow’s letter box. All data deposited there reached The Shadow himself. No one had ever been seen to enter or leave the locked office; but Mann knew well that The Shadow had ready access to the place.

LESS than one hour after Rutledge Mann had visited the office on Twenty-third Street, a light clicked in a darkened room. Within the confines of his sanctum, The Shadow placed two envelopes upon his table.

His long fingers opened the first; out fell the clippings which Rutledge Mann had accumulated.

The Shadow studied these items swiftly. They related to the new and baffling mystery, the disappearance of Doctors Barratini and Sayre. They included a statement regarding the discovery of Rupert Sayre’s coupe, upon an obscure street in the northern section of Manhattan.

The Shadow’s hands produced a large map of New York City. While the girasol glittered beneath the bluish light, keen eyes surveyed the chart and a long finger marked the spot where the coupe had been found.

Again, The Shadow had recognized the insidious hand of the fiendish enemy whom he was seeking, but whose identity he had not yet learned.

A typewritten paper fell upon the table. It was a later list from Clyde Burke; in it appeared the name of Doctor Joseph Barratini, the noted brain surgeon. This data had been gained too late. Burke had learned of the eminent physician’s presence in New York on the morning after Barratini’s strange disappearance.

The Shadow’s laugh was grim. In all his career, the master of detection had never encountered a more stubborn foeman than this hidden fiend who struck with superskill.

An abandoned coupe in northern Manhattan; that was the only clew. No trail led on from there. It was known that Doctor Sayre had called upon Doctor Barratini in the latter’s apartment. It was assumed that the two had gone out together.

The Shadow had not been idle. He had been to the spot where Sayre’s car had been discovered. He had noted an alleyway off the silent street. That place jibed with the description that Punks Gumbert had given to Cliff Marsland.

The Shadow was relying upon his agent in the underworld. Cliff was with Duke Scurley’s gang. When the word came to put some new victim on the spot, Cliff would learn the exact locality where gagged gangsters had been turned over to other hands.

Would that be the same alleyway as the one near the corner where Sayre’s car had been found? The Shadow believed it was. His keen study of the maze of crime showed a new link between the disappearance of the two physicians and the deaths of Merle Clussig and Wycroft Dustin.

In the face of circumstances, however, The Shadow was playing a waiting game. Whatever the fate of Joseph Barratini or Rupert Sayre, the best way to meet the superfiend was when he moved once more.

That time would come when a new summons arrived for Duke Scurley, the gang leader.

THE fingers opened the second envelope. In carefully coded writing appeared the report of Rutledge Mann’s interview with Holbrook Edkins.

The paper remained motionless in The Shadow’s hands. Its vivid writing — inscribed in the disappearing ink which characterized all messages between The Shadow and his agents — vanished word by word.

Ear phones clicked across the table. Burbank’s voice came over the wires as a tiny light bulb announced the connection. The Shadow’s whisper gave important instructions to the hidden contact agent. Burbank announced his understanding.

The bluish light went out as The Shadow clicked the switch above the shade which surrounded it. A peal of strident mirth reechoed through the total darkness of the sanctum. The Shadow’s mockery rang forth with a sinister tone that announced the turn of battle.

In Rutledge Mann’s message, The Shadow had grasped the key. He had found the final link. The chain was completed. Tonight, as Lamont Cranston, he would learn the identity of the supercrook behind the crime.

Word to The Shadow — word that proved the keenness of The Shadow’s methods — word that rewarded the patience which the black-garbed investigator had shown in his difficult campaign against an enemy whose ways were deep and subtle.

Such word had come from Rutledge Mann. The investment broker, by following The Shadow’s instructions, had uncovered the financier whom The Shadow sought — the innocent person who, The Shadow knew, must exist as a pawn in the game which the concealed foe was playing.

Tonight, Holbrook Edkins would receive a guest. He would talk to Lamont Cranston, multi-millionaire, regarding the merits of electrical inventions. Edkins had said but little to Rutledge Mann. He would say much to Lamont Cranston, for he would be dealing with The Shadow — not the master’s agent.

Weird echoes took up the cry of the taunting laugh as it broke into a sibilant spasm of merriment.

Sobbing ghouls seemed to hurl back their answer from limitless corridors of space that were shrouded in the gloom. When the last dying jibe had ended, deep silence reigned throughout the black-walled sanctum.

The Shadow, master of vengeance, had departed. Tonight, his hand would stretch forth to grasp a hidden murderer and end the long regime of unrequited crime.