Master of Death

CHAPTER XIX. THE TRAIL BEGINS

CLIFF MARSLAND had tremendous confidence in The Shadow; that confidence was based upon the amazing feats which The Shadow had accomplished in the past. Had Cliff, however, analyzed the difficulties of his own situation, he would have held grave apprehensions regarding the fate that awaited him.

The crux of The Shadow’s effort had come with that single-handed fight which he had waged with Duke Scurley’s mob. The Shadow had wiped out the gangsters, but he had been forced to lose the great opportunity of trailing Eric Veldon’s minions to their lair.

Thus handicapped, The Shadow was playing the one trump card that remained — a close watch over the affairs of Holbrook Edkins. The millionaire had assured Lamont Cranston that word would come from Eric Veldon and that he would arrange an appointment without telling the promoter that a stranger would be present. The Shadow was staking much upon that meeting.

In the meantime, there was the chance that Veldon, calling in person on Edkins, could be trailed. Hence, when evening again came to Manhattan, a pair of keen, observant eyes were keeping close watch upon the front of the house where Holbrook Edkins lived. The Shadow, himself, was on watch.

With darkness forming a gloomy shroud, a stealthy figure moved toward the house. The Shadow reached the blackness of a side area. His tall form poised beside the wall. Reaching upward through the darkness, The Shadow gained a high bay window.

The lock yielded under silent pressure. The sash lifted. Unseen, unheard, The Shadow entered the gilded living room.

Here, The Shadow had a vantage point. The room was unlighted. Edkins was evidently upstairs. If a visitor arrived, if Edkins decided to go out, The Shadow would quickly learn the fact. As yet, there had been no indication of communication between Veldon and Edkins.

It was not The Shadow’s usual role to play a waiting part, particularly when circumstances had placed one of his agents in a precarious situation. Yet it was chance, alone, that had tricked The Shadow; and tonight, The Shadow was playing for the turn. His keen analysis of Eric Veldon’s methods had given him positive assurance that a move could be expected from the enemy.

Merle Clussig — Wycroft Dustin — Joseph Barratini — those three had held a definite association with Eric Veldon, whose name The Shadow had so recently learned. Two of those men had died; the third had disappeared. That was proof that Veldon had kept close contact with them.

It was inconceivable that Veldon would omit the precaution of keeping in touch with Holbrook Edkins, the millionaire with whom he had conducted important negotiations.

A CLOCK struck eight. Scarcely had its chimes ceased before a ringing sound came from the hall. It was the telephone. The Shadow listened. A servant answered; then went upstairs. The heavy footsteps of Holbrook Edkins sounded.

The Shadow moved through the darkness of the living room. His keen eyes peered between a hanging curtain and a doorframe. The hidden being heard each word that Holbrook Edkins uttered.

“Hello,” began the millionaire. “Ah! Veldon! I am glad to hear from you… Yes, I expected a call last night — certainly tonight… You should come to see me, yes. It is not usual for you to telephone…

“I must see you, Veldon… Tonight, positively… It concerns the financial arrangements… No, no. Do not misunderstand me. I am not impatient. I have larger ideas… New capital… Others interested…

“You disapprove?” Edkins voiced doubt. “You may have your reasons, Veldon, but do not forget that my money is concerned… No, I have made no agreement with any other person… Certainly, Veldon, I shall keep your confidence… Well, yes — I have been looking for someone else to put up additional capital—”

The Shadow’s eyes were glistening. Was Edkins about to name Lamont Cranston? It did not matter, so long as Veldon’s interest was aroused; yet the less that Edkins said from now on, the better.

“I have done nothing final,” Edkins was saying. “Nevertheless, I see complications — other inventions that may nullify the ones that you are developing… Surely, Veldon. That is fair enough… Yes, I shall remain at home this evening… Alone… Until you arrive. About ten o’clock? Earlier perhaps? Very good. Very good.”

The call was concluded. Holbrook Edkins went upstairs. The hallway was empty. Apparently, the millionaire would abide by his agreement and call no one until after Eric Veldon had arrived.

It was The Shadow’s turn for action now.

Coming from the curtain, The Shadow loomed in spectral shape as he approached the telephone and raised the receiver. His quiet tones were confined to the mouthpiece as he gave the number that he wanted. Burbank responded from the other end.

A short call followed, The Shadow’s words being no more than hollow whispers in the deserted hall.

Then the tall figure moved away and merged with the darkness beyond the curtain.

Several minutes elapsed. The telephone bell rang again. The servant answered and went upstairs to summon Edkins. The Shadow watched as the millionaire spoke into the telephone.

“What’s that?” questioned Edkins. “Mr. Cranston, you say?… Is he there?… Oh, I understand now… Coming here… Later in the evening… There must be some mistake. I did not call him at the Cobalt Club… Is there anywhere that I might reach him now? No? Very well.”

Edkins half turned as he laid the telephone aside. The Shadow’s eyes were watching him. The puzzled expression which played upon the big man’s bluff features were as plain as print on an opened page.

HOLBROOK EDKINS was pondering upon the mistake which was to bring Lamont Cranston here tonight. Evidently someone had called Cranston at the Cobalt Club; Cranston had supposed it to be Edkins inviting him to this house and had told a secretary to call up Edkins and verify the appointment he had made.

This meant complications, but they were clearing as Edkins considered them. Lamont Cranston was anxious to meet Eric Veldon. Holbrook Edkins had suggested such a meeting. It was to be arranged informally.

Circumstances now made the meeting possible. If Cranston should arrive before Veldon, Edkins could introduce Veldon to the multi-millionaire. If Veldon came first, Cranston could be introduced to the promoter.

A smile appeared upon the bluff face. Holbrook Edkins seemed pleased. He had not intended to call Cranston until after he had talked over the matter with Veldon, but with matters attending to themselves it would be quite an idea to have the two meet apparently by accident.

It was after eight o’clock. Eric Veldon might arrive any time before ten. Holbrook Edkins decided to remain downstairs. This thought struck him when he was on the fourth step. He turned toward the living room.

The Shadow, meanwhile, was gliding into darkness. His eyes, peering toward the hall, saw Edkins approach. With a soft swish of his black cloak, The Shadow swung over the window sill. His deft hand lowered the sash with a single noiseless motion.

When Edkins pressed the switch to illuminate the living room, the eyes were no longer at the window.

The Shadow had gone into the outer darkness.

Fifteen minutes passed. An invisible sentinel kept watch outside of the Edkins residence. The Shadow was deliberately delaying the visit of Lamont Cranston until Eric Veldon should arrive.

A coupe pulled up across the street. Its lights went out, then on, then off the second time.

A simple signal. The Shadow glided noiselessly to the side of the car. His hand thrust an object through the crevice of the window. The driver looked up suddenly as a piece of paper fluttered to his lap.

On came the dash light. The features of Clyde Burke, New York Classic reporter, appeared in the fringe of illumination. Clyde had come here to wait instructions, responding to a call which he had received from Burbank. He unfolded the sheet of paper. It contained a brief inked note, in The Shadow’s code:

The writing faded. Clyde extinguished the dash light and waited in darkness. He knew that some important trail was to be followed. If all went well, The Shadow would follow it himself. Clyde, however, would be there in case of emergency.

Another fifteen minutes. A limousine drew up in front of the house. Its lights went dim. Just as that flicker occurred, Clyde fancied that he saw a batlike shape move toward the wall of the Edkins house. Clyde could not see who stepped from the limousine. The Shadow — for he had merged with the front of the house — did see.

IT was not Eric Veldon who alighted. The Shadow knew that fact, although he had never seen the master fiend. The person who alighted was a stocky individual who stalked up the steps with the regular motion of an automatic figure.

The Shadow glided to the side of the house. He reached the bay window. Lifting his body, he pressed the sash of the window three inches upward. Peering through the narrow space, he saw the servant entering to speak to Holbrook Edkins.

“The man has come for the antique clock, sir,” said the servant. “You know the one, sir — it was delivered here by mistake, and they promised to call for it.”

“Oh, yes,” recalled Edkins. “Of course. It is on the mantelpiece in my den. Show him up to get it.”

The servant pointed out the way to a man who appeared in the hall. Holbrook Edkins caught only a flash of the fellow’s face. He was startled by the fixed, waxen expression. Footsteps tramped on the stairs.

Edkins lighted a cigarette. He was thinking of the clock. It had been delivered here; some time ago — on the occasion of Eric Veldon’s last visit. There had been no return address. A telephone call had come, stating the mistake. A man had promised to come for it.

Eric Veldon, Edkins remembered, had admired the old clock, and had set it on the mantelpiece. Edkins, who seldom disturbed the arrangements of his den, had left it there.

A few minutes passed. Thumping footsteps resounded from the stairs. Clock in arms, the messenger was departing. Edkins strolled to the hall to see the fellow out. Again, he noted the cadaverous physiognomy of the messenger.

The Shadow’s eyes disappeared from the window. As the man with the clock stumped from the house, a fleeting figure passed across the street. Just as the limousine was about to move forward, Clyde Burke, at the wheel of the coupe, heard a single whispered word, so sinister in tone that he could not tell from what spot it had been uttered.

“Follow!”

The street was a one-way thoroughfare. The limousine moved ahead. Clyde Burke eased off to follow the trail. A clever driver, a keen observer because of his newspaper experience, Clyde had a simple task of keeping the pliable coupe on the track of the cumbersome limousine.

Eric Veldon had not yet arrived. Had the murderer come and departed, The Shadow himself would have taken up the trail. But The Shadow had recognized that this mechanical-moving visitor must be no more than a minion of the superfiend. He had dispatched his agent on the trail. He, himself, had a task before him that kept him here at the house.

The trail had begun. One of Veldon’s automatic henchmen was returning to the lair. The purpose of his visit was as yet unknown, but it was obvious to The Shadow that the driver of the limousine was unprotected against followers, because of the simplicity of his errand.

While Clyde Burke followed on the trail, The Shadow’s figure blended amid blackness, underwent a change. It came to view upon the front steps of the house, but it was the shape of The Shadow no more.

A tall man, dressed in evening clothes, was ringing the doorbell at the residence. Lamont Cranston had arrived to call upon Holbrook Edkins. He had — for an important purpose — arranged his visit ahead of Eric Veldon.