Master of Death

CHAPTER II. A TRAVELER RETURNS

NINE o’clock — the same evening, but the scene was a mansion in New Jersey.

The chimes of an antique clock were ringing forth the hour from the mantelpiece above the fireplace, in a sumptuous living room. As the clear tones ceased, the doorbell rang. A uniformed servant leaped to his feet and hurried to answer it.

Opening the front door, the servant stepped back to admit an expected visitor. Into the light stepped a tall man, whose face was momentarily obscured until he had removed his hat and handed it to the waiting servant.

“Good evening, Mr. Cranston,” said the uniformed man, making a bow.

“Good evening, Richards,” replied the arrival. “Has everything gone well during my absence?”

“Yes, sir,” said the servant. “It will be much better, though, now that you have returned, sir.”

“I am glad to hear you express that thought, Richards. Here is Stanley. Help him with the luggage.”

The servant stepped forward to assist a uniformed chauffeur who was entering with a pair of heavy bags.

As each man started upstairs, Cranston strolled across the hallway, entered the living room, and seated himself in a comfortable chair. He smiled as he heard the distant tones that were passing between Richards and Stanley. He knew that they were talking about this homecoming.

Whenever Lamont Cranston returned to his New Jersey mansion, his arrival constituted an important event in the affairs of the large household. Lamont Cranston, multi-millionaire and globetrotter, always maintained his pretentious establishment even during his absence.

His departures and returns were invariably unexpected. Tonight had been no exception. A telegram received by Richards, the valet, had caused Stanley, the chauffeur, to set out for the Newark airport with just time enough to meet the millionaire traveler with the limousine.

LAMONT CRANSTON, in appearance, was quite as remarkable a character as his habits would indicate. He was tall and well proportioned. His hands, though slender and supple, possessed a latent strength in their long, well-formed fingers.

The most remarkable phase of the millionaire’s appearance, however, was the distinctive countenance which Lamont Cranston possessed. His face was immobile; its features, as though molded by a sculptor’s skill, held a firm, unchanging expression that rendered them almost masklike.

The dominating characteristic was an aquiline nose below a strong, high forehead. From the sides of this hawklike beak peered eyes that were stern and unflinching. Lamont Cranston’s countenance was more than impassive; it was inflexible.

While Cranston sat motionless, enjoying the environment of his luxurious living room, Richards appeared from upstairs, bringing a large envelope. The valet approached the millionaire and placed the letter in Cranston’s waiting hand. The valet bowed and retired.

While the clock on the mantel ticked away its minutes, Lamont Cranston opened the envelope. From it, he drew forth folded sheets of paper. These bore blue-inked notes in what appeared to be a code.

Cranston read them rapidly; when he had finished each note, the writing disappeared from the paper word by word.

With the notes was a newspaper clipping. This was the same item that Eric Veldon had discussed with Merle Clussig in the Hotel Garonne. It referred to the inventor’s interview concerning the dawning era of electrical wizardry.

A soft, whispered laugh came from Lamont Cranston’s chiseled lips. Like Eric Veldon, the millionaire was able to read between the lines. He could tell that Clussig’s interview had been given with the definite purpose of creating interest; yet with the definite intention of concealing something more important and specific than the generalities which were mentioned.

The laugh which had been uttered; the keenness which had been displayed — these were indications of a personality which differed from that of the idle, blase millionaire. These were the revelations of a well-concealed identity. This personage who called himself Lamont Cranston was actually The Shadow!

The sighing laugh died. Only the ticking of the clock could be heard. The long hand marked the exact time as seven minutes after nine.

Lamont Cranston arose from his chair. His tall figure threw a long, grotesque silhouette across the thickly carpeted floor. Swiftly, this transformed being passed through a door, and entered a small darkened room. He picked up a telephone.

The quiet, almost lazy tones of Lamont Cranston gave the number. Brief silence followed. Then came a moderated voice from the other end of the wire:

“Burbank speaking.”

No longer did the voice of Lamont Cranston occur. It was the whisper of The Shadow which responded to Burbank’s immediate announcement of identity:

“Instructions to Burke.” The Shadow’s tones were weird, delivered in a peculiar tone, which no one could have counterfeited. “Go immediately to the home of Merle Clussig, inventor. Request an interview concerning electrical inventions. Burke to represent himself as Classic reporter.”

“Instructions received,” was Burbank’s reply.

The receiver clicked. The Shadow laid the telephone aside. He stood in total darkness, as though his present identity craved such somber surroundings.

Quick, deductive thoughts were passing through that acute brain. The Shadow, master of mystery, had returned from one of his strange journeys. During his absence, his agents in New York had been on watch for the unusual. That was their duty, whenever The Shadow was away.

RUTLEDGE MANN, a man who posed as an investment broker, but who served as agent for The Shadow, had spied the unusual clipping which pertained to Merle Clussig. He had forwarded it — with reports from other agents of The Shadow — to Lamont Cranston’s home.

The fact that The Shadow had displayed a prompt interest in the clipping was proof of Mann’s capable service. Divining that Merle Clussig’s interview might be a sincere effort to attract public notice, The Shadow had lost no time in action. He had called Burbank, his hidden contact man.

Burbank, in turn, would notify Clyde Burke, reporter on the New York Classic, to form immediate touch with Merle Clussig. Clyde Burke, in his capacity as news gatherer, was an active and useful agent of The Shadow.

A soft laugh sounded in the darkness. That laugh was expressive of The Shadow’s thoughts. A master of darkness who fought constantly with crime, The Shadow possessed the uncanny capability of sensing when matters were amiss.

Rutledge Mann had probably clipped that news paragraph because he knew The Shadow wanted all facts concerning new scientific developments. But The Shadow had seen more in the clipping than Mann could possibly have supposed.

The guarded mirth ended. The Shadow stepped from darkness. He entered the living room. He was no longer The Shadow. He was Lamont Cranston, multi-millionaire, who found life a bore save when he was traveling abroad.

Richards was at the door of the drawing room, near the hallway. The valet saw his master approaching.

He stared in surprise as Cranston spoke to him.

“I am going out, Richards,” declared the millionaire. “Tell Stanley to bring the limousine to the door. I intend to run into New York.”

“Yes, sir,” gasped Richards. “But you have just arrived home, sir” — the valet was staring at the clock — “just ten minutes ago, sir—”

“I know,” interposed Cranston calmly. “But I have some matters to which I must attend. I am going to New York.”

While Richards hurried away to give the order to Stanley, Lamont Cranston entered a closet in the hall.

He drew a small key from his pocket. He unlocked a panel that was practically invisible at the end of the closet. From this hiding place he drew out a brief case.

Just after Cranston emerged from the closet, Richards returned through the front door to announce that Stanley was ready with the limousine. Cranston walked from the house, entered the car, and was driven away. Richards went back into the house, shaking his head.

THE valet could not understand the master. He could appreciate Lamont Cranston’s love for travel; but this habit of coming home unexpectedly, and leaving with such swiftness, was something which Richards had never been able to fathom.

There was another fact which perplexed the valet. He sometimes felt that Lamont Cranston must be two beings. There was a quiet, lazy Lamont Cranston, who kept his affairs to himself, but who never displayed rapidity of action. There was a thoughtful, taciturn Lamont Cranston — as impassive as the first — who seemed to respond to sudden inclinations.

In his term of service, Richards had noted that the old Mr. Cranston — whom he remembered from long ago — was invariably the same. The new Mr. Cranston, however, had a way of gazing at people with eyes that sparkled as though imbued with sudden light. This was the Cranston who had returned tonight, and who had so characteristically decided to make a quick trip to Manhattan.

Two men — yet both one. That was the decision which held Richards.

The valet had gained only an inkling of the truth. Actually, there were two masters whom he served. One was really Lamont Cranston. The other — a personage who calmly took his place when the real Lamont Cranston was absent on a world tour — was The Shadow.

At present, the real Lamont Cranston was in Abyssinia. The pretender was in his place, living in his home, posing as the millionaire. He it was who had gone away for a short trip by plane, to return tonight.

He it was who had just departed in the limousine with Stanley. The false Lamont Cranston — an impersonator so capable that his assumed identity had never been suspected — was The Shadow.

The clock on Lamont Cranston’s mantel was chiming the quarter hour. In the brief space of fifteen minutes, The Shadow had entered the mansion, and had again departed. He had answered the call of the mysterious. His keen intuition had gained an inkling of some hidden motive which savored of impending crime.

The limousine in which the false Lamont Cranston had set forth was rolling along a side road that led to a New Jersey highway. Immersed in the darkness of the rear seat, The Shadow was contemplating what lay ahead.

Clyde Burke would soon be at Merle Clussig’s. There the reporter would talk long with the inventor.

Before the interview was ended, The Shadow would be there to view the situation.

Perhaps this night’s episode would be productive; possibly it would offer nothing. Yet The Shadow had an uncanny ability to scent the unusual. He had spotted it tonight, through the newspaper clipping received from Rutledge Mann.

Long white hands opened the brief case which lay by The Shadow’s side. Deft fingers drew forth the folds of a black garment. The spreading edges of a black cloak moved through the darkness. The flattened shape of a slouch hat was fitted to a head. Hands gripped the cold steel of two automatics, and slid the weapons beneath the surface of the cloak.

The features of Lamont Cranston were obscured. The millionaire had vanished. In his place was an invisible being who could move with the silence of falling night. When the limousine reached Manhattan, that amazing form would glide forth into darkness.

The Shadow was playing the part that had become himself. Cloaked in blackness, shrouded in mystery, he was ready for the adventure which lay ahead. He had assumed his own identity.

He was The Shadow!