Mox

CHAPTER I THE DEAD LINE

THE green glass shade of the desk lamp threw a greenish, ghoulish glare upon the man who was seated at the desk. A twitching face betrayed the nervous thoughts of the man, a trembling hand that clutched a pen showed the fear that dominated his actions.

With shaky, fitful effort, the man placed the point of the pen upon a long sheet of lined yellow paper. As he leaned toward the desk, his face showed more plainly in the light.

It was a pointed face — a peaked countenance that betokened a glib, persuasive talker. Under the present circumstances, however, terror alone was registered upon that pale-hued visage.

A clock was ticking on the desk. Set on a swivel, it was turned slightly upward, so the man could watch it as he wrote. The clock marked the time as ten minutes before midnight. Glancing from paper to clock and back again, the man inscribed these words:

A pause. Schuyler Harlew leaned back in his chair, aghast. His expression was that of a man who had taken an irretrievable step. A short, fearful gasp came from Harlew’s lips, as though he expected the very walls of the room to collapse about him. He threw a worried glance in every direction.

The room was small and plainly furnished. The door was locked. The solid transom was closed above it. A high window, one of a pair which swung inward on hinges, was partly opened, so a slight draft came upon Harlew’s right shoulder.

As he turned about in his chair, Harlew leaned toward the window. He rose slightly to reach the level of the sill. He listened intently, then peered out into the night.

Blackness dominated the vicinity. The room, three stories up, was above the level of the low houses on the other side of the street. In the distance, beyond the area of taller houses several blocks away, hung the dull glow of a great metropolis.

To any one familiar with New York City, that illumination and the direction from which it appeared, would have been sufficient to locate the spot where Schuyler Harlew was now situated. The house which contained this little room was located somewhere in the upper section of New York City — the Bronx.

Satisfied that no strange sound from outside might be a warning, Schuyler Harlew turned back to his desk. He held the pen more firmly. Beneath the line which revealed his name he wrote these startling words:

As before, Harlew rested back in his chair. On this occasion, his lips ceased twitching. Their restlessness was replaced with a smile of satisfaction. The writing of that name, The Shadow, brought confidence to the nervous man.

THE SHADOW!

Known everywhere as a superbeing who battled against fiends of crime, he was one to whom those who knew of evil deeds could turn. A grim avenger, who stalked forth upon his missions enshrouded by night itself, The Shadow was always prepared to throw his might in favor of those whom danger threatened.

No one knew The Shadow’s real identity. No one knew where The Shadow could be reached. But Schuyler Harlew seemed satisfied that The Shadow, with all the power at his command, would certainly learn of this message, should it fall into the hands of any other than enemies.

Why not? Everything seemed possible to The Shadow. Millions knew his voice, for it had been broadcast. His exploits were legend. His raconteur had told the world of amazing episodes in the career of this master battler against crime.

Criminologists had stated that The Shadow, marvel of darkness, was, in himself, the great controlling agent who entered the endless war between crime and justice. When the depredations of evildoers seemed to outweigh the strength of the police, The Shadow was invariably thrust into the balance, upon the side of the law.

The Shadow might be anywhere; at times, he seemed to be everywhere. He scented crime of insidious purpose with the instinct of a bloodhound. He arrived at scenes where crime threatened with the speed of a hurricane. He struck with the power of a giant. A lone wolf who battled crime, his hand never failed.

Schuyler Harlew had considered these facts. To him, as he began to write, it seemed positive that the message would reach The Shadow. Imbued with confidence, Harlew began a rapid scrawl underneath the heading of his statement.

Harlew paused. His lips began to twitch. His eyes, steadying upon the words that his hand had written, saw the name of The Shadow emblazoned on the paper. Harlew’s hand steadied.

The little clock on the desk showed five minutes before twelve. Harlew’s teeth grated with determination. Feverishly, he resumed his writing.

The clock showed one minute before twelve. Its measurement of time was precise; for it had a little second hand which was just starting on the final minute. Watching the clock, Harlew wrote mechanically — he inscribed an involuntary thought upon the paper:

Pen poised in hand, Harlew watched the second hand mark off its tiny portions of time. Each second seemed endless to this man who had forgotten all else in his anxiety to make sure that he would escape the doom he feared.

Fifteen seconds; twenty. Harlew was a living statute. His eyes were bulging as they stared at the clock. His breath came in long, inaudible puffs.

Thirty seconds. Harlew remained rigid. He was fascinated by the slow upward journey of the tiny pointer that seemed to hold its course while life lay in the balance.

At fifteen seconds before twelve, an involuntary trembling caught Harlew’s frame. At ten seconds before the hour, the shaking had increased to a palsy.

Five seconds to go. Harlew’s face was twitching in fierce contortions. Four seconds; three; two; one — the pointer of the second hand reached the high spot, just as the minute and hour hands together formed an upright bar directly to the number twelve.

Midnight! The dead line!

To Schuyler Harlew, all hope clung to that single, lingering moment. Every hand of the clock seemed immobile; even the pointer that showed the seconds seemed reluctant to budge a hair’s breadth from its position.

Then Harlew’s eyes saw space. The second hand had moved. As a gasp came from the maddened man’s lips, the pointer seemed to swing downward in a merry, care-free journey, like a motor car that had labored over the crest of a terrific hill.

The dead line had been passed! The clock showed it!

Shrieks of laughter came from Harlew’s lips. He was gleeful as he watched the friendly second hand, clicking off bits of time which now seemed released. Five seconds; ten seconds, fifteen—

Hunching upward in his chair, Harlew arose with the air of a man about to sign a momentous document. He was holding the pen firmly; although his wrist seemed weak, it was through joy, not fear. Placing his left hand on the sheet of yellow paper, Harlew jabbed the pen point downward.

A dab of ink upon the paper. That was all. A wild gasp came from Harlew’s lips; the sound of sudden anguish. The man’s stooped body straightened upward. The pen dropped from Harlew’s helpless hand. It clicked against the face of the clock, which now marked twenty seconds past midnight.

Harlew threw his hands toward his back. His fingers clawed helplessly. The stricken man circled as he staggered toward the door. Desperately, he clutched at the key; it came loose from the lock and fell. Harlew swayed. His legs collapsed. He sprawled headlong upon the floor, arms in front of him.

His hands reached weakly as though they sought the pen which lay upon the desk. Harlew tried to gasp a name.

With a final effort, he brought his left hand flat to the floor, one finger — the little one — doubling underneath the palm. His right hand thudded as it formed a loose fist. With an effort, Harlew brought it up and down; this time, across his left wrist.

From that instant, Schuyler Harlew did not move again. Protruding from the center of his back was the instrument that had caused his death — a long, thin-bladed knife, pointed like an ice pick, with a cylindrical handle no thicker than a spool of cotton thread.

As the last gasp came from Harlew’s bloated lips, the little clock upon the desk told the time that death had taken. The long hand had reached one minute after midnight. The tiny indicator had clicked off ten seconds more, on another downward run.

Like a knell for the man who had met his doom came a distant, booming chime. Its dongs resounded in slow, funereal tone, as though they, not the knife blade, had been responsible for the end of Schuyler Harlew.

One — two — three — the strokes continued. The final toll ended the count of twelve. That distant clock, accurately set, had marked the midnight hour. It also, on this night, signaled the dead line which Schuyler Harlew had feared. It told the limit of the time which the threatening fiend had given to the man who had planned to betray him.

Schuyler Harlew was dead, his body contorted, his hands and arms in a peculiar twist. The yellow paper, Harlew’s message to The Shadow, still rested on the desk. Beyond it was the little clock which had played so great a part in Harlew’s hopes and fears.

The little timepiece ticked on and on, the only object that seemed alive within this room of death. Schuyler Harlew had set it only a few days before. He had supposed then that its time was accurate.

In that supposition he had been wrong. Thus had his actions been guided by a false belief. The booming tones of the distant chime had tolled the solemn truth.

The little clock on Schuyler Harlew’s desk was seventy seconds fast!