Murder Trail

CHAPTER XIV THE SHADOW AIDS

VICTOR VENTURI was pacing back and forth in the front reception room of Sturgis Bosworth’s home. Nervous and perturbed, the sensitive Italian formed a marked contrast to his companion, Angelo, who was sitting silently in a high-backed chair.

The two had reached this residence after a swift ride in a taxicab. All the way to Montclair, Venturi had displayed his usual restlessness. He had prepared the card to be delivered to Sturgis Bosworth, and he was anxiously awaiting the outcome of the message.

Suddenly, Venturi ceased his pacing. He turned to his servant with a worried look in his eyes. The fact that Caleb, Bosworth’s footman, had said that a visitor was with the millionaire, had caused Venturi to be unusually tense.

“What was that, Angelo?” quizzed the sallow Italian. “Did I hear a shot?” Venturi’s servant assumed a listening attitude.

“There it is again!” exclaimed Venturi.

A moment later, a loud report came to the ears of both men. The correctness of Venturi’s claim was proven. A shot had undoubtedly been fired from the rear of the house.

“Come!” cried Venturi.

Followed by Angelo, the Italian emissary rushed in the direction from which the shot had come. He saw a hallway and an opened door beyond. Entering, Venturi stopped short as he saw two forms upon the floor.

Recognizing that the farther man must be Sturgis Bosworth, Venturi leaped forward and bent above the millionaire. He raised Bosworth’s head, and saw the man’s eyelids flicker. Dying lips moved.

“Crix” — Bosworth’s voice choked — “his — name is — Crix — he robbed—”

The lips stilled. Sturgis Bosworth was dead. With an exclamation of wrath, Victor Venturi leaped to his feet and made toward the door.

“Our man has escaped, Angelo!” he cried. “Come. We must capture him!”

The Italian stopped short at the door. He was confronted by a hard-faced man who swung a menacing revolver. A motion of the weapon sent Venturi back into the room.

“So you’re going after somebody?” came the question. “Take another guess, Venturi. You’ve got yourself to think about, right now.”

Threatening faces appeared behind the man with the gun. Bumps Jaffrey was here with his gang. The leader of the hoodlums grinned as his mob advanced. Turning, Bumps spoke to Skeeter Wolfe.

“Take a look upstairs, Skeeter,” he ordered. “If anybody makes a squawk, give them the works.”

Skeeter left to follow instructions. Bumps, confident that there would be no interference, gloated over the helplessness of the victims who stood before him.

“Stand up against the wall,” he commanded. “Move along — or you’ll get some hot lead quicker than you expect it.”

Venturi understood. Angelo, whose knowledge of English was limited, followed his master as Venturi backed slowly toward the wall. There was no mistaking Bumps Jaffrey’s purpose. The gang leader intended to murder this pair in cold blood.

“So you were after somebody, eh?” questioned Bumps, with an evil leer. “You didn’t know the guy was covered, eh? You wanted to get Crix, did you? Get Crix, eh? Well, you’ll get the works instead!”

Bumps was threatening the victims with his revolver. Beside him were four gangsters. Another was standing watch at the door. Two murdered men were lying on the floor. Their dead bodies were the handiwork of Crix, the master crook.

Bumps Jaffrey laughed. Before he left, he, too, would have his toll of victims. The orders were to blot out Victor Venturi and whoever might be with him.

“It’s curtains for you, Venturi,” announced the gang leader coldly. “You pulled a swift one, tonight, getting away from my gorillas down at the Dexter Hotel. Maybe you were an ace there; but you’re just a deuce spot here. Like some hot lead? All right. Try it!”

Up came the gang leader’s revolver. Victor Venturi, despite the pallor of his face, stared into the muzzle of the gun. It was Angelo who quailed. The servant did not possess the fortitude of the master.

ALL eyes were upon the scene that foretold death. Only one man was keeping vigil — the mobster beside the door. He had seen death often. His duty was to watch. Nevertheless, he was lacking in his duty.

Occasionally, he glanced toward the room instead of looking along the hall outside. He admired the finesse of Bumps Jaffrey. That admiration was to prove his undoing.

There was a peculiar motion in the hall. A figure seemed to swirl from the darkness. It arose, a towering shape, beside the watching gangster. Turning to glance into the hall, the gunman stared into a pair of eyes that had materialized from nowhere.

Before a cry could escape the gangster’s lips, a black arm struck downward. The barrel of an automatic crashed against the watcher’s head. A gargling groan sounded in the man’s throat as he crumpled to the floor.

Bumps Jaffrey heard that strange utterance. Instinctively, the gang leader swung toward the door. His henchmen followed his example.

Like the watcher, they saw the burning eyes. They recognized the form that had materialized in the doorway. The same cry came from five lips simultaneously.

“The Shadow!”

Bumps Jaffrey aimed his revolver toward the new menace. Two other mobsters flashed their guns. The pair closest to The Shadow made a leap toward the phantom shape in black. All these actions were futile.

A cannonade roared from The Shadow’s .45s. Twice tonight, The Shadow had conquered hordes of gunmen. This was to be his third triumph.

The attackers who had sprung against him toppled. They had thrown themselves into the path of The Shadow’s deadly automatics. Bumps Jaffrey stood helpless.

The gang leader’s life had been saved only because his men had leaped upon The Shadow. They, instead of Bumps, had received the bullets from the automatics. With his other henchmen also attacking, Bumps dared not fire. He expected to see The Shadow fall. Nervously, he threw a cautious glance toward Victor Venturi and his servant, Angelo.

The roar of the automatics was repeated. Bumps saw his other men go down. Up came the muzzle of an automatic. The gang leader stared into the tube of death. Another second, Bumps would have fallen in his tracks. It was the unexpected arrival of Skeeter Wolfe that saved him.

Brought here by the sound of shots, Skeeter lunged from the hallway and threw himself upon The Shadow’s shoulders. With one arm clutching at the black collar of The Shadow’s cloak, Skeeter used his other to jab his revolver against The Shadow’s back.

The gun barked, but it was discharged in vain. The Shadow, twisting away from the attack, fell from the point of Skeeter’s gun.

At this juncture, Venturi made his first effort to save himself. He sprang forward toward Bumps Jaffrey. He grappled with the gang leader. In that action, he frustrated The Shadow’s work.

The black-garbed fighter was upon the floor, where he had fallen with Skeeter Wolfe. His swift motion had sent Skeeter Wolfe sprawling; but The Shadow’s automatic had not lost its aim. It was pointing up toward Bumps Jaffrey. Yet The Shadow did not fire, for Bumps had gained the protection of Venturi’s body.

Skeeter Wolfe started to rise, clutching at his revolver, which was lying on the floor. With a sidewise motion of his arm, The Shadow delivered a stunning blow against the gangster’s head. Skeeter flattened on the floor. The Shadow’s automatic was swinging back toward Bumps Jaffrey.

Grappling with Venturi, Bumps had staggered toward the hinged windows. With a wild lunge, the gang leader leaped to safety. Head first, he crashed through the windows, which swung outward when he struck them. Amid the clatter of breaking glass, Bumps Jaffrey dived to the lawn outside.

The Shadow fired. For the first time tonight, his bullet was too late. Bumps Jaffrey had gained safety.

The gang leader was in desperate flight. Every one of his henchmen had fallen before The Shadow’s might. Bumps, alone, had managed to escape — only through the fortune that had followed Venturi’s thrust.

THE SHADOW had arrived in time to save Venturi. The Italian and his servant, Angelo, had been put on the spot. But for The Shadow’s aid, they would have died. Bewildered, Venturi faced the strange personage who had rescued him.

“Come!”

The Shadow’s word was a command. Beckoning to Angelo, Victor Venturi hurried toward the hall. Ahead, he saw the phantom form of The Shadow.

It was like a dream to Venturi, as he followed through the side door, where The Shadow led. A car was standing outside — a trim roadster, with softly purring motor. Venturi caught a glimpse of a beckoning arm in black. Without a moment’s hesitation, he leaped to the wheel of the car, and drew Angelo in beside him.

Heading toward the street, Venturi drove down the driveway that led from Sturgis Bosworth’s home. The Italian understood the situation now. Too late to save Bosworth’s life; too late to confront the murderer; he, at least, had escaped, and could take for cover.

An envelope was tucked upon the steering wheel. At Venturi’s low command, Angelo took it and opened it. The servant read the words of the note, holding the paper close to the dash light.

“It is written in Italian, signor!” exclaimed the servant. “It says to take this car to Markley’s garage, on Fourteenth Street — to leave it there. It tells you to keep out of sight — otherwise there will be new danger. It says to warn the next man before the appointed night. You must learn his name from Monsieur Ponjeau. Ah! Here, signor, it names the place where you may be safe. Signor Folloni, Cafe Bella Napoli—”

Angelo paused to wave the paper excitedly. Aloud, he repeated the words that he had read while Victor Venturi nodded solemnly. Both Italians realized that this word was from the man who had rescued them; that he was a friend, who also desired to prevent crime, and to trap the enemy who had twice gained stolen millions.

Angelo’s eyes went back to The Shadow’s message. A strange ejaculation came from the Italian’s lips. Staring, he saw the written lines disappearing word by word! As his eyes read through the message, each passage was wiped away as though by the action of an invisible hand.

Venturi, hearing the cry, dropped his gaze toward the paper that Angelo held. In the light of the dashboard, he, too, viewed the unexplainable eradication.

If any doubt existed in either mind as to the amazing prowess of The Shadow, that doubt was now dispelled. The disappearing ink, in which the message had been penned, had been prepared according to The Shadow’s secret formula. Its action, viewed by those who had never seen it, was uncanny. The paper in Angelo’s hand was blank; but the message had left an indelible impression within the Italian’s mind.

It was The Shadow’s usual method of communication with his agents. Through it, and the simple code his agents knew, The Shadow’s orders would be lost on others.

LATER that night, two muffled strangers rang the door bell of the Cafe Bella Napoli, an obscure Italian restaurant on an uptown street in Manhattan. They were received by Signor Folloni.

A squat, bearded Italian of middle age, Folloni bowed and conducted his visitors to rooms above the restaurant. In a low voice, he assured them that their identity would be concealed. A true son of Italy, Folloni was honored by the presence of so distinguished a guest as Victor Venturi.

The bearded Italian was taciturn. He did not state that he had been informed of the arrival of these guests through a mysterious phone call in which a weird, whispered voice had commanded him to perform this duty. Folloni had received a message from The Shadow. Its ominous tones and the mention of Victor Venturi had combined to bring from him a promise of strict obedience.

Later, the same night, Angelo returned to the Cafe Bella Napoli to report the execution of a secret mission. In the little room on the third floor, where Venturi awaited him, Angelo informed his master that he had sent a coded cablegram to Monsieur Ponjeau, reporting the new situation that had arisen.

Angelo’s words were heard. Although a thick wall intervened between this room and the house beside it, all that was said was audible, thanks to an invisible wire that ran through the window and out along the wall. In the next house, a man was seated at a table, with ear phones pressed to his head, taking down phonetically each remark that was uttered.

Burbank, contact agent of The Shadow, had taken new headquarters. Although he could not speak Italian, Burbank was a marvel of efficiency. His phonetic notes would be repeated exactly as he heard them, when he contacted with The Shadow.

Another drama of crime was impending. Soon Crix would strike again. Victor Venturi would be sent to thwart him; once more the aid of The Shadow would be needed! Again, he would go back to the source!