Murder Trail

CHAPTER XVI THE ANTIDOTE

A MAN was seated in a darkened room, a pair of ear phones close against his head. Burbank, quiet-voiced agent of The Shadow, was listening for words across the wire of a dictograph. The secret channel of communication with Victor Venturi’s hideout was in operation.

Burbank did not detect the motion which occurred in the darkness behind him. His first knowledge that any one was in the room came when a smooth white hand pressed against his right wrist. Staring downward into the feeble glow that came from a switchboard light before him, Burbank caught the glimmer of a sparkling gem that seemed to flash shafts of fire.

The Shadow had arrived. Silently, Burbank arose from his chair and placed the ear phones on the table. He walked away and stood by the window, staring out into the darkness of a rear alley. There was a slight swish by the table as the cloaked form of The Shadow took the chair which Burbank had occupied. Clicking sounds came through the ear phones. The Shadow was listening to words that came from the house next door. He could not see the faces of the men he heard; but he could understand their conversation. That, to this being of mystery, was sufficient.

IN the low light of the room above the Cafe Bella Napoli, Victor Venturi was facing his placid-faced servant, Angelo. Despite his nervousness, Venturi was exhibiting a look of elation.

“Good news tonight, Angelo!” he exclaimed. “Wonderful news, which shall save our cause! Monsieur Ponjeau has taken sure action, and with my aid this evil enemy can succeed no longer.

“I trust you, Angelo, and I can explain what we shall do. I have been given the name of the next man of wealth who is to be visited. It is Roberts Faraday — his home is near a place called Southampton, on Long Island.

“There is a definite time, Angelo, when our agent is supposed to call upon Roberts Faraday. That time is Friday night, Angelo. That means that Friday night there will be trouble — I should say would be trouble, Angelo, but for Monsieur Ponjeau’s plan.

“He has sent a special cablegram to Mr. Faraday, Angelo. It says that Faraday must expect a visitor on Thursday night — one day ahead of the time that was originally set. That visitor, Angelo, will be myself. I shall be there with my credentials, to give the warning.

“So when our enemy arrives, he will find an empty nest. You understand, Angelo? Some impostor is traveling about, purporting to be an emissary of Aristide Ponjeau. He was the one who was there before us, in that place called Montclair.

“We are safe, Angelo” — Venturi paused and laughed nervously — “we are safe, here at the Bella Napoli, with our new friend, Signor Folloni. Our enemy does not know where we are hiding. That is very good, Angelo, for this time we shall be ahead of him. We shall see Roberts Faraday first.

“But we must be clever, Angelo. On Thursday night, we must talk long and well with Mr. Faraday. We must discuss with him how we shall prepare to deal with our enemy when he comes — for he will be there for the money the night after us.

“He is strong, this enemy of ours, whoever he may be. He has assassins in his hire; he has slain two of our friends, and he has escaped with millions. He is poison, Angelo! Poison!” Venturi’s face gleamed; then assumed a cunning look. “Poison! But we have found the antidote!”

Victor Venturi was silent. The Italian was thinking deeply. Angelo ventured a remark.

“The other night, signor” — the attendant’s voice was solemn — “there was a man who helped us. I saw a man, signor — I mean that he was more than a man. He was a ghost, signor — a ghost in black.”

Venturi nodded.

“His aim was timely, Angelo,” he said.

“It was more than that, signor,” added the servant. “It has been of use to us ever since. He wrote that strange message, signor — those words that went away before our eyes. It was through him, signor, that we came here to meet Folloni.”

“Yes,” responded Venturi, in a sober tone. “I know that, Angelo. It is our only danger.”

“Our danger, signor?”

Angelo’s question expressed immense surprise.

“Yes,” repeated Venturi. “He was our friend that night, Angelo. But do we know that he will always be our friend? Perhaps he has a game of his own. There are millions at stake, Angelo.

“That strange man who rescued us was not an emissary of Monsieur Ponjeau. I, alone, should have the secret. Instead, I have discovered two who seem to know it.

“One — the man who murdered Sturgis Bosworth. Two — the person you have called the black ghost — who came to save us. Perhaps he is the enemy of the other. Because he saved us once does not mean that he will be our friend forever.

“We can trust no one, Angelo. No one but ourselves. That is why, on Thursday night, we shall be clever when we leave here. We will move so stealthily that no one — not even the black ghost — can discover where we have gone.”

Angelo nodded with approval.

“You are right, signor,” agreed the servant.

“We have the one man whom we know is an enemy,” said Venturi, in conclusion. “He is the one who has been a murderer. It is you and I who must deal with him, Angelo, by warning Mr. Faraday. He is poison, Angelo. I am the antidote.”

Victor Venturi repeated his simile with firm conviction that impressed his faithful servant. The course by which the Italian emissary planned to deal with crime was plain and direct. Thursday night would bring the opportunity. Venturi would make use of it.

CONFIDENT, even though he did not trust the person whom he and Angelo had termed the black ghost, Venturi was sure that he would be capable of proper action. He was also positive that, although he and Angelo might be under occasional observation, no one could have heard this private conversation.

Venturi’s beliefs were far from the truth. The emissary of Aristide Ponjeau did not realize the danger that confronted him. He did not know the power of the supercrook called Crix. It was fortunate, indeed, that The Shadow was a silent listener to this conversation.

Victor Venturi would work faithfully on the night of his meeting with Roberts Faraday, the third of the millionaires who had promised contributions to Aristide Ponjeau’s gigantic plan for the stimulation of world industry. But between Venturi and Faraday lay the dangerous character called Crix — the man who had thrice committed murder before The Shadow could stop him — the man who even now had gained a place of safety which The Shadow had been unable to discover.

Crix was poison — in that statement, Victor Venturi had proclaimed an evident fact. But in terming himself and Angelo the antidote, Venturi had set forth a claim which the future was destined to disprove.

To so insidious a criminal as Crix, there could be but one antidote. Only the prowess of The Shadow could thwart the scheme of the fiendish supercrook who sought millions through cold and ruthless murder!

Crix and The Shadow. Their meeting was inevitable. When it came, one of the two would die! And it was coming soon!