Murder Trail

CHAPTER XX ENTER CRIX

“MY wealth,” began Roberts Faraday, glancing steadily at Venturi, “has been gained through a knowledge of international affairs. It was because of my reputation for big business transactions with foreign countries that Monsieur Ponjeau came to me. He felt sure that I would be interested in the development of his World Court of Industry.

“I agreed to aid Monsieur Ponjeau. I also warned him. Well did I know that there were sharp men of crime who would be ready to prey upon his plan. In addition to my warning, I also made investigations for my own protection. I learned the identity of a supercrook whom we well might fear.

“You understand, signor, that I travel frequently abroad. In fact, I but recently returned from such a trip. Knowing my ability to detect the plans of schemers, Monsieur Ponjeau, in this letter” — Faraday was raising one sheet of paper — “told me the measures that he took to send a secret emissary to the United States. That information, signor, fits in with facts that I had gained regarding the cleverest of crooks. The man whom we must fear, signor, is one who calls himself Crix.”

Venturi blinked as he heard the unusual name. It was evidently new to the Italian. The door across the room moved slightly. Venturi did not see it, for his back was turned. Roberts Faraday, on his part, was glancing at the papers which he held in his hand.

“Aristide Ponjeau,” resumed Faraday, “had, as a trusted aid, a German named Baron Hugo von Tollsburg. Months ago, Ponjeau planned to send Von Tollsburg to the United States to serve as his secret emissary. He has left the preparations to Von Tollsburg. The German, through his friend, Captain Heinrich von Werndorff, planned a secret trip aboard the dirigible Munchen.

“Baron von Tollsburg set out upon that voyage. He carried credentials, and the names of the men whom he was to see. Smuggled safely into America, he would be able to act without molestation. But something has gone wrong. The crook who is making the collections has been doing so as Baron von Tollsburg.”

“A traitor?” hissed Venturi.

“Von Tollsburg?” questioned Faraday. “No, signor, I believe that the German was honest. He would not have been forced to kill Winston Collister in making the first collection. There is only one solution. The true Von Tollsburg never reached America. His plans were discovered by none other than Crix.

“We can be sure that Crix was aboard that dirigible also. He slew Von Tollsburg. He took the baron’s papers. He — Crix — visited Winston Collister, and later, Sturgis Bosworth. They were the first two upon Von Tollsburg’s list. I, signor, am the third.”

“And therefore Crix—”

“Crix is seeking millions.”

“He may come here to-morrow night!”

“He will be here to-morrow night,” responded Faraday, in a quiet tone. “A man of his ability — one whose identity is entirely unknown — will miss no opportunity. Crix has gathered four millions already; he will not balk at the chance to gain the wealth that still remains at large.”

“Crix!” Venturi repeated the name. “Crix — you are sure that he is the man who has done these crimes?”

“I am positive of it,” said Faraday, referring to the papers, and shifting them in the stack.

“Crix!” again repeated Venturi. “You are sure he is the enemy. But who can the other be — the one who aided me in my escape the one who sent me to the Cafe Bella Napoli?”

ROBERTS FARADAY looked up, a questioning gleam in his eyes. This was a matter that Victor Venturi had not mentioned before. The Italian saw Faraday’s look, and hastened to explain.

“Evil men were about to slay me,” said Venturi. “Then came the man in black — ‘a black ghost,’ Angelo called him. He shot down those who threatened me. He sent Angelo and myself away in an automobile — to a hiding place above a restaurant — the Cafe Bella Napoli.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Faraday. “You say that this occurred at Bosworth’s home?”

“Yes.”

“A man in black” — Faraday paused to consider — “who looked like a black ghost. A living ghost, you call him. There again, Signor Venturi, my knowledge of crime can offer an explanation. There is a man who fights crime — a strange personage of mystery — who calls himself The Shadow.

“He is the one who came to aid you. There is no doubt about it. The Shadow is opposed to Crix. Since The Shadow was at Bosworth’s, The Shadow may be expected here — to-morrow.”

“Then if Crix is here—” Venturi blurted the words.

“Crix will be here,” responded Faraday, in a confident tone.

“Ah! You feel sure of it?” questioned Venturi. “Then, this time, Crix may meet The Shadow!”

“Yes,” said Faraday, “and that is why we must be careful. Strange developments have caused two supermen of differing purposes to cross their paths. You, Signor Venturi, are but a plaything in this drama of crime and warfare. Millions are at stake, and it is beyond your power to preserve them.

“To-morrow night will be the crisis. I foresee a mighty struggle. It is not a question of your ability to frustrate the plans of Crix. The question is: can The Shadow do so?”

VICTOR VENTURI sat like a man in a daze. These amazing revelations had come so suddenly and from so unexpected a source that the Italian could not understand. Crix — he had never heard the name before, yet he was convinced by Faraday’s quiet tone that the man must be the murderer in back of all these crimes.

The Shadow — there was a fantastic thought — yet Venturi realized that such a personage was also existent. He and Angelo had seen The Shadow!

This interview with Roberts Faraday had proven bewildering. Nervously, Venturi surveyed the millionaire. Faraday was resting back in his chair, lighting another cork-tipped cigarette. The millionaire’s confidence was nerve-racking to Venturi. With sudden excitement, the Italian raised his hands in gesticulation.

“You are sure,” he questioned in an incredulous tone, “that all these facts are true? You have the proof of them?”

In reply, Roberts Faraday passed the sheaf of papers across the table. Venturi seized them eagerly.

The top sheet was blank. Venturi tossed it aside, and looked at the blue sheet to which Faraday had referred as Ponjeau’s letter. That sheet was blank also!

“There is nothing here!” exclaimed Venturi. “What can this mean? You have been reading from nothing! You have told me of a man called Crix — Crix — who is Crix?”

The Italian stared toward the man behind the desk. Roberts Faraday had arisen. From a desk drawer he had drawn two revolvers. With one weapon in each hand, the millionaire was covering Venturi and Angelo.

A fiendish smile had come over Faraday’s lips. The man’s eyes were gleaming with a fierce shrewdness that Venturi had not previously detected. The wreathing smoke of Faraday’s cigarette, lying in an ash tray, curled upward in fantastic shape.

“Who is Crix?”

Victor Venturi had asked the question almost unconsciously. He knew the answer now, even before he heard it from Roberts Faraday’s gloating lips.

“I am Crix!” proclaimed the millionaire. “I am Crix!”