Murder Trail

CHAPTER V IN THE SANCTUM

ANOTHER night had come, and with it darkness. But it was not the shroud of night that pervaded this hidden room somewhere in Manhattan. This place was dominated by the blackness of closed walls and ceiling. It was a spot where daylight never came — the sanctum of The Shadow!

Click!

The sharp sound brought light — a strange, eerie glow that filled a corner of the room. A bluish illumination shone upon the surface of a polished table; but the shade above the lamp hid the form that stood close by.

A pair of hands appeared beneath the light. White hands, long hands, they showed sensitive touch combined with latent power. Upon the third finger of the left hand gleamed a shining gem — a radiant stone that glowed with ever-changing hue. From deep maroon, it became mauve; then purple. Its depths sent forth sparkling shafts of light. This was The Shadow’s emblem — the girasol that was his only jewel. A fire opal of rarest luster, this precious trophy was unmatched in all the world. A relic of the Romanoff jewels, The Shadow, wore it constantly. With mysterious sparkle, the girasol betokened the strange, unknown personality of the one whose finger it adorned.

When the hands of The Shadow appeared beneath that light, there was work ahead for them. Tonight, they were engaged in an important task. They were assembling the shreds of information which The Shadow had gained in his quest to find the murderer of Baron Hugo von Tollsburg.

First, the hands produced a report from Harry Vincent. This, by the tabulation which it bore, had come to The Shadow early in the day. The Shadow’s girasol sparkled while the left hand held the paper, and the right forefinger pointed to important passages in the report. A low laugh came from the gloom as hidden eyes scanned the lines.

The Shadow read on. Harry’s report was a mingling of essential and varied facts. It was conclusive in one important point, namely, that The Shadow’s agent had unquestionably picked up the trail of the man whom The Shadow sought.

In his investigation, Harry had artfully managed to start Asa Rothrock talking. Two nights ago, the owner of the service station had experienced an interesting episode which he had recounted while Harry had listened in curious interest.

A stranger had knocked at the door of Rothrock’s little house. The man had explained that he and a companion had encountered motor trouble with their car. The stranger had decided to let his friend drive on and chance it; but he had thought it best to stop off here and seek lodging for the night.

In talking with Asa Rothrock, the man had consulted a road map; and had evidenced surprise to learn that he was only fifteen miles from a town called New Windsor.

Using Rothrock’s phone, he had called a garage in that place, and had arranged for a car to come over and pick him up. By taking an early-morning train at New Windsor, the stranger had said that he could make connections for New York.

Rothrock had suggested that the man drive to the town of Dalebury instead, for there he could catch a direct train on another line; but the stranger had preferred New Windsor; and New Windsor it had been.

Harry, after leaving the service station, had gone directly to the garage at New Windsor. There, taking his cue from what Asa Rothrock had told him, Harry had introduced himself as a friend of the man who had used the garage car.

Harry’s story had been a good one. He claimed to be the driver of the car that had left the stranger at Rothrock’s. He wondered if his friend had decided to stay in New Windsor, or if he had gone on by train. He learned that the stranger had taken an express at six fifteen in the morning.

Neither Asa Rothrock nor the driver of the garage car had given Harry a clear description of the stranger. The man had kept constantly in the darkness, and both were vague when it came to a recollection of facial characteristics. But at the station, inquiring for his pretended friend, Harry had gleaned a piece of information.

The man had put in a telephone call, the telegraph operator had said. It had been a long-distance call to New York, and the man recalled that the stranger had announced himself by giving an odd name over the wire. The operator had not heard the name clearly, and it now escaped her memory.

Since the stranger was supposed to be Harry’s friend, it required a bit of bluffing on Harry’s part to dodge this dilemma. Harry had managed to do so, stating that since his friend had taken the train, there was no reason for him to wait in New Windsor any longer. The stranger, he learned, had bought no ticket.

THESE facts concluded Harry Vincent’s report. The Shadow’s review was brief. The hands pushed the statement aside and brought out a new sheet.

This had been received by The Shadow within the last hour. It was a brief report from another agent, Cliff Marsland, stating that he had formed new contact with the New York underworld.

The fact that Cliff Marsland was on duty showed that The Shadow had lost no time in following the tip from Harry Vincent, regarding the telephone message to New York.

Cliff Marsland was a valuable operative in the employ of The Shadow. A man with a fictitious reputation as a killer, Cliff had a habit of bobbing up in gangdom at unexpected times.

The denizens of the bad lands looked upon Cliff as a gunman de luxe. In reality, Cliff was serving The Shadow, and his acquaintance with big-shot gang leaders frequently enabled him to handle inside jobs.

The man who had dropped from the German dirigible was a murderer who had come to America. His arrival was unknown to authorities in the United States. The Shadow suspected him as one who plotted further crime. It would be Cliff Marsland’s work to watch for any underworld developments that might indicate international activities.

Harry Vincent’s report had given definite indications that New York was the goal of the man whom he had trailed. To The Shadow, the obvious was not always the most logical. A low laugh came from the gloom as the white hands spread a large map upon the polished table.

Pointed fingers indicated two spots upon the map. One was the town of New Windsor; the other was the town of Dalebury. Railroad time-tables appeared beside the map. The Shadow was consulting the schedules of through trains.

At Rothrock’s the stranger had announced that he was going to New York. Yet — according to both maps and schedules — he had chosen the town that was less suitable. Dalebury was closer to the landing spot than New Windsor. It was a larger place. It afforded a direct line to New York, instead of a connecting one.

Why had the murderer picked New Windsor in preference?

The Shadow knew. Although the man who had fled the airship had made a call to New York, the inference was that he had business elsewhere.

The train that he had taken stopped at a junction point where an hour’s wait would bring a New York train; but by remaining on the original train, the man could choose a destination in Connecticut.

The Shadow’s fingers indicated two cities. One was New Haven; the other, Hartford.

The fingers remained motionless. Finally, as though guided by deductive thought, the forefinger alone continued pointing. It rested upon the dot that stood for Hartford. There, The Shadow reasoned, was the city which the man had chosen.

SINCE his arrival in the United States, from the time that he had hurried Eastward by air from Chicago, The Shadow had accomplished wonders. His photographic brain; his knowledge of airways; his quick location of position aboard the dirigible — all these had enabled him to drop from the darkness of the sky, and find the exact spot where the parachute leaper had landed.

The report from a trusted agent had given The Shadow a clew to the murderer’s probable destination. Incredible though it seemed, The Shadow was successfully trailing a man who had gained all the odds. But with all his superhuman accomplishments, The Shadow had not yet gained a knowledge of the murderer’s purpose.

The motive which had inspired the man to kill Baron Hugo von Tollsburg was something that The Shadow must discover. If crime should, at this very moment, be in the making, The Shadow could only hope to solve it after it occurred. Prevention of impending evil would be possible only by closing further on the trail.

Keen intuition was The Shadow’s forte. This amazing master of crime detection could scent the approach of impending deeds of evil. The grim laugh that came from the gloom beyond the flickering light of blue gave an inkling of The Shadow’s thoughts. The murder of Hugo von Tollsburg could be nothing more than the first step in a chain of contemplated crime.

A man with a mission had been killed. Well did The Shadow know that the death of Hugo von Tollsburg would be suppressed by those who discovered it. Somewhere in the State of Connecticut a fiend of evil was at large, his identity still unrevealed, his purposes as yet unknown.

Tonight, The Shadow could do no more than approach the probable scene of the crime, to wait amid the darkness, watching for a stroke that might mean doom. From then on, The Shadow would gain new opportunity.

The rays of blue light disappeared as the switch clicked above the shade. The room was plunged in darkness. Through the silence came the shattering cry of a strange, ghoulish mockery. The walls of the room caught up The Shadow’s laugh, and threw it back with impish echoes.

Before the weird reverberations had ended, the sanctum was empty. The Shadow had departed upon a new quest. Tonight, he was starting for the vicinity where crime seemed due to strike.

The aftermath of the sanctum episode occurred on the Boston Post Road later in the evening. A huge, powerful roadster appeared upon that highway, swiftly heading toward the Connecticut border.

The Shadow was on his way to Hartford, the city where he had decided that danger lay!