Six Men of Evil

CHAPTER X THE FORCED CLEW

ON the following morning, a gentleman entered the lobby of the Southern Hotel in Daltona, and approached the desk to register. The clerk noted the name that he inscribed. It was that of Lamont Cranston, from New York.

After instructing the bell boy to carry the guest’s luggage to his room, the clerk happened to glance up. Then, for the first time, he noticed the appearance of the man who had registered.

Lamont Cranston’s face was a study in impassiveness. It was a firm, chiseled countenance from which two eyes shone with burning gaze. As those eyes turned upon the clerk behind the desk, their steadiness seemed to fade. Nevertheless, the clerk experienced a peculiar magnetic attraction gripping him. It was as if he had been caught by some mysterious power, whose force had been purposely lessened by the man who controlled it.

Blinking, the clerk watched Cranston pass across the lobby. He marveled at the bearing of this mysterious guest. Tall, almost motionless in stride, Cranston formed a strange figure as he walked toward the elevator.

When he had entered the lighted lift, the clerk still stared toward him; then, suddenly, the man behind the desk found his gaze moving toward the floor. There, projecting from the doorway of the elevator, the clerk saw a most singular shadow. A long, grotesque blotch of black, its presence seemed uncanny. Glancing upward, the clerk caught a last glimpse of Cranston’s burning, hawklike eyes. Then the door was shut, and the car had gone on its upward course.

There was a reason for this amazement on the part of the observant clerk in the Southern Hotel. In viewing this man who called himself Lamont Cranston, he had encountered the personality of another personage. He had seen the eyes of The Shadow!

In his hotel room, Lamont Cranston walked to the window and stared forth over the city of Daltona. He had come here on a definite mission — the tracing of Thomas Rodan. So far, there was no conclusive connection between Rodan and such men as Earl Northrup and Harold Thurber; nevertheless, this man, known as Lamont Cranston — otherwise The Shadow — had come to test the truth of his own keen intuition.

Lamont Cranston’s first action was to consult the local telephone book. There he discovered the name of Thomas Rodan, listed as a realtor. Cranston laughed softly as he picked up the telephone, and called the number of Rodan’s office.

He was informed by the girl who answered that Mr. Rodan had not yet come to the office; but that he was expected before noon. Cranston gave his name, and announced that he had important business to discuss with Rodan. His statement that he had just arrived from New York impressed the girl.

“Mr. Rodan can find me at the Southern Hotel,” was Cranston’s final statement. “I shall be in the lobby.”

IT was shortly after twelve when Tom Rodan walked hurriedly into the hotel and approached the desk. He inquired for Mr. Cranston. The clerk pointed out a gentleman seated by the window, whose face was turned toward the street. Rodan, evidently curious as to the identity of the visitor, approached.

“Mr. Cranston?” he questioned.

The man arose and turned. Rodan shrank momentarily as he caught the glare of burning eyes. Then his courage returned as the glimmer faded. Lamont Cranston held out his hand.

“I am Mr. Cranston,” he said, in a deliberate, even voice. “I presume that you are Mr. Rodan?”

As Rodan nodded, Cranston continued:

“Suppose we lunch together, Mr. Rodan? I have some important matters to discuss with you — involving real estate.”

For a moment, Rodan was on the point of claiming that he had another appointment; but there was something in Cranston’s attitude that restrained him.

Never, in all his life, had Rodan seen a man who impressed him as did Cranston. The persuasive words, the firm face, and, moreover, the strange, hypnotic eyes, brooked no refusal of the invitation.

Inwardly, Tom Rodan was ill at ease. With that feeling, he had a definite urge to learn more concerning this mysterious stranger.

Who was this man who had suddenly appeared from New York, with some important business to discuss?

The two entered the dining room of the hotel. Rodan faced Cranston across a small table. Both men were impassive and expressionless; but where Rodan’s mind was filled with wonder, Cranston’s contained the knowledge that it sought.

For in the odd features of Thomas Rodan, Lamont Cranston saw the identical characteristics that had marked the faces of Earl Northrup and Harold Thurber!

Here, staring toward him, was the third man in a chain of those who looked alike, and whose recent histories had been subject to similar circumstances.

Amazing and fantastic though the situation was, Lamont Cranston betrayed none of the thoughts that were in his mind. Instead, he calmly turned the talk to the proposed purchasing of land in the vicinity of Daltona. Tom Rodan listened solemnly.

It developed that Lamont Cranston was a man of great wealth; that he had decided to invest in real estate; that through some source — Cranston could not recall the exact circumstances — he had been advised to consult with Thomas Rodan.

In all this discussion, Lamont Cranston failed to display any knowledge whatever of the unfortunate events which had so recently entered Rodan’s career. Coming from New York, a total stranger in Daltona, it was only natural that Cranston should know nothing of the murders which had been committed in the Davenport home.

THE fact that the deaths of his wife and father-in-law were important in Rodan’s mind was evidenced by the man himself. Shrewdly, Rodan suspected some connection between Cranston’s presence and the deaths. He wanted to test Cranston, and he chose a suitable opportunity.

Cranston had reached the point of expressing a readiness to buy subdivision properties on the outskirts of Daltona. He was ready to be sold. That was where Rodan found his chance.

“I should like to do business with you, Mr. Cranston,” he remarked. “However, I have been in a very troubled state of mind recently. I had the misfortune of losing both my wife and father-in-law — and through a most regrettable accident. Their deaths have disturbed me greatly.”

Rodan was looking directly at Cranston as he spoke. His words were carefully phrased and well chosen. Rodan was watching Cranston’s eyes; but he could trace no change in them. Yet, when Cranston responded by word, there was a cryptic significance in his statement.

“My sympathy,” said Cranston, “is always extended to those who have suffered the loss of those who are dear to them.”

The tone was sincere, but the impersonal phraseology offset it. The words could be interpreted so they did not reply to Rodan. They left the man wondering more than he had before.

Thus, by action, Cranston had given no indication that could arouse Rodan’s suspicion; while by word, he had obtained exactly the opposite effect.

As a result, Rodan made another shift of decision. He had planned to postpone any pending business matters that Cranston might propose. Now, he was desirous of continuing the battle of wits.

“Suppose that I drive you around a bit,” suggested Rodan. “We can look over some desirable properties outside of the town limits. Frankly, Mr. Cranston, I have temporarily laid business aside; but since you have come here from New York, I feel that it would only be the part of courtesy to accommodate you.”

Cranston called for the lunch check. Drawing a wallet from his pocket, he searched the interior until he discovered a ten-dollar bill. Rodan, watching, noted that most of the bank notes were of five-hundred and one-thousand-dollar denominations.

Outside, Rodan invited Cranston in his car, and the two visited the outskirts of Daltona. Cranston showed a keen interest in the most desirable sites. Time and again, Rodan artfully turned the conversation toward matters that concerned himself; but Cranston invariably avoided such subjects. It was late in the afternoon when they returned to the hotel.

“I am quite interested in Daltona, Mr. Rodan,” said Cranston, as he alighted from the car. “In fact, I have learned much that I wanted to find out. I intend to return to New York tonight. In fact, I shall leave before eight o’clock. You will hear from me later — perhaps unexpectedly.”

Cranston extended his hand. He looked squarely at Rodan. It was then that Rodan again saw that peculiar light in Cranston’s eyes — the gleam that carried a mesmeric glint.

Try as he might, Rodan could not withdraw his gaze until Cranston turned and stepped away. Rodan gripped the wheel before him, and drove up the street toward his home.

As he neared the Davenport house, Rodan laughed nervously. He realized now that he had been undergoing a nervous tension. He felt a marked sense of relief. But after that feeling had faded, a pronounced worry took its place.

RODAN realized that he had been matching wits with a man of cunning. Not once had Cranston made a false move; but he had betrayed a subtle antagonism that Rodan had detected. As a result, Rodan’s worry began to increase; and each moment brought him into deeper perplexity.

Who was Lamont Cranston?

The man had stated that he was a millionaire. The money that he had so subtly exhibited was possible proof of the statement.

A few months ago, Rodan would have been highly pleased to have met a prospective customer like Cranston. Now, with the settlement of the Davenport estate pending, Rodan had no such feeling. He regarded Cranston chiefly in the light of a menace.

Here in Daltona, not one iota of suspicion remained attached to Rodan’s name. Everywhere, he met with heartfelt sympathy. It had remained for a stranger from New York to arouse Rodan’s qualms.

Since the murders at the Davenport home, Rodan had lived there in seclusion. He had hired a housekeeper, and had made a practice of dining alone. Tonight, in the large, empty dining room, Rodan found himself thinking more and more about Lamont Cranston.

Some peculiar influence controlled Rodan’s mind. All his thoughts returned to those eyes that had watched him. At times, a twisted smile began to appear upon Rodan’s lips — a sign of half-hearted elation because he had been keen enough to suspect Cranston as a man who had come here with a secret purpose.

Then, the smile faded quickly as Rodan realized that his suspicions brought him nowhere.

Who was Cranston? A detective?

The thought seemed ridiculous. Why should some stranger have come here to investigate a case that had been proven groundless?

No. To all appearances, Cranston was what he claimed to be — a prospective investor in real estate.

Rodan’s mind could not change from the one subject. He began to wonder if Cranston had been a creature of his own imagination. After dinner, as he walked from the dining room, Rodan felt a strange, unaccountable dread. He began to fancy that his nerve was leaving him.

As he entered the living room, Rodan paused. He thought he heard a sound from the front door. He turned quickly, half expecting to see someone there. The door was closed.

Rodan stared into the gloomy hall. For a moment, he was on the point of probing its shadowy recesses. Then he laughed coarsely and continued into the living room.

The moment that Rodan’s back was turned, something moved in the darkness of the hall. A tall, blackclad form came into being. It materialized itself into the figure of a man — a weird personage, whose sable garments were a cloak and hat.

Two bright eyes gleamed as this mysterious visitor noiselessly crossed the hall and stationed himself outside the living-room door.

Tom Rodan seated himself in a chair. For a moment, he was nervous; then his evil smile appeared. A man of iron nerve, he believed himself to be. Why should he be troubled by foolish worries?

He was ready to forget Lamont Cranston — on the point of deciding that the man was merely a chance visitor to Daltona, when something occurred that caused him to clutch the arms of his chair and stare about him in unrestrained terror.

“MURDERER!”

The word came in a low, mysterious whisper. It was like the voice of conscience.

Rodan was sure that he had heard the accusation; yet he could see no one in the room. Rising, he walked quickly into the hall and reached the front door. He stopped there; and while he waited, his back was turned so he could not see the tall form that came batlike from the wall beside the living-room door.

When Rodan went back to the room that he had left, the unseen figure had entered there before him.

Rodan paced nervously back and forth. At times, he stopped to listen, fancying that he had heard an echo of that mysterious voice.

A single word from unseen lips. Could that be the explanation?

Rodan shook his head and shut his eyes. He saw, mentally, the image of Cranston’s face. Then, to Rodan’s ears came a repetition of the sound he had heard before.

“Murderer!”

Rodan leaped madly to his feet. He caught himself and uttered a mumbled growl. Never before had imagination affected him this way. Rodan steadied himself and tried to laugh.

Why should he fear this voice? He was not a murderer! He smiled maliciously as he gazed at the floor where he had seen three dead bodies a few nights before.

Some one else was the murderer. But the secret was Rodan’s. That was the cause of his worries, he felt sure. The secret was the factor that made him weaken. The presence of an unknown man, Lamont Cranston, had started a chain of hectic thoughts.

This condition could be counteracted. Rodan began to see the way. He walked to the telephone, and called the Southern Hotel. He asked to speak to Lamont Cranston. He was informed that the man had checked out.

Rodan wondered.

Had Cranston returned to New York, or was he still here in Daltona? Whichever the case might be, one course was advisable. The present situation constituted an emergency. There was someone whom Rodan must inform.

Walking steadily across the room, Rodan reached a writing table and drew forth pen, ink, and paper. He sat in momentary speculation, and as he rested there, he was forgetful of the room behind him.

Something was taking place — something that Rodan did not see. From the darkness of the wall, a tall figure came into view.

Silently, and with gliding tread, The Shadow moved directly toward the seated man. Like a phantom of vengeance, he approached until he was but a few feet away. He stood there, his burning eyes focused upon Rodan. Then, from unseen lips came a softly whispered word.

“Beware!”

The sound was scarcely audible; but it reached Rodan’s ears. The seated man did not move. His eyes were bulging, staring at the table before him. The Shadow glided into a fringe of darkness formed by a tiny alcove.

Rodan swung around in his chair. He stared toward the hall, believing that the sound had come from there. Then, with a grim laugh, he turned back to the writing table.

Upon a sheet of paper, he inscribed a mysterious symbol. It consisted of a circle, with two crosslines in its center. Above it, Rodan marked a crescent, with the points turned downward. Below, he made the same symbol, pointing the same way.

While the paper lay beside him, Rodan addressed an envelope. The name that he wrote was Eastern Specialty Company; the address a street number in New York City.

WHILE Rodan was thus engaged, a silent motion took place behind him. The Shadow emerged from his hiding spot. His tall form glided forward. His brilliant eyes peered over Rodan’s shoulder. They saw all that the man had written.

Rodan stared suddenly at the envelope. He rubbed his eyes.

A splotch of blackness was upon the writing desk; the envelope was covered by a strange shadow. Then the hallucination ended.

Rodan picked up the envelope; he folded the paper and thrust it into the wrapper. Holding the envelope half hidden in his hand, Rodan turned again and gazed across the room.

His eyes passed over a shadowy projection that extended from the alcove close beside him. He did not see the silent silhouette that lay almost at his feet.

With a gruff laugh, Rodan stamped the envelope and thrust it in his pocket. He went to the telephone. He called Sheriff George Seaton.

“Hello, George,” said Rodan. “Busy tonight?… No? That’s good… Think I’ll drop over to say hello.”

Rodan felt some relief as he left the house and posted the air-mail letter in a box at the nearest corner. His car was standing before the house. He entered it and drove away.

A low laugh from the darkness of the lawn followed Rodan’s departure. A tall, silent shape came into view; then faded quickly in the darkness.

The Shadow had won the game. He had found a way to cope with the plans of an unknown supercrook to whom Northrup, Thurber, and Rodan were underlings.

The Shadow knew that three crimes had been timed; that each had required a secret communication to the chief. With crimes completed, the local malefactors in Tilson, Barmouth, and Daltona had no need for further communication with their leader — so far as crime was concerned.

But The Shadow had divined that a superplotter would have arranged for contact afterward, provided that any of his underlings might suspect the presence of danger. As Lamont Cranston, The Shadow had deliberately aroused the suspicions of Thomas Rodan. Then, a phantom in the darkness, The Shadow had stimulated Rodan’s fears.

The result had been a secret message of warning, posted to the place of contact in New York.

The Shadow was through with Rodan for the present. He had bigger game — the tracing of the master mind.

Three crimes already. Would there be a fourth? A fifth? Or more? That was the problem which confronted The Shadow. He had taken measures to meet it. He was off to find the source of crime.

A fast airplane speeding northward through the night now bore The Shadow on his mission. A letter had been sent; its destination was known to The Shadow. He would be there to intercept the man who would receive it!

The cryptic symbol, dispatched as a warning to the master mind of crime, was the clew which The Shadow had forced from Thomas Rodan. Upon that clew, The Shadow was to form the campaign that might doom the schemes devised by men of evil!