Six Men of Evil

CHAPTER XIII THE RESEARCH

THE SHADOW’S sanctum was alight. A mellow bluish glow spread throughout the entire room. The pale, mysterious hue ended abruptly as it reached the unreflecting walls, which were jet-black in color.

Even the floor was black. The Shadow, as he stood in the center of this mysterious chamber, had the appearance of a living silhouette — a projection of black that extended from the darkness that surrounded him.

Less than an hour had elapsed since the man of the night had battled with desperate denizens of the underworld. Phantomlike, he had disappeared into gloom, to pursue a path which was untraceable. Now, in this spot whose existence was known to him alone, The Shadow was returning to the task that lay ahead.

The weird figure moved across the room. A motion of one arm beside the wall caused a parting of enshrouding curtains. A row of massive volumes were displayed, niched in a portion of the opened wall.

These were the archives of The Shadow — those complete and detailed records that listed every event in The Shadow’s ceaseless war on crime; from minor skirmish to extended battle.

The blackclad figure shrank almost to nothingness as it stopped to consult one of the heavy bound books. The black-brimmed hat was raised. Not only the gleaming eyes, but the face beneath them appeared visible. In this sanctuary, there was none to see the hidden features of The Shadow.

His study ended, The Shadow replaced the volume that he had consulted. Another curtain opened and displayed a cabinet. From a drawer, The Shadow removed a folder. He carried it across the room to the polished table above which hung the work light.

Hidden switches clicked. The room was in darkness save for that single corner where only a shining tabletop received illumination.

From a single tome among his archives, The Shadow had gained the records that he wanted. The folder which now appeared in the light contained the details. Its contents — carefully prepared reports — slid into view. Before the eyes of The Shadow lay the facts that concerned the checkered career of Charles Kistelle.

Among the crooks whose schemes had been thwarted by The Shadow, Charles Kistelle was unique. His course of crime — so the records showed — had been limited, yet smooth.

Kistelle had come within The Shadow’s sphere of action, due to his connection with other criminals. He was a man who had chosen to remain in the background until opportunities for evildoing came his way.

WHEN The Shadow had met and demolished Kistelle’s associates, this lurking criminal had seen the writing on the wall. Through pure coincidence that had worked in his favor, Kistelle had been saved from destruction with the others.

A minor figure in a gigantic scheme that had failed, Kistelle had taken advantage of opportunity. He had fled, leaving the field to The Shadow.

Others had done this before; but invariably they made the mistake of believing that The Shadow would forget them. Kistelle had been too wise for that. He had not only stayed away from his old associations; he had been clever enough to avoid New York entirely. In an effort to bury himself completely, he had enlisted in the United States army under an assumed name.

Yet the hand of The Shadow, reaching everywhere, had plucked forth data that showed the course Kistelle had taken. This information had been gained too late. Records showed that Charles Kistelle, alias Charles Kitchener, had deserted along with others, when stationed near the Mexican border.

A photograph came into view upon The Shadow’s table. It was a picture of Charles Kistelle as he had been. It bore no resemblance to the three men who looked alike: Earl Northrup, Harold Thurber, and Thomas Rodan. As Boots Marcus had stated, Charles Kistelle had returned to New York a completely different person.

Since Kistelle had changed; since he had adopted the new name of Craig Kimble, there was one important inference. This was, namely, that the other three were new men also.

The Shadow’s laugh was evidence that this fact impressed him as intriguing. In all the mad orgies of crime that The Shadow had encountered in the past, none reached the fantastic heights of this one.

Four men who looked alike! Each an individual with an odd, but distinctive physiognomy that made him conspicuous to those who knew him. The situation seemed unbelievable; but to The Shadow it brought only further thoughts. Nights before, here in this very sanctum, The Shadow had foreseen a further possibility.

With two, three, four men whose strange facial characteristics were identical, what could prevent the possibility of more? Why not five — or six? Why not a dozen? Until the answer to the perplexing riddle could be gained, The Shadow must hold that assumption.

Behind this very thought lay the explanation of The Shadow’s extraordinary encounter with Thomas Rodan, in Daltona, Georgia. Three crimes had been perpetrated. How many more were to follow? The only course was to travel ahead of crime — not to be behind it.

The hand of The Shadow began to write. It was inscribing the thoughts of The Shadow’s brain. Short words shone on paper. As each sentence faded, another replaced it. Step by step, The Shadow was developing the course of crime as Charles Kistelle had planned it.

KISTELLE was the crime-maker. Through some amazing circumstance, he was plotting and perpetrating mighty schemes with the aid of men who looked exactly like him. In Tilson; in Barmouth; in Daltona — each place a crime protected by a perfect alibi. Such men as Northrup, Thurber, and Rodan were mere instruments in the hands of this daring crook.

Now, The Shadow knew Kistelle’s identity; knew where he could be reached. Kistelle was in New Orleans, waiting for word from some unknown source, biding his time until a new crime would be ready for its culmination.

Boots Marcus had said that three letters had come to Charles Kistelle by way of the blind office. The Shadow knew the significance of those letters. Each had been a summons — a call to the daring master crook, telling him that the stage was set for the perpetration of a perfect crime.

The fourth letter!

It came from The Shadow’s cloak; it lay there, in its original envelope — that message which The Shadow had seen Rodan prepare. This was not a summons. It was a warning. Should it reach Kistelle, it would indicate the advisability of caution.

This message would not arrive as Rodan had intended. In Daltona, now, Rodan’s qualms had ended. The man was probably chiding himself because he had fancied Lamont Cranston to be a menace. He would send no further warning to Kistelle.

In New Orleans, Kistelle was serenely waiting. He might move to some other city; if he should, word would come to the empty office of the Eastern Specialty Company. Picture post cards would artfully disclose Kistelle’s itinerary.

There, too, would come the letter presaging the next crime. Boots Marcus was dead. Pasty was dead. All communications would lie unreceived, unless -

The Shadow’s laugh rippled softly through the sanctum. No — Kistelle’s letters would not go unreceived. So far as the crook would know, Boots Marcus would still be on duty. But the real recipient, the one who would take over the dead gang leader’s contact work, would be The Shadow!

THE hand of The Shadow inscribed the name of a city upon the paper before him.

The brilliant ink spoke unwritten meanings. It showed the trend of The Shadow’s thoughts.

There was a simple way to deal with Charles Kistelle. Tonight, The Shadow could set forth to meet the master crook face to face. That would end the criminal career of Charles Kistelle.

But, as the name of the city faded, The Shadow’s hand inscribed another word.

This negative announcement also had its important meaning. It was followed by the listing of three names:

These three were held for crimes that they had not committed. Should The Shadow, acting as avenger, eliminate Kistelle, what would be the outcome? It might prove beneficial, so far as the future was concerned; but the grave danger existed that it would also obliterate the traces of the past.

Three innocent men were helpless. Unless the action of the Shadow could clear them, they would pay the penalty for the crimes of the supercrook and his alibi henchmen. The Shadow’s laugh was grim. It showed that he knew Kistelle must be temporarily neglected. The man could be reached when needed.

When would that be?

The hand revealed the answer:

There was the solution! If Kistelle were awaiting another summons, its arrival would be The Shadow’s opportunity. Then, striking from the dark, he could catch Kistelle and an underling in the act.

But, as the words faded from the paper, The Shadow’s hand deliberately inscribed a large interrogation point.

When would the next crime be? What proof was there that more than four men existed who looked alike with such a remarkable resemblance? Would another crime occur?

There was but one answer. The Shadow, to deal fully with this crime ring, must first know all. Could he discover the cause of the amazing coincidence that had brought the same strange facial resemblances to these crooks, he would be capable of striking with certainty.

Delving into the past was the only course. Through it, The Shadow could learn the total number of these men. To date, he had worked on theory. Now, he needed facts. Where were they to be found?

The hands held Kistelle’s record. Beside it lay the photograph of the man as he once had been. Some time — during that period when Kistelle had disappeared — a change had come over the physiognomy of the supercrook. Where had Kistelle been when the change had transpired?

THE SHADOW laughed. He knew. Kistelle had fled to Mexico. He had unquestionably been joined by others there. Where had they gone? What had happened to them?

The hands of The Shadow ripped open the envelope that Rodan had addressed to New York. Out dropped the folded paper. The Shadow spread it and studied the cryptic sign.

A circle, with crossed center. Above it and below it, crescents, with their points turned downward. A primitive inscription designed by some ancient race.

The white hands of The Shadow turned the paper in different directions. Which was the top of the sheet? Were the crescents pointing up or down?

The Shadow knew, because he had seen Rodan inscribe the symbol. Now, examining it closely, he saw the indicating mark.

The vertical line that formed the upright of the cross mark did not touch the circle at the bottom. This lack of completion was all that the symbol required to prove its purpose.

The Shadow copied the cryptic sign upon a blank sheet of paper. Then he turned the paper upside down, and performed the same action. In each instance, he left the vertical line incomplete at the bottom.

Now he had two symbols; one indicating down-turned crescents, the other upturned.

The logic was evident. Since Rodan’s symbol had been carefully designed to show that the crescents were down, there must be a different meaning if the crescents were up. The Shadow laughed. Below Rodan’s sign, at the left, he wrote:

Underneath his own cryptic symbol, he marked:

This was surely a sign of primitive hieroglyphics. A crude, simple form of writing that dealt in opposites. The two symbols told their silent story as they shone from the paper with The Shadow’s translation beneath.

Then the markings vanished; the one at the left passing out before the one at the right.

Again, The Shadow laughed. He knew what to expect — if his conjecture of further crime was correct. A symbol signifying “Come here” would arrive for Charles Kistelle. It would lead the master plotter to a new and carefully prepared scene of operation.

Kistelle would receive that message; but not until after it had passed through the hands of The Shadow. When he answered the call, Kistelle would find The Shadow awaiting him.

This course of delayed action had obvious advantages. But in the interim, what would The Shadow do? It was not the policy of this master mind to remain dormant. The hands of The Shadow were fingering the paper which bore Tom Rodan’s mysterious message. There was a deep significance to The Shadow’s action.

Kistelle and his men of evil had not designed their symbolic code. It was evident that they had learned it from some persons whom they had met. Where? In Mexico!

The Shadow laughed. His hands disappeared. When they returned, they carried a sheaf of loosely bound pages. These, The Shadow spread upon the table.

The glossy sheets were filled with photographs and symbolic signs that dealt with the Aztecs, those Indians of Mexico who had developed a degree of civilization before the Spaniards had conquered them.

Here, in The Shadow’s possession, lay detailed information on the Aztecs — descriptive matter that included recent findings. The pages turned with precision, indicating that The Shadow had studied Aztec lore. To the eyes in the dark, these facts were familiar ones. But in all this accumulated data, The Shadow saw no symbols like the one Rodan had sent Kistelle.

AT the back of the loosely bound pages, The Shadow’s finger paused upon a written paragraph. This had reference to the lost tribes of Aztec origin. It mentioned how offshoots of the major race had, because of their obscurity, escaped the conquest of the Spaniards.

Succeeding paragraphs attempted to classify these hidden tribes. Each was reputed to possess a source of great wealth — treasure that had been harbored through centuries. Each paragraph listed a different tribe, with speculative data concerning its customs.

“Zeltapec.”

The word stood out before The Shadow’s eyes. It was the name of a place in the mountains of northern Mexico. There were Indians who lived thereabout, and they had talked of Zeltapec, but none of them had given its exact location. They only knew that it rested in one of the hidden gorges of a high mountain range. So far, explorers had been unable to penetrate the fastnesses of the mighty hills.

The Shadow’s finger paused upon another paragraph. The words referred to the supposed customs of the tribe that dwelt at Zeltapec. It stated that they were moon worshipers.

The crescents!

The Shadow laughed as his hands carried away the loose-sheaved papers. A short while later, the hands reappeared and unfolded a map of northern Mexico that spread over the entire table.

For long, slow-moving minutes, the hidden eyes pored over the large chart while The Shadow’s fingers pointed out certain spots within a mountain-studded radius. Gradually, the fingers reduced the area. They chose the region that was most vaguely mapped, and rested upon that part.

A hand reached forward and drew a set of ear phones from the darkness. A tiny spot of light shone — a signal that telephonic communication had been established with someone.

“Burbank speaking.”

The quiet voice sounded over the wire. Burbank was an agent of The Shadow. Passive and efficient, he was always at The Shadow’s bidding. He was the contact man whom The Shadow kept unseen. When plans were forming; when campaigns were a their height, Burbank was always in readiness.

The voice of The Shadow whispered its orders. They referred to Harry Vincent. Both Harry and Clyde Burke had returned to New York, and were available for duty. Now, The Shadow’s instructions made it plain that Harry was to visit the blind office to intercept all mail that came there.

The conversation ended. The tiny bulb no longer glowed. Beneath the blue light, the hands of The Shadow folded the map of northern Mexico. A piece of paper came into view. The left hand held it; the iridescent girasol gleamed in mystery. The right hand wrote a single word:

The writing faded. The light clicked out. A long, weird laugh swept through the darkness. Dying echoes were repeated with convulsive shudderings, as though a host of ghouls were joining with gruesome mockery.

Then stillness. The Shadow was gone. His plans were made. Charles Kistelle could wait in ignorance until the next summons reached New York. In the meantime, The Shadow had a new and amazing purpose; a way to meet the problem that he faced.

The last word that the mysterious hand had written was filled with important significance. It told the one thought that was in The Shadow’s mind.

There was a place that he must find. Swiftly, with no delay, The Shadow had set forth to a new destination. Later that night, a swift plane winged its way southward, at a speed exceeding two hundred miles an hour.

The Shadow was heading for a Texas airport. There, awaiting him, was a special type of ship that had been reserved by wire — at the order of a New York millionaire named Lamont Cranston.

Texas was not the final goal. The real objective was beyond.

The Shadow was seeking the lost city of Zeltapec!