Spoils of the Shadow

CHAPTER I THE MESSAGE

THE Southern States Limited was clicking northward across Virginia. Forty minutes out of Quantico, the fast train was nearing the end of its run. Passengers on the observation platform were moving into the car, in anticipation of the arrival at Washington.

One person alone remained upon the platform. Tall, quiet in bearing, this passenger was gazing reflectively back along the tracks that seemed to sweep from beneath the speeding limited. In the fading light of late afternoon, his countenance showed with the clearness of chiseled marble.

A strange gem glowed firelike upon the passenger’s left hand as fingers plucked a cigarette from immobile lips. Keen eyes burned from either side of a hawklike nose as the strange personage let his gaze follow the swiftly moving scenery. Then the faint semblance of a smile showed upon the lips which had been inflexible.

From among the signboards that lined this section of the railroad, the lingering passenger had spied one that stood out even in the dwindling light. It was an advertisement that proclaimed the merits of a popular low-priced automobile: the Paragon Eight.

Fingers flicked the cigarette from the platform. Turning, the tall passenger entered the lounge car. Although a dozen minutes still remained before the limited would reach the Washington terminal, other passengers had gone to their own cars to prepare for the arrival. This tall traveler did not follow their example. He chose a comfortable chair in the deserted car and picked up a magazine that lay upon a table.

RUNNING through the pages, the passenger stopped upon an advertisement that corresponded with the sign that he had viewed. It was one that boomed the Paragon Eight. Above a picture of an automobile, the tall passenger placed a long white forefinger upon this statement:

The flicker of a smile again appeared upon the thin lips. This advertisement was part of a national campaign. Thousands of persons had read its legend. This one reader had alone discovered a peculiar significance to its wording.

Long fingers produced a pencil. The smile persisted while the passenger’s hand drew heavy marks through the printed lines. The keen-eyed personage left only the first two letters on the top line; the first three on the next; the first two on each remaining line. The lettering that remained gave forth this terse announcement:

To The Shadow! A remarkable discovery, this announcement. It told a story of its own. Some ingenious man had been desirous of communicating with the master of the unknown, that strange, unaccountable being called The Shadow. Through this advertisement, spread throughout the United States, he had issued his request, confident that it would reach the eyes of the one he wanted to see it.

The object had been gained. The tall, hawkish traveler ten minutes from his journey’s end was none other than The Shadow. Alone in the spacious lounge car of the Southern States Limited he was studying this announcement that had been printed for his perusal.

Beneath the picture of the automobile appeared another statement. The Shadow’s keen eyes scanned the lower wording, which read:

Again the pencil was busy. This time it crossed out all but the first word in each line. The result was a vertical arrangement of words that delivered a terse message:

“To The Shadow. Call Paragon Hotel, room 850” — such was the total of the concealed message. The Shadow had discovered it; the smile upon the thin lips beneath the aquiline nose showed that he had already intended to answer the request.

The train was crossing the Potomac. Thrusting the magazine in his pocket, The Shadow arose from his chair and moved toward the front of the car. In the light, his face showed as a masklike countenance. A calm, well-molded visage, it obscured the real features that lay beneath. The Shadow, when he traveled, chose a countenance other than his own.

Six minutes after The Shadow’s departure from the lounge car, the Southern States Limited completed its curving journey through the tunnels under Washington and stopped at a lower platform. The calm-faced stranger stepped from a Pullman. A red-cap seized his bags and led the way up the steps to the huge concourse of the mammoth Union Depot. Arriving at the taxi entrance, The Shadow stepped into a cab and ordered the driver to take him to the Colonnade Hotel.

Ten minutes later, the tall arrival was in the lobby of the hotel. Speaking quietly to the clerk on duty, he was announcing himself as Lamont Cranston and asking for the room reserved in his name.

“Six forty-two, Mr. Cranston,” informed the clerk. “Front, boy! Here is some mail, Mr. Cranston. It arrived for you yesterday and to-day. We have been holding it, sir.”

ALONE in his room, Lamont Cranston seated himself at a writing desk beside the window. The only light was that of a small table lamp. Within this circle of illumination, Cranston opened a long envelope. This letter, addressed to him, bore the return address of Rutledge Mann, an investment broker in the Badger Building, New York City.

Rutledge Mann was a secret agent of The Shadow. Those hands beneath the light were the hands of The Shadow. Long, white fingers removed papers from the envelope. Written sheets, phrased in simple code, came beneath The Shadow’s view. These were reports from agents in New York, forwarded through Rutledge Mann.

Bluish writing faded as The Shadow completed his perusal. These messages had been inscribed in disappearing ink. No trace of writing remained as The Shadow let the sheets slide into a wastebasket beside the table. A soft laugh came from lips in the darkness as The Shadow arose from his chair. Hands raised a telephone from the table. In the quiet tones of Lamont Cranston, The Shadow called long distance and gave a New York number — that of the Paragon Hotel, in Manhattan.

Off in the distance beyond the window, the mighty shaft of the Washington Monument gleamed white amid the searchlights that bathed the huge obelisk. But The Shadow’s eyes, though they gazed in that direction, were picturing a different scene. They were visualizing a hotel room in New York — Room 850 at the Paragon. That was the number which The Shadow gave over the wire, as he heard the voice of the switchboard operator, speaking from the New York hotel.

A brief pause. The receiver clicked. Some one was on the line. A suave voice greeted The Shadow’s ears. Still feigning an even-toned manner of expression, The Shadow spoke in response.

“I received your message,” he announced. “I presume that you wish to meet me… Yes… To-night… I can be there… Yes, I am calling by long distance. From Washington… Yes… Yes… I understand… Your terms are acceptable… Yes, a friendly meeting… I shall arrive some time before midnight…”

The receiver clicked. The telephone was replaced upon the table. A hand pulled the cord of the little lamp. A form moved softly through the room and pressed the light switch by the door. In the full illumination which came to the room, the tall form of Lamont Cranston was revealed.

Opening a large grip, the occupant of the room removed a flat briefcase. He followed by bringing out a folded garment of black — a cloak which showed a crimson lining. Then came the flattened shape of a slouch hat. After that, a pair of businesslike automatics. Last of all, a black pouch that glistened like oilskin.

These objects went into the briefcase. Closing the grip, Cranston strolled to the telephone. In his quiet tones, he called the desk.

“I am checking out,” he informed. “Charge me for a single night… Yes, this is Mr. Cranston speaking. Send a porter for my luggage… The room will be open…”

The call completed, The Shadow held the hook depressed. Then he called a number; when a response occurred, he spoke again, still in the quiet tones of Cranston.

“Airport?” he questioned. “This is Lamont Cranston speaking… Yes, I am back in Washington… Yes, I am ready to use the plane I left here… All ready? Good. I shall be there within a half hour…”

The porter had not arrived when The Shadow’s call was finished. Picking up his briefcase, the tall stranger walked from the room in the leisurely fashion that was characteristic of Lamont Cranston. Reaching the lobby, he approached the desk and passed a railroad ticket to the clerk.

“Send my luggage to the Union Depot,” he ordered. “Check it through to the Pennsylvania Station in New York. Mail the stubs to my New Jersey address.”

“Very well, Mr. Cranston.”

After laying his bill at the cashier’s cage, the departing guest strolled from the lobby. Briefcase in hand, he entered a taxi outside the hotel. He gave a quiet order to the driver. The taximan nodded and started the cab.

Headed toward a bridge across the Potomac, the taxi started on a swift journey to the airport — the destination given. Street lamps showed a faint smile upon the lips of the passenger who held the briefcase. Then, like an echoed whisper, a soft tone of subdued mockery came from the unmoving mouth.

The laugh of The Shadow! Audible only to the personage who uttered it, the repressed tone carried a presaging note. It was a prediction of strange events that lay ahead; a weird token of coming adventure.

A message to The Shadow! It had been received before to-night. The Shadow had discovered it a few days back; and he had acted in preparation. Absent from New York — the logical city for the appointment — The Shadow had ordered trusted agents to do preliminary work. The word from Rutledge Mann had told him that their investigations were completed. Acquainted with certain important facts, The Shadow had communicated directly with Room 850 at the Paragon Hotel, New York.

HALF an hour after Lamont Cranston’s departure from the Washington hotel, a broad-winged monoplane took off from the airport across the Potomac.

Rising high above the glow of the nation’s capital, it zoomed northward along the airway to New York.

The Shadow, mysterious master of the night, was heading toward Manhattan. He was on his way to perform an unprecedented task. From the darkness that enshrouded him, The Shadow would soon emerge to meet the bold man who had summoned him to conference in New York.

Whether he was to meet friend or foe, The Shadow was prepared to answer the challenge of this unaccountable meeting. Before midnight, he would know the reason for the strange request that had been issued to him.