Spoils of the Shadow

CHAPTER III FACE TO FACE

LESS than ten minutes after Harry Vincent had made his final report to The Shadow, a hand turned the knob of the door to Room 850. The gloom of the corridor gave a fleeting trace of the features of the man called Tyrell. Entering the room, the arrival closed the door behind him.

“Pug!”

Tyrell’s voice was a whisper. It brought a growl from a corner of the room. Barely discernible in the slight light that came from the connecting door to 852, Pug Halfin rose from behind a heavy chair.

“Yeah?” questioned the mobleader.

“He’ll be here soon,” purred Tyrell. “I called up the airport. The Washington plane is in.”

“But if he ain’t on it—”

“Don’t worry. The Shadow wouldn’t lose much time getting here.”

“Well, I’m all set.”

“Good. The only question now is your nerve.”

“Say” — Pug paused indignantly — “it’s waitin’ that gets my goat — that’s all. It’ll give me the creeps, havin’ to let The Shadow go by, when I could bag him. But when he comes back this way — well, this rod’s done its work before.”

As he spoke, Pug raised a revolver, which glimmered slightly in the scant light. Tyrell’s form moved forward. A low exclamation came from his lips.

“Let’s see that gun!”

Pug handed over the revolver. He saw Tyrell hold it to the light. Then came an expression of contempt.

“A .38!” Tyrell’s tone had sarcasm. “Where are your brains, Pug? Is this the largest rod you handle?”

“It ain’t no bean-shooter,” retorted Pug, “Say — that gat’s done plenty. I’ll finish any guy with it—”

“But not The Shadow,” came Tyrell’s suave interruption. “The less shots, the better. I’ll take this gun. You use my .45.”

Pocketing Pug’s revolver, the speaker produced a larger weapon. He handed a glimmering gun to the mobleader. He uttered a warning as Pug gripped the weapon.

“Easy with that cannon,” he warned. “It has no safety catch; and that’s a hair-trigger. There won’t be any argument when you use that gun.”

“All right.” Pug kept finger from trigger as he gripped the .45. “Say — I guess you’re right, Tyrell. This smoke wagon makes my old rod look like a cap-pistol.”

“Ease back,” ordered Tyrell, motioning Pug down behind the chair. “I’m taking a stroll out in the corridor. When I come back again, I’ll be ready for business.”

Pug remained silent after the other had gone. Minutes passed; at last, the door of 850 opened. From his hiding place, Pug saw that Tyrell had returned. The suave man closed the door behind him and walked across the room to the door to the adjoining chamber.

“All set, Pug?” he whispered.

“Right,” came the mobleader’s final growl.

TYRELL entered the other room. Silence persisted in Room 850. There was silence also in the outer corridor, but not for long. The door of 847 opened. A swish occurred as The Shadow emerged from the darkness of the room.

Watching, The Shadow had marked Tyrell’s return. He was ready for the appointment. Crossing the corridor, he opened the door of 850 and glided into the darkened room, closing the door behind him.

Keenly, The Shadow spied the light from the connecting door. He moved in that direction. His manner was stealthy. Pug Halfin, waiting in the gloom, did not sense The Shadow’s presence until the black-garbed visitant had actually arrived at the connecting door. Then, only, did Pug glimpse what appeared to be a solid silhouette against the wall. A moment later, The Shadow had passed into Room 852.

The man whom Pug had addressed as Tyrell was standing by the window. He was staring out into the darkness, a cigarette pursed between his suave, smiling lips. Tyrell did not hear the slight swish of The Shadow’s cloak. What he did hear was a sound that The Shadow purposely made. As he stood, a spectral shape in the mild light of the room, The Shadow pressed a hand against the connecting door and gave the barrier a push. The door closed with a slight slam.

Tyrell whirled. His eyes, narrowing, stared intently at the black-garbed figure. His fingers, drawing cigarette from lips, were frozen. Tyrell had evidently steeled himself to meet The Shadow; yet the sudden, almost supernatural arrival of the cloaked visitant had taken him unaware.

ALL that Tyrell could discern was a figure that stood as rigid as an ebony statue. Burning eyes, shining like coals of fire, surveyed the startled man from beneath the brim of the slouch hat. Those eyes were steady and unblinking. Tyrell’s own shrewd gaze had difficulty in meeting their sparkle. The man by the window managed to curb his sudden dread with a nervous laugh.

“You are here, eh?” questioned Tyrell, his tone mechanical. “I thought you would arrive early.”

“You spoke to me of crime.” The Shadow’s statement came in a sinister whisper. Tyrell quailed at the utterance from hidden lips. “You said that lawless plans would be altered should I come to see you here.”

“Yes.” Tyrell steadied to acknowledge the statement. “That is why I had published the advertisement which I hoped would bring you here.

“I told you over the telephone” — Tyrell’s own voice began to calm the man — “that my word can be relied upon. My name — I did not give it to you then — is Mark Tyrell. My standing, as a business promoter and a man of social prominence, classes me as one who will keep his word.”

Tyrell paused. Though his gaze had steadied, his eyes were troubled as they faced The Shadow’s blazing orbs. Silence followed Tyrell’s statement. Hearing no word from The Shadow, the man proceeded.

“I mentioned,” resumed Tyrell, “that you would not be molested when you came here. I added that I would offer you safe passage from this place. I have abided by my first promise. I shall keep the second. Let us talk as friends.”

A pause. Then came a soft, whispered laugh. The sound brought an instinctive shudder to Tyrell’s spine. The shrewd faced man had heard of The Shadow’s laugh. He was listening to the mockery itself. The tone seemed to carry a hidden, spectral menace.

“You may speak,” came The Shadow’s sardonic order, in a strange tone that followed whispered echoes. “Your own words will mark you as friend or foe.”

“One moment.” Tyrell showed sudden boldness. “I have given my word. I must have yours: that you will leave here without harming me, should my statements not prove to your liking.”

“Conditions,” came The Shadow’s response, in a sneering taunt, “are never offered by The Shadow. Since you have imposed them yourself, I shall grant you the return. I shall leave this hotel after I have heard your statements. You will be free to go your way, for the present.”

Tyrell managed to smile. His expression, however, was a forced one. It showed confidence, mixed with apprehension. The burning eyes of The Shadow seemed to read the confusion that existed in Tyrell’s brain.

“Speak,” came The Shadow’s final order.

“I shall speak,” agreed Tyrell. “That is why I requested you to come here. That is why I sent a message to The Shadow. But first I must be sure—”

Tyrell paused. He viewed the steady eyes beneath the hat brim. He tried to discern the face to which the eyes belonged. He failed.

“I MUST be sure,” he repeated, “that I am actually talking to The Shadow. I have heard of you as a person who appears cloaked in black. But I must have further proof of your identity. I do not ask to know your name” — suavely, Tyrell put the statement in an apologetic tone — “even though I have told you mine. But I feel that I am entitled to see the face of the person to whom I speak.”

“You have admitted my identity,” came The Shadow’s response. “Proceed with your statements, now that I have agreed to your request for temporary safety.”

“I am not positive that you are The Shadow,” rejoined Tyrell, shrewdly. “I believe that you are The Shadow; still, it is possible that you are some masquerader who has chanced to learn of my message.

“The Shadow, so I have heard, has agents. You might be one of his men. But should I see your face, I believe that I would be convinced. That is why I put this final request before I speak. If you will lay aside your cloak and hat—”

Tyrell paused. Despite his effort to conceal his feelings, he betrayed a smile upon his crafty features. Tyrell was not lacking in courage; he had managed to force himself to the belief that he was meeting The Shadow upon an equal plane. All that he had needed was the final touch.

Should The Shadow unmask, that would give him the advantage. Hence the reason for the smile; for as Mark Tyrell watched, he saw The Shadow’s form stoop forward. The folds of the black cloak dropped away, revealing a figure in street attire. The hands, removing their gloves, reached upward to lay aside the slouch hat.

Tyrell awaited his first triumph as he peered forward, waiting for The Shadow’s head to rise. He was anxious to see this visage that had been hidden. He wanted to meet The Shadow face to face, as a man, not as a being of weird appearance. The head came upward.

Mark Tyrell stood astounded. Face to face with The Shadow, his rising triumph faded. If he had really wanted proof of The Shadow’s identity, Tyrell could have had none more fitting. For the face that Tyrell saw before him was a tribute to The Shadow’s mastery of disguise. It was a countenance that proved The Shadow’s craft. It was the one face that Mark Tyrell had never expected to see.

To the last detail; eyebrows, lips, short-clipped mustache, even color of complexion, The Shadow had molded his plastic countenance into an exact duplicate of Mark Tyrell’s own. Such had been The Shadow’s actions in the room across the hall. Possessed of a photographic memory, this strange visitor had made himself up to appear as the double of the man whom he had seen through the window.

Mark Tyrell might well have been staring at his own reflection in a mirror. As his lips opened in amazement; as his eyes blinked in surprise, the face before him copied the expressions to exactitude. This was The Shadow; but his disguise left Tyrell breathless.

Instead of observing a revealed countenance that he could check for future recollection, Mark Tyrell was balked. The Shadow had granted his requests. There was no course other than to talk. But in the coming interview, Mark Tyrell would be at a hopeless loss. For all the while he spoke to The Shadow, the schemer would be face to face with himself!