Spoils of the Shadow

CHAPTER IV THE INTERVIEW

“WILL you sit down?”

The question came in Mark Tyrell’s voice; but it was not uttered by the man himself. The Shadow, finished with his mimicry of expression, was acting the part of host while Tyrell stood stupefied. It was The Shadow who spoke.

His voice an exact copy of Tyrell’s own. The Shadow was choosing a chair for himself while he pointed Tyrell to another seat. Mechanically, Tyrell moved toward the spot designated. He dropped into the chair, let his stroked cigarette fall into the ash stand beside him, and stared, still gaping, at his visitor.

The Shadow drew a cigarette case from his pocket. He removed a cigarette, lighted it and puffed in a manner that was an exact copy of Tyrell’s way of smoking. It was plain that through the coming interview, Tyrell would be forced to watch a display of his own actions.

“You’re clever!” blurted Tyrell suddenly. “Deucedly clever! Any one seeing the two of us could not tell which was which.”

“Perhaps not.” The Shadow, in replying, chose his words in a precise fashion that Tyrell had used. “In fact, Tyrell, it might be wise to consider ourselves as a single individual in this coming discussion. Crime is in your mind. Your actions show it. Possibly if you visualize me as yourself, I may serve you as a conscience.”

The irony of The Shadow’s speech brought a snarl from Mark Tyrell. The man had lost his suavity. Strangely, The Shadow was playing Tyrell’s usual part better than the man did it himself. The final effect was exactly what The Shadow desired. Tyrell threw cunning to the wind and broke loose with angry words.

“So you figured out that I’m going in for crime?” he challenged. “Well, I am! That’s why I wanted to see you first. But if you think you’re going to talk me out of it, you’re wrong. What I’m going to do is talk you into it!”

“Interesting,” responded The Shadow, in mockery of Tyrell’s former suavity. “Interesting, but quite unconvincing.”

TYRELL scowled. He was about to blurt forth a new tirade when he caught himself. Nervously, he chewed his lips while he drew a cigarette from his pocket. Despite the steadiness of The Shadow’s eyes, glowing from the duplicate of Tyrell’s own countenance, the schemer managed to regain something of his former smoothness.

“Very clever,” he remarked, with a forced laugh. “You threw me out a bit, with that trick make-up of yours. I know you for The Shadow right enough. No one but The Shadow could work a stunt as neat as this one.”

“Remember,” came The Shadow’s feigned tone, “you are talking to yourself.”

“I’m talking to The Shadow,” declared Tyrell, swallowing his anger at the sarcasm. “To you — The Shadow. I’m telling you my game; and I’m giving you a fair proposition.”

“Proceed.”

“I’m not a crook,” insisted Tyrell. “I’m a promoter. Maybe the two are something alike. In fact they are. Because I’m a promoter that’s going in for crime. I’ve done none yet; but my plans are made.

“If I had already committed crime” — Tyrell paused with his shrewdness regained — “I would not have dared to communicate with you, The Shadow. I know that you are death on crooks. My plans concern the future; not the past.

“There are certain persons here in New York who own treasures of immense value. I do not refer to large collectors, who have immense galleries of paintings, or vast stores of precious gems. I mean individuals whose collections each boast one particular object of particular worth. Such men do not have the protection that they should. Therefore, their treasures are open to theft.”

Tyrell waited. Seeing that his double did not care to make a comment, he proceeded.

“I have planned five robberies,” resumed Tyrell. “In each case I intend, with proper aid, to purloin a single object of high value. I know how the stolen treasures can be sold. I expect to aggregate close to a million dollars through these thefts.”

“Interesting,” observed The Shadow, when Tyrell again paused. “You plan crime. Yet you inform me of its approach. Quite considerate of you, old chap.”

“Considerate?” Tyrell smiled. “Yes, it is; particularly because of the offer that I am here to make. My game is set. If you keep hands off, I shall make you a present of one hundred thousand dollars.”

“In advance?”

“In advance. Give me your word that you will avoid all interference and the money will be yours before I begin.”

“And if I choose to ignore your terms?”

“The crimes will proceed. If you try to thwart them, your actions may prove an obstacle to me; but I assure you that my ways will be too crafty for you to defeat.”

Quietly, The Shadow arose from his chair. He let his cigarette fall in exact imitation of Tyrell’s previous gesture. The smile that formed upon his lips was as crafty as Tyrell’s own.

“We met as friends, Tyrell,” remarked The Shadow, still imitating the other’s suavity. “We can part as friends. When crime commences, we will be enemies.”

“One moment!” Tyrell was on his feet as The Shadow reached for hat and cloak. “I gave you friendly terms. Since you have refused them, I offer a fair warning that you may remember when we have become enemies.”

THE SHADOW’S eyes burned toward the suave speaker. Tyrell, his ardor aroused, met the gaze and spoke further.

“I have planned these robberies cleverly,” he stated. “They will not involve injury or death, provided that I am unmolested. But let me assure you of this; on the occasion of each crime, I shall have strength sufficient to kill.”

“Perhaps you do not fear my threat.”

“On the contrary, I do not fear your power. But I warn you: innocent persons will be involved on every occasion. Should you appear to make a single move against me; should I learn that you have given information to the police, I shall give orders to kill.

“We may meet in combat, you and I. The outcome is a matter that concerns us alone. But the combat, itself, will be the death warrant for people who are present. I have heard it said that you protect the weak. This is your chance to preserve the lives of the innocent. Do not act to thwart my schemes!”

“Your terms then,” observed The Shadow, still in the role that he had taken, “apply whether or not I choose to accept the money that you have offered.”

“Exactly,” agreed Tyrell. “In fact, my offer of one hundred thousand dollars will remain open until operations actually begin. That will not be for nearly a month. If you choose to reverse your present decision, simply place a want-ad in the New York Classic. State that you desire an executive position and use the name of Barnes. I shall communicate with you.

“But if your aversion toward me still exists; if you prefer to continue your policy of thwarting crime, be wise enough to abide by my rules. Make no attempt to injure me or to disclose my schemes to any one. Should you act in such fashion, death to innocent parties will be the result.

“My schemes are clever enough to deceive the law. I shall not be forced to use violence if the police alone are pitted against me. Nevertheless, I shall have capable henchmen; and my plans are so well made that they will continue even if I should die. Any attack on your part will be the signal for slaughter. That condition exists from this moment until the completion of my fifth crime.”

The Shadow made no response. While Tyrell talked, his double was undergoing a change. The Shadow, picking up his discarded garments, donned cloak, hat and gloves. Once more he was the spectral shape that Tyrell had first seen.

“We are enemies,” reminded Tyrell, as he faced the weird figure before him. “We shall remain so, unless you notify me that my offer is acceptable. However” — the man paused to smile suavely — “I shall not forget the terms of this meeting. That door” — he pointed across the room — “leads to the corridor. It is your path to safety. Take it.”

Burning eyes were focused upon the smooth promoter. The Shadow’s whisper came in sinister response.

“That door,” sneered the black-garbed figure, “was not the one by which I entered.”

“Of course not,” returned Tyrell, with a shrug of his shoulders. “I arranged for your arrival by the door of Room 850. That was because I happened to place advertising copy with the Paragon automobile, which is priced at eight hundred and fifty dollars.

“I might have placed similar copy with the Zenith Company, which sells a car at six seventy-five. Had I done so, our interview would have been set for Room 675 in the old Zenith Hotel. However, 850 at the Paragon proved suitable. It was the logical room for you to enter.

“We are now in Room 852. The simplest exit is from here into the corridor. It is the one I offer you. You gained a safe entry: I offer you a safe departure. There is the way.”

Again, Tyrell pointed to the door that led into the corridor. His gesture indicated insistence that The Shadow should leave by this particular exit. Instead, the black-clad visitant turned toward the door that led into 850.

“I prefer,” whispered The Shadow, in a sneering tone, “to leave by the same route which I used in entering.”

“Against my advice,” warned Tyrell, with an angry scowl.

“Against your advice,” repeated The Shadow, in a sardonic tone.

Leaving Tyrell staring in indignation, The Shadow turned and glided toward the connecting door. He opened the barrier. He slid into the darkened room, closing the door partway behind him. His figure merged with darkness.

INSTANTLY, Mark Tyrell’s expression changed. His feigned anger was gone. A gloating look appeared upon his face. He was sure that he had tricked The Shadow.

Tyrell had offered safe conduct through the door of 852. He had made no promises should The Shadow depart by 850. Tyrell was priding himself on his subtle cleverness as he listened for a sound from the adjoining room.

What Tyrell expected was the boom of a revolver. Instead, he heard a click. Then another; a third; a rapid succession of clicks and a fuming oath. Finally a weird laugh that trailed as Tyrell sprang to the connecting door. He was just in time to hear the final echoes of the laugh as the outer door of 850 closed on The Shadow’s departure.

Tyrell clicked on a light. Before him, rising from in back of the chair in the corner, was Pug Halfin. The mobleader’s face looked vicious. His hand clutched the big .45 that he had kept in readiness. Pug looked half stupefied.

“You fool!” snarled Tyrell. “Why didn’t you get him? I told you to be ready if he came through here—”

“It wasn’t my fault,” growled Pug. “This smoke wagon was empty!”

“You told me your gun was loaded!”

“It was. If you’d let me keep my own rod, instead of handin’ me this dead gat—”

“Wait a minute! You say I gave you that gun?”

“Sure you did. Say, Tyrell, have you gone goofy? You came in here twice. The first time—”

“Let’s see it.” Tyrell took the big revolver from Pug’s hand. He cracked it open and looked at the empty chambers. “Hm-m-m. A .45—”

“That’s what you said,” interposed Pug. “Told me my .38 wouldn’t do—”

“And if you had discovered it empty,” mused Tyrell, “you couldn’t have loaded it, because your own ammunition would be too small. Say — he is clever—”

“Who’s clever?”

“The Shadow.” Tyrell faced the mobleader squarely. “Listen, Pug; I saw The Shadow face to face when I talked with him in the other room. Do you know who he looked like?”

“Who?”

“Myself. He was made up so perfectly that I might have been studying my own reflection.”

“Then you mean—”

“I mean that it was The Shadow who came in here and talked you out of your loaded gun. He was disguised to look like me. He gave you a weapon that you could not use. He knew that you were here to kill him.”

“Then he could’ve got me!”

“Yes. But he preferred not. He learned too much from me. He knows that if he attacks me or any of my pals, innocent people will die. I kidded him into coming back through this room. No wonder he fell for the game.

“Listen, Pug. No word of this to any one. We don’t want the crew that’s working for us to think that The Shadow can outsmart us. You and I are the only two who will know that The Shadow pulled this trick.”

“I get you.”

Mark Tyrell was holding the empty .45 up to the light. He wondered if The Shadow had adopted the unnecessary precaution of plugging the barrel. If not, this revolver could be given to some mobster.

Something showed in the barrel. Tyrell pulled a pencil from his pocket. He pushed a twisted sheet of paper out through the mouth of the gun. He opened the message. In neatly traced characters, he read this statement:

Tyrell crumpled the paper and thrust it in his pocket. He shook his head as he heard Pug question him about the contents of the message.

“Nothing of importance,” declared Tyrell. “Merely The Shadow’s compliments. He’s smart, The Shadow, but we’ll lick him. Remember, Pug; keep mum about this.”

“You bet,” replied the mobleader.

Mark Tyrell’s face showed savage in the light as the suave promoter returned to Room 852. The message from the gun barrel told him that The Shadow had known his name as well as his features prior to the interview. It also proved that The Shadow had divined why Tyrell had requested his presence here. The black-cloaked visitant had foreseen the outcome of the interview.

Mark Tyrell scowled; but his ferocity showed determination. A vicious laugh snorted from his twisting lips. The Shadow had come and gone; in every point, he had been victor. His subtlety had beaten Tyrell’s. The Shadow had shown his mastery.

Nevertheless, Tyrell’s ultimatum still stood. The schemer was confident that The Shadow could not balk his well-laid plans. In spite of The Shadow’s warning, Mark Tyrell was determined to launch his contemplated crimes.