The Black Master

CHAPTER VII. THE HUNTED MAN

WHEN Joe Cardona had mentioned the name of The Shadow to Doctor Heinrich Zerndorff, he had obeyed a sudden impulse. This had not been due entirely to chance. Cardona had been thinking of The Shadow.

Whenever the detective encountered the unexplainable in any mystery, he always thought of The Shadow. In this particular case, the unexplainable had entered. It concerned the finding of the bomb in the office of Barr Childs.

Cardona had admitted that he had received a tip-off. It had come over the telephone. He had been told to go to that particular office in the Financial Building, and that there he would discover a planted bomb.

So he had acted. He had found the bomb. But he had not been able to trace the phone call, nor had he any evidence that pointed to the identity of his informant.

The search for the person who had called Cardona at headquarters had been one of the many mystifying details that had come up during the investigation.

Inspector Burke, Doctor Zerndorff, and the others knew that Cardona had received a phone call. But all had taken it for granted that the quizzing of the suspects would clear this minor mystery. Such was not the case.

The voice that Cardona had heard had seemed vaguely familiar. The detective had encountered The Shadow in the past. He had heard the voice of The Shadow. It had differed on various occasions, and in this present instance, Cardona was too wise to mention his idea that The Shadow was the one who had called.

After all, the man of the night was officially a myth. The bombing investigations were moving satisfactorily, and the subject of The Shadow was a good one to forget.

The fact that the unexploded bomb had been placed in the Financial Building fitted in with the accepted theory that the series of crimes had been actuated by terrorists.

The new building was a monument to big business.

An explosion in it would have created a sensation equal to those which had gone before.

The placing of the bomb was a self-evident fact. The particular office in which it had been set was a logical selection as it fronted on the avenue below and was high enough to have attracted great attention.

But Doctor Zerndorff, too, had encountered certain puzzling factors which did not seem highly important in themselves. While the bomb was the craftsmanship of Isidor Vervick, Zerndorff could not fully understand the mechanism of the detonator.

He discovered no timing device that would have been responsible for the bomb going off at a certain minute. He could not explain why the bomb had failed to explode.

As this bomb was considered to be the same type as those which had actually exploded, these were important details. Fragments of the exploded bombs had been found and compared with the one which had been turned over to Doctor Zerndorff. They corresponded exactly.

During the twenty-four hours that followed Detective Cardona's visit to Doctor Zerndorff, much progress was made in the examination of the prisoners and in the acquisition of new witnesses.

Vervick's identity was rapidly becoming established. His lodging was discovered, an obscure house on the East Side. In the cellar the police found materials which he had used in the construction of the bombs.

Both Sforza and Pecherkin were forced to admit their former association with Vervick. Still they declared positively that they had not known of his presence in America, and nothing was established to prove that he had been brought here by them.

Bonzetti, Arno, and Michaels also made damaging admissions, but each of them swore that they had received individual orders from a man who had governed each of them.

They had been summoned to meetings, so they said, in a house on the East Side, and had often received instructions by telephone.

The fact that their stories held up under separate quizzings was troublesome to both the police and the secret-service investigators. It was particularly so to Joe Cardona. He had a great problem, and the matter of The Shadow was becoming burdensome.

This talk of a common master might mean The Shadow! But Cardona had no proof of it until he could trace the unknown phone call. The message over the wire was in itself contradictory.

All the time, the investigators kept working to supply the missing link between Sforza and Pecherkin and the three bomb placers. They began to get evidence; but it was all of the stool-pigeon variety.

The newspapers supported the police theory and reported progress.

Inspector Burke reiterated the dominant fact that the explosions were a thing of the past. New York was quieting, and even in the office of Barr Childs normalcy had been restored.

Yet there, a new mystery had developed, but it was not connected with the finding of the bomb. Perry Warfield had not visited the office since the morning he had met Henry Arnaud.

Still, there was an explanation. Mr. Childs had gone to Chicago to join his partner. There was no definite reason why Warfield should appear.

Thus, despite all the ferreting that had followed the bomb discovery, it was not surprising that Perry Warfield should be passing up Broadway alone and virtually unobserved on a mild May evening. The only surprising fact was the attitude of Warfield himself.

His face seemed more sallow than before; his black mustache was unkempt. His shrewd eyes were restless. He seemed to be looking for someone in the crowded thoroughfare.

He entered the lobby of the Goliath Hotel, looked quickly about him, and went to the news stand. There he purchased a final edition of an evening newspaper.

He sat down in a corner of the lobby and commenced to read the latest details of the explosion investigations. His action was scarcely more than pretense. He peered over the top of the paper and watched those who entered the lobby.

Only the clerk at the news counter observed this. It had been Warfield's custom for the past few days.

The clerk shrugged his shoulders. He was used to eccentric guests.

A young man entered the lobby carrying a suitcase. He walked directly past Warfield, apparently not noticing the man's nervous stare. He entered a telephone booth and called a number.

Warfield continued to watch him. In fact, he was so observant that he did not notice another man who entered the lobby.

This individual was of middle age. He had the solemn face of a professional gambler. He watched Warfield coldly, then turned away the moment that the man's eyes switched from the telephone booth.

The newcomer took a seat at the other side of the lobby.

The young man was talking in the telephone booth. He had received his number. His conversation was low and inaudible outside the confined quarters of the booth.

"Vincent speaking," he said. "Yes… In the lobby now… Same as usual… Room No. 738… Will locate near there."

Before the door of the booth had opened, Perry Warfield threw aside his newspaper and went to the desk. He asked for the key to his room — No. 738 — and went to the elevator.

The young man came from the telephone booth, went to the desk, and registered. He signed the name of Harry Vincent.

He remarked that he would like a room not too high up — about the seventh floor. The clerk was obliging.

He gave him room No. 763.

While he was registering, the middle-aged man with the poker face sauntered by the desk. Harry did not notice him.

Having been led to his room, Harry Vincent's first action was an inspection of the hotel corridors. Room No. 738 was at the end of a corridor, on the opposite side of the hotel.

From a spot less than twenty feet from his room, Harry could observe all who came up or went down by the elevators. By simply stationing himself at the proper spot, he could make it impossible for Warfield to escape without being seen. In fact, only occasional inspections would be necessary, for Warfield would have to wait a short while for an elevator.

Harry went for a stroll through the corridors. Warfield's transom was closed, and a dim light shone through.

He returned to the elevator passage. He noted that a stairway ran beside it on his side of the hotel. That would bear watching.

Harry Vincent had been investigating the actions of Perry Warfield for several weeks. It had been one of those mysterious missions as an emissary of that eerie being known as The Shadow.

In this case, the first signs of intensity had begun a few days ago, when Harry had picked up Warfield's trail in front of the Financial Building.

The man had not returned to his home in Westfield. He had registered in a New York hotel. There, yesterday afternoon, he had received a note, which he had crumpled and thrown in a wastebasket.

Harry had found it. It had borne in typewritten letters the cryptic statement: "Tomorrow night."

Harry had lost all trace of Warfield until spying him in the Goliath Hotel. He had reported to The Shadow, and had followed Warfield.

So here he was, close by; and tonight was the night!

An elevator door opened suddenly and Harry had no chance to slip away. He did not betray the surprise which had interrupted his thoughts of Perry Warfield. Instead, he simply stood by as though waiting for a descending elevator.

A man stepped from the car. Harry noticed his square jaw and expressionless face. For a moment his eyes met those of the other man. Harry fancied he saw a gleam of sudden recognition; then the man turned back to the elevator.

"What floor is this?" he demanded.

"Seventh, sir," replied the operator.

"I said the eleventh," exclaimed the man impatiently. He reentered the elevator. The door closed.

It was the man who had passed Harry Vincent near the desk in the lobby. Harry had not noticed him there, but the encounter here on the seventh floor had placed him on guard.

Harry wondered if the stranger had actually made a mistake about the floor. He doubted it. He waited for a minute; then, after a quick glance down Warfield's corridor, he went back to his room. He left the door ajar.

Harry intended to stay in his room only a few minutes. He sensed that the unexpected was due to happen. His experience as an agent of The Shadow had given him a keen and perceptive sense that quickened when danger approached.

He glanced idly from his window and his eyes centered upon an electric sign atop a nearby building.

Above it ran a row of unflinching yellow lights. One of these was out. As Harry noticed it, the light suddenly turned on, but the bulb to the right became extinguished.

That was curious. Harry watched. The bulb lighted again; the next one went out. Harry pulled his watch from his pocket and noted the second hand.

As the hand completed its course about its tiny dial, he looked up again. Simultaneously, the dead light shifted one more bulb to the right.

Harry pocketed his watch.

For some unknown purpose, those lights were telling off the minutes! He counted the row as carefully as he could. There were thirty bulbs. The seventh one was out; as Harry still watched, it changed to the eighth. Twenty-two minutes to go! Twenty-two minutes—

A sudden realization of danger gripped Harry's mind. He turned toward the door, but he was an instant too late. A man had entered noiselessly. Before Harry could raise his arms in defense, his antagonist was upon him.

In a fleeting moment, Harry recognized the face of the man he had encountered in the passage by the elevators. Then an arm pressed his throat in a stranglehold. Harry collapsed upon the floor.

The hard-faced man went to the door and closed it. He came back and drew a small packet from his pocket. From it he spilled a bit of powder into a glass and filled the glass with water.

He lifted Harry's body and placed it on the bed. He stroked the unconscious man's forehead and lifted his eyelids upward. Harry began to blink.

With expert precision, the stranger poured the glass of water down Harry's throat. Harry gulped and made no resistance. His head fell back upon the pillows.

The actions had taken place in an amazingly short space of time. The stranger glanced out the window.

The eleventh light was now extinguished. He listened intently. Harry was breathing slowly and regularly.

The telephone rang, and ceased. The stranger smiled again. The operator had evidently reported that Mr. Vincent did not answer. The man looked from the window. The eighteenth light from the left was now dark.

For the first time, the stranger spoke — and then only in an undertone. His voice carried a note of satisfaction; it came evenly from lips that did not move.

"Twelve minutes more," the stranger said. "Twelve minutes — and then—"

He did not complete the sentence. Once more he was staring from the window. The nineteenth light went out. One minute more had passed.

The watching eyes turned to the wing of the hotel that lay across the courtyard. They were the eyes of the hunter. They seemed to see through the mass of steel and masonry, visualizing the room where a hunted man lay hiding!