The Blackmail Ring

Chapter I — The Shadow Acts

The glittering lights of Paris were a glorious sight from the window of Suite 15 in the Hotel Barzonne. But the man who sat beside the window had no interest in the spectacle. He was an American of dignified appearance — a man perhaps forty years of age.

Resting on the table at which the man sat were small piles of newspaper clippings, and neatly tabulated typewritten sheets. The man assembled them deftly.

As he worked, a strange, mysterious gem gleamed upon the third finger of the left hand, its light producing weird, changing colors.

The gem was a girasol — a fire opal of rare value. There was no other like it in the world.

The stone was a clue to the identity of the man who owned it; but no one had ever learned that clue. The gleaming girasol was the property of the mysterious man called "The Shadow!"

Comparing one stack of clippings with a corresponding sheaf of typed papers, the man at the table laughed softly.

The clippings and the data referred to an amazing murder case in Germany. They told of an unsolved mystery. With them was a small item that mentioned the finding of a body in the Seine. It had not been identified.

Neither newspapers nor police had connected that body with the murder in Germany.

They did not know that the drowned man and the German murderer were one and the same. Nor did they know that the drowning had not been accidental; that a fiend of crime had encountered just retribution. These were facts that only The Shadow knew!

The man at the table tore the sheets and the clippings. That case was ended. He referred to another. This was the account of a bank robbery in London — a mystery that had baffled the best sleuths in Scotland Yard.

The stolen money — sixty thousand pounds — had been recovered following a tip from an unknown source. The same night, two men had been discovered dead in a London rooming house; the victims of a gun fray.

There was no apparent connection between these persons — reputed to be criminals — and the restored bank funds. How they had met their end was a mystery.

The Shadow tore these clippings, and with them the typed sheets. That case was closed.

Those dead men were the robbers.

How they had stolen and lost the bank notes — how they had died, and why — these, again, were facts that only The Shadow knew!

There was a third pile of clippings. These related to a Parisian affair, the death of Herbert Brockley; the subsequent killing of Parisian criminals who had been responsible for it; and the flight and disappearance of one of the gang.

The American referred closely to this subject. He folded up the papers and inserted them in a secret drawer of a small steamer trunk that was standing in the corner. From another compartment of the trunk, the man produced a package.

Tucking the bundle under his arm, he left the suite, and descended to the lobby of the hotel. He walked along the street for several blocks; then stopped a taxicab, and spoke to the driver in perfect French. He ordered the man to take him to a certain cafe — the Poisson d'Or. The driver looked astonished. He could not believe the instructions. The Poisson d'Or was one of the worst dives in all Paris. It was patronized only by criminals of the most notorious type.

Unwelcome strangers usually met death there.

He doubted the sanity of this well-dressed American.

The instructions were repeated. They came in a firm, determined voice. The taxi driver shrugged his shoulders

He would take this fellow to the Poisson d'Or, since he was determined to go; but he resolved that he would notify the nearest gendarme as soon as he had left his passenger.

The taxi reached a squalid, unlighted street. One could not have picked out a more undesirable district than this. No tourists came here. It was the most dangerous portion of the underworld of Paris. The passenger had alighted from the cab. He was standing close by, and the driver could see only his hand as it extended the fare. The taximan noted that the hand wore a black glove. He looked around the moment that he had received the money. No one was in sight!

Had the American become faint-hearted? Had he stepped back into the cab?

The driver looked into the back seat. All that he saw was the wrapping of a package — a crumpled sheet of heavy paper that his fare had left.

The man had undoubtedly gone into the Poisson d'Or. The driver drove away to find a gendarme. The interior of the Poisson d'Or contained a series of small rooms, separated by rough partitions. In one of these, two roughly clad men were conversing in the dialect of Parisian ruffians. Their uncouth words, intermingled with oaths, related to the payment of blood money, which one of the men had received.

"Hubert is dead," said one. "I have his share. They will never find me. Bah! I would kill a dozen Americans for ten thousand francs. Now I have twenty thousand for killing one!" He drew a wad of bills from his pocket and divided the money into two portions.

"Here is half for you, Andre," he said. "I am going where these cursed police can never find me. I cannot understand how they caught Hubert. There is someone who knows more than the police." Andre grinned as he took the ten thousand francs. It was a payment in advance, for work that he was to perform while his crony was absent.

"Bah!" he exclaimed. "You can count on me, Louis. You stay away until this affair of the dead American has blown over. Then — "

He raised a glass of cognac, and his companion did the same. They were drinking to their future exploits, these Apache killers. But the glasses stopped before they had reached the lips for which they were intended.

The door of the small room had opened. There, framed in the narrow doorway, stood a man clad in black. His appearance was amazing — even to these men of crime.

A black cloak hung from his shoulders, and his hands were hidden in its folds. A large slouch hat was turned down to cover his features. All that was visible were two glowing eyes!

Those eyes were focused upon the money on the table. That represented a payment for the killing of Herbert Brockley, the American. Andre saw the direction in which the eyes were staring. He reached to grasp the money.

Quick as a flash, the man in black stepped forward. His left hand extended and fell upon the twenty thousand francs. An oath came from Louis, who sat at the left. Rising, he whisked a revolver from his pocket.

The weapon was never used. As Louis sought to level it and press the trigger, a shot came from the folds of the black cloak. The hidden hand had been covering the Apache. Louis toppled from his chair. Andre leaped forward to seize that hidden hand. He grappled with the stranger, and pressed him back against the wall. There was another muffled shot, and the second Apache fell to the floor. A soft, weird laugh came from the man in black, as he gathered up the twenty thousand francs and swept through the door, with the money beneath his cloak.

The Shadow — terror to the denizens of New York's underworld — had conquered two of the most murderous men in Paris. In the midst of their strong-hold, he had deprived them of the blood money that had been paid for the death of Herbert Brockley!

Those two were not the only Apaches in the Poisson d'Or. Gunshots were a signal to the bloodthirsty crew that frequented the Parisian dive.

As The Shadow stepped into the corridor outside the partition room, half a dozen men appeared from the other end of the passage.

There were two entrances to the corridor — one from the front room, whence these murderers were coming; the other toward an obscure door of the Poisson d'Or — the way by which The Shadow had entered, unseen.

The Apaches were flinging themselves into the attack in an effort to capture the intruder before he could flee to safety. There had been shootings in this dive before; and always the participants had tried to escape by the obscure door.

Two husky cutthroats were leaping forward with flashing knives; behind them were others armed with revolvers. Against such odds, only flight seemed feasible; but had The Shadow turned his back to flee, he would have become a target for six deadly weapons.

Instead, he did the unexpected. Barely a dozen feet lay between him and the surging crew. Two automatics were in The Shadow's hands. The pistols roared into the teeth of the attackers!

A knife slashed the side of the black cloak; the man who held the blade pitched headlong.

A revolver shot clipped the slouch hat; the man who fired fell before he could deliver another shot. The Shadow was among the Apaches now. All but one were sprawled along the corridor.

The one fellow had flattened himself against the wall. He had escaped the raking fire, and now his hand swung upward with its automatic.

The Shadow's aim was quicker. His final bullet struck the Apache's wrist. As the arm fell, The Shadow, with a burst of derisive mirth, reached out and plucked the gun away from its owner. The Shadow's empty automatic dropped at the man's feet.

Sweeping along the corridor, The Shadow reached the front room of the Poisson d'Or.

There, a crowd of grinning Apaches were awaiting the return of the killing squad. They were used to these affairs. Always, a gang of cut-throats would rush away and come back with a victim's bullet-riddled body as their trophy.

Into this scene came The Shadow! Before the Apaches realized that the impossible had happened, the cloaked man's automatic was again at work.

As one rising Apache fell wounded, the other mobsters dived for cover. With sweeping strides, The Shadow gained the door, and his sardonic laugh was loud with mockery and menace.

As The Shadow's hand pressed the knob, the door crashed inward, and a squad of gendarmes burst into the place. Coming to rescue a helpless American, they had heard the gunfire. The Shadow stepped back as the door burst. The gendarmes were hurtling upon him. His right arm swung with terrific force as The Shadow leaped among the officers.

Two gendarmes staggered. Their hands slipped from the black cloak. Diving forward, The Shadow broke loose and sprang to the street.

The Apaches had been quick to meet the double emergency. Their guns were barking as The Shadow swung his way through the gendarmes. They sought to slay the man in black, and to withstand the attack of the law.

Their first purpose failed. The hail of bullets was too late to thwart The Shadow's escape.

Gendarmes were falling; but others, dropping to the floor, blazed away at the mobsters. The Apaches were outnumbered. Those who were able, scurried to the corridor and fled.

With the mob subdued, gendarmes rushed to the street and scattered everywhere in search of the man who had baffled them. But in the darkness that reigned over that quarter of Paris, a man in black could make himself invisible.

Darkness shrouded the form of The Shadow. He was nowhere to be found.

While the gendarmes still persisted in their search, the dignified American reappeared in Suite 15 of the Hotel Barzonne.

His face retained its calmness; there was no hurry in his action as he opened the drawer of the steamer trunk and removed the clippings and the typed sheets that referred to Herbert Brockley. In a blank space, the quiet man wrote the name of Louis Bargelle. The last of Brockley's slayers was gone. Methodically, the American tore the sheets and clippings. He laughed — and his laugh was an echo of those taunting jibes that had sounded within the walls of the Poisson d'Or. The next morning, two Parisian detectives were going over a report of the battle at the Apache dive. They were discussing the deaths of certain criminals — among them Louis Bargelle — when an attendant entered. He was carrying a tightly wrapped paper.

A detective opened it and gasped in surprise as he saw the contents — a mass of paper money. He counted it. Twenty thousand francs!

The only clue to the sender was an oddly shaped card among the bills; but the card was blank. The detective held the card to the light. It showed no markings whatever.

But upon the wall — unnoticed by the detective — the card cast a strange shadow that bore a grotesque resemblance to the profile of a human being!