The Cobra

CHAPTER VI THE SHADOW MOVES

A CLICK sounded in a darkened room. A bluish light appeared in a corner; its downward shaded rays were focused upon the surface of a polished table.

Into that sphere of light came two long-fingered hands. Upon the left gleamed a sparkling gem that showed ever-changing hues. The Shadow was in his sanctum.

This was the hidden room which The Shadow had long used as his headquarters. Once men of crime had penetrated here; they had not lived to tell the location of The Shadow’s sanctum.

Somewhere in Manhattan — there lay the sanctum. The bluish light told the place; the sparkling gem, a matchless girasol, proclaimed the identity of its wearer — The Shadow.

Long fingers opened envelopes. Clippings dropped upon the polished table. These were the accounts which Caleb Myland had been reading in his study; they were amplified by later items. A day had passed since Myland had received Commissioner Weston at his home.

The Shadow studied news reports. They spoke of confusion in the underworld. Events were impending in the badlands. Big shots were in fear of their lives. The clippings failed to give the reason, but The Shadow knew the answer.

The Cobra!

Into the realm of gangdom had come a fantastic figure whose quick strokes had raised him to the summit. For years, The Shadow had been the unseen factor who had held the balance between justice and evil. His stern hand had always been ready to swing the scales to the side of right.

The Shadow’s course had been a wise one. Well did he know the value of keeping crime at bay. The Shadow’s strokes were body thrusts to the undying monster called crime. A being of retribution, The Shadow used tactics that had proven their worth over a prolonged period.

The Cobra, apparently, was attempting the impossible. He was out to lop off heads. Hydra-like, new ones would form where the old had been. To The Shadow, The Cobra’s course seemed futile.

That was not all. The Cobra, through his sudden rise as a terrorist, had become a problem to The Shadow. The menace of The Cobra had eclipsed that of The Shadow. The episode that had marked the death of Deek Hundell had been the turning point.

IN all his battles against men of evil, The Shadow had taken advantage of the one phobia that lurks in every human brain — fear. Crooks noted for their steady trigger fingers had faltered when they faced The Shadow.

The scene had changed. The Cobra was the new terror of the underworld. He had struck down Deek Hundell amid a squad of protecting henchmen. Those men who had sat stupefied had later risen to do battle with The Shadow.

True, The Shadow had won a fight against great odds; but he had waged a futile conflict. He had been forced to retreat under fire. Skulking mobsters who had feared the very name of The Shadow were now boasting of what they would do should they meet him. The prestige of The Shadow was at stake.

Another envelope came between The Shadow’s hands. It held a message, written in code. The Shadow perused the blue-inked lines; then the writing faded, word by word.

A report from Cliff Marsland, The Shadow’s agent in the underworld. A low, weird laugh whispered from the darkness on the near side of the shaded lamp.

In his report, Cliff had emphasized the very pointers that The Shadow had realized. The underworld was speaking in awed tones of The Cobra; and boastful threats against The Shadow were being uttered in the same breath.

A pen appeared in The Shadow’s hand. The fingers wrote brief comments that showed the trend of The Shadow’s thoughts. The master sleuth was analyzing the situation which confronted him.

How had The Cobra learned Deek Hundell’s meeting place? The Shadow had picked up Deek’s trail through Harry Vincent, who had long been one of The Shadow’s trusted agents. Harry had watched Deek at the uptown hotel where the gang leader had been staying.

But The Cobra had used no watcher. Somehow, the new crime fighter had learned of the meeting spot without tracing Deek at all.

What was the answer? The Shadow’s whispered laugh showed that his keen brain had found an inkling.

A tiny bulb glimmered on the wall beyond the table. A hand moved forward and plucked a pair of earphones from the wall. The Shadow spoke in whispered tones. A quiet voice came over the wire:

“Burbank speaking.”

“Report.”

The Shadow’s whispered order seemed to cling with weird echoes. Burbank’s statement came:

“Report from Marsland. At the Black Ship. Members of Heater Darkin’s mob waiting for orders from their leader.”

“Instructions to Marsland,” responded The Shadow. “Remain on duty. Side door code message.”

“Instructions received.”

The earphones went back to the wall.

The Shadow’s laugh sounded as a sinister whisper. Through Burbank, his hidden contact man, The Shadow had received this special word from Cliff Marsland. It was the very type of information for which The Shadow had hoped.

CLIFF MARSLAND, when stationed in the underworld, had frequent opportunities to gain advance notice of impending crimes. Accepted as a gunman of importance, Cliff had the run of various hangouts, including the Black Ship.

During the past few days, Cliff had been roaming the badlands at The Shadow’s order. His present information, concerning “Heater” Darkin, a notorious gang leader, was exactly what The Shadow wanted.

Here was opportunity. The Shadow specialized in swift strokes dealt while crime was taking place. Heater Darkin was recognized as a big shot who dealt in merciless tactics. It was time that his evil career should be broken.

Gangdom was talking of The Cobra. It was time that such talk should end. The trend of gangland’s fears must return to the master whose prestige The Cobra had usurped. The Shadow! His fame would benefit through a meeting with Heater Darkin, while the big shot was engaged in crime.

A sibilant laugh crept through the confines of the sanctum. Black gloves appeared upon the table. Thin, smooth fitting cloth, they slipped over the long-fingered hands. Clippings and envelopes were pushed aside. A black hand rose; the light disappeared with a click.

The swish of The Shadow’s cloak sounded in the pitch-black gloom. Then came a repetition of The Shadow’s laugh; the whispered mockery took tone as it rose to an eerie crescendo.

The gibing mirth came to a sudden ending. In its place were echoes that reverberated from jet-black walls, as though uttered by a myriad of ghoulish tongues. The creepy echoes died. Complete silence followed.

The sanctum was empty. The Shadow had departed. Faring forth on a new mission, the master fighter was out to combat crime. Two purposes lay before The Shadow on this night.

One was the cause of right: The Shadow’s unceasing desire to bring disaster to crooks whom the law could not forestall. The other was a vital point that concerned The Shadow’s future dealing with affairs of the underworld.

Upon his success in frustrating Heater Darkin’s culminating crime, The Shadow was staking his reputation as the greatest of all menaces to evil.

This would be The Shadow’s counter challenge to the rising fame of The Cobra!