The Dark Death

CHAPTER I. TWO APPOINTMENTS

EVENING traffic was heavy on Sixth Avenue. Throngs of taxicabs had chosen this route to escape the jam of the theater district. The result was a tie-up as bad as any at Times Square. Stalled trolley cars; blocked trucks; cabs and automobiles clustered between elevated pillars — these were hopelessly entangled while traffic cops blew whistles and shouted orders that no one could obey.

All the while, the rumble of elevated trains sounded from above, as if derisive of the vehicles stalled beneath. The roar of one train brought an impatient growl from a taxi driver. The fellow thrust a pointed profile from the window of the cab. He saw a truck move ahead a dozen feet, opening a pathway.

The cabby yanked his car in gear. Snapping in front of a second taxi, he veered right, scraped an elevated pillar and shot up to the nearest corner. He wheeled right, swung into an opening in cross-street traffic and sped down the other thoroughfare.

The traffic cop stared after him; then dropped his whistle and grinned. Ordinarily he would have slated the driver for a ticket: but there was no use in making a pinch tonight. One less car in that petrified jam of vehicles was a help, so far as the policeman was concerned.

Two blocks away, the taxi driver pulled up in front of a towering office building. A tall passenger alighted.

He was out of the cab the moment that it stopped; the driver caught only a glimpse of head and shoulders as his fare entered the building. The passenger had not paid for the trip. That did not trouble the driver.

The jehu simply eased his cab to a parking space across the street. He looked into the back seat and saw a suitcase resting on the floor. His peaked face showed a slight grin. Then the driver settled back behind the wheel. As he waited, he looked upward toward the building that his passenger had entered.

Moe Shrevnitz was the name of this taxi man. His cab was an independent, presumably. Moe owned it himself. Actually, the cab belonged to a mysterious personage who had supplied Moe with the money for its purchase. This cab was the property of The Shadow.

Day and night, Moe kept in touch with Burbank, The Shadow’s contact agent. Early this evening, he had called Burbank by telephone. He had received orders to be at Sixth Avenue and Twenty-third Street at eight forty-five. There, his passenger had stepped aboard the cab before Moe had realized it. A hissed voice had given this destination.

It was not Moe’s policy to speculate on the doings of The Shadow. He had found it good business to follow orders. Nevertheless, there were times when Moe could not refrain from being curious. Tonight was one of those occasions.

The office building which his passenger had entered was totally dark except for one floor, which Moe estimated as the tenth. From the windows of that story came the flicker of bluish lights that flashed with intermittent brightness.

That floor, Moe decided, must be The Shadow’s objective. The point settled in his mind, the taxi man lighted a cigarette and began to idle the time while he awaited his passenger’s return.

Up on the tenth floor of the office building was one window that Moe had not seen, for it was around the corner of the skyscraper. The light from that window was a normal glare, for the room within was an office. On the door of the room was the legend:

Behind the desk in the office sat a shock-headed man. This was James Sundler. He was the supervisor, in charge of the New York laboratories of the Universal Electric Company.

Opposite the supervisor sat a visitor. Sundler was fingering the caller’s card. It bore the name of Lamont Cranston.

Eyeing his visitor, Sundler was impressed by the calm demeanor of Cranston’s countenance. The visage was firm, almost masklike in its mold. An aquiline nose gave Cranston a hawk-like expression. Keen eyes met Sundler’s as the supervisor met his visitor’s gaze.

“Ordinarily, Mr. Cranston,” stated Sundler, “we could not discuss our experimental devices with persons outside our company. These laboratories are used for perfecting new inventions. We do not encourage visitors.”

“So I understand,” came the quiet reply, “I learned that from Guy Tawley.”

“So Mr. Tawley told me,” rejoined Sundler. “But he also requested that an exception be made in your case. Inasmuch as Mr. Tawley is the executive vice president of this concern, I shall make that exception.

If you will come with me” — the supervisor arose — “I shall show you the new Q-ray machine that we have developed.”

He led the way from the office, along a corridor and into a small laboratory. This room was dark; Sundler turned on a light and revealed a square-shaped machine that consisted of glass panels between chromium-plated posts. Within the transparent box was a set-up of four long glass tubes.

Sundler pressed a switch. The tubes began to glow with a peculiar sparkle that showed through their dark red surface. Sundler watched for a few moments; then extended his hand and nodded. Cranston did the same.

“You can feel the heat already,” remarked the supervisor. “Do you notice it, Mr. Cranston?”

“Yes,” came the reply. “Tell me, Mr. Sundler, does this Q-ray fulfill the claims that were made in the newspaper article? The one that appeared in the New York Classic?”

“It does,” replied the supervisor, with a nod. “Originally designed for treatment of skin diseases, we learned that the Q-ray caused an actual change in the structure of the epidermis. This fellow Clyde Burke, who writes for the Classic, managed to get his facts without our knowledge.”

“I understand then,” remarked Cranston, “that the ray will give a Nordic complexion the heat-resisting strength that is found in skins of darker races.”

“Precisely. With a series of treatments, it will accomplish with the individual what nature has produced in races. So far as color is concerned, the Q-ray will merely cause a slight tan. But structurally, it will actually transform a blond skin tissue into that of a brunette.”

Cranston made no comment. He was watching the machine. Sundler chewed his lips uneasily. Then he put a question.

“May I ask, Mr. Cranston,” he requested, “why you are interested in the Q-ray?”

“Certainly,” was the response. “I mentioned the matter to Guy Tawley. I thought he had spoken to you about it.”

“No. He merely said that you wanted to see the machine.”

“Small wonder then that you were puzzled by this visit of mine. I shall explain matters, Mr. Sundler. I am a globe-trotter. I have visited nearly every country in the world. I have found tropical exploration greatly to my liking.”

“You have been in Africa?”

“Yes. I am going there again. I am choosing men for my expedition. Unfortunately, however, it is impossible to learn whether or not a man can stand the burning power of the tropical sun until he has actually experienced it.

“It occurred to me that this new Q-ray treatment would prove beneficial to members of my expedition. With a machine of this sort, I could prepare them for the African ordeal. Does your opinion coincide with mine, Mr. Sundler?”

“It does.”

“Then it would be possible for you to deliver one of these machines if I ordered it?”

“No. Absolutely no!”

With this emphatic statement, Sundler stepped forward and turned off the Q-ray machine. Glowing tubes subsided. Sundler turned and faced his visitor.

“Mr. Cranston,” he questioned. “Did you notice anything odd in that story that appeared in the Classic?”

“Yes.” replied the visitor. “It stated that the Q-ray machine, though effective, would be delayed in its development. But the article did not specify why.”

“I’ll tell you why. This fellow Burke — the newspaper reporter — was stumped when he came to that detail. This machine, Mr. Cranston, is one of the most dangerous devices that has ever been created!”

Cranston’s eyes were steady. The supervisor noted their keen glow. Sundler continued:

“You saw the machine working at low power,” he said. “Had I drawn this lever” — he touched a rod that projected at the side — “those red tubes would have sparkled with a real fury. That high power is necessary to develop the effectiveness of the Q-ray.”

“And then—”

“It produces the tissue change upon Nordic skins. It strengthens them. It even makes them immune to continued applications of the Q-ray itself.”

“That seems to offset any danger.”

“It does — so far as such persons are concurrent. The terrible effects of the Q-ray, Mr. Cranston, are confined to persons of darker races. Not only to Africans or Malays, but to members of the Indo-European race. People of the Mediterranean type.”

SUNDLER stepped across the little laboratory. He reached for a roll of cloth that looked like a window curtain. He drew down a chart that showed blocks of color from almost a clear white to an ebony blackness.

“The top shows a pure albino, explained Sundler. “Here we have Nordic types. Here are light complexions. Here are sallow com—”

He stopped. His fore-finger was upon a red line. With his other hand, Sundler indicated the color blocks below.

“To persons of these complexions,” he stated solemnly, “the Q-ray means destruction. Not slow burning, but quick, startling death. We learned this when two of our experimenters were overpowered by the ray. It was terrible, Mr. Cranston. Terrible!”

“When did this occur?”

“A few months ago. Just when the machine had been stepped up to its full intensity. A chap named Cassgrove — dark-complexioned — was operating the device. It struck him down like that.”

Sundler snapped his fingers.

“I was present,” he added. “I turned off the machine. I felt no ill effects.”

Keen eyes were on the speaker. Sundler, apparently a Norwegian, was very light of skin. Blue eyes — his shocky hair was a mass of white.

“It’s a death box,” resumed the supervisor. “Only two feet square” — he eyed the machine as he spoke — “but it packs a terrible power. Its range is approximately thirty feet. We kept people away from it after Cassgrove’s death. Then a lab assistant named LeGrand — chap we called Frenchy — blundered into the radius when I was making a test. He dropped like a log, twenty feet away.”

“If the machine is so dangerous,” came Cranston’s comment, “why is it not dismantled?”

“We are still experimenting,” explained Sundler, “Trying to gain results with a lower intensity. Using rabbits and guinea pigs as subjects.”

“Our theory is that light-colored skins absorb the Q-ray. Even though they change structurally, they preserve their immunity. But the darker skins apparently form no protection. The Q-ray reaches the organs of the body and causes instant death to those of dark complexion.

“This is confidential information, Mr. Cranston. To you, because you have made a legitimate request for one of these machines and because you are a friend of Mr. Tawley, I have explained why we cannot supply you with one of the Q-ray machines.”

“I understand.” A slight smile showed upon Cranston’s thin lips, “But suppose, Mr. Sundler, that I should bring members of my expedition here for treatment. Would you give it to them?”

“Not at present. Perhaps later, in the presence of physicians. Assuming of course, that the men you brought were of pronounced Nordic types.”

There was a knock at the door. Sundler called to come in. A laboratory assistant entered to announce that there was a call for Mr. Cranston on the office telephone. The tall visitor started for the office while Sundler remained to lock the Q-ray laboratory.

Reaching the office, Cranston picked up the receiver that lay beside the telephone. He spoke. A quiet voice came over the wire:

“Burbank speaking.”

“Report.” Cranston’s response was a hissed whisper.

Burbank’s voice clicked from the receiver. In the same whisper, Cranston gave brief instructions then concluded the call. He was hanging up the receiver when Sundler entered.

“Something important, Mr. Cranston?” inquired the supervisor.

“An appointment,” replied the visitor. “A friend has arrived in town. My club told him to call here.”

He extended his hand. Sundler received it. He was about to repeat his injunction that the visitor should preserve silence regarding the Q-ray machine. But one glance from Cranston’s keen eyes told the supervisor that further words were unnecessary.

Five minutes later. Moe Shrevnitz popped up from behind the wheel of his cab as he heard a hissed order from within. His passenger had returned, unnoticed. Moe nodded as he heard the destination that the arrival gave.

The cab pulled away.

From within a bag in the back seat, folds of black cloth were being drawn forth. Inky garments slipped over head and shoulders. When the cab came to a stop on a secluded street, a door opened. Living blackness glided forth.

Moe did not see the form that emerged; yet he knew, instinctively, that his passenger had become The Shadow.

Looking into the rear of the cab, Moe saw that The Shadow had taken the bag along with him. Moe’s job was done. The taxi man glanced at his watch. Half past nine. Time to head for Times Square and pick up business.

Moe drove away.

From a darkened portion of the street, keen eyes saw Moe’s departure. A soft laugh came from hidden lips. Blended with darkness, The Shadow moved off on paths unknown.

Tonight, The Shadow had followed up a lead started by Clyde Burke, of the New York Classic. The reporter — a secret agent of The Shadow — had uncovered facts about the Q-ray machine.

As Lamont Cranston, millionaire globe-trotter, The Shadow had used Guy Tawley, vice president of Universal Electric, to gain an appointment with James Sundler, the laboratory supervisor.

That appointment was ended. The Shadow knew the secret of the Q-ray. It was something that he would remember for the future. At present, he was heading forth to keep another appointment. One that dealt with crime.

Yet, strangely, events were shaping toward a climax that even The Shadow did not foresee. Two appointments, disconnected, each of a different sort, were destined to have an unexpected bearing, one upon the other.