The Death Giver

CHAPTER X. EYES OF THE SHADOW

SHORTLY before eight o’clock the next morning, a light coupe with a boxlike extension at the rear, pulled up on a side street in Manhattan. Just around the corner was the entrance to the little arcade where tragedy had arrived the day before.

A lank individual, whose most noticeable articles of apparel were checkered cap and leather puttees, stepped to the curb. He looked about, spied a man approaching him, and put forth a query:

“You Mr. Vincent?”

“Yes,” replied the man who had been waiting. “I’ve been expecting you. All ready to take the shots?”

“Sure thing.”

Harry Vincent watched the man in puttees open the rear of the car to unlimber a camera apparatus.

“Let’s see what time your watch shows,” he said.

The camera man exhibited his wrist watch. It corresponded with Harry’s timepiece. Seven fifty-two.

“Get this right,” ordered Harry; “I want a continuous series of shots beginning at eight ten and running until eight twenty-five. Keep yourselves inconspicuous. I want to get pictures of this arcade just like it is every morning.”

“What about sound apparatus?”

“There won’t be any. I’m preparing a script for an announcer who will talk along with the pictures.”

“I get you. Showing them the scenes where these mysterious deaths occurred and—”

“That’s the idea exactly. I want continuous shots so I can pick out a suitable length of film.”

“What about in the arcade itself?”

“That will come later,” declared Harry. “I’ve got another cameraman for that. Just a close-up shot of the spot where this fellow Bradley dropped dead. We’ll get that when the crowd has thinned.”

A few minutes later, Harry Vincent left in a taxi just after the cameraman and his assistant had picked a suitable point from which they could shoot photographs of the arcade.

“Good idea this fellow Vincent has,” remarked the cameraman approvingly. “He’s a free lance in the film game — one of those small-time producers who pop up every now and then with a good idea. Called me up late last night. Had a red-hot stunt in mind.”

“He’s shooting other pictures?” queried the helper.

“Yeah,” said the cameraman. “He’s going to frame a reel showing the busy places where the mysterious deaths occurred yesterday. He’ll sell it to the newsies all right. Maybe he’ll make a short of it.”

IN the meantime, Harry Vincent was riding downtown in his cab. He left at Forty-second Street, to make swifter time in the subway. He arrived at the Stellar Building — where the second death had taken place — shortly after quarter past eight.

Here he found another cameraman awaiting him. Harry made arrangements for shots from across the street, beginning at eight thirty-five. Walking around the corner, Harry encountered a third photographer already established in an entry across the street from the little restaurant.

“Mr. Vincent?” questioned the man.

Harry nodded.

“All set,” said the photographer. “I’ve fixed it to make shots from the fire tower over here. I can cover the restaurant O.K. When do you want me to begin?”

“Quarter of nine,” stated Harry.

The first part of Harry Vincent’s unusual assignment was completed. He was acting in accordance with instructions from The Shadow. Boldly, Harry had arranged for the planting of cameras at the three places of death, in order to show the morning scenes.

It was all in the work of the newsreel men. There would be swift action after this: the prompt development and delivery of the films. A timely subject for newsreel distribution required rapid attention; and the men whom Harry had hired knew their business. The finished reels were to be delivered at an uptown office early in the afternoon.

Harry Vincent left the vicinity of the Stellar Building immediately after giving instructions to the camera men. He rode uptown to the building, where he had ordered delivery of the films. He smiled as he reached the fourth-floor hall. A painter was just completing a title on the door:

Harry walked into the furnished office. It consisted of three rooms: an outer office, a private office, and an inner chamber that served as a projection room. Harry had arranged to take this place for a month. In so doing, he had followed instructions from Burbank.

Harry had called a rental agent who specialized in quarters for independent motion-picture concerns, and had found that this place was vacant. He had insisted upon immediate occupancy.

By the time the cameraman arrived with their finished reels, the paint would be dry upon the door, and the entire place would have the appearance of an established enterprise. Those in The Shadow’s service worked quickly when they received orders.

While Harry was surveying his office, the door opened and a girl entered. Harry recognized her as the stenographer who worked for Rutledge Mann. The girl announced that her employer had sent her over to assist Mr. Vincent.

“Of course,” said Harry. “My regular stenographer is away. It was very kind of Mr. Mann to send you here for the day. I am expecting some visitors. You can announce them when they arrive.”

NO one came during the morning. Harry spent most of his time in the private office. He sent the girl out to lunch at twelve. When she returned, Harry went out. Arriving back at the office shortly before two, Harry found the first of the cameramen awaiting him.

“Here are the reels,” the man said, handing Harry two circular metal boxes.

“Fine,” responded Harry. “Let me have the bill. I will mail you the check.”

After Harry had gone into the private office, the girl entered to announce the second cameraman. The reels were delivered; and the third lot arrived by three o’clock. This was in accordance with the promised schedule.

At three fifteen, the stenographer entered and tendered Harry a card. It bore the name:

Harry did not go out to greet the visitor. He gave the card back to the girl with these instructions:

“Tell Mr. Burbank that he may go into the projection room. The reels are waiting there. I will view them later.”

At three thirty, the girl arrived to announce that Mr. Lamont Cranston was in the outer office.

“Show him into the projection room,” was Harry’s order.

Harry caught a glimpse of the second visitor as the girl went through the door. He saw a tall man, with keen, well-molded face, and fancied that he observed the sparkle of brilliant eyes.

Lamont Cranston! Harry had heard the name before. He knew that this was an identity which The Shadow sometimes assumed.

Lamont Cranston was a man of reputed wealth, a mysterious individual who traveled frequently. There was no proof that Lamont Cranston was The Shadow. But there were times when The Shadow appeared in the guise of Lamont Cranston.

Harry was thinking of this several minutes later, when he went into the projection room himself. The Shadow was a master of disguise. In his adventures, Harry had met The Shadow — sometimes as a figure clad in black; but on other occasions, the mysterious phantom had appeared in various identities.

The projection room was dark. Staring through the gloom, Harry caught the light of two burning eyes that were turned in his direction. Those eyes seemed to flash a command. Harry found a chair and sat down; then turned toward the screen at the end of the room.

“Proceed.”

The word came in a whisper from some unknown spot. At The Shadow’s command, a shaft of light flickered on the screen; the mechanism of the movie projector began to hum. Within a few minutes, the scene in front of the little restaurant manifested itself.

At first, Harry wondered why this episode was coming last. Then he realized the reason. The picture showed many persons passing the restaurant, but only a few entering it. As the reels progressed, Harry could count no more than twenty people who went in or out. The flickering picture ended.

“Repeat,” came the voice of The Shadow.

Harry watched intently during the second showing. By the time the picture was completed, he felt sure that he could recognize most of the persons who had gone into the eating house.

THERE was a short wait; then another scene appeared. It was the lobby of the Stellar Building. Here, many people were passing in and out. A stocky man separated himself from the edge of the crowd. The Shadow’s monotone broke in with a single word:

“Slow.”

The reel lessened its speed. Harry saw the stocky man laboriously wending his way toward the door of the building. He noted the derby hat, the heavy-jowled countenance; the short-cropped gray mustache.

“Comment,” came The Shadow’s word.

“That man went into the restaurant,” blurted Harry. “I recognize him from the other reel—”

“Change,” ordered The Shadow.

A view of the arcade appeared, taken from an angle. Three minutes elapsed; then Harry uttered another remark of recognition. Coming directly into the camera was the man with the gray mustache and derby hat.

“Slow,” came The Shadow’s quiet order.

The motion became lethargic. Once again, Harry caught a perfect impression of the face. Here, in three different places, the camera had recorded the countenance of one man.

Another command from The Shadow. The showing ended. Harry sat quietly in the projection room for several minutes; with half-closed eyes, he seemed to see the face that he had viewed in the pictures.

When he finally left the projection room, Harry found the stenographer alone in the office. The girl looked inquiringly at her temporary employer.

“Both Mr. Burbank and Mr. Cranston have gone,” she said. “Mr. Cranston went into your private office for a moment—”

Harry nodded. He went into the little office, and there he found an envelope upon the desk. He opened it to read a coded note, inscribed in ink. A message from The Shadow — in special cipher that Harry understood. Hardly had Harry digested the new instructions before the writing began to disappear.

Harry glanced at his watch when he returned to the outer office. It was four o’clock. He told the girl that his work was finished for the day and instructed her to return to Mann’s office.

“Mr. Mann may expect a call from me later,” added Harry.

THE SHADOW’S agent made his way downtown. He reached the door of the Stellar Building, entered the lobby, and waited there. Office workers were beginning their departure. Half an hour passed while Harry idled. It was nearly five o’clock. A gleam of recognition flashed in Harry’s eyes.

Coming across the lobby was the man of the pictures. Stocky, mustached, and wearing a derby hat, this was the very person whose course had been traced by the unerring reels. Harry sauntered after him. The man entered the subway. From then on, Harry Vincent continued the trail.

It was nearly six o’clock when Rutledge Mann received a telephone call in his office. Mann, the chubby-faced, languorous individual who specialized in investments, raised his eyebrows when he recognized the voice of Harry Vincent.

“Irwin Langhorne,” came Harry’s word.

Mann wrote down the name; the address followed. When the information was fully recorded, Mann concluded the call. He wrote a brief report; inserted it in an envelope; and donned his hat and coat.

Shortly afterward, Rutledge Mann visited the office of B. Jonas, in a secluded building on Twenty-third Street. The investment broker dropped his message into the letter slot beneath the grimy, cobwebbed window.

The Shadow and his agents had performed swift work to-day. A purpose had been detected behind the strange murders in Manhattan. Irwin Langhorne was revealed as the man whom death now threatened.

Eyes of The Shadow! To-day, the lenses of recording cameras had served as eyes, to gain unerring evidence that had led to the tracing of one man among a multitude!