The Death Giver

CHAPTER V. THADE STRIKES

THE gloomy hallway of Henry Bellew’s mansion was deserted. Evening had come, and the last feeble rays of outside light that penetrated that dim spot sent long streaks of darkness flickering across the floor.

The place seemed a veritable abode of death.

Barcomb, the butler, came down the stairs from the second floor. The man had been up there ever since Cardona had left the house. Barcomb crossed the hallway, solemnly heading toward the dining room.

If the gloom of the place impressed the man, Barcomb did not show it. He was used to this somber atmosphere.

The moment that Barcomb was gone, a silent motion occurred within the hall. A shade of darkness moved along the floor. It rose toward the wall, and developed into a tall, spectral shape of human proportions. A figure clad in black was gliding toward the closed door of Henry Bellew’s study.

The portal opened under a master touch. The tall form moved inward. The door closed softly. A blackened outline showed against the window. A hand drew down the shade. A click sounded, and a light appeared above the desk. The rays of illumination showed the form of the black-garbed personage who had entered the room.

The Shadow had entered Henry Bellew’s study. Unseen, unheard, this invisible stranger had made his way to the spot where death had struck. His blackened shape was a phantom figure, buried within the shrouding folds of a long, flowing cloak.

The features of The Shadow were obscured by the upturned collar of the cloak, and by the broad brim of a dark slouch hat. The only spots of light that appeared amid this mass of blackness were the eyes of The Shadow — burning orbs that sparkled as they studied the features of the room.

The telephone — a new instrument which had replaced the faulty one — rested innocently upon the desk.

All else was as Henry Bellew had left it. Cardona’s search had not disturbed the effects in this study. A low laugh came from The Shadow’s hidden lips. Seating himself at the desk, the black-garbed phantom began a search through the drawers.

Minutes went by while long, white hands were at work. These hands had been incased in thin gloves; now they were unclad, and they seemed like detached creatures of life as they moved to and fro in front of that somber being of black. Upon the third finger of the left hand appeared a rounded spot of iridescence — a gleaming gem that sparkled with ever-changing hues.

This was The Shadow’s girasol — the priceless fire opal which always adorned his hand. The token of The Shadow, this stone, with its altering colors, was as mysterious as the man himself. Sparkling vivid blue; then rich purple; finally changing to a deep crimson, this gem constantly sent forth shafts of light that resembled the sparks of a fire.

THE hands stopped as they came from a desk drawer. The eyes of The Shadow were focused upon three postcards. One by one, the hands lay these objects upon the table.

The keen eyes noted the postmarks. The cards had been received three days in a row — the last had arrived yesterday morning. All were addressed to Henry Bellew.

The hands turned over the cards. The eyes studied the cryptic messages. Each card bore a jumble of words that was identical:

The Shadow’s finger ran through the words one by one. It stopped momentarily upon the words

“yourself,” “itself,” and “oneself.” These, to The Shadow, were a key. The finger indicated the words

“willing,” “wishing,” and “watching.”

A soft laugh came from the concealed lips. Upon a sheet of paper, the hand of The Shadow quickly wrote out the message which appeared upon the cards.

Then, with swift motion, the same hand began to cross out a portion of each word. In the message, only double-syllabled words appeared; and in each case the hand eliminated the second syllable. The result was this statement:

“To-day a man will die on your train. It can be any one I wish. Watch out.”

This was the word that Henry Bellew had received. Prophetic statements which had puzzled the millionaire. Why? Because he had not known their meaning until he had received a further message.

When? This morning!

These facts were obvious to The Shadow. The shuddering echoes of a sinister, whispered laugh resounded through the room, awakening the very fears that had impressed Henry Bellew upon that fatal morning.

Some one had sent these prophetic messages, and had followed them with a threat that Henry Bellew had not heeded. That was why death had struck. To The Shadow, the slayer’s insidious purpose was plain. The deaths of Felswood were undeniably linked with the killing of Henry Bellew.

But who had delivered the stroke of death? The Shadow’s new laugh betokened wisdom. The facts of the supposedly accidental death had been printed in the newspapers. Statements of family and servants were public.

Well did The Shadow know that the actual murderer still lurked about this house; and also did he know — from the facts that he had learned here and at Felswood — that a master mind was the power behind it all.

The postcards disappeared beneath The Shadow’s cloak. Thin, black gloves slipped over the long, white hands. The light clicked out. A swish sounded softly in the darkness as The Shadow moved toward the window, and raised the blind. Suddenly, total silence followed.

Some one was outside the door of the study!

THE SHADOW, invisible, listened to the slight sounds of a person opening the door. A few moments later, a man was within the room, the door shut behind him.

Like The Shadow, the newcomer made his way to the window, lowered the blind, and then went to the desk. The light clicked, and the cold face of Barcomb, the butler, appeared above the table.

The man exhibited only the slightest trace of nervousness as he opened the desk drawer and rummaged among the papers. He was looking at the very spot where he had seen Detective Cardona drop the postcards; but Barcomb could not find the desired objects. His breath came in long, sighing heaves; then broke off as the man realized that the postcards were not there.

“Gone! Gone!”

Barcomb’s whisper was an awed one — a pair of words tinged with fear and disappointment. The butler drew back from the desk and started, wild-eyed, about him. He saw a darkened corner of the room, but did not suspect that a living being was there until he spied two glowing eyes that seemed to materialize themselves from the gloom.

With a frightened gasp, Barcomb cringed backward against the desk, and watched a tall figure emerge from that corner. The butler’s bulging eyes were fixed upon the muzzle of an automatic that extended from a black-gloved hand.

“The Shadow!”

Barcomb’s words were scarcely audible. They were questioning words that received an answer in the form of a low laugh that responded from The Shadow’s mystic lips.

A cowardly villain was trapped. Barcomb had betrayed himself. An agent of the master mind who called himself The Death Giver, Barcomb was now in the toils of the grim avenger who feared neither threats nor machinations.

Barcomb’s utterance, moreover, had proven that the butler was either a crook or one conversant with affairs of the underworld. All men of gangdom feared The Shadow. The gasp of recognition classified Barcomb as a criminal.

“Speak!”

The word came in The Shadow’s sinister whisper. It made Barcomb quail. The butler tried to shake his head. He stared upward to see The Shadow moving forward. Barcomb’s eyes seemed fascinated by the burning orbs that shone before him. Still, some hidden fear prevented him from succumbing to the hypnotic stare.

“There is some one whom you fear,” came The Shadow’s voice. “Some one whom you have obeyed. Some one whom you dare not betray.”

The voice changed to a shuddering laugh. The sardonic mirth awakened new fears in Barcomb’s mind.

He saw The Shadow as a present menace — not as a hidden threat.

“You fear death,” whispered The Shadow. “Speak to me, then. Otherwise you will receive death now!”

Still, Barcomb refused to open his lips. Again, The Shadow laughed as he divined the fear that was within the butler’s mind.

“You fear terrible death from your master,” were The Shadow’s sepulchral words. “You fear torture before death. I promise you the same if you do not speak to me!”

THE tone was irresistible. Barcomb began to succumb. The Shadow had plucked his thoughts from his mind. Barcomb knew that he could expect no mercy. His head was nodding as he slumped into a chair.

“You will speak?”

Barcomb nodded as he heard The Shadow’s words.

“Who is your master?” came The Shadow’s question.

“Thade,” faintly responded Barcomb. “Thade.”

“Who is Thade?”

“The Death Giver.”

“Where is he?”

“I do not know.”

“Tell all that you know.”

Barcomb’s shoulders quivered as the man heard The Shadow’s order. Try as he could, the butler was unable to avoid the glare of the eyes above him. In faltering phrases, spaced by futile attempts to dally, Barcomb spoke to The Shadow:

“Thade… He calls himself The Death Giver… He knows too much about me… I went to him — I was summoned there… He made me promise to obey… Death… Death…”

Barcomb’s eyes had gained a wild, terrified glow. Even the present menace of The Shadow could turn his frenzied mind from the thought of some horror in the past. The man’s face showed that he had become the minion of a mighty master — one who had gained complete domination over him.

“Death!” Barcomb’s dry lips spat the word in a hoarse tone. “Thade gives death! When others kill, they kill for Thade! They kill like I have killed… Bellew… I came here to kill him. I arranged everything — a few months ago… Yes, I killed Bellew, because I was afraid Thade would kill me!”

With an effort, Barcomb raised his hands to his face. He covered his eyes to escape the stern gaze of The Shadow; and the blotting out must have brought a fierce vision to the man’s brain, for his lips moved incoherently. The memory of a terrible scene had gripped his mind.

“I — saw — Thade — kill—”

In disjointed monotone, Barcomb made this statement. His lips trembled; and he added:

“Thade — will — kill — me — unless—”

Barcomb’s hands dropped. His eyes, flushed with an insane glow, were staring at The Shadow almost unseeing. In a few moments of recollection Barcomb had gained the vision of another being — one whose power had been indelibly impressed upon him.

“Let me tell you about Thade!” gasped Barcomb, in a new tone. “He told me that I was to obey his orders. He gave me this—”

The butler was fumbling at his vest pocket. The Shadow did not stay him. Barcomb’s odd actions indicated that his mind was wandering. His hand came forth, carrying a heavy watch, which he held before the eyes of The Shadow.

“Thade told me I must never tell,” blurted Barcomb. “He told me that I must ignore all questions. He said that if great danger came, this would save me, when I pressed—”

THE man’s thumb was on the stem of the watch. Pushing the swivel aside, Barcomb started to press the winder.

The man’s action showed his thought. In his hand, Barcomb believed that he held a weapon that would kill his adversary!

The Shadow’s arm had swung forward, but as Barcomb pressed the stem of the watch and grinned with fiendish hatred, The Shadow instinctively swung aside to avoid the throw which the butler was about to make.

The watch never left Barcomb’s hand. The tall form of The Shadow dropped beside the desk, and a grip of steel caught Barcomb’s forearm.

Had the watch been what the butler supposed — a deadly weapon which would bring doom to the man it struck, the effort would have been useless.

But something occurred which neither Barcomb nor The Shadow had anticipated. As Barcomb pressed the stem, the case of the watch sprang open, and a long, pivoted needle jabbed downward, deep into the butler’s wrist.

With a terrified cry, Barcomb dropped the watch. It clattered upon the desk and dropped to the floor.

Barcomb’s body swayed and collapsed. The man’s futile fingers spread out upon the desk as his falling head thumped against the woodwork.

The form of The Shadow was bending over Barcomb. Gloved hands raised the butler’s face. Barcomb’s eyes were glassy; a strange, unhealthy ruddiness was creeping over his features. His lips moved slowly, and his words came In a dying moan:

“Thade, The Death Giver. He has punished me. I have told… Told about Thade… Thade… He has… killed—”

As the gloved hands relaxed, Barcomb’s head dropped to the table. The man was dead.

The Shadow stooped and carefully lifted the watch from the floor to examine the strange device beneath the light. The glittering needle told its story. Charged with a virulent poison, it had brought quick death to the man whose flesh it had entered.

Thade! The master mind who called himself The Death Giver! The Shadow had learned of such a being from the lips of the monster’s minion!

Thade! A fantastic murderer, whose henchmen did his bidding. Barcomb had killed for Thade; and all the while, the butler had believed that in his pocket he carried a sure weapon that would enable him to foil the most formidable foe.

That was true. Barcomb had foiled The Shadow. But it had not been as Barcomb had expected; it had been as Thade intended. For this monster who called himself The Death Giver had provided a sure way to rid himself of any underling who might fail in an appointed task!

Barcomb had unwittingly died by his own hand. The real killer was Thade, The Death Giver, who had supplied the man with this strange weapon for emergency. The Shadow, by his uncanny presence, had brought confession to Barcomb’s lips, only to have it ended incomplete by the master method which Thade had devised to do away with his servants and protect himself!

LONG, solemn silence followed. The death-dealing watch closed in The Shadow’s hand. The object disappeared beneath the black cloak. Gloved hands lifted the telephone, and a whispered voice called a number.

A quiet tone came back across the wire:

“Burbank speaking.”

The Shadow was in communication with his hidden contact man. Burbank was the aid who kept in touch with the active agents of The Shadow when they were engaged upon investigation.

“Report on Vincent,” came The Shadow’s whisper.

“Watching the home of Vernon Quinley,” was Burbank’s quiet reply. “Established communication from a store two blocks from the house. Last report fifteen minutes ago. Quinley at home. Vincent awaits instructions.”

“Order to continue.”

The telephone clicked. The Shadow, tall and spectral, stood viewing the dead form of Barcomb. Here, the hand of Thade had plucked a betraying agent from The Shadow’s grasp. Premeditated death had intervened to seal the lips that were giving forth their story.

What new deaths might the future hold? To frustrate them, The Shadow must seek the man behind these murders. He must meet Thade himself.

Barcomb, who had slain Henry Bellew, was gone; but there remained another. Vernon Quinley, resident of Felswood, had been under The Shadow’s surveillance for twenty-four hours. Perpetrator of the deaths aboard the Suburban’s trains, Quinley, too, was an agent of The Death Giver.

The Shadow had been waiting for the man to betray himself; now, with the knowledge of the greater mind behind the crimes, The Shadow could force Quinley to a betrayal of his master!

The door of the study opened softly. The black shape glided through. The door closed. The Shadow was gone on a new mission. Alone beside the desk, awaiting inevitable discovery, lay the dead and silent form of Barcomb.

The instrument that had caused the butler’s death was gone. The body remained, a new mystery to puzzle the police. Only The Shadow knew the truth.

Thade, The Death Giver, had struck down another victim!