The Ghost Makers

Chapter IX — The Shadow Tells

When Imam Singh arrived in the sanctum, he found Rajah Brahman still enthroned. The boyish-faced servant spoke in English.

"She's gone," he said. "I showed her out."

"Good!" exclaimed the rajah, clambering from his cushioned throne. "That lets me out, too, Tony. Give me a hand with this rig."

The Hindu seer cast his turban on the floor, and with the servant's help began to divest himself of the cobra-headed jacket. The pointed shoes shot across the room, impelled by their owner's kick. A few moments later, Rajah Brahman stood clad in American trousers and shirt sleeves. Imam Singh — who still looked his Hindu part — left the room and returned with towel and washbasin. He produced a jar of cold cream, and the rajah set to work.

"Sorry you've got to wear that get up of yours, Tony," he grinned, as he smeared the cold cream over his face. "But it isn't so bad. Lighter than my outfit. You've got to answer the buzzer, you know." Imam Singh smiled in response.

Rajah Brahman's well-formed beard was yielding to the cold-cream treatment. The man stood smooth-shaven, and surveyed his countenance in a small mirror that he dug up from among the cushions of the throne.

"Remember the time I grew one, Tony?" he asked, rubbing the spots where the beard had been. "It looked all right, but it was a nuisance. The fake one means more work for you, but it's the best idea." The man pulled a cigarette pack from his trousers pocket. He lighted a cigarette and puffed it. He seemed to enjoy its flavor as a welcome change from the odor of incense.

The transformed face of Rajah Brahman bore little of the dignity which it had formerly possessed. It was sallow, but not nearly so dark as it had been.

It was the face of a schemer — not that of a master. The eyes which had seemed languorous and penetrating were now crafty and shifting.

"This is better than an hour of deliberation, Tony," declared the new-visaged rajah, buttoning his collar.

"Listen — yes, that's the buzzer. Slide out to the door and see who it is. I'll switch the light off, here." The servant was gone, and the room was plunged in darkness a moment later. Only the glowing end of Rajah Brahman's cigarette was visible. It poised in mid-air, while its owner awaited Imam Singh's return. Soon, the curtains parted, and the slight glow from the outer room showed a face which Rajah Brahman recognized, even in that dim light.

"Ah!" he exclaimed. "I thought you were the one who rang. Wait until I switch on the light—"

"Never mind," interrupted the quiet voice of the visitor. "The darkness will suit me. I don't want to be disillusioned, Bert. Wait until I find a chair."

The speaker bumped into one a moment later and sat down, to stare toward the lighted end of the cigarette.

"Well," came the voice of the false rajah, "I chased out the suckers, and then met the saps. Professor Jacques and Anita Marie."

"What did they have to say?"

"Jacques was all worried about the mess he landed into. Told me how surprised he was when everybody stuck with him on that crazy notion about a spirit hand throwing the knife. Said if it hadn't been for one intelligent person in the mob, he would never have been able to swing the detectives after the fellow who made his getaway."

"Did he name the intelligent person?"

"Yes," laughed Rajah Brahman. "He said that a man named Benjamin Castelle had the bright idea, and it pulled him out of a mighty tough spot."

The visitor made no response, so Rajah Brahman resumed his conversation. Now, his tone was questioning.

"Who was the fellow who started the trouble?" he asked.

"I don't know," replied the visitor.

"I don't like it, chief," declared the rajah. "Jacques certainly lost his head when he swung the dirk. That's bad stuff.

"If the police knew he was hooked up with me, they would be watching this place. A fine mess — just when I've arranged to fleece the lambs after they have been herded into the barnyard."

"It might be best to take them slowly, Bert."

"Of course, chief. That's the way I always work. Anita Marie has hooked that dame from Philly — and I've got to play carefully, there."

"I thought she would be soft, with the husband out of the way."

"So did I, worse luck. But Anita Marie tells me that a nephew has blown in from the sticks to mess up the game. That won't mean anything when I begin to work; but it would be just as well if friend nephew wasn't around."

"Because—"

"Because of what Slade pulled. This nephew may be a wise boy. Slade said it was O.K. after he spotted the lay. He did the job so clean that even Anita Marie doesn't suspect. But a nephew, right there in the house—"

"He could never trace Slade."

"Right! But he could suspect that something was wrong. I'll he watching him like a hawk, chief. If his only trouble is not being able to see the light, I'll fix that. Skeptics are my meat — with gravy in addition."

"You say Anita Marie has no idea about—"

"That dumb dollar-grabber?" The voice of Rajah Brahman was contemptuous. "Say, chief, she's the dumbest spook queen along the whole route. Thinks because she brings a lot of people into her camp that she's good.

"Fifty a night at a dollar a head! I could have them hanging out of the galleries of the Hippodrome at that price."

"I know you could, Bert."

A match flickered to reveal the cunning face of the unbearded mystic. Rajah Brahman was lighting another cigarette. The man in the chair laughed slightly as he glimpsed the ex-Hindu on the throne.

"I would have said to ditch her long ago," declared the self-styled rajah, "if I hadn't figured that some day she would bring in a good one like this Mrs. Garwood.

"You know, chief, this racket has its troubles. I've found that out on the road. I can learn plenty when I crash the circles without my whiskers."

"What's the difficulty?"

"If you get a smart fellow like Jacques," answered Rajah Brahman, "he's too anxious to grab the big money for himself. If you get a small-timer like Anita Marie, she can't deliver the real goods."

"Which do you prefer?"

"The small-timers are best — if they manage to deliver. They know when they're over their depth. They know they can't compete with a big shot.

"They're only too glad to play into favor and send along a real customer. They're satisfied with a small cut, too, because they don't know what big money is."

"You're right on that, Bert."

"Do you remember that big clean-up we made a year ago" — the rajah's cigarette light was swaying back and forth as he spoke — "I mean, the third time I came back from India—"

"Half a million gross," came the voice of the hidden chief.

"Well," declared Rajah Brahman quietly, "this sheep-clipping job is going to double that. Maybe more. My mystic shrine in India is still in need of endowments. Copper is going up. Spirits still like to take back valuable souvenirs when they depart for the astral plane.

"Jacques is out of the picture. He has been pretty tight about sending up his best payers to the big league. Now, since he forgot himself with the dirk, he's ready to do anything we ask. He wants to forget all his old clientele. I can handle the entire lot.

"Anita Marie has chipped in with a real bet in this Garwood woman. She's good for plenty of jack. Maybe the best sucker of the lot. I'll pay off Anita's mortgage on that joint of hers in Philadelphia, and she'll be tickled green.

"There's a couple of good ones coming from the Middle West, all ripe for my psychic development classes. There's one coming from Cincinnati that is a sure bet."

"You mean Arthur Dykeman?"

"Right. Since his daughter floated to the upper plane, he's been looking everywhere for a materialization. Madame Plunket, out in Cincinnati, passed him along as her contribution.

"The madame goes in for better game than Anita Marie, but she's pretty cheap, too — and Dykeman will be pretty near all profit."

"Thanks to Slade," observed the chief.

"Yes," responded the rajah. "Slade did well there. That's why I figured this Philadelphia proposition would be safe. I didn't waste any time after Anita Marie gave me the news about Mrs. Garwood." There was silence in the darkened room. The shrouding curtain at the doorway masked all light. Rajah Brahman's cigarette had gone. But the interview was not yet over. The rajah had an important matter to discuss.

"Say, chief," he said, "you wrote me that you didn't like the mess up at the Hotel Dalban. You figured that it might mean a lot of trouble of a kind we didn't expect. What did you mean by that?"

"I was thinking about the person who started the trouble," came the quiet reply. "He put Jacques out of commission. He may try something like it again."

"Just a wise guy. Jacques lost his head, that's all."

"No, that isn't all. There was something unreal about the whole affair. The man who commenced it came from nowhere. He went back to where he came. Puffed out of the room like a cloud of smoke!"

"He can't bother us anymore. He probably knows that the police think he did it. He'll lay low from now on."

"Not if he is the man I think he is." There was an ominous tone to the remark. It was impressive even to Rajah Brahman, the man who was law unto himself.

"Do you know who he is, chief?"

"Did you ever hear of The Shadow?"

"The Shadow!" Rajah Brahman's exclamation was a low, quick cry. "Do you think it was The Shadow?"

"I suspect it," said the chief. "The people in that room were a scared lot, and Jacques felt it as badly as any of them. He said that the laugh came from the other world. I wouldn't be surprised if he believed it.

"I have heard that The Shadow laughs like that. I have heard that The Shadow is a man who disappears mysteriously. There are gangsters who are afraid to turn, because they dread The Shadow!"

"The Shadow goes after gunmen," declared Rajah Brahman. "He wouldn't spend his time trying to grab spooks."

"Not ordinarily," replied the chief, "but don't forget that The Shadow plays for big game. If he knew that Jacques was just one member of our ring—"

The voice ended with its fateful suggestion. The remark awoke a responsive chord in Rajah Brahman. The man on the throne was no longer confident.

"I'm glad you told me this, chief," he said. "I see your point, now. We are playing our cards mighty close, but we have our fingers on one of the biggest rackets in the country. We've got to be on the watch.

"If The Shadow is In back of this, he may try to tumble me — like he tumbled Jacques."

"Exactly."

"Well, my eyes are open. I'm taking preferred customers only. A stranger doesn't have a chance up here. You know that, chief."

The rajah spoke with a renewed assurance. He arose from his throne, and strode through the darkened room. He pushed aside the heavy curtain of the anteroom, and beckoned to his companion. The two plotters were quartered in the outer room when Imam Singh joined them.

"Tony," said Rajah Brahman quietly, "it's up to you to keep a close watch on everything. The big work is beginning, and we have a hunch there may be trouble — from The Shadow." The turban-capped servant opened his eyes and nodded.

"Remember it," admonished the shirt-sleeved rajah.

He thrust out his dark-stained hand and received the clasp of his chief. Tony, otherwise known as Imam Singh, ushered the visitor to the door. Rajah Brahman swung about and looked toward the curtain that shrouded the entrance to his sanctum.

He was staring at a mass of solid blackness beside the door. It did not move. Rajah Brahman gave it no further notice. He laughed as he went through the curtain.

A long shadow fell upon the floor of the anteroom. It moved toward the outer door, and a tall, black clad form followed it. The silent stranger merged with the wall as Imam Singh returned. When the servant had left to join his master, somewhere beyond the sanctuary, the stranger in black laughed.

His whispered tones were different from the sordid mirth that Rajah Brahman had uttered. The laugh of The Shadow, as it sounded in that little room, was filled with sinister mockery. While the low echoes still resounded, the man in black was gone.

It was an hour afterward that two hands appeared above a lighted spot on a plain table. Upon one glowed the mystic fire of the girasol.

The white hands fingered a sheaf of newspaper clippings. They removed one that told of the death of Stella Dykeman, a Cincinnati debutante, in an automobile accident, a month ago. The hands produced a tiny metal disk. They busied themselves with it for a short while. Then the light went out, and a sardonic laugh rippled through the tomblike room.

When Detective Joe Cardona reached his office in the morning, he found grins awaiting him. The answer was a package on his desk. Unconscious of ridiculing eyes, Cardona opened the cardboard box, and disclosed another bunch of fresh violets.

"Guess these were meant for Fritz," declared Cardona gruffly.

He pushed his way through a throng of viewing detectives. He encountered the janitor standing in the hallway. He thrust the flowers in the man's hands, much to the merriment of those who watched him. The janitor was dumfounded. For this was the real Fritz — not the unknown man who sometimes played his part. Fritz, followed by a group of laughers, went to his locker and placed the violets upon the shelf. Alone at his desk, Cardona was staring at a tiny disk in his right hand. He had drawn it from the violet stems, and had retained it there when he had given the bouquet to Fritz. Upon the disk were inscribed these words:

The disk clinked in Cardona's pocket. The detective donned his hat and left the office. Half an hour later, he was riding toward the Pennsylvania Station, in a taxicab, his suitcase on the seat beside him.