The Golden Grotto

CHAPTER XV FIENDS ARE FOILED

MAURICE TRAYMER’S apartment was admirably situated for a surreptitious invasion. Its entrance was on a short corridor that led to the fire tower. Ordinarily, the door to the tower could be opened only from the inside. Traymer had altered the situation, however, by wedging it a trifle ajar.

This cleared the pathway for the coming gangsters, and as the bottom of the fire tower opened on an obscure courtyard, the crew that had been summoned found no difficulty in approaching their objective.

Beef Norbin’s plan of action was simple. A gang of men, dispatched upstairs, were to drag forth the unconscious victim, bring him down the fire tower, and make a getaway in a waiting automobile. That was an obvious way of working, and Beef usually chose the most direct course as the one most effective.

In lieu of ingenuity, Beef boasted efficiency. He always used enough men for a job — and since the episode on Long Island, he was glad that he followed such a practice.

It was Beef’s theory that two or three mobsters could be quite as conspicuous as a dozen; therefore, Beef always saw safety in the greater number. Since his encounter with The Shadow, the gang leader was more convinced than ever that a large force meant sure results.

Thus the man who poked his head in through the door of the fire tower was not a lone mobster; he was simply the forerunner of an invading horde. Seeing the way clear, he signaled to others to follow.

When the first of the crowd — a tough, pasty-faced ruffian of the underworld — had reached the door of Traymer’s apartment, a crew of four was at his heels. Others lurked on the landing of the fire tower. Still more were in the yard beneath.

The first of the gangsters drew a revolver from his pocket. The others copied his action. Slowly, the leading man turned the knob of the door, and opened the barrier that furtive fiends might creep into the silent apartment. One by one, the four began to file through, each stooping and treading cautiously.

The first of the line was halfway across the living room when he stopped short as he heard an unexpected sound. A low, shuddering whisper seemed to emerge from a curtain near the window. The other invaders stopped.

The curtain, its lowest edge drooping near an armchair, began to rustle, indicating that some one was behind it. Once more the creepy laugh was heard.

The first gangster trembled. Then, in sudden fright, he raised his revolver and fired — once — twice — into the curtain.

The others stood petrified beside the door. Well did they know the reason for the gangster’s action. Silence — caution — both were thrown aside in the fervor of that moment.

The leading gunman had recognized the laugh of The Shadow! In desperation, he had sought to end the menace of that sinister being whose very name brought terror to the underworld!

THIS mobsman — one of the few who had escaped uninjured from the affray at the Cathcart estate — had forgotten all else in his mad desire to square accounts with The Shadow. Transfixed in the center of the room, the mobster waited, expecting to see a black-clad figure come plunging from the swaying curtain.

Instead, The Shadow appeared from an unexpected quarter. Like a specter of doom, his inky shape arose from the chair that stood a few feet away from the window. There, The Shadow had reached forth to shake the curtain. His ruse had been effective. The first gunman had fired in the wrong place.

“The Shadow!”

The cry came from a man at the door, and before the firing gangster realized it, he was confronted by the fearful figure itself. The muzzles of two automatics faced him like the mouths of defending cannons. With a fiendish scream, the first of the mobsmen turned his revolver and sought to fire.

Before he could press the trigger, one of The Shadow’s heavy weapons spoke. A bullet clipped the gangster’s arm. He staggered back, weaponless.

Another shot resounded, and with one accord the gunmen scrambled for the safety of the hall, the wounded gangster with them.

Strangely enough, The Shadow’s second shot had struck no one. It had not been delivered with that purpose. It was meant to drive the gangsters back — not to injure them.

As the four men scurried through the door, the gangster who guarded the barrier sought to stop The Shadow. He swung the door shut, and jammed the muzzle of his revolver through the closing space in an effort to shoot the black-clad figure that now was sweeping forward.

Once more, The Shadow fired. He picked the crevice, his bullet touching wood on neither side. It lodged in the gunman’s shoulder, and the wounded rat fled, screaming, his revolver falling as he ran.

The gangsters had spread when they ran from the room. Five in all, the wounded men dashed toward the entrance to the fire tower. The other three, anxious to thwart The Shadow from a place of security, headed toward a flight of stairs along the corridor.

New men were coming in from the fire tower. All were hastily preparing to resist, should The Shadow appear. They had not reckoned with the method that the black-garbed fighter would employ.

The door of the apartment opened inward, away from the fire tower. That door was ajar. The Shadow’s left hand reached it; the right hand, with its automatic, held a thin, blackened tube of telescopic metal. It placed this tube against the crevice, and The Shadow’s hidden eye peered into the lengthened cylinder.

Mirrored lenses in the tube made it a miniature periscope. Through this device — the object itself was unnoticed by the gunmen waiting on the stairs — The Shadow directed the aim of his left hand.

The quick shots that he fired were dispatched with deadly effect. The first downed a gangster at the top of the steps. The man plunged screaming as his companions dived after him — to be clipped by other bullets as they leaped for safety.

WITH swift, easy motion, The Shadow dropped his left-hand automatic within the folds of his cloak. The left hand then gripped the sighting tube, giving it a gentle shake that caused it to extend beyond the doorway. The right hand, simultaneously, drew forth an automatic. In scarcely more than a second, The Shadow had transferred his aim to the men at the fire tower.

They had heard the shots; they had seen the effect of the bullets. Waiting by the tower door, they wanted only an opportunity to bag The Shadow.

But before their chance came, the right hand was thrust forth from the door. Quick shots greeted the disconcerted gunmen. One fell dead; the others slipped to safely just in time, seizing their fallen comrade as his body dropped with them.

The Shadow was in the corridor now, striding swiftly after those who were fleeing down the tower. He leaped through the doorway, and his shots echoed down the stairway, where two skulking mobsters had paused grimly to await him. He beat the gangsters to the shot. Both fell before The Shadow’s bullets.

From his vantage post, The Shadow raked the courtyard with deadly leaden missiles. Cries and curses testified to the perfection of his marksmanship. Those hidden eyes seemed to possess the power to pierce into the darkness. Scrambling gangsters dived for the exit from the court.

Some escaped wounded; others were either killed or so severely hurt that they could not follow. A few wild shots were fired upward, but The Shadow had anticipated them. Crouching behind the rail of the tower, his huddled form offered no target to the hopeless shooters.

A loud, unearthly laugh sounded from the landing on the tower. It was The Shadow’s triumphant mockery — the strident mirth that gloried in another stunning victory over gangdom’s minions.

As the eerie tones died away in the night air, the sound of police whistles came from the street beyond the court. The racing motor of an automobile was the token of the few escaping gangsters fleeing to avoid the coming of the law.

Striding back through the corridor, The Shadow carefully gathered up the weapons that had been dropped by fleeing gangsters. At the stairway, The Shadow paused. There were sounds from below — startled cries two stories down. One gangster lay dead upon the landing.

Swiftly, The Shadow descended. He seized the prone body, and swung it with him to the floor below, flinging the motionless form along the corridor. The Shadow fired three shots with a gangster’s revolver, aiming at spots along the wall. He flung this revolver and the others on the floor.

Sweeping up the steps, he stopped at the landing long enough to seize the weapon that had belonged to the dead gangster, and toss it to the bottom of the steps. A few seconds later, the tall figure in black reentered Maurice Traymer’s apartment and closed the door.

IT was half an hour later when Maurice Traymer returned to his apartment house. The society man was taken aback when he encountered uniformed police in charge. One officer stopped Traymer.

“You live here, buddy?” he questioned.

The doorman saw Traymer, and hastened to explain to the police.

“Mr. Traymer lives on the fourth floor, sir,” he said. “He went out some fifteen minutes before the trouble started—”

“O.K.,” said the officer who had accosted Traymer. “Sorry to trouble you, Mr. Traymer. There was a gang fight busted loose while you were out.”

“A gang fight?” questioned Traymer, feigning surprise.

“Sure thing,” grinned the officer. “On the third floor. That’s where we found the walls shot up, and a dead gunman laying. A couple came down this way and flopped. We sent them to the hospital. The rest beat it by the fire escape. Plenty of shooting out in the courtyard. Looks like they’ve all scattered, but we’re going to be on duty for a while.”

When Traymer reached his apartment, his first action was to lock the door behind him. Then he opened the door of the room where he had left Lamont Cranston.

To Traymer’s consternation, he saw the white-shirted figure of his guest still reclining on the bed. Traymer turned on the light. He studied Cranston’s inscrutable profile. The man’s eyelid began to flicker.

Traymer stood by while Cranston moved sleepily. He watched the millionaire begin to blink. Then Cranston, with the action of a man awaking from a coma, stared groggily, looking at Traymer as though he did not know who he was.

It required several minutes for Cranston to come to his senses enough to recognize his surroundings. He rubbed his hand across his forehead, and began to ask incoherent questions. He complained of a pain in his head, and stated that he felt that it would have been better for him to have gone home this evening.

Walking unsteadily to the telephone in the other room, Cranston called the Cobalt Club, and learned that his chauffeur was still awaiting him. He told them to send Stanley to Traymer’s apartment.

“Sorry,” said Cranston to Traymer. “Guess I must have passed out completely. Everything seemed to go black after I laid down. How long was I out?”

“You seemed to be sleeping,” said Trainer. “I stepped out to get some cigarettes. When I returned, I was alarmed because I found some police downstairs. They said there had been trouble on the floor below.”

Cranston nodded as though that was a matter of no consequence. He seemed to be troubled about his condition, and he began to seek Traymer’s advice.

“Do you think I’ve been overworking?” he questioned. “That’s the only explanation that seems logical. I never had an attack like this one before.”

He paused speculatively while he rubbed his forehead and his eyes, blinking to shake off the effects of grogginess.

“Do you know what I’m going to do, Traymer?” Cranston asked suddenly. “I’m going on that cruise with Hargreaves. Positively, I am. I need a rest — a change — and that will be the way to get it. I’ll call Hargreaves the first thing in the morning.”

A pleased expression appeared upon Traymer’s countenance. He nodded approvingly, and commended the suggestion. When the doorman called up to announce that Mr. Cranston’s car had arrived, Traymer was only too glad to speed the departing guest. Cranston had made his final decision; he was going on the cruise.

AS soon as Cranston had left, Traymer seized the telephone and obtained the same number that he had called earlier in the evening.

Well did Traymer know that the affray in the apartment house must have involved Beef Norbin and his mob. What could have occurred to balk the entire plan? Lamont Cranston, doped and helpless, had slept through the whole affair!

It was Beef Norbin who replied to Traymer’s call. The gang leader’s growl was expressive. Over the wire, he demanded to know where Traymer was. He seemed surprised to learn that the society man was in his apartment. Traymer, in turn, wanted to know why Beef Norbin had failed.

“The Shadow” — Beef’s explanation was low and cautious — “he’s the guy that queered the game. He was there — in your apartment — as near as I can make out!”

“Here?” Traymer’s voice quavered. “In my apartment?”

“That’s right,” responded Beef. “I sent five men up to grab that guy Cranston. The Shadow stopped them. He gave them the works. Only one of the mob got as far as the bottom of the fire tower. The Shadow picked him off in the courtyard. That’s why I don’t know just what did happen. Say — what became of the guy we were to get?”

“Cranston was here when I returned,” explained Traymer. “He was still groggy. Didn’t hear a thing. He decided to go home.”

“You let him go? Then we’ve got to get him later!”

“No, it’s not necessary now. I talked him into taking the cruise with Hargreaves.”

“Say” — Beef’s growl was indignant — “why didn’t you do that earlier? Then this mess wouldn’t have happened—”

“Couldn’t do it, Norbin,” retorted Traymer. “I had to take my orders. Cranston was slated — we had to chance it.”

“I knew his nibs would pull something like that,” grumbled Beef. “Well — it’s knocked my mob for a loop. The Shadow must have wised up somehow and sneaked in there to lay for us.

“I was down in the courtyard, and I just had time to scram when that bimbo began to pick the boys off from the fire tower. I’ve been waiting here just to get the dope from you — but now I’m going to beat it.”

“Right away?”

“Sure thing. You said this job was the last. That means I clear out. There wouldn’t be any rush if it wasn’t for The Shadow — but now that he’s on my trail, I’m scramming plenty fast. Take it from me, bo, you’d better mind your step. Play plenty innocent until you’re safe aboard on that yacht trip. The Shadow’s no dummy!”

MAURICE TRAYMER was thoughtful after his conversation with Beef Norbin. Did The Shadow know of his connection with this chain of crime? Did The Shadow know that he had lured Lamont Cranston to the apartment — there to drug him? Or did The Shadow attribute all to the work of Beef Norbin?

Traymer laughed nervously. He could understand Beef’s trepidation. Twice had The Shadow delivered annihilating thrusts against the gang leader’s mob. The Shadow’s next attack might well be aimed at Beef himself.

Traymer smiled as he decided that his own part was too well covered; he felt sure that he would not be molested. Beef’s advice, however, was good. Play an innocent game while in New York — no use taking chances.

This was necessary, Traymer decided. It was also necessary to keep in friendly touch with Cranston; to jog the millionaire into going on the cruise as he had said he would.

Maurice Traymer was satisfied. The last leg of the game had been reached. From now on, The Shadow — no matter how capable he might be — could do nothing to foil the well-planned schemes in which Traymer and Norbin were playing active parts. The Shadow was up against a master mind — one whose ingenuity and ruthless cunning still impressed Traymer as being superior to The Shadow’s vaunted prowess.

Mentally, Traymer pictured the situation. Beef Norbin, his work done, now sliding into cover to confer with the man who pulled the strings in this grim game. Visions of wealth — the gold of the Patagonia — and strange, remarkable ambitions — flashed through Traymer’s mind.

Lamont Cranston — who, tonight, had escaped the fate that had overtaken others — was traveling toward his New Jersey home. Tomorrow, Cranston would unwittingly play into the hands of those who had sought to capture him unsuccessfully. That was Traymer’s last thought — the picture of Cranston, half asleep, riding in his chauffeured limousine.

In this thought, Traymer erred. Cranston’s limousine was actually heading toward New Jersey at that moment; but its only occupant was Stanley, the uniformed chauffeur. Lamont Cranston was not there. In fact, Lamont Cranston had completely disappeared.

Traveling northeastward from New York, a swift coupe was burning up the road. At the wheel, invisible in the darkness, was a man who had shortly before appeared as Lamont Cranston, but who had now adopted the mysterious garb of a black-cloaked personage.

For the second time tonight, Lamont Cranston had become The Shadow. Within his shroud of darkness, he was heading forth upon a new mission. The Shadow’s destination was the sandy strip of land where Harry Vincent was stationed.

The Shadow was on his way to East Point!