The Green Box

CHAPTER II THE SHADOW PLANS

BLACKNESS moved in the patch of moonlight. The silhouette, hitherto motionless, withdrew toward the darkness of the wall. The convict in the upper bunk did not observe it. Even if he had still been awake, his eyes could not have distinguished the shape that stood in the darkened corner of the cell.

Nor would his ears have heard the soft swish that came from that darkness. A figure was moving there; so quietly that neither sight nor hearing would have detected it. Blackness edged the moonlight and moved beyond. A firm hand gripped the central bar of the cell door.

The light from the central room was blocked by a spectral shape. Gloved fingers silently opened the barred door without a clang. A figure slipped softly into the gloomy light beyond. A door closed and locked as quietly as it had opened.

A phantom shape was gliding across the floor of the central room, moving steadily toward a corridor beyond. Drowsy convicts, lying in their bunks, neither heard nor saw the passing shade. Eyes would have bulged had they observed this creature of the night. The weird being that had entered Ferris Legrand’s cell to station himself unseen was one whom all men of crime regarded with terrified awe. Coming into the empty, lighted corridor, this personage was revealed in full.

A tall figure clad entirely in black. Body shrouded beneath the folds of a flowing cloak; visage hidden between upturned collar and the brim of a slouch hat. Keen, blazing eyes alone in view. These were the characteristics of the secret visitor who had entered the penitentiary and found his way within a locked cell.

This being was The Shadow!

Master hand who battled crime, The Shadow traveled everywhere. Clews to evils of the past; inklings of impending wrongs — these were the traces that he sought with unerring skill. No barrier could balk The Shadow. He had proven that fact tonight.

Click — click — click—

A guard was coming from a side passage.

With a quick glide, The Shadow merged with a patch of darkness beside a fire-hose. The space was not sufficient to conceal a human form, but this chameleon of the dark required no more than a background.

The Shadow’s tall form blended with the darkness and caused the shaded patch to appear no different except in size. So effective was the ruse that the pacing guard marched by without a momentary thought that eyes were watching him.

While the clicking footsteps still resounded in the long main corridor, The Shadow emerged from his temporary spot of hiding and glided swiftly to the side passage from which the guard had come. He reached a door, unlocked it softly, and entered a small room, closing the door behind him.

A LIGHT switch clicked against the wall. A single incandescent revealed a plainly furnished room. It was evidently a guard’s quarters.

The Shadow crossed the room and faced a mirror. His hat dropped from his head; his black cloak dropped to the floor.

Beneath his sable-hued garb, The Shadow was dressed in the uniform of a penitentiary guard. His features, dull and heavy-jowled, were those of a man of middle age. Brightly reflected in the mirror, they seemed masklike.

Peeling off his black gloves, The Shadow pressed finger tips against cheeks and chin. His false features changed a trifle as the fingers molded them.

A suitcase lay to one side of the stand on which the mirror was attached. Into this, The Shadow dropped the black cloak and hat. In his false guise of a prison guard, he turned toward the door of the room. A rap greeted him.

“Come in.” The Shadow’s voice was surly.

The door opened. In stepped the guard who had recently made the rounds through the cellroom.

“Hello, Mike,” growled the newcomer. “I thought you’d gone off duty. Just saw the light under the door, and wondered if you were still here.”

“I did go out,” retorted the false Mike. “Had to come back though. Forgot my suitcase.”

“I thought you always changed duds down at Caffrey’s place.”

“I generally do. I left a new suit up here though, and forgot to take it out with me. Had to come back with this bag.”

The false Mike had turned from the mirror. The single light was behind his head. His face, though its features were discernible, remained slightly shaded. The genuine guard had no suspicion that his companion was an impostor.

Picking up the suitcase, The Shadow strode through the door. He uttered a gruff good night and continued on his way. He reached an open courtyard, where a bright searchlight was revolving, sending its huge beam against interior walls.

As The Shadow crossed the court, his tall, slightly stooped form was revealed. The glare showed the guard’s uniform and the face above it. No challenge was given. The passer had been recognized.

The Shadow reached a wicket. He showed a pass card. The guard behind the gate scarcely noticed it. He grinned as he waved.

“Good night, Mike. Next time, don’t forget your new suit.”

The watcher pressed a button. The Shadow walked ahead. A man in a tower pulled a release in response to the signal. A huge gate swung open. The false guard made his exit.

Still playing the part of Mike, The Shadow trudged along a road that led from the huge walls of the penitentiary. He reached the end of a trolley line. A car was waiting there; but The Shadow did not enter it. Instead, he took a side road, cut along a path, and reached a parked coupe.

Long fingers opened the suitcase. Out came the black garments. A soft laugh echoed from The Shadow’s lips as the tall form entered the coupe. The motor started. The car pulled away.

THE SHADOW had played a simple but effective game. Less than two hours ago, Mike, the guard, had left the prison. He had gone downtown, changed his uniform to civilian clothes at Caffrey’s boarding house, and had continued on his way.

Twenty minutes after Mike’s departure, The Shadow had arrived disguised as Mike. He had entered the penitentiary; had remained there long enough to make his observations. Like the man whose part he had played, The Shadow had left for the night. His ruse had succeeded to perfection.

Why had The Shadow paid this visit? Why had he risked the trip through guarded gates and walls into a cell buried deep in the formidable prison?

The answer came hours later, when a light clicked in a pitch-black room. White hands appeared beneath the glow of a bluish lamp. A rare stone, The Shadow’s girasol, sparkled upon a finger. The Shadow was in his sanctum.

Two folders appeared upon the table. These were records which The Shadow had obtained from his secret archives. One bore the name of Ferris Legrand. The Shadow opened it. Clippings and other papers came to view. The Shadow studied them.

In his vast accumulations of crime data, The Shadow kept records of thousands of cases. Crooks galore were labeled more thoroughly in his files than they were by the police. Through extensive memoranda, The Shadow kept track of criminals and their associates. He was always ready when new developments of old crimes threatened to occur.

The study of the first folder ended, The Shadow turned to the second. This bore the name of Slade Farrow. The first object that showed when the file opened was a photograph of the man who occupied the cell with Ferris Legrand.

Sam Fulwell — Slade Farrow. The initials were the same. The latter name was the correct one. Clippings were lacking in this folder. Letters, however, appeared with differing dates. The Shadow’s laugh came softly through the sanctum.

These facts that concerned Slade Farrow were known only to The Shadow. They gave all the details of the man’s association with crime. They reached the point where he had gone to jail, preserving his alias of Sam Fulwell.

The Shadow closed the second folder. His hands produced a map. A long finger followed a thin, curving line that represented a railway on the large-scale chart. The finger stopped upon a small city: Southfield.

WHITE paper appeared with blue ink. The Shadow’s hand began to write. It inscribed a letter in odd characters, a simple but effective code. The ink dried; The Shadow folded the paper carefully and quickly inserted it in an envelope.

With another pen, one that contained a darker ink, The Shadow wrote the address:

Tomorrow, Rutledge Mann would receive that note from The Shadow. A complacent, chubby-faced investment broker, Mann served as The Shadow’s contact agent. High in his office in the towering Badger Building, Mann would read the coded message.

The writing would fade immediately afterward. Such was the way with the ink that The Shadow used in communicating with his agents. But Mann would remember what he had read. He would summon one of The Shadow’s active operatives and would dispatch that man upon the quest which awaited in the city of Southfield.

Crime long forgotten! Its aftermath was to come. As Convict 9638, Ferris Legrand had languished in a State prison, hoping for the day when he would be free to return to his old life in Southfield.

That day would never come. Ferris Legrand was dying even as The Shadow studied the facts that concerned his past. But another would step in to take his place — one craftier than Ferris Legrand.

Slade Farrow, alias Sam Fulwell, had learned a secret from Legrand’s dying lips. Its import was something that only Farrow knew. The existence of the secret, so Farrow thought, was also a fact unknown.

But Slade Farrow had not reckoned with The Shadow. Suspecting some such secret, the black-garbed master had made his strange visit within prison walls. There The Shadow had learned that Slade Farrow had taken on a mission for the future.

Days alone remained until the clever, hard-faced convict would be at liberty. Then his action would commence. Secure and confident, Slade Farrow would step forth to begin a new and startling career.

The Shadow’s plans were made. Crime was impending in Southfield. Mysterious events, linked with hidden secrets of the past, were already in the making. Slow, cautious moves would lead to rapid action.

The Shadow was preparing for the events that were to come!