The Isle of Doubt

CHAPTER I. WORD TO THE SHADOW

“BURBANK speaking.”

The words were uttered by a man who was seated at a table in a tiny, gloomy room. A shaded lamp in the corner provided the sole illumination, and the dim light showed only the speaker’s back. The man at the table was listening intently through a pair of ear phones which were attached to his head.

“Await reply.” Burbank spoke in a quiet tone, after receiving the message over the wire. His hands stretched to the wall and manipulated the plugs of a small switchboard. A click in the ear phones; Burbank again quietly announced his identity, and listened for acknowledgment of his call. After receiving it, Burbank spoke.

“Report from Marsland,” he droned. “Baxton and his mob are at the meeting place. Ready to leave at eleven o’clock.”

Orders came over the wire. The ear phones carried a sinister click as they vibrated to the uncanny tones of the voice that sounded within them.

“Instructions received,” said Burbank.

Again the manipulation of switchboard plugs; the clicking of a dial as Burbank rang a number. The first connection was restored, and Burbank relayed the orders that had been given him.

“Report actual departure of Baxton mob,” were Burbank’s words. “Follow and take position outside of Wilcox home. Await getaway of crooks. Speed it with shots if necessary.” Burbank leaned back in his chair. His position was one of patient relaxation. While he awaited new telephone calls, his attitude was one of complete passivity.

There was nothing excitable in the make-up of this man who sat with his back toward the light. Yet Burbank was a man of amazing endurance. In place of action, he exercised untiring vigilance. It was this quality that made him a most important factor in the affairs of that amazing personage known as The Shadow.

Here, in this secluded room, Burbank was nearing the forty-eighth hour of an almost constant stretch of duty. During that period, he had served as contact man for those active agents of The Shadow who were engaged in gathering facts which pertained to an impending crime.

Burbank had just received a report from Cliff Marsland, The Shadow’s agent in the underworld. That report concerned the zero hour at which “Punch” Baxton, gang leader, intended to fare forth with his mob of gunmen. Burbank had relayed the message to the secret sanctum of The Shadow, over a special wire to which Burbank alone had access.

THE SHADOW!

To fiends of the underworld, that master of darkness was a hidden threat who struck when least expected. They knew him as a being garbed in black, a lone wolf who battled crime with merciless power. But none knew the devious ways of The Shadow — of his active agents who obeyed his bidding — of Burbank, who was always under cover, awaiting messages that told of criminal activity.

A tiny light shone from the wall. Burbank adjusted a plug to receive the call. This report was a brief one.

Burbank again manipulated the switchboard, and relayed the words to The Shadow.

“Report from Burke,” he informed. “He is at detective headquarters. Cardona has a squad in readiness. Acts as though he expects an anonymous tip-off.”

There was no call back to this report. Burbank relaxed. He had been awaiting Clyde Burke’s call.

Burke, a reporter on the New York Classic, paid frequent visits to detective headquarters. To-day, Burbank had called Detective Joe Cardona, and had given the sleuth a vague inkling that crime was due to strike. Cardona, in response to the tip-off, was waiting in hope of another call from the unknown informant. Clyde Burke had looked in at headquarters to see that Cardona was still on the job.

Another glimmer from the tiny bulb upon the wall. Burbank pressed a plug, spoke, and received a message. He gave orders to expect a return call, then formed connection to The Shadow’s sanctum.

“Report from Vincent,” announced Burbank quietly. “Possum Quill and Lefty Hotz are in their room at the Hotel Slater. Quill has just received a call from Punch Baxton. Quill and Hotz intend to leave the hotel at eleven thirty, going directly to the transfer point.”

The ear phones vibrated weirdly. Burbank listened until the quivering sound had ceased; then made his announcement:

“Instructions received.”

Switching back, Burbank put in a call to Vincent. He gave this agent the instructions that he had received from The Shadow.

“Stay on duty until departure of Quill and Hotz,” announced Burbank. “Report if they stay later than eleven thirty. No report until that time unless they discuss a change of plan.”

Burbank rested in his chair. Long minutes ticked by in this gloomy room, where The Shadow’s agent sat in motionless vigilance. Crime was brewing. Deeds of violence would occur tonight. To Burbank, these activities were outside his accustomed sphere. Only in cases of special emergency did Burbank travel abroad to serve his master, The Shadow. In contrast to the monotonous minutes that went by in Burbank’s abode, fleeting time showed weird activity in another room of mystery not far from where The Shadow’s agent was stationed.

INSTEAD of the mere quiet which pervaded Burbank’s room, The Shadow’s sanctum seemed under the spell of a mystic hush. In the corner of a creepy realm where blackness lived, two long white hands were at work beneath the glare of a shaded lamp which cast rays of ghostly blue upon the polished surface of a table.

The Shadow, shrouded in blackness beyond the sphere of blue light, was a hidden entity. His hands, moving like detached creatures, were sorting sheets of paper and piles of clippings, which lay upon the table.

One mark alone distinguished one hand from the other. That sign was a gleaming gem that shone from the third finger of the left hand. The Shadow’s girasol — a fire opal of priceless value — this was the stone that reflected the lamplight. The strange jewel was ever changing in its hues. From rich magenta, its depths became a deep ultramarine; then varied to an azure shade. All the while, the girasol flashed sparks that might well have come from a living coal amid a heap of dying embers.

There was ease in the motion of The Shadow’s hands, yet their speed was incredible when measured. A strange clock rested upon the table top. Instead of hands, it had marked circles which showed the passing of seconds, minutes, and hours. Each second seemed to pause as though waiting The Shadow’s order to depart. Here, in this mystic sanctum, ordinary intervals of time were stretched to amazing lengths.

The hands spread a large map of Manhattan upon the table. Deft fingers inserted pins at certain spots. A low laugh came from the gloom as The Shadow’s hidden eyes studied the chart. The hands applied a tiny rule to the map. This measuring steel was marked with minutes instead of distances.

To The Shadow, time was more important than space. His keen brain was formulating a schedule of the events that were due to come.

The first pin upon which The Shadow’s finger paused marked the place from which Punch Baxton and his mob were leaving at eleven.

The second point showed the location of the uptown residence of Caleb Wilcox. The Shadow gauged the time required for the marauders to reach that destination. It would take a half hour.

Next, The Shadow noted a white-headed pin, which marked the meeting point to which “Possum” Quill was going at eleven thirty. The hands applied the time rule, gauging the interval between the Hotel Slater and that appointed spot.

From another marked point — detective headquarters — The Shadow measured the time required to reach the spot marked by the white-headed pin.

A soft laugh came from The Shadow’s lips.

The transfer point, where Possum Quill and “Lefty” Hotz would be waiting, was ten minutes closer to detective headquarters than it was to the Hotel Slater. The Shadow’s laugh indicated that this fact was useful to his plans.

Upon the map rested one ominous pin. In contrast to the bright heads of the others, this pin was colored jet-black. Its location was quite near to the residence of Caleb Wilcox — less than fifteen minutes travel distance separated the two spots.

The black-headed pin marked the location of The Shadow’s sanctum, the very place where The Shadow now was. With the marauding mob thirty minutes away from their goal, The Shadow could give them leeway, and still beat them to their destination.

FINGERS plucked the pins from the map. The large sheet of paper disappeared. Only the clock remained upon the table. Lingering seconds crept onward, until the sixtieth second of a sixtieth minute brought a change to each circle on the dial of the timepiece. The strange clock now marked the hour of eleven.

The Shadow waited. The supple hands were motionless. One minute moved by; two minutes; then eight seconds of the third. A tiny bulb glowed from darkness beyond the table. The hands moved swiftly, and produced a pair of ear phones. These passed into the nearer darkness. The Shadow listened.

“Burbank speaking,” came the quiet voice over the wire.

“Report,” ordered The Shadow, in an eerie whisper.

“Report from Marsland,” announced Burbank. “Baxton and the mob have started for the Wilcox mansion.”

“Other reports.”

“None.”

A pause; then came concise instructions from The Shadow’s lips — words that sounded weirdly through the darkness.

“Send tip-off to Cardona immediately after Vincent reports departure of Quill and Hotz,” ordered The Shadow. “Then call Wilcox residence and await my reply.”

“Instructions received,” came Burbank’s answer.

The ear phones slid across the table. An invisible hand clicked the switch of the blue light. The sanctum was plunged into darkness. A soft swish announced the motion of an unseen being. Then, amid the weird blackness came a shuddering tone that throbbed forth the sound of sardonic mirth.

The laugh of The Shadow! Rising in ghoulish mockery, that amazing cry cleaved its way through the solid atmosphere. It broke into a chilling taunt, and died away, but in its wake came a myriad of wavering echoes. A host of demonic throats seemed shrouded in those blackened walls; lingering reverberations came back in waves that might have issued from the vaults of another world.

When the last reluctant echo had faded, deep silence pervaded the empty sanctum of The Shadow. The master of darkness had gone. A phantom, he had glided forth upon the quest that would lead him to the spot where men of crime were due.

The Shadow’s plans were made. Tonight, his hand would strike. Before it fell, however, all participants in crime would be enmeshed. Until Burbank’s call would announce the final report from Harry Vincent, The Shadow would remain unseen.

That would be the final word to The Shadow — the signal that would loose the dread avenger’s might!