The Python

CHAPTER XXI THE DOUBLE STROKE

IT was late the next afternoon. Lester Bornick was seated in his private office, his desk stacked with newspapers. Opposite the lawyer was Danton Califax. The wealthy client had just arrived; but he was already speaking volubly.

“You have read the newspapers, Bornick!” Califax was exclaiming. “Look at those headlines! The Python! Master mind uncovered by the law! Murderer of Craig Jurrice!

“Why hasn’t such talk stirred you? I have called you five times during the day; all you have said is ‘Wait’ — and I have waited. All the while, I have realized that I am shirking a duty — at your order.

“Can’t you see that Jurrice is the key to this man they call The Python? That the law should be informed of all we know about him? You, yourself, have told me that my dealings with Jurrice did not reach a state of conspiracy; yet you say to wait—”

“Calm yourself, Califax,” remarked Bornick. “So long as you act upon my advice, you will be doing well. I have said to wait until the proper time—”

“And the proper time is now.”

“Or very soon. What concerns me is the finding of the proper person.”

“The proper person?”

“Yes. The right one to hear your story.”

“And who is he?”

“Ralph Weston. The police commissioner.”

A LOOK of relief appeared on Califax’s face. The baldish man sank back in his chair. Bornick smiled and folded his rugged arms.

“I have called Commissioner Weston,” stated the lawyer, “and have arranged an appointment. I shall call him again, to name the time and place. So far, I have not mentioned your name; that is why I wanted you to come here.

“I would suggest that the meeting be held in your home — in your study — at a fairly late hour. Let us say ten o’clock. By that time, the police commissioner would be through with any extra duties; and I shall have finished with some appointments that I previously scheduled for this evening.”

Bornick paused for Califax to answer. The client gave a slow nod.

“Very well,” he decided. “I would prefer an earlier hour; but I shall be guided by your opinion, Bornick. So long as the appointment is assured, I am satisfied. One point only: would it not be best for me to have policemen on guard at my home, between now and ten o’clock? I have gems of my own, you know, and since The Python sought Revoort’s treasure, he might be seeking mine.”

“Not tonight,” assured Bornick. “There has been too much hue and cry about him. No, Califax, it would be unnecessary. Moreover, it would force too early a revelation of your name. I would prefer to withhold your identity until I join the police commissioner, to bring him to your home.”

Before Bornick could begin another statement, the door opened and the stenographer appeared. The girl had forgotten to knock.

“There is a gentleman here, Mr. Bornick,” she said. “His name—”

“Why didn’t you knock?” demanded Bornick, angrily, pounding the desk as he rose from his chair. “You know my rule! Why did you forget?”

“I–I don’t know, sir—”

“Remember it next time. Go back and tell the visitor to wait. Show him in at the end of five minutes.”

The girl made a hurried departure. Bornick shook his head as he turned to Califax.

“Persistently dumb,” he declared. “That’s the way with all stenographers. Humph. As if I didn’t know who would be out there. I’m expecting a pest named Rollings, who has a patent case. He’s one man who’s always ahead of time.”

“About tonight,” remarked Califax. “When the commissioner arrives—”

“We can talk then,” interposed Bornick. “At ten o’clock. Come, Califax. You must leave. Out by this door.” The lawyer opened the exit to the corridor. “The sooner I finish with my appointments, the better.”

With Califax gone, Bornick swung toward the window. Darkness had settled; far off, he could see the top story of the distant loft building. Neon lights were glimmering from that floor; as yet, they had not begun to flicker.

Bornick smiled as he turned back to his chair. He opened his desk drawer and glanced at papers that bore dots and dashes. A rap at the door caused him to cover the sheets and close the drawer. Bornick called, “Come in.”

The visitor who entered the private office was not a man named Rollings. The arrival was Albert Thurney. With a friendly smile, Bornick motioned the suave man to a chair.

OFF in the loft building where blue lights gleamed, men had begun work on the illuminated room. The place was an engraving plant that employed a regular night shift; but to those at work, no flicker of the blue lights could be apparent.

The reason was that the corners were blocked off with large, permanent cabinets. The only tricky lights were those that were almost obscured by those large objects.

A visitor had arrived at the engraving plant. He had entered from the elevator and was standing, unnoticed, in the gloomy hallway entrance. Tall, silent and keen-eyed, he looked about and spied a single window in the tiny hall itself. This opening was located beside the small elevator shaft.

Unobserved, the stranger stepped to the window and opened it. Clinging to a broad sill, he edged outward and closed the window behind him. High up, against the only blackened portion of the entire wall, this mysterious visitor gazed skyward. Above him was a cornice; an ornamental block above the window afforded a stepping stone to that higher roof edge.

Like a human fly, this visitant gripped the block and raised his body upward. His arm stretched high and reached backward. It caught the cornice. A lithe figure swung outward, dangling precariously in space; then wriggled upward and gained the roof edge. A soft laugh sounded in the darkness.

The Shadow had reached the roof above The Python’s signal lights. He was close beside a structure that topped the loft building. It looked like a tiny penthouse, except for the fact that it was windowless. The Shadow had chosen an inner wall, and had scaled the eight feet of this structure.

He found a darkened skylight. From a short leather bag, The Shadow produced a portable jimmy and set to work. His scrapings were barely audible; yet they succeeded. The framework of the skylight opened. The Shadow dropped into a darkened room.

A tiny flashlight glimmered. It showed a door. Extinguishing his light, The Shadow approached the barrier and opened it. He stared into a lighted room that had no opening in walls or ceiling. There he observed a singular sight.

A stoop-shouldered man was seated at a table whereon were stacked black-covered books. In front of the fellow was a device that looked like a microphone. On a block beside him was an electric switch.

A slight turn of the man’s head revealed his profile. The fellow looked like a hermit, heavily bearded and with sunken eyes. Looking beyond, The Shadow saw cabinets stacked with canned goods; and an open door that led into a small kitchen. The Shadow knew that the room he had first entered must be the man’s living quarters; that this odd recluse remained here day and night.

The Shadow had discovered Laxley, The Python’s signalmaster. That switch controlled the blue lights of the corner windows in the floor below. What The Shadow still needed was some token of Laxley’s procedure before messages were dispatched. Because of that, The Shadow waited.

FIVE minutes passed. Laxley, bent over at the table, did not sense that eyes were watching him. Then came a buzz from the bottom of the microphone. It corresponded, in duration, to the rings of a telephone bell. Laxley turned a knob that served as a receiver hook.

From bearded lips came a grotesque croak. That was Laxley’s sole acknowledgment. It produced a toned-down voice directly from the microphone. The Shadow heard the words; he recognized the gruff voice of Lem Hurdy.

“Two. Reporting crew on new tug, the Corsair. Waiting in East River. Signals visible. Will wait for orders.”

A pause. Laxley acknowledged with his croak. He turned the knob back to its original position. Then he rummaged among the black-covered books and chose one. The Shadow watched him press the switch; then pause and press again. Laxley was flashing blue lights to The Python.

A few minutes passed. Evidently, The Python had not received the signal, for Laxley flashed it again; but this time, he used another page of his code book. It was the duration of the message that made The Shadow decide that it had been repeated.

Another minute passed. A buzz from the microphone. Laxley acknowledged with his croak. A hiss came from the mike; it formed a message:

“Signal Two. Stand by for instructions.”

Laxley found a code book and gave a few clicks to the switch. He had evidently sent a conventional signal that Lem would understand. The Shadow crept forward. In dark clothes, with a facial guise that was hawkish, he was less sinister than when cloaked in black. Nevertheless, his approach was ominous.

Laxley chanced to turn just before The Shadow reached him. With a fierce croak, the bearded signalmaster leaped to meet his foe. An instant later he and The Shadow had locked. They wrestled back and forth across the room.

One minute of ferocious struggling proved that The Shadow had struck upon a foeman of unusual stubbornness. Laxley’s strength was surprising; he matched every hold that The Shadow used against him. Then came a token that inspired both fighters to harder action. It was a repeated buzz from the microphone.

Fierce gurgles came from Laxley’s throat, evidences that the man had no power of speech, although his hearing must be sound. Wildly, the signalmaster tried to wrench his hands free, so that they might grip The Shadow’s neck. For a moment, The Shadow’s grip relaxed. Laxley twisted away; croaking fiendishly, he bounded in to a new attack.

THE SHADOW’S action was a ruse. Instead of trying to ward off Laxley’s clutch, he jabbed a swift punch between those clawing hands. A tight fist drove against the chin beneath the matted beard. Laxley’s head jounced back; his body flattened inert upon the floor.

The Shadow reached the buzzing microphone and turned the knob. He gave a croak that was a perfect replica of Laxley’s. A suave voice sounded on the wire:

“Four. Have reached the apartment. Call there from One. He will join me later.”

The Shadow acknowledged with a croak and turned back the knob. He picked up the code books and found them marked with names as well as numbers, except for one, which bore the title “Chief.” This was the book that Laxley had used when he flashed The Python. The book contained a dozen codes, each marked with an identifying signal.

The Shadow had caught the idea from Laxley. He started with one code, first announcing it; then paused, in the middle of a word. He gave another identifying signal; then finished the short message with the second code.

Laxley was still slumped when The Shadow had finished flickering the lights. Knowing that microphone buzzes would announce new messages, The Shadow took time out to bind the bearded signalmaster. For this purpose he used a coil of stout insulated wire that he found in Laxley’s table drawer.

No response had come from The Python. Obviously, he had seen no reason to acknowledge the report of Number Four. The Shadow began a quick survey of order sheets on Laxley’s table. The Python, to avoid all mix-ups, had furnished his signalmaster with complete instructions. From these, The Shadow learned that when The Python acknowledged one signal, he would be ready for all others, until he came to the state where he was no longer able to watch the tower.

Much information lay available. The Shadow checked the numbers of the Coilmasters. Duronne was One; Hurdy, Two; Doc, Three; Thurney, Four. Number Five was listed under the name of Gunner. The title led The Shadow to believe that he was the Coilmaster who had commanded the ambushes at the Cambia Hotel.

Each had his own book, with varied codes. There was an extra book — a small one — that bore the figure zero. It had the name of Warthrope upon it. This fellow, apparently, did not yet rate as a Coilmaster.

Looking about the room, The Shadow found a knobless door in one corner. The door had a keyhole; searching the pockets of the groggy Laxley, The Shadow found a bunch of keys. He picked the right one and used it to unlock the corner door. The barrier slid sidewise, to reveal a tiny elevator. A careful examination showed that the unlocking of the door controlled the switch that would bring the elevator up or down.

Returning to the table, The Shadow pressed the knob below the microphone.

He knew that the loud-speaker must be located in the base; that the microphone itself received Laxley’s croak. As The Shadow waited, a woman’s voice came from the device:

“Number please.”

The Shadow had guessed correctly. This mechanism had replaced a telephone of the non-dial type. Outgoing calls could be made upon it; a privilege which Laxley could not abuse, for he had no power of speech. In a quiet tone, The Shadow called Burbank’s number and gained the connection.

Briefly, The Shadow stated his present location; and gave the probable location of the lower entrance to the elevator shaft. Holding Laxley’s key while he spoke, The Shadow ordered Burbank to bring keys H, I, and J of series seventeen. One of these, The Shadow had decided, would prove a close mate of Laxley’s.

One minute after The Shadow ended the call, the signal buzz sounded. Coilmaster Five was reporting. The Shadow gave the necessary croaks; then flashed a message to The Python. This time, a buzz responded. Hissed words came in answer to The Shadow’s perfect semblance of Laxley’s croak.

FOR the next half hour, The Shadow was busy with intermittent calls. Hardly had a new lull begun before a slight rumble from the wall told him that the elevator was descending. A pause; the lift came up again. Burbank had arrived.

The final touch came later, when this high room showed a strange scene. Laxley bound in a corner, with a gag to stop his croaks, was glaring at the back of a man who was seated at his table. That man was Burbank; he was emitting croaks that matched The Shadow’s duplications of Laxley’s guttural tone.

Beyond was The Shadow, his disguised face no longer visible. He had donned cloak and hat, from a bag brought here by Burbank. From his lips came a whispered approval of Burbank’s imitation of Laxley.

Burbank ended his vocal practice to make a final study of the code books and the orders. He nodded to signify that he was ready for lone duty.

The Shadow swept across the room and reached the elevator shaft. He entered; as he closed the door, he delivered a whispered, parting laugh. That tone gave final confidence to Burbank; it brought a glower from Laxley as the prisoner writhed helplessly in his bonds.

The Shadow, replacing Laxley, had gained many inklings of The Python’s coming moves. Burbank, substituting for The Shadow, had full benefit of that knowledge and would learn more. Meanwhile, The Shadow’s quest lay elsewhere.