The Red Menace

CHAPTER VI THE SHADOW INVESTIGATES

ABOUT an hour after Stanley Berger had left his apartment — in fact, at the very time when Harry Vincent was riding to the Pink Rat — a man alighted from a taxicab not far from Berger’s apartment house.

When he paid the driver of the cab, the man stood in the shadow of the vehicle so that his face was invisible in the darkness. The taximan looked back, as he drove away, and was surprised to see that his passenger had completely vanished.

“Wonder where that bird went, so quick?” mused the cab driver. “Just dropped out of sight all of a sudden.”

The statement was not an exaggeration. The man on the street had disappeared as if the ground had swallowed him.

Had the taxi driver peered in the right direction, he would have observed a clew. For on the sidewalk appeared a long, thin shadow — a shadow that seemed to move of its own accord.

This fantastic shape flitted across the street, and melted into the blackness in front of the old apartment house.

It came into the light of the entry, and for an instant it seemed to assume human form. Then it had gone.

Two minutes later, the door of Stanley Berger’s apartment opened as though the knob had been turned by some psychic power.

The window shades moved noiselessly downward. Then the beam of a flashlight appeared against the wall.

The flashlight was suddenly extinguished as the telephone bell began to ring. A form moved softly across the room; the ringing ceased as the receiver was lifted.

The man in the darkness listened, awaiting some statement from the other end of the line. The word came. Then a whispered voice spoke amid the silence of the dark apartment — a low, weird voice — the voice of The Shadow:

“Hello! Burbank?”

The Shadow received acknowledgment. Burbank was one of his trusted agents.

“Report!” came The Shadow’s whisper.

The silence of the apartment was disturbed only by the clicking voice that came from the receiver. The sound ceased.

“Good!” said The Shadow. “I understand. You heard him order the theater ticket this morning. Downtown. Vincent trailed him to the theater. Where has Vincent gone?”

A short explanation clicked from the receiver.

“You did not recognize the man he followed?” The question came in The Shadow’s whisper. “What address did he give the cab driver?”

Burbank’s information came over the wire.

“Good work,” commended The Shadow. “That is all for to-night, Burbank.”

The receiver was replaced upon the hook. The flashlight beamed upon the desk. A hand appeared in the spot of glare, and the hand held a watch.

“Half an hour to work,” came the almost inaudible whisper. “Then to the Pink Rat. There will be trouble there.”

THE flashlight glowed constantly, now. It moved rapidly about the room. It stopped upon a table drawer.

A hand tested the drawer and found it locked. A small key glistened beneath the rays of the light. A moment later, the drawer was open.

From the drawer, the hand removed five blank cards. Three of the cards were black; one was gray; the other was white. The hand placed the cards upon the table.

The flashlight remained steadily upon the cards. The entire room had been searched quickly, but with amazing thoroughness.

These were the only objects that had been discovered. Yet the cards were blank. Apparently they meant nothing.

Still, the light was held upon them, as though a mind in the darkness above was studying them with concentrated thought.

The flashlight went out. The room remained black for a few short minutes. Then a lamp was turned on. It cast its illumination upon the table, and revealed the cloaked figure of The Shadow.

With the five cards before him, the mysterious personage produced a sheet of paper, and began to express his thoughts in writing. A column of short, terse statements appeared:

The pencil paused. Then it wrote words that answered the question:

Another pause — a longer pause. Then:

The pencil hesitated a few seconds only. Then it inscribed these statements:

The long, slender hand thrust the pencil out of sight in the folds of a dark coat. It reappeared, carrying a fountain pen. It wrote upon a black card, in red ink:

The hand stacked the three black cards. The writing explained their meaning.

Stanley Berger had received them at different times. Each card was a summons to attend a meeting.

The pen poised above the gray card. Then it wrote:

The hand hesitated over the white card; then, as though controlled by a mind that could divine everything, it wrote, in words that had the vivid red of blood:

The revealing words told the meanings of the cards. They remained in view for more than a minute. Then the writing disappeared from the black card, as though some invisible hand had swept it away.

A few seconds later, the writing on the gray card began to fade. When it had obliterated itself, only the white card bore its writing. Then those blood-red words slowly vanished.

THE Shadow glanced at his watch. Half an hour had elapsed since the telephone call from Burbank. The man in black arose, and replaced the cards in the table drawer.

He extinguished the lamp. The flashlight gleamed toward the door; then it was suddenly turned off. To the keen ears of The Shadow had come the faint sound of a key being inserted in the lock of the door.

A man entered the room, and switched on the light. It was Stanley Berger!

His face was haggard and worried. He walked across the room to a small cupboard, and brought out a bottle and a glass. He filled the glass, holding it with a hand that shook unsteadily, and drank.

Then he began to look about the room. He saw no one there.

But the drawn window shades suddenly attracted Berger’s attention. He began to mumble, as though talking in a delirium.

“Those shades were up when I went out,” he said. “I ought to keep them up. Shades down — looks bad. Who put them down?”

He rubbed his hand across his forehead. Evidently Stanley Berger’s mind was troubled. He appeared restless as he paced across the room.

“Too many people in the theater,” he muttered. “Couldn’t stay there. Bad place.”

He walked over to raise the window shades; then he apparently changed his mind, for he stopped short, and stood by the table. He looked at the opposite wall of the room.

A bookcase was there, near the corner. The black shadow of the bookcase seemed to fascinate Berger. He became motionless, staring at the spot.

Then he detected a slight movement. Before his astonished eyes, the darkness of the corner seemed to alter.

There appeared a tall figure, clad in black, its shoulders shrouded in a cloak of sable hue.

Stanley Berger tried to speak; but no sound came from his lips. This amazing form that had come from nothingness seemed to transfix his gaze.

Berger’s body began to tremble as The Shadow moved slowly forward and stood before him — tall, black, and ominous — a cloaked form, its face obscured by turned-down broad-brimmed hat.

“Who are you?” gasped Stanley Berger. “Who — “

The words died on his lips. A terrible fear came over the man. Perhaps this black being was a phantom from another world!

Ghostlike it had appeared before him. Now it stood, like a medieval inquisitor, waiting for him to speak words that would betray him.

THE figure became motionless. Stanley Berger still trembled.

“Why are you here?” he asked. “Who are you?”

“I am The Shadow!”

The low, sibilant whisper was more terrifying than the spectral form itself. Berger swayed; then gripped the edge of the table, and steadied himself.

“Sit down.”

A long black arm extended toward the chair. Stanley Berger could not ignore the command. Automatically, he took the chair; but his eyes were still upon the weird being before him.

“Turn on the lamp.”

Stanley Berger obeyed.

The Shadow seemed to glide across the floor. It reached the door, and the ceiling lamp went out.

Berger stared; he could no longer see the man in black. Then he choked and gasped as The Shadow appeared directly above him — looming like a monstrous creature of vengeance.

The man in the chair looked up. Below the broad-brimmed hat he could see two eyes that gleamed like living coals. Dark, burning eyes, that seemed to pry into the secrets of his mind.

“You killed Jonathan Graham!”

The whispered words were a statement — not a question.

“Answer me! You killed Jonathan Graham!”

Stanley Berger nodded. His personality seemed to have left him. His brain was under the domination of this unknown being. He could not withstand the power of The Shadow.

“Tell me why!”

The man in the chair made a great effort to fight off the controlling force that held him.

“I don’t know!” he said. “I don’t know!”

“Tell me why!”

“Because” — the admission came slowly from Stanley Berger’s lips — “because I had stolen his private correspondence.”

“To what did the correspondence refer?”

“I do not know.”

The Shadow was silent. Berger’s last statement had come with a spontaneous relief. It was obvious that he had spoken the truth.

“With whom did Jonathan Graham correspond?”

Stanley Berger could not overcome The Shadow’s control. His lips seemed automatic as they framed the reply:

“With a man named Whitburn.”

“Tell me his first name!”

“I do not know it.”

The glowing eyes burned steadily before the entranced gaze of Stanley Berger. There was a sharp click, as though The Shadow had snapped his fingers. The man in the chair started, and rubbed his forehead.

“Look at the table,” came the whispered voice.

Berger obeyed. A hand came before his eyes, carrying the five cards from the table drawer.

Upon the third finger of the hand was a ring with a large gem that glowed with crimson depths. It caught Stanley Berger’s attention, fascinating him.

“Look at those cards,” said The Shadow. “I shall tell you what they mean. Answer each statement that I make. Black signifies: ‘There is a meeting to-night.’ That is correct?”

“Yes.”

“Gray signifies: ‘Meeting to-night. Do not come unless absolutely safe.’ Correct?”

“Yes.”

“White signifies: ‘Your work is ended. No more meetings!’ Correct?”

“Yes.”

“Where were the meetings held?”

The reply that was forming on Stanley Berger’s lips suddenly died away. He fought against the control that held him in its merciless grip.

“No! No!” His exclamation came in short, nervous gasps. “I cannot tell! I must not tell!”

He fell forward on the table, and buried his head in his arms.

THERE was complete silence for a few tense minutes. Then a distant clock chimed ten times.

A low, fraughtful hiss came from The Shadow. It was well past the half hour that he had allotted. His voice whispered gentle, soothing words:

“Look up.”

Berger raised his head.

The slender, white hand appeared before his eyes, and he found himself staring into the glowing depths of the crimson fire opal.

Then an envelope appeared beneath it. A pen was placed in Stanley Berger’s hand.

“Write this address.”

The sibilant voice carried a gentle persuasion, which came as balm to Stanley Berger’s troubled mind. He was conscious of the envelope. But the burning fire opal held him beneath its spell. He placed the pen upon the paper to inscribe:

“Harry Vincent. Metrolite Hotel. New York City.”

With automatic precision, Stanley Berger wrote the address. The envelope was drawn to one side. A sheet of paper took its place.

“Write your full story. Tell everything.”

The voice, despite its uncanny whisper, seemed friendly and helpful.

“Sign your name beneath, when you have finished. Mail the letter. Then you can forget.”

The man at the table placed the pen upon the paper. He seemed to be engaged in deep thought, his mind groping in the past.

The hand moved away. The fire opal was no longer before Stanley Berger’s eyes. Yet its glow still persisted. He imagined that he saw the mysterious crimson gem upon the white paper in front of him.

As he slowly began to write, the fiery blotch followed the point of his pen.

Stanley Berger was a man in a trance, still governed by the dynamic presence of The Shadow, which he could feel beside him. He could do nothing other than obey the commands he had received.

Yet The Shadow was no longer there. Silently, noiselessly, like a phantom of the night, the man of mystery had left the apartment.