The Shadow's Shadow

CHAPTER XIII DEATH TO THE SHADOW

LATER that night, Felix Zubian was seated in the library of the Cobalt Club. Quiet and unassuming, he had masked his usual personality with remarkable skill.

Zubian was quietly confident. He had played the role of spy to perfection. Convinced now that the pretended Lamont Cranston was The Shadow, Zubian had worked with exceptional stealth. Not once had he given any trace that might have led the false Cranston to suspect his presence.

As he read a newspaper, Zubian kept a watchful eye on Cranston, who was seated in another part of the room. At this game of observation, Zubian had never met an equal. Well did he know and respect the capability of the man with whom he was dealing; but at the same time, Zubian possessed the faculty of recognizing facts. All of his past ability was serving him, and he was sure that Cranston did not suspect that he was being watched.

It was nearly midnight. Zubian watched as Cranston arose and walked slowly toward the door. From the spot where Zubian was sitting, it was quite possible to observe what took place in the outside lobby; there, Zubian saw Cranston speak to an attendant. A few moments later, the tall, dignified millionaire went toward the door that led to the street.

This was Zubian’s cue. It was the moment that he had been awaiting. With catlike stride he left the library and entered a telephone booth. He gave a number, uttered a few cryptic words to the man at the other end; then left the booth and sauntered to the grillroom. Here he found Douglas Carleton seated at a table.

“You have been waiting here long?” questioned Zubian, with a smile.

“About fifteen minutes,” responded Carleton. “Tell me — has anything developed?”

“I shall come to that,” said Zubian, still smiling. “What do you have to report?”

“Nothing,” replied Carleton wearily. “Another evening up at Devaux’s.”

“Was Milbrook there?”

“Yes — for a while. Still trying to sell diamonds to Devaux; but it will be a long while before that goes through.”

“And the girl?”

“Virginia? She has a crush on Milbrook. That doesn’t matter for the time. She will find out that it won’t work. There are lots of ways of dealing with that fellow. I think we can take care of him when we are ready.”

“Very easily,” smiled Zubian. “We must allow nothing to interfere with Douglas Carleton becoming the son-in-law of Stanford Devaux. That will prove of the utmost value in the future. I must congratulate you, Carleton, upon planning such an excellent arrangement.”

A SHORT pause followed; then Zubian quietly turned to a subject in which Carleton seemed to be intensely interested; namely, the recent departure of Lamont Cranston from the Cobalt Club.

“The end is plainly in sight,” were Zubian’s opening words. “Everything has worked perfectly. I have just talked to Gats Hackett by telephone.”

“Ah! He is ready?”

“Not only ready — he is on his way, with plenty of time to spare.”

“You are sure your method will work?”

“I do not see how it can fail,” stated Zubian proudly. “It is well-founded upon careful observation. When I told you that I wanted to give instructions directly to Gats Hackett, it was very wise of you to permit me to do so. I also appreciate your willingness to wait until all was under way before learning of my operations.”

“You wanted it that way,” responded Carleton. “I decided you must know what you were about. After all, it was good policy for us to say little to each other. But now—”

“Now,” announced Zubian, “I shall tell you all. I have been watching this man who calls himself Lamont Cranston; but I have not been watching him too closely. Therein lies the merit of my plan. I discovered one particular fact. Every night, when Cranston leaves the club, he goes directly home to New Jersey, driven in his limousine by a chauffeur named Stanley.

“There are various avenues which Cranston’s car might follow; but there is one channel which it is sure to take. That passage, I decided, should be the base of our operations.”

“The Holland Tunnel!”

“Exactly. I have studied it carefully. With my plans completely arranged, I gave instructions to Gats Hackett. He added a few suggestions of his own. As a result, we are prepared to-night — prepared with a method of attack that Cranston cannot possibly suspect.

“In his career as The Shadow, our friend Cranston has met with some difficult situations; but I fancy that in every such instance he has been garbed in the black costume which he prizes so highly. As Lamont Cranston, he lives a prosaic existence, free from the unexpected. That condition will be altered to-night. It is in the course of alteration now.”

“Good!” exclaimed Carleton. “Then you think—”

“That we shall eliminate The Shadow to-night?” Zubian’s features took on a fiendish smile. “I am sure of it, Carleton! My plan cannot fail! Gats Hackett is perfection in the role to which I have assigned him. With one bold stroke we are ending the career of the only enemy whom we fear. Whatever organization The Shadow may possess means nothing without him at the head. His agents will be useless tools, with no master hand to control them.

“After to-night” — Zubian’s eyes were glowing in anticipation — “we are as free as air! Your great hopes will be realized, Carleton! The money that you have spent perfecting an organization will come back to you a hundredfold. We can press matters at Devaux’s; then, with you established as our leader, we can gain millions!”

“You fear nothing, then,” observed Carleton. “Nothing, after to-night—”

“Nothing at all!” declared Zubian, in a decisive tone. “Such weaklings as Vincent and Mann can be forgotten. Should they try puny methods of revenge, after learning that Lamont Cranston is dead, Gats can wipe them out with little trouble.”

CARLETON’S eyes shone with admiration for the cunningness of Zubian. He realized that he had chosen a man of amazing craft; that Zubian was stepping in where Gats had failed.

Yet more than that, he was pleased at Zubian’s desire for cooperation. The fact that Zubian was using Gats Hackett’s services as the culmination of his scheme to kill The Shadow was proof that in the future the band would work in harmony.

As originator of this group engaged in supercrime, Carleton was the instigator of The Shadow’s doom. Zubian was the crafty one who had put theory into practice. Gats was the man on the firing line. After to-night, they could indulge in mutual congratulation.

“The Shadow” — Zubian was speaking in ironic tones — “is famous for his power to escape from traps. Let him elude the one that I have set to-night! A moving, rapid trap that will close with unexpected suddenness. A trap that offers no outlet; that places its victim in a hopeless position!

“I have used strategy, Carleton. I have planned a way so drastic that not even a superman like The Shadow can manage to evade it. This will be startling — we shall hear of what has happened, for the newspapers will report it to-morrow. The most startling of all assassinations — that is the scheme which I have devised.

“Gats is confident of his men. They believe in him. They do whatever they are instructed. They know that to-night’s job is important; yet they do not know the identity of Lamont Cranston. Only Gats knows that; and he, unlike other gangsters, is not intimidated. Revolvers are his specialty; he fears no one when he handles them.

“You told me of the pursuit he started on Long Island. That convinced me not only of Gats Hackett’s courage; it also indicated his fierce spirit of revenge. He is anxious to settle scores with The Shadow. I know of no man whom I would more willingly trust with the mission that I have assigned to Gats to-night.”

Felix Zubian leaned back in his chair and lighted a cigarette. With cold assurance, he stared toward Douglas Carleton through clouds of tobacco smoke, and smiled the evil elation that dominated his treacherous spirit.

Here, in the comfortable seclusion of the Cobalt Club, this master plotter was seated with his superior — the man who seemingly commanded him, yet actually relied upon his greater knowledge.

Felix Zubian had made good his boasts. He had become The Shadow’s shadow. To-night, he expected that part to end. He gave indication of his thoughts as he glanced at his watch and spoke again to Douglas Carleton.

“About five minutes more,” remarked Zubian quietly. “Then Cranston’s car will be within the trap. That will mean the end. Hence” — he smiled derisively as he lifted a glass that lay upon the table — “I propose a toast which shall reach an immediate consummation.”

Zubian’s eyes were glittering as he raised the glass to his mouth. His lips parted as he hissed these final words:

“Death to The Shadow!”