The Shadow's Shadow

CHAPTER XVI ENTER THE SHADOW

WHEN Felix Zubian had glanced about the lobby of the Cobalt Club, he had not seen Lamont Cranston; therefore, he had assumed that The Shadow was not on the premises. Therein Felix Zubian had been deceived.

Seated in a comfortable chair was a man whose visage possessed none of the characteristics of Cranston’s physiognomy. To all appearances, this individual was at least three inches shorter than the millionaire.

Zubian, now familiar with the names of many Cobalt members, had recognized this man as Henry Arnaud. But he had not discerned the fact that Cranston and Arnaud were one and the same.

The Shadow, Zubian had heard, was a master of disguise. But he had never dreamed that this strange personage could so change his face that a keen observer could detect no similarity in the make-up. Thus Zubian, The Shadow’s shadow, sat quietly at dinner while the very man he hoped to find was strolling the lobby less than a hundred feet away.

Henry Arnaud, like Felix Zubian, had noticed the clock. Ten minutes past the hour of six seemed to indicate something to him, for he arose from his chair and went to a telephone booth. There he called a number and listened while a quiet voice spoke over the wire.

“Burbank,” said the voice.

Burbank was a unique agent of The Shadow. He was the contact man through whom special messages were relayed to The Shadow. Located at some unknown source, reached only by telephone, Burbank aided in activities where swiftness counted. His duties were manifold, his work unfailing.

“Report,” said Henry Arnaud.

“No word from Mann,” declared Burbank.

“Communicate with him,” ordered Arnaud.

Leaving the booth, Arnaud returned to the lobby, resumed his chair, and waited five minutes. Then he reentered the booth and made another call to Burbank.

“No answer from Mann,” informed the quiet voice.

“Communicate with Vincent,” was Arnaud’s order.

It was six thirty when Henry Arnaud again called Burbank. This time he received another barren report; the two men could not be reached.

“Vincent not at Metrolite,” stated Burbank.

Henry Arnaud was thoughtful when he again resumed his chair. He waited for a few minutes, then quietly arose and obtained a package from the checkroom. He left the club and hailed a taxicab, giving the driver an address on Broadway.

Alighting from the cab, Arnaud entered the Grandville Building.

Early evening had arrived; the lobby was lighted, and only one elevator was in service. Henry Arnaud went up to the twenty-second floor.

Still carrying the package under his arm, Henry Arnaud disappeared in the gloom at the end of the corridor. Nor did Arnaud return; but another figure stepped forth in his place.

It was the form of a man clad entirely in black — a strange being who emerged with uncanny suddenness. Garbed in flowing cloak, with face hidden beneath a broad-brimmed slouch hat, this personage stood several inches taller than the man whose place he had taken.

Henry Arnaud had become The Shadow! In that guise he intended to visit the office where Rutledge Mann had been captured. There was a stairway that led down to the twenty-first floor; and it was this route that The Shadow followed.

To the ordinary observer, the location of Rutledge Mann’s office on the twenty-first floor would have indicated nothing. But when The Shadow approached it, the fact that the suite had been chosen with design became apparent.

The tall form in black moved stealthily onward, stopping when it reached a turn in the dimly lighted passage. The corridor toward Mann’s office was totally dark. The Shadow became a thing of nothingness when he entered it.

His final approach to Mann’s office was made with the utmost stealth. No human eye could have discerned his presence. An invisible hand inserted a key in the lock. The door opened softly inward.

Inch by inch, The Shadow moved forward. He seemed to sense the fact that a figure was crouching down the hall ahead — a figure of a man who had not seen The Shadow arrive. When he came into the outer office of the suite, The Shadow stood immovable. The sound of almost inaudible breathing reached his ears.

Some one was in that room!

The Shadow’s course lay to the inner office. There he advanced step by step. He had a purpose in that action. Whatever might have happened to Rutledge Mann, it was possible that the investment broker had left some bit of evidence that would lead The Shadow on his trail.

The door of the inner office opened noiselessly. It closed again. The Shadow had reached his objective. A window shade was drawn softly downward. A light glowed in Rutledge Mann’s office.

A peculiarity of the last door through which The Shadow had passed was the fact that it allowed no crevice through which light might pass to the outer room of the suite. The Shadow was as undisturbed as if he had been miles away.

The tall figure, looming grotesquely in the dim light, was at work studying the spot where Rutledge Mann had been captured. He was studying every feature that might give him a clew to the investment broker’s strange disappearance.

The faint odor of chloroform was present. The Shadow detected it. He noted the position of the chair beside the desk. He studied the floor, inch by inch, in search of any trace that might betray the identity of the captors.

It was during this inspection that The Shadow paused beside the door of the room. His keen ear listened.

The sound of low voices could be heard outside. An ordinary hearer could not have noted the sound, let alone distinguish the words; but to The Shadow, every syllable was a coherent utterance.

“He oughta been here by now,” Squint Freston was saying. “You sure he ain’t come in?”

“Say — who are we waitin’ for, anyway?” came another gangster’s reply. “The Shadow?”

Squint did not answer that question directly. He was evasive in his tone.

“We might be,” he said.

“Well, you was watchin’ with us,” said his companion. “You oughta have seen anybody comin’ in.”

“Tell you what” — Squint’s tone was emphatic — “I’m goin’ to lay in that inner room. The rest of you guys hang out here — all except Prex in the hall an’ Gorky in the next room. Slide back, now. I’m goin’ in.”

The Shadow’s form rose from the door. It moved across the inner room with incredible swiftness. A gloved hand clicked out the light. The same hand raised the window shade and lifted the sash.

The last noiseless operation was scarcely completed before there was a sound of the door opening as Squint came into the room. The little gangster was crouching low. He threw the rays of a flashlight along the floor. He did not see the figure of The Shadow. It was merged with the blackness of the window.

The sash moved noiselessly downward. Squint did not see it. It had closed one second before his light was raised in that direction. The gangster extinguished the flashlight. He closed the door behind him, and laid close to the floor.

OUTSIDE the window, a figure was clinging twenty-one floors above the street. Gripping fingers clutched a projecting cornice as the batlike form moved inch by inch away from the safety of the window ledge. Like a human fly, The Shadow was passing from one window to the next. He completed his precarious journey, and reached the spot he sought.

There, his body resting on the ledge, his firm hands worked with the window sash. It was locked; but a thin wedge of pliable steel took care of the latch.

The black form moved invisibly inward as the sash went up. Then the window closed. The Shadow was in the room which was guarded by a single gangster — the one called Gorky.

Whatever purpose The Shadow may have had — whether he intended a surprise attack or a bold departure — the plan was interrupted by a chance occurrence.

Squint had left one man — Prex — in the corridor to watch. That gangster had become restless. The door of this office was ajar; he had entered to speak to Squint. In order to announce his presence, he performed an action which was contrary to Squint’s instructions. He turned on his flashlight.

The rays, which should have reflected from the windowpane, betrayed the presence of The Shadow. There, in full view, crouched the black-clad figure of the man who had just entered.

Prex saw that sinister shape, which was half turned, ready to glide across the floor. His startled cry gave the alarm to Gorky. The other gangster looked toward the window.

The Shadow held no weapon. The delicate task which he had just performed was one that had required utmost stealth. Prex was carrying a revolver in his right hand; Gorky was similarly armed. Yet neither was ready to fire at a phantom shape coming from the last direction they had anticipated. That fact was The Shadow’s opportunity.

The black hands swept to the cloak, and in a twinkling two automatics sprang in view. Gorky and Prex were leveling their guns. One revolver barked — the rod which Prex was carrying. The hasty shot missed its mark. Glass was shattered as the windowpane cracked when the bullet struck it.

Gorky never fired; nor did Prex shoot again. The Shadow’s automatics barked simultaneously with the revolver shot. The echo of breaking glass came from where Prex stood as The Shadow’s bullet extinguished the flashlight which the gangster held.

That was the only mark at which The Shadow could have fired, so far as Prex was concerned; but Gorky, in the range of light, was a perfect target.

Both gangsters toppled, Prex wounded, Gorky shot through the heart.

With these foemen eliminated, The Shadow sprang to further action. He knew where the next menace lay.

Like a flash, he was across the room to meet the three mobsmen who were springing in from Mann’s outer office. A hand had pressed the light switch there; the gangsters piled into the gloomy room where The Shadow stood. They could see the forms of their fallen comrades, and they took no chances. With wild shots they raked the space ahead.

They did not know that The Shadow had anticipated such an attack. The man in black had not been so foolish as to leap into their oncoming path. Instead, he had sidled quickly to the wall beside the door.

As the first gangster came through the doorway, a shot at close range felled him. The other two turned as The Shadow sprang upon them. The first man dropped as The Shadow fired. The other dropped also, unwounded, falling instinctively to take advantage of the protection afforded by the body in front of him. A revolver flashed upward to deliver a shot at that sweeping apparition.

The Shadow was too quick. In a mighty forward plunge, he cleared the body that lay between him and his enemy. A long, black arm, striking downward, knocked the revolver from the gangster’s hand, metal clanking as the automatic hit the other weapon.

With a foul oath, the gangster grappled with his foe. Two forms sprawled upon the floor, away from the door. Then a long arm shot out and aimed its automatic directly into the other room — Mann’s outer office.

THE quick eyes of The Shadow had caught a glimpse of a fleeing man — Squint Freston. The evil little gangster had heard the shots. He knew what was happening.

He had run out from Mann’s inner office. Seeing the struggle on the floor, he was raising his revolver to make an end to The Shadow — even if such an action meant that he must kill his comrade also.

Now the automatic intervened. The Shadow’s finger pressed the trigger as his hand aimed at Squint’s heart.

Chance intervened to save the little gangster. The man struggling with The Shadow pressed against the black-clad arm. The automatic barked; the bullet seared Squint’s wrist close to the butt of the revolver that was held in the gangster’s hand.

With a frightened cry, Squint lost his grasp on the weapon. He dived for the door of the outer office. Once again, The Shadow fired. The struggle of The Shadow’s antagonist again saved Squint. The bullet from the automatic missed the fleeing form of Squint by the fraction of an inch.

Now, with the free gangster gone, The Shadow gripped the man who was seeking to overpower him. The strugglers no longer remained upon the floor. They were rising upward, The Shadow providing motive power.

In the gloomy light, the body of the struggling gangster hung poised as though in space. The man was helpless in the grip of the seemingly invisible shape that held him.

Try as he would, the gangster could not grip the man below. His arms and hands waved wildly. The Shadow poised; then, with terrific power cast his enemy from him. The gunman’s body whirled in air as it traveled across the room. It crashed upon a chair, smashing the piece of furniture against the wall. The body, itself, rebounded from the wall and rolled over and over as it reached the floor.

The Shadow stood silent, his glowing eyes surveying the body that lay a full ten feet away. The man who had begun the struggle did not move. The force of that terrible fling was as damaging as a bullet from The Shadow’s deadly automatic.

Long minutes had passed since the beginning of the conflict. The building was not yet emptied of late workers. When The Shadow reached the hall, the sound of shouting voices indicated clearly the excitement that the pistol shots had caused.

Again, the odd contour of the corridor served The Shadow well. His tall form blended with darkness as two uniformed policemen came dashing past.

The Shadow went on. His figure showed near the elevator shaft, where a car was waiting, the operator leaning from the door, staring in the direction that the officers had taken. He did not see the long splotch upon the floor as the shape of The Shadow followed that weird silhouette.

The operator’s first knowledge that a living being was close by came when long arms gripped him and sent him sprawling from the car, unable to catch a glimpse of the man who had attacked him.

By the time the operator managed to get to his feet, he saw the steel doors closing at the elevator shaft. He uttered a startled cry; then stood helplessly as he observed the dial above the doors. The elevator was moving down to the ground floor.

A POLICEMAN was waiting in the lobby. He was not watching the elevator dial. The doors of the car opened slowly. The officer was not conscious of the sound until these barriers had reached their full width, when they clanged slightly. The policeman turned and looked into the car.

It was empty!

Vaguely, the watcher stared about the lobby of the building. He saw no one. He did not observe a shadow that had merged itself in an obscure corner — all that remained in view of a tall figure that had slipped through the opening elevator doors. Perplexed, the officer entered the elevator and started upward to learn what had happened to the operator.

The tall shape of The Shadow moved toward the passage to the street. It stopped and returned to darkness. A cowering creature was coming down the steps from the second floor, cautiously looking about him.

It was Squint Freston, who had chosen this method of escape. Seeing no one, the little gangster slouched toward the door and reached Broadway, where he huddled himself among the passing crowd.

The Grandville Building was near a corner, and Squint made quickly for the dark obscurity of a side street. Here he discovered a drug store, with a row of phone booths located just within the door. He slipped into the nearest booth.

Had Squint suspected that The Shadow was near, he would have dropped helpless from fright. Yet The Shadow was there — less than three feet from the gangster. The tall, black-cloaked being had picked up Squint’s trail, and had kept close behind him. Now, The Shadow was in the phone booth next to the one which Squint was using.

Squint dropped a nickel in the slot and dialed a number. The clicks of the turning dial were clearly audible in the next booth. The eyes of The Shadow were upon the dial of the phone before him; his hand was busy in the dark, making notations which resolved themselves into a telephone number.

“Hello,” said Squint, in a low tone which The Shadow heard. “That you, Gats?… Say — he got into the office… Yes… No, we didn’t get him, least I don’t think so… Well, I nearly plugged him, and he may be up there yet… The rest of the crowd? They musta got the works… No, they can’t squawk; they don’t know nothin’; I’m the only guy knows where you are.

“No, I’m safe. Got away from the coppers. I’m goin’ to lay low where I am for a while. I don’t want to run into that guy again… Say, have you given those stools the works? No? They’re goin’ to get it soon? All right, Gats… Sure thing, I’ll scram.”

Squint hung up the receiver. He sauntered from the telephone booth and joined the crowd at the soda fountain. The protection of a crowd felt good to Squint, after that encounter with The Shadow.

DESPITE the fact that Squint must know the location of the place where he had called, The Shadow made no move in the direction of the little gangster. His own hand was dialing a number. The voice of Burbank came across the wire.

In a low, whispered tone, The Shadow gave the telephone number that he had learned by listening to the clicks of Squint’s dial.

“Westbar six — three — four — nine — seven” — the tones were deliberate and clear — “give location immediately.”

“Immediately,” responded Burbank.

A short interval followed. Somewhere, in the secret spot where he was located, Burbank was consulting a special telephone book which listed numbers in rotation, with the names as information. The task was performed with promptness.

“Pay station,” announced Burbank. “Located at Spica Garage.”

“Location,” whispered The Shadow.

Burbank gave an address on Tenth Avenue. The Shadow uttered a short response. His hand hung up the receiver. The door of the telephone booth opened softly.

Three minutes later, a taxicab driver, stopped by Broadway traffic, was surprised to hear a voice speaking from the back seat. A hand, reaching through the window, thrust a ten-dollar bill in the driver’s hand as the voice announced an address.

The driver made no comment. He had believed that his cab was empty. Ordinarily, he might have challenged the unexpected passenger how and where he had entered. But the ten-dollar bill was sufficient reason to avoid an argument.

Traffic was clearing. The cab shot forward.

A minute later, a speeding taxi was traveling like mad toward Tenth Avenue, carrying one passenger, whose shape remained invisible in the back seat.

The Shadow was riding to a new adventure!