The Silver Scourge

CHAPTER II THE SHADOW HEARS

STRANGE blue rays were focused upon the polished surface of a table top. Within that circle of light rested two white hands — long-fingered shapes that seemed to project from nowhere, like living, creeping things.

Upon a finger of the left hand rested a sparkling gem. A stone of many hues, its deep-tinted colors changing from deep crimson to sparkling azure, this jewel betokened mystery. Connoisseurs who had seen that gem had pronounced it as an unmatched girasol, the finest fire opal in all the world.

The hands — the deep-colored girasol which emitted sparks of light — these were tokens of The Shadow. They gave sign of his presence. The bluish gleam from the lamp told that The Shadow was in his sanctum.

Only in that one abode did such strange light exist — shafts of gleaming blue that were confined to the corner of a black-walled room. No eyes other than those of The Shadow were accustomed to that eerie light, for the location of the sanctum was known to the master alone.

Somewhere in Manhattan — a spot easily accessible, yet impossible to find — there lay The Shadow’s sanctum. This was the weird apartment which The Shadow chose to escape the city’s roar and strife, a secret sanctuary wherein he could plan his mighty campaigns against the hordes of evil.

Envelopes lay upon The Shadow’s table. The long white fingers opened them. Sheets of paper were unfolded — reports from The Shadow’s agent. All were written in vivid blue ink; all were inscribed in a code which the hidden eyes of The Shadow rapidly perused.

After the reading, the written words began to disappear. One by one, in uncanny order, they obliterated themselves as effectively as if some unseen hand had wiped them out.

Such was the way with the communications which The Shadow used. The disappearing ink took effect when contact came with air. Any letters that might fall into unfriendly hands would thus prove useless. Before the simple code could be deciphered, the writing would be gone!

A peculiar instrument rested upon the table, just at the fringe of light. Its ticking was drowned by the rustling of the papers. A large dial with three circles of numbers, this device served as The Shadow’s clock. It told off seconds as a speedometer marks the tenths of miles.

Each second, by that clock, seemed to be a lingering space of time. Although the hands of The Shadow moved with ease, their actions, when gauged by the odd timepiece, seemed incredibly swift.

Such was the secret of The Shadow’s prowess. He had the ability to pack decisive actions into fleeting moments, to attempt feats which others would not dare — all because of deft and unfailing precision.

THE inner circles of the clock indicated that the time was shortly after eight. While The Shadow worked, a speck of light appeared upon the black wall directly opposite the white hands. Fingers crept swiftly across the table, and returned with a set of earphones. These were carried into the darkness. The Shadow spoke into the invisible mouthpiece.

The call was from Burbank. The contact man, connected with The Shadow’s sanctum, was relaying Cliff Marsland’s emergency report. A whispered laugh chilled the gloomy atmosphere of the sanctum. Then The Shadow gave brief instructions for Cliff to return to the lobby of the old Hotel Spartan, there to await direct orders from The Shadow.

The tiny signal bulb faded. The earphones slid across the table. The hands of The Shadow quickly swept aside the blank papers and their envelopes. A click sounded shortly afterward; the scene was plunged in darkness.

A slight swish could be heard in the darkness of the sanctum. It was the rustling of The Shadow’s cloak — the sound that betokened his departure.

A soft, creepy laugh came from invisible lips; it rose to a strident burst of mirth that ended in a host of echoes that shouted merrily from the walls. The weird reverberations dwindled to ghostly sobs that persisted as though uttered by a host of ghoulish throats.

When the last faint echo had died, the sanctum was empty. The Shadow had departed.

Swiftly and silently did The Shadow move on his strange excursions through crowded Manhattan. His course was untraceable after he left the black-walled room that served as his sanctum. Only at intervals, at widely separated spots, did manifestations occur to give an inkling of The Shadow’s passage.

A blot that grew black upon the sidewalk at the lighted corner of an avenue and a side street — a splotch which faded as quickly as it came — that sign meant that The Shadow had gone by.

A taxi driver, believing his cab to be empty, was startled by the sound of a passenger’s calm voice, giving him a destination.

A bill that fluttered through the window in payment; that was the mark of The Shadow’s departure when the driver reached the appointed spot. The cab itself was empty when the taximan looked within.

A LONG, silhouetted streak of blackness wavered beneath the structure of an elevated station; a moving, elusive shape passed the front window of the Hotel Spartan. A mass of blackness merged mysteriously with the darkness of an alleyway behind the hotel.

Unseen fingers dug into the crevices between the bricks of the dingy-walled building. A hand found the projecting ledge of a window. Slowly, steadily, a shrouded form moved up the side of the wall. The Shadow was creeping vertically to his chosen destination.

Upon this roughened surface, The Shadow required no special appliances such as the rubber suction cups with which he could scale the polished wall of a cliff. His ability as a human fly enabled him to rise steadily until he reached the third floor. There, his black form blotted out the light that filtered through a yellowish window shade.

Secure upon the ledge, The Shadow worked smoothly and silently. His black-gloved hands wedged a flat piece of metal between the sections of the sash. The lock turned neatly, and the lower part of the sash rose under the impulse of a firm hand.

The shade itself trembled so slightly that its motion could scarcely be noticed. A tiny space opened at the bottom; through it peered two burning eyes.

A man was seated in a corner of the room, his back away from the window. The Shadow knew the identity of that individual. It was Duffy Bagland, the gang leader whom Cliff Marsland had indicated with the number 308. The entire plan of this hotel was known to The Shadow. The master of mystery had been expecting crime to issue from this place.

Duffy Bagland had no inkling that eyes were watching him. Even had he turned toward the window, he would have noticed nothing but blackness beneath that partly lifted shade. Night was The Shadow’s mask — a shroud that completely enveloped his elusive shape.

Why was Bagland lingering here? His squad of mobsters was in readiness — The Shadow had spotted the ruffians while passing the lobby of the Spartan. There was one logical assumption; that Duffy Bagland expected some message.

Minutes drifted by. The Shadow, clinging like a mammoth bat outside the window, shifted his position so that his tall form no longer blotted out the block of light that indicated the window shade. Eyes from below would be unable to perceive a figure upon that wall.

A telephone bell rang. Duffy Bagland arose from his chair and stepped across the room. A pudgy, ugly profile was visible from the window as the gang leader picked up the telephone and growled a greeting. An evil gin appeared upon the man’s rough lips.

“That you, Tim?” Bagland’s voice was low, but its harsh tones carried to The Shadow’s ears. “Sure. I’m ready… Yeah… He’s got it fixed, eh? Well, it’s time he did have… I got you… Up through the steps of the ballroom — across to the third door on the left… Then through the big room…”

Duffy Bagland paused, and his grin continued as he heard the instructions which came from the other end of the wire.

“I got you now, Tim… Sure, I’ll send the gang ahead… Twenty-one sixteen… The guy has gone out… Well, if he comes back, it won’t be good for him. He’d better stay out… Yeah, we’ll post on the fire tower, too… Diagram waiting in the room, and when we get the ring, we’ll know it’s all set. Call you to make sure? O.K. I will…”

The gang leader hung up the receiver. There was no haste in his ensuing actions. He drew open a closet door, brought out a hat and overcoat, and donned the garments. He opened a table drawer and brought out a glittering revolver. Still wearing his grin, Bagland packed the gat deep in his overcoat pocket. He strolled toward the doorway with the air of a man starting out for an evening walk.

ALL the way, the gang leader offered a perfect target for The Shadow, had the waiting watcher chosen to take action at that moment. The Shadow, however, had no such intention. He had gained only an inkling of Duffy Bagland’s intended crime. He knew that the mob leader must be heading for some hotel of prominence, there to engage in special crime. To molest him now would be unwise.

The window sash locked softly, and The Shadow’s tall form began its precipitous descent.

Down in the lobby, Bagland’s cohorts were awaiting the arrival of the chief. Every man in that aggregation was a murderous gangster, yet all of them were safe from the law at present. The Shadow, when he warred against crime, preferred to get the criminals red-handed. That would be his procedure tonight.

The Shadow’s descent was rapid. His tall form reached the alleyway and entered a rear passage that led to the lobby. There was a door at the end. The barrier wavered as The Shadow pressed it.

Out in the lobby, Cliff Marsland, reading a newspaper, was secretly noting the arrival of Duffy Bagland, who had just come down the stairs. But Cliff’s alertness also took in the motion of the door beside the steps.

The Shadow’s signal!

Cliff Marsland understood. His head delivered a slight nod, which was the reply. Duffy Bagland strode across the lobby, and chatted with the clerk; then, with a swagger, he went to the street door, giving no sign whatever to the congregated mobsters.

Bagland’s departure, however, had an immediate effect. One by one, the waiting men strolled from the hotel. Cliff Marsland, eying them cautiously, could see that they were heading toward the side of the building. In all probability, they were following Duffy Bagland around the alleyway behind the hotel.

There was no need for Cliff to move. Suspicious eyes might have seen him, had he departed from the lobby. Well did Cliff know that his aid was not needed at the present. The Shadow had gone from that passageway. He, the master of darkness, could easily have doubled to the front of the hotel, there to make sure of the direction which Duffy Bagland had taken.

In this surmise, Cliff Marsland was correct. In fact, The Shadow’s agent gained a very good mental picture of the situation as it now existed.

When Duffy Bagland had left the Hotel Spartan, he had turned the corner, and gone directly toward the alleyway. He had passed within three feet of a blackened niche in the side wall of the building. Eyes from that crevice had watched his progress. Those were the eyes of The Shadow!

At the entrance of the alleyway, Duffy Bagland had awaited the arrival of his henchmen. They had come unobtrusively; they formed a small, well-hidden cluster as they gathered about their chief. Every man in that crew caught the words which Duffy Bagland growled.

With the last of the mobsters had stalked a strange, fantastic figure — a black form which seemed like a portion of the night’s darkness. That shape was hovering beside the corner of the building when Duffy Bagland spoke.

Again, tonight, The Shadow overheard the words that the gang leader uttered.

The crowd dispersed. Gangsters slunk away in pairs. Some went through the alleyway; others went along the street. Duffy Bagland strolled along with the two men whom Cliff Marsland had heard talking in the hotel lobby.

When the evil outfit was gone, a low, whispered laugh made an uncanny sound at the entrance of the alleyway. The Shadow, knowing the lay for tonight’s crime, needed no more information.

On the telephone, Duffy Bagland had discussed the plans for action at an unknown destination. To his henchmen, he had said nothing of those final plans; but he had named the hotel in which Room 2116 was located!

AGAIN The Shadow’s form moved silently through the passage to the lobby. Once more, the door trembled; this time, it moved thrice.

The signal was sufficient. Cliff Marsland arose from his chair, and went up the stairs to the third floor. He opened the door of his room, which had a window on the alleyway. Cliff turned on a corner light. He raised the sash of the window, took a few breaths of fresh air and strolled over to a bureau.

Something whistled past Cliff Marsland’s ear. It struck the wall with a sharp click, and fluttered to the floor.

Cliff picked it up — a black envelope of stiff paper. This missile had been projected with the speed of an arrow from the alleyway beneath, shot by an accurate, unseen hand.

Tucking the envelope in his pocket, Cliff walked back and lowered the sash, then the window shade. By the light of the corner lamp, he opened the envelope and extracted a folded sheet of white paper.

Coded lines in blue ink greeted his eyes. Cliff read the brief message from The Shadow.

The writing faded. Cliff crumpled the paper and tossed it in the wastebasket. He kept the envelope, however, because of its unusual color.

Opening the bureau drawer, The Shadow’s agent extracted a pair of heavy service automatics and pocketed them.

Leaving the room, Cliff descended to the lobby and strolled out to the street. It was fully ten minutes since Duffy Bagland and his men had gone. The action could excite no suspicion at this time.

Cliff went to the nearest elevated station, boarded a train, and rode uptown. He alighted on a traffic-thronged street, and hailed a passing cab.

“Gargantuan Hotel,” was Cliff’s order to the driver.

As the cab rolled toward its destination, Cliff Marsland methodically extracted the black envelope from his pocket, tore the object to pieces, and let the fragments flutter from the window. The young man smiled grimly to himself.

There would be adventure tonight — adventure in the service of The Shadow. Cliff’s brief instructions had given him a definite duty. He would be ready to aid The Shadow in frustrating a daring but well-planned crime.

Duffy Bagland, with his mobsmen planted, would soon await the signal for a foray to a goal which he had not revealed. The Shadow, with one man at his disposal, would be there to meet him.

The odds?

Cliff Marsland again smiled grimly as he contemplated that phase of the situation. With The Shadow’s strategy as the guiding force, numerical odds meant nothing. Cliff was eager for the action which lay ahead tonight.