Treasures of Death

CHAPTER XX THE SHADOW LEAVES

DOCTOR RUPERT SAYRE opened the door of a bedroom in his apartment. He stepped in and looked at the tall figure that lay stretched beneath the covers. A wan face turned in his direction. A slight smile appeared upon the features of Lamont Cranston.

“Feeling better?” questioned Sayre.

“Yes,” came Cranston’s reply. “Better, but weak.”

“You lost a lot of blood, old man,” declared Sayre. “That — and the fall you must have taken — were worse than the bullet.”

“You have not inquired how it all happened.”

There was a challenge in Cranston’s tone. Keen eyes were fixed upon Sayre’s face. The physician noted the look. He became serious as he seated himself beside the bed.

“Let me mention something,” he remarked. “When I was summoned here, I found you unconscious, Mr. Cranston. My first action, of course, was to care for your wounds. I recognized you, Mr. Cranston, because we have met in the past.

“When you recovered from your coma, you began to talk. I questioned you, but received no satisfactory reply. Your temperature had reached a fever point. It was unwise to move you. I brought a nurse here to look out for you while I was absent.”

“You informed no one else that I was here?”

“No one.”

“Why not?”

“A natural question. It was my duty to inform the police that a man suffering from a bullet wound had come to my office. There was a reason, however, why I shirked my required duty. At certain times, a physician must use his own discretion.

“I have mentioned that you talked to me. Incoherently, indeed; yet there were certain statements that brought vivid recollections to my mind. Once, Mr. Cranston, I went through a most terrible experience. I was a prisoner in the hands of a fiend, who intended to slay me as well as others.

“A miraculous intervention saved my life. Some one — an unknown being clad in black — stepped in and brought doom to those who deserved it, as well as rescue to myself and those whom the fiend intended as his victims. That weird rescuer, I learned, was a mysterious personage who is called The Shadow.”

Burning eyes were fixed upon Doctor Rupert Sayre. The physician did not see them. He was staring at the wall beyond the bed as he continued his reminiscence.

“From then on,” declared Sayre, “I knew that I owed an everlasting debt to some one whom I could never find. I retained my gratitude toward The Shadow. When you talked with me, three nights ago, you mentioned facts concerning my past episodes. I knew then that you—”

Sayre paused. His clear eyes met the keen optics that stared from either side of Cranston’s hawklike nose. The physician spoke slowly and soberly.

“I knew,” he declared, “that you might have been — well, let us say sent here — through the agency of The Shadow. From then on, circumstances did not concern me. It was my duty to see that you gained complete recovery.”

“I feel better now,” came Cranston’s quiet tone. “I suppose that the time has come for me to leave here.”

“Not for three days at least!” exclaimed Sayre, warningly, returning to his professional sense. “You must remain in bed. You have just recuperated from a most serious condition. This is the first time that I have found you in a lucid mental state.”

Cranston’s head dropped wearily upon the pillows.

“Your strength would fail you,” explained Sayre. “If there is anything that I can do for you, in addition to my professional services, I shall be glad to—”

“A telephone,” interposed Cranston.

Sayre went to the hall. He brought in a telephone on a long extension wire. He retired from the room and closed the door behind him. A pale smile appeared upon Cranston’s thin lips.

CALLING a number, Cranston waited. His eyes were gleaming; a strange light showed upon his face. He was The Shadow, his mental power fully returned, though his physical form had weakened.

“Burbank speaking,” came a voice over the wire.

In a low, whispered voice, The Shadow began to question his contact agent. Burbank’s replies came in short, negative monotones. The Shadow was seeking information. It was totally lacking. There had been no report from Harry Vincent.

The call ended. The telephone clattered to the floor. Doctor Sayre appeared promptly. His face showed alarm; then he noted that Cranston had merely made the gesture to summon him. The millionaire was lying comfortably, his gaze fixed on the wall ahead.

“Anything else?” questioned Sayre.

Cranston’s head shook.

“I am going out,” informed the physician. “I shall return shortly. Be careful in the meantime. You lack the strength for any effort. I doubt that you could walk a dozen yards.”

Sayre left. Cranston remained unmoving for a full five minutes. Then, with suddenness, he raised himself upright in bed, using his left arm as a prop. He gained his feet, wavered unsteadily and crossed the room.

His clothes were lying on the chair. Cranston, using his left hand, managed to slip garments over his pajamas. He staggered from the bedroom and caught himself as he arrived in the living room. Stooping, he reached beneath the couch and brought out the blackened garments that he had left there.

Once the black cloak had obscured Cranston’s form; when the black slouch hat had covered his features, Doctor Sayre’s emergency patient seemed imbued with a new life. He was The Shadow. His automatics slipped beneath his cloak. Steadily, though slowly, he stalked into the outer hall.

The tall form became obscure. It reached the street. A taxi was standing there. The Shadow flitted close beside it. The door opened; the tall figure entered unseen. The taxi driver became aware that he had a passenger only when a voice spoke from the rear seat to give a destination.

The cab rolled along. As it stopped near an avenue a mile or more from Sayre’s, a bank note floated down upon the driver’s lap. The taximan stared into the rear of the car and turned on the light. His mysterious passenger was gone!

A CLICK sounded later. The noise took place in a darkened room. It was The Shadow’s sanctum; the polished table showed itself as the bluish glare appeared above. Hands came into the light. The left, with its sparkling girasol, moved with flashing speed. The right lay practically motionless.

The left hand caught a set of earphones from the wall beyond the table. A tiny light gleamed to indicate a connection. The Shadow’s whisper spoke from the gloom. He was talking again to Burbank.

“Message to the Cobalt Club,” ordered The Shadow. “Say that you are speaking for Mr. Cranston. Stanley is to have the limousine in readiness.”

The earphones dropped back into place. The left hand disappeared; then, from somewhere, it brought a small bottle that contained a purplish liquid. The top of the bottle was a cup that the fingers removed.

Drops trickled into the inverted cap. The pungent odor of a strange elixir filled the sanctum. The left hand removed the little cup and carried it to unseen lips. When the hand returned, the cup was empty.

The Shadow’s laugh sounded softly in the gloom. The left hand took away the closed bottle. Even the right hand was capable of motion now.

A thin, flat box appeared upon the table. Its cover opened.

Articles of make-up lay within the box. These were the items that The Shadow used in effecting a disguise. Tonight, there was no reason why he might need his usual facial mask that enabled him to pass as Lamont Cranston, millionaire clubman.

The interior of the box had a mirrored surface that reflected the light above. Within were articles of make-up that would have amazed those who thought themselves expert in the art of facial disguise.

The light went out. The Shadow’s laugh again sounded, this time in the total darkness of the mysterious room. Uncanny reverberations died as ghoulish echoes. The sanctum was empty.

STANLEY, seated in the limousine outside the Cobalt Club, was surprised later on, to hear the voice of Lamont Cranston speaking from the darkness. The chauffeur had not heard his master enter the car.

“Through the Holland Tunnel, Stanley,” came Cranston’s order. “Then to the town of Houlton, New Jersey. You may take the car home from there. I have an appointment which I must keep.”

A soft laugh sounded as Stanley drove the car from the club. The Shadow was anticipating the events that were to come. Wounded and weakened, he had imbibed the reviving fluid of the elixir that he kept within his sanctum. With its aid, he was starting forth to reach the spot where danger stalked.

Yet the whispered mirth was hollow. In it lay a trace of weariness. Through dripping rain, the limousine was carrying a stalwart fighter who already was losing the inspired power for action that he had so recently regained!