THE SHADOW LAUGHS
by Maxwell Grant
As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," October 1931.

CHAPTER I

DEATH INTERRUPTS

A TAXICAB skirted around the corner. Violently, brakes clamped on before
the third house in the row. An odd, elongated figure stepped briskly to the
sidewalk, hurriedly thrust a bill into the driver's hand, and then, looking
neither to right nor left, hurried up the steps to the house.
Within the hallway, the man stood for a moment, as though enjoying a sense
of security for that brief interval.
The dim light revealed his thin, pale face, and his slightly stooped
figure, clad in a poorly fitted gray suit. He was about thirty-five years of
age, but the worried expression of his features made him look older.
A middle-aged woman came down the stairs and smiled as she greeted the new
arrival.
"I hadn't expected you for another week, Mr. Jarnow," she said, "but your
room is ready."
"Thank you, Mrs. Johnson," returned the man at the door. "You're always
ready here. This is one rooming house that seems like home."
"Thank you, Mr. Jarnow. But I am sorry that you had to come back to
Philadelphia during this hot spell. The last few days have been scorchers. You
must have found it cooler, away from town -"
"I had to hurry back, because I'm expecting a visitor - a Mr. Windsor. Has
he come?"
"No one has called to see you."
"If he comes, send him up, please. But make sure it is Mr. Windsor."
Jarnow hurried up the stairs and entered a room at the back of the house.
He went to the window, opened it, and peered down into the narrow alley below.
Then he closed the window, and drew the shade to its full extent.
Having concluded these precautions, he turned on a study lamp that hung
above a small table, and locked the door of the room.
A glance at his watch showed eight o'clock.
"He should be here now," muttered Jarnow. "He said he would come, and he
should be here by now."
A minute ticked by, and the man in the room became restless. He paced the
floor back and forth, his hands closing and opening nervously. He stopped by
the door to listen. While he stood there, intent, he heard voices in the
hallway.
There was a tap at the door, and the man drew back as though afraid. Then
came the voice of the landlady.
"Mr. Windsor is here."
Jarnow unlocked the door, and admitted the visitor.
The newcomer was faultlessly attired in a tuxedo, and his rather jolly
expression contrasted noticeably with Jarnow's serious face.
"Hello, Frank," said the visitor. "Here I am; just about on the dot. Glad
to see you. What's all the excitement about?"
Jarnow closed the door, withdrawing the key as the lock clicked, and
motioned his visitor to a chair beside the table. Windsor had been drinking;
his unsteadiness betrayed him even more than his speech.
"You seem rather mysterious, Frank," said Windsor, in an indulgent tone,
as the tall man took the chair on the opposite side of the table. "What's it
all about?"
"It's a serious matter, Henry," replied Jarnow, dropping the key into his
coat pocket. "I've just come from Brookdale."
"Is - is - anything wrong with Blair?" questioned Windsor, assuming an air
of drunken seriousness. "Is anything wrong? Couldn't be anything wrong with good
old Blair?"
"Your brother is all right," said Jarnow, grimly. "All right, so far as
health is concerned. But there is danger there, Henry. Serious danger.
"You've got to sober up, Henry. I have important facts to tell you. You
must believe what I say."

HENRY WINDSOR tilted his head to one side. He was a man past forty, and
his pudgy face seemed both solemn and ridiculous. He appeared to be listening
seriously, but Jarnow groaned as he realized that it would be difficult to gain
the man's attention. Henry Windsor had unquestionably reached a state of almost
hopeless intoxication.
"I wish you were sober," said Jarnow. "I've got to talk to you now, Henry.
I can't wait until tomorrow. It is a matter on which life depends."
"Blair is in danger?" asked Henry Windsor. "Tell me about it, Frank. I'll
do anything to help Blair. He's my only brother, Frank. My kid brother. Ten
years younger than I am. Means a lot to me, Frank. Don't say anything's wrong
with Blair."
"Listen, Henry," exclaimed Jarnow. "Forget your brother for a minute. I
want to talk to you - about yourself. You are in danger. Real danger -"
"I can't forget Blair," interrupted Henry Windsor, in pathetic tones.
"He's all I've got in the world, Frank. He's made good, that boy.
"You know, Frank, when our grandfather died, he left me nearly half a
million, and he gave Blair only fifty thousand. Look at me now - I've got all
my money yet, but no more. Live off the interest - that's what I do.
"Blair didn't have enough to live off the interest. He left Philadelphia.
He went away - up to Boston, you know. Made money there. Maybe he's worth as
much as I am, now. He deserves it, Frank. He's going to get my pile of dough
when I die. He's younger than I am, Frank. He'll live longer -"
"Steady up, Henry!" interrupted Frank Jarnow. "Keep quiet, and listen to
me. I know all about your money, and that's where the danger lies.
"Something has happened, Henry; it affects both you and Blair. I want you
to know all about it before it is too late."
Henry Windsor lurched forward slightly in his chair, then steadied himself
against the table. He propped his chin on one hand, and seemed to make an effort
to listen intelligently. He had gained a temporary soberness that gave
reassurance to Frank Jarnow.
The tall man looked nervously about the room; then leaned forward and
spoke in a low, firm voice.
"I arrived at Brookdale two days ago," he said. "I was to stay two weeks.
Blair told me to stay as long as I wished. There are several people staying
there. I thought they were friends of Blair's; but I found out -"
He paused. Henry Windsor's eyes were closed, and he seemed to be half
asleep. Jarnow reached across the table, and shook the man impatiently.
"Stop it!" exclaimed Windsor, starting to rise from the table in sudden
anger. Jarnow pushed him back into the chair.
"You'll be sorry for this!" cried Henry Windsor, indignantly. "Don't try
that again. You'll be mighty sorry for it."
"Listen to me," said Jarnow. His voice carried a command. "I suspected
something the first day that I was at Brookdale. I investigated on the second
day. This morning I discovered the truth. I found this here -"
He drew a small sheet of paper from his pocket and spread it before Henry
Windsor's eyes.
"Can't read it without my glasses," said the other man. "Read it to me,
Frank. What does it say?"
"It says," replied Jarnow, "that Blair Windsor -"
His lips became rigid. He was staring over Henry Windsor's head, toward
the door beyond.
"What does it say?" questioned Henry Windsor.
Two shots reverberated through the little room. Frank Jarnow sprawled
across the table, one hand firmly clutching the sheet of paper, the other
extended against Henry Windsor's shoulder. Windsor, half rising, nearly toppled
to the table.
The light clicked out.
"Frank," mumbled Henry Windsor. "Speak to me, Frank!"
Befuddled though he was, he fancied he heard Frank Jarnow moving by the
table. He reached out to steady himself and his hand rested on Jarnow's neck.
Groping along the table, Henry Windsor touched metal, and his fingers
clutched the handle of a revolver.

THERE was a crash at the door. The wooden barrier gave slightly; excited
voices were shouting outside. Henry Windsor became suddenly aroused.
"Good old Frank," he said. "Shot good old Frank. I'll stop them!"
The door fell. A hand pressed the wall switch that controlled the ceiling
light.
In the midst of the illumination, Henry Windsor faced the doorway and
raised the revolver. But before he could press the trigger, a man leaped
forward and wrested the gun from his hand. Windsor was overpowered by three of
the intruders.
"Shot Frank Jarnow!" exclaimed Henry Windsor as he was pressed against the
wall. "Frank's dead! You'll be sorry for this. I'll kill all of you!"
A woman screamed from the doorway. It was the landlady, following the men
who had broken down the door.
Some one was running for the police.
Chaos seemed to rule the house, and in the midst of it lay the silent form
of Frank Jarnow.

THE morning newspapers carried a sensational story. The very circumstances
of the tragedy marked it as the most startling crime news that had broken in
Philadelphia during that placid summer.
Henry Windsor, wealthy clubman, had murdered his friend, Frank Jarnow, in
an obscure boarding house. The occupants had broken in and had managed to
overpower the murderer before he could escape, and he had threatened to kill
them, also. They had heard him confess his guilt.
Pictures of Henry Windsor and Frank Jarnow were on the front page, with a
photograph of the boarding house and a picture of Mrs. Johnson.
But amid the multitude of words that crowded the columns of the journals,
a most important statement did not appear.
There was no mention whatever of the uncompleted sentence which Frank
Jarnow was uttering when death interrupted him!

CHAPTER II

DETECTIVE GRIFFITH INVESTIGATES

SHORTLY before noon, Detective Harvey Griffith entered Mrs. Johnson's
rooming house. Griffith, the keenest man on the force, had been out of town on
another case, and had come to view the scene of the murder immediately upon his
return.
He found a policeman in the room on the second floor, but the body of the
murdered man was no longer there.
"They moved the body out," explained the officer. "Got all the evidence
there was. This fellow Windsor didn't have a chance to get away. Lucky he was
drunk. He might have shot them when they grabbed him.
"Harrison is handling the case; he'll be up in a minute. He's talking to
the landlady now."
The sound of whistling came from the stairs, and a tall young man entered
the room. He stopped suddenly when he encountered the short, stolid form of the
star detective.
"Hello, Griffith," he said. "Sorry you didn't get here before we removed
the body. You could have seen the whole layout. No mystery to it; they got the
man quick enough. Guess you read it in the papers."
"You can't rely on them," replied Griffith. "Let's hear what you found
out. I just thought that there might be a link between this murder and some of
the cases I handled before I took my vacation. That's why I drove up from
Atlantic City. If you've landed the right man, I'll head for the shore again,
to-night. But if you haven't -"
Harrison smiled at the seriousness of Griffith's expression. The star
detective was always ready to make a tremendous mystery out of a simple case.
Some there were who claimed that he exaggerated all crimes purposely.
"Well," explained Harrison, referring to notations, "Frank Jarnow came in
at exactly eight o'clock. Arrived in town suddenly. Went up to his room. Told
Mrs. Johnson - landlady - that he expected Mr. Windsor. At about eight fifteen,
Henry Windsor arrived, nicely drunk. Came into the room. Mrs. Johnson showed him
in; she heard Jarnow lock the door.
"A boarder going by the room at about eight thirty - on his way up to the
third floor - heard a voice say: 'You'll be sorry for this!' Claims it was
Windsor's voice - he heard Windsor speak afterward.
"Just after eight thirty the shots were fired - two of them. People rushed
upstairs. Smashed down the door. Found the light out; Windsor holding the gun.
He threatened to shoot to kill. They disarmed him.
"He said he shot Jarnow - also said the same thing down at the district
station, but he says he doesn't remember bringing a gun, nor does he remember
the actual action of firing it. Claims his mind is pretty much a blank - says
his friends will testify that he gets that way when he boozes."
"Mm-m-m!" grunted Griffith. "How long between the time when the shots were
fired and the time they captured Windsor?"
"We reckon it at about five or six minutes."
"How did Windsor get in?"
"The landlady let him in."
"The front door wasn't locked when I came here just now."
"No; they don't lock it until midnight."
Griffith looked about the room.
"Where was Jarnow?" he asked.
Harrison silently took his position in the chair, and slumped on the table
- to indicate the position of the murdered man.
"And Windsor?" questioned Griffith.
Harrison pointed to the chair opposite.
Griffith sat in the place which Henry Windsor had occupied, and remained
thoughtful for a few moments.
"What about the bullets?" he asked.
"They're from Windsor's gun," replied Harrison, "His finger prints are on
the gun, too. Windsor must have stood up to shoot; Jarnow was just about to get
up; the bullets came downward at a slight angle."
"How tall is Windsor?"
"About your height."
"How tall was Jarnow?"
"About my height."

GRIFFITH walked to the window; raised it; and looked below. The alley was
slightly raised; the distance was about nine feet to the ground.
"Window unlocked?" asked Griffith.
"It was," replied Harrison. "Raised just a fraction of an inch at the
bottom. Shade fully drawn."
Griffith walked about the room, whistling softly.
"What's that?" he asked, pointing to a tiny scrap of paper that lay on the
floor near the table.
"Don't know how I missed that," said Harrison. "Looks like it was torn
from a larger sheet."
Griffith picked up the bit of paper, and laid it on the table.
Harrison's conjecture was correct; it was a scrap from a larger sheet. It
appeared to be the corner, and it bore two written letters - o and r.
"The word 'or'," said Harrison, promptly.
"Don't be too sure of that," replied Griffith. "Why would 'or' be in the
lower right corner?"
"There might be another sheet following," returned Harrison. "What is it
if it isn't 'or'?"
"Some other word ending in the letters o and r."
"Such as -"
"Windsor."
Harrison was dumfounded at Griffith's terse reply. Somehow, the star
detective always managed to gain his point; was always able to prove that
something could be added to evidence.
"Here's all we found on Jarnow," said Harrison, pulling a large envelope
from his pocket. "We can add the piece of paper to the collection."
He slid the miscellaneous articles on the table. Griffith fished among
them.
"Probably nothing here," he said, "except a few notes that may be of
value."
Griffith picked up an envelope, and observed some penciled notations. They
were short, with initials, such as B, and H; and it was quite possible that they
might prove important.
"Better let me look these over," said Griffith.
"Suit yourself," replied Harrison. "There's nothing else there - except
eighty dollars in cash; that's all that is valuable."
Griffith continued to rummage through the remaining articles.
"Bring them along with you," suggested Harrison. "You're coming right
down, aren't you?"
"I may stop at the morgue," replied Griffith. "I'd like to see the body.
But I won't be there long."
"All right," said Harrison.
He left, followed by the policeman, who had been a silent observer of the
proceedings.

LEFT to himself, Detective Griffith walked about the room; then returned
to the table. He studied both the notes, and the sheet of paper.
Then he put them back in the envelope, and picked up the money. It
consisted of three twenty-dollar bills, and two tens. The tens were old, and
worn. The twenty-dollar bills were crisp.
"Not important!" grunted Griffith. "Valuable. Worth twenty dollars
apiece?" - he held one of the crisp bills to the light - "not worth twenty
cents each! Phony mazuma. On Jarnow, the murdered man. Passed on him? Planted
on him? Or -" Griffith shrugged his shoulders significantly.
The detective studied both the door, and the window. Then he sat at the
table, where Windsor had been. Suddenly he stood up, and bumped his head
against the hanging study lamp.
He stepped back, and pointed an imaginary pistol toward the spot where
Jarnow had been seated. He repeated the experiment, avoiding the lamp.
"So Windsor was here," observed Griffith. "He stood up, and shot downward.
Funny, wasn't it? The light was right in front of his eyes - green shade and
all!"
The detective pulled a notebook from his pocket, and began to mark
details. He arranged events on a schedule, and studied the times that
intervened. When he had finished, he talked aloud - though softly - in order to
make each finding clear.
"After Henry Windsor entered," he said, "Frank Jarnow locks the door but
does not lock the window. That might be all right - still -" he paused
doubtfully.
"Then," he added, "Windsor shoots Jarnow from an almost impossible
position. Funny that Jarnow let him do it. When they crashed the door, they
took the gun away from Windsor.
"What was Windsor's motive, anyway? He certainly didn't plan well. He had
about five minutes to get away; but he didn't go - not even through that
window. Sober enough to shoot Jarnow; too drunk to put up a fight, or to
escape. Doesn't sound right, does it?"
The detective made another survey of the room; then drew some diagrams,
and made penciled notations. He went out into the hallway, and stood by the
wrecked door. He looked back down the stairs.
"Suppose," he said softly, "that I am an unknown person in this job. I can
come in the front door unnoticed. Up to here; then unlock the door - any
skeleton key would do, and the regular key was in Jarnow's pocket - then sneak
into the room."
He edged through the doorway, and a smile of satisfaction came upon his
face as he noticed the position of the table in front of him. Again he raised
his hand, and pointed his forefinger downward.
"From here," he said, half aloud, "it's a perfect shot! Then -" he stepped
toward the table, and snapped the button on the hanging lamp - "out goes the
light; and out I go - through the window, which remains unlocked."
Griffith sat at the table, and laughed.
"The gun?" he said, as though asking himself the question. "Wipe the
handle; then plant it right in Windsor's hand.
"That slip of paper? Either Windsor or Jarnow had it. Our man snatched it,
and a piece tore off. No time to hunt for it."
The detective again reviewed his progress of crime reconstruction, and he
seemed more satisfied than before. He went to the window, and peered below.
There might be evidence there, he thought, but at the moment, he had a
more important idea.
Picking up the envelope, Griffith took another look at the twenty-dollar
bills. The presence of what might be counterfeit currency added a new angle of
interest.
Whom did it involve; Henry Windsor, or Frank Jarnow?

THE question puzzled Detective Griffith as he walked down the stairs. He
went to the back of the house, and made a few observations, both up the wall,
and on the ground.
Then he returned to the room, and examined the window sill. He had seen no
marks there before; now he observed what appeared to be a slight smudge. He
shook his head.
"Looks like a handkerchief or something was laid there," he said. "There's
a clever man in this somewhere. Enough sense to avoid finger prints during the
get-away.
"There's a man in this - a man you're going to meet some time, Harvey
Griffith, and let's hope it's soon."
Satisfied with his accumulated evidence, the star detective walked from
the rooming house, and moved leisurely along the street. He smiled as he
thought of Harrison.
It would have been foolish to have mentioned a single clue, except, of
course, the piece of paper, which Harrison should have found. Griffith knew
from experience that it was best to gather all possible evidence before
mentioning any of it.
"There's 'ifs' to it," he acknowledged. "But if the bills are phony; if
the other man came in; if -"
He remembered the slip of paper, and drew out his notebook. He marked down
an item: to check the writing of the letters "o" and "r" with any available copy
of Henry Windsor's handwriting.
"If these clues hold together," observed Griffith. "It's going to mean a
lot to Henry Windsor. They've got the goods on him so far, and he's an easy
goat. It may be lucky for him that I begin where Harrison leaves off."
So thinking, the detective continued his easy pace. These clues could wait
a little while, locked in his brain, and recorded in his notebook.
For as yet, Harvey Griffith had not seen the body of the murdered man.
After that had been inspected, he would be ready for action.
"Yes," concluded the detective, "I have a hunch that this visit to the
morgue will lead me to the murderer."

CHAPTER III

IN THE MORGUE

THE city morgue was located in an old brick building that stood on a side
street. It had been erected many years before, in the days when windows were
few; and the architect had apparently sought to make the structure as
forbidding as possible.
Detective Harvey Griffith stepped into gloom the moment that he left the
street. He entered a long, echoing hall, that was illuminated by two small
electric lights.
Visitors to the morgue had often remarked upon the depression that seemed
to grip them when they entered the portals of the ugly building, but Griffith
had been there too often to sense this natural repulsion.
There was a door at the right of the hall; it was open, and it showed the
dingy office, where an attendant sat at a dilapidated desk. The man glanced
upward and waved his hand in recognition.
"Hello, Mike," greeted Griffith. "I've come to take a look at the body."
"You'll find it downstairs," replied the man at the desk. "It's on truck
number six. You won't have any trouble finding it."
"Many people been in to see it?"
"Not yet. It was identified at the house. Couple of reporters came in.
Expect there'll be more later on; probably some female ones."
"Yeah. They send the sob sisters out on these cases now. Gruesome details
have a new touch when women write about them."
"You don't want to talk to any newspaper people, do you?"
"Send them down if they come in. They won't bother me, and they won't
learn anything. It's not my case anyway. Harrison is on it."
Mike laughed.
"Well," he said, "they've got to play up this murder with a lot of bunk.
There's no mystery about it."
"No mystery?" murmured Griffith to himself, as he walked to the end of the
hall. "We'll see about that."
Descending the stone steps at the rear of the building, Griffith entered
the chamber below. His footsteps echoed on the concrete floor of the low room
as he walked to the truck on which lay the body of Frank Jarnow.
The room was well illuminated, and Griffith stood a few feet away from the
corpse, studying every detail. With his left hand across his breast, and his
right against his chin, the detective became as motionless as the form which he
surveyed. He stood like a statue, in a room of silence.
After a time, he leaned forward, and looked at Frank Jarnow's form from
close range. He felt through the pockets of the murdered man, but found that
Harrison had made a thorough search. Then he stood back, and resumed his first
position, looking at the body of the murdered man.
His eyes rested on Jarnow's face: the dead man's eyes were staring; the
mouth was half-open, as though some terrible realization had caught the man at
the instant of death.

FOOTFALLS came from the steps, and Griffith turned to see a young man of
medium height enter the chamber. The critical eyes of the detective studied the
newcomer.
The fellow was about thirty years of age; his face was sallow, and his
eyes were sharp. The man stopped, openmouthed, and glanced about him.
"Well?" growled Griffith.
The man blinked his eyes, and looked at the detective with a foolish smile.
"I'm from the Gazette," he said. "My name's Bolton. Harry Bolton. You're
Detective Griffith, aren't you?"
"Yeah. You're a new man on the Gazette, aren't you?"
"Yes, sir. They just gave me a city job. Used to be an out-of-town
correspondent. First time I've ever been in this place. Woozy, isn't it?"
Griffith laughed.
"I never felt it that way," he said. "Guess I'm used to it."
He glanced around him, as though conscious for the first time of his
surroundings. He realized that the place was indeed forbidding. The walls of
solid masonry made it a sound-proof dungeon. The rows of trucks, a few of them
occupied with bodies, lent a sinister aspect to the situation.
The detective noted that the reporter was sniffing, as though trying to
recognize the peculiar, pungent odor which saturated the atmosphere of this
hideous room.
"Formaldehyde," explained Griffith.
"Oh, that's what it is," replied the reporter, removing his hat, and
displayed a shock of black hair. He shook his head as though to fight off a
feeling of nausea; then he glanced toward the body of Frank Jarnow. The sight
of the murdered man did not seem to annoy him.
"I've seen a lot of dead ones," he explained. "It wasn't that that
bothered me. It was walking into the place with that smell of formaldehyde
hitting me so quick. It seemed like I was out of the world, just cut off from
everything.
"The lights are bright" - he looked at the row of brilliant incandescents
- "outside of that, it's the gloomiest place I ever saw."
The reporter walked about the room, as though to familiarize himself with
the strange surroundings. White, blank walls on every side. He and the
detective were the only living persons in this compartment where death reigned.
Bolton stopped, and then looked at Griffith, who was again studying the
corpse. The reporter approached the detective, and also observed the lifeless
figure.
"I don't know what kind of a story you're going to get here," said
Griffith. "The story happened last night. Seems like the papers always send men
around after everything's over.
"Guess they thought the experience would be good for a new man like you.
Otherwise I can't see what you're going to learn."
"Well," replied the reporter, "they like to get the story from every
angle. I'm kind of lucky at that, finding you here. Maybe you've got some new
opinion on the case."
"It isn't my case," laughed Griffith. "Detective Harrison is handling it.
I'm just looking in on it, because it interests me."
"The Gazette heard that you might take charge," persisted the reporter.
"The motive hasn't been established yet. It's an important case, even though
the murderer is known - for Henry Windsor is well known in this town. So if you
have any opinion -"
"None at all," snapped Griffith. "I keep my opinion to myself, young
fellow. Harrison has the facts. See him."
"It couldn't have been premeditated," observed the reporter, ignoring the
detective's antagonistic air. "When Windsor fired that gun he gave it all away.
"Funny thing to do - use a gun up there. If he had intended to kill
Jarnow, he could have stabbed him better - but he would have had to use a knife
- from in back -"

DETECTIVE GRIFFITH laughed good-naturedly. The wandering talk of the
reporter pleased him - for it was drawing the conversation from a touchy point;
namely the shots that killed Frank Jarnow.
With his newly found clues, the star detective was anxious to avoid any
interview concerning the murder. So he interrupted suddenly, taking advantage
of Bolton's reference to a knife.
"Did you ever see any one use a knife?" he asked.
The reporter shook his head.
"You don't know anything about it then," continued Griffith. "Stabs don't
have to come from in back. Look at this."
He lowered his right hand to his side, and half clenched his fist,
indicating an imaginary knife. Then he swung his arm forward, and upward,
directly toward the reporter's body. Bolton stepped back nervously, and turned
half away, to avoid the sweep of the detective's arm.
"That's the system," said Griffith. "One thrust like that, and it's all
over - if the man knows how to do it."
The detective was standing with his right arm still outstretched, a
knowing smile on his face, as though pleased with his demonstration.
"Like this," replied the reporter suddenly. He swung toward the detective,
and his right hand shot upward from beneath his coat, in exact duplication of
Griffith's movement. But Bolton's arm was swifter, and amazingly sure in aim.
The detective emitted one startled gasp as he saw the flash of steel in
the other man's hand. Then the long, thin knife was buried in his body.
With a grotesque twist, Detective Harvey Griffith toppled forward and fell
across the body of Frank Jarnow.
The pretended reporter drew the blade from his victim's body, and calmly
wiped it on the dead detective's coat. He did not seem nervous now; in fact he
was extremely calm, and a contemptuous smile lit his sallow face.
He slipped the knife within his belt, into the sheath from which he had
drawn it under cover of his coat. Then he stooped forward, and his fingers
quickly moved through the pockets of the dead detective.
His smile increased as he opened the envelope containing the articles
which Frank Jarnow had once owned. He pocketed the envelope, and then rapidly
purloined Griffith's notebook, and other articles of value.
With one foot, he drew a truck toward him; then rolled the detective's
body upon it, and pushed the truck back to its position.
He opened a cigarette case which he had removed from Griffith's coat, and
coolly lighted a cigarette. He studied the bodies that lay before him as a
craftsman might admire his workmanship.
"You butted into it, Griffith," he said, softly. "I thought you were on
the right trail. So you had to go too.
"I made a nice getaway last night - good enough to fool that dumb-bell
Harrison - but Harvey Griffith was wise. Wise, but not cautious.
"You didn't have a story for a poor reporter, did you? Well, you've made
one now. A better one than that fellow -"
He waved his hand toward the form of Frank Jarnow. Then, puffing easily
upon his cigarette, the murderer strolled across the gruesome room, and
ascended the steps.
Mike, busy at the desk, heard the supposed reporter stop at the door, and
called to him without glancing in his direction.
"Did Griffith give you a good story?" he asked.
"No," was the calm reply. "I don't think he knows anything at all."
The door of the morgue slammed as the man departed.

CHAPTER IV

AN UNOFFICIAL REPORT

IT was the morning after the murder of Detective Harvey Griffith. A
round-faced gentleman with an amiable smile was at work in his inner office on
the fifteenth floor of the Grandville Building, in New York. He was none other
than Claude H. Fellows, the prosperous insurance broker.
To-day, this gentleman's mind was absorbed in unusual work. With large
spectacles adjusted to his nose, he was reading through a newspaper. The
columns in which he was interested referred to the murders of Frank Jarnow and
Detective Harvey Griffith.
Methodically, Fellows transcribed important details to a sheet of paper.
His careful eyes overlooked no salient fact.
On his desk was a stack of Philadelphia newspapers through which he had
already read carefully. Finishing the last one, he gathered up the entire pile
and disposed of them in a large wastebasket.
Going to his personal typewriter, the insurance broker copied the
memoranda that he had made. Back at his desk, he read the condensed report.
The top of the typewritten page gave such simple facts as the location of
Mrs. Johnson's rooming house, and the Philadelphia morgue - the two places
where the murders had transpired. Then followed two disconnected accounts: the
first referred to the death of Jarnow; the second to the demise of Griffith.

The first trace of Frank Jarnow was when he called Henry Windsor by long
distance from New York. H.W. remembers the call. It reached him at the Civic
Club; the operator there corroborates it. H.W. claims to have made an
appointment for eight o'clock with F.J., at the latter's room.
F.J. arrived in taxi at eight. Came in on train from New York. Taxi driver
substantiates this. Went up to room, expecting H.W., who arrived fifteen minutes
later.
H.W. had been drinking. Was unsteady. Went in room with F.J. Door was
locked. Roomer heard argument between men. Words said by H.W. were "You'll be
sorry for this."
Two shots fired at eight thirty. People broke into room. Time elapsed,
nearly five minutes. Captured H.W. with gun. He tried to resist. F.J. lying
dead.
H.W. accused of murder. Does not remember carrying gun or firing shots.
Agrees he must have done it, however. Seems to be in a stupor. Being held by
Philadelphia police without bail. His brother, Blair Windsor, Boston
stockbroker, is expected to arrive in Philadelphia, coming from Massachusetts.
Only information on Frank Jarnow: Philadelphia bank teller. Good
reputation. Left a week ago for vacation in Maine. Arrival home unexpected.
Only relatives in California.

* * * * * *

Detective Harvey Griffith arrived morning after murder of F.J. Went to
house where murder had taken place.
From there to morgue to view body of F.J.
A man claiming to be a reporter entered morgue, and was alone with H.G.
downstairs. So-called reporter left. H.G. did not come up. Half hour later,
Mike Burke, in charge at morgue, went down and found the body of H.G. Had been
stabbed to death.
Murder is attributed to Philadelphia crooks. H.G. was to testify on
important case. Apparently good opportunity to get rid of him. Had many enemies.
Notebook and other articles taken from H.G., including envelope containing
items in pocket of Jarnow. This was given to H.G. by Detective Harrison, man on
Jarnow case. Harrison had list of articles. None important, except eighty
dollars cash.
Conclusion: No possible connection between two murders. All newspapers
agree on this. Murder of Griffith has put Jarnow murder in background.

The insurance broker folded the typewritten sheet, and placed it in an
envelope. He pressed a buzzer. The stenographer entered.
"Take this to the Jonas office," directed Fellows, giving her the envelope.
He watched her through the door of his inner office as she picked up her
purse and went through the outer door. Then, alone, his mind indulged in
speculation.
He went back over the recent episodes of his life, and he wondered what
the future would hold for him.
For Claude Fellows was the confidential agent of a strange, mysterious
individual known as The Shadow - a man whose name struck terror into the hearts
of those who dwelt in the underworld.
Who was The Shadow?
That was a question that no one seemed able to answer. He was an uncanny
being who was capable of being everywhere; yet who also had the peculiar
ability of being nowhere. His name was scarcely more than a myth among
gangsters; yet they dreaded it.
Some had claimed that they had heard his voice coming through spaceless
ether, over the radio. But at the broadcasting studio, no one knew the identity
of The Shadow.
He was said to have been allotted a special room, hung with curtains of
heavy black velvet, along a twisting corridor. There, masked and robed, he
faced the unseeing microphone.
A spy of the underworld had contrived to enter the broadcasting studio, to
watch the door of the room that was supposed to be The Shadow's. Yet no one ever
entered that room!
A crook whose specialty was wire-tapping had managed to secure a position
as radiotrician at the studio. But even the most astute questioning of his
fellow workers had brought nothing to light. Around the studio, The Shadow was
almost as much a myth as on the outside.
Only his voice was known. It might be that he broadcast by remote control,
his voice coming to the studio by private wire. No one knew. Yet millions had
heard the voice of The Shadow over the radio, and with it, his fear-striking
laugh.
There were those who had met The Shadow. But even they had no knowledge of
his identity.
The only man who felt sure that he knew The Shadow's real personality was
Claude Fellows - and he had gained his information during a period of emergency.
Fellows had entered the service of The Shadow in order to avoid financial
failure. His only contact with the mysterious being was through messages which
Fellows sent to an office in an old building on Twenty-third Street, east of
Broadway. The office was apparently deserted. On its door appeared the name,
"B. Jonas."
In return, Fellows received letters, written in simple code which he could
read quickly. The writing was in a special kind of ink, which disappeared
shortly after the letter had been opened.
The insurance broker was an excellent man for gathering detailed
information. He followed all The Shadow's instructions perfectly. In return, he
received a substantial salary, which came from some unknown source.
The Shadow was, of course, a man of considerable wealth. Fellows had
recognized this from the start. On one occasion, the insurance broker had gone
to visit a friend named Lamont Cranston, a millionaire who had an estate in New
Jersey, some distance from Newark.
He had gone in Cranston's limousine; and on the way, The Shadow had joined
him in the car, and talked with him in the darkness - only to disappear when the
automobile arrived at the millionaire's home.
But later on, Lamont Cranston had been wounded - in some mysterious fight.
Fellows had gone to see him, and had secured the services of a wireless operator
named Burbank, who operated Cranston's amateur sending station while the
millionaire was incapacitated.
The Shadow worked by radio. He was a man with unlimited resources. Lamont
Cranston had a sending station; he was a millionaire. So Fellows had smiled to
himself, but had said nothing. He, alone, was sure that he knew the identity of
The Shadow.
Where was The Shadow now?
Fellows could not answer that. Lamont Cranston had been away for some
time. He was a man who came and went as he chose. His servants remained in the
house. They never discussed his affairs.
It was while Claude Fellows's mind was still considering the subject of
Lamont Cranston that the door of the outer office opened.
"Come in!" called Fellows.
Some one crossed the outer office. The insurance broker looked up, and his
mouth gaped. For there, in the door of the inner office, stood Lamont Cranston!

CHAPTER V

FELLOWS IS PERPLEXED

FELLOWS arose, and ushered his visitor to a chair. His mind was working
with strange, confused rapidity. He stared at the man who had come into his
office.
Lamont Cranston was a tall man, with rather pronounced features, who
seemed to carry a very bored expression, as though life was rather tasteless.
"What can I do for you, Mr. Cranston?" he asked.
The millionaire smiled wanly.
"I haven't come on business, Claude," he replied. "Why be so formal?
You're an old friend. Call me Lamont."
Fellows laughed in embarrassment.
"I don't see you very often," he said.
"That's because I'm away so much," answered the millionaire. "By the way,
when did you last see me?"
Fellows hesitated.
"Don't you remember?" urged Cranston.
"Well, er -" replied Fellows. "It was the time I came out to your house -
some time ago - when you were - when you -"
"When I was injured, and sent for you?" interrupted Cranston. "Did you
come out then?"
"Yes. That was the time."
Lamont Cranston arose from his chair, and went to the window. He stood,
looking over the sky line of Manhattan, tapping the glass with his knuckles.
Then he turned suddenly, and faced the startled insurance broker.
"I can't understand it, Claude!" he said. "This is a real mystery to me. I
didn't believe it until now."
"Believe what?" gasped Fellows.
"Believe that I am crazy."
"Why?"
"Well, here's the story, Claude. My hobby is to do what I please. I forget
the past. I live in the present. I go away when I choose, and return just as
unexpectedly as I wish. You know that from your own experience with me.
"My establishment is run by Richards, my valet. He has been with me for
years. He knows that I come, and go.
"A few months ago I left for California. I returned home two days ago. I
expect to stay here for a month, at least.
"Yesterday, I slipped on the stairs, and fell against my shoulder. It hurt
me considerably for the moment. Richards saw me, and rushed up in alarm. He
asked if I had injured my wounded shoulder.
"This surprised me. My wounded shoulder! I never had such a thing. I
demanded what Richards meant. The poor fellow looked as though he would liked
to have bitten off his tongue.
"He said that he had made a mistake; he couldn't explain his statement.
Still, I insisted. He apologized, saying that he should not have mentioned
something which I had ordered him never to discuss. That made it worse.
"I realized that Richards was in a predicament. He evidently believed that
I had given him some instructions which he must obey; and that he must not
discuss the subject even though I now demanded it. At last he found a way out.
He passed the buck to you.
"He reminded me that you had come out to see me; that I had sent for you;
and that he really knew very little about the purpose of your visit.
"So I told Richards to forget it. To-day I came in to see you. I want to
know what it's all about."

THE millionaire's statements placed Fellows in an alarming position. Two
thoughts dominated the insurance broker's mind.
First: that Lamont Cranston was The Shadow.
Second: that the episode of The Shadow's injury was to be forgotten.
Richards had unwittingly betrayed his knowledge. Fellows had just been
coaxed into an unwise admission.
He felt that he was being tested. He resolved to meet the crucial
situation.
"Perhaps your memory is at fault, Lamont," he said complacently. "At the
same time I must confess that my own recollection is not very clear.
"I came out to see you some time ago. I don't recall whether or not you
sent for me. It seemed to me that we discussed the subject of injuries - in
reference to accident insurance.
"Richards was there at the time. He may have misunderstood our
conversation, and thought that you had been injured, and that I was there to
arrange an adjustment."
Lamont Cranston seemed puzzled.
"You did come out to see me once," he said. "We talked about insurance
then; but it was fire insurance. Furthermore, it was considerably over a year
and a half ago - before I went to South America."
"We must have talked about accident insurance, too," insisted Fellows.
"No," replied the millionaire. "I have no need for such insurance. My
income takes care of me.
"Furthermore, I gathered from Richards's remarks that this last visit of
yours was quite recent. It must have been just before I went to California, six
months ago."
Fellows shook his head emphatically. At the same time, he felt uneasy. His
visit to Cranston's, when the millionaire had been injured, had taken place not
more than four months before.
"Well," said the millionaire, in a doubting tone, "I guess I'm wrong about
it. I've been away for six solid months. I picked up my affairs exactly as I
left them. I don't bother much with business details. Richards must have been
dreaming.
"Still, the whole thing is very queer. But I'm not going to worry about
it. I can't see that it means anything has gone wrong. Richards is trustworthy,
so I'll let it drop."
"How about lunch together?" suggested Fellows, taking advantage of the
opportunity to change the subject.
"Sorry, Claude," was the reply. "I have an engagement. Come out to the
house some night next week. I'll let you know the date later."
The insurance broker agreed, and the millionaire left the office. But
Fellows sat at his desk, and as the minutes moved by, his mind became more and
more bewildered.
The only explanation he could give to Lamont Cranston's visit was that the
millionaire - whom he had identified with The Shadow - was anxious to have the
episode of his injury forgotten.
Fellows had promised to say nothing about it, when he had answered Lamont
Cranston's summons four months ago. But what was the purpose of this strange
attempt to ferret out his mind - to make him betray some recollection of the
event?
Did The Shadow mistrust him? There could be no reason for that. Perhaps -
the thought was impossible - he was mistaken in The Shadow's identity! Fellows
found himself leaning toward that idea.
Half an hour ago, the insurance broker had been sure that Lamont Cranston
and The Shadow were one man. Now he had lost that conviction. He realized that
his brains were like those of a child, when compared to the master mind of The
Shadow.
The stenographer returned. Fellows still sat at his desk, staring into
space. At last he collected his thoughts, glanced at his wrist watch, and
removed his spectacles.
It was time for lunch.
Fellows had been sitting, wondering, for an hour and a half. Yet he was
still perplexed.

CHAPTER VI

THE SHADOW INVESTIGATES

IT was late in the evening. A misty drizzle was falling, and the lights
above the Philadelphia street were dim in the gloom. The front of Mrs.
Johnson's boarding house was black and shadowy.
Passing cars, sloshing through the muck, cast moving silhouettes upon the
sidewalk and the wall of the house.
Black depths surrounded the steps of the building; and it was from this
murky umbra that a shadow seemed to rise and blot out the door of the house.
In a moment, the blackness was gone, and no sign of it remained. Inside
the rooming house, however, a singular phenomenon occurred.
The landlady, coming along the hall beside the stairs, stopped for a
moment, startled by a peculiar gloom that seemed to flit toward the steps that
led to the second floor. Then she realized that her imagination must be
tricking her.
Quelling her alarm, she locked the front door, and went upstairs.
A new door had been placed in the entrance to the room where Frank Jarnow
had been murdered. Had Mrs. Johnson come up the stairs ten seconds sooner, she
would have been keenly startled. For there was a sharp click in the lock of the
door, and the barrier had opened inward. But, an instant before the landlady
turned at the top of the stairs, the door had closed silently.
The sight of the door made the woman pause. For a moment she listened
instinctively outside the room, imagining that some one might be within.
Hearing no sound, she passed on.
Within the room, a being moved. So stealthy were his steps that they were
soundless, even though the carpet was thin and worn.
The invisible visitor moved here and there, from door to window. Satisfied
that the shade was down, he made his presence known by the thin ray of a tiny
flashlight.
First the illumination fell upon the table, which still was in its same
position under the hanging lamp. The quiet investigator could not be seen; only
the beam of his light indicated his presence.
He moved toward the door; then back to the table. He took a position in
one chair; then in the other. His little flashlight ran along the edges of the
table; then toward the hanging lamp with its green shade.
Within two short minutes, this investigator had followed the same course
that Detective Harvey Griffith had taken on the previous day.
He had learned the important fact that if Henry Windsor had used a pistol
from a standing position, his vision would have been obscured by the shade.
The flashlight reappeared after a moment of darkness. It was at the door,
running along the woodwork of the doorway.
It stopped, and was focused on a smudge in the white paint. A long, thin
finger appeared in the tiny circle of light, and scraped the paint with its
nail.
The doorway had evidently been painted while Frank Jarnow had been away.
The paint had barely dried at the time of his return. Some one, moving slowly
through the doorway, had pressed his left shoulder against the woodwork and had
made the smudge.
The tiniest bit of cloth was in the paint; the finger nail removed it. The
light went to the bottom of the doorway and up again, determining the exact
distance of the smudge above the floor.
Then the light swept about the room, covering every inch of the floor. It
stopped at a wastebasket in the corner. The basket was empty.
An unseen hand pulled it from the corner. There, in the space behind, lay
the fragments of a small green slip of paper, which had been torn to bits.
A hand gathered these and carried them to the table. There they were
fitted together with amazing rapidity. It was the receipt of a Pullman ticket
from Springfield, Massachusetts, to New York City.
The light went out. The hidden person paced up and down the room as though
imitating the action of some person who had been there before.
One chair moved slightly; then the position of the other was disturbed.
Again the invisible being went to the door; then to the table; finally to the
window. The shade was carefully raised.
The light, muffled in the palm of a hand, now flashed upon the latch of
the window, then went out.
The sash came up noiselessly. A figure, almost invisible, emerged through
the window. The sash was lowered, from the outside, and a form dropped into the
alley below.
The tiny light ran along the cement. There were no footprints there, but
at one edge, where the cement ended, there was a slight mark on the ground, as
though the toe of a shoe had overstepped the edge.
A hand, holding a tiny steel tape measure, spread above the spot, and made
careful measurements. The single hand worked alone, handling the tape deftly.
The flashlight's gleam was reflected by a large bluish gem that shone from
the third finger. It was a girasol, or fire opal, that cast a strange, red
reflection.
Then the light was gone. There was no sound; no movement in the darkness.
A few seconds later, a window opened from a house in back, and the light from a
room fell on the spot where the hand had been. No one was there.

THE door of the city morgue was heavy, and old-fashioned. To-night, a half
hour after the episode at the rooming house, the huge portal opened noiselessly,
and closed without even the slightest clang.
A shadow moved along the dim hall. The attendant in the office did not see
it, although he was gazing in that direction.
The blot of darkness seemed to merge with the gloomy wall. It reached the
steps that led to the room below; there it disappeared.
There were no bodies lying on the trucks to-night; the corpses of both
murdered men had been removed. Yet that lighted room seemed to await some
messenger of death.
Into it came a tall black figure; a form cloaked in sable, with a
broad-brimmed hat that hid the features beneath. The being might have been
death itself; for he walked with an ominous stride that made no noise, even on
that concrete floor.
As though summoned by the spirits of the murdered men, The Shadow moved
unhesitatingly to the trucks where the bodies had lain, and stood there,
contemplating the empty spaces, as if visualizing the scene that had once been
on exhibition.
The head of the figure turned downward. This master of the darkness was
looking at a splotch of blood upon the floor.
The Shadow moved away, and with uncanny precision took the very spot that
Griffith had held; then moved to the place from which the murderer had
delivered the knife thrust.
Stooping, The Shadow raised the truck upon which the detective's body had
been placed - a truck that still bore marks of blood. Then the flashlight
glowed from beneath, upon a black smudge which had been made by the tip of the
murderer's shoe when he had so calmly drawn the truck toward him.
The tape measure came into play. Doubled between two slender, tapering
fingers, it was used to indicate the details of the smudge. The marks on the
measure included the tiniest fractions of an inch; and they were noted with
unerring accuracy.
The truck was replaced. The being in black moved silently across the room
to a crude table in the corner. Here he sat, and made notations on a paper.
The Shadow's left hand, with its fire opal gleaming, spread a sheet of
typewritten memoranda - the report which Claude Fellows had supplied that
morning.
The pencil crossed out the statement: "Conclusion. There is no possible
connection between the two murders." Then Fellows's carefully prepared report
was crumpled, and the hand thrust it beneath the cloak.
The right hand was at work, writing words that seemed to form from clear,
active thoughts; words which covered some of the lost clues gathered by the
late Detective Griffith; words that added new information, including items from
Fellows's condensation of the newspaper accounts.

Jarnow came to Philadelphia from Springfield. Probably from Blair
Windsor's summer home. He called Henry Windsor by telephone from New York.
Urgent appointment. Jarnow feared pursuit.
Jarnow was restless while waiting. Tore up Pullman check. Locked door, and
probably window. Admitted Henry Windsor. While they were talking, the pursuer
entered the room - with skeleton key. Slid his body around side of doorway.
Closed door. Fired fatal shots. Turned out light.
Murderer acted quickly. Wiped light switch with handkerchief - mark of
cloth in dust on shade. Wiped revolver. Wiped lock of window - mark in dust on
top of window.
Did not lift shade; pushed it back with arm. Tiny cloth mark on edge of
shade. Used handkerchief on sill when hands were left there.
Murderer feared all clues were not destroyed. Returned to vicinity.
Observed Detective Griffith. Followed him to morgue. Stabbed him. Took articles
that had belonged to Jarnow.

The hand stopped its writing. Then came these words:

The murderer is five feet nine inches tall. Weighs approximately one
hundred and sixty pounds. Wore black shoes, and a blue suit of rough cloth. Is
right-handed. A crook of experience who can use a gun or a knife with equal
facility.

Then these notations were added:

In appearance, the man is striking. Jarnow must have recognized him
immediately. Yet he does not appear to be a crook; he is smooth, and
convincing. Griffith did not suspect him.

Sounds came down the stairs. The outside door of the morgue clanged shut.
Yet the figure at the desk still wrote.

Immediate danger threatened Henry Windsor. Something transpired in
Massachusetts. Vincent to visit Blair Windsor. Radio communication must be
established. Identity of murderer may be learned in New York.

HEAVY footsteps were clanging from the stone stairs. The Shadow crumpled
the paper as he rose. He moved toward a corner of the room, and his form became
still. It merged with the darkness in the corner.
Any one suspecting it might have distinguished its presence; to the casual
observer it could mean nothing more than natural blackness.
Two policemen entered the chamber, carrying a body on a stretcher. They
were followed by the morgue attendant, who indicated one of the trucks. The
body was deposited there.
"There's another one for you, Bill," observed one of the policemen,
removing his cap, and wiping his forehead. "You and Mike get a regular
collection here, don't you?"
"Yeah," replied the attendant.
"Does the place ever give you the creeps?" asked the officer.
"No," answered the attendant. "Why should it? They're all dead ones here.
There ain't no chill ever comes over me."
The men were facing the far end of the room. The shadow in the nearer
corner came suddenly to life. It moved, like a black spectre, across the room
to the steps. There, hidden in the darkness of the stairs, it paused.
Then to the ears of the three men who stood beside the body came a most
terrifying sound.
A deep-whispered laugh swept through that stone-walled room - a chilling
laugh that echoed from the low ceiling. The men gasped, and their eyes stared
at the body on the truck; it seemed that the hollow mockery had come from the
lips of the dead man!
The boastful morgue keeper shook as his quavering hands sought support
from his companions. Here, in this familiar place, he had felt the stroke of
terror.
He had heard the laugh of The Shadow!

CHAPTER VII

LAMONT CRANSTON TALKS TO HIMSELF

FOUR o'clock in the morning.
That was the time indicated by the luminous dial of the wrist watch, as
Lamont Cranston studied it in the darkness.
He had awakened suddenly, and he could not account for it. Usually a sound
sleeper, he had been strangely aroused from a fantastic dream. The room was
pitch-dark.
Slumber seemed gone from the millionaire's mind. He listened intently. He
fancied that he had heard a soft, whispering voice calling his name. Yet it
must have been a dream.
Then his muscles tightened.
"Lamont Cranston!"
The summons came in an almost inaudible tone from the foot of the bed. It
was a whisper - a strange, incredible whisper.
This was no dream. It was reality.
The millionaire slipped his right hand under his pillow, and grasped his
automatic. Quietly, he pointed it toward the foot of the bed. Then he pushed
his body upward; and with his free hand, he pulled the cord of the reading lamp.
A figure was standing at the foot of the bed. A black figure, that seemed
like a huge shadow.
Cranston's eyes made out a form clad in black, its face hidden by a hat
with a turned-down brim. The millionaire covered the figure with his revolver.
Then he spoke, hoarsely.
"Who are you? Raise your hands - or I shall fire."
A soft, low laugh came from the foot of the bed.
"Press the trigger," came the whispered voice.
The millionaire obeyed. A click answered. The gun had been loaded when he
had placed it beneath his pillow. Now it was empty.
"Do not be alarmed," came the whispered voice. Its tone was sinister,
despite its assurance. "You need not fear. I shall not harm you. I unloaded
your automatic. I thought you might become excited."
"Who are you?" demanded Lamont Cranston.
The figure ignored his question.
"I have come to advise you," came the whisper. "You must leave here for a
while. For a month at least. I recommend a trip to Europe. Sea air is very
healthy at this season. You will go to-morrow."
"Who are you?"
Again the question was ignored.
"Will you obey my orders?" asked the voice from the foot of the bed.
"No!" exclaimed the millionaire.

THE figure laughed mirthlessly, and Lamont Cranston shuddered. His eyes
gazed in fascination as the man in black moved from his position, and came to
the side of the bed, until he stood but a few feet away.
The millionaire changed his position, in readiness for an attack.
"You ask me who I am," said the strange being. "Tell me first who you are."
"You know my name," replied the millionaire. "You called it - Lamont
Cranston."
A mocking laugh was the response.
"I called your name?" was the figure's question. "I must disagree with
you. I called my own name."
The black form moved slightly. The cloak and hat dropped backward, and
disappeared. A man was revealed in the light, and a startled cry escaped Lamont
Cranston's lips.
The person who stood before him was the very double of himself.
"I am Lamont Cranston," announced the stranger.
The millionaire shuddered as he heard his own voice uttered by those lips!
The situation was uncanny. The man in the bed could not believe his
senses. He knew that he was wide awake; yet this was the most incredible
experience that the human mind could imagine.
"Let me explain," said the standing man, in those same tones that seemed
the actual voice of the millionaire. "Some people call me The Shadow.
"That is but one identity. I have other personalities that I assume, as
easily as I don my black cloak and hat.
"One of my personalities is that of Lamont Cranston. In the past, I have
used it while you were away. At present, I choose to use it now. It would be
embarrassing for both of us to be here. So you must go."
Sudden enlightenment came to the amazed millionaire.
"So that is why Richards acted so strangely!" he exclaimed. "You have
deceived him while I was away! You were here, masquerading as myself. You were
injured."
"That is correct," replied the personage who so perfectly resembled Lamont
Cranston. "I told Richards never to mention the incident. I am surprised that he
slipped. He is usually so very careful."
The real Lamont Cranston became suddenly indignant. His fear had dwindled
since his visitor had ceased that weird whisper. Now he was becoming angry.
"You are an impostor," he exclaimed.
"You think so?"
"I know it."
"That does not alter the circumstances," said The Shadow. "There are
reasons why I choose to be here - as Lamont Cranston.
"There is an excellent wireless station upstairs. You installed it - for
which I thank you - but you have neglected it. I find it useful in experiments."
Lamont Cranston was too amazed to reply. The calm assurance of his
mysterious visitor completely bewildered him.
"So you must leave to-morrow," announced The Shadow. "Go before noon. Tell
no one of your plans. Leave no address. Say nothing about my visit. It would not
be wise for you to mention it."
"You threaten me?" demanded the millionaire. "You have chosen the wrong
person. I shall tell you my plans. I shall remain here. I shall denounce you as
an impostor."

THE SHADOW smiled, in perfect imitation of the millionaire. From his
pocket he drew a small pad, and pencil. He wrote upon the paper, and turned it
toward Lamont Cranston.
"My signature!" gasped the millionaire.
"Yes," was the reply, "and that is not all. You have been very lax in
handling the affairs of Lamont Cranston.
"There are many matters which you have forgotten. There are many
securities, in safe-deposit vaults. You do not know the exact amounts. I do.
"You have some knowledge of Lamont Cranston's family history. I doubt that
you could recall the maiden names of both his grandmothers. I know them.
"Stay if you wish. Try to denounce me. But remember that I have
established the personality of Lamont Cranston. Assuming that you are Lamont
Cranston, I know more about you than you know about yourself!
"So use your own judgment. But I warn you in advance. If you are here when
I come to-morrow, there will be but one result.
"You will be arrested as the impersonator of Lamont Cranston. I shall be
the injured party. It will mean an inconvenience for me; but it will mean real
difficulties for you."
The millionaire smiled grimly. He was not yet ready to accept the dictates
of this bold visitor.
"Before I last went away," said Cranston, "I wrote a letter to a friend of
mine, mentioning some very personal matters. There is one man who will know that
I am really Lamont Cranston."
The false Lamont Cranston reproduced the smile.
"I know the contents of that letter," he said quietly. "It was mailed to
Cleveland. Moreover, there was a reply to the letter. I received the reply. I
wrote a second letter, answering some questions that were asked.
"Produce your friend from Cleveland. He will choose the real Lamont
Cranston; and I shall be his choice."
The man in the bed rubbed his forehead in perplexity. Then he looked at
his visitor, and laughed. The humor of the situation began to appeal to him.
"Well," he said, "a trip to Europe might not be so bad. I usually spend
too much time making my own plans. It is rather pleasing to have some one do
the work for me. But there is the matter of reservations -"
"That has all been arranged," replied The Shadow. "You sail to-morrow
afternoon on the Aquatic. I anticipated this a few days ago, and made all
preparations.
"Your name is not published in the passenger list. So remember my warning.
Say nothing to reveal your identity until you are on the ocean."
The millionaire laughed. Then he extended his hand.
"I suppose the check was signed by Lamont Cranston," he said. "That would
be the final touch."
"It was."
"Well, it sounds sporty. This is a new experience for me. You have
convinced me that there is no use in opposing you.
"I don't know your purpose, or what you intend to do; but I wish you the
best of luck."
The eyes of The Shadow were piercing as they studied the face of the
millionaire. They seemed to read Lamont Cranston's thoughts; to learn that he
spoke the truth, and would play his part in this unexpected game.
The Shadow grasped the millionaire's hand. Then he stooped, and lifted his
cloak and hat. The garments enveloped his form; his features of Lamont
Cranston's double were obscured.
"Remember!" came the whispered voice.
The millionaire watched the figure as it moved noiselessly toward the side
of the room. It disappeared in the darkness by the window.
Then The Shadow was gone, into the night, without a single sound of his
departure.
Lamont Cranston laughed nervously. A great tension had left him; but that
last whispered warning seemed to live in his brain. He turned out the light,
and went to sleep.
In his dreams he seemed to see a tall black figure, that whispered the
single significant word:
"Remember!"

CHAPTER VIII

SPOTTER MEETS A FRIEND

A SHORT, stooped man, with thin body and cunning, wicked face, entered
that den of the underworld known as the Black Ship. His keen, beady eyes made a
quick survey of every person in the room, from the man behind the bar to a
drunken mobsmen who lay across a table in the corner.
"Hello, Spotter," said the proprietor.
"H'lo," answered the little man.
He took his place at a table, and called for a bottle and glass.
The Black Ship was a rendezvous for gangsters - a haven and a refuge for
those who were seeking to avoid the law, and a meeting place for those who
plotted new crimes.
"Spotter," wily creature of the underworld, was a familiar figure at the
Black Ship. He was comrade to all the crooks; he knew them all by face, by
walk, and by actions.
He himself had been mixed in shady doings, but he possessed an instinctive
cleverness that had always enabled him to keep from the toils of the law.
The police had hopes that they might some day get the goods on him. They
wanted him as a stool pigeon. In the services of the authorities, Spotter would
be a trump card.
But they had never been able to connect him with any crime, and it was
rumored, among gangsters, that Spotter had twice outwitted the police when they
had tried to frame him.
Spotter had been living a life of idleness. He always had a supply of
money; where he obtained it was a mystery.
He was seen frequently at the Black Ship, the Pink Rat, and other dives of
the underworld. He seemed to be living a life of honesty - too honest to be
genuine.
To-night there was a restless look in Spotter's cunning eyes. They
betrayed the fact that he was hankering for activity; that the criminal
instincts which dominated his twisted soul were anxious for an outlet.
Nevertheless, Spotter never sought crime. He waited for opportunities.
A man entered the door. Spotter blinked in sudden recognition.
The fellow came across the floor, noted Spotter, and made a slight
beckoning motion with his thumb. Then he entered the inner room of the den.
Spotter followed.

THE new arrival was a tall man, with sallow face, and beaklike nose. He
was well dressed, and his moppy red hair made its presence known beneath the
gray hat which he wore. The stranger's features were impassive.
He and Spotter were alone in the room.
"Reds Mackin!" exclaimed Spotter, softly, as he looked at the man across
the table. "I thought you was in Chi."
The other man smiled, almost imperceptibly.
"I just came back," he replied.
"Ain't things goin' right?" questioned Spotter.
Mackin's smile disappeared.
"They always go right with me, Spotter."
"Sure they do, Reds. I ain't questionin' you. You're a smooth guy. I know
that. Smooth as they make 'em.
"I ain't never known you to get in no trouble. All you do is legit. But I
didn't expect to see you back here for another month, anyway."
"Listen, Spotter." "Reds" Mackin's voice was low, and emphatic. "I've got
a - well, I've got nothing; but I know of somebody that's got a job to be done.
There's dough in it. Quick work. Pretty safe, too. But it means that one
fellow's got to croak."
Spotter nodded.
"I get the idea, Reds."
"Wait!" Reds gestured as he spoke. "I don't have to come to you to find
the man that's needed. There's plenty of them out in Chi. But this wants to be
done right. It needs the right man."
"If there's dough in it," said Spotter, "there's plenty that will do it."
"Not the way it's got to be done. The man must have three things."
Reds raised three fingers and enumerated:
"First, he must be smooth - not like a regular crook. A fellow with
education, nerve, and everything that goes with good appearance. That's number
one.
"Next, he's got to be a sure shot. Handle the rod quick and well. A sure
killer. That's number two.
"Last - this is the hitch - he's got to be good with the knife.
"We - I mean they aren't sure just how this is going to work out. Maybe it
will take a good quick stab to do it right - without using the rod at all. So
that's number three.
"Now, there isn't a yegg in Chicago that I've seen that can fill the bill.
I've been thinking that there's none to be had anywhere. But if there is such a
guy, there's one person who would know him. That's you, Spotter."
Spotter licked his thin lips. "How much is it worth?" he asked,
thoughtfully.
"How much is what worth?" questioned Reds Mackin. "To get the guy I want?"
"To tell you who he is."
Reds Mackin laughed disdainfully.
"What's the game, Spotter?" he demanded. "I want the guy. Are you trying
to hold out on me?"
"That ain't it, Reds. I know just the guy you need. But I don't know where
he is.
"I ain't mistrustin' you, Reds; but all I can do is tell his name right
now. How do I know you ain't goin' to get him on your own hook, after you know
who he is?"
"So that's the trouble." Reds Mackin snorted. "Well, I'll fix that. You
know where you can get a bird like the one I want. Are there any others as good
as he?"
"No. Just the one. And listen, Reds" - Spotter spoke knowingly - "there
ain't many fellows knows how good this guy is.
"You might ask plenty of 'em - just like you asked me - and they wouldn't
think of this guy at all. Because he's smooth, Reds. Like a card shark. He
don't show his stuff to the crowd. Keeps it hid."

REDS MACKIN pulled two fifty-dollar bills from his pocket. He passed them
to Spotter with his right hand.
"Here, Spotter," he said. "These are yours. Just for giving me the guy's
name. That's all. If I can get hold of him - either through you or any one
else, there'll be a hundred more for you.
"Maybe" - he spoke rather cautiously - "you'll get another chunk of real
dough, later on. You're safe in this, Spotter. I don't want you to do anything
else. You don't have to be around, even, when I meet the guy."
The crafty little crook took the money with eagerness. He spread the bills
in front of his eyes, and examined them carefully.
"What's the matter with them?" demanded Reds Mackin. "I got them from a
bank in Chi."
"I always look 'em over," returned Spotter. "You never can tell."
"They don't pass counterfeits on me," sneered Mackin. "You act like there
was a lot of phony mazuma going around. Is that the dope?"
"No, no," returned Spotter, quickly. "It ain't suspicions, Reds. I just go
careful, that's all."
He held the bills in his hands, while Mackin suddenly came back to the
subject.
"What's the guy's name, Spotter?"
"Birdie Crull."
"Don't know him. Where is he now?"
"I ain't wise to that. I think I can find out, though."
"What's he doing - laying low?"
"No. That ain't it." Spotter warmed up to his explanation. "I think
Birdie's in some soft racket, Reds. He ain't no ordinary crook. He went to
college, and all that. Then he found he could make soft dough.
"Come in on a guy like a thug; take the sap's bank roll; then double on
his tracks, and walk up to the guy like he was his friend, ready to sympathize
with him."
"That sounds smooth."
"That ain't nothin', Reds. This Birdie Crull has gone to the station house
with a guy he's stuck up, reported it, an' started the bulls out to find the
crook that did it. All the time he's got the stuff he took from the sap right
in his pocket.
"Beat that?"
"Sounds good, Spotter. But what about the rod, and the knife?"
"He's used 'em both, Reds, an' got away with it."
"Maybe he's done it too much to be safe."
"Not him, Reds" - Spotter leaned forward to whisper - "he plants
everything on some sap, and lets him be the goat. That's his game, Reds. Don't
let on I told you. I'm the only guy that knows it."
"Great," replied Mackin. "Just the guy I want. Get him for me, Spotter."
"I'll try. But he's away, now, on some big racket. He's got too much nerve
to waste his time on small stuff."
"Well, the job I mentioned is a big one."
"Only once," said Spotter reminiscently, "that Birdie Crull ever got
fooled. That was when I run into a big car for him, an' he pulls a rod on the
bloke in the back seat. Right in the middle of the street. But he got his that
night. Who do you think was in the car, Reds?"
"Some bulls?"
"No. The Shadow!"

THERE was a momentary pause after Spotter had uttered that ominous name.
The tone of the little man's voice was tense and fearful. Reds Mackin laughed.
"The Shadow!" he jeered. "That's a lot of talk. The Shadow! Who was with
him? Santa Claus?"
"Don't fool yourself, Reds," replied Spotter, seriously. "This Shadow guy
is real! I seen him myself, that night.
"He comes right out of the car like a big, black blanket. He wraps himself
around Birdie, and shoots him with his own rod. Birdie flops in the street. Away
goes The Shadow - just like the street gobbled him up."
"You saw that, Spotter?"
"I did. You'll believe me yet, Reds. You see this room we're in right now?
Well, the gang had The Shadow right in here. But he got away."
"How?"
"Mopped up a dozen of 'em - in the dark. Threw 'em out. Locked that big
door on 'em. They tried to bust in."
"Well, did they get him?"
"Yes, they did - not. He shot a tear bomb into 'em - that's what he did.
Walked right through the mob, wearing goggles.
"I could tell you more, Reds. Some of the other boys could tell you, too.
But none of us like to talk about it.
"Listen, Reds, there ain't no danger of The Shadow bein' mixed up in this
racket of yours, is there?"
Reds Mackin spread his hands depreciatively.
"Not a chance, Spotter. It's going to happen out West. Forget this Shadow
stuff. Look here."
He pulled another fifty-dollar bill from his pocket, and spread it in
front of Spotter's eyes, snapping it between his hands.
"I'm giving you this, too, Spotter," he said. "I want to meet this Birdie
Crull. How soon do you think you can find him?"
Spotter stared at the bank note. His eyes seemed hypnotized.
He was apparently studying the currency, as he had done before. In
reality, his mind was whirling in confusion. His gaze was fixed upon Reds
Mackin's left hand.
That hand was still. Its fingers were spread slightly. Spotter, whose
eagle eyes lost nothing, had noticed Reds Mackin's hand several times in the
past. He remembered a long, ragged, permanent scar, on the side of the third
finger - a scar that showed only when Reds Mackin spread his hand.
The scar was no longer there!
"What's the matter, Spotter?" came Mackin's sarcastic voice. "Still leery
about the fifty-spots? Maybe you'd rather have my personal check?"
Spotter grasped the money mechanically, and thrust it, along with the
other bills, into his pocket.
"Maybe you're still worrying about The Shadow," added Mackin. "Well, take
my word for it, Spotter - there's no such guy. If there is, he isn't in on
this."
Spotter emitted a sudden laugh. His craftiness returned; he was again the
smooth worker of the underworld.
"Listen, Reds," he said. "You know where old Crippled Carrie lives, don't
you? - Well, there's an empty room up there - at the head of the stairs. It
used to belong to a guy that got bumped off.
"I've got the key. When I find Birdie Crull, I'll give him the key so he
can be waiting for you there."
"When will that be?"
"In a couple of days, I think."
"Well, I can wait a week. Tell you what you do, Spotter. You leave me a
note here, with the barkeep. Put the address in it - I'm not sure just where
the place is - and the time.
"I'll be going by here every day. I'll pick it up, after you leave it.
Drop it here in the afternoon. Arrange the meeting in the evening."
"Maybe -"
"It's safe, Spotter. Nothing's been done yet. There's no crime in my
meeting Birdie Crull. Don't put his name in it. Just the address, and the time."
"O.K., Reds."
"I'm leaving you now. Work fast on this."
Reds Mackin left. For a long time after the visitor had gone, Spotter
remained at the table. His face was wrapped in an intense expression of
concentration, as if he were trying to pick something out of the back of his
brain.
"Reds Mackin!" he exclaimed to himself. "He Looks like Reds Mackin. He
talks like Reds Mackin. He acts like Reds Mackin. But he ain't Reds Mackin!"
The little man scowled grimly.
"The Shadow!" he mumbled. "That's who he is! He couldn't be no one else.
Well, he's in for it this time. Tried to cross Spotter, did he?"
A scheme was working in the crafty brain. Spotter's lips formed a wicked
grin. Then, suddenly, Spotter sprang to his feet, shaking with sudden terror.
He had heard a sound - a low, almost inaudible sound - a sound that had
reached his brain rather than his ears.
It could not have been an actual noise; it must have been some echo of the
past - an echo that was a part of the atmosphere of this room in the Black Ship.
Spotter was alone - not a soul was in the stone-walled room. None of the
gangsters in the other room indicated that they had heard anything.
Yet the sound was real in Spotter's frenzied brain; and he trembled as he
caught the dim echoes of that terrible token of disaster. For he seemed to hear
a weird, mirthless laugh - a hissing, jeering laugh - the laugh of The Shadow!

CHAPTER IX

AT BROOKDALE

HARRY VINCENT brought his speedy coupe to a standstill at the top of a
hill. He studied a topographical survey map of the district; then stepped from
the car and made an inspection from the top of a stone wall.
Half a mile away, well back from the road, stood a stone mansion, which he
identified as the residence of Blair Windsor.
The building was on the side of a hill; the slope rose behind it to a
slight degree, the top of the hill being from fifteen to twenty feet higher
than the foundation of the house.
"That's the place," said Vincent, softly. "The property doesn't go back
very far; I guess that stone wall on top of the hill is the dividing line. I
wonder what's on the other side?"
Returning to the car, he drove leisurely along the road toward the
mansion. Passing the house, he found a side road that turned to the left.
It twisted around the hill, and, curving to a spot directly in back,
passed a small farmhouse that nestled among some trees. Going on a bit farther,
Vincent made a second inspection of the map.
Both the large house and the farm building were recorded there; but there
were no other houses in the vicinity.
Harry drew an envelope from his pocket. Before opening it, he made a
mental resume of the facts that were already in his possession.
"Fellows didn't have much to say, this morning," he mused. "Simply told me
to come up here, to look the place over.
"Windsor's brother is in jail for murder, he said. Looks like there may be
some trouble for the family. Not very promising for a start."
Somehow, this adventure did not seem to hold much in store. Vincent had
obeyed Fellows's instructions as a matter of duty.
Harry owed his life to The Shadow. That strange person had once prevented
him from committing suicide. Since then, he had helped The Shadow in various
enterprises, all of which had been dangerous and exciting.
When The Shadow chose to act, Vincent recalled, something usually took
place. But in the past, Harry had been sent out on more definite missions than
this one. Here, he seemed handicapped.
There would be no excuse to enter Blair Windsor's house. That seemed to be
the obstacle. He had told Fellows so; and the insurance broker had made him
delay the trip on that account.
Perhaps there were some new instructions. Harry tore open the envelope.
It contained a message written in a simple code; one which Harry
understood, and could decipher without the slightest hesitation.

IMPORTANT.
Garret Buckman, Boston insurance man, is going to visit Blair Windsor,
arriving to-morrow. Buckman is a friend of Fellows. Call to see him. Windsor is
very hospitable. If invited to stay, accept. Introduce yourself to Buckman as an
old friend of Fellows.
In the meantime, investigate at a distance. Study the vicinity. Notify
what happens, whether invited or not. You are working on possibilities, only.
Observe anything unusual that may concern Blair Windsor.

The message was somewhat more encouraging.
About five miles away was a small town. Harry decided that he would stay
there overnight. In the meantime, however, it would not be wise to attract too
much attention.

IT was late in the afternoon. Harry drove the car up the road, and found
an entrance to a field that appeared to be deserted. He ran the car under a
tree, and opened a package that contained some sandwiches, and a bottle of
ginger ale.
After he had finished his repast, he walked to the road. No one could be
seen in the gathering dusk.
Returning, Harry opened the back of the coupe, and revealed a compact
wireless sending set. It was a regular equipment which he carried on all his
expeditions. He was familiar with its operation.
He arranged an aerial between two trees, but did not make the final
connections. His last act was to lock the back of the car. No prowler in the
darkness would be able to discover anything unusual.
Hurrying along the road, Harry soon reached the farmhouse that he had
previously passed. It would soon be too dark for observation; he knew that he
must work quickly. This was an advantageous time of day - light enough to see
one's surroundings, yet dark enough to evade detection.
Harry cut in through the trees near the farmhouse, and walked up the
slope. A minute later he was at the top of the little hill.
The stone wall was evidently a dividing line between the estate of Blair
Windsor, and the farmhouse ground.
The top of the hill was bare, save for a few scattered, shrubby trees. The
sun had set, but it was lighter up here than below; so Harry lay close to the
wall as he considered his surroundings.
The stone mansion and the farmhouse were little more than a hundred yards
apart, on a direct line. Over the hill the distance was, of course, greater.
The farmhouse was unlighted, but several of the rooms in the mansion were
illuminated.
Fifteen minutes passed, and Harry felt indolent in the sleep-inspiring
atmosphere. The scene was gloomy with the afterglow.
There was nothing that inspired action.
Staring toward the quiet building, Harry half-closed his eyes. Then he
became suddenly tense, and dropped beside the stone wall. Some one was coming
up the hill from the direction of Blair Windsor's house.
Harry distinguished the outlined form of a man as the stranger clambered
over the stone wall. Then the silhouetted figure disappeared from the
background of the sky, and became almost invisible. The man was going down the
slope toward the cottage.
Turning his eyes in that direction, Harry saw the reflection of a light
from a side window, which he had not seen before, on the second floor of the
low, two-story building.
He watched. The man came into the dim-reflected light; then turned, as
though advancing to the front porch of the farmhouse.
After a last look at the Windsor mansion, marked now only by its lighted
windows, Harry stole down the hill to the little house below.

THERE was a tree at the side of the frame building. Under its shelter,
Harry gazed at the lighted window.
The situation intrigued him. Some person was paying a visit from Blair
Windsor's house. Perhaps it was of no significance; it might only be a
messenger coming on a simple errand.
Yet, there was but that one light in the little farmhouse. That, in
itself, was sufficient reason for investigation.
Harry approached the house. He found a low shed at the back. He climbed
it, and managed to stretch far enough to see in the corner of the window, which
was open, with a blind half drawn.
A screen netting made vision imperfect; nevertheless, Harry could see two
men at a table upon which rested an oil lamp.
One was an elderly man - smooth-shaven, with gray hair. Harry could not
clearly distinguish his features. The other was more plainly in view. He was
young, dark-complexioned, and of slightly more than average height.
The old man might be a farmer, although that was difficult to judge. The
young chap might be one of Blair Windsor's guests.
The combination was unexplainable. What did this meeting mean?
Harry listened.
"When's Jerry coming back?" the young man asked.
"Very soon," was the reply. "We'll have a late dinner."
"We just finished eating over at Windsor's." This statement by the young
man confirmed Harry's conjecture that the young man was a guest of Blair
Windsor. "Thought I'd drop over, and discuss a few details."
"It's time you did. This is the fourth night you've been back."
"Yes; but you know how things are over at the house. I thought it best to
take no chances. Everything is all right. No reason why I had to explain the
details until now. I'm glad Windsor doesn't know anything about -"
Harry felt himself slipping from his insecure perch. He managed to
scramble back to the shed, and congratulated himself on the small amount of
noise he made. Dropping quickly to the ground, he kept close to the shed.
Evidently he had been heard; for some one came to the window, closed it,
and lowered the shade. Probably the men had attributed the noise to a cat;
hearing it had simply caused them to adopt a precaution.
But there was no use waiting around here longer. Harry stole toward the
front of the house.
An old automobile, noisy in operation, turned in at the other side of the
building. Harry just managed to escape the glare of its lights. He moved across
the front yard, and reached the dirt road.

A VARIETY of thoughts perplexed him as he started back to the car. He felt
that he had missed an interesting conversation; yet there was no way to listen
in now. Nevertheless, it was a start toward new developments.
Harry smiled as he thought of the man who had come over the hill. The
fellow had never dreamed that he had been seen and followed. Who would suspect
curious strangers in this lonely vicinity of Massachusetts?
While Harry was musing thus, a figure stepped from the trees in front of
the farmhouse, not more than five yards from the very spot from which Harry
emerged.
Ironically, the situation was almost the exact duplicate of what had
transpired on the hill. Just as Harry had been unseen by the man coming from
the mansion, so was the presence of this stranger entirely unknown to Harry
Vincent.
It was starlight overhead. Harry's form was visible to the man who was
following him. When Harry came to the junction of the road, he took the path
straight ahead, instead of turning up the road that wound around the hill.
The man in back lessened his pace, and allowed a considerable distance
between himself and Harry.
There was a good reason for this. There were no by-paths from the road
ahead for more than a mile. The man in back evidently felt that he could allow
his quarry a long start. Hence he did not see Harry turn into the field where
he had parked his car.
This was a lucky advantage for the unsuspecting agent of The Shadow. Harry
worked silently with his wireless, taking considerable time. His pursuer walked
completely by him while he was thus engaged.
Five minutes later, Harry Vincent sent a brief report of what he had
observed. The report was in a special code, which he knew by heart. Then, with
his work over, Harry hurriedly packed the equipment, backed his car out of the
field, and turned back toward the farmhouse.
Sound carries far on a still night in the country. The stranger who had
followed Harry Vincent was at that moment standing at the crossroad, half a
mile down the straight course. He had wondered what had become of the man whom
he had followed.
The noise of the distant car, and its lights, gave him the information he
required.
For the next hour, a man with a small flashlight made observations along
the deserted road, studying the tracks of the coupe, and noting the footprints
that Harry Vincent had made in the dust.

CHAPTER X

IN THE FARMHOUSE

THE conversation which had been cut off from Harry Vincent's hearing
continued long after he had gone. In fact, from the very moment of the
interruption, it had assumed angles of great interest.
Harry had heard only the preliminaries. The real event began when the
younger man entered into the details of his story. But there were no listeners
in the vicinity when he reached that important point.
"I had to give him the rod," the man said. "All the way down, I knew that
would be the only way out.
"I listened in when he made that call from the Grand Central Terminal. I
trailed him across New York and got on the same train to Philly. At the
Pennsylvania Station.
"He got off at North Philly and took a cab. I hopped another taxi, but
dropped off a few blocks away from the boarding house. Then I sneaked over to
the place. When I caught Jarnow, he was spilling the dope to Henry Windsor.
Those two shots I gave him sounded like a cannon."
"Henry Windsor wasn't wise to anything?" questioned the old man.
"Not a thing," replied the self-admitted murderer. "He was soused. That
helped. I came in the door of the house, and up the stairs without a hitch.
"Opening the door of the room was slow work. Jarnow must have put the key
in his pocket; so I had luck with the skeleton key. But when he saw me sliding
around the edge, closing the door behind me, I thought he was going to drop
dead.
"Wish he had. It would have saved me trouble. I guess it was best the way
it happened, though. Killed two birds with one stone by planting the goods on
Henry."
The old man shook his head.
"That may have been a mistake, Crull," he said.
"What!" The young man's exclamation showed astonishment. "You wanted him
out of the way, didn't you?"
"Of course," came the querulous reply. "It will be great, if he goes to
the chair."
"Well, if they acquit him, we're just where we started."
"Granted. But suppose they give him twenty years, or life? Then he'll be
where it will be hard to get at him."

"BIRDIE" CRULL was silent. Evidently he had not considered that angle of
the situation.
"That would be bad," he said, at length. "But I don't think it will be an
in-between affair. The way things are in that town, they'll railroad him, or
he'll get off.
"He has money, pull, and he was drunk. Three big factors. They either work
for a man or against him. According to public sentiment.
"The way things are now, public sentiment will be hot. That second job I
did has given them plenty to think about."
"Yes, Crull," objected the old man, "and it's given me some worries, too.
You went a lot further than I expected. I told you to flag Frank Jarnow, and to
bring back that paper."
"All right. I did it. There was only one way to fix him when I got there.
I did it."
"Yes. But you also planted the goods on Henry Windsor, which we had not
considered."
"I had to do it! It let me out. Where would any of us be if I hadn't?"
"Maybe you're right, there, Crull. Yes. You are right. It took all the
mystery out of the affair. That was a good piece of business.
"It may cause difficulties in our plans, but it certainly kept matters
quiet. But this Griffith business -"
"Was every bit as important," interrupted Birdie Crull. "That fellow was
keen. I've heard a lot about him. That's why I stayed in town - to see if he
was going on the case.
"I called up headquarters in the morning, and asked for him. Learned when
he was coming in. Went up by the house, and saw him come out. When he headed
for the morgue, I had to go ahead with it."
"You have plenty of nerve, Crull," said the old man, with a tone of
admiration. "You are the man I have needed for a long time. If I had had you
that last time - well, let's talk about this. You believe it was necessary to
finish Griffith?"
In reply, the murderer drew a sheet of paper from his pocket. He spread it
on the table and fitted a tiny corner into it.
"Here's your precious document," he said. "Jarnow had a grip on it. The
corner came off."
"You picked up the missing corner?"
"Yes - the next day! Who do you think had it?"
"Who?"
"Griffith!"
The old man's lips became firm.
"You did the right thing, Crull," he said. "That has the end of the
signature on it. Do you think Griffith knew what it was?"
"If he didn't, he would have found out. He was a wise one, all right. But
close-mouthed. Whatever theory he had, died with him. The dumb cluck that was
on the case fell for the idea that Henry Windsor killed Jarnow. So we're safe
now."
The old man thought a moment before he replied. He was looking hard at the
table, long fingers of one hand stretched out for inspection.
"On that, yes," he said. "But not on Griffith!"
"Why not? Suppose I had croaked Jarnow, with no chance to lay it on any
one? We'd still have a murder mystery hanging over us, wouldn't we?"
"But Griffith being killed so soon afterward -"
"That fixes it right for us. There were plenty of other cases more
important to Griffith than this one. The newspapers don't connect the two at
all. The bulls in Philly are still rounding up the local small fry."
"Do you think Blair Windsor does?"
"No. Do you know what I believe? I have a hunch he lays the Jarnow murder
to Henry Windsor."
"He ought to know his brother well enough not to think that."
"Perhaps. But you know I framed a smooth alibi before I left here, and we
kept it between ourselves, even though we might have let others in on it."
"Jerry might suspect it."
"Yes - for that matter we might have let the whole crew know. But I don't
think Jerry knows why I went away. He wouldn't have heard of either murder - he
doesn't read the papers.
"Nobody but you and I know that he went up to the White Mountains, and
mailed those postals that I had."
"It worked out nicely, all right," said the old man. "You put them in a
safe place?"
"Right in Blair Windsor's desk. You know they were all picture post cards.
I'd been planning that trip. I bought the cards in Boston. Each card came from
the right place - postmark tells the time - my own writing and signature."
"Everybody has seen them?"
"Vernon has. Of course, he's sure to help in a pinch. Harper and Quinn are
both staying at the house. Blair Windsor didn't leave until after the first
cards arrived."
"When do you expect he'll be back?"
"To-morrow, anyway. He was gone when I got back. Down to help Brother
Henry out of the jam."
Birdie Crull finished his statement with a laugh.
"Well," said the old man, "it doesn't look bad - not bad at all."
"The only hitch," replied Crull, "is this stunt of Blair Windsor's of
inviting so many people to the house. With so many guests, there's always
danger."
"I don't agree with you," the old man answered. "I'm glad he does it. He
invites any chance acquaintance. That was the way you got up here.
"It makes everything perfect for operations. Especially as he keeps booze
out of the place. The more guests, and the better their reputation, the finer
things are."
"How about Jarnow?"
"Well, that was bad. But things have been pulled here for a long while,
and that's the first time anything went wrong. It was your fault, too, Crull.
He followed you over here."
"I know it. That's why I was careful about coming over this time."
"Why don't you use the undercut?"
Birdie Crull shook his head.
"I don't like it," he said. "It's all right for Vernon. He belongs in the
house; but I'm a guest -"
"You had better use it some of the time. You ought to have plenty of
opportunities to get away. But it's bad to come over the hill."
"All right. I'll follow your advice. I'll go back that way, to-night."
"Good. I know it's difficult for you, Crull. Our situation is just this:
"Blair Windsor is a successful business man. He is an outstanding figure
in this district, as well as in Boston. His friends and acquaintances are the
best. He pays no attention to what is going on - neither do his friends. Jarnow
was the first who wised up to anything.
"We must keep everything within the proper bounds. I thought it was wise
to work you in up here. You are a valuable man. Of course we had trouble with
Jarnow. Now, with two kills to your credit, you are something of a liability."
"But suppose that Jarnow had seen something if I hadn't been here -"
"I was coming to that. When I came up here to stay, I saw that danger
immediately. We needed a man of action. Pedro wouldn't do. I didn't bring him.
"You were the man, and I found you, through Bronson. Old Tiger did me a
good turn when he sent you my way. After all, every one of us is playing with
dynamite; so you might as well be with us. You know how to handle dynamite."

BIRDIE CRULL grinned at the compliments. There was a knock on the door.
The old man thrust the paper into the drawer of the bureau.
"What is it, Jerry?" he asked.
The door opened. A rough-clad man entered. He was heavy-set, and would
have passed for a native of the district.
A close observer might have detected that he was a man from Manhattan.
"We'll have dinner in a few minutes," said Jerry. "Here's a letter I
picked up to-day."
The old man looked at the envelope. It was addressed to J. Stevens, care
of general delivery in a town some miles away.
"From Bronson," he said. "All right, Jerry, you may leave."
He opened the letter. As he read it, his face paled momentarily; then it
reddened, became grim, and settled. Finally the old man laughed, sneeringly.
Birdie Crull wondered at his varied emotions. Usually the old man was
impassive.
"We are all playing with dynamite," said the old man. "This proves it. It
concerns you, as well as myself, Crull.
"There is only one being who has ever annihilated my plans. Only one who
has ever defeated Isaac Coffran. He is -"
The old man hesitated before pronouncing the name. Birdie Crull listened
tensely.
"The Shadow!"
At these words from the lips of Isaac Coffran, Birdie Crull half rose from
his chair. The murderer, with all his nerve, felt the pangs of terror when he
heard that name. The old man had pronounced it with hideous venom.
"The Shadow!" echoed Birdie Crull.
"Yes," said Isaac Coffran. "I think you have brought us trouble, again,
Crull. I thank you for it. If there is one man whom I would like to meet, that
man is The Shadow."

THE old man hesitated as he looked at Birdie Crull. Then he decided to
explain.
"For years," he said, "I lived in a house in New York. I had my schemes,
my plans, and my methods. They worked. The arrangement we have here was a later
development. I kept clear of it.
"Then I had a great plan. Two competent men were handling it. They would
have succeeded - but for The Shadow.
"A young fellow named Duncan was a slight obstacle in our path. I arranged
to dispose of him - easily. The Shadow interfered.
"Up until then, I had laughed at all talk of The Shadow. But when I
encountered him, disaster followed. I left New York because of him. Clever
though he may be, he could not have trailed me."
"How does he come into it now?" questioned Birdie Crull, anxiously.
"Through you. He has found your trail."
Birdie Crull repressed a shudder.
"How do you know?"
"Bronson tells me so. You know Spotter?"
"Yes. Every one does."
"The Shadow has been pumping Spotter. I have the details here. He wants to
find a man who has nerve; can use a gun; or a knife."
Birdie Crull stared blankly at the wall.
"Do you think he is wise?" he questioned. "Does he know about - Jarnow -
and Griffith?"
The murderer's voice quavered slightly. Isaac Coffran studied him with
piercing eyes.
"Perhaps he does," said the old man harshly. "If so - let him be wise. He
is not infallible.
"He was in disguise, when he met Spotter. He is perfect at the art of
disguise. But Spotter saw through it - and The Shadow doesn't know it!
"He fooled me once, The Shadow did. Impersonated Pedro, my Mexican helper,
and actually deceived me. Later, he escaped an excellent trap that I planned for
him. On this occasion, he is ours.
"Spotter knows The Shadow's ability. He has suggested a plan that Bronson
can carry through. The Shadow can perform wonders; but not miracles. He will
need a miracle to save him this time."
"I've seen him," admitted Birdie Crull. "Came out of the dark. Plopped me
in the middle of the street and -"
Isaac Coffran interrupted with a wave of his hand.
"He wins when he catches men unaware," said the old man. "This time he
will lose. He doesn't know where you are, Crull. He doesn't know where I am. He
is not an agent of the police."
"What is he then?"
"A mystery. A man who loves crime, but who thwarts it in preference to
furthering it. I imagine that he has great wealth. He was a spy during the War,
I understand."
"Does he play a lone game?"
"Yes, and no. He has aides, but they play very minor parts. That will be
to our advantage. Everything is arranged. Spotter and Bronson have awaited my
word, only in case I might have a better suggestion.
"I approve of their plan. It will work. Remain tranquil."
Jerry knocked at the door.
"Dinner," said Isaac Coffran. "Time you were back at Windsor's. Forget The
Shadow. He is my prize. Be watchful from now on. You have done well."
Birdie Crull had reached the stairway when the old man recalled him.
"Be sure to send Vernon over immediately," said Isaac Coffran. "Tell him
to bring his appliances. I have work for him. He will understand."
"All right. By the way - I found these on Jarnow."
Birdie Crull gave three crisp twenty-dollar bills to Isaac Coffran. The
old man studied them keenly.
"He must have picked these up when he was here," he said.
"Exactly," answered Crull. "Just another clue that Detective Griffith
didn't keep. I know what I'm doing when I work."
As the echoes of Birdie Crull's footsteps came from the stairs, old Isaac
Coffran rubbed his hands. His stooped shoulder trembled, a soft spasm of
fiendish laughter shook his body.
"The Shadow!" His lips spat the words with diabolic malediction. "The
Shadow! Hah-hah-hah!"
The laugh carried a sinister irony. A pitiless hilarity seemed to trail
the old man's bent figure as it slowly descended the stairway.

CHAPTER XI

VINCENT ESTABLISHES HIMSELF

THE time was well past noon when Harry Vincent drove into the driveway
that led to Blair Windsor's pretentious home. His ring at the front door was
answered promptly by a middle-aged manservant. At his request to meet Garret
Buckman, he was ushered into a large parlor.
The man whom Vincent sought arrived a few minutes later. Garret Buckman
was a genial individual - fifty years old, or thereabouts. His plump face
beamed, and his hairless pate glistened. He approached Vincent with the
outstretched hand of good-fellowship.
"Hello, Vincent! I've been expecting you. Had a wire from old Claude
Fellows, yesterday. Great chap, Fellows. Old friend of yours, isn't he?"
"That's correct."
"Any friend of his is a friend of mine. Glad you stopped in to see me. I
want you to meet the other folks here. Maybe I can arrange for you to stay a
while. You aren't in any hurry to get along, are you?"
"Well - no," said Harry, doubtfully. "I was driving up to Vermont.
Happened to see Fellows before I left New York He told me to be sure to stop
here, and to send his regrets."
"Maybe you'd better forget Vermont," urged Buckman. "Wait till I talk it
over with Windsor. Come on. I want you to meet him."
He took Harry's arm, and led him through a hall. The click of pool balls
came from the other end of the passage.
They entered a room where four men were gathered about a billiard table.
The game paused as they entered. A young man, with friendly countenance, came
to greet them.
"This is Mr. Windsor," introduced Buckman. "Meet Mr. Vincent, Blair."
Harry felt an immediate liking for Blair Windsor. The man's personality
was genial. He was a virile type, with an expression that betokened
comradeship. He had the physique of an athlete.
The others were introduced.
Philip Harper was a short, stocky person, who thrust out his hand in a
nervous manner. Vincent reckoned his age as past forty. Perry Quinn was younger
- well under thirty. He was friendly in his greeting, but he displayed a certain
reserve that impressed Vincent. This man might bear watching.

HARRY VINCENT withheld himself when he was introduced to the last of the
four. The man's name was Bert Crull. Harry felt quite sure that he was the
young man whom he had seen in the farmhouse the night before.
Crull was a friendly chap, and seemed actually pleased to meet Vincent.
His smile of greeting quelled Harry's suspicions, and made him feel that the
episode of the night before might have no significance.
"Gerry Buckman told me he expected you," said Blair Windsor to Harry. "I
hope you will stay with us as long as you can. We have open house here - for
all my friends, and for all their friends."
Harry laughed.
"I didn't intend to walk in on you this way -" he began.
Blair Windsor waved his hand.
"This is a real invitation," he said. "It's not just politeness. We have
plenty of room for you. You'll like it here - it's the best spot in New
England. We want you to stay."
"Windsor means that," interrupted Buckman, urgingly.
"All right," agreed Harry. "This is wonderful hospitality, Mr. Windsor.
This is one of the most delightful places that I have ever visited. I shall be
glad to stay for a few days."
"Make it a few weeks, if you can," replied Blair Windsor, as he returned
to the table, and sighted along his cue. "Stay with us all summer, if you like."
The amiable surroundings were pleasing to Harry. He and Buckman walked
outside while the others were finishing their game. Then they rejoined the
crowd, and the six gathered in the large living room.
The day was warm; all the men were in their shirt sleeves. The view from
the living-room window was excellent. Blair Windsor's summer home was indeed an
attractive haven, and Harry could hardly believe that anything was amiss.
The only cloud in the conversation came late in the afternoon. Blair
Windsor's genial face became suddenly sober, when he brought up the subject.
His gray eyes were solemn as he spoke.
"Boys," he said, "I can't understand it about old Henry. I don't believe
that he could have killed Frank Jarnow; but it does look bad.
"I talked with Henry. He was stewed when he went to see Frank. That may
account for it. Henry's great fault is liquor; yet I can't see how it could
have made a killer out of him."
"Frank seemed O.K. when he was here," observed Perry Quinn. "But I can't
understand why he left so suddenly. He was gone before we knew it."
"He was probably worried about his job," explained Blair Windsor. "He was
rather dubious about staying two weeks. I understand that he called Henry by
phone. They were old friends, you know; in fact, I only knew Frank through
Henry."
"Blair has had an unfortunate experience," confided Buckman, to Vincent.
The two were sitting together in a corner of the room.
"Frank Jarnow, who was staying here, went home several days ago. He lived
in Philadelphia, and knew Blair's brother, Henry.
"They evidently had a quarrel; Jarnow was shot, and killed. Blair had to
go to Philadelphia for a few days to see if he could help straighten matters."
"Well, gentlemen," came Blair Windsor's voice, in a cheerful tone,
"there's no use worrying about it. I talked with Henry's lawyer. He's a good
man, and hopes to clear Henry."
"That's all that can be done."
"Let's forget it. It's my problem, and I can only wait for further
developments. In the meantime, your companionship is a real inspiration. I mean
that, sincerely."

AT five o'clock, Harry remembered that he had left his bag in the village
five miles away. He left in his coupe, and covered the distance rapidly. Then
he started back, but turned off a side road into the woods.
Here, in a spot well away from observation, he set up his wireless, and
sent a message, telling what he had accomplished.
A reply came shortly afterward.

Send reports by mail. In case of emergency, establish wireless
communication. Call Fellows by long distance in case of extreme necessity.
Meanwhile, listen for advice from WGG, three o'clock; WNX, six o'clock, and
nine o'clock.

Harry was back at Blair Windsor's in time for dinner at six thirty. After
dinner, the men sat down to a game of cards.
Despite the fact that they all appeared to be wealthy, the stakes were
low. Blair Windsor explained the circumstances.
"Many friends visit me," he said to Vincent. "Some of them do not have a
great deal of money. We play for the enjoyment of the game itself. Any who do
not care to indulge are not compelled to do so."
The other members of the company approved the statement. It was a genial
crowd of men, all in accord, and harmony.
Harry tried to analyze the situation. He figured that any trouble which
might be brewing was surely directed toward Blair Windsor, the host.
Why should this man have enemies? The only reason that seemed logical was
that Blair Windsor had wealth.
Were any of these men plotting against Blair Windsor?
Harry peered above the cards which he held in his hand. He eliminated
Garret Buckman, immediately. Philip Harper might be a possibility.
Perry Quinn was more so. He was the one man in the crowd toward whom Harry
felt anything that might be considered dislike.
Of course, Bert Crull must be included. The episode in the farmhouse might
be significant. Yet Crull was proving himself a most genial character. He seemed
to have Blair Windsor's full friendship. Harry realized that he must gain more
information.
"What time is it?" asked Philip Harper, suddenly.
"After nine," said Blair Windsor.
The short man went to the radio.
"Meant to tune in on that thriller hour, on WNX," he said. "Maybe we can
still catch the end of it."
He turned the dials of the radio.

HARRY listened intently as the program came on the air. Two speakers were
in the midst of a dialogue. The listeners paused in their card game, as they
sought to catch the thread of the story.
"It's nearly dawn," came one voice, in low tones.
"Not yet," were the words of the other speaker. "Look at your watch. What
time is it?"
Harry Vincent became tense, as he caught the emphasis on the word "watch."
The other talker was on the air.
"Four o'clock" were the words.
"It will be dark for two more hours. Do you think the man will be here by
five?"
"Yes; and he must pass within a few feet of us. I have seen him go by here
- at least nine times."
Harry's intent mind had assumed a semi-hypnotic state. The only words that
he seemed to hear were those that were emphasized. There were no more stressed
words. The rest of the story came to its termination.
"Watch for dark man - five feet nine."
That was the message that flashed through Harry's brain.
There were two such men here at the table. The description suited Perry
Quinn better than it did Bert Crull. Both were the same height. Both were
dark-complexioned, but Quinn's hair was almost jet black, in contrast to
Crull's deep brown.
The voice of the announcer came from the radio. It was a sinister voice,
that spoke in a weird whisper.
It was a voice that startled Harry; for it seemed familiar.
He listed to its tones - not to the words. The voice ceased. An uncanny
laugh followed.
As the mocking tones reached their whispered crescendo, Perry Quinn leaped
to his feet, and turned off the radio. His face seemed hard, as he came back to
the table, to be greeted by puzzled looks.
"What's the matter?" questioned Blair Windsor.
"It gives me the creeps," said Quinn.
The other men laughed - all except Bert Crull. That fellow seemed
thoughtful, but his face was impassive. He finally smiled slightly.
"Whose deal?" he asked quietly.
Harry Vincent's thoughts were active while the cards were being dealt.
He had received instructions over the air. They were orders from The
Shadow, artfully inserted in a radio dialogue.
After the instructions he had heard a laugh - a laugh in a voice that he
had heard before. It was the laugh of The Shadow - and Perry Quinn had not
relished that laugh!

CHAPTER XII

DEATH TO THE SHADOW

ON the following evening, a man came down the alley that passed by the den
known as the Black Ship. As he approached, a figure slipped into a gap between
two houses, and remained hidden there.
The man entered the Black Ship.
"Hello, Reds," called the bartender. "Come here a minute."
Reds Mackin approached the bar, and the attendant gave him a letter.
Mackin studied the envelope for an instant. Then he opened it.
The message gave an address, and the time of ten o'clock. Under it were
scrawled the words:
"Be there sure."
The red-headed man thrust the letter in his pocket. It was not yet nine
o'clock. He sat at a table, and ordered a drink.
Gangsters were few in the Black Ship that evening. Two or three entered
and left during the half hour that Reds Mackin remained there.
Mackin looked at the letter again. A new arrival, a middle-sized man, with
a heavy cap, cast a sidelong glance at him; but Reds did not apparently notice
it.
When Reds finally arose and strolled out of the Black Ship, the hoodlum
followed a few minutes later.
Reds Mackin was leisurely in his gait. He went toward his destination in a
roundabout way. It was nearly ten o'clock when he turned from a busy street, and
entered the quiet of a side thoroughfare.
A large touring car, which had been standing by the curb, suddenly came to
action. It went ahead a square, and turned a corner; then another. It should
have arrived at the crossing of two narrow streets almost simultaneously with
Reds Mackin.
But Mackin had paused in the middle of the block, to light a cigarette.
The wind was blowing, and he had not been particularly successful. The touring
car was well ahead of him at the crossing. It kept on, and turned at the next
corner.
Reds reached the crossing, and moved along the block. He looked at the
number over a doorway. It was two doors from his desired address. He looked
down the street. A touring car was coming toward him, at a fairly rapid rate of
speed.
The car passed under a light some twenty feet away. At that instant, Reds
Mackin caught the gleam of metal.
With a quick, instinctive motion, he dived forward on the pavement, behind
a cluster of filled ash cans that stood on the sidewalk, near the curb.
Simultaneously, the sharp rattle of a machine gun came from the touring
car. The automobile swept by, delivering a mechanical cannonade that made a
terrific noise in the narrow street.
The death-dealing bullets were loosened at the same split-second as Reds
Mackin's dive. His mind had worked independently of the brain behind the gun.
The raking bullets buried themselves in the ashes.
In the area of thirty feet covered by the bullets, there was but one small
spot where a man could have remained, and lived. On the spur of the instant,
Reds Mackin had found that blind spot, behind the chance shelter of the filled
ash cans.
The man operating the gun realized what had happened; but the driver of
the car was staring straight ahead. A series of oaths were uttered as the rain
of bullets ended, and the automobile had passed on.

REDS MACKIN was as quick up as he had been down. He dashed into the
entrance of the house to which he had come. The door opened at his touch. He
closed it, and moved toward the stairs. There was a dim light at the top.
Two powerful men leaped upon Mackin at the foot of the stairs. He twisted
free, and felled one with a well-directed punch. The other fired two shots, but
his aim was ruined by the stroke of Mackin's arm.
In a flash, Reds seized the gun from the thug who had fallen. Turning, he
shot his other antagonist.
Up the stairs went Reds Mackin, two and three steps at a leap. As he
reached the top, a heavy man pounced upon him, and wrested the automatic from
his grasp.
Reds was momentarily overpowered; then he wrestled with his opponent. He
broke free, and came to his knees. As the big man loomed above him, Reds
delivered a punch in the stomach.
His antagonist sagged. Reds gave him a strong push, and the huge fellow
went backward down the stairs. Reds rose, and picked up the gun.
The door of the little room was open. Reds Mackin laughed as he entered.
He calmly closed the door, and turned on the light.
In the corner stood a cold-faced thug, his automatic covering Reds Mackin.
Before Mackin could raise his own gun, the other man pressed the trigger of his
revolver.
The room seemed to tremble with the explosion. The soft-nosed bullets
found their mark in the body of Reds Mackin.
The grim murderer chuckled as the racketeer crumpled to the floor. He
coolly surveyed the distorted body; then he extinguished the light, and left
the room through the window.
The police were in the street. They had come following the first sounds of
the machine gun.
As they entered the house, a small stooped man went slinking down the
street. He had been hiding opposite the building which Reds Mackin had entered.
An hour later, the killing of Reds Mackin was the talk of gangland. The
underworld was astonished at the death of the smooth racketeer.
Few knew that he had been in the city; it was generally supposed that he
had been West. It was learned that he had been seen nightly in the Black Ship.
That was a night of worry for many racketeers. Reds Mackin had been a
smooth worker, who had never crossed any of the gunmen. Why had he been chosen
for destruction?
No one could answer the question.
"I can't figure it out," said a rowdy in the Black Ship. "If they was out
to get a guy like Reds Mackin, why didn't they take him for a ride? Instead of
that, they cuts loose with everything they got."
"It's goin' to put us all in a jam," observed another. "The bulls ain't
goin' to pass this up. Blowin' him down with machine guns, in the middle of the
street."
"They didn't get him that way," said the first speaker. "He slipped by
'em, he did. They plugged him inside the house. Right by old Crippled Carrie's
room. The old dame is a wreck, they say. She'd been workin' a phony racket, an'
now the bulls is questionin' her."
"Maybe they'll get some guys for this."
"No. They won't know who done it, until the birds blow outa town."
"They say Reds got one of 'em."
"Who?"
"Goldie Parker. An' the cops found Tim Larrigan, layin' on the floor
downstairs. Reds had chucked him from the top."
"Whew! Both of 'em is with Maloney's crowd."
"You bet. That means the other boys will have to blow town."
The discussion continued. All gangdom seemed apprehensive regarding the
consequences of this outburst. The death of one racketeer seemed hardly worth
the risk and effort which had been taken.

ONE man in the crowd might have explained much that would have satisfied
the others. But Spotter remained in the background, saying nothing.
In his heart, he was exultant. It had taken him some time to believe that
his scheme to get The Shadow had succeeded.
A quiet, cold-faced man entered the Black Ship, and went to the inner
room. Spotter joined him casually, as the man was pouring liquor from his
bottle. They were alone.
"So you got him, Steve!" whispered Spotter.
The other man nodded. Spotter stared at his stocky form and impassive face
with admiration.
"Listen, Spotter." The stocky man's voice was harsh, and low. "I knew the
lay the minute you told me. It was worth the five hundred in phony bills you
gave me, wasn't it?"
"It was worth that in real cash."
"Well, this fake mazuma is just as good. They'll take it quick enough,
where I'm going. I hadn't any right to be back in New York, anyway, but I
couldn't stay away."
"How did you guess" - Spotter looked around him apprehensively - "that it
was The Shadow?"
"How? When you told me this afternoon that you'd make it worth my while to
help out Maloney's gang, I knew it wasn't Reds Mackin you were after. He could
have been put out easy. But I know something about The Shadow.
"He was on my trail, once, Spotter. You wanted a man up there, in that
room, for emergency. Who was this fellow that was going to slide through the
machine-gun fire, and three men waiting inside?"
"The Shadow," admitted Spotter.
"You're right. I told you I knew who you were after, didn't I? Told you
when you put the proposition up to me, this afternoon.
"Lucky I came along, wasn't it? Well, I'm satisfied. The Shadow was going
to get Steve Cronin, once. Instead, Steve Cronin got The Shadow!"
The stocky man finished his drink. He snapped his fingers, in farewell, as
he walked out of the Black Ship, pausing at the door to light a cigarette.
"Steve Cronin was the right guy," murmured Spotter, approvingly. "Wait
till I tell Bronson. I'll get five hundred of real cash for the phony bills I
paid out.
"Lucky that Steve came to town. He was the ace in the hole. I figured that
if The Shadow got as far as him, he'd do the trick."
He paused a moment.
"I spotted him," he whispered, in the emptiness of the room. "I know it
was him. Reds Mackin ain't in town. Only The Shadow could have gone through
that mill.
"Whew! What if Steve hadn't been there! Gee! I couldn't believe they had
him, until Steve clinched it by tellin' me just now."
A satisfied grin spread over Spotter's shrewd features. Death to The
Shadow! That had been his wish.
Now The Shadow was dead!

CHAPTER XIII

A STRANGE DISAPPEARANCE

HARRY VINCENT was worried. It was now the third evening that he had been
in Blair Windsor's home. The first night had been marked by the message which
had come over the radio. He had expected a similar message the second night,
but it had not come.
He had been expectant to-night; he had tuned in on WGG at three o'clock,
and WNX at six o'clock, but to no avail.
What had happened to The Shadow? In all his experiences with that
mysterious person, Harry Vincent had found that a trail once opened was
followed. Yet now, after his first instructions to watch for a certain type of
man Harry had received no further word.
During the day, Harry had contrived to keep a watchful eye on both Perry
Quinn and Bert Crull. One of these, he felt sure, was his man - Quinn because
he had acted suspiciously; Crull because he looked like the man whom Harry had
seen in the farmhouse.
Yet with two days of observation to his credit, Harry had discovered
nothing. Now it was nearly nine o'clock. Perhaps some word would arrive, subtly
hidden in the broadcast from station WNX.
Harry Vincent entered the large living room. All the men were there.
Buckman and Blair Windsor were engaged in a game of chess; Harper was looking
on. Crull was reading the evening paper. But Quinn seemed restless; he was
walking up and down the room.
Harry tuned in on station WNX. When he looked around, Quinn had gone.
"Where's Perry?" questioned Harry. "Thought I saw him here a minute ago."
Harper looked up and shrugged his shoulders.
"He went out on the porch," said Crull. "Guess he wanted some fresh air."
The men all appeared quite indifferent to Quinn's action. Harry was
tempted to join Quinn on the porch; but he was anxious to hear the expected
radio message. So he waited; but the result was disappointing. The program that
came over the air carried no key words.
Harry went out on the porch. He found Quinn there, and talked with him for
a while. The man seemed rather morose and indifferent. He acted as though
something was troubling him.
Harry sought, by artful questioning, to lead the conversation to the
source of his annoyance; but this was without success.
Returning to the living room, Harry found the men still occupied as
before. He picked up a book and began to read. But his mind was not upon the
printed pages. Instead, he was seeking some solution to the riddle that he
believed existed here.

HE knew that his own position was none too well established. He was a
guest through the request of Garret Buckman.
He must, therefore, act in a way that would not excite the suspicion of
the normal members of the group - Windsor, Buckman, and Harper.
Yet he must centralize on Quinn and Crull. There were also servants in the
house - three of them - all men.
Louie was the cook; he was a jolly fellow, who seldom left his kitchen.
Parker was the handy man. He attended to everything about the place.
Vernon, the old butler, was virtually on the retired list. He was a
dignified, gray-haired man. He was active, yet he turned most of his duties
over to Parker, who was always busy.
Vernon came in the room while Vincent was thinking of him. He arranged
some of the furniture in the room; then went upstairs. Harry began to ponder
over Blair Windsor's situation.
Here was Windsor, a most likable chap, with three servants - two dull
fellows, and one old man. His guests were business men who had come for a few
restful weeks of vacation. Unsuspecting, they harbored a dangerous person who
must have some scheme under way.
It was Harry's duty to watch the enemy; yet he must do it artfully, or he
would appear to be behaving strangely for a guest.
Philip Harper decided to turn in. It was now ten o'clock. They had all
played cards late on the previous night. Every one seemed tired.
Windsor and Buckman finished their game of chess. They decided to spend a
few minutes on the large veranda. Harry went with them. Crull remained in the
living room, still reading the paper. He said that he would probably be
upstairs when they returned.
They saw no sign of Perry Quinn when they reached the porch. Blair Windsor
remarked on the fact. Garret Buckman presumed that Quinn had gone for a short
walk.
The thought troubled Harry Vincent. He found an excuse for returning to
the living room, and left the others.
He entered the house through a side door that was seldom used. He stepped
into a darkened hall, and closed the door behind him. Then he stopped short.
Some one was crossing the hall ahead of him - some one who was moving
stealthily.
A door opened, and the man went out of sight. Harry followed. The door led
to the cellar stairs. Harry could hear the man's footsteps, although they were
very light.
Evidently the person who was moving into the darkness below felt sure that
he was not being followed, yet he was going cautiously.
Harry proceeded with absolute stealth. He reached the stone-floored
cellar, and followed noiselessly, trailing the man by the slight sounds that
came from ahead.
Who was it?
Harry could not tell. The only persons whom he could positively eliminate
were Blair Windsor and Garret Buckman, who were on the veranda.
It might be Perry Quinn, come in from outside when he saw the others go to
the porch. It might be Bert Crull, who had been in the living room.
Harry Vincent was determined to learn the identity of this individual.

THEY were across the cellar now. Harry had never been in the place before.
He was in constant danger of running into a post, or of stumbling over something
which might betray his presence. Yet the man ahead seemed to know the path
perfectly.
Harry came to a halt. He stood stock-still, for he could hear the other
man breathing. They must be very close, and near the far wall of the cellar;
for the man in the dark was no longer in motion.
Harry feared that he had been heard. He stood and listened. He heard
slight noises, but could not tell what they were. Then came silence. Harry
waited.
Even the noise of the man's breathing had ceased; It was grimly tense,
here in utter darkness. The man was almost within Harry's grasp; yet he must
wait until the unknown person made some action. He felt that the man was
listening also.
Any moment, the stranger might leap upon him. Harry's only hope depended
upon two factors: first, that the stranger had not detected his presence;
second, that the man in the dark did not care to reveal his identity.
A sudden thought occurred to Harry Vincent.
Sooner or later, he must encounter the man who menaced the house of Blair
Windsor. Why not force the issue now? An encounter here in the darkness of the
cellar would be unknown to all save Harry and his opponent.
The young man reached in his pocket, and brought out a flashlight. He
pointed it directly toward the spot where the hidden person stood, and pressed
the button.
The bright ray revealed a corner of the cellar, which was arranged with
shelves. But that was all it showed.
The man whom Harry Vincent had followed had completely disappeared!
It was impossible for him to have doubled on his tracks. The position in
which Harry stood was a commanding one. In the darkness he had unknowingly
forced the other man into a corner. Yet the person had escaped!
Sweeping the broad beam of the light before him, Harry made a tour of the
large cellar. He learned the full arrangement of the place, but he found no one
there.
He went upstairs softly. Bert Crull was no longer in the living room. Some
one entered. It was Vernon, who had just come downstairs. The old servant looked
at Vincent quizzically.
"Where is Mr. Windsor?" questioned Harry.
"He and Mr. Buckman came in, sir," replied Vernon. "He told me to lock up."
"Oh!" Harry's exclamation showed surprise. "Is every one in the house?"
"Yes, sir. They have all come upstairs. I thought that you had come up,
also. Mr. Windsor said that you had left them on the porch, and had come in."
"I did!" exclaimed Harry. "But I didn't hear them come in. I was just
going out to rejoin them. Since they are already upstairs, I shall retire also."
In his room, Harry Vincent wondered. Had his imagination been at work,
during that episode in the cellar?
No. He felt sure that he had followed some person. Yet if he had, the
amazing disappearance of that person seemed incredible.
Quick thoughts came to his groping mind. There was only one man who
disappeared like that - and that man was The Shadow!
Harry had received no messages from New York. Could it be that The Shadow
himself was at Brookdale, haunting the home of Blair Windsor like a spectre
that one could glimpse but could not follow?
Harry Vincent was still bewildered when he fell asleep.

CHAPTER XIV

SPOTTER PAYS A VISIT

THE denizens of New York's underworld prowl while others sleep. At the
very time when Harry Vincent was retiring, in peaceful Brookdale, a little
stoop-shouldered man was sidling along an obscure street in Manhattan.
It was nearly twenty-four hours since Spotter had talked with Steve
Cronin. The murderer had disappeared from town, and Maloney's crew of killers
had cleared out at the same time.
Only Spotter remained. No one connected him with the death of Reds Mackin.
All evening, Spotter had frequented his usual haunts. He had been to the
Black Ship, the Pink Rat, and other notorious dives of the underworld.
Those who had seen him had not suspected that he had any purpose in his
mind. That was Spotter's way. Cunning and secretive, the eagle-eyed crook
conducted his affairs without interference.
To-night he had slipped out of the Pink Rat, and had chosen a course
through narrow side streets that had assured him that no one was following him.
Spotter was always cautious that way. He had sure methods of slipping out
of sight. Even though no one might be following him, he used his precautions.
Spotter chuckled as he sneaked along. Crooks and police were alike to him.
They never had the goods on Spotter. When he had work to do, he did it suddenly
and unexpectedly.
No one could suspect his present purpose; yet he left nothing to chance.
There was only one man, Spotter decided, who could ever trail him. That
man was The Shadow - and now The Shadow was dead. The Shadow had been a menace;
now the menace was removed.
The little man disappeared along a narrow alley. He dropped into a dark
nook and waited. If any one was on his trail, the pursuer would come down the
alley and betray himself. But no one came.
Spotter chuckled softly. He emerged from the darkness, went along the
deserted street, and turned into the side door of a building on the corner.
Over the corner entrance hung three battered golden balls. But Spotter
chose a side entrance that led to the rooms above the pawnshop.
There was a second door, with a bell button beside it. Spotter rang. The
latch clicked, and the little man entered. The door closed behind him as he
mounted the stairs.

A MAN was waiting at the head of the stairway, where a dim light shone. He
scanned Spotter, recognized him, and took him into a small room. The shades of
this apartment were drawn.
"I didn't expect you this early, Spotter," said the man. "You'll have to
wait a little while."
"All right, Doc," replied Spotter.
The man whom Spotter was visiting was "Doc" Birch, the proprietor of the
pawnshop. Doc Birch was a careful man in his dealings. He conducted a
legitimate business and seldom received stolen goods.
He was a gaunt man, well along in years, who surveyed Spotter through
large, thick spectacles.
"It's O.K. for you to wait, Spotter," said Birch, "but there's no one else
that I'd trust."
"Don't blame you, Doc."
"You know I'm working through a couple of the boys, but while they're all
right, I don't go too strong with them. They're liable to blab or to get in
trouble. It would spoil my game."
"You gotta watch out, Doc. It ain't wise to have too many in the know."
"I agree with you, Spotter. But I always try to unload the phony bills as
soon as they come in. The sooner you shove out queer money, the better.
"I'd like to depend on you alone. It would be safer in a way; but if I did
I'd have to keep the stuff here in the house. That would make it more dangerous
in the long run."
"I thought you did keep it here."
"Well" - Birch hesitated before making his admission - "I might as well
tell you the real dope, Spotter. I buy the goods outright, cash in advance. I
don't know where it comes from myself."
"You don't?" Spotter asked in amazement.
"No," replied Birch. "I tell the messenger how much I want and when. How I
got into the racket is my own business; no use in going into that. But I play
the game straight.
"The fellow will show up any time now. He brings ten thousand in queer
bills - but they're the best imitation I've ever seen - and I give him real
money for it."
Spotter did not ask regarding the terms on which Doc Birch worked in
paying for the counterfeit bills that came from the unknown source.
"You're taking out two grand to-night," remarked Birch. "The others will
come at different times, to get theirs. Then I'm clear.
"They all work like you - fifty-fifty split with me. So far, I've never
been stung."
"Why should we sting you, Doc? It's a soft racket for us."
"You said it, Spotter."
"To tell you the truth, Doc, I was always kinda worried about you. I
figured maybe you was makin' the phony mazuma right here."
Doc Birch snorted.
"You should know better than that, Spotter," he said. "If I had the plates
and tried to print, I'd be nabbed quick. No, sir. Get it in, get it out. That's
my method."
He went to a safe in the corner. As he did, his shadow loomed large upon
the floor of the room. It became a huge black phantom that seemed to reach to
the dim hall.
Spotter uttered an exclamation of fright.
"What's the matter?" asked Doc Birch, quickly.
"Nothin', Doc," answered Spotter.

THE gaunt man opened the safe and removed a stack of bills. He closed the
safe and flashed the money before Spotter's eyes, spreading it so the gangster
could see the bills. They were crisp and new.
"All ten spots," said Doc Birch. "No phonies, either. These are real, boy.
I'm paying them out for the stuff."
The pawnbroker wrapped a thick, red rubber band around the stack of
currency. Spotter was unable to determine the amount of the cash.
"What made you so nervous?" questioned Birch, as he thrust the payment
money in his coat pocket.
"Nothin'," grunted Spotter. "I just been kinda shaky to-night."
"Did that rub-out of Reds Mackin worry you?"
"No. Why should it?"
"Well, it was a lot of hullabaloo over just one guy. I wonder what Reds
Mackin had been doing? They went out of their way to make sure of getting him."
Spotter shook his head as though the whole affair was a mystery to him. He
glanced at the floor, and felt relieved. The huge shadow had disappeared since
Doc Birch had come back to his place in the room.
Evidently it had been due to the peculiar position of the lights. Spotter
was not anxious to be reminded of anything shadowy.
The bell rang twice. Doc Birch motioned to Spotter.
Then he went out in the hall.
Together they descended the stairs. A man was standing beyond the
glass-paneled inside door. His hand was pressed against the pane, so three
fingers showed. This was evidently a sign of some sort.
Birch opened the door. A package was thrust in.
There, in the darkness, with Spotter looking on, the pawnbroker gave the
man the packet of ten-dollar bills. In an instant, the visitor was gone. The
sound of a departing automobile came from outside.
"Come on," said Birch, picking up the package. He led Spotter through a
short hall. They went down a flight of stairs into the cellar.
Birch turned on the basement light. He laid the package on the floor, and
burst it open. Stacks of twenty-dollar and fifty-dollar bills came into view.
Birch examined one.
"Great stuff," he said. "Up to the usual standard. How do you want yours,
Spotter? Twenties or fifties?"
"Half of each," replied the little man.

AS the pawnbroker stooped forward to count out the counterfeit cash, his
shadow again performed its elongation. This time Spotter said nothing; but his
face became drawn and tense. He watched Birch for a moment; then turned
cautiously and looked about the cellar.
His inspection proved that they were alone. The edges of the cellar were
gloomy, but no one was visible. A pile of blackness at one corner proved to be
a large heap of coal - evidently left over from the winter's supply.
Birch finished counting the money, and rose just before Spotter ended his
survey of the cellar.
The crafty-faced Spotter noted that the huge spot of blackness was no
longer on the floor, now that the pawnbroker had arisen.
"Get going, Spotter," warned Birch. "I'll let you out as we go upstairs.
The others will be here soon. I want to unload before midnight if I can. Pay me
your split as soon as you finish passing these."
The pawnbroker put the remaining counterfeit bills in a box, and covered
them with paper. He and Spotter went upstairs. Birch turned off the light as
they were leaving. Then, as an afterthought, he switched it on again.
"Duke will be here soon," he said to Spotter. "No use in my blundering
around in the dark."
A full minute went by after the two men had left the cellar. Then a shadow
began to grow on the floor. It extended from the coal bin in the corner.
Had Spotter been there, he would have screamed with fright; for from the
blackness of the coal pile emerged a tall figure, clad entirely in black,
cloaked beyond recognition.
The strange phantomlike being advanced softly across the cellar. It
crouched beside the box where the counterfeit bills had been placed.
The cloak and hat dropped, and a man of medium height arose from the spot.
He was attired in rough, ill-fitting clothes, with a shapeless dirty sweater to
give him every appearance of a typical hoodlum.
Spotter would not have recognized the man; but he would have known the
voice. For the roughly clad fellow laughed in a low, sinister tone.
His laugh, soft though it was, echoed weirdly from the basement walls. It
was the laugh of The Shadow - The Shadow whom Spotter believed to be dead!

CHAPTER XV

THE RAID AT MIDNIGHT

THE disguised Shadow gazed curiously about the cellar. Then he again
turned his attention to the box, removed the papers, and took out several
counterfeit bills. He studied these under the light. He pocketed them; then
rearranged the box exactly as Doc Birch had left it.
Although the pawnshop proprietor had stated to Spotter that he would soon
return to the cellar, the roughly dressed visitor seemed entirely indifferent
to the fact. He went from one part of the basement to another; and finally
stopped by the coal pile.
Taking a long stick that lay against the wall, he probed the depths of the
coal pile.
Although he performed this operation with very little noise, the sound of
the shifting coal was sufficient to drown other noises. Hence The Shadow paused
in his work occasionally, and listened for any sound that might come from the
stairs that led to the floor above.
A click sounded from the coal pile. Probing, The Shadow found a flat sheet
of metal. He examined it under the light. It was a plate used in the manufacture
of counterfeit bills.
After a close examination, The Shadow compared the plate with the sample
bills that he had taken. His disguised face was impassive for a moment; then a
slight smile appeared upon the thick lips.
The Shadow had detected almost imperceptible differences between the plate
and the bills. He replaced the plate in the coal bin, upon others that formed a
stack. He swept lumps of coal over the plates. Suddenly he stopped in his work.
He stood in an attitude of attention for a moment. He wheeled with amazing
quickness just as a man appeared from the far end of the cellar.
"Hands up!" snapped the newcomer, in a low, commanding voice. The
automatic which he carried gave emphasis to the order.
The hands of the pretended hoodlum were buried in the fold at the bottom
of his sweater. For an instant his fingers hesitated; then he raised his hands
with feigned sullenness.
"Guess you got me, all right," he said, in a gruff, sulky voice. "But I
ain't doin' nothin' here."
The new arrival sauntered into the light. He was a square-jawed
individual, clad in dark blue, with a black hat. He pulled back his coat with
his left hand, revealing a badge.
"Not doing anything, eh?" he commented. "We'll find out about that, later
on. In the meantime, just keep your hands up.
"I'm a Federal agent, in case you don't know it. That coal pile is just as
interesting to me as it was to you."

THE SHADOW did not reply. Still playing a part, he glowered wickedly at
the man who had captured him. He stood there, with puffed lips and twisted
nose, his shadow forming a huge blot on the floor before him.
"What are you doing here?" demanded the Federal agent. "You aren't in on
the game. I know that. Trying to steal something?"
"Why should I tell you?" came the sullen reply.
The Federal agent shrugged his shoulders.
"You'll talk later on," he said. "For your information, I'm not alone on
this job. My pals are getting in upstairs. We're going to grab everybody in the
place."
The prisoner remained silent. There were footsteps on the stairs.
"Here they are now," added the secret-service man.
He turned his head to stare into the barrel of a revolver carried by Doc
Birch. The pawnbroker's face was distorted with anger.
"Drop that gun!" he snarled. "I'll shoot you clear out of the place!"
The Federal agent's automatic clattered on the cellar floor. Doc Birch
studied him with keen eyes; then his gaze shifted to the rough gangster
standing by the coal pile.
"This fellow isn't with you," observed Birch. "That's sure enough. Well,
I'll find out the whole lay before I'm through with you. Government man, eh?
Looking for some sort of evidence?"
The pawnbroker went to the box which held the counterfeit bills. Using his
left hand he pulled the bundles out one by one and tossed them into the furnace
near by.
"Always keep a fire going during warm weather," he said. "It's a good
place to burn rubbish."
The secret-service man stared grimly while Doc Birch completed the
destruction of the counterfeit bills.
"Sorry you came in so soon," said the pawnbroker calmly. He looked in the
furnace and closed the door. "Wait about five minutes. Then you can look around
all you like and pick up anything you can find."
He stared toward The Shadow.
"You're out of luck, fellow," he said. "I've got a right to plug you.
You're a burglar. Well, keep your mouth shut. Savvy?"
The secret-service man interrupted.
"You might as well give up, Birch," he said in his firm voice. "You're in
for enough already, without using that gun of yours. My men are coming in your
house now."
"That so?" sneered Birch. "Let them come. They won't find anything. You
don't know what I burned, and you never will know."
"You can't get rid of the plates," replied the Federal agent. "So put your
gun away. The jig is up."
"What plates?" Doc Birch's voice was filled with apprehension.
"The plates this fellow just uncovered in the coal pile," replied the
officer.
Birch's face was livid with rage.
"So that's your game!" he exclaimed. "Sending a fake burglar in to plant
some plates! You birds are worse than a gang of crooks. Well I'll chance it,
just for that. It's curtains for both of you!"

HIS finger was on the trigger of the revolver as it covered the
secret-service man. But before he could fire the threatened shot, the roughly
dressed hoodlum sprang forward.
Seeing the sudden menace, Birch changed his aim. But the sweatered
attacker had anticipated the move. He made a dive to the floor, just as the
shots rang out. In another instant he caught the astonished pawnbroker by the
ankle and jerked him to the floor.
Birch lost his hold on the gun. It clattered against the furnace.
The secret-service man took advantage of the opportunity. He owed his life
to the timely intervention of the pretended rowdy; but he thought the fellow had
acted merely to save himself.
Seizing his own automatic from the floor, where it had lain since he
dropped it at Birch's command, the Federal agent swung it back and forth,
covering both Doc Birch and The Shadow, who was now kneeling beside the box
near the furnace.
"Hands up!" cried the Federal agent. "Hands up, or I'll fire!"
Doc Birch obeyed as he rose to a sitting position. But The Shadow did not
follow the order.
In a single second he had changed his identity. He had covered himself
with the cloak and hat which lay beside the box. Like a flash he was behind a
post; next he was on the stairs, moving toward the floor above.
The Federal agent's shots were wide. But as the fleeing form in black
reached the head of the stairs, it encountered two men who were hurrying to the
cellar. They were the expected reenforcements.
The new arrivals were ready for the situation. Their automatics were in
their hands; but the closeness of the being in black did not allow them time to
use them. Instead, they leaped as one upon the tall figure as it encountered
them.
The result was surprising.
One of the agents crumpled beneath a terrific blow that struck him. His
nerveless fingers lost their hold upon the automatic, and he sank helpless to
the floor.
The other grappled with his antagonist; but the wiry figure in black broke
his hold, and the man went tumbling down the cellar stairs.
A cry escaped his lips. It was heard by others. An entire detail of
secret-service men were entering the side door, which had been opened for them.
Their guns barked, but their hasty aim was too late for the escaping
figure. The Shadow sped up the stairs to the second floor, his form virtually
invisible in the semidarkness.
"I've got him!" shouted one of the agents, as he leveled his automatic and
fired into the darkness.
But before the echo of his shots had died away, he heard a mocking sound
from the floor above. It was a long, raucous laugh; a laugh that taunted; a
laugh that meant much more than mere words.
It was the laugh of The Shadow!

CHAPTER XVI

SPOTTER SEES THE SHADOW

SCARCELY had the sound of The Shadow's laugh died away before half a dozen
of the Federal agents were up the stairs in pursuit. They were fearless men,
accustomed to fierce raids. They had been baffled for the moment. Nothing could
stop them now. They had no thoughts of danger as they took up their mad pursuit.
Nor did they have an inkling that their quarry was a friend. The Shadow
had chosen to play a part, during his present quest - one that would bring Doc
Birch's undoing. He had regained his enshrouding garb in hope of passing from
the picture. He had ended all chance for explanations. Departure was his only
course.
The government men occupied the second floor with amazing quickness. There
were only four rooms there and their flashlights spread to every corner. The
closed windows were sufficient proof that their quarry had not escaped.
The men had separated in their search. Two of them entered a room at the
back of the house. They were ready with their automatics. A harsh laugh came
from the corner by the window. One that was different from The Shadow's own
mirth.
Both men fired at the spot. Their lights were focused upon the place where
they believed the man in black was standing. But the deceptive voice of The
Shadow had fooled them. They heard the laugh again, coming from the blank wall
where their lights gleamed.
Before they had realized the deception of ventriloquism which had been
practiced, The Shadow was upon them.
Sweeping from behind the opened door of the room, he seized their necks
with iron hands, and drove one against the other.
Then he was gone, down the hall. He side-stepped two new antagonists, and
dodged into the door of a room. Before they could stop their rush, the door had
slammed in their faces, and they heard the key turn in the lock.
Crash!
One of the Federal agents, a powerful man, hurled himself against the
barrier. Another joined him; and after several terrific blows, the door gave
way and the men were precipitated into the room.
The others were behind them. Their flashlights gleamed; but the room was
empty. One man flung the window sash upward.
There was an alley below, and a heavy-set policeman was standing by a
lamp-post, staring upward. He held a revolver in one hand.
"Don't shoot!" warned the man at the window.
"Who are you?"
"Federal agents. On a raid."
The man leaned out of the window and drew back his coat to show his badge.
"Need any help?" asked the officer.
"No. We're after a man who escaped out this window. Did you see him?"
"Not here. I just came along a minute ago. Come down here and we'll look
for him."
The Federal agent dropped from the window. He inspected one portion of the
area beneath while the policeman searched in the other direction.
Their efforts were without success. The policeman looked up at the house
with a quizzical stare.
"What's going on in there?" he demanded.
"We've raided the place for counterfeit money," explained the
secret-service man. "We've caught Birch, who owns the place. He's down the
cellar."
"I'd better look in on it," said the policeman. "That's more important
than hunting for this fellow who got away from you. He's gone."

THE Federal agent reluctantly agreed. The two men circled the house and
entered the side door. They went to the cellar to find Birch, still protesting
to his captors.
"I tell you I never saw them before," shouted the pawnbroker, referring to
the plates, which now lay on the floor. "You planted them there. That coal
hasn't been touched for two months."
"Yeah?" came the reply from one of the government men. "Stick to your
story, fellow. See how much good it will do you."
The policeman stepped into the light. His face was dull, but hardened. He
looked at the agents and their captive. The inspection satisfied him.
"Taking him along, are you?" he asked.
"That's what we're doing," replied one of the men.
"Nobody else here?"
"Only the fellow who got away."
"What did he look like?"
"A thug," volunteered the square-jawed secret-service man who had led the
raiders. "Tough egg. Medium height, thick lips, twisted nose, dark complexion.
Wore old trousers and a dirty gray sweater. Better turn in a report on him,
officer. I'd recognize him.
"Couldn't see him in the dark," put in one of the men who had been
upstairs. "He was wearing a black coat."
"He picked that up down here," explained the first agent.
"Who was he?" demanded one of the government men, turning to Doc Birch. "A
friend of yours?"
"Boloney," snarled the pawnbroker. "You fellows let him get away. He was
in with you. Planted the plates; that's what he did. You're framing me."
His protests were ignored. The policeman made a few notations on a pad. He
left the building, and the secret-service men followed with their captive.
Reaching the street, they took Doc Birch to a car. Two of them remained
after the others had gone.
"Let's take a look back of the house, Jim," said one. "Maybe that tough
guy's hiding there."
"All right. Where's the cop?"
"He went around that direction. I told him to look."
The two men entered the alley. They came to a space behind the house, and
one of them, probing in an obscure corner, uttered a loud exclamation of
surprise.
"Here's a fellow tied up, Jim!"
The other man joined him. Under their flashlights they saw the form of a
policeman, his coat draped over his shoulders; his cap lying on the ground.
"Looks like somebody knocked him cold! It isn't the cop that was with us.
Wonder where he came from?"
The officer came to life as they propped him against the wall. He looked
at both men in a daze.
"Where's the guy?" he questioned.
"Who do you mean?"
The policeman rubbed his head as he looked upward at the second floor of
Doc Birch's house. He pointed as he spoke.
"Heard a racket up there," he explained. "Fellow was coming out the window
when I got here. Landed on my neck before I could pull my gun. Took my coat and
my gun while I was woozy. Then I took a swing at him. Boy, what a wallop he
handed me!"
His hand went to his jaw.
"Right here," he added.
The two secret service men looked at one another. Their looks registered
amazement; then changed to anger.
"It was him!" exclaimed one. "Rigged up like a cop! Grabbed this fellow's
coat and hat. He fooled us!"
"You're right. He helped me look through the alley. But he was over in
this part while I was hunting in the other direction."
Suddenly the two men stopped, attentive to a sound that they heard.
"What's that?"

BOTH men listened. They had heard the sound before. It seemed as though a
faint laugh had reached their ears; but they could not tell the direction from
which it came.
They hunted through the spaces by the alley, their flashlights searching
every cranny. Time and again they uncovered black spots which turned out to be
unoccupied shadows.
Then they gave up the search, and went to the street, fuming with chagrin.
The policeman accompanied them, still feeling his aching jaw.
"He can't be here," said one of the agents.
"It seemed like we heard him," replied the other. "But he must be gone.
Got to give him credit for a clever getaway. Wonder who he was?"
They walked down the street. It never occurred to them to search on the
other side, among a group of boxes and ash cans.
Had they done so, they might have found a man who was hiding there. But it
was not the man they sought.
It was Spotter. The shrewd hawk-eye of the under world had been in
concealment almost immediately after leaving Doc Birch. He had scented trouble
the moment he had left the house, and he had taken refuge in the improvised
hiding place just as the Federal agents had arrived.
He had seen the first man enter through a cellar window. He had heard the
shots. He had seen the lights in the windows over the pawnshop.
Moreover, he had seen a policeman enter the alley. He had seen the officer
come out accompanied by a secret-service man. He had seen the policeman reenter
the alley. While Spotter had still waited, he had seen two agents go in to join
the policeman.
Now all three had departed, and Spotter was ready to leave.
He was somewhat worried about Doc Birch. The side door that went upstairs
above the pawnshop was out of view. He had not seen the removal of the prisoner.
Yet Spotter was ever cautious. He resolved to wait a few minutes longer.
His eyes were glued to the alley that led behind the house. While he stared, he
saw a movement in the shadows. He gazed into the blackness, almost unbelieving.
Then, beneath a light across the street, a figure came momentarily into
view. It was a figure cloaked in black; a shape that merged with inky darkness
and vanished with amazing suddenness.
Spotter's blinking eyes followed the form down the street. They saw
nothing for a moment; then they observed a shadow on the pavement. It swept by
a light, then disappeared. It showed again, farther away. Then it was gone
entirely.
Spotter trembled as he crouched behind the boxes. He gulped and repressed
a terrified gasp.
He had watched the raid with indifference. Not even the presence of so
many secret-service men had frightened him. But now he was awed by a shadowy
phantom of the past - a flitting form that seemed part of the night.
Stark fear ruled the cunning-faced gangster. His eyes had seen something
which they had seen before; yet which he had believed they would never see
again.
It was half an hour before the terrorized crook dared to crawl from his
hiding place. Then he fled wildly in the direction opposite that in which the
vague specter of the night had gone.
Spotter had believed that The Shadow was dead.
It was largely because of that fact that The Shadow had chosen his
sweatered disguise. He had known that Spotter might be about. He had wanted to
keep the crafty crook under the delusion that gangland's scourge was no more.
The Shadow had succeeded in that effort, during the fray in Doc Birch's
cellar. But his need for speedy departure had given Spotter a chance to learn
the truth. Spotter knew now that The Shadow was not dead.
Tonight, he had seen The Shadow!

CHAPTER XVII

HARRY VINCENT FINDS TROUBLE

PONDERING over the strange disappearance that he had witnessed in the
cellar of Blair Windsor's house, Harry Vincent spent the next morning in a
quandary. He seemed to have encountered an unsolvable riddle. The more he
considered it, the more perplexed he became.
When early afternoon arrived, he had reached a state of mental
desperation. Finding an excuse to drive to the town, he went away in his car.
Choosing an obscure field, he set up his wireless equipment and sent a
message. He waited a long while, but no reply came.
It never occurred to Harry that he should have returned to Blair Windsor's
home, to listen in on station WGG at three o'clock. For once he misunderstood
The Shadow's directions. Orders that came from The Shadow were to be obeyed
until countermanded. But Harry Vincent, this time, was in a bewildered
condition.
He sent his message at one o'clock in the afternoon, stating where he was
and what had happened. He neglected to request an immediate reply; simply
stating that he was returning to Windsor's home. And, waiting, he failed to get
back in time for the message that came from WGG.
Harry worried more before dinner time. He had sent The Shadow the names of
Perry Quinn and Bert Crull, hoping to learn which man to watch. And he was in a
quandary.
At six o'clock, with scarcely any thought, Harry tuned in on station WNX.
Every one was in the living room at the time. Dinner was to be served in half
an hour.
Five minutes of the radio program went by, and Harry heard nothing of
interest. Perry Quinn arose and strolled out to the porch. Harry decided to
join him.
Scarcely had Harry left the room before the voice of the radio announcer
began to talk about New York City. Certain of his words carried a definite
emphasis.
"Those who come to see New York are amazed at the extent of the high-speed
transit system. You can travel for miles along the double-tracked el, and in the
four-tracked subway -"
Bert Crull looked up suddenly. Surprise was on his face.
He had been engrossed in a newspaper. Although he had not distinguished
the words of the announcer, he had a vague impression that the voice had
spelled his name.
"C - R - U - double L -"
The statement stood out in his mind. He listened to the radio. The
announcer was discussing Central Park.
"What's that fellow talking about?" asked Crull.
"New York City," replied Blair Windsor.
"That's funny," said Crull. "When I get reading I only hear snatches of
conversation. I couldn't figure what the man was saying."
He tried to dismiss the subject from his mind, although it puzzled him. He
laid the paper aside, and continued to listen to the radio.

HARRY VINCENT and Perry Quinn came in from the porch. Dinner was ready,
and the six men went into the dining room.
During the meal, two persons were silent and thoughtful. One was Harry
Vincent. He was wondering which man he should watch: Crull or Quinn.
Had he heard the message that was intended for him, he would have chosen
the former. Instead, he finally decided that Quinn should be the object of his
observation.
The other meditative diner was Bert Crull. He kept pondering over the
voice of the announcer that had seemed to spell his name. He finally decided
that he had imagined the whole matter.
The evening was uneventful. Buckman and Harper went to the pool room. The
other four indulged in a game of bridge. This was to Harry Vincent's liking. It
enabled him to watch both Perry Quinn and Bert Crull.
He contrived to tune in on WNX at nine o'clock. No message came. He
wondered what had happened to The Shadow. He did not realize that he had missed
two messages: one at three, the other at six.
The game ended at eleven o'clock.
Blair Windsor had arisen early in the morning. He was tired. He decided to
go to bed. Perry Quinn retired a short time later. Buckman and Harper were still
playing pool. Crull decided to sit up and read.
An idea occurred to Harry Vincent. He was determined to learn something of
the mystery that lay in this house. He yawned and told Crull that he was going
to turn in.
Leaving the room, he went to the stairs, but turned into an unlighted
passage that was out of view.
By a circling route, he reached the head of the cellar stairs. He stole
down and found his way to the corner where the man had disappeared the night
before. There he waited.
An hour went by. Then Harry's patience was rewarded. Some one came softly
down the cellar stairs.
Harry could hear the man approaching through the darkness. Breathlessly he
waited. The person was now close to him. He could hear the man fumbling among
the shelves, not more than a yard away.
Then came silence. Harry waited for fully five minutes. Then he turned on
his flashlight. He was alone!
This second occurrence of the mystery was annoying. Harry knew now that
some secret lay in this place. He examined the shelves carefully, but found
nothing.
How had the man disappeared?
Who was it?
Could it be The Shadow?
Harry felt that it was inadvisable to stay in the cellar, now that he had
missed his opportunity. He went upstairs. Peering around a corner, he saw Bert
Crull still reading in the living room.
Harry now suspected Perry Quinn; and this bore out his suspicions, unless
- as he had conjectured before - The Shadow had entered the game.
Harry entered the living room. Crull looked up in surprise.
"Thought you had gone to bed," he remarked.
"Couldn't sleep," said Harry. "Think I'll take a walk outside. Want to
come along?"
"Guess not," said Crull. "I want to finish this book."
As Harry Vincent went out the front door, Bert Crull closed the book and
sat silently, with a thoughtful expression on his face.

IT was a dark night outside. Harry strolled down to the road, and an
uncontrollable desire seized him. He suddenly determined to visit the old
farmhouse on the other side of the little hill. He decided to go around by the
road.
Reaching the farmhouse, he noted a light in the second-story window. He
climbed the shed roof, and cautiously strained forward to a position which
enabled him to see within. Two men were there. Harry could see them through the
space at the bottom of the lowered shade.
One was the old man whom he had seen before. The other was Vernon, Blair
Windsor's servant!
This was a startling surprise. Harry could not hear what the men were
saying, for the window was closed. Vernon arose, as though to leave. Harry
dropped to the ground.
His eyes noted a cellar window. He tried it, and it opened to his touch.
He slipped in, and turned on his flashlight. He saw a stairway leading up into
the house. He turned off the light as he reached the bottom step.
There he stopped and dropped beside the steps. A door had opened above.
Some one was coming down in the darkness. Harry heard two whispered
voices. One sounded like that of Vernon. The door closed above; but the one
person still came downward.
Harry heard the footsteps go across the cellar floor. Silence followed.
Harry switched on his light.
This was a small cellar - a single room, yet it was entirely empty. There
was an open bin in the corner. Harry investigated it. It was backed with wood
against the wall.
Puzzling over the situation, Harry began to form a theory.
A man had disappeared from the cellar of Blair Windsor's house. A man had
disappeared here. The inference was that a passage lay between the two
buildings.
Vernon was probably the person who had disappeared from Windsor's home. He
had come to visit the old man in the farmhouse. Now he had returned.
Harry was on the point of investigating the bin, when it occurred to him
that an inspection of Windsor's cellar would be more suitable. There, at least,
he might have some excuse for prowling. Here he was a trespasser.
He turned out his light and climbed from the cellar window. As he arose to
his feet something fell upon him from the darkness The quickness of the surprise
attack overcame him before he could even gasp.
He received a stunning blow that rendered him almost incapable of motion.
His arms were pinned beneath him; a cloth was thrust in his mouth.
Handcuffs clicked on his wrists. His captor was sitting on him so that he
could not move his legs. Quick hands strapped Harry's ankles.
Then the gag in Vincent's mouth was securely fastened. He was half-lifted
and half-dragged across the yard.
Harry thought for a moment that he was to be taken in the farmhouse. But
instead, he was carried to an automobile.
The powerful man who had seized him thrust him into the back seat of the
open car. They started along the rough road. Harry was jounced helplessly back
and forth.
Who had captured him?
Where was he going?
Harry's dazed mind could not answer either question.
Hopeless thoughts flashed through his mind. He had failed in his work.
Harry was a prisoner. He had no way to notify The Shadow of his plight.

CHAPTER XVIII

TIGER BRONSON

IT was midnight in Manhattan. There were very few customers in the Black
Ship. Spotter, seated in a corner, knew every one of them. He had been here
since nine o'clock, waiting for the moment when there would be no stranger in
their midst.
Although he was so widely acquainted in the underworld, the crafty,
beady-eyed little man did not know all the patrons of the Black Ship. Visiting
mobsmen from other cities came there frequently. Strange faces were always
present. Spotter knew every face at present, however.
Sure he was free from observation, Spotter went to the bar and spoke
quietly to Red Mike, the proprietor.
"Let me out by the back way."
Red Mike considered the request.
"What's the idea, Spotter?" he asked.
"I'm going to see the big fellow," whispered Spotter. "I promised him I'd
fix it so no one could see me go out of here."
"All right."
The proprietor entered a room behind the bar, and Spotter followed. There
was a locked door at the other side of the room. Red Mike opened it, and
Spotter slipped through like a scurrying rat without even extending thanks.
Hastening through a passage, he emerged through a side door which locked
behind him. He was in a deserted walk that led to an alley.
He chuckled as he reached the alley. Only a very few of the elite of
gangland knew of this secret way out of the Black Ship.
Spotter now feared no pursuit. He knew that any one who might be watching
for him would be at the front entrance of the dive. So he made great speed in
leaving the vicinity.
He moved silently, with running gait, along the side of the alley; and
continued his deceptive pace when he reached the street.
Spotter used the utmost precaution, and every wile, when he thought he was
being followed. But when he was reasonably sure that no one was on his trail, he
went forth rapidly, never looking behind. Hence, he did not notice a strange
shadow on the sidewalk - a shadow that seemed to keep pace with him, moving
without noise, as shadows always do.
Leaving the more disreputable neighborhood behind him, Spotter came to
some old, large houses. Here he entered a space between two buildings, and rang
at a side door. It was opened for him. He went upstairs, and entered a room at
the side of the house.
Spotter always climbed stairs rapidly. To-night, he should have remained
outside the house. Had he been there, he would have seen what appeared to be a
solid shadow moving up the side of the wall. It reached the lighted window
before Spotter was in the room.
Perhaps that was why Spotter was startled when he entered. For on the
floor he saw a shadow. He stared at it; but it did not move.
Sighing with relief, the little crook dropped in a chair, with his back
partly toward the window.

A BIG, bluff-faced man came in. Spotter grinned and raised one scrawny
hand in greeting. The little crook seemed to be doing his utmost to gain favor
with the heavy, grim-visaged person whom he had come to see.
"What's up?" demanded the bluff man, lighting a black cigar as he took his
place in a chair opposite Spotter. "Give me the dope."
"Doc Birch was raided last night," said Spotter. He did not add that he
had been there.
"What for?" came the question. "Booze, or stolen goods?"
"Neither. Phony mazuma."
"Hm-m-m. Trying to pass counterfeit bills, eh? That's a new one on me."
Spotter licked his lips and looked at the big man. He was awed in the
presence of this personage. For the man was none other than "Tiger" Bronson, an
overlord of the underworld, whose word was law throughout crookdom.
No one knew where Tiger Bronson had gained his nickname. It might have
been a reference to his former activity in Tammany politics; or it might have
been applied to indicate the powerful and dangerous character of the man.
At any rate, Bronson gloried in the name. Tiger he was, and Tiger he was
called.
Very few crooks ever visited Tiger Bronson's home. Spotter was one of the
few. Yet he, like the others, had nothing on Tiger Bronson.
He had come here before simply to report that Reds Mackin had wanted to
find Birdie Crull, but that he - Spotter - was sure that the pretended Reds
Mackin was none other than The Shadow.
The reason for the report was that Spotter was under orders to bring such
information to Tiger Bronson. The big fellow wanted to know any unusual
developments in gangland.
On the night that he had made the report, Spotter had mentioned the
rendezvous that he had made with the false Reds Mackin. He had suggested that
The Shadow be trapped there.
Tiger Bronson had made no comment; but Spotter had known that the words
had made an impression. Also, he knew that he must not make any statement which
might implicate Tiger Bronson.
"What else has happened?" demanded the overlord of gangdom.
"Nothin' much," replied Spotter casually. "A mob of gorillas tried to get
Reds Mackin."
"Why?"
"Because they thought he was The Shadow."
Tiger Bronson knew all this. But Spotter understood the situation. He knew
that he must refer to the event as though Tiger Bronson knew nothing about it.
"Who was in on it?" came the question.
"Maloney's mob," answered Spotter.
"What about you?"
"I was kinda in on it, too," grinned Spotter. This was leading up to the
subject which he wished to handle tactfully. "Say, Tiger, I'm kinda short on
dough. Gave five hundred to an old pal of mine, Steve Cronin. I'd like to
borrow that much money, if I could get it."
Tiger Bronson said nothing. He went to a safe; opened it, and took out a
package of bills. They were bound with a large red rubber band. The gang master
took off the fastening and counted out fifty ten-dollar bills.
Spotter seized the money greedily. Then he stared quickly toward the
window. He had an apprehension that some other eyes were watching him.

HAD he been looking at Tiger Bronson, Spotter might have been impressed by
the large red rubber band which the big man was replacing on the remaining bills.
It was a very conspicuous rubber band. Spotter had seen one exactly like
it - so like it that it might have been the same band - the night before, at
Doc Birch's pawnshop.
But the sudden qualm of fear made the usually observant gangster overlook
the matter of the red elastic. He was sure that eyes were watching him from the
window. Such eyes would have seen the rubber band, too.
Spotter's terror passed. He could see nothing in the blackness beyond the
half-drawn shade. He steadied himself, so that he would not reveal his
nervousness to Tiger Bronson.
"You see," explained Spotter, "this fellow Cronin blew out of town after I
gave him the dough."
"Why?"
"Because" - Spotter leaned forward to impart this information - "he was
the guy that bumped off Reds Mackin."
"How was that? I thought you said Maloney's gang did it?"
"They tried to do it," revealed Spotter. "But they missed out. Cronin knew
what they was up to. He got in on it, to help out the gang. He was layin' for
The Shadow. So he shot the guy after the others slipped up on the job."
Tiger Bronson made no comment.
"But" - Spotter spoke as though afraid of the consequences of his coming
statement - "it wasn't The Shadow that they got. It was Reds Mackin, after all."
Tiger Bronson's face was impassive. Yet he looked at Spotter for further
information.
"You see," said Spotter, "I figure it this way. The Shadow was goin'
around like he was Reds Mackin. He was supposed to meet Birdie Crull.
"I leave a note for him at the Black Ship, the night that the works was
due to blow. Just by blamed luck, Reds Mackin himself comes back. He used to
hang out at the Black Ship a lot. He happens to go in there, an' he gets the
note.
"It was him - not The Shadow - that showed up."
"How do you know that?"
"Because" - Spotter's voice became a low, awed whisper - "The Shadow was
on deck when the Feds raided Doc Birch, last night."

TIGER BRONSON shrugged his shoulders as though the information meant
nothing to him. Spotter knew differently, however. He knew that he must explain
further.
"I was aroun' there," he said. "Was goin' by when the bunch blew in on Doc
Birch. So I laid low.
"There was a big battle goin' on inside. A guy got away outa the upstairs
window. It wasn't Doc Birch. Then a cop helps two dicks look for him.
"They all come outa the alley. Then I sees The Shadow. He was the guy they
was after. But he ducked them."
The big man chewed on his cigar, and looked at Spotter quizzically, as
though wondering just why the little man had come to tell him all this.
"It makes me kinda uneasy," confessed Spotter. "Maybe The Shadow has got
it in for me - because - because - because Steve Cronin is an old pal of mine.
I don't feel so good with The Shadow prowlin' aroun'. Honest I don't, Tiger."
Tiger Bronson laughed.
"It ain't no joke, Tiger," insisted Spotter. "The Shadow will have it in
for everybody that had anythin' to do with croakin' Reds Mackin. An' The Shadow
is wise. There ain't nothin' he can't find out."
"All right," laughed Tiger Bronson. "You run along now, Spotter. Come in
any time you have any more bedtime stories about The Shadow, or the Sand Man or
any other funny guys that make people hide in closets. I like to hear those
yarns."
As Spotter shambled from the room, the big man stopped him.
"It would be a good idea," said Tiger Bronson, "if you drop in at Loo
Look's place some time around eight o'clock, every night. Don't smoke any hop
while you're there.
"You may hear something that will interest you - maybe you will make some
dough out of it."
Spotter grinned as he left. This was a new command from the big shot. He
could not imagine what it meant; but he knew that he had gained Bronson's favor.
After the cunning gangster had left, Tiger Bronson sat in thought. His
face betrayed nothing. He flung his half-smoked cigar into an empty metal
wastebasket.
Despite his pretended ridicule, he was seriously considering the
information that Spotter had brought.
Finally he laughed - a harsh, evil laugh.
"The Shadow!" he said, half aloud. "What does he know? Nothing! What does
he suspect? Something, perhaps.
"Well, let him come - let him try to find out. It's all here for him. I'll
wait to see if he suspects. If he does -"
Tiger Bronson snapped his fingers with a gesture that indicated the
cold-blooded ending of a man's life.
"The Shadow," repeated Tiger Bronson. "Let him come - like the others did
this afternoon. He'll find what they found - nothing.
"The Shadow!"
It was strange that, as Tiger Bronson repeated the last words, a shadow
moved along the floor. It was the same black splotch that Spotter had seen when
he had come into the room.
Tiger Bronson did not see it depart. His eyes were on the far wall of the
room.
A moment later there was no shadow on the floor.

CHAPTER XIX

TWO AGENTS TALK

AT five o'clock the next afternoon, a quiet man of unassuming appearance
entered the lobby of the Falcon Hotel, near Broadway.
He took the elevator to the fourth floor; then stopped at room 418 and
knocked twice. The door opened. He was admitted. The man who received him was
tall and thin, with a keen face.
The two men sat in conversation. A bell boy knocked at the door. He was a
big fellow, large for his youthful appearance. But his face was dull and
expressionless.
He brought a message for Mr. Waltham, the guest who occupied the room. The
tall, thin man read it and dismissed the bell boy with the words, "No reply."
The hotel attendant did not go downstairs after the door had closed.
Instead, he used a key to unlock the door of the adjoining room. There was a
door that led to 418, and the bell boy listened there.
The sound of voices on the other side was almost inaudible. The listener
must have possessed ears of exceptional keenness to hear anything.
Evidently, his eavesdropping was not entirely successful. He drew a small
instrument from the pocket of his coat and placed it over one ear. He pressed
the instrument carefully against the keyhole as he knelt on the floor. He
remained in that position.
His face betrayed no interest; but it was evident that he must be hearing
everything that was said.

THE men in 418 spoke in low voices, as though they were accustomed to talk
in that manner. This was not surprising. Both of them were Federal agents, who
had participated in the raid on Doc Birch's place, the night before.
"We've got all there is to get, Jim," said the man named Waltham. "There's
no doubt about it."
"Guess you're right," came the reply. "I wish we had landed some of the
goods. It would have been better."
"Birch burned them all up. Aaron saw him do it."
"I know that. Wish we knew the amount he destroyed."
Waltham shrugged his shoulders. Evidently the loss of the counterfeit
bills did not disturb him. He seemed satisfied that the plates had been seized.
"We've ended the supply," he said. "That's all there is to it. We've got
Birch. He was the man behind it."
"I guess you're right," replied the other secret-service man. "But I
thought there was a bigger game to it. We don't know where Birch had the stuff
printed."
"That doesn't matter so much."
"Well, who engraved the plates?"
"Listen, Jim. We want to find out about all of it. But we might just as
well quit kidding ourselves. Birch is liable to tell us everything in time. He
won't stick to that story that the stuff was brought in to him, and that the
plates must have been planted.
"Now we're after the engraver, and the place where the printing was done.
I figure that Birch hired some fellow to make the plates. The man got paid and
cleared out.
"That may have been a year or more ago. We'll center on Birch. Make him
come clean. That's our only course."
"I guess you're right," agreed Jim, reluctantly.
"Meanwhile," continued Waltham, "lay off being foolish. This is an order -
not a suggestion. Get that, Jim?"
"What do you mean - being foolish?"
"Well, just before we raided, you saw a car pulling away from Birch's
place. You sent Guysel after it. Guysel saw it go in a garage. Remember? He
didn't even get the number of the car.
"Then he saw a man come out and take a taxi. He followed the cab to a
house. He spotted the place. Yesterday you went in there. What did you find?"
"Nothing."
"Was the place empty?"
"Yes."
"Who lives there?"
"A man named Bronson."
Waltham snorted.
"I'm glad you found that out," he said. "Do you know who this Bronson is?"
"No."
"He's Tiger Bronson. Big political man. Has plenty of influence. He could
reach far enough to get you in wrong. Lucky for you he was out of town. Why
didn't you raid the mayor's house, too?"
The sarcasm was biting.
"You're right, Waltham," admitted Jim. "It must have been a crazy notion
on my part. I had the idea we were working on the wrong end of this business.
"Guysel was sure that the fellow who went to Bronson's house had been at
Birch's. It might mean that there was some phony stuff at Bronson's. Guysel
kept watch and tipped me off that the house was empty. So we went through it."
"If there had been anything there," replied Waltham, "it would probably
have been hidden where you couldn't find it."
"Not in that place," replied Jim. "We even found the safe open! What do
you think of that? About five thousand dollars in real cash there. I thought we
had something when I saw it.
"I guess if the bills had been counterfeit, Bronson would have had the
safe locked. No, sir. It was real cash. A lot of it in ten-dollar bills."

WALTHAM'S face did not change. He shook his head as he continued talking.
"You walked into trouble, all right, Joe," he said. "It's lucky you got
out of it."
"We searched the place," said Joe.
"We even looked through letters, and papers in the safe. There weren't
many of them. They didn't tell us a thing."
"You see, I figured that maybe there'd be letters from Birch - or some
evidence we could work on. But there was nothing."
"Bronson is a politician," explained Waltham. "He's not a crook. He has
too many ways to make money. Why should he risk counterfeiting?"
"Well, I didn't know that."
"You should have known it."
"I didn't find any letters or papers that looked at all suspicious. We
read all that were in the place. There weren't any bonds or other valuables.
Nothing but the cash."
"Bronson probably keeps most of his stuff in a safe-deposit vault."
The men were silent. Then Waltham spoke:
"This trail ends with Birch," he said. "We only slipped in one thing. That
was Aaron's fault. He let Birch burn the stuff."
"Birch caught him unawares."
"That wasn't all Aaron's fault. He thought we were coming downstairs. He
didn't know it was Birch. But he should have been ready for anything."
"We should have had Vic Marquette to do that job."
"Right enough. But Vic isn't available right now."
"Where is he?"
"Nobody knows. You know how Vic is. Gets the wildest clues, and drops out
of sight. Every now and then he has luck. But this time he missed out. While
he's away in the sticks, we nab Birch."
"I guess I'm like Vic," observed Jim. "I always look for something more
than there is. I wish I had Vic's nerve!"
"You looked for too much," was Waltham's comment. "What did we have to
work on? We caught a crook passing counterfeit bills. He told us where he got
them - from Birch - and that he was going back to get more that night. So we
raided. If Marquette had been with us, we might have got the goods as well as
the plates. That's all."
The conversation ended. The visiting agent left his chief, and took the
elevator to the lobby. A few minutes later a bell boy walked down the stairs.
He was the one who had listened through the door of the room adjoining 418.
He entered the door of a private dining room. He did not come out. When
the head waiter entered the room a few minutes later, to prepare for a private
party of diners, there was no one in the place.

CHAPTER XX

AFTER DARK

TIGER BRONSON'S house was deserted. The overlord of gangdom had gone away
that afternoon. It was early in the evening. Bronson frequently did not return
to his home until midnight.
The former politician was not afraid of burglars. No gangster would have
dared to enter his place. Furthermore, there was little of value there, except
in Tiger Bronson's modern safe.
Yet to-night, some one was entering the building. A figure was climbing
the black wall to the second story. The wall was composed of rough bricks, and
the unseen visitor used them as easily as if they had been a ladder.
The window of Bronson's side room was opened by an invisible hand. A shape
entered. Then a tiny light appeared amid the darkness. It flickered here and
there, going and coming, as though the intruder who held it was engaged in a
tour of inspection.
The visitor was searching for something; and it must be in this room. For
he kept to the one center of activity. The light stopped at the safe.
A long, slender hand appeared. On the third finger a mysterious gem
gleamed with reflected crimson. With amazing precision the hand worked at the
dials.
The safe came open. The light revealed small piles of papers, and a stack
of bank notes that were held together by a red rubber band.
A hand set the light in a position from which it showed the interior of
the safe. The strange visitor went through all the articles with methodical
precision.
When the search had been completed, everything was replaced in the exact
original position. The light went out; the safe door closed.
Now began a tour of inspection throughout the room. Books and magazines
came under the darting ray of the little light. Finally the search was centered
upon Tiger Bronson's small desk. A few papers and letters lay there. Invisible
eyes inspected them and read them.
At the end of an hour, the room had been examined to the utmost. Nothing
had escaped the untiring searcher. Yet apparently his task was not ended.
The light went out, and all was still. In the darkness, a great brain was
at work. The invisible searcher was not satisfied with the absence of
incriminating documents.

THE light again appeared by the desk. The same left hand, with its glowing
jewel picked up every article, from paper clips to penholders. A blotter was
taken between the hands, as the light momentarily vanished.
When the ray again appeared, the blotter lay in two portions. Its upper
surface had been peeled from the lower. Yet there was no writing between.
The ever-working left hand applied a liquid-soaked sponge to blank sheets
of paper. No writing came to view after the chemical reaction. Tiger Bronson's
secret correspondence - if it existed - was still undiscovered.
The hand glided across the desk and rested upon a small pasteboard box
which contained a number of ordinary pins. The hand removed a pin. It was held
upright between the thumb and the second finger. The sensitive forefinger
slipped over the top of the large-headed pin.
Rapid activity followed. The pin was dropped on the desk. One by one the
other pins were subjected to the same inspection.
Some were chosen; others were placed aside. Evidently the finger had
detected some roughness on the heads of certain pins.
The rejected pins were replaced in the box. The left hand disappeared and
came back. It laid a paper, a pencil, and a microscope upon the desk. The
flashlight was set upon a book. The right hand took the microscope; the left
held a pin upright.
Under the powerful lens, the head of the pin appeared magnified to many
times its ordinary size. Seen through the glass, it revealed words - a short
message, engraved upon the pinhead!
The message read:

Plant plates with Birch.

The hand copied this on the paper.
Another pin came beneath the microscope. Its words were:

Goods shipped to Bronx to-day.

Tiny figures indicated the date of the message The first pin was picked up
again; the eyes peering through the microscope detected the date there, also.
The third pin bore this message:

Go through with plan made by Spotter.

Another read:

Will leave Brookdale within 10 days.

Other messages were detected. They were dated and tabulated. The pins were
replaced in the box.
On the paper was a complete list of the communications which had been
received by Tiger Bronson.
The name of the sender was not given; but the correspondence extended over
a considerable period of time. The pencil passed over the items which it had
jotted down; and it paused upon one message which had been copied from a
pinhead:

Glad you got The Shadow.

The light went out. The invisible prowler moved to the window. There he
stopped. It was as though he was peering down into the blackness below. There
was a dark form there - standing motionless in the darkness of the night.

THE being in the room moved softly toward the door, and listened.
Footsteps were coming up the stairs - stealthy footsteps that could scarcely be
heard. In fact they would have entirely escaped an ordinary ear.
The almost imperceptible footsteps stopped at the door. Complete silence
followed. Suddenly, the gleam of a powerful bull's-eye lantern filled the room.
That brilliance came from the door. A new intruder had uncovered the one who had
so recently made search among Tiger Bronson's effects.
Caught squarely in the focused rays was a figure clad in black. The Shadow
had chosen to remain for this climax, knowing that one stealthy arrival might
mean a host of outer guardians. His inaction ended, however, at the very moment
when the light blazed.
A hurtling shape of blackness launched itself upon the intruder who had
shone the light from the door. The bull's-eye lantern went clattering, as its
holder sprawled to the floor of the hall. Madly, the toppled arrival uttered a
wild cry, in a thuggish voice.
"He's here! Here! He's got me!"
A gang of men dashed up the stairs. A light switch clicked below; the
upper hallway was illuminated.
There stood The Shadow, his face obscured in the raised collar of his
cloak; his broad-brimmed hat turned down below his eyes.
In front of him was the half-fallen figure of a writhing thug. The man's
hands were vainly trying to loosen the grip of The Shadow, which lay upon his
neck.
One of the attackers fired, just as The Shadow stooped. The shot went
wide. Up came the body of the captive gangster, raised by powerful arms. It was
thrust, head foremost, down the steps, into the group of men who were nearing
the top.
The attack collapsed. The oncoming mobsmen went down in a group. One of
them - the leader - had dodged the falling body of their comrade.
Flat on the steps he raised his arm and fired at the disappearing form of
The Shadow. His shot clipped the back of the broad-brimmed hat.
A mocking laugh came from a room above. The Shadow had crossed the hall.

OUTSIDE the building, men were on guard. Toughened characters of the
underworld, they were ready to follow instructions to the letter.
Their eyes were on the windows above. Their revolvers were held by firm
hands, with fingers on the triggers.
A form emerged from a side window. But it was invisible in the darkness.
The man below did not see it, although his eyes were glued to the spot. Like a
shadow, the form moved slowly upward toward the roof. It was part of the
blackness - no human eye could detect it.
The watching crook saw the shape only when it arrived at the top of the
building, above the third floor. The figure emerged from the darkness with
surprising suddenness. It appeared as a batlike form - an ominous silhouette
against the sky.
A shot came from below; but the aim failed, for the finger pressed the
trigger a fraction of a second too late. The Shadow was gone. The foiled crook
gave the alarm.
Three minutes later, desperate men were on the roof of the house. Though
they searched the tops of all the buildings in the block, they failed to find a
trace of the being who had disappeared. He had gone - gone like The Shadow that
he was!
Police were arriving on the scene, and the ruffians sought safety. They
had been sent to Tiger Bronson's house by the orders of their boss - to capture
any one who might be there. They had seen a light in the second-story window,
and their attack had been a stealthy one on that account.
When Tiger Bronson arrived at his house, he found the police on duty. He
expressed surprise when he learned that burglars had been seen there, and that
shots had been fired.
He talked with police detectives. They agreed that it could not have been
a robbery. The final opinion was accepted by all.
Some fleeing gangster must have entered Bronson's home, seeking refuge
from others who were on his trail. It was merely a coincidence that the affair
had taken place at this location.
Alone in his upstairs room, Tiger Bronson smiled grimly. He cast a
stealthy look at the box of pins, which lay exactly as he had left it.
The Shadow had come - but had found nothing. That was exactly what Bronson
had expected.
But The Shadow had also gone, in safety. That was something that Tiger
Bronson had not expected.

CHAPTER XXI

VINCENT ESCAPES

HARRY VINCENT was sitting on a chair in the corner of a dingy room. His
left wrist was locked to a ring in the wall, by means of a pair of handcuffs.
He had been in this unpleasant situation for forty-eight hours. His captor
had locked him up, and had placed him on a cot.
In the morning, a chair had been substituted for the cot. Harry had
received meals; the cot had replaced the chair for the second night.
Now another day had ended. Soon the mysterious man who had captured him
would be back again, and Harry would be transferred to the cot.
This was a monotonous life. Harry had said very little to his captor. The
man, in turn, had spoken only a few words.
While Harry was musing thus, the door of the room opened, and the man
entered.
He was short and heavy-set. He wore a thick black mustache. His eyes were
sharp and suspicious. His dark complexion gave him a villainous appearance.
Harry wondered that he had not received harsher treatment from this
relentless-looking fellow. The captor seemed like a man who was used to nightly
prowls. He was attired in dark suit and hat.
Harry had thought a lot about the situation. He had decided that his
captor was the outside man of the crew who were operating at Blair Windsor's
place; but he had not guessed their object.
The dark-visaged man looked at Harry Vincent, and his eyes were not
kindly. He sat on a battered chair on the other side of the room. The single
oil lamp showed his features plainly.
"How do you feel, now?" questioned the mustached man.
Harry did not reply.
"I'm going to give you a chance to talk," came the next statement. "I've
asked you a few questions before; but you haven't chosen to answer. That won't
do you any good."
Harry was still silent.
"Who are you?" came the question.
"Who are you?" asked Harry, tersely. "It seems to me I'm the injured
party. I won't talk until you do."
The stranger laughed unpleasantly.
"I'll tell you enough for your own good," he said. "I saw you once before
- hanging around the farmhouse. I saw you come out from the side. You had a car
down the road - hidden in the field. I walked by in the dark. I was too late to
get you.
"So I didn't take any chances two nights ago. I nabbed you quick. I
brought you here, and we're way out in the woods - alone. Your position isn't a
comfortable one, is it?"
"No," admitted Harry.
"I made a mistake in grabbing you," admitted the stranger. "I thought of
that as soon as I had you. But I had to go through with it. They've probably
missed you by now, and it may give me a lot of trouble. So unless you talk -
to-night - I'm going to put you in a worse place than this."
"Tell me who you are. Maybe I'll talk then."
"You ought to know who I am. Use your imagination. It won't take much."

HARRY did not reply. He felt that if he made a single statement regarding
his identity, he would get himself in for a lot of trouble. His situation was
bad enough. Silence had not made it worse.
He knew that the men who were plotting against Blair Windsor were
dangerous. This fellow appeared to be the worst of the crowd.
He wondered what had been said about his absence. He had imagined that it
might cause considerable comment at Windsor's place. Then he realized that it
could be easily explained by either Quinn or Crull - whichever was the traitor
in the party.
A statement from either of the men would indicate that Harry had gone away
for a few days. Perhaps his car had been removed. He hoped that the wireless
equipment had not been discovered.
The man with the black mustache drew two cigars from his pocket and gave
one to Harry.
"Listen young fellow," he said, in a more kindly voice. "I'm not out to
treat you rough. I figured It was my job to grab you, and I did.
"You know a lot that you aren't telling. You're going to tell it, sooner
or later. So why not be friends? It may work out to your advantage."
He struck a match while he spoke, and lighted the tip of Harry's cigar.
The first puff convinced Harry that the stranger was a good judge of fine
perfectos, whatever his shortcomings might be. The two men smoked in silence
for a considerable time.
"How about it?" asked the man. "Want to talk a bit? This is pretty near
your last chance."
Harry shook his head.
"All right," said the stranger, in an indifferent tone. "I'm going to move
you out of here."
"Go ahead," said Harry. "It would be more interesting than staying here."
"Think so?" was the reply. "Better guess again."
The dark man arose, and produced a few coils of rope from a corner of the
room.
"I've got everything here," he said. "I'm going to truss you up, young
fellow. I may need those bracelets you're wearing. They come in handy when I
have to work quick. So I'm going to put rope on you."
He began to bind Harry's ankles as he spoke.
"I'm going back to the old farmhouse," he continued. "Maybe I'll run into
some new developments. Perhaps I'll get a line on who you are. No telling what
may happen.
"Then I'll be back. It will be your last chance to talk. If you don't open
up then, I'll pack you in the car, and take you where you won't want to be."
He finished on Harry's ankles. Coming from behind he roped the young man's
wrists. Then he unlocked the handcuff, and finished by tying Harry securely.
"I know it's lonely out here," he said. "I don't like to leave you, for
your own good. But it can't be helped."
Moving the cot over to the corner, the stranger urged Harry Vincent from
the chair, and rolled him on the improvised bed. He blew out the light, and
Harry heard him leave the little building.

THE darkness was intense. Harry's wrists and ankles chafed as he strained
against the rope. He began to crave action. There must be some way out of this
predicament.
He rolled toward the side of the cot, and let his feet to the floor. Then
he rolled off. He found that he could urge his body along in helpless fashion.
There was a table on which stood the extinguished oil lamp. Harry groped
his way to the spot, and raised himself to his knees. He pushed his chin along
the table, and bumped a box or matches.
Here was a chance for escape! His captor had forgotten the matches which
he had used to light the cigars. This was an opportunity!
Harry knocked the match box to the floor. After falling, and striking his
head against the leg of the table, he gained a sitting position.
He brought his hands to one side as far as possible. Then he struck a
match, and managed to set it on the box. His plan was to bring his wrists to
the flame.
But the plan failed to work. He singed his wrists instead of the rope. He
was in his shirt sleeves, and there was imminent danger of his cuffs catching
fire. The match went out.
Harry's second attempt was as futile as the first.
He realized that he must suffer considerable pain, if he insisted upon
this method of escape. He could not see his hands, and it was impossible to
find the flame with the necessary accuracy to burn the rope.
Harry was willing to sustain a few burns, but he did not care to blister
his wrists and still remain a captive. That was the only result that he could
foresee.
He sat for a few silent minutes. Then a different idea came to his mind.
He lighted another match and placed it on the box. He shifted his body as
rapidly as possible, and extended his legs. He brought the rope that bound his
ankles above the flame. His trousers cuffs interfered, but he managed to push
them up a trifle.
This method was feasible. Harry could see what he was doing. The ropes
around his ankles had thick folds. If he could sever one, he would have his
feet free.
Match after match was used. There were not many in the box. Before the
supply was completely exhausted, Harry strained with his ankles. The rope
parted. Moving his ankles up and down, Harry freed them.
He rose and walked to the door. It was locked from the outside. He went to
the window, and managed to raise it behind his back.
With considerable difficulty he let himself out, and stumbled to the
ground.
He could see the dim outline of the one-story shack in which he had been
kept prisoner. Now his purpose was to get away from the vicinity.
Harry had brought his coat with him. If he could only remove the rope from
his aching wrists, he would be a free man.
He worked with the pockets of his coat. He had carried a knife there, but
it was gone now. His flashlight was also missing. His captor must have removed
those articles. But Harry could feel his wallet in the inside pocket.

HE moved carefully along a path which his feet could feel, but which his
eyes could not distinguish in the darkness. Next, he reached a road, and
followed it.
The night was cloudy, but there was sufficient starlight for him to find
his way along. Harry was fortunate in choosing the right direction; for after
half a mile he came to a highway.
He saw a wooden gate which opened between two stone walls. A tin sign had
been tacked to the top rail, and projected above the wooden bar. With
difficulty, Harry managed to perch himself upon the gate, which, he found, was
fortunately steady.
Harry worked his wrists along the edge of the tin sign. The surface was
not sharp enough to gain results, but the projecting corner, Harry noticed, was
somewhat pointed.
After a long, tedious process, he managed to sever the rope that bound his
wrists. He stretched his arms, and rubbed his wrists. He picked up his coat,
which he had dropped on the ground.
None of his money had been taken from his wallet. The stranger had
evidently gone through it, looking for cards of identification. But Harry
carried none.
His licenses were in the car; and his coupe - when he had last seen it -
was in Blair Windsor's large garage.
As Harry walked along the road, a car approached. It was not likely that
it belonged to the man who had captured him, especially as it was coming from
behind. Harry waved his hand. The driver stopped. Hold-ups were not feared in
this part of the country.
"Will you give me a lift into town?" asked Harry.
"Sure thing," replied the man in the car.
They rode along in silence. The stranger asked no questions, and Harry was
too wise to inquire where he was.
After a ten-mile ride, they came to a fair-sized town. A hotel stood at
the main corner.
"This is all right," said Harry. "Thanks for the ride."
He entered the hotel, and discovered that he was in Burmont, a town some
twenty miles from the village of Brookdale. It was late in the evening, Harry
was tired. He registered at the hotel.
The old-fashioned room seemed luxurious after the miserable shack in which
he had spent two nights. Harry decided not to notify any one where he was until
the next day. Then he could go back to Brookdale.
Would it be wise to tell what had happened? What excuse should he make for
his absence?
These were perplexing questions. Harry decided that they could best be
answered after a good night's rest. The morning would be the time for action.
Then he would have an opportunity to communicate with The Shadow.

CHAPTER XXII

BURBANK GOES ON DUTY

LAMONT CRANSTON'S valet knocked at the door of his master's room.
"Is that you, Richards?" came the voice of the millionaire.
"Yes, sir," replied the valet.
"Come in, then."
Richards entered.
"It's past noon, sir," he said. "Mr. Burbank is here."
Lamont Cranston rose leisurely, and yawned.
"I'm getting to be a late sleeper, Richards," he said. "I wasn't always
this way, was I?"
"No, sir. Only occasionally, sir. I don't entirely remember, sir."
Lamont Cranston smiled. Richards was most noncommittal. It was his duty to
be so. He never remarked on any eccentricities which his master displayed.
This matter of Burbank, for instance.
Richards had expressed no surprise whatever at Lamont Cranston's sudden
awakening of interest in the wireless station upstairs. Yesterday he had been
instructed to call Burbank, the man who occasionally assisted the millionaire
in his radio experiments. Now Burbank was here.
"Send him up," ordered Cranston.
Burbank, a quiet-faced man, entered the millionaire's room.
"I'm going into New York this afternoon," explained Cranston. "That's why
I sent for you, Burbank. There may be a message."
The silent man nodded.
"I've expected to hear from Vincent for several days," continued the
millionaire. "I sent him certain messages - not from here, however - and he has
not replied to them. I expect him to report."
Again the nod.
"There are no instructions to be sent back to him," said Cranston, "except
this simple statement: Tell him to tune in at nine o'clock, as usual. That is
all. But be sure to take down any word that he sends. I shall call you in the
evening. Give me the information at that time."
The wireless operator went upstairs. The millionaire attired himself, and
went down for breakfast. It was nearly two o'clock when he appeared in the
tower room where Burbank was located.
"Nothing yet," said the wireless operator.
The millionaire did not reply. He seemed deep in thought. He began to
study different radio apparatus that he had installed in this laboratory.
There were remarkable devices here. Burbank understood some of them; but
the millionaire alone was familiar with all of the equipment.

AT three o'clock, Lamont Cranston left the laboratory. He went to his own
room, and began to mark a schedule of activities for the afternoon.
"Jason's at four o'clock," he murmured. "Four-thirty will be time enough.
Fellows never leaves his office until five-thirty. Dinner at six - at the club.
Radio station at nine."
He paused, considering the items which he had arranged in column form. A
vague smile appeared on his face. He took a pencil, and inserted a single line.
"Loo Look's at eight o'clock," were the words.
Lamont Cranston shook his head.
"Only fifteen minutes there," he said softly. "There's no good reason to
go - it can wait. But Tiger Bronson wants it. Why not give him a chance?"
He let the notation stand. Then he rang the bell for Richards.
"Tell Stanley to bring the car," ordered the millionaire, when the valet
appeared. "I want to get to town soon after four o'clock."
"Very good, sir."
The millionaire paid one final visit to the wireless room before he left.
No message had been received from Vincent. So Lamont Cranston entered his
luxurious limousine, and was driven to the city.

SHORTLY before six o'clock, Lamont Cranston appeared at the exclusive
Cobalt Club. He put in a call for his home, and talked to Burbank. No message
had been received.
"Never mind," he told the wireless operator. "I can wait until nearly nine
o'clock. If you receive any word, put it down in tabloid form, so you can give
me the details quickly. I can fix a reply in less than ten minutes."
"Very good," said Burbank.
Had he known that the reply - no matter how important it might be - was to
go over the air, artfully concealed in a radio program, Burbank would have
marveled at the amazing ability of Lamont Cranston. But Burbank knew nothing of
the means of communication which his chief intended to use.
Dinner at the Cobalt Club was an interesting affair for Lamont Cranston.
He sat down at the table with wealthy friends, who were accustomed to dine from
six thirty until well after eight.
But on this occasion, the globe-trotter warned his companions that he must
leave them by seven thirty, in order to keep an important appointment.
One of the diners brought up the subject of recent criminal activities.
The news of the gang war in Tiger Bronson's home had not found space in the
newspapers. It was merely a rumor. One of the men had heard of it.
"We know very little about what goes on in the underworld," remarked a
millionaire named Berkeley, with a serious expression on his face. "There are
characters there whose power is tremendous - personages of whom we seldom hear.
Take, for instance, The Shadow."
His listeners gazed at him quizzically.
"There is a real man called The Shadow," said Berkeley, in a low voice. "I
have heard that, on good authority.
"He tries to pretend that he is simply a fictitious character. He is
featured in a radio program. Yet, actually, he is real, and alive."
He paused to let his words take effect.
"No one knows his purpose," he continued. "Criminal or detective -
whichever he may be - he strikes terror into the hearts of gangsters. He moves
by night."
"Some have seen him; yet none can recognize him. He is a man of many
faces; the only one that no one has ever observed is his own."
Some of the men were serious; others were smiling. Berkeley became
impressive.
"The Shadow is said to be a man of wealth," were his next words. "He might
be any one of us. You, for instance!"
Berkeley pointed directly at Lamont Cranston.
"I?" questioned Lamont Cranston. "The Shadow?" He began to laugh at the
suggestion. His mirth was contagious. The others joined, much to Berkeley's
annoyance.
"Dreams, Berkeley," said Lamont Cranston, spreading his arms in
belittlement of his friend's theory.
No one noticed the grotesque, batlike shadow that appeared when Lamont
Cranston's hands hovered above the white tablecloth.

CHAPTER XXIII

VINCENT RETURNS TO BROOKDALE

THE morning had brought no worries to Harry Vincent, for the simple reason
that he slept completely through it. It was after two o'clock when he awoke: He
had spent two nights with very little sleep.
The problem of returning to Brookdale had been a troublesome one. There
was no convenient means of transportation. A roundabout bus trip had been the
only available method.
Then there had been difficulty in finding a car to reach Blair Windsor's
house. Hence it was after six o'clock when Harry arrived there.
He had decided to say nothing of what had actually happened to him. He
knew that it would be difficult to explain his absence of sixty hours; but an
alibi was the only course.
He was sure that at least one of three people in the house - Quinn, Crull,
or Vernon - were in league with the man who had captured him. He must do nothing
that would betray this knowledge.
Blair Windsor, standing on the porch, gazed in amazement at Vincent's
arrival.
"Where have you been, Harry?" he questioned. "We have been worrying about
you."
"Didn't you get my message?" asked Harry, in feigned surprise.
"What message?"
"The note I left - two days ago - in the morning. I went away before any
one was up. I'm sure I left the note in the living room. I didn't want to
disturb you."
Blair Windsor shook his head.
"To tell you the truth, Harry," he said, "we didn't realize anything about
it until last night, on account of Perry Quinn."
"How was that?" Harry Vincent's surprise was genuine, now.
"He tried to commit suicide, the day before yesterday, in the morning."

GARRET BUCKMAN and Philip Harper appeared on the porch, and their arrival
caused an interruption. A moment later, Bert Crull joined the group.
All seemed pleased as well as surprised at Harry's return.
"Here's what happened," explained Blair Windsor soberly, as the men sat
down to talk it over. "You know how worried Quinn has been? Well, he was in a
financial jam, and we didn't know it. We knew he had been acting somewhat
morose; but we didn't make any comment about it.
"Day before yesterday, Quinn received a letter. We had come down to
breakfast. You and Harper were the only two who weren't there. Quinn went
upstairs, looking worried.
"When he didn't come down, Garry Buckman became suspicious. He went up to
Quinn's room. The fellow had swallowed some poison.
"There was a big rush after that. I drove away to get a doctor. The others
gave him first aid. We took him off to the hospital, after the doctor came. They
pulled him through, all right. But everybody had something to do, after that.
"Buckman went down to Boston, to straighten affairs up for Quinn. Harper
and I drove over to Springfield, where Quinn's folks live. We didn't know what
became of you and Crull. We knew Crull was probably here, and we thought you
had been asleep when the whole trouble began.
"Coming in at odd hours of the night, we didn't see one another.
Yesterday, you weren't around in the morning. We thought maybe you had gone
with Buckman, who didn't get back until the evening.
"Then I happened to see your car in the garage. We've been wondering about
you since then."
"I was gone before the trouble began," replied Harry. "I woke up very
early, day before yesterday. Then I realized something that I had totally
forgotten.
"I had a business engagement in New York; funny thing - I never remembered
it when I started on this vacation tour. I decided that it was best to go by
train. I was going to drive to Springfield and leave my car there.
"When I looked at the schedules, I found I had time to walk into the
village and catch a bus to Springfield. So that's the way I did it. Thought my
car would be safer here.
"I left a note, saying I wouldn't be back until to-night."
"We never found your note," said Blair Windsor.
"I must have forgotten to leave it," admitted Harry.
He was sorry that he had not first listened to Blair Windsor's story; but
as he looked around the group, Harry quickly assured himself that they had
believed his tale. The frank countenance of Blair Windsor was sufficient proof
of the fact.
The only member of the party who looked doubtful was Bert Crull. He said
nothing.
This merely confirmed Harry Vincent's suspicions. Now that Perry Quinn's
actions had been explained, Bert Crull was the dangerous person.
He probably knew all about Harry's capture. So, of course, he would not
question the story that Harry had told.

DINNER was ready. The men went in to their meal. As soon as they had
finished, Harry decided to go into the village to mail a letter.
He brought his car from the garage, and lost no time in finding a suitable
place to arrange his wireless equipment. Despite his hurried preparations, he
gained immediate results. A reply came in the secret code.
Harry sent a quick report of what had transpired. He had worded the
details while he was driving in the car. He expected an immediate response.
He was somewhat disappointed when he received word to tune in at nine
o'clock. He felt that action must be quickly taken.
He pondered on this subject as he returned to Blair Windsor's estate.
There would not be a great deal of information coming with the WNX broadcast.
Probably he would be ordered to reopen communication with his wireless
set; or to bide his time for the present.
Yet he felt that his situation was growing untenable. Crull must now
recognize him as an enemy. Vernon would be suspicious, also.
What if he should tell his true story to Blair Windsor?
That would be serious for his enemies - particularly Vernon.
Windsor might not believe that Crull was implicated. Blair was too
open-hearted a fellow to suspect one of his guests. Perhaps he might feel the
same about Vernon, a servant of many years. But Harry believed that he could
convince Blair Windsor of the true situation.
Danger was threatening.
Suppose that Crull or Vernon should choose to act to-night? They might
attack Harry; or their mysterious confederate might be called into action again.
Who was that fellow?
Harry suspected that he was the man who had driven into the yard beside
the farmhouse, the evening that he had come to Brookdale.
Harry mapped his course. He would wait until nine o'clock. The Shadow
would probably give him advice. Yet, the situation was much more complicated
than he had indicated in his report.
If The Shadow said to wait until to-morrow, the situation would be
difficult. An order to send another report, and to discuss matters direct by
wireless, would be the best way out.
One thing about The Shadow. He liked to see his men act independently in
an emergency, provided they worked with intelligence. That left a way open for
Harry.
His final resort came to mind as he approached Blair Windsor's house.
If the enemy appeared ready to strike, Harry could tell everything to
Windsor - eliminating any direct reference to The Shadow. With Buckman and
Harper, they would have a force equal to the enemy.
Good old Blair Windsor! - thought Harry. A likable chap, who had had a lot
of trouble lately.
His brother accused of murdering his friend, Frank Jarnow. Perry Quinn an
attempted suicide. Now, this unknown danger hovering over him - enemies at work
with a secret entrance into the very cellar of his home!
Entering the house, Harry found the four men playing cards. It was eight
o'clock. He joined them.
He watched Bert Crull as the game began. The man's face betrayed nothing.
He was clever, and therefore doubly dangerous.
Vernon was there, too. The gray-haired servant was attending to trifling
details in the room. His face, like Crull's, was impassive.
Harry Vincent became tense as the minutes ticked by. He could scarcely
wait until the hour of nine - the time when he would receive his message from
The Shadow!

CHAPTER XXIV

THE DEN OF LOO LOOK

THE hop joint of Loo Look was one of the most notorious dives of the
underworld. It was a rendezvous of dope fiends, the spot chosen by the flotsam
and jetsam of the criminal circle.
This den was one of very few that had survived the forays of the police.
It was located in an obscure part of Chinatown, in a basement beneath squalid
buildings. Its entrances were difficult to find. These facts appeared to be the
reason why it managed to exist.
But it was rumored among crooks that Loo Look, the idol-faced keeper of
the place, had a pull with the police. No one had ever proven that point. But
no one had ever put the question to Tiger Bronson.
It was a significant fact that the overlord of gangdom had known of the
hop joint, and had instructed Spotter to appear there nightly.
Spotter, in turn, knew very well why he had been delegated to the mission.
He was to serve as a decoy, to lead The Shadow to his doom.
Tiger Bronson, despite his feigned ignorance and indifference, knew well
that The Shadow was a menace. Now he had planned a trap that he believed would
be a sure one.
Spotter was too wise to go openly to Loo Look's. He knew that The Shadow
could pick up his trail despite great obstacles, and that the surest way to
bring The Shadow was to act secretively.
Spotter did not relish the thought of luring The Shadow. It was not
comforting to realize that the terror of the underworld was on his trail.
At the same time, Spotter realized that he was useful to The Shadow at
times, and he felt sure that he would be allowed to live.
Such existence was uncertain at the best. Hence Spotter, as much as Tiger
Bronson, hoped that The Shadow would enter the snare prepared for him.
Last night, The Shadow had apparently visited the home of Tiger Bronson.
This indicated that he had trailed Spotter there, despite the clever ruse that
the little gangster had employed.
To-night, Spotter avoided the Black Ship. Instead, he was at the Pink Rat.
There were unfamiliar faces present. Spotter chose an excellent opportunity to
steal away, and was seized with conflicting joy and terror when he saw an
uncouth rowdy watch his departure. He suspected that the man was The Shadow.
But at that precise moment, The Shadow, guised as Lamont Cranston, had
just left a group of millionaires at the exclusive Cobalt Club.
It was after eight o'clock. Both Spotter and The Shadow were late.
It was only a few minutes from the Pink Rat to Loo Look's. Spotter chose a
somewhat indirect route; but he arrived soon, nevertheless; and he slipped into
the door of a deserted building that was one of the entrances to the hop joint.
Descending some steps, Spotter came into an underground corridor. His path
was barred by a Chinaman.
"Me see Loo Look," said Spotter.
"All lightee," replied the man. He had seen Spotter before.
The little gangster wondered how The Shadow would pass the Chinese guard.
Probably in some disguise. The Shadow could get in anywhere.
Spotter came to a door. He tapped three times. It swung open, and the
little man faced another guard. Spotter raised his hands in a sign of
friendliness, and was allowed to pass.
He always had qualms on the threshold of that doorway. He suspected that
there was a trap in the floor that would drop any dangerous visitor to his
doom. If so, much trouble would be avoided if The Shadow failed to impress the
guard. Spotter gloated as he imagined The Shadow falling through the trap.

THERE were three entrances to Loo Look's, the little gangster knew. All
presented the same hazards.
The Shadow would have to pass two guards. It seemed probable to Spotter
that The Shadow would choose this particular entrance, if The Shadow chose to
enter at all. That was the only proviso that was discouraging to Spotter.
The stoop-shouldered crook pursued his path along a turning corridor. He
was in a veritable catacomb. Now two other passages joined this one. All
terminated before an iron-sheeted door.
This was the final barrier. Spotter had reached the heart of Loo Look's
domain. He was at the entrance to the opium den.
The door opened as though invisible eyes had witnessed the little man's
approach. Spotter stepped into a long, low room. It was a squalid place; but
its filthiness was somewhat less noticeable because of the dim lights.
A slender, wiry Chinaman stood by the door. He was Loo Look's most trusted
watchman, the keeper of the inner den. He motioned Spotter forward.
The walls of the room were lined with dirty curtains. These hid the bunks
in which the slaves of the poppy reclined, smoking their pipes.
The room was like a corridor, with berths on either side. No attempt had
been made to make the place attractive. That was unnecessary.
Those who came there cared nothing for the appearance of the den. Why
should they? When the pipes began to smoke, dreaming minds would supply the
grandeur that was lacking. Spotter knew all this.
The guardian of the den steered Spotter to a bunk. The curtains closed on
the little gangster. He was provided with a pipe, and he lay silently waiting.
Spotter was not addicted to the use of opium. Yet to-night he decided to
try a few puffs - something which he had done before.
Vague minutes went by. The little, stoop-shouldered man peered from
between the curtains. The room seemed strangely silent. Spotter avoided further
puffs on the pipe. He was wise enough to avoid too much of the influence of the
overpowering drug.
He could see the wiry guardian standing by the door of the den. The man's
shadow sprawled on the floor behind him.
He was like a statue. The black silhouette annoyed Spotter. It was not an
unusual shadow, but Spotter did not like shadows.
Suddenly, the little gangster gripped the curtains of the bunk. Another
shadow had appeared on the floor. It was long, black, and ominous. It was
approaching from the other end of the room.
A figure came into view - it was the form of a personage in black. It
stood still, seemingly a part of the curtains that covered one of the bunks,
not five feet from the listening Chinaman - a silent shape that had come from
nowhere.
The Shadow!
The thought made Spotter gasp. He wanted to drop out of sight; but his
muscles refused to act.
Why didn't the Chinese guardian turn? Spotter's throat lumped. He could
not even ejaculate a warning.
The back of The Shadow was toward him. Spotter had a gun in the pocket of
his ragged coat that lay across the foot of the bunk. But he was paralyzed with
fear. He could not move.

COULD this be real? The Shadow had not come through the door that was the
entrance to the den. How had the mysterious being of the night entered this
place?
Spotter trembled. He began to believe that his imagination was at work;
that the whiffs of opium had made him the victim of strange hallucinations.
Spotter's dry lips now formed a mirthless smile. The guard was turning. He
would see The Shadow!
But, no - as the Chinaman swung away from the door, he moved in the wrong
direction. The Shadow, divining his move, slipped to one side.
He was still behind the Celestial's back. The guard did not detect his
presence.
The Chinaman moved along the floor, peering right and left at the
curtained bunks. Behind him followed The Shadow, a grotesque, batlike figure,
whose sinister shape seemed like a solid chunk carved out of jet-black night.
Spotter's eyes were peering through a tiny crack between the curtains of
his bunk. He saw the Chinese guard go to the other end of the room, evidently
on a tour of inspection. The Oriental stopped at the wall.
Now he must turn! Now he would see The Shadow!
But Spotter was doomed to disappointment. The black shape suddenly shifted
to the left. It faded between the curtains of an unoccupied bunk, half a second
before the Chinese guard turned to come back.
Spotter gave a low, hissing whistle. It quavered between his chattering
teeth. The Chinaman stopped and bent low beside the bunk to hear what Spotter
might have to say.
"The Shadow!" quavered Spotter. "The Shadow!"
The Chinaman looked at him with solemn, unchanging eyes.
"It ain't the dope!" whispered Spotter. "I ain't been hittin' the pipe.
Listen, chink. The Shadow is here! Tell Loo Look. You savvy? The Shadow is
here."
The guard shrugged his shoulders.
He had seen many men delirious from the effects of the drug which Loo Look
purveyed. This fellow appeared to be another one of them.
"Tell Loo Look." Spotter's final whisper was urgent. "The Shadow is here -
in this room!"
The wiry Chinaman looked about him.
"Where?" he questioned.
"In a bunk. Next to the last one on the other side. Tell Loo Look. Quick!"

THE Celestial moved away. He did not believe Spotter. The man talked of a
shadow. That was the way the opium pipe worked. It made victims see shadows.
What shadow could have been seen from the bunk? How could it have escaped
his watchful eyes? Such were the Chinaman's thoughts.
Yet the urgency of Spotter's request carried an impression. He had said to
tell Loo Look.
It was not the guard's duty to carry messages to his master from the
frenzied minds that occupied the bunks. They all had strange thoughts, these
fellows who smoked pipes. Spotter, however, had spoken the name of Loo Look,
and Spotter had not been in the bunk very long. Perhaps this was important.
The wiry Chinese moved along the center of the room until he reached the
paneled wall beside the door. Here he raised his hand and pressed a molding.
But he did not perform this action until he had cast a watchful eye down the
center corridor. Spotter was no longer watching. The little gangster had
dropped exhausted in his bunk.
The panel slid upward into the wall, revealing the entrance of a narrow
passage. The guard held the panel with his hand, as he started to step through.
Evidently it dropped automatically. This was the way to Loo Look's private
sanctum.
But the Chinaman changed his mind with suddenness. He stepped back into
the room and released the panel. It slid downward to its former position. The
man had decided to investigate Spotter's claim before going to Loo Look.
Back he came to the bunk where Spotter lay. He spread the curtains
slightly and shook the little gangster. Spotter stared with wild eyes.
"Which bunkee you say Shadow in?"
As the Celestial spoke, a black form emerged from the bunk at the end of
the room. It moved directly along the center of the room. It was soundless as
it passed the guard, who was stooping over Spotter.
The Chinaman did not detect the presence of this phantom shape. Nor did
Spotter see it. The guard's body was in front of his eyes.
"Next to last - other side of the room - other end!" gasped Spotter.
The Chinaman moved away. The Shadow had scarcely passed him; but the guard
turned toward the end of the room from which the strange personage had come; and
hence did not see him.
But Spotter did. Through some instinct, the little gangster looked toward
the entrance instead of following the course taken by the guard.
A huge, black form was standing beside the door. A gloved hand came from
the dark cloak. On one finger glowed a large gem that seemed like the crimson
eye of a Stygian monster.
It pressed the molding. A panel slid upward to reveal a gaping hole. Into
the opening stepped The Shadow.
From the bunk in which he had lain hidden, he had seen the action of the
Chinese guard. He had learned the way to Loo Look's lair!

SPOTTER leaned from his bunk. The guard was at the other end of the room,
peering between curtains at the spot where The Shadow had lain in hiding.
"Quick!" hissed Spotter. "He's here - up by the wall!"
The Chinaman turned an instant too late. The secret panel had slipped
shut, noiselessly. The Shadow was gone.
The Celestial came back to Spotter's bunk and stared at the little
gangster with flashing eyes.
"No one there," he said. "You hittee pipe too much."
"There," gasped Spotter, pointing toward the entrance. "There. He went
there."
The Chinaman shot out a thin hand and pushed Spotter back into his bunk.
"You see things," he said. "See crazy things. You keepee quiet. No talkee."
Spotter was unnerved. He was unable to rise. He tried to gasp out further
words. But the guard clapped a hand upon his mouth, and stifled his lips.
Spotter became silent. He took a whiff of the pipe in desperation. The
puff choked him. He lay coughing, and gasping, afraid to move.
Somehow, The Shadow had entered this den unseen and unmolested. Now the
strange being had passed the inner guard, and had gone into a dark, mysterious
passage.
Where it led, Spotter did not know. His one fear was that The Shadow would
return.
What would happen then?

CHAPTER XXV

TRAP FOR THE SHADOW

SPOTTER had believed that there were only three entrances to Loo Look's
underground den. He knew that three passages merged in front of the door of the
innermost room. He had used all three entrances on different occasions. Each was
guarded by two strong Chinese attendants.
But there was a fourth entrance to the place - and two men alone knew of
its existence. One was Loo Look; the other was Tiger Bronson.
The secret entrance came from a house across the street. When either Loo
Look or Tiger Bronson wished to enter the opium den, they used the secret way.
The house across the street was deserted. The two men who used it each had a
key to the side door.
When one of them entered the house, he went to the cellar and found an
opening which led to the den where Spotter now lay. The passage terminated in
an unused bunk. From this, Loo Look or Tiger Bronson would emerge or disappear.
The Chinese guard knew that there was some secret in that bunk; for both
Loo Look and Tiger Bronson entered it and left it; yet neither of them used
opium.
But the guard never investigated. Typically Oriental, he showed no
curiosity in those matters of which he was expected to know nothing.
Loo Look was usually in the opium den. Tiger Bronson seldom appeared
there. But the guard knew that he must not be too curious about either of the
two.
The Shadow had come through the secret entrance from the house across the
street. He had emerged from the special bunk when Spotter had first seen him.
How The Shadow knew of that secret passage was a mystery. Evidently he did
not know the way to Loo Look's lair; for he had remained in hiding until the
Chinese guard had unconsciously betrayed it.

NOW The Shadow was beyond the inner barrier. He was moving silently and
cautiously in the dark of a narrow passage. He came to a door, and his hand
gripped the knob.
Silently the door opened inward until just a crack was gained. The tall
form of The Shadow blotted out the light that came through the thin opening.
Two men were seated in a small, luxuriously furnished room. One was Loo
Look. The other Tiger Bronson.
They had disregarded the Oriental splendor of their surroundings, so
deeply were they engaged in earnest conversation.
The big, grim-faced politician was a striking contrast to the proprietor
of the opium den. Loo Look was a fat, squatty Chinaman, with pudgy face and
puffy cheeks. He was clad in a Chinese robe, woven with threads of gold.
"Spotter was here last night," observed Loo Look. He peered at Tiger
Bronson with eyes that seemed like round spots of ebony. "But no other came. I
did not see this one you call The Shadow."
"He was at my house," replied Tiger Bronson, grimly. "A mob tried to get
him; but he escaped. He is dangerous, Loo Look."
"He must be."
"He cannot be attacked. He must be lured."
"We can do that here."
"Yes." Tiger Bronson's voice carried a tone of doubt. "The only thing is
this. He may be too wise to come."
Loo Look laughed.
"You say that he is fearless," said the Chinaman. "If you speak truly, he
will come."
"That's what I'm counting on, Loo Look."
"There is nothing here to warn him," said the Celestial. "I am too clever
for that, Tiger. There are three entrances through which he may come.
"My guards are posted. They have been warned merely to deal quickly with
any stranger. Perhaps others may fall into the trap. What of it?"
"It's all right if you can get The Shadow."
"The outer guard," explained Loo Look, "will let any man enter. But if he
is suspicious, he leans against a spot on the wall of the passage. That is a
signal to the second guard behind the door. The instant that the stranger steps
upon the threshold, the trap is released. Away he goes."
"Good."
"So The Shadow can never reach the inner den. I shall be notified within a
few minutes after he falls into my snare."
"Only one thing," Tiger Bronson's voice was serious. "What about that
passage you and I use, Loo Look?"
The squat Chinaman laughed.
"I wish that he would enter there," he said.
"Why? There are no guards to stop him," interposed Tiger Bronson. "He
would reach the hop joint if he came that way."
"You think so?" Loo Look's voice was sinister. "Listen, Tiger. You never
come to this place except when I am here, do you?"
"No. I always send word when I am coming."
"I told you once that if your key failed to work in the door of the house
across the street, you would have to go away and come later."
"Correct. I never bothered to ask you why."
"That door will only operate when I arrange it for you to enter. It is
connected here." He pointed to a framework on the wall.
"When you come through the passage," he continued, "everything is arranged
for your safety. I am expecting you. But the moment that you arrive here, I
change the plans.
"The passage is filled with traps. Even The Shadow could not escape them."
"Suppose he followed after me."
Loo Look laughed. He pointed to a row of lights.
"Those showed me just where you were," he said. "After you had passed a
certain spot, I let a steel sheet slide down.
"If The Shadow came behind you, he must still be on the other side. But he
is not there. Another light would have indicated his presence."
"Hm-m-m," said Tiger Bronson. "You've got it all fixed like a block-signal
system on a railway."
"Exactly. Only more elaborate."

TIGER BRONSON stared in admiration at this ingenious Chinaman, who talked
perfect English, and whose schemes left no room for chance.
"The way is clear now," remarked Loo Look. "Let The Shadow enter if he
wishes. He will step upon hidden floor plates. He will be trapped between steel
sheets. He will never escape."
"We should have tipped him off to the secret passage," suggested Bronson.
"No," replied Loo Look. "I do not want any one to know of its existence,
other than ourselves. I spent too much in its preparation.
"Let The Shadow come as others do - through the passages where the guards
await. They will attend to him."
"Suppose he gets through them -"
Loo Look shook his head.
"They are ready for him," he replied.
"He may come in disguise," objected Tiger Bronson. "He is clever in that
method."
"The man in the inner room will know that the disguise is false. No one
can deceive Woo Ting."
"You mean the thin bird that passes out the pipes?"
"That is the one I mean."
"He looks shrewd, all right."
"He is shrewd. He is the only man who knows how to reach this room - the
only one excepting you and me."
"That's good," observed Tiger Bronson. "You know this Shadow has me
guessing, Loo Look. The way he moves around, he might pop in here any minute."

THE squat Chinaman laughed as though Bronson's last statement was a huge
joke. Then suddenly his face became strained and tense. For once a look of
surprise appeared upon Loo Look's expressionless features. His eyes were glassy
and staring.
Tiger Bronson was amazed at this unexpected change. He turned to look in
the direction of the Chinaman's gaze. Then he, too, sat as though turned to
stone.
The door of the room had opened while the two men were talking. They had
not heard it. But now they saw a tall, black-clad figure at the other side of
the room.
The sable form stood motionless. It loomed like a specter from the world
beyond. It had come like a messenger of vengeance.

CHAPTER XXVI

THE SHADOW FAILS

"THE SHADOW!"
The words burst from Tiger Bronson's twitching lips. The figure in black
did not move.
For one full minute silence reigned. The three persons in the room formed
a tableau of living statuary.
This was the domain of Loo Look, but The Shadow had made himself master of
the situation.
A low, hollow laugh came from beneath the brim of the turned-down hat.
Tiger Bronson shuddered inwardly. Loo Look's face retained its strained
expression.
"Tiger Bronson," declared The Shadow, in a voice that seemed the
pronunciation of a judgment, "you sought to lure me to this place. I am here."
The bluff-faced politician shifted uncomfortably.
"You have twice sought to injure me," said The Shadow in his solemn,
horrifying voice. "Twice before. This is the third time. Your efforts are
impotent. Those who have thrice sought to injure me invariably suffer."
Loo Look suddenly regained his composure. The Chinaman had been amazed and
startled by the sudden arrival of The Shadow. Now his wits were at work.
His traps had been avoided; hence he had been surprised. But the wily
Oriental possessed other threats.
He leaned backward slightly in his chair, and his elbow pressed a spot on
the wall. So sly was his motion that it apparently escaped those eyes that were
hidden beneath the black-rimmed hat.
"So you are The Shadow," said Loo Look. "Who are you? How did you come
here?"
The figure did not reply for a moment. Then came its words, in a low,
quiet voice. They carried accusation.
"Three years ago, Loo Look," said The Shadow, "you employed a clever man
to design your passage from the house across the street. That man was an
American. When he had completed his work, you murdered him."
The Chinaman moved uneasily as the voice ceased.
The Shadow's words were true. This mysterious avenger had revealed facts
which Loo Look believed he alone possessed.
"I possessed that man's secret," resumed The Shadow. "I could have entered
here at will. But I chose to remain away until the proper time had arrived."
Slowly the black-cloaked figure moved forward until it hovered above the
two cowering men. Then came a sinister laugh, as though The Shadow was mocking
the helpless creatures who were before him. He moved back toward the door, and
remained in the center of the room.
Tiger Bronson was shaking; but Loo Look had regained his calm when The
Shadow stepped back. The cunning Chinese was expecting something to happen. A
trace of eagerness appeared upon his face.

THEN it came. On both sides of the room, panels burst inward, and two
groups of rescuing Chinese precipitated themselves into the room.
They had come in response to Loo Look's secret signal. Knives flashed in
their hands as they hurled themselves at the figure of The Shadow.
But at the instant of the attack, the man in the black cloak had stooped
toward the floor. With amazing skill and speed he slipped backward as he flung
his cloak from above his head.
Loo Look, rising, saw him - a thin dark-clad figure with a black silk mask
- as he slipped through the opening of the door and disappeared in the darkness
of the passage beyond.
The Shadow had been too quick for his attackers. They had failed to cut
off his retreat.
Dashing forward, Loo Look pulled the door open, and his men followed his
pointing finger. They rushed into the passage, one after another, and plunged
in mad pursuit.
Tiger Bronson rose unsteadily as he saw the grin on Loo Look's face. The
Chinaman went to a taboret, lifted the top, and produced a flashlight.
"Come," he said to Tiger Bronson. "He cannot escape them. Only Woo Ting
can open that panel - when he hears the signal. He will not open it now. He
received the warning sign which I sent."
Cries were coming from the passage as they reached the door. Then the
staccato of rapid pistol shots burst from the gloom. Groans followed.
Loo Look stood stock-still, surprise upon his face.
"What does this mean!" he exclaimed. "My men had knives. Can it be -"
A Chinaman toppled through the door. His arm was bleeding as he fell at
Loo Look's feet. He uttered words in the Chinese tongue.
"He says the man is a demon," called Loo Look. "A devil who lies in
darkness, and is part of the night."
One by one the remaining warriors of Loo Look staggered in from the
passage. All had been wounded by The Shadow's shots. From their garbled
exclamations, Loo Look knew that they had failed in their quest.
The squatty Celestial counted his fallen men. Assured that they had all
returned, he quickly bolted the door.
"He cannot escape this way," he said, calmly. "The door is too strong."
"But the panel at the other end -" objected Bronson.
"He may break through there," admitted Loo Look. "That is where we shall
wait for him."
His men had been examining their wounds. Two of them, who had only been
clipped by bullets, were bandaging their fellows. Loo Look motioned to them.
"Come," he said.
Followed by Tiger Bronson and the two Chinamen, Loo Look led the way
through the open panel at the right.
After passing through several small rooms, Loo Look pressed against a
movable portion of the wall. A secret spring clicked, and they entered the
opium den, where the thin Woo Ting stood, listening by the panel that was the
entrance to Loo Look's sanctuary.
The sound of thumping came from the other side. The blows became more
violent. Tiger Bronson looked at Loo Look with a worried expression.
"He'll break through," he said.

LOO LOOK motioned the big politician back to a corner of the room, away
from danger. He stationed his two men on either side of the panel. He drew a
huge revolver from his robe.
He pointed to the bunks with an expressive gesture, as though asking Woo
Ting if the opium smokers had been ejected from the premises. Woo Ting nodded.
Loo Look made another sign, and Woo Ting pressed a switch. The lights went
out. The room was in total darkness.
Terrific thumping came from the panel. It ceased for a moment. Loo Look
spoke tensely in Chinese. There was an almost inaudible click.
Tiger Bronson knew the sound. Woo Ting had opened the panel!
With a cannonlike roar, Loo Look's revolver blazed into the blackness. The
Chinaman discharged an entire volley directly into the space before him.
The noise reechoed. Then came silence.
Loo Look pressed the button of a flashlight; the gleam revealed a
motionless figure lying before him, its arms extending into the room.
The squatty Chinamen bent forward with a cry of triumph. As he did, the
figure's arms came upward and seized him by the throat. Loo Look gurgled as he
fell. His light dropped to the floor and went out.
Bronson realized the truth. The slight click of the panel had warned The
Shadow. He had dropped to the floor below the line of Loo Look's hasty shots.
Woo Ting came to the rescue. He pressed the switch that illuminated the
room; but as he did, the tall man with the black mask had already emerged from
the passage.
As the lights came on, he fell upon the two Chinamen who were pressing
toward the entrance. He flung them aside, and leaped across the room.
Woo Ting dodged, and drew a long knife. But The Shadow's objective was the
light switch. He reached it, and pressed it. Again the room was dark.
Then began a fierce struggle in the blackness. The three Chinamen were
grasping for The Shadow. Yet he constantly eluded their clutches.
Their goal was the light switch; he was defending it. Every time a hand
reached for the spot, an arm swung from somewhere, and the man went down.
Tiger Bronson was not in the fight. He was at the other side of the room,
trying to thrust his huge body into some safe corner.
Loo Look stirred in the passage. The Shadow had left him half unconscious.
Now he was able to rise and to stagger forward. He hastened away from the scene
of the fray, and reached the bolted door that led into his own room.
There he knocked: twice loudly; twice softly. One of the wounded men
opened the door cautiously.
Loo Look staggered into his sanctuary, and sank, breathless, into a chair.
He pointed to the door. A Chinaman closed it, and bolted it.
Loo Look glanced upward, and a gleam of triumph appeared upon his face. A
light was shining in the frame. Some one was in the corridor that led to the
house across the street. The Shadow, believing that Loo Look was incapable of
action, was making his escape!
The squat Chinaman watched as the light went out, and another came on.
This indicated the course of the fleeing man.
Loo Look arose. The second light went out; a third light came on. It was
red. The others had been white.
With a grin, Loo Look pulled a switch. The red light was extinguished.
Laughing with fiendish merriment, the Chinaman sank back into his chair.
The red light indicated that the man in the passage was above a secret
trap. The pulling of the switch had dropped him into a deep pit below.
That ended The Shadow, so Loo Look thought. But had the squat Chinaman
known the true state of affairs, his chuckle would have died on his lips.
For the man who had plunged to his doom was Tiger Bronson! The gang master
had found an opportunity to escape from the opium den, while the fray was still
in progress!
All was quiet now; the battle had ended abruptly after Tiger Bronson had
fled. Three Chinese lay, half-conscious, on the floor. The outer door opened,
and a thin, black figure crept into the corridor through which Spotter had come
and gone.
The Shadow moved stealthily. He made a strange appearance, in his black,
jerseylike clothing, with the silk mask over his face.
He stole along the corridor, and fell with suddenness upon the Chinese
guard. A minute later, the man was bound with strips of cloth ripped from his
own robe.
The guardian of the outer entrance was sitting quietly on a soap box when
The Shadow dealt with him. He toppled backward with a sudden gasp, and struck
his head against the stone floor. The Shadow did not bind him. That would have
been unnecessary.
In the street, the tall, mysterious departer merged with the shadows of
the buildings. From his pocket he drew a watch, and its luminous dial shone
ghostlike in the darkness. A low exclamation followed.
The Shadow had entered the lair of Loo Look. He had met the enemy, and he
had emerged the victor. Yet he felt that he had failed.
It was five minutes to nine - too late to reach the radio station!

CHAPTER XXVII

VINCENT TAKES ACTION

IT was quarter past nine. The game of cards was over. Harry Vincent sat
alone in Blair Windsor's living room. He could hear the click of pool balls
coming from the billiard room.
He had drawn a blank when he had tuned in on WNX. Not a significant word
had been said in the program. The card game had ended abruptly, shortly before
the radio announcer had terminated his talk over the air.
Philip Harper and Garret Buckman were going over to see Perry Quinn at the
hospital. Blair Windsor and Bert Crull had decided to shoot a game of pool.
Harry Vincent felt desperate. He had been sure of a message from The
Shadow, to-night. Now the situation was difficult. What should he do?
Vernon passed through the room. The presence of this man, who Harry felt
sure was implicated in the plot against Blair Windsor, brought ominous thoughts
to Harry's mind.
Ten minutes went by. The clicking of the pool balls ceased. Blair Windsor
entered the room. His face was frank and full of cheer. He eyed Harry's glum
countenance.
"What's the matter, old man?" asked Windsor.
"Nothing," replied Harry. "I'm just thinking."
"Like to shoot a game of pool?"
"I don't believe so."
Blair Windsor sat in a comfortable chair.
"Phil and Garry have gone away overnight," he remarked.
"They have!" exclaimed Harry.
"Yes. Bert Crull suggested it. Told them they would be foolish to try to
get back here. It's raining, and it's liable to be a bad night. They followed
his suggestion. They packed up before they left."
"Where is Crull?" asked Harry anxiously.
"He had to go downtown," replied Blair.
Harry arose and paced the room. He was sure that a plot was brewing. With
Harper and Buckman out of the way, only he and Blair remained.
Why had Crull left? To summon the man who had captured Harry on that other
night?
A bad night! It would be a bad night, if the enemy chose to act!
"What's the trouble?" questioned Blair.

HARRY VINCENT studied the speaker closely. He realized that he was not the
only one whose safety was at stake. This affair involved Blair Windsor too. Now
was no time for silence.
Harry went over and shut the door, first assuring himself that Vernon was
not in the hall.
"Listen, Blair." Harry's voice carried a stern emphasis that brought a
look of surprise to the other's face. "There's trouble here. Real trouble.
We've got to meet it."
"What do you mean?"
"Just this. People are plotting against you. I suspect both Bert Crull and
Vernon."
"Impossible!"
"It's not impossible, Blair. Who lives in that farmhouse, over on the
other side of the little hill?"
Blair Windsor shrugged his shoulders.
"Some old fellow who rented it from the farmer," he replied. "He's been
over there quite a while. I've only seen him once or twice."
"Why have Crull and Vernon visited him?" questioned Harry. "Did you know
that they have been there?"
"No."
"Well, they have. There's something mysterious about it, too. Some person
disappeared from your cellar, Blair. I think it was Vernon. I saw him in the
farmhouse shortly after."
"When?"
"The night I went away."
"I thought you went away early in the morning."
"I didn't tell the exact facts," explained Harry. "I went away that night
- just to look in at the farmhouse. A man landed on my back, and grabbed me."
Blair Windsor's face became serious, and wondering. He seemed puzzled.
"Who was it?" he asked.
"I don't know," replied Harry. "I got away from him later."
He paused for an instant; then decided that it would take too long to tell
of his imprisonment in the shack in the woods. It was important to rouse his
friend to action.
"Blair," said Harry, "I suspected trouble here. I don't know what it's all
about; but it concerns you. There's a bad gang at work.
"We must be on guard. I suggest that you call Harper and Buckman. Bring
them back to help us."
Blair Windsor considered the suggestion. Then he shook his head.
"I believe you, Vincent," he said. "One or two things have happened here
that have just now come to my mind. You may be mistaken about it all; but if
you are right, I think we can handle it alone."
"Harper and Buckman would be a help, perhaps."
"I agree with you. But if there is really danger, it must be met quickly.
I'll leave it to you. Shall we work on this right now, or later?"
"I think now is the time. If Bert Crull is in on it, he'll be back before
we can get hold of Harper and Buckman."
Windsor's willingness to take immediate action was good news to Harry
Vincent. It was much better to take a hand now than to wait.
"You're right, Blair," said Harry. "Here's what I suggest we do.
Investigate the cellar first."
"Fine. I have two automatics upstairs. Let's get them."

HARRY'S own automatic was in the car, but he preferred to use the one that
Windsor might supply.
He did not want to mention The Shadow. If he revealed the fact that he had
come to Brookdale prepared, it might lead to questioning on Blair's part.
"What about Vernon?" asked Harry, as Blair rose from his chair.
Blair Windsor nodded.
"I'll get him out of the way," he said. "He can drive the light car. I'll
send him downtown for some supplies."
Windsor went into the hall and called Vernon. The man answered from
upstairs. Blair went up to meet him on the landing. Vernon came down a minute
later, counting items on his fingers, and muttering, "Eggs, potatoes, bread -"
The man left the house immediately. Blair Windsor arrived, carrying two
automatics and a flashlight. He showed the cartridges in the dim light, and
pressed one of the revolvers into Harry's hand.
"Now for the cellar," he whispered. "You'll have to show me what happened."
In the cellar, Harry explained the circumstances. The two men went to the
corner where the shelves were located.
"This is the spot," said Harry.
"Let's pull at those shelves," suggested Blair. "This corner is directly
toward the hill. I'll bet there's a passage here."
He pushed and tugged at different shelves, but with no success. Harry
joined in the work.
As Blair Windsor stepped away, Harry suddenly obtained results. The whole
section of shelves swung into the cellar, as though hinged. The flashlight
showed a low, dark tunnel into the hillside.
"What about it?" questioned Harry. "Shall we go in? Or shall we wait?"
Blair hesitated. He paused, perplexed. He examined the shelves, and
assured himself that they were loose. There was no danger of being trapped.
"We shouldn't separate," he said, quietly. "Better to stay together. I'll
go first, Harry. You follow. We'll investigate and then return. If we run into
trouble, use your gun."

HE extinguished the flashlight, and groped his way forward into the
darkness. Harry followed, closing the shelves behind him. Thus they advanced,
feeling the sides of the tube through which they were passing.
Then they entered a larger cavern. They must be a hundred feet from the
house, Harry judged.
"Shall I use the light?" whispered Blair.
"Let's listen, first," replied Harry.
Everything was quiet. The minute that they waited seemed very long.
"Here goes," whispered Blair Windsor. But before he could press the button
of the flashlight, the place was suddenly illuminated. From the other side of
the underground room, two men sprang upon them.
Blair went down beneath the onslaught. His automatic was torn from his
grasp. He was helpless beneath the body of the man who had seized him. He cried
for aid as he was pinned to the floor.
By a skillful bit of dodging, Harry escaped his own adversary. He fired
three shots directly at the man as he hurtled by.
The range was extremely close. The shots could not fail to take effect.
At the sound of the reports, the other enemy arose from the prostrate form
of Blair Windsor. The man leaped forward, and as he did so, Harry fired three
more shots. They were aimed at the man's body; but they did not stop his spring.
Harry fell beneath the man's bulk.
Then came a great surprise. Instead of being inert, the man was grappling,
thoroughly alive. Harry was totally amazed. His bullets had failed to take
effect.
It was too late now to fire again, for he had lost his hold on his gun
when he had attempted to push away the body of the man whom he had presumably
wounded.
For an instant, Harry gained the advantage. His eyes were toward the wall,
and he saw the first man rising.
He, too, was uninjured! He piled in to help Harry's antagonist, and the
struggle became hopelessly unequal.
Harry called to Blair Windsor. But no aid came. He caught a glimpse of
Blair, half raised from the floor, resting on one elbow, watching the conflict.
One man had pinned Harry's arms behind him. A big fist loomed, and Harry
received a vicious punch squarely on the jaw. The room whirled, and went black.
Harry Vincent lay helpless and unconscious.

CHAPTER XXVIII

BURBANK GIVES INFORMATION

THE downstairs telephone rang in Lamont Cranston's home. Richards answered
it. He recognized the millionaire's voice. He called Burbank.
The quiet wireless operator waited until the valet had left the room where
the phone was located. Then he repeated the word that had come from Harry
Vincent. He could tell that his employer was making notes of the information.
"All right," came the voice from the receiver. "Stay at my house, Burbank.
I won't be home to-night."
Lamont Cranston emerged from the phone booth at the Cobalt Club. He nodded
to a friend who was passing. He went to the checkroom for his coat and hat. He
also took a package that he had left.
The clock above the door showed twenty-five minutes of ten. Lamont
Cranston glanced at it. His face betrayed no definite expression, but he
murmured two words as he left the building.
"By midnight."
A limousine was waiting near by. The millionaire stepped in, and snapped
an order.
"Move rapidly, Stanley," he said to the chauffeur. "To the airport."
The chauffeur nodded. A light drizzle was falling, and the street was
slippery. But the powerful car moved speedily. The chauffeur found a street
where traffic was light, and the automobile turned in the direction of the
Holland Tunnel.
The rider in back was thinking. His mind was connecting events and piecing
ideas together. Yet he remained totally silent. He seemed lost in the darkness
of the car.
The limousine narrowly missed colliding with a truck. The silent passenger
did not move. He said nothing to the chauffeur. Stanley grinned as he stared
through the windshield.
"Funny," he muttered. "A couple of weeks ago the boss was nervous when he
rode with me. That was just after he came home from a trip. Now look at him!
Not a word - and that was a close one, all right."
The limousine roared through the Holland Tunnel. It whirled along the New
Jersey highway at amazing speed.
Stanley had been a racing driver; but it was seldom that he was given
opportunity to show his ability. He was at his best to-night.
The man in the back seat of the car opened the package which he carried.
It contained various articles - most important were a black cloak, and a
broad-brimmed hat. Lamont Cranston inspected them; then he wrapped them up
again.
They were at the airport. The millionaire alighted, and stepped into the
drizzle. A wind was blowing, but he did not seem to mind it.
"Take the car home, Stanley," he said.
The chauffeur's jaw dropped, as he displayed his amazement.
"You - you're not going up, to-night, sir?"
"Yes. Take the car home."
Stanley drove away, muttering to himself. He knew that his employer
frequently traveled by airplane. In fact, Lamont Cranston had his own ship, and
frequently hired an aviator to take him on trips.
The millionaire had a pilot's license, but only operated a plane in the
best of weather. Stanley hoped that he would have a good man on the job
to-night.
The millionaire stopped at the hangar. He spoke to the man in charge.
"It's a bad night," was the comment he received.
Lamont Cranston nodded. Then he intimated that he was in a hurry.
His plane was ready. He climbed into it alone.
The motor roared, and the ship left the ground. It headed toward the
northeast, and was swallowed in the black sky.
The visibility was very bad. The men on the ground shook their heads at
the foolhardiness of the flight. They knew very little of Lamont Cranston's
ability as a pilot, and they were doubtful.
"Hope he can use his compass," said one. "I wouldn't like to be in his
place."
The plane carrying Lamont Cranston hummed over Manhattan, the glare of the
city's lights smothered by the falling rain.
The wind whistled through the fuselage; the air was bumpy as the ship sped
on through the increasing storm. Yet the pilot seemed indifferent to the
threatening elements. He seemed like a shadow, in the cabin of the plane.

CHAPTER XXIX

HARRY VINCENT FACES DEATH

HARRY VINCENT opened his eyes, and stared about him. He lay propped
against the crude stone wall of the underground cavern. His hands were strapped
behind his back. His ankles were also bound. His head still ached from the blow
that had rendered him unconscious.
Blair Windsor, also bound, lay a few feet away. There were three other men
in the place.
One was Bert Crull; the second was Vernon; the third was the old man whom
Harry had seen in the farmhouse.
"He's come to life," said Crull, looking at Harry.
"Fine," came the reply from the old man. "Now we can question him."
"Shall we wait until Jerry comes back?" asked Crull.
"He won't be back, right away," answered the old man. "You and he did
quick work, all right, the way you nabbed this fellow."
Harry looked around the room. The cavern was lighted by several electric
incandescents. Evidently the wiring came from the farmhouse.
An object that appeared to be a printing press stood in one corner. There
was a table in another. The sides of the room were dim. Harry could make out
chains, ropes, and boxes on the floor.
The men looked at Harry; then their leader, the old man, spoke to Bert
Crull.
"You question him, Birdie," he said.
Crull sat on a box, and stared at Harry Vincent.
"Come on, Vincent," he said. "Give us the lowdown on what you've been
doing around here. Windsor has told us all he knows."
Harry looked at Blair Windsor questioningly. The other prisoner nodded in
corroboration.
"I had to do it, Vincent," he said. "This gang has got us. They may make
terms with us, if we tell them all we know."
"I know very little," replied Harry. "I just happened to be visiting Blair
Windsor. I noticed that people disappeared from his cellar. So I figured there
was a passage over to the farmhouse."
"You were snooping around the farmhouse, weren't you?" cross-examined
Crull. "Why were you doing that?"
"I figured that it was the other end of the tunnel. That's all."
"Who did you see there?"
"You, one night. Vernon, another. Also the old gentleman, here."
"Ah! You looked in the second-story window?"
"Yes. I was just able to peek into it from the shed roof. I couldn't hold
my position long enough to stay. I just caught glimpses on the two occasions I
visited there."
"Hm-m-m." Birdie Crull was thoughtful. "What about the night some fellow
grabbed you there? Who was he?"
"I don't know," replied Harry. "I got away from him."
"Listen, Vincent," interrupted Crull. "There's more to your story than
you're telling me. Come clean, or it will be tough for you. Who sent you here?"
"No one."
"What else do you know?"
"Nothing."
Blair Windsor interjected a remark.
"We're up against it, Vincent," he said. "Don't hold anything back from
Crull."
"He's got the right dope," said Crull to Harry. "We'll let you go, if you
tell us everything."
"I've told you everything," said Harry sullenly.
Birdie Crull studied him for a short time. Then he turned to the old man.
"What will we do about it, Coffran?" he asked.

THE name came as a startling revelation to Harry Vincent. The old man must
be Isaac Coffran - archenemy of The Shadow!
Harry had never seen Isaac Coffran. That master of secret crime had
disappeared when he had been vanquished by The Shadow. No one had known where
he had gone.
This was Isaac Coffran's new center of activity! It meant danger - fearful
danger. Harry congratulated himself that he had not betrayed his connection with
The Shadow. What little hope he now had depended upon silence. For Isaac Coffran
was merciless. Harry could tell by the gleam in the old man's eyes that he was
planning some fiendish scheme.
"There's no use in bluffing any longer," said the master crook. "I'll take
charge of him now. Let Windsor go free. That will surprise him, perhaps."
Blair Windsor was unloosed. To Harry's complete amazement, Windsor calmly
joined the others. That brought revelation.
Blair Windsor was a member of the gang! Harry had played into his hands.
With Harper and Buckman out of the way, he had been left entirely along among
the enemy!
Harry realized now that he had been thoroughly mistaken all along. He had
believed that some danger threatened Blair Windsor; that he had come to
Brookdale to protect Windsor against some plot.
Instead, he had been delegated by The Shadow to find out the true state of
affairs - and he had failed!
Harry Vincent groaned.
The answer was a laugh from Blair Windsor.
"Fooled you, didn't I?" asked the owner of the Brookdale house. His
usually frank face now bore an expression of malice. "Thought I was working
with you, didn't you? You took the gun I gave you. It was loaded with blanks.
You fell for it, Vincent."
The biting words explained a mystery to Harry. He had been wondering why
his shots had failed to stop his attackers. Now he understood.
"Well," said Blair Windsor, turning to the others, "what shall we do with
him?"
"Bump him off," said Birdie Crull, tersely.

BLAIR hesitated. Evidently he was less brutal than his companions. He
seemed to be considering some alternative plan. Finally he shook his head.
"I don't like to see you do it," he said. "We've managed to get by without
murder up to now. Maybe we can make him talk. Perhaps we can fix him to keep him
quiet. Murder is bad -"
"You say we've done without murder?" inquired Isaac Coffran. "You're wrong
there, Windsor. How about Frank Jarnow?"
Blair Windsor looked puzzled. The old man smiled.
"We didn't have anything to do with Jarnow," said Blair. "Henry killed him
-"
Isaac Coffran held up a thin hand. He pointed to Birdie Crull, who smiled
grimly.
"There's the fellow who bumped off Jarnow," he said. "He planted the job
on Henry."
"Why did you kill Jarnow?" Blair asked Crull.
"He snooped a bit, too," explained Birdie. "He found out too much at the
old farmhouse. He stole the paper" - Crull laughed as Blair Windsor gasped -
"and he was showing it to Henry when I got there. So I gave it to him, and left
the hot rod on Henry."
"I didn't realize that," said Blair soberly. "I thought Henry did it, all
along."
"We didn't tell you," interposed Isaac Coffran. "We decided you would
handle matters better if you knew nothing about it. You thought that Henry
actually killed Frank Jarnow. So you didn't have to play a game."
"That was best," admitted Blair, nodding. "It helped me keep a clean
slate, all right."
"Since Birdie killed Jarnow," remarked the old man, in a cold voice, "I
can't see why he should object to finishing this man, here. You must agree with
me on that point, Windsor."
Blair nodded thoughtfully.
"But I shall deny him the pleasure," continued Isaac Coffran. "A quick
shot is all right, when a man is talking to the wrong party, as Jarnow was.
"But in this instance, Vincent, when he talks" - the old man's voice
carried biting emphasis - "will talk to the proper persons. He will talk to us.
So his death will be a slow one. He will linger on the verge until he tells his
story."
"You're going to put him in the casket?" There was apprehension in Blair
Windsor's question.
"Exactly," replied the old man. "We have never used it before. Now is the
proper time."
"I'm opposed to it," objected Blair Windsor. "There's no occasion for
torture."
"We'll vote on it," said Isaac Coffran, calmly. "I say yes. You say no.
What is your choice, Birdie?"
"Yes," replied Crull.
"And yours, Vernon?"
"Yes."
"Three to one," said Isaac Coffran, calmly. "No need to wait for Jerry."

THE old man went to the corner of the cavern, and turned on another light.
It revealed a black contrivance which Harry had not noticed against the gloomy
wall.
It appeared to be a huge metal box that stood upright. Vernon helped the
old man as they tipped the object on its side. The top was open.
Crull and Windsor lifted Harry and carried him to the casket. They pushed
him, feet foremost, into the interior.
The box was lifted upright by the four men. Harry was trapped in a narrow
space, his head protruding.
"Take the wheel, Birdie," ordered Isaac Coffran.
Crull went to the back of the casket. There was a small wheel there
arranged like a steering wheel - on a vertical plane. The man turned it
slightly.
Harry felt the back wall of the casket press against him. Short spikes
emerged, and were forced against his back.
"All set," said Birdie Crull.
"No need to wait for Jerry," observed Isaac Coffran. "He will arrive
before we are finished."
Despite his predicament, Harry could not help wondering who Jerry might
be. He felt positive that they must be referring to the dark-faced man who had
captured him several nights before.
Harry felt indifferent to Jerry's arrival. His former captor had not
treated him with much consideration.
Isaac Coffran was speaking. The words seemed to come from a distance.
Harry's mind seemed strangely bewildered, in the midst of this terrifying
situation.
"Will you talk?" demanded the old man.
"No!" exclaimed Harry.
"You will suffer."
"All right," replied Harry, firmly.
He was resolved that he would not betray The Shadow. The least that he
could do to make amends for his mistakes.
Harry realized that he was hopelessly trapped; that he should have warned
The Shadow before he had spoken to Blair Windsor. But all that was past.
Life was hazardous for those who worked with The Shadow. One duty was to
face death when it came, no matter how terrible its form might be.
"Take it slowly, Birdie," said the old man. "We have plenty of time. Give
him plenty of opportunity to talk."
The spikes pressed against Harry's back. They were not extremely sharp. It
was the crushing power of the back wall that Harry feared most.
He was pressed closely now. His breath came in short gasps.
"Stop," commanded Isaac Coffran.
"Now is your chance to talk," he said to Harry. "Will you talk?"
"No."
"Resume," said Isaac Coffran, addressing Birdie Crull.

CHAPTER XXX

THE FIFTH MAN

TIME seemed endless to Harry Vincent as the torture continued. Birdie
Crull was working slowly. The pressure seemed to increase by infinitesimal
degrees. But now it had reached a point where it would soon be unbearable.
Isaac Coffran held up a halting hand.
"No more pressure, Birdie," he said. "Turn the knob at the center. That
will advance the spikes alone."
Sharp pains gripped Harry's back. He gasped with anguish.
"Hold it," ordered the old man. "Will you speak now?"
Harry was desperate. This prolonged agony would become insufferable. No
hope lay ahead, yet his one desire was to postpone the coming torture. He
nodded his head.
"All right," said Isaac Coffran. "Who sent you here?"
"I came - of my own - accord," gasped Harry.
The old man gazed at him sharply.
"I know who sent you" - his voice hissed through tightly closed teeth.
"You came from The Shadow!"
If Isaac Coffran had sought to make Harry betray the fact which he
suspected, his efforts were without avail. For no change came over the young
man's face.
"You know who The Shadow is, don't you?" questioned the inquisitor.
Harry shook his head to indicate his ignorance. Old Isaac Coffran laughed
harshly.
"Go ahead, Birdie," he said.
Harry turned his head. His eyes were toward the gloomy passage that came
from the farmhouse. He was the only one looking in that direction.
He gasped in sudden hope as a man emerged from the tunnel, and came into
the light. Then he groaned.
The newcomer was the short, dark man with the black mustache who had
captured him some nights before. This must be the fellow they called "Jerry."
The stocky man moved quietly as he approached the group. When he had
nearly reached them, he stopped short. Isaac Coffran heard him then, and turned.
The man was standing with his hands behind his back. He brought them to
view with remarkable quickness, and threw two automatics toward the four men
who were torturing Harry Vincent.
"Hands up!"
The businesslike command of the stranger had its effect. The four
surprised men raised their arms above their heads, without an instant's
hesitation.
The dark-visaged man handled the revolvers carelessly. Disdain was on his
face, as he walked toward the casket.
He seemed to learn everything at a glance. His eyes were quick; his hands
were restless. Even though he failed to cover all of the men, not one dared to
move.
The stranger motioned toward the casket with one of his automatics.
"Turn that wheel back!" he said to Birdie Crull. "Use one hand to do it.
Act quick."
Crull obeyed the order. Harry Vincent breathed deeply with real gratitude
as the pressure was relieved. The mysterious arrival glanced at him.
"So you aren't with the gang!" he exclaimed softly. "No wonder I couldn't
make you talk. I thought you must have tipped them off, after I couldn't locate
you anywhere."
He deliberately turned his back on the four men who stood with upraised
hands, and nonchalantly walked across the cavern.
Isaac Coffran began to move slightly; at that instant the stranger turned
suddenly, and covered the old man with an automatic.
"One move out of any of you," he said, "and I shoot. This is my last
warning. Remember it."
He looked at the printing press out of the corner of his eye. He kicked
over a box, and printed bank notes fell from it.
As he moved about the room, he discovered plates that lay in a smaller
box. He finally glanced at the table, and laughed as he saw tools there.
"The whole works," he said. "You make the engravings, you do the printing,
and you unload."
He looked at the men who stood before him.
"You're the engraver, eh?" he said to Vernon.
The man did not reply.
"Blair Windsor," said the dark-faced man, "I've seen you before. You're in
the racket, too. I didn't suspect that. You're the blind. You make the place
look respectable."
He studied Isaac Coffran and Birdie Crull.
"You're the bird behind it," he said to the old man, "and this other
fellow is your strong-arm man. A nice bunch.
"Been making counterfeit money, and unloading it, for a long time, haven't
you? Well since you're in the business, you'll know my name when you hear it.
I'm Vic Marquette, of the secret service."
An audible gasp came from Vernon's lips. The old engraver knew that name
and dreaded it. Vic Marquette heard the gasp.
"You were in the jug once," said the Federal agent. "I'll have you placed
before I'm through. Making an easy living here, eh?
"Well, I've caught the four of you, and I'm going to tell you the low-down
before I march you out of here" - the secret-service man was handling his
automatics as though his fingers itched to press the triggers.
"The other government men thought the phony bills were being made in New
York," he said. "But I knew different. I traced a few of them up to
Springfield; then I found some in Brookdale. Not many, I admit; but two or
three were enough to show me that you fellows were operating strong in this
vicinity.
"I had suspicions about the old farmhouse. I hung around there a bit.
That's where I nabbed that fellow you have in the box. Thought he was with you.
"I kept him in a shack for a couple of days. Then he got away. That's why
I came here to-night. I'm alone. All alone. That's the way I work. You might
have wised up if I had brought a crowd with me.
"Your old farmhouse was deserted when I came there, an hour ago. That
meant one of two things - either that you skipped or were in your hangout. So I
looked around the cellar a bit.
"It took me a little while to find the entrance to your tunnel. But I'm
used to looking for places like that."
Marquette looked at Harry Vincent.
"I'm going to leave you where you are, young fellow," he remarked. "But
I'll be back later on."
He dropped one automatic into his pocket, and brought out a flashlight in
its place.
"We're going to hold a parade," he said, quietly. "It's about five miles
down to Brookdale, and you fellows are going to march all that distance with
your hands up; and I'll be behind with my gun.
"The first sign of monkey business - out you go. There's ten bullets in
this gat. That's six more than I need; and I have another loaded gun in my
pocket."
He walked among the helpless men, and reached in their pockets. He found
revolvers on Crull and Coffran. He threw the automatics in a corner. Then he
went over to the tunnel through which he had come, and stood facing the group.
"Line up," he said.
The men formed as commanded.
"Look out!" cried Harry Vincent.
Before Marquette could heed the warning, a man fell on him from the
tunnel. The new arrival had come out of the blackness; the noise of his
approach had been drowned by the Federal agent's command.

THE attacker had skillfully seized Marquette's automatic with one hand,
and as the two men rolled on the dirt floor, the gun fell to the ground. That
was the signal for a mass attack.
Crull and Windsor sprang forward, followed by Vernon and Isaac Coffran.
The struggle was fierce, but brief. Vic Marquette lay helpless. Vernon brought
ropes, and the secret-service man was bound.
The man who had come to the rescue walked to the center of the room. He
was stocky, and clad in old clothes. He looked like a native of the district;
but his face showed a cunning expression.
"Good work, Jerry," congratulated Isaac Coffran. "You came at the right
time."
The rescuer grinned.
"Listen, Jerry." The old man's voice expressed disapproval. "Did you pass
any of the phony cash over in Brookdale?"
Jerry nodded.
"Then it was your fault that this fellow came on our trail. Well, you've
made amends for it. We've caught Vic Marquette - the secret-service man who
works alone."
"What will we do with him?" questioned Birdie Crull.
"Bump him off, of course," replied the old man. "There's nothing else to
worry us. We might as well finish this fellow Vincent at the same time. Get it
all over with."
"We were going to make Vincent talk," observed Crull.
"I know it," replied Isaac Coffran, "but that's hardly necessary. If he's
working alone, as he says, he doesn't matter. If he comes from The Shadow, we
don't have to worry. Tiger Bronson got the Shadow."
Harry Vincent groaned. Now he understood why he had received no detailed
reply by wireless. The Shadow had been killed; the few orders that Harry had
received came from his agents - not from the master mind. There had been no
message over the air from WNX at nine o'clock.
"Want me to bump them off?" questioned Birdie Crull. His voice indicated
that the taking of a life was no great matter to him.
"No," replied Isaac Coffran, thoughtfully. "We'll leave that to the
working of natural laws. You may be an accessory to the crime, if it pleases
you."

HE went to the center of the cavern, and lifted a wooden slab in the
ground. Beneath it was a deep pit, covered by an iron grating, fastened with a
padlock.
The purpose of the pit was obvious. It served as a drain for any water
that might enter the cavern.
Isaac Coffran unlocked the padlock, and tugged at the iron grating. It was
too heavy for him to lift. Birdie Crull assisted.
"Put them in here," said the old man. "Cut them loose. Let them fight to
get out. It won't do them any good."
Harry Vincent was lowered first. He was held above the pit. Vernon cut his
bonds; then Crull and Jerry dropped him before he could struggle free. He fell
into slimy mire at the bottom of the pit. The walls were slimy, too. He could
not scale them.
Staggering to his feet, he stood to one side as Marquette came tumbling
into the pit. The secret-service man's bonds had been cut. He and Harry were
trapped together.
The grating clanged shut, and the padlock snapped. They could scarcely
reach the grating with their hands.
The end of a hose came through the grating. Isaac Coffran's fiendish
scheme was now apparent. He planned to fill the pit with water!
It meant sure death for the men imprisoned there. The top of the pit was
above the grating. They would be drowned like mice in a wire trap.
Water began to come through the hose. Harry seized the end of the rubber
tube and twisted it. It was pulled from his grasp by Birdie Crull, who stood
above.
Crull arranged the hose so that it did not pass through the grating. The
bars were too close together to reach through.
The water began to rise in the pit. It was simply a question of time
before it would be above the heads of the helpless victims.
Neither man cried out. They whispered grimly in the darkness of the pit,
seeking to devise some plan of action.
The water reached their ankles; their knees; their waists. Still they
muttered, suggesting hopeless ideas to overcome this menace.
The water was up to their shoulders. Its rise had been slow; a few minutes
more still remained.
The men in the cavern above waited for the fateful moment.
Birdie Crull was laughing. Blair Windsor's face was sober. Both Vernon and
Jerry appeared to be taking the affair in a matter-of-fact manner.
Old Isaac Coffran had retired to a corner. He was out of sight, behind the
printing press. His face displayed a fiendish grin, as he waited in the
darkness. He did not care to observe these trivial preliminaries.
He was waiting for the end. When Crull would signal that the water was
above the victims' heads, Isaac Coffran would come forward.
He would enjoy watching two men die.

CHAPTER XXXI

ENTER THE SHADOW

THERE was scarcely a sound in the cavern as the water continued to rise in
the pit. None of the five rogues spoke; the prisoners did not cry out. Only the
gurgle of the increasing flood broke the stillness.
Blair Windsor stared at the tunnel that led to his home. He could not
watch the pit. Let the others gloat. Death, to him, was a solemn matter.
The blackness at the end of the tunnel seemed like a solid wall. Blair
Windsor's mind was concentrated upon it, as he sought to forget the gruesome
work that was taking place a few feet away.
"They're pretty near under," observed Birdie Crull, with a chuckle. "No!
They've just pulled a cute trick. They've pulled their faces up against the
grating. We can give them five minutes yet."
The seconds went by monotonously for Blair Windsor. He still stared at
that black opening. He imagined it to be a solid structure.
Suddenly he detected motion. He rubbed his hands over his eyes. The end of
the tunnel was projecting itself into the cavern!
It was impossible!
Yet he was not mistaken. A portion of the blackness entered the cavern.
For an instant it seemed to be a shapeless mass; then it suddenly took form.
A figure stood in the light - the figure of a living being, clad in a
black cloak, wearing a broad-brimmed slouch hat that totally obscured his face.
Birdie Crull looked up suddenly as an involuntary exclamation came from
Blair Windsor's lips.
"The Shadow!"
The words were uttered by Birdie Crull. A look of intense fear came over
the gunman's features. He clambered to his feet, away from the grating.

TWO automatics appeared from beneath the black cloak. They covered the
four men: Crull, Windsor, Vernon, and Jerry. The counterfeiters raised their
hands instinctively. They needed no command to make them fear the menace of The
Shadow.
The figure moved to the center of the cavern. It stood above the pit,
where the two men were fighting for life. Their faces were pressed against the
grating. The water was nearly above their heads. In less than one minute their
doom would have been sealed.
There was a motion at the bottom of the black cloak. The hose was kicked
aside. Its flood poured along the floor of the cavern. The lives of the
prisoners were saved for the time.
The Shadow turned toward Blair Windsor. He spoke now for the first time.
His voice was ominous - it came in a low, sinister whisper.
"Open the grating," were his words.
Blair Windsor stood helplessly. He did not have the key. It was in the
possession of Isaac Coffran.
He could see the old man cowering fearfully in the corner - out of The
Shadow's view. What should he reply?
Birdie Crull realized the situation. Fear had gripped the brutal gunman,
but by an effort he endeavored to mislead the man in the black cloak.
"We have no key," he said.
"Break the lock," was The Shadow's command.
Birdie Crull stepped forward as if to obey. He made as much noise as
possible. Looking beyond The Shadow, he saw Isaac Coffran reaching stealthily
along the floor. The old man's objective was an automatic - one of those which
Marquette had thrown in the corner, after he had disarmed the counterfeiters.
By holding The Shadow's attention, Birdie Crull hoped to keep the man in
black from detecting the presence of Isaac Coffran. Birdie Crull's poker face
gave no sign of what was in his mind.
The gunman reached the grating just as Isaac Coffran picked up the
automatic. Crull lowered his hands, and stooped to fumble with the lock. He was
only a few feet from The Shadow.
At the instant Birdie Crull began to shake the padlock, Isaac Coffran
raised his arm and fired point-blank at the tall man in the black cloak.
Quick as a flash, The Shadow whirled backward and away from the grating.
The old man's shot had evidently missed. But now came his real opportunity.
For The Shadow encountered the box of counterfeit money. As he tripped
against it, he nearly lost his balance.
Before he could raise his automatics to fire a return shot, he formed a
perfect target for Isaac Coffran's aim.
The old man's hand was steady now. He had hoped for this. His automatic
spat three times. A satanic sneer appeared upon his face as he watched The
Shadow, expecting the tall form to crumple.
But The Shadow did not fall!
The automatic which Isaac Coffran had seized was the one which Blair
Windsor had given to Harry Vincent. Birdie Crull had pocketed it; Vic Marquette
had taken it from him. Six of its blank cartridges had been used by Vincent;
Isaac Coffran had fired the other four!

THE SHADOW did not return the shots. Instinctively, he scented danger from
another direction; Jerry, profiting by the sudden change in the situation, was
whipping a gun from his pocket.
The Shadow sank to the floor. For an instant, Isaac Coffran still believed
that his shots had found their mark. But the move of the fighter in black was
voluntary; made with definite purpose.
Jerry's revolver barked, but the bullet whizzed above the broad-brimmed
hat. Then came an answering report from one of The Shadow's automatics.
Jerry's right arm fell helpless at his side. His gun slipped from his
nerveless fingers.
Isaac Coffran was not yet foiled. He had a moment in which to work. His
position was an excellent one; the switch that controlled the lights of the
cavern was less than ten feet away.
With youthful agility, the old man sprang toward the desired spot. The
Shadow, wheeling, fired a single shot. It was aimed while in motion; yet it
would have found its mark in Isaac Coffran's wrist, but for the intervention of
a rod that projected from the printing press.
The bullet was deflected. Isaac Coffran reached his objective. He
extinguished the light; the room was plunged in darkness.
Like rats, the counterfeiters scurried from the cavern. Their one desire
was to escape the wrath of The Shadow. They did not know that the eyes of that
mysterious foe were accustomed to the dark; that he could discern their
departing forms.
It was only because he had observed something else that he chose to let
them flee in safety. Birdie Crull, before he joined the mad departure, had
thrust the end of the hose above the grating.
The water was now completely above the heads of the imprisoned men. The
Shadow had other work to do.
A spurt of flame came from the muzzle of his automatic. The bullet
shattered the strong padlock. Dropping his gun, the rescuer in the black cloak
clutched the bars of the heavy grating.
It had taken the efforts of two men to lift it; now he pulled it upward as
though it were made of paper.
His powerful hands caught the two prisoners - one hand beneath an arm of
each. The steel-like grip did not falter. Harry Vincent and Vic Marquette were
raised from the pit to which they had been doomed. Gasping for breath, they
rolled upon the floor of the cavern.
Out of darkness The Shadow had come. In a few brief minutes he had
outwitted his opponents. He had rescued the two men who had been at the point
of death.
Yet there was still work for The Shadow. The enemy had escaped. They must
be pursued.
The mysterious avenger of the dark was ready for the chase.
The Shadow never yielded.

CHAPTER XXXII

THE LAST ATTACK

IN their flight from the underground cavern, the counterfeiters had chosen
the most accessible exits. Four of them had fled through the tunnel to the
farmhouse. Only one - Isaac Coffran - had chosen the way that led to Blair
Windsor's home.
Reaching the cellar of the mansion, the old man closed the shelved door
behind him. Then he arranged two iron bars so that they made it impossible for
any one to open the secret door from within.
He went upstairs calmly, and sat at the telephone. He called the number of
the farmhouse. The shaky voice of Birdie Crull replied.
"All safe?" questioned the old man, in a querulous tone.
"Yes," replied Crull. "Just getting ready to blow away from here. We
wondered where you were."
"Wait!" The old man's voice was urgent. "You can't go yet."
"It's the only thing to do."
"What! Leave them in the cavern?"
Birdie Crull did not reply. Then Isaac Coffran delivered an important
message. He pointed out the predicament in which the counterfeiters now were
placed. If The Shadow had rescued Vincent and Marquette, they would testify
against the counterfeiters. If the two men had drowned, all the gang would be
guilty of murder.
Crull agreed on these points. He explained that he had replaced the hose,
and that it was unlikely that either Vincent or Marquette had survived. That
left only The Shadow - a powerful, invisible menace.
"We've got to get him," snapped Isaac Coffran. "We've got to make sure the
others are dead. We have The Shadow where we want him, now."
Then the old man explained his plan. He would remain alone at Blair
Windsor's. He had barred the door. He would be there with an automatic, in the
cellar. There were several guns available in Windsor's room.
The others - with the exception of the wounded Jerry - must attack at
once. They could proceed quickly and silently through the tunnel. Then they
must shoot to kill.
"Suppose he gets us," objected Crull.
"What if he does?" inquired the old man. "You'll all be in for it, if he
gets away. The police will be on your trail in no time - and the whole secret
service, in addition."
Birdie Crull held a rapid discussion with the others in the farmhouse. The
parley resulted in agreement with Isaac Coffran. Crull told the old man that
they would attack immediately.

IT was a desperate group that entered the tunnel from the farmhouse.
Birdie Crull led the way, carrying the only available small arm. Blair Windsor
and Vernon followed, each armed with a rifle. The weapons had been obtained in
the farmhouse. Jerry remained by the entrance.
Once the expedition had begun, the intrepid Bert Crull became filled with
courage and confidence.
"He won't expect us back," he whispered. "Sneak through softly. Stay
behind me. Do everything I tell you.
"We'll get him this time. The old man would have got him, but he picked up
the wrong gun."
They saw a light at the end of the tunnel. The Shadow had evidently found
the switch which illuminated the cavern.
"This makes it better," whispered Crull.
As the three men crept to the opening of the cavern, Birdie Crull peered
cautiously around the edge. There was no one in view.
One factor worried him. That was the entrance at the other side. Circling
the edge of the cavern, the gunman crouched beside the opposite opening.
"I'm watching here," he said, in a whisper that was audible throughout the
low room. "Come on in. Look in the pit."
Blair Windsor inspected the open grating.
"They're gone," he said.
"That guy got them out," snarled Crull. "That means just one thing, boys.
He's dragged them - whether they're dead or alive - and they've taken the
tunnel to the large house.
"They can't get through there. The old man is waiting for them. We'll
sneak in on them."
There was a slight sound from the corner of the cavern. Birdie Crull had
gone by the spot a moment before. There had been no one in sight.
All three turned toward the spot from which the sound had come. They were
staring directly at the torture casket in which Harry Vincent had once been.
Now a black form emerged from the opening in the top. The astounded
counterfeiters were staring into the muzzles of two revolvers - held by The
Shadow!
They had no opportunity to raise their weapons. Birdie Crull dropped his
gun, and it slipped into the sloping opening that led to Windsor's house. The
other two men let their rifles fall.

A TAUNTING, uncanny laugh came from the figure in black. Its mirthless
tones quivered from the walls of the eerie cavern. It seemed to be the laugh of
doom.
"So three of you came back," mocked the weird, whispered voice of The
Shadow. "I expected you. Now you are here - to answer for your crimes.
"Your crime is murder, Birdie Crull. Double murder. You killed Frank
Jarnow. You killed Detective Harvey Griffith. I can prove your crimes.
"As for you, Blair Windsor, your position is obvious. You have lived here,
supplied with money by Isaac Coffran, to mask this counterfeiting scheme.
"But the old man expected more of you. Your brother, Henry Windsor, has
half a million dollars - which is willed to you.
"You agreed to give half of that sum to Isaac Coffran. It was to be
obtained through the murder of Henry Windsor."
"He made me sign the paper," blurted Blair. "I didn't want to agree to
Henry's death - but there was no way out!"
"Ah!" The Shadow seemed to chuckle. "So you signed something. I am glad to
learn that fact. It gives me information. I know just how Frank Jarnow figured.
"He found the paper, and took it from Isaac Coffran's room. Birdie Crull
killed Jarnow to obtain it."
A look of dismay appeared upon Birdie Crull's face. The Shadow laughed, as
his theory was confirmed.
"But you didn't get it, did you?" questioned The Shadow, addressing Birdie
Crull. "No. Wait. You took most of it, but left part.
"Harrison would have suspected an entire document; but not a fragment.
Griffith suspected the fragment. That's why you killed Griffith."
The amazing revelations of the mysterious figure in black disconcerted
Birdie Crull. Only the head and shoulders of The Shadow were visible; they
presented a weird figure, atop the torture casket.
The cavern became silent, as The Shadow ceased speaking. He seemed to be
in deep thought.
Then he began to emerge, straight upward, from the strange box in which he
had crouched and hidden.
It was a difficult feat; but The Shadow accomplished it, with amazing
agility. He loomed high above the box; then he slid downward to the ground.
At that instant, Birdie Crull made a dash for safety. He dived into the
opening that led to Blair Windsor's house, seizing his automatic in his forward
plunge.
The Shadow fired after his departing figure. Strangely, the shot went
wide. It was as though The Shadow had deliberately chosen to let the man
escape. The single report of his automatic sounded like a signal.
The man in the black cloak calmly pocketed his revolvers. They slipped
from sight beneath the sable folds. Evidently he feared no attack from either
Blair Windsor or Vernon.
The two men stood stock-still, their hands above their heads. The
departure of Birdie Crull had left them too frightened to move.
Ignoring them, The Shadow went to the table. He produced a paper and pen,
and began to write. In the midst of his words, pistol shots echoed through the
tunnel in which Birdie Crull had disappeared. The Shadow uttered his mocking
laugh.
Across the top of the written page, he inscribed these words: "The
Confession of Bertram (Birdie) Crull."

TWO men came from the opening, supporting the body of a third. They were
Harry Vincent and Vic Marquette, carrying the helpless form of Birdie Crull.
The killer was coughing. His clothes were stained with blood.
"I tried to get him easy," explained Marquette, ruefully. "We were laying
for him, just as we were ordered to do. But somehow, I always kill them when I
have to shoot."
"Bring him here."
The Shadow's order was obeyed. The man in the black cloak rose and stepped
aside, while Birdie Crull was placed in the chair. The Shadow thrust the pen in
the gangster's weakening hand.
"Sign!"
The ominous sound of that commanding whisper hissed through the low cavern
like a voice from the dim beyond. Birdie Crull, his physical being on the border
of death, could not resist. With a last spontaneous effort, he placed his
signature to the truthful confession, which told that he had murdered Frank
Jarnow and Harvey Griffith.
The weakened murderer collapsed as he completed the last stroke of the
pen. Before Marquette could catch him, he toppled from the chair, and lay dead
upon the floor of the cavern.
"Watch the prisoners."
The voice of The Shadow was a sibilant tone, that aroused both Vincent and
Marquette. Turning, they left the body of the dead crook, and covered Windsor
and Vernon.
No one else was in the room. Like a phantom of the Stygian darkness, The
Shadow had disappeared. He was gone - and none had seen him vanish.
But he left behind him the sound of a gibing laugh; a long, whispered
laugh; a laugh of triumph that resounded throughout the cavern, as though it
came from its walls.

CHAPTER XXXIII

THE OUTCOME

WHEN Vic Marquette and Harry Vincent marched their prisoners through the
tunnel to the farmhouse, they discovered which way The Shadow had gone. For
Jerry, the man who was the shipper of the counterfeiting gang, lay trussed upon
the floor of the farmhouse cellar.
The Shadow had surprised him, and had easily overcome him. Harry cut the
ropes that bound Jerry's feet, and he was lined up with Windsor and Vernon.
Vic Marquette prepared to take the counterfeiters away in his car. He was
to return later for the body of Birdie Crull. The gunman's confession was in
Marquette's pocket.
After a short consultation, Harry Vincent arranged to drop out of the
picture. Credit for the capture belonged to Marquette. All the necessary
evidence was available. Other secret-service men would soon arrive to go over
the ground.
Harry Vincent returned to Blair Windsor's house, sure that The Shadow had
been there before him. There was no danger from Isaac Coffran. If the old man
had remained on guard, he would have fallen into the clutches of The Shadow.
But Isaac Coffran had not waited. He had escaped in Blair Windsor's
automobile. He alone, of the entire gang, managed to elude the clutches of the
secret service.
Harry Vincent drove back to New York that night. It was a long, wearisome
drive, through torrents of pouring rain. Yet the young man kept on.
His nerves were tingling from the excitement of the adventures which he
had undergone; and the trip seemed to steady him. He arrived at the Metrolite
Hotel, and slept for twenty-four hours.
There was considerable surprise at the New Jersey airport when Lamont
Cranston's plane made a perfect landing there, despite the poor visibility.
There was more surprise at the millionaire's home, when Lamont Cranston
announced that he was leaving for Europe, and would not return for a month, at
least.
Burbank left, for his work was finished.

NEWSPAPERS throughout the nation devoted columns to the story of the
captured counterfeiters. In Philadelphia, however, the daily journals carried
other accounts that were of high local interest. Two baffling crimes had
reached an automatic solution, following the news from Massachusetts.
The murders of Harvey Griffith and Frank Jarnow were definitely linked.
Birdie Crull's complete confession left no room for doubt. Henry Windsor was
released, a free man, dumfounded at the turn of events which had saved him from
trial.
Isaac Coffran was now a hunted man. No longer would he be free to plot his
fiendish schemes. His latest crimes had been revealed. He had departed for some
unknown place.
Sooner or later, it was believed, he would be found. He was wanted for
counterfeiting, and for complicity in the murders of Frank Jarnow and Harvey
Griffith.
Both Vernon and Jerry proved to be men with criminal records. The former
had been released from a Federal prison some years before. He had made
engravings for counterfeits when he had been a young man.
The man known to the gang as Jerry had been in jail several times for
minor offenses in New York City. He had not been seen for a considerable time;
but the police recognized him.
Blair Windsor was the only one of the gang who was not sentenced. There
seemed to be no tangible evidence against him.
The paper which he had signed could not be found in Isaac Coffran's room
in the farmhouse. No mention of his name was made in Bert Crull's confession.
Vic Marquette had captured him with the counterfeiters; hence it was
evident that Blair Windsor had known of their activities. But it was not proven
that he was a member of the gang.
It seemed that he had discovered the place, and had investigated it, only
to be captured along with the counterfeiters. Vincent was never called to court
to testify.
Very few people wondered about Blair Windsor's connection with the facts
that were revealed. Henry Windsor was greatly pleased that his younger brother
was released.
When Harry Vincent learned this fact, he formed a few conclusions of his
own.
He believed that The Shadow had deliberately shielded Blair Windsor to
give the young man another opportunity. Blair had unquestionably been lured by
the promises of Isaac Coffran until he had reached a position from which he
could not withdraw.
He had not approved of the plot to murder his brother Henry.
Harry Vincent felt no malice toward Blair Windsor. He was glad of the
outcome.
But he could not help thinking of that signed paper which Isaac Coffran
had possessed. The torn corner had not been mentioned in Birdie Crull's
confession. The confession - referred to as a dictation to Vic Marquette -
simply stated that Crull had taken evidence from Harvey Griffith's pocket.
"Where is the paper?" Harry Vincent asked himself, as he pondered over the
problem, in his room at the Metrolite Hotel.
Then he smiled, as his lips framed the answer:
"The Shadow knows!"

THE END