THE DARK DEATH
by Maxwell Grant
As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," February 15, 1935.

Conceived in a research laboratory as an aid to mankind, the Q-ray machine,
with its power over life and death, falls with terrible results into the hands
of unscrupulous criminals!

CHAPTER I

TWO APPOINTMENTS

EVENING traffic was heavy on Sixth Avenue. Throngs of taxicabs had chosen
this route to escape the jam of the theater district. The result was a tie-up as
bad as any at Times Square. Stalled trolley cars; blocked trucks; cabs and
automobiles clustered between elevated pillars - these were hopelessly entangled
while traffic cops blew whistles and shouted orders that no one could obey.
All the while, the rumble of elevated trains sounded from above, as if
derisive of the vehicles stalled beneath. The roar of one train brought an
impatient growl from a taxi driver. The fellow thrust a pointed profile from the
window of the cab. He saw a truck move ahead a dozen feet, opening a pathway.
The cabby yanked his car in gear. Snapping in front of a second taxi, he
veered right, scraped an elevated pillar and shot up to the nearest corner. He
wheeled right, swung into an opening in cross-street traffic and sped down the
other thoroughfare.
The traffic cop stared after him; then dropped his whistle and grinned.
Ordinarily he would have slated the driver for a ticket: but there was no use in
making a pinch tonight. One less car in that petrified jam of vehicles was a
help, so far as the policeman was concerned.
Two blocks away, the taxi driver pulled up in front of a towering office
building. A tall passenger alighted. He was out of the cab the moment that it
stopped; the driver caught only a glimpse of head and shoulders as his fare
entered the building. The passenger had not paid for the trip. That did not
trouble the driver.
The jehu simply eased his cab to a parking space across the street. He
looked into the back seat and saw a suitcase resting on the floor. His peaked
face showed a slight grin. Then the driver settled back behind the wheel. As he
waited, he looked upward toward the building that his passenger had entered.
Moe Shrevnitz was the name of this taxi man. His cab was an independent,
presumably. Moe owned it himself. Actually, the cab belonged to a mysterious
personage who had supplied Moe with the money for its purchase. This cab was the
property of The Shadow.
Day and night, Moe kept in touch with Burbank, The Shadow's contact agent.
Early this evening, he had called Burbank by telephone. He had received orders
to be at Sixth Avenue and Twenty-third Street at eight forty-five. There, his
passenger had stepped aboard the cab before Moe had realized it. A hissed voice
had given this destination.
It was not Moe's policy to speculate on the doings of The Shadow. He had
found it good business to follow orders. Nevertheless, there were times when Moe
could not refrain from being curious. Tonight was one of those occasions.
The office building which his passenger had entered was totally dark except
for one floor, which Moe estimated as the tenth. From the windows of that story
came the flicker of bluish lights that flashed with intermittent brightness.
That floor, Moe decided, must be The Shadow's objective. The point settled
in his mind, the taxi man lighted a cigarette and began to idle the time while
he awaited his passenger's return.
Up on the tenth floor of the office building was one window that Moe had
not seen, for it was around the corner of the skyscraper. The light from that
window was a normal glare, for the room within was an office. On the door of the
room was the legend:

JAMES SUNDLER
Supervisor

Behind the desk in the office sat a shock-headed man. This was James
Sundler. He was the supervisor, in charge of the New York laboratories of the
Universal Electric Company.
Opposite the supervisor sat a visitor. Sundler was fingering the caller's
card. It bore the name of Lamont Cranston.
Eyeing his visitor, Sundler was impressed by the calm demeanor of
Cranston's countenance. The visage was firm, almost masklike in its mold. An
aquiline nose gave Cranston a hawk-like expression. Keen eyes met Sundler's as
the supervisor met his visitor's gaze.
"Ordinarily, Mr. Cranston," stated Sundler, "we could not discuss our
experimental devices with persons outside our company. These laboratories are
used for perfecting new inventions. We do not encourage visitors."
"So I understand," came the quiet reply, "I learned that from Guy Tawley."
"So Mr. Tawley told me," rejoined Sundler. "But he also requested that an
exception be made in your case. Inasmuch as Mr. Tawley is the executive vice
president of this concern, I shall make that exception. If you will come with
me" - the supervisor arose - "I shall show you the new Q-ray machine that we
have developed."
He led the way from the office, along a corridor and into a small
laboratory. This room was dark; Sundler turned on a light and revealed a
square-shaped machine that consisted of glass panels between chromium-plated
posts. Within the transparent box was a set-up of four long glass tubes.
Sundler pressed a switch. The tubes began to glow with a peculiar sparkle
that showed through their dark red surface. Sundler watched for a few moments;
then extended his hand and nodded. Cranston did the same.
"You can feel the heat already," remarked the supervisor. "Do you notice
it, Mr. Cranston?"
"Yes," came the reply. "Tell me, Mr. Sundler, does this Q-ray fulfill the
claims that were made in the newspaper article? The one that appeared in the New
York Classic?"
"It does," replied the supervisor, with a nod. "Originally designed for
treatment of skin diseases, we learned that the Q-ray caused an actual change in
the structure of the epidermis. This fellow Clyde Burke, who writes for the
Classic, managed to get his facts without our knowledge."
"I understand then," remarked Cranston, "that the ray will give a Nordic
complexion the heat-resisting strength that is found in skins of darker races."
"Precisely. With a series of treatments, it will accomplish with the
individual what nature has produced in races. So far as color is concerned, the
Q-ray will merely cause a slight tan. But structurally, it will actually
transform a blond skin tissue into that of a brunette."
Cranston made no comment. He was watching the machine. Sundler chewed his
lips uneasily. Then he put a question.
"May I ask, Mr. Cranston," he requested, "why you are interested in the
Q-ray?"
"Certainly," was the response. "I mentioned the matter to Guy Tawley. I
thought he had spoken to you about it."
"No. He merely said that you wanted to see the machine."
"Small wonder then that you were puzzled by this visit of mine. I shall
explain matters, Mr. Sundler. I am a globe-trotter. I have visited nearly every
country in the world. I have found tropical exploration greatly to my liking."
"You have been in Africa?"
"Yes. I am going there again. I am choosing men for my expedition.
Unfortunately, however, it is impossible to learn whether or not a man can stand
the burning power of the tropical sun until he has actually experienced it.
"It occurred to me that this new Q-ray treatment would prove beneficial to
members of my expedition. With a machine of this sort, I could prepare them for
the African ordeal. Does your opinion coincide with mine, Mr. Sundler?"
"It does."
"Then it would be possible for you to deliver one of these machines if I
ordered it?"
"No. Absolutely no!"
With this emphatic statement, Sundler stepped forward and turned off the
Q-ray machine. Glowing tubes subsided. Sundler turned and faced his visitor.
"Mr. Cranston," he questioned. "Did you notice anything odd in that story
that appeared in the Classic?"
"Yes." replied the visitor. "It stated that the Q-ray machine, though
effective, would be delayed in its development. But the article did not specify
why."
"I'll tell you why. This fellow Burke - the newspaper reporter - was
stumped when he came to that detail. This machine, Mr. Cranston, is one of the
most dangerous devices that has ever been created!"
Cranston's eyes were steady. The supervisor noted their keen glow. Sundler
continued:
"You saw the machine working at low power," he said. "Had I drawn this
lever" - he touched a rod that projected at the side - "those red tubes would
have sparkled with a real fury. That high power is necessary to develop the
effectiveness of the Q-ray."
"And then -"
"It produces the tissue change upon Nordic skins. It strengthens them. It
even makes them immune to continued applications of the Q-ray itself."
"That seems to offset any danger."
"It does - so far as such persons are concurrent. The terrible effects of
the Q-ray, Mr. Cranston, are confined to persons of darker races. Not only to
Africans or Malays, but to members of the Indo-European race. People of the
Mediterranean type."

SUNDLER stepped across the little laboratory. He reached for a roll of
cloth that looked like a window curtain. He drew down a chart that showed blocks
of color from almost a clear white to an ebony blackness.
"The top shows a pure albino, explained Sundler. "Here we have Nordic
types. Here are light complexions. Here are sallow com-"
He stopped. His fore-finger was upon a red line. With his other hand,
Sundler indicated the color blocks below.
"To persons of these complexions," he stated solemnly, "the Q-ray means
destruction. Not slow burning, but quick, startling death. We learned this when
two of our experimenters were overpowered by the ray. It was terrible, Mr.
Cranston. Terrible!"
"When did this occur?"
"A few months ago. Just when the machine had been stepped up to its full
intensity. A chap named Cassgrove - dark-complexioned - was operating the
device. It struck him down like that."
Sundler snapped his fingers.
"I was present," he added. "I turned off the machine. I felt no ill
effects."
Keen eyes were on the speaker. Sundler, apparently a Norwegian, was very
light of skin. Blue eyes - his shocky hair was a mass of white.
"It's a death box," resumed the supervisor. "Only two feet square" - he
eyed the machine as he spoke - "but it packs a terrible power. Its range is
approximately thirty feet. We kept people away from it after Cassgrove's death.
Then a lab assistant named LeGrand - chap we called Frenchy - blundered into the
radius when I was making a test. He dropped like a log, twenty feet away."
"If the machine is so dangerous," came Cranston's comment, "why is it not
dismantled?"
"We are still experimenting," explained Sundler, "Trying to gain results
with a lower intensity. Using rabbits and guinea pigs as subjects."
"Our theory is that light-colored skins absorb the Q-ray. Even though they
change structurally, they preserve their immunity. But the darker skins
apparently form no protection. The Q-ray reaches the organs of the body and
causes instant death to those of dark complexion.
"This is confidential information, Mr. Cranston. To you, because you have
made a legitimate request for one of these machines and because you are a friend
of Mr. Tawley, I have explained why we cannot supply you with one of the Q-ray
machines."
"I understand." A slight smile showed upon Cranston's thin lips, "But
suppose, Mr. Sundler, that I should bring members of my expedition here for
treatment. Would you give it to them?"
"Not at present. Perhaps later, in the presence of physicians. Assuming of
course, that the men you brought were of pronounced Nordic types."
There was a knock at the door. Sundler called to come in. A laboratory
assistant entered to announce that there was a call for Mr. Cranston on the
office telephone. The tall visitor started for the office while Sundler remained
to lock the Q-ray laboratory.
Reaching the office, Cranston picked up the receiver that lay beside the
telephone. He spoke. A quiet voice came over the wire:
"Burbank speaking."
"Report." Cranston's response was a hissed whisper.
Burbank's voice clicked from the receiver. In the same whisper, Cranston
gave brief instructions then concluded the call. He was hanging up the receiver
when Sundler entered.
"Something important, Mr. Cranston?" inquired the supervisor.
"An appointment," replied the visitor. "A friend has arrived in town. My
club told him to call here."
He extended his hand. Sundler received it. He was about to repeat his
injunction that the visitor should preserve silence regarding the Q-ray machine.
But one glance from Cranston's keen eyes told the supervisor that further words
were unnecessary.
Five minutes later. Moe Shrevnitz popped up from behind the wheel of his
cab as he heard a hissed order from within. His passenger had returned,
unnoticed. Moe nodded as he heard the destination that the arrival gave.
The cab pulled away.
From within a bag in the back seat, folds of black cloth were being drawn
forth. Inky garments slipped over head and shoulders. When the cab came to a
stop on a secluded street, a door opened. Living blackness glided forth.
Moe did not see the form that emerged; yet he knew, instinctively, that his
passenger had become The Shadow.
Looking into the rear of the cab, Moe saw that The Shadow had taken the bag
along with him. Moe's job was done. The taxi man glanced at his watch. Half past
nine. Time to head for Times Square and pick up business.
Moe drove away.
From a darkened portion of the street, keen eyes saw Moe's departure. A
soft laugh came from hidden lips. Blended with darkness, The Shadow moved off on
paths unknown.
Tonight, The Shadow had followed up a lead started by Clyde Burke, of the
New York Classic. The reporter - a secret agent of The Shadow - had uncovered
facts about the Q-ray machine.
As Lamont Cranston, millionaire globe-trotter, The Shadow had used Guy
Tawley, vice president of Universal Electric, to gain an appointment with James
Sundler, the laboratory supervisor.
That appointment was ended. The Shadow knew the secret of the Q-ray. It was
something that he would remember for the future. At present, he was heading
forth to keep another appointment. One that dealt with crime.
Yet, strangely, events were shaping toward a climax that even The Shadow
did not foresee. Two appointments, disconnected, each of a different sort, were
destined to have an unexpected bearing, one upon the other.

CHAPTER II

AIDS OF THE SHADOW

IT was half past nine when Moe Shrevnitz had gone off duty. The taxi driver
had left The Shadow at a secluded spot near the border of the underworld. Moe
had headed away from that vicinity.
But at exactly the same time, another driver was following the reverse
course. Seated behind the wheel of a trim sedan a young man was threading his
way through the grimy, narrow thoroughfares of New York's East Side.
Lights from the glittering front of a penny arcade showed the driver's
features as he stopped in traffic. The young man displayed a clean-cut visage as
he eyed the people who were strolling along this avenue.
The driver of the coupe was Harry Vincent, a trusted agent of The Shadow.
He had received orders from Burbank. A call had come to the Metrolite Hotel,
where Harry made his residence. In response to that call, Harry was on his way
to a rendezvous in the underworld.
Traffic started. Harry drove along, then swerved into the gloom of a side
street. He picked out a parking lot between two dilapidated buildings and swung
into the opening. The parking lot was devoid of cars. Few persons left their
automobiles in this neighborhood.
Harry extinguished the lights of the sedan. A few moments later, fingers
beat a light tattoo upon the window at the right side of the car. Harry opened
the door. A man came aboard. His face was barely discernible. A square, chiseled
countenance, Harry recognized Cliff Marsland.
Cliff served as The Shadow's agent in the underworld. Reputed to be a
killer, Cliff stood in with the gorilla element. It was Cliff who had passed the
word to Burbank; news that the contact man had relayed to The Shadow.
"You know what's up, Harry?" questioned Cliff, in a whisper.
"I know we're to tail a couple of cars," replied Harry. "Burbank told me to
get the rest from you."
"Driller Borson's crew is on the move. Starting from the old Phoenix
Garage, three blocks from here. At ten o'clock. I was down at the Black Ship
when Skeeter Wigan showed up and passed the news to some of the gorillas."
"Any idea where they're going?"
"No. Driller is smart. Never lets his outfit in on the know until they get
to their objective. But Driller's not the only one concerned tonight."
"Who else?"
"I don't know. Some other crook leader with a crew of his own. The idea is
to let the two outfits meet."
Harry nodded. This fitted with The Shadow's methods. He began to see the
importance of brief instructions that he had received from Burbank.
"Dash clock right?" questioned Cliff.
"To the minute," replied Harry.
"Ten of ten," noted Cliff. "We only need a couple of minutes to get to the
garage. Hawkeye is due here before we pull out."
"Where has he been?"
"Checking up. Doing a sneak near the garage. Just to make sure they're
swarming. I tipped him off outside the Black Ship. He was watching the alley
while I was in the joint -"

FINGERS drummed an interruption against the window. Cliff opened the door
of the sedan and a hunched figure twisted in through the opening. A crafty,
wizened face showed by the glow of the dashlight as "Hawkeye" joined his
comrades.
"Spotted 'em," he whispered. "They got a coupe and a crummy old touring car
parked in the garage. Looks like most of the crew is there. But they ain't
starting until ten. Driller's a guy that works like a clock."
"We can circle over that way, Harry," suggested Cliff.
"Wait a minute." Harry spoke quietly. "I want to try something, Cliff.
There's no chance of any one noticing us in here, is there?"
"Not much."
"Well, here goes - when the second hand of that dash clock hits the sixty
mark."
As he spoke, Harry drew forth a small white tube that looked like the half
of a cigarette. He pressed it between his fingers, then tossed it from the
window of the car. The tiny object fell in the darkness beside the building.
"What's that?" questioned Hawkeye.
"You'll see," replied Harry. "Keep your eye on the dash clock."
One minute passed.
"Six minutes of ten," commented Cliff. "We ought to move inside of three
minutes."
"I know it," said Harry.
Another minute passed without comment. Cliff and Hawkeye were puzzled; but
they kept further thoughts to themselves. Both had been instructed to join Harry
Vincent at this spot. The job of trailing "Driller's" crew belonged to him.
Harry had the information about the garage. The rest was up to him.
Another minute. The clock on the dash showed four minutes before ten. A
sudden fizz came from the wall where Harry had tossed the tiny tube. Staring,
Cliff and Hawkeye saw a tiny blaze - like the squibby flash of a faulty
firecracker. It ended with a slow white flame that continued to burn.
"Three minutes," commented Harry. He was calculating the time between the
toss of the tube and the flare. "Three minutes to the dot. All right. Let's go."
Cliff and Hawkeye offered no objection. Harry backed the car from the
parking space. He turned left and piloted the sedan in the direction of the
Phoenix Garage. They passed the building - dilapidated and deserted - in the
middle of a block. It was not quite ten o'clock.
Hawkeye peered back as they rode by. Just as the sedan neared the next
corner, the little man whispered news.
"There they come," he informed. "Out to the street, and turning this way.
The coupe's in the lead -"

HARRY grunted a response. He let his car glide across an avenue and into
the next block. He peered into the mirror. He saw the two cars reach the avenue
and turn north.
"Heading up," said Hawkeye.
Harry stepped on the gas. He swung a corner to parallel the course that the
mobster cars had taken. Two speedy blocks; then Harry shot into a cross-street,
heading back to the avenue.
"Look for them, Hawkeye." he ordered. "If you don't spot them, we'll know
they turned off at the last street."
Hawkeye was leaning from the window as they swung up the avenue. He bobbed
back in beside Cliff.
"Half a block ahead," he stated. "I lamped the touring car first crack. A
guy with half an eye could spot that buggy."
Harry chuckled. Straightened into the avenue, he could see the touring car
himself. A half block behind, he was trailing the second of the mobster cars. An
easy task in this traffic.
"Looks like they're heading for one of the bridges," remarked Cliff, as the
course hung along the avenue. "That means the job will be somewhere on Long
Island."
"Yeah," added Hawkeye, "and it won't be a cinch to tail 'em after we get
out in the open. If I was in one of them cars, I'd be looking back to see if any
mugs were coming after us."
"That's what I'm counting on, Hawkeye," put in Harry. "Keep watching. Pass
me the word when you think it's right."
"You mean keep watching back? In case some other mugs are tailing us?"
"No. Keep watching ahead. Let me know when you think those fellows up front
are liable to be suspicious."
"All right. But how's that going to help you?"
"I won't stick so close after that."
"Then how'll you tail 'em?"
Harry chuckled. This time Cliff joined him. They were swinging right,
toward one of the big suspension bridges that spanned the East River. That was
the course which the mobster cars were taking.
"How'll you tail 'em?" repeated Hawkeye.
"You'll see," laughed Harry.
"Do you get the idea, Cliff?" demanded Hawkeye.
Cliff nodded.
"It beats me," growled Hawkeye. "If you stay close, they'll spot you. If
you drop back, you can't tail 'em. But that's for you to figure out. I'll tip
you when I think those mugs are getting wise."
With that comment, Hawkeye hunched his shoulders and squeezed close beside
the door. As they rolled clear of the bridge and headed for a boulevard, the
little spotter's shrewd eyes were fixed steadily upon the rear of the decrepit
touring car, two hundred feet ahead.

CHAPTER III

THE TRAIL

"THEY'RE getting leery."
The comment came from Hawkeye. It was the first statement that he had
uttered since the bridge. Yet the dash clock showed that the sedan had been
traveling a full half hour since then.
The course had led along a boulevard. Then into a less-traveled road. It
was on this highway that Hawkeye made his comment. He added reasons a moment
later.
"Did you see the touring car speed up a bit?" he questioned. "It was like a
warning, to the car ahead. They've been watching back. Other cars have turned
off this road. But we're still coming along."
"At a steady thirty-five," remarked Harry. "Remember that, Cliff. It's the
pace they're using."
Cliff nodded.
Harry peered to the right. He spied a filling station a few hundred yards
ahead. He slackened speed a trifle; then, as he neared the gasoline
establishment, he swerved, applied the brakes and coasted up beside a gas
standard.
"Check three minutes, Cliff," he remarked.
"Right," replied Cliff.
Harry stepped from the car and met the service station man who was coming
out to the gasoline tank.
"Sorry," said Harry. "I've got plenty of gas and oil. Radiators heating up
a bit. Thought maybe it's short on water."
"I'll fill the radiator, sir -"
"Never mind. I'll help myself."
Harry went to the radiator while the attendant was returning to the service
station. Lifting the cap, Harry peered in; then picked up a watering can and
poured a few pints into the radiator. He replaced the cap and climbed in back of
the wheel.
"Thirty seconds left," stated Cliff.
Harry started the motor. He was easing out into the highway just as Cliff
announced the expiration of the three-minute period. Harry slid the car into
high gear. The headlights formed a brilliant path as they rolled along at
thirty-five miles an hour.
They passed a few cars coming from the opposite direction; but there was no
sign of the mobster cars ahead. At this pace, there was no chance of overtaking
those whom they were trailing.
Hawkeye eyed the speedometer; then grunted.
Like Cliff, Hawkeye had suddenly caught the idea. Crafty-eyed, he peered
through the windshield. He was the first of the trio to spot the signal that
came suddenly from ahead. They had just reached a crossroads sign when Hawkeye
growled:
"There it comes."

SPARKS flared from the road. They were bluish; and as Harry applied the
brakes, they sizzled down to a purple flame that flickered in the slight wind.
The fuse was close by the roadside, at the crossing. Harry swung the sedan left.
A half mile along this new road. The Shadow's agents spied another signal.
This time a sparkle of green flashed from the highway. It was followed by a
small green fire. Harry swung the car at a new crossroads. His tire extinguished
the blaze as he made a right turn.
This road was paved but little traveled. They came to a stop sign and Harry
halted the sedan. At that instant, a burst of white sparks flashed from beyond
the crossing. Harry started the car straight ahead, disregarding the yellowish
blaze.
"A precaution," he remarked. "We'll get them at every crossroads where
we're supposed to go straight through. If we don't see the yellow, it means that
we're ahead of time."
As he spoke, another yellow flame spurted from a crossing ahead. Another
half mile; there a purple flame was burning when they arrived. The mobsters must
have sped up along this stretch. Harry swung left, the direction indicated by
purple, and increased the speed of the sedan.
It was a lonely road, swinging in the direction of Long Island Sound. Cliff
and Hawkeye gazed steadily while Harry drove along. They knew well enough that
these signals were from The Shadow; that somehow, their chief had managed to
light the trail for his aides.
Harry slackened as he approached a lonely crossroads. White sparks spurted;
then a yellow flame. Harry missed this light with his wheels. As he kept on, a
single headlight came speeding from a bend.
A motorcycle with side car shot past at a rapid clip. Harry was doing less
than thirty as the motorcycle went by.
Hawkeye twisted about and peered through the rear window. He bobbed toward
the windshield as Harry took the curve.
"Cops!" exclaimed Hawkeye. "And they're stopping at the crossing. Must have
seen that blaze in the road!"
"I was a dub for missing it," returned Harry.
"Maybe they'll pass it up," remarked Cliff.
"Yeah?" Hawkeye snorted. "Say - look ahead. This road is straight for
another mile. They must have passed two cars already. Now us - number three -
and then a light burning in the road. They're going to wonder something."
"I'll hold it at thirty-five," declared Harry. "Keep looking back, Hawkeye.
If they turn around and overhaul us, we'll have to stop and give them a stall.
But it will mean losing the trail."
"Maybe we'll get a break," remarked Cliff.
"Not much," growled Hawkeye, from the rear window. "They're coming back.
That's them all right, hitting it in from the bend."
"They've got a full mile for a start," announced Harry, as he swung a
curve. "But they'll do that distance at sixty miles -"
"Hold it. Harry!"
The exclamation came from Cliff. Right ahead, in the middle of the bend,
green sparks were sizzling from the roadway. Another signal. Turn to the right!
"Crush it, Harry!"

HARRY nodded as Cliff spoke. He jammed the brakes, rolled over the fading
sparks and extinguished the green flame. He wheeled the car between two stone
pillars and rolled along a winding driveway. As they coasted past a clump of
shrubbery, Harry turned off the ignition.
He and his companions heard a roar from the road that they had left. Five
seconds later, the motorcycle went whizzing past the gateway that they had
entered. As the sound faded, Harry turned the ignition key. The coasting car
caught in gear. The motor throbbed as they continued along the driveway.
"Neat," growled Hawkeye, "We dodged the cops that time. But they'll be
coming back."
"Unless they get fooled at some crossroads further along," put in Cliff.
"Maybe they'll think we opened up the car when they started after us."
The driveway was twisting up the side of a hill. Harry was using dim
lights; yet the glow showed another driveway coming up to meet this one.
"That's to another gate," decided Harry. "We'll remember it when we're
leaving. In case the cops decide to come in here."
The driveway that the sedan was following took a sudden turn past bushes to
meet the other drive. As they made the swing, Harry applied the brakes. A dozen
yards ahead, a flare of red fire was burning in the driveway, just before it
reached the fork.
"The end of the trip," announced Harry. "That's the final signal. We use
our own brains from now on."
He rolled across the red fire and extinguished it. But he kept on slowly,
covering the thirty-odd feet that remained to the meeting point of the two
drives. Harry's driveway and the other were like the arms of an inverted Y that
joined into a single roadway.
While Cliff and Hawkeye shifted beside him, Harry made a sharp turn down
the other arm of the Y. He coasted the sedan off the driveway through an opening
between two clusters of shrubs. There he turned out the lights.
"If we have to run for it," he said, in a low tone, "we'll be all set to
head out this new driveway. If the cops come in from the road we followed, we
can dodge them."
Harry opened the door on his side of the sedan. Hawkeye did the same on the
other side. Cliff followed Hawkeye to the ground. Doors closed softly. Dull
moonlight, coming through clouds, showed the trio as they joined at the rear at
the sedan. Guns in readiness, The Shadows agents moved up the drive way, keeping
to the grass.
It was Hawkeye who stopped them suddenly. Pointing off between trees to the
right, the hunch-shouldered fellow gave a muffled exclamation. Harry and Cliff
looked. Just above a terrace, they saw the gloomy outline of a huge, dark
mansion.
No use to follow the driveway further. Simple reasoning told that it wound
upward to the house. That mansion was their objective. Cautiously, the agents of
The Shadow crept to the top of the terrace.
There, behind an embankment that served as a natural buttress, they waited.
Cliff Marsland assumed command as they watched the house from a distance of
fifty yards. The Shadow's agents were in readiness for events that were to come.

CHAPTER IV

IN THE MANSION

Up by the huge house, huddled figures were in conference. Harsh voices were
whispering beside an opened window. Men of crime had parked their cars close by
the big building. They had found others awaiting them.
"That you, Driller?" came a query.
"Yeah," was the gruff response. "Where's Gat Lober?"
"Inside. Waitin' for you. He jimmied the window while we was waitin'."
"O.K. Come on, men."
Driller clambered up through the window. Others followed. Bags were hoisted
through. Two of "Gat's" men remained on guard outside. Driller spoke in the
darkness.
"Who's bringing the bags?"
"I got 'em," came a growl.
"All right, Tonk." Driller recognized the voice. "Lug them along and stay
with me."
Light showed through the crack of a door that lay ahead. Driller groped in
that direction and tapped a signal. A low voice came from the other side.
Driller acknowledged.
The door opened slightly. Followed by four mobsters, Driller Borson entered
a huge living room which was illuminated by the flicker of candles on the
mantelpiece.
In this light, Driller was revealed as a lanky, long-jawed individual,
well-dressed despite his rough appearance. Facing him was Gat Lober.
This ruffian was short, stocky and vicious of appearance. He had an ugly
scar on one cheek; his lips showed an evil smile. A slouchy mobster stood beside
him.
"Hello, Driller," greeted Gat. "All ready for you. The box is in the next
room."
"What's the idea of the candles?" quizzed Driller.
"Didn't want too much light," returned Gat. "Particularly after we grabbed
the servants."
"The servants?"
"Yeah. Take a look."
Gat led the way to a far corner of the room. Two more mobsters stepped up;
Driller had not seen them in the dull light. These gorillas were standing guard
over two men huddled on the floor. Bound and gagged, the victims were staring
with frightened eyes. Both were clad in pajamas.
"Couple of caretakers," explained Gat. "They mooched in just after I
jimmied the window. So we snagged them. They had a flashlight and got a squint
at our mugs. That makes it too bad for them."
"Blotting them out?"
"Sure. After you crack the box. Listen, Bo - I'm supposed to be out in St.
Looey or somewhere West. You don't think I'm going to leave these squawkers to
tell what I looked like, do you?"
"I'm not kicking, Gat. Go ahead. Rub them out. But give me time to clear
with the swag before you give them the lead. You can hear shots a mile off in
this territory."
"Leave that to me. Where'd you park your cars?"
"Out beside your sedan. Left a couple of gorillas to watch them."
"Good! Listen. You crack the box and move out with your mob. When you're
clear, I'll bump these bozos and follow with my crew. We'll go our way - like
we've done before."
"Suits me. Where's the box?"
"In here." Gat stepped across to a door near a far corner of the room.
"It's sort of a study -"
"Wait a moment." Driller turned around. He picked out a puny member of his
crew. "You, Skeeter - keep by that door so you can hear anything from outside.
And you, Tonk" - this to a tall, stoop-shouldered fellow who wore a grimy
sweater - "come along and bring those bags."

"SKEETER" went back to the outer room. "Tonk" followed Driller and Gat into
the study. There, Gat turned on the light to reveal an oak-furnished room with
drawn window shades. A large safe stood in the corner.
"Ten minutes," calculated Driller, with a laugh. "Maybe less. All right,
Gat. Leave it to me."
Gat went out. Tonk closed the door behind him. Driller was moving over to
the spot where the tall mobster had laid three suitcases. Driller started to
pick up one of the bags. Tonk stopped him and hefted another.
"This one has the drills," he remarked. "The others are empty. For the
swag."
"Right you are," declared Driller, opening the bag that Tonk had indicated.
He removed a drill. "Well, boy, here goes. Might as well start to get those
empty bags ready. We'll have the swag quick enough."
Driller went over to the safe, leaving Tonk with the bags. As a
safe-cracker, Driller was proud of his ability. His nickname - Driller - had
been well gained. His pet drill began to bite into the steel door. Driller kept
on steadily.
At moments, he paused to eye his work. During those intervals, he spoke
briefly, without turning. He wanted Tonk to witness his skillful workmanship.
"Hurry up with those bags," chuckled Driller. "They won't be empty long,
Tonk. Not if this safe of old man Lovenson's has got all the stuff that it ought
to have. They say the old gent cleaned up heavy with his soap business."
The drill resumed operation. Again, Driller paused to make comment:
"Just about finished, Tonk. Bring the bags over. Get ready to call Gat when
I open this box. I always let him take a look."
Driller heard Tonk approach. The safe-cracker went back to his task. The
job came to a quick finish. With a short chuckle, Driller opened the door. A
laugh came from his pasty lips.
"Get a load of this, Tonk!" he exclaimed. "Stacks of bank notes - spending
money that the soap king left lying around. And mamma's jewels! Look at them!
Lamp the swag, Tonk!"
There was no reply. Driller had the sudden impression that his companion
was moving away, not approaching closer. Puzzled, the safe-cracker stood up and
turned toward the door. His eyes bulged.
Tonk was no longer in the study. He had left the bags in the center of the
room: one open, the other closed. But the open bag had not been empty. Its
contents had been removed. That bag had contained garments. Tonk had donned
them.
In place of Tonk the mobster, a weird figure had joined Driller Borson in
the secluded room. Tall, menacing and formidable, that transformed personage
stood guarding the closed door.
A being cloaked in black. A countenance - once Tonk - shaded by the brim of
a slouch hat. Burning eyes as symbols of a new identity. Below those fierce
orbs, a pair of mammoth automatics bulging from black-gloved fists.
While Driller had been at work, his companion, too, had found a task. One
of sinister significance. The change was complete. Driller Borson, startled, was
revealing the swag to an arch enemy of crime!
For Driller knew that these garments were no masquerade. Through his
startled brain throbbed fearful facts. Tonk, the mobster - Tonk Ringo - had
joined this mob for a secret purpose. His identity had been a clever disguise.
This weird figure at the door was Tonk Ringo in his true form. He was a
grim avenger of whom Driller Borson had heard - one whom Driller had hoped never
to meet.
From Driller's faltering lips came the gasp that pronounced the identity of
this mysterious foe:
"The Shadow!"

CHAPTER V

THROUGH THE NIGHT

DRILLER cowered as The Shadow moved inward from the door. Tall, sinister,
with blazing eyes fixed steadily, The Shadow's very silence was terrifying.
Driller tried to frame pleading words. He failed.
Staring hopelessly, Driller looked for death. His career of crime had been
a checkered one. Murder had gone along with safe-cracking. Driller was a rat who
deserved to die. The Shadow knew that fact.
Coughed words came from Driller's lips at last. In response, The Shadow
uttered a whispered laugh. Halted a few paces from his quarry, this master of
vengeance was voicing contemptuous mirth, its uncanny tones confined within this
room.
Still staring, Driller had a wild hope. Perhaps The Shadow would show
undeserved mercy. There were others in the big room outside. If The Shadow
opened fire, he would be trapped. Driller saw a chance to make a deal.
"I - I won't squawk!" he gasped. "If you let me off - I - I'll help you
trap the others. I'm not with Gat - I mean about killing those fellows he
grabbed here. You - you heard what he said. When you were Tonk Ringo. It was -
it was Gat's idea to rub them out -"
"And you agreed." The Shadow's tone was a sinister sneer. "All you wanted
was a chance to leave before the slaughter commenced."
"Honest -"
Driller stopped short. Pleas were useless. He had no possible alibi. The
Shadow had heard his conversation with Gat. But as Driller cowered, his staring
eyes saw something that The Shadow did not see.
The door was beyond the black-cloaked figure. The knob of the door was
turning. Driller knew why. He had told Gat that the safe would be cracked in ten
minutes. That time was up. Driller and Gat had worked together before. Gat knew
that Driller never went beyond his estimated time. Gat was coming to learn the
reason for the delay.
For an instant, Driller began to close his hands, tense with the thought of
a sudden attack. Then he stopped. The door was swinging open. Better to let Gat
take a shot at The Shadow; then Driller could spring.
"Honest -"
Driller blurted the word again, hoping that his voice would cover the sound
of the opening door. It did. But The Shadow did not need to hear Gat's approach.
Driller's actions had told him that danger was at hand.

THE Shadow whirled.
He was just in time. Had he waited to deal with Driller, he would have been
too late for Gat. Ever ready with a revolver, Gat was holding a leveled weapon
as he stepped into the room. His gun flashed as he aimed to kill.
The Shadow's whirl was a twisting one. As he spun about, he pressed the
trigger of one automatic. His shot came simultaneously with the flash of Gat's
revolver. A bullet whistled through the waving folds of the black cloak and
thudded into the opened door of the safe, a foot from Driller Borson.
But The Shadow's shot was not wild. It found a living mark. Gat Lober
wavered. He fired again, wondering why his arm was sagging. He had felt the
force of The Shadow's bullet; but in his fury, he did not realize that he had
been clipped.
Gat's second shot was three feet wide. Crazily, the mob leader crumpled. As
Gat sprawled, Driller came springing forward, launching his lanky body in a
terrific leap for The Shadow's form.
Well had The Shadow figured. Others might be behind Gat Lober. He could not
spare the time to turn upon Driller Borson. With that thought, The Shadow had
also reasoned that Driller, no gun ready, would leap instead of firing.
The Shadow's twist ended in a surprising fade-away. His body seemed to drop
as Driller came hurtling upon his back. Surging with outstretched hands, Driller
clawed vainly at the ducking slouch hat. Then shoulders came driving upward.
Overbalanced, Driller was hoisted into the air under the impetus of The
Shadow's sudden rise. For an instant, he balanced like a teeter. Then, with a
powerful twist, The Shadow sent the lunging safe-cracker headlong to the floor.
Driller struck the edge of a table. He rolled over and lay half stunned.
The Shadow, straightening, swept toward the door. His automatics volleyed.
Two mobsters - those guarding the servants - had arrived. Responding to the
shots, they were leveling their revolvers. But they were not as swift as Gat
Lober. The Shadow beat them to the shot. The gorillas went kicking to the floor.
The Shadow reached the doorway.
Here came a swift exchange of shots. Mobsters from the far door had
expected him. They fired as The Shadow appeared. But his step into the outer
room had been a feint. A backward swing baffled the gorillas. They fired wide.
Then the muzzle of an automatic came through the space between the hinges
of the opened door. Through this unexpected loophole, The Shadow delivered his
barrage.
Each belch of that automatic sent a gorilla sprawling. One - two - in quick
succession. Then a third, just as the fellow aimed for the smoking muzzle of The
Shadow's gun. Only one remained: Skeeter.
The puny mobster had seen The Shadow. He had fired with the other mobsters.
But as he saw his companions fall, Skeeter dropped his gun and made a wild dive
through the doorway that led from the living room to outer safety.
The Shadow had already sighted his automatic to clip this fleeing foeman.
But something occurred to save Skeeter from the doom that his companions had
encountered. At the very instant of Skeeter's dash, The Shadow heard a sound
close beside him, in the study.
The Shadow's left-hand automatic was the one thrust through the crack of
the opened door. His right-hand gun was idle. Glancing quickly to the right, The
Shadow saw Driller Borson rising. Recovered from his tumble, the safe-cracker
had drawn a revolver. He was aiming the weapon point-blank for The Shadow.
It was Driller's own anxiety to score a bullseye that brought his doom. The
Shadow's right hand snapped upward. The automatic spoke while Driller's finger
was still loose upon the trigger of the revolver. The Shadow's shot echoed
through the room.
Driller sprawled forward on the floor.

OUTSIDE, Skeeter had bolted through the jimmied window. His cries were wild
to those gorillas who had remained as outer guards. They had heard the shots.
Skeeter gave them the explanation.
"The Shadow!" he cried. "The Shadow! Spread out! We'll get him when he
comes!"
Mobsters leaped away from the wall. They were spreading to form an ambush.
But others had heard Skeeter's cry. From off beyond the house, long-beamed
flashlights sent sudden rays through the darkness. Gorillas wheeled in their
tracks to open fire upon new foemen. Automatics barked while revolvers were
swinging to aim.
From three points, The Shadow's agents had gained the bead. Harry, Clint
and Hawkeye - all expert marksmen, were on hand to thwart the scattering
gorillas.
Mobsters went tumbling. Cliff called a command. Lights went out. As Cliff
skirted over toward the rear of the house, Harry and Hawkeye followed. They were
heading for the spot where the mobsters had left their cars.
One crook had dodged the scathing fire of The Shadow's agents. Skeeter
Wigan, gunless, had continued his flight after giving warning. Ducking into
darkness, he arrived at the parked cars and gasped the news to the two gorillas
stationed there.
"The Shadow! Coming from the house -"
One mobsman was seated at the wheel of Driller's coupe. The other was
standing beside the same car. Both had ready guns. The man in the driver's seat
twisted a searchlight and clicked the button. It was a lucky guess.
The powerful glare made a huge spotlight on the wall of the house. Revealed
by the electric blaze stood The Shadow. He was a dozen yards clear of the house.
Behind him, on the wall, his figure formed a mammoth outline - the shadow of The
Shadow!

MOBSTERS aimed. The gorilla by the car fired one quick shot for that weird
form. Away from the coupe, he was where The Shadow could not spot him.
But others did. The Shadow's agents, coming from an angle, saw the gorilla
between them and the searchlight's beam. Three guns spoke almost in unison. The
mobster tumbled.
Prompt with that fire came the burst of The Shadow's automatic. His shot
was aimed for the searchlight. It crashed the glass. The light went out. The
gorilla in the seat opened vicious fire toward the spot where The Shadow had
been. His bullets whistled through thin air.
The answer, when it came, was from a dozen paces to the left. Spotting the
flashes of the mobster's gun, The Shadow delivered two shots through the opened
window of the coupe. The gangster groaned. His gun clattered upon the running
board of the car.
Skeeter had dodged behind the coupe. He had not been seen. He had fired no
revealing shots, being without a gun. Huddled, cringing, he expected the arrival
of The Shadow. Then came a break.
A motorcycle roared suddenly from the lower driveway. It's lone eye blazed
a path that showed The Shadow's agents clustered among the shrubbery. Cliff -
Harry - Hawkeye - all knew the identity of the arrivals. The policemen who had
been patrolling the lower road!

THE three ducked for cover as revolvers barked. Then, from the neighborhood
of the parked cars, came the shots of automatics. The Shadow had sensed the
situation. He was firing to draw the police.
The motorcycle swerved and sped in that direction.
A motor roared. Headlights blinked on. Out from the cluster of the mobster
cars came Driller's coupe. The Shadow had reached that car. He had plucked the
dead gorilla from the wheel. He had timed a quick and sudden departure.
Cycle and side car skidded into a ditch to avoid the path of the coupe. As
the light car swept past the spot where The Shadow's agents lurked, a weird
laugh came from behind the wheel. That burst of mockery was a signal.
"Come on!" ordered Cliff.
He headed for Harry's sedan. His companions followed. As they piled aboard,
they saw the motorcycle come down the driveway. The Shadow had taken the route
to the lower gate, leading the cops in a futile chase.
"They'll never overtake him," declared Harry, as he started the motor of
his car. "We'll head out by this other driveway."
The course led upward, across the large Long Island estate. As they reached
the brow of a hill, Hawkeye gave utterance. Harry stopped the car. Down the
sloping hill a panorama spread beneath them in the moonlight.
They could see the road by which they had come. Speeding along it was a
coupe - Driller's - manned by The Shadow. A mile back was the gateway to the
lower drive. The motorcycle was at that spot, turning about.
"They've given up the chase," laughed Cliff. "They've just decided that
they belong back at the house, to see what's happened there."
"That's it," agreed Harry. He shoved the car into gear. "And that's why
we're going to make time toward Manhattan. We'll just have time to reach a
through highway before they telephone to have the roads watched."
The sedan shot forward. It sped through an upper gateway and caught a paved
road that followed the direction they wanted. Cliff and Hawkeye settled back as
Harry opened the throttle and brought the speedometer up to seventy-five.
The safety of thronged thoroughfares lay ahead. To that same safety, The
Shadow was driving alone. The master fighter and his agents had done their work.
Mobs had met to commit robbery and murder. The law would find dead gorillas and
their slain leaders.
And in that same mansion where The Shadow had blazed a trail of vengeance,
the law would find two captured men unharmed. For The Shadow and his agents had
saved helpless victims from doom.

CHAPTER VI

THE SHADOW'S PASSENGER

A LIGHT coupe came to a stop on a secluded Manhattan street. A door opened.
Someone stepped forth. The door closed.
Five seconds passed. Then a streak of blackness glided along the sidewalk
beneath the dull glare of a street lamp.
The Shadow had abandoned Driller Borson's coupe. That momentary blotch upon
the paving was the only token of his passage. From that spot, The Shadow had
merged with darkness. His work accomplished, the weird battler was departing
into the night.
Three minutes ticked by. Then came a motion at the back of the coupe. The
rumble seat opened. A head poked into view. The street lamp showed the grimy,
sweat-streaked face of Skeeter Wigan.
Cautiously the puny mobster emerged. He stole to the front of the car and
looked in. He seemed puzzled; then his face showed fright.
Until now, Skeeter had thought that one of Driller's mobsters had been at
the wheel of the coupe. The true identity of the driver dawning on him, Skeeter
was filled with terror. He sidled across the street and dodged into an alleyway.
Ten minutes later, Skeeter appeared upon the steps that led to an elevated
station. Peering nervously over his shoulder, the little gangster ascended and
huddled in a corner of the platform until a train arrived. He rode for several
stations, hunched in a corner of a half-filled car. Then he stepped from the
train and descended to the street.
Skeeter spied a cab. He entered it and gave the driver an address. Some
minutes later, he entered the lobby of a second-class apartment building. He
used an automatic elevator to reach the third floor. He tapped at a door marked
"3 G."
The door opened. A dark-skinned man eyed the visitor and motioned him to
enter. The servant who had admitted Skeeter was a Hindu. Silently, the Oriental
pointed to a chair; then started toward an inner door.
"Who is it, Mahmud?" came a gruff question from beyond the door.
"The little man, sahib," responded Mahmud. "The one that you call Skeeter."
"What's he doing here?"
Before either Mahmud or Skeeter could reply, the speaker arrived in the
doorway. He was a tall man, attired in a gaudy dressing gown. His face was
almost as dark as Mahmud's. His lips, also brown, showed a vicious leer that
revealed the gleam of gold teeth.

THIS individual was well-known in certain circles of Manhattan. He was
"Gyp" Tangoli, one-time speakeasy operator, erstwhile racketeer and reputed
gambler. One of those shady characters upon whom the law had pinned nothing; yet
who never stood above suspicion. Gyp Tangoli was noted for his participation in
doubtful enterprises.
"Well?" Gyp glowered as he snapped the question at his visitor. "What's on
your chest?"
"I got to talk to you, Gyp," pleaded Skeeter. "Right now. Alone."
"All right." Gyp seemed displeased despite his agreement. "Come on in."
He led the way to a bedroom, where another Hindu was putting shirts in a
bureau drawer. Gyp spoke to this second servant, using a jargon of Hindustani.
The servant departed, closing the door behind him. Gyp wheeled to Skeeter.
"I told you to stay away from here," he snarled. "What do you want to do -
queer the game?"
"It's queered already, Gyp," whined Skeeter.
"What do you mean?" demanded Gyp, savagely. "Did somebody wise the bulls?"
"No." Skeeter's face showed real terror. "It wasn't the bulls, Gyp. It was
The Shadow!"
Gyp paused to stare. For a moment, his hard features seemed frozen. Then he
motioned to a chair. Taking a bottle from a bureau drawer, he poured out a drink
and handed it to Skeeter. The little mobster gulped the liquor.
"Spill it," ordered Gyp. Then, with a short, forced laugh: "I mean the
news. Not the booze."
"Out at Lovenson's," blurted Skeeter. "The Shadow was there. He got
Driller. Then Gat. At least I think he got them; I didn't see them drop."
"Yeah? And what were the gorillas doing?"
"They took it too. The mugs that were inside the house. I hopped out and
hollered to the others. But they didn't have a chance."
"Why not?"
"The Shadow had a crew planted outside. They bumped off the rest of the
mob. I thought Wedge Dunney was going to get away in Driller's coupe. So I
hopped in the rumble and pulled down the top."
"Yeah? And what happened to Wedge?"
"The Shadow must have got him, too. I didn't know it until the coupe got to
town. Then I got out and looked in the front seat. There wasn't nobody there."
"And what does that mean?"
"It means that The Shadow was the guy that drove me in. No foolin', Gyp! He
blew in that coupe, with me ridin' in the rumble!"
Gyp picked up the bottle and poured himself a drink. He eyed Skeeter
thoughtfully. Then he spoke.
"So they're all wiped out," mused Gyp, "Driller and Gat both. The gorillas
with them. Well, guys like that come cheap. But let's get at the bottom of it.
Can you figure out how The Shadow walked in on this set-up?"
"I think I've got it, Gyp. He was with the mob. That's the only way I can
figure it."
"With the mob? Which mob?"
"Driller's. The Shadow was passin' himself as a gorilla named Tonk Ringo.
Joined up with the outfit a couple of weeks ago."
"What makes you think that The Shadow was Tonk?"
"I'll tell you. First of all, Tonk wasn't around when I was passin' the
word tonight. But he showed up at the garage just before we started out."
"Who tipped him that a job was on?"
"I don't know. I asked him how he got wise. He said Driller told him."
"What did Driller say about that?"
"I never had no chance to ask him. It was when we was ridin' out in the
touring car that I asked Tonk. Driller was up ahead in the coupe. I didn't think
nothin' more of it."
"Well - maybe Tonk told you a fact. It was your job, though, to tip off the
crew. But how did Tonk know about the job if Driller didn't tell him?"
"Say - if he was The Shadow, he'd have found some way to know about it.
There ain't nothin' he can't find out. But that ain't all, Gyp. This fellow Tonk
had a bag with him."
"What kind of a bag? A keister?"
"Sure. Sort of a little suitcase. I asked him what it was for. He says to
hold the swag."
"Likely enough."
"Yeah. But Driller already had two bags up in the rumble of his coupe. One
with the drills; the other for the swag. Cokey put them there. Well, when we got
out on Long Island, it was Tonk that brought in the bags; and he had his own
with the others."
"What then?"
"He went into the room where the box was. Alone, with Driller. That's where
the trouble started. Driller was sort of stallin' on the job. Gat went in to see
about it. Shots. Then instead of Driller or Gat, out comes The Shadow."
"He might have been in there beforehand."
"Not much chance, Gyp. It's easier to figure he was Tonk Ringo, with that
cloak and hat in the bag he brought along with him. This ain't no pipe-dream,
Gyp -"
"I'm not sayin' it is. How long was this Tonk Ringo with Driller? A couple
of weeks you say?"
"Yeah."
"And this was the first job he was in? The first one that brought Driller
and Gat together?"
"Yeah."
Gyp considered. His meditation ended with a nod.
"You've spotted it. Skeeter," he declared, "The Shadow was Tonk Ringo. Do
you think he was wise that you were getting orders from somewhere and passing
them to Driller? That you were getting orders from me?"
"He couldn't have knowed that, Gyp. I never came here. I didn't see much of
Tonk. It was Cokey that got him in with the mob. He must have bluffed Cokey.
Listen, Gyp - I wouldn't have come here right now if I'd thought that The Shadow
was wise -"
"Cut it. This is the best spot for you. You've got to lay low. Keep away
from the joints. And I've got to watch it too. Well - that's easy."
Gyp leered, and paced about the room. He stopped to pour himself another
drink. He offered the bottle to Skeeter, who accepted. The little mobster began
to lose his nervousness.
"Say, Gyp," he declared, "this figurin' that The Shadow was Tonk Ringo
means somethin'. Do you know it?"
"It means plenty!" snarled Gyp, "It means too much."
"You don't get what I'm drivin' at. It means that there's some jobs The
Shadow don't bother about bustin' up."
"What, for instance?"
"He ain't goin' to bother one crook that's after another."
"How do you figure that?"
"Last week" - Skeeter paused to reach for the bottle - "Driller went out to
get Reds Parrock. A grudge job. He got Reds, too. A couple of the mob dumped the
corpse."
"Was Tonk Ringo with them?" asked Gyp, quickly.
"No," replied Skeeter, "but he was wise to what was bein' pulled. He
could've smeared the game if he'd wanted to. But he didn't. That's why I figure
it that The Shadow ain't goin' to stop one crook from puttin' the finger on
another."
"And you think that ought to interest me?"
"Sure it ought! Ain't there one guy you'd like to see in the morgue? The
guy that -"
"Never mind; I remember. I told you about Cuyler Willington."
"Sure you did. And you said he was sort of a high-brow guy. In with mugs
that had dough. Around ritzy joints, the kind of places that The Shadow might be
watchin'. You said if it wasn't for The Shadow, you might take a shot at this
dude Willington -"
"I remember. Let's forget Willington."
"But Willington's a crook, ain't he? And if he's a crook, The Shadow's
goin' to find it out after you put Willington on the spot. And The Shadow ain't
goin' to worry about -"
"Hold it Skeeter! Take another shot and then turn in. I've got a room here
for you."
Gyp opened the door and called for Mahmud. The Hindu appeared. Gyp
delivered a jargon of words. Mahmud nodded and turned to Skeeter. The puny
mobster finished his drink, waved good-night to Gyp and departed.
Gyp Tangoli closed the door. He seated himself in an easy-chair and peered
toward the ceiling. His dark-hued face showed a frown. A snarl came from his
lips. Then an insidious leer replaced it. Gold teeth gleamed in the light.
Gyp's claim as a big shot had been ended tonight. Hidden in this lair, the
dark-faced crook had used Gat Lober and Driller Borson as his tools, with
Skeeter Wigan as an intermediary. He had lost Gat and Driller. Skeeter had come
here for refuge.
Yet, as he considered, Gyp Tangoli was sure that the link had been broken;
that his hidden part had not been uncovered by The Shadow. To The Shadow, he was
just a small-fry crook. That was cause for satisfaction.
That part settled, Gyp was considering Skeeter's final statements. Crook
against crook. The Shadow would not intervene. That was Skeeter's theory. The
case of "Reds" Parrock, rubbed out by Driller Borson, was tangible evidence.
Gyp Tangoli chuckled as he poured himself a night-cap. He was thinking of
Cuyler Willington, the man whom Skeeter had mentioned. New crime - bigger crime
- all would be possible, with Willington eliminated.
A new goal lay before Gyp Tangoli. It would start with crook against crook.
It would finish with rampant crime. The way was clear. For Gyp Tangoli had
gained an inside knowledge of the motives of The Shadow!

CHAPTER VII

THE NEW ALLIANCE

AT nine o'clock the next evening, Gyp Tangoli alighted from a taxicab on
Broadway. Glittering lights above a marquee spelled the name "Club Cadiz." This
garish pleasure palace was Gyp's destination.
The dark-visaged big shot nodded in response to the doorman's greeting. He
entered the night club and ascended a flight of steps, for the main room of the
Club Cadiz was located on the second floor.
At the top of the steps, Gyp looked over a glittering scene. Tables were
crowded at the Club Cadiz. A floor show was in progress. All eyes were toward
the spotlight that centered upon a pair of acrobatic dancers.
Gyp nudged a headwaiter who was by the door. The fellow started, swung
about and nodded as he saw Gyp's dark, grinning face.
"Hello, Mr. Tangoli," said the headwaiter. "You want a table? Expecting to
meet friends?"
"I'm looking for Turk Berchler," returned Gyp. "Seen him around?"
"In the gaming room," whispered the headwaiter.
Gyp nodded. He strolled away and skirted the big room until he reached a
short passage. He came to a door. He knocked. A loophole popped open; a dark eye
recognized him, as its owner peered from within. Bolts slid back. Gyp entered
the gaming room.
This was a profitable department of the Club Cadiz. The room was large; its
walls were lined with slot machines. In the center, a throng was gathered about
a roulette table that stood upon a heavy pedestal.
A keen-eyed, mustached individual was operating the roulette wheel. Gyp
knew the fellow - Tony Luggeto. He was supposed to have run a roulette wheel at
Monte Carlo. No one had ever inquired why Tony had come to America.
Near the head of the roulette table stood a portly, gray-haired man whose
paunchy-cheeked face was the shade of a manila parchment. This was Nicky
Donarth, proprietor of the Club Cadiz. Gyp approached the portly man. Nicky
shook hands.
Tony Luggeto's dark face turned toward them. The roulette operator eyed the
meeting. Then Tony concentrated on the wheel. He was close enough, however, to
hear what the pair had to say.
"Where's Turk Berchler?" questioned Gyp, in an undertone.
"In my office," responded Nicky, "You want to see him?"
"Sure thing."
"Then go on in."
Gyp strolled away. At the far side of the room he found the door marked
"Office". He entered, followed a short passage and came to a second door.
It was locked. Gyp knocked.
"Who's there?" came a sharp voice, "Nicky?"
"No," returned Gyp. "It's me, Turk. Gyp Tangoli."
The door opened when "Turk" turned the inner lock. Gyp entered and found
himself in a small room.
Desk and chairs in the center; beyond them a safe. There were two other
doorways in the office, one at each side of the room. These were closed with
heavy metal barriers.
Turk Berchler was a squatty, pug-nosed man whose tawny complexion was
almost as dark as Gyp's. His eyes were black and gleamy. His puffy lips showed a
slight smile.
"Thought I'd be hearing from you, Gyp." commented Turk. "Sit down. Let's
chat."
Gyp nodded. He took a chair; accepted a cigar that Turk plucked from a box
on Nicky's desk; then shrugged his shoulders.
"Not much to talk about, Turk," he said. "You've seen the newspapers. Gat
Lober and Driller Borson got theirs."
"And they were working for you."
"Yeah."
Turk was lighting a cigar of his own. His sharp eyes were watching Gyp's
sour countenance. Turk laughed harshly.
"I told you to lay off those mugs," he asserted. "Palookas, both of them.
Everybody knew that Driller was a safe-cracker. And Gat was always too ready
with a rod. What's more, he was on the lam. It's a wonder the bulls didn't wise
up to them sooner."
"It wasn't the bulls that got them, Turk."
"No? Who was it, then? Some guys muscling in on their game?"
"Guess again."
Turk shrugged his shoulders.
"You've got me," he insisted.
"It was The Shadow, Turk," informed Gyp.
Turk Berchler blinked. He became visibly nervous. For a moment he started
to draw away, as though fearing to be in the same room with Gyp Tangoli.
The visitor laughed.
"Don't worry, Turk," said Gyp. "There's no trail leading to me. Only one
guy The Shadow might follow - and I've got him hiding out at my apartment.
Skeeter Wigan."
Turk managed to smile.
"Listen, Turk," declared Gyp. "You said you thought you'd be hearing from
me. Well, you are. I'm here to talk business."
"Maybe I'm not interested, Gyp."
"On account of The Shadow?"
"Yeah - in a way."
"You can forget The Shadow."
"That sounds all right. But that's not all, Gyp. You want me to pick up
where Driller and Gat left off. That doesn't hit me as such a swell
proposition."
"Why not?"
"Because the jobs they pulled were the cream. I'm getting the left-overs if
I go in with you. And The Shadow is -"
"Wait a minute, Turk."
Gyp arose and paced about the office. Finally he stopped and faced the
squatty crook. He spoke in a straightforward tone that impressed Turk Berchler.

"LISTEN, Turk," said Gyp. "I knew that Driller and Gat were small-timers.
That's why I used them on the jobs I did. That's why I didn't want you working
for me. I've been saving you for something real."
"First of all, I've got to go back a bit and tell you how I got started in
this business. It goes back to before the time I met you. Before I mixed in the
rackets; before I had that speak on Forty-ninth Street."
Turk nodded. He sensed that he was about to hear something extraordinary.
"Did you ever hear of Swami Marabout Bey?" questioned Gyp.
Turk shook his head.
"Well," declared Gyp, "I was the swami. What I couldn't see in a crystal
ball wasn't worth seeing. I was a hot shot. Invited out to swanky homes. Had a
couple of Hindus with me. Talked their lingo."
"The same guys you've got now?"
"Yeah. Mahmud and Bundha. But it wasn't only crystal gazing that I did. I
looked around those ritzy places where I went. I learned a lot about the people
who owned them - a whole lot, I did."
"Say," put in Turk, with a grin, "I'm beginning to see -"
"Hold up," interposed Gyp. "You haven't heard anything yet. At one of those
places I ran into a rich guy named Cuyler Willington. Ever hear of him?"
"Sure. He lives at the Hotel Royal. Comes in here right along. Nicky knows
him."
"All right. Get a picture of Willington. Fine-looking guy, isn't he? Tall,
handsome face, eyes blue, hair almost white - looks like a society dude."
"He is."
"So you think. But I know different. I know Willington is a crook!"
"Say -"
"No hokum, Turk. When I was playing the swami game, Willington spotted that
I was phony. He came to see me one night and laid his cards on the table. Wanted
me to work with him."
"A swell stunt."
"That's what I thought. Willington got me in with the real people. I picked
up enough information to last me a year. Places that were set-ups. Cash, jewels,
laying around in boxes that you could open with a hair-pin."
"And you went after them, Gyp?"
"No, I didn't. Willington said hands off."
"Was he goofy?"
"No. He wanted to work those society people for big dough. Smooth, so
there'd be no comeback. That sounded pretty good. But some of the jobs were so
easy I couldn't pass them up. I raided one swell apartment and swiped a lot of
sparklers that I fenced for ten grand."
"Did Willington find out about it?"
"Sure - when I offered him his split. He was sore."
"Sore about getting five grand?"
"You bet. He said we could have made fifty grand out of those saps - fifty
grand apiece, if I'd let him play them. He was going to burn them with a phony
stock deal, as near as I could make out. Anyway, Willington gave me the gate."
"What did you do then?"
"What was there to do? I quit the swami racket and put my dough in the
speak. I became Gyp Tangoli again. Willington used to drop in at the speak. We
talked friendly enough."
"And then?"
"The speak went sour. Too many of them in New York. I tried a racket; it
went on the bum. So I started this new game. Using Driller and Gat to raid
places I knew about."
"What did Willington say to that?"
"Nothing. Because I only picked places that I had learned about before I
met Wellington. I knew he'd get tough if I took a whack at any of his ritzy
friends. I had five good jobs I knew about. Lovenson's - that Long island place
- was the last of them."
Turk nodded. He was calculating, and his dark face showed a gleam that
matched Gyp's evil leer.
"Listen, Turk," stated Gyp. "There's just one reason why I've laid off of
Cuyler Willington. That's because he's supposed to be a society guy. I figured
that if I tried to bump him, I'd have The Shadow on my neck,"
"Maybe you would," agreed Turk. "They say The Shadow keeps an eye on people
who have dough, just because he knows they're the ones that crooks will go
after."
"That's right. But I learned something last night that changes all that.
Skeeter wised up that The Shadow was with Driller's mob under the name of Tonk
Ringo."
"Acting as a gorilla?"
"Yeah. And he knew about it when Driller bumped Reds Parrock. He didn't
bust the game. See what that means? If a crook gets a crook, The Shadow lets it
ride."
"I get it. You're figuring on the same thing if you go after Willington.
But maybe The Shadow don't know that Wilmington's crooked."
"I don't think he does. But suppose we give Willington the works. What'll
the police do about it?"
"They'll investigate Willington's affairs."
"Sure. And The Shadow?"
"He'll do the same."
"Right. And they'll find out that Willington was a phony. He goes in for
blackmail, Turk. As soon as he's bumped, a lot of saps are going to spill what
they know about him. People who are keeping their traps shut right at present."
"I'm getting it now."
"Sure you are. When The Shadow gets the real dope about what Willington
was, he's going to laugh about it. A crook bumped by crooks. He won't worry who
did it."
"And then -"
"We'll wait a while. Sit tight and look gentle. Then we'll bust loose. One
job after another. Places I learned about while I was working with Willington.
And he won't be around to crimp the game."
Turk thrust out a hand. Gyp received it. The two crooks grinned as they
formed their pact. Then came a click at the door; a key turned in the lock.
Nicky Donarth entered.

THE night club proprietor chatted pleasantly as he went to the safe and
opened it. Nicky removed a stack of bank notes, closed the safe and went out.
As soon as the door closed behind him, Gyp turned to Turk.
"What about Nicky?" questioned Gyp. "You know him pretty well, don't you,
Turk?"
"Sure," grinned Turk. "He and I are pals. You wouldn't find him leaving me
alone in this office if we wasn't."
"He'd give you an alibi if you needed it?"
"Sure, he would. Want me to talk to him?"
"Yeah. But don't tell him too much, Turk. You've got some torpedoes you can
count on?"
"Any time I want them. Not a bunch of bum gorillas, either. Smart guys."
"Use them. Tail Willington. Have Nicky fixed to give you an alibi. But
don't tell him what for until after you've rubbed out Willington. Get it?"
"Every bit. Leave it to me, Gyp."
Gyp Tangoli leered. He strolled to the door, turned the latch and went out,
closing the door behind him.
Turk Berchler sat down behind Nicky Donarth's desk and began to drum with
his fingers. A grin appeared upon his dark face.
But that grin was nothing to the gleaming leer that Gyp Tangoli wore when
he entered a taxicab outside the Club Cadiz. For Gyp Tangoli, thwarted by The
Shadow, was looking forward to bigger and more profitable crime.

CHAPTER VIII

THE FIRST THRUST

Two nights later, the pretentious lobby of the Hotel Royal was thronged
with guests. An elevator arrived at the ground floor. Its doors clanged open.
The last person to step forth was a man attired in evening clothes.
There was something debonair about this guest's appearance. He looked like
a member of the elite. His attire was perfect. His face was handsome, except for
a slight paleness that was accentuated by the near-whiteness of his hair.
Approaching the desk, the tall man inquired if any mail had come for him.
The clerk gave a negative response, addressing the tall man as "Mr. Willington."
Leaving his key, Willington strolled from the lobby and hailed a taxicab. He
ordered the driver to take him to an address on Ninety-sixth Street.
As he rode along, Cuyler Willington adjusted a cigarette in a long holder.
He lighted the cigarette, tossed the match from the window and looked out
through the back of the cab. He noted a green cab close behind his taxi. He
spotted the license number.
Willington's cab entered Central Park. The tall man looked back again. He
saw the same cab still close behind. He rapped at the driver s window.
"Take a long way through the park," he ordered. "Drive around a bit. I like
the air."
The driver nodded and changed course. Willington looked back. The same cab
was still tailing. It kept on the trail as the curving course continued.
Willington lighted another cigarette. A puzzled frown appeared upon his
forehead.
The driver finally decided that he had tacked enough unnecessary fare on
the meter. He ended the meandering course and came back to a direct route. The
cab left Central Park and finally arrived at the address that Willington had
given. The place was a restaurant.
As Willington finished paying the driver, the green cab pulled up to the
curb.
Willington spied it, turned quickly and entered the restaurant. He chose a
table near the back. As he ordered from the menu, he looked sidelong to the
front. He spied a darkish face peering through the plate-glass window.
The waiter brought soup. Willington finished the course, then arose
suddenly. Close by was a door that formed an exit to a service entrance.
Willington swung swiftly in that direction, cut through a passage and stepped
out into the darkness of Ninety-fifth Street.
His pace became a jogging run for half a block. Then Willington darted into
the entrance of an apartment house. Panting slightly, he pressed a button on the
wall-board holding the names of the building tenants; then gave a quick ring to
the bell button beneath. He picked up a hanging receiver, expecting a response
from above. Instead, the front door buzzed. Willington leaped for the barrier,
dashed through and closed the door behind him. He made for the automatic
elevator.
Thirty seconds later, a hard-faced man entered the front of the apartment
building. He had spotted Wilmington's flight. The fellow took a look at the
wall-board. He was sure that Willington had not gained time to press another
button. He noted the connection button pressed at 3 B. The name on the card was
"H. Mollin".
The spy ducked out into the street. He found a man awaiting him. It was
Turk Berchler. The spy reported.
"H. Mollin", chuckled Turk. "Say - that's a hot one! That guy is Congo
Mollin! I knew him before he took a rap over at the Island. Been playing softy
since then. I've been up to this apartment of his. Good work, Terry. Come
along."
The two men walked down the street to where others awaited them. Turk
Berchler held confab with his torpedoes. One of them was a long-haired fellow
who looked like a musician. He was carrying a guitar case. The crew moved toward
a corner.
Up in Apartment 3 B. Cuyler Wellington was lighting a cigarette as he
talked to a tall, solemn-faced man. This was "Congo" Mollin. He looked like a
butler; in fact, he had been one, prior to serving time at Welfare Island.
This was not the first time that Cuyler Willington had been to Congo's
apartment. Yet tonight, the gentleman crook was evidencing a new interest in the
place. He and Congo were seated in a plainly-furnished living room. Congo was
pouring his guest a drink from a decanter that he had taken from the top of a
radio cabinet.
"Nice layout you've got here. Congo," remarked Willington. "It should prove
very quiet and restful at nights."
"You think so?" replied Congo. "Well, it isn't. These windows open on the
back alley. There's a garage on the other side. They make plenty of noise
pulling cars in and out after midnight."
"What about the bedroom?"
"That's better." Congo opened a door and turned on the light. "It opens
into a court and the noise isn't so bad. But it's stuffy and I have to leave the
door open to the living room. So I get the noise anyway.
"Too bad. You ought to move away from here."
"I'm going to - next month. I'm getting sick of this place."
"Well, Congo," - Willington held out his glass while the solemn man filled
it - "you're going out with me tonight."
"How come?"
"I want to talk with you."
"If it's about Brophy -"
"We'll come to Brophy, later. You've got a dress suit, haven't you?"
"Packed in camphor."
"Dig it out. Put it on."
"Where are we going?"
"I don't know yet. Maybe down to the Club Cadiz. You need full dress to get
into the gaming room there."
"All right." Congo went into the bedroom and Willington followed. Congo
rummaged in the closet. "Here's the glad rags."
"Get into them. I'll talk while you're dressing."
"I've got bad news about Brophy."
"Let me hear it."
Congo began to talk solemnly as he spread out the dress suit on the bed.
Willington watched him from a chair in the corner.

"I WENT to see Brophy last night," explained Congo, "I told him another
payment was due. He said he didn't have the money."
"Yes? What did he do with it?"
"He didn't get it."
"That sounds thin, Congo, you know he gets a thousand a month from the
Universal Electric Company. Besides his regular amount from investments."
"They've cut off his advances."
"They couldn't. He's under contract to develop that Q-ray machine of
theirs."
"That's just the trouble. The Q-ray has gone blooey. Experiments
suspended."
"On what account?"
"Too dangerous. It killed two men. They're giving Brophy a leave of absence
until their own men have made more tests. A fellow named Sundler is in charge."
"I don't like the story, Congo. You told me that Brophy used to work right
in the path of the ray. He said it wasn't dangerous."
"He didn't think it was. Then something funny happened. You know how pale,
pasty-like, Brophy is?"
"Yes. What has that to do with it?"
"Well, the other fellows weren't pale. The ones that got killed. They were
dark."
"You mean that the Q-ray finished them but couldn't hurt Brophy?"
"That's what Brophy says."
"What about this fellow Sundler?"
"He's a Scandinavian. It can't hurt him either."
"Bunk, Congo. Bunk!"
"Maybe it is. Anyway, Brophy sticks to his story. You know the deal you had
with him. He was to pay you what came from that Q-ray machine. Well, he says
he's getting nothing."
"What does he intend to do about it?"
"He wants to go away. Says he needs a rest. He's getting enough income from
his investments to take a trip."
"And what did you tell him?"
"I told him it would be tough for him if he moved out of the city. Said I'd
pass his message along to you. He's waiting to hear from us."
"All right, Congo. I shall see Mr. Seth Brophy in person. If this tale
about the capers of the Q-ray is true, I may make allowances. But if it is a
lie, I'll penalize him half his regular income, along with the advance money he
gets from Universal Electric."
By this time, Congo had donned his dress suit. It fitted him well and
looked good except for a few creases where trousers and coat had been folded.
Congo stood in front of a mirror and began to adjust a white bow tie.
Willington spoke in casual manner. "Gyp Tangoli ran into a cropper, Congo."
"You mean that mess out on Long Island?"
"Yes."
"Are you sure Driller Borson and Gat Lober were working for him?"
"That's my guess."
"Your guesses are generally good."
"I know that chump like a book," mused Willington. "When Gyp was pulling
the Swami Bey business, I could figure everything that was in his one-track
mind. That's why I had to get rid of him. He was crude."
"So you always said."
"Gyp tried to be a Hindu swami. He wasn't bad at that job. But as a
speakeasy proprietor, as a racketeer, he was just another lemon. I figured he
was out to be a big shot after that. Well, he lost out. But he's starting up
again."
"Who's he getting to replace Driller and Gat?"
"He's picked Turk Berchler."
"No!" Congo swung around with a startled look. "Who told you that?"
"Tony Luggeto, who runs the roulette wheel down at the Club Cadiz. Tony's
done work for me, you know."
"Tony saw Gyp and Turk together?"
"Yes. Two nights ago. They had a conference in Nicky Donarth's office."
"I don't like it."
"Why not?"
Congo eyed Willington seriously.
"Gyp Tangoli would like to get you." he declared. "He hasn't nerve to try
it alone. But with Turk to help him he's liable to point the finger in your
direction."
Willington clapped Congo on the shoulder.
"Thanks for the tip," he laughed. "You're a pal, Congo. You stood by me the
time I pinched Lady Atherton's pearl necklace. If they'd found it on me, there
at Thoreau's, it would have been the end of my career."
"But you slipped it to me," added Congo, with a smile. "To me, Thoreau's
butler. They found it on me."
"And you took the rap. Stout fellow. You'd do anything to help me out,
wouldn't you, Congo?"
"I sure would. Any time -"
"Then get me a drink. Out of that pet decanter of yours. That imported
stuff is great."
Congo laughed. He stepped past Willington and left the bedroom. Willington
watched him start across the living room toward the radio cabinet where the
decanter stood.
Like Willington, Congo was now in evening attire. His figure looked very
much like that of his visitor. Congo had to walk past the row of three windows
as he headed for the far corner of the living room. Willington was straining as
he gazed from the doorway of the bedroom.
Congo passed the first window. He was at the second. The window was open;
sounds of snorting automobiles could he heard from the garage across the alley.
Then came a sharp, sudden rattle that sounded like the tattoo of a riveting
machine.
Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat! Congo Mollin slumped suddenly in his tracks and went
sprawling to the floor. He had stepped directly into the path of a machine-gun
barrage that had opened from the roof across the way.
More bullets pounded the inner wall of the living room, while Cuyler
Willington watched plaster crackle and fall in chunks. Then the firing stopped
as suddenly as it had begun.

WILLINGTON stood quietly in the doorway. He could hear shouts from the
alleyway below. Men in the garage had heard the volley from the roof. They were
raising an excited cry.
At the end of two minutes Willington smiled. He knew the assassins would be
gone by this time.
Calmly, the tall man strolled across the room. He poured himself a drink
from the decanter. Holding the glass, he stared at Congo's bullet-riddled form
and shook his head sadly.
"Too bad, Congo," spoke Willington, to the dead man. "It had to be one of
us. The same as before. You didn't know it was coming. It was an easy out."
"You did look good in a dress suit, Congo. If you hadn't, they wouldn't
have mistaken you for me. I thought that garage roof would be the spot they
would choose. I guessed right again, Congo."
With that final comment, Willington tossed down his drink and replaced the
glass beside the decanter. He left the apartment and descended in the automatic
elevator. Three minutes later, he was hailing a cab on the avenue near
Ninety-fifth Street.
But the address that he gave the driver was neither the Club Cadiz nor the
Hotel Royal. Cuyler Willington had decided that it would not be healthy to
return to either of those haunts.
From now on, he intended to remain at some obscure hotel as long as he
might be in Manhattan. For this thrust from Gyp Tangoli had come through Turk
Berchler. Those fellows meant business.
Cuyler Willington was pondering deeply as he adjusted a cigarette in the
long holder. His thoughts concerned his future actions as a suave gentleman of
crime.

CHAPTER IX

THE SHADOW LISTENS

"HELLO, Fritz."
Detective Joe Cardona gave the greeting from behind his battered desk at
headquarters. He was speaking to a tall, dull-faced janitor. Clad in overalls,
the fellow had entered with mop and bucket.
"Yah," responded Fritz.
A smile showed on Joe Cardona's swarthy face. Fritz, the janitor, was a
card. His vocabulary seemed limited to that single expression, "yah."
Fritz began to work with mop and bucket. That was his policy when Joe
Cardona stayed overtime in his office. Fritz mopped up when he was ready. Joe
had to like it. So Joe always managed to get a laugh out of the situation.
A man stepped into the office. It was Detective Sergeant Markham. Joe
Cardona had been waiting for him. As acting inspector, Joe had sent Markham out
to gather facts.
"Anything new on that Congo Mollin killing?" questioned Joe.
"Not a thing," replied Markham. "They had the machine gun on the garage
roof; but they must have made an easy get-away while everybody was running
around in the alley."
"And it was half an hour before anybody found Congo," mused Joe. "Well,
there's another crook gone. What I can't figure is why anybody wanted to get
Congo."
"Maybe they thought he was playing stool pigeon," put in Markham. "He'd
been behaving himself ever since he came back from the Island."
"That's just it," declared Cardona. "He was behaving too well. Keeping away
from tough spots. Nobody would have figured him as a stoolie. Particularly since
he wasn't one."
"Have you checked up on him?"
"Yes. But it looks like he's been on the level. The people up at the
apartment house say he was quiet and orderly. Minded his own business."
"How about the guys with the typewriter, Joe? Have you figured who they
might be?"
"Not yet. I thought of half a dozen. They all have alibis. Take Turk
Berchler, for instance. I figured he might have been capable of the job. But he
was up at the Club Cadiz all evening. Nicky Donarth said so."
"Nicky's reliable, too. Say - he's running a little strong with that
gambling joint of his."
"It wasn't operating when I was in there. But that was in the afternoon. I
told Nicky that he'd better watch himself, though. If we found any gambling
equipment, we'd crack down on him."
"What did he say?"
"Told me to pay a visit any time I wanted. Said if I found a roulette wheel
there I could pinch the place. He's got one, though. But I guess it's only
temporary. It wasn't there this afternoon. But let's get back to Congo Mollin."
"All right."

MARKHAM drew a list from his pocket. He handed it to Cardona. Joe read it
and shook his head.
"Places he worked at before he went to the Island," said Joe. "Those don't
mean anything. I'll keep the list though."
He tucked it in a desk drawer.
"There's just one thing that puzzles me," observed Cardona, "I looked
Congo's body over at the morgue. What I want to know is why that guy was wearing
a dress suit."
"He must have had a date."
"Where? Why the glad rags? Congo didn't play the gentleman. Anyway, he
hadn't worn that dress suit for a long time. It smelled so strong of camphor
that you couldn't smell the formaldehyde in the morgue.
"That's odd, all right."
"I'll say it is." Joe got up from his desk. "A crook that's doing nothing
but minding his own business. Dolled up in a dress suit for the first time in
months. Plugged by machine gunners who went out of their way to get him. It
beats me."
"Do you think anybody was up there with him?" questioned Markham.
"No," replied Cardona. "There was some liquor gone from a decanter; but
only one glass had been used. Congo might have taken a drink for himself."
"Did the doc say he'd been drinking?"
"No. But he might have taken one drink an hour or two before he was bumped.
It doesn't mean anything, Markham. Well, just between us, nobody's going to lose
any sleep over the murder of Congo Mollin. We'll keep on the case; but you know
what the commissioner thinks."
"Good riddance?"
"Right."
Cardona and Markham went out, leaving Fritz mopping by the wall. A strange
shadow flickered across the floor as the tall, stooped janitor turned toward the
desk. A sudden gleam appeared in Fritz's listless eyes.
The janitor plucked the list from the drawer. He read Markham's notations.
As he replaced the list, he indulged in a soft, whispered laugh. Fritz, the
janitor, was The Shadow!

CARRYING mop and bucket, The Shadow left Cardona's office and shuffled off
to an obscure locker. He set down the objects that he carried. He drew black
garments from a shelf and donned them. The overalls slipped from beneath the
dark cloak. The Shadow hung them in the locker. He stepped away. His cloaked
figure faded suddenly beyond the locker.
Footsteps. A scrawny, stooping man came into view. It was the real Fritz.
The fellow opened the locker, donned his overalls and picked up mop and bucket.
He departed. Again, The Shadow laughed softly.
He had arrived ahead of Fritz. He had played the role of the janitor and
had ended the clever part just before Fritz reached headquarters. With Fritz
gone, the way was clear.
Finding a deserted corridor, The Shadow glided out into the night.

LATER, a tiny flashlight glimmered in a room where dull illumination came
from three windows. The Shadow was in the living room of Congo Mollin's
apartment.
The room was exactly as the police had found it. The Shadow knew this
through a report from Clyde Burke, who had covered the story for the Classic.
Every detail fitted Clyde's description. But the reporter had mentioned
something beside the decanter and the glass. He had noted several cigarette
stumps, all of the same brand.
The Shadow found them. Four in an ash tray in the living room. Three in the
bedroom. Like the single glass beside the decanter, these apparently meant
nothing. Congo Mollin could have smoked the seven cigarettes himself. But The
Shadow noted something that gave a different indication.
Of the four cigarettes in the living room, two were slightly ragged at the
end. They had been held between moistened lips. The other two had a twisted
crimp; furthermore, they had been smoked a half inch further.
The three cigarette stumps in the bedroom also had twisted ends. They had
been smoked close to their limit. The Shadow turned his tiny flashlight on the
bureau. Its glow showed odds and ends that Cardona had found in the pockets of
Congo's discarded suit. The Shadow looked for a cigarette holder. None was
present.
The light clicked out. The Shadow moved about in the gloom. Then a door
opened softly and closed again. The Shadow had departed from the apartment.

LATER, a click sounded in a pitch-black room. A bluish lamp glowed upon a
polished table. Long, white hands appeared beneath that light. A shimmering gem
glowed from a finger of the left. Those pale hands were like detached creatures.
The Shadow was in his sanctum.
A hand began to write in bluish ink. Words dried, then faded as The Shadow
inscribed his thoughts. With uncanny precision, he was reconstructing events at
Congo Mollin's. He had disregarded the decanter and the glass. Only one man had
imbibed liquor. But two had smoked cigarettes.
Congo Mollin, lacking a cigarette holder, had consumed two in the living
room, while his visitor was smoking two cigarettes in a holder. Then Congo had
gone into the bedroom to don evening clothes. His guest had accompanied him.
Three cigarettes - all smoked in a holder - gave evidence of the visitor's
presence.
Cigarette holders were no longer fads. A person using one would probably be
fastidious. The type of man who would wear evening clothes. A soft laugh told
that The Shadow was gaining an answer to the mystery of Congo Mollin's death.
Picturing a visitor in evening clothes, The Shadow visualized Congo
dressing to accompany his friend. Congo coming out into the living room. Passing
the windows, a target for waiting snipers.
Crooks had seen the visitor enter clad in full evening dress. They had
mistaken Congo for him. Their quick fire had found the wrong man. The desired
victim had departed, unscathed. Chances were that he, like Congo, was a crook.
The Shadow, however, left nothing to chance. He had taken special interest
in the death of Congo Mollin because it lacked motive. His deductions proved
that assassins had missed their man. Someone was still at large, a tribe of
killers ready to find his trail.
The Shadow saw an important task: To determine whether or not this person
was a crook like Congo. He pictured the unknown as a smooth, keen individual.
One who had not lost his nerve after seeing Congo die. One clever enough - if
crooked - to have coaxed Congo into doom intended for himself!
Writing on the sheet of paper, The Shadow inscribed names from memory.
Those names had been on Markham's list. They were the persons in whose employ
Congo had served prior to his imprisonment on Welfare Island.
There were six names in all. Among them was that of Cuyler Willington - for
Congo had at one time served as valet to the fashionable crook. That name had no
special significance as yet. The Shadow passed it as he went to the bottom of
the list.
Titus Thoreau. That was the final name. Thoreau, a New York banker, was
Congo's employer at the time the crook had been arrested for robbery. Thoreau
would remember the man. Again, The Shadow laughed.
This very evening, Joe Cardona had mentioned the most important point
regarding Congo Mollin: namely, the dead man's past. But Cardona could see no
link between the past and the present. Congo Mollin had been quiescent since his
release from Welfare Island. He had had no gang connections, even before his
imprisonment.
To The Shadow's analysis, the fact that Congo had been on good behavior
since leaving the Island was an indication of some past connection. Why had
Congo found it good policy to settle down to quiet life after his release?
That was a question that The Shadow was determined to answer. Through it he
could see some chance of learning the identity of Congo's unknown visitor. He
could then discover why that man's life had been sought.
The light clicked out. A soft laugh crept through the black walls of the
sanctum. It rose to a mocking tone that faded with eerie echoes. Then came
silence. The Shadow had departed.

THE master sleuth had seen no cause for haste. He had divined that the man
he sought must he cunning enough to keep away from danger for days to come. In
that assumption, The Shadow was correct.
But at the very moment of The Shadow's decision, chance was creeping into
affairs of crime. Strange circumstances were due to cause a change of tactics on
the part of Cuyler Willington. Already, the man whom The Shadow sought was on
his way to a meeting that was destined to inspire him to a desperate
counter-thrust.
Murder was in the making, thanks to that attempt by Turk Berchler. Cuyler
Willington, the hunted, was fated to become the hunter!

CHAPTER X

THE SECOND MACHINE

A TAXICAB had stopped on a secluded street in the West Eighties. A man was
peering from the window. His was the face of the hunted. The driver turned to
open the door. The man calmed himself, stepped out and paid the fare.
The cab pulled away. Cuyler Willington stood alone on the curb. He repeated
his quick glances in both directions. No one was in sight. Willington ascended
brownstone steps and rang a bell.
A full minute passed while Willington waited, close against the door. Then
came the clatter of a lock. The door opened. A nervous, pasty-faced man stepped
back as Willington entered.
"Hello, Brophy." greeted Willington, quietly. "Close the door."
"Very well." Brophy's voice had a slight quaver. "I - I didn't expect you.
I - I thought that maybe Mollin was coming -"
"Didn't you read today's newspapers?" questioned Willington, abruptly, as
they walked toward a flight of stairs.
"No," replied Brophy. "I have been busy packing."
"Congo Mollin is dead."
"Dead! You - you mean murdered?"
"Yes."
"Who is responsible?"
"The police are trying to find out."
"Mollin," mumbled Brophy. "Mollin - dead -"
"But he talked to me before he was killed," interposed Willington. They
were at the head of the stairs. "That's why I'm here, Brophy. Where can we
talk?"
"In my laboratory," faltered Brophy. "In here."
He led the way to a small room that was fitted with electrical machines and
other equipment. Willington took a chair; he drew a cigarette from a case and
placed it in his holder.
Willington was not in evening attire tonight; but he was fashionably
dressed. He made a contrast to Brophy. The electrical expert was wearing a
shabby suit with baggy trousers.
"So you're packed up," parried Willington. "Does that mean you are going
somewhere?"
"Only if you permit me," responded Brophy, quickly. "I - I could see no
harm in packing while I waited to hear from you."
"Where are you going? That is, if you go."
"I haven't decided. I need a change. I've thought of Bermuda. But I haven't
bought tickets yet -"
"That's good. We have a little matter to settle before you leave. A
question of a thousand dollars a month. My expense money, Brophy. I need it. I'm
going on a trip myself."
"I - I do owe you a thousand, Mr. Willington. That is, I would owe it,
according to our agreement. But they have cut off my advance royalties."
"So Mollin told me." Willington's tone was a velvet purr. "He said you were
cut down to the amount that you receive from your investments. Unfortunate for
you, Brophy. You will have to sell some of your securities."
"I can't do that!" exclaimed Brophy. "They are part of a trust fund left me
by my uncle. They bring me in very little, Willington. Very little."
"I am ready to consider a cash settlement, Brophy. Five thousand dollars.
No more payments."
"But I don't have the five thousand."

WILLINGTON eyed Brophy steadily. He could see that the man was telling the
truth. Brophy would have jumped at this chance to clear himself from further
blackmail.
"I know you can ruin me, Willington," pleaded Brophy, suddenly. "If you let
it out that I was mixed up with that electric belt fraud, five years ago, I
would go to jail. I don't want to go to jail."
"Cut it, Brophy," put in Willington, abruptly. "You're not going to prison
if you're telling the truth. I can do without your payments, provided that you
are not getting them. But that yarn you told Congo Mollin did not impress me. I
want to hear it straight from you. About the Q-ray."
"It is true, every word." Brophy's pasty face looked worn. "The experiments
were halted when the ray proved dangerous at high intensity."
"It killed two men?"
"Instantly! They were melanochroids."
"Melanochroids?"
"Yes. That is Huxley's division for one class of the Caucasian race - those
of darker skins. Spaniards, Italians, Sicilians, and others of that group. Those
of lighter skin - you and I, for instance - are called xanthochroids."
"I see. I've heard the distinctions. But I thought they called
light-complected persons Nordics and dark ones Mediterraneans."
"You are mixing two authorities," explained Brophy, with a solemn smile.
"Deniker and Ripley. Deniker used the term Nordic, to mean xanthochroid, or
light-skinned. Ripley used Mediterranean to indicate the dark-skinned
melanochroid. There is another class - the Alpine - but we can confine ourselves
to the two that I have mentioned.
"Basically, the Q-ray was intended to give light skins the structure of
dark. We tried it on xanthochroids and found that it worked. It seemed to
strengthen the skin structure. The ray seemed to have no harmful effects
whatever.
"But we had never thought what might happen to melanochroids. We discovered
the truth most unfortunately. Two members of the Universal laboratory staff were
killed almost instantly by the Q-ray. That ended the experiments."
Willington looked impressed as he eyed Brophy. Incredible though the
statements seemed, he was on the verge of believing them. Brophy persisted.
"I swear that what I have said is true," he declared. "Absolutely true! The
skin structure of xanthochroids will absorb the Q-ray perfectly. But the
dark-hued melanochroid cannot resist its power. The Q-ray machine covers a
radius of thirty feet. Within that circle, death for a person of truly
dark-skinned texture."
"Anywhere within the circle?"
"Practically. A person at the fringe of it might survive. Yet the second
man who died at the laboratory was killed when almost thirty feet away."
"You say that death is instantaneous?"
"Yes - if the ray is at full intensity."

WILLINGTON stroked his chin. Then he shook his head and delivered a sour
laugh.
"You're an inventor, Brophy," he remarked, "and like most of them, you're a
bit balmy. You thought that electric belt would work, even though you would
never be able to make a court believe that such was your true opinion.
"I am beginning to think that Universal Electric wanted to get rid of you
and took an easy way out. Some wise gentleman decided that you were cracked and
told you this fable. You believed it -"
Seth Brophy drew himself up to his full height. For a moment his eyes were
glaring; then he delivered a crackly laugh. He clutched Willington's coat lapel.
"I can prove it!" ejaculated Brophy. "I can prove it - to you alone! You
already have evidence that would send me to jail. I do not care if you gain
more. I shall show you the Q-ray machine!"
"What are you going to do?" quizzed Willington, stepping away. "Crack the
laboratory of the Universal Electric Company? You are crazy, Brophy!"
"Do you think so?" Again the wild laugh. "No, Willington. You are wrong. We
do not need to go to the laboratory of the electric company. I have a duplicate
machine right here."
"Where?" demanded Willington, looking about at Brophy's equipment. "I don't
see it. You will be telling me next that it is invisible."
"Look!" Brophy hopped across the room and stopped at a tiled wall. He
removed a loose section from the white tiling, digging it free with his
fingernails. He pressed a switch.
"There is the duplicate machine!"
A section of the wall slid up as Brophy spoke. Willington, staring, saw a
small secret room. From its interior gleamed a square, pillared device - the
duplicate of the machine that James Sundler had shown to Lamont Cranston.
"Where did you get it, Brophy?" demanded Willington.
"I stole it," chuckled Brophy.
"Stole it?" Willington eyed the man. "Why, it must weigh a couple of
hundred pounds."
"I stole it piece by piece." explained Brophy. "While I was working at the
Universal Electric laboratory. I claimed that certain parts were defective and
demanded that they be replaced. New parts were obtained. The old ones were
discarded."
"You took them out one by one?"
"Yes. I smuggled them in sections. Not all, you understand. I was too
clever for that. I took only those parts which I knew could not be obtained
elsewhere. I had mechanics make the other sections according to my description."
"And this machine works?"
"It does. See" - Brophy pointed into the little room - "I have a crate
there to pack it for shipment. But I am not taking it with me. It is safer
here."
Willington nodded. He was thinking deeply.
"Would you like to have me demonstrate the Q-ray?" questioned Brophy.
Willington nodded.

CHUCKLING, the electrical inventor pulled a chair over by a bookcase. He
clambered up and pulled a shoe box into view. Stepping down, he showed a pair of
guinea pigs: one white, the other brown.
Brophy carried the box into the little room. He turned on an electric
light. Willington stepped in after him. The visitor eyed the machine carefully.
"I should think shipment would damage this device." he remarked. "Those
glass panels look fragile."
"They are shatter-proof," said Brophy. "The whole machine is strong. Even
the tubes. The operation is simple. A mere attachment to an ordinary floor plug,
as I have it here. Then this lever."
Willington started back. Brophy laughed and clutched his sleeve.
"Have no fear," said the inventor. "You are a pronounced xanthochroid, like
myself. But it would be wise to close that panel."
He did so. The two men stood in the little room, under the single light.
Brophy took the guinea pigs from the shoe box and placed them on the crate. He
pointed to them as he pressed the lever.
"Watch."
Vivid sparks flashed about inside the dull-red tubes of the machine.
Silently, the Q-ray began to develop its full power. Brophy spoke after an
interval.
"It is time. Watch the guinea pigs." Willington did so. Both of the little
creatures were moving about on the crate. Suddenly, the brown one stopped. It
twisted sidewise and lay still. The white guinea pig kept crawling about.
"That is all," said Brophy, quietly.
He turned off the machine and picked up the brown guinea pig. Willington
examined it. The creature was quite dead.
Red tubes were subsiding in the death machine. Brophy opened the panel. He
put the white guinea pig in the shoe box and dropped the brown one in a corner
of the little room. Stepping out into the laboratory, he mounted the chair and
shoved the shoe box out of sight atop the bookcase.
Willington had also stepped from the secret room. He watched Brophy descend
from the chair. Then he spoke his tone solemn, but friendly.
"You intend to leave tomorrow?" asked Willington.
"Tonight," returned Brophy. "If I have your permission."
"There is no boat for Bermuda tonight."
"I shall stay at a hotel. In the morning I can give the key to an express
man and have him come for the baggage."
"Where are your trunks?"
"In the front room, downstairs."
"Brophy," decided Willington, "you have told me the truth. Your
demonstration with the guinea pigs prove it. As proof of my friendship, I shall
claim no further payments for my silence regarding your past."
"Do you mean that, Willington?"
"Positively. But there is one condition. I want that machine that you have
in your secret room."
"No!" cried Brophy, hotly. "You can't have it, Willington! Much of it is my
invention. It protects me, should the electric company try to deprive me of my
due!"
"I want the machine only while you are away," purred Willington. "It will
be safe with me. You should not leave it here."
"No one will find it -"
"There might be a fire."
Brophy looked startled. Then he considered. Finally he gave a nod.
"I shall lend you the machine," he declared. "But you must take care of it.
Only, how can I arrange its delivery?"
"I shall explain that. Come. Pack the machine. We will carry it down with
your trunks."
Brophy nodded. He and Willington stepped into the secret room and hoisted
the Q-ray machine into its box. They clamped the lid; then carried the box out
through the laboratory and downstairs.
"Let me have the key to this house," suggested Willington.
Brophy, puzzled, passed it to him.
"You will go out with me tonight." explained Willington. "Arrange your
passage in the morning. Call me at the Hotel Royal. I shall send the express
men. They will deliver your trunks at the pier. The box will come to me."
Brophy nodded.
"Let us go upstairs again," remarked Willington. "You left the secret panel
open."
Brophy nodded. They went upstairs. They crossed the laboratory. The light
was burning in the secret room. Brophy stepped through the panel and reached up
to extinguish the light.
"Wait," ordered Willington. He had stepped into the secret room also. He
pressed the switch that closed the panel. "I want to tell you something,
Brophy."
Brophy turned. His eyes bulged with horror as he saw a gleam in
Willington's fist. Then Willington jabbed a stub-nosed revolver into Brophy's
ribs and pressed the trigger.
A muffled report. Brophy slumped, gasping. Pungent fumes filled the room.
Willington lifted the switch. The panel opened. Willington stepped out into
the laboratory. He looked at the gasping form of Brophy.
"Sorry," said Willington, suavely. "I could not let you get anything on me,
Brophy. You would know too much if I had let you live."
Brophy made no reply. His gasps ended. The pasty-faced inventor was dead.

WILLINGTON closed the panel and replaced the loose tile, jamming it in
tightly. The secret room had become Seth Brophy's tomb.
Quietly, Willington turned out the laboratory lights. He went downstairs
and extinguished the lower lights also. He left by the front door, locking it
behind him with Brophy's key.
Cuyler Willington had used craft in his murder of Seth Brophy. He had
chosen the secret room as the spot for the fatal shot, knowing that the revolver
report would not be heard outside the house, thanks to the muffling panel.
Then the same room had served him for his disposal of the body. It would be
a long time before any one would discover the corpse of the electrical expert.
Willington's lips wore a smile as the murderer entered a cab. He told the
driver to take him to the Hotel Atlantic. Then, settling back upon the cushions,
Cuyler Willington adjusted a cigarette in his fancy holder and gazed dreamily at
the lights of Broadway.

CHAPTER XI

THE BROKEN TRAIL

LATE that same evening, two persons met at the exclusive Cobalt Club. One
was Lamont Cranston, the globe-trotter. The other was a portly gentleman: Titus
Thoreau, the banker.
The two shook hands. They were old acquaintances; but it was only
occasionally that they happened to meet. Both visited the Cobalt Club regularly
when they were in New York; but it was seldom that both were in town at the same
time.
This was no chance meeting, however. The Shadow had learned that morning
that Thoreau was in New York. In the guise of Cranston, The Shadow had been
waiting at the club, anticipating Thoreau's arrival.
Greetings exchanged, the two sat down in a quiet corner and began to chat.
It was not long before the conversation turned to the train that The Shadow
wanted. In the quiet tones of Cranston, he chanced a remark:
"Did you see Lord and Lady Atherton on your last trip to London?"
"Why yes," responded Thoreau. "What made you think of them, Cranston?"
"Something I saw in the newspapers."
"Regarding Lord Atherton?"
"No. About a chap named Mollin. A chap who once tried to steal Lady
Atherton's pearls."
"Mollin! He was my butler. That happened at my home, Cranston."
Cranston's eyes looked quizzical.
"Absolutely," asserted Thoreau. "Lady Atherton's pearls were stolen while
she was a guest of Mrs. Thoreau. It happened just at the end of an evening
party. People were leaving. We stopped them and called in the police."
"And the servants?"
"We lined them up also. All in a room together. When the police arrived, we
began a search. Mollin had the necklace."
"Did he try to alibi himself?"
"No. He confessed that he had seen the pearls in Lady Atherton's room. He
said he could not resist the temptation of stealing them. They gave him a light
sentence. But from what you say, he must have been in some new trouble."
"He was murdered last night."
"By whom?"
"No one knows."
Thoreau shook his head.
"Poor devil," he said. "I'm genuinely sorry, Cranston. I don't think the
fellow was a crook at heart. At first I did - on the night of the robbery; but
afterward, I changed my mind."
"You talked with Mollin?"
Thoreau shook his head.
"No," he declared. "It was an odd chain of circumstances that made me feel
kindly toward Mollin. You see, the man had been an excellent servant; and he had
come with fine references. One was from a chap named Willington, Cuyler
Willington. Mollin had been Willington's valet.
"It happened that Willington was a guest at that party for Lord and Lady
Atherton. The next day, Willington stopped in my office. He was highly
apologetic for having given Mollin a reference.
"Then he became indignant. He insisted that I should demand a full
prosecution of the fellow. In fact, Willington seemed so vicious in his
denunciation that I found myself taking Mollin's part."
Lamont Cranston's features wore a smile as Thoreau paused.
"I asked Willington what he had against Mollin," resumed the banker. "I
wanted facts if I intended to prosecute the man. That stumped Willington. It
seemed his indignation was all foam.
"I asked him if Mollin had ever stolen anything from him. Willington said
no. Then he recalled that he had once gone out of town for three days,
forgetting several thousand dollars that he had left upon his bureau. At his
destination he found a wire from Mollin. The servant had found the money and was
informing him that it was safe.
"That impressed me, Cranston. I became indignant toward Willington. Fancy
it, denouncing a man who had shown such honesty. When Mollin's case came up in
court, I put in a plea for leniency. Willington did not appear; but I cited the
instance that he had mentioned. The judge gave Mollin the minimum term. I told
Willington about it afterward."
"What did he say?"
"He seemed pleased. He admitted that he had been unjust in his first
denunciation."
"Willington." Cranston's tone was musing. "Where have I met that chap?"
"He lives at the Hotel Royal. A pleasant fellow, Willington. Well, good
night, Cranston."

A FEW minutes after Thoreau had departed. Cranston also left the Cobalt
Club. He stepped into a luxurious limousine and gave a destination to the
chauffeur. When the car halted, later, on a secluded street, a cloaked figure
stepped silently forth.
Lamont Cranston had become The Shadow. His course became untraceable. It
finally terminated in the darkness of the sanctum. The bluish light clicked on.
Earphones came from the wall beyond the table, brought forth by white
long-fingered hands. A tiny bulb gleamed. Then came a quiet voice:
"Burbank speaking."
The Shadow gave brief instructions. Then he replaced the earphones. The
little bulb went out.
Remaining in the sanctum, The Shadow began to open envelopes. Crime reports
from agents. This work was The Shadow's routine.

TWENTY minutes after The Shadow had given his instructions. Harry Vincent
appeared in the pretentious lobby of the Hotel Royal. He strolled up to the desk
and inquired for Cuyler Willington. He learned that the man had gone out of
town. The clerk did not know when he would return.
Harry strolled out to the street. He stood beneath the marquee of the hotel
and glanced in the direction of the hack stand. He saw an extended arm waving
from a taxicab, and headed for it.
"Get in," came a whisper. It was Moe Shrevnitz.
The cab started forward. Moe shot quick information back to Harry.
"Take a squint at that beanery across the way," suggested Moe. "Lamp the
mug at the table by the window."
"I saw him," declared Harry, as they rolled by.
"Know him?" questioned Moe.
"No," replied Harry.
"Looks like a dip to me," stated Moe, as they rolled along an avenue. "I
got up here ahead of you. I noticed the guy watching everybody that went into
the Hotel Royal. Do you think Hawkeye would know him if we could get him here?"
"Probably. Hawkeye's over at Slade Farrow's."
"I'll get him after I drop you. Where are you going? To the Metrolite?"
"Yes."
Moe dropped Harry at the latter's hotel. The taxi man sped away. He reached
the apartment where Slade Farrow lived. He rang the bell and talked to Hawkeye.
The little man came down.
On the way back to the Hotel Royal, Moe encountered a heavy traffic jam. It
was a full half hour before he reached his destination. A cop waved for him to
hurry through.
"Look quick," said Moe, leaning back to Hawkeye, who was riding as a
passenger. "You can spot him if he's still there. Yeah. There he is - getting up
from the table -"
"Shoot over to the curb, quick!" broke in Hawkeye, as he spied the man in
the window. "Let me out, Moe. I've got to tail that mug!"
Moe responded; another cab shot in front of him. It was fifty feet further
on before Moe managed to swing his taxi to a stopping place. Hawkeye bounded
from the cab. Moe edged into a cramped parking space and waited.
Ten minutes passed. Hawkeye returned. He climbed into the cab growling.
"Back to Farrow's," he said.
"Did you lose the guy?" quizzed Moe, pulling away.
"Yeah," returned Hawkeye, "Keep an eye out, Moe. That bird isn't a dip."
"No? What is he then?"
"The guy we're looking for."
"Skeeter Wigan?"
"The same. He was leaving the beanery when we slid by. I couldn't tag him.
He was gone."

A HALF an hour later, The Shadow received a call in his sanctum. Burbank
delivered new reports. Cliff Marsland, stationed in the underworld, had drawn a
blank. Harry Vincent had called to state that Cuyler Willington was no longer at
the Hotel Royal.
But from both Moe and Hawkeye had come important news. They had spotted the
missing Skeeter Wigan, on watch across the street from the Hotel Royal.
Burbank's information ended.
"Reports received," whispered The Shadow, "Instructions: Moe and Hawkeye to
keep watch at the Hotel Royal. Vincent to make another call there tomorrow."
"Instructions received," returned Burbank.
Earphones clicked. A soft laugh crept through the sanctum. Sinister mirth,
it carried future portent. Trails were broken; yet The Shadow was not perturbed.
Broken trails were linking.
From his conversation with Titus Thoreau, The Shadow had gained a key to
Congo Mollin's past. He saw clearly that Congo had been no more than an
accomplice in the theft of Lady Atherton's pearls.
Keenly analytical, The Shadow knew that Cuyler Willington had worked a
clever game with Titus Thoreau. Willington had visited the banker to demand
harsh measures toward Congo Mollin; then, artfully, Willington had worked
matters around until Thoreau had sided with the guilty servant.
It was the type of game that a clever crook would play in order to save an
accomplice. Willington had twisted it so that Thoreau became the one to plead
for leniency. Congo had taken the rap to protect his chief; and Willington's
name had stayed out of the case.
Because of that analysis, The Shadow had dispatched Harry Vincent, tonight,
to see if Willington happened to be at the Hotel Royal. Harry had learned that
Willington was gone. To The Shadow, the conclusion was obvious.
It was Cuyler Willington whom machine gunners had been out to get. It was
he who had visited Congo Mollin on the night of murder. Once again, Congo had
taken the penalty that Willington deserved.
Then Skeeter Wigan had stepped into the picture. Spotted by Moe Shrevnitz,
identified by Hawkeye, Skeeter had made a departure from the neighborhood of the
Hotel Royal. Skeeter was a missing link in the chain of crime. Cliff and Hawkeye
had been taking turns looking for him in the underworld. The man had bobbed up
in an unexpected locality.
The Shadow knew that other crooks were seeking Cuyler Willington. He also
knew that Skeeter Wigan must be a pawn in the game. With which did Skeeter side:
Willington or the others? It did not matter for the present. The answer could
come later.
If Skeeter should prove to be a tool of Willington's, it would mean that he
would continue to frequent the neighborhood of the Hotel Royal, during
Willington's absence. Should Skeeter turn out to be one of Willington's enemies,
it stood to reason that he must have been watching the hotel to see if
Willington returned. In either event, Skeeter would be back at the beanery where
Moe had spotted him.
Through Skeeter, The Shadow could gain a trail to either Willington or the
unknown murderers who had killed Congo Mollin. The Shadow had chosen to follow
that course. For he knew that this was no ordinary feud between crooks.
Moreover, it pointed along a trail which he had already begun.
The Shadow wanted to meet the hidden big shot who had ordered Driller
Borson and Gat Lober into their deeds of crime. Whether that big shot should
prove to be Cuyler Willington or some hidden crime master, made no difference to
The Shadow. Men of murder were to be his prey.

THE light clicked out. Darkness pervaded the sanctum - Stygian darkness
chilled by a parting laugh. The Shadow could foresee the future. He knew that
crooks were set to meet in deadly encounter. And through Skeeter Wigan, The
Shadow would find the path to that meeting.
Tonight, The Shadow had gained a break, thanks to the efficiency of his
agents. Breaks, when The Shadow gained them, were the result of forethought and
prompt action. The cards had turned in The Shadow's favor.
Hunter and hunted - one was to be The Shadow's quarry. Perhaps both. The
Shadow had followed trails like this before. He could picture Willington,
dodging enemies, ready, perhaps, to turn and give battle.
There was accuracy in The Shadow's study of the circumstances. Earlier this
very evening, it would have been correct in detail. But tonight, unknown even to
The Shadow, Cuyler Willington had met and murdered Seth Brophy.
That occurrence had changed all. It was destined to bring The Shadow to the
threshold of astounding crime. Soon the master sleuth would be confronted with
grim circumstances that would tax his mighty prowess to its limit.
For Cuyler Willington had gained a new and remarkable weapon: one that no
criminal had ever possessed before. Hunted by relentless foemen, he owned the
Q-ray machine that Seth Brophy had kept in the secret room where he - part
designer of the mechanism - lay dead and undiscovered!

CHAPTER XII

A TRAP IS SET

IT was the next afternoon. The Club Cadiz was deserted, save for a few
attendants who were loitering about among the tables. The obscure door to the
gaming room was locked. Nicky Donarth would not be due for the next half hour.
A man came strolling into the barren night club. It was Tony Luggeto, the
roulette operator who hailed from Monte Carlo. A smile on his dark, mustached
face, Tony nodded to the idling attendants. He produced a key from his pocket
and unlocked the door to the gaming room. He entered and locked the barrier
behind him.
Tony's smile persisted as he strolled across the gaming room. The floor was
one large space, for the roulette table was absent. Tony continued until he
reached the door to Nicky's office. Here he paused and looked about in a
cautious manner.
There was nothing unusual in Tony's entering the gaming room. The key which
he had used was one that Nicky Donarth had given him. But it was not Tony's
privilege to enter Nicky's private office. The night club proprietor presumably
possessed the only key to that inner room.
Hence Tony had need for caution when he produced another key from his vest
pocket. He moved into the little passage, reached the inner door and inserted
the key in the lock. The key worked. Tony entered the office, shut the door
behind him, and turned on the light.
He opened a drawer of the proprietor's desk. In it, he found a bunch of
keys. Carrying these, he chose the steel door at the left side of the office. He
unlocked it and revealed a flight of stone stairs that went downward.
Tony pressed a light switch. Bulbs glowed along the winding descent. The
roulette operator stole downward. He came to the bottom of the steps. A light
showed two metal doors - one on the left the other on the right. A stone wall
blocked the end of the passage.
Tony unlocked the door on the right. The glow from the passage showed a
light truck parked in what appeared to be a one-car garage. Tony gave a slight
whistle. A man came from behind the truck and stepped into the light. It was
Cuyler Willington.
The two shook hands. Then Tony, still using the ring of keys, unlocked the
door at the left of the little passage. The light revealed the bottom of an
elevator shaft. In the lowered car stood Nicky Donarth's roulette wheel.

THE elevator car was nothing more than a platform; and its floor matched
the thick, ornate rug that adorned the upstairs gaming room.
Cuyler Willington noted this and smiled. Tony Luggeto chuckled.
"Just like I told you it was," he stated. "Trapdoor in the gambling room.
Press the switch under Nicky's desk, the trap breaks downward and the whole
roulette layout comes up through the floor."
"The same switch sends the works down. That's why Nicky ain't scared of the
bulls. All he's got to do is douse the lights and press the switch. Ten seconds
- the works is gone. Down here."
"Ready to be taken out aboard the truck?" queried Willington.
"Sure," nodded Tony. "That part's a cinch. Right out into the alleyway. The
way you came into the garage. Nobody thinks any thing of that truck being here.
Just an old truck in a sort of private garage.
"Good stuff," commented Willington. "But how did you get down here, Tony,
without Nicky knowing it? You were going to explain that to me when I phoned you
-"
"Here's the answer," put in Tony, "Nicky leaves the keys right in his
office desk. So he can send me or anybody else in there if there's an emergency.
We've each got a key to the truck."
"But Nicky keeps the office key. That's the hitch. Only, one night, he sent
me into the office, giving me the key. I made a tracing of it, and measured the
thickness with a ruler in Nicky's desk. I had a key made. It worked."
"Good," laughed Willington.
Tony Luggeto looked pleased. His dark face looked unusually sallow in the
dim light. He stepped into the little elevator room and stooped above the
roulette wheel. Unfastening a clamp, he removed the wheel from the heavy base on
which it rested.
"See?" Tony pointed to a hollow interior. "It's all ready if Nicky wants to
plant any kind of a gaff inside. There was a fellow trying to sell him an
electric control. But Nicky figured he didn't need it. We've been using
bouncers."
"Bouncers?" queried Willington.
"Yes," replied Tony. He pulled a short strip of thin hard rubber from his
vest. "Like these. Wedge one in the back of a pocket on the roulette wheel. The
ball bounces out. We use them when a guy's luck starts running too good on one
special number.
"But I've been telling you all along, boss" - Tony paused with a gleam in
his dark eyes - "I've been telling you that if we planted a gaff of our own in
this wheel, Nicky Donarth would never know. Believe me, it sounded great when
you called me and told me to go get that machine this morning."
"Where is it now?" asked Willington, smoothly.
"In the truck," replied Tony. "Still in the crate, like you told me to
leave it. Say - it's heavy enough, isn't it? What is it - an electro-magnetic
machine?"
Yes," stated Willington. "Listen, Tony, When you first talked about this
idea of double-crossing Nicky Donarth, I didn't like it. I had made a deal with
you to keep an eye on the people who came here. I wanted to know who was
gambling; how much they spent. I told you to forget it when you sprang your plan
of breaking in on Nicky's gambling racket.
"But from what you tell me, Gyp Tangoli and Turk Berchler must have used
Nicky's office as their headquarters when they hatched their little scheme to
rub me out. That means Nicky was in on the deal, to some extent. So I'm ready to
get back at Nicky."
"Good way to look at it." commented Tony.
"Come on out to the truck," suggested Willington. "Give me a lift with that
crate. Let me plant the machine. I'll make sure it works. Then I'll tell you
what to do."

THE two men went out to the truck. The vehicle was a small one: for Nicky
Donarth had intended it only for the purpose of removing his gambling equipment
in a hurry, should police raid his joint.
They brought out the same box that Willington and Brophy had carried
downstairs from the inventor's private laboratory. They had no difficulty
getting it into the elevator where the roulette table stood.
"The other truck was at the house when I got there this morning," remarked
Tony Luggeto. "I had to go around and pick up the key that you left in the
envelope at Soulard's restaurant. I had the other fellows take the luggage to
storage. One of the truckmen helped me get this crate into my truck."
"Good," assured Willington. "Nicky didn't know you took out the truck?"
"Not a chance."
"All right. Slide upstairs while I plant this machine in the roulette
wheel. Where's the floor plug?"
"Right here. Shove back the edge of the carpeting. Don't you want me to
help?"
"No. I want to be sure that Nicky isn't around."
"All right, boss."
Tony left. As his footsteps died on the stone stairs, Willington opened the
box. He managed to hoist the machine from its container; for without the weight
of the box, the task could be accomplished by one man.
It required an effort to get the Q-ray machine into the space in the
roulette pedestal, but Willington succeeded.
He attached the floor plug. Then he tested the machine. The crimson tubes
sparkled. A smile appeared upon Willington's pale face as his eyes spied an
opening at the back of the pedestal. He turned about the machine and adjusted it
so that the lever projected from the open space.
Then he put the roulette wheel back in place. He lifted the empty crate,
carried it out and set it in the truck. He returned to the passage just as Tony
Luggeto reappeared from the steps.
"Any sign of Nicky?" whispered Willington.
"Not yet." Tony shook his head. "But he's due soon. Got the thing planted?"
"Yes." Willington stooped to indicate the lever, now hidden by the surface
of the roulette wheel. "But don't fool with it, Tony. It's set just the way I
want it."
"But how does it work?"
"You won't have to know. Leave that to me. When I give the signal once" -
Willington crossed two fingers - "you press the lever all the way. A signal
twice - push it back. I'll play the right numbers. We'll bust Nicky Donarth
tonight."
"Did you put the crate back in the truck?"
"Certainly. So you can get the machine out all alone. Load it in the crate
and move the truck out tomorrow. Nicky will never know how we trimmed him."
"Where will I take it?"
"I'll tell you later."
"All right," nodded Tony. "But remember one thing. Keep out of Nicky's
office. Gyp and Turk may be around tonight. They won't touch you in the gambling
room. But in the office -"
"Don't worry about me, Tony."
"I've got to warn you. There's two ways out from that place. The door that
leads down here. Another that opens into a passage that goes the opposite way.
And be careful after you leave the gambling joint. Gyp or Turk might tail you."
"I'll be careful. By the way, Tony, what about these steel doors in Nicky's
office. He leaves the keys in his desk?"
"Yes. Like I told you. And there's bolts on the outsides of the doors. In
the passages, see? So if anybody comes following along, they'll he stuck even if
they bust the locks."
"I understand. All right, Tony. Go on up. I want to go around to the front
street and see Nicky when he comes in."
Tony Luggeto ushered Cuyler Willington out through the little garage.
Tony's face showed a pleased grin when his chief had departed. Locking the door
to the garage, then the one to the little elevator, Tony ascended the stairs.
When he reached Donarth's office, Tony locked the door to the stairway. He
replaced the keys in the desk; then turned out the light. A dull square of
illumination came through the frosted surface of a thick skylight. It showed
Tony opening the door that led toward the gambling room.
Past the barrier, Tony closed the door behind him. It latched
automatically. The roulette operator strolled across the gambling room and used
his own key to go out into the night club proper.

MEANWHILE, Cuyler Willington had arrived on Broadway. Standing by the
entrance to the Club Cadiz, he was inserting a cigarette in his holder, when he
observed the approach of Nicky Donarth. Willington stretched out a hand.
"Hello, Nicky!" he exclaimed. "I thought you would be along soon." Then, in
a confidential tone, "Are you still running the roulette games?"
"Certainly, Mr. Willington." responded Nicky, covering the surprise that
his dark face had betrayed. "When will you be around again?"
"Tonight," replied Willington, lighting a cigarette. His tone was casual.
"I'm going out of town tomorrow. I thought that perhaps a little luck might help
finance my trip."
"Good," said Nicky. "I'll see you tonight then, Mr. Willington."
Another handshake. Willington strolled away, puffing his cigarette. Nicky
Donarth stood in portly pose, watching Willington's departure. But Nicky did not
see the smile that showed on Willington's face.
Nicky displayed a grin of his own as he walked up the steps to the night
club. He nodded to the waiters as he passed them. He waved a greeting to Tony
Luggeto. He continued on through the gambling room. He unlocked the door of his
office and entered.
After turning on the light. Nicky locked the door and hastily picked up the
telephone. Still grinning, the dark visaged night club operator dialed a number.
Nicky Donarth was calling Gyp Tangoli and Turk Berchler to let them know
that he had learned where Cuyler Willington would be tonight.

CHAPTER XIII

TRAILS IN THE NIGHT

IT was nine o'clock that evening.
Gyp Tangoli, attired in gaudy dressing gown, was standing in the living
room of his apartment. His dark face wore an evil scowl; his twisted lips, as
they formed an ugly smile, showed a glimmer of his gold teeth.
Opposite Gyp was Turk Berchler. The squatty killer was seated in an
easy-chair, puffing at a cigarette. Turk's pug-nosed face showed brownish in the
light. His expression was one that indicated annoyance. But Turk said nothing.
He was waiting for Gyp to speak. The time came.
"We ought to have heard from Skeeter," growled Gyp. "He's been around that
beanery for a couple of hours. It's a cinch that he ought to have spotted
Willington by this time."
"I don't figure it that way, Gyp," returned Turk. "Why should Willington go
back to the Hotel Royal?"
"That's where he lives, isn't it? And he's in town."
"Sure. But he's taking no chances."
"No? Then why is he talking about coming to the Club Cadiz?"
"It's easy to figure, Gyp. Willington knows that somebody may be out to get
him. He's not quite sure, though. He thinks maybe the bump was really meant for
Congo Mollin. But he'd be a palooka to go back to the Hotel Royal. The Club
Cadiz is different, though."
"Yeah? Why?"
"Because Nicky Donarth keeps gorillas out of that joint. Except any he
might want to have around for protection. Willington figures the Club Cadiz is
safe."
"You don't think he figures I'm out to get him?"
"Why should he? He don't know what's in your mind. You've never gone after
him before."
"Maybe you're right, Turk. But Willington is smart. He might have figured
that Driller Borson and Gat Lober were on my pay roll."
"But he wouldn't figure on meeting you at the Club Cadiz. That's why he's
going there."
Gyp nodded. Turk's expression sounded logical. The two crooks faced each
other in silence. Then Gyp spoke again.
"It looks like the Club Cadiz is the best bet," he remarked. "That is, if
Willington really shows up there. Only Nicky was kind of squeamish when I talked
to him."
"I fixed that," grunted Turk. "Nicky can't back out on anything that I put
up to him. He gave me an alibi, didn't he? Well, he's got to stick to it, or get
in wrong with the bulls. Listen, Gyp: you don't want Skeeter Wigan on the loose.
Call him in from that beanery. He won't see Willington around the Hotel Royal."

GYP TANGOLI nodded. He clapped his hands. Instantly, his two Hindus
appeared, each from a separate door.
Gyp spoke to the one called Mahmud. The fellow bowed and went to the
telephone. He dialed a number; then in careful English, he asked to speak to Mr.
Wigan. A short conversation followed. Mahmud hung up.
"I have spoken to him, sahib," said the Hindu, addressing Gyp Tangoli. "He
will come here from that little restaurant where he now is."
The Hindu turned and went into another room. Bundha copied the action,
returning to the place from which he had come. Hardly had the Hindus departed
before the telephone began to ring.
"Answer it, Turk," said Gyp.
Turk Berchler responded. His conversation was brief. He looked pleased when
he had completed it.
"It was Nicky," he said to Gyp. "Willington has shown up at the Club Cadiz.
Nicky's ready for us."
"To get Willington?"
"Sure. In Nicky's office. It will be a cinch, Gyp. Nicky can get Willington
in there. Then we show up and bump the guy. Lug him out through a passage that
Nicky has all set for a get-away. The door on the right of the office."
"Who has the key to it?"
"Nicky keeps the key in his desk drawer. But we won't need them. He's going
to leave the door unlocked."
"All right." Gyp's teeth gleamed. "Willington isn't wise; that's a cinch.
He's been around the Club Cadiz a lot more than I have. He wouldn't figure on
Nicky selling him out to me."
"Of course he wouldn't."
"And that makes it soft. I'll walk in there and meet him. Like it was an
accident. Both of us trying our luck at Nicky's. Handshakes and all that."
"Sure thing."
"You come in a little later. Don't talk to me. Just walk around, like you
belonged there. Which you do."
"Right."
"When Nicky suggests that Willington go into the office, the guy will fall
for it. If for no other reason, he'll want to talk about me and what I'm doing
there. Nicky will send for you, Turk."
"That's it."
"And when you get inside, I'll come over and cover. Nicky can step out,
leaving you talking with Willington. I'll walk in - like it was Nicky coming
back -"
"And there'll be curtains for Cuyler Willington."
Turk's face was evil as his lips formed the final statement. Gyp grinned in
appreciation of his companion's enthusiasm. He clapped his hands. The Hindus
appeared.
"We're going out," stated Gyp, forgetting his usual jargon of Hindustani.
"When Skeeter comes in, tell him to sit around until he hears from me. Get my
evening clothes. Mahmud - the coat and vest. Here, Bundha, hang up this dressing
gown."
Gyp peeled off the dressing gown as he spoke. He stood wearing stiff shirt
and collar with white tie as he waited for his coat and vest. Turk was already
attired in tuxedo. He remained in his chair.

NEAR the entrance of the Hotel Royal, Hawkeye was standing by a news stand.
He looked like a loiterer; but his presence had brought no comment from a
passing policeman. For Hawkeye had a knack of appearing harmless and
inconspicuous.
The little spotter had been watching the beanery across the street. He had
seen Skeeter Wigan go to answer a telephone call, when accosted by a man behind
the counter. Skeeter had remained to finish a bowl of chili. That accomplished,
the frail mobster was starting toward the door.
Hawkeye stepped from beside the news stand. He sauntered across the street
and shot a wig-wag signal to Moe Shrevnitz. The taxi man was parked near the cab
stand of the Hotel Royal. Moe started along the street as he caught Hawkeye's
call.
Skeeter, leaving the little cafe, was swinging toward the corner. It looked
as though he intended to walk; for he ignored the cab that was approaching. But
as he reached the corner, he suddenly changed his mind and entered a taxi that
was standing there.
"Goin' to the Delphin Apartments," growled Skeeter to the driver.
"Yeah?" questioned the cabby. "Where is the place?"
Skeeter gave the address. The taxi started out into the traffic of the
avenue.
At the same instant, a man twisted away from a jam of persons waiting to
cross the street. It was Hawkeye. Close at Skeeter's heels, the little spotter
had caught all that Gyp Tangoli's tool had said.
A traffic officer was shouting angrily at Moe Shrevnitz, who had stalled
his cab at the corner. Hawkeye came bounding over, wrenched open the door and
leaped aboard. Cross traffic started. Moe grinned at the growling cop and shot
across the avenue.
Hawkeye, head thrust through the space to the front seat, was talking
quickly. He gave Moe the name and address of the apartment house.
"I think that's where Gyp Tangoli lives," he added, as they shot along the
side street. "You'll know the mug if you see him. Dark - he looks like a gypsy -
with long hair and a lot of gold teeth.
"You can beat the goof that's driving Skeeter. Get over there ahead of them
and park. I'm coming along right after I make a phone call. Drop me at the next
corner."
Moe jammed the brakes twenty seconds later. Hawkeye bounded to the curb
near the corner of an avenue and hurried into a cigar store to make a telephone
call to Burbank.
Moe swung on a right turn. Traffic was clear. The alert cab driver made
speed.
In fact, Moe Shrevnitz, when he neared the vicinity of the Delphin
Apartments, was confident that he had gained a full five minutes on Skeeter's
cab. The street, when he reached it, was deserted except for a few parked cars.
Moe pulled up a dozen yards away from the apartment house.
This was a good place to wait.
Watching from behind the wheel, Moe kept on the lookout for the arrival of
Skeeter's cab. He had stopped on the near side of the apartment house. He was
staring at the entrance. His eyes became suddenly alert as two men stepped into
view.
Both were dark-visaged. One was tall; the other squatty. These men - Gyp
Tangoli and Turk Berchler - had come from the apartment house. Moe was positive
that one must be the crook of whom Hawkeye had spoken.
Correctly, Moe picked the tail man as Gyp Tangoli. He eased the cab into
gear and rolled up toward the apartment house.
"Taxi?"
Gyp and Turk climbed aboard as they heard Moe's question. As they entered,
Gyp growled an order through the front window.
"Club Cadiz," he instructed, "and step on it. We're in a hurry."
No chance to stall. Moe shot the cab away from the curb, carrying the two
crooks with him. Reaching below the seat, Moe pressed a switch. He bundled his
coat collar close about his neck. The action enabled him to adjust an earphone.
For the rear of Moe's cab carried the hidden microphone of a dictograph. It
was wired for such occasions as this. As he drove along to the Club Cadiz. Moe
Shrevnitz was set to overhear any conversation that might pass between Gyp
Tangoli and Turk Berchler.
Two minutes after Moe had left, another cab pulled up in front of the
apartment house. Skeeter Wigan alighted and entered the building. The front door
was open; he went through and took the automatic elevator. The taxi, meanwhile,
made its departure.
Three minutes passed. Then a furtive figure stepped gingerly into the
entrance of the apartment house. It was Hawkeye. The little trailer had come to
this vicinity after making his call to Burbank. He had looked in vain for Moe's
cab. Not seeing it, he wanted to check on the residents of this apartment house.
The name Tangoli appeared on a card by the number 3 G. Hawkeye grinned.
That was enough for the moment. Hawkeye stepped outside and slunk away toward
the darkness at the side of the apartment house. He had gone no more than a
dozen steps when a sudden hiss halted him.
The Shadow!
Hawkeye stopped, trembling. Though he owned The Shadow as a chief, Hawkeye
still dreaded his mysterious master. For Hawkeye possessed an uncanny ability at
spotting hidden watchers; yet The Shadow, at times, approached so warily that
even Hawkeye could not sense his presence.
"Report," came a whispered order, seemingly from nowhere.
Hawkeye nodded in the darkness. He had already told Burbank that this was
Skeeter's destination and that Moe would be posted near the Delphin Apartments.
He had also mentioned that he believed the apartment house was where Gyp Tangoli
lived.
Moe took up his report from that point.
"It's Gyp's place," he informed, in a whisper. "3 G is his apartment. But
Moe's gone. Maybe he picked up some passenger. It might be Gyp. I told Moe what
he looked like -"
"Report received," came a hissed interruption. "Off duty."
Hawkeye nodded. He moved away from the apartment house, almost reluctantly.
He thought he heard a swish close beside him. As he turned to cross the street,
Hawkeye could not resist the temptation to dart a glance toward the entrance of
the apartment house.
There he caught a momentary glimpse of blackness upon the stone steps of
the apartment building. Hawkeye did not see The Shadow. Only that token on the
steps, a fleeting silhouette of a figure that had entered.

UP in Apartment 3 G, Skeeter was seated in the easy-chair that Turk
Berchler had occupied. Mahmud had been here to give him orders. The Hindu had
departed, leaving him alone.
Smoking a cigarette. Skeeter was staring at the floor. His eyes became
suddenly affixed upon the same manifestation that Hawkeye had seen below. A
profiled silhouette upon the floor.
A soft laugh whispered in the room. Skeeter gripped the arms of the chair
and twisted about. The cigarette dangled foolishly from his pasty lips, its
lighted point almost burning his chin. Before him, Skeeter saw The Shadow!
Like an apparition, the master of darkness had entered the room.
Soundlessly, he had closed the door behind him. He had seen that Skeeter was
alone. Instinctively, The Shadow had known that Gyp Tangoli was gone: that Moe
Shrevnitz must have taken the dark-visaged crook as a passenger outside.
Blazing eyes were steady upon Skeeter. They burned from beneath The
Shadow's hat brim, from the face that was obscured by the upturned collar of the
inky cloak. Again, the whispered laugh. No need of questioning.
Skeeter came half to his feet, plucking the cigarette from his lips, only
to let it fall to the floor.
"Honest," he whimpered. "Honest - I - I ain't been doin' nothin'. It's Gyp
Tangoli! He - he's the guy you want. He - he had me spottin' a guy named
Willington."
"Gyp's gone. I - I don't know where to. He was gone when I got here. I - I
had to stay here. Gyp would bump me if I squealed. There was a guy here with
him. Turk -"
Skeeter saw The Shadow whirl; at the same instant, gloved hands swept from
beneath the cloak, bringing forth huge automatics. That was Skeeter's last
glimpse of life. For at that moment, two whirring objects came flashing through
the room, each from a different door.
Unseen even by The Shadow, Mahmud and Bundha had stepped up to the doorway.
Simultaneously, the cunning Hindus had sent long-bladed knives hurtling through
the air, each with a different target.

MAHMUD'S aim had been for the traitor, Skeeter Wigan. The blade found its
mark, deep in the neck of the pasty-faced crook.
Bundha's target had been The Shadow. Only a sudden knowledge of danger had
saved the cloaked intruder. The Shadow had whirled just in time.
As his cloak swept wide, Bundha's blade went slashing through the crimson
lining of the black-surfaced garment, inches only from The Shadow's body. An
instant later, both Hindus came hurtling across the room. Ignoring Skeeter as
the little crook went slumping to the floor, they leaped fiercely upon their
black-clad foe.
Even with his rapid whirl, The Shadow had not time to fire before his
dark-visaged attackers were upon him. He had spun completely about to escape the
hurled knife. Fading toward the wall, he dropped beneath the crashing force of
the attack.
These Hindus were thugs. Professional killers, banished from their native
land, they had a lust for murder. With amazing prowess, they caught The Shadow's
upcoming wrists and twisted the cloaked fighter in a ferocious grapple.
Automatics blazed. Both shots went wide as the Hindus gripped The Shadow's
arms.
The Shadow's left fist opened. Its automatic went bouncing to the floor.
One weapon lost.
Bundha, the Hindu at the left, emitted a hoarse cry of triumph as he
released The Shadow's arm and leaped toward the automatic.
But that move had been a master stroke of strategy. Combined, the two thugs
were as powerful as any enemy that The Shadow had ever encountered. Realizing
it, he had dropped the gun as bait for one.
Mahmud had The Shadow's right arm in a bone-crushing grip. But as Bundha
leaped away, The Shadow shot his free left to Mahmud's neck. With a mighty
upward snap of his body, he sent the Hindu spinning through the air. Mahmud's
grip was torn away. The would-be killer went hurtling for a dozen feet, straight
through the doorway from which he had come.
Dropped to his knees, The Shadow rolled for the floor as Bundha fired with
the automatic. The bullet sizzled six inches above the folds of the black cloak.
Bundha was surging forward as he fired. As the thug sought to press the trigger
with new aim, The Shadow fired with the automatic that he had retained.
Bundha screamed. His arms shot forward. His body came pounding down upon
The Shadow's prostrate form. Rising, The Shadow gave a push with his left
shoulder. The thug's body rolled over and lay face upward on the floor. Bundha
was dead. The Shadow's bullet had found the villain's heart.

THE SHADOW heard a sound from the next room. Swinging to the wall, he
reached the doorway. A door slammed from beyond. The Shadow sprang forward. The
room was a kitchen. Mahmud, recovering, had headed through the outer door,
locking it behind him.
The Shadow stepped back into the living room. He could hear cries from
outside; shouts coming from different sections of the apartment house.
Calmly, he picked up the telephone and dialed a number. Burbank's voice
responded.
"Report," whispered The Shadow.
"Report from Moe Shrevnitz," came Burbank's answer, "He took Gyp Tangoli
and Turk Berchler to the Club Cadiz. Overheard their conversation. They plan to
murder Cuyler Willington."
"Report received."
People were crashing at the door of the apartment. The Shadow turned and
viewed the bodies on the floor. Bundha lay face upward; Skeeter face downward.
The crook, like the thug, was dead.
The Shadow stepped into the kitchen; the illumination was dim there, for
all the light came from the living room. He crossed and inserted a pick in the
lock. Mahmud had taken the key from the other side.
Crashes at the outer door. They meant nothing to The Shadow. He needed but
a dozen seconds to probe this lock. The door opened. The Shadow stepped forth.
He was on a fire tower. As yet, no one had thought of this way of reaching the
apartment.
The Shadow descended. He stepped into darkness; he faded away through a
narrow passage between buildings at the rear. His whispered laugh sounded in the
gloom. He had found the destination that he wanted. That was the Club Cadiz.
Knowing the ways of crooks like Gyp Tangoli and Turk Berchler, The Shadow
was sure that their attempt to murder Cuyler Willington would not be hasty. He
had time to arrive before death would be due.
But The Shadow had not yet learned of Cuyler Willington's counter measures.
The doom that threatened at the Club Cadiz was more imminent than even The
Shadow knew!

CHAPTER XIV

DARK DEATH STRIKES

CUYLER WELLINGTON was standing by the roulette table in the gambling room
of the Club Cadiz. The apparatus had been raised on its elevator, ready for the
evening's play. That measure had been taken before the admission of the
customers.
Even though he knew the secret of the device, Willington was unable to note
the marks on the carpeting that indicated the edges of the elevator platform.
Smiling, he was pleased with the ingenuity of Nicky Donarth's contraption.
Tony Luggeto was operating the roulette wheel. His dark face suave, the man
from Monte Carlo was eyeing Willington, constantly ready for the signal. Tony
had fallen completely for Willington's story. He was sure that the device under
the roulette wheel was meant to control the play.
Tony's eyelids flickered as he looked toward the outer door. Willington
noted it, but did not turn. He was not surprised when a friendly hand clapped
him on the back. He looked around to face the grinning, dusky countenance of Gyp
Tangoli.
"Hello, Cuyler," greeted Gyp, in a low tone. "Where have you been, old man?
Hardly ever see you nowadays."
Willington responded with a contemptuous grimace. He shrugged his shoulders
and turned back to the play. Gyp edged beside him and spoke again.
"Don't know an old friend?" he asked, in a voice that was slightly gruff.
"I choose my associates," responded Willington, quietly. "You have the same
privilege, Tangoli."
"I don't blame you," said Gyp, trying to honey his tone. "After me running
a speak and handling a racket, I guess I'm not good enough for swell company. So
long, old man."
With that, Gyp turned away from the roulette table. He went over to a
corner, cashed in some money and received a batch of slugs. He began to play
them in a slot machine.
Another flicker from Tony Luggeto's eyelids. This time the roulette
operator's lips moved. They formed the name:
"Turk Berchler."
The second enemy had arrived. Willington gave a slight nod. He placed new
money on the board and adjusted a cigarette in his holder while Tony was
spinning the wheel.
"Having luck, Mr. Willington?" It was Nicky Donarth who asked the question.
Willington nodded as he turned to shake hands with the proprietor. Then
Nicky spoke in an undertone.
"I saw that fellow talking to you," he said. "They call him Gyp Tangoli.
Sort of a cheap racketeer who comes in here once in a while. I don't like him to
be around."
"I don't blame you," returned Willington.
"I've been troubled by those fellows," added Nicky. "Not in a business way,
you understand, but just because they want to mix with the regular clientele.
I'd like to talk to you about it. A friend gave me a suggestion to get rid of
them. I'd like your advice."
"Glad to give it, Nicky."
"Thanks. I've left my office open. Drop in there when you have a chance.
I'd appreciate it."
"Very well."
Nicky walked away. Willington glanced toward Tony. He saw his spy's lips
move. Tony was phrasing the words:
"Don't go."

WILLINGTON smiled slightly. He began to study the play about the table.
More than a dozen people were in the game. One was a mustached South American,
whom Willington recognized as an ex-official of one of the southern republics.
With him was a girl of Spanish appearance; an attractive brunette.
Other women present were blondes, with one exception. This was a girl who
was talking French to a companion. She was a pronounced brunette. Among the men
was a sallow, nervous-looking chap. Willington recognized him also. Eustis
Thaling, nephew of a wealthy railroad official.
All at the table appeared anxious to continue their play. The evening was
young. The crowd would increase, not thin. Willington shrugged his shoulders.
These people meant nothing to him.
Nicky Donarth had visited the office. He was coming back to stand near the
table. Turk Berchler had edged up. He was watching the play. Willington glanced
about and saw Gyp Tangoli strolling over from the slot machines.
Willington made a mental calculation. The edges of the room, where the slot
machines stood, might be beyond the range of the Q-ray. Gyp Tangoli, passing the
end of the table, had stopped to jingle slugs which he still held.
Chances were that he would go back to a slot machine; not remain at the
roulette table. The time had arrived for action. Willington looked about, spied
Nicky close by and made a remark to the proprietor.
"I'll be in your office shortly." he said.
"Good." responded Nick.
Willington noted Gyp Tangoli about to turn away from the far end of the
roulette table. He glanced quickly at Tony Luggeto and caught the fellow's eye.
Then, with a slight raise of his hand, Willington crossed two fingers. Tony
reached beneath the wheel and pressed the switch.
As Tony made the move, Willington stepped away, strolling slowly toward the
office. He saw Turk Berchler watching him. He caught Nicky Donarth's gaze.
Willington spied Gyp Tangoli, on the move toward a slot machine.

THEN came chaos. Death struck with a suddenness that even Willington could
not have anticipated, despite Brophy's claims for the power of the Q-ray. Tony
Luggeto, closest to the hidden death machine, slumped without a murmur.
The South American official sprawled across the board, money dropping from
his hand. A gasp came from the lips of the Spanish brunette. That was all the
girl uttered as she fell. Eustis Thaling toppled suddenly.
The French girl placed her hands to her heart. Her conversation ended as
she swayed and fell sidewise. At the end of the table, Turk Berchler gave a
sour, painful grimace and slumped out of view.
Other persons stood astounded. They were of light complexion. Their voices
rose in anguished cries as they saw the hideous fate that had suddenly gripped
their companions.
Cuyler Willington glanced quickly toward the wall. He saw Gyp Tangoli
standing there. The fellow had somehow reached a slot machine.
Willington clenched his fists. Was Gyp out of range? Hardly; but it was
possible. At least the ray would not get him as quickly as the others.
Willington decided to make for the office. If Gyp should follow him, he would
probably come closer to the effect of the Q-ray.
As Willington turned away, hands suddenly clutched him. He swung. The hands
relaxed their hold. It was Nicky Donarth. Succumbing to the effects of the ray,
the portly proprietor had made a grab for the person nearest to him.
Willington drew away. Nicky sprawled dead, his dark face grotesque.
Quickly, Willington turned and dashed toward the office door.
Reaching his objective, he entered the lighted room and found the switch
beneath Nicky's desk. He pressed it, to lower the roulette table. In the drawer
he found Nicky's keys. He sprang to the door at the left and unlocked it. He
leaped through and closed the steel barrier behind him. He shot the bolt; then
headed down the steps.
In the gaming room, horrified people were drawing away from the table where
death reigned. They were clustering toward the outer door, seeking an exit. The
dark-faced man whom Nicky had stationed there came pressing forward, seeking to
stop the exodus. Suddenly he slumped to the floor. He had come within the range
of the deadly Q-ray.
Someone reached the door and managed to unlock it. In a panic, the
survivors went shrieking out into the night club. Their wild cries caused chaos
there. Men who had seen death in the gaming room stopped attendants who were
about to enter. The panic spread.
All in the night club headed for the exits, as though the place had been
stricken by a plague, with the gaming room as its center. They chose the exits
most distant from that point as they heard the wild cries of those who had seen.
"Death! Death!"
One man alone stood in the gaming room. That man was Gyp Tangoli. He had
drawn back to the wall; with arms outstretched, he was pressed against a slot
machine. Even to his evil eyes, this scene was amazing. Stricken victims, lying
against and about the roulette table.
Nicky Donarth was dead. So was Turk Berchler. Gyp Tangoli, alone alive,
still stared. Then he saw the roulette table begin to move downward. He gazed,
puzzled. Bodies began to follow the table as it descended into the floor. They
were stopped suddenly. As the top of the table cleared a point two feet below
the floor, the sides of a trap came bobbing up with spring-like action.
The rising sections of the floor caught the falling bodies and lifted them.
They rolled, almost like drowned corpses in the swell of moving waves; then
became still.
Gyp Tangoli came suddenly to action. He sprang to the spot where Nicky
Donarth lay. He found a key in the dead proprietor's vest pocket. Seizing it,
Gyp dashed to the office. He found the door latched. Cuyler Willington had
attended to that matter. Gyp unlocked the door and entered.
Tumult was sounding from the outside night club. Policemen were fighting
their way through the hordes of frantic customers who were battling to gain the
exits. There was an outlet at the side, not far from the entrance to the gaming
room; but only a few had fled from this exit that lay so near the entrance to
the dread room of death.
Blackness emerged suddenly from that unused exit. A figure moved into view.
The cloaked form of The Shadow became visible in this deserted spot.
Swiftly, The Shadow swept through the door to the gaming room. His burning
eyes saw the bodies on the floor.
Stepping forward. The Shadow eyed dead faces. The whisper that came from
his unseen lips was one of grim, fierce understanding. Instantly the link had
leaped to his mind. He knew what had caused the death of these victims, all of
dark complexion.
Pounding footsteps from the night club. The police had broken through. The
Shadow's gaze swept round about. He pictured the spot where the roulette wheel
had been. He knew that the menace was gone.
Swiftly, he headed for the office; he stepped through the unlocked outer
door, to the passage beyond. He tried the inner door; the actual office
entrance. It was latched. The Shadow produced a pick.
Police had stopped on the threshold of the gaming room. Their mad dash had
ended. The Shadow had counted upon that occurrence. Though accustomed to the
sight of death, the blue-coats were stunned by the unaccountable scene that lay
before them.
Dark, mysterious death. The incredible result was something that men of the
law could not fathom. They waited, wondering what to do, how to move, not
realizing that someone had arrived upon the scene before them.
Meanwhile, The Shadow, glimmering his tiny flashlight in the short passage
to the office, was working upon the strong lock of Nicky Donarth's door. For The
Shadow knew the cause of murder that had struck. He was seeking the fiend who
had delivered death and fled.

CHAPTER XV

TRAILS DIVERGE

GYP TANGOLI had acted with promptness upon his arrival in Nicky Donarth's
office. Astounded by the deaths that he had witnessed, Gyp had been nonplused
for a solution to the mystery.
He might have wondered about his own survival, except for the fact that
others, too, had lived. He did not realize that the slaughter had been the
premeditated work of Cuyler Willington.
For Willington had planned with a craft far beyond Gyp Tangoli's ken.
Fiendishly, the pale-faced crook had designed the death of his ally, Tony
Luggeto, along with his enemies, Gyp and Turk. He had also included the
treacherous Nicky Donarth in his scheme of murder.
To Willington, men who knew too much were dangerous. He had let Tony
Luggeto die as he had sacrificed Congo Mollin. He had fled believing that Gyp
Tangoli would surely succumb as had those others of dark-hued complexion.
The lowering of the roulette wheel had been Willington's final stroke. He
had performed that action with confidence, thinking that Gyp Tangoli must surely
have died. But Gyp, living, had seen the contrivance drop. Gyp knew enough of
the layout at the Club Cadiz to know that the control lay in Nicky's office.
It was there that Willington must have fled. The dropping of the roulette
wheel was Willington's work, in Gyp's opinion. But to Gyp's startled brain, it
meant only that Willington must have gained some familiarity with arrangements
here. Gyp saw no connection between the roulette wheel and the dark death that
had fallen.
Two impulses had motivated Gyp Tangoli. One was pursuit of Willington. The
other was his own desire to escape before the police arrived. Thus, upon
reaching Nicky's office, Gyp's first act was to try the steel door at the left.
Gyp found the barrier bolted on the other side. He realized that Willington
had gone in that direction, closing the path behind him. Plans of pursuit
changed to those of escape. Bounding across the room, Gyp opened the unlocked
door on the right.
Just as the dark-faced crook was about to dash from the office, the
telephone began to buzz. Hesitating, Gyp grabbed the instrument from Nicky's
desk. He lifted the receiver and spoke in a low, disguised voice. The response
came in a tone that Gyp recognized:
"Is Mr. Tangoli there? I would wish to speak with him."
It was Mahmud. Hoarsely, Gyp responded.
"This is Gyp Tangoli," he informed. "What is it, Mahmud? Where are you?"
"I have gone from the apartment, sahib," came the Hindu's voice. "The
Shadow came there. He has killed Bundha. It is wise not to return, I have gone
to the place which you have prepared for an emergency in a time like this -"
"I'll meet you there," broke in Gyp.

WITH that, the crook hung up the receiver. He stared momentarily toward the
center door of the office.
Gyp's eyes were wild. He seemed to sense that someone had arrived beyond
that barrier. In that impression, Gyp was correct.
For The Shadow had reached the outside of the door at the very moment when
Gyp had completed his conversation with Mahmud. Luck had favored the crook. But
for the Hindu's timely warning, Gyp might have lingered. Mention of The Shadow,
however, had filled him with apprehension.
Hastily, Gyp Tangoli ducked through the doorway at the right. He closed the
barrier behind him and threw the bolt. He made his way along the hidden passage,
seeking only to put all possible distance between himself and the ill-fated Club
Cadiz.
Thirty seconds after Gyp's flight, the door of Nicky's office opened. The
Shadow swept suddenly into view, automatics in readiness. Finding the lighted
office empty, he closed the door behind him, locking it.
The Shadow tried the steel door on the left. He found it bolted. He tested
the one on the right and made a similar discovery. A soft laugh crept from his
lips. The Shadow knew that trails had diverged: that Cuyler Willington had taken
one route; Gyp Tangoli the other. For The Shadow had seen neither of those
crooks among the dead in the gaming room.
As The Shadow lingered, someone began to pound at the office door. The
police had arrived. Hesitation ended, they had crossed the room of death. They
were coming to investigate the office. Soon they would begin to shatter the
wooden door. Meanwhile, The Shadow stood trapped between two steel barriers,
each bolted from the other side.
Again the whispered laugh as The Shadow looked upward. Quickly the
black-cloaked personage crossed the office and turned out the light. His ghostly
figure stood revealed only by the slight glow that came through the frosted
skylight. That illumination showed The Shadow rising atop Nicky's desk.
His long arms reaching to the low ceiling, The Shadow manipulated the rusty
catches that held the skylight shut. As The Shadow worked, a crashing sound came
from the door. A policeman was attacking the barrier with an ax.
The skylight yielded, swinging downward on groaning hinges. The Shadow's
figure stretched uncannily as his fingers caught the edges of the opening. Then
his form went upward.
The Shadow came out upon a small roof. Lying prone, he drew the skylight up
with force. Despite its loosened fastenings, it jammed in place.
The Shadow knew that the police would investigate this outlet. His rising
figure looked like a growing shroud as he arose upon the little roof. The glow
of city lights outlined his shape in uncanny fashion. The Shadow made for the
edge of the roof.
Seeking a dropping point, he spied a space below. It looked like a darkened
alleyway. Lowering himself into a corner where two walls met, The Shadow found
cracked spaces among the bricks. Digging toes and fingers into these openings,
he descended.
The space was deeper than The Shadow had supposed. At the bottom, he found
himself in total darkness, save for the dull surface of what appeared to be
doors at the inner end of this little cul-de-sac. One door swung open to The
Shadow's touch. The Shadow entered and glimmered a tiny flashlight.
He was in an underground garage, an innocent-looking spot that was just
large enough for a small truck. This space was empty. The probing rays of The
Shadow's light showed a door at the side of the little garage. That door was
metal.
Producing his pick, The Shadow attacked the lock. It yielded to the
instrument. Opening the door, The Shadow stepped into a lighted passage. He saw
steps leading above; straight ahead was an open door. The Shadow saw the
roulette table, resting on the platform of the lowered elevator.
Cuyler Willington had unlocked that elevator room in order to regain his
precious Q-ray machine. He had not bothered to close the door behind him. He put
the machine in its crate aboard the truck. He had, however, locked the door to
the garage. Then he had made a prompt departure at the very time when The Shadow
had been escaping from Nicky's office.
The picture was plain to The Shadow. He saw the reason for the elevator; he
knew that the garage must have contained a truck for the removal of the roulette
layout. Yet the gambling device was still here.
A soft laugh told that The Shadow knew the answer.
Stepping into the elevator, he found the roulette wheel loose. He lifted it
and saw the vacant space beneath. Replacing the wheel, The Shadow did what
Cuyler Willington had failed to do. He clamped the wheel upon its pedestal.

THE Shadow's next action was forced by something that occurred above. A
muffled explosion came to his ears. The air in the passage quaked. Shouts
followed. The police had blown the steel door in Nicky's office. They were
coming down the steps.
The Shadow wheeled from the elevator. He crossed the passage and opened the
door into the garage. He departed without locking the door behind him. He
reached the alleyway and moved out toward the street.
Near his objective, The Shadow pressed suddenly against the wall as a
flashlight's beam came down the alleyway. Two policemen had arrived. They had
spotted this entrance as a possible way of reaching the raided Club Cadiz. They
pounded through, passing The Shadow on their way. Swiftly, the cloaked being
glided to the street.
A taxi was close by. It was not Moe's cab; but that did not trouble The
Shadow. He reached the vehicle, opened the door and stepped silently aboard. In
a quiet voice, he gave a destination. The driver heard it.
Puzzled, the fellow started the cab. He had been listening to sounds of
whistles and sirens on the avenue, where the police were still busy entering the
Club Cadiz. Hence the driver was only mildly surprised when he realized that he
had gained a passenger.
When the cab reached its destination, something fluttered to the seat
beside the driver. The man picked up the object. It was a five-dollar bill.
Surprised, the driver looked into the back seat. He turned on the light. The cab
was empty. The mysterious passenger had made a quick departure.

THE next evidence of The Shadow's presence came within the walls of the
sanctum. The bluish light clicked on. White hands appeared beneath its glare.
One hand began to write. Steadily, concisely, The Shadow was summing up the
events that he had encountered tonight.
Gyp Tangoli and Turk Berchler had fared forth to get Cuyler Willington.
That fact was evident. They had chosen the Club Cadiz as the place for murder.
They had been forestalled. By whom? Cuyler Willington.
Past and present linked. The Shadow, through his constant study of new
inventive measures, had gained facts regarding the terrible Q-ray machine. He
had believed that device to be safely kept in the laboratory of the Universal
Electric Company.
It seemed obvious that Cuyler Willington had obtained that strange machine;
that with it, he had delivered wholesale slaughter in order to eliminate
dark-skinned enemies. Through the Q-ray. Willington had made a counter-thrust.
Yet, somehow, his action had failed.
Gyp Tangoli must have escaped death. Gyp's absence from among the dead
forms in the gaming room was proof of that fact. Crooked foemen were still at
large, ready for new battle. Both were fiends. Each would again seek the other's
life.
Ordinarily, The Shadow might have let one eliminate the other. But present
circumstances forbade that course. Into this feud between two crooks had come a
new and terrible element: the Q-ray. It had been used once for promiscuous
death. It could be used again, now that its secret was known.
For the safety of humanity, The Shadow could use but one course: the prompt
elimination of both these murderers. To end their fiendish careers, he must find
one or the other. That must be accomplished with promptitude.
Trails had diverged. Links again were broken. Fierce enemies had gone into
hiding. That fact brought a sinister, understanding laugh from the lips of The
Shadow as his hand extinguished the blue lamp.
With both fiends living, there would be time to prepare for well-planned
combat. They would be hiding from each other, as much as from the law. To gain a
chance for combat, one would have to bait the other.
Therein lay The Shadow's opportunity. If other measures failed, he could
watch for the coming lure. When it arrived, he could step into the impending
battle. That thought was the reason for The Shadow's laugh.

CHAPTER XVI

THE FINAL FACTS

"DETECTIVE CARDONA is here, sir."
Police Commissioner Ralph Weston looked up and nodded to the secretary who
had spoken. The man turned about and went out to admit the detective.
Commissioner Weston glanced at his clock and smiled.
It was three o'clock on the afternoon following the terrible affair at the
Club Cadiz. Detective Joe Cardona was due to report at this hour. Weston was
pleased at the sleuth's punctuality.
A man of brusque, dynamic forcefulness, Commissioner Weston handled the New
York police force in almost military fashion. Weston looked like an army
officer; his firm face and short, pointed mustache gave him a distinctive
bearing. His eyes were both stern and alert when Joe Cardona entered the office.
Stockily built and swarthy of countenance, Cardona made a contrast to the
police commissioner. Time had been when the star detective had chafed under
Weston's driving methods. That period had passed. The two had reached accord;
then Ralph Weston had resigned his post as police commissioner in order to visit
a South American republic, where he had reorganized the police system.
During Weston's absence, the post of police commissioner had been held by a
gentleman named Wainwright Barth. A pompous individual with his own ideas about
crime problems, Barth had proven a trial to Cardona. Joe was glad to see Weston
back on the job. Weston knew it.
"Hello. Cardona," he greeted, in a pleasant tone. "You don't seem as glum
as you used to be."
"That's because you're back," admitted the detective. "Don't think I didn't
get along with Commissioner Barth. I did. But when things came up like this
Cadiz Club business, I never knew what slant he might decide to take."
"Well," mused Weston, "Wainwright Barth has taken a trip to Europe. For the
time being I am on the job. I take it that you have decided just what my course
will be in this case."
"I have," stated Cardona. "You won't stop, commissioner, until you've found
out what killed those people. I've been trying to find out for you. I haven't
got it yet."

WESTON eyed Cardona seriously. The detective began to feet ill at ease. He
always did when Weston studied him in that fashion. Looking for an out, Cardona
picked up a newspaper that was lying on the desk.
"This story in the Classic," he remarked. "It takes up the theory that we
had last night. Some sort of gas attack. But it doesn't hold together,
commissioner. They want something stronger."
"Who? The reporters?"
"Yes. Particularly Burke, the fellow who wrote this story for the Classic.
I was talking to him only an hour ago."
"Hm-m-m." Weston became thoughtful. "Didn't Burke have some sort of a
run-in with Barth while I was gone?"
"Yes," replied Cardona, with a slight grin. "He panned Commissioner Barth
in a column. He lost his job on account of it. The only reason he's back with
the Classic is because you're police commissioner again."
"Then I think we can handle Burke," Weston, with a smile. "You told him
that you had an appointment this afternoon?"
"Yes," answered Joe, "That stalled him for the time being. And if we can
keep Burke in line, we won't have trouble with the other news hawks."
Weston nodded. He took the newspaper from Cardona's hands, glanced at the
sheet and then laid it aside. He noted a stack of report sheets upon his desk;
then settled his elbow on the desk and leaned his chin against his hand.
"Cardona," said the commissioner, seriously, "we're going to stick to this
gas theory, so far as the press is concerned. We'll hold it until we have found
something better. When we uncover something that looks like the truth, we shall
still keep it secret."
"In order to bluff the people in back of the murders?"
"Precisely. Autopsies have shown that these victims died from a shock that
could have been caused by some electric impulse. But the examining officials are
still puzzled. We are up against the same trouble that the gas theory gives us.
"Why did some die and others survive? We know that the roulette table was
above the floor when the tragedy took place. But some of those in contact with
it lived; and some who were a dozen feet from it died."
"The roulette wheel was wired, commissioner.
"It was provided with a space for some mechanical device. But I do not know
of any machine that could have delivered death in the fashion that it arrived.
"Somebody made a get-away, commissioner. By rights, that fellow ought to
have loaded the roulette table aboard his truck. That was what the truck was
there for."
"Probably the man was panic-stricken. He decided to flee on his own
account. Nicky Donarth was dead. There was no reason to save his reputation by
removing the gambling device."
"But the fellow could have carried away something that was in the roulette
table."
"I understand that. It brings us back to my former point. Cardona, there is
no type of electrical current that can behave in so extraordinary a fashion as
-"

THE commissioner broke off as his secretary entered. The man had come to
announce a visitor.
"Mr. Cranston is here, sir," stated the secretary. "He says that he must
see you regarding an urgent matter."
"Tell him to come in," ordered Weston. Then, to Cardona, as the secretary
was leaving: "You may remain here while I talk with Cranston. I don't suppose he
will be long."
The tall, calm-faced visitor arrived in the commissioner's office. Weston
arose to shake hands with his friend. Joe Cardona also greeted the
globe-trotter. Weston invited Cranston to a chair.
"We are having an important conference," he reported, "But there is always
time to talk to you, Cranston. I trust, however, that your subject can be
handled briefly."
"Very briefly," came the quiet, even response, "Particularly because it
concerns the very matter that I believe you are discussing. The murders at the
Club Cadiz."
Weston stared, puzzled. He caught a momentary gleam in his visitor's eyes.
It was one of those revealing glimpses that showed the personality of The Shadow
behind his affected guise of Lamont Cranston. The flash, however, was too brief
for Weston to realize its symbolism.
"I read this account in the Classic," remarked The Shadow, picking up the
newspaper. "I was much interested in it, because it was written by a man named
Clyde Burke. Curiously, it was another article by this same writer that gave me
an inkling as to what might have caused death at the Club Cadiz."
"How is that?" questioned Weston.
"Some time ago." responded The Shadow. "I read an account by Burke that
concerned a Q-ray, developed in the laboratories of the Universal Electric
Company. The function of that ray was to change the structure of the epidermis;
so that persons of light skin would gain the qualities of darker races."
"I recall the story," nodded Weston.
"It interested me," resumed The Shadow, in the quiet tones of Cranston. "I
saw a use for such treatments in connection with my tropical explorations. I
went to the laboratory of the Universal Electric Company."
"You saw the machine?"
"Yes. And I learned its danger."
"Its danger? I thought you said it would prove beneficial."
"To persons of light complexion, yes. But to those of darker skin the Q-ray
means death."
Weston sat staring. So did Cardona. But the detective's swarthy face began
to show a sudden change. Leaping to his feet, Joe pounced his hand upon the
desk.
"Do you get that, commissioner?" he queried. "It fits! Every one that died
at the Club Cadiz had a dark complexion. Those brunettes; that South American
official; young Thaling. Nicky Donarth, Turk Berchler, Tony Luggeto -"
"Cranston," snapped Weston, "where is this machine?"
"I saw it," came the reply, "in the laboratory of the Universal Electric
Company."
"That is where we are going," stated the commissioner. "Let us start at
once."

HALF an hour later, the trio had arrived at the big laboratory. They were
seated in James Sundler's office. The supervisor was making a statement in
response to Commissioner Weston's questions.
"Our machine could have caused that terrible damage," admitted Sundler. "I
thought of it when I read this morning's newspaper. But I understood from the
accounts that some unknown gas had caused the deaths."
"That was merely a statement for the press," snapped Weston. "Where is this
Q-ray machine?"
"Locked in its testing room," replied Sundler. "That is another reason why
I did not communicate with you, commissioner.
"Let me see the machine."
Sundler led his visitors down the hall. He unlocked the door and showed the
death machine. Approaching it, he ran his finger along the top of the glass
device.
"Dust," remarked Sundler. "I assure you, commissioner, that it has not been
removed from this room. Our laboratory operates twenty four hours every day."
"Perhaps another machine was used," returned Weston, a trifle testily.
"There is no other," informed Sundler. "This is the only Q-ray machine in
existence. It was built in our own laboratory."
"Who invented it?"
"It was partly developed by our own experimenters. An outside expert
cooperated with them, however."
"What was his name?"
"Seth Brophy."
"Where is he at present?"
"I believe he has gone away for a vacation. I can give you his address,
however. He lives in New York."

THIRTY minutes later, the same group arrived at Seth Brophy's secluded
house. The four alighted from the commissioner's car and found the door of the
residence locked. Cardona went around to a side door, broke in and admitted the
others through the front.
They found the place deserted. It was obvious that Brophy must have packed
up for a trip. A search of the house brought them to the laboratory. Here,
Sundler made a thorough inspection. He shook his head.
"There is no evidence here, commissioner," he stated. "If there were any
parts of a Q-ray machine, I would recognize them."
"Brophy could have removed them."
"That is true. But to remove them, he would first have had to obtain them.
That would have been impossible."
"Why?"
"Because all the experiments were conducted in our laboratories. Certain
materials could be supplied only by us. We have kept strict watch on the removal
of any parts of machinery."
"Then Brophy could not have constructed a machine of his own?"
"I am positive that he could not have done so."
Weston paced about the deserted laboratory. He seemed to be coming to some
decision. Finally he gave it.
"Sundler," stated the commissioner, "the only answer is that someone
managed to remove and return the Q-ray machine that is in your own laboratory. I
intend to make a complete investigation there."
"Very well, commissioner."
"And in the meantime, I shall place a guard over that Q-ray machine."
"We can do better than that if you wish. We can dismantle it and destroy
the vital parts."
"But you have spent a great deal of money on the Q-ray."
"Certainly we have. But the money has been wasted. We have given up further
experiments. The Q-ray is a menace - a scientific monstrosity! I am ready to
advise its sacrifice."
"I appreciate your attitude, Sundler. That course will absolutely forestall
further crime. Come; let us leave here."
During the return trip to the Universal Electric laboratories, Weston and
Sundler reached an agreement. The new theory concerning the Club Cadiz murders
was to be kept from the press, in return for the dismantling of the Q-ray
machine. Should it be proven that someone at the laboratories was criminally
responsible for the deaths, a statement could then be made. But, in the
meantime, silence was to be preserved.
Lamont Cranston did not return to the Universal Electric Company. The
commissioner's car dropped him at the Cobalt Club. Weston and Cardona alone
returned with Sundler, anxious to see that the menace of the Q-ray machine would
be ended.
Dusk arrived. Seth Brophy's deserted house seemed gloomy in the fading
light. For a while, all was still about the shrouded building. Then a motion
occurred beside the side door.
A blackened shape had arrived there. The Shadow was working on the door
that Joe Cardona had broken open. The detective had barricaded it before
leaving; but it required only a few minutes for The Shadow to effect a new
entry.
Soon afterward, a tiny light glimmered in Brophy's laboratory. The
searching beam shone upon one definite spot. That was the top of the bookcase.
Keen eyes spied the edge of the shoe box that Brophy had replaced there. The
Shadow, as Cranston, had noted a corner of that object, but had said nothing.
A gloved hand plucked the shoe box from its place. A grim laugh whispered
in the laboratory as The Shadow removed the lid and discovered a white guinea
pig inside. This was the answer to the riddle. Proof to The Shadow that Seth
Brophy had conducted experiments of his own.
The light shone about the room. It showed the tiled wall. Approaching, The
Shadow stared keenly. He noticed a slight chip in the edge of a single tile. His
fingers loosened the piece from the wall. The flashlight showed the hidden
switch.
The secret panel opened when The Shadow pressed the switch. The rays of the
light shone upon the scene within. Seth Brophy's body huddled on the floor; his
outstretched hand almost touching another dead object - the brown guinea pig.

FIVE minutes later, The Shadow's unseen form was swishing down the stairway
of the Brophy house. The master investigator had left the little laboratory as
he had found it, with Brophy's body still concealed in its secret tomb.
The Shadow had gained the final proof he wanted. He knew the source of the
Q-ray machine that had delivered death at the Club Cadiz. His problem was to
uncover its present owner. He had played the part of Lamont Cranston only to
gain the beginning of a trail; to learn what James Sundler would have told only
to the police commissioner - namely, who had been responsible for the creation
of the death machine.
Commissioner Ralph Weston intended to keep facts from the press; to let the
police remain in ignorance of what had caused the deaths at the Club Cadiz.
Weston felt justified, since he had taken measures to eliminate what he believed
was the only Q-ray machine in existence.
Similarly, The Shadow had decided to let the police commissioner remain in
the dark. He, too, was justified. He had followed clues that Weston and Cardona
had failed to see. The Shadow, like the law, intended to move unhampered.
With the final facts established, The Shadow was prepared to seek the next
meeting between men of crime. His laugh, delivered outside the dreary walls of
the old house, was proof that his next trail would not fail.

CHAPTER XVII

THE SCHEMER RESUMES

FOUR days had passed since The Shadow's discovery of Seth Brophy's body.
Two men of crime were still missing: Cuyler Willington and Gyp Tangoli. The
furor aroused by the murders in the Club Cadiz had died away.
The police had gained no inkling of Cuyler Willington's part in murder.
Oddly, however, they were searching for the man whom Willington sought. The law
was after Gyp Tangoli for a matter other than the slaughter at the Club Cadiz.
The fight at the Delphin Apartments had been laid on Gyp Tangoli. It was
believed that Gyp, as the tenant of Apartment 3 G, had been responsible for the
deaths of Skeeter Wigan and an unidentified Hindu.
The report of the trouble at Gyp Tangoli's had been but a small item in the
daily newspapers. But along the grapevine telegraph of the underworld, it was an
important subject. The underworld knew that the bulls were after Gyp Tangoli.
The underworld knew also that Gyp had disappeared.
No one had reported Gyp as having been at the Club Cadiz on the night of
slaughter. In fact, the dead bodies in his apartment had served him as an alibi;
for the fight there had taken place just before the massacre at the Club Cadiz.
As for Cuyler Willington, his position was perfect so far as the law was
concerned. Moving in select circles, this crook felt no fear of implication in
the Club Cadiz outrage. He was keeping out of sight on account of Gyp Tangoli.
This was the fourth evening since The Shadow's investigation at Brophy's
house. The night was drizzly. City traffic was hampered by the mean weather.
Taxis were few along Sixth Avenue. The drivers preferred thoroughfares where
there was no chance of skidding into elevated posts.
One cab, however, was sloshing directly along the avenue, close to the
curb. It came almost to a stop; then moved on a dozen yards and halted. Peering
through the rain, the driver spied a number over an old battered door. He
announced to his passenger that they had reached the destination.
The man who alighted was wearing a raincoat, with the collar turned up
about his face. He paid the driver; when the cab pulled away, he went up the
steps to the battered door and rang the bell.
The door opened. A stooped figure met the visitor. The two men went up a
flight of darkened stairs and entered a room that was lighted by a single gas
jet.
The visitor doffed his hat and coat. His pallid features were revealed in
the light. This man who had come to the old house on Sixth Avenue was Cuyler
Willington.

THE stoop-shouldered fellow who had admitted Willington, was an evil-faced
scoundrel whose features were wizened and dusky. He was wearing a shabby smoking
jacket and a black fez with a gold tassel. He was puffing a large pipe, and his
lips showed a toothless grin.
"It is good you are here, Mr. Willington," declared the man with the fez.
"I have wondered every day when you would come. At last you are here."
"Yes," chuckled Willington, "I'm here, Rami Zaka. There would have been no
use in coming earlier. It was safer for me to remain at the little hotel where I
am staying."
"I have kept the box that you sent to me," declared Rami Zaka. "It's in the
storeroom, with the elephant table. Would you like to see them?"
"Not yet." Willington reached to his raincoat pocket. He brought out a
newspaper that was dampened by the rain. "I want you to read this advertisement,
Rami Zaka."
The dark man took the newspaper. He studied the column that Willington had
indicated. His eyes became glaring.
"So!" hissed Rami Zaka, "He is back! That fake who calls himself swami
Marabout Bey. Bah! He was the one who hurt the business which I had been doing."
"Do you know who he really is?" questioned Willington.
Rami Zaka shook his head. Willington took the newspaper and turned to
another page. He pointed to a news column, where a brief item mentioned the
search for Gyp Tangoli.
"What!" exclaimed Rami Zaka, eagerly. "This Gyp Tangoli - he is Swami
Marabout Bey also? Ha! That will be good for me. I shall speak to the police -"
"Keep your fez on," interposed Willington, with a laugh. "You won't talk to
the law just yet, Rami Zaka. Sit down and listen. I have something to tell you."
Rami Zaka quieted. He perched, Turkish fashion, upon a little stool that
stood in the corner. Willington began to talk.
"You remember, Rami," he said, "that this Swami Bey worked for me at one
time. I found him unreliable. I let him go. He quit the swami racket and went
around under his right name: Gyp Tangoli."
"He is no gypsy -"
"He looks like one. They call him Gyp for a nickname. Anyway, Gyp Tangoli
tried to make trouble for me, not so long ago. I ducked out of sight. Gyp had to
do the same, on account of the bad business tip at his apartment."
Willington was fixing a cigarette in his holder; apparently that engaged
his attention while he spoke. Actually, he was eyeing Rami Zaka beneath lowered
brows. He could see that the wizened man was accepting the story.
"Gyp is not afraid of me," went on Willington. "He thinks that he has me on
the run. That is why he went back into the swami racket. He thinks he is safe.
The worst of it is that if the police get him, they won't be able to pin
anything on him."
"Men were killed in his apartment recently -"
"That doesn't prove that he was the murderer. The same way with a lot of
crooked stuff that Gyp pulled. The law needs proof. To merely expose him as a
fake would gain us nothing. I have a better scheme."
Willington paused. Rami Zaka puffed tensely at his pipe. Willington eyed
the stoop-shouldered man. Rami Zaka was not a crook. Willington was basing his
plan upon the fellow's love of fakery.
"Gyp Tangoli knows the swami business." remarked Willington. "Read that ad.
It says that he and his company of Hindu mystics have opened their new psychic
parlors. You know who will go there. People who have lots of money."
Rami Zaka nodded wisely.
"Our game is to queer Gyp's racket," resumed Willington. "To do it, we will
have to keep tabs on him. That is why I asked you about the elephant table. It
has the hollow base, where you used to keep the midget hidden."
"That is right," nodded Rami Zaka. "Little Poley used to sit in there for
hours at a time, hearing what people said when they came into my reception room.
They admired that table, with its four posts like elephant trunks. They never
knew that the little man was inside."
"And Gyp Tangoli - Swami Marabout Bey - will not know what is inside that
table when you sell it to him."

RAMI ZAKA'S eyes opened wide. The man lowered his pipe. He began to
understand; his grin appeared. Then the expression faded. Rami Zaka shook his
head.
"It will not do," he declared. "Little Poley is no longer here. What if he
was? What if we could find another like him? If I sell the table to Swami
Marabout Bey, he would find that someone was inside it. Our little man could not
stay there all the while."
"We're putting something else inside the table," explained Willington. "We
won't use a midget. We'll use a machine."
"A machine? Is that what you sent me in the box?"
"Yes. A silent recording device. It starts automatically and stops at the
sound of a human voice."
"Ah! You mean it will catch all that is said in the swami's seance room?"
"Exactly. It can stay there indefinitely."
Rami Zaka began to nod; then paused.
"How will we get the table back?" he questioned.
"Easily," replied Willington, smoothly. "Sell it to Gyp Tangoli. Cheap.
Meet his terms; then explain that you will have to have the table back for just
one seance that you are going to give. And when you deliver the table it will be
necessary for you to connect the electric wire from the recording device into a
floor plug. This will have to be done unseen.
"Tangoli can use the table in the meantime, paying you part of the cash.
After a few days, you go back and get it. We will keep it for a few hours.
During that time, we can remove the recording machine."
"And we will know all about the swami's game," chortled Rami Zaka,
springing from his perch. "It is a wonderful idea, Mr. Willington. What will we
do after that?"
"Start a swami racket of our own. Chisel in on his best customers. I can
stay out of sight - you a silent partner. Come. Rami, let's see the elephant
table."
Rami Zaka led the way into an apartment that served as a storeroom. Two
objects caught Willington's eye: One was the elephant table; the other the crate
that contained the Q-ray machine. He had brought it here for storage, after his
departure from the Club Cadiz.

THE elephant table was a massive piece of furniture. It consisted of a
solid pedestal. Its corner posts were formed by elephant heads, with long trunks
extending down to the base. In the center of the top was a circular stand,
intended to receive a crystal ball.
Rami Zaka approached and gave a twist to the cylinder. It unscrewed under
pressure and came out, to show a space beneath. Reaching in, the wizened fellow
undid hidden clamps. He lifted off the top of the elephant table. He pointed to
tiny air holes that could not be seen from the outside, due to the darkness
within the big pedestal.
"All right," said Willington with a nod. "It is large enough. Help me open
the box."
They pried the top of the crate and brought out the Q-ray machine. Rami
Zaka looked puzzled at the oddity of the device. Willington made no comment
other than a gesture to lift the machine into the elephant table. The space
proved ample.
Willington noted that the all-important lever was below the surface of the
elephant table. He looked about, found a piece of wire and attached it to the
lever. He replaced the top of the table, reached in and tightened the clamps.
Then he drew out the end of the wire.
Examining the cylinder that went in the center of the top, Willington noted
that it had a slight projection beneath. He carefully coiled the wire about this
knoblike section. Allowing some slack, he began to screw the cylinder into
place.
When this was nearly accomplished, Willington felt the resistance of the
wire. He smiled.
The slack was gone. Another turn of that cylinder, accomplished against
pressure, would cause the wire to draw the lever. The apparatus was set for
murder. All that it needed would be a final twist.
"Touch nothing," said Willington, warningly, as he turned to Rami Zaka.
"The mechanism is as I want it. Go to see the swami tonight. Be friendly.
Pretend that you need money. Offer him the table. Let me know how you succeed. I
shall do the rest."
Rami Zaka nodded in agreement. He ushered his visitor from the storeroom.
Willington donned hat and coat and left the dismal little apartment.
Ten minutes after Willington's departure, Rami Zaka also fared forth.
One hour later, the schemer received a telephone call at the obscure hotel
where he was stopping. It was from Rami Zaka. The wizened seer had made a
bargain with Swami Marabout Bey. Gyp Tangoli would receive the table tomorrow.
Standing by the window of his room, Cuyler Willington looked out toward the
dreary glow of the city that shone through the misty night. His lips formed a
contemptuous smile. One that symbolized a triumph that the murderer had long
anticipated.

CHAPTER XVIII

THE NEXT NIGHT

THE address of Swami Marabout Bey was that of an old house on Fifty-eighth
Street. The place was an unpretentious residence that had been converted, years
ago, into an apartment building.
On the same night that Cuyler Willington held his meeting with Rami Zaka, a
vigil began outside of the house on Fifty-eighth Street. It started with the
arrival of a taxicab that parked in the vicinity for a full hour. Moe Shrevnitz
was the driver of that cab.
After the taxi had gone, a coupe parked and remained in the neighborhood
until midnight. Harry Vincent was behind the wheel of the car. When he went off
duty, another watcher took charge for the remainder of the night. This was
Hawkeye, loitering in a little alley across the way.
In the morning, Moe was back. Afterward came an Italian fruit vender who
kept moving his wagon up and down the street most of the day. This was Pietro,
another of The Shadow's reserve agents. The abode of Swami Marabout Bey was
under constant surveillance.
For The Shadow had not been deceived by Gyp Tangoli's return to his old
character. Like Cuyler Willington, The Shadow had seen the advertisement in the
newspaper. He had recognized that Gyp Tangoli and Swami Marabout Bey might be
the same man. He wanted to know more about the affairs of the pretended mystic.
Rami Zaka's visit to Fifty-eighth Street had preceded the vigil of The
Shadow's agents. Hence no trail had been gained that might lead back to
Willington. But on the next day, reports came in to both Rutledge Mann and
Burbank, The Shadow's contact aids.
Various furnishings had been delivered to the house on Fifty-eighth Street,
all of them to Swami Marabout Bey. These were described in as much detail as
possible. Among them had come the elephant table, delivered in a single
shipment.

EVENING found The Shadow in his sanctum, going over reports from his
agents. He contacted with Burbank by telephone, to obtain final reports. Swami
Marabout Bey had been seen entering his abode: this report came from Harry
Vincent, who had relieved Pietro near dusk. Harry was not positive that the
fellow was Gyp Tangoli.
A report from Clyde Burke was important. Clyde had seen Joe Cardona at
headquarters. The detective had mentioned Gyp Tangoli. It was plain that Joe had
gained no clue to the man's identity. With that report, Clyde had gone off duty.
Matters had turned to The Shadow's liking. A soft whisper above the blue
lamp told that fact. There was a sinister tone to The Shadow's mirth, one that
z ill for crime. The Shadow's mental prediction had come true.
Bait. That was Gyp Tangoli's purpose. He had taken on the character of
Swami Marabout Bey in order to lure Cuyler Willington to doom. Willington must
certainly know that Gyp was the swami.
In his comparison of the two crooks, The Shadow had picked Gyp as the one
who relied on power: Willington as the one who dealt in craft. He knew that Gyp
could not have guessed the danger of the Q-ray, even though he had seen its
action at the Club Cadiz.
Gyp probably realized that death had been delivered by Willington; yet his
own survival had made him believe that his luck would hold. Entrenched in his
new abode, he was ready for an attack, confident that he could overpower
Willington if the man made a move.
Moreover, Gyp would not fear exposure to the police, through Willington.
The law did not have the goods on Gyp Tangoli. In a tight spot, Gyp could tell
plenty to make trouble for Willington. The Shadow knew that Gyp Tangoli was
laughing at the law while he waited to receive Cuyler Willington as friend or
foe, in whichever capacity Willington might choose to come.
Considering what he had learned of Willington, The Shadow felt sure that
the schemer would eventually take the bait. Not, however, until he had
formulated some plan of his own. That was why The Shadow had posted his agents
for the first night. Well convinced that Gyp was the swami, The Shadow was ready
now to move in person.
The bluish light clicked out. A laugh rang through the sanctum. It rose
eerily and broke into shivering echoes. The Shadow had made his departure.
Within a half hour he would be at Swami Marabout Bey's.

DOWN at detective headquarters, Joe Cardona was seated at his desk.
Something of Joe's glumness had returned. His swarthy face was clouded. Quizzes
at the Universal Electric Company had failed. The police had learned
conclusively that no one could have had a part in the removal and replacement of
the Q-ray machine.
That device had been dismantled. Its parts had been destroyed. James
Sundler had produced physicians who had examined the bodies of the experimenters
who had died during tests of the machine. Those doctors had looked at the
victims of the slaughter in the Club Cadiz.
They believed that the persons at the night club had been murdered by the
Q-ray. But how? By whom? Joe's check-up at the Universal laboratories had
convinced him that there could not be a second Q-ray machine in existence.
Wearily, Cardona arose from his desk. He dreaded a meeting with the police
commissioner. Weston had gone out of town for the evening, but would he back
later tonight. Cardona knew that his chief would expect results.
Someone entered the office. Joe looked up to see Detective Sergeant
Markham. Enthusiasm showed on the fellow's face. Joe growled a question:
"What is it?"
"A lucky break, Joe!"
"On this Club Cadiz business?"
"No. On Gyp Tangoli."
"Hang Gyp Tangoli!"
Cardona started for the door. Markham stopped him. The detective sergeant's
face was serious.
"It may be bigger than you think, Joe," he informed. "That's why I came
here in a hurry. Listen, Joe: You can't get anything tonight on the Club Cadiz
business. But if you go after Gyp Tangoli - and get him - you'll have something
to tell the commissioner."
"Maybe you're right, Markham," said Joe, suddenly. "After all, we might be
able to pin a murder charge on Gyp. What did you find out, Markham?"
"Well - do you remember that dead Hindu up at Gyp's apartment?"
"Yeah. We didn't identify him."
"I've found out who he was. His name was Bundha."
"Bundha what?"
"Just Bundha, I guess. Maybe those Hindus only have one name. But wait'll I
tell you how I learned it. There was a Hindu uptown got hit by a truck a couple
of hours ago. They took him to a hospital in the precinct where I was. The
fellow was trying to talk. They couldn't understand him. The lieutenant knows a
lot of lingos. He went over to the hospital and I went with him."
"Did the Hindu talk?"
"Yes. He came to and babbled in English. Saw me and gave me his chatter.
Said his name was Nabu. Cousin of Bundha. The man who was killed by the gun.
Then he began to curse another Hindu called Mahmud. Said Bundha died because he
listened to Mahmud. Said he was dying because he was going to work for Mahmud."
"Who was Mahmud?"
"From the way this Nabu talked, I got it clear that Bundha wasn't the only
Hindu there at Gyp Tangoli's. Mahmud was there, too. Both of them working for
Gyp. Bundha got bumped. So Mahmud got hold of this cousin, Nabu, and offered him
a job."
"To take Bundha's place."
"Sounds like it. And Nabu was on the way to work when the truck hit him. So
Nabu figured it was fate. Guess he wanted me to warn all Hindus to stay clear of
this guy Mahmud."
"Where was Nabu going?"
"He said to a house of a wise man. The new mahatma that the newspapers told
about. So I looked through the Classic on the way down here. I spotted this."

MARKHAM pulled the tabloid from his pocket. He handed it to Cardona and
pointed out the same ad that Cuyler Willington had shown Rami Zaka on the night
before. Cardona studied it.
"Swami Marabout Bey," he read. "Did this fellow Nabu mention him by name?"
"No. He said he was going to the house of a wise man. But I sort of figured
that might be where Gyp is hiding out."
"And he said he was going to work for Mahmud?"
"Yes."
Cardona looked at the newspaper again; then thrust it in his pocket. The
address on Fifty-eighth Street was firmly implanted in his mind. Joe turned to
Markham.
"A company of Hindu mystics," he quoted, from the ad. "That means a bunch
of stooges - Hindus dressed up - working for this Swami Marabout Bey."
"And Mahmud will be the chief guy of the Hindus, eh?"
"Yes. But what I'm wondering is who the swami is."
"Some faker, I guess, that just blew into town."
"Maybe. Maybe not. He may be someone we're after."
"Who?"
"Think it over, Markham. You brought in the clue."
Joe was reaching for the telephone. Markham stood scratching his head.
Suddenly the answer burst upon him.
"Gyp Tangoli!"
Cardona nodded as he heard Markham's ejaculation. Then, over the telephone,
he began to give orders. Cardona was arranging a raiding squad. He was taking up
Markham's lead, planning a swoop upon the headquarters of Swami Marabout Bey.

HAWKEYE had gone on duty opposite the house on Fifty-eighth Street.
Standing in his sheltered alleyway, the little spotter heard a hiss like the one
that had reached his ears on a previous night.
"Report."
"Nothing new," whispered Hawkeye. "The joint's on the second floor front.
Lights showing out from the shutters. The swami's up there. I think he's Gyp
Tangoli."
"Other entrances?"
"One at the back of the apartment house. Sort of a fire escape. Looks like
it opens into a back hall."
"Off duty."
Hawkeye moved away. This time he did not look back. He would have seen
nothing had he done so. The Shadow's departure across the gloomy street was too
stealthy to be discerned by human eyes.
Through a passage beside the old house, The Shadow reached the rear. He
found the fire escape; his long arms drew down the hinged steps. The Shadow
ascended. He entered a darkened window at the rear of the second floor. It
brought him into a back hall.
The interior arrangement of the old house was odd. To the right of the rear
hall was the entrance to a small apartment. Past that, the hall turned and ran
clear across the house. The front apartment was to the left of the front hall.
Reaching that point, The Shadow observed a stairway; he also saw the door
of the front apartment.
On the way, he had noted a door leading from the portion of the hall that
ran across. Unless it should prove to be the entrance to a clothes closet, that
door would turn out to he a rear entrance to the front apartment.
The Shadow returned to that point. He found the door locked. He opened it
with his pick and stepped into a small room where the only illumination came
from the window. Across the room was another door, white in the gloom.
Approaching this barrier, The Shadow tested it. The door was locked; more
than that. The Shadow's pressure along the edge of the door told him that it was
held by a high bolt on the other side.
The Shadow's fingers tapped the edge of the door; not audibly, but in a
fashion that indicated a dependence upon the sense of touch. It was as if The
Shadow were feeling through the woodwork, picking the exact spot where the
hidden bolt lay.
The tiny flashlight glimmered, its disk-like ray no larger than a silver
dollar. Into that sphere of light came The Shadow's other hand, bringing a tool
shaped like a bradawl. The little instrument dug into the woodwork. The Shadow
was probing for the bolt.
A slow but steady task. The awl, as it entered, furrowed from side to side.
Once through the thick woodwork, that tool would press the bolt; slowly,
indiscernibly, it would draw back the metal fastening. Silently, careful to the
extreme, The Shadow was seeking this mode of entry into the abode of Swami
Marabout Bey.
Perhaps this process would lead to an encounter; possibly it would mean the
opposite. The Shadow, knowing that retirement might prove the best plan, was
painstaking in his work, so that he could cover it up afterward.
For it was not his purpose to deal alone with Gyp Tangoli, alias Swami
Marabout Bey. Murderer though Gyp Tangoli was, The Shadow still wanted him as
bait for a greater fiend. Until Gyp had managed to lure Cuyler Willington to
this abode, The Shadow's work must remain hidden from the knowledge of the false
Swami Marabout Bey.

CHAPTER XIX

FACE TO FACE

GYP TANGOLI was standing in a large room near the rear of his apartment.
The place was bedecked with curtains. It was a seance room deluxe, befitting the
new character that the dark-visaged crook had adopted.
At the rear of the room was a massive, thronelike chair that rested in
front of heavy velvet drapes. Those particular curtains covered a door that lay
behind them. In the center of the room, occupying the place of honor, was the
elephant table that Gyp had purchased from Rami Zaka.
Gyp himself was scarcely recognizable in the garb of Swami Marabout Bey.
His silken garments would have looked well upon a maharajah. Crimson and gold,
they matched the turban that the pretender wore upon his head. The turban was an
adornment that belonged to Hindus of the highest caste. A golden plume rose from
its crimson folds.
At his side, the false Swami Bey carried a golden scimitar in a sheath of
the same metal. His trappings, like his surroundings and the rug on which he
stood, were gorgeous - except for the smell of camphor. Gyp Tangoli had brought
the whole outfit from storage.
Two Hindus appeared from the curtained archway at the front of the seance
room. They were bringing incense burners. A pungent odor filled the room. Gyp
sniffed and smiled, his gold teeth gleaming in the mellow light. The incense
would rid the room of camphor.
As the Hindus took their positions at the side of the room, Gyp stroked his
chin. He had adorned his face with a light cluster of false hair. The beard-like
floss looked genuine. A glance at the costumes of the Hindu servitors convinced
Gyp that they were ready for their part. Then the fake swami looked at the
elephant table.
Gold with jet black lines, that table fitted well with the arrangement of
the room. Gyp was pleased that he had bought it from Rami Zaka.
Mahmud entered, attired in a costume almost as resplendent as Gyp's. The
chief Hindu was carrying a large crystal ball. Gyp took the sphere and rested it
upon the stand that stood atop the elephant table.
Mahmud retired. Gyp strolled over and seated himself in the big chair. He
contemplated the scene before him. Clients would be few upon this opening night.
But more would come later. Gyp was looking forward to a profitable racket while
he dodged the police. More than that, he counted on a meeting with Cuyler
Willington.
For as Gyp figured it, the smooth crook would be lulled when he learned
that his former associate had gone back into the soothsaying business.
Willington would expect no harm from Gyp Tangoli.
Gyp thought of the little room in back. A good place for the temporary
bestowal of a corpse. The idea brought another leer to the man's ugly visage.
Mahmud entered while Gyp was still staring at the crystal. The Hindu bowed
with a profound salaam. He spoke:
"One to see you, Swami Sahib. Rami Zaka."
"Let him enter."
Mahmud retired. A few moments later, Rami Zaka appeared. The wizened man
was clad in street clothes, save for a black fez, with black tassel - a form of
headdress that he always wore.

RAMI ZAKA'S eyes opened in genuine admiration. Despite his secret hatred
for the faker, Swami Bey, the dark-faced visitor could not restrain the
enthusiasm that he felt. The fact that his elephant table occupied the center
pleased him immensely. He also noted the wire he had secretly attached to the
floor plug, still in place.
Rami Zaka, pointing to the elephant posts, said, "Ah, swami, you drove a
hard bargain with a poor man. That table is worth twice the price you are giving
me."
"Perhaps I may pay you more," returned Gyp, in an indulgent tone. "If
business proves good, we can discuss that later. Be seated, my friend." He waved
his hand toward a chair. "Let us talk."
Mahmud had closed the front doors of the seance room. Beyond them was a
little reception room, well-furnished, with hanging draperies, as silent as a
tomb. No one was in sight until a little bell tingled. Then a Hindu appeared
from between two curtains and opened the outer door.
Cuyler Willington stepped in. He released the door; it closed automatically
behind him. Willington looked at the Hindu.
"I want to see the swami," he declared.
"Your name, sahib?"
"Cuyler Willington."
"Enter, sahib. The swami awaits you."
The Hindu opened the doors to the seance room. Willington, stepping in that
direction, had the sensation that eyes were upon him. He fancied he heard a
slight buzz from the inner room. He advanced across the threshold. He stopped
short.
Straight ahead, Gyp Tangoli had risen from his chair. The swami-clad crook
had drawn a revolver. He was covering the doorway where Willington stood. The
Hindu servants had moved swiftly to either side: each man was standing with
upraised knife.
Instinctively, Willington stepped back. He heard a sound behind him.
Turning, he saw Mahmud and another Hindu who had stepped from the curtains to
join the man who had admitted him. All three were closing in with ready blades.
"Enter," came Gyp Tangoli's sneer. "Enter, if you wish to speak with Swami
Marabout Bey."

WILLINGTON stepped forward. He saw Rami Zaka cowering in a corner. The man
with the fez had dared make no move.
The Hindus followed Willington as he moved toward the center of the seance
room. Spreading, they formed a semicircle of threatening blades. Willington
looked unconcerned.
"Hello, Gyp," he said to Tangoli. "I've come here to talk to you. I did not
expect this reception."
"You will have opportunity to speak," retorted Gyp, "I should like to hear
what you have to say - and to offer."
A pause. Gyp babbled Hindustani at Mahmud. The chief thug lowered his knife
and made a search of Willington's pockets. He found no weapon. Stepping back,
Mahmud again raised his knife.
"It looks like you mean business, Gyp," laughed Willington, a trifle
nervous. "I can't quite understand it. I thought we were friends."
"Perhaps we are," returned Gyp, in the solemn tone he used for Swami Bey.
"Perhaps we are not. Fate alone can answer."
"Going back to the old lingo," chuckled Willington. "You always did it
quite well, Gyp. I coached you a bit. Remember? Picked flaws in your grammar.
You listened. You didn't forget. You're a smart lad, Gyp. Even if you do intend
to murder me."
"I plan nothing," Gyp's teeth gleamed in an evil smile. "I have not been
certain of your purpose here. That is all. Come. Tell me what you intend to
say."
The gun was still leveled. Gyp's left hand was ready. Willington knew that
he was ready to give a signal. Silent murder, butchery from those Hindu knives.
These thugs of Gyp's were not stranglers like their ancestors. These villains
would deal in any form of murder.
"Gyp" - Willington took a step forward, the Hindus following - "I can see a
prosperous future in store for us. The crystal tells me" - he paused to lower
his hands and raise the crystal sphere, which he balanced in his right - "that
much wealth will soon be ours."
Gyp's face wore a sneer. He was unimpressed. He knew that Willington
realized the danger. He expected the doomed man to barter. He withheld the
signal. He wanted to see Willington cringe before those knives struck.
Willington knew it. He smiled slightly as he parried. He rested his left
hand upon the stand that had held the crystal ball. He shook his head.
"Friends cannot speak while one mistrusts," he stated. "Put away your
revolver, Gyp. It disturbs the scheme of this oriental setting."
Gyp thrust the revolver beneath his jacket. He did not need the weapon, now
that he had learned Willington to be unarmed. The knives of the thugs would
bring death to the man Gyp hated.
"Beware!" declared Willington, in a steady tone. His left hand was turning
the cylinder upon the table. "Beware, dark men! Doom awaits you! That is the
message in the crystal."
The wire had tightened. Willington had felt the pull of the lever beneath.
He had raised his head in challenge. His sneer was venomous.
Seeing it, Gyp Tangoli snarled and lifted his hand in signal. Gloating, the
fake swami watched to see the knives flash downward into Willington's helpless
form.
Then came astoundment. Mahmud was wavering. So was the Hindu next to him.
One man, drawing back his arms, succumbed with a gargling gasp. Then the last
two Hindus toppled.
Cuyler Willington chuckled as he started straight at Gyp Tangoli.
Once again this smooth murderer had released the Q-ray, dealing death to
men of his own ilk. This time, but one innocent victim was due to die with the
rest. That man was Rami Zaka, already tottering.
For Rami Zaka, like Congo, Brophy and Luggeto, was a henchman who might
know too much. True to his evil form, Cuyler Willington was destroying friend as
well as foe.

CHAPTER XX

DARK DEATH FAILS

OF all those grouped about the elephant table, but one man remained
standing after the release of the deadly ray. That one was Cuyler Willington,
author of the horrible death. His clear, light skin was his protection.
Willington could afford to laugh as he remained unmoving.
Gyp Tangoli was a dozen feet from the center of the room. He had risen half
from his chair. As at the Club Cadiz, he was frozen by the sight of the toppling
men before him. His hands were trembling as they gripped the arms of the big
chair.
Willington was standing with the crystal ball still poised. He could see
the waver of Gyp's rigid form. He saw Gyp's wild eyes bulging from their
sockets. Willington snarled insidious words.
"You are next, Gyp," he predicted. "You cannot escape tonight as you
escaped before. You are too close. You wonder what has killed them. Let me tell
you. The machine that Rami Zaka and I planted in this elephant table."
"The same device that Tony Luggeto and I put in the roulette table. The one
that I shall remove tonight as I removed it before. The deadly Q-ray! It killed
some; but not others. I am immune."
Willington paused. Gyp Tangoli was gasping. The man seemed weakening. His
strength faded.
"Those of light complexions," chuckled Willington, "cannot be harmed by
the deadly ray. Turk Berchler died. So did Nicky Donarth and Tony Luggeto.
Others who were as dark as they perished with them.
"These Hindus fell quickly. Darkest of the Indo-European races, they were
due to succumb instantly. Rami Zaka went next. You cannot survive - not with
your dark skin. Too bad, old fellow, that your complexion is not as light as
mine. You are holding out gamely, though. Very gamely -"

WILLINGTON paused suddenly. Gyp Tangoli had made an amazing effort. He was
rising bolt upright from his chair. Venom had replaced terror on his face. It
was apparent that Willington's words had aroused him to a ferocious pitch.
Gyp thrust his hand beneath his jacket. Yanking his revolver, he leaped
toward the side of the room, away from the big chair.
Willington stood startled. For an instant, he had expected Gyp to succumb
by the very frenzy of his last attempt. But the gun was swinging out. Gyp's dark
face was glaring. With a wild cry, Willington drew back. He hurled the crystal
ball.
Gyp ducked the big sphere. It skimmed half an inch past his head and
thudded against the side curtains. It plopped to the floor and rolled about,
unbroken. Gyp fired. His shot was wild.
Willington dived for the outer doorway. Gyp's gun barked again. Willington
staggered, but kept on. Gyp fired, snarling fiercely as he pressed the trigger,
loosing every shot from his revolver.
Cuyler Willington sprawled. The revolver hammer clicked on empty chambers.
Gyp Tangoli lowered the gun. He saw Willington, mortally wounded, coughing out
his life upon the floor. Gyp was gloating.
"You thought you had me, Willington," he sneered. "But you missed out - as
you did before. Your guess was wrong. It looks like I've got a lucky hide
against that ray you talked about.
"I took it before. I'm taking it now. You're dying. The machine is mine.
Many thanks, Willington. I can use it. I'll go in for murder when I need it. But
I'll never trust my own life to the ray. I'll never make the mistake you did."
Willington groaned. He had not expected this finish to his scheme. Through
his dying brain flashed the hopeless thought that the Q-ray never stood the
fullest test. Brophy had claimed that it would kill all of dark complexions.
Brophy was wrong.
"I've murdered before." snarled Gyp. "I was the guy who killed those two
patrolmen down by the Brooklyn pier. You didn't know that, did you, Willington?
Well, I'll murder again. The ray is mine. Thanks to you, you ignorant fool -"
Gyp's snarl ended. Willington had given a final cough. The light-skinned
crook was dead.
Gyp stepped back, still holding his revolver. He turned about, toward the
big chair. He stopped, as rigid as he had been when he had seen his Hindu
minions fall.
The curtains had opened behind the big chair. A figure stood in view. One
that Gyp recognized; an apparition that might have been death himself, come to
survey this new scene of slaughter.
"The Shadow!"

THE name gasped from Gyp's quivering lips. The grim avenger had arrived.
The Shadow, from behind the curtains, had witnessed the death of Cuyler
Willington. He had seen one fiend - the vaunted possessor of the Q-ray - go to
doom.
The Shadow had seen a new monster rise. Gyp Tangoli, self-appointed
successor to Cuyler Willington. Automatics drawn, The Shadow had stepped forth
from the door that he had opened, ready to deal with this foe to humanity.
Wildly, Gyp Tangoli raised his revolver. He plucked the trigger as he aimed
at The Shadow. Click-click-click-again. Gyp realized that the gun was empty. The
Shadow had known that fact. He had counted the shots that Gyp had loosed at
Cuyler Willington.
Beads of perspiration shone on Gyp's dusky brow. The Shadow's laugh crept
through the curtained room. Mocking in tone, that taunt carried thoughts of
doom. Slowly, The Shadow advanced.
Gyp Tangoli cringed, backing toward a rear corner. He wanted to leap for
those curtains through which The Shadow had come. But Gyp, knowing that he could
expect no mercy, realized that such an act would bring The Shadow's fire.
Quaking, he faced the burning eyes. Gyp gasped.
Then came a sudden sound from without. The opening slam of the outer door.
Footsteps came dashing through the anteroom. The Shadow, halfway between Gyp and
the elephant table, turned swiftly just as figures appeared beyond the front
arch of the room.
Detective Joe Cardona had arrived, a pair of headquarters men close behind
him. They were dashing straight into the influence of the Q-ray, which still
burned its dooming message from the interior of the elephant table.

HAD The Shadow hesitated for one instant, Joe Cardona would have toppled
within the danger sphere. But The Shadow acted with a promptitude that was
amazing. Forgetting Gyp Tangoli, he leveled both automatics toward the front
doorway. His big weapons thundered. Tongues of flame spat toward the advancing
detectives.
Amazing shots, those. With the repeated roars, each .45 loosed searing
bullets that whistled inches above the heads of the detectives. With quick-timed
marksmanship, The Shadow aimed to miss these approaching targets by as small a
margin as was humanly possible.
Joe Cardona faltered. The other detectives went scrambling out from the
anteroom, back to the front hall. Facing The Shadow as an enemy, Cardona could
not understand. Had this friend of the law turned crook? With a backward step,
Joe raised his revolver.
An automatic boomed. A bullet missed Joe's left cheek by a hair's-breadth.
A second report. A tinge of heat swept by the tip of Joe's right ear. Wildly,
the ace detective dived for the shelter that the others had sought.
Still those automatics delivered their cannonade. Sweeping forward, The
Shadow reached the anteroom. He splintered the top of the outer door with
zipping, burning slugs. A detective yanked the barrier shut. The Shadow sprang
forward and turned the lock.
Swiftly, the black-garbed fighter swung about. Back into the seance room;
straight to the elephant table. There, The Shadow wrested loose the top
cylinder. He peeled away a glove, to show the long, pale hand beneath. Reaching
through the opened top, he found the lever of the Q-ray machine. He turned off
the deadly device.
Men were smashing at the outer door. Gyp Tangoli was gone. The Shadow knew
which way the murderer had fled. Through that door behind the curtains; the way
by which The Shadow, himself, had come.
But The Shadow kept to his work. Wrenching away the top of the elephant
table, he revealed the Q-ray machine. His powerful hand twisted the lever
downward. The rod jammed; it could not be used again.
The outer door was splintering. Calmly, The Shadow donned his glove. Joe
Cardona would find the Q-ray machine. He would recognize it; for he had seen the
original from which this one had been copied. Joe would understand.
The Shadow's laugh swept through the room. It carried a note of triumph;
then broke in a grim mockery that spoke of work that still lay ahead. Just as
the outer door broke from its hinges, The Shadow wheeled and headed for the
curtain that lay behind the throne like chair.
When Joe Cardona and five detectives came plunging into the seance room,
The Shadow was gone. Hanging curtains alone enshrouded this abode where the
bullet-riddled body of Cuyler Willington lay with the dead forms of those whom
he had slain.

CHAPTER XXI

THE POLICE SEARCH

JOE CARDONA had planned no puny raid upon the headquarters of Gyp Tangoli.
Besides the detectives who had entered with him, Joe had stationed a force of
two dozen bluecoats and plainclothes men about the house on Fifty-eighth Street.
It was the sound of gunfire that had brought Joe and his raiding squad
pouncing up the stairs from below. They had heard Gyp Tangoli's fire while they
were still on the street. While Cardona and his men had entered, those outside
had remained alert.
One spot that they had watched was the fire escape. The back of the house
was totally dark. Even with their flashlights, policemen had been unable to
discern if any one was on the iron structure. But they followed the simple plan
of waiting at the bottom, ready to stop any one who might come down.
The Shadow was on that fire escape. He had reached it after his swift
departure. He was descending. He paused to crouch almost above the heads of
those who were waiting below. It was a spot from which escape seemed impossible.
Off to the side where the hinged steps descended, a cop was holding a
flashlight slightly aloft while two others were stretching to bring down the
hinged section of the fire escape. The lantern was turning. In another moment it
would reveal the figure at the lowest landing.
The Shadow chose that instant for action. Drawing an emptied automatic from
beneath the cloak, he sent the weapon whirling with unerring precision, straight
for that waving circle of light.
Crash! The Shadow scored a perfect hit. The shattered electric lantern went
clattering from the policeman's hand.

AN instant later, The Shadow went speeding up the steps toward the second
floor. He stopped before he reached the window that he had used for entrance and
exit. Reaching up, he seized the sill of another window: one that opened into
the rear apartment.
That window was open. The Shadow drew himself through with amazing
rapidity. The policemen had brought down the end of the fire escape. They were
pounding upward, swinging flashlights and revolvers. Two of Cardona's men had
reached the window of the rear hall.
The Shadow, meanwhile, was silently lowering the window of the apartment.
From the cries that he still heard, he knew that no one had spotted the exact
place from which the missive had come. It might have been from the fire tower.
Perhaps from an upper window. But it was drawing the outer men to the rear of
the old house.
The Shadow was in an empty apartment. He could hear raiders pounding at the
door. He moved stealthily to a side window and opened it. Detectives were
crashing at the door. The Shadow looked downward from the window. The passage at
this side of the house was a dark one.
Footsteps clattered through. The Shadow swung from the window and drew the
sash downward. He dropped to the ground below. For a moment he crouched beside a
niche in the wall.
There were shouts from all about. Officers were coming on to the roof from
adjoining houses. Rising, The Shadow drew a flashlight. He strode forward
through the passage and clicked his torch. The blinding glare dazzled a bluecoat
who was guarding the entrance to the narrow path.
"Who's that?" challenged the officer.
"Detective Sergeant Markham," returned The Shadow in a gruff voice, still
covering the officer with his light. "Inside, all of you. I'm in charge here.
Get up to the second floor. In through the front door."
The officer hurried to the front door. Another policeman was on guard
there. The first cop passed the word. The two stepped in. The Shadow clicked out
his torch; he swung from the front end of the passage and sidled quickly against
the front of the next building.
It was a timely move. Already policemen and detectives were coming back
through the side passages. A patrol car was whining up from the end of the
street.
Keeping close to the front of the next building, The Shadow swept swiftly
through the darkness. He found a passage beyond the next house. He cut through
to the rear, as a second patrol car came up from the opposite end of the street.
The Shadow had used this trick before. The drawing in of a cordon; a prompt
departure while it closed. Luck, bluff and quick action had served him well
tonight. Usually, in a departure of this sort, he engaged in chance encounters,
spilling policemen and detectives who blocked his path at crucial moments. This
time, he had managed to avoid such action.

IN the next block, The Shadow dodged new patrolmen who were coming up. He
reached a spot three blocks away, entered a taxi unnoticed by the driver, and
announced his presence with a quiet order.
Ten minutes later, he reached through the front window and dropped payment
as the driver reached the destination. The Shadow stepped quickly from the cab
into a quiet space on a side street near Sixth Avenue.
Another cab was waiting there. The Shadow stepped aboard. The driver of the
first cab looked about. He saw no sign of his mysterious passenger. He drove
away, pondering.
The driver of the new cab, however, knew that something was up. For this
driver was Moe Shrevnitz, posted at an appointed spot. He heard The Shadow's
order. It was to wait here for ten minutes. Moe wondered why.
Ten minutes. Then came a new order. Moe started the cab; he entered Sixth
Avenue and headed northward. He wove a course as The Shadow gave it. Soon they
were slowly rolling along another avenue, near Fifty-fourth Street.
Moe's cab was coasting easily, as though about to stop, when the sound of a
siren came from down the avenue. The Shadow peered sharply from the rear window.
He saw a limousine speeding northward. It was Commissioner Weston's car.
The Shadow knew that Weston was due back in town; that word would reach him
of the raid immediately upon his arrival. Clyde Burke had furnished details
regarding Joe Cardona's appointment with the police commissioner.
This avenue was the logical one by which the commissioner's car would come.
The Shadow wanted to intercept it. He shot an order to Moe Shrevnitz. The taxi
driver obeyed.
Just as traffic cleared. Moe swung for a left turn. He brought the cab to a
jolting stop half across the avenue. Brakes screeched as Weston's chauffeur
brought the big limousine to a halt. Moe sent the cab forward with a terrific
jerk. The door swung open. A figure came tumbling to the street.
It was not the form of The Shadow. Cloak and hat had gone long since into a
bag on the floor of Moe's cab. The personage who half sprawled on the lighted
avenue was none other than Lamont Cranston.
"Cranston!" he exclaimed. "You were in that cab! Officer," - this to a
traffic cop who came up - "arrest that driver."
"Please, mister," pleaded Moe, white-faced, to the commissioner. "I was
trying to get clear. A car shot in front of me -"
"Let him go, commissioner," laughed The Shadow, in Cranston fashion. "The
poor devil was scared stiff. I saw it myself. Here, cabby. Roll along."
He passed a bill to Moe, who sputtered his thanks and drove away. The
traffic cop growled.
"Looked mighty dumb to me, commissioner," he protested. "That cab driver
was plain goofy."
"Forget the matter, officer," rebuked Weston. Then, to his friend, "Come,
Cranston. In my car. I have urgent business. A police raid."

A FEW minutes later, Weston and The Shadow alighted in front of the house
on Fifty-eighth Street. A score of officers were about the place. They saluted
Weston as he and his friend entered the house.
They found Joe Cardona on the second floor, in the swami's seance room. The
ace detective exhibited the Q-ray machine. The commissioner stood aghast.
"Where did this come from?" he exclaimed. "Not from the laboratory of
Universal Electric?"
"No," returned Cardona. "I've called there. That machine was dismantled,
right enough. This must be a duplicate."
"Seth Brophy's, perhaps," commented The Shadow, in the easy tone of
Cranston.
"What's that, Cranston?" quizzed Weston. "You think -"
"Merely an idea, commissioner. Brophy has not been heard from. I would
advise a more thorough search of his house."
"A good suggestion. It shall be done tonight. What about this swami,
Cardona? Who is he?"
"Gyp Tangoli. Markham landed a clue. We followed it."
"And he planted the machine?"
"I don't think so. This fellow - we've identified him as Cuyler Willington
- looks like the bet. Riddled with bullets. The Q-ray couldn't get him."
"Where is Tangoli?"
"He made a get away. I caught a glimpse of the fellow. I think was him.
Togged up in the swami robes we found in the back room."
"Tangoli was dark?"
"Yes. But he was far enough away, maybe, to escape the ray. He fired at us;
we had to duck."
A thin smile appeared upon the mask-like lips of Lamont Cranston. Joe
Cardona had made no mention of The Shadow. Joe knew that again the cloaked
fighter had saved his life.
"We had the place surrounded," declared Cardona. "But that wouldn't have
prevented Gyp Tangoli from ducking up or down. There was some funny business out
on the fire escape. Somebody used Markham's name down by the front passage on
the side of the house.
"It wasn't Markham. It might have been Tangoli. We're searched this
apartment house from top to bottom. There's no sign of the fellow. An old lady
on the third floor. A man in each apartment on the fourth."
"Neither of the men answer Tangoli's description?"
"No. Nowhere near it. The landlord's due here to identify them, though.
Markham went to get him."
Weston remembered Cranston's suggestion. He arranged for detectives to go
to Brophy's house. He specified a thorough search - walls and floors as well as
the rooms themselves.
When Weston had finished these instructions, Markham appeared, accompanied
by a genial German.
"This is Mr. Einhorn," announced Markham. "Owner of this building."

THE proprietor nodded.
Cardona led the way upstairs to the fourth floor. They entered the front
apartment. Two policemen were on guard. A haggard-faced man was seated in a
chair.
"Know him?" questioned Cardona.
"Sure," replied Einhorn. "Good tenant" - he chuckled - "when he's not too
much behind with the rent. How do, Mr. Tobin?"
"His name is Tobin?" asked Cardona. "Hector Tobin?"
"Sure." nodded Einhorn. "Didn't he tell you so?"
"He did. How long has he resided here?"
"About two years."
"All right."
Cardona led the way to the rear apartment, with the others following. Two
more policemen were on duty. Their charge was a tall, stoop-shouldered man in
shirtsleeves. His face was pasty and solemn; his eyes dull.
"Know this fellow?" questioned Cardona.
"Sure," replied Einhorn. "He is Mr. Dolke. George Dolke. Don't see you
often, Mr. Dolke. Still traveling?"
Dolke nodded.
"How long has he lived here? quizzed Joe.
"About one year," returned Einhorn. "He goes in; he goes out. Always the
rent by the first of the month - regular."
"All right."
Cardona spoke to the officers. They followed as the group descended. The
other pair of policemen came along at Cardona's bidding. Weston offered no
objection. It was obvious that neither of these tenants tallied with Gyp
Tangoli.
"I shall leave you in charge, Cardona," stated Weston, when they reached
the street. "Keep a few men at this house until the morning. Meanwhile, start
the dragnet. We must trap Gyp Tangoli at any cost." He turned. "Coming with me,
Cranston?"
"Sorry, commissioner," replied The Shadow, in his calm tone. "I have an
appointment further uptown. I shall take a cab."
"Don't pick the driver you had before," laughed Weston.
A thin smile showed on Cranston's lips. His tall form strolled along the
street. A block and a half away, Weston's friend stepped aboard a cab. He spoke
an order from the rear seat.
Moe Shrevnitz responded. He had been waiting at this spot.
The cab rolled away. It doubled the next corner and turned back along
Fifty-ninth Street, passing occasional policemen who were still searching the
neighborhood. The cab stopped within the next block.
This time it was blackness that emerged. The Shadow, again a cloaked
creature of darkness, was faring forth upon a new and important quest.

CHAPTER XXII

A MATTER OF IDENTITY

JOE CARDONA had returned to the fourth floor of the old house. Detective
Sergeant Markham was with him. They were making a final round. Joe rapped at the
door of the front apartment. Tobin opened it.
"Good night," said Joe. "Sorry to have bothered you, Mr. Tobin. If you hear
anybody around here tonight, notify the officers downstairs."
"How long will they be here?" questioned Tobin, in a nervous tone.
"Until the morning," replied Cardona.
The detective rapped at the door of the rear apartment. Dolke answered; a
weak smile appeared upon his wan face.
"Good night," said Joe. "If there's any trouble, report downstairs.
Officers here until morning, Mr. Dolke."
"All right," grunted Dolke. "They would pick one of the nights when I was
in town. Well, I got some excitement for a change."
Cardona and Markham descended. On the way, Joe spoke to the detective
sergeant.
"I'm going over to Brophy's in a little while," said the ace. "I've got a
hunch that's where the machine came from. Come along if you want."
"How soon?" queried Markham. "My duty's over."
"In about ten minutes," replied Joe. "As soon as the wagon comes for that
death machine. We're sending it down to the Universal Electric laboratories so
they can demolish it like they did the other."
"All right," agreed Markham. They were at the front door when he spoke.
"Say - look who's here."
It was Clyde Burke. The Classic reporter was hot on the trail of a story.
Cardona began to furnish details while they waited for the wagon. He also
invited the reporter to go along to Brophy's.
Clyde grunted when he heard the facts concerning the Q-ray. Cardona
chuckled at the reporter's annoyance.
"You had it in the bag, Burke," said the detective. "You wrote up that
Q-ray machine. But you missed the big point of it."
"And I thought it was gas," admitted Clyde. "That mess up at the Club
Cadiz."
Again Cardona chuckled. Clyde repressed a smile. He had long since learned
the details of the Q-ray, through orders received from Rutledge Mann. Like other
agents of The Shadow, Clyde knew how to play a part.
Up on the fourth floor, Tokin had strolled in to talk with Dole. Of the
two, Tokin, haggard and sickly-looking, was the more nervous. Dole managed to
smile a bit. He advised Tobin to get some sleep.
The haggard man went out. Dolke closed the door. He walked across the room.
He stood before a bureau and studied his features in the mirror. He smiled. The
expression was curious.
In smiling, Dolke kept his lips together, and it gave his face a sour,
halfhearted look. Still watching his own expression, Dolke smiled again. This
time he opened his lips. Gold teeth glittered from the mirror.
The smile broadened to a vicious leer. Dolke retained it. His eyes were
steady for a moment; suddenly, they began to bulge. Dolke was looking past his
own reflection, toward the door that he had closed.
Quickly, the man wheeled about. He leaped for a coat that was hanging on
the back of a chair. He thrust his hand into a pocket. He stopped short as the
door swung wide. His gaze was fixed upon a figure that came from the gloomy
hall.
The man who called himself George Dolke was face to face with The Shadow.
He saw a figure cloaked in black; arms folded, yet threatening because the hands
were out of sight. Burning eyes delivered a searching gaze from beneath the brim
of the black hat.

DOLKE'S lips were clamped. His eyes tried to feign startlement. Then,
barely opening his lips, the fourth-floor tenant issued a question.
"Who are you?"
A soft laugh was The Shadow's answer. The black-garbed form stepped closer.
A sinister voice whispered through the room.
"Who I am matters not," delivered The Shadow in slow, emphatic tones. "What
matters is who you are, Gyp Tangoli."
Dolke closed his lips. He made no reply. Again he tried to feign
bewilderment.
"You deceived others," hissed The Shadow. "Even Cuyler Willington - up to
the moment of his death. He had sought to murder you with the Q-ray, believing
that your face was as dark as it appeared.
"The Q-ray would not fail. There was only one answer, Tangoli. Your skin
was not tawny. It was dyed an artificial color. One that you kept constantly.
Save when you came here as George Dolke.
"Why should Swami Marabout Bey have chosen this unpretentious building for
his palatial parlors? Only because it was in this house that he had his secret
hide-out. That fact was plain, from the start. That was why I did not prevent
your get-away, Gyp Tangoli.
"I knew the truth as I watched from behind those curtains. I saw what your
course would be. I knew that you could never have passed that cordon. I went
through it, so that I might return - to meet you - when I had learned your true
identity."
The impeachment ended. Strange echoes seemed to follow The Shadow's words.
Gyp Tangoli stood motionless. His game was ended. It had been uncovered by the
master sleuth.
Bereft of his darkened disguise, Gyp Tangoli made a pitiful figure. His
mouth was still closed; that kept his lips from forming the evil leer that
showed his true character. Gyp must have realized how he looked. He began to
plead.
"I was no murderer," he quavered. "You have no quarrel with me. It was
Willington you wanted. I killed him, to save myself. He was a crook. A killer."
"Like the man," mocked The Shadow, "who slew two policemen. The man who
boasted -"

IN a flash, Gyp remembered the statement he had made for Willington's dying
ears. A confession of murder, heard by The Shadow. With that flash, Gyp swung
from one extreme to the other. His lips opened in a vicious snarl. His hand
swung up within the pocket of his coat.
The Shadow was moving at the same instant. His long arms swept forward,
weaponless. One hand caught Gyp's wrist as the crook fired from the pocket of
his coat. The bullet searing through the cloth, sped beneath The Shadow's left
arm, scorching the folds of the black cloak.
Gyp shot his free hand for The Shadow's throat. With a twist, the crook
wrenched the chair between himself and the avenger.
Dropping one knee to the seat of the chair, The Shadow caught his foeman in
a powerful grip. Gyp's tall form went sweeping upward, a helpless burden poised
upon The Shadow's back.
One snap of the arms beneath the black cloak would have sent Gyp flying
through the air, as those same arms had done with the Hindu, Mahmud. But this
time, The Shadow's support was not the floor. He had been forced to depend upon
the rickety chair.
As The Shadow gave pressure, the chair buckled. Gyp skidded sidewise as The
Shadow crashed to the floor.
Rolling toward the wall, the crook came to his knees, still holding his
newly loaded gun. Grabbing for the wall, Gyp caught the side of the doorway. He
fired a quick shot toward the blackness on the floor, backing for the hallway
with the same motion.
The bullet was wide by inches. At the same instant, a gloved hand rose from
the floor. The Shadow's automatic spoke. Like Gyp, The Shadow missed his mark.
From an almost impossible position, he had fired a random shot to break his
foeman's nerve.
The ruse worked. Gyp, had he paused, would have had a chance to beat The
Shadow to the next shot. For The Shadow was rolling for another aim while Gyp
was already on his feet. But Gyp did not hesitate. He leaped for the stairway,
seeking the nearest avenue of escape.
Coming to his feet, The Shadow followed. Swiftly, he headed for those same
stairs. He knew where this flight would end: where he wanted it to finish - in
that front apartment on the second floor; the place where Gyp had chosen to play
the part of Swami Marabout Bey.

JOE CARDONA had heard the shots. He was dashing upward. The detective
reached the second floor just as Gyp arrived there.
The entrance to the anteroom was open. It was at the front, where the
stairs led to the third floor. Gyp Tangoli cut through.
Cardona sprang for the back hall. He knew that the rear outlet from the
seance room would be Gyp's chance for escape. Joe came dashing through the
little room at the back. He reached the door where The Shadow had worked the
bolt. The door shot inward.
Cardona, crashing shoulder-first, went sprawling across the floor. Gyp had
yanked the door to speed his way. Joe rolled to the spot where the elephant
table had stood. His revolver sailed on toward the anteroom. Half dazed, Cardona
looked up, expecting death.
Gyp Tangoli was standing with leveled gun. But the weapon was not pointed
for Cardona. It was aimed straight to the anteroom. Cardona could come later.
Gyp had another with whom he wished to deal: The Shadow.
Blackness came sweeping inward. Gloating, Gyp Tangoli pressed finger to
trigger. A swift action; but one that could not match the split-second speed of
The Shadow. With the surge of the black-cloaked form came a burst of flame.
Joe Cardona saw the stooped figure of George Dolke as it went into a crazy
sway. He saw a finger strive and falter. He watched the pasty face above. He saw
a hideous expression that revealed the glint of gold teeth.
Gyp Tangoli! Cardona realized it as the tall man sagged toward the floor.
The revolver dropped from listless fingers. The body rolled sidewise. The ugly
face retained its evil leer.
A figure had swept into the room, unseen by Joe Cardona, who was rising to
stare at Gyp's sprawled form. The Shadow swung by the detective and swished
through the curtains at the rear.
The big chair had been pushed aside. Cardona, looking up, saw blackness
merge between the draperies. Then the curtains were swaying slowly, in token of
The Shadow's final departure.
Markham and Clyde Burke arrived as Cardona was picking up his gun. They
stared at the form of Gyp Tangoli. Like Joe, they recognized the face. Removable
stain, washed off in that upstairs apartment, which Gyp had reached by the fire
tower. Such had been the crook's method of escape.
He had deceived all but The Shadow. That one foeman had divined Gyp's
scheme even before the crook had put it into action. And now, in testimony of
The Shadow's craft, came the knell that sounded triumph.

A WEIRD laugh, its rising tones muffled by the waving curtains. That token
came to the ears of those who stood above the dead body of Gyp Tangoli.
The mirth died with an eerie shudder. Silence alone remained.
Departing by the unguarded fire escape, The Shadow had sent back this
mocking cry. Credit for the death of Gyp Tangoli would go to Joe Cardona. Such
was The Shadow's wish.
But Joe Cardona, again victorious through The Shadow's vigilance, would not
forget the master hand that had led the law to triumph. Once more, The Shadow
had swung the scales of justice.
Dark death had met its conqueror. The schemes of master crooks had failed.
Cuyler Willington, the plotter; Gyp Tangoli, the opportunist, had met in a
struggle to the finish.
And The Shadow, ever vigilant, had been present to wrest the spoils from
the victor. Swaying draperies, stilled with the fading laugh, were the final
curtain to the drama of thwarted crime.

THE END