 
                                 MURDER TRAIL
                               by Maxwell Grant

       As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," March 15, 1933.

     Millions of dollars, soaked in the blood of innocent victims, mark the
path of this Murder Trail.


     CHAPTER I

     THE STOWAWAY

     HEINRICH VON WERNDORFF, captain of the Munchen, was seated at the tiny
desk in his cabin aboard the mammoth dirigible. The big airship was resting in
its hangar at Friedrichshafen. From the window of the cabin, the captain could
see the gloomy ground below, where occasional workmen passed back and forth.
This was the night before the air liner's scheduled voyage.
     Captain von Werndorff was nervous. That was quite unusual. A veteran of
numerous transatlantic flights, now commander of the newest and most airworthy
dirigible that had ever been constructed, there was no apparent reason for Von
Werndorff to be apprehensive.
     Nevertheless, the captain's heavy-jowled face wore a serious expression
that indicated anxiety.
     A rap at the door of the cabin. Von Werndorff swung in his chair. In a
low, guttural tone, he ordered the visitor to come in. A young man, trim in
uniform, entered and saluted with military procedure. This was Lieutenant Fritz
von Salzburg, second in command aboard the Munchen.
     Von Werndorff watched while his subordinate closed the door of the cabin.
The lieutenant approached and leaned upon the table, to whisper these words
close in the commander's ear:
     "The man has arrived, Herr Captain."
     "Where is he?" came Von Werndorff's tense question. "You are sure that no
one has seen him?"
     "He has been unobserved, Herr Captain. I met him at the appointed place. I
brought him aboard the dirigible. He is waiting in the corridor."
     Von Werndorff gave a relieved sigh. With a kindly commendation that one
would not have expected from so stern an individual, he clapped his brawny hand
upon the lieutenant's back, and spoke in a tone that was almost fatherly.
     "Excellent, Fritz," he said, "excellent! You will show the visitor in, and
then leave the ship. Wait below, and make sure that no one comes aboard. Above
all, Fritz, remember -"
     "My lips are closed, Herr Captain."


     A FULL minute passed, while Captain von Werndorff drummed upon the table.
Again, the door of the cabin opened, and a short, heavy-set figure entered.
This was the visitor - a man whose face could not be seen within the huge
collar of the coat which he was wearing.
     The visor of a large cap was over the man's forehead; but when he saw that
the captain sat alone, the visitor threw aside the cap and turned down his
collar. Von Werndorff, rising, stood with his huge bulk at attention. His stern
face was impassive, while his eyes gazed toward the solemn, haughty countenance
of the shorter man before him.
     A quiet smile appeared upon the visitor's lips. The man motioned the
commander to his chair, and took a seat beside the table.
     "All is prepared?" he questioned, in an even voice.
     "Yes, your excellency," responded the captain.
     "Good," said the visitor, in a tone of satisfaction. "I knew that I could
rely upon you, Von Werndorff."
     The commander bowed in acknowledgment. He had flown Zeppelins during the
period of the War; and this man had been his superior then. Captain von
Werndorff was loyalty personified. He had not forgotten.
     "Baron Hugo von Tollsburg," the captain began a low-voiced statement, "I
shall always obey your orders -"
     The visitor stopped Von Werndorff with an imperious gesture. He smiled
wanly, and slowly shook his head as the captain became silent.
     "Baron von Tollsburg is no more," he said quietly. "The old regime is
forgotten. Peace, not war, is my mission to-day. I told you that, Von
Werndorff, when I visited you months ago, at the time when this great ship was
in course of construction."
     "I remember," nodded the commander.
     "You promised then," resumed the visitor, "to make the arrangements that I
requested. I relied upon you - although I was not to see you until this night,
the eve of your voyage to America. I am here, captain. I am ready. Let us go;
it is unwise to remain in this cabin."
     Von Werndorff sprang to his feet. He opened the door of the cabin, and
beckoned to the visitor. Von Tollsburg followed him along the corridor. On each
side of the narrow passage were doorways, and here, in the gloom of lights set
far apart, the great gondola of the dirigible seemed as cavernous as the
interior of an ocean steamship.
     With accommodations for more than one hundred persons, the Munchen was an
air liner of mammoth dimensions, and Von Tollsburg, here for the first time,
appreciated its great size to the full.
     Captain von Werndorff stopped as he neared the end of the corridor. He was
at a space where two doors on the left stood a full six feet apart. The same was
true on the right. This section of the ship bore the appearance of a
strengthening bulkhead.
     The visitor watched in admiration as Captain von Werndorff drew a picklike
instrument and ran it down the crevice at one side of the space between the
doors. A muffled click occurred. The metal wall swung outward. The captain
stood back and motioned his visitor to enter.
     Von Tollsburg walked into a pitch-black room. The commander followed him;
a click came, and the two were confined within the bulkhead.
     Captain von Werndorff ran his hand along the wall, and a tiny light
suddenly gleamed. It illuminated the room in which the two were standing. A
small, windowless chamber, this was a secret room aboard the dirigible - a spot
that no one would possibly have suspected.


     "THIS is the apartment, your excellency," said Von Werndorff, with a bow.
"It is small; but I have spared no pains to make it habitable."
     He probed the farther wall with his pick. A small closet opened. Von
Werndorff revealed shelves stocked with canned goods.
     "This serves two purposes," he explained. "It carries your supplies. It is
also a ventilating shaft. Up here" - he pointed to an opening at the side of the
closet - "is communication with the berth in the wall. Air is always there. Keep
the closet door open during your waking hours - when you sleep, there is no need
of worry."
     Then, stepping back, Von Werndorff pointed to the wall, and marked a
crevice with his fingers.
     "Two catches hold the berth," he explained. "You will find no difficulty
in operating it. I promised, your excellency, that you would be comfortable
aboard my ship."
     "A stowaway de luxe;" responded Von Tollsburg, with a smile.
     "Exactly," acknowledged the commander.
     "And as for America?" the visitor questioned.
     "Our destination is Chicago," declared Von Werndorff. "Weather conditions
should be perfect. We shall arrive on schedule. I shall insist upon a thorough
inspection of the ship for my own protection. After that, your departure will
be easy. I shall arrange all."
     Hugo von Tollsburg extended his hand. The dirigible commander seized it
warmly. The two men faced each other as sworn friends.
     "Von Werndorff," said the baron, in a tone that was low, but clear, "you
have cooperated with me to perfection. When I visited you months ago, and told
you that I wished to travel to America unbeknown, you agreed to my plan without
question. You provided this secret place for my passage.
     "I am ready for the voyage. I feel confident that all will occur as I have
planned. These words are my farewell. I shall not speak again. When we arrive in
the United States, come to this cabin and announce when the path is clear."
     "I shall obey," responded the commander.
     "Remember this," added Von Tollsburg. "No one must ever know that Hugo von
Tollsburg was aboard this airship. My mission is tremendously important. It must
be preserved a secret. That is your only duty now.
     "Whatever may occur in the future is my affair alone. Not one bit of
evidence should remain to indicate that I came on board. You understand?"
     "I understand."
     "Should you need aid in removing me from this airship, rely only upon your
trusted lieutenant; but give him no word as to my identity. A great work is at
stake, Von Werndorff. Secrecy is paramount."
     "I shall never speak."
     The interview was ended.


     ALONE, Baron Hugo von Tollsburg breathed a sigh of relief. He could feel
the draft of cool air coming through the ventilator that connected with the
opened closet.
     He was a stowaway aboard the Munchen. To-morrow, the great airship would
be crowded with passengers for the transatlantic flight - and with them, hidden
beyond all chance of discovery, would be a mysterious stowaway, hiding in a
secret chamber cunningly contrived for his reception.
     Von Tollsburg drew a large envelope from the pocket of his coat. The man's
firm face, impassive even to the pointed tips of his military mustache, showed
plainly as it came close to the light. From the envelope, Von Tollsburg removed
a stack of American currency and a sheaf of folded papers.
     A stern smile flickered over Von Tollsburg's well-formed lips. The baron's
cold, gray eyes made a careful inspection of the articles from the envelope.
With satisfaction, Von Tollsburg pocketed his possessions. He closed the door
of the hidden closet, and stood in the center of the secret room.
     Completely isolated from the world without; protected by sound-proof
walls, Baron Hugo von Tollsburg was ready for the long and secret flight that
would carry him, unheralded, halfway across the American continent. Smuggled
here by the captain of the Zeppelin, he was confident that he had reached the
safety zone in the mission that he had undertaken.
     He did not dread the journey. Calm and unperturbed, he planned for sleep.
He found the crevice that indicated the berth in the wall, and inserted the
pick. Catches clicked; the berth swung downward on noiseless hinges, to reveal
the blackened space that received its air from the ventilator shaft.
     As Von Tollsburg leaned forward toward the berth, a low, guttural gasp
came from his lips. His hands shot upward in a mad effort to ward off
unexpected danger. His body writhed furiously, casting long, twisting shadows
in the dim light of the secret cabin.
     The gasp had ended unheard; in its place came a choking gargle that slowly
toned away to a harsh rattle.
     Half drawn into the blackness of the berth, Von Tollsburg's body became
motionless. It moved backward, as though impelled by an unseen force. It stood
grotesquely, supported by a hidden grasp. Then, released, it toppled and
crumpled upon the floor.
     Buried within the secret cabin, the form of Baron Hugo von Tollsburg lay
inert and lifeless. The stowaway aboard the dirigible Munchen had met with a
cruel and unexpected fate. His mission had ended before the flight had begun!


     CHAPTER II

     THE SHADOW OBSERVES

     THE dirigible Munchen was nearing the last leg of its westward flight. Its
huge bulk gliding onward, the mammoth airship rode with marvelous stability.
Purring motors kept up their constant rhythm. The passengers in the forward
salon smiled and chatted as the Zeppelin whirred through the night.
     Dawn would arrive within a few hours. Gleaming rays of sunlight would show
the silver queen of the air entering the fringe of the Middle West. The Atlantic
had been conquered; the rest of the voyage offered no obstacles.
     Captain Heinrich von Werndorff entered the salon. His arrival brought
words of commendation from the group of men who saw him. The commander bowed at
the congratulations.
     "We are experiencing great success," he declared. "This voyage, gentlemen,
is a triumph for the dirigible as a means of transportation. With our
destination an inland city, instead of a seaport, we are proving the advantages
of air liners over ocean liners."
     He caught the eye of a gentleman seated in a corner of the salon, and
smiled as though in mutual congratulation.
     "You were fortunate, Herr Arnaud," said the captain. "Your last-minute
arrival at Friedrichshafen enabled you to join us on this memorable voyage. You
came as a good omen."
     All turned toward the man to whom the commander had spoken. Henry Arnaud
had been regarded as an unusual passenger on this flight. He had made
reservation by wire from Moscow, and had reached the Friedrichshafen hangar
just as the Munchen was about to sail.
     There was something about Henry Arnaud's appearance that commanded both
respect and interest. Although an American, he spoke fluently in French,
German, and Russian, and had thus made an acquaintance with passengers of those
nationalities.
     Captain von Werndorff was speaking in German as he addressed Arnaud; and
the American replied in the same language.
     "The good omen on the Munchen," he said, in a quiet tone, "is the presence
of our commander, Captain von Werndorff."
     A buzz of approval was the response to the compliment. Henry Arnaud,
calm-faced and impassive in demeanor, was a man who spoke with profound
sincerity. His eyes, sharp and piercing, were gazing toward Von Werndorff, and
the commander noted the strange sparkle that came from them. Somehow, he felt
that those eyes had stared at him before.


     THE passengers, now that the United States had been reached, were
preparing to retire. They were leaving the salon one by one; and Henry Arnaud
was among the last to go. His eyes gave a parting glance toward Von Werndorff;
the commander, acting under impulse, reached forward and plucked the American's
sleeve.
     "Herr Arnaud," he said, in German, "I do not recall having met you in the
past; yet there is something in your manner that indicates you have seen me
before."
     A slight smile played upon Arnaud's thin lips. The man's expression was
sphinxlike. His burning eyes gleamed upon Von Werndorff. The commander was
amazed when Arnaud spoke.
     "This is not my first voyage with you, captain," he said in a low voice.
"I have seen you before; and then, as now, I was aboard a ship of yours."
     "You mean -"
     "During the War, Herr Captain. You will recall" - Arnaud's eyes were
sparkling - "a dirigible flight across the North Sea, when a storm drove you
back to Germany. That storm proved fortunate, Herr Captain; fortunate for both
of us. My mission was to see that the Zeppelin did not reach England."
     "You were aboard the L-43!"
     "Yes."
     "As a member of the crew?"
     "As a stowaway."
     "As a stowaway!"
     When he repeated Arnaud's words, Captain von Werndorff's face became
momentarily pale. Perhaps it was the memory of that eventful war flight over
the North Sea; or was there another reason for the commander's loss of color?
     Henry Arnaud noted the captain's change of expression, and added a brief
statement that might have ordinarily been a simple explanation. As chance had
it, the words brought a new and more singular turn to Von Werndorff's
complexion.
     "Your superior came aboard the L-43," reminded Arnaud. "An aid accompanied
him. The aid did not leave. He became a stowaway. A simple ruse, Herr Captain,
but it worked. It deceived both you and your superior - Baron Hugo von
Tollsburg."
     It was the mention of this name that made Von Werndorff repress a gasp.
Out of the past had come a series of coincidences. This man had been a stowaway
on the L-43. He had come aboard that ship with Von Tollsburg.
     Now, by a curious reversal of circumstances, Baron von Tollsburg was a
stowaway on the Munchen, while Henry Arnaud was the passenger!
     Was there a connection here? Was Henry Arnaud a man whom Baron von
Tollsburg sought to avoid? Perplexities swept through the commander's brain;
then he regained his poise as Henry Arnaud made a quiet parting remark.
     "I am glad to travel with you again, Herr Captain," said the American. "It
is a pleasure to be a passenger aboard your dirigible. Stowaways aboard
Zeppelins once could have expected death if discovered. In these times of
peace, they receive reasonable treatment. It is preferable, however, to be a
listed passenger."
     Arnaud extended his hand to Von Werndorff, and the dirigible commander
received it. The American turned and left the salon.
     Von Werndorff remained thoughtful. With chin in hand, he did not realize
that Arnaud's sharp gaze had caught his immediate reaction.


     IT was coincidence, Von Werndorff felt sure, that had brought this man
aboard the Munchen as a passenger. Arnaud's remarks could have been nothing
more than a friendly revelation of the past. In this surmise, the commander was
correct.
     But Von Werndorff made the mistake of discounting his own reactions. He
did not realize that his stern face, by its betrayal of emotions, had spoken to
Henry Arnaud as effectively as if words had been uttered. Here, above the United
States, speeding toward the end of the oceanic flight, Henry Arnaud had gained
the remarkable suspicion that there was a mystery aboard this airship!
     After he left the main salon, the commander of the Munchen still felt a
trace of uneasiness. He went into his cabin and consulted a passenger list. He
learned the number of Henry Arnaud's cabin - 28. Passing along the narrow
central corridor, Von Werndorff paused at the door which bore that number.
     He satisfied himself that all was quiet within. Henry Arnaud had evidently
retired.
     With only a slight apprehension remaining, Von Werndorff continued along
the corridor.
     As he walked toward the rear of the great gondola, something happened
behind him. The door of Henry Arnaud's cabin opened, and a pair of gleaming
eyes watched the commander's course.
     Those eyes saw Captain von Werndorff pause beside a bulkhead on the left,
and listen there intently. When the commander came back along the corridor,
Henry Arnaud was no longer watching him.
     Smoothly, the Munchen plowed on through the night. Within Cabin 28, Henry
Arnaud stood by the door, listening. The cabin light clicked on; the American
stooped above his berth. His form was suddenly lost amid a shrouding robe of
black. A few moments later, Henry Arnaud was gone; and in his place stood a
strange and fantastic being.
     A tall, mysterious figure, garbed in black; this was the personage into
which Henry Arnaud had transformed himself. The folds of a sable-hued cloak
enveloped his body; the broad brim of a dark slouch hat obscured his visage.
Henry Arnaud had become The Shadow!
     A soft laugh that came from unseen lips announced the identity of the
mysterious figure. The low tones of that sinister mockery were inimitable. No
other living person could have uttered them.
     The Shadow, who hounded criminals of every land, had booked passage aboard
the Munchen in his adopted guise of Henry Arnaud. By chance, he had learned that
Captain von Werndorff was harboring a secret. He had divined the presence of a
stowaway aboard this dirigible. He had aroused the commander's apprehensions,
and had caused Von Werndorff to visit the secret spot where the stowaway was
hidden.
     Now, as a phantom shape, The Shadow was about to investigate the
situation. With his penchant for unraveling meshes of mystery, he intended to
learn more of the matter which now concerned him. The actions of the captain
needed much explanation.


     THE door of Cabin 28 began to open. Sharp eyes gleamed along the corridor.
A black-gloved hand appeared at the edge of the door. Then, the moving figure
stopped, while the gleaming eyes remained focused upon the distant bulkhead.
     A metal panel was opening slowly outward. The Shadow watched the figure of
a man step from the secret cabin. The open panel obscured most of the man's
body, and hid his face. His back turned as he closed the panel behind him.
     The man was carrying a compact package. He did not turn his face toward
the spot where The Shadow stood. Instead, he headed toward the rear of the
corridor, only a few yards away, and, with a swift stride, made a dash in that
direction.
     Scarcely had the man gone before The Shadow emerged from Cabin 28. With
gliding motion he set forth in pursuit of the fleeing man.
     The destination was obvious. At the rear of the corridor was a stairway
that led upward into the envelope above the gondola. There were passages up
there, beneath the balloonets; and among those passages, The Shadow might trace
the course that the man had taken.
     It was chance that interfered. Before The Shadow had moved a dozen feet,
the door of a cabin farther down the corridor opened, and two officers of the
Munchen came into view. Coming forward along the narrow way, they would surely
have encountered The Shadow, but for the quick action of the black-clad figure.
     With a turning sweep, The Shadow regained his cabin. The door closed as
the officers tramped by. It reopened, and even while the men were still walking
forward in the corridor, The Shadow's amazing form was sweeping toward the
companionway at the rear, taking up the delayed pursuit.
     A spectral mass of black, The Shadow arrived at the top of the
companionway. Straight ahead lay the walk that led to the rear of the
dirigible. The interior of the tremendous envelope was a heavy bulk above, with
this passage, illuminated only by safety lights, running beneath.
     The keen mind of The Shadow was at work. That brain had trained itself to
measure time in split seconds to gauge each passing event with absolute
precision. The length of the passage within the envelope proved clearly that
the man who had emerged from the panel could not have gained its end in the
short time allowed him between his departure and The Shadow's swift pursuit.
     A tiny light gleamed in a blackened fist. The Shadow was moving along the
passage in the envelope, his flashlight pointing out spots on either side. Here
were hatchways in the lower surface of the dirigible - places where goods could
be taken in or unloaded. The Shadow's light stopped on the hatch nearest to him.
     The fastening of this opening was loose. Some one had opened the hinged
door and left it loose after it had swung shut. The Shadow's hands opened the
light barrier. The blackened head and shoulders thrust themselves through the
opening.
     The ground was more than a mile below. Tiny glimmering lights indicated
the countryside. The flashing of an air beacon showed the airway which the
dirigible was following. The Shadow's keen eyes spotted that intermittent
signal.
     Through those eyes, The Shadow gained a photographic impression of the
ground beneath. In daytime, the observation would have been difficult enough;
at night, it was far more so. Yet, with the air beacon as his guide, this
strange observer was able to gain the exact location of the dirigible. The
Shadow was taking the position.


     TOO late to overtake the man who had fled, The Shadow had gained full
knowledge of the man's purpose and action. Somewhere, now miles behind the
dirigible, and thousands of feet below, a human form was dropping to safety
from the Munchen, with the broad surface of a parachute spread out above him!
     The Shadow's quarry had made a remarkable and well-planned escape from the
moving dirigible. Of passengers and crew, there was only one who had discovered
the deed. That one was The Shadow!
     No thought of pursuit engaged The Shadow as he made his way back along the
passage toward the huge main gondola. There was another task before him. The
black-garbed shape flitted down the companionway and entered the corridor of
the gondola. It stopped before the secret panel.
     Gloved fingers were at work, prying along the narrow crevice that marked
the edge of the secret door. It required less than a minute for The Shadow to
discover the hidden mechanism. A click resounded as a piece of metal entered
the crack. The panel opened, and The Shadow stepped within. The door closed,
barely a second before footsteps came down the corridor. The officers were
coming back along the passage.
     Half an hour passed. The first shafts of dawn, appearing over the horizon,
brought a brilliant glint to the silvery surface of the mighty German airship.
Those first rays of daylight did not reach the windowless central corridor.
That passage was dependent upon the lights that glowed along its low ceiling.
They were the lights that showed the panel of the secret room reopening.
     The form of The Shadow appeared in the corridor. The panel closed. The
spectral shape was ghostly as it made its rapid, silent way to the door of
Cabin 28. The door of the cabin opened. The Shadow merged with the gray dawn of
the room within.
     To-night, within the last hour of darkness, a murderer had left the
Munchen to gain the safety of the ground below. The dirigible had hours ahead
before it reached Chicago. A thousand miles between the Atlantic seaboard and
the great metropolis of the Middle West! Somewhere, in that tremendous range,
the escaping man had dropped by parachute!
     Well could that unknown man suppose that his flight would never be
detected. No one could suspect the time and place that he had chosen by random.
Yet the fleeing man of crime had not reckoned with The Shadow.
     The Shadow knew!


     CHAPTER III

     MYSTERY SUPPRESSED

     ANOTHER night had come. Moored to a gigantic mast at the Chicago airport,
the dirigible Munchen proudly flaunted itself as the newest conqueror of air
and ocean.
     The big Zeppelin had been here for hours. Passengers were gone; all
formalities were ended. Captain Heinrich von Werndorff, after a tremendous
welcome, had returned to his quarters aboard the mighty airship.
     A tap at the door. Lieutenant von Salzburg entered. Captain Werndorff
greeted him with a care-worn smile. The lieutenant bore a message that was
chiefly a reminder.
     "Half an hour yet, Herr Captain," he said. "The banquet in your honor -
they will be here to take you -"
     Von Werndorff nodded. He arose from his desk and gripped the lieutenant's
arm.
     "Fritz" - Von Werndorff's tone was serious - "the corridor is empty?"
     "Yes, Herr Captain."
     "Remain here. I shall need you."
     The dirigible commander left the cabin and went along the corridor to the
secret door in the bulkhead. He tapped softly, using the pick which he had
brought from his pocket. There was no response. Von Werndorff smiled. The baron
would wait, of course, accepting this tapping merely as a warning of a visit.
     Von Werndorff opened the secret panel. He found the room in darkness.
Strange, he thought. Could Baron von Tollsburg be sleeping? With impatient
alarm, the captain found the switch and illuminated the room.
     He stared about him in amazement. The cabin was empty!
     The closet door was closed; so was the berth at the side of the room.
There was but one inference - that Hugo von Tollsburg had decided to leave the
dirigible of his own accord. Yet Von Werndorff could scarcely accept that fact
without the formality of an investigation.
     He opened the berth, and it dropped down. Like the room, the berth was
empty. It would have been quite possible for a man to have been within that
berth - to have closed it behind him - to have remained there in hiding. For
the berth connected with the ventilator shaft, and thus received air.
     Von Werndorff closed the berth. He clicked the catch in the closet door,
and opened the barrier.
     It was then that Captain von Werndorff stepped back with a gasp of agony.
As the little door swung outward, a huddled form toppled with it.
     Flattening itself grotesquely on the floor, the dead body of Baron Hugo
von Tollsburg came into view! It fell back upward; its livid face and bulging
eyes stared, sightless, into the countenance of Captain Heinrich von Werndorff.
Murder!


     A FIERCE cry came from Von Werndorff's throat. Here was the man he
respected and obeyed, slain within a secret hiding place, where safety had been
guaranteed to him!
     For long, miserable minutes, Von Werndorff stared into that dead face. At
length the misery of the tragedy dulled. Consternation seized the commander.
     A man who gave the utmost attention to detail, Von Werndorff scarcely knew
how to act. He had made careful plans for Baron von Tollsburg to leave the
airship with the lieutenant; now that these arrangements were rendered useless
by the baron's death, the captain was stunned.
     Only the growing thirst for vengeance conquered other emotions. Gradually,
Von Werndorff found himself reviewing the events that might have brought death
to the aristocratic stowaway.
     Friedrichshafen. Von Werndorff was sure that no one had followed the baron
aboard there. Who knew of the secret compartment aboard the ship? Only the
trusted workmen who had aided in its completion, and their knowledge was not
complete. Fritz von Salzburg, whom the commander knew could be trusted.
Otherwise, only Baron von Tollsburg and Von Werndorff himself.
     Unless some one had come aboard beforehand, the entrance to this secret
room must have taken place while the dirigible was in flight between Germany
and America. Only one man could be suspected. The commander thought of Henry
Arnaud.
     Why had he not apprehended Arnaud when the man had spoken of stowaways?
Van Werndorff cursed his mistake. Yes, it must be Arnaud who had killed.
     With a dull feeling of futility, the commander began a hopeless search for
evidence. Stooping over the body of his dead friend, he found that Von
Tollsburg's pockets had been rifled of all their contents, except a few coins,
a pipe and a pouch of tobacco. The killer had been a thief as well as a
murderer.
     In the berth, Von Werndorff continued his hopeless search. There, however,
he discovered two objects; but neither meant anything to his mind. One was the
cork-tipped butt of a cigarette; the other was a fragment of torn paper.
     The cigarette emanated an Egyptian aroma, and Von Werndorff noted that it
bore the name "Pharos." It was evidently an imported brand that was very little
known. The piece of paper carried a scrawled signature - the name of Hugo von
Tollsburg, written twice.
     Further search revealed nothing.
     Von Werndorff folded the cigarette butt within the slip of paper, and
placed the latter in his pocket. He studied the body of the baron with an
unhappy gaze, and his mind reverted to the conversation which he had held with
Von Tollsburg in this very room.
     "No one must ever know - my mission - must be preserved a secret -
whatever may occur - not one bit of evidence must remain -"
     Whatever the case might be, Von Werndorff could see but one duty; that was
to keep the news of this strange death from the world. In forming his decision,
the Zeppelin commander was governed by a double motive. First, his promise to
the baron; second, his own interests.
     It would fare badly with Von Werndorff should the authorities, in either
Germany or America, learn that he had intended to land a stowaway in Chicago.
An unexplained murder would add to the difficulties of the situation. Silence
was paramount. Von Werndorff's duty now lay to himself.


     THE fact that time was passing became very pressing to the stupefied
commander. It forced his immediate decision. He cautiously opened the panel of
the cabin, went into the corridor, and reached his own quarters, where he
beckoned to Lieutenant von Salzburg. The subordinate followed him back along
the long corridor and stood serenely by while Von Werndorff reopened the secret
door.
     When he entered the room at the commander's bidding, Von Salzburg stood
agape at the sight of the murdered man. The young lieutenant did not know Baron
von Tollsburg. He had no idea who the dead man might be. He heard the click as
the panel closed; then turned to meet his superior's eyes.
     "Fritz," said Von Werndorff in a serious tone, "this man was a friend of
mine. You brought him aboard the Munchen; he remained, and I intended to
smuggle him into the United States. He is dead now; and the matter must never
be known. You understand?"
     The lieutenant nodded.
     "It is fortunate," added Von Werndorff, "that our flight was so
successful. Within three days we head south for Rio de Janeiro. On our way to
Brazil, I shall expect you to perform an important work. Enter this room, place
the body of - of my friend in a box, and remove it to the corridor. Be sure that
it is weighted after you have taken it up the companionway; then through the
hatch - into the ocean -"
     "I understand," responded the lieutenant. "I shall assume the
responsibility. There are members of the crew whom I can trust. They need never
know what the box contains."
     "Correct." declared the commander. "You are sure that you can handle this,
Fritz?"
     "Without difficulty, Herr Captain."
     Von Werndorff sighed in relief. He trusted Fritz as he would his own son.
By passing the first burden to his subordinate, and letting Von Salzburg employ
others to aid him, the commander was clearing the matter to perfection.


     CAPTAIN VON WERNDORFF congratulated himself upon his methodical decision
as he rode by automobile to the banquet that had been arranged in his honor.
Nevertheless, he could not forget the misfortune that had come to his friend,
the baron.
     Smoldering vengeance still rankled Von Werndorff's thoughts. In his pocket
he felt the two shreds of evidence - the cigarette butt and the scrawled
signature. He felt sure that Von Tollsburg had smoked the cigarette, and had
written upon the paper. Therefore, these articles were no clew to the murderer.
They were evidence only that Baron von Tollsburg had been aboard the Munchen.
Therefore, Von Werndorff did not want them.
     As the automobile crossed a bridge, Von Werndorff tossed the folded slip
of paper from the window. Weighted by the butt of the cigarette, the tiny
object sailed over the rail and dropped into the Chicago River.
     Henry Arnaud!
     The thought of that man angered Von Werndorff. Fixed in the German
commander's mind was the positive belief that Arnaud had been in the secret
cabin; that he was responsible for Von Tollsburg's death; that he had
overlooked the torn paper and the cigarette stub as articles that were
inconsequential. Well did Von Werndorff know that it would be not only futile,
but dangerous, to seek Henry Arnaud, now that the man had left the jurisdiction
of the dirigible.
     In only one chief surmise was Von Werndorff correct; namely, in his
suspicion that Henry Arnaud had been in the secret cabin. But Von Werndorff was
wrong when he believed that Henry Arnaud overlooked the two fragments of
evidence. Arnaud had discovered them; he had left them there; but he had noted
them as clews that Von Werndorff had not suspected.
     Why would Baron von Tollsburg, whose pipe and pouch showed his preference
in tobacco, have smoked a mild Egyptian cigarette? Why, again, would the baron
have scrawled his signature twice upon a torn slip of paper?
     Von Werndorff had not noted a difference in each signature; nor had he
seen the beginning of a third, at the spot where the paper had been torn. Henry
Arnaud, alone, had observed these factors.
     As The Shadow, he had gained two clews to the murderer; he knew that the
man smoked a particular brand of cigarettes - called Pharos - and he knew that
the killer had spent his time endeavoring to duplicate the signature of Baron
Hugo von Tollsburg.
     These objects - like dozens of other cigarette butts and many more slips
of scrawled signatures - had evidently been consigned to the ventilator shaft,
but had dropped back into the berth.
     In his vindictiveness toward Arnaud, Captain von Werndorff shot wide of
the truth. Not for one minute did his mind center upon actuality. Little did he
know that at that very moment, the man whom he had met as Henry Arnaud was
seeking the trail of the murderer who had killed Baron Hugo von Tollsburg!
     The Shadow had seen; The Shadow had discovered; The Shadow was bound upon
a new mission as an avenger of mysterious crime!
     Even while Captain von Werndorff was on his way to the banquet, the work
of The Shadow was well under way. The agents of The Shadow had already been
ordered on their missions. The Shadow had already started on this trail of
murder which might lead to where no one knew - not even The Shadow - as yet!


     CHAPTER IV

     THE TRAIL

     BACK along the path which the airship Munchen had taken on its trip of
death, a lone man watched, parked in his car along a country road. The man was
Harry Vincent, agent of The Shadow, and the lowered top of his convertible
coupe showed his features as the flashes of an airway beacon streaked the night.
     To Harry Vincent, this night was the beginning of a new adventure. Harry's
life had been filled with adventures ever since the momentous time when he had
met The Shadow. Long ago, a mysterious hand had drawn Harry from the brink of
suicide; a whispered voice had bidden him to obey; and henceforth, Harry had
served an unknown master.
     Stationed in New York, supplied with all the funds that he required, Harry
Vincent constantly awaited The Shadow's bidding. A young man of ability and
resourcefulness, Harry had proven an excellent operative whenever The Shadow
had required him to combat crime.
     For the past month, Harry had been free from duty. Then, shortly before
noon on this very day, he had received a telephone call from an investment
broker named Rutledge Mann. That meant instructions from The Shadow - for Mann
was a contact agent, who, like Harry, served The Shadow.
     Harry's instructions had been to drive to this lonely spot, and to await
certain developments. Harry had arrived two hours ago. He was still waiting in
his silent, darkened coupe, the lowered top being also in accord with orders.
     A rhythmic hum came from overhead. Harry became immediately attentive. He
stared upward and saw a hovering light that twinkled three times.
     This was the signal that Harry had expected. He watched the moving light.
The token in the sky was different from that of an ordinary passing plane. It
did not move with steady, rapid sweep; instead, it held its position
momentarily; then sidled slowly away, twinkling its occasional triplet, like a
gigantic firefly seeking for a place to descend.
     Harry knew the reason for the odd behavior of the light. This was no
ordinary plane above; it was an autogyro, the type of aircraft that The Shadow
frequently utilized. At the control of that ship was The Shadow himself. That
fact, Harry knew.


     THE autogyro was picking a circuitous course. Harry started the motor of
the coupe. He edged the car into the road and slowly started in the direction
which The Shadow's plane had taken.
     Now appeared a change in the signal from above. The color of the twinkling
light had changed. It was green instead of white. That was the final signal. It
meant that the ship was preparing for a descent.
     Harry parked the coupe and turned out the headlights. He clambered from
his car and ascended a bank beside the road.
     The autogyro's lights were hovering with design. Still flashing their
green signal, they gave Harry opportunity to head in their direction, and thus
note the exact spot of the landing.
     Slowly, the machine descended. Above the dim horizon, Harry could see the
revolving wing that whirled above the ship. The shape of the autogyro was
blotted out as it came to earth close by the trees. Harry was running across
the field.
     When the young man reached his destination, he saw a tiny glow beside the
bulking shape of the autogyro. He knew the meaning of that light. The Shadow
had stepped from his plane, and was awaiting the arrival of his agent. Harry
stopped a few yards away from the invisible man who held the flashlight. He saw
the torch move; and he followed.
     What was The Shadow seeking? Why had the mysterious personage of darkness
dropped from the night at this isolated spot?
     Harry could make no conjecture. Little did he realize that The Shadow was
following an air trail; that the autogyro had carefully descended along the
course by which an escaping murderer had dropped from the great dirigible
Munchen!
     Silently, Harry followed the man ahead. He could see no outline of The
Shadow's form. A larger flashlight was working now, sweeping along the ground
as The Shadow led the way in a methodical search.
     Suddenly the light stopped. A soft laugh came from above it. Harry
shuddered. He had heard that laugh before; it was a laugh which he, as The
Shadow's trusted agent, had no cause to fear. Nevertheless, its sinister,
whispered tones were uncanny. There was something in that amazing mockery that
brought dread to all who heard it.
     The laugh of The Shadow!
     "Come."
     The voice followed the laugh. The single word brought Harry forward. The
young man stared at the spot where the flashlight's rays formed a luminous
circle upon the ground. There, Harry saw the marks of two feet impressed in the
soft earth. The traces of those implanted shoes possessed one noticeable oddity:
the left was on the right; the right on the left.
     The fact caught Harry Vincent's eye, but his mind gained no explanation.
The Shadow's laugh, however, showed that The Shadow understood. A man,
descending in a parachute, had landed with crossed legs - in the proper method
of terminating a landing via parachute.
     These were the marks that The Shadow had come to find; they were the sure
trace of the man who had dropped from the swift German dirigible. The Shadow
had picked up the trail of the man who murdered Von Tollsburg!


     THE light moved along the ground; again, Harry followed. Here were faint
traces of footprints going toward the clump of trees. Harry himself would have
lost the trail; but The Shadow's eagle eye did not fail. With uncanny
precision, the bearer of the flashlight followed the course that the murderer
had taken.
     There was brush among the trees. The flashlight spotted a clump of bushes.
A broken branch gave a quick clew. A low command came in The Shadow's whisper.
Harry separated the bushes, and there, while the flashlight played ahead, he
discovered a mass of crumpled cloth. Dragging out the discovery, Harry spread a
parachute upon the ground.
     Once again, the keen eyes of The Shadow were taking up the trail along the
ground. The path brought the searchers to an embankment. Footprints showed in
the earth. They led to the dirt road, and mingled with the dust.
     Harry Vincent strode along, still behind that light that flickered from an
unseen hand. There was something ghostly in the atmosphere. The light itself
seemed detached from a human being. Suspended in air, it might have been moving
of its own accord, as it searched the dirt of the road and never ceased its
progress.
     When the light finally stopped, it was at the point where the old road
encountered a paved highway. Here, under the scanning glare, Harry could see
another telltale mark in a patch of mud. The footprints again, turning down to
the left. That was the direction in which the man had gone!
     The light went out. Harry Vincent felt a sudden dread amid the gloom.
     Out of the darkness came a low, eerie whisper. Its strange note made Harry
tense. The Shadow was speaking in a sinister voice that seemed unreal. Only once
before had Harry Vincent so fully realized the commanding force of his
mysterious master; that had been upon the eventful night when The Shadow had
plucked him from death's brink.
     "Follow the trail," came The Shadow's words. "The man was here last night.
He chose this spot at random - three o'clock - make inquiries - learn his
destination -"
     The young man understood the vital orders. Some one had dropped from the
air. That man had been traced by The Shadow. A stranger in a place chosen
through necessity, the man must have sought to gain his location. His first
stop would have been a habitation close by.
     "I understand," declared Harry. There was no response from the darkness.
Harry hesitated; then realized that he must go back along the road until he
reached his car. With the coupe he could take the paved road and run along the
trail toward the nearest town. Harry was a trained investigator for The Shadow.
He knew how to do the work that was now required of him.


     PLODDING along the dirt road, Harry experienced the strange sensation that
some one was close beside him. The feeling was intermittent; at times, Harry was
sure that The Shadow was here; then he would suddenly become convinced that the
invisible companion was gone.
     When he reached the coupe, Harry clambered into the car and turned on the
headlights. The focused glare illuminated the road ahead. Strange, long
silhouettes of black spread across the dirt byway. They seemed to sway as Harry
watched them; but he could not discern whether any one might be the shadow of a
man or merely the blackness caused by some tree beside the road.
     The starter clattered; the motor throbbed; and Harry urged the car into
gear. As he neared the paved highway, he caught the sound of a purring
mechanism. Staring upward, Harry caught a fleeting glimpse of a mass that was
lifting itself through the air.
     The autogyro! Silently, swiftly, The Shadow had returned to his ship. He
was rising now, in his mysterious departure. No lights twinkled. Only the thrum
of the motor told of The Shadow's course. The purring died away while Harry
Vincent listened from his car.
     For Harry Vincent remained with a quest before him. The Shadow, his
strange task accomplished, had gone into the upper realm of the night.
     While Harry was performing his simple task, The Shadow had more difficult
matters to do.


     CHAPTER V

     IN THE SANCTUM

     ANOTHER night had come, and with it darkness. But it was not the shroud of
night that pervaded this hidden room somewhere in Manhattan. This place was
dominated by the blackness of closed walls and ceiling. It was a spot where
daylight never came - the sanctum of The Shadow!
     Click!
     The sharp sound brought light - a strange, eerie glow that filled a corner
of the room. A bluish illumination shone upon the surface of a polished table;
but the shade above the lamp hid the form that stood close by.
     A pair of hands appeared beneath the light. White hands, long hands, they
showed sensitive touch combined with latent power. Upon the third finger of the
left hand gleamed a shining gem - a radiant stone that glowed with ever-changing
hue. From deep maroon, it became mauve; then purple. Its depths sent forth
sparkling shafts of light. This was The Shadow's emblem - the girasol that was
his only jewel. A fire opal of rarest luster, this precious trophy was
unmatched in all the world. A relic of the Romanoff jewels, The Shadow, wore it
constantly. With mysterious sparkle, the girasol betokened the strange, unknown
personality of the one whose finger it adorned.
     When the hands of The Shadow appeared beneath that light, there was work
ahead for them. To-night, they were engaged in an important task. They were
assembling the shreds of information which The Shadow had gained in his quest
to find the murderer of Baron Hugo von Tollsburg.
     First, the hands produced a report from Harry Vincent. This, by the
tabulation which it bore, had come to The Shadow early in the day. The Shadow's
girasol sparkled while the left hand held the paper, and the right forefinger
pointed to important passages in the report. A low laugh came from the gloom as
hidden eyes scanned the lines.

     First logical building from dirt road - service station owned by Asa
Rothrock - one mile six-tenths - man stopped there at four o'clock in morning -
inquires regarding locality -

     The Shadow read on. Harry's report was a mingling of essential and varied
facts. It was conclusive in one important point, namely, that The Shadow's
agent had unquestionably picked up the trail of the man whom The Shadow sought.
     In his investigation, Harry had artfully managed to start Asa Rothrock
talking. Two nights ago, the owner of the service station had experienced an
interesting episode which he had recounted while Harry had listened in curious
interest.
     A stranger had knocked at the door of Rothrock's little house. The man had
explained that he and a companion had encountered motor trouble with their car.
The stranger had decided to let his friend drive on and chance it; but he had
thought it best to stop off here and seek lodging for the night.
     In talking with Asa Rothrock, the man had consulted a road map; and had
evidenced surprise to learn that he was only fifteen miles from a town called
New Windsor.
     Using Rothrock's phone, he had called a garage in that place, and had
arranged for a car to come over and pick him up. By taking an early-morning
train at New Windsor, the stranger had said that he could make connections for
New York.
     Rothrock had suggested that the man drive to the town of Dalebury instead,
for there he could catch a direct train on another line; but the stranger had
preferred New Windsor; and New Windsor it had been.
     Harry, after leaving the service station, had gone directly to the garage
at New Windsor. There, taking his cue from what Asa Rothrock had told him,
Harry had introduced himself as a friend of the man who had used the garage car.
     Harry's story had been a good one. He claimed to be the driver of the car
that had left the stranger at Rothrock's. He wondered if his friend had decided
to stay in New Windsor, or if he had gone on by train. He learned that the
stranger had taken an express at six fifteen in the morning.
     Neither Asa Rothrock nor the driver of the garage car had given Harry a
clear description of the stranger. The man had kept constantly in the darkness,
and both were vague when it came to a recollection of facial characteristics.
But at the station, inquiring for his pretended friend, Harry had gleaned a
piece of information.
     The man had put in a telephone call, the telegraph operator had said. It
had been a long-distance call to New York, and the man recalled that the
stranger had announced himself by giving an odd name over the wire. The
operator had not heard the name clearly, and it now escaped her memory.
     Since the stranger was supposed to be Harry's friend, it required a bit of
bluffing on Harry's part to dodge this dilemma. Harry had managed to do so,
stating that since his friend had taken the train, there was no reason for him
to wait in New Windsor any longer. The stranger, he learned, had bought no
ticket.


     THESE facts concluded Harry Vincent's report. The Shadow's review was
brief. The hands pushed the statement aside and brought out a new sheet.
     This had been received by The Shadow within the last hour. It was a brief
report from another agent, Cliff Marsland, stating that he had formed new
contact with the New York underworld.
     The fact that Cliff Marsland was on duty showed that The Shadow had lost
no time in following the tip from Harry Vincent, regarding the telephone
message to New York.
     Cliff Marsland was a valuable operative in the employ of The Shadow. A man
with a fictitious reputation as a killer, Cliff had a habit of bobbing up in
gangdom at unexpected times.
     The denizens of the bad lands looked upon Cliff as a gunman de luxe. In
reality, Cliff was serving The Shadow, and his acquaintance with big-shot gang
leaders frequently enabled him to handle inside jobs.
     The man who had dropped from the German dirigible was a murderer who had
come to America. His arrival was unknown to authorities in the United States.
The Shadow suspected him as one who plotted further crime. It would be Cliff
Marsland's work to watch for any underworld developments that might indicate
international activities.
     Harry Vincent's report had given definite indications that New York was
the goal of the man whom he had trailed. To The Shadow, the obvious was not
always the most logical. A low laugh came from the gloom as the white hands
spread a large map upon the polished table.
     Pointed fingers indicated two spots upon the map. One was the town of New
Windsor; the other was the town of Dalebury. Railroad time-tables appeared
beside the map. The Shadow was consulting the schedules of through trains.
     At Rothrock's the stranger had announced that he was going to New York.
Yet - according to both maps and schedules - he had chosen the town that was
less suitable. Dalebury was closer to the landing spot than New Windsor. It was
a larger place. It afforded a direct line to New York, instead of a connecting
one.
     Why had the murderer picked New Windsor in preference?
     The Shadow knew. Although the man who had fled the airship had made a call
to New York, the inference was that he had business elsewhere.
     The train that he had taken stopped at a junction point where an hour's
wait would bring a New York train; but by remaining on the original train, the
man could choose a destination in Connecticut.
     The Shadow's fingers indicated two cities. One was New Haven; the other,
Hartford.
     The fingers remained motionless. Finally, as though guided by deductive
thought, the forefinger alone continued pointing. It rested upon the dot that
stood for Hartford. There, The Shadow reasoned, was the city which the man had
chosen.


     SINCE his arrival in the United States, from the time that he had hurried
Eastward by air from Chicago, The Shadow had accomplished wonders. His
photographic brain; his knowledge of airways; his quick location of position
aboard the dirigible - all these had enabled him to drop from the darkness of
the sky, and find the exact spot where the parachute leaper had landed.
     The report from a trusted agent had given The Shadow a clew to the
murderer's probable destination. Incredible though it seemed, The Shadow was
successfully trailing a man who had gained all the odds. But with all his
superhuman accomplishments, The Shadow had not yet gained a knowledge of the
murderer's purpose.
     The motive which had inspired the man to kill Baron Hugo von Tollsburg was
something that The Shadow must discover. If crime should, at this very moment,
be in the making, The Shadow could only hope to solve it after it occurred.
Prevention of impending evil would be possible only by closing further on the
trail.
     Keen intuition was The Shadow's forte. This amazing master of crime
detection could scent the approach of impending deeds of evil. The grim laugh
that came from the gloom beyond the flickering light of blue gave an inkling of
The Shadow's thoughts. The murder of Hugo von Tollsburg could be nothing more
than the first step in a chain of contemplated crime.
     A man with a mission had been killed. Well did The Shadow know that the
death of Hugo von Tollsburg would be suppressed by those who discovered it.
Somewhere in the State of Connecticut a fiend of evil was at large, his
identity still unrevealed, his purposes as yet unknown.
     To-night, The Shadow could do no more than approach the probable scene of
the crime, to wait amid the darkness, watching for a stroke that might mean
doom. From then on, The Shadow would gain new opportunity.
     The rays of blue light disappeared as the switch clicked above the shade.
The room was plunged in darkness. Through the silence came the shattering cry
of a strange, ghoulish mockery. The walls of the room caught up The Shadow's
laugh, and threw it back with impish echoes.
     Before the weird reverberations had ended, the sanctum was empty. The
Shadow had departed upon a new quest. To-night, he was starting for the
vicinity where crime seemed due to strike.
     The aftermath of the sanctum episode occurred on the Boston Post Road
later in the evening. A huge, powerful roadster appeared upon that highway,
swiftly heading toward the Connecticut border.
     The Shadow was on his way to Hartford, the city where he had decided that
danger lay!


     CHAPTER VI

     THE FALSE EMISSARY

     THE City of Hartford is noted for its exclusive suburbs. Large, spacious
mansions, surrounded by ample lawns and secluded by ancient shade trees, are by
no means uncommon within the limits of the Connecticut capital.
     Such a house was the residence of Winston Collister, a man well known in
insurance circles both for his integrity and his wealth. Collister's home was a
fine old structure, set far back from the avenue; and its large colonial pillars
made it easily recognizable.
     The interior of the Collister mansion was magnificent. The rooms were
spacious and handsomely furnished. Prompt and efficient servants were on duty.
When the Collisters entertained, they did so lavishly; but, as a rule, Winston
Collister preferred quiet evenings, and avoided ostentation.
     To-night, with midnight close at hand, Winston Collister was seated alone
in his library. A tall man of athletic build, the youthfulness of his face
belied the age that his gray hair indicated.
     Midnight was an unusually late hour for the insurance man. He usually
retired before eleven o'clock, except when social affairs were in progress.
     Several members of the family had already retired; both of Collister's
sons, however, were still downtown. Two of the servants - Ducroe, the butler,
and Ogden, the footman - were still on duty. It was Ogden who appeared at the
door of the library to inform Winston Collister that a gentleman had called to
see him.
     "Ah, yes, Ogden," said Collister quietly. "Did the gentleman say that he
has an appointment with me to-night?"
     "He sent in his card, sir."
     The millionaire insurance man received the slip of pasteboard. It bore the
name:

                               HUGO VON TOLLSBURG

     "I shall see the visitor, Ogden," declared Collister. "Show him into my
study. I shall join him there."
     The study was some distance from the library; it was a small room located
in the wing of the mansion.
     Winston Collister stood up after Ogden had gone, and thoughtfully paced
back and forth, while he allowed his visitor time to reach the room where the
interview was to take place. Then, dignified and erect, the gray-haired man
went to meet his guest.


     STEPPING into the study, Collister faced a man of medium height, whose
firm-set face gave him an appearance of importance. The man did not represent
the typical German; but his trim, pointed mustache gave him a foreign air.
Collister made a detailed study of the man before him.
     He was particularly impressed by the visitor's eyes. Dark, steady in gaze,
those optics centered themselves upon the millionaire. They were the eyes of a
shrewd man; at the same time they possessed an impressive firmness.
     "You are Mr. von Tollsburg?" questioned Collister.
     "Baron Hugo von Tollsburg," responded the visitor, with a stiff bow. "At
your service, Herr Collister."
     There was a guttural accent to the speaker's voice, and it offset the
slight doubt that Collister had entertained as to the man's actual nationality.
     Winston Collister extended his hand. The visitor accepted it, and, after
the shake, took the chair that the millionaire indicated.
     Collister offered cigars. The guest produced a cigarette instead. The
millionaire lighted his own perfecto, and sat down. In an indifferent tone, he
made a passing remark.
     "It is an excellent evening," said Collister.
     "An evening which one might long expect," returned the man who called
himself Von Tollsburg.
     "With the world in turmoil -" Collister cut off his remark and looked
directly at his visitor. The suave-faced man responded with the rest of the
sentence:
     " - it is our duty to right it."
     Winston Collister settled back in his chair as he heard the completion of
the sentence. There was no need for further formality. With frankness,
Collister spoke to his guest.
     "I am glad that you have come," he said. "I have been rather anxious
during the last few days. Tell me: have you seen Monsieur Ponjeau lately?"
     "Just before my departure from Europe," was the response. "As his special
emissary, it was necessary for me to confer with him."
     "Of course. You saw him at Lausanne?"
     "Yes."
     "A wonderful man, Ponjeau," spoke Collister, in a low, reflective tone.
"When he visited me here, Von Tollsburg, I recognized his sincerity the moment
that he began to speak. I am pleased to cooperate in the great work that he has
begun. He is a natural leader in international affairs."
     "Monsieur Ponjeau is a Frenchman," replied the visitor. "I am a German.
Less than fifteen years ago, we were enemies. Now we are friends. We are
citizens of the world, Monsieur Ponjeau and I. You are the same, Herr
Collister."
     The seriousness of the man's tone brought a nod from the millionaire.
Winston Collister arose and faced his visitor with dignity.
     "It had been my hope," he declared, "to give my contribution to Monsieur
Ponjeau in person. I have long since realized that such would be unwise. I am,
therefore, willing to place full trust in an emissary of his choosing. Of
course, baron, you have the proper credentials -"
     The visitor smiled and bowed. He drew a folded paper from his pocket, and
extended it to Collister. The Hartford millionaire examined the document with
care. He particularly noted the ornate signature of Aristide Ponjeau, which
appeared at the bottom of the sheet. He returned the paper to his visitor and
received another document. This, like the first, also bore the signature of
Ponjeau. With it was the written name of Hugo von Tollsburg, the signature
scored with needle-pointed impressions, so that it could not possibly be
altered.
     Collister laid this document upon the table. With no further delay, he
went to the wall and slid back a panel which concealed a small, strong safe.
Opening the metal door, Winston Collister brought forth a packet.
     "Here is the money," he said. "My willing contribution to Aristide
Ponjeau's great plan - the World Court of Industry. It is my hope, Von
Tollsburg, that the success for which we hope will soon be obtained."
     "It is my hope also," responded the visitor.
     "I fully appreciate," continued Collister, "that success depends upon
proper establishment. Adequately equipped with funds, the World Court can gain
recognition from the day of its announcement. Here, baron, is my share - the
sum of two million dollars."


     COLLISTER opened the packet as he spoke. The action revealed a stack of
United States currency - bills of a thousand-dollar denomination. Collister
made a gesture toward the heap. The man who called himself Von Tollsburg shook
his head.
     "A count is not necessary," he said, in a friendly tone. "Your word that
all is there will be sufficient for me."
     The millionaire bowed and rearranged the packet. He gave it to the
visitor, who carefully placed it in his coat pocket. Collister, watching,
remarked further.
     "I have preserved absolute secrecy," he announced. "No one, besides
yourself, baron, knows that I have raised this money and brought it to my home.
Monsieur Ponjeau, of course, has received my promise; but you have witnessed its
consummation."
     The visitor arose and extended his hand. There was the effect of sincerity
in his grasp. As the men stepped apart, the visitor turned slowly toward the
door. Winston Collister stopped him as though by afterthought, as he saw his
guest's hand reaching for the document on the table.
     "The signature," stated the millionaire.
     "Of course," returned the guest. The shrewd dark eyes watched Winston
Collister draw forth a pen and paper. The objects were laid upon the desk.
Collister motioned to a chair. The visitor seated himself and picked up the
pen. With sweeping, well-timed stroke, he wrote the signature:

                              Hugo von Tollsburg

     Winston Collister picked up the paper that bore the name. He also examined
the document that lay upon the desk, to compare the signatures.
     "I shall keep this, baron," he declared, "as your receipt for the money.
That, of course, is understood. The main purpose of the signature is to finally
establish your identity. I thank you for your courtesy, baron -"
     Collister's voice broke off. The millionaire was making a closer
comparison of the signatures. The visitor watched him, with shrewd eyes
gleaming. Standing with hands in his coat pockets, the man who called himself
Von Tollsburg clutched the packet of thousand-dollar bills with his left hand,
while his right moved significantly in his other pocket.
     "Perhaps I am in error, baron," Collister was saying slowly. "Perhaps I am
mistaken - but - these signatures do not conform so closely as I had expected."
     He glanced up suddenly, and was quick enough to catch the antagonistic
gleam in his visitor's eyes. The suave man's expression was changing, but too
late. In one brief moment, Winston Collister's suspicions crystallized into
firm understanding.
     "The signatures" - Collister's voice became frigid - "are enough, Baron
von Tollsburg! They tell me that you are not the man to whom I should deliver
the money. Your eyes tell me the rest. You are an impostor - a false emissary!"
     Collister's hand shot out to grip the visitor's wrist. The man was too
quick; he stepped away. With surprising agility, Winston Collister made a lunge
toward the false emissary, and with it, the millionaire uttered a loud shout for
help.
     "Ogden! Ducroe!" was his cry. "Come here at once to my study!" The call
was loud enough to be heard throughout the house. Collister's quick thrust
enabled him to catch the impostor's left arm. The false baron managed to break
away and dash to the table, where he seized the paper upon which he had written
the forged signature of a dead man. He thrust the paper into his left pocket,
with the packet that contained two million dollars of Collister's money.
     He swung to meet Collister's next attack, and with the motion he brought
his right hand from his pocket. A revolver gleamed in his clenched fist.


     AS Winston Collister leaped forward, the door of the study burst open, and
two men appeared. They were the servants, Ogden and Ducroe.
     Their arrival ended all opportunity for flight without bloodshed. The
false Von Tollsburg, who until this moment had sought to make quick get-away,
now acted with furious venom.
     His eyes blazed as his finger pressed the trigger of the revolver. A shot
burst forth, and Winston Collister's leap came to an end. The millionaire
crumpled, a bullet through his heart.
     The men at the door did not hesitate. The sight of their master falling
dead spurred them to wild effort. They leaped across the room in an attempt to
seize the killer.
     Had the false Von Tollsburg moved toward them, he would have fallen before
the fury of their attack. Instead, however, he drew away; and as he backed
across the room, he fired four quick shots.
     Two were aimed at Ducroe, and they dropped the man before he had traveled
six feet. Ogden was coming on with frenzy, but he, too, was destined to receive
the murderer's bullets. The final pair of shots, delivered at close range,
brought the footman to the floor.
     Three sprawled forms lay as tribute to the killer's fell work. The path to
the doorway was open. The false Von Tollsburg did not hesitate to use it. Three
times a murderer within the space of a single minute, he made a swift dash
toward safety.
     Followed by screams that came from women on the second floor, the murderer
headed toward the front door. That barrier opened as he neared it, and two young
men in dress suits confronted the escaping killer. They were Collister's sons,
returned from town at this dramatic moment.
     The fleeing man was upon them. He raised his revolver and fired his sixth
shot at the first of his antagonists. The other Collister boy struck at the
upraised wrist, and in that action saved his brother's life. The aim was
diverted, and the bullet lodged in the shoulder of the one toward whom it was
delivered, instead of striking him in the heart.
     With one foe down, the murderer grappled with the other. The Collister
youth was wiry and powerful; for a moment he resisted the killer's attack.
Then, the murderer's right hand came free, and he struck with his revolver. The
weapon met young Collister's skull, and the youth collapsed.
     The delay at the door brought the fleeing man face to face with the most
crucial situation he had yet encountered. As he ran down the steps between the
huge colonial pillars, the impostor saw that his path was barred by a man in
uniform. A patrolman had heard the shots, and was running up the walk with
drawn revolver.
     Seeing the gleaming revolver in the murderer's hand, the officer stopped
short and fired. His first shot was wide; the second also missed its target,
although the bullet whistled close by the ear of the approaching killer. There
was no response from the murderer's gun; the chambers of the revolver were
empty.
     The policeman did not realize that fact; and it was his ignorance that
made him prey to the murderer's ruse. The third shot from the patrolman's gun
would surely have reached its mark; but the officer, seeing the barrel of a
revolver thrust directly toward his face, dodged instinctively before firing.
     In a trice, the killer was upon him. In their writhing struggle, the gun
was wrested from the officer's grasp. A shot resounded, and the policeman fell,
slain by a bullet from his own revolver.
     The murderer was on his way. Scurrying across the avenue, he gained the
lawn beyond, followed by shouts of men who were hastening up the street. People
were arriving upon the scene; but the sight of the slain policeman made them
hesitate to follow the man who had escaped.
     Screams from the Collister mansion told of fiendish work within. The
rescuers who had seen the departing murderer preferred the light of the house
to the darkness of the lawn on the other side of the avenue.
     Smashing his way through all resistance, the impostor had escaped. Only
Winston Collister - now dead - could have told the reason for the mad deeds of
murder. For the false Baron von Tollsburg, fleeing through the night, had used
madness only because method had failed.
     In his pocket was the fortune he had come to gain. He had carried away the
sum of two million dollars!


     CHAPTER VII

     THE MYSTERIOUS INVESTIGATOR

     INSPECTOR GOLSHARK, of the Hartford police force, was standing in the
center of Winston Collister's study. The frown upon his face showed his
perplexity. Silent detectives and policemen were gathered about, none offering
a suggestion.
     "It's a tough case," growled the inspector. "If we had one person who
could tell us something, it would be different. But with Collister dead - with
the two servants dead -"
     The inspector shrugged his shoulders. He glanced at the men about him,
muttered something about a flock of dummies, and called police headquarters.
     "Nothing doing on the guy that got away?" he questioned. "Yeah, he's had
pretty near an hour now. Round up all the suspects you can get. That's the only
chance. Plenty of people saw him - no one got a good-enough look at him."
     A policeman entered the room and spoke to the inspector. Golshark
listened. A gentleman had arrived to see Winston Collister. He claimed to be a
friend of the dead millionaire.
     "Show him in," growled the inspector. "We'll be having a lot like him.
Might as well be ready for them."
     A few minutes later, a tall, well-dressed man entered the study. Golshark
glanced at the arrival, and then stared. The visitor was a man of unusual and
distinctive countenance. One could not have told his exact age. Forty years
might have been a fair estimate, but a guess would have been speculative. The
face that the inspector saw wore a quiet, motionless expression; and its
features appeared as though they had been chiseled by a sculptor.
     In the light of the study, this man was a being with a human mask. Through
that inscrutable countenance gleamed a pair of sharp, brilliant eyes, that faced
the inspector unflinchingly. The eyes made Golshark ill at ease.
     "Who are you?" demanded the inspector. "A friend of Winston Collister?"
     "Yes," returned the visitor, in a quiet, even tone. "My name is Henry
Arnaud. I have just driven from New York. I intended to call upon Mr. Collister
this evening. I stopped by, even though the hour was late. I have just learned -
from the officer at the front door - that tragedy has fallen here."
     "Winston Collister has been murdered," declared the inspector. "Two
servants and a patrolman killed, also."
     Henry Arnaud nodded thoughtfully. "Are there any clews to the murderer?"
he questioned, in his quiet tone.


     INSPECTOR GOLSHARK started. Who was this man? Openly declaring himself a
friend of the slain millionaire, there was no reason why Henry Arnaud should be
denied admittance to Winston Collister's home. But there was something in
Arnaud's speech that perplexed the inspector. He sensed that he was dealing
with a man of keen intellect - one who seemed coldly capable of conducting his
own investigation.
     Arnaud's explanation of how he happened to stop here was quite plausible.
Inspector Golshark accepted it, but with momentary reservations. The inspector
would have been surprised had he known that less than twenty minutes before
this man had been at police headquarters.
     For Henry Arnaud had learned of Winston Collister's death by the simple
procedure of stopping at headquarters to check up on recent local crime.
     In the hubbub that had followed the report of the killings at the
Collister home, Arnaud had gained the information he wanted without asking a
single question. It was that visit that had caused Arnaud to come here - not
any acquaintanceship that existed between himself and the murdered millionaire.
     "What were the details of Winston Collister's death?" quizzed Arnaud, in a
placid tone.
     Despite a momentary antagonism, Inspector Golshark found himself
describing what had happened - so far as the police had been able to ascertain
the facts.
     "There was a man in this room," he announced. "Who he was - we don't know
as yet. We figure he slipped in here somehow, and Winston Collister found him.
People upstairs heard Collister shouting for the servants - Ducroe and Ogden.
They came running in.
     "The murderer killed the lot - Collister and both the others. Then he hit
for the front door. Collister's boys were coming in. He shot down one - young
Harry Collister. The other, Jerry, got clubbed with the gun.
     "Patrolman Luchner heard the shots out on the avenue. He was running up
the walk. The killer got him, too - and then made a get-away across the street.
That's the last that was seen of him." Henry Arnaud nodded.
     "Was there any motive for the murders?" he asked.
     "None we know of," responded Golshark promptly. "We opened the wall safe -
Mrs. Collister gave us the combination - but there's nothing taken from it. Some
articles of value there - all untouched. She knew the contents of the safe. We
figure that the guy came in here to steal; when he was discovered, he shot his
way out. That's all."
     Again, Arnaud nodded. He looked at the floor, and gazed about the room. He
asked another question.
     "Where are the bodies?"
     "Removed," said the inspector. "Collister was here - Ogden here - Ducroe
here. We've got that part of it straight. He shot down the old man first, and
bumped off the servants when they came in; then ran for it."
     "Very unfortunate," mused Arnaud, in a solemn tone. "It is quite a shock
to me. I hardly know whether I should go on to Massachusetts or go back to New
York. Do you object to my staying here a short while?"
     "Stick around," replied the inspector. "Maybe" - he paused to smile - "you
may find something we've missed."
     "Perhaps," observed Arnaud dryly.


     THE visitor strolled from the study. Inspector Golshark nudged a detective
as a sign for the man to follow. As Arnaud crossed the hall and walked slowly
into the library, the sleuth was close beside him. Henry Arnaud sat in a chair;
the detective walked across the room and stared through a window.
     It was while the man's eyes were away from him that Henry Arnaud spotted a
small white object lying on the floor. He dropped his hand and picked up the
object. It was a calling card, and Arnaud noted the name it bore as he pocketed
the card.
     Ten minutes later, Inspector Golshark entered the library to see Henry
Arnaud resting with half-closed eyes. The visitor awoke from his doze with a
start and smiled wanly.
     "I feel better," he remarked. "The long drive - the shock of Collister's
death - both were a bit too much for me. I think I shall go back to New York."
     "Sorry you won't be able to help us," declared the inspector, with a touch
of irony.
     "In what way?" asked Arnaud.
     "By doing a bit of crime reconstruction," said the inspector. "You seemed
so anxious to know the details that I thought maybe you might have spotted a
few clews."
     A sharp glint came to Henry Arnaud's eyes. His lips compressed. He arose
from his chair, and faced the inspector with a challenging gaze. His own voice,
though even, carried a stronger touch of sarcasm than had the inspector's.
     "I have formed a few assumptions," said Arnaud, "and I presume you might
be interested in hearing them. Crime, inspector, is often a matter of detail. I
have a peculiar knack for reconstructing scenes, partly through deduction, and
partly through intuition. To-night's events, as I visualize them, began in this
room."
     A puzzled frown came over the inspector's brow. Golshark sensed the
challenge in Arnaud's voice. Was the man baiting him, or had this chance visit
been made with a purpose?
     "Winston Collister," resumed Arnaud, "was reading in this room. He was
evidently awaiting a visitor. Otherwise, he might not have been alone here at
midnight, with the servants on duty; and he might have been satisfied with
reading one book steadily, instead of choosing different ones and laying them
aside."
     Golshark followed the direction of Arnaud's gaze. The inspector saw three
books lying on the table beside the chair where Arnaud had been sitting.
     Arnaud's eyes turned toward the bookcases. Golshark followed again and saw
the vacancies from which the books had been removed. Close by were other books,
jutting from the rows - but that peculiarity did not exist except at the one
spot.
     "A trifle impatient," explained Arnaud, "Winston Collister started to take
down books, and chose others in their place. The arrival of his guest -
announced by one of his servants - caused him to go into the study."
     Inspector Golshark was frowning. He saw Arnaud's forefinger point to an
ash stand, to the remains of a cigar.
     "Collister had been smoking," observed Arnaud. "That is an important
point, inspector. Come with me - perhaps we will find what happened after
Winston Collister left this room."


     WITH a gesture to the detective, Golshark followed Arnaud into the study.
The other members of the police force had gone. With only the inspector and the
detective present, Henry Arnaud resumed his discourse.
     "A box of cigars," he commented, pointing to the desk. "Winston Collister
offered one to his guest. The man evidently preferred a cigarette - of a
distinctive brand, inspector. So Collister lighted a cigar for himself. He
smoked it but a short while. Here it is - in the ash stand."
     Singularly enough, Inspector Golshark was fuming at his own stupidity. He
had been sure that Collister had surprised an intruder, and he had overlooked
this point that should have been so obvious.
     "Examination will show the cigar to be of the same brand as the one in the
library," continued Arnaud. "You can make that inspection later on. What
concerns us now is the conversation that must have passed between Collister and
his guest.
     "The fact that Collister quietly laid his cigar aside indicates that he
performed some action before he was attacked. I am sorry that you opened the
wall safe, inspector. Otherwise, I might be able to prove that Collister took
something from it.
     "That is purely speculation. What I do know is that Collister laid an
object upon this desk - in fact, not only an object, but some papers."
     Golshark recalled that he had seen Arnaud look at the desk, when he was in
this room before. Now he stared in wonder as the impromptu investigator
indicated certain marks that had escaped his notice.
     "Just a trifle dusty," observed Arnaud, pointing to the desk. "Enough so
that an object placed there - perhaps a package - would leave its trace. Note
the smudges of fingers that picked the object up. Two hands, sliding, several
inches apart."
     Inspector Golshark stared in amazement, and the detective followed his
example. Henry Arnaud quietly pointed to another spot, and there showed a very
slight impression with an extended smudge beneath it. He pointed out a
recurrence of this phenomenon at a portion of the desk where a chair stood.
     "A document of some sort," commented Arnaud. "A document, laid here. Let
us suppose, inspector, that the visitor showed some credentials to Winston
Collister; that in return, Collister gave the visitor a package; and then
requested a receipt.
     "This pad" - Arnaud paused as he pointed to an innocent-looking object at
the side of the desk - "is a new one. One sheet has been torn from it, as you
can see by simple examination. Pen and ink - our unknown visitor signing - and
then -"
     "Then what?" demanded Golshark, in spite of himself.
     "Then the trouble," asserted Arnaud. "A signature that did not satisfy.
The visitor had received what he desired. Collister wanted it back. The result
- murder. The killer went away with the credentials, signature, and stolen
goods."
     "Yeah? Wait a minute." Golshark had reached the limit of his patience. "Go
back a bit. You said something about a cigarette. I suppose the guy that got
away was smoking one, eh?"
     "He smoked one."
     "Say - you seem to think you know a lot about this -"
     "I know the ways of certain criminals."
     "Yeah? Maybe you know who this one was?"
     "No. I might tell you the name which the man assumed. I might tell you of
a murder that he performed before. But I cannot - as yet - reveal his true
identity; nor do I know what he came here to obtain."
     "If you think you're pulling a fast one," came Golshark's antagonistic
growl, "it's time you got the idea out of your noodle. This boloney about a guy
smoking a cigarette -"
     Henry Arnaud raised his hand. Inspector Golshark glowered and became
silent. There was something in Arnaud's action that showed he intended to put
his theory to the proof.


     CAREFULLY, Arnaud lifted the cigar from the ash stand, and laid it on the
desk. He pointed to the partly consumed end.
     "That cigar," he declared, "was smoked longer than the time it takes to
smoke a cigarette. Here, in the vortex of the ash stand, we see traces of light
ash that indicate a cigarette. The smoker finished his cigarette. Naturally,
when a hollow-legged ash stand is available, one drops his cigarette into it.
     "Let us hope, inspector, that this ash stand was emptied recently. If so,
we will find but one cigarette within it - a cigarette of a very peculiar brand
- a cigarette which bears the name 'Pharos' upon its cork-tipped stump. Remember
that name. 'Pharos.'"
     As he spoke, Henry Arnaud seized the ash stand and swung it high above the
desk. He inverted it, and a tiny white object fell out.
     As Arnaud thumped the ash stand back to the floor, the inspector leaped
forward and seized the object that had dropped. It was the cork-tipped
remainder of a cigarette.
     With the detective staring over his shoulder, Golshark eyed the stump.
Upon it he read the name of the brand the single word:

                                   Pharos

     Inspector Golshark was stupefied. His lips were moving as he mumbled words
of amazement. Three full seconds ticked by as Golshark dully realized that this
remarkable discovery substantiated all the other statements that Henry Arnaud
had made.
     With a sharp grunt, Golshark threw the cigarette butt on the desk, and
shoved the detective to one side, as he turned to challenge Henry Arnaud.
     "Hey, you -"
     The words stopped short. Inspector Golshark blinked in rage. The man that
he wanted was no longer here! When he had set the ash stand back upon the
floor, Henry Arnaud had walked from the room, while Golshark and the detective
were pouncing upon the cigarette butt.
     "Get that guy!" cried Golshark, thumping the detective. "Get him - he
knows too much -"
     The inspector was springing from the room, with the detective at his
heels. His shouts, as they reached the hall, brought a policeman running from
the front door.
     "Where is he?" demanded Golshark. "Arnaud - the wise-faced guy -"
     "He went outside, inspector."
     "Get him! He may be the bird we want - the murderer, come back. Hurry!"
     Golshark was springing forward like an enraged bull. As he reached the
front door, he caught a fleeting glimpse of a tall form at the sidewalk of the
avenue. Drawing a revolver, the inspector shouted a command to stop.
     "Hey! Arnaud! We want you!"
     A taunting laugh rippled from the darkness. Its eerie tones made Golshark
falter. Then, with an oath, the inspector raised his revolver and fired at the
spot where the man had been.
     Another burst of mockery was the reply. Golshark dashed forward as he
heard the gibe.
     "Get him! Get him! Spread out!"
     Other police were coming in answer to Golshark's order. They scurried in
various directions, hoping to discover the man who had so quickly disappeared.
Golshark, uttering wild imprecations, stood alone at the end of the walk.
     A car swirled along the avenue. Only its dash lights were illuminated.
Golshark looked after it as it went by, and noted that the tail light was out.
He could not see the license tag.
     To Golshark, the car meant nothing, until he heard the strident cry that
came from its interior.
     The laugh again! Long, loud, and creepy, it burst through the night with
sinister merriment. Curses died on the foiled inspector's lips. He saw the car
swing up a side street, and in an instant it was blotted out by darkness. The
echoes of the laugh still persisted.
     The laugh of The Shadow! Though Inspector Golshark had never heard it
before, he recognized it as the token of some amazing personage, and in his
heart he knew that the man who had sent that laugh was too clever to be
apprehended now.
     The mysterious investigator was gone. As Henry Arnaud, he had come; as The
Shadow, he had departed. Too late to find the spot where murder had been
destined to strike, The Shadow had gained new clews.
     He had seen the traces of crime an hour after it had taken place. He was
closing on the trail of the supercrook who used murder as a stepping stone to
wealth.
     This was barely the beginning of crime. The Shadow knew that murder would
strike elsewhere. But until he had gained closer access to the unknown killer,
The Shadow could only follow the murderer's trail.
     It was not the way of The Shadow to await the acts of criminals. Before
the murderer struck again, the master mind would find some method of thwarting
the killer's purpose. Already, in New York, The Shadow had placed a trusted
agent on an important task.
     By to-morrow night, if The Shadow's calculations were correct, a link
would be gained between evil doers in Manhattan and the daring slayer who had
brought death to Hartford.
     The Shadow's course was directed to New York. There he might find the
answer that he sought.


     CHAPTER VIII

     IN THE UNDERWORLD

     IN Hartford, crime had struck. In New York, crime was brewing. Twenty-four
hours after the bold murders had occurred in the capital of Connecticut, Cliff
Marsland could scent the impending signs of contemplated crime within the
confines of Manhattan.
     Cliff Marsland held an enviable reputation in the underworld of New York.
He had done time in the big house, otherwise known as Sing Sing. Since his
discharge from prison, he had been prosperous, without molestation by the
police. That classed him as an ace in the bad lands. Whenever Cliff Marsland
appeared in the underworld, he carried a bank roll that would choke a giraffe.
     With no gang affiliations, Cliff rated as a free lance among gunmen, and
never suffered observation from the authorities. He was in a class by himself.
His reliability was an axiom; but his activities were unknown.
     Men of the underworld did not realize that Cliff Marsland had gone to
prison for a crime that he did not commit; that he had taken the rap to keep
stigma from the brother of the girl whom he loved.
     Only The Shadow knew that fact; because of it, The Shadow had enlisted
Marsland in his service. Cliff was a trump card in The Shadow's hand. The
Shadow was using him now.
     When Cliff returned to the realm of the underworld, after a period of
absence, he immediately frequented the places where gangsters of consequence
could be found.
     They welcomed him and talked with him. His poker face encouraged
information. Cliff Marsland could learn plenty on short notice. He was doing so
at present.


     CLIFF was at the Palace Havana, a night club where flashy mobsmen appeared
with their molls. He was working under orders from The Shadow, looking for
contacts that would bring him in touch with secret crime of great proportions.
     One by one, Cliff had chatted with old acquaintances. Here, in a secluded
corner, away from the crowded dance floor, he was hearing news from a
shrewd-faced gunman known as "Skeeter" Wolfe.
     "Sittin' pretty, eh, Cliff?" Skeeter was saying. "Well, things ain't so
bad with me, boy. Not so bad!"
     "You know me, Skeeter," responded Cliff. "I'm always in on the mazuma; but
I never pass up a good lay. I take the gravy while it's hot - and I keep it."
     "Big stuff, Cliff?"
     Cliff Marsland shrugged his powerful shoulders. A slight smile appeared
upon his firm, straight lips.
     "It's the way I handle things, Skeeter," he said sagely. "I figure that if
a big shot wants four men to do a job, he'll listen to reason when he finds one
who will do the work of four.
     "It's better for him; it's more dough for the fellow that does the heavy
work. That's how I make out. One keeps mum where four don't. Get me?"
     "I keep mum, Cliff."
     "Sure you do, Skeeter. You're working on something now. Keep it to
yourself. You're getting paid for it."
     "How do you know?" queried Skeeter, in astonishment.
     "Skeeter," laughed Cliff, "if the guy you're working for wants another rod
on his pay roll, tell him to see me. Tell him I not only keep mum; but I don't
give a tip-off."
     "How do you mean?"
     "I don't show that I'm sitting pretty. You wouldn't know it if you saw me
when I was pulling something big. But I can tell by looking at you that you're
on a lay."
     "You've doped it right, Cliff."
     There was admiration in Skeeter's tone. The gangster seemed to be asking
for advice; and Cliff furnished it.
     "You come here when you're flush, don't you?" quizzed Cliff. "You stay
away when things are going slow? Am I right? Well, that's a give-away. I'm the
opposite. When I'm sitting pretty, I lay low. When things aren't so good, I
blossom out."
     "Say, Cliff, that's a good racket. Ain't things so hot with you right now?"
     "I've got jack," responded Cliff, in a noncommittal tone. "But I wouldn't
mind digging up some more. I'm ripe for it right now. That's why I said to tell
your boss that he can get me if he needs me."
     "I'm tellin' him, Cliff, to-night. You're a great guy. So is the bird I'm
workin' for. I don't mind lettin' you know who he is. Bumps Jaffrey."
     Cliff nodded as though the matter did not interest him. Skeeter Wolfe
accepted this as cause for further palaver. Comment on Cliff's part might have
stopped Skeeter's flow of guarded information; but since Cliff did not appear
particularly impressed, Skeeter was anxious to cut a figure.
     "It ain't no ordinary job," he said. "It's somethin' big, Cliff. Bart
Shallock is in on it. He's a slick guy. I don't even know what it's all about,
but when Bart Shallock hooks up with Bumps Jaffrey, it means somethin' is
doin'."
     Cliff Marsland repressed a smile. He was learning what he wanted to know.


     "BUMPS" JAFFREY was a gang leader of repute - one who assembled capable
gorillas, and threw them into mercenary service for big shots who required aid.
Bart Shallock was a smooth confidence man who consorted with jewel smugglers,
blackmailers, and workers of international caliber.
     For two nights, Cliff had been thinking about Bart Shallock, along with
others. This information was of the type he wanted to gain.
     When Bart Shallock required the services of a gang leader, it meant that
big matters were at stake. It indicated strong-arm tactics and probable murder
as a necessary requisite to a smooth and crafty plan. Here was the very lead
that Cliff needed, and he wanted to know no more from Skeeter Wolfe.
     "Keep mum, Skeeter," warned Cliff. "Don't bother to speak to Bumps
Jaffrey. I know him. I'll run into him, and let him know I'm looking for a
hook-up. What you know means something while you know it. Don't let other
people in on it."
     "Sure thing, Cliff," agreed Skeeter. "You're right. Don't think I'd spill
the chatter to everybody, though. You're about the only guy I'd talk to."
     Uppermost in Cliff's mind was the desire to encounter Bumps Jaffrey; but
he gave Skeeter no inkling that the matter was of great importance. Instead,
Cliff feigned indifference, and made no effort to break away from Skeeter's
company.
     It was not long before Skeeter tired of the atmosphere at the Palace
Havana, and grunted a good night as he left the place. Cliff waited.
     Unless Bumps Jaffrey were coming here, the logical place to find him would
be at Brindle's restaurant on Broadway. Cliff left the night club, and started
for the eating house. He reached his destination, and entered the popular
restaurant.


     BRINDLE'S was a paradoxical place. It attracted persons of many classes:
theatrical stars, hotel dwellers, chance passers, and gunmen. The place was
completely devoid of gawking sightseers.
     Radio celebrities passed unnoticed; well-known politicians were
unrecognized. So it was with gangsters. Few, except their companions, knew
their identity.
     Cliff Marsland, when he entered, might well have been a football coach
from some mid-Western college. His athletic build gave him that appearance, and
his chance arrival marked him as one who had stopped in Brindle's for the first
time.
     But Cliff was alert as he made his way to the rear of the cafe. There were
open tables in the center, but on either side were boxlike booths that regular
customers preferred.
     From the corner of his eye, Cliff spotted two men in a booth talking over
their coffee and sandwiches. One of these was Bump Jaffrey. Cliff did not
recognize the other.
     Raising his eyebrows as a sign of recognition, Cliff stopped by the booth,
and nodded to Bumps. The gang leader motioned to him to sit down. He introduced
Cliff to his companion, who proved to be an acquaintance not concerned with the
underworld. Cliff gave an order, and was still eating when the others finished.
The odd man left, and Cliff was alone with Bumps.
     "How're things going?" questioned Bumps.
     "So-so," responded Cliff, indifferently. "Just came back to the big burg.
Glad to be here again."
     "What're you doing now?"
     "Nothing. I don't fool with small stuff, Bumps."
     "I know that, Cliff. Maybe you try to hit too big, though."
     "Not me, Bumps. I like jobs that are different. Anybody can hire dumb
gorillas. I take work that needs brains. I want my share, but I'm not
exorbitant."
     The final word pleased Bumps Jaffrey. Cliff Marsland had the appearance
and manner of a gentleman; but his strong face and powerful physique fitted in
with the required standards that the gang leader desired.
     "I may need you later on, Cliff," suggested Bumps, in a casual tone.
"Where will you be keeping yourself?"
     Cliff shrugged his shoulders; then, in a noncommittal tone, he responded
that he was frequently at the Palace Havana, and also at Brindle's.
     "I'll see you later, Cliff," nodded Bumps, glancing at his watch. "I've
got a few gats working for me right now. I may need a real good one soon.
Remember, I'm keeping you in mind."
     Cliff saw what Bumps was trying to conceal. It was a sure bet that Bumps
already had some work under way - a substantiation of what Skeeter had said
to-night.
     The fact, as Cliff sized it, was probably that Bumps had too many
gangsters rather than too few. It would be good policy to meet Bumps right
along. Gang depletions were by no means uncommon in New York. Cliff figured
himself next in line when a vacancy might come.
     That, however, did not solve tonight's problem. Bumps Jaffrey was going
somewhere. Despite his feigned manner of leisurely departure, it was probable
that he had an important appointment.
     Could it be with Bart Shallock? Cliff decided that it might be.


     THERE were two reasons why Cliff now faced an emergency. His forte was
strong-arm work, not ability in following a trail. Furthermore, he could not
afford to run the risk of incurring suspicion if he intended to deal with Bumps
Jaffrey later on. Nevertheless, Cliff was determined to follow the gang leader.
     When Bumps Jaffrey had sauntered from Brindle's, Cliff restrained himself
for a few minutes; then took up the trail in hope that he might have luck.
Fortune smiled. On Broadway, Cliff saw Bumps hailing a taxicab at the corner
below. Hurriedly, Cliff entered another cab, and ordered the driver to follow
the one ahead. The taximan obeyed.
     Bumps was headed for a location on the East Side. Cliff, cautioning his
own driver with a low growl, kept well in the rear. When he saw the front cab
pull up at the curb, he ordered his own man to stop.
     On the sidewalk, Cliff saw Bumps enter an alleyway.
     Walking past the entrance to the alley, Cliff saw that it formed a street
with no outlet. He kept on and reached a corner cigar store. There, he went
into a telephone booth, and called a number. A quiet voice responded:
     "Burbank speaking."
     The tones of that voice eased Cliff's anxious mind. Burbank was a man whom
he had never seen. An invisible agent of The Shadow, this quiet-voiced
individual was constantly on duty as contact man between The Shadow and his
active agents.
     Cliff Marsland, like Harry Vincent, made emergency reports through
Burbank. Each agent knew the particular phone number where Burbank was located.
Calls always brought an immediate response. Messages were promptly relayed to
The Shadow.
     To-night, as Cliff tensely explained the situation, he received word from
Burbank to put in another call within fifteen minutes.
     Cliff gave the location of the alley where he had last seen Bumps Jaffrey.
After he hung up the receiver, he loitered about the store until the allotted
time had ended.
     His second call to Burbank brought another prompt response. This time
Cliff Marsland received instructions.
     "Off duty," were Burbank's words. "Report to-morrow morning to our man."
     "Our man" meant R. Mann - Rutledge Mann, whose investment office was a
place where The Shadow's agents went to gain instructions, and to deliver their
reports.
     Cliff Marsland smiled to himself as he rode northward in a taxicab, bound
for the Palace Havana. A few more hours at the night club might be useful; but
in the back of his head, Cliff felt an assurance that he had accomplished his
real work to-night.
     Crime was brewing in the underworld. Bumps Jaffrey had assembled a mob.
To-night, Bumps Jaffrey was conferring with some one. What might be happening
at the conference was something that Cliff Marsland could not conjecture. But
he felt confident that it would not remain a secret.
     For Cliff had tipped off The Shadow. Even now, the mysterious personage of
darkness might well be on his way to look in upon the affairs of Bumps Jaffrey!


     CHAPTER IX

     THE MEETING

     THE alley which Bumps Jaffrey had entered was a dismal thoroughfare that
gained its dim light from the grimy windows of old houses at the sides.
     It was into one of these buildings that Bumps had gone; and now, half an
hour after he had left Brindle's restaurant, the gang leader was seated at a
table in the corner of a large, dingy room.
     The place was a speakeasy known to its patrons as Duke's. This was in
deference to the proprietor, a big, wide-faced fellow whose grinning mouth
displayed a glittering array of gold teeth, and who had gained the sobriquet of
"Duke."
     Away from the usual haunts of gangsters, Duke's place was frequented only
by those mobsmen who were well known to the proprietor. Hence the speakeasy was
not familiar to Cliff Marsland, and it also afforded an excellent spot for Bumps
Jaffrey to meet a friend unobserved.
     Duke, the proprietor, was a cagey individual. He knew the manner in which
mobsmen were wont to frequent a place in ever increasing numbers, until it
became nothing more than a hangout for gangs, and forced the proprietor to obey
the dictates of outsiders.
     This was a condition that Duke did not want, because his speakeasy was
doing business as neutral territory. Hence, Duke was very tactful in his
methods. He had gained the services of a handful of indiscriminate rowdies who
imbibed free drinks, and were always ready to eject any undesirables.
     If unwanted mobsters entered Duke's place, the strong-arm squad handled
them tactfully, especially if they knew the visitors to be tough. It was easy
enough to approach a gangster, and to suggest going to a place where drinks
were better.
     But when an unknown stranger came in, he was merely ordered to scram; and
if he failed to do so, a swift bounce invariably followed.
     Bumps Jaffrey, hard-faced and shrewd of eye, liked Duke's place, because
of the protection it afforded; and to-night, he had chosen it as a spot for a
rendezvous. Imbibing a drink, he watched the door of the speakeasy, and his eye
lighted as he saw a newcomer enter.
     This man had none of the marks of the underworld. He was above medium
height, well dressed, sallow in complexion. His face was intelligent and
placid. He bore himself like a gentleman. There was quiet ease in his manner,
and he rendered himself quite inconspicuous as he took a table.
     After one drink, the stranger quietly arose and walked through a door at
the rear of the room. Only two persons saw him go in that direction. One was
Bumps Jaffrey; the other was Duke, the proprietor.
     Both knew the identity of the stranger. He was Bart Shallock, one of the
smoothest confidence men in New York, a clever crook whose activities were the
despair of international detectives.
     It was with Bart Shallock that Bumps Jaffrey had the appointment.


     A FEW minutes after the confidence man had gone through the door, Bumps
quietly arose and went in that direction. At the same moment, the door of the
speakeasy opened, and a sweater-clad gangster came into the place.
     This newcomer saw Bumps Jaffrey going into the back room. He also observed
Duke's watchful eye following the gang leader.
     The sweatered man sidled into a chair at a corner table. It was there that
Duke spied him. The proprietor came across the room with a challenging air.
     "Hey, you!" he demanded. "What're you doin' in here? Why'd you come to
this place?"
     "This is a speak, ain't it?" came the response, in a gruff tone.
     "Sure it is," admitted Duke, with a sour-grinned flash of his gold molars.
"But it ain't open to the public."
     "I ain't the public," growled the newcomer. "Get me a drink an' make it
snappy!"
     Duke's big paw shot out and gripped the gangster's sweatered shoulder.
With a powerful heave, Duke yanked the man to his feet. He intended to throw
the intruder into the alley; and as a preliminary action, he shot a swift punch
with his free hand.
     The blow never landed. From his crouching position, the sweatered gangster
straightened and tilted his head away from Duke's sweeping fist. The proprietor
missed his punch, and the gangster countered with a short upper-cut that landed
on Duke's jaw. Down went the big man, his gold teeth flashing from his wide-open
mouth.
     Duke, the tough speakeasy proprietor, had been flattened with a single
punch. It brought a gasp of surprise from the rowdies about the room. Then,
with one accord, five men leaped forward to seize the sweatered gangster.
     The first man's head shot up as a tight fist clipped his chin. The others
leaped upon the amazing fighter in hopes of bearing him to the floor. He
wrested away, and sprang across the room.
     They were after him again; and revolvers gleamed as the strong-arm squad
came into new action. With two men down, they were taking no chances.
     Their adversary was too quick for them. Seizing a chair, he swung it
against the nearest man, just as the ruffian aimed his gun. Down went the armed
bouncer. The man in the sweater swung the chair high above his head, and as the
attackers ducked, he smashed one of the two large lights that illuminated the
room.
     Turning, he used the chair to whack the arm of another man who was ready
with a gun; and before the others could bring weapons into play, he hurled the
chair with terrific force toward the second light that hung from the ceiling. A
pop and the sound of glass clattering in the darkness. Then the spats of flame
from revolvers as the strong-arm men fired at the spot where their adversary
had been.
     The front door banged, and in response the men surged in that direction,
confident that the sweatered man had fled. Two of them reached the alley, but
they could see no sign of the man they wanted. When they came back, they found
a candle burning. Duke was groggily inserting a bulb in one of the light
sockets.
     "Did you get him, boys?" questioned the proprietor.
     "Naw," responded one of the bouncers. "He scrammed. We was too late to nab
him."
     "Yeah? Well, it was bum stuff usin' them rods. The coppers might come in
on us. I told youse guys always to lay off the shootin'."
     Duke finished his task with the bulb, and went to the second socket. When
the speakeasy was again thoroughly illuminated, the proprietor went to the back
room and ascended a flight of stairs. He stopped at a door on the second floor,
and knocked. An anxious voice came from within:
     "That you, Duke?"
     "Yeah."
     "What was the fireworks?"
     "We had to get rid of a tough guy, Bumps. He's gone now. Scrammed when it
got too hot for him."
     "All O.K., now?"
     "Looks that way, Bumps. Not enough trouble to bring the coppers."
     "O.K., Duke."
     Duke went downstairs, growling to himself. He was sorry that the intruder
had escaped. A killing meant nothing to Duke, and since gun play had taken
place in his speakeasy, he would have preferred a dead body to an escaped
trouble-maker. However, all was quiet, and Duke gave no more thought to matters
upstairs.


     HAD Duke remained in that upper hall, he would have witnessed a surprising
sight. A huddled figure emerged from the darkness. The sweatered gangster stood
before the door where Duke had been.
     The man had not gone out by the front door; instead, he had deceived his
enemies in the dark. He had slammed the front door, and had doubled back
upstairs.
     Standing in the dim light of the hall, the unknown gangster began a
strange transformation. He raised the bottom of his sweater, and drew forth a
folded mass of black cloth. As the huddled figure drew itself erect, the cloth
became a cloak, which dropped over the gangster's shoulders.
     A flattened object, appeared, and was molded into a slouch hat, which went
upon the figure's head. Black gloves slipped over white fingers.
     The sweatered gangster had become The Shadow!
     A low, whispered laugh shuddered from unseen lips. Stooping, the spectral
form leaned close to the door of the room where Bumps Jaffrey was conferring
with Bart Shallock. The buzz of voices was scarcely audible. With black-gloved
fist, The Shadow knocked at the door.
     "Who's there?"
     It was the questioning voice of Bumps Jaffrey.
     "Duke," came the response from the being in black. The voice was a perfect
replica of Duke's growl.
     "What's up?" questioned Bumps, from within the room.
     "Nothin'" - it was Duke's voice again - "but I'm just playin' safe. Goin'
to switch out the light, here in the hall. So you won't be bothered."
     "O.K., Duke."
     Out went the light. Silence reigned in the hall. Then, slowly and
noiselessly, the door of the room began to open. Unseen and unheard, the tall
figure of The Shadow moved through the space!
     By turning out the light in the hall, The Shadow had prevented any glow
from that direction. Now he was entering a dimly lighted room where Bumps
Jaffrey and Bart Shallock were seated at a table in the corner.
     Both were engaged in conversation; the single light extended from the wall
beside their table. Neither glanced in the direction of the door. Hence they did
not see the spectral form as it made its arrival.
     The Shadow did not linger. The door closed behind him. His tall shape
moved across the room like an apparition. He reached a spot where a second
table was located, and there merged with the darkness of the wall. Completely
invisible, The Shadow listened to the words that passed between gang leader and
confidence man.


     "I'M not kicking," Bumps was saying. "I'm just wondering, that's all,
Bart. I've got the gang watching this guy Venturi, but he's sitting still at
the Dexter Hotel, and there's nothing doing. I thought we were set for action."
     "Plans were changed for the first job, Bumps," replied Bart Shallock, in a
suave voice. "You'll be in on the second."
     "You mean the first job has been pulled?"
     "Yes."
     "Who did it?"
     "Crix swung it himself." Bumps Jaffrey whistled.
     "Say, Bart," was his comment, "this bozo Crix must be an ace. I can't
figure him."
     "You're not supposed to figure him, Bumps. I don't even know who he is
myself."
     "You've seen him, though."
     "Of course. But Crix is the only name he gave me."
     "This lay bothers me, Bart," said Bumps, in an uneasy tone. "I don't quite
get it. If Crix was after Venturi, why didn't he get Venturi?"
     "Bumps," returned Bart, "I don't know the details myself; but I'm going to
tell you all I do know. Crix said it would be all right. He will need you
shortly, and he knows that you are capable. So I'm going to explain all that's
necessary."
     "Shoot."
     "Well," continued Shallock, "this fellow Crix dropped in to see me more
than a month ago. He had me guessing from the minute he began to talk. He knew
plenty about me - enough to make a lot of trouble; and when it developed that
he was offering me a proposition, I listened.
     "He asked me if I had ever heard of Victor Venturi. Of course, I said I
had. Crix told me that he had been to Europe, and that he had learned Venturi
was tied up with some big proposition. That sounded logical; Venturi used to be
a pretty important man in Italian politics. An undercover agent - now retired.
     "Crix said that Venturi would come to America on secret business -
something involving plenty of money - and that by covering Venturi, we could
come in on the dough. Crix wanted me to have a mob ready, and to keep some one
like you watching Venturi. That's how it started.
     "But after that, Crix discovered something new. Venturi is here on
business, yes - but Venturi is the blind. The real negotiations for money were
turned over to another man!"
     "Then we've got on the trail of the wrong guy!" exclaimed Bumps Jaffrey,
in a disgusted tone.
     "Yes" - Bart Shallock weighed his answer - "and no. Crix has found the
right man. He is handling the job. But if Venturi finds out that matters are
going sour, he will step in and make trouble. Venturi is the safety man, Bumps.
It's our job to eliminate him so that Crix can do his work."
     "That's different."
     "Crix came in to see me to-day," continued Bart. "He ran into trouble on
the first job. He made a get-away, but it was close. He doesn't intend to take
chances. He wants Venturi covered; he wants men ready to help him on the next
job."
     "I get you, Bart."
     "So it's up to you to be ready, Bumps. Keep covering Venturi. Keep
watching any one who is interested in what he does. Be ready for quick orders."
     "Right."
     Bart Shallock drew a roll of bills from his pocket. He counted off some
notes of large denomination.
     "Ten grand, Bumps," said the confidence man. "That's just the beginning.
Satisfied?"
     "You bet!" exclaimed Bumps Jaffrey.
     Bart Shallock arose. Without further word, he walked from the room.
     A few minutes later, Bumps Jaffrey followed. Confidence man and gang
leader had completed their conference.


     BLACKNESS stirred on the other side of the room. The figure of The Shadow
came into view. Tall, spectral, like a living ghost, the mysterious form of
darkness stood in the center of the deserted room. The low, whispered laugh of
The Shadow raised sinister echoes. The black-garbed phantom followed the path
that the others had taken. At the bottom of the stairs, a gloved hand turned
the knob of the door that led into the speakeasy. There were only two men there
now - Duke and another. They were engaged in conversation. Unobserved, The
Shadow stepped into the big room. Gliding along the wall, his figure moved like
a living silhouette until it reached the outer door, where it mysteriously
disappeared. Neither Duke nor the other man caught a glimpse of the weird form.
     A soft laugh reverberated through the alleyway. Then The Shadow was lost
in the darkness. To-night, The Shadow had learned the name by which the
supercrook was known - the odd name which Harry Vincent had learned about, but
had not heard.
     Crix! That was the soubriquet of the man The Shadow wanted - the stranger
who had dropped from the dirigible Munchen. His real identity was unknown even
to Bart Shallock, his chief lieutenant.
     The Shadow was dealing with a supercrook - a man whose ways were
mysterious, whose very person was obscure. The Shadow had not learned where
Crix might be; but he had learned the name of the man Crix had ordered watched.
     Victor Venturi - one time secret agent for the Italian government - now
here in New York at the Dexter Hotel. That was all the clew The Shadow needed.
Crix was watching Venturi. The Shadow would watch Venturi also.
     Two hunters after the same quarry; but one hunter would be watching for
the other. Through their mutual interest in the affairs of Victor Venturi, a
meeting between Crix and The Shadow would be inevitable. And the Dexter Hotel
would be the scene. That fact, The Shadow knew.
     The Shadow always knows!


     CHAPTER X

     WORD FROM ABROAD

     A TALL man entered the lobby of the Dexter Hotel, carrying a suitcase. A
bell boy relieved him of his burden, and the man approached the desk. He signed
the name Henry Arnaud to the register.
     While the clerk was reading the signature, this new guest spoke in a
quiet, even voice:
     "I would like a room on the eleventh floor; one that opens on the west
side of the courtyard."
     The clerk looked up in surprise. This was an unusual request. He fancied
that the guest had been here before, and had been satisfied with a room in that
portion of the hotel.
     "Very well, Mr. Arnaud," he said. "I shall give you Room 1108."
     A man standing near the desk watched Henry Arnaud go to the elevator. This
observer then strolled across the lobby and approached a man who was seated at a
writing desk.
     "Say, Jerry," he said, "I just spotted a guy that we'd better watch."
     "Yeah? Why?"
     "He picked a room on the eleventh floor. Inside room. Maybe he wants to
keep an eye on Venturi."
     The other man nodded. The pair were gangsters, in the employ of Bumps
Jaffrey. Their faces gave an inkling of the trade which they followed, but at
the Dexter Hotel, which had reached a decadent stage, the management was not
particular about the social characteristics of the guests.
     A few minutes later, the two gangsters went up in the elevator. They found
the location of Room 1108, and watched the door for a short while. When they
went away, it was because they were convinced that Henry Arnaud had retired.
From now on, the new guest would be under surveillance of Bumps Jaffrey's men.


     WITHIN his darkened room, Henry Arnaud was smoking a cigar beside the open
window. He had closed the transom above the door, but had left a small crack
open. This had deceived the gangsters. They had fancied that they could not be
heard in the outside hall; but they were wrong. Arnaud's keen ears had heard
them arrive; Arnaud also heard the mobsmen leave.
     The new guest laughed softly as he opened his suitcase, which lay upon the
bed. In the darkened room, he began a transformation. Within a few minutes, the
room seemed devoid of any person, yet a living presence still remained. Henry
Arnaud had become The Shadow!
     A figure slowly thrust itself through the open window. Head and shoulders;
then body and legs; finally a black-cloaked shape was clinging to the sill.
     A squidgy sound occurred as suction cups pressed against the brick wall of
the deep courtyard. Hanging like a mammoth bat, The Shadow poised himself above
the paving that shone white nearly a dozen stories below.
     With regular motion, the strange figure moved along the wall until it
reached a corner of the building. It turned, proceeded, and stopped close
beside a window where light showed through a drawn shade. This window indicated
the inner room of the suite occupied by Victor Venturi, who had registered as a
resident of Naples, Italy.
     A blackened hand appeared at the window. The sash moved softly upward. The
hand dropped; the figure crouched and became invisible against the darkness of
the wall. But through the tiny crevice at the bottom of the shade, two
sparkling eyes peered into Venturi's room.
     Two men were in view. It was easy to tell which was Victor Venturi. A
short man of light build, with hollow, sallow-skinned face, Venturi's dress
alone denoted him as a man of culture.
     He was seated in a chair, nervously smoking a cigarette, and his quick,
dark eyes were scanning his companion, another Italian of heavier build, but
less intelligent physiognomy.
     "Angelo," declared Venturi, speaking in Italian, "I am nervous to-night."
     "You are always nervous, signor," responded the other man, in a
matter-of-fact tone.
     Venturi laughed glumly.
     "You are an excellent attendant, Angelo," he remarked, "but at times you
are too frank. However, you are correct. I am always nervous, and I shall be
until these affairs are finished."
     All this conversation was in Italian. It was evidently understood by the
figure listening outside the window. For The Shadow still clung, invisible, to
the brick wall.
     "Why should you be nervous, signor?" questioned Angelo, in a soothing
tone. "To worry is to be foolish."
     "Right again, Angelo," responded Venturi. "Yet I cannot help but worry.
Angelo, I have trusted you. You know my purpose here in America. You know that
we may encounter danger. You can understand the suspense that grips me."
     Angelo nodded.
     "When I came here," continued Venturi, "I expected to receive orders that
would enable me to visit certain persons on special business. Since my arrival,
I have received new word from Monsieur Ponjeau. He has appointed an unknown
agent in my place.
     "Only one man, Angelo, should have the list of persons who must be
visited. Those persons do not know each other. The one man has been appointed.
He is visiting the persons now. I am the second fiddle."
     "You have a duty, signor."
     "Yes. I am to be given the names of those persons, one by one - after the
time scheduled for the particular visit. One man has been seen. The work is
accomplished. I await word that will tell me who he is. Then I shall visit him
to make sure that all went well. Paugh, Angelo! That is no great duty!
     "And while I wait, I must show caution. If there is danger, people will be
watching me. Again, I am playing the second fiddle. Suppose there are enemies at
work. What do they do? They watch Victor Venturi. They find out nothing. Even if
they capture me, it means nothing. I am visiting stables from which the horses
have been taken."
     "You have visited none as yet, signor."
     Venturi thumped his hand upon a huge stack of newspapers that lay on a
table. His dark eyes flashed angrily.
     "That is true, Angelo," he declared. "That is very true. It is why I
worry. I await news from abroad. While I wait, I sit here and read newspapers
that are printed in English. Paugh! But it is for a good cause, Angelo."


     THERE was a knocking at the outside door. Venturi looked nervously at his
servant; then made a gesture with his hand. Angelo left the room; then
returned, carrying an envelope.
     "A cablegram, signor," said the servant.
     Victor Venturi seized the envelope and opened it. A coded cablegram came
into his hands. He read the words eagerly.
     "Here it is, Angelo!" he exclaimed. "The first man whom I am to see - to
make sure that all was well when the secret envoy called. He does not live in
New York, this man. He lives in the city of Hartford, Angelo - yes, he lives in
Hartford. His name is Winston Collister - Winston Collister."
     The cablegram fluttered from Venturi's hands. With a wild cry of alarm,
the Italian seized the stack of newspapers upon the table, and began to run
through them while Angelo looked on in astonishment. A minute later, Venturi
was waving a journal before the eyes of his servant.
     "Look, Angelo! Look! There is his picture - this man Winston Collister. A
man who had millions of dollars. Slain in his home, only two nights ago!"
     Throwing the paper aside, Victor Venturi paced up and down the room,
sweeping his hands and tugging at his long hair with savage gesticulations.
Angelo watched him with a perturbed expression and listened to his master's
mutterings.
     "Terrible! Terrible!" were Venturi's words. "This man is dead! The secret
agent has failed, Angelo! Some rogue has gained what belonged to Monsieur
Ponjeau! Terrible! I cannot go to Hartford now!"
     Swinging, Venturi became suddenly stern. His troubled look turned to one
of grim determination.
     "That one is lost," he said solemnly. "Some terrible error has been made.
But there are others besides that one. My duty now is to save our cause. Some
evil man is at work. He will call upon the second of our friends as he called
upon the first."
     Venturi counted the fingers on his left hand and nodded thoughtfully.
     "It may be to-morrow night," he asserted. "The evil man will be there. He
will try to steal again - perhaps to kill. Monsieur Ponjeau must know. I must
inform him. Let us hope that he can send me word in time, so that I may find
the next man on the list before it is too late!"
     Seizing a sheet of paper, Victor Venturi wrote a coded cablegram. He
folded the paper and gave it to Angelo.
     "Send it right away," he ordered. "Be prompt, Angelo. To Monsieur Ponjeau
- Aristide Ponjeau - Lausanne. It may enable him to inform me in time."
     Victor Venturi continued to pace after Angelo had gone. The Italian
emissary did not sense for an instant that eyes were watching him from the
window. He was still walking back and forth when the servant returned.
     "The cablegram is sent, signor," informed Angelo.
     Venturi nodded. He slumped into a chair; and sat staring helplessly at the
wall. Angelo, taciturn and motionless, stood at the side of the room.


     THERE was a motion outside the window. The figure of The Shadow thrust a
hand upward, and softly lowered the sash. The black shape moved back along the
wall and stopped outside the window of Room 1108. After a brief interval of
waiting, a hand came over the sill, and a figure slipped within the room.
     A few minutes later, the cloak and other articles were back in the
suitcase. A light glimmered by the writing desk. Henry Arnaud sat there, calm
and unperturbed. Outside the room were whisperings in the hall. Henry Arnaud
smiled.
     As Henry Arnaud, he had come to the Dexter Hotel. He had deliberately
incurred the suspicion of Bumps Jaffrey's men, so that he could have them under
surveillance when he required. They would think of him as Henry Arnaud.
     But, as The Shadow, he had done other work. He had visited Victor
Venturi's room. He had learned the Italian's secret. He had connected Venturi
with the murder at Hartford. He had linked the name of Crix, the supercrook,
with the killing of Winston Collister.
     Venturi now knew that crime was under way. The Italian would try to thwart
the scheme of the man called Crix. To-morrow night, perhaps. All depended upon
the arrival of a reply to Venturi's cablegram; and the Italian expected it
surely.
     The Shadow was ready to play a waiting game. As Henry Arnaud, guest of the
Dexter Hotel, he could watch Venturi's room; and as The Shadow, he could visit
that place when the time came. The conflict with Crix was now impending.
Venturi would be the lead to the desired struggle.
     Henry Arnaud went softly to the door of his room and silently closed the
transom. Back to the desk, Arnaud lifted the receiver of the telephone and
quietly called a number. A voice responded:
     "Burbank speaking."
     A whispered voice came from Henry Arnaud's lips. The Shadow was issuing
instructions for the campaign that was due to come - a campaign which would
have its inception in gangland's underworld.


     CHAPTER XI

     GANGSTERS START

     EARLY the next evening, Cliff Marsland entered the Palace Havana and
encountered Skeeter Wolfe. The cunning-faced gunman waved a greeting. Cliff
took a chair beside him.
     "Howdy, Cliff," said Skeeter. "Still stickin' around, eh?"
     Cliff nodded.
     "I saw Bumps Jaffrey last night," he remarked.
     "You did?" questioned Skeeter eagerly.
     "Yes," responded Cliff. "I guess he'll remember me when he needs me."
Skeeter smiled, and Cliff noted the expression. He could easily divine what was
in Skeeter's mind. The gangster was going on a job with Bumps Jaffrey to-night.
Skeeter's next action indicated that Cliff was correct.
     "Gotta mosey along, Cliff," he said. "See you later."
     When Skeeter had left, Cliff Marsland followed. Trailing Skeeter was not
difficult. The man shambled to an "L" station, and Cliff followed him up the
steps.
     Watching from another car, Cliff saw the station where Skeeter stepped
off, and did likewise. The gangster's shuffling steps led Cliff to a place that
he knew well - the Hotel Spartan, on the lower East Side.
     It was here, singularly enough, that Cliff had first met The Shadow.
Caught in a tight spot, Cliff had been pulled from trouble by the mysterious
being of the night. After that, he had aided The Shadow in the war that had
eliminated New York's most notorious racketeers.
     Surrounded by dilapidated buildings, and located beside the roaring
elevated, the Hotel Spartan now served as a meeting place for mobsmen. Here,
Cliff knew, Bumps Jaffrey must be assembling his evil crew for a death-dealing
thrust against an unsuspecting victim.
     Cliff doubled back to the elevated station, paid a fare, and entered a
secluded telephone booth. He called Burbank, and reported what he had learned.
He received the instructions that he had expected; to stay on the ground and
learn where Bumps and his men were going.
     Returning to the vicinity of the hotel, Cliff peered into the lobby, where
Skeeter Wolfe had gone. He did not see the shrewd-faced gangster; in fact, the
lobby was almost deserted. There was a door at the rear, and Cliff, not wishing
to be seen, circled to the back of the hotel to study the darkness of the narrow
street. There, he made a discovery.


     THREE automobiles were drawn up against the curb, and a group of men were
preparing to enter them. Boldly, Cliff sidled through the darkness, hoping that
he could learn what might be going on. He was sure that this was Bumps Jaffrey's
party; therefore, recognition was something that he desired to avoid.
     Sneaking up behind the rear car, Cliff could hear the sound of Bumps
Jaffrey's voice. All but two had entered the cars. Evidently, these were
reserves who were to remain.
     "Won't need you to-night, boys" - Jaffrey's voice was explaining what
Cliff expected - "so you can scram. We're not coming back here. You know where
to get hold of me."
     Motors were purring up ahead. The sound of Jaffrey's voice was drowned.
Suddenly, the gang leader's car pulled away, leaving Cliff Marsland in the
open. Quickly, Cliff ducked for the cover of the nearest wall. The two mobsters
spotted him.
     "Hey, you! What're you doin' here?" Cliff's hand went to his pocket. His
reply was to draw his automatic. He could not see the faces of the other men,
nor could they see his; but the action of his arm was apparent. The gangsters
reached for their own weapons.
     Bumps Jaffrey's car was gone - and Skeeter, too, had departed. They, most
of all, were the ones from whom Cliff feared recognition; but he did not want
these others to remember him. Quick shots and a get-away - that was the only
formula.
     Cliff's gun spoke as revolver flashes came from the gangsters' hands. A
bullet whizzed past Cliff's ear and plastered itself against the wall. One of
the mobsmen dropped; the other dived behind a huge ash can near the curb.
Cliff's next shot resounded against the metal container.
     The odds were even now; but only for a moment. A cry came from the
gangster who had dived for safety. Glancing to the side, Cliff saw two men
entering the street from the corner of the hotel.
     Quick thought came to Cliff's aid. Springing across the street, he dived
for the rear door of the hotel. Revolver shots followed him; but the bullets
went wide. Plunging onward, Cliff reached the lobby. There, he stopped short.
     A few minutes before, the place had seemed deserted; but the sounds of gun
play had brought a quick change. There were half a dozen ruffians there now, and
they blocked the path to safety. Revolvers flashed, and Cliff dropped back
behind the door just in time to avoid the shots of the mobsters.
     Cliff Marsland was in a veritable hornet's nest. He was between two forces
of death; he instinctively chose the lesser. Three men were coming from the rear
street - Cliff must fight his way through them.
     Revolver shots at the Hotel Spartan meant gang war; and when one man was
the sole objective, his chances were very small. As Cliff reached the back
door, he saw a figure skulking across the street. A quick shot from the gun. A
cry then a groan as the man went down.
     That shot brought replies - revolver flashes from two other places. A
bullet skimmed Cliff Marsland's shoulder. With quick, prompt aim, Cliff
delivered return shots with a vengeance. His marksmanship was rewarded. His
bullets reached the living targets. Cliff leaped into the street.
     A shot came from the sidewalk. One of the wounded men had fired. Cliff
felt a stinging sensation in his leg. A flesh wound, but it dropped him to the
ground.
     Leaning on an elbow, he fired quick shots at the spot where he knew the
crippled gangster must be. There was no response. Cliff's bullets had gained
their objective. The crippled gangster had met the fate he deserved.


     AS Cliff Marsland rose, he sensed that his momentary safety would gain him
naught. He could barely stand, and he heard the shouts of gangsters who were
coming from the passage at the rear of the hotel. Backing along the street,
away from the corner, Cliff tried to take the long road to safety. His progress
was slow and lame. He could feel the warm blood trickling down his ankle.
     A crowd of vengeful mobsters burst from the door. The brilliant rays of a
powerful flashlight revealed Cliff Marsland. In desperation, Cliff fired into
the crowd. His gun spoke once; then clicked. The last cartridge had been used.
     It was death now, Cliff thought, as he sank upon the curb, his wounded leg
weakening beneath him. Within a second, a roar of murderous shots would end him.
He could not even go down fighting.
     The final roar of shots came - but Cliff, staring in amazement, saw that
the flash came from the entrance of the alley. And it was directed at the
flashlight, which was shattered to bits.
     Some new arrival had opened fire upon the mob! Cliff, prepared for his
finish, saw new hope in this rescue, for now he saw more than the blinding
flash of gun fire. He saw the outline of a man in black, pumping the contents
of two automatics into the astonished gangsters.
     The Shadow!
     He had come here in response to Cliff Marsland's report; in time to save
his agent. Alone, he faced the mobsmen.
     No one man could have withstood the fire of these angered scavengers.
Cliff's hardy work had been useless against them before. Now the gangsters, in
their turn, found their efforts useless against the superiority of The Shadow.
Cries resounded, and staggering gangsters plunged back into the Hotel Spartan
to save their hides.
     The Shadow was moving forward now. Up to the door he came, and his
automatics roared through the passage that led to the lobby. His leaden hail
was driving the foiled gangsters into precipitous flight. The echoing shots
died. Through the silence of the street came a long, mocking burst of laughter.
     An arm gripped Cliff Marsland's shoulder. Cliff was drawn to his feet.
Aided by The Shadow, he reached the end of the street, and felt himself pushed
into the seat of a coupe. Then The Shadow was at the wheel. The car was rolling
from the neighborhood of the Hotel Spartan.


     POLICE whistles and sirens did not perturb The Shadow. The invisible being
at the wheel of the coupe seemed to avoid the police who were coming to the
scene of the fray. Cliff sensed the quiet whisper of the personage beside him:
     "Report."
     In response to that single word, Cliff quickly told what had occurred.
Bumps Jaffrey and his mob were off on a job. That was all Cliff knew. The car
drew up beside the curb.
     Cliff Marsland rubbed his forehead and felt his wounded leg. He waited for
The Shadow to speak again. No word came. Cliff stared suddenly at the seat where
the driver sat. There was no one there!
     The Shadow had gone, leaving Cliff in possession of the car. Cliff knew
the answer. He was to use the car himself. Looking about to locate the vicinity
where they had stopped, Cliff saw a sign in front of a near-by building, which
read:

                                  DEXTER HOTEL

     Had The Shadow gone there? Perhaps. Wherever The Shadow had gone, it was
not Cliff Marsland's duty to follow. The Shadow had his own missions. Cliff had
done his best to-night. His work was ended.
     In the driver's seat, Cliff found that he could run the car without great
difficulty. The hotel where he was stopping was about thirty blocks away; it
was a quiet place where he could enter without his limp being too conspicuous.
He could order the car taken to the garage.
     But as Cliff rode along, he could not help wondering, in spite of himself,
whether or not The Shadow had gone to the Dexter Hotel.
     Were new adventures brewing there; adventures which The Shadow would meet
alone?
     Only The Shadow knew!


     CHAPTER XII

     ON THE WALL

     HENRY ARNAUD was back in his room at the Dexter Hotel. Seated calmly at
his writing desk, he seemed a placid, lethargic individual. No one would have
supposed that this man had just returned from a quick expedition in which he
had overpowered a gang of desperate mobsmen.
     Not only had Henry Arnaud - otherwise The Shadow - accomplished that
superhuman feat, he had also managed to leave the hotel and return without
exciting the suspicion of the men whom Bumps Jaffrey had stationed to watch him.
     The point of observation which interested Henry Arnaud was the room on the
adjacent side of the court, where Victor Venturi resided. Slight murmurs could
be heard from the hall outside of Arnaud's room; but they were not disturbing.
His main problem was that of paying another visit to Venturi's room, and Arnaud
had purposely delayed the action, awaiting the psychological moment.
     The battle in which Cliff Marsland had been wounded was the indication
that important events lay just ahead. There was no time to be lost. Bumps
Jaffrey had started on the expedition with a picked crew of gangsters. Cliff
Marsland had failed to learn the destination. Clews might be obtainable at the
spot where Bumps had started; but the same destination could be learned more
effectively if Victor Venturi received the message that he expected.
     Henry Arnaud arose from the desk and extinguished the light. In the
darkness beside the bed, he performed the transformation of the night before,
garbing himself in the somber raiment of The Shadow. His silent, gliding form
emerged through the window, and made its hazardous way along the wall. The
danger of a twelve-story fall was no deterrent to this phantomlike creeper.
     The window sash raised at Venturi's room. To-night, the shade was more
closely drawn; but a black-gloved hand lifted it with consummate care until
there was space for the peering eyes. The scene within showed Venturi seated in
a chair beside the table, nervously drumming with his fist. Angelo, sober and
impassive, was watching his master.
     The Shadow had arrived too soon. The expected cablegram had not arrived.
To Venturi, these dragging minutes were endless. To The Shadow, who knew that
danger was already in the making, they must have been even more trying; yet the
black-garbed watcher waited with the utmost patience.


     ALMOST as though it had been a signal, a rap occurred at the outside door
of Venturi's room. The Italian sprang to his feet; then sent Angelo in his
place.
     The servant returned with an envelope. Venturi's fingers faltered as they
tore open the envelope. Out came the message and Venturi, in his excitement,
read it aloud in a low, tense voice.
     "Ah! The name!" Venturi read slowly and carefully. "Sturgis Bosworth in
Montclair, New Jersey. We must go there at once, Angelo! Ah! We are fortunate.
Montclair is not far from New York. But time is short, Angelo. It is to-night -
that meeting. Come! Summon a taxicab. We are leaving immediately."
     The window sash descended. The Shadow was on his return journey. There was
method in the action. A new danger had arisen, and only by promptitude could The
Shadow ward it off. When Victor Venturi and Angelo left their room in haste,
they would be well covered by watching mobsters, unless -
     There was one solution. Those same mobsmen were concerned with Henry
Arnaud. They could not perform a double duty. If unexpected developments
occurred in Arnaud's room before Venturi and Angelo departed, the Italians
could go their way unmolested!
     The task that lay before The Shadow was a most critical one. By suddenly
creating a disturbance, he could draw the mob in his direction and, by a swift
escape, head for the destination in Montclair in time to reach there before
Venturi and his servant!
     The Shadow's hands were gripping the window ledge of Henry Arnaud's room.
A minute more, and the excitement would begin. Suddenly, those hands became
motionless. Something had happened to block The Shadow's plan. A man was
standing beside the window, peering into the darkness of the court.
     As The Shadow waited, the man spoke in a low, gruff whisper, addressing
other persons in the room. His voice revealed that he was one of the ruffians
whose purpose at the hotel was to keep tabs on Henry Arnaud as well as Victor
Venturi.
     "I can't see nothin' out here," the observer growled. "They's a light over
in Venturi's room; but I can't figure where this guy Arnaud went -"
     As he spoke, the man stared downward. The gangster's gaze encountered the
only spots of light that lay below him - the burning eyes of The Shadow!
     In the space of less than a second, the staring gangster recognized the
form below. He knew that he was face to face with The Shadow, the archenemy of
crime.
     To the most daring minions of the underworld, the name of The Shadow meant
reality. The sight of a figure suspended on a sheer wall told this mobsman that
he had met the one menace dreaded by all gangdom.
     Hosts of gangsters had quailed when faced by The Shadow. This mobster was
different. Not only one of Bumps Jaffrey's toughest gorillas, he was shrewd and
quick of wits. He realized that he had gained the greatest advantage that any
one could possibly hold in a meeting with The Shadow. Backed by others, all was
in his favor. With a cry of triumph, the mobster broke the news and acted as he
raised the shout.
     "The Shadow!"
     The mobster was leaning forward as he spoke, and a heavy revolver gleamed
in his hand. With a ferocious swing, he brought the weapon straight downward,
aiming a vicious blow at the head below him.
     He was striking for the eyes - striking with all the venom that lay in his
evil heart. His swing was made with fell purpose. When it landed, The Shadow
would lose his hold and plunge to death below!


     BUT as the gangster's arm descended, the hand of The Shadow shot upward.
While one fist clutched the ledge of the window, the other caught the
gangster's wrist and diverted the powerful stroke.
     Despite the fury of the gangster's swing, The Shadow's clutch did not
fail. The gloved hand gripped the wrist in viselike fashion, and the gangster,
half through the window, found his bulging eyes staring squarely into the
blazing optics that lay beneath the black slouch hat.
     The Shadow's wrist moved in a powerful twist. The gangster clutched the
window ledge with his free hand; then, as his grasp failed, he uttered an
agonized cry as he felt his body turning.
     His right hand lost its strength. The revolver dropped from nerveless
fingers. The weapon shot downward into the court; and a half second later, the
mobsman, making a last vicious effort to grapple with The Shadow, toppled in
the same direction.
     An agonized shriek sounded just as the revolver clattered on the paving.
The shriek died like the passing whistle of a locomotive as the mobster plunged
head foremost into the depths. He had fought The Shadow from a place of safety;
the tables had turned, and he was crashing to his doom!
     Oaths came from the room. The other gangsters had heard the cry of
recognition; they had seen the brief, dramatic struggle at the window; they
knew that their crony had been conquered by a superman.
     With one accord, they leaped forward with drawn weapons, hoping, by a rain
of bullets, to accomplish the deed which their companion had failed to execute.
Before a single gangster could find a target at which to aim, the free hand of
The Shadow moved beneath the folds of the shrouding cloak. It appeared upon the
ledge, and simultaneously the black-hatted head came into view. The eyes of The
Shadow, piercing the darkness of the room, seemed to focus themselves upon the
approaching gangsters.
     One gunman fired. His haste destroyed his aim. A second, less hurried,
laid finger upon trigger. A cannonlike shot resounded at the window. The aiming
gangster fell. The Shadow's sweeping hand turned to the man who had fired first.
     The Shadow's head dropped as his hand was aiming. Two shots seemed to leap
at each other, one from the gangster's revolver, the other from The Shadow's
automatic. The revolver bullet whistled through the top of the black slouch
hat. The automatic's missile found its destination in the mobsman's evil heart.
     "The Shadow!"
     The cry was uttered at the door of the room. It was another shout of
recognition from a gangster, and the answer to it left no doubt regarding the
identity of the powerful adversary. That reply was a peal of mocking laughter:
the sinister laugh of The Shadow. A strident, gibing burst of merriment, the
pealing tones reechoed through the courtyard, a pean of victory that brought
awe to those who heard it.
     The conquering cry quelled the men at the door. The Shadow's laugh was as
effective as a revolver shot. Hardened mobsmen who had invaded Henry Arnaud's
room now scattered to the safety of the hall. There, in the outer light, they
rallied as other men came running to their aid.
     "The Shadow!"
     With confidence in numbers, the gangsters burst into the room. Revolvers
flashed and shots reechoed as the first of the invaders fired toward the
window. A gangster switched on the light by the door.
     A peal of laughter seemed to come from the wall itself. Standing midway in
the room, his sinister form towering like the embodiment of doom, The Shadow was
in the midst of his enemies!


     THE black-gloved hands were speedy and systematic. Their fingers pressed
the triggers of the death-dealing weapons. The powerful .45s moved in a
sweeping course, and before their wrath the mobsmen crumpled.
     Only those who dived for safety, not daring to fire in return, managed to
escape the leaden hail. Those of the dozen odd mobsmen who tried to shoot The
Shadow were balked by stern disaster.
     Gun arms fell. Writhing bodies toppled to the floor. Answering shots were
futile. One gunman, falling, pressed the trigger of his revolver before it
slipped from his grasp. The bullet shattered a picture two feet from The
Shadow's head.
     Others met with the same barren result. Timing his shots split seconds
ahead of his opponents, The Shadow rendered them helpless before they could do
him harm.
     The brief battle left half of the mob within the room. The others had
dashed to the hall. There, they were fortifying themselves in doorways, still
bold enough to remain, too frightened to attack. The last of the waiting mob
had come to this spot. The six who remained were determined that The Shadow
should not leave this room alive.
     A low laugh came from the beleaguered room as the light went out. The
Shadow had pressed the switch. His tall form was beside the window. Across the
courtyard he could see that Venturi's room was dark. The two Italians had left
just as the fight was beginning. The shots had drawn the entire mob in this
direction, as The Shadow had intended.
     Yet The Shadow's laugh was grim. Although his might had prevailed over
that of the attacking mobsmen, the disadvantage at the beginning had rendered
his original plan impossible. He had intended to carry the fight to the
gangsters; not to await their attack. He had fought from the defensive. To step
into that hallway would mean uncertainty. The Shadow must risk it; but he had
met with serious delay.
     Like a creature of invisibility, The Shadow moved across the room with
feline stealth. His tall form stood beside the door. Out there, six gunmen were
ready. Only a clever ruse could best them. The Shadow had faced situations like
this before; but invariably, he tricked his adversaries by making them bide
their time. To-night, time was short.
     The eyes of The Shadow looked upward. They gleamed as they spied the
transom above the door. Another second; the tall form was perched atop the head
of the bed. The transom, guided by a cautious hand, was slowly opening.
     An eye peered through the crevice. The muzzle of an automatic appeared
beneath it. The waiting mobsters had not noticed this occurrence. The Shadow
spied one gangster edged behind a corner of the hall.
     The automatic roared. A cry came from the gangster's lips. The Shadow had
clipped him. Again, the automatic blazed, and its reports brought hands into
view.
     The mobsters had seen the source of the shot. With one accord, they
flourished their revolvers in reply. All had the same objective - the transom.
As the revolvers barked, shattering bullets smashed the barrier above the door.
     These were killing bullets, had they reached their mark. But again, The
Shadow was working on split-second schedule. With his first shots delivered, he
had dropped to the floor before the rain of lead commenced.
     An instant later, his eye and hand appeared at the door, through a narrow
crack. Low, almost to the floor, The Shadow opened fire. Gunmen had come into
view. With wild eyes upward, they were still hurling their barrage at the
transom. The new shots, delivered from a spot six feet beneath, caught them
totally unaware.
     Cursing mobsmen fell before they could change their aim. Of the six, only
two managed to elude The Shadow's wrath. They saw their comrades fall before
they knew where the shots were coming from; instead of firing, they headed for
a convenient stairway, just before The Shadow turned his gun in their direction.
     The way was clear for the black-clad avenger. The Shadow stepped into the
hallway. Shouts stopped him from further progress. A fusillade of shots came
from the stairway. The fleeing mobsters had been met by new invaders. A second
later, uniformed policemen entered the hallway from the stairs.


     HERE was a new and unexpected barrier to The Shadow. The delay had turned
against him with a vengeance. The Shadow, avenger of crime, had no quarrel with
the law. His purpose was to frustrate men of evil. Still, time was precious. He
must gain his way unmolested.
     Only one course offered. Back into the room. The door of 1108 slammed
shut, and elated cries of the police bore witness to the fact that they had
seen the action. The officers believed that they had encountered the ending of
a fight between two mobs. They were determined to capture all the participants.
     The key turned in the lock. The police stormed the door. The Shadow
swiftly crossed the room and gained the window. Over the ledge went the
black-clad shape. Again, the rubber cups squdged against the brick wall that
surrounded the court.
     Above the spot where one mobsman had fallen to his doom; back over the
course which he had so hazardously traced before, The Shadow made his even way
toward Victor Venturi's room.
     The situation was serious now. Police were crashing at the door of 1108.
The sound of the yielding barrier was plain. The door had broken with a
splintering crescendo.
     The police were within the captured room. Amid the shambles of dead and
wounded mobsmen, they were searching for a living man. They found none.
     The light was glowing in 1108. The head of an officer appeared at the
window. The policeman's eyes scanned the walls of the court. They did not see
the clinging form that had reached Venturi's window. Motion, then, would have
meant betrayal. The Shadow rested, waiting through long, tense moments. At last
came the cry that he had expected.
     The policeman, glancing downward, had distinguished the body of the
mobster who had plunged to destruction. He called out his discovery. Other
heads appeared at the window.
     "There he is!" was the shout. "Tried to get somewhere along the wall.
Dropped to the bottom of the court -"
     All eyes were in the one direction. The Shadow, beside Venturi's window,
raised the sash. The shade wavered as the black-garbed phantom entered the
room. A few moments later, The Shadow stood safely in the darkness.
     The path was open now. From Venturi's room, around the corner from 1108,
The Shadow could make a getaway. A stairway on the other side of the hotel - a
powerful car in a garage near by - a swift drive into New Jersey -
     These were the steps that lay ahead. Yet, with all the speed that he might
command, The Shadow faced an arduous task. Bumps Jaffrey and his men had started
long ago. Victor Venturi had followed considerably later. The Shadow would be
the last to make the trip. The delay had consumed the most precious minutes at
his disposal.
     These factors were the disappointments in the triumph of The Shadow. To
him they meant more than the glory of victory over fiends. But in actuality,
The Shadow had accomplished unbelievable feats since his return to the Dexter
Hotel.
     On the wall he had learned Victor Venturi's destination - the home of
Sturgis Bosworth. On the wall, he had encountered and defeated the man who had
tried to slay him. On the wall, he had opened the terrific attack that had
downed an entire mob of hardened fighters.
     On the wall, again, The Shadow had made his escape. The police back in the
other room believed that they had accounted for all contenders in the gang war.
They had not accounted for The Shadow.
     A phantom of mystery, The Shadow had vanished from their very midst. Now,
unscathed after two quick battles with men of the underworld, he was on his way
to a new adventure!


     CHAPTER XIII

     CRIX CALLS

     "A GENTLEMAN to see you, Mr. Bosworth."
     Sturgis Bosworth looked up from his desk. He was seated in a private
office that he had in his home at Montclair. He looked questioningly at the
servant who had made the announcement.
     "Who is it, Caleb?" he asked.
     The servant handed Bosworth a card. It bore the name of Hugo von Tollsburg.
     "Show him in," ordered Bosworth.
     A few minutes later, the visitor entered the office. Sturgis Bosworth,
like Winston Collister, found himself facing a man who had a foreign air, but
who did not appear to be a German.
     "I am Baron von Tollsburg," the visitor announced.
     "Pleased to meet you, baron," responded Bosworth. "Sit down and have a
smoke. Cigar or cigarette?"
     "A cigarette," said the visitor suavely, "but I prefer my own brand, thank
you."
     He lighted a cigarette, and the odor of Egyptian tobacco became noticeable
in the room.
     Sturgis Bosworth was a man past middle age, baldheaded, and serious in
demeanor. He, like his guest, had lighted a cigarette, and as the smoke floated
upward, Bosworth blew a puff and made a chance observation.
     "It is an excellent evening," were his words.
     "An evening which one might long expect," came the reply.
     "With the world in turmoil -"
     " - it is our duty to right it." Sturgis Bosworth puffed again on his
cigarette.
     "I am glad that you have arrived, baron," he said. "I am ready to deliver
the money to aid the cause of my friend Aristide Ponjeau. It has worried me a
bit."
     "You are providing a large sum," said the visitor, in a commending tone.
     "It is not the money," returned Bosworth. "I have made millions through
the manufacture of various types of machinery. I regard this contribution as an
investment. The World Court of Industry will aid the international progress of
big business. No, baron, I have merely been worried about the delivery of the
funds."
     "That worry is ended now." Bosworth nodded in agreement.
     "You have your credentials?" he questioned.
     The man who called himself Baron von Tollsburg arose. He brought forth the
same documents that he had shown to Winston Collister on the fateful night when
he had slain the insurance magnate.
     "These are satisfactory," announced Bosworth. "Your method is wise, baron
- or should I say that Monsieur Ponjeau's method is wise? I - nor any of the
other contributors - do not know the identity of those who are providing funds.
We shall know later, however. It may prove surprising then."
     Bosworth chuckled as he unlocked a desk drawer. He brought out an oblong
box, and opened it to display a mass of bills of large denomination. He thrust
a typewritten sheet across the desk to his visitor.
     "Your signature, baron," he requested.
     The visitor signed. He slipped his hand to his coat pocket as he saw
Bosworth comparing the signed slip with the indelible signature upon the
document. Sturgis Bosworth was not so close a scrutinizer as Winston Collister
had been.
     "This is quite satisfactory," said the manufacturer.


     THE false Von Tollsburg removed his hand from his coat pocket. He reached
forward to take the box that contained the money.
     At that moment, there was a knock at the door. The visitor looked up in
momentary alarm. Sturgis Bosworth registered the same expression. With a lift
of his hand, he went to the door.
     "Who is it?" he questioned.
     "Caleb, sir. A visitor. Quite important, sir. Here is his card."
     Bosworth opened the door a trifle and received the card. His face paled
momentarily, then regained its color. The millionaire laughed.
     "It gave me a trifling shock," he said. "A visitor at this opportune
moment. An old friend whom I have not seen for some time. He can wait."
     "I shall be leaving immediately, Herr Bosworth."
     "Of course. Of course" - Bosworth paused as he approached the desk - "but
before you leave, baron, you must accept a special gift which I have provided
for the emissary of Monsieur Aristide Ponjeau. Wait until you see it, baron. It
will surprise you."
     Bosworth reopened the desk drawer and fumbled as though looking for
something that he had misplaced. Suddenly, his head popped up above the desk.
His hand came with it, and an old-style revolver glimmered in the millionaire's
fist.
     "Put up your hands!" ordered Sturgis Bosworth, in a hoarse voice.
     The visitor obeyed in feigned surprise.
     "So!" Bosworth's tone was indignant. "You have tried to trick me, eh?
Well, it is fortunate that the next visitor arrived. Did you ever hear of
Victor Venturi, Mr. Baron?"
     The visitor registered blankness. "He is a friend of Aristide Ponjeau,"
declared Bosworth. "He sent in this card that bears his name - marked 'From
Aristide Ponjeau.' It also bears a written statement. 'Beware the impostor who
is deceiving you.' What do you make of that, Mr. Baron?"
     The visitor made no response. His hands still above his head, his eyes
were gleaming in anger.
     "You are an impostor," accused Bosworth. "Your face shows it. You have
played into my hands. You have only one chance for safety. That is to play
fair. Who are you?"
     A slow smile showed on the accused man's face. He seemed to recognize the
fact that he was trapped. Nevertheless, his tone was sarcastic as he replied to
Sturgis Bosworth.
     "I am not Baron von Tollsburg," he stated. "I may as well be frank with
you before I face Victor Venturi. Von Tollsburg is dead. I killed him.
     "My own identity? It might surprise you, Bosworth. I have more than one
identity. You should, therefore, be interested in the one that I have assumed
for this particular work. I call myself Crix. Remember that name, Bosworth.
Crix.
     "An unusual name? Perhaps. Nevertheless, it is a good one. Shrewd crooks
have obeyed Crix. He has always kept in the background. Smart men have known
him only as Crix. I am Crix.
     "Since you have learned my insidious identity, I may as well tell you
more" - Crix, with a short pause, was rising as he spoke - "because it will
mean much in your future life. Your future life, Bosworth, which will be very
short.
     "When Crix plots, Crix plots well. You may kill me if you wish, but the
sound of your revolver shot will be your own death warrant. I have marked it as
a signal for my men. They will leap to the aid of their master - to the aid of
Crix. I am Crix, who killed Baron von Tollsburg, who killed Winston Collister.
Crix, who will bring death to Sturgis Bosworth -"
     The words broke off as Crix leaped across the table. He had caught Sturgis
Bosworth at a moment when the man was tense because of the strange statements he
had heard.
     The millionaire pulled the trigger. The action was a moment late. Crix, in
his swift leap, barely managed to strike Bosworth's arm aside. Coming over the
table, the attacker grappled with the man who had tried to shoot him.
     The struggle lasted only a few seconds. Crix, with a powerful blow,
staggered Bosworth. The millionaire fell back, still clutching the gun, but
before he could raise the weapon, Crix had drawn his own revolver. Firing point
blank, he shot Sturgis Bosworth in the body. The millionaire sank without a
groan.
     Crix turned toward the door, a fiendish look upon his face. The door was
opening, and the murderer saw Caleb, Bosworth's old servitor. The situation was
identical with that which had occurred in Hartford. A servant coming to the
rescue. Crix adopted the same alternative. With a fiendish smile, he pressed
the trigger of his gun. Caleb dropped in his tracks.
     Calmly, Crix pocketed his gun. He picked up the box and closed it. With
absolute indifference, he stepped from the room and turned down a hallway that
led to the side door of the house.
     To-night, Crix had planned more carefully than before. He had spoken the
truth to Sturgis Bosworth. The first shot was a signal. If it and the second
had not been heard, the third had certainly carried to listening ears, for the
door had been opened when Crix discharged it.
     This get-away was easy. To-night the way to escape was guarded. Crix
laughed fiendishly as he departed. Victor Venturi might be there; others might
hear the shot within the house. They had been provided for. Turmoil was due to
break within this home, and the strong hands of gangsters would be waging war
for Crix!
     Two million dollars was again the stake. Safely boxed, it was under the
arm of the murderer, Crix!


     CHAPTER XIV

     THE SHADOW AIDS

     VICTOR VENTURI was pacing back and forth in the front reception room of
Sturgis Bosworth's home. Nervous and perturbed, the sensitive Italian formed a
marked contrast to his companion, Angelo, who was sitting silently in a
high-backed chair.
     The two had reached this residence after a swift ride in a taxicab. All
the way to Montclair, Venturi had displayed his usual restlessness. He had
prepared the card to be delivered to Sturgis Bosworth, and he was anxiously
awaiting the outcome of the message.
     Suddenly, Venturi ceased his pacing. He turned to his servant with a
worried look in his eyes. The fact that Caleb, Bosworth's footman, had said
that a visitor was with the millionaire, had caused Venturi to be unusually
tense.
     "What was that, Angelo?" quizzed the sallow Italian. "Did I hear a shot?"
Venturi's servant assumed a listening attitude.
     "There it is again!" exclaimed Venturi.
     A moment later, a loud report came to the ears of both men. The
correctness of Venturi's claim was proven. A shot had undoubtedly been fired
from the rear of the house.
     "Come!" cried Venturi.
     Followed by Angelo, the Italian emissary rushed in the direction from
which the shot had come. He saw a hallway and an opened door beyond. Entering,
Venturi stopped short as he saw two forms upon the floor.
     Recognizing that the farther man must be Sturgis Bosworth, Venturi leaped
forward and bent above the millionaire. He raised Bosworth's head, and saw the
man's eyelids flicker. Dying lips moved.
     "Crix" - Bosworth's voice choked - "his - name is - Crix - he robbed -"
     The lips stilled. Sturgis Bosworth was dead. With an exclamation of wrath,
Victor Venturi leaped to his feet and made toward the door.
     "Our man has escaped, Angelo!" he cried. "Come. We must capture him!"
     The Italian stopped short at the door. He was confronted by a hard-faced
man who swung a menacing revolver. A motion of the weapon sent Venturi back
into the room.
     "So you're going after somebody?" came the question. "Take another guess,
Venturi. You've got yourself to think about, right now."
     Threatening faces appeared behind the man with the gun. Bumps Jaffrey was
here with his gang. The leader of the hoodlums grinned as his mob advanced.
Turning, Bumps spoke to Skeeter Wolfe.
     "Take a look upstairs, Skeeter," he ordered. "If anybody makes a squawk,
give them the works."
     Skeeter left to follow instructions. Bumps, confident that there would be
no interference, gloated over the helplessness of the victims who stood before
him.
     "Stand up against the wall," he commanded. "Move along - or you'll get
some hot lead quicker than you expect it."
     Venturi understood. Angelo, whose knowledge of English was limited,
followed his master as Venturi backed slowly toward the wall. There was no
mistaking Bumps Jaffrey's purpose. The gang leader intended to murder this pair
in cold blood.
     "So you were after somebody, eh?" questioned Bumps, with an evil leer.
"You didn't know the guy was covered, eh? You wanted to get Crix, did you? Get
Crix, eh? Well, you'll get the works instead!"
     Bumps was threatening the victims with his revolver. Beside him were four
gangsters. Another was standing watch at the door. Two murdered men were lying
on the floor. Their dead bodies were the handiwork of Crix, the master crook.
     Bumps Jaffrey laughed. Before he left, he, too, would have his toll of
victims. The orders were to blot out Victor Venturi and whoever might be with
him.
     "It's curtains for you, Venturi," announced the gang leader coldly. "You
pulled a swift one, to-night, getting away from my gorillas down at the Dexter
Hotel. Maybe you were an ace there; but you're just a deuce spot here. Like
some hot lead? All right. Try it!"
     Up came the gang leader's revolver. Victor Venturi, despite the pallor of
his face, stared into the muzzle of the gun. It was Angelo who quailed. The
servant did not possess the fortitude of the master.


     ALL eyes were upon the scene that foretold death. Only one man was keeping
vigil - the mobster beside the door. He had seen death often. His duty was to
watch. Nevertheless, he was lacking in his duty.
     Occasionally, he glanced toward the room instead of looking along the hall
outside. He admired the finesse of Bumps Jaffrey. That admiration was to prove
his undoing.
     There was a peculiar motion in the hall. A figure seemed to swirl from the
darkness. It arose, a towering shape, beside the watching gangster. Turning to
glance into the hall, the gunman stared into a pair of eyes that had
materialized from nowhere.
     Before a cry could escape the gangster's lips, a black arm struck
downward. The barrel of an automatic crashed against the watcher's head. A
gargling groan sounded in the man's throat as he crumpled to the floor.
     Bumps Jaffrey heard that strange utterance. Instinctively, the gang leader
swung toward the door. His henchmen followed his example.
     Like the watcher, they saw the burning eyes. They recognized the form that
had materialized in the doorway. The same cry came from five lips simultaneously.
     "The Shadow!"
     Bumps Jaffrey aimed his revolver toward the new menace. Two other mobsters
flashed their guns. The pair closest to The Shadow made a leap toward the
phantom shape in black. All these actions were futile.
     A cannonade roared from The Shadow's .45s. Twice to-night, The Shadow had
conquered hordes of gunmen. This was to be his third triumph.
     The attackers who had sprung against him toppled. They had thrown
themselves into the path of The Shadow's deadly automatics. Bumps Jaffrey stood
helpless.
     The gang leader's life had been saved only because his men had leaped upon
The Shadow. They, instead of Bumps, had received the bullets from the
automatics. With his other henchmen also attacking, Bumps dared not fire. He
expected to see The Shadow fall. Nervously, he threw a cautious glance toward
Victor Venturi and his servant, Angelo.
     The roar of the automatics was repeated. Bumps saw his other men go down.
Up came the muzzle of an automatic. The gang leader stared into the tube of
death. Another second, Bumps would have fallen in his tracks. It was the
unexpected arrival of Skeeter Wolfe that saved him.
     Brought here by the sound of shots, Skeeter lunged from the hallway and
threw himself upon The Shadow's shoulders. With one arm clutching at the black
collar of The Shadow's cloak, Skeeter used his other to jab his revolver
against The Shadow's back.
     The gun barked, but it was discharged in vain. The Shadow, twisting away
from the attack, fell from the point of Skeeter's gun.
     At this juncture, Venturi made his first effort to save himself. He sprang
forward toward Bumps Jaffrey. He grappled with the gang leader. In that action,
he frustrated The Shadow's work.
     The black-garbed fighter was upon the floor, where he had fallen with
Skeeter Wolfe. His swift motion had sent Skeeter Wolfe sprawling; but The
Shadow's automatic had not lost its aim. It was pointing up toward Bumps
Jaffrey. Yet The Shadow did not fire, for Bumps had gained the protection of
Venturi's body.
     Skeeter Wolfe started to rise, clutching at his revolver, which was lying
on the floor. With a sidewise motion of his arm, The Shadow delivered a
stunning blow against the gangster's head. Skeeter flattened on the floor. The
Shadow's automatic was swinging back toward Bumps Jaffrey.
     Grappling with Venturi, Bumps had staggered toward the hinged windows.
With a wild lunge, the gang leader leaped to safety. Head first, he crashed
through the windows, which swung outward when he struck them. Amid the clatter
of breaking glass, Bumps Jaffrey dived to the lawn outside.
     The Shadow fired. For the first time to-night, his bullet was too late.
Bumps Jaffrey had gained safety.
     The gang leader was in desperate flight. Every one of his henchmen had
fallen before The Shadow's might. Bumps, alone, had managed to escape - only
through the fortune that had followed Venturi's thrust.


     THE SHADOW had arrived in time to save Venturi. The Italian and his
servant, Angelo, had been put on the spot. But for The Shadow's aid, they would
have died. Bewildered, Venturi faced the strange personage who had rescued him.
     "Come!"
     The Shadow's word was a command. Beckoning to Angelo, Victor Venturi
hurried toward the hall. Ahead, he saw the phantom form of The Shadow.
     It was like a dream to Venturi, as he followed through the side door,
where The Shadow led. A car was standing outside - a trim roadster, with softly
purring motor. Venturi caught a glimpse of a beckoning arm in black. Without a
moment's hesitation, he leaped to the wheel of the car, and drew Angelo in
beside him.
     Heading toward the street, Venturi drove down the driveway that led from
Sturgis Bosworth's home. The Italian understood the situation now. Too late to
save Bosworth's life; too late to confront the murderer; he, at least, had
escaped, and could take for cover.
     An envelope was tucked upon the steering wheel. At Venturi's low command,
Angelo took it and opened it. The servant read the words of the note, holding
the paper close to the dash light.
     "It is written in Italian, signor!" exclaimed the servant. "It says to
take this car to Markley's garage, on Fourteenth Street - to leave it there. It
tells you to keep out of sight - otherwise there will be new danger. It says to
warn the next man before the appointed night. You must learn his name from
Monsieur Ponjeau. Ah! Here, signor, it names the place where you may be safe.
Signor Folloni, Cafe Bella Napoli -"
     Angelo paused to wave the paper excitedly. Aloud, he repeated the words
that he had read while Victor Venturi nodded solemnly. Both Italians realized
that this word was from the man who had rescued them; that he was a friend, who
also desired to prevent crime, and to trap the enemy who had twice gained stolen
millions.
     Angelo's eyes went back to The Shadow's message. A strange ejaculation
came from the Italian's lips. Staring, he saw the written lines disappearing
word by word! As his eyes read through the message, each passage was wiped away
as though by the action of an invisible hand.
     Venturi, hearing the cry, dropped his gaze toward the paper that Angelo
held. In the light of the dashboard, he, too, viewed the unexplainable
eradication.
     If any doubt existed in either mind as to the amazing prowess of The
Shadow, that doubt was now dispelled. The disappearing ink, in which the
message had been penned, had been prepared according to The Shadow's secret
formula. Its action, viewed by those who had never seen it, was uncanny. The
paper in Angelo's hand was blank; but the message had left an indelible
impression within the Italian's mind.
     It was The Shadow's usual method of communication with his agents. Through
it, and the simple code his agents knew, The Shadow's orders would be lost on
others.


     LATER that night, two muffled strangers rang the door bell of the Cafe
Bella Napoli, an obscure Italian restaurant on an uptown street in Manhattan.
They were received by Signor Folloni.
     A squat, bearded Italian of middle age, Folloni bowed and conducted his
visitors to rooms above the restaurant. In a low voice, he assured them that
their identity would be concealed. A true son of Italy, Folloni was honored by
the presence of so distinguished a guest as Victor Venturi.
     The bearded Italian was taciturn. He did not state that he had been
informed of the arrival of these guests through a mysterious phone call in
which a weird, whispered voice had commanded him to perform this duty. Folloni
had received a message from The Shadow. Its ominous tones and the mention of
Victor Venturi had combined to bring from him a promise of strict obedience.
     Later, the same night, Angelo returned to the Cafe Bella Napoli to report
the execution of a secret mission. In the little room on the third floor, where
Venturi awaited him, Angelo informed his master that he had sent a coded
cablegram to Monsieur Ponjeau, reporting the new situation that had arisen.
     Angelo's words were heard. Although a thick wall intervened between this
room and the house beside it, all that was said was audible, thanks to an
invisible wire that ran through the window and out along the wall. In the next
house, a man was seated at a table, with ear phones pressed to his head, taking
down phonetically each remark that was uttered.
     Burbank, contact agent of The Shadow, had taken new headquarters. Although
he could not speak Italian, Burbank was a marvel of efficiency. His phonetic
notes would be repeated exactly as he heard them, when he contacted with The
Shadow.
     Another drama of crime was impending. Soon Crix would strike again. Victor
Venturi would be sent to thwart him; once more the aid of The Shadow would be
needed! Again, he would go back to the source!


     CHAPTER XV

     THE SHADOW HEARS

     THE little room above Duke's place was again occupied by two men who
talked at the little table beside the wall. Bumps Jaffrey, gang leader, and
Bart Shallock, confidence man, were in conference.
     There had been no disturbance in connection with this meeting. Downstairs,
Duke's speakeasy was quiet. No sweatered gangster had appeared upon the scene.
     Nevertheless, The Shadow was again present. The location of this room was
known to him. The windows opened at the inner corner of the alleyway; and there
The Shadow had found an opportunity to arrive unseen and unheard.
     A form of blackness, totally invisible as it moved slowly upward, The
Shadow had reached the window immediately after Bumps Jaffrey had entered the
speakeasy. The blackness in a corner of the room was the only token of his
invisible presence. There, a thing of darkness, The Shadow listened as he had
on that previous night.
     The same subject held the attention of the speakers. The affairs of Crix,
the supercrook, were of momentous consequence. Bart Shallock, suave and
convincing, was buzzing words of confidence in Bumps Jaffrey's ear. The display
of a stack of currency brought a pleased grin to the gang leader's face.
     "Ten grand more," commented Bart Shallock. "There'll be plenty coming to
you, Bumps."
     "There ought to be," grunted the gang leader. "Listen here, Bart. Another
job like that last one is out. Get me? Out! I don't care what you offer me. I'm
not taking chances with The Shadow."
     "You're crazy, Bumps."
     "Yeah? You're a great guy to talk. You weren't there. There's only one
bird who could raise Cain the way that guy did. The Shadow - that's who it was."
     Bumps nodded emphatically as he spoke. Bart Shallock shifted uneasily in
his chair. The confidence man, despite his feigned disbelief, knew that Bumps
Jaffrey was correct.
     "Let me give you the lay, Bumps," offered Bart, resuming a smooth, purring
tone. "Things went bad the other night - that's all. Now is no time to quit the
game. I've heard from Crix again -"
     "Yeah? Where is he?"
     "I don't know. He talked over the telephone. But he told me more, and he
wants you to stick. That's all. You've got to stick, Bumps. I'll tell you why.
     "Crix is playing a smooth game. He had things fixed out there at
Bosworth's. You and the mob were just waiting in case of a pinch."
     "There was a pinch, all right," commented Bumps, in a sour tone.
     "It was just a bad break," returned Bart Shallock. "Venturi was the one
that queered it. Somehow, he found out that Crix was in the game - that Crix
was putting over a fast one. Venturi is a safety man; there's another guy
supposed to be collecting dough. Crix is in on the ground floor.
     "If your men had been on the job down at the Dexter Hotel, Venturi would
never have got out to Bosworth's. But he got there - and he tried to queer the
game for Crix. That left it up to you, Bumps. You had two things to do - help
Crix make his get-away and hand the bump to Venturi."
     "Well," growled Bumps, "Crix got away, didn't he?"
     "Yes," responded Shallock, "but so did Venturi. That's the tough part
about it. There's no telling where he is. It's a sure bet that he will show up
to spoil the next lay."
     "I get you. More trouble for me, eh?"
     "More work for you, Bumps. When I get the tip from Crix, you have the mob
ready."
     "The mob!" Bumps spoke in a disgruntled tone. "The mob's shot, Bart. Look
at that mess down at the Dexter Hotel. I figure The Shadow must have been in
that. Out at Bosworth's place - well, I was the only one that got away - no,
Skeeter Wolfe managed to crawl out before the cops got there. Say, Bart - I
can't dig up a bunch of gorillas to walk into The Shadow the way the others did
-"
     "Don't worry," said Bart Shallock suavely. "I don't know what Crix has in
mind, but I do know he'll be ready for funny business this trip. Within a
couple of days, he's going to show up on another job. When he gets there, he's
liable to find Venturi. This will be your chance to get Venturi right.
     "Use your head, Bumps. There'll be plenty of mazuma in it. We aren't
taking chances, either. This time, Crix wants you and the mob to duck out of
sight. Keep out of sight, until you get the word through me.
     "Don't start from New York. Pick a hideout and keep the gang moving around
from one place to another. You won't get the tip-off until you're needed. The
Shadow - if he's mixing in it - won't be able to keep up with you."
     Bumps Jaffrey nodded. This seemed like a good plan. The crinkling bills
which the gang leader held were an incentive. Bumps could use more money.
     "O.K., Bart," he said. "I'll have to move around now and begin to pick out
some new gorillas."
     "Get good ones."
     "Leave that to me. I've got one bozo on tap who's a knock-out."
     "Who is he?"
     "Fellow named Cliff Marsland. Wants to work with me. I'd rather have him
than half a dozen ordinary gorillas. He has brains."
     "Are you sure you can get him?"
     "Yeah. He drops in at Brindle's nearly every night. I'll see him there."
Bart Shallock smiled. He could see Bumps Jaffrey warming up. He knew that it
was time to say no more. Rising, Bart clapped the gang leader on the back and
walked from the little room. Several minutes later, Bumps Jaffrey followed.


     THERE was a motion in the corner. The spectral figure of The Shadow
emerged from darkness. The Shadow had heard. The Shadow knew. Crix, despite his
narrow escape at Sturgis Bosworth's, was planning to go on with the game. This
time, the supercrook would be more dangerous than ever.
     Would the new adventure be similar to the last? Crix - Victor Venturi -
Bumps Jaffrey - then The Shadow? Those four participants again would meet; but
this time, circumstances would surely take a new turn.
     A battle of wits as well as brawn was in the offing. Crix was preparing;
so was The Shadow!
     The tall form glided silently through the window. It disappeared into the
darkness of the alley. Swallowed by the night, The Shadow had left to plan his
campaign.
     Less than an hour later, Cliff Marsland, strolling up Broadway, stopped to
make a telephone call. He heard the voice of Burbank over the wire.
     "Accept Jaffrey's terms," came Burbank's even order. "Forward all
important information. Meet him at Brindle's to-night."
     Continuing up Broadway, Cliff entered the cafe, wondering how The Shadow
had learned that Bumps Jaffrey would be here with a proposition tonight. Cliff
waited at a side table, and smiled to himself when he saw the gang leader enter
and look about the restaurant. Bumps Jaffrey waved as he spied Cliff.
     "Marsland," spoke Bumps, as he sat down at the table, "I've got a job for
you. How about it? Want it?"
     "Sure thing," responded Cliff.
     The two men began a low discussion of terms. While they talked, Cliff
still kept wondering how The Shadow knew. Where was The Shadow now? Cliff
fancied that he might be near by, watching.
     In this surmise, Cliff Marsland was, in a measure, correct. The Shadow was
less than a dozen blocks away, moving silently through the darkness. But his
objective was not Brindle's restaurant. The Shadow's destination was the
darkened house that stood beside the building where the Cafe Bella Napoli was
located.
     The Shadow had listened in on Bart Shallock and Bumps Jaffrey. Now, he was
to learn what Victor Venturi and Angelo were planning!


     CHAPTER XVI

     THE ANTIDOTE

     A MAN was seated in a darkened room, a pair of ear phones close against
his head. Burbank, quiet-voiced agent of The Shadow, was listening for words
across the wire of a dictograph. The secret channel of communication with
Victor Venturi's hideout was in operation.
     Burbank did not detect the motion which occurred in the darkness behind
him. His first knowledge that any one was in the room came when a smooth white
hand pressed against his right wrist. Staring downward into the feeble glow
that came from a switchboard light before him, Burbank caught the glimmer of a
sparkling gem that seemed to flash shafts of fire.
     The Shadow had arrived. Silently, Burbank arose from his chair and placed
the ear phones on the table. He walked away and stood by the window, staring
out into the darkness of a rear alley. There was a slight swish by the table as
the cloaked form of The Shadow took the chair which Burbank had occupied.
Clicking sounds came through the ear phones. The Shadow was listening to words
that came from the house next door. He could not see the faces of the men he
heard; but he could understand their conversation. That, to this being of
mystery, was sufficient.


     IN the low light of the room above the Cafe Bella Napoli, Victor Venturi
was facing his placid-faced servant, Angelo. Despite his nervousness, Venturi
was exhibiting a look of elation.
     "Good news to-night, Angelo!" he exclaimed. "Wonderful news, which shall
save our cause! Monsieur Ponjeau has taken sure action, and with my aid this
evil enemy can succeed no longer.
     "I trust you, Angelo, and I can explain what we shall do. I have been
given the name of the next man of wealth who is to be visited. It is Roberts
Faraday - his home is near a place called Southampton, on Long Island.
     "There is a definite time, Angelo, when our agent is supposed to call upon
Roberts Faraday. That time is Friday night, Angelo. That means that Friday night
there will be trouble - I should say would be trouble, Angelo, but for Monsieur
Ponjeau's plan.
     "He has sent a special cablegram to Mr. Faraday, Angelo. It says that
Faraday must expect a visitor on Thursday night - one day ahead of the time
that was originally set. That visitor, Angelo, will be myself. I shall be there
with my credentials, to give the warning.
     "So when our enemy arrives, he will find an empty nest. You understand,
Angelo? Some impostor is traveling about, purporting to be an emissary of
Aristide Ponjeau. He was the one who was there before us, in that place called
Montclair.
     "We are safe, Angelo" - Venturi paused and laughed nervously - "we are
safe, here at the Bella Napoli, with our new friend, Signor Folloni. Our enemy
does not know where we are hiding. That is very good, Angelo, for this time we
shall be ahead of him. We shall see Roberts Faraday first.
     "But we must be clever, Angelo. On Thursday night, we must talk long and
well with Mr. Faraday. We must discuss with him how we shall prepare to deal
with our enemy when he comes - for he will be there for the money the night
after us.
     "He is strong, this enemy of ours, whoever he may be. He has assassins in
his hire; he has slain two of our friends, and he has escaped with millions. He
is poison, Angelo! Poison!" Venturi's face gleamed; then assumed a cunning look.
"Poison! But we have found the antidote!"
     Victor Venturi was silent. The Italian was thinking deeply. Angelo
ventured a remark.
     "The other night, signor" - the attendant's voice was solemn - "there was
a man who helped us. I saw a man, signor - I mean that he was more than a man.
He was a ghost, signor - a ghost in black."
     Venturi nodded.
     "His aim was timely, Angelo," he said.
     "It was more than that, signor," added the servant. "It has been of use to
us ever since. He wrote that strange message, signor - those words that went
away before our eyes. It was through him, signor, that we came here to meet
Folloni."
     "Yes," responded Venturi, in a sober tone. "I know that, Angelo. It is our
only danger."
     "Our danger, signor?"
     Angelo's question expressed immense surprise.
     "Yes," repeated Venturi. "He was our friend that night, Angelo. But do we
know that he will always be our friend? Perhaps he has a game of his own. There
are millions at stake, Angelo.
     "That strange man who rescued us was not an emissary of Monsieur Ponjeau.
I, alone, should have the secret. Instead, I have discovered two who seem to
know it.
     "One - the man who murdered Sturgis Bosworth. Two - the person you have
called the black ghost - who came to save us. Perhaps he is the enemy of the
other. Because he saved us once does not mean that he will be our friend
forever.
     "We can trust no one, Angelo. No one but ourselves. That is why, on
Thursday night, we shall be clever when we leave here. We will move so
stealthily that no one - not even the black ghost - can discover where we have
gone."
     Angelo nodded with approval.
     "You are right, signor," agreed the servant.
     "We have the one man whom we know is an enemy," said Venturi, in
conclusion. "He is the one who has been a murderer. It is you and I who must
deal with him, Angelo, by warning Mr. Faraday. He is poison, Angelo. I am the
antidote."
     Victor Venturi repeated his simile with firm conviction that impressed his
faithful servant. The course by which the Italian emissary planned to deal with
crime was plain and direct. Thursday night would bring the opportunity. Venturi
would make use of it.


     CONFIDENT, even though he did not trust the person whom he and Angelo had
termed the black ghost, Venturi was sure that he would be capable of proper
action. He was also positive that, although he and Angelo might be under
occasional observation, no one could have heard this private conversation.
     Venturi's beliefs were far from the truth. The emissary of Aristide
Ponjeau did not realize the danger that confronted him. He did not know the
power of the supercrook called Crix. It was fortunate, indeed, that The Shadow
was a silent listener to this conversation.
     Victor Venturi would work faithfully on the night of his meeting with
Roberts Faraday, the third of the millionaires who had promised contributions
to Aristide Ponjeau's gigantic plan for the stimulation of world industry. But
between Venturi and Faraday lay the dangerous character called Crix - the man
who had thrice committed murder before The Shadow could stop him - the man who
even now had gained a place of safety which The Shadow had been unable to
discover.
     Crix was poison - in that statement, Victor Venturi had proclaimed an
evident fact. But in terming himself and Angelo the antidote, Venturi had set
forth a claim which the future was destined to disprove.
     To so insidious a criminal as Crix, there could be but one antidote. Only
the prowess of The Shadow could thwart the scheme of the fiendish supercrook
who sought millions through cold and ruthless murder!
     Crix and The Shadow. Their meeting was inevitable. When it came, one of
the two would die! And it was coming soon!


     CHAPTER XVII

     MOBSMEN PREPARE

     A GROUP of men were seated in a basement room. Four were playing cards at
a table. Six others, lounging about on benches by the wall, were growling among
themselves as they expressed impatience at their enforced idleness.
     One man, slouched in a corner, was dozing as though the tedium did not
annoy him. Clad in baggy pants and heavy sweater, Cliff Marsland was playing
his part as a member of Bumps Jaffrey's newly assembled mob.
     Cliff held one leg outstretched upon a bench. This leg still bothered him
a trifle from the wound that he had received several months ago, when The
Shadow had rescued him at the Hotel Spartan. His limp, however, had not been
noticeable enough to attract comment on the part of his gangster companions.
     Some one thumped Cliff on the shoulder. Looking up, Cliff saw the grinning
face of Skeeter Wolfe. With apparent indifference, Cliff closed his eyes and
recommenced his doze.
     "Gettin' on your nerves, Cliff?" questioned Skeeter. "Tired of waitin'
around?"
     "Not much," commented Cliff. "I don't mind loafing when I'm getting paid
for it."
     "You'll get paid for more than loafin', Cliff," said Skeeter, in a
confidential tone. "Leastwise, you will if we run into anythin' like the last
job. Some good boys took the bump that night, Cliff."
     "How come?"
     "You ask me? I'll give you the lowdown - an' you're the only guy I'd tell.
The Shadow was there, Cliff. I tried to get him, but it didn't do no good."
     "The Shadow? Humph!"
     Cliff again closed his eyes. Skeeter stared with wide-open mouth. Finally,
the gangster resumed his grin.
     "Maybe you think The Shadow ain't much to worry about," said Skeeter. "All
right, bozo. Have your think. I think different."
     Cliff yawned and opened his eyes. "What I want to know, Skeeter," he said,
"is where we go from here. Bumps Jaffrey has been running us all over Long
Island. Where are we heading? What's the lay?"
     "That's Jaffrey's business," laughed Skeeter. "But you ain't the only one
that's wonderin'. Listen to the rest of the mob. They're all askin' the same."
The buzz of conversation from the assembled mobsters proved the reliability of
Skeeter's comment.
     "Thursday night," declared Cliff. "Still on the move. I wouldn't mind
meeting The Shadow and a dozen like him, Skeeter, if it would bring a little
action."
     "You'd get action aplenty," ridiculed Skeeter. "One guy like The Shadow is
enough for me - an' a crowd beside. Ps-st - here comes Bumps Jaffrey. Say -
Cliff! That's Bart Shallock with him!"
     Cliff Marsland looked up and saw the form of Bumps Jaffrey entering the
room. Cliff studied the man who was with the gang leader. He noted the suave
look on Bart Shallock's face. Cliff, despite his calm demeanor, felt a positive
conviction that the time for action had arrived.


     SINCE his introduction into Bumps Jaffrey's crew, Cliff had gained no
inkling of the gang leader's purpose. The mob had moved from New York.
Different spots on Long Island had been chosen as temporary quarters.
     What was the game?
     Cliff had tried to learn, without success. He had listened to the comments
of the other gangsters. He had even conversed cautiously with Bumps Jaffrey
whenever the chief gangster was present. To all appearances, no one - not even
Bumps - knew what lay ahead.
     Cliff had managed to communicate with Burbank on several occasions. Each
time, he had given the location where the mob was staying. Instruction had
always been the same - to preserve the utmost caution, and be ready for
emergency. Cliff was positive that The Shadow knew the purpose for which Bumps
Jaffrey's mob was being held in readiness. But, obviously, there were
instructions coming from some one higher up.
     Was that person Bart Shallock? So Cliff had supposed; but now, as he
watched Bart and Bumps talking in a corner, Cliff had a sudden hunch that
Shallock was no more than an intermediary between a hidden chief and the gang
leader.
     Had Cliff been able to overhear the conversation, he would have known the
correctness of his supposition. But Cliff was too wary to approach. Hence he
did not hear the words that passed.
     "All set, Bumps," Shallock spoke.
     "Crix is ready?" questioned the gang leader.
     "Right," responded Bart. "He's given me the lay. I'm going to place you
and the mob."
     "Where?"
     "Southampton. Millionaire's house out there. All set for you and me to
sneak in. We'll listen to what goes on - and the mob will be behind us."
     "Who are we going to get?"
     "Crix didn't say. We'll know, though. He's going to show up somehow, and
we'll know when he gets there. It looks like we'll be after Venturi again, if
I'm figuring right."
     "Don't kid me, Bart. If Crix has given you the whole lay, spill it. I'll
keep mum."
     "I don't know a bit more," protested Shallock, in a sincere tone. "There's
going to be some sort of a meeting at a house near Southampton, and I've got the
location of the spot. Crix has figured it so we can slide in. I've got the plan
of the ground floor. We're to listen, and we'll get the lay."
     "All right. Ready to go?"
     Bart Shallock nodded as he heard Bumps Jaffrey's question. The gang leader
turned and signaled to the gang. The mobsmen gathered around.
     "We're going on to another joint," declared Bumps, in a noncommittal tone.
"Stick together and keep quiet. We're going to slide into a place and lay low.
That's all. And get this" - Bumps looked around with a challenging expression -
"when I give the word to go, we go. Any rat that wants to squeak can try it.
He'll only try it once. Remember, they call me Bumps! I'm just reminding you.
Come on."


     CLIFF MARSLAND followed with the gang. They went out the rear door of the
basement. This building was an old road house on Long Island, near the Sound.
There was a telephone in the protected speakeasy upstairs, and Cliff
desperately wanted to get to it.
     But there was no turning now. He would have to wait for a later
opportunity. Skeeter Wolfe was at Cliff's elbow. There was no chance to slip
away.
     Cars were waiting. Cliff clambered into an old sedan, with Skeeter still
at his elbow. The cars started off. Cliff kept a close watch on the road. It
was not long before he decided where they were bound for - Southampton, most
likely, or beyond that.
     How could he inform The Shadow? During the past few days there had been
opportunities. Those had been times when there was no information to give. Now,
when a report was vital, Cliff could not find the way.
     He was still counting up his chances when the cars swerved from the
highway, and farmed a short procession as they turned into a narrow lane.
     The machines drew up beside a high hedge. Bumps Jaffrey, a flashlight in
his hand, was counting noses. He spotted Cliff and Skeeter, and ordered them to
alight. Soon the entire mob was gathered beside the hedge.
     "Easy now," ordered Bumps, in a gruff whisper. "Move along. Follow Bart
Shallock, here."
     This was the first statement as to Bart's identity. With Skeeter nudging
him, Cliff moved along among the first gangsters. Bart Shallock was using a
small flashlight to indicate the way along a narrow path that broke an opening
through the hedge.
     A dimly lighted mansion stood is the midst of a rolling lawn. Bart's
course was circuitous as he drew the gangsters toward a side wing, where a glow
came from windows that were close to the ground. As they neared the house, Bart
flicked his light in a warning to stop.
     A flight of stone steps lay directly ahead. These led downward, into the
lower portion of the house. Bart Shallock pointed to the steps, and spoke in a
low tone to Bumps Jaffrey, who had just come up from the rear.
     "Put some men in here," ordered Bart.
     Bumps picked out two gangsters, and told them to keep guard on the steps.
The men dropped out of sight into convenient spaces at each side. They were
firmly entrenched, and Bumps gave a grunt of approval.
     Cliff Marsland appreciated the effectiveness of the position. Any one
approaching the side of the house could be immediately covered by these
gangsters.


     BART SHALLOCK descended the steps and tried the door. It opened at his
touch. He clicked his flashlight, and moved it momentarily as a sign for the
others to join him. Bumps urged the mobsmen down the steps.
     Cliff, still near the head of the gang, found himself in a short corridor
that led from the main portion of the house into the wing. There was a room
directly across the hall, and another to the left. Both doors were closed; the
room at the left was apparently the one which was lighted.
     "Come on."
     Bart was whispering. The mobsters crossed the hall, and Bart opened the
opposite door to usher them into a dark room. When all were there, he closed
the door behind him.
     "Put two men at the door we just came through," he told Bumps.
     The gang leader picked out two mobsters. Cliff hoped that he would be one
of the chosen pair. He was disappointed. Bart walked over, and gave the men
whispered instructions.
     Taking temporary command, Bart Shallock then posted the remaining men
about the center of the room; flickering his light, he showed a door at the
rear.
     "That leads to the back room," explained Shallock, in a voice just loud
enough for all to hear. "There's going to be some people in there later
tonight. Bumps and I will be watching. You men at the hall door be ready to cut
off any guy that tries to get away. The rest of you be ready to bust into the
back room when Bumps and I give the call."
     As a last action, Bart Shallock went back into the hall, and opened the
outer door. They could hear him speaking to the gangsters who were posted
outside.
     "Keep watch," were his orders. "Nobody gets in here, see? And when trouble
cuts loose inside, nobody gets out. Understand?"
     A gangster's growl came in the affirmative. Then came a cautious voice.
"There's a car comin' up through the driveway -"
     "Sh-h!" Shallock's warning was a quick one. "Time to be ready."
     The confidence man closed the outer door, and hurried across the hall. He
closed the door of the room until just a tiny crack remained open, so that the
waiting gangsters could peer through. He joined Bumps Jaffrey at the door to
the rear room. Here, also, Bart opened the door just a trifle.
     This time, Cliff Marsland, slipping closer in the darkness, could hear
what Bart Shallock said to the gang leader.
     "We're all set, Bumps," was the confidence man's statement. "This is the
way Crix told me to fix it. He knows what's coming off here to-night. He'll get
in through the front - like he did out at Bosworth's, I guess. Anyhow, I'll know
when he gives the tip-off. The guy that owns this place isn't home yet - maybe
that's him coming in by car. Anyhow, we'll be set when we're needed."
     "Even if we have to bump off The Shadow," said Bumps grimly.
     "Don't worry about The Shadow," commented Shallock. "Leave it to Crix."
     Crix!
     The name flashed through Cliff Marsland's mind. He had been on the lookout
for an underworld character with an unusual name; later, Burbank had instructed
him to listen constantly for word of a man named Crix.
     Crix!
     The man must be a supercrook. The one whom The Shadow wished to thwart.
     More than ever, Cliff Marsland wanted to make his report. It was too late
now. He could not possibly get away from here.
     Crix was behind this job to-night. Crix plotted crime and death. Crix had
a mob of a dozen men in readiness.
     Death!
     It might threaten Cliff himself tonight. But whatever might come, The
Shadow's agent was in readiness. He was sure that he could not count on The
Shadow now. He had failed to relay news of this expedition to his mysterious
chief.
     But when the crisis came, Cliff would fight to the end. He would do his
utmost to frustrate the evil work of Crix, even though he would have to turn
his guns upon the dozen men who formed Bumps Jaffrey's gang.
     To reveal himself as the enemy of this evil crew would surely be a fatal
step; yet Cliff planned that very action, in the service of The Shadow!


     CHAPTER XVIII

     FARADAY'S VISITOR

     FOOTSTEPS sounded along the hall that led by the door where a pair of
watching mobsmen lay. A man in evening dress walked by, followed by two
servants. He opened the door of the rear room, and entered the lighted chamber.
     Roberts Faraday, the millionaire, had just returned from New York City.
The uniformed men who accompanied him were his house man and his chauffeur.
     Seating himself at a huge desk in the middle of the lighted room, Roberts
Faraday looked at his servants.
     The millionaire was a man of about forty years. Firm-faced and
businesslike in appearance, he showed power and dominance in every expression.
His smooth-shaven countenance was marked by the sternness of his eyes. Roberts
Faraday was unquestionably a man of forceful character.
     "Crayle" - Faraday was addressing the butler - "I am expecting a visitor
shortly. His name is Victor Venturi. When he arrives, show him in here. Then
you can leave. Boggs" - Faraday was referring to the chauffeur - "will wait for
you and drive you back to the city. I shall remain here to-night."
     "Very good, sir," said the house man.
     "You have been here all evening?" questioned Faraday sharply.
     "Yes, sir," responded Crayle. "I - I was dozing, sir, up in the front
hall. Waiting for you, sir -"
     "That's enough. You may go. You, too, Boggs."
     Roberts Faraday arose after the two had left. He strolled back and forth
across the room. He did not chance to glance toward the door that led to the
next room. Hence he did not see that it was ajar. Once, in his pacing, Faraday
turned and looked toward the rear wall of the room. Set in that wall was the
steel door of a large vault - the most formidable type of strong room that
modern ingenuity had yet devised.
     There was something in Faraday's step that indicated repressed
nervousness. The millionaire glanced at his watch, and noted that the hour was
nearly midnight. He went back to his chair, extracted a cigarette from a case,
and lighted it. Smoking seemed to ease his impatience.
     When he had finished his cigarette, the millionaire opened a desk drawer
and drew out a sheaf of documents. He went through them one by one. He gave
particular notice to a cablegram that was on top of the pile. The name at the
bottom of the message was that of Aristide Ponjeau.
     Minutes ticked by. Faraday, smoking another cigarette, watched the clock
while he waited. The hands reached twelve. The clock chimed the hour. Long,
tense seconds passed; then, as if in answer to the millionaire's expectations,
a distant ring came from another portion of the house. Some one had rung the
front doorbell.


     TIME seemed long before the inevitable result occurred. Footsteps echoed
from the hall. Crayle, the house man, appeared and advanced across the room. He
stopped short, and made the announcement that Faraday awaited.
     "Mr. Victor Venturi, sir."
     "Show him in here, Crayle."
     "He is not alone, sir."
     "No? Who is with him?"
     "His attendant, sir - an Italian gentleman. Mr. Venturi explained that he
is always accompanied by his man."
     "That will be all right, Crayle," said Faraday, in a thoughtful tone.
"Bring them both here. I shall be waiting."
     Crayle's footfalls echoed into the distance of the long hall. A few
minutes later, mingled pacings could be heard. Victor Venturi, sallow and
nervous-faced, entered, with Angelo at his heels. Crayle was behind the two. He
stopped at the door.
     "Ah! Mr. Faraday!" exclaimed Venturi.
     Roberts Faraday had arisen. He extended the hand to the Italian; then
looked questioningly toward Angelo.
     "My attendant, Mr. Faraday," explained Venturi. "Angelo is always with me.
It is quite all right for him to be here."
     Venturi spoke in careful, musical English, choosing his words with much
thought. Angelo stood by, offering no comment. It was obvious that the
attendant knew very little of the language which his master was using.
     "You may go, Crayle," said Faraday brusquely.
     The house man bowed and went away. Faraday listened intently until he
heard the footsteps reach the end of the hall. He continued to listen; at last
the throb of a motor came from outside the house, barely audible to the
millionaire's ears. Faraday motioned Venturi and Angelo to be seated. He took
his own place behind the desk.
     "You came here by taxicab?" questioned the millionaire.
     "From the station, yes," responded Venturi.
     "Good," commented Faraday. "We are entirely alone. My servants have gone
for the night. I thought it best - in view of our private negotiations. I can
summon a cab when you are ready to leave."
     The millionaire reached into his pocket and produced his cigarette case.
He held it open toward Venturi and Angelo; both shook their heads. Faraday
withdrew a cigarette for himself, and lighted it. Then, calmly to Venturi:
     "You have your credentials?" The Italian bowed.
     "I have," he said. "They are here, sir."
     Venturi brought the papers from his pocket. Roberts Faraday examined them.
Signed by Aristide Ponjeau, these documents were similar to the ones which Crix,
as Baron von Tollsburg, had used to trick Winston Collisten and Sturgis Bosworth
into giving him their millions.
     The second sheet, however, bore the signature of Victor Venturi, instead
of Hugo von Tollsburg. Roberts Faraday did not have time to ask for a
verification of the indelible signature. Victor Venturi produced a pen and
sheet of paper. Leaning upon the desk, he wrote his name. Faraday compared it
carefully with the signature on the document.
     "You understand, of course," explained Venturi, "that my mission here is
purely one of warning. It is not my province to make a request for money. We
can discuss that matter afterward. It is because of unexpected occurrences that
I have come to you -"
     Roberts Faraday waved his hand in an impatient gesture. He was still
comparing the signatures. His sharp eye did not let a single detail slip.
Venturi stood silent until the inspection was completed. Quietly, Faraday gave
the documents back to the Italian.
     "The cablegram from Monsieur Ponjeau warned me," Faraday explained. "That
was sufficient. It made me decide to use the utmost caution. I am an expert on
signatures, Mr. Venturi. Yours has passed a most critical test.
     "I am satisfied. You are an emissary from Aristide Ponjeau. Be seated,
sir, be seated. I must hear your story. I realize that it is most important."
     Victor Venturi resumed his chair. With back to the door the Italian faced
the millionaire. The two men were intent; Angelo was watching them with all
attention. Facts were to be revealed - and behind the partly opened door of the
adjoining room keen enemies were listening.
     Victor Venturi and Roberts Faraday were conferring within earshot of the
evil men who served the archvillain, Crix! Twelve armed men were waiting; and
only one, Cliff Marsland, was there in The Shadow's service!


     CHAPTER XIX

     VENTURI EXPLAINS

     "I SHALL start from the beginning, Mr. Faraday," declared Victor Venturi,
in a methodical tone. "It is wise that I should do so. Matters have arisen that
make clear understanding highly important. You - yes, you as well as I - are
confronted by grave danger.
     "This danger, Mr. Faraday, involves the future of Aristide Ponjeau's great
dream - the World Court of Industry. Millions are at stake, my friend, and it is
our duty to save them."
     "I divined as much," interposed Faraday. "The cable from Ponjeau told me
that danger lay ahead."
     "One year ago," continued Venturi, "Monsieur Ponjeau, realizing that
international cooperation would be necessary to world-wide prosperity, came to
this country and visited ten men of great wealth. Each of those men promised to
contribute two million dollars to the cause. The names of those men were not
known to one another.
     "The original intention of Monsieur Ponjeau was to visit the United States
himself and obtain the money. He later decided to send me as his emissary. I
came to New York. Here, I was to receive the list of millionaires; to visit
each by appointment; to receive the funds from them.
     "However, Monsieur Ponjeau again changed plans, almost at the last moment.
He informed me that he had another emissary, a man in whom he had the utmost
trust. He stated that this man was able to enter the United States unseen; on
that account, it would be preferable for him to make the collections. Monsieur
Ponjeau feared that some enemies might have divined his plan.
     "A new mission was intrusted to me. I was to visit these millionaires
after the collecting emissary had called. I did not learn the names; I was to
receive them one by one after each had been visited. The first name was sent to
me. I was amazed when I learned it. Winston Collister. That man had been
murdered in his home a few days before!
     "I informed Monsieur Ponjeau that something must have gone wrong. He sent
me the name of the next man on the list. Sturgis Bosworth. I hurried to the
man's home. The fiend was there before me! Sturgis Bosworth was dead; I barely
escaped with my life, for the fiend had placed assassins there to kill me!
     "Since then, Mr. Faraday, I have been in hiding. I notified Monsieur
Ponjeau. He sent me your name. He arranged an appointment before our enemy
could reach you. This is Thursday; the fiend will not come here until
to-morrow."
     Roberts Faraday nodded thoughtfully.
     "Yes," he said, "that is the time set for the appointment. I have been
preparing for his visit. You are twenty-four hours ahead, Signor Venturi. But
you come here merely to forestall - not to solve - the difficult riddle that
confronts us."
     "I have come to confer."
     "Exactly. But how does that help us? Do you know the name of the criminal
who has caused this trouble?"
     Venturi shook his head.
     "Then," declared Faraday, "four millions of dollars have already been lost
beyond recovery."
     "No!" exclaimed Venturi. "I cannot believe that those funds are
irretrievable. If we can intercept our enemy to-morrow night - perhaps we can
turn the tables upon him, Mr. Faraday!"
     It was Faraday now who shook his head.
     "From what you say, Signor Venturi," he remarked, "this enemy knows that
you are upon his trail. You encountered him at Sturgis Bosworth's. You managed
to escape his toils. He will be a thousand times more wary, to-morrow night -"
     "Yes," interrupted Venturi, "but you will not give him the millions. There
must be no money here. We must lay a clever snare. You understand?"
     "He will suspect a snare," stated Faraday. "How do you know, Signor
Venturi, that he will come here at all? Perhaps he will eliminate me from the
list -"
     "Ah, no! He does not dare! He must keep each appointment; otherwise some
waiting man might communicate with Monsieur Aristide Ponjeau. You see? I am
trying to consider it from the enemy's view -"
     "He may be satisfied with the four million that he has already taken."
     "Let us hope so," stated Venturi quietly. "Then the sixteen millions will
still be ours. Ah, Mr. Faraday, I have thought long upon this. Our enemy cannot
afford to miss a single link in the chain. To-morrow night will be the crisis.
If our enemy fails to appear at this house, it will be a sign of his weakness -
an admission of defeat. We can charge four millions as a loss, and I can arrange
to collect the rest of the contributions.
     "But if he does appear here" - Venturi's nervous face became tense and
grim - "then it must be a battle to the death. Not only must we end the career
of this fiend; we must also try to recover the funds that he has already
stolen. Think of it! Monsieur Ponjeau's dream of international prosperity -
about to become a reality - shattered by a murderer!"


     ROBERTS FARADAY held up his hand in interruption.
     "Signor Venturi," he declared, "we must not overlook any possibility. We
are dealing with a shrewd schemer. You are right - we must prepare for him,
to-morrow night. If he comes, it will mean a battle; but if he fails to come -
what then? How will you proceed?"
     "I shall notify Monsieur Ponjeau," stated Venturi. "Look, sir" - Venturi
paused to draw a paper from his pocket - "this is the very cablegram that I
shall send him. It says: 'The chain is broken. All is safe.' In return, I shall
receive the names of the other men, one by one. I shall become the new emissary.
With my credentials, I shall go the rounds, in place of the man who was slain."
     "But if the enemy reappears?"
     "I shall be prepared for him. Monsieur Ponjeau places full reliance in me;
but he will take no chances. When he receives this message, he will dispatch
secret agents to aid me. They will be on hand - watching - guarding - ready to
frustrate all enemies. We did not need them when we thought that secrecy was in
operation."
     "I understand," said Faraday, with a nod. "You are alone at present; but
you can obtain powerful aid. This cablegram covers matters if the crook does
not appear. But suppose, Signor Venturi, that you and I are able, to-morrow
night, to apprehend this man whom you term a fiend. Suppose that we should end
his evil career?"
     Victor Venturi's eyes were gleaming at the happy thought. From his pocket,
he drew forth another paper and showed the message to the millionaire.
     "This coded message," explained Venturi, "states that our enemy is dead. I
hope to send it to Monsieur Ponjeau, to-morrow night. Should Monsieur Ponjeau
receive this message, he will leave all to me. There will be no need for secret
agents to protect me. I shall simply keep the regular appointments upon
receiving the list from Monsieur Ponjeau.
     "Upon receiving the list" - Venturi was repeating the words slowly -
"unless I do not need the list. It would be my delight, Mr. Faraday, to take
the credentials and the list from the fiend himself. He will have them with him
if he comes here to collect your share to-morrow night."
     "If he comes to-morrow night," said Faraday softly. "Do you think, Signor
Venturi, that he might come before to-morrow night?"
     Venturi's brow clouded. This suggestion was something that the Italian had
not considered. Venturi shifted uneasily in his chair; despite his optimism, he
was forced to consider the possibility that Faraday had offered.
     "We are in danger," added the millionaire. "If the enemy has watched you
closely, Signor Venturi, he may know that you are here at present. You have
explained important facts to me, signor; I, in turn, shall explain some to you.
     "I received a letter from Monsieur Ponjeau yesterday. He mentioned matters
which I was instructed to tell to you. Acting upon his information, I was
fortunate enough to gather additional data. I shall tell you, now, the exact
dangers which we face."
     From a desk drawer, Faraday withdrew several sheets of crinkling paper, in
different sizes and colors. Referring to these documents, the millionaire began
to speak in a calm, steady voice. Victor Venturi listened to the words in
amazement.
     Other men were listening also. Bart Shallock and Bumps Jaffrey were in
readiness, beyond the door - waiting there, to serve the cause of Crix!


     CHAPTER XX

     ENTER CRIX

     "MY wealth," began Roberts Faraday, glancing steadily at Venturi, "has
been gained through a knowledge of international affairs. It was because of my
reputation for big business transactions with foreign countries that Monsieur
Ponjeau came to me. He felt sure that I would be interested in the development
of his World Court of Industry.
     "I agreed to aid Monsieur Ponjeau. I also warned him. Well did I know that
there were sharp men of crime who would be ready to prey upon his plan. In
addition to my warning, I also made investigations for my own protection. I
learned the identity of a supercrook whom we well might fear.
     "You understand, signor, that I travel frequently abroad. In fact, I but
recently returned from such a trip. Knowing my ability to detect the plans of
schemers, Monsieur Ponjeau, in this letter" - Faraday was raising one sheet of
paper - "told me the measures that he took to send a secret emissary to the
United States. That information, signor, fits in with facts that I had gained
regarding the cleverest of crooks. The man whom we must fear, signor, is one
who calls himself Crix."
     Venturi blinked as he heard the unusual name. It was evidently new to the
Italian. The door across the room moved slightly. Venturi did not see it, for
his back was turned. Roberts Faraday, on his part, was glancing at the papers
which he held in his hand.
     "Aristide Ponjeau," resumed Faraday, "had, as a trusted aid, a German
named Baron Hugo von Tollsburg. Months ago, Ponjeau planned to send Von
Tollsburg to the United States to serve as his secret emissary. He has left the
preparations to Von Tollsburg. The German, through his friend, Captain Heinrich
von Werndorff, planned a secret trip aboard the dirigible Munchen.
     "Baron von Tollsburg set out upon that voyage. He carried credentials, and
the names of the men whom he was to see. Smuggled safely into America, he would
be able to act without molestation. But something has gone wrong. The crook who
is making the collections has been doing so as Baron von Tollsburg."
     "A traitor?" hissed Venturi.
     "Von Tollsburg?" questioned Faraday. "No, signor, I believe that the
German was honest. He would not have been forced to kill Winston Collister in
making the first collection. There is only one solution. The true Von Tollsburg
never reached America. His plans were discovered by none other than Crix.
     "We can be sure that Crix was aboard that dirigible also. He slew Von
Tollsburg. He took the baron's papers. He - Crix - visited Winston Collister,
and later, Sturgis Bosworth. They were the first two upon Von Tollsburg's list.
I, signor, am the third."
     "And therefore Crix -"
     "Crix is seeking millions."
     "He may come here to-morrow night!"
     "He will be here to-morrow night," responded Faraday, in a quiet tone. "A
man of his ability - one whose identity is entirely unknown - will miss no
opportunity. Crix has gathered four millions already; he will not balk at the
chance to gain the wealth that still remains at large."
     "Crix!" Venturi repeated the name. "Crix - you are sure that he is the man
who has done these crimes?"
     "I am positive of it," said Faraday, referring to the papers, and shifting
them in the stack.
     "Crix!" again repeated Venturi. "You are sure he is the enemy. But who can
the other be - the one who aided me in my escape the one who sent me to the Cafe
Bella Napoli?"


     ROBERTS FARADAY looked up, a questioning gleam in his eyes. This was a
matter that Victor Venturi had not mentioned before. The Italian saw Faraday's
look, and hastened to explain.
     "Evil men were about to slay me," said Venturi. "Then came the man in
black - 'a black ghost,' Angelo called him. He shot down those who threatened
me. He sent Angelo and myself away in an automobile - to a hiding place above a
restaurant - the Cafe Bella Napoli."
     "Ah!" exclaimed Faraday. "You say that this occurred at Bosworth's home?"
     "Yes."
     "A man in black" - Faraday paused to consider - "who looked like a black
ghost. A living ghost, you call him. There again, Signor Venturi, my knowledge
of crime can offer an explanation. There is a man who fights crime - a strange
personage of mystery - who calls himself The Shadow.
     "He is the one who came to aid you. There is no doubt about it. The Shadow
is opposed to Crix. Since The Shadow was at Bosworth's, The Shadow may be
expected here - to-morrow."
     "Then if Crix is here -" Venturi blurted the words.
     "Crix will be here," responded Faraday, in a confident tone.
     "Ah! You feel sure of it?" questioned Venturi. "Then, this time, Crix may
meet The Shadow!"
     "Yes," said Faraday, "and that is why we must be careful. Strange
developments have caused two supermen of differing purposes to cross their
paths. You, Signor Venturi, are but a plaything in this drama of crime and
warfare. Millions are at stake, and it is beyond your power to preserve them.
     "To-morrow night will be the crisis. I foresee a mighty struggle. It is
not a question of your ability to frustrate the plans of Crix. The question is:
can The Shadow do so?"


     VICTOR VENTURI sat like a man in a daze. These amazing revelations had
come so suddenly and from so unexpected a source that the Italian could not
understand. Crix - he had never heard the name before, yet he was convinced by
Faraday's quiet tone that the man must be the murderer in back of all these
crimes.
     The Shadow - there was a fantastic thought - yet Venturi realized that
such a personage was also existent. He and Angelo had seen The Shadow!
     This interview with Roberts Faraday had proven bewildering. Nervously,
Venturi surveyed the millionaire. Faraday was resting back in his chair,
lighting another cork-tipped cigarette. The millionaire's confidence was
nerve-racking to Venturi. With sudden excitement, the Italian raised his hands
in gesticulation.
     "You are sure," he questioned in an incredulous tone, "that all these
facts are true? You have the proof of them?"
     In reply, Roberts Faraday passed the sheaf of papers across the table.
Venturi seized them eagerly.
     The top sheet was blank. Venturi tossed it aside, and looked at the blue
sheet to which Faraday had referred as Ponjeau's letter. That sheet was blank
also!
     "There is nothing here!" exclaimed Venturi. "What can this mean? You have
been reading from nothing! You have told me of a man called Crix - Crix - who
is Crix?"
     The Italian stared toward the man behind the desk. Roberts Faraday had
arisen. From a desk drawer he had drawn two revolvers. With one weapon in each
hand, the millionaire was covering Venturi and Angelo.
     A fiendish smile had come over Faraday's lips. The man's eyes were
gleaming with a fierce shrewdness that Venturi had not previously detected. The
wreathing smoke of Faraday's cigarette, lying in an ash tray, curled upward in
fantastic shape.
     "Who is Crix?"
     Victor Venturi had asked the question almost unconsciously. He knew the
answer now, even before he heard it from Roberts Faraday's gloating lips.
     "I am Crix!" proclaimed the millionaire. "I am Crix!"


     CHAPTER XXI

     CRIX DECREES

     "FOOL!" The word came from the evil lips of the man who had revealed
himself as Crix. "Fool! To think that you could thwart me! You have played into
my hands, Venturi - into the hands of Crix!
     "When Aristide Ponjeau came to America, he never dreamed that among the
men with whom he talked was one who could see opportunity. He trusted all the
millionaires whom he visited. He trusted Roberts Faraday among them.
     "Why should I contribute two millions to a fantastic dream such as
Ponjeau's World Court of Industry? A great man in France - a great man at
Lausanne; but Ponjeau could do nothing in world-wide affairs."
     "Twenty millions! Wasted millions. Easy millions. Easy for Roberts Faraday
to acquire, by using his intelligence. So Roberts Faraday became Crix. How easy
it was for me to learn that you represented Aristide Ponjeau in this country. I
had men watching you, Venturi. But I did not stop at that; I had planned too
well.
     "I went to Europe - to Lausanne - and there I watched Aristide Ponjeau.
Baron Hugo von Tollsburg visited him. I spied upon them. I learned their plan.
A secret room aboard the dirigible Munchen - a hiding place for a stowaway de
luxe. Von Tollsburg was to occupy it by arrangement with the commander.
     "I was in that stateroom, Venturi. I had secreted myself within the berth
of that room long before Von Tollsburg arrived. When he discovered me, I choked
him to death.
     "The supplies that were there for him served me until we reached America.
Then, using the parachute which I took aboard with me, I escaped from the
dirigible unnoticed, with nothing to stop me in my plan."
     Crix paused to gloat. His lips writhed in an evil smile. Venturi and
Angelo were helpless before him. Crix laughed with disdain.
     "Winston Collister was the first," he said. "He saw that my signature was
not perfect. I killed him and took his millions. I feared a similar difficulty
with Sturgis Bosworth. He was the second, and he did not question my signature.
But you came there, Venturi, and I was prepared. You would never have escaped my
men, but for the intervention of The Shadow.
     "I have been planning since - waiting here - unsuspected. I knew that a
crisis would come to-morrow night. You had disappeared - you would be here.
Then came the special word that brought this previous appointment. It is you
tonight, Venturi - to-morrow night, The Shadow, should he appear.
     "I see your hope" - Crix laughed fiendishly as he caught a glimmer in
Venturi's dark eyes - "and I can tell you that it is vain. The Shadow,
to-night? Let him come! I am ready for him. The way is blocked by a dozen men!
     "You are wondering about the millions? I shall tell you where they are.
Safe, Venturi, safe - in that huge vault behind me. There they will remain,
Venturi, while I, posing as you, shall go with your credentials to collect from
the other victims.
     "I shall murder them only if I encounter trouble. Otherwise, they may
live. The wealth that Ponjeau wanted will become the property of Crix. Roberts
Faraday? He will merely be another of the victims."


     CRIX was speaking in a low, hissing tone, that carried only to Venturi's
ears. The supercrook had a purpose. His announcement of his own identity had
been loud enough for Bart Shallock and Bumps Jaffrey to hear; these subsequent
revelations were intended for Victor Venturi, alone.
     "Four millions are already safe," hissed Crix. "Safe, in my impregnable
vault which no cracksman could hope to enter. I am telling you all this,
Venturi, because you shall not live to tell it. Your fate is sealed, Venturi,
and there is nothing you can do about it.
     "I am not the one who will kill you. Murder is unwise within the home of
Roberts Faraday. I sent my servants away. You and your man will be taken away -
by those who will dispose of you. Victor Venturi will be no more. Crix will
remain.
     "I have learned how you intend to notify Aristide Ponjeau that all is
well. To-morrow night will be calm. Should The Shadow come here, he will find
only Roberts Faraday. He will believe that Crix has given up the game.
     "But after that, Crix will send the cable. As Venturi he will make
collections. No trouble - no disturbance - all will be smooth for Crix. I am
Crix!"
     The announcement came in a louder tone. It was a reminder to the waiting
men of evil that Roberts Faraday was inviolate; that the victims of the raid
should be Victor Venturi and his servant, Angelo.
     In terse sentences, Crix had explained the details of his game. His words
had filled Venturi with despair. The Italian saw how completely he had been
tricked. Nothing could stop Crix now. Most insidious of all was the fact that
Venturi's death was essential to the scheme.
     Never could one evil man have uncovered a surer way to immense wealth than
had Crix. To Roberts Faraday, a man of reputed possessions, had come tremendous
opportunity, which, to nine honest men, had never suggested itself. The third
upon the list of contributors to a world-wide cause, Faraday, who called
himself "Crix," had plucked the ones before him, and was now planning to gather
from the rest.
     To Victor Venturi, there was no hope. The Italian understood the
cold-blooded character of Crix. Here was a fiend who had slain others who had
blocked his path. Mercy was not in Crix's quota of emotions!
     "Von Tollsburg's papers are in my pocket," leered Crix, in a low tone that
betokened finality. "Yours will be there soon, Venturi!"
     In a loud voice, Crix uttered the single word:
     "Ready!"
     There was a buzz in the adjoining room. The door burst open, and in came
Bart Shallock and Bumps Jaffrey. Behind them were half a dozen mobsters - Cliff
Marsland amid the evil-looking crew. Each of the invaders carried a revolver.
When Crix motioned with a gun toward Victor Venturi, Bumps Jaffrey walked over
and poked his revolver against the Italian's ribs.
     "Take the papers from him," ordered Crix. "Pass them over to me." Bumps
Jaffrey obeyed, Crix questioning him while he acted.
     "You have men blocking the hall and the side door?" quizzed the master
crook.
     "Four of them," responded Bumps.
     "Good," stated Crix. "Take these two men and give them the works. Make a
sure job of it."
     "Leave it to me," laughed Bumps.


     CLIFF MARSLAND faced a dilemma. Bumps Jaffrey was covering Victor Venturi
and Angelo. Crix, with guns in readiness after pocketing Venturi's documents,
was also a menacing figure. The other mobsters were standing in readiness.
     What should Cliff do? He could start a gun fight, in an effort to save the
Italians. That was his first impulse, despite the futility of the deed.
     On the other hand, he could bide his time. Perhaps there would be a chance
to save them; if not, would it be preferable to let them die, so that he, Cliff
Marsland, could lead The Shadow to the man who was in back of all this?
     Roberts Faraday, alias Crix, was a contemptible being, who plotted newer
and greater crimes. Cliff knew the menace of that gloating man behind the desk.
At the same time, Cliff was loath to see Venturi and Angelo die. They had been
under the protection of The Shadow. Here, Cliff represented The Shadow!
     Chance brought Cliff Marsland to a prompt decision. It was Victor Venturi
who forced the issue. The Italian emissary, hearing his death sentence, decided
upon a bold course. With a rasping cry to Angelo in his native tongue, Venturi
leaped toward Bumps Jaffrey. Angelo sprang in the same direction.
     Springing backward, Bumps swung his arm upward with deliberation. His
purpose was to shoot Venturi dead. Cliff, acting spontaneously, beat the gang
leader to the shot. Instinctively, Cliff fired. His bullet lodged in Jaffrey's
shoulder. The gang leader dropped with a curse upon his lips.
     The other mobsters leaped forward. They had taken Cliff's shot as an error
of aim, for Venturi was falling upon Bumps when Cliff fired. Again, Cliff's
weapon spoke, and the nearest of the surging gangsters fell. In the midst of
this surprising attack, Cliff Marsland had an unexpected opportunity. There
were two men, however, who caught his plan.
     One was Bart Shallock; the other was Crix himself. As Cliff's second shot
roared, Bart raised a gun to slay The Shadow's henchman. Crix, with quick
thought, dodged away from the desk and dropped behind the end section, raising
a revolver to wing Cliff in the back.
     Venturi was leaping toward Bart Shallock - too late to stop the man's aim.
Angelo, seeing Crix as the chief enemy, was springing toward the desk. The
mobsmen were stopped in their tracks, momentarily bewildered.
     Bart Shallock's finger rested coolly on the trigger. He was pressing
before Cliff could turn to fire at him. But in the excitement, not a single
pair of eyes discerned what was taking place at the wall behind the desk.
     The huge door of the vault was swinging outward. Beyond its moving edge
appeared the head and shoulders of a sinister being. A form in black - a slouch
hat drawn down above two burning eyes - a hand that held a huge-mouthed
automatic. All had appeared miraculously beside that moving door.
     The automatic roared. A swift messenger of death struck Bart Shallock. The
confidence man sprawled forward as he fired. The bullet from his revolver
splintered through the floor.
     Cliff Marsland's life had been saved. A new warrior had entered the fray.
The crew of evil men had encountered another foe - and the laugh that sounded
through the room pealed forth the identity of this grim avenger.
     It was the laugh of The Shadow!


     CHAPTER XXII

     THE SHADOW ANSWERS

     THIS was the answer of The Shadow! Crix had decreed; The Shadow had
replied. Crix had schemed; but The Shadow had forestalled the masquerading
millionaire.
     Knowing that Victor Venturi would be here to-night, awaiting the meeting
that would take place between emissary and millionaire, The Shadow had entered
this room before the arrival of Bumps Jaffrey's gang. He had opened the vault
which Crix had boasted no one could crack; and therein he had awaited all
developments.
     The timely appearance of The Shadow - his unexpected arrival from the one
spot that seemed impossible - these were factors that brought fear to all who
saw the figure in black as it came clear of the huge swinging door.
     With one shot, The Shadow had felled Bart Shallock. His second automatic
was sweeping upward. Its objective was the head of Crix, peering above the end
of the desk.
     The fiend saw the menace. He ducked for safety. At that instant, The
Shadow would have ended the career of the supercrook, but for Angelo's untimely
action.
     Venturi's servant, leaping forward, hurled himself across the desk and
blocked The Shadow's aim just as the hand was on the trigger of the automatic.
     Angelo's mad plunge took care of Crix. The Shadow saw that the Italian was
overpowering the master crook, beyond the end of the desk. There were others who
must be aided: Cliff Marsland and Victor Venturi, for hostile guns were covering
them now.
     The Shadow's automatics resounded through the room. Gangsters were his
targets - evil men who fell screaming before the ferocity of his attack. Cliff
Marsland pulled Venturi to the floor, and, crouching, joined The Shadow in the
battle.
     Turning, Cliff saw a gangster about to shoot him. Up came Cliff's
revolver, to beat the mobsman to the shot. But even as Cliff pressed the
trigger, he saw the gunman crumple. A bullet from The Shadow's automatic had
taken care of the foeman while Cliff Marsland was firing.
     Bumps Jaffrey, crawling on the floor, regained his gun and swung to take a
pot shot at the figure of The Shadow. Bumps was partially behind the desk; but
the gleaming eyes of The Shadow discerned his skulking figure. As Bumps was
rising, one automatic turned momentarily in his direction. A burst of flame and
the gang leader collapsed.
     Outstretched forms of mobsmen - writhing figures that seemed other than
human - these were the tokens of The Shadow's fight. The answer to Crix had
been a terrific attack, as effective as it was unexpected.
     In rapid, roaring seconds, The Shadow had polished off this mob, so
swiftly that Cliff Marsland had been scarcely able to aid him. Only Crix, the
master plotter, remained unscathed.
     He was choking on the floor, the vengeful hands of Angelo upon his neck.
     A cry came from Cliff Marsland. In response, The Shadow's eyes turned
toward the door. The four mobsmen stationed outside were coming in. They saw
The Shadow beside the door of the safe. Their guns were swinging upward.
     As The Shadow fired, his tall form swung to one side. His first bullet
dropped a mobsman; then came the replying shots from the remaining trio of
invaders.
     They had nearly trapped The Shadow; but his action had frustrated them.
The Shadow had swung behind the half-opened door of the vault. Bullets
flattened against the steel barrier. The Shadow was protected; only the muzzle
of one automatic offered a target as it rested against the edge of the door.
     Cliff Marsland fired at one mobsman, and wounded the fellow in the left
arm. The gangster turned to fire in reply, while the others still blazed at the
safe. But the muzzle of The Shadow's automatic was speaking now. It ejected
swift, sure missives toward the reinforcements who had come to aid the crippled
gang.
     The trio of mobsters staggered crazily. First among them was the one who
had aimed at Cliff Marsland. That gangster twisted as he fell, his lips
mouthing incoherent oaths. The others sprawled beside him.
     A shot came from beyond the desk. Crix, by a lucky twist, had wrested free
from Angelo, and had shot the Italian with a single shot. Up came the body of
the supercrook. Crix saw the shape of The Shadow emerging beyond the door of
the vault.
     With a cry of exultation, Crix aimed to slay the being who had been his
nemesis. Cliff Marsland swung to shoot the master crook.
     He could not prevent Crix from firing - Cliff was too late for that - but
Cliff's sudden intervention meant that Crix would fall within a second after he
delivered that single bullet toward the black-garbed form of The Shadow.
     Crix had aimed with vengeance. It was too late for Cliff to save The
Shadow. But the weird fighter whom Angelo had called the black ghost needed
only his own firm hand to save himself. An automatic blazed from a swiftly
aiming fist.
     The rising form of Crix poised. A strange, hideous expression covered the
evil face. The outstretched hand faltered. Its fingers spread, and the revolver
fell toward the floor.
     Before the dropping weapon reached the woodwork, Cliff's revolver spoke,
and another bullet joined The Shadow's in the body of the supercrook.
     Crix toppled with a swiftly speeding crash. He flattened motionless upon
the floor. His body lay huddled, without life.
     Crix, the supercrook, had been the last to die. He, like these other rats
of crime, had been blotted out by The Shadow!
     Victor Venturi was uninjured. The Italian, moving unsteadily, reached the
form of Angelo. The servant was dying. He had been mortally wounded in his
fight with Crix. Cliff Marsland went to aid Venturi; seeing that Angelo was
beyond saving, Cliff stared about the room.
     Everywhere were motionless mobsters. These men had sought to slay The
Shadow; instead, they had met the doom which they deserved. Sure bullets had
found their marks in fiends of crime; on the side of right, the only casualty
was Angelo. The servant's own impetuosity had made it impossible for The Shadow
to aid him and save his life.
     Within a few exciting minutes, the tide had turned completely. Crix had
decreed, when he had summoned his crew of mobsmen. The Shadow had answered,
stepping from the vault where no one had dreamed that he could be.
     Justice had triumphed over evil in this swift, exciting fight that had
marked the end of the schemes evolved by Crix. The fiend and his henchmen were
through.
     Crix had decreed; The Shadow had answered. The triumph belonged to The
Shadow. The strange, sinister laugh that now echoed through the room was The
Shadow's cry of victory!


     CHAPTER XXIII

     JUSTICE PREVAILS

     THE door to the vault lay open. The tall form of The Shadow stepped behind
it. The door opened wider still. Victor Venturi looked up. Angelo was dead in
the Italian's arms. Slowly, Venturi lay aside the body of his servant and rose
to face The Shadow.
     A now black-covered finger pointed to the interior of the vault. Venturi
advanced. There, upon the floor of the vault, he saw two packages. He realized
what they were. These were the packets of wealth that Crix had stolen from
Winston Collister and Sturgis Bosworth.
     Venturi looked toward The Shadow. He saw the gleaming eyes and stared,
half in fear, half in bewilderment. The voice of The Shadow spoke, in his
sinister, whispered tone.
     "They are yours," were The Shadow's words. "Take them."
     As Venturi reached to lift the packages, the finger pointed to a box
beyond.
     "That is yours, also."
     In his eagerness and excitement, Venturi entirely forgot the presence of
The Shadow. He carried the bundles to the desk, and opened them. Within, he
found the masses of currency intact. Crix had not utilized these funds to pay
Bart Shallock and Bumps Jaffrey.
     The supercrook had kept the millions intact.
     Venturi went back to get the box which The Shadow had indicated. He
brought it to the desk - it was heavier than the packages - and opened it by a
key that was in the lock. There was an envelope within. Venturi raised it, and
saw a stack of money covered by a loose array of glittering gems. He recognized
that these jewels possessed great value.
     Within the envelope, Venturi discovered a card. It bore these words, in
ink:

     Articles found within Roberts Faraday's vault. These will serve as a
considerable portion of his promised contribution to Aristide Ponjeau.

     Venturi closed the box. He realized that The Shadow, after opening the
vault, had obtained all valuables and placed them in this one box for a
definite purpose. Victor Venturi looked at the card again. The writing was
disappearing letter by letter. Now, only the blank card remained!
     "Are you ready?"
     Looking up at the sound of the voice, Venturi saw a man in baggy trousers
and sweater. It was Cliff Marsland. Venturi recognized him as the man who had
stepped from the mob to start the furious battle against Crix and his henchmen.
The Italian knew that Cliff Marsland was a friend.
     "Yes," said Venturi. Then, looking blankly about: "Where is - where is -
the one they call The Shadow?"
     "He has gone," returned Cliff. "We must leave immediately. Come. There are
cars outside, by the hedge. We will take one."
     Victor Venturi followed Cliff Marsland's lead. The two were on their way
to safety. The Shadow, his work of vengeance complete, had silently disappeared.
     With Cliff aiding him in carrying the wealth that must be delivered to
Aristide Ponjeau, Venturi threw a last glance back at the room, to stare at the
scene of carnage which had followed Crix's vain attempt to establish crime
against the wishes of The Shadow!


     POLICE, summoned later to the home of Roberts Faraday, were confronted by
a strange mystery, which was destined to enter the annals of unsolved crime.
They found the body of Roberts Faraday, millionaire, surrounded by the dead
forms of mobsters.
     Among these was Bumps Jaffrey, a notorious gang leader. Bart Shallock,
international confidence man, was also there. The body of Angelo perplexed the
police. They could not learn his identity. He was obviously not a mobster.
     The vault was open, and evidently it had been rifled. What had become of
the men who had entered? The police did not know. They assumed that some big
shots of the underworld had caused this raid; that Faraday had been forced,
under threat, to open the vault.
     They decided that Angelo must have been an informant who had tipped off
Bart Shallock regarding some international deal on the part of Roberts Faraday.
The more that the case was discussed, the more perplexing it became to the
authorities.
     A big shot in the offing? Strangely enough, the police did not find a clew
to the name of Crix. They learned nothing regarding the double identity which
Roberts Faraday had played. The body of the big shot of crime had lain before
them; they had not realized it.
     Weeks went by, and the strange mystery of gang war at the Faraday home was
still a perplexity. But its aftermath occurred far away, in a foreign land.
     At Lausanne, Aristide Ponjeau, the man of high ideals, who had planned the
World Court of Industry, received from Victor Venturi the sum of nearly twenty
million dollars. The contributions to the noble cause had been gathered from
willing donors.
     No crime had spoiled the course of these negotiations. With the death of
Roberts Faraday, murder had been ended. Freed from the schemes of Crix, the
great work was ready for its consummation.
     Crix, the master crook! Plotter and murderer, he had planned a mad career
of crime for wealth - a merciless rule of massacre and evil that had been ended
by The Shadow!


     THE END






