THE SILENT DEATH
                                by Maxwell Grant

       As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," April 1, 1933.


     CHAPTER I

     EYES OF EVIL

     THE lights of uptown Manhattan cast a vivid, fantastic glow when viewed
from the window of the little office high in the towering Brinton Building. But
the man who stood within the darkness of that thirtieth-floor room was not
concerned with the spectacle of man-made brilliance. His eyes were focused upon
the top stories of a huge apartment building across the street.
     The apartment structure was capped by a penthouse, from which a few lights
gleamed. One corner of the penthouse, which rose flush with the sheer wall of
the building, was the spot which this unseen observer found most interesting.
     A match glimmered in a cupped hand. As the flame ignited a cigarette, it
showed a rough, hardened face. The match went out, and the watcher puffed his
cigarette. As the glowing tip descended from his lips, the man emitted an evil
snarl that went well with his countenance.
     A rap at the door. The man by the window flicked his cigarette through the
opening. He closed the window and drew the shade. He hurried to the door and
switched on the light just as a second furtive rap was given. The man within
the room opened the door, to admit a hasty visitor.
     The new illumination plainly revealed the two men as characters of a
strangely different type. The individual who had been standing in the darkness
was short and stocky a ruffian in all save dress. His well-groomed appearance
did not fit his pudge-nosed, hard-lipped countenance, which bore a wicked,
leering smirk.
     The arrival, tall and stoop-shouldered, was a gray-haired man who
possessed a marked dignity. His gaunt face showed firmness in spite of
declining years. Only in one feature did he resemble the man who had been
waiting in the office. His eyes, like those of the other man, gleamed with
cunning and evil.


     THE stocky, hard-mannered individual was the first to speak. In a voice
which was suave, despite its harshness, he questioned the visitor's identity.
     "You are Thomas Jocelyn?"
     "Yes," responded the elderly man, still eyeing his questioner. "You, I
presume, are Larry Ricordo?"
     "That's me," answered the harsh-voiced man, with a grin. "Sit down and
make yourself easy."
     Thomas Jocelyn seated himself in a chair beside a table in the center of
the room. He leaned solemnly upon his gold-headed cane and stared at Ricordo.
     "Where is Folcroft Urlich?" he inquired.
     "The professor will he here soon," replied Ricordo, while lighting another
cigarette. "I came early - to open the office. Plenty of time yet."
     Jocelyn contented himself with the one question. He appeared nervous,
despite his composed manner.
     For several minutes, Ricordo stood expectantly, thinking that the old man
intended to make a new inquiry. Finally, with a gruff laugh, Ricordo slouched
into a chair.
     "Well," he remarked, "we're all set. We're going to see the wheels run
round to-night. Picking this office was a cinch."
     As Jocelyn made no comment, Ricordo desisted after the one attempt to open
conversation. He eyed Jocelyn almost contemptuously, but did nothing to arouse
antagonism. When a firm knock sounded at the door, Ricordo leaped to his feet
and went to admit the next visitor.
     The newcomer completed an odd triumvirate. He was of medium height,
dark-haired and of stern visage. He wore a small hat, and his hair formed a
flowing mop above a bulging forehead. His face, sallow and hollow-cheeked,
resembled a living skull from which a pair of sharp, greenish eyes peered with
evil gaze.
     This man smiled broadly as he perceived the two already in the room. He
threw off his overcoat and advanced with outstretched hand, his mouth forming
an ugly, irregular slit as the smile continued.
     "Ah!" croaked the new visitor. "Both here, eh? My friends, Jocelyn and
Ricordo. You are both friends by now, I hope. That is well. We all have much in
common."
     "Good evening, Urlich," said Jocelyn, in a calm tone.
     "Hello, professor," grinned Ricordo. "All set. Want to see the lay?"
     "Not yet" - the professor's tone was reproving - "not yet. There is time
to spare. It is well that we talk first."
     He seated himself and looked from one man to the other. Leaning back,
still smiling, Professor Folcroft Urlich emitted a cackling laugh of
satisfaction. It brought a grin from Ricordo, a nervous shrug from Jocelyn.
     "So," declared Urlich. "We shall see our first plan work, eh? We are
obliged to Ricordo, eh, Jocelyn? He has arranged very well."
     "I do not relish it," objected Jocelyn, in a testy tone. "This is not my
business, Urlich. I do not disapprove of death, where it is necessary; but to
be a witness -"
     Professor Urlich held up his hand by way of interruption. Jocelyn subsided
while Ricordo glared maliciously.
     "You can end such qualms, Jocelyn," stated the professor, "and it is well
that you should do so at the start. That is one reason why I have summoned you
here to-night. The other is that we may discuss our plans plainly. I want no
misunderstanding later on.
     "Death is my idea. To a scientist such as myself, human life is a mass.
The ego must be forgotten. What is one life? Nothing. But one death" - as
Urlich paused, the smile writhed snakelike across his lips - "may mean much to
those who live to profit by it.
     "Death means millions to the three of us. Millions! Do you understand,
Jocelyn? Death paves our way - and I am the master who provides death. But one
who provides death requires human tools. Ricordo has brought those instruments.
Moreover, one who provides death wisely must have a chance for gain - and you
bring that opportunity, Jocelyn."
     The dignified man nodded. He chewed his lips thoughtfully; then his eyes
lighted as though the talk of gain had served as inspiration.


     PROFESSOR URLICH leered as though he had read the old man's mind.
     "That we may all understand," continued Urlich, lowering his evil tones,
"I shall recapitulate the desires which have brought us together. For years I
have taken life - seldom the life of human beings, I admit; but life, just the
same. I do not quail at the thought of taking human life. To me, it is
experimentation on a higher plane.
     "Ricordo has chosen a career of crime. He is criminal by instinct, shrewd
in all his dealings. He knows how to control and utilize men of the criminal
type. Therefore, he is following his inclinations.
     "You, Jocelyn, have profited by others' losses. You call yourself a
financier. You are actually one who traffics in the failures of those less
fortunate. Your opportunity will be greater now; for where living men once
blocked your schemes, dead men will not."
     Jocelyn shuddered at the frank terms, then smiled weakly. Professor Urlich
seemed to possess an insidious influence over the financier - one which caused
the man to forget his qualms despite himself.
     "Simple plans are most effective." As Professor Urlich proceeded with this
statement, he drew a folded paper from his pocket. "Here is the list which you
gave me, Jocelyn. It names more than a dozen big-moneyed men whose deaths will
prove highly profitable to you, and therefore" - Urlich stopped to stare firmly
at the man opposite him - "profitable to myself and Ricordo.
     "Your part, Jocelyn, is to simply remind me of the strategic time for any
such deaths. The rest lies in my hands - with the aid of Ricordo. You have
named the first man. You will see him die to-night. I trust that your plans are
made with all precaution."
     "They are," declared Jocelyn, with a nervous laugh. "If Alfred Sartain
dies to-night -"
     "- when Alfred Sartain dies tonight," put in Urlich, with his wicked sneer.
     "With Sartain eliminated," agreed Jocelyn, "I am sure of an immediate
profit of at least five millions. He has practically agreed to refinance the
Universal Chain Stores. I have large proxy holdings in the National Syndicate
and in Amalgamated Stores. If Universal fails to gain the money that it needs,
the concern will go into the hands of the receivers. My stocks will rise -"
     "Sartain is the only salvation for Universal?"
     "Positively. All depends upon him."
     "You will see him die to-night!"
     Larry Ricordo was on his feet, rubbing his hands warmly as he heard these
words. He swung toward Jocelyn, to add weight to Professor Urlich's statement.
     "You bet Sartain will take the bump," he declared. "Say! Maybe you don't
know that I could be the biggest shot in New York if I'd wanted to stay in the
racket. I dropped out because I saw bigger dough this way - without the chance
of getting filled with lead by some other guy's mob.
     "I'm supposed to be out in the sticks - too hot for me here. But I've got
a couple of real gazebos working for me. When Sartain comes into that penthouse
of his, he'll be covered -"
     "One moment," interposed Urlich, staring cold at the gang leader. "I told
you that violence would be unnecessary, Ricordo."
     "That's all right, professor," responded Ricordo. "I'm not interfering
with whatever plans you've got. Just playing safe, that's all. Duster Brooks is
planted as Sartain's butler."
     "That I understood."
     "And I've got Slips Harbeck and a couple of gorillas in an apartment on
the top floor. They won't move unless we see that Sartain is going to get away.
They'll wait to hear from me."
     "Very well," said Professor Urlich. "Nevertheless, your precautions were
not needed." Then, to Jocelyn: "Ricordo is lacking in the technique of murder.
During Sartain's absence, the penthouse was renovated. Ricordo provided a
competent supervisor in the person of Duster Brooks, who is acting as Sartain's
butler. Brooks had charge of the work. He is there to-night.
     "Alfred Sartain will die - presumably from natural causes - due to my
well-planned instructions."
     The professor glanced at his watch. He noticed that the time was nearly
half past eight. He went to the wall, and turned out the light; then to the
window.
     "Come," he ordered through the darkness.


     THE other men approached. The curtain raised under Urlich's touch. It was
like the lifting of asbestos before a drama.
     Silhouetted before the sparkling glow of the city lay the huge apartment
building. The dim lights of the penthouse were the same as Larry Ricordo had
viewed them. The corner was still black, and it was this spot that the
professor indicated.
     "There is the studio," he remarked, in a low tone. "It is Sartain's custom
to retire there, alone. This will be his first visit upon his return. He is
expected by nine o'clock, with his secretary. The chain-store representative
will call at half past.
     "Brooks has given us all the information. The documents are on Sartain's
desk for his consideration. There is no reason why he should depart from his
usual custom. It is upon such simple, commonplace actions that all great deeds
of hidden crime should be built.
     "Your presence here will inspire your confidence in my powers. Ricordo has
already evidenced his doubts. You, Jocelyn, may also be apprehensive. But as you
witness each step, and hear me explain its cause, you will understand."
     The professor's tone had taken on the quiet notes of a scientific lecture.
His calloused words brought a grunted laugh from Larry Ricordo. Thomas Jocelyn
shuddered. Nevertheless, the financier stayed as close to the window as did the
gang leader. There was a fascination in that scene across the street.
     "You will witness death," repeated Professor Urlich, by way of conclusion.
"Death undisturbed; death unsuspected; death that will be regarded as
accidental. Ricordo may trust to guns and violence. I deal death with silent
skill. That is the death that you will see to-night - and which will strike
again and again. Silent death!"
     The professor paused. The men by the open window remained motionless. Once
more those insidious words sounded from the lips of Folcroft Urlich.
     "Silent death!"


     CHAPTER II

     IN THE PENTHOUSE

     PROFESSOR URLICH had spoken correctly when he stated that Larry Ricordo
had methods different from his own. The gang lord who served the professor's
evil designs was quite as anxious to see Alfred Sartain die as was Urlich
himself. Hence he had taken even more precautions than those that he had
mentioned to his companions.
     Besides the gangsters stationed in a vacant apartment beneath the
penthouse, there were others outside the apartment building. They were there to
see that nothing might disturb the scene above; to interfere with the entrance
of any other than Sartain, his secretary, and the chain-store delegate who had
to-night's appointment.
     Thus, when Alfred Sartain alighted from a taxi outside the building, at
precisely ten minutes of nine, he was covered by slouching, hidden watchers.
The millionaire was accompanied by one man, obviously his secretary, who lugged
a pair of suitcases. The doorman saluted as they entered, and helped the
secretary with his burdens.
     When the elevator reached the penthouse level, Sartain rang the bell at
the entrance. He was admitted by a quiet-faced, middle-aged man in uniform. The
secretary followed.
     "Good evening, sir," said the butler, in a pronounced English accent. "It
is good to see you return."
     "It's good to get back, Brooks," said Sartain, with a smile.
     The millionaire was a brusque man of fifty years. He gave his coat and hat
to the butler, and strolled about the living room. He stopped and sniffed the
air.
     "Paint," he remarked.
     "Yes, sir," responded Brooks. "The penthouse was renovated during your
absence, sir."
     "Of course," laughed Sartain. "I had forgotten it. The old place looks
fine, Brooks. You were here to see that they did it right, weren't you?"
     "Yes, sir. The studio was done over also. By the way, sir, I placed all
your correspondence upon the desk. Mr. Broderick called to make sure about his
appointment. He was very anxious, over the telephone, sir."
     "Yes, he would be," smiled Sartain. "I must go in the studio immediately.
You, Hunnefield" - to the secretary - "can receive Mr. Broderick. I shall ring
for you when I am ready to interview him."
     Brooks opened a door at the far end of the living room. It showed a
hallway, beyond that an opened doorway. Brooks stepped nimbly ahead of Sartain,
and entered the far room. He turned on the light. The millionaire walked in and
glanced about admiringly.


     THE studio had been redecorated to perfection. The walls were painted with
a mural design in gold leaf. The large window, with its small panes of glass,
had fresh paint upon its heavy iron framework. Sartain glanced toward the
skylight, high in the sloping roof.
     "Very nice, Brooks," was his compliment.
     A large radiator was hissing softly in the corner of the room. Sartain did
not appear to notice the sound. He sat down at the desk and began to examine a
stack of envelopes. Brooks stood at the door. Hunnefield appeared beyond him.
     "That is all, sir?" questioned the butler, as the secretary approached.
     "Yes," returned the millionaire. "I do no wish to be disturbed. You may
close the door, Brooks."
     The butler drew the door shut and turned toward Hunnefield. The natural
action had blocked the secretary's entrance. Now that Alfred Sartain was
ensconced in his studio, Hunnefield decided not to enter. He walked back into
the living room with the butler. Brooks closed the second door as they passed.
     When the secretary had crossed the living room, Brooks threw a quick
glance toward two objects. One was a bell in the corner. It was silenced by a
small plug of rubber placed between the clapper and the bell itself. This was
the spot where a summons from Sartain's room might be heard.
     Brooks smiled. That plug made a ring impossible. But one quick, deft twist
would remove it. That action would come later.
     Brooks also glanced toward a telephone in the corner. There was a switch
beneath it. Pressed home, that switch connected up with the telephone in the
studio. It was not quite tight now. A slight press would do the trick. That,
too, would come later. At present, Alfred Sartain was completely isolated from
outside communication.
     Brooks glanced at his watch. Thirty minutes was the time allotted. Then
these details could be quietly arranged. Brooks had little work to do. He
smiled. With Hunnefield here, his actions would be accounted for; and Broderick
would arrive later. The sooner the better.
     Brooks was to gain the pleasure of admitting the expected visitor very
shortly. For at the precise moment that the butler lounged across the living
room, a man entered the lobby on the street floor far blow.
     This visitor to the apartment building was a tall man who wore a
light-brown overcoat and a gray hat. He carried a large brief case in his hand.
He stopped to speak to the doorman. In a quiet monotone, he put the query:
     "Is Mr. Alfred Sartain at home?"
     A chance lounger in the lobby caught the question. It was one of "Slips"
Harbeck's men - an underling of Larry Ricordo's trusted lieutenant. That man
was very anxious to hear the rest of the conversation between the doorman and
the stranger.
     "I believe that Mr. Sartain is here," replied the doorman. "I can call the
penthouse and tell him that you have arrived. What is the name, sir?"
     "Broderick. Howard Broderick. I have an appointment."
     The lounger strolled from the lobby. Howard Broderick was the name of the
one person who was to have uninterrupted entrance to Sartain's domain.
     The doorman put through a call. He received word to admit the visitor. He
ushered the man with the brief case to the elevator. A few minutes later, the
visitor stepped forth at the entrance to the penthouse. He rang the bell, and
Brooks opened the door.


     THE butler bowed and admitted the early arrival. He stared rather closely
at the stranger. There was something about the man's appearance that troubled
the false butler. Broderick's face had a cold, chiseled expression, and his
eyes, as they glanced across the room, were firm and keenly observant.
     "Mr. Sartain is expecting me."
     The visitor's voice chilled Brooks. It also attracted the attention of
Hunnefield, who was seated in a chair, reading. The secretary leaped to his
feet and approached the stranger.
     "Ah, you are Mr. Broderick?" he questioned. "Mr. Sartain did not expect
you so early. You will have to wait, sir, until he rings for you to be
admitted."
     "You can tell him that I am here?"
     "No, I am afraid not. He is going over papers at present; and he will
notify us as soon as he is free."
     Hat in hand, but with coat still on his shoulders, the tall visitor had
moved easily across the room. He was facing the door that barred the way to
Sartain's studio.
     As he turned, his keen eyes spotted the bell against the wall. They also
saw the telephone. Then they were turned toward the secretary.
     In one sweeping glance, this person had noted the facts that so greatly
concerned Brooks; but the false butler had not fully realized its keenness.
     "I must wait, then," remarked the visitor, with a placid smile. "Very
well, I shall do so. Admirable place that Mr. Sartain has here. Excellent view."
     He was strolling across the room as he spoke. He stopped by a pair of
French doors that led out to a veranda. With an easy, natural gesture, he
turned the knob and glanced out into the night, toward the twinkling lights of
Manhattan.
     "Quite all right?" he questioned.
     "To step outside?" responded Hunnefield. "Certainly, Mr. Broderick. I
shall call you when we hear from Mr. Sartain, unless you come in before that."
     "A delightful breeze," observed the tall man quietly. "Thank you for your
courtesy."
     He stepped to the veranda as he finished the sentence, leaving the door
half opened behind him. Hunnefield dropped back into his chair. Brooks smiled
and went about trivial duties. The presence of the visitor had made the false
butler feel ill at ease. He was just as glad that Broderick had stepped out
upon the veranda.
     The glance of the keen eyes toward the telephone and the bell - it still
disturbed Brooks. But with Broderick temporarily out of sight, the butler was
glad that the visitor had come. He remained just within the French window,
occasionally speaking to Hunnefield. Broderick would prove useful, perhaps,
later this evening. He, like the secretary, would be a good witness to the
unfortunate accident that was destined to befall Alfred Sartain.
     But Brooks did not actually step out to the veranda himself. He merely
took it for granted that Howard Broderick was still there. Hence he did not see
the strange metamorphosis that occurred beyond the French window.


     THE man who had introduced himself as Howard Broderick had carried his
brief case, absent-mindedly tucked beneath his arm. Alone, in the darkness, he
became suddenly busy with the compact satchel. Stooping, he opened it by the
rail of the veranda. Out came objects, invisible in the gloom.
     The gray hat dropped from the head that wore it. The light overcoat
dropped from arms and shoulders. Other garments took their place. A long black
cloak, a dark, broad-brimmed slouch hat - these formed Howard Broderick's new
attire. The other garments went quickly into the brief case, which deft hands
deposited against the wall of the penthouse.
     A figure raised itself beside the rail. Barely discernible in the glow
from the metropolis, it formed the sinister, ghostly shape of a tall being clad
entirely in black. Even the hands of this weird phantom were now covered with
black gloves. The only spots of light that showed were two blazing eyes that
flashed from beneath the brim of the slouch hat.
     Howard Broderick's part was ended. This visitant's statement of identity
had been false. No longer guised as a man - instead, a fantastic creature of
darkness - he had become The Shadow!
     Sinister foe of crime, amazing master of the night, The Shadow had arrived
at the spot where death was stalking. His tall, eerie shape was rising higher as
it poised upon the broad rail of the veranda. Long arms, stretched upward,
gripped the projecting slope of the roof.
     The figure of The Shadow swung outward. It poised over nothingness; then
swung upward. Unyielding hands drew the lithe body to the safety above.
     The Shadow, unseen, his form now but a mass of moving blackness along the
steep incline, was scaling the sloping roof of the penthouse, bound upon a
precarious mission which involved the life of a man already doomed to die!


     CHAPTER III

     THE TRAP ACTS

     THE watchers high in the Brinton Building were studying the penthouse
scene with renewed interest. Their evil eyes were upon the corner window, where
light had now replaced the former blackness. Beyond the framework of the studio
window, plainly visible through the small panes of glass, sat Alfred Sartain.
The millionaire was busy at his desk.
     While Thomas Jocelyn and Larry Ricordo stared in silence, Professor
Folcroft Urlich spoke in low, continued tones, still maintaining his lecture
style.
     "Our man is in the trap," he explained. "As yet, he has not experienced
its effects. That time is coming shortly. Here is the means whereby we may
study him more closely."
     The professor drew a pair of opera glasses from his coat and focused them
upon the scene across the street. He tendered the glasses to Jocelyn, who drew
nervously away. Ricordo, however, seized them eagerly.
     The former gang lord laughed gruffly as he gained a close-up view of the
doomed man within the studio. He noticed a perplexed look that appeared upon
Sartain's face. Then the millionaire stepped from the field of vision as he
suddenly arose from his desk. Ricordo passed the glasses back to Urlich.
     "He has noticed the noise from the radiator," decided the professor, as
the three men watched Sartain go toward the corner. "The noise is due to the
air-dry attachment which is now being used on many radiators. These devices
were installed throughout the penthouse, during the renovation."
     While Sartain was stooping by the radiator, the professor continued his
theme.
     "The air-dry attachment," he explained, "is a commercial device which is
designed to remove moisture from the atmosphere. By experimenting with these
articles, I learned that they could be adjusted so that they consume oxygen
very rapidly. Sartain does not know it, but that piece of mechanism is sucking
the life-giving element from the air in his studio."
     "What if he detaches it?" inquired Jocelyn, in a weak voice.
     "He cannot," responded the professor. "It is firmly fixed in place. He
might manage to smash it, if he understood its purpose. But he simply considers
it as a noise-making nuisance. He will decide to forget it."
     Professor Urlich's statement was proven when Sartain went back to the
desk. Nevertheless, the millionaire continued to glance impatiently toward the
corner. They saw his hand press a button upon the desk.
     "He is ringing for some one to attend to the radiator," observed Urlich.
"The call will not be answered. Brooks has plugged the bell. Neither he nor the
secretary will hear it."


     A FEW minutes passed; then the watchers saw Sartain raise his hand to his
forehead. Ricordo, taking the opera glasses, observed that the millionaire's
face seemed a trifle pale. Professor Urlich chuckled as Sartain again pressed
the button on his desk.
     "He wonders why no one comes," remarked the scientist. "It is not the
noise of the radiator now. Sartain is beginning to feel a faintness, due to the
lack of oxygen in the atmosphere. He will go to the window next."
     The prediction proved true. Sartain went to the window and tried to open
it. He tussled with the fastening to no avail. The framework would not yield.
     "It is firmly fastened," stated Urlich. "Jammed into place, by the
painters. He will give it up. Watch him go to the door."
     Alfred Sartain staggered momentarily as he crossed the room. The effort at
the window had weakened him. He tried the knob of the door, and tugged
furiously. The portal failed to open.
     "That knob is ingeniously arranged," explained Urlich. "This is the first
time that the door has been shut since it was fixed. It will not turn the heavy
latch at present. After some one opens the door from the other side - as Brooks
or the secretary will do later on - the action from the outside will make the
inner knob function perfectly. There will be no clew - after Sartain is dead."
     The millionaire seemed groggy. Urlich chuckled. Ricordo looked on in
admiration. He was gaining a great respect for Urlich's ingenuity. Jocelyn,
trembling, but fascinated, put an anxious question.
     "Suppose that he breaks the windowpanes?" asked the financier. "If he
realizes that he needs air?"
     "That will be next," lectured Professor Urlich. "It will prove futile" -
the scientist paused as they saw Sartain stride unsteadily toward the window -
"because the original panes were all removed during the renovation. The new
ones are all of bullet-proof glass."
     Sartain had seized a large book. They watched him throw it at the window.
The volume rebounded from a pane. The millionaire hurled a small ash stand. It,
too, dropped back.
     Lifting a chair, the trapped man began to pound at the barrier. The iron
framework and the panels of special glass withstood his effort. Sartain
staggered back to the desk, almost on the verge of collapse.
     "He is nearing the end of his resources," observed the scientist, taking
the opera glasses from Ricordo. "Ah - he is using the telephone. That, too,
will be futile."
     Sartain, leaning on the desk, had the receiver to his ear. The line was
dead. He was joggling the hook with his other hand and anxiously listening
while he tried to establish connection with the operator. A queer chortle came
from Urlich's lips.
     "What is the matter?" questioned Jocelyn.
     "Nothing," answered the professor. "I am merely glad that we came here
to-night. Sartain's present actions have given me an excellent idea. This is
but one death, Jocelyn. There will be others, and some may be emergencies. What
I have just seen has given me an inspiration - a sure way to deal death even
though I prefer the silence that we are viewing now -"
     The speaker stopped suddenly as Sartain fell across the desk. Ricordo
laughed hoarsely. Jocelyn gasped. They saw Sartain roll sidewise and rest with
his back slouched against the desk, his eyes staring upward.
     "The end is near," announced Professor Urlich. "The oxygen supply has not
only decreased; the room also contains a considerable quantity of carbon
dioxide. That gas - which we emit when breathing - will not sustain life.
     "Should Sartain lose his hold upon the desk and fall to the floor, the end
will come more rapidly. However, it is well within my expected schedule. Our
victim is doomed. There is no possible source from which he can gain fresh air."
     "Is he dying now?" quizzed Jocelyn, in an unsteady tone.
     "Not quite," replied the professor. "One burst of fresh air would revive
him quickly."
     "He is staring upward."
     "Yes. Toward the skylight. He realizes his predicament, and he would like
to reach that spot. He does not possess the strength, however. Furthermore, it
would afford him no outlet. The skylight, like the window, is firmly jammed.
There is no object high enough - even a chair upon the desk - to let Sartain
reach it with more than his finger tips. The thick glass would be almost
impossible to break."
     "I can't see it," said Ricordo.
     "The room is quite high," remarked Urlich. "The skylight is in the sloping
roof."
     "He might have managed that way," observed Jocelyn.
     "Might," returned the professor dryly. "But that, Jocelyn, is where I
counted exactly upon probabilities. I not only regarded the skylight as almost
inaccessible to a man trapped in the room; I also knew that no one would choose
it save as a last resort. Could you read Sartain's mind at present, you would
learn that he is regretting the fact that he did not think of the skylight as
the first means of egress. He possessed strength then; it is failing him now."


     A PAUSE; then a wicked chuckle as the scientist again focused the opera
glasses upon the doomed victim. In a low voice, he explained the cause of his
glee.
     "Sartain's face is hopeless," declared Urlich. "His lips show that he is
panting. The prolonged gasps of a dying man. Ah! This is wonderful, my friends!
It, too, gives me a thought of new and scientific death - of sure death - of
silent death."
     He laughed; then added:
     "But I must not digress with scientific ideas. I retain all that I gain by
way of inspiration during my experiments. Our chief concern now is the final
moment of Alfred Sartain's existence. It will not be long deferred.
     "Those eyes, my friends, are staring heavenward, looking for hope, seeking
help" - the professor chuckled mirthfully - "and seeing nothing but the closed
pane of a skylight!"
     Larry Ricordo joined in the professor's laugh. Thomas Jocelyn, though
unnerved by the sight of approaching death, also managed to emit a halfhearted
tone of mirth.
     "Perfection," murmured Folcroft Urlich. "Death by misadventure. A man who
realized too late that his air supply was gone. One whose strength had failed
so greatly that he was unable to ring for help, or call by phone, or open door
or window. That will be the coroner's verdict.
     "Guns in the hands of gangsters cannot match this subtle scheme. They are
crude. They reveal murderous design. We have stayed them for to-night. You,
Jocelyn, see the safety of my ways. You, Ricordo, can appreciate their artistry.
     "Staring eyes that look for hope will soon stare upward no longer; Alfred
Sartain is doomed!"
     The professor paused to deliver a cackle of elation; then his lips formed
a triumphant phrase:
     "Doomed by silent death!"


     CHAPTER IV

     THE SHADOW ARRIVES

     ALL was a blur before Alfred Sartain's weakening eyes. The doomed
millionaire was staring toward the ceiling. As Professor Urlich had divined,
Sartain's eyes were upon the closed skylight. Through Sartain's hopeless brain
were running those very thoughts that the fiendish scientist had declared as
probable.
     Through that barrier lay the last chance for safety. Sartain knew now that
he might have tried the skylight first. Yet he completely lacked the slightest
vestige of strength that might have enabled him to undertake the task.
     Through the skylight! If the heavy glass would only break; if it would
only open! It was impossible, Sartain knew, yet as he felt the creeping power
of death, the millionaire instinctively gazed toward that one way of hope.
     Black spots danced before his eyes. The glass of the skylight seemed faded
and obscure. Steady gasps came from the doomed man's lips. Then they broke into
one amazed pant of wonderment.
     To Sartain's blurred vision, the skylight appeared to be moving upward!
The dull glow of the city-lighted sky was visible above!
     Simultaneously a whiff of chill air reached Sartain's nostrils. The
reviving puff sustained him sufficiently to end his decreasing weakness. All
went black momentarily; then the darkness moved, and from its strange mass
shone two sparkling eyes.
     The figure of a living being was projecting itself through the opened
skylight. Some rescuer had opened the barrier from the roof, and was descending
into the studio!
     The puzzled glimmer that came in Sartain's eyes was noted plainly by
Professor Urlich, who was peering through the opera glasses from the office
across the street. The scientist, studying each fading gasp of the doomed man
as he might have examined a germ cell in a microscope, detected instantly that
something had happened.
     A peculiar grunt escaped the professor's lips as he lowered the opera
glasses to view the studio instead of the face upon the desk. Jocelyn and
Ricordo heard the ejaculation. With one accord they delivered questions of
surprise, wondering what Urlich had seen.
     "Something has happened from above!" exclaimed the professor. "I could
tell it from Sartain's eyes. Our victim is reviving. What is there, above him?
Can you see?"
     The three men were crouching close to the sill of the opened office
window, trying to gain a view of the space above Sartain's head. They were
seeking the answer to the riddle. It came with unexpected suddenness.


     A MASS of blackness dropped downward from the top of the studio. It spread
out momentarily upon the floor; then rose upright to become the tall figure of a
being clad in black, a sinister shape beneath a flowing cloak, a hidden head
covered by a broad slouch hat.
     "Through the skylight!" blurted Jocelyn.
     "Some intruder," snarled Urlich, "come to spoil my plan of death -"
     "The Shadow!"
     The final cry came from Larry Ricordo. The gang lord was trembling with
excitement. His companions turned toward him. They could see the whiteness of
his face beside the window.
     "The Shadow!" Consternation filled Ricordo's voice. "He stops at nothing!
He will save Sartain! He is our enemy!"
     To Jocelyn, the very tone of Ricordo's voice was alarming. The financier
did not know the ways of the underworld, he did not share the common fears of
gangsters who dreaded the power of The Shadow. But he sensed the menace from
Ricordo's words.
     To Professor Urlich, the gang leader's fright was also evident. Urlich,
like Jocelyn, knew that Ricordo had sighted a potential menace. The Shadow was
leaning over Alfred Sartain, raising the millionaire's body toward the reviving
air currents that came from above.
     Silent death had failed. Urlich, however, viewed The Shadow as an ordinary
human, who had somehow bungled into this situation. He gave no thought to the
weird impressiveness of The Shadow's garb. His one theme was his anger at the
unexpected failure of his plot to end Alfred Sartain's life.
     "Our victim is saved!" he snarled. "He will recover now - to live -"
     "To live!" cried Jocelyn. "Then my efforts will be of no avail! Unless
Sartain dies to-night, the Universal deal will be accomplished. My holdings
will lose instead of gaining!"
     Larry Ricordo was leaning from the window. Venom showed in the gang
leader's puffy lips. In his hand, he gripped a large revolver, which he was
aiming toward the studio across the street.
     "It's a long shot," he growled grimly, "but I'll try to plug them both.
We've got to get Jocelyn - and if we can get The Shadow, too -"
     "Stop!" hissed Professor Urlich, seizing Ricordo's arm. "Your shots will
be useless! They may lead to our discovery in this office!"
     "Useless?" echoed Ricordo. "Watch me blast them through that window!
They're set right where I want them!"
     "The glass is bullet-proof," interposed Urlich. "Have you forgotten that,
Ricordo?"
     The gang leader snarled as he let his arm fall helplessly. He had
forgotten. The very feature of the trap - the unbreakable window - which had
been designed to insure Alfred Sartain's life, had now become a protection for
both the millionaire and his mysterious rescuer!


     PROFESSOR URLICH stared spitefully at the scene; Thomas Jocelyn groaned.
The Shadow was still working to restore Alfred Sartain to consciousness. Larry
Ricordo, gripping his gun with frenzy, was the one who suddenly supplied the
way of action.
     "We can get him yet!" he snarled. "You'll see how I work now, professor.
Those men of mine can turn the trick. The Shadow is a tough egg; but he's going
to have trouble getting out of this mess!"
     The gang leader leaped to a corner of the darkened office. He gripped a
telephone, and swore roundly as he was forced to use a flashlight to see the
dial. While muttered oaths came from his lips, he spun the number that he
wanted.
     "That you, Slips?" came his low voice. "Good... Yes, this is Larry... Yes,
get going. Up to Sartain's. Crash right through... Hurry... Listen, there is
another guy with him... Yes, you'll know him all right... The Shadow... No...
No... Don't tell the others. Get going... It's the one chance, and I'm
watching. Get me? I'm looking on!"
     The receiver dropped on the hook. Ricordo turned toward the window, where
Urlich and Jocelyn were still staring at the building across the street.
     "Still there?" Ricordo demanded anxiously.
     "Yes," responded Professor Urlich.
     "We'll get him, then!" snarled Ricordo. "I tipped Slips Harbeck. He's
going up with the gorillas. Duster Brooks will help them. They'll get Sartain
and The Shadow both!"
     "It will mean a terrible commotion," interposed Thomas Jocelyn nervously.
"It will be murder, Ricordo - the police will investigate."
     "What of it?" growled the gang leader. "I've got my trail all covered.
Only Slips Harbeck and Duster Brooks know that I'm in back of it. They won't
squeal; they'll scram. As for you and the professor, there's no link between me
and you bozos. What we want is to see Sartain dead."
     "Ricordo is right," agreed the professor quietly. "Have no alarm, Jocelyn.
I would prefer silent death; but violence is acceptable in this emergency.
Alfred Sartain must die - and his rescuer with him."
     No further words came as the trio watched the studio. The Shadow was
swinging Alfred Sartain to the chair beside the desk. The millionaire moved
feebly. He lay, outstretched, his face staring upward.


     PROFESSOR URLICH was gazing through the opera glasses. He could not,
however, sight the face of that mysterious being in black. Even in that
enlarged field of vision, The Shadow's head and shoulders were entirely a mass
of darkness. The brim of the slouch hat cast an impenetrable gloom upon the
features beneath it.
     "I can't see his face," announced Urlich calmly, "but that does not
matter. It is turned from the doorway - which is most favorable. If your men
are capable, Ricordo -"
     The scientist paused to lower the glasses and glance at Ricordo in the dim
light by the window. The gang leader emitted a coarse laugh.
     "They're the best gorillas money can buy," he affirmed. "But they're up
against The Shadow. Don't forget that, professor! I tipped Slips, and he won't
miss a trick. The Shadow, professor! He's the one guy that they've all tried to
get."
     "Your men are coming now," exclaimed Jocelyn suddenly. "I can see a motion
through the windows of the outer room!"
     "Right!" added Ricordo. "They'll be at the door in a few seconds. Say - if
they blot out The Shadow -"
     "Look!"
     Professor Urlich was pointing from the office window. His long forefinger
indicated the black-clad figure of The Shadow.
     Satisfied that Alfred Sartain was reviving, the black-clad rescuer was
rising. His form became a tall, menacing shape; then, suddenly, it became
motionless. A momentary pause. Black-gloved hands swung inward toward the
shrouding cloak.
     "They have reached the door by now," asserted Jocelyn tensely.
     "Yes!" agreed Ricordo, in an excited tone. "They're at the door - and
they've got The Shadow!"
     As though proving the truth of the gang leader's assertion, the tall form
in black pirouetted suddenly toward the door of the studio. A cry of elation
came from Larry Ricordo.
     The Shadow, when he swung, was weaponless. He, with Alfred Sartain, seemed
doomed!


     CHAPTER V

     THE SHADOW DEPARTS

     THE three witnesses to the rare spectacle of The Shadow at work were
totally unacquainted with the methods of the black-clad rescuer. Even Larry
Ricordo, hardened denizen of the underworld, knew but little of The Shadow's
ways. Hence the rising motion of the black-cloaked form, the passage of the
gloved hands toward the garment that shrouded the shoulders beneath; even the
quick pirouette of the figure itself - were all accepted by the viewers as
token of The Shadow's unpreparedness.
     But, within the studio where doom had failed to strike, The Shadow was
acting with instinctive practice. Although unaware that hidden eyes were
observing him, The Shadow, master of desperate situations, had not allowed his
interest in Alfred Sartain's recovery to reduce his normal vigilance.
     When he had suddenly stepped away from the reviving millionaire, it had
been because his keen ears had heard a slight sound at the doorway of the
studio. The momentary pause had enabled him to detect the turning of the knob.
The motion of his hands toward his body was the beginning of the swift method
whereby The Shadow encountered foes who sought to catch him off guard.
     As the black form whirled to face the door, those gloved hands swept free
from the folds of the cloak. As The Shadow's eyes stared directly at the
portal, the firm fists beneath them were gripping the powerful automatics with
which The Shadow warred against fiends of crime.
     The action was a timely one. Simultaneously with The Shadow's swing, the
door came inward, and a pair of villainous gangsters plunged into the room.
Each of Slips Harbeck's gorillas held a leveled revolver.
     The gunmen held the first advantage. They were actually in the room before
The Shadow faced them. But they did not know the exact spot where they must
attack, so precipitous had their entrance been. They were forced to swing their
gleaming weapons in order to cover their foe.
     The Shadow, on the contrary, had a definite objective - the doorway. His
rapid turn ended in a deadly aim, whereas the gunmen acted with haste. It was
this factor that turned the tide in The Shadow's favor.
     Two shots burst from the doorway - each from a gorilla's revolver. One
bullet missed The Shadow by a foot. The other burned through a waving fold of
the black cloak - less than an inch from its mark.


     A DOUBLE answer came a split second later. As both gunmen sought to
deliver a second shot, The Shadow's automatics roared together. The forward
plunging mobsters hurtled to the floor. One sprawled crazily in a sidewise
swing; the other somersaulted almost to The Shadow's feet.
     A bursting cry of mirth sounded from The Shadow's unseen lips. No longer
concerned with the enemies whom he had dropped, The Shadow advanced toward the
door. His method was slow but constant - a scheme with definite purpose. From
the first instant of the attack, The Shadow had kept himself as a shield for
Alfred Sartain, helpless in the chair behind the desk.
     Now, seeking to meet new invaders, The Shadow held to the same purpose.
Blocking the path from the doorway, he gave no hidden enemy an opportunity to
complete the job which had failed - the murder of the hapless millionaire.
     Keen eyes glistened. The Shadow's right-hand automatic roared another
greeting. A scream came from beyond the doorway. A third gangster, more
cautious than his fellows, had thrust forth a hand with a revolver. The
Shadow's prompt response clipped the trigger finger from the hand!
     The maimed mobster fled. After him tumbled another who had also kept to
cover. The Shadow's guns barked a stern pursuit.
     The fleeing men were heading across the living room, The Shadow following.
Only one mark offered - an uncovered shoulder at the farther doorway. The Shadow
found it; the man staggered, but kept on.
     Beyond the outer door of the penthouse, the fleeing gorillas encountered
their chief, Slips Harbeck. He had sent them into the attack, intending to
follow after the first onslaught. For Slips, alone, had heard the identity of
the enemy whom they must meet.
     The leader of the gorillas was thrown back by his fleeing henchmen. He
could not stop them now. They had met the menace of The Shadow. They had seen
their companions sprawl within the first two seconds of the battle.
     The flight would have proven futile, had The Shadow followed his
advantage. But a new duty lay before the master in black.
     Across the room, Duster Brooks was struggling with Hunnefield, the
secretary. The false butler was holding a revolver in his hand; Hunnefield was
gripping the wrist below that hand.
     Brooks put forth a desperate effort just as The Shadow appeared. He
wrested his wrist free, and struck a fierce blow at Hunnefield's head.
Fortunately for the secretary, it was a glancing stroke that failed in its
murderous intent. But as the weapon thudded above his ear, Hunnefield
collapsed. He would have fallen, but for the butler's grasp.


     BROOKS was facing the doorway toward the studio. He saw The Shadow. He
recognized the menace. With Hunnefield's body as a shield, he thrust his
revolver forth and fired. The swaying of the secretary's form destroyed the
aim. The bullet from the butler's gun whisked the brim of The Shadow's hat and
lodged in the redecorated wall beyond.
     Still keeping covered, Brooks thrust the barrel of his revolver under
Hunnefield's armpit. Again he sought to shoot The Shadow.
     All the while, the black clad fighter was weaving his way across the room,
his burning eyes looking for an opportunity to clip Brooks without harming
Hunnefield. Constantly, The Shadow's gaze roved toward the outer door.
     A revolver muzzle gleamed at that spot. It was handled by Slips Harbeck,
who had remained despite the flight of his crippled minions. One of The
Shadow's automatics spoke - once - twice - thrice.
     The first bullet splintered the woodwork; the second struck the revolver
barrel and sent the weapon spinning from Slips Harbeck's grasp. The third was
delivered to catch any portion of the gangster's body that might have revealed
itself.
     But Slips, by amazing good fortune, had managed to stagger back. Fearing
that The Shadow was coming his way, he took the last shot as a sign of sure
doom, should he remain. Staggering from dread, the leader of the defeated
gorillas dashed madly toward the stairs.
     Another shot sounded in the living room. Duster Brooks, nerviest of the
evil crew, had hoped to get The Shadow this time. His second shot, like the
first, went wide. With the burden of Hunnefield's protecting form, the false
butler could not gain certain aim toward that elusive form of black.
     Even now, The Shadow was circling to deliver a return shot. Brooks,
dropping toward the floor with Hunnefield's body, again tried to fire through
the perfect loophole formed by the secretary's arm and body.
     The Shadow's task seemed impossible. Brooks showed the revolver muzzle as
the only target. To shoot that tiny spot would surely cause injury to the one
brave man who had tried to foil the invaders. Hunnefield, still unconscious,
was under The Shadow's protection.
     The revolver muzzle turned. As it spat flame, The Shadow's tall form
hurtled to the floor. Brooks cried out in exultation. In his excitement, the
false butler did not realize that The Shadow's drop had begun before the shot
was fired. It was a ruse - not a sign of good aim by Brooks.
     As the butler instinctively shifted, believing that he had wounded his
opponent, The Shadow's right hand fired from the floor. The bullet from the .45
struck the first portion of the butler's body that was uncovered - his left
shoulder.
     Brooks, anxious to put a sure end to The Shadow, was aiming his revolver
just as the bullet from the automatic clipped his shoulder. With a frenzied
cry, the man toppled sidewise and struck upon his right elbow. Hunnefield's
body flattened in front of him.
     Though wounded, Brooks was not through. Had he desisted then, the false
butler might have received no further token of The Shadow's power. But Brooks
was determined to fight to the end.
     Flopping forward upon Hunnefield's form, he dropped his right fist upon
the secretary's chest and, with glowering eyes directly above the sights of his
revolver, aimed to kill the one who menaced him from the floor.
     Glowering, Duster Brooks was staring straight into the burning eyes that
shone from beneath the hat brim. Like The Shadow, he was facing a gun muzzle,
for the menacing automatic had turned to cover him. Brooks had a life-sized
target - the entire figure of the black-garbed fighter.
     The Shadow, in opposition, had only one mark at which to aim. The butler's
revolver muzzle was the center point, with the human face behind it. It was a
race for the first shot.
     If Brooks won, woe to The Shadow! If The Shadow won, his aim would have to
be perfect, for if he missed the slender opportunity, Brooks would fire a shot
that would wound, even though it failed to kill.
     Fingers pressed upon triggers. The shots barked almost with simultaneous
sound.
     But The Shadow's missile was delivered a split second before Brooks sent
his shot. No time watch could have calculated that fractional difference. It
could be measured only by the space of time required for the bullet to leave
The Shadow's automatic and reach its mark. The leaden messenger struck just as
Brooks was firing. Planted squarely between the false butler's eyes, its
powerful impact swung the gangster's head backward with jarring force. The
revolver hand moved upward with the jar. The bullet from the butler's gun
swished the top of The Shadow's slouch hat and crashed into the wall beyond.


     THE SHADOW rose from the floor. The duel of death was ended. By a margin
so narrow that it seemed incredible, the black-garbed rescuer had gained the
victory over his stubborn foeman. Duster Brooks, hardened fighter from the bad
lands, had fired his last shot.
     The Shadow glided noiselessly across the room. He paused by the door that
led to the veranda. His sharp eyes saw a man coming from the doorway of the
studio.
     It was Alfred Sartain. Recovered, but still a trifle groggy, the
millionaire had been attracted by the shots. In his hand he held a revolver
that he had taken from his desk drawer.
     The Shadow slipped into the outer darkness. Sartain did not catch even a
glimpse of his disappearing form. The millionaire hurried to the spot where two
men lay. He found Brooks dead; Hunnefield recovering from the stunning blow that
he had received.
     While Sartain was attempting to revive the secretary, The Shadow
reappeared. Unseen, unheard, he glided toward the outer door that led to the
stairway. Bulging beneath his cloak was the brief case that contained the hat
and coat which he had worn here.
     Outside, The Shadow paused. He stood, like a protecting phantom, watching
Sartain at work. A noise came from the elevator shaft. Quickly, The Shadow
swished to the head of the stairs.
     The elevator door slid back. Three men with revolvers sallied forth. They
were detectives, and the keen eyes of The Shadow recognized their leader as Joe
Cardona, ace of Manhattan sleuths.
     All danger was ended now. The police had arrived. Alfred Sartain would be
protected against further attack. The tall figure in black glided down the
stairway, a few seconds before one of the detectives - at Cardona's order -
went to investigate that quarter.
     In the penthouse living room, Alfred Sartain looked up toward the ace
detective. Hunnefield's eyes, now opened, were staring in wonderment. Both
millionaire and secretary were ready to give their version of the affray; but
their stories would be incomplete.
     Sartain, at the point of death when rescued, had gained no more than a
blurred impression of the personage who had rescued him. Hunnefield, struck
down by the gun which Brooks had wielded, had not seen The Shadow.
     Mystery shrouded this strange rescue. Two dead gunmen in the studio; the
slain butler in the living room - these men could not tell what they had seen.
     The plot of death had failed. The Shadow had departed, leaving no proof of
his weird identity!
     But the watchers in the little office high up in the Brinton Building had
seen the whole strange occurrence. Their well-laid plans had been destroyed by
the weird personage in black. Their start in crime was thwarted. They would try
again!


     CHAPTER VI

     THE PROFESSOR PLANS

     A SEDAN turned from a Long Island highway and entered a driveway toward a
gloomy mansion. It kept on past the house, and its brilliant headlights shone
upon an oddly shaped structure that resembled a gigantic cheese box. A grumbled
order came from the man who sat beside the driver.
     "Pull up over there, Ricordo."
     The tones were those of Professor Folcroft Urlich. Responding, Larry
Ricordo brought the car to a stop beside the circular building. He followed
Urlich when the professor stepped from the sedan.
     The mammoth cheese box, tucked out of view behind the old mansion, puzzled
Larry Ricordo as he approached it. The gang leader studied every feature of the
odd structure. Although circular, it seemed to possess a pagoda style, on a
flattened scale.
     First, Urlich and Ricordo entered a sort of portico that ran entirely
around the building, under a low, extending roof, which was supported by iron
posts set at intervals. Ricordo noted that the floor of this peculiar
ground-level porch was formed of metal plates.
     Professor Urlich pressed a button beside a double door at the front of the
building. A few moments later, the two doors swung inward. They closed after the
men had entered.
     The pair now stood within a second circular passageway that had walls on
both sides. It was a gloomy corridor that appeared to run completely around the
building.
     A single door showed opposite the portal they had entered. The professor
ignored it.
     As they walked along this strange hall, Ricordo noted again that he was
treading upon plates of metal. They circled halfway around; then stopped at a
door set in the inner wall.
     Here Professor Urlich pressed another button. The metal door slid upward,
revealing a circular staircase that led both up and down.
     Urlich conducted his companion upward, through a huge cylinder that
resembled a water standpipe. When they came to the top, they emerged into a
large circular room, the second story of this odd building.
     "My laboratory," remarked Professor Urlich.


     LARRY RICORDO blinked as they headed for another stairway in the center of
the room. He saw all sorts of strange devices: crucibles, huge tubes, bottles
upon shelves, machines, and models of all descriptions. Two silent men, clad in
white coats and aprons, were at work there.
     The outer walls of this circular chamber were windowless; but the outer
rim of the roof was designed with skylights, and Ricordo noted workbenches set
near the wall, so that they could gain illumination from outside during daytime
hours.
     The gang leader's inspection ended as Professor Urlich conducted him up
the central spiral. They reached a hall above; here were doors on all sides.
The professor opened one and brought Ricordo into a small room that was
equipped like an office. It had a single window.
     Glancing from this opening, Ricordo made out the shape of the building.
The first floor was like a huge cylinder of large diameter, but of stunted
height. The second was of less diameter, for it had no portico. The third,
where they were now located, was even smaller in diameter.
     This allowed for the skylights in the laboratory and made the building
take on its pagodalike shape. Like an Egyptian pyramid, this odd edifice was
built in steps, but it was circular, not square.
     Ricordo found himself wondering what might be on that first floor, with
the circular passage which they had followed. He asked no questions, however.
Professor Urlich was speaking, and Ricordo turned away from the window to face
the scientist.
     "To-night," said the professor, "we encountered temporary defeat. When we
saw police detectives enter Alfred Sartain's studio, we knew that there was no
further hope. That is why I told Thomas Jocelyn to go to his residence; it is
also why I brought you here, Ricordo. It was not wise to remain in that office
across the street."
     "You're right it wasn't," returned Ricordo. "Not with The Shadow on the
job. I'm worried yet, professor."
     Urlich indicated a telephone.
     "Communicate with Slips Harbeck," he ordered. "Call the number in the
usual fashion. This telephone, Ricordo, is arranged on a special wire. It
cannot be traced. It has the number of a telephone in a deserted house miles
from here."
     Ricordo grinned and picked up the telephone. He called a Manhattan number,
the underworld spot where Slips Harbeck made his headquarters. Professor Urlich
went out of the room while the gang leader talked with his lieutenant. When he
returned, he glanced inquiringly at Ricordo.


     "THE SHADOW queered the job all right," stated Larry. "He nailed those two
gorillas in Sartain's studio. He nicked the other pair, and he almost got Slips.
The only reason they made a get-away was because Brooks put up a fight.
     "Slips had a guy watching the apartment house. He says The Shadow got
Brooks in the finish. The cops brought out the body."
     A quizzical frown appeared upon Professor Urlich's forehead. The
evil-faced scientist studied his gang-lord aid. He put forth a question that
startled Larry Ricordo.
     "Tell me," demanded Urlich, "who is this whom you call The Shadow? The one
whom we saw to-night. Let me know all that you have learned concerning him."
     "The Shadow?" Ricordo's question was tinged with awe. "Say, professor, I
spilled a lot about him back there in the office - until you told me to let the
matter rest until later."
     "You were excited then," interposed Urlich. "At present, we are quiet. You
can speak with calmness. What is The Shadow? Is he a gang leader, like yourself
- or is he a detective?"
     "No one knows what he is," confessed Ricordo. "That bird must have a
racket all his own. He crowds in on any good lay that he hears about, and puts
the kibosh on it. He's not hooked up with the bulls; he's not a crook."
     "You mean," quizzed Urlich, "that he is a roving personage of the
underworld, seeking adventure through encounters with dangerous criminals?"
     "That's about it," admitted Ricordo. "There's plenty of big shots that
have missed out when they met The Shadow. Plenty have checked out, too. He
plays a cute game, professor. Lays back and lets a good lay get all set; then
steps into it himself."
     "Remarkable," observed the scientist. "I have heard of this person, but I
preferred to regard him as a myth. However, after to-night -"
     "To-night!" ejaculated the gang leader. "Say, professor, you don't realize
what we saw to-night. We saw The Shadow at work! Get that? Saw him, and got away
with it!"
     "Is that unusual?"
     "Is it unusual? Listen, professor, it's lucky for us we were tucked out of
sight across the street. You saw what he did to those two gorillas, didn't you?
Well, we'd have taken it, too, if he'd known we were around!"
     "Do you think so?" Professor Urlich's tone was ironical. "Well, Ricordo, I
believe you are wrong. The Shadow - as you term him - is unquestionably a
dangerous foe. I observed that fact tonight.
     "At the same time, it is quite obvious that he utilizes the inferior
methods that you employ: open attack, with apparent violence.
     "Such cannot compare with the ways at my disposal. Silent death - subtle
death - those are more dangerous than ordinary weapons. You saw my method this
evening. It failed; but that was not Alfred Sartain's doing. The intervention
of The Shadow was the unknown factor that I had not anticipated."
     "Maybe not," objected Ricordo, in a bitter tone, "but, just the same, The
Shadow queered the works. What are we going to do about it? Old Jocelyn has
lost out on his big deal, hasn't he?"
     "Jocelyn will not suffer," returned Urlich calmly. "His holdings are
sound. Perhaps he will lose something on them. That will not matter. He will
regain the loss later on. Alfred Sartain was but one of those who are upon our
list."
     "Now you're getting there," grinned Ricordo. "We're going right ahead, eh?
Well, we're all right - providing The Shadow doesn't muscle in again."
     "I am glad to hear you consider that possibility," cackled Urlich. "It has
much to do with the plans that I now contemplate. We are going to forget Thomas
Jocelyn for the present. We will give him time to recuperate; both nervously
and financially. In the meantime, we will render the future certain."
     "How?"
     "By eliminating The Shadow!"


     LARRY RICORDO spread his puffy lips as he heard the professor's words. His
expression was one of astonishment. Then the open mouth formed a broad, doubting
grin.
     "You won't be able to do it, professor," declared the gang leader, with
regret in his tone. "How can you fight a man you can't find? They've tried to
get The Shadow before. He's stopped every one that's chanced it.
     "When the big shots found that The Shadow was real, they framed every way
they could think of. They even planted a bunch of gorillas around the radio
studio where he broadcast. They never found him there.
     "When he shows up any place, it's like he did to-night - through a
skylight - out of the air - from the middle of a mob -"
     "They lacked technique," interrupted Urlich impatiently. "I am different
from those of whom you speak. I not only possess incredible methods of dealing
with my enemies; I am also analytical. It is not necessary to find The Shadow.
There is a simpler way."
     "What's that?"
     "Let him try to find us."
     "How?"
     Professor Urlich smiled. He shook his head as he studied Larry Ricordo.
The gang leader's bewilderment was proof that his ability lay with guns and not
with strategy.
     "There is a cause for everything," observed Urlich. "We must, therefore,
seek the cause of The Shadow's appearance to-night. In some fashion, The Shadow
learned that Alfred Sartain's life was in danger. How did he gain cognizance of
that fact?"
     "I can't guess," returned Ricordo. "Only The Shadow knows."
     "He did not learn of it through observing you, myself, or Jocelyn,"
continued Urlich. "If he suspected any one of us, he would have struck in our
direction before to-night."
     Larry Ricordo tightened his fists as he heard this theory. The gang leader
did not relish the thought of being tracked by The Shadow.
     "Had he suspected Duster Brooks," analyzed Urlich, "The Shadow could
easily have counteracted Duster's activities as Sartain's butler. This,
therefore, eliminated all possibilities but one."
     "Slips Harbeck?"
     "Exactly. Your unwarranted efforts to cover Sartain were the element which
led to the failure of my perfectly-planned scheme."
     "Slips wouldn't have let anything out," objected Ricordo. "I just talked
to him by telephone and he's a wise bimbo. I can't figure that, professor."
     "You lack analysis, Ricordo. Slips Harbeck, at your order, assembled a
squad of gangsters. I assume that all of them were reliable men. However, your
lieutenant must necessarily have done some talking in order to obtain his
underlings.
     "You speak of The Shadow as a constant deterring factor in the underworld.
It is quite obvious that he learned of Harbeck's activities, and promptly
covered your lieutenant."
     "That would be The Shadow's way!" blurted Larry Ricordo. "You've hit it,
professor! Maybe he didn't get onto Slips at first; he might have spotted one
of the gorillas getting ready for a job."
     "Two men," stated Urlich, "alone knew of your connection. One was Duster
Brooks - now dead. The other is Slips Harbeck - still alive. I need you,
Ricordo, and I need the services of your men. I intend to employ them in the
trapping of this man you call The Shadow.
     "There is a limit to the amount that any person can know. At present, The
Shadow knows that Slips Harbeck is engaged in unusual crime. If we use some one
in place of Slips, The Shadow may be clever enough to cover your new lieutenant.
Slips is capable; we do not want another."
     "You're getting me twisted," inserted Larry Ricordo. "I can't quite figure
it, professor."
     "Wait until I have finished," remarked Urlich. "We have one purpose at
present: to end the career of The Shadow. Our way, then, will be clear. The
Shadow, on the contrary, is seeking to prevent death. He succeeded by covering
Slips Harbeck; therefore, he will continue to cover Slips."
     "And then -"
     "He will seek to destroy any plot in which Slips is concerned. Therefore,
I will plan an apparent trap - like the one I had for Alfred Sartain - which
The Shadow will investigate."
     "Getting wise to it by watching Slips?"
     "Exactly. But on this occasion, the trap will be set for The Shadow
himself!"


     A GLOATING grin appeared upon Larry Ricordo's evil face. He saw the
purpose now. Once again, Slips Harbeck would be summoned by his ganglord chief.
But this time, Slips would be a cat's-paw, the agent who would lead The Shadow
into one of Professor Folcroft Urlich's subtle snares!
     "But if The Shadow is covering Slips," said Ricordo, voicing a momentary
doubt, "he's liable to bump off Slips at any time -"
     "Not a bit of it," interposed Urlich. "He knows by now that Slips is
merely a tool in the game. Why should he end the link that may lead him to
those higher up?"
     "To you and me," growled Ricordo, in a troubled tone.
     "To you, first," stated Urlich. "But have no fear on that score. You have
kept out of sight very effectively, Ricordo. You will continue to do so in even
better fashion. You will remain with me. You will be safe here.
     "Even if Slips Harbeck should reveal your name, it would prove to our
advantage. I would like nothing better" - the scientist's venomous smile proved
his words - "than to have The Shadow visit me here. That, however, should prove
unnecessary.
     "Your first duty is to give Slips Harbeck instructions by telephone. Tell
him to wait frequently at the place where he hears from you. Within a few days,
the time will be ripe. You will be forced to leave here long enough to plant the
trap; but no one will be the wiser, for you will do that work alone.
     "Slips Harbeck knows nothing of Jocelyn. We need not fear that link.
Furthermore, Jocelyn's valet, Grewson, is secretly in our employ; and we can
question him regularly regarding matters there."
     "If Slips is being watched by The Shadow," declared Ricordo, "we might
take a long shot and let Slips try to get him with a mob -"
     "No," stated Urlich decisively. "That shows your error, Ricordo. You lack
tactical experience. Such action would not only reveal our purpose; it would
also be futile. We can be sure that when The Shadow covers Slips Harbeck, he is
prepared for emergency. Furthermore, we have no proof that The Shadow, himself,
is the one who is observing Slips."
     "That's a good point," admitted Ricordo. "I've heard it noised about that
The Shadow has some smart guys working for him. If one of his stool pigeons is
on the job, we'd be wasting our time. You've got the right idea, sure enough.
We've got to put a smooth one across on The Shadow, using Slips to do it."
     Professor Folcroft Urlich smiled and nodded as the gang leader voiced this
final approval of the plan. He watched Ricordo's face. He saw a perplexed
expression come upon the hardened features. Calmly, he voiced the question that
was in Ricordo's mind.
     "You are wondering," said Urlich, "what method I intend to use to
eliminate The Shadow."
     "I was thinking that," admitted Ricordo.
     "I shall show you," smiled the professor. "Come with me, to the
laboratory. After that, you can communicate with Slips Harbeck."
     The professor led the way down the spiral staircase. Larry Ricordo
followed, still wondering. Bewilderment was within the gang leader's brain.
Tonight, he had seen The Shadow act. Now, he was to see plans prepared for The
Shadow's doom!
     Silent death! How did Professor Urlich intend to loose it now? Larry
Ricordo wondered; and through his evil mind ran the thought that at last The
Shadow would encounter a superman who would prove his equal!


     CHAPTER VII

     THE SHADOW LEARNS

     SLIPS HARBECK'S favored underworld resort was a notorious dive known as
Red Mike's. This place, which gained its name from its proprietor, was a
meeting place for gangsters that existed under police tolerance. It was an
underground speakeasy frequented by those members of the bad lands who were
temporarily free from trouble with the law.
     "Red Mike," the owner of the dive, was not a gangster. On the contrary, he
did not side with the police. He knew his customers, and let them come and go,
provided that they watched their actions while on his premises.
     Hence the police preferred to let Red Mike run his joint; for it served as
a constant attraction to mobsters who were wanted by the authorities; and on
more than one occasion, observant detectives had picked up known criminals in
that vicinity.
     Slips Harbeck had chosen Red Mike's as his hangout because it made an
ideal headquarters for the work that he was doing. Slips knew Red Mike, and had
access to the telephone that was tucked away in a side room. This enabled him to
received frequent messages from Larry Ricordo.
     Furthermore, at Red Mike's, Slips had picked up the gorillas whom he had
chosen as his henchmen; and now that his old squad was gone, he was in a
position to assemble a new crew of workers.
     Immediately after the encounter at Alfred Sartain's, Slips had scrammed
for the security of Red Mike's. Well did Slips know the narrowness of his
escape. Although he congratulated himself on having evaded The Shadow, he still
felt great alarm because he had incurred the enmity of the dread being who
terrorized the underworld.
     The telephone call which he had received from Larry Ricordo had calmed
Slips somewhat. A further message the same night also had a lulling effect.
     Since then, two days had passed; and Slips, once more within Red Mike's
portals, was feeling a sense of security and relief.
     Fearless though The Shadow might be, Slips knew that the enemy of crime
would hardly start a pitched battle in the heart of gangdom. Slips realized a
thought that Larry Ricordo had suggested: namely, that he - Slips Harbeck - was
certain of security because The Shadow knew he was nothing more than a minor
player in the tragic drama that had occurred in Alfred Sartain's penthouse.
     In fact, Slips Harbeck had another worry which troubled him as much as his
fear of The Shadow. He had read the newspaper reports of the affray at
Sartain's, and had learned that Duster Brooks had been identified. There was a
chance that Detective Joe Cardona might trace Slips as a former pal of
Duster's. If so, Slips could expect arrest.


     ORDINARILY, Slips would have dived for a hide-out under the circumstances.
But the complex factors now involved kept him here. He was living in a room
above the speakeasy, quartered with Red Mike. The fact that he never left the
premises gave him a feeling of security from The Shadow.
     The fact that neither Alfred Sartain, nor Hunnefield, the secretary, had
been slain in the penthouse broil, made him belittle the detectives. Only
gangsters had died that night. The police were not after a murderer.
     Besides these reasons, Slips had another cause for remaining at Red
Mike's. He was still in the secret employ of Larry Ricordo, and the big shot
was paying him well. To show a yellow streak and run for cover would
automatically end his source of income.
     Slips preferred to stay. But he wisely refrained from telling Larry
Ricordo of his fears particularly those which concerned the police.
     Larry knew that Slips had been a former pal of Duster Brooks; but the gang
lord did not know how close that friendship had been. Slips could see no reason
for informing Larry of it.
     On this night, slouched at a table in a corner of the speakeasy, Slips was
playing the part that had been allotted him.
     Larry Ricordo had assured him that he would not encounter trouble with The
Shadow if he obeyed instructions. At the same time, the gang leader had warned
his lieutenant that he might be under observation of an agent appointed by The
Shadow.
     Slips had two jobs to do: to mislead that agent, and also to learn the
man's identity.
     This was a task that Slips had forced himself to accept. He had managed to
quell the growing notion that perhaps The Shadow - and not an agent - was
watching him. Slips thought of his position, and had gradually convinced
himself that he was reasonably safe from The Shadow's dreaded toils.
     Where was Larry Ricordo? Slips Harbeck did not know; moreover, he did not
care to know. Ignorance, at times, might prove a protection.
     What was Larry's scheme? That was something which Slips was anxious to
learn. He was hoping to hear from Larry to-night.
     The patrons of Red Mike's establishment were constantly under Slips
Harbeck's inspection. It was no breach of speakeasy etiquette to glance at
those who entered and left. At the same time it was poor gangland policy to pay
too much attention to the business of other people. Therefore, Slips was furtive
and somewhat superficial in his observations.
     Among the habitues of Red Mike's, there were more than a dozen who might
be there with the sole purpose of watching some one. Slips knew that he could
remember most of them by sight; and Red Mike could probably supply the names,
if needed. The game was set - by instructions which Slips had received over the
telephone from Ricordo.


     FINISHING a drink, Slips settled back in a chair and lighted a cigarette.
He puffed the smoke through the corner of his mouth, and squinted through the
white cloud as he saw Red Mike emerging from the door of the side room. The
proprietor was headed toward the spot where Slips was seated.
     Red Mike stopped at the table and leaned over to whisper in the gangster's
ear. Slips nodded as he listened; then, with a shrug of his shoulders, arose
from his chair.
     "Phone call for me, eh?" he asked aloud. "O.K., Mike. I'll take care of
it."
     He started toward the other end of the speakeasy; paused, and returned to
gulp the last imaginary drops from his empty glass. He started again in the
same direction. Slips was accustomed to wearing a wise grin; hence his face did
not betray a fact that he had noticed anything wrong.
     While his back had been turned, a man several tables away had risen, and
had started for the outer door. The man was stopping to speak to Red Mike.
Evidently he intended to order another drink. Slips noticed his back as he took
a chair near the door that led to the inner room. He also observed the man's
face as he passed.
     Slips knew that he could remember those features. This man, although
hard-visaged and forceful in appearance, seemed of a type superior to the usual
gangster. His face was more the countenance of the trained athlete than the
physiognomy of a thug.
     Slips reached the inner room and closed the door behind him, taking care
that it did not latch. The telephone was on the wall beside a tumble-down desk.
Slips picked up the receiver and spoke. He recognized Larry Ricordo's voice.
     "We're ready, Slips," came the gang leader's words.
     "O. K," responded the lieutenant.
     "Is anybody spotting you?" was Ricordo's question.
     "I think so," returned Slips. "A guy just outside the door -"
     "Great. Repeat things that I tell you. Let him hear you. Use your bean -
and don't mention my name."
     "O.K. Shoot."
     Reaching toward the door, Slips gave the knob a slight pull. The door
swung slowly inward, as though by accident. Slips was back at the phone;
apparently unconscious of what had occurred.
     "To-night?" Slips Harbeck's voice carried to the edge of the outer room.
"Sure. I'm all set... Sure thing. Give me the lay, and I'll be there... Yeah, I
can dig up three gorillas to go with me... Wait a second. Let me give that name
back to you, so I've got it straight... J. Wesley Barnsworth. Apartment 636...
Langley Court. Yeah, I got that... Seventieth Street, eh? O.K."
     A pause; then Slips laughed coarsely. He began to speak again,
paraphrasing words that came from Larry Ricordo.
     "Theater, eh? Won't be back until midnight? That makes it jake for me...
Three hours to go... Sure... You know me on the lock stuff... I'll fix a key
before he gets there. We'll get the lay. Bump him quick... Not a chance after
he gets in there... Sure, it's better inside... Don't worry about a fracas in
the hall. We'll wait fifteen minutes, anyway, before we go in to plug him...
Yeah, I'll remember that... Pick up any papers that are loose... O.K. We will
wait until close to midnight before we blow in..."
     Slips hung up the receiver. He paused a few moments; then sauntered out
into the large room. He stopped to view the door with a frown. He looked around
to see if any one was close by. No one was near, at present. The firm-faced man
who had moved over by the door had finished his drink, and was again bidding
Red Mike good night.
     Slips strolled about the speakeasy and looked over some of the men there.
He finally stopped at the end of the room and spoke to the proprietor.
     "Say, Mike," he questioned, "who was that guy that you was just talking
to?"
     "You mean the poker-faced bird?" responded Red Mike. "Say - you ought to
know him, Slips. That's Cliff Marsland. He was in stir for a couple of years.
Mixed up in a big bank job. Comes in here often."
     "I thought I remembered him," recalled Slips. "Marsland. Sure. I've heard
of him."
     Ricordo's lieutenant sauntered back to a table. His face wore a smile more
cunning than before. He was sure that he had something now to tell the gang
leader - provided that action took place to-night. Slips Harbeck suspected that
Cliff Marsland might be an agent of The Shadow.
     Slips stayed at the table for several minutes. Then he left the speakeasy.
He did not go far. He doubled back through an alley and came into a side door
that led upstairs.
     Slips was going to his quarters. He did not intend to be abroad to-night.
His work was done. That was in accord with Larry Ricordo's order.


     IN his conjecture that Cliff Marsland served The Shadow, Slips Harbeck was
correct. The reason for Cliff's departure was that he had overheard the
conversation on the telephone, exactly as Slips had intended. By the time Slips
had reached his room, Cliff was three blocks away, headed for a spot where he
could telephone the information without observation.
     Cliff Marsland, to date, had been a useful under-cover man for The
Shadow's activities in the underworld. Red Mike had spoken the truth when he
had stated that Cliff had served time in prison. What Red Mike did not know -
what no one in the bad lands knew - was that Cliff had gone to jail for another
man's crime.
     Outside of Cliff himself, only The Shadow knew that fact. He had sworn
Cliff Marsland into his service.
     With a reputation as a criminal and a killer, Cliff was an ideal man for
service in the underworld. Gang leaders had taken him into their service;
later, those same big shots had come to grief.
     No mob leader had learned Cliff's secret. A free lance in gangland, Cliff
was still an ace in The Shadow's hand. It had required the perceptive, scheming
brain of Professor Folcroft Urlich to bring about the discovery of The Shadow's
agent.
     Completely unaware that he had been spotted by Slips Harbeck, Cliff
reached his destination and went to a telephone. He called a number and waited
until he heard the sound of a quiet voice. Cliff knew the identity of the man
at the other end of the wire. It was Burbank, The Shadow's contact man.
     "Marsland speaking," said Cliff in a low tone.
     "Burbank speaking," came the reply. "Report."
     Briefly, Cliff told what he had learned. Slips Harbeck, whom Cliff had
spotted as a trouble maker some time before, was intending a new foray like the
one he had made on Alfred Sartain's penthouse. To-night, the intended victim was
a man named J. Wesley Barnsworth.
     Cliff gave the address; the details; and finally explained how he had
learned the news. Burbank responded with quiet questions, and finally told
Cliff to await a return call. It came, within ten minutes.
     "Off duty," was Burbank's order.
     Cliff smiled as he left the telephone. He knew what this meant. Burbank
had relayed the information to The Shadow. That was Burbank's duty. Sequestered
somewhere in New York, often changing his location, the quiet-voiced man was
constantly in touch with both The Shadow and The Shadow's agents.
     Cliff had never seen Burbank. He knew him only by his voice. But Burbank,
despite his passive part, was an important cog in The Shadow's machine that
ground budding crime to atoms.
     On the occasion of Slips Harbeck's excursion to Alfred Sartain's
penthouse, Cliff Marsland had followed Ricordo's lieutenant, and had reported
to The Shadow. To-night, the job had been more simple. Cliff had been lucky
enough to overhear the plans. No more was necessary.
     As at Sartain's, so at Barnsworth's. Destiny lay in the hand of The
Shadow. Again, Cliff was positive, crime would be defeated. Murder would fail
due to the presence of The Shadow.
     The master of the night would need no aid. Well did Cliff know that The
Shadow, alone, could battle a squad of gangsters more easily than with the help
of others.
     Victory for The Shadow. That was Cliff's thought. To-night's adventure
would be simple for the black-garbed battler. Not for one minute did Cliff
suspect a trap.
     For Cliff Marsland knew nothing of Professor Folcroft Urlich, the
scientist who had turned his cunning brain to crime. Silent death lurked
to-night. The Shadow was facing it unwarned!


     CHAPTER VIII

     INTO THE TRAP

     THE corridor outside of Apartment 636 in Langley Court was amply
illuminated by ceiling lights. Yet the glow was not sufficient to reveal the
living form that passed along that corridor.
     The only token of a strange visitant was a blotched mass of darkness that
moved silently beside the wall of the passage. Thus did The Shadow effect his
mysterious approach as he advanced to the scene where crime was set.
     Only when the moving darkness paused, did it reveal itself as the figure
of a person. A tall shape, shoulders covered with a flowing cloak, head
obscured beneath a black slouch hat, stood before the door of 636.
     Burning eyes were focused upon the lock. Black-gloved hands produced a
small steel instrument. Softly, easily, deft fingers worked at their appointed
task. The lock yielded. The door opened inward.
     Shrouded in the darkness of the room, The Shadow paused before he closed
the door. A tiny spot of light glowed upon the lock which he had picked. The
keen eyes observed tiny scratches. A low soft laugh resounded in the gloom. The
door closed.
     The Shadow was inside Barnsworth's apartment.
     It was not yet ten o'clock. A full hour remained before Slips Harbeck and
his gangsters might arrive. Barnsworth was not due back until midnight. A
switch clicked, and the living room of the apartment was bathed in a glow from
a floor lamp in the corner.
     The Shadow began an inspection of the place. There was no mistaking his
purpose. To-night, according to accurate information gained from Cliff
Marsland, Wesley Barnsworth would be allowed to enter here unharmed. Later,
mobsmen would break in to slay him.
     The living room afforded hiding places. One of these would serve The
Shadow. From it, he could emerge to strike down the minions of crime.
     If they entered before Barnsworth, the stroke could come then. If they
entered later, they could be met before they had a chance to kill.
     But murder was not the only purpose mentioned. The leader of the intended
slayers - Slips Harbeck - had been instructed to pick up any documents that
might be loose. Why had he been so ordered? That, The Shadow intended to learn.
     The black-cloaked figure stopped by a table near the floor lamp. One
finger touched the polished surface. It made a slight smudge in a fine, thin
layer of dust. That fact did not escape The Shadow's eye.
     The cloak swished slightly as The Shadow swung across the room. He opened
a door. The light showed a small room, evidently intended as a bedroom, but
equipped with desk, table, and chairs. There was a lamp suspended above the
desk in the corner. The Shadow pressed the switch.


     THE illumination was thrown directly on the desk. There, beneath the lamp,
rested an envelope, The hand of The Shadow reached forward. The black fingers
carefully approached the envelope to lift it with exactitude.
     They stopped suddenly, and one finger touched the surface of the desk.
This time there was no smudge of dust.
     Wheeling, The Shadow moved to the table in the corner of the room. His
tiny flashlight threw its silver-dollar beam upon the wood. A finger touched
the table and made a slight smudge.
     The flashlight disappeared. The black gloves peeled away. Long, white
hands, with tapering fingers, came in view. Upon a finger of the left hand
glistened a strange gem that glittered with amazing hues as the hands came
beneath the light above the desk.
     The Shadow seated himself. He produced pen and paper from beneath his
cloak. He rested the paper on the desk, away from the envelope beneath the
lamp. The left hand was still. The jewel sparkled in mystic colors.
     Deep crimson; then flashing purple; finally a dull, changing blue - these
were the shades of light from the strange stone. This gem was The Shadow's
girasol, a variety of fire opal. It seemed to glow with the life of an undying
ember, flashing forth sparks of light. Like the eyes that watched it, this
talisman symbolized mystery.
     The eyes of The Shadow studied the desk. They roved to the table. They
glanced into the outer room. Hidden lips laughed softly. That sound, despite
its gentleness, was sinister. It seemed like the mirth of a being from another
world - an uncanny, foreboding tone that human lips could not have uttered.
     Sighing, whispered echoes made the laugh still live as they responded from
the walls. A horde of invisible demons had seemingly responded to their master.
The right hand of The Shadow moved, inscribing words that were written thoughts.

     Scratches on the lock. Some one has entered.
     Dust on the tables. The owner has been absent.
     No dust on the desk. It does not correspond with other furniture. It has
been inserted since the owner's departure.

     The writing was in bright-blue ink. It remained for several seconds; then,
letter by letter, word by word, it disappeared. No traces remained upon the
blank sheet of paper. Pen and paper disappeared. Once again, The Shadow laughed.


     THERE was a telephone beside the desk. It was resting on a book. The
Shadow picked up the directory, and found the number of J. Wesley Barnsworth.
     The name was listed twice: a business address in Wall Street; the
residence at Langley Court. The latter number corresponded with the one on the
telephone itself.
     In the front of the book, The Shadow found a list of names and telephone
numbers evidently persons with whom Barnsworth had close acquaintance or
business associations. The Shadow picked two names - one from the top of the
list; the other from the bottom. The one at the top was Joseph Harrison; the
one at the bottom was that of Graham Gorson.
     Placing the phone at the extreme corner of the desk, The Shadow dialed the
number of Joseph Harrison. A voice responded. The hidden lips of The Shadow
spoke in an ordinary tone, rather briskly and away from the mouthpiece.
     "Hello... Is this Mr. Harrison?... Mr. Joseph Harrison?... I am Graham
Gorson - friend of Wesley Barnsworth..."
     The receiver crackled as the man at the other end made his reply:
     "Hello, Mr. Gorson... Yes, I remember you. Wesley introduced us at the
Raffle Club... Surely. What can I do for you?"
     "I am anxious to get in touch with Mr. Barnsworth," came The Shadow's
assumed tones. "I have not been able to reach him..."
     "Don't you know that he went to Florida?" inquired Harrison, over the
wire. "He's been gone ten days now."
     "I knew he intended to go," answered The Shadow, "but I was not sure when
he planned to leave. I shall have to wait until he returns."
     "That will be nearly a month," informed Harrison. "Sorry I don't have his
address, Mr. Gorson. If you call his office..."
     With call concluded, and book and telephone replaced upon the floor, The
Shadow arose and stood beside the desk. His keen eyes had detected scarcely
noticeable factors that had warned him of hidden danger. The telephone call had
assured him that this apartment had no occupant at present.
     Some mystery lay here; and The Shadow knew that it centered about the
envelope upon the desk which did not belong to this room.
     Moving into the living room, The Shadow plucked a thin book from a trough
beneath a side table. He carried it into the small room, and set it upon the
envelope.
     Holding the book with one hand, The Shadow raised it imperceptibly; with
his other hand, he whisked the envelope out from beneath the book, which he
left upon the desk.
     The deft fingers carefully peeled open the flap, so neatly that the
envelope remained intact. From within, they drew a heavy folded paper. Spread
out, the paper revealed nothing. It was blank.
     The Shadow replaced the paper and put it in the envelope. He did not seal
the wrapper. He merely inserted the envelope beneath the book, and worked it
neatly back into place. Carrying the book to the place where it belonged The
Shadow returned to the desk.


     THE black gloves slipped over the white hands. A tiny reel came from
beneath The Shadow's cloak. The gloved hands stretched out a length of thread
from within the reel. The fingers dabbed the end of the thread upon the
envelope. It remained there, thanks to a tiny button coated with a sticky wax.
     The Shadow moved across the room, paying out thread as he drew away. He
reached the living room and closed the door behind him. The reel was close to
the floor; the thread passed beneath the door. A draw upon that thread would
pull the envelope from the desk.
     Holding the reel and standing close beside the wall, The Shadow pressed a
knob in the center. The thread responded, drawing rapidly inward as a spring
was released within the reel. This action caused a startling effect in the
closed room beyond the door.
     Simultaneously with the withdrawal of the envelope, a mighty, sighing puff
sounded on the other side of the barrier. It was a gigantic, muffled gasp that
made the door quiver and shift outward; then inward. The sound of tinkling
glass followed.
     That was all.
     The Shadow opened the door. The little room was no longer illuminated, but
its interior was vaguely plain in the light from the living room.
     The place was a mass of wreckage. The desk was completely collapsed. The
table and the chairs were broken. The light above the table, shade as well as
incandescent, was shattered. Only the telephone rested on the floor; the
envelope that had come from the desk lay near the door.
     The withdrawal of that envelope had caused a weird, silent explosion. A
filmy haze of smoke was settling to the floor of the room. As it cleared away,
The Shadow entered, and his flashlight ran about the room. It rested upon a
broken metal object that lay on the floor.
     The Shadow laughed. That article was a photo-electric cell. Beside it was
a fragment of flat glass. It did not come from the window, although the panes
had broken there, adding to the tinkling which The Shadow had heard. This bit
of glass had come from the desk itself.
     The Shadow knew the answer. That desk had been a death device. Loaded with
a chemical bomb, it had awaited the unwary action which would spring the
detonator.
     That had depended upon the photoelectric cell, set in the top of the desk.
Covered with a layer of glass, the envelope resting above it, a shaft of light
had alone been needed to make the cell respond.
     The hanging light - the tempting envelope. To remove the envelope meant
that the light would strike the cell planted in the desk. The Shadow had sensed
the danger. He had gone to a place of safety before letting the death trap
operate.
     The book upon the envelope had enabled him to withdraw the latter with
impunity; to learn what he had so cunningly suspected - that the envelope was
there to bring death to whoever might take it away.


     THIS was no plot of an ordinary gang leader. The intended death of Alfred
Sartain had shown the working of a scientific brain; this discharged trap
brought more intensive proof of the same fact.
     The photo-electric cell was in itself ingenious. The use of a new and
remarkable explosive showed still greater craft. Silent death - by a sighing,
puffing combustible had awaited The Shadow here to-night.
     The instructions which Cliff Marsland had heard Slips Harbeck repeat had
been carefully arranged. Their subtle point was the mention of documents. That
envelope had rested as a sure temptation that would lead any ordinary
investigator to his doom.
     The Shadow had divined the danger. He had opened the envelope to find it
messageless. He had avoided the menace; he had let the almost noiseless
explosive wreak its damage upon furnishings alone.
     Professor Urlich's snare had failed. The Shadow, the master who had
spoiled the scientist's scheme of death for Alfred Sartain, had himself avoided
the subtle doom set here tonight.
     It had been defensive action. Nothing concerning the enemy's identity had
been revealed. But it placed The Shadow one step nearer his goal - a meeting
with the perpetrator of crime whose hand The Shadow had previously discovered.
     A few minutes later, the apartment in Langley Court was empty. The secret
visitor had departed. The Shadow had met the challenge of silent death!


     CHAPTER IX

     THE NEXT MOVE

     THE next day found Professor Folcroft Urlich seated at a little desk in
the small office above his laboratory. The cunning-faced scientist was reading
a newspaper.
     Larry Ricordo, sullen in demeanor, was standing by the window, looking out
toward the old deserted mansion that obscured all view of the round-shaped
building in which the two men were located.
     "Well," remarked Urlich, "it appears that something caused our trap to
fail. This report speaks of the damage wreaked by a mystery explosion in
Barnsworth's apartment. It tells of no casualties, however."
     "The Shadow is too smart, professor," growled Ricordo. "It's a sure bet he
went into that place. Maybe the works blew before he got there."
     "Impossible," responded Urlich. "If you followed instructions as I gave
them, Ricordo, there could have been no premature results. You are right when
you attribute cleverness to The Shadow. Something must have made him suspect
that envelope."
     "I fixed the place the way you told me," asserted Ricordo. "The Shadow is
a fox - that's all. I don't see how we can get him unless we gang him. That
isn't such a hot idea, either. Others have flopped when they tried it."
     Professor Urlich chortled. He turned again to the newspaper report, and
finally laid the sheet aside.
     "At least my explosion showed the power that I anticipated," he said. "It
was the noise of the glass from the breaking window that attracted people to
the spot shortly after the event occurred. The police, as usual, are baffled.
They probably did not see any significance in the fragments which were left
from the photo-electric cell."
     "That was a great idea, professor," admitted Ricordo. "I was sold on it
when you gave me the demonstration in the laboratory. I figured that if
anything could get The Shadow, that would be it. But the thing flivved, just
the same. Where do we stand now?"
     "Exactly where we were before," responded Urlich, "but with more to our
credit. We have proved my theory of how The Shadow learned of the plot on
Alfred Sartain's life. We have learned conclusively that Slips Harbeck is being
watched."
     "Yes," blurted Ricordo suddenly, "and I figure I know the guy that was
watching him. I called Slips this morning, professor."
     "Ah!', exclaimed Urlich. "What did he have to say?"
     "He told me that a gazebo named Cliff Marsland was sticking near the room
where he was listening on the phone."
     "Who is Cliff Marsland?"
     "A tough baby who works pretty much on his own. Did a stretch up in the
Big House - Sing Sing, you know - and since then he's been playing a pretty
smooth game. I've met the guy; always wondered why he was flush with plenty of
dough. I've got the answer now."
     "You think he may be The Shadow?"
     "No. He couldn't be. The Shadow was operating while Marsland was still in
stir. But I figure he's working for The Shadow. If we have to give The Shadow
the works in a big fight, we'll look out for Cliff Marsland, too. It might be a
good plan to bump off Marsland now."
     "Again you are wrong," interjected Urlich. "This discovery merely puts us
on a better footing. The Shadow is watching Slips Harbeck, our agent. Very
well; we, too, can watch Cliff Marsland. The Shadow hopes that through Slips he
may reach us. We can plan to reach The Shadow through Marsland."
     "That sounds good, professor. But you've got me buffaloed. What's the next
move?"
     "To again snare The Shadow. Consider this, Ricordo. The Shadow may believe
that we were ignorant of the fact that Wesley Barnsworth was not in New York. He
may think that he discovered the trap that was set for Barnsworth. Obviously,
The Shadow departed after the explosion. He knew that Slips Harbeck and his men
would not approach while the police were there. Therefore, I intend to repeat my
experiment."
     "You mean with the same kind of a trap?"
     "No. A different one. I would not use the same plan twice. There will be
work for you again, Ricordo; but it will be more simple. Since I observed
Alfred Sartain in his studio, I have been perfecting a new device. I shall show
it to you and explain its purpose later."
     "But if you miss out again -"
     "I do not expect to miss. Nevertheless, I am prepared. You understand the
subtlety of my methods, Ricordo. You are gradually learning their diversity. My
ways are legion. We are getting closer to The Shadow with each move. His death
will be the ultimate result. Come."


     THE scientist led the way down the spiral stairway. The two men entered
the laboratory. The round room was illuminated by daylight that came through
the ample skylights around the outer circle. Two men were at work by high
benches.
     "My experiments always continue," remarked the professor. "These men obey
every instruction that I give them."
     "You can trust them?" inquired Ricordo.
     "Why not?" asked the scientist. "They are foreigners. They do not speak
English. Each of them - Sanoja and Rasch are their names - is a criminal. I
brought them to America after a trip abroad. They are wanted by police in
Europe. They are forced to rely entirely upon me."
     Urlich approached the man whom he had called Sanoja. The professor spoke
in a foreign tongue, and the workman answered him. Urlich turned to Ricordo.
     "Sanoja is not quite ready with the device that I invented," said the
scientist. "We shall have to wait a short while. In the meantime, let us go
below. I have not shown you what I have downstairs."
     Larry Ricordo repressed the curiosity that immediately seized his mind. He
knew that there must be a large chamber beneath this one - a round room within
the circular passage that they had followed upon their arrival at Professor
Urlich's domain. He wondered if it could be another laboratory.
     This upstairs room, with its collection of huge crucibles, cauldrons, and
giant test tubes, was amazing enough to Larry Ricordo. The gang lord had not
been able to imagine what lay below. Now he was to observe.
     They went down the spiral staircase at the end of the room. They did not
stop when they reached the level of the ground floor. Still moving downward
through the metal cylinder, they reached an inner doorway a dozen feet below.
Professor Urlich pressed the barrier, and brought Ricordo into a dimly lighted
room.


     LARRY RICORDO blinked and looked about him. The illumination came from
indirect lights. It showed that they stood within a large round pit, like the
center of a coliseum. The analogy was more pronounced, due to the presence of a
balcony that circled entirely around the room.
     A low rail, with metal posts supporting it, made the balcony a gallery.
Here people could stand and view the pit. Professor Urlich pointed across the
room toward the front of the building.
     "One enters the balcony from there," he explained. "Coming through the
outer doors, one sees a door ahead. It leads to the balcony. A very natural
course to follow."
     Urlich cackled as he spoke. Larry Ricordo felt uneasy. His feet were upon
metal plates - a peculiarity he had noticed on the first floor. But it was not
this factor, nor the presence of the balcony, that troubled him the most. The
gang leader's eyes were attracted to the center of the room.
     There he observed the strangest device that he had ever seen. It was a
huge machine, different from anything that Larry believed could exist. The odd
device, which measured a dozen feet in each direction, was mounted upon a heavy
base, and was supported by posts fitted with rubber insulators. From it extended
insulated wires that disappeared into the metal floor.
     Glistening wheels, flat disks of shiny metal, together with large glass
tubes and other pieces of mechanism, gained the gang leader's full attention.
Ricordo noted a control box at the side of the machine.
     "What is it?" he questioned, in an awed tone.
     "An electric-ray device," responded Urlich, with a smile. "Designed to
deliver death."
     "You mean it's like the hot seat - up at the Big House -"
     "If you are referring to the electric chair at Sing Sing prison, I can
assure you that your analogy is partly correct. The electric chair is designed,
however, to kill only its occupant. This invention of mine will slay at a
distance."
     "How far?"
     "Within the radius of its electrified circles. At present, it will kill
only those who are within the circular corridors or who are close to this
building. The metal plates receive the current. Watch."
     The professor went to the control box. Ricordo stood beside him. Urlich
swung a switch. The big machine began to crackle. Long, snapping flashes of
miniature lightning jumped back and forth across the top of the complicated
machine.
     Ricordo, nervy though he was, shrank away and stared at myriad sparks that
flashed along the balcony rail.
     Professor Urlich swung back the switch. His cackling laugh replaced the
buzz of the machine. Larry Ricordo sniffed the ozone with which the atmosphere
was now charged.
     "When I first designed the machine," explained the professor, "I had a
small platform mounted beside it. The only sphere of influence was the floor on
which we are now standing. I placed cats - dogs - other animals upon this floor.
They were killed instantly.
     "Then I extended the zones. The balcony - the outer corridor - finally the
portico. These colored lights" - the speaker pointed to a row of unilluminated
incandescents - "are for each zone. They tell which portions of the ground
floor happen to be occupied."
     "But we are standing on metal," objected Ricordo. "You say you used this
floor. Why are we safe?"
     "Each zone is separate," explained the professor. "There are strips of
insulation between. When I extended my experiments to the outer circles, I
merely disconnected this one."
     "You have three circles now -"
     "Yes, and I shall tell you why. I learned that each circle threw a killing
power outside its boundaries. The greater the circle, the greater the effect. It
was only a few feet at first; now the sphere of influence extends a dozen yards
beyond this building!
     "With a machine much larger than this one; with a circle a thousand feet
in diameter, I estimate that I could slay all persons within a radius of one
mile!"
     "It would be a big job to rig up an arrangement like that."
     "Of course. But in the meantime" - the scientist's eyes gleamed wickedly -
"this building is completely protected by silent death. Should an enemy venture
here -"
     "You mean if The Shadow should try to attack you!"
     "Yes. He would come to his certain doom. I have other lights upstairs. We
watch them constantly. That is why I have said that I would welcome a visit
from The Shadow. But do not look for it, Ricordo.
     "Sanoja is ready for us now. I shall view the device that he has made for
my approval. If it is exactly as he designed it, we shall be ready to lure The
Shadow to another trap of doom."


     THE professor wheeled and walked back toward the cylinder which housed the
spiral stairway. Larry Ricordo shuddered. Hardened criminal that he was, the
amazing schemes of death designed by Professor Folcroft Urlich frightened him.
     One last look at the glittering electric-ray machine; then Ricordo
ascended at the professor's heels. Until now the gang leader had not realized
the stupendous power of dealing death that Folcroft Urlich possessed.
     Doom to The Shadow! It would be a certainty should the black-garbed
visitant attempt to penetrate the heart of Professor Urlich's domain. Yet Larry
Ricordo still digested the scientist's final words.
     A new trap for The Shadow. Another subtle scheme in the making. Again, it
would be Ricordo's part to lay the snare that Professor Urlich had designed.
     The gang leader grinned. He was confident now. He had a hunch that The
Shadow would never even learn of this strange place where Professor Urlich
lived.
     Some subtle device would soon accomplish an effective result against the
one being who blocked the scheme of widespread murder.


     CHAPTER X

     CARDONA INTERPOSES

     EVENING had arrived. Detective Joe Cardona was seated at his desk. He was
studying reports on the explosion which had occurred at the apartment of J.
Wesley Barnsworth. He also had a pile of data referring to the episode at
Alfred Sartain's penthouse.
     Completing his survey, Cardona arose with a satisfied smile. He went from
the office and entered another room where he accosted a bluff-faced man who was
sitting at a desk. This was Inspector Timothy Klein.
     "Hello, inspector," greeted the detective. "Thought I'd better let you
know that I'm going out on this explosion case. I may get somewhere with it,
to-night."
     "You'd better, Joe," responded Klein. "You know how boiled up the police
commissioner is about it. He'll have you on the carpet first thing you know."
     "I've got a hunch it's linked with the trouble that took place up at
Sartain's."
     "A hunch?" Klein snorted. "That's no hunch, Joe. The commissioner has the
same idea. That's why he's steamed. He knows both of those men personally."
     "I know all about that," answered Cardona. "I also know that the
commissioner is keeping quiet only because neither of his friends were killed.
He's got a hunch - like I have - that there's going to be a third mess soon."
     "If there is," warned Klein, "you'll be up against it, Joe. If the same
people have tried to kill a big millionaire and an important man in Wall
Street, it's bad enough. It leaves it up to you to block them before they
murder somebody."
     Joe Cardona smiled. He understood Klein's apprehensions. He knew that the
inspector had talked with Commissioner Ralph Weston. Joe also knew that he,
himself, rated highly with the commissioner except when failure was involved.
That was the secret of Cardona's smile. The detective intended to get results
to-night.
     "You say that the commissioner has my hunch," remarked Cardona. "Maybe he
has but the commissioner don't know what I know. I'm going after a bird that
may sing a song when I get him. I've been looking for him, and I've spotted
him."
     "You mean you know who is responsible?"
     "I don't say that. I merely believe I can find a man that's mixed in it."
     "Why haven't you grabbed him? Who is he?"


     "LISTEN to me, inspector," argued Cardona quietly. "When we landed at
Sartain's penthouse, we found a dead man whom we identified. Duster Brooks - a
smart crook. He had been working as Sartain's butler. He tried to kill
Hunnefield, the millionaire's secretary.
     "What was the logical answer? I'll tell you. It looked like Duster's job.
He didn't get away with it. Two of his men were dead. Hunnefield said there
were others. Naturally, we wanted to get them; but it wasn't a murder charge.
     "I looked over the records. I found out that Duster Brooks was tied up
with another gunman named Slips Harbeck. There was a chance of a connection. So
I put a stool pigeon out to look for Slips Harbeck. He found him yesterday.
Slips is hanging around a joint called Red Mike's."
     "You let him stay there?"
     "Sure. We had nothing on him. I was looking for other evidence before I
grabbed him. Just wanted to know where he was - that was all. I figured the
trouble was all over. I couldn't implicate Slips Harbeck.
     "Then - bang! Along comes this explosion at Barnsworth's. That told me
that Duster Brooks wasn't the fellow in back of all the trouble. He was just
working for some one else. Who pulled the job at Barnsworth's? How was it done?
I don't know. But I figure that maybe Slips Harbeck does."
     "Very good, Joe," commended the inspector. "It's too bad you don't have
some evidence. You could grab this fellow Harbeck and make him talk."
     "I'll get evidence," stated Cardona grimly. "The stool is watching Slips
Harbeck like a hawk. More than that, I'm going to be around Red Mike's tonight.
I figure that there may be another job in the offing. That's why I'm having
Slips watched. If he starts out to make trouble, I'll be in on the ground
floor."
     "You're using your head, Joe," was Klein's comment. "That's the ticket.
Get something on Harbeck. Then he'll have to talk."
     "I'll do more than that," returned Cardona. "I don't figure Harbeck as the
big shot in this game. I think he's the same as Duster Brooks - a little guy.
I'm going to land the topnotcher!"
     With that final promise, Joe Cardona stalked from the office, leaving
Inspector Timothy Klein tapping the desk in thoughtful satisfaction.


     JOE CARDONA had gained the right information when he had learned that
Slips Harbeck was hanging around Red Mike's. An hour after the detective had
talked with the inspector Slips was at his accustomed table in the speakeasy.
He was cautiously watching a man near the end of the room. Cliff Marsland, too,
was there again, tonight.
     Little did Slips realize that there was a third player in the game. A
furtive, rat-faced prowler of the underworld was also in evidence. This was
"Gawky" Tyson, a dopy character who was no more than a lesser pawn in the
affairs of gangdom.
     No one ever bothered the pitiful creature who now sat within the door of
Red Mike's speakeasy. But Gawky Tyson's life would have been in jeopardy had
gunmen realized the role which he played. Gawky Tyson was Joe Cardona's stool.
     To-night, Gawky was watching Slips Harbeck closely, and with confidence.
For the stool pigeon had received assurance from his boss, Joe Cardona, that
detectives would be in the offing. He was to learn what Slips Harbeck intended
to do, and to give the tip-off in case trouble was brewing.
     Red Mike came sauntering through the speakeasy to talk to Slips Harbeck.
His message was the usual one. Slips was wanted on the telephone.
     With a grin, Slips went to the inner room. He heard the voice across the
wire. He performed his former ruse - that of letting the door rest ajar.
     Once again, Slips Harbeck was getting instructions which he was not to
conceal. But to-night, there were two listeners on the other side of the door -
men who paid no attention to each other. One was Cliff Marsland; the second was
Gawky Tyson.
     "Sure thing." Slips was talking in a tone that carried, despite its
feigned caution. "Yeah... Yeah... I won't slip up to-night... One-man job, eh?
A little later? O.K... Office of Gardner Joyce... 2020 Sharon Building... Wait
till I get that straight... Signed contract in the desk drawer... Inner
office... Grab it and wait there for a phone call... That'll be you calling?...
No? What's the idea?... I say 'Nothing doing.'... I see; if I want to have this
straight. You've got a fellow fixed to call that number. Right?... Then I just
tell him O.K., if I've found the contract. If I haven't, I say 'Nothing
doing'... I see; if I haven't found it, it's because the contract must be in
the safe. I wait there then... Yes, until you show up to crack that box...
Right-o. I'll be ready to grab the phone as soon as the guy calls up... Bring
you there if I need you..."
     Just as Slips Harbeck sauntered from the inner room, Cliff Marsland was
reaching the outer door of the speakeasy. Slips caught a glimpse of the
disappearing figure. He grinned.
     There was no doubt about it now; Cliff was an agent of The Shadow. He had
probably left to relay his information to his mysterious chief.
     Once again, Slips had bluffed. He was not to go to that office to-night.
The whole affair was a blind. Slips could not figure the game; but that did not
worry him. He decided to follow his previous policy; to wait a few minutes; then
leave the speakeasy and double back into his upstairs quarters.


     WHILE Slips Harbeck was planning thus, Gawky Tyson arose and left Red
Mike's. The furtive little gangster was accosted in the darkness before he had
gone a dozen yards. He saw three men looming before him. One was Joe Cardona.
     "What did you get?" demanded the sleuth, in an undertone.
     In quick, breathless tones, the stool pigeon gave the information that he
had received. Joe Cardona grunted and spoke to his men.
     "Lay here, boys," he told them. "Grab this bird Harbeck as soon as he
comes out. You hang across the street, Gawky. Give the whistle when Slips shows
up. Then beat it. I don't want you around."
     "I don't want to be around," yapped Gawky. "I'll scram quick enough.
They'd get me if they knew I was tippin' youse guys off."
     Cardona stood a short distance away while his men moved close to the
speakeasy. The ace detective was thinking. He had two objectives to-night. One
was the capture of Slips Harbeck; the other was the spoiling of crime. By
taking Slips, he was eliminating the gangster's visit to Gardner Joyce's office.
     As Cardona mulled over the situation, he began to take the natural
reaction to the details which Gawky Tyson had obtained. Slips Harbeck had a
mission to-night. He was to enter Joyce's office and there await a telephone
call.
     If no answer came, the call would probably be repeated. But that would not
go on indefinitely. The word would get to Slips Harbeck's chief that the
gangster was not there.
     Cardona specifically remembered that Gawky had said the call would come
from some one whom Slips did not know. "O.K." would be the answer, meaning that
the job was done. "Nothing doing" would signify that the contract had not been
found.
     Then what? Harbeck's chief would arrive! If the police were there when he
landed, he could be captured on the ground! This was opportunity.
     Joe Cardona quickly formulated his plan. He needed no help right away. His
two men must remain here to grab Slips Harbeck. That was essential to Cardona's
present scheme. It would obviate the possibility of communication between Slips
and the man above.
     The detective turned and walked rapidly along the street. His mind was
set. He would visit Gardner Joyce's office in the Sharon Building. He would
receive the message and summon Harbeck's chief. There would be time then to
call other detectives and have them stationed outside the office building. They
could follow the visitor in; Joe himself could make the capture.
     Cardona reached a side street where his police car was parked. He leaped
to the wheel and drove away. He was confident that his men would do the work at
Red Mike's. In this belief, Cardona was right.


     AT that very moment, Slips Harbeck was sauntering from the speakeasy. The
gangster never reached the alley where he intended to go. The detectives
dropped upon him as they heard Gawky Tyson's low whistle.
     Slips fell under the attack. His mad swing brought a stunning blow to the
back of his head. The detectives dragged him away.
     Slips Harbeck was in the hands of the police. No one was the wiser. He was
being taken to headquarters. It was there that Joe Cardona expected to find him
later on. The ace detective had planned well.
     Cardona was heading for another goal, satisfied that all would be well
tonight. He thought that he knew all the plans involved. He, alone, could know
the situation that existed.
     Little did Cardona suspect that Slips Harbeck's plans had been purposely
broadcast for listening ears; that they had been heard by another man than
Gawky Tyson. Not for a moment did Cardona suppose that a man who had sauntered
from the speakeasy prior to Gawky's appearance had been an agent of The Shadow!
     Cliff Marsland was performing a duty to-night; and nothing had interfered
with him. The situation that lay ahead was planned as a battle of brains
between two master minds - Professor Folcroft Urlich and The Shadow.
     Joe Cardona, confident of his own shrewdness, was nothing more than an
unexpected factor that had come into the field. Unsuspecting, he was entering
the battle ground. What would the outcome be?
     The answer to that question was coming. It would occur after the ace
detective arrived at the office in the Sharon Building!


     CHAPTER XI

     THE SILENT OFFICE

     THE tiny beam of a little flashlight appeared upon the surface of a
glass-paneled door. It revealed the number 2020. The light swung downward. A
concentrated circle shone steadily upon the lock. A black-gloved hand appeared
with a tiny pick of steel.
     Deft fingers used the instrument to probe the lock. Under The Shadow's
touch, the door of Gardner Joyce's office yielded. It opened inward and closed.
A soft laugh sounded in the darkness.
     Finding his way with the shaft of light, The Shadow reached the door of
the inner office. He stopped to make a careful inspection.
     All was well. The Shadow entered and let his light range across the desk.
The beam showed inkstand, large blotter pad, calendar, and telephone.
     There were no signs of a trap tonight. Why should one exist? At
Barnsworth, the intention had been to take a life. Slips Harbeck and gangsters
could not have been summoned there to serve in case the death snare failed.
     Here, in Joyce's office, the intention was theft. Slips Harbeck was coming
there alone. Unless The Shadow knew that the explosive desk at Barnsworth's had
been prepared for him, and not the Wall Street man, he could suspect nothing
here. Thus had Professor Folcroft Urlich reasoned.
     The inspection of the probing light showed that all was serene.
Nevertheless, The Shadow was exacting as he examined the drawers of the desk.
His pick enabled him to open them, and he used his light to glance through the
papers that he discovered. All were arranged in orderly fashion. There was
nothing that resembled a contract among them.
     Still, The Shadow waited. It was evident that he, like Cardona, had
evolved the plan of luring Slips Harbeck's chief to this spot. No telephone
call had come as yet. The light glimmered on the telephone, going over the
instrument carefully. Suddenly it went out.
     The keen ears of The Shadow had detected a sound in the outer office,
despite the fact that the secret investigator had partly closed the inner door
behind him. With no sound other than a swish, The Shadow reached the outer
office and lingered there.
     Some one was working on the outer door. A man was trying to remove the
glass panel, which was held in place only by a molding. The Shadow waited. He
could not see through the frosted glass. His natural assumption was that Slips
Harbeck was attempting this mode of entry.
     The work went on. The panel began to waver as the worker pried one side
loose. Then, apparently fearing that he would break the glass, the man started
anew upon the molding. At last, the glass came free. It was set upon the floor;
a hand came through the door, and turned the inner knob.


     WHEN the door opened, The Shadow was drawing back into the darkness. In a
far corner of the room, his tall figure waited, invisible. The man at the door
was replacing the glass panel. This was short work. Finishing, he strode across
the office.
     Had he turned on the light, he probably would not have seen The Shadow,
for the strange being who had come there before him was in a position of total
obscurity. But the entrant's objective was the inner office. Reaching it, he
half closed the door behind him, and turned on a light.
     It was then that The Shadow moved, advancing to a spot where he could view
the scene within, and still stay in the cover of the darkness formed by the
outer room. Through the opening by the door, burning eyes spied the man who had
entered.
     It was not Slips Harbeck. Detective Cardona was at Gardner Joyce's desk!
     The sleuth was going over the same ground that The Shadow had covered,
searching every drawer in hope of discovering the contract. Failing, Cardona
stood thoughtfully beside the desk.
     He was wondering whether or not some one had come here in Slips Harbeck's
place; but as he reviewed events, he was satisfied that no one could have come.
     It had been a considerable trek from Red Mike's to the Sharon Building.
But Joe was sure that he had made the journey in less time than Slips Harbeck
could have accomplished it. The absence of the contract pleased the sleuth. It
reminded him of the signal that would bring Slips Harbeck's chief rushing to
this spot.
     Cardona reached for the telephone. His intention was to call headquarters
and summon other men to be on hand.
     He stopped before he grasped the instrument. That course would be
inadvisable. Suppose that the call should happen to be made while he was
phoning? The busy signal might scare off the man who was communicating with
this office.
     No; the call to headquarters could wait. Mumbling half aloud, Joe repeated
the reply that he intended to give to the unknown caller:
     "Nothing doing."
     The detective smiled. That would bring the big shot. The door was
unlocked; ready for his arrival. He would enter to find Joe Cardona instead of
Slips Harbeck. Arrest would result; the impending chain of crime would be
ended. Credit to Joe Cardona; commendation from Commissioner Ralph Weston. The
situation seemed certain as the detective considered it, standing in the silent
office.


     MINUTES drifted by, and Cardona began to feel uneasy. He had a sensation
that eyes were watching him. He turned and peered through the door into the
outer office. He saw nothing but blackness.
     Swiftly, the detective stepped to the door. His flashlight was in his left
hand, his revolver in his right. He turned on the glimmer, pushed open the door,
and let the rays sweep the walls. He saw no sign of a hidden watcher. Long,
shadowy blotches appeared as the light circled. They revealed no person.
     Cardona laughed and returned to the lighted inner office. Once more he
closed the door only partially, so he could listen as he waited. Sure that no
one lurked in the other room, the detective gained new confidence. He had seen
no more than shadows. But sometimes shadows lived!
     Joe Cardona was a man of hunches; to-night, he was on ground where hunches
failed. He had imagined a menace in the other office, and only safety here. In
both instances, Cardona was wrong. The hidden being whom Cardona's fleeting
light had failed to uncover was not there to thwart the law. The Shadow's only
enemies were those who sponsored crime.
     Why did The Shadow wait? Had he planned the same course that Cardona was
taking; and did he know the detective's thoughts? Did he still expect Slips
Harbeck to arrive? What was going on within that mind that dwelt in darkness?
     Only The Shadow knew!
     At last came the signal that Joe Cardona awaited. The bell box of the
telephone, stationed beside the wall, gave forth the expected ring. Joe Cardona
reached out and gripped the telephone. He repeated the words that he would utter:
     "Nothing doing."
     The telephone rang again. Cardona lifted the receiver. As he held it to
his ear, he nonchalantly seated himself upon the desk. The action turned
Cardona's back to the door.
     It was then that motion occurred in the darkness. The door opened a trifle
farther. A projecting mass of black moved slowly into the inner office.
     Joe Cardona was listening for a voice over the wire. Then it occurred to
him that he must respond first. He spoke in a low, cautious tone.
     "Hello... Hello..."
     There was no answer. A look of chagrin came on Cardona's face. As he
clutched the telephone in his right hand and held the receiver in his left, he
realized that his own stupidity might have caused the man to hang up at the
other end.
     So keyed had the sleuth been to give the certain message, that he had
overlooked this minor detail. Now, with the receiver pressed closely to his
ear, he still hoped that the connection had not been broken.
     "Hello... Hello..."
     As Cardona spoke again, The Shadow was approaching. Fully revealed, a
tall, amazing phantom cloaked in black, this being had neared Cardona.
     He stood directly in back of Cardona now, so close that he might have been
the detective's own shadow! Yet Cardona, intent upon the telephone, did not
sense the presence of the sepulchral being who had advanced behind him.


     THE SHADOW'S hands were moving. They hovered above Cardona's shoulders.
Sinister fingers nearly touched the detective's arms. Had The Shadow changed
his purpose? Did he intend to overpower the detective and to receive the call
himself?
     "Hello... Hello..."
     Cardona again spoke futile words. Impatience flickered on the detective's
countenance. He raised his right thumb and pressed the hook to jiggle it, and
possibly restore the connection. Down went the hook; the thumb released it.
     At that instant, The Shadow struck. His hand came forward with a swift
blow. It landed squarely upon Cardona's left arm, and knocked the detective's
hand forward with the receiver at the very moment when the sleuth released the
hook with his right thumb.
     A hissing sound came simultaneously from the telephone receiver. It was
accompanied by a terrific puff of smoke. A bullet whistled by Cardona's face,
and shattered a large water bottle that stood upon a stand by the wall.
     Joe Cardona tumbled from the desk, telephone and receiver still in his
grasp. He caught himself and staggered backward.
     As his head turned so that his eyes could view his mysterious assailant,
Cardona caught a fleeting glimpse of a tall form that had swung to the
half-opened door. Burning eyes met the detective's quick, startled gaze. A
cloak swished, and the mysterious figure was gone.
     "The Shadow!"
     The cry burst from Cardona's startled lips. The detective had recognized
the personage who had struck the receiver down in time to save his life. The
telephone clanked upon the desk. Bewildered, Cardona seized his revolver and
his flashlight.
     The tones of a strange, whispered laugh came to the detective's ears.
Cardona reached the outer office, and threw the beams of his light toward the
outer door, just as it closed. The detective hurried to the hall. He was too
late. The Shadow was gone.
     After a long interval, Cardona weakly returned to the inner office. The
floor was soaked with water from the cracked bottle. The detective picked up
the telephone from the desk. His eyes ran along the wire that connected it with
the box.
     Joe Cardona's backward stagger had brought that wire free. The sleuth made
an examination. He discovered that the cord was a dummy. He picked up the
telephone. It, too, was a faked article.
     Some one had removed the genuine phone and its wire. This instrument had
been installed in its place. It was not a telephone. It was an ingenious death
machine. Quickly, Cardona unscrewed the parts. He found himself possessing a
remarkable device.
     The receiver contained a short, stubby pistol barrel. Behind it was the
hammer; out dropped a large, empty cartridge. Filled with a special charge of
explosive powder, this deadly weapon had discharged its bullet with a sharp
pung, accompanied by the puff of smoke.
     There was a dry battery in the post of the telephone. This, connected with
the receiver hook and the wire between base and receiver, had supplied the
current that released the hammer of the pistol. Down and up - Cardona went
through the motion with the hook. Both actions were required; the hammer rose
and fell.
     Certain death - silent death! Cardona had escaped it to-night. The fiend
who had designed this instrument had planned well.


     CARDONA did not know that the idea had occurred to Professor Folcroft
Urlich when the scientist had seen Alfred Sartain's actions with the telephone
within the studio where doom had been slated to strike.
     The detective knew only that the vigilance of The Shadow had saved him
from certain death. Vaguely, the detective realized that The Shadow might have
been the one for whom this fate had been intended. A man, jiggling the hook,
would surely have the receiver to his ear.
     The conjecture was correct. The Shadow, scenting a death trap, had finally
centralized upon the telephone. He had watched Cardona's actions, and had acted
when the crucial moment had been reached.
     Other thoughts were buzzing through the detective's mind. This deadly
instrument could well be accepted as a device intended to slay Gardner Joyce,
the occupant of this office. That made a third intended crime.
     Alfred Sartain had escaped death; so had J. Wesley Barnsworth. Now Gardner
Joyce was on the list.
     Cardona's perplexity faded. He knew the charm that had acted on all three
events. The Shadow!
     To Cardona, The Shadow was a living being. On other occasions, the master
of the night had intervened to save the ace detective from doom. Where The
Shadow's hand had entered, success had followed the affairs of Joe Cardona. Yet
there was a reason why the detective preserved silence on that count.
     Technically, The Shadow was nonexistent. Police Commissioner Ralph Weston
had passed that order. Until the identity of The Shadow was known, the being in
black could not be regarded as a subject for the records.
     Joe Cardona shrugged his shoulders. Once again, he had observed The Shadow
only as a living phantom. He could not include to-night's intervention in his
report. He must state that he, himself, had discovered the secret of the false
telephone.
     Taking the death device with him, the detective strode from the office. He
had proof of crime. He had connected Slips Harbeck with it; and the gangster was
a prisoner. Cardona was pleased with his accomplishment; and he grinned as he
thought of the effect his report would have on Commissioner Weston.
     Yet Cardona did not lack gratitude. He would have been pleased to extend
his thanks to The Shadow, had he been given the opportunity to do so. Although
ignorant of Professor Folcroft Urlich's part in crime, Cardona knew well that a
battle of brains must now be under way between The Shadow and some supermind
that plotted death.
     Silent death! It had failed to kill. Not only had The Shadow avoided it;
he had saved Detective Joe Cardona also.
     Another scheme of Professor Folcroft Urlich had been thwarted. Again, The
Shadow had prevailed!


     CHAPTER XII

     THE QUIZ

     "COME on, Slips. Open up."
     Cardona's challenging voice brought a feeble grin from Slips Harbeck. The
captured gangster was standing the ordeal of a constant grilling by Cardona and
other detectives.
     "What do you know?"
     Slips shrugged his shoulders.
     "Nothing," he drawled.
     Cardona paced the little room where the quiz was taking place. He studied
Slips Harbeck's strained face. The gangster was slouched in a chair, in a state
of exhaustion. He had managed to hold out for hours.
     "Look here, Slips" - Cardona's milder tones denoted a change of tactics -
"we've got the goods on you. You were hooked up with Duster Brooks. We know you
were with those gorillas at Sartain's penthouse."
     "Never heard of the place," protested Slips.
     "You were in on the job at Barnsworth's," continued Cardona. "That's why
we put the clamps on you. But we didn't do it until we got the goods. My man
heard that phone call you got at Red Mike's. That's how we queered the job at
Joyce's office. You can't get out of it, Slips. Understand?"
     "You've got nothing on me," drawled the gangster.
     "We don't want anything on you," announced Cardona quietly. "We want to
give you a break. You were at Sartain's. All right. You beat it. We've got no
proof that you even fired a shot.
     "Somebody planted a death trap at Barnsworth's place. We aren't laying
that on you. Last of all, you were to go to Joyce's office, to get a phone
call. That's correct, isn't it?"
     "I don't know."
     "You'll know when I tell you what happened," asserted Cardona grimly.
"That phone call came through. I took it. I'll show you what I nearly got."
     He motioned to one of the detectives. The man produced the fake telephone.
Cardona exhibited the parts to Slips Harbeck.
     "See?" quizzed the detective. "Right up against my ear like that. It would
have got me, if I hadn't turned wise all of a sudden. Say, Slips" - Cardona
spoke as though he had a sudden idea - "I think you're all right, after all.
Lucky, I call it. You were going to that office. You were going to answer the
telephone. Maybe this was meant for you."
     Slips grinned derisively. Cardona snapped at the opportunity. It was
exactly what the detective had wanted.
     "So you don't think it was meant for me, eh?" questioned Cardona. "Then I
guess you knew about it. Knew it was a plant, eh? All set to bump somebody off.
That looks bad for you, Slips!"


     A WORRIED expression registered itself upon the gangster's face. Slips
realized that he had put himself in a predicament. He saw the flash in
Cardona's eyes and feared the consequences. Slips knew that Cardona had the
facts regarding that last call which the gangster had received from Larry
Ricordo.
     "Lay off me," pleaded Slips. "You've got me all mixed. I didn't know
nothing about that phony phone. Maybe you were right, Joe. It might have been
meant for me."
     "Somebody double-crossing you, eh?" quizzed Cardona derisively. "Fine guy
for you to stick up for. Come on - it's your only chance. If you were
double-crossed, you've got a right to squeal. If you don't talk, it proves you
knew the game. That's sure enough, isn't it?"
     Confronted by this dilemma, Slips tried to play a middle course. He licked
his lips and blinked his eyes as he tried to face his inquisitor.
     "You said you'd give me a break," he protested. "Honest, I wasn't in on
any lay like this. I guess you're right about the double cross."
     "You see it now, eh?"
     "Yeah. Somebody wanted to get me, I guess. I'm sort of mixed up, Joe, but
I guess you're right. A double cross, but I didn't know it. I guess Larry did
want to -"
     Slips Harbeck stopped suddenly and bit his lip. He realized his mistake.
Joe Cardona glared triumphant. The detective, unwearied, was quick on the job.
     "Larry, eh?" he questioned. "You're talking about Larry. Larry - what's
the rest of his name?"
     "I don't know nothing!" snarled Slips.
     "Larry," checked Cardona, in a speculative tone. "There's a lot of Larrys
who pack guns, aren't there, Slips? I'm trying to think of some who would be in
on this."
     The detective turned to question one of his subordinates. His eyes were
away from Slips Harbeck.
     "Say, Mayhew," questioned Cardona, "what's become of Larry Ricordo. You
know - the guy that was going to be a big shot, but got cold feet."
     "I don't know," responded Mayhew. "He took out to the sticks, so they say."
     A momentary smile flickered on Slips Harbeck's sullen face. Cardona's
turnabout had given the gangster a momentary respite.
     But that was part of Cardona's game - an old trick which he frequently
worked with Mayhew. The other detective was watching Slips from the corner of
his eye.
     "You've hit it, Joe," said Mayhew, with a grin. "Hit the bull's-eye. Larry
Ricordo's the one we want!"
     This, too, was a follow-up in Cardona's game. Mayhew had learned his part
from experience. Cardona's pretended lack of vigilance; Mayhew's sharp
observation; then Mayhew's comment. These were three steps.
     Cardona provided the fourth. He swung back to Slips Harbeck, and loosed a
sweeping volley of denunciation.
     "So it's Larry Ricordo, eh?" demanded Cardona. "You know why he beat it
out of town, don't you? Because he double-crossed Louie Muth. You didn't know
that, did you? Didn't know who Muth's mob was gunning after? Well, you know
now! You'd better be glad we pinched you, Slips. If that mob had ever found you
out -"


     CARDONA'S outburst was well calculated. His statements were fictitious. He
knew that some mystery surrounded the death of the mob leader whom he had named.
He also was subtle when he introduced the suggestion of a double cross. That was
the very element that he had been building up in Slips Harbeck's mind.
     "Come clean," added Cardona, after a pause. "You asked for a break. I'm
giving it to you. Come clean, Slips!"
     Cardona had driven the wedge. It was all that he had needed. Slips
Harbeck, exhausted, no longer possessed the strength to battle back after
Cardona had gained a definite point. The naming of Larry; the logical guess
that it might be Larry Ricordo - these had given Cardona a step toward the fact
he wanted.
     The ace detective followed up his advantage. He purred smooth questions,
and guided Slips Harbeck toward the answers. Easing the gangster's mind as he
went along, Cardona turned everything his own way.
     Slips resorted to uncertainty, licking his lips as he went along. He
admitted that he had opened negotiations with a man who purported to be Larry
Ricordo. He was not sure that it was Larry; for he had conducted all
transactions over the telephone.
     Cunningly, Slips denied all connection with the affair at Alfred
Sartain's, and the explosion at Wesley Barnsworth's apartment. He suggested
that Duster Brooks must have given his name to Larry Ricordo - or whoever it
was that pretended to be the big shot.
     All that Slips claimed to know was that a package of cash had been
delivered to him at Red Mike's as advance payment for a job, with orders to
follow telephoned instructions. He stated that he had intended to avoid a visit
to Gardner Joyce's office.
     "I was going to scram," he protested. "Honest I was, Cardona. You can't
blame me for picking up some loose cash, can you? It was soft. I figured if it
was Larry Ricordo who was giving me the dough, he wouldn't come after me if I
beat it out of town. I knew he was laying low."
     Slips Harbeck's plea was a shrewd one. He told his story convincingly, by
using enough truth to support his fabric of doubts and lies.
     Joe Cardona saw the game and took advantage of it. The detective knew that
it would be difficult to convict Slips Harbeck of any crime, for the only actual
testimony referred to the telephone call at Red Mike's; and Gawky Tyson, the
stool pigeon, had been the only listener.
     But Cardona, by concentrating upon the story that Slips told, was
establishing the most important point: namely, that Larry Ricordo was behind
the crimes that had been attempted. To prevent further criminal activities -
and Cardona feared murder - the arrest of Larry Ricordo would be a logical step.
     If Slips was as important an underling as Cardona supposed, the capture of
this lieutenant would embarrass Larry Ricordo, and put the big shot at a
disadvantage. It was best for Slips to be absent for a while.
     "We're going to hold you, Slips," announced Cardona. "We'll need you later
on. I'm out to get Larry Ricordo - and you're not going to be loose to queer it.
See?"
     Slips nodded. He submitted weakly to Cardona's decision.
     The detective was somewhat surprised. He attributed the gangster's lack of
spirit to a fear of Larry Ricordo's wrath. In that surmise, the detective went
wide of the truth. Slips Harbeck did not mind a period behind the bars, simply
because he was thinking of The Shadow. He knew that he had been treading
dangerous ground. He was glad to get away from his predicament.


     AFTER Slips Harbeck had been removed, Joe Cardona went to his office. He
classified facts that he had learned; then rested at his desk. The detective
had worked since early in the morning, quizzing Slips Harbeck. The tedium of
several hours was beginning to tell. It was ten o'clock now. Cardona prepared
to leave.
     A man entered the office to interrupt. Cardona found himself facing Clyde
Burke, reporter on the New York Classic. The newspaperman was the last person
whom Cardona wanted to talk to at the present moment.
     "Hello, Burke," he growled. "I can't talk to you now. Going out to get
some shut-eye."
     "Been up a while, eh?" questioned Burke. "Who've you been grilling, Joe?
Slips Harbeck?"
     Cardona glared at the reporter with challenging air. Clyde Burke grinned.
Cardona laughed gruffly.
     "Beats me," he said, "how you news hounds guess things. Why don't you
apply for a job on the force? We could use some smart detectives like you."
     "Not for me, Joe," laughed Burke. "I can find out more without a badge
than with one. What did Slips have to say?"
     "You ask me? Why didn't you come around to grill him yourself?"
     "I wouldn't have minded it, Joe. But I prefer sleep during the
early-morning hours."
     "Well, you slept through it then. Come around to-night. Maybe I'll have
something for you."
     "The old stall. That makes it the usual story. Third degree failed -"
     "Listen here, Burke." Cardona's interruption was a challenge. "Lay off
that heavy stuff. Get me? I'm tired out, and I'm impatient. Beat it - I'm
leaving."
     "Hm-m-m." Burke seemed thoughtful. "Guess you did find out plenty from
Slips Harbeck. Tell you what, Joe. Suppose we make it a compromise. Just a nice
story that the police are holding Slips Harbeck as a possible suspect."
     "That's all right."
     "And in return for it" - Burke's tone was smooth - "you give me an idea of
what he really did say."
     Cardona stared squarely at the reporter. He went back to his desk and
motioned Burke to sit down. Tapping thoughtfully upon the woodwork, Cardona
talked terms.
     "Just as I get through quizzing a prisoner," he remarked, "you come along
and quiz me. Well, I can't blame you. But you know what I'm up against, Burke."
     "Yes, and you know me, Joe," returned Burke. "You know what I'm up
against. If I don't get the news, somebody else may get it. I just want to
protect myself, that's all, and I know you'll give me a break."
     "That's right. You've always played fair, Burke. Here's the terms. I'll
tell you what I've found out - but you're to keep it out of the columns. I'll
count on you to bluff the rest of the news hounds after I duck out of here. In
return, you'll get a real story later on but you can't bust it until I give the
word."
     "Absolutely, Joe. I've worked that way before."
     "I know you have. I never figured out why. The paper's paying you, but you
use discretion - which makes you different from every other reporter that I've
ever met."
     "That's agreed," said Burke quietly. "Leave it all to me, Joe. I can
figure why you're holding Slips Harbeck. He knows something about these
would-be murders."
     "He knows plenty."
     "And the man in back of it?"
     Cardona leaned across the desk and whispered the name in Clyde Burke's ear.
     "Larry Ricordo," said the detective.
     "The bird that was going to be a big shot?" questioned Burke. "I thought
he had cleared out."
     "He's come back," asserted Cardona. "We're going to arrest him when we
find him. You see how I stand, Burke."
     "I'm with you, Joe. A story now may mean no pinch later. No pinch means I
never get the real story that may be coming."
     "You've got it, Burke. I'm counting on you, old man. What are you going to
tell the rest of the reporters when they show up?"
     "Leave that to me, Joe. All right if I stick around here a while?"
     "Sure."
     "Well, the boys will be in. I'll tell them you went out long ago. No
grilling - nothing. Slips Harbeck is just another gunman."
     Cardona grinned as he rose from the desk. He shook Burke's hand, and left
the office. The reporter took the desk and called the Classic to state that
there was nothing new on the case that he was covering.


     OTHER reporters arrived while Burke was phoning. The Classic reporter told
them the same story, and left with the crowd. But when Burke had separated from
his companions, he went directly to a cigar store and entered a telephone booth.
     It was not the Classic office which he called this time. Instead, Clyde
Burke telephoned to an office in the Badger Building, and conversed with an
investment broker named Rutledge Mann. Briefly, Burke gave the facts concerning
Larry Ricordo.
     Clyde Burke was smiling when he left the store. His phone call had been an
answer to Cardona's puzzlement concerning the reporter's connection with the
Classic. The detective did not know that Burke, as a reporter, was an agent of
The Shadow.
     Through Rutledge Mann, who served as contact man by day, as Burbank served
by night, the name of Larry Ricordo would be forwarded to The Shadow. What
Cardona knew, The Shadow would know also.
     Joe Cardona had quizzed Slips Harbeck. Clyde Burke, in turn, had quizzed
Joe Cardona. Another of The Shadow's agents had served his master well.


     CHAPTER XIII

     THE VILLAINS MOVE

     LARRY RICORDO was seated in the office above Professor Folcroft Urlich's
laboratory. The gang lord was perturbed. Before him lay a copy of the New York
Classic. The arrest of Slips Harbeck was mentioned with the account of Joe
Cardona's discovery of a death trap in Gardner Joyce's office.
     The door opened, and Professor Urlich entered. The evil-faced scientist
smiled. He had been conducting experiments in the laboratory while Larry
Ricordo had remained upstairs.
     "Excellent progress," remarked the professor, "excellent progress,
Ricordo. Do not be disgruntled because of last night's failure. I have evolved
a plan for sure success. Do you remember how Alfred Sartain lay face upward
upon the desk in his studio -"
     "Ready for the end?" interjected Ricordo. "Yes, I remember. But he didn't
cash in his checks. That was when The Shadow dropped in through the skylight.
I've got plenty to worry about, professor. I'm thinking of what's coming; not
what's gone."
     The scientist's brow furrowed. Urlich noticed the newspaper in Ricordo's
hands. He looked quizzically at the gang leader.
     "They've pinched Slips Harbeck," announced Ricordo.
     "Well?" inquired Urlich.
     "That means trouble for me," asserted the gang leader. "If Slips squawks,
the dicks will be on my trail."
     "And then?"
     "That will mean The Shadow, too. He's wise enough to find out anything
that they learn at headquarters."
     Professor Urlich shrugged his shoulders. The gesture annoyed Larry Ricordo.
     "That's not all," added Ricordo. "I called Grewson - the guy we've got
watching Jocelyn. He tells me the old man is all upset."
     "Over what?"
     "Over this stuff in the newspapers. I know why, too. Jocelyn heard me
mention Slips Harbeck as my chief gunner. The old gent had cold feet all along
- now he's probably getting worse."


     PROFESSOR URLICH pondered. A cunning gleam showed in his wicked eyes.
     "Just what did Grewson say?" he inquired.
     "He said that Jocelyn has been ill," responded Ricordo. "Sick in bed -
doctor coming in and giving him prescriptions. Grewson is taking care of him.
Grewson was glad I called. He don't know what it's all about, but he's got a
hunch that Jocelyn has something on his mind."
     "He has," commented Urlich dryly.
     "Sure he has!" blurted Ricordo. "He's got us on his mind! Look here,
professor. Jocelyn was in on our first deal, and it flivved. Since then, he's
been laying low. He's wise enough to know that we must be mixed up in these new
jobs."
     "Proceed, Ricordo," mused Urlich, with a smile. "You are becoming
analytical. It is an excellent sign."
     "Well," continued Ricordo, "the way I figure it is that old Jocelyn may be
thinking we've ditched him. That sort of lets him out, doesn't it? With all this
hokum in the papers, he's getting worried. He's liable to do something about it,
isn't he?"
     "What, for instance?"
     "He's liable to squeal."
     "Certainly. That is why we have placed Grewson with him. I am pleased to
learn that you called Grewson, Ricordo. It shows intelligence on your part."
     "Suppose Jocelyn does squeal?" insisted the gang leader. "What good is
Grewson then? I tell you, professor, I'm worried."
     Professor Urlich closed his eyes. A meditative smile appeared upon his
ugly lips.
     "Ricordo," he said thoughtfully, "I do not suppose that you are familiar
with the game of chess. The pieces on the board are like tiny human beings. The
object is to checkmate the opponent. In doing so, one frequently finds it wise
to sacrifice a major piece.
     "So far, we have dealt chiefly with pawns. The opening game is ended. We
have passed the period of conventional tactics. My early attempts at a
checkmate failed. The time has come for more startling strategy."
     Larry Ricordo gaped. He wondered if the scientist had lost his mind. Then
he saw the professor's eyes open and the brilliance of their gleam reassured
the gangster.
     "Tell me" - Urlich's tone was firm - "what led the police to Slips
Harbeck? How did they learn of the trap I had you place in Joyce's office? The
underworld is your ground, Ricordo. Slips Harbeck is your man. Give me your
theory."
     Ricordo's puffy lips spread in evil satisfaction. This was his turn to
analyze. Professor Urlich was asking his opinion. The gang leader was pleased,
especially as he was sure he had the answer.
     "There must have been two guys listening in at Red Mike's," asserted
Ricordo. "One was Cliff Marsland, The Shadow's stool. The other must have been
Joe Cardona's stool. That's why Cardona grabbed Slips and went to Joyce's
office himself. I know the way those dicks work."
     "An agent of The Shadow," laughed Urlich, "and an agent of the police.
What do you suppose those two will do now, Ricordo?"
     "They'll hang around Red Mike's," returned the gang leader promptly. "For
a while, anyway. They'll be looking for a new guy to watch - some one instead
of Slips Harbeck."
     "Excellent," remarked the fiendish scientist. "We shall give them some one
else."
     "You mean another guy like Slips?"
     "One better than Slips."
     "Who?"
     "Yourself!"


     RICORDO leaped up from his chair. His eyes were wild. He began an
incoherent protest. Professor Urlich smiled and waved the gang leader back.
     "Hear me out, Ricordo," said Urlich. "I am planning a perfect thrust. I
must rely upon you."
     "But suppose that Cardona has made Slips squawk?" protested the gang lord.
"Maybe he hasn't done it yet; maybe he will, though."
     "That does not matter," declared the scientist. "In fact, it is essential
that you should make it apparent that you are Slips Harbeck's successor. You
must play the part that Slips has played. You are the one who will lure The
Shadow to certain doom."
     "Yeah? And suppose the police -"
     "Let me question you once more, Ricordo. You speak of underlings whom you
call stool pigeons: one belonging to The Shadow; the other to the police. You
know that one is named Cliff Marsland. Do you think that you could recognize
the other?"
     "Sure. I could spot him if I was looking for him."
     "Since there is no evidence that Cardona has learned that you are Slips
Harbeck's chief, do you suppose that he would have detectives in the vicinity
of the place called Red Mike's?"
     "No. Cardona would keep them away. He'd be waiting for some guy that
looked suspicious. He'd leave that to the stool. If I showed up there, and the
stool spotted me, Cardona would hear about it. My next trip to Red Mike's would
be just too bad for me."
     "Excellent," expressed the professor. "We can assume that The Shadow, too,
will utilize the same system."
     "Sure," agreed Ricordo. "He can't know that Slips Harbeck tipped us off
about Cliff Marsland."
     "Very, very good," smiled Urlich. "My scheme will be to your liking,
Ricordo. We are dealing with the underworld. There, violence is useful. How
quickly could you assemble a squad of gunmen, Ricordo?"
     "A mob of gorillas?" Ricordo laughed coarsely. "I can get them quick. No
trouble in that, professor."
     "Excellent. Obtain such men. Take them with you to Red Mike's. Play the
part of Slips Harbeck's successor. Simply call a false phone number and repeat
certain information."
     "And the mob?"
     "Your men will serve two purposes. First, to eliminate the police spy, so
that he cannot carry information back to headquarters. Second -"
     "To get Cliff Marsland!"
     "To capture him; not to kill him. They must not touch him until after he
has communicated with The Shadow and informed his master of your plans."
     "But if The Shadow gets on my trail" - Ricordo's voice was doubtful -
"I'll be in a jam, professor!"
     "The Shadow will not follow you," announced Urlich. "He will find much to
occupy him at the destination which you name. There will be work there for The
Shadow. Work, with unexpected consequences. If my new plan prevails, the career
of The Shadow will be terminated."
     "What'll I do? Scram?"
     "You will return here. If your men capture Cliff Marsland, they will carry
him to a designated point. There you will meet them, dismiss them, and bring
Marsland here alone!"
     "I get you, professor. We'll make him squawk!"
     "If necessary, yes. Only if The Shadow, through some freak of chance,
should escape our snare. Then, and then alone, Marsland will prove useful.
Otherwise, I shall eliminate him in my laboratory."


     PROFESSOR URLICH arose. He beckoned to Larry Ricordo and conducted the
gang lord down the spiral stairway to the laboratory. Urlich led the way to a
table in the corner. He pointed to two bottles of liquid: one green, the other
red.
     Into a test tube, the scientist poured a few drops of each liquid. The
mixture became colorless. Urlich held the tube in the light. Ricordo watched. A
few minutes passed. The colorless liquid began to effervesce. Bubbles appeared
upon its surface. The scientist smiled as he raised a warning hand.
     In a low voice, he began to explain the purpose of the experiment. With
his free hand, he pointed to dead rats and mice that lay upon the table. Larry
Ricordo listened in astonishment.
     Professor Urlich droned on in the voice of a lecturer. He spoke of the
past: of Thomas Joselyn's connection with the first scheme of murder; of
failures and why they had occurred. He spoke of The Shadow; and finally of
silent death.
     As the bubbling liquid ceased its action, Professor Urlich smiled and
tossed the test tube in a sink. The breaking glass tinkled ominously.
     "As I have destroyed that tube," remarked the scientist quietly, "so can I
destroy the lives of those who block my path. I have told you the perfect plan,
Ricordo. Go - and do your part."


     LARRY RICORDO descended the spiral stairway to the floor below. As he
walked around the circular passage, the gang leader shuddered at the clanking
of his footsteps upon the metal floor. He was thinking of the terrible machine
that lay within the circular wall.
     Death was Professor Urlich's motto. Death to all who blocked his path.
Larry Ricordo, in his evil heart, dreaded the man whose will he now was
serving. He realized that at this very moment, he was walking within a zone
where death could strike at Folcroft Urlich's bidding.
     Even now, Ricordo realized, a signal light must be gleaming upon the
glittering machine within the inner pit. That light was caused by Ricordo's
treading on the metal plates. A swing of the switch - the gang leader shuddered
again.
     He did not feel at ease until he had passed the outer door, and passed the
range of the metal-floored portico. Beyond the zones of death, Larry Ricordo
stepped into his sedan. Late afternoon had come. It was time to head
Manhattanward.
     Death! Silent death! It lurked in Professor Folcroft Urlich's strange,
circular abode. Death would strike The Shadow, should even he venture thither.
Doom would be the welcome to any intruder who passed within those sinister
portals.
     The Shadow! Larry Ricordo sneered as he started the sedan. The time would
never come when The Shadow would visit this menacing spot. The master of
darkness would learn the taste of death without ever discovering the hand that
dealt it.
     Stowed within the pockets of his coat, Larry Ricordo was carrying the
bottles of red and green liquid. The gang leader knew their potency. Death to
The Shadow - silent death!
     Larry Ricordo was setting forth to arrange the trail to doom!


     CHAPTER XIV

     MOBSMEN STRIKE

     ANOTHER night had come. Denizens of the underworld had begun their
assemblage in Red Mike's den. The proprietor of the speakeasy, noncommittal as
was his wont, cast no more than a casual glance toward those who thronged his
dive.
     The capture of Slips Harbeck had created no great stir in gangdom. The
detectives had effected it quietly outside of Red Mike's. There had been no
witnesses other than Gawky Tyson, Cardona's stool pigeon.
     Red Mike, himself, was not perturbed by Slips Harbeck's fate. In fact, he
had come to consider Slips as a liability. Ricordo's lieutenant, fomenting
schemes, had been too closely clinging to Red Mike. The speakeasy proprietor
was glad that the mysterious phone calls had ended.
     Nevertheless, Red Mike regarded Slips Harbeck as a pal; and in the back of
his head, Red Mike was ready to bring discomfort to any one concerned with
Harbeck's capture. Contrarily, Red Mike did not trouble himself to seek the
culprit who had brought about the arrest of Slips.
     There were two men in the speakeasy this night who could have given Red
Mike information concerning Slips Harbeck's doings. One was Gawky Tyson; the
other was Cliff Marsland.
     Cardona's stool pigeon was seated near the door that led to the little
side room. Cliff Marsland was across the speakeasy. Besides them, there were
perhaps twenty typical habitues of the bad lands, ranged about the big room.
     Two hard-faced gangsters entered. They said nothing. They sat at a table
not far from the little room. Both Cliff and Gawky eyed them; Cliff with a
casual glance, Gawky with a furtive sidelong stare.
     Minutes passed; another pair of mobsmen came in. They paid no attention to
the first ones. They, too, seemed occupied with their own business.
     "Gorillas getting together," mused Cliff. "Good idea to watch them."
     Cliff's thought was a usual one. It was just such an assembly that had
given the final tip-off to Slips Harbeck's activities, the night that Ricordo's
lieutenant had set forth to Alfred Sartain's apartment house.


     ANOTHER man entered the speakeasy. Cliff Marsland's gaze narrowed. He was
sure that he recognized these hardened, evil features. Larry Ricordo!
     Cliff had seen the gang lord in the past. Moreover, he was here to watch
for any sign of Ricordo, even though the chances of the missing gang leader's
visit had appeared quite remote.
     Another pair of eyes spotted Larry Ricordo. Gawky Tyson, too, was
interested in the gang leader's arrival. He had been planted here by Cardona in
hopes of this very visit. Thus the gorillas were forgotten. Both Cliff and Gawky
became concerned with Ricordo.
     The gang leader stopped to talk to Red Mike. As he glanced about the room,
Ricordo scarcely noted Cliff Marsland. But he did let his eyes pause mildly upon
Gawky Tyson, who happened to be the nearest person to him.
     As a spotter, Ricordo lived up to his claims. It required only a second
glance to assure him that Gawky was the stool pigeon the police had posted here.
     Ricordo caught the eye of one gorilla. The gang leader's gaze shifted back
toward Gawky Tyson. That was the sign that meant suspicion. The gorilla nodded.
Ricordo went on talking to Red Mike.
     There was no occasion for Ricordo to mark Cliff Marsland. Among the gunmen
whom he had gathered in dives other than Red Mike's, were two who knew Cliff by
sight. Larry Ricordo repressed a leer as he talked with Red Mike. The stage was
set; now for action.
     "So they grabbed Slips Harbeck, eh?" Ricordo spoke in a less guarded tone.
His words reached both Gawky and Cliff. "Well, don't talk about it, Mike. I'll
tell you why - I'm picking up where Slips left off. Where's the telephone?"
     Red Mike nudged his thumb toward the inner room. He was anxious to please
Larry Ricordo. He had never heard Slips Harbeck mention the gang leader, but he
was willing to take Ricordo's say-so.
     "Sit down," offered Red Mike. "Have a drink on the house, Larry. I'll let
you know when a call comes for you."
     "Can't wait, Mike," returned Ricordo. "I know the number. I'll call it
myself. I was intending to wait - that's why I came here. But with this crowd
here I -"
     "Somebody may recognize you, eh?"
     "Sure. I've been keeping out of town, you know. I'll chance a call - if I
don't get an answer, I'll wait - but I'll stick in the little room."


     WHEN he concluded, Larry Ricordo went to the door that Red Mike had
indicated. Both Cliff Marsland and Gawky Tyson were intensely interested. They
were anxious to learn the number that Ricordo was calling. The closed door
prevented them. But it was not long before that door, which had a habit of not
staying completely closed, opened inward, as though by accident.
     Ricordo was talking, and the tones of his voice were audible to both
listeners. As successor of Slips Harbeck, the gang leader was apparently
receiving important instructions.
     "Thomas Jocelyn?" Ricordo's tone denoted surprise. "Sure... I'll go
there... Afraid he'll squawk, eh? Well, he knows too much... Sure... I know
where old Jocelyn's apartment is... Leave it to me... Easy. I'll go there right
away. I can make it in half an hour..."
     The receiver clanked. Larry Ricordo stalked from the inner room. The
expression on his face was plain. One could see that it boded ill for Thomas
Jocelyn. Larry Ricordo stopped in the outer room.
     "I'll have that drink, Mike," he said to the proprietor. "Then I'll start
along. Thanks for letting me use the phone."
     While Ricordo's back was turned, Cliff Marsland arose quietly from his
table. The Shadow's agent had shifted before. He was apparently seeking a new
place. Instead, he changed his mind and sauntered toward the door of the
speakeasy.
     Cliff had just reached the door when Gawky Tyson hunched himself upward
and began a furtive progress in the same direction. He had not gone three paces
before one of the gorillas leaped to his feet. At that moment, Larry Ricordo was
finishing his drink.
     "Well, so long, Mike," said the gang leader.
     A cry sounded through the speakeasy. It was directed toward Gawky Tyson,
by the gangster who had leaped forward to block the stool pigeon's path.
     "Get this guy!" shouted the gorilla. "He's a stool; that's what he is! Get
the squawker!"
     From the door, Cliff Marsland caught the flash of revolvers. He also saw
Larry Ricordo approaching the door. As the gang leader stopped to view the
action, Cliff ducked out into the night. Larry Ricordo, looking over his
shoulder as he went, reached the door.
     Gawky Tyson was screaming denials. Like a frightened rat, he was squirming
away from the mobsman who had accosted him. The other gorillas were on their
feet, covering the suspect with their revolvers. Red Mike was bellowing out
threats. He wanted no disturbance in this place.
     Other customers were on their feet. None were friends of Gawky Tyson, but
they all knew Red Mike. Larry Ricordo watched grimly, knowing that his men must
not delay. They could act now and explain afterward.
     Two revolvers roared. Other shots followed. With almost one accord, the
gorillas loosed their lead into the form of Gawky Tyson. The stool pigeon
uttered a piercing shriek and toppled to the floor.
     Red Mike, with clenched fists, was trying to put the blame on the proper
man. But the gorillas had acted with the precision of a firing squad. Backing
away, they held their revolvers in menacing hands, as though challenging any
one who might call them to task.


     LARRY RICORDO stepped through the door. He walked away, glancing back as
he went. He saw the murderers come hurrying from the speakeasy. Their work was
done. Larry laughed as he sauntered along and ducked through a side alley.
     These men were half of his corps. The others had remained outside. They
had gone; and Larry knew where. They had taken up the trail of Cliff Marsland.
     Hurrying his pace, Ricordo kept on for several blocks and finally stopped
at a little restaurant. He entered, went through to a back room and picked up a
telephone. He called the number of Thomas Jocelyn. He recognized the voice that
came over the wire.
     "Hello, Grewson," said Ricordo. "All set? Good... Listen now. You've got
the bottles... Do the job right... No, I'm not coming there, but there's a guy
that thinks I am... He'll be there later. You're to be gone when he gets
there... Well - fifteen minutes will be all right; but move in a hurry after
that... Yes... Yes... Scram; keep going clear out of town... You've got the
dough I slipped you. There'll be more waiting when you reach Chicago..."
     Larry Ricordo left the restaurant. He laughed in a pleased manner. It
rested with Grewson now; and Grewson was capable. Furthermore, Grewson did not
know that The Shadow was concerned in this episode.
     As for Thomas Jocelyn's apartment - Larry Ricordo had no reason for going
there now. That was part of Professor Urlich's scheme. A new trail for The
Shadow; another duty for Ricordo. Half a dozen blocks to go; and Larry would
learn if the rest of his plot had succeeded.
     The gang leader neared the appointed spot. He was back in a secluded
district of the underworld, far from Red Mike's establishment. A man came out
of the darkness to meet him. It was one of the gorillas who had been set to
trail Cliff Marsland.
     "We got him, Larry," whispered the gangster. "Laid outside the place where
he was phoning and nabbed him when he came out. Knocked him cold."
     "Is he in the car now?"
     Larry put the question as they stalked along. He saw the gangster nod.
     "Yeah," said the underling. "Him and another guy. This bird jumped us
while we were grabbin' Marsland. One of the gang socked him with a rod."
     "Who is he?" demanded Ricordo.
     "Some reporter," explained the gangster. "Found his cards in his pocket.
Name's Burke - Clyde Burke. We didn't want to bump him off because the noise
might have made trouble. We can drop him somewhere or take him for a ride -"
     They were at the spot where the car was parked. Three mobsters emerged
from the side of an old sedan. Larry Ricordo used a flashlight to study the two
men who were bound and gagged in the back seat. He recognized Cliff Marsland. He
did not know the other.


     THE gang leader pondered. He wondered if this reporter was an acquaintance
of Cliff Marsland or whether the man had chanced to happen by during the attack
of the gorillas. Ricordo knew that it would be a mistake to deal with a
newspaperman as one would handle a member of the underworld.
     To take Clyde Burke for a one-way ride was the first suggestion that
Ricordo ignored. He considered the results that might occur should Burke be
freed. They looked bad also. Ricordo wondered what Professor Urlich would have
to say about the capture of two men instead of one.
     That thought gave the answer. There was no time to lose. The sooner
Ricordo reached Long Island, the better. The quickest, surest course was to
take Burke along with Marsland. Professor Urlich could decide what to do.
     Larry Ricordo paid off his mobsters. He took the wheel of the sedan and
pulled away. As he rode along, he was more than satisfied with his decision
regarding Clyde Burke. It was no greater risk to carry two bound men than one.
Burke could be freed if Urlich insisted; if the scientist decreed death, it
would be more certain and effective in Urlich's laboratory than at the hands of
the cumbersome mobsters whom Ricordo had just discharged.
     The gang leader had a hunch that both prisoners would soon experience the
sensation of silent death. The thought turned his mind to The Shadow. Larry
Ricordo laughed as he guided the car toward the twinkling lights of an avenue.
     Silent death! The Shadow! The two were interlocked. The Shadow was on his
way to silent death at this very moment. Cliff Marsland had certainly sent word
of Ricordo's plans. That, alone, was necessary.
     The subtlety of Professor Folcroft Urlich's present scheme surpassed all
that had gone before it. Larry Ricordo saw certain doom destined for The Shadow!


     CHAPTER XV

     THE HAND OF DEATH

     THOMAS JOCELYN was lying in bed, half asleep. The financier's face was
drawn. His closed eyelids were dark and heavy. His expression showed weakness
and worry.
     The illness that had brought Jocelyn to this state had been the result of
a troubled mind. Thomas Jocelyn had reached the zenith of his fiendishness when
he had seen Alfred Sartain about to die. The sight of The Shadow had shattered
the financier's confidence.
     Given respite by Professor Urlich, told to let his plans rest for a while,
Thomas Jocelyn had experienced a slight recovery after that strange night in the
office across from Sartain's penthouse.
     Gradually, the old financier's fears had increased. Newspaper reports
concerning J. Wesley Barnsworth and Gardner Joyce had made Jocelyn sure that
Professor Urlich was proceeding. The terrible burden upon Jocelyn's mind was
irresistible.
     Living alone, with Grewson as his sole attendant, Thomas Jocelyn had
succumbed to nervousness and had failed to respond to a physician's care. At
times, the old financier mumbled incoherent utterances which only Grewson
heard. The servant had been Jocelyn's constant companion during this period of
distress.
     In his fevered mind, Thomas Jocelyn was battling with the desire to
confess his part in attempted crime. He was afraid to speak; he was afraid to
preserve silence. The grim face of Professor Folcroft Urlich haunted him
fiendishly in his dreams; and always, behind that face, loomed the spectral
figure of a being in black - The Shadow.
     It was only indecision that had prevented Thomas Jocelyn from calling the
police. Had either Barnsworth or Joyce been murdered, Jocelyn would probably
have broken down. The arrest of Harbeck had been a final blow that had
shattered all resistance. Jocelyn's condition was rapidly approaching a
critical stage.
     The old financier managed to open his eyelids as he heard a sound at the
door of the room. He saw the portal open. Grewson, a hard-faced man, entered
and stared toward the bed. The servant smiled in disarming fashion when he saw
that his employer was awake.
     "Time for your medicine, sir," announced Grewson.
     "Which medicine?" asked Jocelyn querously.
     "A new prescription from your doctor," responded Grewson. "You were half
asleep when he spoke about it, sir."


     THE old financier watched the attendant take two bottles from the corner.
One contained a greenish liquid; the other a red solution. Using a large glass,
Grewson mixed the contents. Jocelyn blinked as he saw that the result was
colorless.
     "Here you are, sir," announced Grewson, approaching with the glass. "The
doctor said to take the entire dose."
     Thomas Jocelyn began to gulp the liquid. Its taste was not unpleasant.
Grewson reached out with a strong arm and propped the financier up in bed.
Jocelyn finished the draft and sank wearily back upon his pillow. His eyes then
showed a sudden sparkle.
     "It is like an elixir, Grewson!" he exclaimed. "What a strange sensation!
I can feel my heartbeats quicken!"
     Grewson stood beside the bed, smiling. Of his own accord, Thomas Jocelyn
sat up. He clenched his fists; the seemed ready to spring from bed. Suddenly, a
convulsive shudder shook his frame.
     "Grewson!" Jocelyn's voice came in a whispered gasp. "Grewson! What - what
- is - happening -"
     Tremors followed. Jocelyn retained his new-gained strength, but terrific
spasms continued. Grewson backed slowly away. He saw Jocelyn drop back upon the
pillow, his breath coming in long, hoarse gasps.
     Grewson reached the door. His face bore an evil expression that marked him
for what he was - the tool of fiends who plotted death. Grewson knew that he had
done his part. Thomas Jocelyn would die at the order of Larry Ricordo.
     The false servant reached to close the door behind him. In a few seconds
he would be gone, leaving no trail behind him. He had stayed his action for the
appointed time; now his work was through. The door began to close; then stopped.
     A noise beside the bed had attracted Grewson's quick attention. Turning,
the servant saw Jocelyn clutching at a table that stood beside the bed. Before
Grewson could spring back to stop him, the financier had grasped the telephone
and had lifted the receiver.
     Pouncing in tigerish fashion, Grewson sought to wrest the instrument from
Jocelyn's clutch. The financier toppled forward. He flung the telephone from
him and his clawing hands knocked over the table. The empty glass which had
contained the terrible potion shattered on the floor.
     Fiercely, Grewson caught Jocelyn's shoulders and threw the financier back
in bed. The alarmed servant picked up the telephone and listened at the
receiver. He could hear the voice of the operator inquiring the trouble; he
could also hear Jocelyn's long, coughing gasps.
     "Hello?" The operator was speaking. "I am calling the police. Do you
understand?"
     "Hello," growled Grewson. "Never mind. It's all right."
     "Were you on the wire a moment ago?" challenged the operator.
     "No... No..." Grewson tried to be convincing. "It was an accident. The
telephone fell - that was all."
     Jocelyn's harsh sighs came audibly. The girl must have heard these belying
sounds. She expressed her doubts of Grewson's statement.
     "I am calling the police," she asserted, "unless you put the other person
on the wire."
     Angrily, Grewson hung up the receiver. He realized then that it was the
worst thing he could have done. He raised the receiver; jiggled the hook,
finally hung up once more. He looked at Jocelyn.
     The financier had lost all strength. His lips were moving feebly; his
eyes, alone, seemed to have the power to rove. Apparently those spasms of
terrific strength had ended in almost total paralysis.
     An angry snarl came from Grewson. The false servant glared venomously. He
knew that he had been successful so far, but he recalled the rest of Larry
Ricordo's plans. The gang lord had said that some one was coming here; that
that person should find Thomas Jocelyn alone.


     WHAT if the police arrived first? Grewson knew that such a happening would
injure whatever scheme Ricordo had evolved.
     For a moment the gangster-servant hesitated, then he realized that he
could do nothing to prevent the outcome. He could trust to luck that the
visitor would arrive considerably before the police reached the apartment.
     That thought gave Grewson a new consideration: his own safety. He had
overstayed the time that he had intended. He must depart at once.
     He paused only to throw a last derisive glance at the gasping form of
Thomas Jocelyn. Grewson held no regard for the man whom he had pretended to
serve. He had accepted Ricordo's order to slay with a malicious relish. Thomas
Jocelyn was dying now, and Grewson had guided the hand of death.
     "Cash in your checks," jeered Grewson. "Good-by, you old mug. Let the
bulls find you coughing out. Sorry I won't be here to see it. Try to tell 'em
who did it!"
     The false servant backed across the room. His gangster identity had come
to the surface. Thomas Jocelyn understood and tried to reply to the villain's
challenge, but his lips, although they moved, could do little more than cough.
     Backing to the door, Grewson grinned and made a burlesque of the bow which
he had been accustomed to use when doing Jocelyn's bidding. The gangster-servant
intended it as his last action before he left that room where death was working.
But as he inclined his head, Grewson saw something upon the floor that made him
stiffen.
     Stretching out in front of him, cast from a spot behind his body, lay a
strange, blanketing shadow of blackness. Long, sinister and spectral, it seemed
a living creature of ominous import. It represented the shape of a tall being
garbed in flowing cloak and broad-brimmed hat.
     Grewson's tense form relaxed. Dazed and affrighted, the killer turned
slowly toward the door. As he made that slow revolution, Grewson heard a
terrifying sound - a weird noise far more incredible than the gasping breath of
Thomas Jocelyn.
     A low, mocking laugh rang in Grewson's ears. Its gibing tones reechoed in
hollow tones from the walls of the room. The laugh was audible proof of visible
fears. Without completing his turn, Grewson cowered away from the door, staring
wild-eyed past his own shoulder.
     A scream came from his trembling lips. Before him, Grewson saw the enemy
of all gangdom - the being of whom he had heard - The Shadow.
     Tall, sinister and unyielding, The Shadow surveyed the shrinking gangster
with burning, brilliant eyes. Beads of sweat glowed on Grewson's paling
forehead. The man understood Larry Ricordo's admonition now - the reason why a
quick departure had been urged.
     The Shadow was the one whom Ricordo had expected here to-night! He had
known that this terrible being would come to the room of doom. Grewson realized
the consequences of his delay, but all too late.
     Surprised beside the dying form of the man whose death he had furthered,
Grewson stood openly condemned as the tool in the plot against Thomas Jocelyn.
He had guided the hand of death; now he had met the avenger of death.
     Helpless before the tall black-garbed being that threatened him, Grewson
crouched upon the floor - a murderer in the power of The Shadow.


     CHAPTER XVI

     THE DEATH THAT LURKED

     TOTALLY unnerved by the terror which now confronted him, Grewson stared
upward into the blazing eyes of The Shadow. The master of darkness stood with
folded arms. His brilliant gaze seemed to pierce the pitiful coward who
crouched before him.
     At last, the inscrutable eyes raised slightly and looked toward the bed
against the wall, where Thomas Jocelyn, his breath coming in long, heavy sighs,
was slowly coughing out his miserable life. Grewson, momentarily released from
the stern gaze of The Shadow, rose slowly, as though to spring upon his enemy.
     One folded arm moved. A black-gloved hand swung promptly into view. It
clutched a huge automatic. Staring into the wide, round muzzle of the powerful
weapon, Grewson quailed and sank back toward the floor.
     Slowly, The Shadow approached. Instinctively, Grewson retreated with
crawling pace. At last, the gangster crouched beside the foot of the bed. The
Shadow, standing above him, surveyed his pitiful prisoner.
     "Speak." The Shadow's words came in an ominous whisper. "What part have
you performed in this crime!"
     The sentence was a command, not a query. Grewson, trapped, could give no
answer other than the right one.
     "I - I gave Jocelyn the poison," the gangster admitted, in broken tones.
"It - it came in bottles and I mixed it in the glass - the glass which Jocelyn
broke."
     "Who gave you the liquids?"
     Grewson cringed at the sound of The Shadow's sardonic voice. He tried to
restrain his answer, but failed. He could not struggle against the terror cast
by The Shadow.
     "I - I got it" - the man's voice broke - "got it from - from Larry
Ricordo."
     "When?"
     "A - a couple of days ago. He called me - to-night - on the telephone - to
tell me to use it."
     "Where is Ricordo now?"
     "I - I don't know. That's straight! He hadn't told me anything - I don't
even know why he wanted Jocelyn bumped off -"
     The Shadow's gaze turned toward the pitiful figure on the bed; still, the
menacing automatic covered Grewson. Thomas Jocelyn, his face deathly white, was
staring toward The Shadow. He had recognized the form in black. Amid his long,
sweeping sighs, his moving lips were trying to speak.


     IT was plain that Jocelyn intended to convey facts that Grewson could not
give; to reveal the purpose of those who had brought him to this plight. The
effort seemed futile, for the motion of the dying man's lips brought nothing
but wavering echoes to his sighs.
     With hawkish gaze, The Shadow watched for any sign that might reveal the
financier's thoughts. Slowly, the black-hatted head began to incline, then
suddenly it turned. The Shadow's eyes glared once more in Grewson's direction.
They saw the cringing gangster starting to rise.
     Instinctively, Grewson slumped back to the floor. At the point of the
automatic, he pleadingly blurted the reason for his action.
     "The bulls are coming!" he groaned. "Jocelyn got at the telephone. The
operator turned in the call."
     A ray of hope kindled in the crook's eyes. He thought that this bit of
important information might alarm The Shadow or else cause the weird avenger to
soften. The Shadow's derisive, reverberating laugh was the answer that only
brought new dread to Grewson. The bold visitant had no fear of the police.
     Nevertheless, Grewson's words did inspire The Shadow to swifter action.
Once again, the black-clad watcher noted Thomas Jocelyn. The dying financier
was living only by virtue of tremendous gulps. With wide-open mouth, Jocelyn
took in a breath, then expelled it with his peculiar, wheezy sigh, in one long
exhalation. The action was repeated. Again, still again.
     Those powerless lips could not frame words; but perhaps, in those long
sighs could be heard a coughed utterance. To listen closely, one would have to
lean close to the mouth of the dying man. To perform that action, The Shadow
would be forced to cease his vigilance with Grewson.
     The sparkle of The Shadow's eyes showed that this thought was within The
Shadow's mind. A glance at Grewson told The Shadow that the cowered gangster
would no longer be a factor, even though given opportunity. But that pause
caused a new light, as The Shadow surveyed Thomas Jocelyn.
     The prolonged, mechanical breathing of the financier had become a
continued monotone.
     Why did it persist? Why had not the potion which had produced this result
taken its toll of life? There was something ominous in Jocelyn's lingering
death.
     The Shadow drew away from the bedside. He turned to Grewson. The automatic
in the black-gloved fist described a slow arc from the gangster toward the dying
financier. The voice of The Shadow spoke a stern command.
     "This is your work," declared The Shadow solemnly. "Now you shall make
amends. Jocelyn is trying to speak. Learn what he has to say. Tell me every
word."
     Grewson nodded. He knew that his only hope was to obey The Shadow's
bidding. The police were coming. The one chance of escape lay in quickening
this scene.
     Grewson sensed that Jocelyn knew vital facts concerning Larry Ricordo. By
learning them and repeating them to The Shadow, Grewson might curry favor with
his captor.
     The Shadow, in turn, had solved the problem of watching Grewson while
Jocelyn tried to speak.
     As Grewson half arose and crouched toward the head of the bed, his body
came directly in front of the blackclad master. Grewson was to listen while The
Shadow covered him.
     Still, The Shadow could glimpse Jocelyn's upturned eyes. The financier was
looking toward The Shadow with a pleading expression in those optics. It was
evident that he had heard all that The Shadow had said.
     "Tell what you can."
     The Shadow's whispered words were addressed to Jocelyn. The dying man
understood. As Grewson leaned above him, Jocelyn imbibed a long draft of air.
Grewson's face was close to that of the man whom he had so treacherously
served. With head half turned, the gangster listened.
     Thomas Jocelyn gave an incoherent gargle as he expelled a long, sighing
breath. Grewson could not make out the word; that was impossible. The poison
had done its work too well. The fetid odor of the sigh filled Grewson's
nostrils.
     Again, Jocelyn breathed inward; once more came the throat rattle,
accompanied by reeking breath. Grewson was leaning closer to the dying man. The
gangster's head was swaying slightly.
     Thomas Jocelyn made another effort. The intake of air was followed by a
long exhalation, a sign that Jocelyn had tried, with all his remaining
strength, to speak. Grewson's head moved from side to side. The gangster's
fingers clawed feebly at the bedspread.
     The dying man was seeking to deliver another effort. Before he succeeded,
Grewson's fingers lost their hold. The gangster's body tumbled to the floor and
rolled over on its back. Grewson's eyes gazed upward in a glassy stare.
     The Shadow stood like a statue. His keen eyes studied the weird result
that had occurred. Thomas Jocelyn was breathing on, with long, wheezy sighs.
Life still was lingering within his frame. But Grewson, the treacherous
servant, had succumbed to a more sudden fate.
     Grewson was dead!


     THE SHADOW'S laugh echoed eerily through the room. There was no mockery in
its sound. It was a laugh of understanding. The secret of Thomas Jocelyn's
peculiar breathing was apparent to The Shadow now.
     Death lurked in every exhalation that came from the dying financier's lips!
     The chemical compound that Jocelyn had taken, was, itself, a death trap
for whomever might approach the victim!
     An effervescent fluid, caused by a strange, secret mixture, had poisoned
Thomas Jocelyn and had paralyzed his limbs. It had destined him to a lingering
death, a long, continued spasm during which he could only breathe with great
and constant effort.
     With each gasp, Jocelyn breathed out the fumes of a poisonous vapor. He, a
dying man, had been transformed into a potential killer!
     Only by amazing intuition, only through his capture of Grewson and his
orders to the gangster, had The Shadow evaded the most fiendish of Professor
Folcroft Urlich's snares.
     Silent death! It had awaited The Shadow surely to-night; yet silent death
had failed again. Grewson, the man who had administered the fatal potion to
Thomas Jocelyn, had gone to a deserved doom slain by the breath of the man
whose death he had assured!
     Grewson lay dead upon the floor. Thomas Jocelyn still breathed his
sighing, dying gasps. The death that lurked had gained an unintended victim.
     Grimly, The Shadow laughed.


     CHAPTER XVII

     THE LAST WORDS

     HORROR had no effect upon The Shadow. The tragedy which had befallen
Grewson did not deter the black-garbed observer from his single purpose.
Grewson's death was merely the test that proved the presence of insidious death
designed by a fiend.
     More than that, it told The Shadow a fact that he already suspected; that
a mind much greater than Larry Ricordo's lay in back of this subtle crime. The
hand of Professor Folcroft Urlich had left its mark before; but never so
graphically as upon this occasion.
     Through Thomas Jocelyn, perhaps, could be found a clew to the potent
murderer. Still breathing forth his fetid breath of doom, the financier lived
on. The prolonged state of his agony was further proof of a scheming master
mind.
     The death potion had been devised to produce a long-lingering condition.
Many minutes had passed since the dose was administered; more than time enough
for an investigator to have come and died from Jocelyn's exhalations.
     The Shadow, however, was not deterred by thoughts of the fate which he had
so narrowly escaped. His keen brain was devising a means whereby he could learn
what Jocelyn had tried to say. One word was all that The Shadow sought: the
name of the supercriminal who dealt in silent death.
     Jocelyn could not utter it; that seemed plain now. It was impossible to
avoid death if one leaned close to the dying financier.
     The Shadow's gloved hand, extended to Jocelyn's face, felt the trembling
lips and learned that they could not frame a motion which might be understood
and interpreted.
     There was still one opportunity. Jocelyn's eyes were open and staring with
a vivid glare. The man could hear. He would listen to any instructions that
might enable him to throw his last effort against the fiend who had brought him
to this horrible fate.
     Slowly, in quiet, whispered tones, The Shadow spoke to the dying man.
Jocelyn watched the form above him. The financier's eyes glistened as his ears
gained the significance of The Shadow's plans.
     "You must name the one who caused this," declared The Shadow solemnly.
"Letter by letter, I shall seek his name. Indicate, with all your strength, the
letters that tell it."


     BREATHING in long heaves, Jocelyn watched and listened. The Shadow's
ominous voice droned the letters of the alphabet. One by one they came until
the letter "U."
     At that point, a change occurred in Jocelyn's expression. With all his
might, the dying man did his best to prove that The Shadow had reached the
important letter. The glow and barely visible motion that showed in the
financier's eyes caused The Shadow to stop.
     Without hesitation, the black-cloaked watcher began another intonation of
the alphabet. Jocelyn, stiff as a corpse, still heard and watched with glaring
eyes. His effort, this time came upon the letter "R."
     The third recital by The Shadow ended with the letter "L." Once again, The
Shadow noted Thomas Jocelyn's supreme effort to aid in the gaining of the name.
     "A" - The Shadow's whisper came slowly - "B - C -"
     A noise sounded from the front door of the apartment. Some one was
pounding there. The Shadow did not stir. His voice kept on its low drone:
     "- D - E - F -"
     Men were crashing at the barrier. The Shadow watched Jocelyn's eyes with
steady, focused gaze. His voice recited the letter "I." The sign came from
Jocelyn.
     "A - B - C -" The Shadow stopped on the third letter. He had gained
another signal. Pandemonium was breaking from without. The door was yielding to
crashing blows. With total disregard for the attack, The Shadow began a new
series of letters.
     "H." As The Shadow named that letter, Jocelyn's eyes glimmered with dying
frenzy. The Shadow stood with folded arms, oblivious to the fact that voices
were sounding through the half-broken outer door.
     "Urlich," announced The Shadow.
     Jocelyn's intake of breath paused. The financier emitted a tremendous
gasp. His eyes were fixed in a hypnotic stare. The man was at the verge of
death; but the mention of that name gave him a last burst of strength.
     "Urlich," repeated The Shadow. "I know his name. I shall meet him soon!"
     The outer door came down with a terrific, loud smash. Hoarse shouts
resounded as men tumbled into the apartment. The commanding voice of Joe
Cardona sounded above them.
     "Hold it, men! Hold it! There may be some one in that inner room!"
     The Shadow's eyes were still upon Thomas Jocelyn. The dying financier no
longer moved. His whole form was rigid, as though petrified by the final effort
of hatred. A hissing sound sizzled through those drawn lips. The face now dead,
was ghastly.
     Thomas Jocelyn's prolonged strain had brought a sudden end to his sighing
death. No longer did he exhale fumes that menaced all who might approach. The
venomous potion's power was exhausted.
     The Shadow's cloak swished, and its spreading folds revealed a crimson
lining. With swift stride The Shadow was turning toward a door at the end of
the room. He reached it while the detectives were approaching from the outer
room.
     The door closed behind The Shadow's departing form. Moving through the
darkness of a smaller room, The Shadow gained a window that opened into a
courtyard. A few moments later, a weird, phantom form was moving slowly down
the wall of the building.


     IN the meantime, a squad of men suddenly burst into the lighted room where
the two dead bodies lay. Detective Joe Cardona, his swarthy face grim and his
sharp eyes moving quickly, surveyed the inert forms of Thomas Jocelyn and the
pretended servant, Grewson. Cardona saw that they were dead.
     "Try that door over there," he ordered.
     Two detectives followed the direction that The Shadow had taken. They
reported that the next room was empty. Cardona ordered a thorough search.
     While his men were busy, he studied the bodies more carefully. Swift,
silent death had struck here to-night.
     While Cardona was awaiting the arrival of the police surgeon, another
officer suddenly appeared at the door of the room. It was Detective Sergeant
Mayhew. Cardona saw that the man was bringing important news.
     "Gawky Tyson has been killed!" announced Mayhew. "They ganged him down at
Red Mike's!"
     "Yes?" questioned Cardona. "Why?"
     "Some one passed the tip that he was a stool pigeon. That was the end of
him. The killers made a get-away. Not much chance of trailing them. But listen,
Joe - I found out something important. Larry Ricordo was there tonight."
     "At Red Mike's?"
     "Yes. Red Mike admitted it. Says that Ricordo talked over the telephone
and -"
     "That proves it!" interposed Cardona. "It proves my hunch, Mayhew. When
word came down to headquarters that there was trouble here, I came up to this
place myself. I figured Larry Ricordo might be in it.
     "Gawky probably got the lay and was going to tip us off, like he did the
other night, when he watched Slips Harbeck. Larry Ricordo is in back of this,
Mayhew. It's murder this time; double murder!"
     Cardona picked up the telephone and called Inspector Timothy Klein. The
detective was anxious to release all possible mechanisms that would aid the law
in a widespread effort to capture Larry Ricordo. Through radio patrol, the order
would go out to arrest all suspects who might prove to be the wanted gang leader.


     THE arrival of the police surgeon brought new food for thought. The
appearance of the dead men was perplexing to the physician. He pointed to the
bodies as he gave the detective a temporary explanation.
     "This one" - the surgeon indicated Grewson - "appears to have succumbed
quickly to the effects of some poison fumes. The other" - the doctor motioned
toward Jocelyn - "was given poison in a liquid state. His death was prolonged.
He must have been alive up to the time you entered."
     Joe Cardona stared at the pitiful form of Thomas Jocelyn. He noted the
sealed lips thin and drawn in death.
     What could those lips have said? What could Jocelyn have known?
     Cardona regretted that he had not arrived in time to question the dying
man. Little did the ace detective realize that had he been there to make such a
quiz, it would have meant his own demise!
     The glassy eyes of the dead financier were toward the ceiling. Their
vacant stare was eloquent. They showed the traces of a fury that made Cardona
continue to wish that he could have heard Jocelyn's last words. That was
impossible now. No one had heard them, Cardona decided.
     The detective was correct in his assumption; but as he studied Jocelyn's
lips again, he forgot the dead man's eyes. Cardona did not realize that where
lips had been futile, eyes had managed. Cardona would have been amazed had he
known that Jocelyn's eyes had aided in the delivery of a final message.
     Larry Ricordo! The gang leader was the man that Joe Cardona wanted. The
detective's thought did not go beyond; Cardona had not yet reached the stage of
searching for a supermind higher than Ricordo.
     Such consideration had been undertaken only by The Shadow. He was the one
who had looked beyond Larry Ricordo. The Shadow, ignoring Jocelyn's dying
words, incoherently gasped amid exhalations of deadly fumes, had gained the
name he sought.
     The Shadow was gone, with no trace of his mysterious presence behind him.
The Shadow had seen both Grewson and Jocelyn die. The Shadow had learned of
Professor Folcroft Urlich, through the single name which he had gleaned from
Thomas Jocelyn.
     The master of darkness had departed, to wage combat with the master of
silent death.
     The Shadow knew!


     CHAPTER XVIII

     IN THE LABORATORY

     Two men lay huddled at the side of Professor Urlich's laboratory. Propped
against the wall, their hands bound behind them, Cliff Marsland and Clyde Burke
stared wearily at the scientist and the gang leader who stood beside him.
     Both of The Shadow's agents had taken hard bumps in their encounter with
Larry Ricordo's gorillas. Clyde Burke, in particular, showed signs of genuine
grogginess. Cliff had been overpowered by a swift attack; Clyde had gone down
from a single sharp blow.
     It was Clyde's condition that gave Cliff Marsland a cue. Knowing that his
companion was actually in a state of inertia, Cliff feigned the same condition.
Thus both were able to avoid some of the questions that Larry Ricordo was
pumping at them: questions which pertained to the activities of The Shadow.
     Clyde Burke's presence at the spot where Cliff Marsland had been taken was
not merely coincidence. The Shadow had foreseen the possibility of some one
following Cliff when he left Red Mike's. Through Rutledge Mann, Clyde had been
instructed to remain in the vicinity of the place where Cliff put in his
regular phone calls.
     As a reporter who handled crime news, Clyde Burke made frequent excursions
into the bad lands. His duty had been a simple one; failure had occurred partly
through his own lack of vigilance and partly through a surprising display of
stealth on the side of Ricordo's mobsters.
     Now was no time for regret. The present objective - Cliff was the one who
saw it clearly - was to avoid all troublesome questions. Thus Larry Ricordo's
ugly threats and his imprecations, directed chiefly at Cliff, brought nothing
more than indifference and evasion.
     "So you're The Shadow's stool, eh?" queried Ricordo. "What about this
other mug - your buddy who carries a reporter's card. What was he doing when we
grabbed you?"
     Cliff Marsland half opened his eyes and shrugged his shoulders. No reply
was the best way to deal with Ricordo's questions. The gang leader spat a
series of oaths, and swung to face Professor Urlich.
     "See what you can get out of him!" growled Ricordo. "You wanted me to
bring him here. Maybe you can make him squawk!"
     "There is no need for haste," returned the scientist, with a calm, evil
smile. "As a matter of fact, Ricordo, questioning is hardly necessary."
     "Why not?"
     "We may consider two assumptions," remarked the professor, in tones that
came coldly to Cliff Marsland's ears. "One: that these men can give us no
information of consequence. Two: that if either of them does know facts, they
will give them voluntarily, under proper treatment.
     "If they know nothing, they are useless. Therefore, it would be best to
destroy them. If they know something, they will cry it forth as the only hope
of life when they see the fate that is planned for them."
     Professor Urlich's gleaming smile widened in wicked proportions.


     HIS statements worried Cliff Marsland. The Shadow's agent realized that he
and his fellow prisoner were being classified as biological specimens suitable
for some experiment. Cliff sensed a terrible menace ahead.
     "Furthermore," added Professor Urlich, "I am confident that there has been
no failure in the plan which I devised for to-night. At this present minute,
Thomas Jocelyn is probably dead; and The Shadow with him.
     "In fact, I am so positive of my success that I see no reason why I should
not destroy these trouble-makers without further delay. Nevertheless, I enjoy
experimental killing. The time may come when I shall choose to make dying men
talk. If I can produce such result with these victims, I shall add another page
to my book of scientific research."
     "It's up to you, professor," grinned Ricordo. "You're the guy that can do
it."
     "Human life," remarked the professor, staring toward Cliff Marsland as he
spoke, "means nothing to me. I have equipped this laboratory for the purpose of
experimenting with such life.
     "When persons block my path, when the human element seems dangerous to my
plans, removal is the one solution. You realized that" - Urlich had turned, and
was speaking to Ricordo - "when I sacrificed Thomas Jocelyn. In my first
important experiment, The Shadow intervened. After that, I twice led him on a
blind trail. To-night, however, I felt that the original course would be best.
     "The Shadow leaned above Alfred Sartain that night in the penthouse
studio. I am confident that he must have leaned above Thomas Jocelyn tonight.
You know the answer, Ricordo. I was removing Jocelyn, because he had become
dangerous. Jocelyn was breathing death. Thus I arranged for one victim to take
another with him."
     "A great stunt, professor," commented Ricordo. "I don't see how The Shadow
could have slipped out of it. Grewson had a soft job. Maybe you've got it all
O.K. But how are you going to get rid of this pair of mugs we've got here?"
     "Very simply," said the professor. "Here in this laboratory. There will be
no trace of death, Ricordo. No trace whatever."
     "Just one thing," remarked Ricordo. "What are you going to do about the
big plans, now that Jocelyn is finished?"
     "I still deal silent death," replied Urlich coldly. "It will be simple to
gain the assistance of another financier. Leave that to me, Ricordo."
     "With The Shadow blotted out," said the gang leader, "we can start right
where we quit. There's only one thing, professor - I'll have to lay low for a
while."
     "Yes? Why?"
     "Well, the coppers have still got Slips Harbeck. He may squeal. That's bad
enough. But I made it lots worse tonight, going into Red Mike's. I didn't think
there'd be such a big mob there. It's all around by now that Larry Ricordo is
back in town."
     "Ah!" Professor Urlich pondered long. "That is unfortunate, Ricordo. It
will temporarily deprive me of your useful services. Perhaps it will mean a
long period of inactivity."
     "It probably will, professor. I can hang out here -"
     "That is hardly wise, since a matter of many weeks is involved. It would
be better, Ricordo, for you to actually leave town."
     "The sooner the better, professor."
     "Yes?"
     "Sure. The bulls may already be out to spot me. If I scram in a hurry,
they'll still keep looking, and they won't find me."
     "Where would you go?"
     "West. Chicago. Maybe Milwaukee."
     "Go upstairs to my office," suggested Professor Urlich. "You will find a
railway schedule there. It is not quite midnight. Find out if a train is still
available to-night."


     LARRY RICORDO headed for the spiral stairway. Professor Urlich stood in
deep thought. Cliff Marsland, watching him, saw a shrewd, wicked gleam appear
upon the scientist's face. Cliff wondered what thoughts were passing within
that evil brain which evolved its schemes of death.
     Larry Ricordo returned. He announced that a Limited was leaving at one
o'clock. Professor Folcroft Urlich nodded.
     "Take that train," he said. "But be careful. Go by subway to the Grand
Central Station. It would be best to enter the terminal by the Lexington Avenue
side."
     "Don't worry about me," grinned Ricordo. "That's just the way I will go
in; and there's no smart dicks going to spot me, even if they do have the word
out to grab me."
     "We must always consider the element of uncertainty," responded the
scientist. "It would be unfortunate, Ricordo, should you fall into the hands of
the police."
     "Listen, professor" - Ricordo's tones were harsh - "I pack this gat. See
it?" The gang leader produced a large revolver as he spoke. "While I'm on the
subway, while I'm going into the station, while I'm on the train - all that
time I'll have my mitt on this smoke wagon. If any dumb bull tries to get me,
I'll give him the works."
     "And then -"
     "I can duck out plenty quick. I've done it before. Don't forget that."
     "But if you should be outnumbered - surrounded -"
     "They'd never get me, professor. I'd shoot my way through them. Even if I
did get plugged, I'd keep blazing. They'll never take Larry Ricordo alive!
That's certain."
     There was a positive tone in the ganglord's growl. Professor Folcroft
Urlich smiled in a pleased manner.
     "Excellent, Ricordo," he said. "I feel sure, now, that your departure will
be wise. Come. I shall accompany you downstairs. You have just the right amount
of time to reach the Grand Central."
     Leaving Cliff Marsland and Clyde Burke still helpless upon the floor,
Urlich went with Ricordo to the ground floor. Together, the two men circled the
outer corridor. Ricordo had little thought of the death machine tonight. This
zone of danger meant nothing when Professor Urlich trod it with him.
     After Ricordo had departed, Professor Urlich returned to the laboratory.
His first action was to glance at the row of lights that were placed above the
spiral stairway.
     Those lights indicated the three zones below: red for the outer portico;
green for the inner corridor; white for the balcony about the pit that housed
the grim machine of death.
     Those lights corresponded with a similar row upon the machine itself.
Connected by wires of low, harmless amperage, they served as signals. Here, in
his laboratory, Professor Urlich could learn the approach of an intruder in
time to reach the powerful electric device that lay below.
     The lights were all out, at present; the absence of the red gleam showed
that Larry Ricordo had departed from the portico where Professor Urlich had
left him.
     The scientist smiled. He emitted a low call. His two solemn-faced
assistants, Sanoja and Rasch, appeared.
     The scientist spoke to each man in turn. The assistants nodded and went to
appointed tasks. Cliff watched them. He noticed that one kept his eyes upon the
lights, while the other was keeping close tabs upon Cliff and Clyde.
     Professor Urlich stalked across the floor of the laboratory. The room was
illuminated only in spots, with darkness toward the back of the building.
Professor Urlich, however, did not again continue toward the staircase that led
downward. Instead, he ascended the spiral to the third floor.
     The scientist entered the little office a few moments later. Seated at his
desk, he became immersed in thought. His evil lips began to mutter words that
were barely audible.
     "The Shadow!" Urlich's murmur was scornful. "Bah! He has been ended
to-night - unless" - the scientist's shoulders shrugged - "unless - But what of
it? I do not fear him. Let him come - he is only one. But the police - they are
many -"
     A pause; then Urlich muttered two names, repeating the second one several
times:
     "Jocelyn - Ricordo - Ricordo - Ricordo -"


     FIENDISHLY, the scientist smiled. His evil brain was reverting to the
past, to his statements regarding the uselessness of those who blocked his
path. He was considering Larry Ricordo as he had considered Thomas Jocelyn.
     Men of different caliber; yet men who both were pieces in the game that
Professor Urlich played. He had chosen both of them by a process of selection.
He had considered a suitable replacement for each, should occasion demand it.
     Professor Urlich was thinking of his own strength; the security which he
possessed in this isolated building. Little of his work was known to the world.
If it were, what could matter? Urlich was a scientist; his laboratory was filled
with the beginnings of useful inventions and beneficial experiments - blinds
that would surely cover all devices of death.
     Thomas Jocelyn had become a menace, for Jocelyn, his usefulness ended, had
known too much. Jocelyn had been eliminated, serving as a snare of silent death
for The Shadow.
     Larry Ricordo remained. He, too, was a menace to security, for his
usefulness had ended, and he knew far more than Jocelyn had known.
     Professor Urlich had brought Ricordo here only because necessity had
compelled it. He had sent the gang leader away because that had been the only
alternative.
     But in his shrewd brain - at the time when Cliff Marsland had noted the
scientist's expression of evil - Folcroft Urlich had considered another course.
     Those questions to Larry Ricordo had been well designed. The gang lord's
replies had sponsored Urlich's new decision. The scientist picked up the
telephone upon his table. He smiled as he realized that a call from this blind
line would be untraceable.
     A few minutes later, a voice sounded through the receiver. Professor
Folcroft Urlich smiled. He responded, in a low, steady tone.
     "Hello," he said. "Detective headquarters?... Very well. I wish to speak
with Detective Cardona -"


     CHAPTER XIX

     ZONES OF DEATH

     DARKNESS enshrouded the circular edifice that housed Professor Folcroft
Urlich and his devices of death. Only a slight glow came from the skylights
above the circling outside roof of the second-story laboratory.
     None could see into that strange room, whither the scientist had now
returned. Even from above, the frosted windows blocked all prying eyes, should
any have existed in the sky above. Huge, bulky barriers, those skylights were
as firm as a solid roof.
     The third floor now was dark; and it showed dimly as the top tier of the
circular pyramid. There were windows there: one, in the scientist's office, was
the opening through which Larry Ricordo had sometimes stared at the gloomy
mansion which hid the circular structure from the outside world.
     A tiny light glimmered amid darkness. It shone within the recesses of the
old mansion. Its rays disappeared. Something swished as an invisible figure
crossed the space between the mansion and the circular building.
     When the tiny, disklike ray again appeared, it was close beside the outer
portico of the queer edifice. Its gleam moved blinking through the darkness.
The Shadow was circling Professor Urlich's domain.
     After a complete, stealthy tour of inspection, the flashing light stopped
near the front of the building. Its rays shone upon the double door that barred
entrance. The light ran along the base of the portico, and shone on plates of
metal.
     Probing beams searched the space beneath the extending roof and flashed
upon metal strips, placed beneath the sheltering projection.
     A low, soft laugh came from hidden lips. An eerie whisper seemed to float
through the spaces of the portico - the iron-posted cloister which The Shadow
had not entered. The light went out. The Shadow, completely veiled by darkness,
knew that some trap awaited any who might enter that inviting shelter.
     What was the menace? That, The Shadow intended to learn.
     Guided by amazing intuition, warned by his knowledge of the master
plotter's power, the phantom of the night cautiously avoided the luring trap.
     Another investigator would surely have advanced to the wall within the
portico; would surely have gone to examine the double door that afforded
entrance to the building. The Shadow did not do so.
     Instead, the weird visitor withdrew a dozen paces from the building. With
keen eyes, The Shadow studied the dim projection of the portico roof.
     That outer rim was approximately ten feet above the ground; perhaps a
trifle less. The Shadow's perceiving gaze picked a spot midway between two iron
posts.
     A rapid stride; a series of long, swift steps: The Shadow sprang upward
with a mighty leap. His powerful hands caught the projecting edge of the
portico roof. The black cloak swished as The Shadow's form swung back and forth
like a pendulum.
     Had the grasp failed, The Shadow would have landed upon the metal flooring
of the portico. Instead, he dangled from a spot that was free from the
signal-equipped zone.
     The Shadow's form moved upward as the powerful hands retained their hold.
Gradually, The Shadow gained the roof above the portico.


     A LOW, circular wall lay ahead - a rising circle that indicated the top of
the first story. The Shadow raised himself above that tier, and continued to a
higher surface - the outer wall of the laboratory floor.
     The tall shape worked its way up this obstacle. The fingers within the
black gloves clutched the top. A few moments later, the form of The Shadow was
silhouetted by the glow that came through the skylights. The master of darkness
was poised upon the edge of the second roof.
     To reach the third floor - its walls looming with darkened windows, The
Shadow must cross the wide space that held the skylights. There were heavy
braces in between; yet they were hardly broad enough to allow the passage of a
form without a betraying patch of darkness.
     This offered small worry to so weird a prowler as The Shadow;
nevertheless, it caused the black-garbed visitor to pause in search of an
alternative.
     A low laugh was scarcely audible. The Shadow had found a plan. With
catlike stride, balanced upon the very edge of the circular roof, The Shadow
began to travel around the building.
     His objective was a break in that series of skylights. One blocked sheet
of glass was all that he needed. It was at the rear of the building that The
Shadow found the spot he wanted. There, a metal-sheeted space appeared in place
of a skylight.
     The Shadow paused. There was no haste in his action. He had come here
directly from the episode at Thomas Jocelyn's. It had required but short
investigation to learn that a Professor Folcroft Urlich lived at this spot on
Long Island. The uncommonness of the name had enabled The Shadow to choose the
logical destination.
     In one brief call to Burbank, The Shadow had gained no knowledge of Cliff
Marsland's disappearance. In his report, Cliff had assured Burbank that all was
well. He had been ordered off duty. Hence The Shadow had yet to learn that two
of his henchmen lay prisoners within these walls.
     Clyde Burke, instead of watching and informing Burbank of Cliff Marsland's
capture, had also bungled. His precipitous attack had been an impulse.
     Soon, Burbank would know that ill had befallen Clyde Burke, because of the
agent's failure to report. But when would Burbank again gain communication with
The Shadow?
     It seemed to matter nothing at this moment; for The Shadow was at the den
of the monster who had captured his men. Straight ahead lay a path to those
third-story windows; from there, the course lay down the spiral into the
laboratory. The Shadow was a rescuer at hand!


     THEN, a chance discovery by The Shadow changed all course of action. The
metal-sheathed frame which broke the row of skylights trembled slightly beneath
the pressure of The Shadow's touch. The black-clad form moved slowly backward.
Firm hands worked with the barrier. They found it loose.
     A blocking slab with weakened fastenings. This could be turned to good use
by The Shadow! It formed a new and unexpected mode of entry into the second
story of the circular building. Handling the sheathed portion of roof as though
it were a trapdoor, The Shadow slowly pried it upward.
     Powerful strength, applied with superb skill, caused the barrier to yield
noiselessly. An opening gained, The Shadow lay along the edge of the roof and
peered into the space beneath.
     The tiny rays of the flashlight broke the darkness. The Shadow was gazing
down at the spiral staircase within the hollow cylinder - the route that led
from the laboratory to the floor below.
     The barrier raised still farther. The lithe form of The Shadow slipped
through the space, and dropped noiselessly to the spiral staircase. The
flashlight glimmered toward the door that led into the laboratory - the door at
the head of the stairs.
     Before entering that room, The Shadow had another purpose. His object was
to explore the downward path; to gain full knowledge of this stairway's purpose.
     With the light beaming upon each succeeding step, The Shadow continued
toward the ground. He stopped as he discovered the sliding door on the floor
below. A brief inspection enabled him to open it.
     The Shadow peered into the dim circular corridor that followed the
interior contour of the first floor. The Shadow closed the door as he noted the
metal flooring of the corridor.
     The steps still led downward. The Shadow reached the bottom. He found the
final door and opened it. His discerning eyes beheld the dim, high-vaulted pit.
They studied the huge, glittering machine that stood in the center of this great
chamber. The Shadow looked toward the balcony that surrounded the pit.
     A hollow laugh, chilling in its vague tones, sounded through the silence
of that deserted room. The broken air waves caught the echoes which
reverberated with a demoniacal cry from the walls where the balcony circled.
     The Shadow's gaze turned toward the metal floor. Here was the same danger
that he had sensed before. Then the master's eye perceived the row of unlighted
incandescents upon the huge machine. Red, green, and white, those bulbs had
differing significance.
     The portico - the inner passage - finally the balcony. Did The Shadow
recognize those circles as the danger zones? The Shadow's action was the only
answer.
     With firm stride, the tall figure moved from the cylinder that housed the
spiral staircase. He crossed the pit and stood beside Professor Urlich's
massive contrivance of human destruction.
     Again, The Shadow's weird laugh shuddered through the pit. Not one of
those three bulbs was illuminated. The Shadow knew that he had passed the zones
of death.
     Mysteriously, he lingered beside the huge machine, his gaze turning from
the wheels and levers down toward the floor, where the current wire appeared.
     Within the zones of death, The Shadow laughed. His hollow mockery was
foreboding. Yet he made no move to return toward the hollow cylinder. He seemed
to regard this place as the destination which he had sought - as the end of the
trail.
     On the floor above, Professor Folcroft Urlich still held The Shadow's
agents captive. While the master of darkness remained below, the master of
silent death was planning the doom of The Shadow's aids.
     Who held the balance: Professor Urlich or The Shadow? Were their
cross-purposes to meet before the victims died?
     The scales of fate were trembling, while master minds prepared their
methods.


     CHAPTER XX

     CARDONA ENTERS

     WHILE strange events were occurring on Long Island, Larry Ricordo was
making all haste toward Manhattan. The gang lord, fleeing town at Professor
Urlich's request, had neared his destination. He was mounting the steps from
the East Side subway at Forty-second Street.
     As a natural procedure, Larry Ricordo turned up Lexington Avenue to enter
the Grand Central Station from the east. It was scarcely later than half past
twelve. Plenty of time remained to catch the Chicago Limited.
     Larry Ricordo seldom liked haste when it was unnecessary. As he moved
leisurely through the midnight crowd along the avenue, his lips twisted
scornfully. Even if the police were out to capture him, they stood little
chance of getting him now.
     Nevertheless, Larry Ricordo fondled the revolver in his coat pocket. One
challenging word: the challenger would get the works. This was the attitude
that the gang leader held as he entered the wide passage from the street.
     Larry's eyes were keen and cautious. Even in this thronged entrance, the
gang lord did not trust entirely to his inconspicuous appearance. He prided
himself upon his watchfulness. His boast to Professor Urlich was still strongly
in mind.
     The crowd spread as it reached the huge central concourse. Larry Ricordo,
as he walked across the great expanse of floor toward a ticket window, was no
longer one of a large throng. He was in the open - a single figure that could
easily be spotted by watching eyes.
     A man swung from the wall and walked swiftly after the gang leader. Larry
Ricordo was not aware of the man's approach until the stranger was close beside
him. It was then that Larry turned to recognize a face that seemed familiar.
     The man made a sudden leap upon the gang lord. That action meant more than
recognition. Larry Ricordo knew his assailant for a detective. Wresting free,
Ricordo whipped his big revolver from his pocket.
     Another man had sprung up behind the gang leader. The second detective
made a quick grab for Ricordo's arm. Larry fired once, his shot aimed upward as
a hand seized his wrist. The detectives were flashing their own guns. Two more
men were springing to their rescue.
     Shouts of men; screams of women - these were heard as people scattered for
shelter.


     LARRY RICORDO'S revolver roared again. A detective went down with a bullet
in his shoulder. The others struggled ferociously. They were trying to get their
man alive, to prevent gunfire in this open space, where hundreds of people stood
in danger of stray shots.
     But Larry Ricordo was a fiend who balked all capture. He sent one
detective sprawling on the floor; another after him. One of the downed men
fired upward and missed. Larry, an evil snarl on his lips, dropped the fourth,
who still struggled with him.
     Spinning across the floor of the concourse, the murderous gang leader
leaped to meet a fifth, who blocked his path. He swung his huge revolver to
deliver a death shot. This time the gang lord failed.
     The last antagonist did not falter. His revolver was in his hand, and
before Larry could shoot to kill, this detective fired point-blank into
Ricordo's body.
     The gang leader staggered on; a second shot, delivered coolly at close
range, sent him sprawling to the floor.
     Rolling upon his back, clutching at his wounded side, Larry Ricordo saw
the face of Joe Cardona above him. The ace detective had stepped in where the
others had failed. It was the swarthy sleuth who had finally felled Larry
Ricordo.
     With futile clutch, Ricordo grasped for his revolver, which had fallen
beside him. True to his boast, the gang leader intended to go out fighting. His
weakening fingers fumbled; a moment later, Cardona had kicked the weapon out of
reach.
     Detectives came to aid Cardona. Other persons rushed up to help the
wounded men whom Ricordo had dropped. Through it all, Joe Cardona never
desisted from a purpose which had steadfastly filled his mind for the past half
hour.
     There was a reason why he had sought to capture Larry Ricordo alive,
rather than dead.
     "Ricordo!" Cardona was staring squarely into the gang lord's face.
"Ricordo! Who's the guy in back of this!"
     Ricordo coughed. Blood appeared upon his lips. An evil leer followed the
crimson. Coughing, gasping, Larry Ricordo spat defiant words at his questioner.
     "Try - try to find out!" he challenged, in a broken snarl. "Try to - to
make me squeal. You - you got me - but that's all!"
     Cardona pressed back those who were crowding around. He knew that Ricordo
was dying. In the last minutes of life, the gang lord would have to talk.
Cardona, acting on a hunch, played his final trump.
     "You know why we got you?" he demanded. "I'll tell you why! We were tipped
off that you were taking the Chicago Limited. Tipped off half an hour ago. We
want the bird who gave the tip-off. Do you know him?"
     Ricordo's eyes were glassy. Now they opened wide.
     On the verge of death, the gang lord forgot his wounds, forgot his enmity
toward the police. All that he could sense was the tone of Joe Cardona's words
- cold utterances that sounded plainly amid the muffled murmur of the concourse.


     LARRY RICORDO forgot the excited cries about him. He could hear only
Cardona's voice, repeating the same theme in steady demand:
     "We were tipped off. We want to know just where the tip-off came from."
     "I'll tell you where!" coughed Ricordo. "I'll tell you where! It came from
the guy in back of this game!"
     In a spasm of dying fury, the gang leader had gained a tremendous hatred
for the man who had betrayed him. Bewildering thoughts were racking Ricordo's
brain. Only one man could have played the traitor. That man was Professor
Folcroft Urlich.
     Why not? The scientist had brutally disposed of Thomas Jocelyn. Similarly,
he had decided to get rid of Larry Ricordo. To go out fighting - all because of
a double-crosser! With failing strength, Ricordo gave the answer that Joe
Cardona wanted.
     "Urlich!" gasped the gang leader. "Professor - Folcroft Urlich! Place - on
Long Island. Go - there. He - he is - the one -"
     "He tipped us off?" questioned Cardona.
     "He - he must have," blurted Ricordo. "He - he told me to scram. Get him -
out on Long Island - place called Philbrook -"
     Cardona was nodding. He saw Larry Ricordo close his eyes. The gang leader
gasped no longer. But his dying brain responded suddenly to a wild thought. A
tremor shook Ricordo's frame as he remembered the death trap which Urlich had
prepared for all comers.
     "Cardona" - Larry's lips snarled as his eyes opened for the final effort.
"Look out - when - you get - when - you get -"
     The effort was too great. Ricordo's twisted lips spat out a dying sigh.
The gang leader's body nearly rolled from Cardona's grasp. The detective could
feel it go limp. He knew that the final spasm had arrived. Larry Ricordo was
dead!
     Cardona let others hold the body. He arose to see Mayhew close beside him.
Quickly, Cardona ordered the other detective to take charge of Ricordo's
removal. A dozen sleuths were here. Cardona growled orders.
     Two minutes later, the ace detective was striding from the terminal with a
squad of men at his heels. They piled into a waiting car, and Cardona gave the
driver quick, tense orders. The car shot from the curb. Shrieking along
Lexington Avenue, it turned eastward toward a mammoth bridge that led to Long
Island.
     Detective Joe Cardona had worked speedily to-night. Less than an hour
after Thomas Jocelyn's death, he had received the tip-off concerning Larry
Ricordo. Half an hour later, the gang lord had spoken before he died from
Cardona's shots. Half an hour from now, Cardona and his men would be at their
new objective.
     Joe Cardona was on the trail of silent death. He did not know that one had
gone before him - that The Shadow was already at the spot where such death
lurked.
     The ace detective was pleased because he had forced those words from Larry
Ricordo's dying lips. He did not know that the gang lord had tried to give a
warning also, but had failed!
     Cardona and his men were heading for a fiendish trap. Soon they were to
know the power of silent death that Folcroft Urlich wielded!


     CHAPTER XXI

     TUBES OF DOOM

     IN Professor Urlich's laboratory, a fiendish plan was nearing its
completion. Cliff Marsland and Clyde Burke, still bound beside the wall, were
watching preparations that they knew would mean their doom.
     All the lights in use within the room had been concentrated on this side
of the laboratory, which was near the front of the building. Sanoja and Rasch,
the scientist's willing servants, had fitted gleaming incandescents with
reflectors so that a vivid glare pervaded this limited field.
     Professor Urlich was seated in a folding armchair, with the air of a
director in charge of a rehearsal. His orders, barked in foreign tongues that
the attendants understood, had brought forth prompt obedience. Yet the
forthcoming experiment had required considerable time for preparation.
     Cliff Marsland had ceased to feign grogginess. Clyde Burke, beside him,
was also fully conscious. Despite the cold terror which Professor Urlich's
presence caused, both of The Shadow's agents were strangely fascinated by the
details of the work which now seemed completed.
     Directly in front of the two men stood a huge tripod, mounted on a
circular base. This was a skeleton structure that ran on wheels, and its three
legs gave it the grotesque appearance of a lonely gallows. At the top of the
tripod were extended arms that supported a rim of metal.
     This upper circle supported a huge carboy. The glass vessel, incased in
wickerwork, gleamed with greenish hue. Its stopper, which had been inserted in
place, was a glass plug from which extended two flexible pieces of shining hose.
     As Sanoja pressed a little lever beside the rim that supported the carboy,
the large container rocked slightly, showing that it was on a pivot that would
enable it to be inverted. Sanoja readjusted the lever and the big vessel ceased
to sway.
     On either side of the central tripod stood a low skeleton base with
upright rods that terminated in rings. There were two of these, both large and
massive.
     Each pedestal held a container of thick glass, shaped like a mammoth test
tube. Neither of the prisoners had ever before seen such tremendous cylinders
of glass. The tubes were more than eight feet in height, and more than two feet
in diameter.
     As final preparation, Urlich's men had brought forward two caps of metal
large enough to fit over the large tubes. They had attached a hose to each cap.
Professor Urlich cackled joyously as a signal that everything was ready.


     CLIFF MARSLAND studied the face of the fiend. A demoniacal glee
illuminated Urlich's features. The scientist had watched the work of his
servants with increasing interest.
     In spite of that fact, Cliff had noticed that the professor never failed
to note the three unlighted incandescents that projected above the spiral
stairway at the center of the laboratory. Those bulbs were scarcely visible in
the darkness beyond the concentrated illumination; but had one suddenly
commenced to gleam, the professor would have spied it on the instant.
     "We are ready, now," remarked Professor Urlich, his eyes focused upon the
silent prisoners. "Inasmuch as you are to be the subjects of my experiment, I
shall explain its operation to you."
     He beckoned to Rasch, who appeared with a small tube that contained a tiny
white mouse. The servant, a grin on his dull face, held the tube in the light.
The prisoners noted that it was capped with a metal cover that had a round hole
in the center.
     Professor Urlich babbled in a foreign language. Sanoja passed a glass
bottle to Rasch. The man held the tube in one hand, the bottle in the other,
and poured a greenish fluid from bottle into tube.
     A sizzling, smoky mixture manifested itself. The green was tinged with
white and fumes slowly came from the hole in the cover. Slowly, the liquid
cleared.
     Simultaneous gasps of amazement came from Cliff and Clyde. The white mouse
had vanished. The tube contained nothing but a watery fluid!
     "It has always been my wish," proceeded the professor, "to attempt this
experiment on a larger scale. The greenish fluid which you observed - the same
liquid which is in the large carboy - is virtually a universal solvent. It has
no effect upon glass; but that is about the only substance which it does not
dissolve with rapacious power.
     "The pieces of hose which project from the carboy are my own invention - a
flexible material which possess certain properties found in glass. It has been
used to withstand the power of the solvent.
     "Perhaps it is unkind" - Urlich's eyes were gleaming with irony - "to
discuss the details of this experiment with my subjects. Perhaps you would
prefer to be as the white mouse was: ignorant of what is to come. However, I
have already given you a very complete inkling, so I may as well proceed.
     "Your lives mean nothing to me. Your deaths, however, would be advisable.
In order to leave no evidence of my experiment, I find it most convenient to
destroy you as I have done with the mouse.
     "These large test tubes were made for such an experiment as this. One tube
for each of you. After that, we shall attach these lengths of hose, invert the
carboy and let the solvent do its work."


     CLYDE BURKE chewed his lips. Cliff Marsland stared steadily ahead. Each
man realized now the fiendishness of Professor Urlich's cunning, scheming mind.
More horrible death could scarcely be imagined. To be dissolved, while totally
helpless, within a mammoth tube of glass!
     Both of The Shadow's agents could feel the terrible sensation of that
vitriolic fluid that was to come!
     Professor Urlich cackled wickedly. He saw the consternation on the faces
of his intended victims. He was joyed by the thought of the swift, silent death
that was to be theirs.
     Even more did he relish the cunningness of his scheme. To reduce these
living men to nothing but a slimy sediment; then to pour out the remains that
could leave no vestige of a clew to the crime that he had perpetrated!
     This was death supreme; crime raised to the level of scientific
achievement. Professor Urlich had no desire to question his victims. Let them
call out for mercy if they would; babble secrets of The Shadow. If their words
seemed important, the experiment could be delayed. If not, it would go on.
     The Shadow meant little to Professor Urlich now. The very fact that he
held one - possibly two - of The Shadow's agents in his power meant that The
Shadow must have died from the fumes of Thomas Jocelyn's sighing death.
     Clyde Burke was staring hopelessly at the merciless countenance of the
professor. Cliff Marsland was looking beyond, toward the distant rear of the
laboratory. His eyes blinked suddenly. Had he seen a motion by what appeared to
be a doorway? Had he seen a barrier open; then close?
     Was it imagination, or did Cliff catch a glimpse of a moving form that
glided along the hazy wall, unseen by any of the others present? The thought,
at least, offered a ray of hope.
     Cliff heard a nervous gasp from the man beside him. He spoke in an
undertone, without moving his lips:
     "Steady, Clyde. Steady. Stick it out, old man."
     The reporter nodded. The test tubes were swinging forward, on swivels from
the tripod pedestals. Professor Urlich's servants approached and lifted Cliff
Marsland.
     The Shadow's agent offered no resistance. His body slid into the tube; it
swiveled upright, and Cliff could see the attendants going to get Clyde Burke.
Helpless, he watched them slide the reporter into the other tube.


     BOTH containers were upright now. Professor Urlich and his minions seemed
grotesque shapes through the curved walls of the tube. Clyde Burke, inspired by
Cliff's bravery, was staring at them also. Professor Urlich was pointing toward
the caps.
     Suddenly, the scientist stopped. He was staring upward toward the row of
lights above the central stairway. The red incandescent had become suddenly
illuminated.
     Some one was within the outer zone of death - the portico that surrounded
the circular building!
     Harsh orders burst from the professor's lips. Sanoja and Rasch nodded as
each caught the message intended for him. They were to proceed with the
experiment. Their master had other work to do.
     Hastily, Professor Urlich crossed the laboratory, and opened the door that
led to the hollow cylinder. Rasch brought forward a ladder and mounted it. He
stood beside Cliff's tube and motioned to Sanoja to pass him the first cap.
     Clyde Burke groaned within the mammoth test tube that held him prisoner.
This was the beginning of the end. One cap; then the other; after that death
that would be terrible despite its rapidity.
     Then, suddenly, Clyde's eyes opened wide. Coming into the realm of
concentrated light was a mass of blackness that bore only the grotesque
semblance of a human form, when viewed through the curving glass.
     Clyde emitted a cry of exultation. It escaped his lips despite his effort
to restrain it. The shout caused a hollow echo from the huge test tube. Sanoja
turned; so did Rasch. Terrified gasps came from Professor Urlich's henchmen.
     Standing before the tubes of death stood a tall figure clad in black.
Menacing eyes glared from beneath the broad brim of a slouch hat. From the
folds of a black cloak extended a gloved hand that held a powerful automatic,
ready for action.
     Rasch cowered, with upraised hands, as he stood upon the ladder. The metal
cap clattered from Sanoja's fists as the man on the floor also raised his arms.
Steadily, The Shadow approached. His mocking laugh came in clear, fantastic
tones of triumph.
     Professor Folcroft Urlich would find no victims here when he returned; nor
would he find tubes of colorless liquid where living men had come. The Shadow
had arrived to foil the scheme of silent death!
     The Shadow's glowing eyes brought terror to the enemies who viewed them.
Those eyes were glaring now. They knew all; they saw all. Not only did they
observe the cowering minions of Professor Urlich; they also perceived the cause
of the scientist's sudden departure.
     The Shadow had seen the red light that still glowed above the central
staircase! Again, his laugh reechoed through that laboratory where death had
been frustrated!


     CHAPTER XXII

     THE SWITCH OF DEATH

     PROFESSOR FOLCROFT URLICH stood beside the huge death machine in the pit
beneath his laboratory. His hand was on the control switch; his eyes watched
the row of glowing incandescents.
     Not yet did the cruel scientist intend to loose the terrific shock of
death. Only the red bulb was lighted. It meant that invaders had come no
farther than the outer portico.
     Well had the professor designed his three zones of death. He did not
intend to use the power at his disposal merely to dispose of some prowler; nor
did he choose to employ it indiscreetly.
     So long as the first zone alone had been entered, there could be no
danger. Perhaps these intruders would go away. If they sought to enter, they
could be allowed to do so, if they came as friends.
     That was the reason why the scientist had ordered his men to proceed with
the experiment that would bring death to the captives in the laboratory. If
merely harmless investigators had come to this coliseum of doom, Urlich could
welcome them with clean hands.
     The muffled thuds of heavy battering suddenly impressed themselves upon
the professor's ears. A frown furrowed the evil brow. That sound meant enemies.
The scientist's hand wavered upon the control switch. It paused.
     This was not the time to kill. If death were dealt now, some watchers
beyond the range of the hidden portico might be clear; they might witness the
end of their companions.
     Urlich grinned wickedly. He would let these invaders enter. Once inside,
within the second zone; yes, even in the third, he could pull the switch of
death!
     Silent death! The death that Urlich had longed to deal. This coming upon
the heels of his laboratory experiment caused the fiend to chortle with glee.
     The Shadow was dead; his agents were on their way to destruction; and
other enemies were entering the door to meet their end.


     WHO could these foes be? Professor Urlich nodded as he thought. The
police? Yes! Somehow, they had trailed the path of Larry Ricordo.
     Urlich scowled; he was striking the right solution. Something had gone
wrong at the Grand Central Terminal. That might be the trouble.
     What did it matter? Death lay at his hand. The fiend cackled forth his
challenge to the thumping that still persisted beyond the outer doors. His eyes
went back to the incandescents. The green bulb became lighted as he watched.
     The green!
     That meant that some one had reached the circular corridor - the second
zone of death! It could not be the men from outside, they were still trying to
burst down the heavy doors. It could only be Sanoja or Rasch who now trod that
silent hallway.
     But why had one of them come down? Why, even if one had descended, had the
man not come completely to the bottom of the hollow cylinder, to enter the pit
where Urlich now stood?
     It could not be possible that one of the servants had gone to admit the
intruders. Professor Urlich laughed at the very thought. He continued to watch
the telltale bulb of green. It remained illuminated.
     A sound came from the front end of the room, beyond the balcony. It was at
the unused door which led from the circular passage into the balcony itself.
     Professor Urlich did not hear the sound as the door opened; but the sudden
increase of the thumping surprised him.
     Yet it was not this that made him turn his head. The sign that came as a
warning was the sudden lighting of the white bulb - the signal that a person
had reached the metal flooring of the balcony!
     With hand still upon the death switch, the scientist wheeled to look at
the door.
     There, in the dim light, he saw a figure that he recognized; a spectral
shape that he had viewed once before - the being that had dropped through the
skylight into the studio of Alfred Sartain's penthouse.
     The Shadow!
     Professor Urlich's glaring eyes encountered the blazing gaze of the
black-cloaked master. The Shadow had let the door swing shut behind him. With
one hand resting upon the rail of the balcony, he held an automatic in his
other fist, the round muzzle of the weapon directed squarely toward Professor
Urlich.
     The scientist's fingers trembled on the switch; then they grasped it with
a firmer hold.
     Cunning beyond all measure, the scientist now held an advantage which even
The Shadow could not destroy. Should a bullet from that automatic fell Professor
Urlich, his hand would draw the switch also. It would mean death to the man who
killed him!
     Silent, The Shadow saw the situation. His laugh came eerily through the
vaulted pit. Professor Urlich cackled nervously. He did not like the chilling
tones of that uncanny mockery; nevertheless, his awe was not sufficient to make
him yield the hold that was his hope.
     Urlich faced destruction; he knew that The Shadow could also see the hand
of doom. The black-garbed master who had brought about this stalemate made no
comment other than his laugh.
     Slowly, to the cadence of the muffled beats at the outer door, The Shadow
circled the balcony, still holding Urlich in abeyance with his automatic. The
cunning scientist, in turn, kept tight grip upon the lever and watched The
Shadow constantly.


     ONE moment of inattention on the part of The Shadow; Urlich would spring
the switch. On the contrary, should the scientist's grip loosen for a single
instant, a shot from the automatic would spell his doom.
     The Shadow completed a semicircle that brought him opposite the door.
Professor Urlich clutched the lever tensely. He sensed a purpose. By diverting
his attention away from the door, Urlich could not see the others enter. Still,
the old man laughed. A shot from behind him could not change the situation. If
he fell, no matter how, his hand would still grip the switch.
     "Professor Urlich," came The Shadow's sudden whisper, "I have come to end
your fiendish schemes. You can no longer thwart me."
     A sneering chortle was the scientist's reply.
     "Three lights are illuminated," whispered The Shadow. "Does that not tell
you how your plans have failed?"
     Professor Urlich did not even glance toward the bulbs to see that The
Shadow had spoken the truth.
     "Red: the portico," went on The Shadow weirdly. "Green: the corridor.
White: the gallery in which I stand. Does that signify anything to you,
Professor Urlich?"
     The professor made no reply. He was puzzled, but he did not show it. His
fiendish scowl persisted. He could still hear the pounding at the outer door.
He wondered why. Men had entered. Why were others still trying to get in?
     "The white light," declared The Shadow, in sinister tones, "is evidence of
my presence. The green light tells that I have visited your laboratory. Your men
are prisoners. My agents are released. It is they who are waiting in the
corridor. They expect me to return.
     "The red light tells of men beyond the outer door. The law is striking at
your portals. You have no escape. Remove your hand from the switch and await
your capture. It is the one chance I offer you!"
     Professor Urlich snarled. He raised his voice in sarcastic words - a
challenge to The Shadow.
     "Remove my hand?" laughed the fiend. "This hand holds you at my mercy. You
and your men alike. You, your men, and the police. Shoot me if you dare; it will
mean your end! You and the others are within the circles of silent death!"
     "Do not draw that switch," warned The Shadow coldly. "I promise you - it
will mean your death!"
     "My death?" And Professor Urlich sneered. "Like Samson, I may die, but my
enemies will perish with me! It is not within your power to prevent me!"
     "It is within my power," returned The Shadow, with a sinister laugh. "One
bullet from this automatic would achieve that result. Not your black heart,
Urlich, but your trembling hand would be my mark. Hand and lever both would
break, did I decree it!"
     The challenge made the scientist tremble. He did not deem such perfect
marksmanship possible; but his recollection of The Shadow's deeds, as recounted
by Larry Ricordo, caused his mind to waver.
     The Shadow had made the statement as a simple fact. Nevertheless, Urlich
gained courage to ridicule The Shadow's words.
     "Try it!" he snarled. "One shot will be your end. Aim at my hand - and
miss. See that hand respond the moment that your automatic no longer covers my
body! It will be your last sight in life!"
     "I warn you once again," returned The Shadow. "To press that switch will
mean your doom! The invaders are here" - a clanging fall of the outer doors
proved the words - "but I shall remain. They will see only you; but you will
know my presence. The choice is yours. Press that switch or yield. My last
warning tells you that death will be yours alone. I have spoken."


     THE tall form shrank beside the rail as men pounded at the door of the
balcony. Cardona and the invading detectives had spotted the second entrance.
Professor Urlich stared at the spot, where The Shadow had been. He saw only two
gleaming eyes and the muzzle of an automatic.
     The door swung open on the balcony. It had been left loose by The Shadow.
The squad of detectives swarmed into the gallery and stopped beside the rail.
Dazed expressions were on their faces. They waited for Cardona to act; but the
leading detective was dumfounded by the sight before him.
     The red light had gone out upon the machine. All had come in from the
portico. The white, which signified these men and The Shadow, was still
illuminated. The green, which came from the circling corridor, denoted the
presence of The Shadow's agents in that passage.
     Urlich's eyes went from the lights toward the detectives. The men did not
move. They could not understand the situation. Cardona gave no order to attack;
he did not realize the danger. He saw only a fiendish maniac beside a strange
machine a raving, laughing man who was powerless before the revolvers that now
covered him.
     Cackling wildly, Urlich stared once more at the lights. The white one went
out. The red came on. The reason burst through the evil scientist's brain. The
Shadow's agents were escaping! They had fled to the portico immediately after
the advent of the police squadron.
     Heedless of a whispered echo that came from the spot where The Shadow
crouched, contemptuous of the detectives who gawked without suspecting the trap
that they had entered, Professor Urlich tightened his hold upon the switch. He
expected a shot from The Shadow. He grinned as he prepared for it.
     At that instant, the fiend's eyes lowered to the floor. They saw that the
heavy insulated wire from the machine had been spliced. A sudden tremor shook
the villain's body.
     In that terrible instant, his eyes realized a fearful truth; but his hand,
inspired by instinctive determination, did not falter in its work or heed the
warning from the staring eyes.
     Down came the switch. No report from The Shadow's automatic accompanied
it. The staring, wondering detectives leaped back toward the door as a terrific
sound came from the huge machine.
     Long crackles of lightning leaped from pole to pole. Disks whirred and
wheels revolved. But another and more terrible phenomenon accompanied that
mighty outburst. From every section of the metal floor within the pit leaped
blazing, snapping sparks.
     A terrific flash enveloped the form of Professor Folcroft Urlich. With it
came a swift, sweeping puff of whitish smoke that seemed to burst like a cloud
from nether regions.
     The white fumes swirled away. The machine crackled on, and sparks sallied
about the floor.
     At the spot where the fiend had stood, a man remained no longer. Instead
of a human, form, a mass of smoldering bone and ashes were piled in a grotesque
pyramid. These were all that remained of Professor Folcroft Urlich, scientist
and fiend of evil.
     Well had The Shadow planned this dynamic finish, during his sojourn in the
pit beneath the laboratory. His keen mind had seen the purpose of this terrible
machine. By sure but simple process, The Shadow had disconnected the huge feed
wire that led to the three outer zones, and had attached it to the floor of the
pit - that metal base upon which Urlich had first conducted his electrical
experiments.
     The master of silent death was no more. The Shadow had given him true
warning. The pressure of the switch had brought a deserved end to the murderer
who had sullied science to serve his evil designs.


     CHAPTER XXIII

     THE STORY

     CLYDE BURKE wrote the story for the Classic. The reporter received it in
detail from Detective Joe Cardona. The so-called suicide of Professor Folcroft
Urlich created a great sensation in the columns of the New York newspaper.
     The public learned that schemes of terrible death had failed except on one
occasion - that was when Thomas Jocelyn had died. Thrice had planted snares gone
wrong: with Alfred Sartain, Wesley Barnsworth, and Gardner Joyce.
     When Thomas Jocelyn had died by subtle poisoning, with his servant,
Grewson, by his side, Joe Cardona had already been upon the trail of the
murderers. Slips Harbeck, quizzed, had named Larry Ricordo. The gang lord, shot
down in the Grand Central Terminal, had squealed on Professor Folcroft Urlich.
     Pictures portrayed the laboratory where Cardona and his men had gone.
There, the scientist, apparently choosing his own killing current in preference
to that of the electric chair, had swung a suicide switch to take his own life
before the very eyes of the men who had come to capture him.
     It had taken some time to find the outside wire that had supplied the
power for the big machine. When that had been cut off, the detectives had
invaded the floor above the pit. There they had encountered two foreigners
evidently aids of the dead professor. The battle that had followed brought
death to Sanoja and Rasch, and wounds to two detectives.
     A point over which Cardona passed lightly was the fact that the servants
of Professor Urlich must have been bound at the time the police had arrived.
Possibly the scientist had overpowered them so that they would not deter his
suicide escape.
     The trapped men had managed to loose their bonds before the detectives had
accosted them. Remnants of cords upon the floor accounted for the fact. But they
had been unable to escape because the detectives had barred the one way to
safety.
     Clyde Burke smiled as he wrote the story. Nothing was known of two
prisoners whom the fiendish scientist had doomed to die. No mention had been
made of the part played by an unknown visitor from the night.
     There were other facts that Clyde did not know, yet which he, with his
extra knowledge, suspected. All these were summed in one tremendous point that
the public would never know - a scoop that the Classic would never print.
     The hand of The Shadow! Hidden, invisible, but never failing, it was the
power that had struck down the master of silent death.
     The Shadow had turned the tide of doom to sweep aside the villainous
fiend, Professor Folcroft Urlich. Unseen by the detectives, he had silently
followed his rescued agents into the darkness of the night.
     The truth of the monster's end must remain unknown to the world. But the
story would be found, preserved for posterity, in the secret archives of The
Shadow!


     THE END