THE YELLOW DOOR
by Maxwell Grant
As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," July 1, 1936.
"Through these portals pass the greatest crooks in the world!" - might
have been their slogan. But it was the Man In Black - The Shadow - who pierced
the innermost secrets of crime by challenging the barrier that was The Yellow
Door.
CHAPTER I
MURDER'S AFTERMATH
THE Jersey Central local chugged to a stop at the little Fanfield station.
A wan-faced man stepped from the smoker and crossed the gloomy platform of the
station. It was night; few passengers came to Fanfield at this hour. The ticket
office had long since been closed.
Couplings jolted as the three-car local puffed from the station. The
wan-faced man paused by a window of the dimly lighted waiting room. His
features were haggard; they showed that he had lost sleep. His lips were
twitchy; his eyes blinked suspiciously. The man feared that he was being
followed.
Someone else had descended from the train. He was sure of it. All during
the thirty minute ride from Jersey City, he had felt that eyes were watching
him. He could remember the same impression while crossing by ferry from
Manhattan. Yet when he eyed the entire platform, the jittery man failed to
catch sight of a single human being.
There was an old automobile parked in the station driveway. It was an
ancient sedan that served as local taxi from the Fanfield station. The driver
was dozing behind the wheel. The nervous man shifted a suitcase that he was
carrying. He approached the taxi, opened the door and entered. He jogged the
sleepy driver.
"Take me to 64 Wesley Drive," ordered the wan-faced man. "Make it in a
hurry."
The driver came to life. He grinned as he looked at his passenger.
"Sure thing, Mr. Dynoth," he said. "I'll get you there quick."
Dynoth chewed his lips; then queried: "How did you know my name?"
"I know everyone in Fanfield," chuckled the driver. "Soon as I heard your
voice, I says to myself: 'That's James C. Dynoth;' and I was right."
He pressed the starter; after a few attempts, the motor rumbled. The car
shot away from the station. Dynoth, jolting in the back seat, looked toward the
dim platform. For a moment, he trembled nervously. He was sure that he had seen
a figure standing almost at the spot where the cab had been.
Then Dynoth delivered a tense laugh, that came weakly from his lips. What
he had taken for a human shape was no more than a curious shadow, cast
grotesquely by the smudgy station lights.
"COME in from Chicago, Mr. Dynoth?" questioned the driver, pleasantly.
"You go out there a lot, don't you?"
"I was in Buffalo," returned Dynoth, a trifle gruffly. "I didn't make
Chicago, this trip."
"Thought maybe you knowed that fellow Peter Gildare," remarked the driver.
"The one that was murdered yesterday. He was in the radio equipment business.
That's your line, ain't it?"
"I never met Gildare."
Though the driver did not see it, Dynoth was chewing his lips, cursing the
fact that he had ever chosen to reside in Fanfield. The place was too small a
suburb, where a hack driver could know all about every commuter's business.
"Here we are, Mr. Dynoth. The fare's two bits."
The cab had stopped by a corner house. It was Dynoth's home, a small but
attractive suburban residence. Dynoth alighted. The cab driver nudged his thumb
toward the first floor of the house, where only a few hall lights were aglow.
"The missus is out," he informed. "I took her and your daughter over to a
bridge party at Mrs. Dorbin's. The battery of the car was run down, so Mrs.
Dynoth said -"
"Here's a half dollar," interrupted Dynoth, tartly, passing the cabby a
coin. "Keep the change."
He strode toward the house. The cabby watched him unlock the front door;
then he backed the sedan and started slowly toward the station. He muttered to
himself as he drove along.
"A sour guy! Well, them traveling salesmen get that way. If I was -"
The cabby jammed the rickety brake pedal to the floor; then released it.
The old sedan whined, jolted and jerked forward. The driver grunted, shook his
head and changed the tone of his mutter as he proceeded on his way.
"I'd ha' swore that was somebody there, crossing the street by them trees!
Them arc lights sure throw funny kinds of shadows."
INSIDE his home, Dynoth had gone up to the second floor. He had passed
through a hallway without turning on a light. Entering a room, he pressed the
light switch. The glow revealed a bedroom that served also as an office, for
there was an old-fashioned, roll-top desk in one corner.
The place was stuffy. Dynoth opened a window. He breathed fresh air; then
went over by the bed and opened his suitcase. He began to unpack it, tossing
crumpled clothes into a corner of the room.
From downstairs, a clock chimed eight. Dynoth glanced at his watch and
noted that it tallied. A few seconds later, a telephone bell began to ring.
There was a telephone on the desk, an extension of the downstairs telephone.
Dynoth answered the call.
A deep, solemn voice drawled a "hello" across the wire. There was a pause,
while Dynoth stood rigid. He had recognized the tone. Lips close to the
mouthpiece, he gave a tense reply of three cautious words:
"The Yellow Door."
The response satisfied the speaker at the other end of the wire. The slow,
deep voice spoke an order:
"Tell me about the transaction."
"It went through," asserted Dynoth, in his same nervous tone. "I - I -
well, I settled the matter according to the orders you sent me. He - he didn't
have much to say when I left him. He - well, maybe he might have said something
within the next fifteen minutes; but nobody could have come there."
Silence. The man at the other end still listened.
"He knew more than I thought he did," expressed Dynoth. "He must have
guessed a lot. But he didn't - he didn't know what I was there for. He didn't
figure my part in it. He hadn't talked to anybody before me."
Dynoth paused. Then came the voice again, with an emphatic question:
"You are alone?"
"Yes," replied Dynoth. "The family is out, as I knew they would be -"
"Be gone," cut in the voice, "by twenty minutes after eight."
"To the Citadel?" queried Dynoth anxiously.
"Yes," returned the voice. "To the Citadel."
There was a click at the other end of the line. Dynoth clung to the
receiver, scarcely realizing that the call had ended. Then, to his ear, came
another click. He listened intently, expecting to hear the voice again. There
was no voice.
DYNOTH hung up and planted the telephone on the desk. He went to a bureau,
ripped open a drawer and began to remove bundles of clothing, to pile them in
his half-emptied suitcase. Glancing at his watch, he saw that it was seven
minutes after eight. Panting, Dynoth hastily opened a small drawer and grabbed
up valuables: studded cuff links, some rings of moderate value, other items
that he considered of worth.
Suddenly he paused, to cock his head and listen. Fear showed on Dynoth's
face. Strained nerves had exaggerated his imagination. He fancied that he heard
footsteps upon stairs. Steadying, Dynoth grated a sickly laugh; then his face
twitched.
There could be someone in this house.
Dynoth had remembered the click that had followed his telephone
conversation with the voice. He thought of the downstairs telephone. Had
someone lifted the lower receiver? Was that person already en route upstairs,
or lying in wait below?
Frantically, Dynoth tossed his valuables into the packed bag. He leaped
back to the bureau and pawed through the drawer. He found a revolver and thrust
it into a pocket. Diving to the bag, he dug beneath clothing and produced a
small, round bottle. Twisting off the screw cap, Dynoth shook out a large
capsule. He placed it carefully between his front teeth; then closed his lips
to conceal it.
Unbroken, the capsule remained in its hidden position while Dynoth buried
the bottle and closed the lid of the suitcase. He tugged straps tight and
lifted the suitcase, to plant it on the floor. He glanced at his watch. Twelve
minutes after eight. Dynoth grinned slightly, without disturbing the capsule
with his pressing teeth.
Gripping the handle of the suitcase with his left hand, Dynoth thrust his
right into his coat pocket, to grasp the revolver. While he fumbled for the
weapon, he turned toward the door of the bedroom. His tightened lips prevented
a gasp; but his smile ended. Rigid, Dynoth faced a being on the threshold.
A SILENT intruder had arrived to confront James Dynoth. Motionless as a
statue, silent as a specter, a cloaked invader stood ready to block escape. The
visitor was garbed entirely in black. A cloak covered his shoulders; thin gloves
encased his hands. His head wore a slouch hat, with downturned brim. The only
features visible to Dynoth were burning eyes that shone with a condemning
challenge.
From one black-gloved fist projected an automatic pistol, a bulky .45 with
looming muzzle that formed a tunnel of certain doom. Dynoth quavered; the bag
thudded as his left hand rose; the revolver turned in his pocket as his right
hand came to view and also moved ceilingward.
Everything in Dynoth's manner showed that he recognized the weird
personage who confronted him. His trembles were those of a guilty man; they
told that James Dynoth was a murderer. He was marked as the slayer who had
killed Peter Gildare in Chicago. Dynoth was a man schooled in modes of crime.
That was why he had so quickly recognized the being who blocked his flight.
The black-cloaked invader was one who battled men of crime, whose power of
vengeance was feared by all who dealt in evil. He was the scourge of the
underworld, the master who moved by night to confront crooks and finish their
outlawed careers.
James Dynoth stood trapped by The Shadow.
CHAPTER II
TRIPLE DEATH
SILENCE followed The Shadow's advent. A stillness so complete that the
ticking of Dynoth's watch was audible within that hushed room.
The murderer knew that his game was known. He realized why the voice had
called him across the telephone, warning that he must be gone within twenty
minutes. Dynoth was but an instrument in a scheme of gigantic crime. Someone
more consequential had foreseen that the murderer might be trailed.
Dynoth remembered that shadowy shape by the station platform. He recalled
his earlier impression. He had been correct; an invisible trailer had followed
him to Fanfield.
How much did The Shadow know?
He knew, certainly, that Dynoth had murdered Gildare. But the chances were
that The Shadow had arrived too late to catch any words of Dynoth's telephone
call, particularly that identifying statement: "The Yellow Door."
Dynoth kept his lips compressed.
Ticking seconds were becoming minutes. The Shadow spoke. His words
terrified the murderer. There was a sinister sibilance to the whisper that
filled this close-walled room.
"You slew Gildare," spoke The Shadow. "As he died, he gasped your name. He
spoke other words, as well."
Dynoth shuddered. He knew that Gildare could have lived for twenty
minutes, in the secluded room where Dynoth had trapped him. The Shadow had been
in Chicago, summoned probably by some news concerning Gildare's fear of death.
Too late to prevent murder, The Shadow had come to New York by air, arriving
before Dynoth. From the time that he had left the Grand Central Terminal,
Dynoth had been trailed.
Down to lower Manhattan; across the ferry; out to suburban New Jersey;
here to his own home. The Shadow had finally closed in upon his prey.
"The other words," pronounced The Shadow, "were these: 'The Yellow Door.'"
Dynoth chewed his lips between the teeth that still spread to clench the
hidden capsule. The jacket of that pill was not soluble. The capsule remained
firm and intact between the pressure of the murderer's teeth.
"Speak!" commanded The Shadow. "State the significance of the Yellow Door!"
THE SHADOW was advancing. His eyes bored Dynoth. The murderer's nerve left
him; then returned for a final spasm. Dynoth bit the capsule. He gulped; his
lips opened as he delivered a hopeless gasp.
With his gulp, Dynoth had swallowed the capsule.
Only The Shadow could have divined the murderer's action. He knew what
Dynoth had done. Fearful lest he would betray the secret of the Yellow Door,
Dynoth had swallowed poison. He had chosen death rather than face The Shadow.
The downstairs clock had chimed the quarter hour. It was eighteen minutes
after eight when Dynoth gulped the poison dose. He was counting upon the
capsule to remove him from life within the next two minutes. Dynoth had
promised to be gone from these premises by twenty minutes after eight.
"Speak!" hissed The Shadow. His gun muzzle pressed close to Dynoth's eyes.
"Tell of the Yellow Door!"
Dynoth was cowering away, his hands pressed to his stomach. He gasped
protesting words:
"I - I can't speak! I don't know the truth about the Yellow Door! If you
ask -"
He gulped. He had almost betrayed a name. Quick to gain the advantage, The
Shadow pressed that point.
"Name the man," he ordered - "the man who will tell."
"Krode," panted Dynoth. "Ferris Krode -"
"State where he lives -"
"At the Barwick Apartments, in New York. Except -"
"Except when -"
"Except when he is in Cleveland. That's all I know."
A moment's pause. Dynoth was twisted in agony. The poison had almost
accomplished its result. Gasping for air, the murderer hoped to reach the open
window. The Shadow stayed him with a repeated demand.
"Speak for yourself!" hissed the cloaked avenger. "Announce the secret of
the Yellow Door!"
Dynoth sagged by the window sill. One hand gripped the ledge. With glassy
gaze, the contorted killer met The Shadow's inflexible gaze. Even with death to
save him, Dynoth could not resist The Shadow's pressure.
"The Yellow Door!" he shrieked, hoarsely. "The Yellow Door! It exists! It
means -"
A TERRIFIC pang seized Dynoth. He choked; he could not complete the
sentence. His hand tightened on the window sill. His body raised rigid; held
its position momentarily; then wavered, about to topple. The murderer's eyes
were sightless. The poison had riveted him in death.
It was exactly twenty minutes after eight.
To The Shadow, that point of time had no significance. It was something
else that made him act with suddenness. A soft, purring noise had sounded
beyond the window, where The Shadow stood almost eye to eye with the stricken
form of Dynoth. The purr was from a halting automobile. The Shadow sensed a
danger.
Instantly, he whirled away from the window, across the room toward the
open door. From outside came a ripping clatter, the drill of a machine gun.
Dynoth's body jolted straight upward; it came sprawling headlong to the floor,
downed by a stream of bullets. Assassins of the night had come to make sure of
the murderer's departure. They had seen Dynoth framed in the window. They had
known that he had disobeyed a command.
The motor rumbled. The murderer's killers were on the verge of flight. The
Shadow pressed the light switch. In total darkness, he sprang toward the window,
hurdling Dynoth's collapsed body. Gripping the window frame with his left hand,
The Shadow leaned out into the blanketing night.
He saw the death car, a low-slung coupe, starting along the side street,
rearward from Dynoth's house. Eyes glinting, The Shadow aimed. The range was
short; his firm hand was about to deliver devastating bullets. Punctured tires;
a riddled gas tank - such possibilities were certainties to The Shadow.
Assassins who knew the secret of the Yellow Door were at The Shadow's
mercy. One second more - they would have been trapped in a crippled coupe. A
short time interval; but it was not sufficient.
As The Shadow's finger squeezed the trigger of the .45, a splitting,
thunderous blast quaked from below. With an upheaving roar, the entire house
seemed to lift itself from the ground. The window frame shuddered, crackled
sidewise. The Shadow was spun upward like a figure of straw.
Flames of the explosion swept upward from the depths. The boom of The
Shadow's gun was puny, lost in the terrific blast that shook the neighborhood.
The flash that tongued, unaimed, from the automatic was no more than a spark
compared with the broad streaks of flame that spread upward, outward, as
dynamite shattered floors, walls and roof.
The shudder that followed the explosion was featured by falling ruins, by
volumes of smoke that enveloped the scene of disaster. The Shadow, the only
living person in the house, was stunned, shaken, hurled helpless and incapable
by the blast.
The lights of the house were instantly extinguished. The room vanished.
Dynoth's body was gone. Walls had heaved outward; the roof had scaled upward;
then, as after-effect, all settled back. Tumbling, pouring, the fragments of
the building collapsed inward to become a smoldering pit wherein dust and smoke
mingled to produce a grayish cloud amid the darkness.
INSTINCT alone saved The Shadow. Had he been at the door of Dynoth's room,
he would have gone down into the pit, for the floor had split to swallow
everything that was actually in the room itself. The Shadow, however, had been
at the one spot that afforded safety.
Like a mammoth, clutching hand, the sucking intake of returning air had
almost swept The Shadow downward. All that held him was his grip upon the
window frame. His gun was gone from his right hand; instinctively, he clamped
that fist along with the left. The window frame had cracked; but it formed a
partial structure as it loosened from the shattered wall.
Debris, smashing downward, was deflected. Lighter than the crumbling
stone, the woodwork about the window did not recover from the outward force of
the explosion. Instead of rolling inward to the pit where death was certain, it
scaled downward, flopping crazily, to strike the ground just beyond the fringe
of the outer wall.
With it went The Shadow, twisted about, clamped in the broken frame
itself. The frame struck on a corner; it broke apart and sprawled its burden on
the turf. Fragments of ruined shutters, masses of splintered shingles came
pouring down upon The Shadow's outstretched shape.
A stone from the falling chimney hurtled freakishly and struck the ground
five inches from The Shadow's head. A chance bounce sent it away from him. That
missile was the last threat of death.
For a full five seconds, The Shadow lay motionless; black beneath the
night, he showed no sign of life. Then, slowly, he raised his head and
shoulders. He inched forward away from the ruins.
A beam, supported by a chunk of frame, began to quiver. The Shadow could
hear a warning rattle. He eased cautiously; then gave a quick twist and rolled
clear, to let a crushing flow of shattered masonry come pouring upon the place
where he had lain.
The Shadow arose weakly. He sagged; then managed to control himself with a
limp. Capable of motion, he knew that he could depart from the scene of the
catastrophe, though his progress would be slow. He had suffered no serious
injury.
The murder car was gone. The Shadow had no chance to overtake it, even
with a bullet. Triple death had been delivered to James Dynoth, the killer who
had failed to cover up his trail. A zero hour had been set. Dynoth, forced to
await it, had paid final penalty.
Dynoth had himself sought death by poison. Watchers, stationed outside to
cover his departure, had delivered machine gun bullets to make certain of
Dynoth's doom. That matter; however, had already been arranged by some other
emissary of crime, who had come and gone beforehand. A huge time-bomb had been
planted in Dynoth's cellar, set for twenty minutes after eight.
Triple death had halted The Shadow's trail. Three courses had been devised
to prevent Dynoth from betraying the crooked master whom he had unquestionably
served. Almost miraculously, The Shadow had escaped from doom. During the final
moments of Dynoth's life, The Shadow had gained an extension of his trail.
The Shadow's quest was definite. He must find Ferris Krode, the man named
by James Dynoth.
Krode could deliver the secret of the Yellow Door.
CHAPTER III
THE LAW ENTERS
IT was morning in Manhattan. A newspaper bore headlines that told of the
explosion in Fanfield, New Jersey. That newspaper was resting upon the glass
top of a mahogany desk. Beyond, windows revealed a panorama of New York's
skyscrapers.
This office held one of the highest locations in lower Manhattan. It was
on the fifty-eighth story of a spirelike tower. It was the private office of
Dudley Birklam, president of the World Wide Shipping Corporation.
Birklam, in person, was seated behind the desk. A tall, bulky man, whose
hair bore a grizzled touch, he possessed features that were rugged and
square-jawed. Birklam was in his late fifties; his vigor was that of half his
age. The pounds of his tight fist were emphatic when they reached the
glass-topped desk.
Across from Birklam was a broad-shouldered, dark-visaged man, whose steady
face was adorned with a heavy mustache. He, also, was well-known in certain
circles. He was Vic Marquette, head of the Department of Justice operatives
stationed in New York.
Birklam had finished a harangue. Marquette nodded that he understood.
"It's just as the police commissioner described it," declared the G-man.
"I saw Commissioner Weston this morning. I agreed with him that it was a
Federal case."
"Of course," rejoined Birklam. "It is liable to carry to any part of the
country. It may prove international."
"Exactly," decided Marquette. "Before we proceed further, let me summarize
the information just as you have given it to me. I want to be sure that I have
every detail."
Birklam nodded his willingness.
"Ten days ago," stated Marquette, "you were approached by a man named
Ferris Krode. He is medium height, forty years of age, has a pointed nose and
eyes that are wide apart."
"And lips that have an ugly curve," inserted Birklam. "It was their
expression that made me mistrust the man."
"Ugly lips," added Marquette. "Krode, in his talk with you, showed
considerable knowledge of the shipping business. He advised you that it would
be a mistake for your company to buy out the Pan-Europa line."
A nod from Birklam.
"Krode intimated," resumed the G-man, "that any announcement of intended
purchase would stir up ill feeling among the crews aboard Pan-Europa vessels.
He added that there might be sabotage committed on those ships as soon as the
deal was settled. If that happened, the World Wide Shipping Corporation would
suffer immense loss."
"So great a loss," put in Birklam, "that all advantage gained by the
merger would be offset. Our own company would suffer because shippers would
fear that the trouble would spread to the ships already owned by the World
Wide."
Vic Marquette leaned back in his chair.
"That much is settled," he asserted. "Tell me: what do you think is behind
Krode's game?"
"I have two theories," replied Birklam, "It is either blackmail or a
racket. Perhaps, in a sense, the two might be called one. I think that if I had
offered Krode money, he would have changed his tune. But he made no demand."
"How did you forestall it?"
"By simply stating that my company was not intending to purchase the
Pan-Europa line. I thanked Krode for his advice, but added that it was
unnecessary."
"Do you intend to buy the Pan-Europa?"
"Absolutely! Moreover, I am sure that Krode knows it."
"Both theories are good," mused Marquette. "They are similar, of course.
In straight blackmail, Krode would have simply threatened to produce the
trouble himself. In a racket, he would have covered it under the pretense of
giving you protection. He would have claimed the ability to prevent the
impending trouble, for a given price."
"That is precisely as I estimated it, Mr. Marquette."
VIC arose and sauntered over toward the window. He stood looking out
toward the bay, studying the toylike ships that were plodding through the
harbor. After a brief contemplation, Marquette turned about and shook his head.
"There may be something else behind it, Mr. Birklam."
The shipping man raised his heavy eyebrows in query.
"Some time ago," explained Vic, "there was a case in California, wherein
the Golden Oil Co. was advised not to purchase certain options. The threat was
intimated that the new wells would be set on fire. The Golden Oil Co. went
ahead with its plans of purchase."
"What occurred?"
"Howard Bostbaum, who headed the directors of Golden Oil, was found
murdered. In the confusion which followed, the options were allowed to ride.
They were purchased by an almost defunct corporation, the Amerimex Co. As a
result, Amerimex stock showed a tremendous profit."
"Then Amerimex was behind the threat?"
"That could not be proven. The man who made the threat to Bostbaum was
named Rupert Thurlon. He had no connection with Amerimex. He has not been heard
from since. The Amerimex Co. now rivals Golden Oil. We have not learned who
could have profited most: those who sold the stock when it was low; those who
bought and sold as it rose; or those who own it at present."
"But you are still seeking Thurlon?"
"Yes. Because he bears the same position in that case that Krode may hold
in this one."
Marquette paused while Birklam nodded a slow understanding. Vic spoke
again; as he did, he picked up the newspaper from Birklam's desk.
"You've read about the explosion in New Jersey?"
"Yes," replied Birklam, in surprise. "Does it have a connection?"
"It does," replied Marquette. "There was a murder in Chicago, a few days
ago. A man named Peter Gildare was slain. He was a manufacturer of radio
equipment."
"I recall the case."
"Gildare had arranged to form a new corporation - one that would have
dominated the industry. He was murdered. His plans are finished. Today, we
learned that James Dynoth, the man who died in the New Jersey explosion, was
the last person who saw Gildare."
Marquette threw down the newspaper and wagged his forefinger across the
desk.
"Dynoth may have been with Gildare, or he may have been against him,"
announced the G-man. "Which, we do not know. In either case, Dynoth knew too
much. That is why he died."
BIRKLAM'S face registered both puzzlement and worry.
"I can't quite grasp it," declared the shipping man. "Who could have
gained by Gildare's death, and Dynoth's subsequent murder?"
"The men who control any one of a dozen manufacturing groups," explained
Marquette. "Twelve or more concerns are after supremacy in the radio equipment
field. Gildare's entry would have produced mergers. Someone wanted to eliminate
him."
Birklam was about to speak, when Marquette interrupted him.
"I know what you are about to say," declared Vic. "We should watch the
other manufacturers and pick the one that gains the most through the failure of
Gildare's plans. That won't work, Mr. Birklam. We are dealing with some crafty
fox, who may let others profit first. He is looking way ahead in this game.
Just as he is in your case."
"In my case?"
"Yes. Can you tell me what effect may come if you do not purchase the
Pan-Europa line?"
Birklam pondered; then shook his head.
"There is no way to tell," he admitted. "Pan-Europa may strengthen. Or it
may merge with some line other than World Wide. If it does merge, it may ruin
the company that it joins, instead of helping it. It is like a chess game, Mr.
Marquette; one can not predict the moves that are to come."
"Unless the game is fixed," returned Marquette, "and that's the way with
this one. Oil, radio equipment, shipping - they are all alike to the big-shot
who is pulling the strings. He can continue his manipulations, with threats and
murders as his stand-bys, until he is completely covered and the payoff is due.
We are opposed by a master schemer who stands to make a fabulous fortune; with
proxies to help him reap the profits."
Birklam rubbed his rugged chin; then tightened his fist and brought it
hard against the desk.
"Krode is the man behind this!" he asserted. "He is the one whom we must
trap!"
"That's just it," agreed Marquette, "and you are the man who can help us
do it."
"Yes, I can. But we must wait until Krode comes here again. The scoundrel
was too smart to tell me where I could reach him."
"He will be back - don't worry on that score. All I ask is that you don't
get jittery, Mr. Birklam."
A SMILE wreathed Birklam's rugged face. The shipping man displayed a
confidence that pleased Vic Marquette. Nevertheless, the G-man decided to add a
promise that would keep Birklam free from fear.
"We'll be ready any time you say," declared Vic. "My men will cooperate
with the police. You will be guarded at all hours. For the present, though,
that can wait. You handled Krode neatly. He can't possibly suspect that you
have learned his game. The time to tighten will come later."
Birklam nodded his accord. Marquette arose; they shook hands and the
Department of Justice man went to the door. About to depart, he added one note
of conviction:
"Krode is somewhere in New York. We'll locate him before he starts new
trouble. We'll find a way to trap him."
In three sentences, Vic Marquette had made a trio of mis-statements.
Ferris Krode was not in New York at the time when Marquette spoke. Krode,
at that hour, was in Cleveland.
Nor could Marquette locate the man before he started new trouble. Krode
was already engaged in that very practice, using the Middle West as his base.
Nor could Marquette be depended upon to trap Krode. There were
circumstances that rendered that impossible. There was only one person who
could accomplish that achievement. One who already knew Krode's whereabouts and
who had divined that the wanted man was engaged in new mischief.
The one who knew was The Shadow.
CHAPTER IV
IN CLEVELAND
SHORTLY after noon that same day, a young man arrived outside the entrance
of the Cleveland Union Terminal. Pausing beneath the heights of the tall
Terminal Tower, he looked across the public square and eyed the incessant
streams of curving trolley cars that met at that focal center.
Proceeding afoot, he reached the corner where Euclid Avenue joins the
square. Choosing the main thoroughfare, he walked eastward along Euclid. Though
an out-of-towner, this young man was familiar with Cleveland. He had important
business in the Forest City.
The young man was Harry Vincent, trusted agent of The Shadow. Keen,
clean-cut in appearance, Harry had the ability to use good headwork in a pinch.
That was why The Shadow had dispatched him on the important errand of locating
Ferris Krode.
For the present, The Shadow was out of combat. He had suffered severe
wrenches and sprains in his fall from the dynamited house. Moreover, Krode's
trail was likely to prove a double one, demanding work in New York as well as
in Cleveland. The Shadow had therefore ordered Harry to take a late train to
the Mid-West.
Locating Krode in Cleveland could be much like finding a very small needle
in a large haystack. Upon arrival, Harry had looked up Krode's name in a
telephone book, to find what he had previously learned in New York: that the
man was not listed. He had then called "information" and asked for Krode's
telephone number. Harry had insisted that the man had one.
He had finally been informed that there was a Krode Advertising Agency in
the city; that its telephone had been installed too late for listing in the
present book. It was not, however, registered as an unlisted number. Therefore,
Harry received both the telephone number and the address.
There was a chance that the occupant of that office might be Ferris Krode.
Harry was familiar with facts supplied by The Shadow. In the case of James
Dynoth, the pretended salesman of radio equipment had made no effort to assume
an alias. It was possible that Krode would be quite as unguarded in his method.
The Shadow had sent an agent to the Barwick Apartments in Manhattan. Krode's
name had been on the board in the lobby, He was not listed, however, in the
Manhattan telephone book; nor did "information" have his name.
Harry had therefore gained something of a break in finding a possible
Krode as a telephone subscriber in Cleveland; but he could see the explanation.
Posing as an advertising man, Krode had reason to have a telephone bearing his
own name, so far as Cleveland was concerned.
A TURN on a side street brought Harry to an unpretentious office building
of ancient architecture. It was the address he wanted. Entering the dingy
lobby, he found Krode's name. The Krode Advertising Agency occupied Suite 406.
Ascending in the elevator, Harry stepped into a long, barren hall. Suite
406 was along the passage. It bore the name of the advertising agency upon the
frosted door. Harry turned the knob and entered. He found himself in an outer
office, stocked with an old desk, three chairs and a quartet of second-hand
filing cabinets. He saw Krode's telephone upon the desk.
There was a frosted door that bore the word "Private." It swung outward
and a man filled the doorway, to eye Harry and deliver a casual nod. The man
was in shirt sleeves and vest; his face was shrewd and pointed. He was standing
with hands in trousers pocket, expecting Harry to say something.
"Mr. Krode?" queried Harry.
The man nodded. Harry lowered his tone for another query:
"Ferris Krode?"
A second nod. This time he was more detailed in his survey of the visitor.
Harry smiled wisely. He decided that it was Krode's turn to say something.
Harry's policy worked. Krode also used a lowered tone. as he questioned:
"You're Mandon?"
Harry took a chance with a nod. Krode's lips formed a tight smile of their
own. Then the man snapped:
"What do you want to see me about?"
On his own, Harry could never have given a reply. He had, however, come
here with instructions from The Shadow. Harry's chief had ordered him to be
ready in a pinch; and The Shadow had given Harry the words to use. Tensely, his
tone lowered still further, Harry spoke:
"The Yellow Door."
THE words were magical. Krode motioned Harry into the inner office. It was
smaller than the outer room, and furnished only with an old desk and two chairs.
There was a typewriter on the desk; beside it, a sheet of paper. Krode picked up
the sheet; Harry saw that it bore a brief message, in capital letters:
EMPLOY NEW MAN
Krode showed Harry the message.
"Just typed it off a few hours ago," he confided. "It came in this
morning. That lets you out of a tough proposition, Mandon. It's better to use a
fellow who is on the inside. That is, if you've really got one who's sure fire."
"Don't worry about him," assured Harry. "He'll handle things right."
"Good! You didn't tell him about the Yellow Door?" Krode's tone was an
anxious one.
Harry responded: "Of course not."
Smiling, Krode picked up the sheet of typewriter paper and crumpled it. He
threw the wad into the wastebasket. Then, as an afterthought, he pulled another
wad of paper from his pocket. It was a small sheet, curly at the edges and
reddish in color.
"The original," explained Krode, taking it for granted that Harry
understood. "No need to show it to you. You saw the decoded copy."
Harry's fingers itched to hold the sheet of red paper; but Krode crumpled
the wad tighter and thrust it back into his pocket. Eyeing Harry sharply, he
remarked:
"You read about Dynoth."
"Yes," replied Harry. "It was a big story, even out here."
"Something must have gone wrong," stated Krode. "He had his chance to get
to the Citadel. Everyone has. Probably Dynoth couldn't make it."
"We all run the risk."
"That's right, Mandon. I just mentioned it, though, because Dynoth was the
only man you'd worked with, until now. I knew him, too. He probably told you
that."
"He mentioned it."
"It's just luck that you and I never met before, Mandon. It was better,
though, that we handled things by mail."
Harry made no comment. He was thinking how lucky it was that Krode had
never met Mandon.
Harry was also considering how unlucky it would be if the real Mandon
should appear within the next few minutes. It was quite possible that he would
arrive, since Krode had been expecting him. Anticipating such an occurrence,
Harry was groping for some plan of bluff. He could think of none.
"I SPOKE about Dynoth," stated Krode, "because he was your only contact.
There are others like you, Mandon, who have never been through the Yellow Door.
That comes when you make your first trip to the Citadel.
"Dynoth told you all about the Yellow Door, so you rate the same as he
did. You've got a job ahead of you and since you are picking a new man to help
you, the best system is to work from this office. You can take over this place
from now on. That will make me free to handle other matters."
Krode had begun to rummage through the drawers of the old desk. He paused
to nudge his thumb toward the outer office.
"All dummy stuff out there," he explained. "Those file cabinets are the
hokum that goes with the place. You've taken over my business, that's all."
From a drawer, Krode took some sheets of blue paper, which he slipped into
a large mailing envelope.
"You have your own paper," he remarked. "Bring it down here. I'm leaving
you the typewriter; I have a portable of my own at the hotel. You can have
these, too."
He indicated a cardboard box with no top. It was filled with rubber
keycaps, the sort that fit over the keys of a typewriter keyboard, each bearing
a letter to correspond with those on the keyboard. Krode drew out a broad, flat
metal box, slightly more than an inch in depth. He opened it, removed a
medicine bottle filled with colorless liquid.
"I'll need these," he stated, packing them separately into the mailing
envelope. "You have your own, of course. I'll send the message, telling that
you are here in my place. You'll hear from me by mail, Mandon."
Krode was ready for departure, much to Harry's elation. He paused long
enough to fish out an addressed envelope from the drawer. He showed it to
Harry; the envelope bore the name "Ralph Mandon," with the address "Adair
Apartments."
"I was going to send you another message," remarked Krode, "but that won't
be necessary, since you came here. Better move from the Adair, Mandon. Use this
address entirely. My name will cover you, just as your being here will give me
an out if I am questioned."
"But don't forget the tip-off, in case trouble threatens. Stay aboveboard
as long as you can. It's the best policy. It worked out with Dynoth. The police
have an idea that he was on the level, just another unfortunate victim like
Gildare.
"I'll be in New York soon enough to get word from you. But don't bother
with a message unless it's necessary. Above all, don't forget to keep them
brief. That's what makes them safe."
KRODE picked his coat from a chair back and donned the garment.
Tucking the mailing envelope under his arm, he started for the outer
office. Harry followed. When they reached the door to the hall, Krode glanced
at his watch.
"Just time enough," he decided. "I've got to check out at the hotel. So I
can't stay longer, Mandon. I wanted to ask you more about this fellow Jellup;
but it's not necessary. You told me enough in those last messages."
Harry nodded. He knew that Jellup must be the man whom Mandon had obtained
for some special duty.
"You condensed those messages nicely," commended Krode, "but they were too
long. Still, they had to be, under the circumstances. Just the same, I thought
it a good idea to remind you that we want them brief.
"Remember: not a word to Jellup about the Yellow Door. He's not one of us
and never will be. If he starts to get squeamish, shoot the word and we'll rub
him out. Otherwise, we'll let him wait a few months and bump him quietly."
Recalling that he was in a hurry, Krode stepped out into the hall and
pulled the door shut behind him. Tense, Harry listened while Krode's footsteps
faded toward the elevator. He remained attentive until he heard the opening of
the elevator door; then its close.
Ferris Krode had descended. At worst, he could only pass the real Ralph
Mandon in the lobby and would not know that the arrival was coming to his
office. Harry had played his game safely. He was in the clear. But Harry saw
other possibilities, which came from a recollection of the past.
Once, in London, Harry had worked with The Shadow and had seen his chief
handle a double role. The Shadow had twice interviewed one man, but in
different characters, thanks to his mastery of disguise. Harry was not adept at
that art; but disguise would not be necessary here in Cleveland. This present
case was the reverse of the London situation; that fact gave Harry the proper
cue.
Krode had never met Mandon. Therefore, Krode had taken Harry for Mandon.
Conversely, Mandon, when he came, would naturally mistake Harry for Krode.
With a confident smile, Harry Vincent returned into the inner office,
prepared to play a waiting game. He had gained a key position. Harry was well
placed to help The Shadow unravel the mystery of the Yellow Door.
CHAPTER V
HARRY REPORTS
WHILE he waited in Krode's inner office, Harry relieved his tenseness by
concentrating upon the facts that he had learned. His first thoughts concerned
the Yellow Door.
The Yellow Door was tangible. The name itself not only served as a
password; but there was an existing yellow door, through which persons had been
privileged to pass. The Yellow Door was at the Citadel, wherever that might be.
Krode knew where the Citadel was. So, apparently, did Mandon. The latter,
however, had never seen the Yellow Door.
Jellup, Mandon's tool, had never heard of the Yellow Door; nor was he to
be informed regarding it.
Messages passed between men who knew the secret of the Yellow Door. Those
messages were dispatched in code. Krode had deciphered one, striking it off
upon the typewriter that rested on the office desk. The messages, whenever
possible, should be brief.
The coded message that Krode had received had come on red-hued paper.
Krode, however, sent messages on blue paper; for he had taken blue sheets from
the desk drawer. For some reason, Krode also used a metal box and a bottle of
liquid.
Typewriters were used by those who knew the secret of the Yellow Door.
Krode had left the office machine for Harry's use. In addition, he had left a
set of rubber key-caps, which could have some purpose, even though they were
not in use.
Harry began to finger the key-caps, which were right at hand in the opened
drawer. He counted them; then compared the total with the keyboard of the
typewriter. Harry made an immediate discovery.
The set of key-caps was not complete. One was missing. Checking, Harry
found that it was the cap which bore the figure 4, with the $ mark above it.
Harry looked on the floor; in searching, he removed the wastebasket. He found
the missing key-cap beneath it.
While pondering on this discovery, Harry heard the outer door open. He
quickly brushed the key-caps from the desk into their box and closed the
drawer. He went to the outer office. When he opened the connecting door, he saw
the visitor and guessed at once that the arrival must be Ralph Mandon.
THE man in the Outer office was about thirty years of age. His face,
though well formed, showed smugness. Mandon was evidently proud of his personal
appearance. He was well-dressed. He had removed his hat and above his features,
Harry saw dark hair that formed even waves back from the man's high forehead.
Remembering Krode's behavior, Harry followed the same policy. He studied
his visitor in quizzical style. The man spoke suavely, delivering a question:
"Mr. Krode?"
Harry nodded. The visitor spoke again:
"I'm Ralph Mandon."
"Ralph Mandon." Harry repeated the name in speculative manner; then
questioned: "What did you want to see me about?"
"The Yellow Door."
Harry responded promptly to Mandon's cautious tone. He motioned the
visitor into the inner office. He looked on the desk; then pretended to
remember the wastebasket. From it, he fished the crumpled white paper that bore
the words "Employ New Man." Harry showed the decoded words to Mandon.
"It covers Jellup," said Harry, quietly. "I destroyed the original.
There's just one thing, though, Mandon. Your messages regarding Jellup were
pretty well condensed. I want to know more about him."
Mandon nodded. He looked worried.
"You've heard about Dynoth," remarked Harry. "Too bad about him. But he
had his chance to get to the Citadel, like we all have. You rate the same,
Mandon, even though you haven't gone through the Yellow Door."
Harry's paraphrase of Krode's former statements was a glib one. It had
marked effect on Mandon. The visitor showed his confidence with a brisk nod.
Then he explained the source of his worry.
"I wanted to tell you about Jellup," he began. "I was cagey with him, of
course, and that proved wise. Jellup won't work with us. I found that out when
I had lunch with him today. That's why I was delayed in getting here."
"Sit down," suggested Harry, indicating a chair. "Suppose you tell me the
whole story, Mandon. Amplify those messages of yours. Give me a line on the
whole thing."
Mandon appeared pleased by the suggestion. He took a chair across the desk
from Harry.
"OF course, you know how I lost out on that job I was after," stated
Mandon. "Henry Adlaw decided to keep his private secretary and that put me out
of luck, even though I rated better than any other applicant. I did manage to
do some work for Adlaw. My first hunch was to sound out Clefter, the chap who
kept the secretary's job. But I saw that wouldn't work. Clefter was too
conscientious."
Harry smiled sourly. His expression indicated contempt for any one
afflicted with a conscience.
"Adlaw is all set to buy the Saginaw Copper Mines," resumed Mandon. "If he
takes them over, he will be sunk. So he is one fellow that doesn't have to be
bumped. We want to keep him alive, which makes it easier for me than it was for
Dynoth."
"Of course," nodded Harry. "Dynoth hit hot water when he finished Gildare."
"Adlaw would ruin himself," declared Mandon, emphatically, "if he went
ahead with the Saginaw Copper deal like he planned. But the old boy is just a
bit too smart. He's waiting for a confidential report from that smart-alec
investigator of his.
"If it comes in, the report, and says that Saginaw Copper is O.K., Adlaw
will grab it like that!" Mandon snapped his fingers as an indication. "But
Smythe won't send in a good report. He'll give Saginaw Copper the grand razz."
Harry took it that Smythe was the investigator. He ventured a speculative
remark:
"If we could only handle this fellow Smythe -"
"We can't," inserted Mandon. "He's likely to be anywhere. Up in Wisconsin,
down in West Virginia, maybe out in Montana. When his report comes in, that dumb
cluck Clefter will file it; and the next day old Henry Adlaw will go over it."
"And that means -"
"That we've got to grab off the real report and shove a dummy in its
place. Look" - Mandon brought papers from his pocket - "here's everything we
need. Hotel stationery from wherever Smythe may be. Exact duplicates of the
questions that Adlaw gave to Smythe to be answered. I copied them from the
carbons; did it on Clefter's typewriter.
"Here's Smythe's handwriting; his signature. Private stationery of big
copper men whom Smythe may meet. Their signatures, too. A couple of hours is
all we need to fake anything that Smythe may send. We can make Saginaw Copper
look like a ten-million-dollar buy, instead of a dud. But we've got to have
Smythe's own report to work from, or we'll make some slip. Then old Adlaw will
get in touch with Smythe direct."
HARRY understood. Playing the part of Krode to perfection, he studied the
blank stationery that Mandon had brought and voiced disapproval.
"You've folded these, Mandon. You should have carried them in a briefcase."
"That won't matter," returned Mandon. "They'll be folded if they come in
an envelope from Smythe."
Harry nodded as admission that his objection was overruled.
"Either one of us could fake the works," declared Mandon. "It's simply a
case of waiting for Smythe to send in his stuff. He'll probably wire, from
wherever he is. That will be the tip-off that the reports are on their way. We
want that registered package to reach Adlaw's, where Smythe will sign for it.
"Then the switch. But I can't swing it. I'm through at Adlaw's. I can't go
there day by day. We can't have somebody crack the place every night. It would
be a cinch as an inside job. That's why I worked on Jellup."
"Tell me about him," suggested Harry. "What's the trouble?"
"Sidney Jellup has social contact at Adlaw's," explained Mandon,
remembering Harry's admonition to amplify previous reports. "He's kept in right
with the old man, because Adlaw was a friend of his father's. But Jellup is in
bad with everyone else. He's borrowed dough up to the hilt.
"Jellup played the races and welched to the tune of five grand. The
bookies were ready to make it hot for him. Jellup asked me if I could help him
out of the jam inside of the next two weeks. I told him I'd find a way."
Harry showed another wise smile.
"All he'd have to do," growled Mandon, becoming sour in manner, "would be
to snag that report when it comes from Smythe. I told Jellup I wanted him to
keep in touch with Adlaw. He guessed that it would have something to do with
the old man. That didn't bother Jellup. He has no love for Adlaw.
"As soon as you gave the word, I intended to tell Jellup what he was to
pull at Adlaw's. All I wanted besides, was your O.K. to sweeten the kitty to
more than five grand, so as to keep Jellup happy for a while. It was in the
bag, Krode, until this noon. At lunch, I saw that the deal was off."
"What happened?" queried Harry.
"The one thing I hadn't expected," replied Mandon, angrily. "When he went
up to Adlaw's last night, Jellup caught the old man in a soft mood. Adlaw got
in a balmy mood and began gushing about his old departed friend, Jellup's
father. Jellup saw a chance and bawled on the old man's shoulder. Before he
left, he touched Adlaw for ten grand, cash across the counter.
"This morning, Jellup paid off the bookies and he's riding on top of the
world, with plenty of cash. Worst of all, he figures he can touch Adlaw for
more dough as soon as that bank roll is gone. He wouldn't spring a fast one on
Adlaw, the way things stand at present. So I laughed off the hints I'd given
him. Made out that I had sent him up to Adlaw's knowing he could get in right
with the old boy."
"Good stuff," approved Harry. "Did Jellup fall for it?"
"Yes," replied Mandon. "But he's out of it. We only have Clefter as a bet;
and he's too goody-goody. We can't take a chance on him."
HARRY began to drum the desk. Mandon waited, hoping for a suggestion.
Picturing himself as Krode, Harry formulated a tentative plan.
"Henry Adlaw must be easy to approach," he remarked. "Provided that
someone comes through the front door."
"Which I didn't," expressed Mandon. "I applied for a secretary's job. That
put me out as a business man or a social light."
"Suppose," said Harry, "that I contacted Adlaw. Suppose I put on a front,
made myself out to be a mine owner."
"With this office?" queried Mandon.
"The office would have to be dropped," admitted Harry. "Of course, I could
handle it on the quiet, but -"
"I've got it!" ejaculated Mandon. "Here's the stunt, Krode! Adlaw owns a
couple of lake steamers, passenger boats that he took over when he bought a
fleet of whalebacks for hauling copper ore.
"Here's what you can do. Walk in on Adlaw. Tell him you're an advertising
man, but with a flare for promotion. Say that you have dough. Flash it in a
quiet way. Talk big about a plan for special lake cruises, using those steamers
of Adlaw's. Get the old man interested in a straight partnership.
"That will hit him. You can find an excuse to call every evening, if only
to leave some new data with Clefter. You can look over that office of Adlaw's -
there in his home - and spot everything that's in it. Clefter always goes out to
inform Adlaw who has come to see him."
"That's all I need," agreed Harry. "It ought to be a cinch to pull
Smythe's report from the files."
"Sure," nodded Mandon. "You can make the fake one overnight and show up
early the next morning. Load the phony into its proper place before old Adlaw
is likely to call for it."
Mandon planked the sheaf of materials that he had brought with him.
"They're all yours, Krode," he declared. "Would it be all right if I took
a trip up to Manitoulin Island? I'm supposed to be on the loose, not even
looking for a job; and some friends asked me to go with them. It would
establish me better if I went. I think you can handle this job better by
yourself; but if -"
"Take the trip to Manitoulin," interposed Harry. He saw advantage in
getting Mandon out of Cleveland. "I'll get in touch with you at the Adair,
after you return."
"That will be in about a week."
HARRY arose. He ushered Mandon to the door. Harry had gained as much
information as he could remember for the present. As soon as Mandon was gone,
Harry hurried back to the inner office and began to pound the typewriter, using
plain white paper that he found in a lower drawer of the desk.
Harry reported on Mandon first, putting down every detail of the interview
while it was fresh in mind. Then he reverted to his preliminary conference with
Krode. He mentioned all the facts of that first meeting.
Leaving the office, Harry mailed the reports to Rutledge Mann, the contact
man through whom they would reach The Shadow.
Returned to the office, Harry sat down to contemplate the future. He felt
somewhat as if poised upon the crater of a volcano, while continuing in this
role of Ferris Krode. He knew that he might encounter difficulties; that he
would be better equipped if he had answers to certain problems, especially the
matter of code messages inscribed on sheets of paper, either red or blue.
But Harry was firm in the belief that his problems would soon be solved.
The Shadow had a way of ferreting out the answers to the most difficult
perplexities.
This, Harry was sure, would apply in the mystery that concerned the Yellow
Door.
CHAPTER VI
PATHS IN THE NIGHT
LATE that afternoon, a special-delivery messenger brought an airmail
letter to an office in the Badger Building, in New York City. The letter was
from Cleveland. It was received by a chubby-faced, lethargic man, who happened
to be alone in the office.
This was Rutledge Mann; the wording on the door announced him to be an
investment broker. Mann took the letter to an inner office. He noticed the hour
of the postmark. Harry Vincent's report had caught the airmail just in time for
rapid delivery.
Opening the envelope, Mann studied the report, noted its contents and
placed the folded papers in another envelope. Pocketing this, he left the
office. When he reached the street, he took a taxicab to Twenty-third Street.
There, Mann entered a dilapidated building and ascended a stairway. He
stopped at a deserted office, where scarred paint upon the cobwebbed glass
panel bore the name:
B. JONAS
Mann deposited the unaddressed envelope in the letter slit below the glass
panel. He heard it plop on the other side of the door. That mission
accomplished, Mann went his way.
It was dusk at the time of Mann's visit. A flickering gas jet in the dusty
hall kept watch over that ancient office. No one approached the door; no shadowy
streaks appeared upon the grimy glass pane. Had there been a listener, he would
not have heard a sound from beyond the closed door. To all appearances, the
Jonas office was forgotten.
ONE hour later, a bluish light appeared in a close-walled room distant
from Twenty-third Street. Beneath the glow came hands, opening Mann's envelope.
The Shadow had visited the Jonas office, unseen and unheard. He had brought the
letter with him to the secret abode that he called his sanctum.
Eyes peered from darkness above the edge of the shaded lamp. Keenly, they
devoured Harry Vincent's report. A soft laugh whispered amid the gloom. It was
a tone of approval, commending the work that Harry had accomplished.
Earphones clattered as a hand drew them from the wall. A tiny bulb glowed
as a signal that connection had been made. A methodical voice came over the
wire:
"Burbank speaking."
"Report."
"Report from Hawkeye. Watching Krode's apartment. No sign of occupancy."
"Report received. Instructions."
A pause; then The Shadow ordered:
"Hawkeye to remain on duty and await contact. Relay further reports to
Mann's office."
FIFTEEN minutes later, The Shadow appeared in the Badger Building. He was
in a guise that he frequently chose. Clad in tuxedo, carrying a cane, The
Shadow had affected a leisurely gait. His features were distinguished; they
formed a firm, molded countenance that was masklike and hawkish in appearance.
Sharp eyes glittered from either side of the aquiline nose.
No one would have recognized The Shadow as the cloaked avenger who roved
the underworld to hunt down men of crime. There were those, however, of social
caste who would have believed that they recognized him.
The guise which The Shadow had chosen was that of Lamont Cranston, a
multimillionaire resident of New Jersey, member of New York's exclusive Cobalt
Club and friend of Police Commissioner Ralph Weston.
Reaching Mann's floor, The Shadow strolled to the investment broker's
office. The door showed darkness. Mann had not returned. The Shadow produced a
pass-key and unlocked the door. He turned on the lights of the outer office. He
penetrated no farther.
The Shadow had come simply to make a study of Mann's typewriter. It was a
standard machine, that was housed in the stenographer's desk; but it had a
feature that interested The Shadow intensely. The typewriter had a keyboard
that was equipped with detachable rubber caps.
Tight-fitting metal disks, with upper surfaces of rubber. They could hold
a clue that Harry Vincent had failed to guess. In his description of Krode's
office, Harry had mentioned key-caps that Krode had left, apparently as
necessary to the typewriter. Those caps, however, had been in a desk drawer;
not on the keyboard of the machine. Moreover, Harry had found a figure key on
the floor. This added to The Shadow's assumption that the key-caps were
important.
Fingering Mann's machine, The Shadow removed the caps from the keys. He
studied them, rejected all caps that bore numerals or odd characters. He eyed
the keyboard, with its standard three banks of letters:
Q W E R T Y U I O P
A S D F G H J K L
Z X C V B N M
The standard keyboard was devised for speedy typing. Should the letters be
placed in alphabetical arrangement, they would not serve as well. Nevertheless,
it would be a simple matter to pick out letters as needed.
The Shadow began to put the keycaps on the keyboard in alphabetical order.
It was a rapid, easy process. When finished, the lettered keys of the typewriter
formed the capped arrangement:
A B C D E F G H I J
K L M N O P Q R S
T U V W X Y Z
Referring to Harry's report of the decoded message shown him by Krode, The
Shadow typed the words "Employ New Man," using the letters as they appeared upon
the key-caps. Because the alphabetical arrangement did not conform to the actual
keys, the words appeared thus:
TDHSGN FTV DQF
This, if The Shadow's theory were correct, would have been the coded
message as it appeared upon the sheet of red paper that Krode had crumpled and
thrust into his pocket. Had Harry seen that message, The Shadow's key-cap
system could have been put to the test.
As it was, Harry would have to wait until another message arrived at
Krode's office. He could decode it according to The Shadow's system and see if
it came out right.
HARRY had reported that Krode's key-caps had been in the desk drawer. That
was natural, since Krode would not have kept them on the wrong keys of the
machine. Rather than rearrange them each time, in their proper order, he had
put them in the desk drawer. This was a proof that The Shadow was following a
logical chain.
However, when he had removed the key-caps from Mann's typewriter, The
Shadow did not immediately replace them as they normally belonged. Instead, he
laid them on the desk in the order of the actual keyboard: Q, W, E, R and so on
through to M. Whispering each letter of the alphabet, The Shadow picked up each
key-cap in progression and placed them upon the letters that he called.
His first key-cap, Q, went on the real A. His next, W, fitted on B. E
capped the key marked C; R capped D; T capped E. The Shadow continued the
process until all the key-caps were on the machine.
Eyeing the three coded words: "TDHSGN FTV DQF," The Shadow typed them
slowly, picking each letter according to the key-caps that were in front of him
upon the keyboard. When he drew out the sheet of paper, it bore the decoded
message:
EMPLOY NEW MAN
A simple, effective system. One that required no code list, either written
or memorized. Any typewriter would, itself, serve as a guide. Rubber keycaps
would make the processes of inscribing and deciphering into simple mechanical
actions.
To send a message, the transmitter had merely to put key-caps on letters
in accordance with the alphabet. To decode a message when received, the
recipient simply arranged his key-caps like the keyboard; then planted them on
A, B, C, and so on through the alphabet.
Naturally, the code messages would have the weakness of an ordinary
cryptogram. They would possess letter frequency, short words, various
duplications. But Krode had told Harry how to offset that trouble, though Harry
had not entirely understood. Krode had said to make all messages brief.
Three words, such as "Employ New Man," would not prove sufficient for a
cryptogram expert. Those who knew the secret of the Yellow Door would avoid
long messages whenever there was chance that such could go astray.
The Shadow began to rearrange the key-caps as he had found them on Mann's
typewriter. While he was thus engaged, the telephone bell rang. The Shadow
answered the call. It was Burbank, stating that he had called the Cobalt Club.
A message had been left there for Lamont Cranston. It was from Commissioner
Ralph Weston.
FINISHING with Mann's typewriter, The Shadow left the office and took a
cab to the club. He asked for the note; he found that it contained a brief
request from the commissioner. The Shadow was to meet Weston at the home of
Dudley Birklam.
Leaving the club, The Shadow spoke to the doorman, who signaled to a
limousine across the street. The car pulled over. The Shadow entered it and
instructed the chauffeur to drive him to the address that had been given in
Weston's note. As Cranston, The Shadow was riding in the millionaire's
limousine.
Birklam's home was located up toward the northern tip of Manhattan. Its
neighborhood was like a quiet island in the surging metropolis. Set on a
height, it gave a view of the Hudson River, with the myriad lights of the
George Washington Bridge. The house was almost a mansion; but it did not stand
alone. There were other residences close by it on the slope.
The street in front was quiet, but formed a usual type of thoroughfare.
Encroaching upon the old-fashioned district were several apartment houses. The
building boom had reached this out-of-the-way section, then had faltered. It
would probably be years before the development would be completed. In the
meanwhile, home owners like Birklam would be able to preserve surroundings that
savored of a past generation.
The Shadow's chauffeur had trouble locating the exact address, due to
dead-end streets that stopped short against the rugged slopes. At last he spied
Weston's car, and it served as the final identification of Birklam's house.
ALIGHTING from the limousine, The Shadow ascended broad stone steps. He
rang a bell and was admitted by a solemn-faced servant. When he gave his name,
The Shadow was immediately ushered through a large hall and into a sumptuous
library. He stopped in feigned surprise.
The Shadow had expected to find Commissioner Weston; also the
grayish-haired man whom he knew must be Dudley Birklam. But the other occupant
of the room was one whose name had not been mentioned. The third was Vic
Marquette.
As Cranston, The Shadow knew the G-man. But it was The Shadow's part to
show surprise at meeting Vic here; and, in fact, he had not anticipated the
occurrence.
Vic's entry meant that the government was at work. It also signified that
Birklam was somehow concerned. The Shadow had made an appointment with Weston
to discuss the death of James Dynoth. He knew, therefore, that this conference
must involve the New Jersey explosion.
The Shadow shook hands with Weston and Marquette. He was introduced to
Birklam. Weston promptly made an announcement.
"I was interested, Cranston," he stated, "when you said that you had
something to tell me about that Fanfield explosion. That is why I invited you
here. Have a chair."
The Shadow started to sit down; he stopped abruptly and pressed his hand
to his left hip. Though his face remained inflexible, it was plain that he had
received a severe twinge of pain. He let himself down gradually into the chair.
"What is wrong, Cranston?" queried Weston, anxiously. "Are you in pain?"
"Just the result of a slight accident," returned The Shadow, with a faint
smile, "I had a bad fall."
"At your home in New Jersey?"
"In New Jersey."
Apparently, the pang had ended. Weston saw that his friend was ready to
enter the conversation.
"You seem to hold the opinion," declared the commissioner, "that the
explosion in New Jersey should be investigated by the New York police. That
fact interested me. What was your reason for making such a statement when you
telephoned me?"
"I know the town of Fanfield," replied The Shadow, quietly. "It is
exclusively a New York suburb. Whatever the reason for the explosion in
Dynoth's house, you will find the answer to it in this city."
"You would have me believe that Dynoth had undercover friends in
Manhattan?"
"Yes; I would wager on it. I would tell you to look for another man who
traveled - as Dynoth did - between New York and the Middle West. A man who had
persuasive methods; who dealt with the heads of big enterprises. One who has
lately called upon men as important as Gildare; men who, like Gildare, have
reason to believe that they are in danger."
A HUSH followed The Shadow's quiet delivery. Despite the calmness of the
easy tone that he had used in playing the part of Cranston, The Shadow had
produced impressive emphasis. The man who broke the hush was Birklam.
"Krode!" exclaimed the shipping man. "Gad, commissioner! The description
would do for Ferris Krode!"
"Krode traveled to the Mid-West?"
"Yes," nodded Birklam. "He told me that himself."
"What cities did he visit?"
"He did not mention them."
The Shadow eyed Weston steadily.
"Who," he asked, "is Ferris Krode?"
Vic Marquette stepped forward. He passed The Shadow a typewritten sheet.
The Shadow read it carefully. It was a report of Marquette's interview with
Birklam, amplified by statements from Commissioner Weston.
"We cannot locate Krode," announced Weston. "It may be that he has sublet
some apartment. All that we can do is await his return. We thank you for your
excellent deduction, Cranston. It is logical; it shows that we are on the right
track."
"It was nothing, commissioner," smiled The Shadow. "When you progress
further with this case, I should like to know the details. I may be able to
strike another good guess."
"You can help us with a present suggestion. You are a man of wealth, like
Mr. Birklam. Under his present circumstances, would you feel more at ease if
you had police protection?"
"That depends," replied The Shadow, slowly. "If Mr. Birklam were in my
situation, I would say no."
"Your situation?"
"Yes. I refer to my servants. They are reliable. Trustworthy to a man. I
would prefer to rely upon them for sole protection. That is, until matters
became more dangerous."
Birklam pressed a button on the wall. Ten seconds later, a door opened. A
stalwart, well-dressed young man made a bow. Birklam introduced him.
"This is Jefford," he said. "He serves as a social secretary when the
family is at home. At present, he is managing this household. Jefford has been
with us for six years. What about the other servants, Jefford?"
Methodically, the young man delivered a list of names; butlers, chef,
chauffeurs and other hired men. He added their terms of service. He mentioned
facts about them. Both butlers had served in the World War, one in a regiment
commanded by Birklam's nephew. Only the chef had been in the household less
than five years. Some of the servants had been in Birklam's employ for fifteen.
"You may go, Jefford."
With this dismissal, Birklam turned to his visitors. He smiled in
confident fashion.
"I feel certain, gentlemen," he declared, "that I have no spies or
traitors in this house. If any of my servants had such traits they would be
noted and reported by the others. Do you agree?"
Weston and Marquette nodded.
"Nevertheless," stated Birklam, "if police or government men could be
introduced here or at my office, I would welcome their presence. Provided, of
course, that they would pose as new servants or employees."
"You should be guarded while here," agreed Weston. "I shall detail a man
to that duty."
"I can add one," put in Marquette.
Birklam bowed his thanks.
BRIEF discussion followed. It concerned Krode and the man's potential
schemes. The consensus was that nothing could be learned until Krode appeared
again and became more specific. Soon, the conference ended.
The Shadow, silent, strolled out with Weston and Marquette, using his cane
to overcome his limp. He had established facts concerning Ferris Krode; but he
had discreetly said nothing regarding his own knowledge. For The Shadow knew
that plans would be spoiled, if the law immediately set watch upon the Barwick
Apartments. Until Krode returned to New York, The Shadow intended to preserve
his own vigil at that spot.
Marquette joined another operative in a coupe. Weston stepped aboard his
big car. The Shadow entered his limousine and spoke through the tube to the
chauffeur.
"Downtown, Stanley," he ordered. "I shall tell you where to stop."
Paths in the night had parted. Weston and Marquette were going their
individual ways, thinking but little of Cranston's possible destination. They
would have been mutually amazed had they been told the immediate objective of
their quiet-mannered friend.
The Shadow was en route to the Barwick Apartments, there to relieve the
present watcher who awaited the return of Ferris Krode.
CHAPTER VII
THE MESSENGER
THE Barwick Apartments were situated upon a side street, near
Seventy-second. Old-fashioned and only half tenanted, the apartment house
lacked attendants. It depended on the name board system, with a bell for
visitors to ring.
The Shadow had previously entered the apartment house. During the
afternoon, he had penetrated to Krode's apartment to find it sparsely furnished
and minus clues. Krode's apartment was at the front of the building; hence The
Shadow had chosen to watch it from outside.
Across the street from the Barwick was a delicatessen store; above it, the
deserted rooms of an old-fashioned vacant house. The Shadow had gained entry
there. The second story front room had become the lookout post.
"Hawkeye," a shrewd watcher, was on duty. His job was to note all arrivals
at the Barwick; then watch for lights in Krode's apartment, which was on the
fourth floor. By that means, he would have an inkling when Krode returned.
Meanwhile, another factor had been introduced to the game. That was Harry
Vincent's description of Ferris Krode.
If Hawkeye spotted the right man, his description would tally with
Harry's. When The Shadow relieved Hawkeye for the night, he could himself
identify Krode.
The Shadow, like the law, was playing a waiting game. His system included
watchfulness. Harry Vincent had gained a key position. The Shadow did not want
to disturb the Cleveland situation. When development occurred, The Shadow would
pass word to the law. But until Krode actually returned to New York, that would
be unwise; for if Krode scented danger, he might return to Cleveland and
jeopardize Harry's position there.
FROM his observation post, Hawkeye was watching the Barwick lobby. A
hunched, wizened-faced man, Hawkeye had a pallor that showed even in the
darkness of the room above the delicatessen. Hawkeye looked like a denizen of
the underworld. That was why he served The Shadow so effectively when he stole
through gangland's domain. Hawkeye had a reputation as a spotter who could note
faces half a block away.
So intent was Hawkeye as he watched from darkness that his quick ears did
not hear the swish that occurred beside him. Hawkeye jumped, almost nervously,
when he caught the tone of a whispered voice, that delivered the single word:
"Report!"
The Shadow had arrived in the gloom of the room. Cloaked in black, he was
completely invisible. Hawkeye darted a sidewise glance, but saw no shape beside
him. In a low tone, the little spotter reported that he had seen no one who
might have entered Krode's apartment.
"Off duty!"
With The Shadow's order, Hawkeye arose from a camp-stool that he had
brought here to place beside the window. His vigil was ended; yet he was
reluctant to leave the post. Almost in vain hope, Hawkeye paused, standing, to
make a last survey of the lighted entry across the street. His eyes saw a
moving figure.
"Look!" whispered Hawkeye. "There - sneaking past the old shoe repair
shop!"
There was a sibilant response from The Shadow. His sight was as keen as
Hawkeye's. He, too, had seen the furtive approacher. A man came closer to the
lights of the Barwick entry.
The arrival looked like a tough. His clothes were old and baggy. He had a
grimy sweater beneath his worn jacket. His face was unshaven; his eyes bleary.
A visored cap was tilted over his forehead. He darted glances in both
directions along the street, the usual procedure for one of his ilk when
anxious to avoid a patrolman.
"Weasel Hacklin!" expressed Hawkeye. "I'd know that sneak anywhere I saw
him!"
"Formerly a go-between," inserted The Shadow, whose knowledge of
underworld characters rivaled Hawkeye's. "Now unwanted by racketeers."
Hawkeye grinned in the darkness. He knew of "Weasel's" dilemma. The sneak
had served too many self-styled big-shots who had encountered unforeseen
trouble. No blame had been placed on Weasel; but it was considered bad luck to
employ him. Weasel had gained a Jonah's reputation.
Hawkeye knew why. The Shadow had carved deeply into criminal games.
Big-shots and their henchmen had disappeared in wholesale fashion. The
underworld had never learned where they had gone. Rumor had it that The Shadow
was shipping them to parts unknown. That rumor was scarcely credited, for it
seemed too fabulous. Nevertheless, it was correct.
WEASEL HACKLIN, no longer wanted, had been at a loss to place his talents
as a go-between. He had sunk to the level of the usual riffraff found in the
bad lands.
Tonight, however, Weasel was apparently on some job. His ragged attire
looked like a blind. His loafing attitude was a dodge, to make sure that the
coast was clear. Satisfied, Weasel edged into the apartment house entry. The
Shadow and Hawkeye had an angled view that enabled them to see Weasel approach
the name board on the left.
Weasel did not press a button. Instead, he fingered a name card that was
fitted into a brass slide. He tugged at the card, pulled it loose and shoved
the tiny item into his coat pocket.
Hawkeye started to speak; then stopped. Words were unnecessary. The
Shadow, too, had seen.
The card that Weasel had removed came from beside the exact spot where the
call button of Krode's apartment was located.
Weasel was one who served the Yellow Door. He had been delegated to remove
the one shred of evidence that could have led the law to Krode's Manhattan
quarters. That done, Weasel was ready to sneak out into darkness.
A whisper from The Shadow:
"Remain on duty! Report to Burbank!"
While Hawkeye nodded, The Shadow was gone. Watching from the window,
Hawkeye saw Weasel slink eastward along the side street. Half a minute later,
Hawkeye's keen eyes caught a glimpse of gliding blackness that silhouetted
itself upon a lighted space of sidewalk. He knew that The Shadow was on
Weasel's trail.
Another half minute; then a taxicab rolled into sight. Hawkeye recognized
the vehicle. It was manned by Moe Shrevnitz, another aid of The Shadow's. Moe's
cab was actually The Shadow's property.
There was a telephone in the delicatessen store below. Hawkeye decided to
go there at once and put in a call to Burbank. After that, he would continue
his watch for Krode.
HEADING eastward, Weasel reached an avenue where the elevated rumbled. He
crossed the street, looked about, but did not see The Shadow. Weasel started up
the steps to the northbound platform. At the landing, he gave another sneaky
look and took the crossover bridge to the southbound platform.
Darkness moved from the steps below. The Shadow reached the landing. He
placed his right hand over the solid rail and struck a match. It flickered
reddish in the darkness. Moe saw the tiny flare from below. The taxi driver
made a turn in the middle of the street and pointed his cab southward. The
Shadow had spotted Weasel's dodge.
One minute later, a southbound elevated train rumbled into the station.
Weasel boarded it. Just as the train was about to start, a blackened figure
glided from the fringing darkness of the station and swept across the open
space. The Shadow swung over the locked gate of the train's final platform. In
the darkness of the last car's deserted rear platform, The Shadow was riding
along with Weasel.
Below, Moe's cab was following the train. At each station, Moe waited to
watch the descending passengers, or to spy a flicker from above. Each time, he
let the train start ahead; then, driving like a jehu, he overhauled it before
the next station.
This continued for a dozen stops. At last, Moe saw Weasel appear and slink
away. He, too, had seen the man near the Barwick and was sure that Weasel was
the quarry. A flickering match from the bottom of the elevated steps told Moe
that he was right.
The Shadow followed Weasel on foot, while Moe kept a discreet distance to
the rear. Weasel was shambling eastward, toward the Bowery. The district was
disreputable; Weasel seemed at home in his surroundings. Suddenly, far ahead,
Moe saw a signal flicker. He understood. When he reached the spot; he stopped.
Weasel had taken to an alleyway. The Shadow had followed. Halfway down the
alley was a single light that illuminated the sidewalk and the front of a
squatty brick building. Moe knew the place. Colloquially, it was called
"Guzzler's Joint"; the term "Guzzler" did not refer to the patrons. The place
was simply a dive on the outskirts of the underworld, maintained by a
proprietor of questionable repute whose capacity for food and drink had earned
him the sobriquet of "Guzzler" Rogan.
Moe caught no new signal from The Shadow. The cabby drove away to report
to Burbank; then to return.
THE joint run by Guzzler Rogan was one that formed a meeting place for
small-fry thugs. It was one of the first dives that the police visited when
they made a round-up; they usually arrived after the "grapevine" had
telegraphed the word that the raid was coming.
Guzzler's, however, had previously been visited by The Shadow, without
warning. After that night, several notorious patrons had never returned. Since
then, Guzzler's business had suffered somewhat; but he had recouped through a
novel plan. Guzzler had capitalized on The Shadow's raid. He had made the place
safe for sightseers; and members of the "upper crust" were seen at Guzzler's
nightly. They came there to obtain a mistaken impression of how the other half
lived.
That, in turn, had brought back some hard-boiled customers who wanted, as
they expressed it, to "lamp the stuffed-shirt mugs"; thus, Guzzler frequently
viewed an intermingling of social aspirants and would-be big-shots. Guzzler
liked the set-up. He was living in the hope that The Shadow would stage another
entry and thus add a bona fide boost to future business.
The joint consisted of a single large room; therein, a dozen rowdies were
congregated at one end, while an equal number of well-dressed visitors occupied
the other. The place was below the street level; the high-brow occupants had
reserved tables near the outer door. At the back of the stone-walled basement
was a convenient door that offered access to passages leading to a rear alley;
also to upstairs rooms, with exits to other houses. The door at the back of the
room gave the riffraff a quick way out.
It also afforded an entrance, if The Shadow cared to use it. Guzzler,
tending a side-wall bar in the middle of the room, was ever hopeful that The
Shadow might some time arrive. Under his portly, jovial exterior, Guzzler kept
that wish strictly to himself.
WHEN Weasel Hacklin entered, he naturally took a position near the rear
door. He eyed the faces of fellow-rowdies, saw a few who impressed him, then
turned his attention to the respectable visitors. Of the dozen, four were
women; each with a male escort. Away from the throng of eight were four men who
wore tuxedoes, a group that occupied a corner table of their own.
Weasel bought a drink, then noted Guzzler. The proprietor was leaning on
the bar, his fat arms folded, surveying the customers with a pleasant grin. To
Guzzler, the middle line of the room was like the bars of a cage; on one side,
the monkeys - on the other, visitors to the zoo. In comparing the boastful
thugs and the society habitues, Guzzler had never yet decided which were the
apes and which the humans. Guzzler was philosophical as well as imaginative.
Arguments or threatening brawls were the occurrences which usually stirred
Guzzler from reverie. Tonight, a different cause was responsible. Glancing
toward the rear door, Guzzler became rigid. His double chin dropped; he gulped
an amazed outcry. His cherished hope had been realized.
On the threshold stood a cloaked figure, The Shadow. Gloved fists gripped
compelling automatics; each .45 was swaying; the two guns were covering the
dozen roughs who sat within The Shadow's range. As hoodlums turned, a sinister
voice issued a double command:
"Line up! Move out!"
As he spoke, The Shadow stepped inward. His right-hand gun indicated the
direction of the march. He intended to convey a procession of a dozen thugs out
through the rear passage.
Cowed small-fry quailed, then rose in obedience. In every thug's thoughts
- Weasel's included - there existed the same idea. Outside, The Shadow would
separate his prisoners. He would take the few he wanted, and let the others go.
It was better to accept that chance than to challenge the sure, quick death that
could come from The Shadow's guns.
Not one hoodlum offered fight; yet a surprise was due. The Shadow had not
anticipated it. Some keen impulse was all that told him when it came. Guzzler,
staring at the cloaked figure, saw The Shadow wheel toward the front of the
room.
The four tuxedoed men had come to their feet as one. Each was whipping out
a revolver - not to aid The Shadow, but to attack him. Despite their
aristocratic appearance, those men were the real desperadoes present. They were
beating The Shadow to the shot.
But the cloaked invader offset their advantage. As he turned, The Shadow
performed a long sidewise fade-off past the line-up of rowdies, to a spot on
the other edge of the doorway that led to the front street. His automatics
boomed as revolvers crackled.
Women screamed; their escorts hauled them to the floor, away from the
range of fray. Revolver bullets sizzled past The Shadow. One tuxedoed rat
sprawled upon the stone floor. The others dropped to cover, thwarted in their
plan of assassination.
Wheeling at the front door, The Shadow faced other enemies. These were the
hoodlums; their cowed manner had ended when the fight began. They were yanking
revolvers; Weasel was one of the first to produce a gun. This time, however,
The Shadow had the edge.
The cloaked warrior jabbed bullets from a lone gun, the one in his right
hand. Those shots were sufficient. Some of the riffraff were unarmed; they
dived for the rear doorway and the stampede seized others who remained. Two
cutthroats withered before The Shadow's rapid fire, sending wild shots in
return. Weasel was almost alone; he saw the mad dash and joined it. The inner
end of the room was cleared.
Guzzler had dropped behind the bar; he was trying to gain nerve enough to
pop up and grip a light switch on the wall. As he made such an attempt, the
proprietor saw the reason why The Shadow had used a single gun against the
hoodlums.
The Shadow was twisting back into the outer doorway, to be ready for the
tuxedoed sharpshooters, who were entrenched behind corner tables that they had
overturned. They were to The Shadow's right; hence he had saved the shells in
his left-hand gun. He planned to use the doorway as a shield, reaching past the
edge to dispatch left-handed shots.
THE SHADOW had gained a marked advantage. He lost it as he performed his
final maneuver. Guzzler, peering over the bar, saw The Shadow crumple and pitch
inward. No bullet had clipped him. Guzzler could not understand the cause.
It was simply that his left leg had failed him. The strain of his twist
had been too great.
The tuxedoed foemen saw The Shadow sprawl. They leaped forward, delivering
triumphant oaths. Men of their ilk were the ones who had drilled Dynoth at his
window. They saw a chance to finish The Shadow. They spattered bullets just as
The Shadow managed a diving crawl into the doorway. Shouting, the intended
killers leaped to the center of the room.
Shots spoke suddenly from the outer steps. A new fighter had come from the
alleyway, to side with The Shadow. The first of the tuxedoed trio staggered and
dropped his revolver. He clutched a wounded wrist.
Propped against the steps, The Shadow aimed along with the man who had
brought the timely aid. Three tuxedoed killers were caught flatfooted; one
weaponless. The fourth already had been eliminated; his pals were ready for a
final sprawl.
At that instant, Guzzler grabbed the light switch.
Darkness filled the dive. Women's screams replaced the bark of guns. The
two unscathed revolver-bearers grabbed their wounded companion and rushed him
out through the rear door, taking the path that Weasel had previously followed.
The Shadow boomed blind shots; so did the man beside him. Darkness served the
fleeing foemen. Their footsteps echoed from the rear exit.
The Shadow could not follow. Coming to his feet, he found his left leg
barely capable of supporting his weight. He swayed; he was caught by the man
beside him.
The timely arrival was Cliff Marsland, a sharp-shooting agent who was
always ready in this district. Burbank had received Moe's call. He had relayed
quick orders to Cliff, who had been at a usual post. Cliff had headed for
Guzzler's to be at The Shadow's beck. Hearing gunfire, he had chosen the
quickest mode of entry.
The Shadow gave an order. Cliff aided him to the alleyway. From the street
beyond, they heard the clatter of a patrolman's nightstick, beating against the
sidewalk. Shrill whistles came from the distance. Leaning heavily on Cliff, The
Shadow made the end of the alley.
Lights blinked from a taxi. Moe's cab had returned. The Shadow boarded it,
with Cliff close after him. A patrolman began a wild revolver fire from
somewhere along the street. Moe jammed the cab in gear. The taxi wheeled away
with whippet speed.
Weasel Hacklin had evaded capture. So had three assassins, placed to cover
him. The Shadow saw the connection; but he knew that he had managed to conceal
the purpose that had brought him to Guzzler's Joint. By cowing hoodlums in
bulk, he had not revealed the fact that he wanted to capture Weasel alone.
Enemies would not guess that The Shadow had gained a lead to Ferris Krode.
Hawkeye's watch upon the Barwick Apartments could still produce results.
The Shadow knew.
CHAPTER VIII
FACTS TO THE LAW
IT was the next afternoon. Newspapers had told their story of a battle
near the Bowery. The police had gained no clue to the identity of a tuxedo-clad
assassin found on the field of fray. The law did not link the fight at Guzzler's
with anything that might concern Ferris Krode.
The Shadow had sent data to Harry Vincent, in Cleveland, posting him upon
all that had occurred. Hawkeye was again on duty opposite the Barwick
Apartments. He had a description of Krode, gleaned from Harry's Cleveland
reports; but Hawkeye had seen no one who looked like the wanted man.
To Vic Marquette, all trails seemed barren. The leader of the G-men was
pondering over incomplete reports concerning Gildare and Dynoth. Vic's
temporary headquarters consisted of a modest suite in a medium-priced hotel;
and he was there with another operative when the unexpected came.
News was preceded by a ringing of the telephone bell. Vic's subordinate
answered; then announced that Acting Inspector Cardona was in the downstairs
lobby.
"Joe Cardona!" exclaimed Marquette. "He's Weston's ace. I thought he was
out of town."
"He mentioned that he had just returned," supplied the operative. "He says
he wants to bring some fellow up with him."
"Tell him to come along."
A few minutes later, there was a knock at the door. The subordinate
answered it, to admit a stocky, swarthy-faced man whose features had a
businesslike mold. Marquette greeted Cardona; but he stared puzzled when he saw
the inspector's companion.
Cardona had brought a man who looked like a hoodlum - a rowdy whose face
was unshaven, whose eyes were bleary. The man had a sneaky, furtive look, his
clothes, frayed and baggy, did not help his appearance. Marquette noted
particularly that the man was wearing a grimy, ragged sweater.
The Shadow would have recognized the derelict. Cardona's companion was
Weasel Hacklin.
"Get over there," ordered Cardona, motioning Weasel to a chair by the
window. Weasel obeyed the gruff command. Then, to Marquette, Joe added: "The
commissioner left word for me to see you when I returned. I found his message
at my office; it had full details of the case. I found that there, too."
By the emphasized "that," Cardona meant Weasel. He indicated the sneak as
he spoke. Weasel framed a sickly grin.
"Who is he?" queried Marquette.
"Weasel Hacklin," replied Cardona. "Kind of a go-between. He has something
to spill. He sneaked into my office along with a stool pigeon and waited there
for me. He knows about Krode."
MARQUETTE snapped into action. He turned toward Weasel; then paused to
question of Cardona:
"It's all right for me to quiz him?"
"Sure," replied the ace detective. "That's what I brought him here for."
Marquette approached Weasel. The go-between squirmed; before Vic could
speak, Weasel put a plea.
"You ain't going to tell nobody?" he panted. "If I squawk, you ain't going
to -"
"We'll look out for you," interposed Marquette. "Tell us what you know
about Krode."
"It ain't much," remarked Weasel, "but it may count a lot. There's other
guys mixed in it."
"Tell us about all of them."
"Right from the start?"
"Yes. Give us the whole story."
Weasel needed no more prompting. He fished in his pockets for a cigarette.
Marquette supplied one; Weasel received it with a grimy hand. He had a match of
his own.
"I ain't done nothing," began Weasel. "I ain't in on the racket. I'm
telling you straight. The only reason I'm blabbing is because I ain't in deep.
See?"
Marquette nodded. Weasel inhaled nervously; then resumed.
"Joe's right," he admitted. "I been a go-between for a lot of big-shots.
That's how I got this new job. It come from a guy I never met before. He said
his name was Bracy; and he mentioned a lot of guys I knowed. I ain't never seen
him since.
"Here was the gag. I go to a post office over in Hoboken. I get a letter,
general delivery. It's got dough in it; but I ain't to flash the mazuma. I'm to
look like I was broke all the time. Along with the dough, there's envelopes with
names and addresses on 'em. I'm to deliver 'em, kind of in person."
A pause. Weasel then added:
"One was to James Dynoth, over in Fanfield, New Jersey."
Marquette stared. Weasel saw his amazement and nodded emphatically.
"Yeah," he affirmed, "to Dynoth! It was more'n a week ago I took the
envelope to him."
Marquette grunted for Weasel to proceed.
"There was another envelope, to a guy named Luke Saschew. He's got sort of
a studio, down in Greenwich Village. Looks like he was an artist. Then there was
an envelope to Ferris Krode."
"Where does he live?" demanded Marquette.
"At the Barwick Apartments," returned Weasel. "But he ain't there now. I
think he took it on the lam."
Cardona was jotting down the name of Krode's apartment house. Weasel added:
"It's Apartment 4 H."
Cardona made the notation. Marquette motioned for Weasel to proceed.
"THERE was some screwy things about the job," Weasel explained. "First,
there was one thing I had to say, any time I seen a guy. That was on account of
there being other messengers."
"Other messengers?" demanded Marquette. "How did you know that?"
"Bracy told me, when he give me the password."
"The password?"
"Yeah. The thing I had to say. Only it wasn't just one word. What I says
was: 'The Yellow Door'; and when I says that, it made it jake."
"The Yellow Door," mused Marquette. He saw Cardona write the words in a
note book. "All right, Weasel. Let's hear some more."
"Here was something else," declared the squealer. "I took two notes to
Krode, at different times, see? One day he told me to wait. He went into
another room, in that apartment of his. I heard him hitting something off on a
typewriter."
"And after that?"
"He keeps me waiting around about two hours, reading a bunch of books and
magazines. Looked like he was waiting for some guy who didn't show up. Then he
says he's ready to give me an answer. He walks into the other room, with me
following. He picks a paper off of the window sill and looks at it, like this."
Weasel made a gesture as if picking up a sheet of paper.
"What was it?" questioned Marquette. "The message that you had brought to
him?"
"That's what I figured it was," replied Weasel. "Only I didn't lamp what
was on it. All I know is, it was kind of curlylike, from being in the sun. And
the paper wasn't white. It was red."
As Weasel paused, Marquette turned to Cardona.
"Note that down," suggested the G-man. "Krode gets messages on red paper."
Then, to Weasel: "Could you tell the shade of red?"
"Sure," nodded Weasel, "'if you showed me some hunks of red paper. This
one was sort of like pink."
"We'll test you later. What else did Krode do?"
"He sits at the typewriter," explained Weasel. "It's got funny kinds of
pads on the letters."
"Key-caps?"
"I guess that's what you'd call them. Then he says he's sending a message
back by me. I says I don't know where to take it. Krode looks kind of
surprised; then laughs. Says he wouldn't have kept me waiting around if he'd
knowed. Tells me to beat it. So I scrammed."
"Some other messenger," observed Marquette. "Yes, that fits. Unless he
mailed the reply somewhere. We'll talk about that later. Let's hear what else
you know, Weasel."
WEASEL was nervous as he extinguished his cigarette butt against the
window sill. He moistened his roughened lips; then spoke hoarsely, in a tone
that showed real fear.
"It looked soft, see? Hopping over to Hoboken and getting them letters.
There was a hundred bucks every time. Always a century note. Only" - he paused
and shook his head in worriment - "there wasn't a letter every time I went; and
I was jittery when I goed over there yesterday."
"Why?" demanded Marquette. "Had anything happened?"
"Plenty!" returned Weasel. "Dynoth had been rubbed out, hadn't he? Why do
ya think they blowed up that house of his? To get rid of him, that's why! He
was on the inside; he knowed all about the Yellow Door; but he was bumped.
"I was reading about it in the papers, the day before. Wondering why
Dynoth had got his. I found a letter for me, general delivery, in Hoboken.
There was a note for me, along with the century spot. It says this was to be
the last."
"I get it," acknowledged Marquette. "You figured they were through with
you."
Weasel nodded.
"There wasn't nothing in the letter to give me the willies, though," he
declared. "It had an envelope that I was to deliver to Saschew, down in the
Village. Then I was to go to the Barwick and yank Krode's name outta the board.
That being done, I was to head for Guzzler's Joint and stick there half an hour.
After that, I'd be washed up.
"I never blabbed on nobody, so I didn't figure these Yellow Door guys was
going to put me on the spot. Just the same, I wasn't taking chances. I wanted
to know more about the deal, so I got fooling with that envelope that was
addressed to Saschew. It come open, easy.
"I seen the note that was in it. It was done on a typewriter, all in big
letters; but the paper wasn't red like Krode's. It was blue."
WEASEL paused, while Cardona made the notation that Saschew received
message on blue paper. Then Weasel pulled a torn edge of newspaper from his
pocket and handed it to Marquette. Weasel pointed to crudely penciled letters.
"There's what was on it. I copied it off of the blue note, before I stuck
it back in the envelope."
Vic scanned Weasel's copy. He saw these coded words:
QVQOZ FTV DTLLTFUTK
Marquette passed the penciled slip to Cardona; then looked toward Weasel
and inquired:
"You gave the envelope to Saschew?"
"Yeah," returned Weasel. "I says to him: 'The Yellow Door,' and he takes
the envelope. Then I hops over to Krode's and yanks his card off of the name
board. Here it is."
Weasel produced the evidence and handed it to Marquette. Continuing, the
informant stated:
"I rides down on the el and gets to Guzzler's. I'm wise to why I'm sent
there. So's somebody can lamp me and see I ain't being trailed. I'm in there
pretty near ten minutes, see? It's all jake; then something happens."
"The fight began," inserted Cardona, to Marquette. "Guzzler says The
Shadow moved in there. But that's what Guzzler would have said, anyhow."
"It was The Shadow," corroborated Weasel, solemnly. "He come in and lined
up all the regulars that was in the joint. We was all moving out peaceful until
a bunch of stuffed-shirt mugs yanks their gats and opens up on The Shadow."
"Guzzler testified the same," acknowledged Cardona, "but we weren't ready
to believe him.
"What's your opinion, Weasel? Were those fellows in tuxedoes the cover-up
crew?"
Weasel nodded.
"It was some of them mugs," he affirmed, "that must have blowed up Dynoth.
Honest, Joe, these guys that know about the Yellow Door ain't staging no regular
racket. They ain't depending on gorillas. That's why I was steered to Guzzler's.
"It was the only joint in town where some high hat torpedoes could be
planted. I knowed it as soon as I'd scrammed. I been laying low in a hideout,
ever since then. I been scairt! Plenty scairt!
"Suppose these dudes think I put the jinx on their racket? They'd bump me
quick, like they did Dynoth. That's why I got hold of Pete Cowdy, that I knowed
was a stoolie, and had him sneak me into your office, Joe. You was the only guy
I could talk to. I had to blab. I ain't in on the Yellow Door racket. I don't
owe them guys nothing -"
"WE understand," interrupted Marquette. He turned to the G-man by the
door: "Cuyler, get out and buy some sheets of colored paper, red and blue.
We're going to let Weasel pick out the right shades.
"Dynoth probably received some other color of paper; that doesn't matter,
because he's dead. We'll start decoding that message. When we crack it, we can
frame up two messages of our own. One for Krode, on red paper; the other for
Saschew, on blue."
Weasel looked uneasy, but said nothing.
"We'll wait until dusk," decided Marquette. "Then we can check up on Krode
and Saschew."
"How about detailing men to cover their places?" queried Cardona. "It
would be easy enough to trap them."
"That won't do." Marquette shook his head. "We're already counting on
Krode paying another visit to Dudley Birklam, so that he can start a
shake-down. We don't want to queer that stunt.
"So we won't let Krode or Saschew know they're being watched. If we can
crack that code, we'll be able to send them dummy messages. If we work it
right, we may get a lead to the other members of the band. This is a nationwide
game, Cardona. Thurlon, in California, was in it; so was Dynoth; also this
fellow Bracy, who hired Weasel to act as messenger."
Marquette paused. He added:
"We'll start at once on the code. Meanwhile, we'll keep Weasel here. As
soon as Cuyler gets back with those sample papers, Weasel can choose the ones
he wants. If everything pans out, we can make a smooth move tonight."
There was confidence in Marquette's statement. The law had gained facts.
Weasel had brought important clues to aid in solving the mystery of the Yellow
Door. Weasel's unexpected entry had given the law facts that The Shadow had not
gained.
The situation was one that promised large results. It also offered
possibilities for mistakes that neither Marquette nor Cardona foresaw. There
was one factor that had slipped both investigators.
Only The Shadow could have recognized the danger.
CHAPTER IX
THE SHADOW'S BARGAIN
"MR. CRANSTON has arrived, sir."
Commissioner Weston arose from his chair in the lounge room of the Cobalt
Club. He glanced at his watch; it showed eight o'clock. Cranston was punctual.
Descending to the grillroom, Weston found his friend seated at a table.
Weston joined him and immediately opened conversation.
"Last night, Cranston," declared the commissioner, "I told you that I
would keep you posted upon any matters that concerned the expected threat
against Dudley Birklam."
The Shadow nodded.
"Something has occurred," resumed Weston. "It concerns this."
He produced a slip of paper upon which were typed the three cryptic words:
QVQOZ FTV DTLLTFUTK
"A code message," explained Weston. "Apparently a simple cryptogram, yet
one that defies solution, for a very definite reason."
"I understand," returned The Shadow. "There are not enough words in the
message."
"Precisely," stated Weston. "The experts agree upon that point. Only a
shrewd bit of deduction can give us the proper clue. I thought that perhaps you
could produce a suggestion."
"Possibly I can," remarked The Shadow, in Cranston's easy tone, "if you
give me all the details that concern this particular message."
Weston pondered; then shook his head.
"I am not quite at liberty to do so," he expressed - "unless I could be
positive that such statements would aid you."
The Shadow eyed the commissioner keenly; then spoke:
"Suppose I should provide the key to this code. Would you then feel at
liberty to speak?"
Weston saw subtlety in the query. He fancied that his friend had struck
some thought that concerned the code message.
"Yes," decided the commissioner. "I am prepared to bargain with you,
Cranston. If you can guess the meaning of that message, I shall be justified in
giving you the details concerning how it came into my possession."
"Very well."
THE SHADOW began a visual study of the message. A smile fixed itself upon
his thin, masklike lips. The smile was so faint that Weston did not perceive
it. A few minutes passed; then The Shadow questioned:
"This is the original message?"
The Shadow expected the negative headshake that Weston delivered.
"It is only a copy," stated the commissioner.
"Can you tell me," queried The Shadow, "if the original was typewritten?"
"It was," acknowledged Weston.
"And the machine," pursued The Shadow - "did it possess any peculiarity?"
"We know nothing about the typewriter."
"Unfortunate," remarked The Shadow. "Any fact concerning the typewriter
might aid me."
The Shadow had already translated the message. He was merely leading
Weston along a course that would make explanations simpler. The commissioner
took the bait.
"There was a typewriter," he declared, "upon which a message was decoded;
but our informant did not see the message on that occasion."
"Was the typewriter a portable?"
"I do not know. Odd, that we should have forgotten to query our informant.
Let me see - do portables frequently have rubber key-caps? Or are those used
only by persons who type on large machines?"
"Key-caps go on any typewriter. What made you think of key-caps?"
"The machine in question was provided with them."
The Shadow showed a prompt smile, as he drew a sheet of paper from his
pocket. Weston stared, eagerly. He queried:
"You have deducted something?"
"Yes," replied The Shadow, "from your mention of key-caps. Let me
visualize something, commissioner. Please do not disturb me for the next few
minutes."
CLOSING his eyes, The Shadow began to write letters in rows on the sheet
of paper. He finished his task, opened his eyes and passed the paper to Weston.
The commissioner recognized the rows of letters which read:
Q W E R T Y U I O P
A S D F G H J K L
Z X C V B N M
"The keyboard of a typewriter!" exclaimed Weston. "You visualized it, I
suppose. You must use a typewriter often, Cranston?"
"Quite frequently, commissioner. When one mentions letters on a
typewriter, a person naturally thinks of the odd arrangement of the standard
keyboard."
"Of course. But how does that apply?"
"Let me ask you a question, commissioner. What other arrangement of
letters would occur to any one?"
"The alphabetical order."
"Certainly. Here."
The Shadow took the paper and inscribed:
A B C D E F G H I J
K L M N O P Q R S
T U V W X Y Z
"Here may be our code," announced The Shadow. "One so simple that it could
not be forgotten; for it would never have to be remembered. A typewritten
message, decoded upon a machine that had key-caps, gives us an excellent
beginning commissioner."
"You mean that the key-caps were arranged in alphabetical order?"
"Yes - by the person who sent the message. But not by the recipient."
"Why not?"
"Because his problem was to decode. He used another obvious plan. He
simply compared the keyboard with the alphabetical arrangement and put letters
in reverse. For instance: he put the Q key-cap on the key that bore the letter
A; W on B; E on C. He continued with that process. Thus his transformed
keyboard began with J as the upper left letter."
"J on the real Q?"
"Yes. Because J on the standard keyboard has the position of Q in the
alphabetical arrangement. It is quite simple, commissioner. Observe."
The Shadow proceeded with new rows of letters. Completed, they showed as
follows:
J V T K Z N X O G H
Q L R Y U I P A S
M B E C W F D
"With the key-caps," explained The Shadow, "this process would prove
automatic. The user would simply arrange them like the keyboard. Picking them
up in the order Q, W, E, R and so on, he would call them A, B, C, D and
continue through the alphabet."
"I see," nodded Weston. "Putting each key on the actual letter that he
named aloud. Very ingenious, Cranston; but I still cannot see how you guessed
it. Nor can I be sure that this is the correct system."
"Why should typewritten messages be used?" queried The Shadow, "with
key-caps ready at the other end? Only because they aided with the code."
"Any one might typewrite a coded message," objected Weston.
"Certainly," agreed The Shadow, "but no one would ordinarily use a
typewriter to decode a message. However, commissioner, we have a simple test.
Let us apply the system to the coded message that you showed me."
Checking the three words of the message, The Shadow produced the result:
QVQOZ FTV DTLLTFUTK
AWAIT NEW MESSENGER
"Quite simple," expressed The Shadow. "Merely find each letter on the
standard keyboard chart. Look for the letter in the same position on the
alphabetical chart. Transcribe and you have it. If working with a typewriter,
you can decode by arranging the keycaps according to the odd chart that began
with J, V, T."
"Then," questioned Weston, eagerly, "to send a message, one would only
have to cap the keys in alphabetical order?"
The Shadow nodded.
"Jove!" exclaimed Weston. "You have struck it! This is marvelous,
Cranston! If -"
The commissioner stopped as an attendant approached. Someone was on the
telephone, to talk with Mr. Cranston. The Shadow arose, with the remark:
"Remember our bargain, commissioner."
THE call was from Burbank. Hawkeye had reported. He had seen Krode arrive
at the Barwick Apartments. The Shadow gave instructions. Cliff and Moe were to
cover; to act if emergencies arose before The Shadow's arrival. That would be
within the next half hour.
The Shadow waited a few minutes for a return call from Burbank. Word came
that Cliff had been contacted.
The Shadow went back to the grillroom. Weston was chuckling over the
deciphered code. The Shadow sat down and repeated the reminder:
"Our bargain?"
"Ah, yes!" Weston produced a folded paper. "Here is Cardona's full report.
It concerns an informant named Weasel Hacklin. Read it, Cranston, at your
leisure."
The Shadow perused the report. It covered the statements that Weasel had
made at Marquette's. Completing a study of each detail, The Shadow passed the
sheets back to Weston.
"I have an appointment," he remarked, rising from the table. "But tell me,
commissioner, what do you intend to do about this matter?"
"We shall type two simple messages," stated Weston. "One to Krode, on red
paper. The other to Saschew, on blue."
"And then?"
"Weasel will deliver the red message to Krode. Since Saschew expects a new
messenger, Marquette will carry the blue note to him. Both messages will be in
code. Marquette, like Weasel, will introduce himself with the words: 'The
Yellow Door.'"
The Shadow paused, to shake his head.
"The messages will be simple," explained Weston. "They will say to
instruct the messenger where to take a reply. Thus both Krode and Saschew will
betray the information that we want, facts concerning others in the game -"
"That will not do," interposed The Shadow. "Refrain from any action,
commissioner, until I return from my appointment. I shall have a better plan to
offer."
"Too late, Cranston," chuckled Weston. "When you went to answer your
telephone call, I decided to make a call of my own. I called Marquette's hotel.
Cardona was there with Marquette; and so was their informant, Weasel. I gave
them the code. They have already prepared the messages.
"By this time" - Weston glanced at his watch - "both Weasel and Marquette
are en route to their respective destinations; to see Krode and Saschew
separately. Weasel has a sealed envelope containing a red paper message.
Marquette has one containing a blue paper message."
The Shadow had become motionless. His eyes took on a serious glitter.
Before Weston noticed the change that had come over his friend Cranston, The
Shadow relaxed.
"My appointment," he reminded. "I shall see you later, commissioner."
THE SHADOW strolled away. His pace quickened when he reached the lobby.
Outside, he gestured rapidly to Stanley. The limousine wheeled from across the
street. Entering, The Shadow gave a quick, decisive order.
Stanley knew that his master wanted speed to the destination. The
chauffeur shot the big car forward. Within the rear seat, The Shadow seized a
satchel and whipped out garments of black. His cloak settled over his
shoulders; automatics clicked as he whisked them beneath the dark folds of
cloth.
A fierce, bitter laugh pervaded the interior of the limousine. The Shadow
had fared badly in his bargain with Weston. He had not anticipated that the
commissioner would pass along the information until after further conference.
There were more factors to those messages than the mere mention of a
password and the delivery of notes in proper code. One factor, in particular,
that The Shadow had suspected but had not mentioned. In prematurely giving the
code to Cardona and Marquette, Commissioner Weston had loosed a boomerang.
Danger threatened the messengers who were calling upon Krode and Saschew.
Only The Shadow had divined the reason. He had struck upon it through Cardona's
report, which fitted with a fact that had come from Harry Vincent.
The Shadow had agents, prepared for emergency. He, personally, was on his
way to serve in time of need. Speed was essential to meet the menace which
existed.
Only The Shadow could offset the error that the law had made.
CHAPTER X
DEATH STRIKES TWICE
AT the very moment of The Shadow's departure from the Cobalt Club, Hawkeye
saw motion at the entry of the Barwick Apartments. He watched; he recognized the
slinking figure that came into view. It was Weasel Hacklin.
Hawkeye guessed that Weasel was on his way to visit Ferris Krode. Lights
were shining from Krode's fourth-floor apartment. Weasel pressed a call button;
there must have been a response, for he pushed the apartment house door and
entered.
Two minutes later, a cab rolled past Hawkeye's lookout window. Hawkeye saw
it swing at the next corner. It was Moe's taxi, with Cliff aboard. Emergency
orders were in operation. There was a back way into the Barwick, one that Cliff
would use.
WHEN Weasel reached the fourth floor, he was clear of all observation.
Shaved, supplied with a new sweater, Weasel looked more presentable than
before; but he was still the skulker that he was supposed to be. Nevertheless,
Weasel had recovered from his jitters. His face showed a satisfied grin as he
rapped at the door of Apartment 4 H. Weasel was confident; he was working with
the law.
He had good reason for satisfaction. Weasel was a rat by nature. He had
perpetrated crimes in the past; and murder had been on his calendar. The law
had not uncovered his buried crimes. By squaring himself with the authorities,
Weasel had believed that he could completely guarantee his future. That was why
he had consented to act as messenger again, bearing a faked note to Ferris Krode.
The door opened. Krode stood within. He saw Weasel and motioned him into
the apartment. When Krode closed the door, Weasel delivered the usual passwords:
"The Yellow Door."
Krode nodded methodically. He took the envelope that Weasel passed him and
motioned the sneak to a chair. Krode stepped into the next room. Weasel heard
the click of a typewriter. After that, a pause.
Soon, Krode appeared from the next room. He sauntered out, hands in his
pockets, and eyed Weasel casually. A smile produced itself on Krode's lips.
Weasel sat untroubled; he had seen that twisted leer before. It was Krode's
mode of expressing satisfaction.
"Come in the other room," suggested Krode. "I have something important to
tell you."
Weasel nodded as he arose. He walked past Krode toward the inner room. He
was at the doorway when a sudden suspicion made him stop and turn around.
Weasel saw what was coming; but he spied it too late.
Krode had whipped one hand from his coat pocket. In that hand he had a
revolver. As Weasel started a hoarse scream, Krode fired point-blank. Five
shots boomed in quick succession, the stream of bullets riddled Weasel's rooted
frame.
Without a gasp, the sneaky go-between collapsed upon the floor.
HOLDING his revolver, Krode broadened his evil grin. Stepping over
Weasel's body, he seized a small package that lay on a table in the inner room.
With quick step, Krode headed for the doorway to the hall.
Hearing a sound beyond the door, the killer paused. He waited for a few
seconds, then yanked the door open and sprang out into the hall. His move was a
smart one. Krode was in time to spy a man peering from a corner by the elevator.
It was Cliff Marsland. The Shadow's agent had arrived just after Krode's
shots. From the hall, Cliff had heard Krode's approach. He had backed toward
the corner, to await the killer. Krode's yank of the door had come just as
Cliff ducked from sight and looked back.
Krode fired. His single bullet tore plaster from the corner of the wall.
Cliff dropped from sight, not knowing that Krode had fired the only bullet left
in his gun. Krode knew his own predicament. He made a sudden dart in the
opposite direction. Cliff heard the man's footsteps and bounded into view just
as Krode took to a fire tower.
Cliff pursued. Dashing down the tower, he roared shots every time he
glimpsed Krode. Weasel's murderer had gained too good a start. He reached the
ground and sped through a cement passageway to the rear street. When Cliff
reached the next thoroughfare, he saw Krode leaping aboard a taxi, flourishing
his empty revolver in front of a scared driver's face.
Cliff's shots did not stay the cab as it sped for a corner. The range was
too great. Krode had made his get-away.
Cliff gained satisfaction, however, when he saw another cab wheel out from
the corner and shoot away close behind the fleeing taxi. Moe was taking up the
trail. Cliff's cue was to depart from this vicinity. He did so in a hurry; and
with good reason.
Already, whistles were blaring from the front street. Whining sirens
answered from a radio patrol. Joe Cardona had followed Weasel close to the
Barwick Apartments. The ace had heard the first muffled shots; then the later
bursts of Cliff's gunplay on the fire tower.
FOUR minutes later, Cardona stood viewing Weasel's outstretched body. Joe
felt no regret over Weasel's demise. He had guessed that the sneak had
cooperated with the law only to avoid penalty for a thuggish past. What
concerned Cardona was why Weasel had been killed. The ace entered the inner
room in hope of finding the explanation.
There, Cardona saw a suitcase; also a portable typewriter that Krode had
left behind him in his dash. Key-caps were missing; so were other items, such
as the red paper message and its decoded copy.
Cardona stood puzzled. He could not understand what had gone wrong.
Nevertheless, he was seized with sudden alarm, brought by the knowledge that
something was not right. Cardona hastened to a telephone in the outer room. He
called Marquette's hotel and was connected with the G-man's suite. Cuyler
answered. Cardona was quick with his query:
"Is Marquette there?"
"Who's calling?"
"Joe Cardona."
Cuyler recognized the voice when Joe gave his name. He answered:
"Vic's gone. To Saschew's."
Cardona hung up. For a moment, he was stunned. He had hoped to forestall
Marquette from the trip. Calculating the distance from Marquette's hotel to
Greenwich Village, he realized that the government man must be there by this
time.
In vain hope of preventing another murder, Cardona sped a call to
headquarters. He had realized that some menace hovered over any person who
might carry a false message to those who held the secret of the Yellow Door.
TIMED almost to the exact minute of Cardona's headquarters call, Vic
Marquette had entered a studio building in Greenwich Village. Ascending wide,
bare stairs, Marquette stopped in front of a broad door where he saw the neatly
painted sign:
LUKE SASCHEW
Studio
Marquette rapped. He waited a half minute, then knocked again. The door
opened; a tall, big-chested man stared from within the studio. The man looked
like an artist, for he was attired in smock and beret; but his mustached face
was a hardened one.
"Mr. Saschew?" inquired Marquette.
The artist nodded. He motioned Vic into the studio and closed the door.
Saschew was holding brush and palette; he went back to a half-finished portrait
that stood on an easel in the corner. About to proceed with his painting, he
paused. Eyeing the portrait as he spoke, he questioned:
"Why did you wish to see me?"
In a low tone, Marquette responded:
"The Yellow Door."
Saschew laid aside his brush and palette. He reached out his hand;
Marquette produced the envelope. About to tear it open, Saschew questioned:
"You came here earlier?"
Marquette replied in the negative.
"I was not here," remarked Saschew. "I had not expected you until
tomorrow. There was no reason to count upon an early message."
Saschew drew the blue sheet of paper from the envelope. He unfolded it,
glanced at the typewritten lines; then motioned to a chair. Marquette sat down.
Saschew walked behind a screen, in a corner of the room.
Marquette listened intently; soon he heard the click of a typewriter. He
guessed that Saschew had put key-caps on the machine, to decode the message.
Half a minute passed; Marquette heard a trickling sound, which reminded him of
liquid pouring from a bottle.
Another interval; the typewriter clicked again. Saschew reappeared,
carrying a sealed envelope. He passed it to Marquette; in a confidential tone,
he stated:
"Take this message. I shall tell you where. When you leave here -"
Saschew stopped. He had wagged his left hand toward the door, while his
right was pressed against Marquette's shoulder. That pressure had lessened;
noting Saschew's face, Marquette gained a sudden inkling of danger. He sprang
away; as he turned about, he saw a leveled revolver in Saschew's right hand.
The artist had pulled the weapon from his smock; he had been about to jab the
muzzle against Vic's ribs.
MARQUETTE had no chance to draw a weapon of his own. With a violent surge,
he drove squarely upon Saschew and sent the artist back against the wall.
Saschew lost his aim; for a moment, the odds were even. Then the artist
clutched Marquette's throat with his big left hand. More powerful than the
G-man, he bent Vic backward toward the floor.
Gasping, Marquette lost his grip. Saschew, snarling, hunched his huge
shoulders upward and jammed his revolver straight down between Marquette's eyes.
Another instant and Vic Marquette would have suffered the same fate as
Weasel Hacklin. Here, in this secluded studio, Saschew was about to prove
himself as evil a murderer as Krode. On this occasion, however, the intended
killer was to be cheated of his victim.
The door of the studio swung inward. Before Saschew could either finish
Marquette or drop him to meet a new invader, an automatic blasted from the
door. A zinging bullet found the one spot that surely prevented the deed of
murder. It lodged in Saschew's heart.
A faltering hand dropped its revolver. Fingers loosened from Vic
Marquette's throat. Stepping free as Saschew's body thudded the floor,
Marquette managed to stop his choking and look to see his rescuer. He stared in
profound amazement.
The Shadow had entered the studio. Clad in black, his eyes ablaze, the
master sleuth had arrived in time. The Shadow had not gone to Krode's; he had
left that work to his agents. Weasel's life had been unimportant; Marquette's
had been of consequence.
One timely bullet from a straight-aimed .45 had curtailed the vicious work
of Luke Saschew. Another adherent of the Yellow Door had received a deserved
fate.
The Shadow saw the screen in the corner. He strode to it and hauled the
screen aside. He beckoned to Marquette; when the G-man arrived, The Shadow
pointed to a wash basin, wherein lay Vic's blue paper message. There was liquid
in the basin; it had come from a small bottle that was standing by a spigot.
The Shadow whispered a laugh of understanding; then turned the spigot.
Water filled the basin. The Shadow stopped the flow; peeling a glove from one
hand, he removed the stopper and drew out the soaked blue paper. He wadded it
and tossed it in a basket. About to speak to Marquette, he paused. The Shadow
had heard a clatter from the stairs.
"Men from headquarters," he informed Marquette. "Say nothing. Await my
arrival at your hotel."
There was a low skylight in a slanted, darkened corner of the studio. The
Shadow moved swiftly in that direction. He opened the skylight and gained the
darkness of the roof. He was gone when the first of the rescue squad arrived.
The Shadow had departed, leaving Vic Marquette to take credit for the
elimination of a would-be murderer.
CHAPTER XI
THE NEXT TEST
TWENTY-FOUR hours had passed since The Shadow had checked the second step
in double doom. The law had gained no trail to Ferris Krode; nor had any clues
been found at Luke Saschew's. The police had learned only that Saschew, while a
mere dabbler in art, had possessed some excellent social contacts. That marked
him as a man who could have been used in schemes involving the seizure of
wealth.
Cardona had arrived at the studio to investigate with Marquette. They had
found the wadded blue paper in the wastebasket. Cardona had wondered why it was
water-soaked; Marquette had offered no explanation. The Shadow had taken the
little bottle from which the paper had first been moistened.
Coolly, Marquette had taken credit for victory in the fight with Saschew.
The G-man understood that The Shadow had reason for keeping free of the matter.
It was better that those who backed the cause of the Yellow Door should remain
in ignorance of The Shadow's definite entry into the case.
Marquette had expected to hear from The Shadow. No contact had been made.
Tonight, Marquette had an appointment at Dudley Birklam's. He went to it alone,
leaving Cuyler at the hotel to forward word of any calls.
When he reached Birklam's, Marquette was not surprised to find both
Commissioner Weston and Inspector Cardona. Nor was he puzzled by the presence
of Lamont Cranston. Marquette knew the part that the commissioner's friend had
played in the solution of the code.
Detail by detail, Commissioner Weston was recounting all that had
occurred, in so far as he knew the facts. The story began with Weasel Hacklin's
confession. It followed with Cranston's solution of the code. Then came the
account of the messages; how they had missed fire.
"No one saw Weasel die," Weston told Birklam. "We thought that it was safe
to send him there alone. Marquette went alone, also. Fortunately, he was able to
cope with Saschew, while Weasel failed against Krode."
"Too bad," observed Birklam, in a discouraged tone. "It would have served
us well could we have captured Krode. He appears to be the brain in all these
schemes."
"If I had nabbed Saschew," put in Marquette, in a rueful tone, "it would
have helped. But there was only one way to handle Saschew. That was to get him
before he could get me."
Nods of agreement. Cardona changed the subject.
"What I'd like to know," growled the ace, "is how those messages happened
to go sour. Krode knew Weasel and should have accepted him."
"Not necessarily," inserted Weston. "Mr. Birklam has given us the answer.
Weasel had received orders to act as a messenger no longer. If Krode is the
big-shot behind the Yellow Door, he would naturally have known that something
was up as soon as Weasel appeared."
"An excellent deduction, commissioner!" exclaimed Birklam. "One that
escaped me completely when I expressed the thought that Krode must be the
master brain."
"That would cover it," conceded Cardona, "but only so far as Weasel was
concerned. Let's figure that Krode was playing it smart. Sending messages for
delivery that Weasel picked up and including himself as one of the persons,
just so he could check. But how does that cover Marquette's case? We know that
Saschew expected a new messenger; yet he tried to shoot Marquette. Why?"
"MAYBE it was the message," suggested Marquette. "I heard Saschew decode
it. He didn't make trouble until after he knew what it was about."
"I think the message would have passed muster," declared Weston. "To my
mind, it is more likely that Weasel made a slip. He should have sent the blue
message to Krode; and the red one to Saschew."
"Weasel wouldn't have slipped on that," objected Cardona. "He was too sure
of himself."
"Saschew accepted the blue message," reminded Marquette. "It wasn't until
after he had gone behind the screen that he suspected something wrong."
The Shadow spoke for the first time.
"Let us consider another factor," he remarked. "I refer to the shades of
the colored papers. As I understand it, Weasel merely chose the colors from
memory."
"That's right," nodded Marquette.
"Scarcely a sure plan," added The Shadow, "especially if the recipients
had previous messages in their possession. Saschew, in particular, could have
made a comparison."
"A likely solution," agreed Birklam. "What do you think, commissioner?"
Before Weston could reply, Cardona remembered something.
"Saschew must have soaked that message in water," he argued. "We found it
wadded and damp in the wastebasket."
The Shadow inserted an explanation.
"Perhaps the usual paper bore a watermark," he suggested. "Saschew could
have placed the new message in the wash basin for final study."
"That answers it!" exclaimed Weston. "That was the test that Saschew used.
Shall I tell you why?" He looked about triumphantly. "Because we found no other
paper in Saschew's studio. He could not have made a comparison by shades."
Dudley Birklam smiled approvingly.
"These are true processes of deduction," he affirmed. "Step by step, you
gentlemen have gained the logical answer. I congratulate all of you; but I
voice one regret."
Weston looked quizzical. Birklam indicated The Shadow.
"Mr. Cranston should become a professional criminologist," he stated. "As
a crime hunter, he ranks with the rest of you, commissioner."
"Thank you, Mr. Birklam," remarked The Shadow, with a quiet smile. "Let me
return the compliment by adding that you have also aided in our efforts to reach
the final answer to the problem."
Birklam smiled, highly pleased.
"Regarding the future," announced Marquette, abruptly, "we can no longer
count upon a visit on the part of Krode. He will not come to see you, Mr.
Birklam. He knows that the law is on his trail."
"Is it possible," asked Birklam, anxiously, "that he supposes me to be
responsible for his present difficulties?"
"Quite possible," stated Marquette. "That is why you need a real guard
here. I am stationing two of my men, in addition to your servants. Cardona will
have four plain-clothes men available."
"That makes me a rather expensive taxpayer," said Birklam, with a nervous
attempt at a laugh. "Do you think that it will enable you to apprehend Krode?"
"It will keep him away from here," returned Marquette, emphatically, "and
that's all we want! We'll get Krode, wherever he is! He is a new public enemy!
Tomorrow will mark the beginning of a nation-wide manhunt."
"You shall have our cooperation in New York," promised Weston. "We shall
consider the case to be yours, Marquette."
"Thanks, commissioner. I'm taking the one step that is needed. We are
dealing with a ring of swindlers, who have used murder as their bludgeon. When
we throw light on this case, we'll hear from other persons like Mr. Birklam.
Ones that Krode or some of his outfit intended to pluck."
Rising, Marquette added a final statement:
"Maybe we'll get another slant, too. We may get to the bottom of this
business about the Yellow Door. There's more to that than just a password."
THE conference had ended. Visitors departed. Cardona accompanied Weston in
the latter's car. The Shadow entered Cranston's limousine and Stanley drove the
big car away. Marquette remained at the door of Birklam's residence long enough
to give assurance to the shipping man, promising that the house would be well
guarded. Vic finally boarded his coupe.
As he started the motor, the G-man thought that he heard a sound from the
door on the right. He thought nothing more of it until he passed a street lamp.
Glancing to the right, Vic was puzzled when blackness blotted his view. He
thought the oddity was caused by something outside; he nearly lost his grip on
the wheel when he heard a whispered voice speak close beside him.
The Shadow!
The master of the night had been outside of Birklam's, to enter Vic's car
unseen and unheard. Marquette never once connected The Shadow's arrival with
Cranston's departure. He did not guess that the occupant of the limousine had
donned black garments and dropped off without his chauffeur's knowledge.
"I waited for you," gulped Vic. "At the hotel - all day. I thought that
you would come there."
"There was a trail to follow," returned The Shadow, in a low, emphatic
tone. "One that was begun last night. It was broken; then regained."
"A trail? To whom?"
"To Ferris Krode."
Marquette was too astounded to put another question.
"Krode was followed," explained The Shadow. "He went to a hotel, but
checked out promptly. Today he was located at another hotel. He is stopping at
the Catlin."
"Registered as Ferris Krode?"
"No. As Phillip Krull."
Marquette waited. He sensed new information. It came.
"I have prepared a new message," declared The Shadow. "It is one that
Krode will receive without suspicion. It will serve as a vital test; it will
bring about Krode's capture."
A pause; then The Shadow added:
"You will carry the message to Krode."
A gloved hand came from the darkness. Fumbling, Vic received an envelope
that crinkled as he fingered it. Driving onward, staring steadily ahead,
Marquette pondered on new dangers that might lie ahead. Memory jogged him. He
recalled The Shadow's prowess at Saschew's.
Without a word, Marquette thrust the envelope into his inside pocket. He
had reached an avenue. He pressed his foot hard upon the accelerator. He headed
southward, speedily and with determination.
Suppressed tones of eerie mirth sounded within the coupe. The Shadow's
laugh was one that voiced approval. The Shadow understood the G-man's purpose.
Vic Marquette was driving directly to the Catlin Hotel.
CHAPTER XII
DOUBLE CAPTURE
"MR. KRODE?"
Vic Marquette delivered the question in a cautious tone, as he stood in
the hallway outside a door marked 518. Ferris Krode, in shirt sleeves, was
quick to eye the questioner who rapped.
"You're mistaken," he replied. "My name is Krull. If you will go down to
the desk, perhaps they can tell you about -"
"The Yellow Door."
Marquette gave the password in the same undertone that he had used before.
Krode glanced along the hallway and motioned Vic into the room. Before he closed
the door, Krode took another look outside.
He saw nothing that denoted the presence of any spy. There was a window,
with a fire escape beyond it. That window was open, but Krode could see the
glimmer of a metal rail. He went into the room and closed the door. His right
hand half to his hip, Krode faced Vic Marquette.
The G-man overcame the uneasiness that he felt. There was another room to
the rear of this one; the two formed a suite. Looking through the opened
connecting doorway, Marquette could see a window. Like the one to the fire
escape, it was open, for the night was mild.
Marquette wondered if Krode had an aid stationed in the adjoining room. He
decided that he was safe for the present. He released the stub-nosed revolver
that was in his coat pocket; in its stead, he drew out the envelope that The
Shadow had given him. Marquette had wisely put the message with his gun.
Krode received the envelope and briskly motioned Marquette to a chair. He
tore the envelope as he walked through the connecting doorway. Marquette caught
a flash of the paper within. It was blue in color.
Blue!
Vic remembered the theory that had been advanced: that Weasel had made a
mistake about the colors. That theory had been rejected at Birklam's; but The
Shadow had evidently accepted it. He had sent Krode a blue note, instead of a
red one.
A typewriter clicked from the other room. Then there was a pause while
Krode moved about, out of Marquette's sight. Suddenly the man returned to view.
Marquette arose; his hand fidgeted at his pocket. He half expected Krode to act
in Saschew's fashion. Instead, Krode was smiling in as friendly a fashion as
was possible with his ugly lips.
"All right," nodded Krode. "You can go."
MARQUETTE was looking straight beyond Krode, through the next room to the
window. He saw motion there; blackness swung in from the night. The G-man saw a
living shape materialize. He sighted a fist that raised a heavy automatic.
Turning toward the outer door, Marquette paused, slid his right hand into
his pocket, which was away from Krode, and whipped out the stubby revolver. He
had Krode covered before the man realized what was due.
Krode's arms came up. For a moment, the man's face was vicious. Marquette
expected the murderer to spring upon him. It was a sudden hiss that ended
Krode's thought of fight. Hands still raised, the prisoner turned dumbly about.
He saw The Shadow, covering him from the connecting door.
Between two guns, Krode was totally helpless. A sour look of resignment
registered on his features.
The Shadow stepped into the outer room and beckoned with his .45, as he
had done that night at Guzzler's. With Marquette jabbing his gun against the
prisoner's ribs, Krode was marched into the inner room. There, Marquette forced
him to a chair.
The Shadow entered while Marquette was frisking Krode. The G-man relieved
the prisoner of a revolver. A word from The Shadow caused Marquette to turn
toward the table where the typewriter rested.
Open on the table was a flat tin box, of watertight construction. Beside
it was a bottle; some of the contents had been poured into the box. Bathed in
the liquid was a note which Marquette knew must be the one that he had brought.
But the color of that note had changed.
The note was red; not blue.
Krode spoke grouchily from his chair as he saw Marquette eye the
transformed message, which bore the typewritten statement:
STQCT EOZN QZ GFET
"So you wised to it at last?" he growled: "Fluked it last night; and doped
it out since. No - wait a minute!" He looked toward The Shadow. "I'll bet you
had it all along! It was the cops and the G-men who muffed the idea.
"You sent that double-crosser Weasel to trap me, didn't you?" This
question was addressed to Marquette. "He brought a red message; because he'd
seen a paper once that I'd let the sun dry on the window sill. I was wise as
soon as I saw Weasel's note. I typed it off, though, to see what phony message
he'd brought. Then I bumped him.
"You made out better with Saschew. He expected a blue note, like I did,
and I suppose he got one. When it didn't change for him, he tried to get you.
Too bad he didn't land."
Marquette had remembered the bottle at Saschew's. He sniffed the contents
of Krode's bottle.
"It's hydrochloric acid," snorted Krode. "They call it 'spirit of salts.'
You get it at any drug store. Our messages all come through on blue litmus
paper. It changes to red when you soak it in acid."
MARQUETTE had recognized the litmus. A whispered laugh came from The
Shadow. Harry's report had given him an inkling of this scheme. Harry had seen
only a red message - one which Krode had tested and dried. Reading Cardona's
report on Weasel, The Shadow had noted mention of Krode's red paper, which
Weasel had seen hours after delivery; also of Saschew's blue message, which
Weasel had examined before delivery.
Those clues had confirmed The Shadow's belief. But they had come after
Weasel and Marquette had already set out with messages on ordinary papers of
red and blue.
"I might have known The Shadow was in this," grunted Krode. Boldly, he
eyed the black-clad avenger. "Well, you're the bird who polishes off the
murderers; and I suppose I'm in for it because I bumped that rat, Weasel.
"Except that this fellow looks like a G-man." Krode was staring toward
Marquette. "I guess he's due to get me for a trophy, so that he can make me
talk. I'm satisfied. I'm ready to go along with him."
Marquette looked toward The Shadow. He expected an order to remove Krode.
A whispered voice responded, "No."
Krode glowered; about to speak, he silenced when The Shadow stepped in his
direction. Minutes ticked slowly by; the scene remained unchanged. At last,
there came a cautious rap from the hallway door. The Shadow motioned to
Marquette to cover Krode.
Going through to the outer door, The Shadow opened it an inch. He spoke in
a voice that imitated Krode's:
"Who is it?"
A cautious voice queried from the hall: "Mr. Krode?"
"Not my name," returned The Shadow. "What do you want?"
"The Yellow Door."
The Shadow stepped back, drawing the door with him. A man clad in tuxedo
entered; he was pulling an envelope from his pocket. The Shadow shoved the door
shut. When the man turned in his direction, he blinked squarely into the muzzle
of The Shadow's automatic.
KRODE'S anxiety to depart had told The Shadow that the crook expected a
bona fide messenger. The Shadow had remained to trap the arrival. He found a
revolver in the messenger's pocket and took it along with the note. He shoved
the fellow ahead of him, into the inner room.
While Marquette covered the pair, The Shadow removed his gloves. Opening
the envelope, he read the blue-paper message. It consisted of two words:
EGCTK WOKASQD
Krode's typewriter had the key-caps on it, in position for decoding.
Picking the keys, The Shadow decoded:
COVER BIRKLAM
That done, he dropped the blue sheet into the acid bath. Instantly, it
changed to a reddish hue. The Shadow arose and faced the prisoners. He covered
them while Marquette studied the message. Then The Shadow gave an order to the
G-man:
"Notify the commissioner. Arrange a private quiz at his apartment. Have
him send Cardona here to join you."
Marquette nodded; he picked up the telephone. The Shadow added a
suggestion.
"Tell the commissioner," he stated, "that he can summon his friend
Cranston."
The suggestion pleased Marquette. He put in a call to the commissioner's
apartment and was referred to the Cobalt Club. Gaining a connection there, he
told a brief story of the capture. As Vic put it, he had simply nabbed Krode
and another man.
"Bracy," suggested The Shadow. "The one who originally met Weasel."
The Shadow had noted recognition between Krode and the captured messenger.
A scowl from Bracy proved that The Shadow's conjecture of identity was correct.
Speaking over the telephone, the G-man added that the second prisoner was Bracy.
That done, Marquette asked Weston to send Cardona to the Hotel Catlin. He
added the suggestion that the commissioner request Cranston to be present at
the quiz.
A dozen minutes after the telephone call, there was a sharp rap at the
outer door. The Shadow motioned; Marquette marched the prisoners into the outer
room. The Shadow closed the adjoining door; but Krode and Bracy, looking back,
saw a gun muzzle covering them through the crack. They made no attempt at a
break while Marquette was opening the door. Cardona entered with three
plain-clothes men.
The Shadow's gun was gone from the connecting door. Marquette entered the
inner room while Cardona and his squad were putting handcuffs on the prisoners.
Marquette packed up the portable typewriter, the key-caps and the bottle of
acid. He also brought along the water-tight box and the litmus paper notes.
SECLUDED in a corner, The Shadow waited while Marquette extinguished the
lights of the inner room. From darkness, The Shadow heard the tramp of feet as
the prisoners were taken out into the hall. When the outer door had closed, The
Shadow delivered a parting taunt, repressed to a whisper that could not be heard
beyond these walls.
Deduction and strategy had served The Shadow in his capture of two men who
could reveal the secret of the Yellow Door. As Lamont Cranston, he would receive
a note at the Cobalt Club, asking him to be present at Weston's quiz. The Shadow
had turned the case over to the law; but he still planned to aid.
The Shadow's laugh prophesied final victory before this night was gone.
Usually, The Shadow's predictions were correct. This time, his prophecy would
be wrong.
The Shadow had done well to rely upon Vic Marquette. He was to learn that
he should have left the case to the G-man alone. The coming quiz should have
been scheduled for Marquette's hotel suite; not for Weston's apartment.
Once more, trouble was due because The Shadow had placed reliance in the
police commissioner.
CHAPTER XIII
WESTON DECREES
COMMISSIONER WESTON'S apartment had one room fitted as an office. It was
because of that room that The Shadow had ordered Marquette to cooperate with
the commissioner. The Shadow had visualized a concentrated conference, to which
he could come as Cranston.
Marquette, too, had expected good results through the visit to Weston's.
When the G-man and Cardona reached Weston's with the prisoners, Vic supposed
that they would be promptly ushered into the little office. Instead, they were
greeted by Weston in the living room.
Puzzled, Marquette looked to Cardona for an explanation. The inspector
shrugged his shoulders. He, like Vic, was perplexed.
Weston eyed the sullen prisoners. Briskly, he asked which was Krode and
which was Bracy. When informed, Weston nodded wisely, as though he had guessed
it at first sight. Stepping to a closet, the commissioner produced hat, coat
and cane.
"Come," he ordered briskly. "We are going out. Bring the prisoners along."
"Going out?" echoed Marquette. "Where to?"
"To Birklam's," returned Weston. "We shall quiz the prisoners there."
Marquette was stunned. He remembered The Shadow's explicit orders that the
quiz should be held at Weston's. Vic voiced objection.
"The quiz should be held here," he began. "Nothing can be gained by a trip
to Birklam's."
"Why not?" demanded Weston. "Birklam is the man who can identify Krode."
"We need no further identification."
"I disagree on that point, Marquette."
Vic remained stubborn.
"I told you the contents of the message Bracy brought," he reminded.
"Remember that, commissioner? When I talked to you from the Hotel Catlin?"
"Of course," acknowledged Weston. "The message told Krode to cover
Birklam."
"It did," affirmed Marquette. "It shows that this band of crooks is wise
to something; that Krode is to renew his efforts to threaten Birklam -"
"Enough!" snapped Weston. "It is unwise to mention facts in front of these
prisoners. We must refrain from such procedure until we have begun the quiz."
"You've already let them know that we have contacted Birklam."
"That is different, Marquette. The message that Krode received shows that
he is conversant with the facts."
"Because it said to cover Birklam?"
"Yes."
MARQUETTE shook his head. His interpretation of the message was that it
indicated ignorance on the part of Krode and Bracy. Still stubborn in his
effort to follow The Shadow's instructions, Marquette raised final objection.
"These men are my prisoners," he declared, gruffly. "They are to be
quizzed here!"
"They were your prisoners," inserted Weston, in an icy tone, "but you
turned them over to Inspector Cardona. You yourself certified the step and
requested that I conduct the quiz."
"But -"
" 'Buts' are unnecessary. You asked me to assume authority. I am taking
it. There is nothing unreasonable in my decision to take the prisoners to
Birklam's. Particularly since I have already notified him that we have captured
Krode."
"You called Birklam?"
"Certainly; I talked to his secretary, that young chap Jefford. He told me
that Mr. Birklam had retired. When I explained the urgency of the matter,
Jefford aroused him."
"Then you talked to Birklam personally."
"Yes. He is anxiously awaiting our arrival. Come, Marquette! Do not remain
stubborn. We have posted guards about Birklam's mansion. Our men have reported
that his servants are as trustworthy as he said. Our conference will be quite
as satisfactory at Birklam's as it would be here."
Marquette could think of no new objections. He realized that further
argument would produce the one result that he wished to avoid: friction with
the local authorities. Gruffly, he announced his willingness to abide by the
commissioner's wish. No harm could come from it, Marquette decided. He could
explain his course to The Shadow, later.
THE party made its exit. As they were placing the prisoners aboard a
police car, Marquette spoke to Weston.
"What about your friend Cranston?" he questioned. "He should be present
before the quiz is ended. He might furnish valuable suggestions."
"I left word for Cranston at the Cobalt Club," replied Weston, "telling
him to come here."
"But we are going to Birklam's -"
"He will learn that when he arrives here. There is no time to send a new
message to the club. I did not call Birklam until after I had come back to my
apartment; hence I left him the word to meet me here."
Marquette realized that Cranston's arrival would be delayed considerably
by the detour to Weston's apartment; but he failed to see any evil consequence
that might arise. He decided that another argument would be poor policy.
Marquette boarded the commissioner's car. Cardona was in another machine; he
and plain-clothes men held the prisoners. The procession moved northward.
IT was fully fifteen minutes later when The Shadow arrived at the Cobalt
Club. Entering in leisurely fashion, he was stopped by the doorman, who gave
him the commissioner's note. Garbed as Cranston, The Shadow read the terse
request that concerned a visit to the commissioner's apartment.
Without haste, The Shadow strolled forth and entered his limousine. He
ordered Stanley to take him to Weston's apartment. As Cranston, The Shadow had
no need to be present for the preliminary quiz. He wanted to arrive when Weston
was ready to summarize all that had been learned.
Then would be The Shadow's opportunity to insert additional questions.
Building upon what Weston and Marquette had accomplished, he could play a
lesser part, yet at the same time get at the facts that were most vitally
needed.
Between Krode and Bracy, The Shadow was confident that the mystery of the
Yellow Door would break. He had already seen hidden facts; certain occurrences
tonight had tabbed with his theories. Even as Cranston, The Shadow was in a
position to confront Krode and Bracy with questions that would alarm them.
One or the other might break. Whatever the power of the Yellow Door, it
was certain that its adherents did not trust themselves beyond a certain point.
Dynoth's suicide - or murder, whichever it had been - was proof of weakness.
The limousine stopped at Weston's. The Shadow alighted. He went up to the
commissioner's apartment, where he was admitted by Weston's man. Casually, The
Shadow inquired:
"I am expected in the office?"
"Hardly, sir," the man replied. "The commissioner has gone elsewhere. He
told me to inform you, Mr. Cranston."
"Elsewhere?"
"Yes. To Mr. Birklam's."
"With the prisoners that I understood he had here?"
"Yes, Mr. Cranston."
There was a sudden glitter of The Shadow's eyes. The gleam faded. Adhering
to the calm tone of Cranston, The Shadow requested:
"May I make a telephone call?"
"Certainly, Mr. Cranston," returned the servant. "Step right into the
Commissioner's office."
The Shadow entered the office where the quiz should have been held. He
closed the door. Picking up the desk telephone, he dialed a number: Birklam's.
There was no response. The Shadow's lips showed a cold, fixed smile as his hand
replaced the telephone on the desk.
Stepping from the office, The Shadow questioned Weston's man:
"How long ago did the commissioner leave here?"
"At least half an hour, sir."
"Very well. If he calls from Mr. Birklam's, tell him that I am on my way."
Returning to his limousine, The Shadow gave Stanley a two-word order:
"Birklam's. Hurry!"
HALF an hour. The Shadow calculated that Weston and the prisoner had
already arrived at Birklam's. Backed by Cardona and Marquette, with G-men and
plain-clothes men on duty, the situation had the earmarks of a strong one.
Offsetting that was a fact that The Shadow had recognized when he had called
Birklam's.
The wires of the shipping man's telephone had been cut.
Deviltry was afoot; for Weston had staged the one blunder that The Shadow
had deemed unlikely. The Shadow had foreseen that Weston might notify Birklam,
even though Marquette, by telephone, had emphasized that he wanted the quiz to
be held at the commissioner's apartment office.
The Shadow, however, had not believed that Weston would remove the quiz to
Birklam's. He had counted upon Marquette to prevent such folly, if the pinch
came. Moreover, the message at the Cobalt Club had lulled The Shadow. Had it
said "Birklam's," The Shadow could have gone directly there, arriving soon
enough to handle matters as he wanted them.
Instead, the message had requested Cranston's presence at the
commissioner's. Valuable time had been lost through the unnecessary detour. The
Shadow had new need for speed - a need as great as that which had impelled him
on the night when he had hastened to the rescue of Vic Marquette.
The Shadow had penetrated deeply into the case of the Yellow Door. The
message brought by Bracy, telling Krode to cover Birklam, was one that had
spelled an insidious menace. The Shadow had averted trouble; Weston had offset
that effort.
Others who served the Yellow Door would rally tonight to aid their
captured comrades. Escape would be possible for Krode and Bracy, once they had
reached Birklam's. Death would threaten all who opposed the Yellow Door.
Despite the lulling presence of police and G-men, the clipping of the
telephone wires had cut off Birklam's residence from the world. The place had
become a trap.
Only The Shadow had recognized the snare.
CHAPTER XIV
TABLES TURN
"TAKE these bracelets off us. Then, maybe, we'll talk."
The suggestion came from Ferris Krode, as the man smiled in ugly fashion.
Krode was seated in a big chair, in a corner of Dudley Birklam's library. His
remark referred to Bracy as well as himself. Bracy was seated beside Krode.
Commissioner Weston heeded the request. He saw that Krode and Bracy were
helpless in their corner. With Weston were Marquette, Cardona and the three
plain-clothes men. Birklam was also present. More than that, Birklam's servants
were amplified by a G-man and a headquarters detective. Outside, half a dozen
police and as many Federal men formed a protecting cordon.
"Take off their handcuffs," ordered Weston.
Cardona complied. Krode and Bracy rubbed their chafed wrists. Weston
concentrated on Krode.
"We're ready," announced Weston. "Tell your story, Krode."
"All right." Krode shrugged his shoulders in resignment. "First of all,
I'm not the big-shot in this racket. If I was, I'd -"
Krode paused as someone rapped at the door. Birklam called for entry.
Jefford appeared; the broad-shouldered secretary bowed, then exhibited pencil
and note book.
"Of course!" exclaimed Birklam. Then, to Weston: "After you telephoned,
Jefford suggested to me that he might be needed to take notes. He is a
competent secretary."
"We can use him," nodded Weston, noting that Cardona had been scribbling
with poor speed. "Sit down, Jefford. Krode, begin again."
"I'M not the big-shot," repeated the prisoner. "That's plain enough. Bracy
brought me a message that came from the big-shot."
"Who is he?" queried Weston.
"The big-shot?" returned Krode. "I don't know. He's got a brain, that's
all. He made it worth while to work for him."
Krode's statement was direct. Weston believed it. He shot another question:
"What is the Yellow Door?"
"Nothing," replied Krode. "We just use it as a password."
Had The Shadow been present, playing the part of Cranston, he would have
challenged the statement. Weston, however, allowed it to pass.
"Why did you call on Birklam at his office?" quizzed the commissioner.
"What was your game, Krode?"
"I can't answer that one," returned Krode. "I was following orders. I'm
willing to guess that it was a build-up of some sort; but my first job was just
to make contact."
"Then you admit that crime was in back of your visit?"
"I don't like to admit that, commissioner. I was told to sound out Birklam
regarding the Pan-Europa line; to tell him that there might be trouble if the
World Wide bought those ships. When Birklam told me that he wasn't interested
in Pan-Europa, I believed him."
"And then -"
"I sent back word -"
Krode paused suddenly. He had made a bad slip. He had admitted return
contact with the big-shot. Marquette caught it and jammed into the quiz.
"Who did you send word to?" queried Marquette. "The big-shot?"
Krode considered; then admitted: "Yes."
"Yet you don't know the big-shot," gibed Weston. "How do you fit those
conflicts of statement, Krode?"
Krode leered unpleasantly. He had regained his wits.
"I prepared a message on blue litmus," he explained. "I gave it to a
special messenger - one who carried word to the big-shot. I didn't know who the
big-shot was -"
"But you knew the messenger?"
"By sight, yes. Not by name."
Krode's eyes showed a momentary restlessness, which Joe Cardona spotted.
Instead of snapping a question to Krode, the ace swung to Bracy and demanded:
"Were you that messenger?"
BRACY was caught off guard. His lips quavered as he tried to stammer a
denial. The action was sufficient. Bracy had given himself away. Weston nodded
his approbation of Cardona's smart trick.
"We'll hear from you, Bracy," announced Weston. "Take down everything he
says, Jefford."
Bracy chewed his lips.
"Full name," ordered Weston. "Your right one."
"Glade Bracy," stated the prisoner. "I - I wasn't deep in this,
commissioner. I was only a messenger -"
"But an important one," interrupted Weston. "You signed Weasel Hacklin."
"Yes," admitted Bracy. "But I - I didn't -"
"You didn't tell him about the Yellow Door?"
"That's right, sir."
"Then you knew about the Yellow Door yourself?"
Bracy quailed. He looked askingly toward Krode and saw a sneer on the
other prisoner's face. Suddenly, Bracy broke. Pleadingly, he panted.
"You've got to protect me!" he declared. "Like I suppose you promised to
protect Weasel. I'll tell you about the Yellow Door. It's a society, a group of
those who have - who have been through the Yellow Door. I saw the Yellow Door; I
went through it. I'm risking torture to tell you this!
"You've got to save me - to keep me from them! If they take me to the
Citadel, I'll suffer torment! That's where the Yellow Door is. At the Citadel.
That's where the members go when they run into trouble. Thurlon is there -
Rupert Thurlon, from California -"
"Is he the big-shot?" demanded Weston.
Bracy shook his head. He tightened his hands upon the arms of his chair.
"The big-shot has made millions," he declared, "but he's kept it under
cover. He's after more. Thurlon handled that Amerimex oil deal; he had to
murder Bostbaum to do it. Dynoth swung another job, in Chicago. He killed
Gildare.
"Krode is the man who is busy at present. Saschew was all ready to start
on his own. There are others, though, men who have covered their tracks
completely. They are at the Citadel; they'll go out again, on new propositions,
when the big-shot orders them -"
"One moment," snapped Weston, thinking the time was ripe. "Who is the
big-shot?"
Nervously, Bracy licked his lips.
"That's something we're not supposed to know," declared the informant.
"That's why none of the members will talk. They've been through the Yellow
Door. They know what it means. If they can't name the big-shot, they know they
will never be safe. That's why they'd rather die than take the risk of torture.
"But I'm talking; and it's because I've made a guess. One that fits with
what's happened. I'll take a chance on it, to show you that I'm through with
the Yellow Door. You won't have to look far for the big-shot! You've got him
here, right in this room where you can grab him -"
BRACY was staring at the group. Their eyes immediately centered upon
Krode, as the second prisoner delivered an angry snarl. Bracy's voice broke
suddenly; his eyes bulged, as he tried to gasp a warning. Then came a sharp
order; instinctively, Weston and others turned about.
They had forgotten Jefford. Birklam's secretary had dropped his note book.
From his pocket, he had produced a short-muzzled revolver. On his feet, he was
glaring at the throng.
"No moves!" snapped Jefford. "I'll finish the lot of you! I'm the big-shot
that Bracy talked about! Put up your hands, all of you!"
Jefford was taking a long chance in his move. He was dealing with fearless
men. Marquette and Cardona were spaced apart; they were not the sort to be cowed
by a single foeman, even though his position was strong. Nor was Weston;
particularly when he knew that two plain-clothes men offered additional
strength.
For the moment, the odds were five against one. Five without guns handy;
but all were willing to take the risk.
With one accord, Marquette and Cardona came to their feet; Weston was on
the go a fraction of a second later. Plain-clothes men, already standing, were
about to join the surge.
Jefford did not fire; he side-stepped toward the door.
The move finished hopes of battle. The door swung open, as Jefford leaped
toward it. Revolvers bristled from the hallway. Behind the leveled guns were
the glowering faces of Birklam's six servants. The intention of these men was
obvious. They had come to back up Jefford.
There was a shout of evil glee from Krode; a terrified shriek from Bracy.
Dudley Birklam added a groan, as he observed the treachery of his trusted
servants. Jefford delivered a vicious laugh as he saw Marquette and Cardona
stop short. Weston and the plainclothes men halted.
The trap had closed. The power of the Yellow Door had been invoked, with
Jefford as the evil instigator.
CHAPTER XV
DEATH DECREED
"FRISK them!"
Jefford snapped the order to Krode. Willingly, the prisoner came forward
from his chair. Wearing his evil leer, Krode whisked guns from the pockets of
Marquette and Cardona.
"Help Krode!"
Jefford's new order was given to Bracy. The informant gaped; Jefford gave
him new urge.
"We still can use you at the Citadel," said Jefford. "You talked too much;
but we'll let it pass."
Bracy managed a sly grin.
"I was bluffing," he asserted. "I thought it would help out. I knew you'd
be ready."
"Sure," acknowledged Jefford. "I got it, Bracy. They were going to find
out anyway. You stalled before telling them that I was the big-shot."
Bracy became more confident upon receiving this approval. He found the
guns carried by the two plain-clothes men while Krode was frisking Weston.
"You wanted information," declared Jefford, facing the new prisoners, "and
you received some. I can give you more. The Yellow Door was my idea. It began
while I was working here. I saw what could be done by smooth finance. To get
results, I organized the Yellow Door.
"Birklam can tell you that I have taken frequent vacations. During those
periods I established the Citadel and swore in workers who gave allegiance to
the Yellow Door. I had money of my own; a legacy that Birklam did not know I
possessed. That was the capital behind my scheme.
"Nor did Birklam know that in my six years here, I subsidized his
servants. One by one, they became members of the Yellow Door. Tonight, working
together, they overpowered your two watchers separately. Your G-man and your
detective are bound and gagged in the cellar."
Jefford's tone had become one of derision.
"Bracy told you the facts," resumed the self-styled master of the Yellow
Door. "Bostbaum and Gildare tried to block my schemes. They were murdered
because of their meddlesome tactics. They were but a few among many. Others
have died; some have lived; but always I have gained what I sought.
"Wealth! That was my desire. By preventing certain mergers; by encouraging
others, I have gained control of industries, so effectively that no one can
trace my schemes. My work, in a sense, has just begun. Other deals, larger
ones, are under way at present.
"The one involving Pan-Europa presented a difficult test. I foresaw
trouble when I sent Krode to treat with Birklam. But my own position, here in
Birklam's home, enabled me to keep a watch upon developments. You have seen,
gentlemen, how excellently my enterprise has proceeded."
JEFFORD signaled two of the servants. They approached and conducted the
plain-clothes men out into the hall. Jefford's next words were concentrated
upon the four who remained: Weston and Birklam; Marquette and Cardona.
They formed two separate pairs, and Jefford apparently planned to deal
with them accordingly. He spoke to Weston and Birklam.
"I shall take both of you to the Citadel," he announced. "You,
commissioner, shall serve me as a hostage, so that the law will not attempt too
strong an action. You, Birklam, will be held in order to complete the
transaction that I require. The World Wide Shipping Corporation will not buy
the Pan-Europa line while you are in my custody.
"We shall leave here in your car, commissioner. You, Birklam and myself
will go out by the front door, accompanied by one of these servants. I warn
you: there must be no resistance. Two men will be covering us with rifles. It
will mean death for you and members of the cordon, if you cause any trouble."
Jefford turned to Marquette and Cardona.
"You two will remain here," he added, "to be bound and gagged with the
other prisoners. That will take place, however, after I have left with my two
companions. During our stroll to the commissioner's car, you will be covered by
revolvers."
The intent was plain. Marquette and Cardona were to be held at the point
of death as another guarantee that Weston and Birklam would not make trouble.
AN order from Jefford. The prisoners were marched out into the hall. The
two servants who had taken away the plain-clothes men appeared with rifles.
Jefford stationed them at tiny windows on each side of the front door. From
these loopholes, the two servants could cover the passage to Weston's car.
There were three other servants. Jefford placed them under Krode's
command. Bracy remained with Krode. The servants stood guarding Marquette and
Cardona. Krode and Bracy chose positions near the center of the large hall.
"Cover efficiently," instructed Jefford. "Afterward, Krode, the servants
will show you an exit through the cellar. All of you can leave with ease. The
cordon will be guarding a deserted house, except" - Jefford chuckled - "except
for their own companions, whom they will find here."
He motioned Weston and Birklam to the front door. The servant who was with
him opened it. Weston and Birklam stepped out through the doorway; immediately
Jefford and the servant followed, closing the door as they went.
Krode and Bracy sprang to the front door, ready to yank it open in case
there should be trouble outside. They were awaiting reports from the two
riflemen who peered through the little windows. Krode decided that he might
need another man at the door. He signaled; one of the three servants left his
post beside Marquette and Cardona.
Seconds seemed endless to Vic and Joe. Hands half raised, they waited;
hearing no disturbance, they knew that Weston and Birklam must have submitted
peacefully to Jefford's urge. Both could picture the commissioner and the
shipping man, passing the cordon without difficulty, recognized by guardians of
the law.
They could also visualize Jefford and the servant with him, posing as two
additional passengers for Weston's car. What irked the two inside prisoners was
the fact that their particular dilemma prevented Weston from turning the tables
on Jefford. Vic heard Joe mutter beneath his breath.
The guarding servants paid no attention to Cardona's mumbles. Marquette
took an opportunity to whisper in an undertone:
"Shall we let them get away with it?"
"What else?" muttered Cardona. "The odds are all against us."
Marquette gave a slight nod of agreement. Then a thought struck him.
"After this?" whispered the G-man. "What then?"
Cardona flashed a quick glance.
"You mean," he muttered, "that they'll bump us anyway?"
"We're the two," returned Marquette, "who could queer the Yellow Door."
THE words hit home. Cardona could foresee crooks in their get-away through
the cellar. He pictured himself and Marquette, helpless below, ready fodder for
guns that could not be heard from those depths. Jefford had said that members
of the cordon would find their companions of the law; but he had not specified
whether they would find them dead or alive.
Probably Krode, who now held sway, would spare four prisoners already
bound and gagged in the cellar; but Cardona could not feel any guarantee that
the murderer would do more than that. Joe was certain that he and Vic were
doomed. It would be better to act at this moment, to receive death when the
crackle of guns could warn the cordon that all was not well. That would give
Weston and Birklam a chance to break from Jefford.
"I'm ready," muttered Cardona, grimly. "Let's go."
"Hold it!" Marquette's whisper was barely audible. Then, after a momentary
pause: "Go!"
Marquette had been staring toward a curtain on the far side of the hall.
He had seen the drapery rustle. He had withheld Cardona until the curtain moved
again - this time, with a definite swish. Banking on a wild hope, Marquette had
given the word.
Simultaneously, Vic and Joe each wheeled upon a guarding servant. The two
menials were spaced five feet apart; neither expected the surge that came. With
equal skill, Marquette and Cardona each grabbed for an enemy's gun hand. They
hurled their foemen backward, wrists shoved upward, as the servants fired.
A bullet skimmed Marquette's ear and whistled to the ceiling. Cardona felt
a tingle from his left shoulder as a slug singed his flesh. Grappling fiercely,
the two tried to wrest the weapons from their adversaries. Tumult filled the
rear of the hallway.
Krode spun about with an oath. It was his job to end that fray while the
riflemen kept their guard at the windows. Bracy and the odd servant swung along
with Krode, prepared to jab quick shots that would finish Marquette and Cardona.
All three stopped rigid.
The curtain at the side of the hall had swept away. From a darkened,
deserted room, a menacing figure had stepped into view. The breeze from an
opened window stirred a black cloak that enshrouded hidden shoulders. Brilliant
eyes sparkled from beneath a hat brim. Gloved fists aimed huge automatics.
The Shadow had arrived at Birklam's. He had slipped through the law's
outer cordons. He had entered the house through a window of the unused room. He
had reached the curtain just after the front door had closed. The Shadow had
seen the predicament that held Marquette and Cardona.
More than that, he had seen the G-man stare in his direction. The rustle
of the curtain had been The Shadow's signal. As he had hoped, The Shadow had
seen Marquette pass the word to Cardona. The double leap had cleared the way
for action. The Shadow had divined why riflemen were at the loopholes. He had
wanted complete freedom to deal with those at the front of the hall.
The Shadow had gained his wish. Marquette and Cardona were battling on
equal terms with the men whom they had grabbed. One against five, The Shadow
was prepared to battle Krode, Bracy and the trio with them.
A sinister laugh was The Shadow's challenge. Weird amid the echoes of
discharged guns, that sardonic mirth was mockery, when heard by those who
represented crime.
Death had been decreed by men of evil. The Shadow was prepared to deliver
it to those who supported the decree.
CHAPTER XVI
THE GAME CHANGES
IN facing Krode and Bracy, The Shadow covered two men whom he had met
before. He had cowed the pair on this very night. They knew The Shadow's
prowess. They feared the black-clad entrant. That factor had effect.
Krode, as commander of the crooks who had remained, found it his part to
open conflict. Quick with his aim, he fired at The Shadow. Krode's hand lacked
the surety that it had shown when he had poured bullets into Weasel Hacklin.
Krode was not a sure shot. The Shadow knew that from the evidence in
Weasel's death: five bullets used at close range. Bracy and the servant were
the unknown factors. The Shadow ignored Krode to aim for them. Krode's gun
flashed a wide bullet, as the man snapped the trigger too hastily.
The Shadow's shots came simultaneously. One automatic blasted a message
that flattened the aiming servant. The other gun dispatched a bullet that
missed Bracy by a scant quarter-inch. Bracy had dived suddenly as The Shadow
fired.
Bracy's direction had deceived The Shadow. The man had leaped toward
Krode. Swinging his gun about, he aimed for the man whose commands he was
supposed to obey. The reason for his action was the one point that The Shadow
had not guessed.
There was no evidence to tell of the partial confession that Bracy had
made. Seeing him with Krode, The Shadow had naturally taken Bracy to be an
enemy in full standing with his tribe. Bracy, however, had only half-trusted
Jefford's promise of amnesty. He had pretended to accept it when he had seen
the tables turn against the law.
The Shadow's arrival had terrorized Bracy; with it, the turncoat had seen
a chance to escape the vengeance of the Yellow Door. By attacking Krode, he was
fighting with The Shadow. Through such a course, there was a chance for safety.
Bracy was ever ready to join the side that offered the best prospects.
Bracy's shift hastened the happening that The Shadow wanted. He had
expected to draw the riflemen from the windows. He knew that quick fight would
cause Krode to call them. Attacked by Bracy, Krode raised a wild shout for
quick aid. Hearing it, the servants at the windows were swift to forget their
other duty. They spun about to meet The Shadow.
By so doing, they saved themselves from bullets in the back. Forgetting
Krode, The Shadow opened against these foemen. His pistols spat swift bullets.
One marksman crumpled, while he aimed. The other dodged behind Krode and Bracy;
he grabbed the doorknob, turned it and made a dive for the outside.
WITH whirlwind speed, The Shadow followed, revolving as he headed for the
door. Marquette had gained his antagonist's revolver. A muffled report spelled
the crook's doom. The Shadow saw Marquette's foeman keeling toward the floor.
The Shadow also saw Cardona, reeling backward from a vicious punch. Joe's enemy
was aiming toward the inspector.
The Shadow fired two quick shots from the doorway. Cardona's attacker
sagged. Leaving the field to Marquette and Cardona, The Shadow continued in
pursuit of the servant who had fled. Guns barked as The Shadow reached the
steps.
The man with the rifle had run squarely into the cordon. A deluge of
bullets sent him sprawling to the sidewalk. From the curb, a shout was raised.
Weston had leaped for Jefford, grabbing at the gun that the secretary had
suddenly whipped into sight.
Birklam was already in the commissioner's car, covered by the man who had
gone along with Jefford. The Shadow turned to open long-range fire; so did
G-men and police who formed the aroused cordon. Jefford sprang for safety, into
the front seat of Weston's car. The commissioner's chauffeur came tumbling to
the street, ejected by a vicious punch from Jefford.
Instantly, the car shot away. Jefford was driving, seeking flight, with
Birklam a prisoner in the rear seat. Weston was shaking his fist from the curb.
The Shadow fired along with cordon members, as the car wheeled past the corner.
Luck was with Jefford. The range was long; The Shadow's shots gained no result.
The men who aimed from closer range were wide in their fire.
Pursuers boarded cars to take up mad pursuit. The Shadow stepped to
darkness beside the front steps as other men from the cordon headed into the
house. Two grappling figures reeled suddenly into view. Krode and Bracy were
still locked in their struggle. Neither Marquette nor Cardona had found a
chance to break them.
A flashing shot came muffled from between the strugglers. One man sagged
floorward. It was Bracy. Crawling, groping, he tried to find the door, while
Krode faced the inrush of two G-men and a trio of detectives. Revolvers rattled
their fire with the clatter of a machine gun. Riddled with bullets, Krode fell
dead.
Staccato shots told that two wounded crooks had opened fire from the floor
of the hall. To save themselves, the men from the invading cordon were forced to
drill those stubborn survivors. A last burst of gunfire finished all resistance
to the law.
BRACY had reached the front steps. Sprawling downward, he rolled upon his
back. His glazed eyes saw The Shadow. Mortally wounded, Bracy tried to cough
last facts that might bring ruin to the Yellow Door.
"Jefford!" he gasped. "Jefford is -"
A spasm ended the information that Bracy sought to give. Dying lips
twitched; apparently, Bracy thought that he was forming words, for there was a
break in sequence when he again made himself coherent.
"To the Citadel," he muttered. "If - if in danger. Weldon's farm - near
Newburgh. Go alone - alone -"
A last cough racked Bracy's crumpled form. Fingers loosened their slim
grip upon the steps. The man's dead body slipped from the spot where it lay and
rolled crazily to the bottom of the steps. Commissioner Weston, coming from
farther down the street, stopped to view and recognize the body of Bracy.
Standing in a place of darkness, The Shadow waited until Weston had
entered the house. Unobserved, The Shadow glided toward the corner where he had
ordered Stanley to park. Wisely, he had placed the limousine out of sight. It
was too late to pursue the commissioner's car. That was up to the half dozen
men of the outside cordon. They had followed in other machines; Weston's
dethroned chauffeur had gone with them.
The Shadow reached the limousine, entered it and ordered Stanley to drive
to the Cobalt Club. A few blocks from Birklam's, he saw cars returning from the
chase. Jefford had managed somehow to make a get-away, carrying Birklam and the
gun-bearing servant with him.
IT was an hour later when Commissioner Weston stopped at the club to find
his friend Cranston there. In a secluded corner of the lobby, Weston queried
why Cranston had not come to Birklam's. The Shadow expressed annoyance, in
Cranston's style. He remarked that when he had not found Weston at his
apartment, he had decided to return to the club.
"It was fortunate that you did not come to Birklam's," declared Weston.
"That chap Jefford turned out to be the ringleader of a criminal band called
the Yellow Door. He abducted Birklam and carried him away in my car. I was
fortunate enough to escape similar capture."
"He fled in your car?" queried The Shadow, in feigned surprise. "How has
he managed to stay at large? I should suppose that the car would be easily
recognized."
"He staged a cute trick," returned Weston. "Jefford must know those
dead-end streets like a book. He led the pursuing cars down a blind
thoroughfare; doubled back, somehow, through a driveway and took a shortcut to
the George Washington Bridge."
"He fled across to New Jersey?"
"Yes. By the time we were able to spread the alarm, he had made a complete
get-away. The men who chased him came back to report; but they were too late."
"You could have ordered the bridge closed to traffic."
"The telephone wires were cut at Birklam's. By the time we found another
telephone, Jefford had crossed the bridge."
"And you have no clue to his destination?"
"None whatever. Krode killed Bracy, the man whom we hoped would turn
informant. Krode himself was slain, along with all but one of Birklam's
servants. The odd man escaped with Jefford. They were all a lot of traitors;
that is why Birklam never learned it. One honest man would have spoiled their
game; unfortunately, all were crooked."
Dejectedly, Weston departed. His last statement was one that explained his
new dilemma. Weston muttered an uncompleted sentence: "They have gone to their
Citadel; if we had one clue -"
The Shadow's lips showed a smile when Weston had gone. The Shadow held the
clue that the commissioner wanted. He had gained it from Bracy's dying words,
that way to reach the Citadel. Brief statements, that must apply for all
members of the Yellow Door.
"If in danger - Weldon's farm near Newburgh - go alone -"
The farm could not be the Citadel. The Shadow recognized that it must
serve a different purpose. It was a place where a member of the Yellow Door
would find protection; where he would contact a cover-up crew that would take
action against any trailers or pursuers. Discreetly, The Shadow had avoided
mention of these facts to Weston.
Not only had The Shadow seen the error of allowing Weston too much leeway;
he recognized also that the town of Newburgh was outside of Weston's bailiwick.
There was one man qualified to aid The Shadow in the game that was to come -
one upon whose cooperation The Shadow could depend. The Shadow strolled from
the Cobalt Club and entered his big car.
SEATED in the living room of his hotel suite, Vic Marquette was the
picture of dejection. He and Joe Cardona had departed, with mutual
congratulations over their escape from death. After that, Marquette had lost
all elation.
No one knew better than he that the game had changed. Members of the
Yellow Door had been eliminated; but they represented a mere portion of the
desperate band. Krode and Bracy were dead; they alone could have shown the
route to the Citadel. Jefford had taken Birklam there; at the Citadel, the
big-shot of crime would be free to concoct new modes of evil, to complete the
schemes that had already been begun.
The opening of the door did not arouse Marquette. He thought that it was
Cuyler entering the suite. A whispered greeting brought Marquette to sudden
attention. Looking up, the G-man saw The Shadow. Facing keen eyes, Marquette
listened.
The Shadow spoke. With every sentence, Marquette nodded. His own eyes
shone with eagerness. The Shadow was stating facts that awoke new confidence
within Vic Marquette. With the facts came orders, which, if followed, would
bring results in the game that lay ahead.
Vic Marquette was ready to accept The Shadow's full command.
CHAPTER XVII
HARRY'S VISITOR
FIVE o'clock the next afternoon found Harry Vincent, in Cleveland, seated
in the inner office of the Krode Advertising Agency. Copies of the Cleveland
evening newspapers were on the desk. Harry scanned them with a troubled air.
The newspapers told of battle in New York; the death of a crook named
Ferris Krode. Harry wondered just how soon someone in Cleveland might connect
the name of the dead swindler with that of the advertising agency.
Harry felt some security in the fact that he was playing the part of Ralph
Mandon; that, however, would not apply should Mandon return from his trip to
Manitoulin Island. In such an event, Harry had intended to swing back to his
part of Ferris Krode; that would now be inadvisable, since Krode was dead.
A message had come in today - a blue paper, in an airmail letter
postmarked Jersey City. Harry had been puzzled by the blue paper; nevertheless,
he had decoded the message according to The Shadow's system. The coded message
read:
EGDT ZG EOZQRTS
By using key-caps on the typewriter, Harry had produced:
COME TO CITADEL
The message was certainly intended for Mandon, since crooks knew that
Krode was dead. Krode had probably passed the word that Mandon was running the
advertising office in Cleveland. The letter had been mailed from Jersey City at
about midnight. Because of this letter, Harry had made a telephone call to
Rutledge Mann, in New York. He had been told to sit tight.
It was time to close the office. No word yet from The Shadow. Harry could
not escape worriment; for he knew the wide-spread power of the Yellow Door,
even though the facts concerning the society had been kept from the public.
There had been no message from The Shadow, to give the details of last night's
battle at Birklam's; but the news of the shipping man's abduction was
sufficient to let Harry guess the basic facts.
Harry realized that he might be under observation. As Mandon, not yet
initiated into the rites of the Yellow Door, Harry might be an object of
mistrust. Harry had resolved to use caution when he left the office.
IT was time to go. Harry went out through the suite and opened the outside
door. He heard shuffling footsteps in the corridor. With a quick glance, Harry
eyed a stooped old man, who was hobbling with a cane. The fellow had grimy,
short-clipped whiskers; eyes that squinted from above leathery cheeks.
The old man was a peddler, the sort that Harry had seen previously in this
building. He was selling lead pencils, which he carried in a clawlike fist.
Pitifully, the peddler approached Harry with his wares, thrust the pencils
forward and muttered through his beard:
"Need pencils, mister?"
Harry reached in his pocket and produced a quarter dollar, intending to
buy some pencils. The old man's chin came to a level with Harry's shoulder. In
a hoarse whisper, the peddler spoke:
"The Yellow Door!"
The words electrified Harry. With a slight nod, he reopened the door of
the office and motioned the old man inward. He dropped the twenty-five-cent
piece into his coat pocket; the move enabled him to grip an automatic. Harry
saw possible danger from this emissary.
The old man had straightened when Harry closed the door. He produced no
envelope; instead, he ragged away his whiskers. Harry stared in amazement as he
saw a face that was smooth-shaven except for a dark mustache. He recognized the
square, darkish features. Harry delivered a whispered exclamation:
"Vic Marquette!"
The G-man nodded. He and Harry had worked together in the past. Vic knew
Harry to be an agent of The Shadow. Quietly, he suggested that they occupy the
inner office. When they had passed the connecting door, Marquette produced a
sealed envelope. Harry opened it to read a message from The Shadow, in ink that
faded immediately afterward.
"I'm working with you, Vic," announced Harry. "I suppose you know it
already."
Marquette nodded. He saw the blue paper message on Harry's desk; the
decoded copy with it. The G-man asked:
"This came today?"
Harry nodded.
"We'd better give it the acid test," decided Marquette. He pulled a bottle
from a ragged pocket. "Here - we can place the paper in this ash tray."
Folding the blue message, Marquette dropped it into a wide, shallow ash
tray and poured liquid upon it. Harry blinked as he saw the blue paper redden.
The answer hit him.
"Litmus paper!" exclaimed Harry. "We used to use it in chemical tests.
Acid turns it red; an alkali solution makes it blue. What's the acid in the
bottle, Vic?"
"Hydrochloric. The message is O.K. It's for Mandon, Vincent."
"And I'm Mandon -"
Marquette nodded. Harry understood.
"HOW am I to get to the Citadel?" queried The Shadow's agent. "I'm
supposed to know where it is; but I don't. We can't get hold of Mandon; I
haven't heard from him since he went to Manitoulin Island.
"There is a way to get to the Citadel," explained Marquette. "A fellow
named Bracy told your chief. You go to Weldon's farm, near Newburgh on the
Hudson. It's an emergency measure, Vincent."
"To be used in case I am followed?"
"Apparently. You're the man who can play the game and find the Citadel
that belongs to the Yellow Door."
"Belongs to The Yellow Door? I thought the Yellow Door was at the Citadel."
"There probably is a yellow door there. But the Yellow Door is also the
name of the society. Only a few of the members know the identity of the
big-shot who runs the Yellow Door. As Mandon, your game is to play dumb."
"Because I'm a rookie in the outfit?"
"Just that. We'll take a train East tonight. Before we reach Beacon -
across the river from Newburgh - we'll have new orders. Somehow, The Shadow has
figured out a way to locate the Citadel through your trip there. We'll know more
about it tomorrow."
Marquette paused; then explained his presence in Cleveland.
"I came by train last night," said the G-man. "I knew that you'd be here
until five o'clock. I had business that took up part of the afternoon. When I
came here, I used the peddler's disguise, just to shake off any members of the
Yellow Door that might be around."
Harry nodded. He knew that Vic had followed a method ordered by The Shadow.
"The coast was clear," stated Marquette. "But the easiest way to get in
here was to say 'The Yellow Door'; that fixed it so that I didn't have to
identify myself in the corridor. I wanted to keep up the whisker game until we
were in here alone."
"I'm ready to go ahead as Mandon," declared Harry. "Nobody in the Yellow
Door knows me. Dynoth was Mandon's only contact. Still, I shall probably be
called upon to properly establish my identity."
"Your chief told me that," returned Marquette. "That's why I couldn't get
here sooner, Vincent. I went to get these papers."
Harry stared as Marquette produced a sheaf of folded letters and other
documents. Understanding came to him as Marquette began an explanation.
"I WENT out to see old Henry Adlaw," stated Marquette. "As a government
operative, I gave him enough facts to make him understand the plot against him
and to assure him that we needed his cooperation. He gave me these papers."
"The reports from Smythe, on Saginaw Copper?"
"Yes. They came in yesterday. Smythe reported that Saginaw Copper was a
lemon. Adlaw does not intend to buy it. But he is going to make a bluff at it."
"So that it will look as though I switched the papers."
"Yes. You can tell any story that you want when you get to the Citadel.
You will have the evidence to back it: these papers from Adlaw's own files."
"The crooks will think that Adlaw has the forged reports!"
Harry's exclamation displayed his admiration for a device which he knew
was of The Shadow's creation. He realized how definitely the bona fide report
would establish him as Mandon when he reached the Citadel. He saw a reason why
The Shadow had chosen Vic Marquette as an aid.
Through the G-man, The Shadow had gained quick possession of the papers
that would be Harry's passport, proof that Harry, as Mandon, had completed a
required job. Vic's visit to Adlaw had also insured the copper magnate's
cooperation.
Marquette was mentioning that visit again, as he donned his peddler's
beard.
"I had to travel over beyond the High Level Bridge," he told Harry. "Adlaw
lives in Lakewood and his house is a long way out. He gave me an interview quick
enough, though, when I arrived there.
"His secretary, Clefter, knows that I am a government man, because I told
him. But Clefter is reliable, according to what Mandon told you, Vincent."
Harry agreed with the statement.
"I'll hobble out," declared Marquette, "I won't see you until tomorrow,
Vincent. I'm taking the New York Limited, at two o'clock in the morning. It
gets to Beacon along about two tomorrow afternoon.
"You take the same train. Sometime after we leave Albany, you can meet me
on the train. Bedroom B, Car L69."
AGAIN disguised, Marquette shambled through the outer office. Harry opened
the door; the pretended peddler hobbled toward the stairway. The corridor was
deserted; Harry's path lay clear.
Methodically, The Shadow's agent packed a few belongings, including the
typewriter key-caps and the transformed message that had come today. He scraped
the name from the glass panel of the door; pored through the filing cabinets and
destroyed the few papers that bore the name of Krode.
Instructions from The Shadow had told Harry to remove any clues, in case
some later visitor would check over the premises. As Mandon, Harry would
naturally cover his trail. His final tasks completed, Harry left the building.
Walking west on Euclid Avenue, Harry chose an arcade that led through to
Superior Avenue. He was bound for a restaurant where he would eat his last
dinner in Cleveland. Tonight, to Harry, meant the beginning of a journey that
would lead to new adventure.
The coming mission promised danger. That was an element that Harry had
often faced in the service of The Shadow.
CHAPTER XVIII
THE UNSEEN TRAIL
THE New York Limited was speeding southward from Albany. Harry Vincent was
seated by a window of the dining car, enjoying lunch as he watched the passing
panorama of the Hudson River.
The train was nearly two hours late; it would not reach Beacon until
nearly four o'clock. Harry was one passenger who was pleased because the
Limited was not on time. He had not wanted to reach the Weldon farm until late
in the afternoon.
Vic Marquette had just finished lunch. Without displaying any recognition
of Harry, he had departed the diner. Concluding his own meal, Harry walked
forward. He reached a sleeper that carried the name Hyacinth. In the window
beside the narrow interior passage were cardboard squares that bore the number
L69.
Harry pressed the button beside the door of Bedroom B. The door opened;
Harry stepped in with Vic Marquette.
"This came on at Albany," informed Marquette, pointing to a suitcase that
lay on the wide, couchlike seat. "I don't know who left it here, but it's for
you, Vincent."
Harry opened the suitcase; he found an envelope, in it a message. While he
was reading word from The Shadow, inscribed in special code, Harry heard
Marquette remark:
"We've got to trail you after you make contact. But it will be a tough
job, Vincent."
"Why?" questioned Harry. He was wearing a smile, as the message faded.
"That shouldn't be difficult, Vic."
"The old system is to tag a car," explained Marquette. "To keep radio
calls coming in to headquarters. Let new patrol cars report when they see the
wanted machine go past. But there are disadvantages. The crooks may pick up
some of those short-wave signals themselves. What's more, they're apt to spot
patrol cars.
"It's all right, maybe, when a manhunt is on. But this isn't a manhunt.
You're supposed to be Mandon, shaking off any one that's after you. The better
you shake them, the more chance you'll have of getting to the Citadel.
"So I don't suppose we'll cover. But how will we know where you are when
you get there? How will you know, if these pals of Mandon's take you all over
the map? They can lose you, Vincent."
"Not very well," interposed Harry. "Look at this, Vic."
Standing the suitcase upright, he pried at the bottom. A flap lifted;
Marquette stared at a cavity beneath. He saw a simple apparatus arranged in
compact form. It was a radio device.
The apparatus consisted of a coil, a tube, with several dry-cell
batteries. Packed with it, ready for attachment, was a tiny object that looked
like a sending key.
"I don't get it," grunted Marquette. "You can't send with that outfit.
You'll have no chance to rig up an aerial."
"I don't need to," returned Harry, still smiling. "I have my instructions.
I will attach these batteries before we reach Beacon. When I close the flap, I
can gum the paper lining of the suitcase over it. There won't be a trace of the
hidden apparatus."
"But how -"
"I'll fix it in my own compartment, Vic. Don't worry about my part. When
you get off at Beacon, you will find a coupe with the license number
40-S-2-G-7. Take it and follow the only local taxi that has a green stop-light."
Marquette gaped, puzzled.
"You'll arrive at an old house on the Hudson," added Harry. "Go in and ask
for Burbank. He is the man who boarded this train at Albany, to leave the
suitcase. Your instructions were in the message, Vic."
Marquette nodded; he jotted down the license number; also the name
Burbank. Harry left the bedroom, carrying the suitcase.
CLOUDS prophesied an early dusk, when the Limited hauled into Beacon.
Harry Vincent was carrying the new suitcase. He had left an old one on the
train, after transferring his belongings to the special bag. Harry chose a
random taxi. He told the driver to take him across the river to Newburgh.
As he rode away, Harry saw the taxi with the green stop-light. He caught
sight of a passenger boarding it. The man's back was turned; Harry did not see
his face. But he knew that the chap was Burbank. Harry also saw Marquette
picking out the unlocked coupe that was at the station for him.
Harry's taxi took the ferry to Newburgh; the driver informed the passenger
that he would have to pay for the round trip. They caught a boat that was about
to leave. Seven minutes after its departure from Beacon, the ferry entered the
Newburgh slip.
As they rolled westward along Second Street, Harry mentioned that he
wanted to ride out to the Weldon farm. The driver scratched his head; then
stopped to make inquiry at a garage. He came back with the information:
"There's a Weldon farm about eight miles west of town -"
"All right," interrupted Harry, "take me there."
Twenty minutes later, the puzzled taxi driver was stopped at a sign post,
trying to figure the route to the farm. A long, white building showed in the
dusk of a hillside. Harry supposed that it might be the farm. He made no
comment, however; for he saw a long sedan that was moving slowly from a side
lane.
"This is the place," announced Harry, pulling money from his pocket. "Let
me off here."
Two minutes more; Harry was standing in the road. The taxi was heading
back to Newburgh; the sedan was nosing in Harry's direction. Harry turned about
as the car stopped. A gruff-voiced driver queried:
"Looking for some place, bud?"
"Yes," replied Harry, lifting his suitcase to the running board. "I want
to find the Weldon farm."
"That's it over there."
"The place with the Yellow Door?"
Harry looked toward the hazy farmhouse as he spoke. There was no yellow
door to be seen; but his question was a natural one. The artful use of the
password brought quick results.
"Who are you?" queried the driver, leaning from the wheel. "What's your
name?"
"Ralph Mandon."
"I'm Chuck Lawston. Maybe Dynoth mentioned me to you. We thought maybe you
were Mandon. Any one trailing you?"
"No," replied Harry; "but I was afraid of a jam out in Cleveland. That's
why I headed here."
"Sure. Instead of going straight to the Citadel. Good stuff, Mandon! Hop
aboard."
Harry entered the front seat of the sedan. There were two other men in
back; Lawston did not introduce them. Instead, the driver began a circuitous
course. Settling dusk made it impossible for Harry to guess the direction.
HARRY had tossed his suitcase into the rear seat. Flickers of guarded
flashlights made him guess that the men in back were examining the contents.
Harry smiled to himself. All that they would find were the documents that
established his role of Mandon.
Along a curving road, Harry noted that Lawston was picking out the lights
of other cars. Somewhere, they would meet a cover-up crew. Harry remembered his
conversation with Marquette. Ordinary measures of trailing would ruin this
expedition. The men of the Yellow Door had means of making sure that they were
neither followed nor checked while en route to their Citadel.
Harry, however, was confident. He leaned back in the seat and let darkness
cover his smile. The inspection of the suitcase had ended. The men in back had
not guessed that it contained a sealed apparatus. Just before Beacon, Harry had
attached the dry-cell batteries. He had no need to worry whither he was being
carried.
THE answer to this remarkable situation was to be found in an upstairs
room of a deserted mansion that overlooked the Hudson, some miles from the town
of Beacon. To that house, Vic Marquette had followed the taxi with the green
stoplight. He had seen a man enter the building; he had watched the taxi leave.
Approaching, Marquette had knocked at the front door. A huge,
broad-smiling African had admitted him. The man was Jericho, a resident of
Harlem whom The Shadow employed for certain tasks. Jericho had been placed in
charge of this old, empty house. When Marquette asked for Burbank, the African
bowed and conducted the G-man upstairs.
In the room that Marquette had entered, a lone man was seated at a table
in the corner. There was a vacant chair beside him. Marquette sat down; but his
position did not enable him to glimpse the man's face. He guessed, however, that
this was Burbank.
In a glow of light lay a map, marked off into tiny squares. At one spot
was a large red dot, which represented the location of this house. At another
spot, in New Jersey, was a green dot. Though Marquette did not guess it, that
stood for the country residence of Lamont Cranston.
In front of Burbank was an apparatus that Marquette recognized as a radio
direction finder. It was evidently set to locate a certain radio beam of a
specified short wave length. As Marquette watched, he heard a whispered voice
from a loud-speaker that was attached to a special telephone.
"Direction north-northeast, three-quarters east."
The intonation was The Shadow's!
Burbank placed a ruled edge straight from the green dot in the direction
that The Shadow had mentioned. He drew a line along it; at the same time, he
checked by his own direction finder and spoke methodically:
"West, one-half south."
Turning a metal ruler so that it ran from the red dot, Burbank drew a line
of his own. It crossed The Shadow's line at a spot on a second-class highway.
Marquette watched Burbank pencil the road in blue, up to that given point.
With that, the situation dawned on Vic Marquette.
The radio beam came from the apparatus in Harry Vincent's suitcase. Using
direction finders at two distant points, The Shadow and Burbank were separately
gaining their compass readings. Through established telephonic communication,
they were passing their individual findings back and forth.
Each had a map, set according to the compass beside it. Each was limited
to the simple discovery of a straight line to whatever place Harry's bag might
be. But wherever The Shadow's direction line crossed Burbank's, the spot
located was an exact indicator of Harry's position.
New directions were coming from The Shadow. Burbank was methodically
repeating his own new readings. Marquette watched Burbank repeat his process on
the map, finally moving the blue line further along the road; then left at a
crossing, on to another highway. Vic knew that The Shadow was employing the
same process at his own station.
Minute by minute, mile by mile, The Shadow and Burbank were tracing the
car that was manned by members of the Yellow Door. The unseen trail was being
followed to the lair where crooks possessed their unknown stronghold.
The trail would continue until The Shadow located the hidden Citadel!
CHAPTER XIX
THE CITADEL
THE sedan had reached the end of its journey.
Harry Vincent knew that they were near the Citadel, by the direct course
that the car had taken. Until the present, Lawston had changed from one road to
another, threading a mazelike course that had totally baffled Harry.
At last, the driver was keeping to one road; the headlights showed a
high-picketed iron fence alongside. The road was a dirt one, lonely amid its
enshrouding trees; but beyond the fence was open ground.
Harry was sure that the fence encircled the premises of the Citadel. His
surmise proved correct when the car swung in from the road and stopped before a
large double gate.
Harry could not guess which of three states boasted this hidden retreat.
It might be New York, New Jersey, or Pennsylvania. He knew only that they had
not crossed the Hudson River; but whether they had ridden south, north, west,
or merely circled, was something that he could not answer.
He knew that Lawston's deceptive route had been carried through to shake
off any followers; but it had deceived Harry in addition.
A narrow-beamed searchlight shone from a high spot in the darkness. It
bathed the standing car in a circle of vivid light. Lawston chuckled to Harry.
"They're on the job in the control room," stated the driver. "They knew
when we crossed the signal wire. It flashed the blue light."
The sedan had been identified. The big gates were swinging open. Lawston
spoke again as he drove forward.
"We got the red signal one night when I was on duty," he added. "Gave the
whole fence full voltage when we saw it. Turned out to be a deer that must have
been scratching his antlers on the fence."
From these remarks, Harry made definite conjectures. The searchlight had
come from some lookout post that served also as control room. Hidden wires
along the road would bring a blue signal when a car approached. Anything
touching the iron fence would produce red. The fence must be fitted with
powerful wires, ready to deliver a death charge of electricity.
HARRY heard the gates clang shut behind the sedan. The searchlight was
extinguished. A full moon, struggling to pierce the clouded sky, gave Harry a
brief glimpse of a square-walled house some sixty yards ahead. The structure
was two stories tall and flat-roofed; but at the front, Harry saw a
square-shaped structure that reminded him of a conning tower. It projected
upward, like a chimney, above the roof.
The fading glimpse was ended. Harry knew that he had spied the control
room of which Lawston had spoken. It was from the tower that the searchlight's
glow had come.
"You always shoot the juice?"
Harry put the query as Lawston swung into a driveway beside the house. The
headlights showed a bulky door sliding; this was an entrance to a garage.
"When we see the red light?" questioned Lawston. "Sure! What if we do
knock off some guy once in a while? The guys that sneak around these woods are
the kind that are never missed. We get the green lights once in a while, too."
Lawston jolted the car into a lighted garage; as he applied the brakes, he
added:
"But we let the green lights ride. They're for emergency only. We can't
take a chance and blow up half the hillside."
Harry's new guess was that hidden mines lay all about the outside terrain.
Green lights would give a warning that persons were on their way toward the
fence. In an emergency, dynamite would blast invaders skyward before they could
approach close enough to chance the hazard of the fence.
All depended upon that control room that topped the Citadel. Of all spots
in this square-walled building, it would be the hardest to reach.
Men were alighting from the sedan. Harry copied their example. He started
to follow Lawston toward an inner door, when the man stopped him with a laugh.
"What about your suitcase, Mandon?"
"That's right," returned Harry. "I almost forgot it."
He returned to the car and fished out the bag. Carrying it, he followed
the others through the door and up a flight of steps. They reached a large hall
on the ground floor. There, Harry was approached by a man with stolid face.
"Hello, Mandon," greeted this fellow, as he caught a nod from Lawston.
"I'm Jefford. Come along, I'll give you a room."
He conducted Harry to a corner of the ground floor and opened a door.
Harry stepped into a small bedroom and deposited his suitcase on a chair.
Jefford closed the door.
"What happened?"
"It worked," replied Harry. "I used Jellup to get old Adlaw's papers. He
pulled the stunt last night."
"Adlaw received Smythe's report yesterday?"
"Yes. I had your message, but I didn't head here because I knew that
Smythe's report was due."
"You faked a different report?"
"Yes - right after dinner last night. I found a chance to go to Adlaw's
myself and plant the phonies."
"Then Jellup isn't wise?"
"Not beyond the fact that he swiped something from Adlaw's files."
JEFFORD congratulated Harry with a hearty clap on the back. Harry knew
that the man had heard Krode's story and supposed that the plan had gone
through as originally arranged. Suddenly, however, Jefford showed apprehension.
"What was the emergency?"
Harry knew that Jefford's allusion concerned the fact that Harry had come
by way of Newburgh. Harry had a prompt answer.
"There was a fellow on the train who looked like a G-man. He came aboard
at Albany."
"Describe him."
Harry gave a fair description of Vic Marquette. Jefford whistled softly.
"Marquette!" he muttered. "I wonder how he got into it?"
"There were some papers in Krode's flies," chanced Harry, "that told about
an advertising account in Albany."
"So Marquette went to Albany. Then it was just luck that he boarded your
train."
"That's what I figured afterward," declared Harry. "I was coming into New
York. When I saw the fellow, I hopped off at Beacon."
"Did you see him after that?"
"No."
"Then he wasn't trailing you. Well, Mandon, you worked it right. We're all
here at last except those who took the bump - and tonight, you'll have your
chance to pass through the Yellow Door."
Jefford turned to the door of the room and placed his hand on the knob.
"Come upstairs when you're ready," he said. "We'll all be in the dining
room. The meeting comes afterward. We'll all stay upstairs to watch you pass
through the Yellow Door."
Harry motioned for Jefford to remain a moment. Unfastening the suitcase,
Harry produced Adlaw's papers. He grinned as he passed them to Jefford.
"Smythe's report," stated Harry. "It would have queered the Saginaw deal."
Jefford smiled, well pleased. He took the papers and departed. As soon as
the man's footsteps had faded, Harry became busy. He opened the suitcase,
ripped the bottom lining and attached the special sending key to the radio
apparatus.
MILES away, Burbank was seated in the old house on the Hudson, his finger
on the map, while Vic Marquette watched anxiously. Burbank put a quiet
statement to the G-man.
"Practically no change in the last ten minutes," declared Burbank. "It
looks like the Citadel."
"Square K-52," remarked Marquette, looking over Burbank's shoulder. "West
of Nyack, inside the New Jersey border."
"Less than forty miles from New York," asserted Burbank, methodically,
"and about the same distance from here, via the Bear Mountain Bridge."
The Shadow's voice came in sudden whisper from the telephone loudspeaker.
"Instructions!" spoke The Shadow. "Connect Marquette with his hotel in New
York. Have him detail his men to surround Sector M in Square K-52. Marquette is
to join them after contact call from the store at crossroads in Square K-53."
The Shadow had decided that Harry was at the Citadel. He was planning a
move for Marquette and the G-men. Burbank produced a map that showed K-52 in
detail. Sector M represented the area where the Citadel was located.
Burbank pulled a plug from a small switchboard at his side. He inserted it
elsewhere; made a methodical call. Marquette heard Cuyler's voice.
"Hello, Cuyler," announced Vic. "We've got a lead on the Yellow Door. I
want you to start out with the squad, full strength, to a place in New Jersey.
Form a cordon, but hold back until I join you. When -"
Burbank interrupted with a single word: "Wait."
Marquette paused. He noted that Burbank seemed to be having trouble with
the radio beam. It was breaking; then resuming. Vic started to speak. Burbank
motioned for silence.
IN the top room of Lamont Cranston's New Jersey mansion, The Shadow, too,
was noting the interruption of the beam. Seated at a table, The Shadow was
jotting dots and dashes on a sheet of paper. His laugh was a whispered one that
denoted new satisfaction. Harry Vincent was corroborating the fact that he was
at the Citadel.
By simple manipulation of the attached key, Harry was breaking the current
provided by the dry-cell batteries. Each pressure temporarily disturbed the
beam; thereby, Harry was flashing a code-word message. Short-break dots,
long-break dashes told their story.
The message ended. To facts gained from Lawston, Harry had added that the
members of the Yellow Door would soon assemble on the second floor; that there,
after a dinner, Harry, as Mandon, would be taken to the meeting room. Therein,
he would see the Yellow Door itself, upon the second floor of the Citadel.
The Shadow pressed a switch to signal Burbank by telephone. Connection
came; Burbank had cut off the New York G-men in order that he and Marquette
might hear The Shadow's order. The Shadow repeated terse facts that Burbank,
too, had heard from Harry. To these, he added comment of his own.
"Citadel fence electrified," announced The Shadow. "Terrain mined. Close
approach unsafe. Keep clear of Sector M in Square K-52. Await two-dot,
one-dash, three-dot signal from Citadel control room. Then close in Sector M."
The Shadow pulled the plug to end connection. Burbank was free to switch
Marquette to the New York call.
In his secluded room, The Shadow arose and extinguished the light by the
direction finder. A swish sounded in the darkness. Cloaked, The Shadow was
prepared for prompt departure from the house that he occupied as Lamont
Cranston.
The unseen trail had worked. The Shadow had learned the Citadel's
location, though Harry himself could not guess where he was. Harry, however,
had managed to cooperate well, while he played the part of Mandon.
Through his interruption of the beam, Harry had radioed important facts.
From those, The Shadow's keen brain had devised a way to deal promptly with the
band that called itself the Yellow Door.
CHAPTER XX
BEYOND THE DOOR
DINNER had ended at the Citadel. It had been a prompt meal and a rather
brief one. Harry Vincent estimated that less than an hour had passed since he
had dispatched word through his process with the sending key.
Harry had used a spare strip of gummed paper to reline the bottom of the
suitcase. He knew that the hidden device would again escape detection, if the
bag should be examined in his absence.
However, as Ralph Mandon, Harry had no cause for worry while with the
members of the Yellow Door. Twenty strong, they had received him with
enthusiasm about the huge dining table where Jefford had introduced him.
Harry's exploit had been heralded by Jefford. He was a hero among the
crooks, for they credited him with the completion of Ferris Krode's unfinished
task. Henry Adlaw, as purchaser of Saginaw Copper, would be ruined. Enterprises
which the Yellow Door held by proxy would gain more than two million dollars
through the magnate's failure. So thought the members of the Yellow Door.
As dinner ended, two of the diners ascended a spiral stairway in a hall
outside the dining room. Harry knew that they were going to the control room.
While he chatted with Rupert Thurlon, a sly-faced rogue whom Harry knew to be
the murderer of Howard Bostbaum, Harry saw two men descend from the stairway,
and enter the dining room.
Obviously, the members of the Yellow Door took their turn in two-man
shifts. Never empty, the control room tower was the vital spot of the Citadel.
Harry itched to pay a visit to that spot above. He curbed the urge, for he knew
that he was to be taken elsewhere. As Mandon, Harry was to pass through the
Yellow Door.
JEFFORD led the way to a large meeting room across the hall from the
dining room. The members entered; Harry saw a luxurious room completely
furnished in rich purple. Velvet curtains hung from the walls on all sides. The
thickly tufted carpet was of the same royal hue. Even the chairs were covered
with a purple plush.
There was little ceremony when the meeting began. Jefford began to speak;
his remarks were addressed to Harry. It was taken for granted that the newcomer
knew about the Yellow Door and had long looked forward to the privilege of
passing through that honored barrier. One interruption came, however, soon
after Jefford had begun to speak.
It was the tingling of a tiny bell, located somewhere behind a curtain.
When he heard the muffled sound, Jefford turned to Thurlon and told him to
visit the control room. When Thurlon went out, two others followed.
Jefford continued his talk. Light was mellow in this purple-walled room,
for the illumination came from high up near the ceiling, from bulbs nestled in
niches behind the tops of curtains. Harry could feel a hypnotic effect from his
surroundings; he scarcely caught the import of Jefford's words, until the man's
voice rang out:
"And to you, our fellow member, comes the privilege of passing beyond the
Yellow Door, there to declare your allegiance to golden walls that hear; to
jeweled panels whose gems are seeing eyes!"
Stepping to the far wall, Jefford drew a hanging cord. Curtains spread;
the light showed a door of brilliant yellow. Its color was rendered vivid by
the opposite contrast of the purple curtains.
"Approach!"
Jefford gave the command. Voices repeated it:
"Approach!"
Harry arose and walked to the Yellow Door.
"Shall he enter?"
Jefford put the query to the throng. In chorus, the members answered:
"He may enter!"
Jefford placed his hand upon a panel of the door. To Harry, he said a
single word:
"Pass!"
Before Jefford could spring the hidden catch that controlled the Yellow
Door, a shout came from the front end of the meeting room. Thurlon had returned
with his companions. With them was a new arrival. Despite the somberness of the
light, Harry recognized the newcomer.
The man was the real Ralph Mandon!
FROZEN, Harry could make no move. The odds were twenty to one against him.
Thurlon approached Jefford; the two held conference. Jefford motioned to Mandon,
then to Harry. He brought the two together. Harry met Mandon's challenging gaze;
he saw an expression of puzzlement come over the other man's face.
Jefford addressed the members of the Yellow Door.
"We have two claimants to membership," he announced, in a dry, hard tone.
"One whom we have accepted as Ralph Mandon, who came here by our emergency
route. The other, who claims to be Ralph Mandon, who found his way here alone.
Which shall we choose?"
It was Thurlon who replied.
"Choose the one," he stated, "who can meet the test."
"The test," approved the members.
Jefford turned to Harry. He put the question: "What lies beyond the Yellow
Door?"
"Golden walls that hear," replied Harry, calmly, "and jeweled eyes with
gems that see."
"What else?"
Harry made no answer.
"What else?"
This time Jefford's question was directed to Mandon. The man spoke in
reply.
"Power," he declared. "Power lies beyond the Yellow Door!"
In that instant, Harry knew that his game was ended. He felt no chill. He
was ready to meet whatever torture these rogues might offer. No men seized him;
such an act was unnecessary, considering the hopeless odds that Harry faced.
Jefford merely eyed Harry; then turned to Mandon, to query:
"Do you know who this man is?"
Mandon shook his head.
"He claimed to be Ferris Krode," he stated. "When I read in the newspapers
that Krode was dead, I ended my vacation and hurried East."
Jefford threw a glare toward Harry. There was evil in his gaze; for
Jefford could see Harry as the instigator of the trouble that had come to the
Yellow Door. While Jefford glared, the muffled bell tingled. Jefford gave no
order. Thurlon and two others left to visit the control room and learn the
cause of the new summons.
"You passed as Krode," accused Jefford, harshly. "That, perhaps, explains
Krode's death. You are our enemy -"
A tremendous clangor reverberated through the room. Curtains vibrated with
the sound of a huge alarm bell. Jefford spun about to face the outer door. It
was half opened; from the hallway came the roar of guns.
Thurlon's voice raised a loud shriek. In screaming tone, the man
pronounced a name:
"The Shadow!"
IN a flash, Harry understood. The Shadow had arrived by autogiro. Soaring
above the roof of the Citadel, he had managed a silent descent from the night.
Watchers in the control room had heard the thud when the ship struck the roof.
Not realizing the full menace, they had first pressed the summons bell.
The Shadow had invaded. Smashing through a lookout window, he had downed
the control room guards with shots. One had managed to sound the huge alarm;
that was all. The Shadow had reached the spiral stairway. Descending, he had
encountered Thurlon and the murderer's two companions. Two of them had felt the
swiftness of The Shadow's vengeance. Thurlon would come later.
Harry whipped an automatic from his pocket, ready to do battle in the
meeting room. Mandon saw the move; he flung himself upon The Shadow's agent. In
that moment, Harry could have been overwhelmed by force of numbers, had others
aided Mandon's task. All, however, were diverted elsewhere.
The door of the meeting room was flung wide. A fierce, sardonic laugh
quivered the purple walls, replacing the clangor of the alarm. The Shadow was
on the threshold, his ready automatics bulging from his fists.
Jefford shouted. A horde surged forward, whipping guns to view. The Shadow
did not stay to face such impossible odds. He would have been a target for
fifteen guns. Instead, he whirled away. He was gone when revolvers began to
bark. Jefford and the crooks drove forth to overtake their lone foe.
The Shadow's withdrawal was not flight. It was strategy. He was leaping
back to the spiral stairway, dashing upward to the control room, while bullets
clanged the rail. The Shadow reached the top unscathed; the control room was
his pill-box. To attack it would be suicide.
Jefford shouted to his men; they dived to other rooms, to return with
oval-shaped bombs. The members of the Yellow Door were ready to blast The
Shadow from his stronghold.
Automatics thrust their muzzles into view. Echoing shots sent bombers
scattering from the foot of the spiral stairs. Crooks rallied; Harry, still
struggling with Mandon, could hear their evil shouts. Then, before men of crime
could make another move, an explosion boomed from below.
Smoke poured up the stairway from the ground floor. From it emerged Vic
Marquette and a massed throng of G-men, armed with Tommy guns and submachine
guns. The Shadow's laugh rose strident from the heights of the control room.
UPON his capture of the control room, The Shadow had paused above the
forms of two sagging foemen to blink the dot-dash signal with the searchlight.
That had told Marquette that Sector M was clear. Covering the control room, The
Shadow could prevent action when red or green lights flashed.
Marquette's sturdy squad had overhurled the useless picket fence. Reaching
the Citadel, they had blasted the front door. They were here to deliver final
destruction to the Yellow Door.
A bomber poised to fling a "pineapple" down the stairway. Swinging from
the control room, The Shadow sped a bullet to the bomber's hand. The missive
exploded; the bomber and two crooks beside him were blasted to destruction.
Wildly, others hurled themselves down against the G-men, only to wither, sprawl
and tumble as machine gun fire reached them.
The rest scattered, most of them away from the meeting room. A few -
Jefford and Thurlon with them - sprang into that apartment where Harry fought
alone with Mandon. The Shadow bounded down the spiral stairway; he dashed
through the deserted second floor hall.
Harry had gained his chance. His right hand free, he crippled Mandon with
a bullet; then turned to open hectic fire as Jefford and the others entered.
Harry winged Thurlon. Jefford replied; but his shots were wide. Bullets studded
the hard wood of the Yellow Door.
Then came The Shadow.
Jefford went sprawling as he turned to meet the cloaked battler. Harry had
gained a timely shot. Three others sprang upon The Shadow. Arms swung; guns
spoke. Harry fired his last shots at one man who came hurtling sidewise from
the fray. Then the group sprawled and lay still. The Shadow crawled free from
the bodies of the last vanquished foemen.
Harry was beside his chief. Vaguely, he heard gunfire outside the meeting
room, where the G-men were scattering after fleeing crooks. As Harry stooped to
raise The Shadow, another man arrived. It was Vic Marquette. He crouched to aid
Harry with his chief.
A splotch of blood showed upon The Shadow's forehead. In all the hail of
bullets, he had outguessed his foemen. It was a glancing gun blow that had half
stunned him; already he was recovering from the blow.
"He's all right, Vincent!" exclaimed Marquette. "Help me get him to his
feet -"
A grating sound ended Vic's sentence. He and Harry stared toward the
Yellow Door. The barrier had opened. Beyond, they saw a room with golden walls,
a tiny space from which gem-studded panels glittered.
A man stood in the doorway, holding a leveled revolver. A flood of golden
light showed his gray-tinged hair, and revealed the venomous sneer of tightened
lips. This man was a foeman - and Marquette recognized him.
Vic's lips gasped the name:
"Dudley Birklam!"
CHAPTER XXI
THE SETTLEMENT
DUDLEY BIRKLAM was master of the Yellow Door.
That thought shot home to Vic Marquette; and Harry Vincent grasped it.
Helpless, their guns away, the two supported the limp body of The Shadow, whose
gunless hands dangled around their necks.
Marquette to The Shadow's left; Harry to his right; at their very feet a
crook's revolver that they could not reach. Outside were G-men, rounding up
scattered members of the Yellow Door. Yet there was no aid, here in the
deserted meeting room.
"Birklam!" The Shadow's eyes were closed; his lips, barely visible below
the slouch hat, muttered dazed words: "Birklam! I came here to find him. His
game was plain!"
Birklam caught the utterance. He stepped closer, his revolver tight within
his fist.
"Birklam told of Krode," mumbled The Shadow, "to cover his own game. He
sent Krode to Cleveland - claimed he did not know where to find him in New
York. Birklam pretended - to be a victim - like the rest - to cover his own
game."
Birklam indulged in a malicious grin. He relished these mutterings from
The Shadow.
"Conference with Birklam," added The Shadow, his head tilted forward.
"Tried to mislead us. About the paper. After that, word to Krode. Through
Bracy. 'Cover Birklam' meant to stay away."
A pause. The Shadow gasped broken sentences.
"Jefford not at conferences - only Birklam knew - servants would not have
turned traitors - too many men at one spot - not needed - Bracy knew Birklam
was the big-shot - Jefford acted to prevent Bracy giving name. Abduction faked
- so Birklam could return -"
The Shadow sagged; with an effort, he managed final words:
"I knew -"
Dead weight pulled Harry and Vic downward. Half stooped, they let The
Shadow rest upon the floor. He toppled forward, his black cloak spread like a
wide, inky blot. Harry glanced at Marquette and caught a nod. They must bluff;
make Birklam think The Shadow dead. Later, The Shadow would revive from his
senseless condition.
If Birklam fired bullets to down Harry and Marquette, he might attract the
G-men. In that case, there was a chance that the master crook would not linger
to pump bullets into The Shadow's form. Harry and Marquette were both working
on the same thought.
"You have heard facts," sneered Birklam. He was shifting his revolver from
man to man; and all the while he saw the outer door, beyond which tumult was
distant. "Maudlin facts, but actual ones. I am the master of the Yellow Door!
My band is gone, my Citadel taken; yet I shall renew my crimes!
"Brass walls that look like gold. Glass that shines with the glitter of
gems. Bah! There is no value beyond the Yellow Door. I have lost nothing. I
shall leave here, by my hidden route. I shall be found by your own men,
Marquette. Rescued, I shall be ready to build another group, greater than the
Yellow Door.
"You two will die! Do not suppose that your childish effort to save The
Shadow will avail. In that spot where he lies senseless, he will receive
bullets to insure his death. But your doom comes first. You die together!"
Stepping back, his revolver still moving, Birklam jerked his left hand to
his pocket and brought a second weapon into view. Crouching, he aimed the guns
simultaneously - one straight for Harry, the other toward Vic. A gloating
chuckle sounded like an order to a firing squad. Birklam was playing the part
of commander to himself.
There was a pressure close by Harry's elbow; a quick motion as an arm
swept forward, upward. The folds of The Shadow's cloak whipped from the floor,
impelled by a hand that came with trip hammer speed. A revolver barrel
glistened.
Birklam saw the motion. Viciously, he jabbed both guns downward, toward
the rising head and shoulders of The Shadow. Birklam was a moment late. A
gloved finger pressed the revolver trigger before the master of the Yellow Door
had finished his aim. Half muffled by the folds of the cloak, the revolver
blasted its message.
Birklam jolted, hit. He reeled sidewise, beyond Vic Marquette, there to
rally and take aim as The Shadow rose. The cloaked fighter, though slow in body
motion was quick with the revolver that he had taken from the floor. He was
swifter than Birklam, in aim. Still, he had no need to fire.
Marquette had pulled his own gun with The Shadow's shot; Harry was staging
the same maneuver. The G-man gained the lead. He ripped rapid bullets from the
nearest range. A hail of slugs found Birklam's body. As the master of the
Yellow Door went toppling, The Shadow's aim followed downward, to be ready if
necessary. Birklam subsided with a gasp.
THE SHADOW tossed the revolver to the floor, beside the body of the crook
who had owned it. He picked up his automatics, which lay some space away and
placed them beneath his cloak. The Shadow spoke an order to Harry; with his
agent following, he strode from the room.
Vic Marquette had charge of the field of battle. The Department of Justice
man stood pondering over The Shadow's strategy. Recovered from a stunning gun
blow, The Shadow had seen Birklam gain control. Weaponless, The Shadow had
provided the antidote for the master-crook's poison.
Mumbled words, uttered as in delirium: those had been The Shadow's
strategy. They had held Birklam intent; they had made the leering foeman
chortle as he heard his own devices revealed. Birklam had believed The Shadow
downed. So, for that matter, had Harry and Marquette.
Slumped, The Shadow had covered the useful revolver that Harry and
Marquette had wanted. Choosing the vital moment, he had used it. With one
quick-aimed shot, The Shadow had vanquished the master of the Yellow Door.
G-MEN had completed their round-up when Vic Marquette joined them. The law
stood victorious. Outside the Citadel, surviving crooks were huddled in a
captive band. As Marquette surveyed these remnants of the Yellow Door, he heard
a thrumming from above. Against the dim white of the moon-clouded sky, Vic saw
an autogiro rising high into the night.
Whirling blades were visible as the ship continued upward. Clouds
thickened; tree boughs added blackness. Only the fading roar of the laboring
motor remained.
The Shadow had departed, triumphant.
THE END