CRIME OVER BOSTON
                                by Maxwell Grant

     As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," September 15, 1938.

     A master schemer breaks through a State's watchful guard to face The
Shadow in Crime Over Boston.


     CHAPTER I

     SHADOWS OF NIGHT

     THE black coupe was creeping along the road that fringed the edge of the
darkened bay. Lost beneath the boughs of overhanging trees, it was following an
invisible path through cloud-blackened night, for the car was traveling without
headlights. A glow from the coupe's dashboard was confined to the interior of
the car, as muffled as the low purr of the smooth motor beneath the heavy hood.
     Nevertheless, that dashlight was important. By its glow a driver, swathed
in the darkness above it, was watching a remarkable road map. Set in a square,
glass-topped frame, the map was shifting, like the coupe. Geared to the
speedometer, the chart showed each road sector that the car approached.
     With that guide, the driver kept to the road, using the wheel to hold the
charged line along an arrow point. Not once did the tires jolt to the stony
shoulder of the road.
     A cross mark showed on the chart. As it reached the arrow, the driver
applied the brakes with smooth, easy motion. Turning the wheel, he slid the car
into reverse, backed it some twenty feet into the darkness.
     The road had widened at that spot. So had the map by which the driver
guided.
     A breeze swept through the opened windows. Halted, the coupe's rear wheels
were against a stone abutment, beyond which lay a sheer drop to the bay.
Moonlight was struggling through the clouds, but its spotty beams were confined
to the waters. The glow that did reveal the coupe was momentary. It came from
the sweeping beam of an old lighthouse, situated on a rocky islet half a mile
out in the bay.
     That circling glare brightened the trees, showed the black coupe below
them. It flashed upon the face of a young man seated by the window on the
right; but in its passage, that glare did not disclose the car's driver.
     He was cloaked in garments of black that made him as shapeless as a
splotch of light itself.
     The coupe purred forward, nosed back along the road to stop beneath the
trees. The next sweep of the light showed vacancy beneath the cliff trees. This
portion of the Rhode Island coast appeared devoid of human presence.
     There was a whisper from the cloaked driver of the coupe. He was giving
instructions to the man beside him. Gloved fingers adjusted the changing road
map for the return trip. The being in black was turning over the car to his
companion.
     That done, The Shadow opened the door on his side of the coupe and stepped
into the outer darkness of the night.
     Whatever his reason for this journey to Rhode Island, The Shadow had so
far carried his plans to perfection. He had driven miles along a road that was
watched at many intervals. In completing that trip, he had assured himself that
the return journey could be accomplished by his companion.


     TO Harry Vincent, his long-trusted agent, The Shadow was delegating the
task of removing the coupe from this vicinity. With the car's departure, all
evidence of The Shadow's arrival would be vanished.
     Sliding in behind the wheel, Harry passed a brief case through the window.
Gloved hands received it. Harry was ready with the gear shift when a hissed tone
ordered him to remain.
     There was something sinister in that sibilant utterance; it was chilling,
even to a listener who knew The Shadow for a friend. That whisper betokened ill
to men who deserved The Shadow's wrath. Harry sensed instantly that The Shadow
had caught some evidence of evil, present in the darkness.
     Below an arch of tree boughs, Harry could see a stretch of bay, vague in
the straggly moonlight. This was the direction that The Shadow watched. As
Harry stared, he, too, was conscious of motion in the water.
     A low, long sweep of blackness hulked through the moon-splotched water. It
was gliding, like some monster from the deep that had come to seek the surface.
A faint swash had caught The Shadow's attention; he had looked straight to the
spot a few hundred yards off the shore.
     Then, with a blanketing of the moonlight, the rakish apparition was gone.
The beam from the lighthouse swept by, but it was above the level of the spot
where the thing had been. Whatever the object was, it had vanished.
     Moments passed. Another light swept from the night. It was a searchlight,
beaming directly on the bay. Harry knew its source: a Coast Guard cutter was
patrolling these channels, on the lookout for stray craft.
     The searchlight revealed nothing. Harry decided that he and his chief had
actually glimpsed some sea creature that had later dived beneath the surface.
Porpoises - even small whales - were common in these waters.
     Apparently the cutter was satisfied, for its searchlight swept to a remote
direction. The Shadow, though, was waiting in hope of a new flicker of
moonlight. That glow was coming due at almost any moment - when another factor
intervened.
     The gleam of a flashlight sparkled from the trees on the land side of the
road. With it, Harry heard the growl of a voice. Men were coming to cover this
turn-out in the road.
     The Shadow toned a single word in Harry's ear:
     "Start."
     The coupe eased away. Harry had started it in silent second gear, but the
thrum of the motor was audible. Brushwood crackled; the man with the flashlight
was dashing to the road. He turned his light in the proper direction, but he was
too late to glimpse the car before he reached the road itself.
     There was something else the arrival did not see - a figure that angled
toward him with silent sweep, avoiding the flashlight's beam. That shape
dropped low, met the man at the road edge. The flashlight took a long clatter
as its bearer performed a headlong sprawl.
     A second man arrived, blinking his flashlight on the fallen fellow. The
first man was coming to his feet; a deputy's badge shone from beneath his
outspread coat. The two turned their flashlights along the road, but the coupe
was out of sight.


     "SOUNDED like a car, all right," grunted the first arrival. "Guess I
imagined it, though. What I didn't imagine was that bank I tripped over."
     "What bank?" The second deputy was studying the road edge. "You must have
fallen over your own feet."
     From somewhere among the trees came a vague whisper; almost unreal, it
seemed a taunt from some ghostly listener. The deputies forgot the vanished
car. They were concerned with a different quest. That laugh, despite its
whispery creep, was too timely to be mere coincidence.
     The flashlights swept through the trees. One man shouted as he saw a
streak of blackness shift away. Yanking a revolver, he fired two shots as he
dashed forward. He stumbled past a tree, stopped in front of a bush that had
received his bullets.
     The other man blasted shots in another direction, with no result. Echoes
brought a curious repetition of the whispered mockery, as though the gunfire
had produced them. The deputies stared dumbly, then raised a shout.
     More lights flashed, distant among the trees. The woods showed half a
dozen men converging upon this sector. Hearing the news, they halted to aim,
but did not fire. Wavery blotches were deceptive in those woods. It was useless
to fire at shadows.
     Spreading, the group formed a semicircle, moving inward from the road.
They came to a clearing where a huge house bulked beyond the high picket fence
that surrounded its grounds. A watcher came from the end of the fence, where it
stopped at a cliff above the bay. He had seen no one come in that direction.
     Close against the fence itself, The Shadow was working at strands of
barbed wire. Oddly, those wires were fitted to the outside of the pickets,
indicating that the deputies had placed them there. The Shadow tightened the
wires as he probed the positions of the barbs. A flashlight was approaching,
but he coolly continued his task.
     Just as the ray focused upon him, The Shadow dwindled. There was a
surprised shout as an observer saw solid blackness melt groundward. The man
sprang, spied nothing but the turf. The Shadow was lunging inward, coming up
beneath the beam.
     There was a jolt as figures met. The deputy's arms went wide. The
flashlight scaled like a flare in the blackness. Somersaulted, the deputy
flattened on the ground, too dazed to offer fight. The Shadow shoved the brief
case through the pickets. Using the tightened wires as ladder rungs, he climbed
the fence.
     Hands gripping the posts, his shoes alone encountering the wires, The
Shadow had no trouble with the barbs. Dropping beyond the top spikes, he
scooped up the brief case. He was gone, past a series of hedges when an
electric lantern glared through the picket posts.
     Patrolling deputies were certain that they had encountered an intruder,
but they could not vision his quick, vaulting climb over the barbed-wire
pickets. They spread to search their own terrain; were astonished to find their
quarry gone.
     Other amazement was due elsewhere.


     DEEP within the fenced grounds, the isolated mansion stood dark and
formidable, except for a few dimly lighted windows. The house jutted almost to
the cliff edge, but the spot that The Shadow chose was a massive front door at
the center of the building.
     There, he pressed a bell button. A clang sounded from deep within the
house. Half a minute passed before bolts grated. The door opened and The Shadow
stepped into a huge, dim hall, to face a stolid servant who stood with
unbelieving eyes.
     It was not the visitor's appearance that startled the servant, for The
Shadow was no longer clad in black. Instead, he was attired in an ordinary
business suit, wearing a dark-gray, flexible hat. In the light, his face showed
as a thin, hawkish profile, bronzed of complexion, masklike in expression. What
bewildered the servant, was the fact that such a stranger could have passed the
surrounding cordon.
     Though quiet in gaze, The Shadow's eyes saw much. Beyond the servant's
shoulder, he spied the doorway of a room to the left of the big hall. There, a
girl's pale face was visible. She was attractive, with light hair that showed
plainly against the darkness of the doorway. Despite the strain that deepened
her expression, she displayed a curiosity when she saw the visitor.
     Another servant was arriving from the back of the hall. The girl darted
from sight. The Shadow, still holding his brief case, indulged in a quiet smile
as the servants ranged beside him. Coolly, The Shadow announced:
     "'My name is Kent Allard. I have come to interview Ferdinand Relf. He will
know who I am."
     The calm tone was impressive. One servant received the calling card that
the visitor drew from his pocket. The other ushered Allard into a small
reception room on the right. The door closed, leaving the visitor alone.
     Placing his brief case on a chair, The Shadow strolled about the room. He
paused to note a framed photograph upon the mantel; it was plain, in the light
that came from a nearby floor lamp. The picture portrayed the girl whom The
Shadow had seen across the hallway.
     The lips of Kent Allard remained motionless, but through The Shadow's mind
flashed the name of the girl herself: Ruth Bryand. There was reason for a smile,
although The Shadow did not show one. The fact that Ruth Bryand was in this
house was something that The Shadow had suspected. One purpose of this visit
had been to convince himself upon that question.
     That marked a good beginning to The Shadow's quest within the walls of
this strange Rhode Island mansion. It was but the first episode, however, of
many that were due before The Shadow left this house.
     Other developments would come when Kent Allard met the owner of this house
- the man named Ferdinand Relf.


     CHAPTER II

     THE WIZARD OF FINANCE

     IT was musty, tomblike in that reception room where Kent Allard waited.
Thick walls hushed the place; no sounds of outside activity could penetrate.
Seating himself in a huge antique chair, The Shadow found himself surrounded by
massive chunks of furniture that loomed like monsters in the dimness.
     There was some reason for the delay that continued. Alert despite his
impassive expression, The Shadow sensed that he was under observation. His gaze
drifted imperceptibly toward the door. Although the eyes of Allard appeared to
be looking elsewhere, they noted the ancient carving of the portal.
     A carved fleur-de-lis showed a glisten. That decoration was a peephole.
Someone had slid it aside and an eye was peering through. For five seconds The
Shadow noted that phenomenon, then it was ended.
     The door opened. A smallish, drab-faced man stepped into the reception
room. His eyelids were heavy; lowered, they showed a whiteness like his face
and lips. There was a sparkle, though, from the slits below those lids.
     This was the man who had viewed Kent Allard through the peephole.
     "Good evening. Mr. Allard." The voice from those drab lips was polite, in
whiny fashion. "My name is Shervel. I am Mr. Relf's secretary. He is ready to
see you."
     Allard followed Shervel out through the large hall. The secretary walked
briskly, but in a stooped fashion, keeping his hands clasped in front of his
chest. His back was toward the visitor, but The Shadow could tell from
Shervel's head motions that the fellow was darting glances in various
directions.
     Shervel was making sure that Ruth Bryand was out of sight. He was also
nodding instructions to servants that he met along the way. Though Allard
seemed interested only in the brief case that he carried beneath his arm, he
was actually noting the number of Relf's retainers.
     They passed half a dozen of those chunky servitors in the time they had
ascended the great staircase in order to reach a remote corner room.
     Shervel bowed the visitor through a small anteroom and into a lighted
study. There, Kent Allard came face to face with Ferdinand Relf.


     STEADY eyes met. In Allard, Relf saw the man that he had expected, a
personage whose face was stolid as that of a stone Mayan idol. In Relf, Allard
observed a man whose features had the dominating set of a Napoleon. Of the two,
Relf looked the sort who would issue orders, expecting them to be obeyed; but
Allard was one person who would not yield to such stubborn will.
     Relf recognized it. His lips set tightly; his black eyes glistened as he
stroked his hand slowly along his glossy, blackish hair. With a gesture, he
indicated a chair in a deep alcove at the back of the room.
     "Seat yourself there," spoke Relf in choppy tones. "It is most
comfortable. We shall have cigars" - Relf turned toward a big desk - "while we
discuss the purpose of your visit."
     Seated, The Shadow saw Shervel still standing at the doorway from the
anteroom. The secretary showed an expectancy that Relf had not displayed.
Shervel's eyes had opened slightly; they gleamed with hope of some insidious
command from Relf. The Shadow foresaw that Shervel was to be disappointed.
Opening the cigar box, Relf looked toward the secretary, to snap the command.
     "You may leave, Shervel."
     It was plain that Relf had sized Allard as a man who had a message. When
they had lighted their cigars, Relf stood with his hands behind him.
     "Your visit pleases me," he stated. Then, without change of tone: "How
much do you know regarding me and my present circumstances?"
     "They call you the wizard of finance," spoke Allard steadily, "because of
your ability at raising vast sums through methods that should be outlawed."
     Relf smiled. The analysis pleased him.
     "Your latest operations were begun in Boston," resumed Allard. "You were
prepared to acquire new millions, when you made the mistake of buying this
Rhode Island residence."
     Relf shook his head.
     "That was no mistake," he snapped. "I could not foresee the motor accident
that occurred near Providence. Bah! It could have happened anywhere."
     "But in Rhode Island," reminded Allard, "the laws are such that, once
arrested, you would be sentenced to a year in prison."
     Relf grumbled an admission that the statement was correct. Suddenly, he
snapped the impatient query:
     "Well, why don't they arrest me?"
     "Because they know that you prefer this residence to jail," returned
Allard. "The government wants you out of circulation, Mr. Relf. The local
sheriff has obligingly postponed your arrest. No warrant will be served unless
you force it by trying to leave these premises."
     "And if I should run the cordon successfully -"
     "You would be confronted by the added task of leaving the State of Rhode
Island. A real difficulty, Mr. Relf, as I can testify. I have seen the
preparations that await you."


     ALLARD'S straight talk brought a response from Relf. Wearing his glower,
the dark-haired man paced the study, muttering his own opinions of the matter.
     "I have millions," he declared. "This place is ample. I could make it into
a palace, spend the rest of my life here. The threat of arrest? Bah! It would
never worry me. They know what would come after my year in jail.
     "I could have my revenge through new schemes that would sweep this
continent. No legal measures could obstruct me. I could drag the public into a
wave of investment that would burst like the famous Mississippi Bubble.
     "But why such measures?" Relf's eyes fixed upon Allard. "It would be
simpler to return to circulation, as you term it. Anywhere except in Rhode
Island, the law can not touch me."
     Stepping into the alcove, Relf pointed to the brief case that lay beside
Allard's chair.
     "Come, Mr. Allard!" Relf was impatient. "You have a plan for my escape.
Let me see the details."
     He conducted the visitor to the desk; there, Allard opened the brief case.
It was divided into two sections, with a partition between. From one side,
Allard produced photographs of airplanes. Relf shook his head.
     "Impossible," he declared. "No plane could land on these premises. Wait, I
correct myself" - he was looking at the photo of all autogiro - "this could land
here. But the take-off would be a giveaway.
     "The coast guards are active, Allard. They have planes as well as cutters.
On a pretext that they are after smugglers, they would overtake a slow ship like
an autogiro and force it to land in Rhode Island.
     "You are a famous aviator, Allard. I know your reputation. But if I had
believed that I could escape from here by air, I would have arranged it before
the telephone service was cut off."
     Relf started to turn away, but Allard had not finished with the
photographs. He was bringing others from the second section of the brief case.
Relf's eyes showed sudden interest. On the desk, Allard placed a picture of a
baby blimp.
     "This craft!" exclaimed Relf. "Do you own it?"
     "I can acquire it," returned Allard. "On a cloudy night, with the proper
wind, the blimp can come and leave without the need of its motor. It would be
unseen, a ghost of the air."
     "But the ground crew?"
     "Three men could handle it. You have more than that number here."
     Relf's eyes gleamed with eagerness. His head kept nodding as Allard
supplied more details.
     "Signals from below the lighthouse, answers from here" - the calm tone
continued - "no need for codes that could be deciphered. Those flashes would
simply set the hour, with your assurance that you would be ready."
     "The plan pleases me," accorded Relf. He was standing with eyes set, fists
clenched. Then he grated grimly: "But there are others who will not be pleased -
later."


     RELF missed the momentary scrutiny that Allard gave him. The visitor's
eyes had the gleam of The Shadow's. Relf had betrayed a point that The Shadow
had sought to learn. Vengeance lay behind the financial wizard's hope for
departure.
     "How did you come in here?" demanded Relf suddenly. "You say the cordon is
a strong one, yet you ran it, Allard."
     "Because its purpose was to prevent your exit," reminded Allard coolly. "I
managed to approach before I was discovered."
     "But leaving here will be more difficult."
     "I shall leave tomorrow; openly. I can admit that I was the person who
entered. Once I identify myself, I shall be allowed to pass. The warrant
applies to you, Relf, but to no one else."
     Relf smiled. Allard was right. Though visitors were not allowed to pass
the cordon, once someone had accomplished it, the sheriff and the deputies
would rather have him leave than stay.
     Relf reached to press a button on the desk. Allard stopped him with a new
remark.
     "Regarding this house," said the visitor. "It was formerly owned by a girl
named Ruth Bryand."
     "It was," admitted Relf. His eyes showed momentary suspicion. "I knew her
father, and often visited here. That is why I bought the house after it was
willed to Ruth."
     "And Miss Bryand," added Allard, "is supposed to be in Europe?"
     Relf's dominating gaze remained focused upon Allard's immobile
countenance. Then:
     "Ruth is here," declared Relf. "She stayed to manage the house. That was
prior to the trouble that forced my self-imprisonment. Ruth's friends suppose
that she has gone to Europe. She has found no opportunity to correct that wrong
rumor."
     Relf pressed the button. Shervel entered from the hall. He saw Allard
packing photos in the brief case, but did not observe what the pictures were.
There was a slight raise of the secretary's heavy eyelids as he glanced toward
Relf. The master of the house ignored Shovel's quizzical expression.
     "Mr. Allard is staying over night," informed Relf. "You will see that
everything is comfortable for him, Shervel."
     "In the Oak Room?" asked Shervel.
     "No." Relf's tone was emphatic; his eyes sidelonged a sharp glance at
Allard. "In the Walnut Room."
     Shervel conducted the visitor into the hallway; once there, the secretary
closed the door to the study. They were in the middle of a long corridor that
ran like a balcony along the second floor. To the left was a wing of the house
that stretched toward the bay edge. Allard was turning in that direction, when
Shervel beckoned him to the right.
     They went to the depths of a wing on the land side of the house, an
oddity, in The Shadow's opinion, since the best guest room would logically be
located with an outlook on the bay. It didn't quite fit with Relf's orders to
give Allard every comfort.
     Shervel stopped in front of a huge paneled door; unlocking it, he entered
a large room with a huge four-poster bed and other bulky furniture. There was a
floor lamp in one corner. Shervel drew it out toward the center of the room,
before he turned on the light. That done, the secretary bowed himself out,
closing the door behind him.
     Promptly, Kent Allard strode to the corner where the lamp had been.
Shervel had so fixed it that the beams barely reached the gloom of the
dark-stained, paneled wall. A flashlight glimmered from Allard's hand; its
bright circle was concentrated upon the stained woodwork.
     That panel was not walnut. It was oak. Relf's correction of Shervel's
suggestion had brought a directly opposite result. Kent Allard had been shown
to the Oak Room.
     Firm lips whispered the faint echo of a laugh that was lost in the deep
recesses of that dark-walled room.
     The Shadow foresaw immediate peril within this mansion of gloom.


     CHAPTER III

     BLADE OF DEATH

     STEPPING to the big door, The Shadow tried the knob. As he expected, it
was tightly latched. Shervel had attended to that from the outside. As a
preliminary to the next events, Kent Allard had been made a prisoner.
     That pleased The Shadow. It offered a chance to make his adversaries show
their hand, with Allard as the focal point. As he moved away from the door, The
Shadow removed his coat and vest. Choosing a writing table at the end wall of
the room, he laid the garments there.
     Next, the brief case.
     Opening that flat bag, The Shadow revealed a fact that would have amazed
Ferdinand Relf, had he viewed it. The brief case was actually constructed in
three sections; but the center one was secret.
     Tapering upward from the bottom of the brief case, it looked like a simple
partition of thick leather, particularly since there was a permanent binding at
the top. But when The Shadow turned the brief case upside down, to loose a
strip of leather along the bottom, the secret cavity was disclosed.
     From that space The Shadow removed his black cloak and slouch hat. There
was still space for a brace of automatics, but they were not in the brief case.
The guns were already holstered above The Shadow's waist. They showed there,
strapped against his shirt.
     Cloaking himself in the black garb, The Shadow began another process. He
brought a pillow from the bed, placed it upon a chair in front of the writing
desk. He fitted his coat upon it, the corners of the pillow poking into the
shoulders.
     Something was needed to form a head. The Shadow sought a suitable object
in the room. He rejected a vase, also a roundish clock, the latter being too
heavy. He finally chose the parchment shade of a small table lamp.
     Propped upon the pillow, the shade did not look like a head until The
Shadow added another decoration. He brought a flat make-up box from the secret
section of the brief case. In that box, wadded into the compass of a few square
inches, was a finely made wig.
     The smooth hair, fitted to a thin, silk base, was a lighter hue than
Allard's, which explained why The Shadow carried the wig. A valuable item in
quick disguise, it was to serve the opposite purpose for which it was intended.
Fitted over the lamp shade, the wig had to pass as the back of Allard's head.
     A slight shift of the floor lamp served in the deception. The Shadow fixed
it so that the head barely showed. The shape was right; the hair was visible,
but its color vague.
     That was not all. The Shadow had discarded the pillow slip when he propped
the coat in place, he used that slip to stuff the right arm of the coat. He laid
the fattened sleeve so that it rested on the edge of the writing table.
     In the light, The Shadow placed photographs and papers from the brief
case. He had formed the excellent illusion of a man seated at the table,
studying the photographs; the one fault was the empty cuff of the sleeve. A
stuffed glove would not do for a hand, but it was possible to create a
substitute effect.
     Finding a large ash tray, The Shadow placed it just to the right of the
sleeve cuff. The ash tray was not quite high enough, so he set it upon a book.
The combination hid the spot where the imaginary hand was supposed to be. All
that was needed was a reason for the ash tray.
     The Shadow supplied that by lighting a cigarette. After a few puffs, he
put the cigarette on the edge of the tray, right where the supposed hand could
logically reach it.
     The Shadow surveyed his work from two angles. First, from beside the
floor; next, from the opposite side of the room. He made a few adjustments,
edged the floor lamp a few inches in another direction.


     THE final illusion was a good one.
     In that light, any one would be apt to mistake the figure for Allard. If a
shrewd observer suspected it to be a dummy, the only way he could assure himself
would be by close approach. Such a step would doubtless be preceded by a
scrutiny of the room to learn if the real Allard lay hidden there.
     Curiously, despite its gloom, the room lacked hiding places. The
four-poster bed was built almost from the floor, with a scant four inches
beneath it. The room had no closets; its big chairs were planked close against
the walls, with little space behind them.
     One portion of the wall was gloomy enough to offer a concealing
background. That space was near a rear corner of the room, where another floor
light stood. The Shadow pulled the cord of that large lamp, thus providing a
glow that ended all doubt.
     The status of the dummy figure was established through the fact that Kent
Allard could not be hidden in the room. But the limitations that restricted
Allard did not apply to The Shadow. He picked a hiding place of the most
unexpected sort - an octagonal table that stood near the rear wall.
     That table had eight thin legs, set in pairs. It looked flimsy, almost
spidery. Its top cut off the lamp glow, blurred the space beneath the table.
That was sufficient for The Shadow. He crouched beneath the table, his legs on
each side of a cross-brace near the floor.
     A glance at the octagonal table would be sufficient for any suspicious
eye. After that, inspection would be elsewhere. The Shadow had no doubt
regarding the surety of his position. The only disadvantage was the cramped
limitation of his bold hiding place.
     The Shadow could not leave that space in a hurry, and his view was
restricted to sight of the dummy figure at the other end of the room. A big
chair intervened, to hide the door. The end of the four-poster bed blocked all
view of the wall at the inner side of the room.
     To move any of the heavy furniture would be a mistake, for a person who
knew this room would immediately suspect preparations. Therefore, The Shadow
accepted the lack of visibility that the hiding place gave him.


     SMOKE from the cigarette curled slowly from the ash tray. That cigarette
was a slow-burner, filled with Turkish tobacco. The Shadow had extended it well
into the ash tray, so that overweighted ashes would drop as they increased.
     It was good for five minutes, that cigarette; after that, The Shadow would
have to substitute another one. But with the tenseness of the moving moments, he
sensed that it would not be necessary. There was a stillness in the room, as
though the hush of the house had gained a grip upon the oaken walls.
     If murder had been decided upon, there could be little reason for its
delay.
     The cigarette was two-thirds burned when the expected token came. From
somewhere the hushed room picked up a click that only The Shadow's ears could
have heard. He was unable, however, to locate that solitary sound, except to
know that it came from some spot in front of his present position.
     The cigarette smoke curled into a question mark; its waver changed to an
upright position, with little quivers to the column. This indicated that a
draft had crept into the room. A spying eye was noting the figure at the
writing table.
     A dozen seconds went by. Thrust or advance was due; which would come, The
Shadow was not sure. At last the decision was made, but with a surprise
beginning that The Shadow had not anticipated.
     Someone must have pressed a remote switch, for the floor lamps suddenly
blinked off. The darkness came at an instant when a stroke was fully prepared,
for the sound that followed came an instant later.
     A driving object whirred through the blackened air. Whistling in from an
unknown source, it sped for the front of the room. The zimm of the flying
missile was followed by a hard thud from the front wall. The room absorbed the
dull echoes. Again, The Shadow heard the faint click.
     Creeping from beneath the table, The Shadow moved forward along the floor,
keeping close to the four-poster in case the lights returned. At the end of the
bed he paused, for this was the limit beyond which he could not make a quick
return to the eight-legged table.
     An assassin had struck. Stifled silence, perhaps, had made him feel sure
of his deadly work. In that case, he might delay entry into the room. Still, it
was better to wait a few minutes longer; then, The Shadow would be sure of his
enemy's state of mind.
     One minute went. Its completion proved The Shadow's wisdom. Again a faint
snap occurred; this time, The Shadow was certain of its location. It came from
the room's inner wall. Just past the end of the bed The Shadow could feel the
breeze from an opened panel. He drew back into cover.
     A flashlight blinked; inquisitively, it swept the room in intermittent
fashion, missing the present spot that The Shadow had chosen for concealment.
The light reached the front wall and its glow became steady.


     SLUMPED across the writing table was the dummy figure, a tribute to The
Shadow's skill. He had done more than fix it for the first deception. That
pillow had been balanced forward, ready to topple at the slightest jog.
     The stuffed coat gave the impression of a sprawled human figure. The
wigged head had tilted down upon the extended arm, hiding the lower sleeve
completely. Even more than before, the dummy looked like an actual shape.
     The light still shone while its bearer crept toward that table. The Shadow
could hear creaks from old floor-boards as the intruder advanced. His own
progress made no sound. Step for step, The Shadow was following the person who
approached the dummy figure, but his strides were longer.
     He intended to be on hand when the ruse was discovered. The flashlight was
shifting to the left. A side view would give the game away. The Shadow took two
more paces, prepared himself for a long lunge.
     The flashlight showed the surface of the writing desk. Instantly, it was
extinguished. There was the sound of a quick motion in the darkness; the
intruder wanted to make a hurried retreat to the wall panel.
     That was too late. The Shadow had launched his drive. The swish of his
cloak was a betraying token that did not matter. His adversary heard him, made
a sudden scramble without avail. Shoulder first, The Shadow struck the
fugitive. A moment afterward he was on the floor, suppressing his opponent.
     The flashlight thudded from a limp hand. The Shadow scooped it up and
turned it toward the face of the dazed intruder, who was too jolted to offer
battle. Muffling the flashlight in the folds of his cloak, The Shadow pressed
the button.
     Whatever the startlement that had struck that fallen foe, The Shadow's own
surprise matched it. The face that lay upturned in the fight was neither the
Napoleonic countenance of Relf, nor the smug, shrewd visage of Shervel.
     It was the face of a young woman, beautiful despite its pallor; a paleness
intensified by the stray locks of light-brown hair that had drifted from rounded
forehead, across well-molded checks.
     The prisoner that The Shadow had captured in the darkness was Ruth Bryand,
former owner of this mansion where murder had become a pastime!


     CHAPTER IV

     FLIGHT PREARRANGED

     WHILE The Shadow was lifting Ruth to a chair, the lights of the room
returned. In the glow the girl stared dazedly at her black-clad captor. She
sensed a connection between this cloaked being and the toppled shape by the
writing table.
     Sincerity flashed to the girl's face as she pleaded her innocence.
     "I knew nothing - nothing of this!" stammered Ruth. "I came - came here -
to warn you. Or perhaps" - she was puzzled as she eyed The Shadow - "perhaps to
warn someone else who may have been here."
     The Shadow stepped to the writing table. He removed the pillow from the
coat, took the wig from the lamp shade. In the wall beyond the table was a
knife driven half to the hilt. The throw behind that blade had been a powerful
one, as the splintered woodwork testified.
     The knife itself was proof of Ruth's innocence.
     Not only had the throw exceeded the girl's strength, but the angle of the
handle showed that the knife had come from the door of the room. Ruth had
entered by a secret panel in the opposite wall.
     The Shadow went to the door, fingered the edges of its panels. He found
the one that the would-be assassin had opened and closed, accounting for those
original clicks. Like the door itself, the special panel had been locked from
the outside.
     The wall entrance that Ruth had used consisted of two large panels and was
about four feet high. The girl had left it open; the room lights showed a narrow
passageway beyond it. That secret corridor evidently skirted the Oak-paneled
room. When Ruth saw The Shadow looking toward the secret doorway, she tensely
explained the reason for her entry.
     "I knew that you were in the house," she told The Shadow. "That is, I knew
a visitor had come, because I saw him. I feared that Relf had lured one of the
persons upon whom he seeks vengeance."
     "Name those men," spoke The Shadow, "with the reasons why Relf seeks
revenge."
     "I do not know who they are," insisted Ruth, "but I can explain why Relf
hates them. He had commenced some huge financial scheme, when he was forced to
imprison himself in this house.
     "Persons who were entangled in his web were able to free themselves. Some
were dupes; others, I believe, worked with him. Whatever their circumstances,
they benefited by the collapse of manipulations.
     "There are three whose lives he hopes to threaten. He has so declared, in
stormy outbursts that I have witnessed. He recognized the horror that I felt;
that is why he made it impossible for me to leave here."


     THE girl's testimony fitted with The Shadow's knowledge. Whatever Relf
touched he turned to gold, leaving a path of ruined investors whose cash he had
actually filched. Relf's open transactions were always kept within legal bounds;
his secret ones were never revealed.
     His latest swindle, however, had died in its early stages. Relf had
started it in Boston, and had hoped to revive it. Meanwhile, scandal had
developed. With Relf gone, men of repute had united and, finding themselves
dupes, they had disclosed the facts. Others, persons of doubtful status, had
admitted that Relf had approached them to gain their services. They had washed
their hands of him.
     The three mentioned by Ruth were conspicuous cases. The Shadow could have
named them at that moment, had he so chosen.
     He could also have told Ruth why he had come here. In proffering a plan of
escape to Relf, The Shadow had actually been sounding out the master mind to
learn if he already had made arrangements of his own. Relf had convinced The
Shadow that he had no such plan.
     That knife thrust from the doorway gave the situation a different angle.
It might be that Relf suspected Allard was The Shadow. It was possible that he
had merely wished to dispose of a stranger whose aid he did not need.
     The latter case would mean that Relf had already planned escape. If so,
Ruth might know something of the details.
     Rather than slow the girl with questions, The Shadow let her proceed with
her own story; for Ruth was talking rapidly, breathless with eagerness to
supply her cloaked friend with facts.


     "I SAW Shervel conducting you here," whispered the girl, "to the Oak Room,
with its secret passage. That could mean danger. I entered from the far hall,
came here to warn you."
     She paused. The Shadow put a question:
     "Where is the Walnut Room?"
     "It opens above the bay," replied Ruth. "It is in the new wing which has
no secret passages. Tonight, though" - her tone was puzzled - "I saw Shervel
lock the door of the Walnut Room. That was before you arrived. I can not
understand why he locked that door."
     The Shadow had a theory on that point. He intended to test it later.
Meanwhile, he had other questions.
     "These passages" - The Shadow's tone was sibilant - "does the house
contain others -"
     "Many," inserted Ruth. "My father showed me some of them, but not all. He
regarded them merely as curiosities. The house was once a smuggler's
headquarters."
     "And you revealed your knowledge to Relf -"
     "No." The girl's head shake was a decided one. "It was my father who did
that. Relf visited here often, and was interested in the mansion. He knows much
about it that I have never learned."
     "And Shervel -"
     "Is in Relf's confidence. He knows everything. The servants are Relf's
trusted men, but I believe that they are ignorant."
     The Shadow was ready for a final question, but it proved unnecessary. He
had expected Ruth to bring up the proposition of Relf's escape. She came to it.
     "Day and night," she declared, "I have heard Ferdinand Relf pace his room.
I know that he is concentrating upon one plan, upon which depends all others. He
wants some way to leave here.
     "He has three cars available, a dozen servants to man them. But he knows
the strength of the surrounding forces. He believes that he can smash the
cordon, but he is not sure. That is why he has not tried it. Ferdinand Relf
deals only in certainties."
     All the while that Ruth talked, The Shadow was watching the door of the
room. Minutes were gone, and in that space, no one had come either by the door
or the passage. Remembering Ruth's reference to the Walnut Room, The Shadow was
considering other developments that might be under way within this house. He had
not forgotten the swash of the bay's water that he had observed from the cliff.
     The two cases linked. Together, they might be important enough to make
other matters trivial. Such a matter, for instance, as the removal of a body
from the Oak Room.
     The Shadow extinguished the floor lamps. His flashlight glimmered toward
the opening to the secret passage. He whispered for Ruth to join him there,
told the girl that he intended to foray out into the house.
     In case anyone entered through the door, Ruth was to take refuge in the
secret corridor, locking the panel when she went. The Shadow would make sure
that no one entered by its other inlet.
     Using the flashlight, The Shadow moved rapidly through the passage. As
Ruth had declared, it ended in a panel that opened into a remote hallway.
Picking his way through darkness, The Shadow passed the door of the Oak Room.
From there he saw the feeble reflection of the dim lights in the center of the
mansion.


     REACHING the balcony that formed the main hallway, The Shadow heard the
buzz of voices. Shervel and most of the husky servants were congregated near
the door of Relf's study. The murmur ceased; Shervel alone was speaking. The
Shadow edged along the balcony's inside wall. With a dozen paces, he was close
enough to hear all that the secretary said.
     "We'll run for it," announced Shervel, "in the three cars. One is sure to
get through."
     There were questions from the servants. What if Relf's own car was not the
one?
     "Mr. Relf is not going with us," said Shervel wisely. "He is leaving by
boat. We are to start trouble along the shore. The master's escape will then be
easy."
     The servants showed surprise. They knew nothing about a boat. Shervel told
them that one had arrived; that the crew was ready beneath the windows of the
Walnut Room.
     Singling out certain servants. Shervel ordered them downstairs to bring
the automobiles. He told others to wait at the head of the stairs. Picking out
two more, Shervel gave them a special task.
     "At the end of the north wing," he said, "You will find a loose panel. It
opens into a secret passage. Follow it through to the Oak Room. There" -
Shervel's tone showed malicious pleasure - "you will find our guest, Mr.
Allard, either dead or nearly so.
     "Since he may still be alive, it is better for you to use the passage; for
if he has a gun, he will be watching the door, not the wall. Dead or alive,
bring him into the study. It is the master's order."
     The Shadow moved back into darkness as the servants began to take their
stations. He could hear a reluctant mutter from them. Evidently they preferred
to take commands from Relf in person, rather than through his toady secretary.
     Those who were to get the cars went no farther than halfway down the
stairs. The pair ordered to the Oak Room halted a dozen steps from the study
door. Shervel saw that they were dissatisfied. Testily, he snarled:
     "You won't obey? Very well - wait until the master sees. I told him that
this would happen. He will be displeased to learn that you are fools!"
     From his pocket Shervel produced the big key of the Walnut Room. He
dangled it while he opened the door of Relf's study. The dim light showed a
glare on Shervel's drab face. A moment later he had turned to announce:
     "All ready, Mr. Relf."


     THE servants saw their master step from the study, muffled in a great coat
that he had chosen because of the cold bay air. He gestured toward the Walnut
Room, and Shervel showed him the key. At Shervel's request, the muffled master
turned his head toward the stairway, to see the servants clustered there. He
gave an impatient gesture. It was enough.
     "Get to your posts!" snarled Shervel. "As I told you - at the master's
order!"
     It was Relf's order, not Shervel's, that had the electric effect. The men
on the stairs dashed downward. The pair who were to bring Allard's body began a
scamper along the hall. Shervel turned to hurry ahead to unlock the Walnut Room
before Relf arrived there.
     All that activity forced an issue upon The Shadow. He had only to draw
back into the darkness. Once the servants had passed him, he could overtake the
important persons who had headed for the Walnut Room. But there was a factor
that prevented The Shadow from taking up that skillful pursuit.
     Servants were going to the Oak Room, not by the door, but through the
secret passage. Their arrival there would trap Ruth Bryand. The Shadow's only
course was to block them. That meant battle, but The Shadow was prepared for
it. Most of Relf's servants were already downstairs. That divided the opposing
force.
     With a long spring, The Shadow came from darkness into the dim light of
the balcony, squarely into the path of the two servants who approached him. His
automatics swinging from his gloved fists, the cloaked fighter made a formidable
sight.
     That was not all. The Shadow did not stint his challenge. From his lips
came a taunt, fierce enough to startle an antagonist of Relf's caliber.
     The laugh of The Shadow quivered through that gloomy space, defying all
who heard its mockery!


     CHAPTER V

     DEPTHS OF DEATH

     THE SHADOW settled the two servants with expert speed. They expected
slashing, downward strokes, and tried to ward them. Instead, The Shadow
feinted, hooked hard punches for the jaws of his opponents. His fists landed,
and they were weighted with the guns they clutched.
     That gave the punches a terrific knockout power. The servants flattened
almost without a struggle. Aiming along the balcony, The Shadow challenged with
another laugh as he heard Shervel's frantic cry:
     "Hurry, Mr. Relf!"
     Shervel had reached the turn where the passage led into the bay wing. His
companion made a spry spring to the same safety. Both were out of The Shadow's
range. A quick chase was needed.
     In that pursuit, The Shadow was due for trouble. A pair of servants were
scarcely down the stairway; they bounded up the steps as The Shadow charged
along the balcony. The men had guns, and they used them before they reached the
top. Halting, they opened fire through the balcony rail.
     Some bullets were deflected by the metal posts, but others whizzed close
to The Shadow. Those servants were marksmen - cool ones. They were getting the
range; they needed prompt attention.
     Wheeling suddenly, The Shadow outwitted the sharpshooters as they aimed
ahead of him. He jabbed quick shots in reply, hurried, cut close. The servants
dropped to the cover of the stairs. The Shadow resumed his dash for the bay
wing.
     A darkened corridor slowed him. Next, a sharp turn; beyond it, the door of
the Walnut Room. Shervel had shown speed in reaching it. He had unlocked the
door.
     Logically, Relf should have lost ground in the race, for The Shadow had
sized him as a man unused to physical exertion. Instead, Shervel's companion
was almost at the secretary's heels. Shervel pointed him through the open door.
He was gone before The Shadow could aim.
     The Shadow wanted that chief fugitive. He gestured his gun toward Shervel,
but the fellow dived for a corner of the hall, neglecting to close the opened
door. The Shadow arrived there with long strides, swung toward the opening
where the glow of the lighted room cast a luminous stretch upon the hallway
floor.
     The Shadow gained no sight of Relf.
     Sweatered men had helped the fugitive through a window. He was on a
ladder, going downward. Those outside helpers had heard a warning yell from
Shervel. They were aiming point-blank at the door.
     The Shadow sidestepped as they fired. Bullets thudded the corridor wall.
Poking his gun past the door edge. The Shadow triggered his replies. One man
did a quick slide down the ladder; the other toppled through the window.


     BEFORE The Shadow could spring into the Walnut Room, others had arrived to
battle him. They were Relf's servants in from the main hall. In firing a barrage
to drive them back, The Shadow was forced to ignore Shervel. Fear, not gameness,
brought the drab secretary to attack. Yanking a gun of his own, Shervel sprang
for The Shadow.
     With a quick, flinging twist, The Shadow sent Shervel in a headlong
sprawl. Shervel had no time to tug his trigger, but his brief attack impeded
The Shadow's fight. It gave the servants time to rally, and The Shadow had
flung himself several paces from the open door.
     His only course was to forget the outside crew and deal with those within
the house. The maddened servants would go to any extent if they could aid
Relf's flight. The best way to cool their savagery was to let them feel that
Relf was safely away. With their own hides at stake, they might break.
     Having flung Shervel toward the servants, The Shadow was temporarily
shielded. He pressed that advantage by starting a bold drive back along the
corridor. His guns spurted as he came. The servants forgot their rally. Dread
started their retreat; then, they sensed that they were drawing The Shadow with
them. Such tactics struck them as clever.
     Guns blasted all along the route, but even The Shadow's shots found no
targets. He had no direct quarrel with these servants of Relf's; as Shervel had
said, they were dumb as well as faithful. They could get to their cars more
rapidly if they did not have to drag wounded comrades with them. Once outside,
the deputies could handle them.
     It was working as The Shadow wanted it. Reaching the balcony passage,
Relf's retainers realized that they were open targets. They had done enough,
bringing The Shadow after them. They were spurred by the challenge of a
chilling laugh that came from darkness. They broke for the stairway.
     It was then that chance thwarted The Shadow's plan to return to the bay
wing.


     ONE servant shouted from the head of the stairway, pointed toward the Oak
Room. Another saw Ruth Bryand. The girl had come out through the secret
passage, alarmed by the sound of the gunfire. Perhaps that pair remembered how
The Shadow had flung Shervel as an obstacle to gunfire. Gripped by a similar
idea, they made a grab for Ruth, tried to drag her with them.
     The Shadow drove along the balcony. He reached Ruth's captors, slugged
them as they dodged. The pair spilled down the stairway as The Shadow caught
Ruth with one protecting arm. He had swung the fight in his favor; but again,
ill luck was to intervene.
     Shervel had come back into the picture. Out from the bay wing, he was
leaning across the balcony rail, his scrawny face turned toward the stairway.
He shrilled an order that aroused the fleeing servants.
     "Get them both!" shrieked Shervel. "We want the girl dead, too!"
     Servants responded. They were too scattered in the great hall below for
The Shadow to pick them off. Ruth's life depended upon quick reverse action,
and The Shadow supplied it. Whisking the girl to the top of the stairway, he
plucked her from the path of fire just as it commenced.
     The servants showed glee at The Shadow's retreat. They came pounding up
the stairway to resume the battle. The Shadow sent Ruth back toward the passage
from which she had come. He diverted the attack by heading for the center of the
balcony.
     He fired as he went, unsparing in his shots even though the servants were
safe on the stairs. The Shadow had to bring that massed group in his own
direction, and he had chosen a suitable stronghold. His objective was Relf's
study.
     Shervel saw it. He supplied shots to halt The Shadow's course. The Shadow
returned the fire, but Shervel was safe behind a pillar at the end of the
balcony. The brief duel gave the servants time to launch their drive, but The
Shadow wheeled through the study door.
     His automatics were empty; he needed time to reload. That was not given. A
bulky servant blocked the door as The Shadow tried to slam it. Quickly, The
Shadow sprang through the anteroom and into the empty study. A single lamp was
glowing from Relf's desk; before The Shadow could reach it, his enemies were
coming through.


     THE SHADOW flung an automatic at the first attacker; the heavy weapon hit
the side of the fellow's head, felled him, and The Shadow hurled his second gun
at the next man. That servant dodged, losing his chance to aim. The Shadow
scooped up the revolver that the first man had dropped.
     His next move was a quick surprise. Instead of driving for the doorway,
The Shadow faded across the room toward a darkened wall. Inspringing foemen
aimed for that gloom, riddled it with bullets. They suddenly saw The Shadow
elsewhere. He had reversed his dodge to reach the alcove at the depth of the
study.
     With his free hand, The Shadow grabbed up the chair that stood in the
alcove. He made a gesture that looked like a coming fling. Remembering the
automatics, the servants dodged before they aimed. At the door, The Shadow saw
Shervel flattened against the side of the little passage that connected with
the anteroom.
     It wasn't time to think of the treacherous secretary. That would come
later when The Shadow could use the bullets in a lone revolver to real
advantage. What The Shadow needed was immediate darkness wherein every man
would be his foe, and none would know their friends. With such advantage, The
Shadow could drive through to safety. He knew the bedlam, the bewilderment that
such a stroke could produce among massed enemies.
     From the back wall of the alcove, The Shadow gave the light chair a
sideward swing. It left his hand, hooked the desk lamp and carried it to the
floor. As the lamp crashed, its light was gone. The Shadow's laugh shivered the
blackness along with the smash of glass.
     The one danger spot was the alcove; if allowed brief seconds, Relf's
servants would direct a blind fire there. In providing the darkness, The Shadow
had calculated on what would follow. His moves were timed to split seconds, when
required. Even while the chair was carrying away the lamp, The Shadow had
recoiled to the rear wall, ready for an outward spring.
     Through the scattered servants - past Shervel - to the anteroom. That
accomplished, The Shadow would have his enemies boxed. There was time to
accomplish it. The Shadow considered the deed as done when he started his
prompt lunge.


     HIS leap was not the sort that he had planned. Somehow, his stride went
short. The Shadow's feet did not seem to leave the floor of the alcove.
Instead, the floor itself slithered away beneath his tread, slicing into the
rear wall.
     The mechanism was smooth and rapid. It whipped The Shadow's spring into a
plunge. Letting the revolver go, The Shadow grabbed for the floor edge of the
room, where he could hear the snarl of foemen. His downward progress was too
rapid. The Shadow's hands were inches short.
     Guns barked above The Shadow's head as he felt the swallowing darkness in
the opened pit. He was lurching into dooming depths, his forward angle the only
saving factor. That fall was short, before The Shadow struck the stone wall of
the pit itself, but it seemed interminable.
     As his shoulder jolted, The Shadow clawed for stone. He gained a grip on
rocky projections, but his fingers slipped from the slimy surface. A toe hold
saved him. Chance had furnished a stretch of ledge beneath The Shadow's
descending foot.
     For a prolonged moment, The Shadow steadied; then, the reason for the
ledge's existence was explained. A huge stone had loosened from the moldering
wall, its very projection proof of its insecurity.
     As The Shadow shifted weight, the stone broke free. He jolted downward as
it fell. The foothold was completely gone.
     The Shadow was not the only person who was conscious of that catastrophe.
Above, gunfire had ended, thanks to Shervel's high-pitched voice. A flashlight
was glimmering from the very edge of the open pit, where Relf's awed servants
gaped downward.
     It was Shervel who held the flashlight, motioning the others back as he
listened from the brink. He had heard the clatter of The Shadow's slipping
form. Shervel counted the three prolonged seconds that elapsed.
     A huge splash resounded far down in the blackness. The swash of waves
succeeded it; unseen waters were slapping against shallow rocks. The ominous
sounds faded, to bring utter stillness. It was Shervel who supplied the next
laugh. Though whiny, nervous, Shervel's chuckle carried ugly glee. To Shervel,
that splash from below was final.
     It could signify but one result: The finish of The Shadow!


     CHAPTER VI

     THE LOST CHASE

     WHEN he led the servants out through the anteroom, Shervel explained how
he had settled The Shadow. He shone his flashlight on a little recess in the
wall of the connecting passage. The servants saw a switch located there.
     "I helped Mr. Relf install it," Shervel asserted proudly. "He always
invited guests to seat themselves in the alcove. Should he find occasion to
dispose of them, a mere signal to me would be enough."
     Shervel did not explain why Relf had failed to give such a signal in the
case of Kent Allard. It would have been easier than sending the visitor to the
Oak Room. If any of them wondered over the matter, they probably came to the
conclusion that Relf had decided to discuss Allard's case with Shervel before
making a final decision.
     Relf's servants, however, were not trained to think. Their master did that
for them. Even Shervel had been something of a human automaton until tonight,
but the servants were not surprised to hear that he had worked so closely with
Relf.
     None of that crew connected Allard with The Shadow. They supposed that a
body lay in the Oak Room; they reminded Shervel of the fact. The secretary
laughed.
     "Let it stay there," he told them. Then, harshly: "But there is one person
we mustn't forget - Miss Bryand. Find her."
     Ruth's capture proved simple. A husky turned a flashlight's beam along the
passage to the Oak Room. He spotted the girl darting for a turn. Accompanied by
another servant, the fellow bounded after Ruth. Shervel left it to those two,
while he ordered the others downstairs.
     Ruth was grabbed. As she was being brought along the hall, Shervel heard
news from downstairs. A servant had peered from the big front door. Lights were
bobbing outside the grounds. Shervel snarled an oath that applied to the
deputies.
     "They heard the shots!" he exclaimed. "They'll be crowding in here first
thing we know. Hurry - get the cars! We've got to cover things so the boat can
get away with Mr. Relf."
     Servants scurried. Impatiently, Shervel waited until the upstairs pair
arrived with Ruth. He nudged his thumb toward Relf's study, then gave a
downward gesture. The servants understood. Ruth was to follow The Shadow into
the pit.
     "Afterward," remarked Shervel significantly, "stay here. Just play dumb.
Say that you know nothing. Mr. Relf may want to hear from you later."
     With that, Shervel hurried downstairs to board an automobile. Ruth's
captors started her toward the study.


     IT wasn't three paces before Ruth realized that her murder was intended.
The disappearance of The Shadow seemed proof that all the servants were
killers. Valiantly, Ruth began a fight; it took the two men to muffle her
outcries. In her struggle for escape, she almost freed herself when she tugged
her arm from a sleeve of her dress.
     The silk sleeve ripped away to remain in a captor's clutch. With a thrust
of her bare arm, Ruth reached to the balcony rail; seizing it, she tried to
fling herself across, but the second servant stopped her. The loose sleeve
became a gag that stifled her. Ripping away its mate, one captor used the
second sleeve to bind Ruth's hands behind her.
     Kicking, wrenching, Ruth was shoved into the study. One man found a corner
lamp, and pulled the cord. The light showed the alcove, its floor closed.
Shervel had left it in that condition. When the other servant dragged her
toward the alcove, Ruth had no inkling of his next intention.
     Her knowledge came when the first man pressed the switch in the anteroom
passage.
     The floor coasted away before Ruth's wide-eyed gaze. She saw blackness
below, realized that it signified a depth of many feet. She could guess what
had become of The Shadow.
     With desperate effort, Ruth tugged loose from the silk bonds that held her
wrists. Clawing frantically, she fought off the man who tried to thrust her over
the edge. His pal in crime leered from the doorway, confident that he wasn't
needed. Half a minute would settle that struggle, with Ruth the loser.
     The girl was bending over the pit. Her husky torturer was breaking the
hold that she held upon his arm. He was letting her see the blackness that
awaited her as a foretaste of the plunge. But Ruth's strained eyes saw more
than motionless darkness.
     Out from the pit came living hands, like tentacles of the blackness
itself. They gripped the floor edge at Ruth's feet. Up stretched a black-hatted
head, followed by cloaked shoulders. Eyes met Ruth's. They were burning eyes -
The Shadow's!
     His form unnoticed by the watcher at the door, The Shadow propped himself
upon the floor edge. He could not wait to emerge farther. Ruth's strength was
almost gone. A gloved hand drove upward like a trip hammer. It clamped the
forearm of the man who forced Ruth toward the pit.
     The fellow felt the menace before he saw it. The grip pulled him down. He
tried to wrench from this new clamp that had come from nowhere. He lost his
hold on Ruth and she rolled away from the pit. The man at the door stared in
the girl's direction. He was wide-eyed when he saw what happened to his pal.
     The man at the pit was struggling with a mass of blackness. The Shadow was
twisting him toward that edge. The servant was gulping something about fighting
a ghost, which he took The Shadow to be.
     Even Shervel had not guessed how circumstances had favored The Shadow. The
fall of the loosened rock had not paved a path to doom. Instead, it had left a
large hole in the pit wall, wherein The Shadow had managed to lodge himself.
     Shervel had taken the stone's splash for The Shadow's fall. So had the
listening servants.


     WHEN the second man saw his pal's plight, he hesitated. Suddenly convinced
that The Shadow was human, not ghostly, he sprang into the fray. The shock
jolted The Shadow toward the pit. He hadn't quite gained the advantage that he
needed in order to put up double battle.
     Ruth's quick judgment served in that emergency.
     Instead of making a futile effort to aid The Shadow's fight. Ruth ran for
the doorway. She tugged away the gag with one hand, while she yanked the switch
with the other. She was turning to shout to The Shadow.
     He had already seen.
     Back to the pit, The Shadow threw himself off balance. He was flung
backward by his opponents, much harder than they needed, for he helped their
lunge. The floor was sliding toward him from the wall; spread-eagling across
the intervening space. The Shadow landed on the solid planks.
     Automatically, the incoming floor brought him straight toward the men who
had flung him. They were grabbing for the walls beside the alcove in order to
save themselves from sprawling into a pit that no longer existed.
     The Shadow was on his feet before they rallied. Girding one killer with a
cross-armed grip, he rammed the fellow headlong, straight for the other foe.
That ended in a long, hard spill, The Shadow topmost of the three.
     Plucking a revolver that a pocket had disgorged, The Shadow covered the
pair. The gesture was unneeded. Both were too dazed to put up immediate fight.
Joining Ruth, The Shadow took the girl out through the anteroom.
     There was one detail that The Shadow noticed in departure. The spring
panel that covered the control switch went shut of its own accord. The secret
of the movable alcove floor was covered. That was why a strange laugh came from
The Shadow's lips. He foresaw that the fact would be an asset in the future.
     The Shadow had his own automatics, gathered from the study floor.
Downstairs, he paused to load them. He and Ruth were at the big front door when
the men from the study arrived upon the balcony. The Shadow jabbed back warning
shots; a stretching, aiming killer took a neck-breaking dive over the rail. The
other grabbed up his clipped comrade's gun and dived for cover. When the man
poked his nose into view, The Shadow and Ruth were gone.


     OUTSIDE, there was all the commotion that The Shadow expected. Cars had
run into trouble at the barricaded gates of the estate. The sheriff and his
deputies had forced one machine to the ditch. Its occupants had scattered, but
stubbornly refused surrender.
     The Shadow put Ruth in the abandoned car. As he took the wheel, he heard
shots from the front door of the mansion. The last servant in the house was
firing at the flashlights of the deputies. They gave him a return barrage that
felled him.
     In that hubbub, The Shadow started the car. Its tires gripped and it
hoisted from the ditch. Amid yells and frantic shots, The Shadow sped for the
open road.
     He slowed the car, extinguished the lights as he neared the cliff. Off at
an angle, The Shadow saw the coast guard cutter. Its big searchlight was turned
toward the land. Like a theater's floodlight, it showed another of Relf's cars
taking to a road that led along a bare cliff a quarter mile away.
     The car looked toylike at that distance. The spurt of guns formed puny
spots of light. There were other tiny tongues of flame. Men set to blockade the
road were fighting it out with the car's occupants.
     Ruth gave a stifled gasp when she saw the finish.
     Bouncing over rocks, the distant car skewed sideways. It tilted at the bay
edge. Overturning, the car flung tiny figures ahead of it to the rocky shore
below. Its own plunge followed.
     The Shadow's eyes were elsewhere.
     He saw that the sacrifice of that car and its human load was not a vain
one.
     Off past the lighthouse isle, a low, dark, rakish ship was clearing for
the outer bay. Fading from the trickle of the moonlight, the craft completed
its escape unnoticed by the coast guard cutter.
     Nothing could be done to halt that flight. The Shadow turned on the
headlights of his car, drove along the road at top speed. His own departure was
imperative.
     Ruth's tenseness ended when she saw the way was clear. The Shadow was
outdistancing pursuers, for there were no more cars back at the mansion.
Deputies who had chased the first pair of automobiles had cut over to the cliff
where one car met disaster.
     There was another car ahead, probably with Shervel in it, for the
secretary would have valued his own hide too much to make that sacrifice on the
rocks. Seeing no sign of the fugitive automobile, The Shadow deduced that it had
completed its escape.
     Thus the law had lost its chase.
     Word would go out that Ferdinand Relf had broken through by land. A search
would begin for him throughout Rhode Island. Such search would be futile, based
on ignorance.
     There would be no mention of the mystery boat that had nosed in from the
bay, to make a getaway with an important fugitive from Relf's mansion. Relf's
whereabouts would become as great a mystery as that unknown ship itself.
     Shervel, a few others perhaps, could tell important facts, but there was
little likelihood that they would be captured and made to talk.
     Aside from those few men of crime, one being only could furnish tangible
evidence regarding the disappearance of Ferdinand Relf.
     That person was The Shadow.


     CHAPTER VII

     IN SOUTH STATION

     ALONG the road to Providence, The Shadow made a detour. It brought him to
an isolated byway, where a coupe waited. Harry Vincent was in the coupe. The
Shadow transferred Ruth to the other car.
     From here on they would be questioned. There was little chance that Ruth
would be recognized, for no one knew that she had been in the old mansion. Her
dress, however, showed that the sleeves had been ripped away, so Ruth accepted
the light overcoat that Harry had with him.
     Thrown across her shoulders, the coat concealed all evidence of her
struggle with Relf's servants.
     Harry drove toward Providence. The Shadow followed in the car that he had
appropriated back at the mansion. Ruth realized that he was watching whatever
happened to the coupe. If Harry should be stopped by State police, The Shadow
would not follow into the trap with his telltale car.
     Harry stopped at a little store to put in a call to Providence. After
that, The Shadow no longer followed. Harry told Ruth that he had arranged for
another car to come out from the Rhode Island capital. The Shadow would use it
for the remainder of his journey.
     What amazed Ruth as they rode along was the fact that Harry understood her
dilemma. That meant definitely that The Shadow had expected to find her at the
mansion; and had made plans for her afterward. She was to keep up the
supposition that she was abroad; meanwhile, she was to stay with certain
friends who lived near Boston.
     Thereby, Ruth would be safe. Moreover, she would be available in case The
Shadow needed her. Evidently The Shadow had planned a campaign of his own to
offset moves from Ferdinand Relf. That thought gave Ruth both thrills and
shudders.
     She knew that Relf was evil, and she was elated because The Shadow
intended to oppose him. Nevertheless, Ruth remembered Relf with horror. Though
her own security seemed certain, she feared for others - and always would,
until convinced that Relf was no longer at large.
     The coupe was stopped before it reached Providence. Harry talked with the
police, and was allowed to pass. But he did not take the shortest route to
Massachusetts. Instead of turning east from Providence, Harry drove north to
Blackstone.
     From there he took a paved highway to Framingham, twenty miles from
Boston, where Ruth's friends lived.


     MEANWHILE, another car was speeding along the coastal highway, following
Route No. 1 straight in to Boston. The car was a powerful, imported roadster,
its driver a personage who bore an elusive resemblance to Kent Allard.
     He had a hawkish expression, a firm-featured face. But his manner differed
from Allard's, as did his expressions. His pose was idle, leisurely, rather than
stolid.
     The Shadow had adopted the guise of Lamont Cranston, a part which he often
played. Cranston was known as a millionaire globe-trotter who usually preferred
New York when in America. It was not remarkable, however, that Cranston should
be making a trip to Boston, for he had many friends there. None, it happened,
had ever identified Allard as Cranston.
     The swift car clipped off the miles into Boston, where The Shadow picked a
course that finally brought him beneath the superstructure of the elevated. He
was on Atlantic Avenue; to his right loomed the blocky bulk of the South
Station. Parking his car behind a row of taxicabs, The Shadow alighted.
     He was approaching a long passage into the terminal when a man came
hurrying from it. With a darting look back over his shoulder, the fellow
boarded the front cab in the line. The street lights gave The Shadow a view of
the man's face.
     The arrival was Shervel.
     Relf's secretary was luckier than he supposed. His cab was off to a quick
start, swinging left just as a traffic fight changed. The Shadow had no
opportunity to follow him, either in the roadster or another taxi.
     The best that The Shadow could do was check the cab's number as it swung
west on Summer Street. Traffic swallowed the cab, and its destination was
guesswork even for The Shadow. Once started on that trip, Shervel might be
heading to any of a hundred places in the maze of streets that formed downtown
Boston.
     The Shadow decided to learn the reason for Shervel's precipitous exit from
South Station. He entered the big terminal, with its long line of kiosks that
served as magazine stands and other types of shops.
     There was a cluster of persons near the central information stand, where a
lighted clock was topped by a garish dome of luminous purple capped with red.
There was another crowd near a train gate, but people were detaching themselves
from the group.
     Comparing his watch with the station clock, The Shadow saw that his time
was right. He noted, also, that he was correct on another supposition. The
Comet, speedy streamlined train from Providence, had arrived a minute ahead of
schedule.
     Shervel must have been the first person off that train. He had lost no
time in coming through the train gate.


     THE SHADOW approached to watch proceedings. Everyone who passed was under
the scrutiny of three men, one of whom The Shadow recognized. He was a
short-built man. Swarthy of complexion, with a heavy, dark mustache. The
watcher was Vic Marquette, of the F.B.I.
     Vic and his companions were looking for Ferdinand Relf. Seeing no one who
looked like the financial wizard, Marquette strode through the train gate to
the track where the Comet stood. He went the whole length of the double-end
streamliner, peering through its windows to make sure that all passengers had
left it.
     The Shadow had been watching for any of Relf's servants, but none were in
sight. Probably few had escaped with Shervel, and none of them had come along
to Boston. Strolling over to the train gate, The Shadow lighted a cigarette in
Cranston's leisurely style. He was puffing his smoke when Marquette arrived.
     "Mr. Cranston!" Marquette's jaw dropped in surprise. "What are you doing
here?"
     "Taking the Owl for New York," replied The Shadow in Cranston's leisurely
style. "Tell me - what is the trouble?"
     "Plenty," confided Marquette. "You've heard of Ferdinand Relf, the
financial wizard? Well, he's the guy we're looking for."
     "It was my understanding" - Cranston's lips formed the faintest of smiles
- "that Relf's affairs never reached the point where they could come under
government investigation."
     Marquette's expression became grim.
     "You've about sized it," he admitted. "But this Boston shipping scandal
has given us a wedge. Enough to bring in Relf as a witness. Certain persons -
three, in fact - claim that Relf tried to entangle them in his affairs.
     "He'll deny it, of course. They can never prove a case against him, but
there's one of those three who is a bad egg in his own right. What we intend to
do is question Relf about him. Maybe you've heard of the person I mean. His name
is Nick Langion."
     That name flashed home to The Shadow. Nick Langion was a notorious Boston
racketeer, a chronic trouble-maker. He had the reputation of a big shot -
one-time king of the numbers racket.
     Marquette had gone quite far in mentioning Langion's name. He felt free to
do so with Cranston, who had Washington connections. But he balked when it came
to naming others.
     "They're different from Langion," stated Marquette. "Men of good
reputation, the sort that Relf always uses for goats. I can't state who they
are - not even to you, Mr. Cranston -"
     Vic stopped abruptly. Though he didn't realize it, he was about to bring
those very names into discussion. A tall, heavy man had approached. His
square-jawed face registered alarm. It was an expression that looked out of
place, considering the man's keen eyes and forceful forehead.
     "Hello, Mr. Danner" - Marquette was shaking hands as he spoke - "you've
heard about Relf?"
     Danner's alarm increased. His question was hollow.
     "You mean that Relf has left Rhode Island?"
     "That's it," replied Marquette. "We tried to reach you at your apartment,
but learned that you had gone to the theater. How did you happen to come here?"
     The big man could not manage a reply. His lips were moving, but they
failed to form words. The Shadow recognized the reason for the man's terror.
Danner was another of the three.


     JAMES DANNER, Midwest promoter, had lately moved to Boston. The Shadow had
heard of him, but had not connected Danner with Relf's schemes. Marquette had
referred to a shipping scandal. The Shadow knew the name of the company it
concerned - the Inter-Coastal Lines, but the officers had been unimportant
persons.
     Obviously James Danner was the promoter who had built up the newly formed
Inter-Coastal Lines.
     At last, words came to Danner. With them, he named the last man of the
trio.
     "You've notified Tilmot?" he questioned. "Henry Tilmot - the banker?"
     Marquette nodded.
     "How did Tilmot take the news?" demanded Danner. "About Relf?"
     "He didn't like it," admitted Marquette. "But there's no reason to worry,
Mr. Danner. You both did your duty. You pulled the shipping company out of its
hole. Tilmot spiked those fake loans that Relf wanted to put over.
     "We didn't keep him in Rhode Island, but his game here is finished. He
can't threaten you and Tilmot, because the only fellow he could do it through
is Nick Langion. And it happens" - Marquette seemed highly pleased - "that Nick
has already squealed on Relf. That leaves Relf helpless."
     Danner nodded, but he seemed unconvinced. He looked at the clock above the
information booth.
     "I'm leaving for Washington," he said, weakly, "on the Federal. I'd better
be getting aboard the train - to get some sleep -"
     Danner paused. His eyes were shifting, as if he expected to see Ferdinand
Relf bob from a train gate. He muttered a good-night, started to turn away.
     "One question," put Marquette. "We asked Tilmot if he could describe
anyone who worked for Relf. He said he couldn't. But we know that Relf had a
secretary."
     "The man who came to see me was named Shervel," returned Danner. "A
sly-looking fellow; rather frail. Dull-faced, but quick in step. He has a
shrewd way about him, but he's rather furtive - yes, that describes him.
Furtive."
     Marquette snapped his fingers.
     "The first man off the train!" he recalled. "I'm going out to see if the
cab starter spotted him."
     Marquette took the long trail to the station exit. Danner watched him,
then made a hurried departure of his own. He had scarcely noticed Cranston, for
Marquette had not introduced his friend, hence the shipping promoter did not
realize that Cranston had him under observation.
     Instead of turning toward the gate that announced the Federal, Danner
strode for the waiting room. Strolling after him, The Shadow saw the promoter
leave by the Summer Street doorway and hurriedly climb into a cab. Danner was
excited when he spoke to the cab driver.
     There was no doubt in The Shadow's mind that Danner had planned to go to
Washington, for the promoter had a suitcase with him. The facts showed that
Danner preferred to remain in Boston, to keep his exact whereabouts unknown,
having learned that Relf was no longer isolated.
     What applied to James Danner, also concerned Henry Tilmot. Like the
promoter, the banker could also fear Relf's return to Boston. Having viewed
Danner, The Shadow could picture Tilmot in a similar state.
     Those two, sought by Relf, would receive The Shadow's close attention; but
there was another man, one belonging to a totally different class, who also
needed observation.
     The Shadow was considering the case of Nick Langion. He intended to probe
deeply into the affairs of that local racketeer.


     CHAPTER VIII

     THREE MEN GATHER

     DUSK had come to Boston Common. Across the darkened stretches of green,
the sun's last rays tinged the high roof of a proud greystone residence that
fronted on Beacon Street. This house was one that appeared modern, though old.
It was the home of Henry Tilmot.
     A taxi wheeled past the banker's house, stopped some twenty yards beyond.
From it stepped a tall man who tried to disguise his height by a stoop. He
hurried up Tilmot's steps, rapped at a big iron knocker. The door opened to
admit him.
     Shortly afterward, a craning servant again opened the door, took a two-way
look along Beacon Street. Satisfied that no one had followed the visitor, the
servant retired.
     Darkness detached itself from gloom that fringed the Common. A figure
crossed the street, picking obscure stretches to reach those same steps.
     Oddly, the new arrival managed to blot himself against Tilmot's door in a
fashion that seemed ghostly.
     A gloved hand worked the knocker with slow, short jabs that had a muffled
stroke. Those sounds quivered through the door, to carry a low thump to
listeners. They were like echoes, those knocks - the sort that would puzzle a
person beyond the door.
     The black figure faded, slid downward beside the stone steps just as the
door opened. The servant was peering out again, his long face puzzled. He
descended the steps, glanced along the sidewalk. The sun had fully set and the
deep dusk was elusive. The servant stared across toward the Common.
     That was when the black-clad figure reappeared. It lifted itself up beside
the steps, glided through the open front door. The fleeting form was gone before
the servant turned about and went back into the house.
     By that time, The Shadow was shielded by the gloom of a curved staircase
that led up to the second floor. He waited until the servant had gone, then
continued his upward progress.
     There was a front hallway on the second floor, with a window that opened
on Beacon Street. A servant was pacing back and forth. Temporarily, The Shadow
was forced to choose the spot near the window. Corners were deep on each side
of the opening. The Shadow used one for concealment.
     There was a loud rap from below; some new visitor at the front door,
pounding hard and impatiently. The upstairs servant halted, looking downward.
The Shadow side-stepped in order to gaze from the window.


     A BIG, oversize limousine had halted in front of the house. The glow from
the street lights gave a good chance to observe it. That car was bulky because
it was armor-plated. Only one man in Boston had need for such a vehicle: Nick
Langion.
     It wasn't the racketeer who had knocked for admittance. He had sent some
lieutenant to perform that task. A couple of others had stepped from the heavy
car. They were bodyguards, ready to protect Nick's path up the front steps.
     The front door must have opened, for the racketeer stepped warily from his
car, then hurried into the house. Soon his footsteps sounded on the stairway.
The servant conducted him to a room near the rear of the hall.
     Simultaneously, The Shadow moved from cover. He was visible in the hallway
light, had either Nick or Tilmot's servant turned to see him. They happened to
be otherwise engaged. The servant was ushering Nick into a room. The Shadow
passed while they were in the doorway.
     The next door was The Shadow's goal. Silently he opened it, found exactly
what he wanted. This rear room was a narrow one, scarcely more than a
storeroom, but it had a connecting door to Tilmot's study.
     Just past the connecting door was a window with a low roof beneath it. The
window offered an excellent exit should The Shadow need it. The connecting door
was locked, but not difficult. The Shadow unlocked it with a skeleton key that
failed to give a click. Inching the door open, he peered into the study.
     Henry Tilmot was a thin-faced, gray-haired man whose expression showed
weariness. He was stooped over a desk. His hands were frail and quivery. He was
a man who had some taste for simplicity, for although the downstairs furnishings
were elaborate, the study was done in severe style. The desk was plain mahogany,
square-edged. Chairs were straight-backed and uncomfortable.
     Opposite Tilmot was the man who had first entered. The Shadow had
recognized him on the street. That visitor was James Danner, and his
nervousness had increased overnight. Danner's rumpled clothes looked as if he
had slept in them. His broad face and square chin were stubby with a growth of
beard.


     IT was Nick Langion who finally drew The Shadow's gaze.
     The racketeer had a long, tapering face; its hollow cheeks were a nearly
olive hue. He was of middle height, but fairly heavy in proportion. His teeth
showed long and yellow when he smiled. The curl of his lips was not pleasant.
Langion's eyes had a flash, but they were restless.
     He was smooth-voiced, but seemed to force his words; at times, he stroked
stubby fingers through his oily, blackish hair. Danner and Tilmot were
listening to Langion when The Shadow first heard their conversation.
     "Glad you wanted me to come here, Mr. Tilmot." Nick's purr had a sarcastic
touch. "Of course, I don't suppose you would have invited me if I hadn't
suggested it. But since we're all friends, we can forget it."
     Pompously, Tilmot adjusted a pair of pince-nez spectacles, to glare at the
racketeer.
     "We are not friends," snapped Tilmot crisply. "We are merely persons who
are confronted by a common difficulty. If you hold the impression, Langion,
that my accession to your request was an invitation, it is time that I
corrected it -"
     "Please!" The interjection came hoarsely from Danner. He had leaned
forward, was clutching the edge of the desk. "Let me do the talking, Tilmot! We
agreed upon it."
     Tilmot shrugged, spread his hands as he leaned back in his chair.
     "My position is this," stated Danner to Langion. "I was invited to
organize and promote the Inter-Coastal Lines, to receive a fair proportion of
the stock as my share. I came to Boston, found that certain ships could be
acquired at low cost. Rather than delay, I put a half million into the
enterprise."
     "Of your own money'" questioned Langion, his tone interested.
     "Certainly," insisted Danner. "Then more ships were offered. I had to
promote stock rapidly. A man named Shervel called on me. He spoke of raising
funds; but to hold control, I needed to raise cash of my own from investors in
the Middle West. Then came this Relf trouble. Shervel disappeared along with
him. I connected the two."
     Langion nodded.
     "You were lucky," he said with a grin. "Relf would have taken the whole
thing away from you. Did you ever meet Relf?"
     "No," returned Danger. "Only Shervel."
     "I met neither," put in Tilmot. "I was asked to provide a million dollar
loan, with Inter-Coastal stock as security. I actually had arranged the matter
of the funds, when I suspected that Relf was behind it. The money would have
gone to him, not to Inter-Coastal."
     Nick Langion looked past Tilmot to a big safe at the wall. His gaze
shifted to Tilmot, then to Danner.
     "I've met Relf," boasted Nick. "He wanted me to do the strong-arm work.
That's how he intended to put Inter-Coastal on the rocks. Sabotage aboard those
boats; mutiny among the crews. Your stock would have gone down to nothing,
Danner.
     "It would have been good-by to your million, Tilmot" - Nick looked toward
the banker - "and any other loans that came Relf's way. More loans would have
been a cinch, once other bankers knew that you were in it."


     LANGION'S admission of his crooked part brought a glare from Tilmot.
Danner assured the banker that Nick was all right. He had not taken Relf's
offer. The statement pleased Langion. His tone became affable.
     "Relf has it in for us," he declared. "I'll tell you something about Relf.
He won't stop at murder. I know the Feds say it's bunk, but they're cuckoo. Both
of you know it, and you're scared, Danner. As for you, Tilmot" - Nick looked at
the banker - "you ought to be."
     "I am guarded by my servants."
     "What could they do if Relf shot up the place? There was plenty of
fireworks in Rhode Island, wasn't there? Last night, when Relf got away?"
     "But Relf was not concerned in it."
     "He never is," sneered Langion. "That's why the Feds think it's hokum,
this talk of Relf being a killer. But they're a million miles wide. Listen -
I've got a proposition."
     Langion leaned half across Tilmot's desk, pointed to the door from which
The Shadow peered. The racketeer did not notice that the door was slightly ajar.
     "Take that door, for instance," said Nick. "Some guy could poke a gat
through there and drop you in a hurry, Tilmot. But it couldn't be done if this
place was lined with armor plate, like my joint."
     Tilmot's eyes showed sudden interest. Langion swung to Danner.
     "The same way with your apartment," he insisted. "I could rig it into a
steel box. You could sit there tight, until the goods are pinned on Relf."
     Danner looked at Tilmot, who nodded his approval. It was Danner who asked
hoarsely:
     "How much would it cost?"
     "Not a cent," returned Langion smoothly. Then: "You have guys with you
that you can trust, haven't you?"
     "Two Filipinos," returned Danner. "With me for years."
     "Two are enough," purred Langion. Then to Tilmot: "How many flunkies do
you have?"
     "Five," replied the banker. "All trustworthy."
     "Keep three," decided Langion. "Lend me the other two. I'll rig this joint
as good as mine; and Danner's too, even if the two together cost me fifteen
grand."
     It was Tilmot who caught the reason for the proposition.
     "I understand," declared the banker, dryly. "With all the men at your
disposal - some of them most dangerous, I understand - you have none that you
can trust."
     "Not one," admitted Langion, "if Relf tries to reach them. He could buy
out any mug in my outfit. I've got to have some guys that have never been in
any racket. It's the only way."
     Nick watched Tilmot narrowly, then quizzed:
     "Is it a deal?"
     Tilmot hesitated. Danner went frantic. It was the promoter's plea that
finally decided Tilmot. He gave a nod. Langion arose.
     "Get with the Fed, to-night," advised Nick. "Both of you. Hold a long
conference. I'll have the boys in here and at Danner's place, rigging those
steel walls. After that - no worry."
     The Shadow was gone by the time a servant came to usher Langion
downstairs. The Shadow's exit was the window. He was gliding from a space
beside the gray house when Langion reached his armored car. Keeping to the
blackness of adjacent building fronts, The Shadow arrived at a parked coupe.
     When the big limousine pulled away with Nick Langion as passenger, The
Shadow wheeled out from the curb. He followed the route that the big car took,
but as they rolled along a twisty course, The Shadow became interested in an
object other than Nick's moving fortress.
     The Shadow was watching the mirror above his windshield. He noted that a
low-built sedan had taken up the trail. Whether the sedan was tailing Nick's
limousine or The Shadow's coupe, was a question that would soon be decided.
     In either event, The Shadow expected battle. His low laugh betokened his
readiness for coming trouble.


     CHAPTER IX

     THE BLIND TRAP

     NICK LANGION had talked sound sense to Danner and Tilmot. Nick had inside
facts regarding Ferdinand Relf that the law did not possess. If Relf had the
habit of murdering persons who had irked him, Nick was the man who would know
it.
     According to their own testimony, neither Danner nor Tilmot had actually
profited through Relf's temporary banishment. Danner had merely managed to
preserve his legitimate control of Inter-Coastal Lines; while Tilmot had staved
off the loss of a million dollar loan that would never have been repaid.
     Nevertheless, Relf had expected to acquire the shipping interests and the
cash. He had counted upon matters remaining at a standstill during his absence
from Boston. Danner and Tilmot had altered the circumstances, thereby ruining
Relf's schemes.
     It was possible - in fact, highly probable - that both had received veiled
threats from Relf. The Shadow had definitely learned, from Ruth, that Relf
intended to even scores with three persons. Danner, Tilmot and Langion were the
logical three.
     From Vic Marquette, The Shadow had gained the law's viewpoint.
     A few million dollars were nothing to Relf. Why therefore, should he
bother Danner and Tilmot?
     Nick Langion was a different case, but the law regarded him as able to
take care of himself.
     The law would protect Danner and Tilmot. Langion, too, if any of them
demanded it. But such protection would leave flaws, because the law would
regard it as unnecessary. Even the arrest of Relf couldn't help. Neither the
Boston police nor the Massachusetts authorities had any charge against Relf.
The most that the Federal agents could do was question him, and they had no
proof that Relf's financial schemes involved a swindle.
     Reef was free, and his ways were cunning. He might overstep himself if he
indulged in murder. But that wouldn't help Danner and Tilmot - nor Langion -
after they were victims.
     Danner and Tilmot possessed the lawful privilege of turning their homes
into castles. Since Nick Langion had long ago taken advantage of that right,
they had accepted his expert services.
     Considering all those angles, The Shadow was forming certain conclusions
that fitted with facts he already knew. All the while he was keeping Langion's
limousine in sight, and also spotting the sedan that followed his own car.
     The limousine had taken a roundabout course, apparently for the purpose of
discovering if trailers followed it. The Shadow offset observation by keeping
under cover of occasional traffic, but in so doing, he informed the sedan that
he was on Nick's trail. That could not be avoided.


     ROLLING along a dark side street, the limousine came to a more important
thoroughfare: Washington Street. Instead of crossing, it turned into Washington
Street and approached the glare of bright lights. Poking its way through
traffic, the wheeled fortress passed the brilliant fronts of theaters.
     Policemen and pedestrians recognized the famous car; they saw the olive
face of Nick Langion grinning from the window. Every time the limousine halted
near a theater marquee or a wide store front, little throngs began to form.
When the car started again, Nick waved his hand like some celebrated visitor
touring the city.
     That ended when the limousine suddenly lumbered into a more rapid speed,
took a sharp turn right into a deep but narrow alleyway. The Shadow's coupe
swung the same corner. The alley was black except at the inner end. There, the
flicker of a red neon sign announced the name: "Caravan Club."
     Nick Langion owned that night club. Above its broad first floor were
gloomy windows fitted with steel shutters. They marked the location of Nick's
stronghold. The limousine swung to the left, pulled up in front of a door that
led to the second floor.
     The turn that the big car took indicated that another alley ran from this
one. The Shadow pushed the coupe forward, swung left past Nick's car. He saw
the end of the side alley; it was a blind one, but it ended in the sliding door
of a garage.
     That door was open, and The Shadow could see clear through the garage to
another street. His best plan was to drive through the garage, then circle back
to Washington Street, letting Nick wonder who he was.
     Things happened to change all that, and they started in a hurry.
     A sudden glare bathed the alley. It came from a searchlight moving inward.
The sedan had swung into the outer alley. Its big light showed Nick Langion
stepping from the armored car, on his way toward the door beside the Caravan
Club.
     Nick cheated death with skillful care. Instead of reaching for the
doorway, he dived back into his big car and slammed the door just as a machine
gun began its rat-tat-tat. One of Nick's bodyguards was flattened by the
barrage; the bullets bounced his dead form all over the sidewalk.
     The others, though, were either through the doorway or safe with Nick. The
hail that hit the armored limousine was utterly harmless.
     Revolvers began to answer from the windows of the Caravan Club. The
windows were fitted with loopholes. Nick Langion had plenty of henchmen on the
premises; they were putting the sedan gang on the spot. But the balked
assassins had already picked their way out.
     The sedan whipped left, took up The Shadow's plan of driving through the
open doors of the garage.


     SPEEDING through the alleyway door, The Shadow skewed his car to the
right. It was a timely move, for the sedan started a new outpour with its
machine gun just as The Shadow wheeled from view. The gunners hadn't forgotten
the coupe that they had trailed. They wanted to get rid of it.
     They had missed, and The Shadow awaited them. That wasn't all. As he swung
from the door of the coupe, The Shadow heard a clashy, grinding sound.
     The big street door of the garage was shutting of its own accord; it came
to a hard-slammed stop just as The Shadow noticed it!
     The answer came instantly to The Shadow.
     Nick Langion owned this garage. It was where he kept the armored
limousine. There was a plate set at the alley door, that caused the street
entrance to shut the moment that an unwanted car drove in from the alley.
     Someone in the garage had heard the gunfire and had promptly yanked a
switch. The Shadow's car, first into the garage, had set off the mechanism.
     There were yells from the sedan as it roared into the garage. Its crew saw
that their path was blocked. They tried to turn about before someone closed the
alley door to fully trap them; but the rear door wasn't scheduled to go shut.
     More guns were speaking from near the Caravan Club. If the sedan's crew
wanted to run that gantlet, they were welcome.
     Forgetting their machine gun, the thugs pulled revolvers. They were
shouting among themselves as they spread to the rear walls of the garage.
     "C'mon! Make a run for it. Those mugs out there are yellow-bellies -"
     "Sure - the boobs that work in the club. They ain't got guts enough to
even come after us."
     There was a different reason why the personnel of the Caravan Club was
merely keeping up a distant, haphazard fire. The explanation was voiced
suddenly by one of the gang from the sedan when the fellow peered into the
alley.
     "Cripes!" he snarled. "The bulls!"
     Staged close to the center of Boston, that attempt to assassinate Nick
Langion had brought police in plenty. The racketeer had wisely kept his own men
back, to let the law handle it. Edging from beside the coupe, The Shadow could
see others advancing along the alley, choosing sheltered spots as they came.
Their guns were talking louder and louder as more police arrived.
     "The typewriter!" shouted a crook. "We'll clean that alley!"
     The five scrambled for the sedan and hauled the machine gun from its
sheltered side. Four set it up, while one man, crouched behind the sedan's
steering wheel, prepared to remove the car from line of fire.
     Nearly a score of police were centering in the alley, encouraged by the
halt of the gunfire from the garage. They were awaiting the order to charge;
after that, they expected to round up scattered hoodlums in the garage itself.
     As the sedan shoved away, police raised a shout. They didn't guess what
was planned for them. Once the "typewriter" began its clatter, the alley would
become a shambles of uniformed officers.
     The crooks at the machine gun heard the shout, but it was not the sound
that startled them. From a spot only a dozen feet away, they caught the chill
challenge of a mocking laugh; a fierce challenge that identified its author.
     "The Shadow!"


     TWO thugs turned, hurrying their revolver aim as the other pair tried to
put the machine gun into operation. The speed of The Shadow was the only human
power that could stop those separate efforts. He was driving forward as he
stabbed a shot to the heart of the nearest thug. With the recoil, his arm
shifted; his finger triggered another bullet that dropped the second foeman.
     While two unfired revolvers were hitting the concrete floor, The Shadow
surged upon the pair at the machine gun. A sledged blow from an automatic
staggered one hoodlum; the other dodged, making a scramble away from the
machine gun.
     He was pulling a revolver. So was the fifth thug, who jumped from the
wheel of the sedan. In their frenzy they forgot the law's invasion. Police
revolvers roared. The machine-gunner took a whirl like a toy top. The thug from
the car went staggering toward a deep corner of the garage.
     The Shadow was heading toward the same cover. He saw the staggering
crook's objective - the open door of a big elevator that hoisted cars to upper
floors. As the wounded rowdy sprawled panting on the elevator floor, The Shadow
joined him. Closing the heavy door, The Shadow started the elevator upward just
as police poured into the garage.
     Four crooks were dead; the fifth of the band was dying at The Shadow's
feet. Moments remained, though, in which the hoodlum could speak. Stooping
close to the dying man's ear, The Shadow demanded, in a cold, low-toned rasp:
     "Who told you to rub out Nick Langion?"
     Glazed eyes showed sullenly from an ugly face. They were stubborn, even
though they met The Shadow's burning gaze. The Shadow delivered a significant
laugh. He remembered what Nick had said about not trusting his own mobs. It was
a good gamble, to sound out this dying crook.
     "You worked for Nick," accused The Shadow. "But you sold out on him.
Somebody talked you into double-crossing Nick. Maybe the same fellow
double-crossed you."
     The words had logic, for they seemed backed by knowledge, not guesswork.
Dying eyes showed a venomous flash; blood-flecked lips phrased the words:
     "Maybe - maybe he did -"
     "And his, name -"
     "It's - Shervel. He had dough - plenty of it - that some big shot handed
him -"
     The crook slumped. He tried to mouth a name that sounded much like Relf.
He heard the query that The Shadow put, asking where Shervel could be found.
The thug attempted to answer, but failed. His hoarse gasp was accompanied by a
death rattle.
     From the elevator, The Shadow reached the darkness of a low roof. He had
left the blind trap wherein double-crossers had met doom. His laugh was subdued
in the night air, but its tone was sinister.
     The thrust against Nick Langion was but the first. Others would be due; it
would be The Shadow's task to meet them. Behind them all would lurk vague,
unproven testimony, attributing them to the genius of a master brain.
     The name involved - by word, but not by evidence - would be that of
Ferdinand Relf.


     CHAPTER X

     THE CLUE FROM THE PAST

     EARLY the next evening, Harry Vincent stopped in the drugstore at the
corner of Tremont and Boylston. While waiting to buy a pack of cigarettes,
Harry looked at a newspaper that he had purchased on the street.
     Big headlines still talked of the attempt to assassinate Nick Langion; but
the columns didn't contain much real news. Most of the comment concerned Nick's
unsavory past, with reference to buried feuds in which the racketeer had
participated.
     Any of a dozen old enemies might have been responsible for the thrust, but
Nick wasn't saying which one.
     From Nick's actual comments, he seemed to think that he deserved a medal
for leaving the battle to the law. The police did not share that opinion. There
had been too many guns around the Caravan Club to suit them. They had ordered
the place closed.
     There was one subject that Nick had shrugged away when interviewed.
Reporters claimed that the murder crew was composed of men who had recently
worked for Nick himself; in fact, had been seen in his company. Nick didn't
remember anything of the sort.
     Naturally he wasn't going to admit that he had ever hired self-proven
murderers, even though it was obvious he wouldn't have paid them to kill
himself. So the matter rested in the air.
     There was mention in a tenth page paragraph, that Nick Langion had been
linked with the financial schemes of Ferdinand Relf; but that fact seemed of
little importance. To Harry, it proved the very point that he had learned from
The Shadow. The law did not class Relf as a murderer. It would take more than
an underworld feud to change the law's opinion.
     What had become of Ferdinand Relf?
     That was a question that perplexed Vic Marquette and the other Feds in
Boston, but it didn't interest the newspapers. Relf's enforced stay in Rhode
Island had been entirely unofficial. Since it was conceded that he had left
Rhode Island, Relf was not regarded as a fugitive from justice.
     No one, apparently, was looking for Relf - not even The Shadow.
     There was a man in Boston, however, who was actually sought by The Shadow.
That man was Shervel. The secretary had been Relf's proxy in more than one shady
enterprise. Once located, Shervel could be made to talk. He could tell as much
as Relf, and much more easily.
     In fact The Shadow held to the conclusion that Relf, when found, would
prove to be the sort who would not talk at all. That made Shervel the man to be
uncovered.
     There were others, though, who might provide valuable information. The
Shadow had not forgotten the mystery ship that had put out through the bay.
There was a strong chance that it had come to Boston, even though it might have
touched elsewhere during its cruise. The Shadow wanted facts about that craft
and the men aboard it. Busy with other matters, The Shadow had left much of
that investigation to Harry.


     AFTER receiving his cigarettes, Harry remained in the cigar store while he
smoked one. Noting his watch, he waited until an appointed minute, then entered
a telephone booth. He dialed a number; at last a thick voice came across the
wire.
     "Hello..." The tone was suspicious. "Who's that?"
     "My name's Vincent," informed Harry. "Are you Barney Faskin?"
     There was a pause, then a grunted admission. After that "Barney's" tone
became a hoarse whisper.
     "Can't talk to you from here... I'll meet you somewhere, Vincent... You
pick the place."
     "Larry's Corner. In half an hour."
     Finished with that call, Harry put in one to a hotel and asked for Mr.
Cranston. He learned that Cranston was not there, so he simply left word that
he had called.
     Harry entered the near-by subway station and soon arrived at South Station
Under, via the Tunnel. He came up to the street, stopped in South Station to
make another phone call, only to find that Cranston was still absent. Climbing
the elevated steps, Harry took a shuttle train, bound north.
     The line ran above Atlantic Avenue, where the harbor wharves lay on the
right. At the second station, Harry alighted. On the street, he turned in the
direction of India Wharf; but it wasn't long before he turned away from the
water front.
     The obscure corner of a tiny street showed a dingy building that was a
combination eating house and grog shop. The place had another name; but to dock
workers it was known as Larry's Corner, in remembrance of a former owner.
     The night was murky, with fog filtering in from the harbor. That suited
Harry as he picked the side door of Larry's Corner. No one had seen him come
here, which fitted with The Shadow's orders. The fewer persons that Harry
encountered, the better - with the lone exception of Barney Faskin.
     The eating joint was a sprawly place, badly lighted except near the front
and along the bar that followed the inner side wall. Harry found a dingy
corner; sat there, unnoticed by the few waiters who were conspicuous because of
their dirty aprons. The way to get service at this place was by pounding the
table, as some other customers were doing. Harry kept quiet, hence remained
ignored. Meanwhile, he was picking a better place for conference than this
corner. He saw one, an empty room in the back wall.
     That settled, Harry kept watch toward the front door.
     A stooped man entered, stopped at the bar. He was clad in baggy khaki
trousers, wore a frayed jacket and a rough cap. Shaggy, grizzled hair poked
from beneath the tilted cap; below, Harry saw eyes that squinted from a
pock-marked face.
     The newcomer answered the description of Barney Faskin.


     THE fellow belonged to a forgotten epoch. He had known his prime in the
days when seamen were shanghaied aboard schooners. Barney had plenty of such
jobs to his discredit, probably with a few murders on the side.
     He had been known to boast of kills that he had made during a cruise with
a treasure-hunting expedition, the time when he had wound up with smallpox in
Maracaibo. But that had been aboard a foreign ship. Evidence suppressed, Barney
ran no risk when he bragged.
     Barney had made a come-back during the days of rumrunners. He had made his
quota of dirty deals offshore, even shoving counterfeit money to the skipper of
European ships that had brought liquor to America. Bill Barney had been
something of a has-been even then, and at present looked like a well-frayed
wharf rat.
     However, Barney still prowled the Boston waterfront. On this occasion, it
made him useful to The Shadow. Winnowing through various sources of
information, The Shadow had decided that the one man who might know something -
and be willing to tell it - was Barney Faskin.
     The frizzle-haired man squinted a sharp look beyond the bar. Harry gave a
nod. Barney downed a drink. When he started a shamble toward the rear corner,
he saw that Harry was gone. That didn't force Barney to strain himself with too
many guesses. He also saw the open door of the darkened room.
     Once Barney was inside, Harry closed the door. He had found a hanging
electric light and switched it on. The grimy bulb threw light upon bare walls
with battered window shutters. There was an old table, rough-built but strong,
and three clumsy chairs.
     Above was a trapdoor, apparently nailed in place, for its corners were
streaked with ancient cobwebs. A brief inspection convinced Harry that there
would be no interruption from that source.
     As preliminary, Harry pulled a wad of bills from his pocket, planked the
roll on the table. He was glad that he was in Boston, not in some remote
foreign port where murder was a routine. The look that Barney gave to both
Harry and the money was proof that if the fellow couldn't earn the cash, he
would seek other ways to acquire it.


     "SOME dough for you, Barney," informed Harry briskly, "- if you give me
the dope I want. About a ship that went out of Boston a few nights ago, and may
have come back."
     "What kind of a vessel?" demanded Barney.
     "Tell me the ones you know about," replied Harry. "We'll get to that
afterward."
     "Got a pencil and paper?"
     Harry supplied them. Barney drew a rough plan of the water front,
indicated an obscure, abandoned dock.
     "There was a ship used that pier," he told Harry. "She's likely to dock
there again if she's needed. She ain't in the harbor right now, but when she
does come in, that's where she'll be."
     "What kind of a ship?"
     "A ghost ship," croaked Barney with a grin. "Leastwise, she came from a
fleet of ghost ships."
     "An old freighter?"
     Barney chuckled scornfully.
     "Dockin' there?" he questioned. "Not a chance, matey. This vessel was an
old rumrunner. Built for that trade."
     The description was the one that Harry wanted. It fitted the ship that The
Shadow had observed in the Rhode Island bay. Harry asked Barney what else he
knew about the craft.
     "I know her name!" Barney was triumphant. "She's the Escapade. What's
more, I can tell you where she come from. She was with that bunch of tubs that
was bought cheap by Inter-Coastal Lines."
     "Inter-Coastal bought the Escapade?"
     "Naw. You got it wrong. Whoever peddled them ships to Inter-Coastal, owned
the Escapade, too. When they'd sold what they could to Inter-Coastal, they sent
the rest to the ghost fleet. The Escapade went along, but she didn't stay
there."
     "Do you know any of her crew?"
     Barney scrawled some names on the piece of paper.
     "I ain't sayin' for certain," he declared. "But some of 'em may be aboard
her. That's all I can tell you."
     Harry pocketed the paper, pushed the money to Barney. The squinty man was
stuffing the bills in his pocket when Harry turned out the light. Harry heard
Barney move toward the door, then return. He whispered to Harry and shoved the
money into the younger man's hand.
     "There's a fellow out there" - Barney was hoarse - "lookin' in from the
side door. He knows me, because I seen him comin' off the Escapade. He warn't
with the crew, though. He was a passenger.
     "There's others with him, an' maybe they'll be askin' questions. I'll tell
'em I ain't talked to nobody; an' if they find my pocket empty, they'll believe
it. I'll trust you to get the cash to me tomorrow."
     In darkness, Barney left the room. Harry approached the door, held it ajar
while he listened. He heard Barney shuffling toward the side door, but the
clatter of dishes from the front drowned any conversation that Barney might
have had with the man who awaited him.
     The next minutes were tense. At last Harry placed his eye to the crack in
the door. He saw Barney seated at a table near the side door, with a glass and
bottle in front of him. Probably the men had gone; Barney had just stopped for
a drink. If so, he would soon be back.
     But Barney wasn't coming back.
     As Harry watched, the stooped shoulders swayed. Barney was sliding
sideways like a drunken man. He slipped from the chair; his cap came off as he
struck the floor, to be face upward. Glassy eyes were staring from the
pock-marked face, their squint gone forever.
     From Barney's chest projected the handle of a knife, an inch of glimmering
blade showing beneath.
     Barney Faskin had been stabbed to the heart by the passenger from the
Escapade. That signified swift murder, delivered personally by Ferdinand Relf.
     The killer was gone, but Barney had stated that there were others. Barney
was right; Harry saw them. Sweatered men who looked like hired mobbies had come
in through the front door. Harry gripped an automatic, and with good reason.
     There was one spot toward which the newcomers turned their shifty,
suspicious glances.
     That spot was the door behind which Harry stood!


     CHAPTER XI

     FOGGED FIGHT

     APPROACHING crooks were speaking to a waiter. Harry heard their growled
questions:
     "You seen a guy named Barney Faskin?"
     The waiter nodded, nudged a thumb toward Harry's door.
     "Yeah. He went in there."
     "Alone?"
     "Sure. I saw him go."
     "Anybody waitin' for him?"
     The waiter shook his head. He looked around for Barney, but didn't see
him. The dead man was sprawled out of sight.
     Harry relaxed. He hadn't been noticed; that helped matters. Aside from
Harry's present predicament, he knew that The Shadow wanted no one to suspect
that Barney had been tapped for information.
     Barney couldn't have talked to Relf; nor to any one, except to deny that
he had met a person in that back room. The knife thrust had come too soon for
Barney to have changed his story.
     Harry's temporary elation ended as he heard the toughs confer.
     "Let's case the place," suggested one. "Then we'll be sure."
     "Yeah," agreed another, "an' all we gotta do is wait to see who shows up.
We'll find out who Barney wanted to talk to."
     The pair were coming to the door, and they were backed by others. It meant
a fight against big odds. Harry would have to use The Shadow's tactics of
getting the start. But he held back for the moment, partly to be ready in
surprise, partly in the pitifully slender hope that something would stop that
crew before they reached the door. As long as there was any chance that Harry
could cover the fact that Barney had talked, The Shadow's agent intended to
stay with it.
     The last instant arrived when a thug laid his fist upon the door knob.
Harry drew back, leveling his gun, expecting the door to whip open.
     Instead, there was interruption, the sort which Harry had thought
impossible.
     A fierce laugh riveted the crooks in the outer room. It pealed, mocking,
from the side door of the grog shop. There, above Barney's corpse, stood a new
challenger who had somehow managed to penetrate a mesh of outside watchers.


     THAT invader was The Shadow.
     He had received Harry's message, had correctly guessed his agent's
destination. In his black cloak, with slouch hat lowered, The Shadow had come
here to make his entrance through the outside fog. Sight of Barney's body told
him enough. The Shadow knew that Harry was still in that inner room.
     The Shadow's challenge had a double purpose. It defied his enemies,
bringing them to battle. It made them think that The Shadow was the person
expected by Barney Faskin, thus covering the fact that the dead man had talked.
     Instead of being forced to imitate The Shadow's tactics, Harry was treated
to a demonstration of his chief's swift measures.
     The moment that the crooks turned in his direction, The Shadow opened
fire. He was weaving along the rear wall, pumping bullets from guns that spoke
alternately with split-second action. With each shot, he picked another
opponent, taking no time for accurate aim.
     His purpose was not to clip those foemen, but to scatter them, flaying
them toward the front of the eating place. Moreover, the quick fire stopped the
guns of crooks. Every one of those thugs saw a gun jab in his own direction. The
whole lot had a mutual thought: they wanted cover from which to battle back.
     There were spurts from enemy revolvers, but they were hasty, inaccurate.
Two of the half-dozen thugs were wounded, despite the fact that The Shadow
hurried his own fire. That was because The Shadow, even when indifferent
regarding targets, had an amazing aim.
     There was another purpose behind his method. The Shadow wanted chaos in
the place. There were rough-clad customers present, who might decide to aid the
thugs if given opportunity. The Shadow ended that chance. The patrons of Larry's
Corner saw his aim coming in their direction. They dived under tables, behind
doors. A few who did decide to fight, through lack of cover, took up the policy
of flinging chairs at the retreating thugs.
     They did that to put themselves in right with The Shadow, whose guns
covered the area where they were. Thus forcing patrons to become his allies.
The Shadow had a momentary respite that he needed.
     A surge was coming from the side door. The Shadow directed his fire there.
The first of the outside crooks went headlong; the others ducked for shelter.
But they were preparing for another charge the moment that the front crew
rallied.
     In that brief interval, The Shadow chose a new position. He wheeled to the
door of the rear room, hissed a low command for Harry to dive back out of sight.
Shouldering the door open, The Shadow delivered a weird, shivering laugh like a
sardonic challenge for all comers.
     It brought temporary hesitation among his foes, then came shouts of
triumph.
     They had boxed The Shadow, thanks to his own foolish policy. Once he was
beyond that door, they could finish him. His ammunition couldn't hold out
forever.
     The Shadow knew that well enough. While those yells mingled with the
echoes of his laugh, he treated the rallying crooks to a well-calculated
surprise.


     BEHIND the bar, The Shadow had spotted a wall switch, with the bald-headed
proprietor near it. The man was too dumbfounded to think of the lights; but it
was an easy matter to jog him. Leveling a .45 along the bar, The Shadow fired a
single shot.
     The proprietor was standing with arms akimbo. That bullet whistled through
the space between his ribs and the crook of his outstretched elbow. Why The
Shadow had aimed for him, the fellow couldn't guess; but he did what The Shadow
wanted.
     With a frantic scramble, the proprietor dived in the opposite direction
from the side where the bullet had scorched. The wild move brought him to the
wall switch. He yanked it. The whole place, with its mixture of fighters, was
blacked from view.
     With a quick word to Harry, The Shadow sprang out from the door, his agent
close at his heels. They met a surge coming from two directions. The Shadow
began a slugging battle with his guns. Close against the wall, Harry slashed in
similar fashion. Shots were blasting all the while, but they were toward the
room that The Shadow and Harry had left.
     Flashlights glimmered, showed the room empty. Thugs howled the news that
The Shadow had slipped them. Some had already learned it, but they were lying
on the floor, felled by the strokes that The Shadow and Harry had given them.
     A fierce laugh answered from the blackness. The Shadow opened fire on the
men with the flashlights. Some sprawled; others flung away the telltale
torches. The Shadow was putting things back to their former state, so that he
could begin a new slugfest.
     Harry had already caught his cue. His part was to get to the front of the
place and out through the door with other customers. The Shadow could fight his
own way out; meanwhile, Harry's departure would end the evidence of a meeting
with Barney.
     Harry started for the front. Something coming at him blocked the
blackness. It was a chair, flung for The Shadow. Harry took the missile with
his head and shoulders. It floored him, half senseless, at The Shadow's feet.
     How The Shadow knew of Harry's plight was something that was to bring
Harry much wonderment later. It was another evidence of The Shadow's amazing
perceptions. Even in total darkness, the cloaked fighter could sense what
happened about him.
     Half dropping to the floor, The Shadow caught Harry under the arms,
snatched him from beneath trampling feet. Shouldering a path through blundering
enemies, The Shadow carried his agent into the only refuge, the back room.
     There, The Shadow closed the door and bolted it. Coolly, he turned on the
light. Harry stared, half stupefied, when he realized where he was. He could
hear shouts from the howling mob that thought they still had The Shadow in
their midst.
     Noting the heavy shutters of the windows, The Shadow looked up to the
ceiling. He decided to attack the trapdoor. He dragged the big table beneath
it, put a chair upon the table. Mounting there, he began to jimmy the trapdoor
with an automatic.
     Muffled shouts took a sudden change. Crooks had again risked flashlights.
They had seen their pals sprawled about the floor; but The Shadow was gone.
     Someone spied the barred door.


     THEIR number swelled, the crooks attacked the wooden door. It quivered
under their pounds. Word went outside; others smashed at the shuttered windows.
     The Shadow had the trap half jimmied. No reason remained for quiet. He
splintered away one edge with a well-placed gunshot. Shoving the trapdoor
upward, he left the space open.
     Harry was on his feet, clutching the table edge. The Shadow hauled Harry
up beside him and hoisted him to the chair. Harry gripped the edges of the
trap; The Shadow shoved him through.
     The door splintered under the rap of a revolver handle. A thug's face
shoved through. Before the fellow could reverse his gun, The Shadow flung the
chair at him. While the crook ducked away, The Shadow slashed the hanging light
with a gun muzzle. The little room went dark.
     A long reach upward, and The Shadow was through the trap just as the
shutters cracked open. Revolvers were barking from door and windows, but
bullets found only the blank walls. On the floor above, The Shadow was hunting
an exit, hurrying Harry with him.
     Finding a trapdoor to a roof, The Shadow took his agent there. The damp
air had a reviving touch; Harry would soon be able to travel unaided. Up a
short climb to another roof, The Shadow found a sheltered spot beside a
chimney. He told Harry to lay low, to leave after the battle had ended.
     Reversing his route, The Shadow reached a roof edge just as the first of
his pursuers appeared. They heard his taunting laugh, saw The Shadow outlined
against the dull glow of the city's lights. They didn't realize that The Shadow
had chosen that open spot in order to draw them on.
     His gunfire was first. Crooks dropped back. When they looked again, The
Shadow was gone over the roof edge. Hurrying there, they found that he had
worked his way to the sidewalk between the walls of two buildings.
     While gunners fired uselessly into the fog, others hurried the word below.
Soon the search for The Shadow was spreading through alleyways. Roofs were
forgotten. Harry was safe.
     The search for The Shadow was not without result; but it worked against
the hoodlums. Three of them came upon The Shadow near a street lamp. He whipped
into the darkness, fired his reloaded guns from the blanketing fog.
     Two of those thugs flattened. The third scurried away, to tell that he had
met The Shadow.
     There were no other encounters. Rumors of battle had reached the wharves.
Big-throated steamship whistles were sounding the alarm. The shrill notes of
police whistles answered them. The Shadow was gone; crooks were in flight.
     One pair of fleeing thugs glimpsed The Shadow a few blocks away. He was
stepping into a taxi; his form seemed to melt inside the cab. The crooks had a
car, and they followed The Shadow's trail. They lost the cab, but they knew its
number. They chanced upon it later, stopping at the side entrance of a hotel.
     Guns ready, those emboldened thugs pulled up in back of the taxi. Each
sprang for a window, shoving their guns inward. Then they halted, to stare at
their own ugly faces.
     The cab was empty. The thugs took to the night. As they fled, they
imagined a sound that was actually a recollection of mirth that they had heard
before.
     The thick air of the incoming fog seemed to shudder with the ghostly
echoes of The Shadow's laugh.


     CHAPTER XII

     THE SHADOW'S APPOINTMENT

     TWO successive days brought little change. The water-front brawl had cut
less figure than the attempt on Langion's life. Nothing had developed
concerning Ferdinand Relf. Apparently Vic Marquette was expecting the financial
wizard to finally make known his presence in Boston. There was no rush to locate
him.
     Nick Langion and his armored limousine were no longer a common sight. The
racketeer was keeping to his stronghold over the deserted Caravan Club. Nick
wasn't taking chances, so he said, unless the Boston police were willing to
fence off the city's sidewalks with steel barriers.
     Nor was Nick fully trusting his own followers. He had two new servants.
Vic Marquette saw them when he called at Nick's headquarters. They were the men
supplied by Henry Tilmot. Nick explained how he had acquired them.
     That was when Marquette first learned that Henry Tilmot and James Danner
had both installed steel bulwarks in their residences. Tilmot was safe in his
Beacon Street home; Danner had returned to his Cambridge apartment.
     Marquette gave that situation some thought; finally, Vic dismissed it. He
decided that Tilmot and Danner were merely jittery. That attack on Langion had
increased their alarm. But Marquette was not ready to concede that Relf was in
back of the attempted assassination. He would not admit that until he learned
more about the many enemies who had grudges against Nick Langion.
     The Shadow, meanwhile, had called on Tilmot; not as himself, but in the
guise of Cranston. The banker had been confined to his room with a severe cold,
and could not see the visitor. The room was obviously the newly armored study,
even though The Shadow did not view it. His visit, however, paved the way to a
future call.
     With Danner, The Shadow had better luck. He called the shipping man by
telephone, arranged to interview him regarding a purchase of some Inter-Coastal
stock. The appointment was scheduled for this evening.
     The visit to Danner's promised results. Through it, The Shadow might learn
something regarding the Escapade. Danner had probably seen ships other than
those he had purchased. By tracing back through former owners, The Shadow might
gain stray facts.
     The crew members named in Barney's list had so far been impossible to
find. They were with the Escapade, wherever that ship had gone - which left The
Shadow with a solitary clue; namely, the dock marked on Barney's crude chart.


     ODDLY, there was a clue in The Shadow's own hotel, where he was stopping
as Cranston. There, shortly after six o'clock, a bellboy carried some bags out
to the street, then headed for the adjoining drugstore.
     He was buying some items for a hotel guest, so he said, and while the
druggist was making up a prescription the boy went into a telephone booth. As
he dialed a number, he pulled a folded slip of paper from his pocket. When a
voice answered, the bellboy read a list of a dozen names.
     Among those names was that of Lamont Cranston, but the fellow gave it no
more emphasis than the others. Then:
     "Yeah," said the bellboy. "That's all there are... There were some others,
but they checked out... This bunch? Sure, I just went over the list. Most of
them are around the hotel... Maybe the others will be coming in soon..."
     That telephone call connected with two nights ago, when a pair of thugs
had spotted The Shadow's cab near the hotel. That news had been passed. Someone
higher up had followed the hunch that The Shadow might be living at the hotel.
     The Shadow had been waiting for the master crook to again show his hand.
That event was due. But it would not be another thrust at Langion, nor drives
at the stronghold of Tilmot and Danner. Those might come later.
     For the present, a big brain was thinking of The Shadow.
     Had Vic Marquette known that, he might have formed a new opinion of the
genius for which Ferdinand Relf was famed.


     AT seven o'clock, Lamont Cranston appeared in the hotel lobby. He was just
another of the dozen guests on the bellboy's list; a few of them were in the
lobby, others in the dining room. The Shadow himself was going in to dinner,
when he paused at the cigar stand.
     He was lighting a thin cigar when his keen eyes fixed upon a man who had
entered the lobby. Not a flicker of recognition came to Cranston's calm face.
His eyes did not betray their momentary flash. But The Shadow knew the newcomer
well even though he had met him upon but one occasion.
     The arrival was Shervel.
     Relf's secretary was playing a clever part. He was doing his best to
render himself inconspicuous. He had his usual furtive style, and it was
specially appropriate on this occasion.
     To all appearances Shervel had come from hiding, thinking himself no
longer hunted. He had apparently chosen this hotel to eat his first square meal
in days.
     Shervel went into the dining room. So did Cranston, but he chose a table
remote from Shervel's corner. While he ordered dinner, The Shadow secretly
penciled a note. When the head waiter came to take the menu, The Shadow handed
him the slip of paper.
     He wanted the head waiter to call Mr. Vincent at another hotel, to tell
him that Mr. Cranston could not join him that evening. That signified that
Harry was to go alone to Danner's, where The Shadow had intended to take him.
     Cranston left the dining room before Shervel. He picked up a package at
the check room, started for the elevators, then changed his mind. Going out to
the street, he hailed a taxi and told the driver to take him to a downtown
theater.
     That was for the benefit of any spies who might be covering up for
Shervel. It was unnecessary, for the crooked bellhop had already gone off duty
and was not coming back to his job.
     When the cab paused at a traffic light, its occupant quietly opened the
door and alighted. Another cabby was promptly favored with a passenger who told
him to drive to the same hotel that Cranston had left. Near there, he received
an order to join a parked line and wait.
     Shervel came from the hotel, darted quick looks along the street. He
showed the same haste that he had displayed outside South Station. Boarding a
cab, he rolled away. The Shadow's cab followed. Soon its driver was receiving
instructions that amazed him.


     THE SHADOW used Cranston's tone in ordering the driver to pass Shervel's
cab. But The Shadow was no longer Cranston. He was cloaked in black garb that
he had taken from the package. His cab looked empty when it went by Shervel's.
     Ordering a slower speed, The Shadow kept lookout through the rear window.
He saw when Shervel's cab turned. He gave the driver new directions. Twisting
through another street, the cab again came in back of the one that it had
originally followed. The Shadow's cabby began to catch the idea.
     He'd carried a local detective, once, who had ordered him to follow a cab
ahead; but the dick hadn't been smart enough to trail a cab by going ahead of
it.
     The Shadow repeated the same tactics later. If Shervel thought himself
trailed at first, he had forgotten the idea when he reached his destination, a
dingy, brick-fronted house in the North End.
     The place looked unoccupied, but Shervel entered it. The Shadow's cab had
stopped back at another corner; its driver pulled away, fondling a five-dollar
bill. He hadn't even looked to see his passenger alight. But he would not have
seen him had he tried.
     The Shadow entered the old house by a ground-floor window. Picking his way
through empty rooms, he reached a stairway to the second floor. He heard a stir
from a front room. Peering from the darkened hall, The Shadow could see
Shervel's outline against a front window. The fellow was staring toward the
street, to see if any one had followed him.
     Soon, Shervel crept along the hall. The Shadow drew back to let him pass.
Darting quickly into a rear room, Shervel closed the door behind him. The
Shadow could hear its bolt slide shut. Approaching, The Shadow listened. No
sounds came from within for several minutes.
     Then, stealthily, the bolt was drawn back.
     The Shadow regretted later that he did not make a sudden entry at that
moment. It seemed that Shervel must have been listening at the door; that he
had satisfied himself that all was well. Therefore, The Shadow's policy was to
let the fellow's nerves steady further before stepping in to confront him.
     The safer Shervel felt, the greater the surprise would be. There was one
flaw to that theory. Shervel's nerves were no longer a matter of moment, as The
Shadow was soon to learn.
     Carefully, The Shadow turned the doorknob. He had allowed a full two
minutes since the bolt had been pulled. He noted a jerk to the knob, the sort
that might come if it were fixed with an alarm. But The Shadow had the door
open a few seconds later, and neither saw nor heard anything to indicate that
his entry had been detected.


     THE room was pitch-black, without any fringe of light from window shades.
That betokened tight shutters; natural enough, since this was Shervel's
hideout. Moving through the room, The Shadow listened for any sounds of
Shervel's presence, but heard none.
     Sensing an open doorway at the left, The Shadow crept toward it, for it
indicated an adjoining room where Shervel might be. The room was a small one;
its air seemed cramped. It was as black as the other, and it lacked all sound.
Stooped, The Shadow felt for furniture. His fingers touched cloth.
     An instant's probe told The Shadow that the object was a man's shoulder.
He flicked a tiny flashlight. The beam fell full upon a face. It was a drab
visage with bulging eyes, mouth open in a fishlike gape.
     The dead man was Shervel!
     It was murder, of the sort that had missed The Shadow, but had later
disposed of Barney Faskin. The glide of The Shadow's flashlight revealed the
cause that had produced this rapid, silent death.
     A knife was driven hilt-deep in Shervel's puny chest.
     There, in the darkness, The Shadow recognized the reason for Shervel's
death. The man - like others associated with Relf - had been duped.
     Tonight Shervel had been sent as a decoy to bring The Shadow here. The
Shadow's actual disguise had not been penetrated, but a good guess had been
made as to his hotel. Shervel had accepted the job, probably because he
believed The Shadow dead and considered that he was to lure an impostor who
could not possibly be as dangerous as The Shadow.
     In return for his service, Shervel had been slain by a chief who no longer
considered him useful. The murderer had lurked here, awaiting Shervel's return.
He - not Shervel - had slid back the bolt of the door.
     The Shadow rapidly connected events.
     Shervel had supposed, correctly, that he was leading The Shadow into a
trap. But he had been in error, thinking that the snare lay somewhere on the
way to this house.
     Shervel's murderer, having finished the secretary, had deliberately drawn
the bolt so that The Shadow could enter.
     The doorknob had given a signal, but it had been flashed elsewhere to a
spot where other men were ready.
     These facts gave one answer. This hide-out was the trap that Shervel had
been told about. He had never suspected that it would be fitted here during his
absence.
     In canceling his appointment with Danner, to make one with Shervel, The
Shadow had stepped into a mesh. If all went as a master brain had planned it,
The Shadow's appointment would be kept with death!


     CHAPTER XIII

     THE WAY OUT

     THE SHADOW wasted none of the few moments that remained. He knew that
disaster threatened; that it would come through massed attack. This place had
been trapped during Shervel's absence; but preparations could not have been
elaborate, otherwise Shervel would have suspected them himself.
     There was one avenue of entry - the door from the hallway, that The Shadow
had left open. Opponents could not be close, for The Shadow would have heard
them. His course was to be away from here before invaders boxed him.
     The Shadow sprang through the larger room, straight for that all-important
door. He was halfway to it when he halted, no longer obscured by darkness.
     With a sudden flash, the room glowed with light. Someone had pressed a
downstairs switch.
     Caught in the very center of the room, The Shadow was a target for enemies
in the long hallway. They had arrived there at the far end of it. The moment
that the lights appeared, their creep from the front stairs became a charge.
     Revolvers spat, aimed for the wheeling figure of The Shadow. His answer
was a gibing laugh delivered as he whisked from the doorway. Then, close at the
front wall, The Shadow poked a gun muzzle through the door crack. His .45 began
its answer.
     While men were shooting into the blankness of the lighted room, The Shadow
ricocheted shots along the hallway. He did not have to fire pointblank. Those
glancing bullets were quite effective. Gunners were clinging close to the
walls, to hide themselves if The Shadow suddenly reappeared. Their own tactics
put them where The Shadow wanted them.
     Yells changed to howls. Crooks were sprawling in retreat. Remnants of the
band that had battled The Shadow at Larry's Corner, these fellows knew the
payment that the cloaked fighter could give. They broke, diving for the
stairway. Swinging to the doorway The Shadow jabbed one shot from each gun, as
he prepared to give pursuit.
     The Shadow never made his intended drive along that hall.


     THOSE broken shock troops were not taking to the stairs, although they had
started in that direction. They were flocking to the front room, though it was
more distant. The stairs had been blocked against them. If The Shadow drove
along the hall, he would be flanked, not by a mere crew of hoodlums, but by
something more formidable.
     Fleeing men would have fought their way through their own pals, had they
been able. The fact that they couldn't use the stairs was proof that it was
barricaded against The Shadow also.
     Hardly had The Shadow halted his intended lunge, when the menace showed
itself.
     A sloping sheet of steel wheeled from the corner of the stairs, into the
center of the hall. It was a bulky, bulletproof shield that had required al
least four men to get it up the stairs. From its center poked the muzzle of a
machine gun. That muzzle began to spatter bullets, but it was angled toward the
wall. The Shadow dived back into the room, slamming the door before the gun
aimed toward him.
     A half second later, the machine gun was blasting directly toward the room.
     Its streaming bullets drilled the wooden door, ripped it into shreds. The
Shadow was away, in a far corner of the room, but the door was falling apart
before his eyes. The machine gun seemed to choke in spasms, which meant that
the crooks weren't wasting bullets until they again saw The Shadow.
     Once that shield reached the doorway, The Shadow could be trapped. He
could take to the cover of the little room where Shervel's body lay, but that
wouldn't help. Once his foes wedged the steel shield through the doorway, they
could shove it farther. The little room was too cramped to offer any cover.
     Instinctively The Shadow had foreseen that fact the moment that the
rolling shield had appeared. Instead of leaping toward the little room, he had
gone in the opposite direction. He was beside a tight-locked door in the
opposite wall of the big room.
     To ordinary appearances, that door was simply a closet, but The Shadow
held a different opinion regarding it.
     Shervel's murderer had left this place in a very few seconds, a fact that
indicated another outlet. There was only one possible exit - that door in the
wall. If The Shadow could make his own departure in a short-time space, he
would be clear of the machine gun's fire.
     The door was locked; there was no time to work on it with skeleton keys.
Pressing a gun muzzle to the lock, The Shadow blasted it to chunks. He wrested
the door open. It showed the exit that The Shadow expected. A steep stairway
led below.
     This was the second way out of Shervel's hide-out; but Shervel had never
used it. Instead, it had been used against him. The stairs had a little landing
at the top, but The Shadow did not step there immediately. Instead, he jabbed a
gun down the angle of the steps and cut loose with a quick spray of shots. If
any guards were posted at the bottom, that would drive them back.
     A thump from the hallway door. The steel shield had arrived. Its crew
started to thrust it edgewise, to cover the little room. One shouted as he
sighted The Shadow at the opposite wall. The cry was timely.


     CHANGING tactics, The Shadow was starting a lunge toward the machine gun,
hoping to flank in and settle its crew. The bold move would have been
successful had no one spied his charge. The man who shouted came leaping
through the doorway, shoving a revolver in The Shadow's face while the others
yanked the shield back to the hall.
     The Shadow was forced to deal first with the husky who had sprung to block
him. That required a reverse twist. The delay brought security to the crew at
the machine gun.
     With his backward wheel, The Shadow faded. The big thug fired, but his
bullet scorched above The Shadow's head. Half to the floor, The Shadow jabbed
an upward shot. It took the lunging crook like a knife thrust; staggered him.
Then, swaying from the bullet's impact, the gorilla floundered onward,
blundering straight toward The Shadow.
     There was no danger from that overbold foeman. The fellow's gun hand had
dropped. He was keeping his balance only by convulsive jerks that he gave to
his sagging knees. But the machine gun had again become a menace. Its handlers
had hauled the shield back into the hall, were ready to turn the gun muzzle
toward The Shadow.
     It was time to use the stairway exit. The Shadow stepped back to the
little landing, twisting to avoid the sprawl of the mortally hurt hoodlum who
was making a final, forward topple.
     The instant that The Shadow's weight struck that landing, its floor ripped
like tissue.
     The surface was nothing but thin strips of painted wood, as flimsy as
laths. It had been prepared to bring calamity to pursuers in case Shervel had
to use the emergency exit in a hurry. The proper method of flight was to avoid
the landing entirely, to step across it to the solid stairs.
     Not only had The Shadow missed that system, his momentary twist was in the
wrong direction. As the landing splintered downward, he had no chance to grab
for the steps beside him. There was only one object that he could clutch; that
was the form of the dropping hoodlum, the one he had tried to avoid a moment
before.
     The Shadow caught the toppling fighter. With a last, convulsive effort,
the big gorilla locked his own arms around The Shadow's neck. The grapple came
too late. The dying man was over the edge of the landing.
     They were plunging into darkness, The Shadow and his tight-locked burden.
In the fall, quick flashes were coming to The Shadow's brain. He was wrestling
in mid-air, desperately trying to break his fall by the time they hit the
ground floor.
     There was no such floor; the space beneath the trapped landing had been
cut away. It meant twenty-odd feet to the cement base of the cellar, a
crippling drop for anyone who took the fall without a buffer.
     For The Shadow, those extra feet were helpful. In that space a change
occurred, not so much through his own efforts, but because of gravity's law.
     Each locked with another figure, The Shadow and his helpless adversary had
become a single falling body. The heavier portion of that plunging mass was
represented by the blocky thug. Like a weighted plummet, they did a turn in the
air.


     THE crash came, with thug beneath. What little life the fellow still
retained, was knocked from him by the impact on the cement. Though the top man,
The Shadow felt the heavy shock. It was a jolt that shivered through his frame,
brought a blinding spurt of imaginary light as his back buckled. Sending his
head on a sideways thump against a wall.
     Dazed, The Shadow could feel claws that dug into his flesh - the dead
man's fingers, with a titanic clutch. Wresting away, The Shadow felt his cloak
rip from his shoulders, hooked by those tightened hands. His hat was gone; but
that meant nothing.
     The Shadow's one instinct was to leave this spot. He felt boards in the
darkness; clutching a crack between them, he dragged himself toward the rough
wall that his head had hit. The fringe of his cloak was beneath the dead thug's
hip. The ripped garment peeled clear as The Shadow crawled away.
     From above, the beam of a flashlight carved down into the opened pit.
Leering observers saw a flattened body, the folds of the back cloak raised
across its face. Close by lay The Shadow's slouch hat. The figure did not move;
but the killers above still wanted satisfaction.
     Shoving revolvers downward, they emptied them into the black-shrouded
figure that lay on the cellar floor.
     The Shadow heard that gunfire as it poured into the dead body of the
cloak-draped gorilla. The man did not know that the stiffened hoodlum was
receiving bullets from his own pals, under the mistaken impression that the
dead man was The Shadow.
     Those shots, to The Shadow, were like echoes of the past - a memory of
many battles contorted into a fantastic dream. The Shadow was groping along the
wooden wall of the bin that formed the bottom of the pit. Fortunately, his
instinctive crawl had put him out of sight from the killers above.
     Harsh voices were carried to The Shadow's ears. They became excited, then
faded. Crooks had heard police whistles outside. They were making a hurried
scramble, lugging their machine gun with them. The light from above the pit was
gone. That, again, was fortunate.
     In his dazed crawl, The Shadow was taking the wrong direction. He came
against the dead body, felt his cloak, grasped it, wonderingly. It brought back
other recollections. The Shadow felt about for his hat; found it.
     Tugging the cloak free, he clutched it with the hat, began a circling
crawl. He shouldered against boxes that blocked the outlet of the bin. They
tumbled away. In a pocket, The Shadow found a flashlight. Using it, he saw a
door. Finding his feet, he stumbled there, staring half blankly as the
flashlight wavered in his hand.
     Outside, fresh air had a reviving effect. Feeling along brick walls, The
Shadow worked his way toward the lights of a street. He could hear the roar of
motors, the wails of sirens accompanied by a fade of gunfire. The last of The
Shadow's recent foemen were away, with police making a vain pursuit.
     A taxi driver, peering from his halted cab, heard the thump of the rear
door. He turned about anxiously, fearing that some crook had boarded his cab.
Instead, he saw a well-dressed man sprawled in the rear seat, his arms crossed,
clutching something that looked like a hat and coat.
     The passenger muttered the name of a hotel, then changed it to another.
The correction pleased the driver, for it meant a longer haul and hence a
larger fare. He thought that his passenger was drunk, so he decided to start
before the man in the back seat again changed his mind.
     The cab moved away. As it jounced, The Shadow rolled. His lips -
Cranston's lips - were stuttering, incoherently at first, but they formed words
gradually.
     At that rate of recuperation, The Shadow would be himself again when his
twenty-minute journey ended.


     CHAPTER XIV

     STEEL-WALLED DEATH


     "MR. DANNER will see you, sir."
     The glib, white-jacketed Filipino servant spoke the announcement. Harry
Vincent arose from beside the window, where he had been staring at the low,
broad sky line that represented the lighted center of Boston.
     Between, Harry had noted the blackish stretches of the Charles River,
crossed by strips of light that were the bridges between Cambridge and Boston.
     Yet the water, with its sullenness, had most impressed him. Somehow that
dark expanse was like a sodden monster. It betokened that hidden, unseen
dangers could lurk anywhere, even within the boundaries of a great metropolis.
     The Filipino led Harry along a hallway to the rear of Danner's apartment.
A second servant met them at a doorway, ushered Harry into a suite of rooms.
The moment that he was across the threshold, Harry heard something slither
heavily behind him. He turned to see a steel door clamp shut.
     Looking about, Harry saw that two tiny rooms were lined with steel. The
outer room, wherein he stood, was furnished as a parlor. Through a wide
connecting doorway, Harry saw an office. Not a window showed in either room.
There were steel plates everywhere, with overlapping edges held together by
rivets.
     James Danner bulked forward to greet the visitor. The shipping man showed
a smile on his wide jawed face. As he shook hands, he rumbled briskly:
     "Glad to meet you, Mr. Vincent. Sorry Mr. Cranston could not come with
you," Then, turning to gesture toward a sharp-faced man in the corner: "Meet
Detective Wadkin, of the Cambridge police."
     Wadkin nodded a greeting without disturbing the derby hat that he wore
tilted over one eye. The detective was smoking a fat cigar, and had a reserve
supply in a box that lay on the table beside him. Danner had evidently insisted
that Wadkin make himself at home.
     "Perhaps these arrangements surprise you," said Danner, pointing to the
steel walls. "You will understand their purpose. Mr. Vincent, when I mention
that I have enemies - or, I should say, one enemy - who may threaten my life."
     Danner meant Relf, although he did not mention the financial genius by
name.
     Harry nodded his approval of the steel walls. Danner took pride in
declaring their merits.
     "Every portion of the room is bulletproof," he said. "The only space left
open is the fireplace, but it has a steel grille above it. Of course, it is
inconvenient to have no windows."
     "And no fire exit," put in Wadkin, his tone drawly.
     "The fire exit was in a corner of the little room," said Danner, to Harry.
"It leads to the tower, and Detective Wadkin insists that it was illegal to
block it. But he is wrong. The fire laws compel the apartment house owner to
install a fire exit, but a tenant is not required to keep it open."


     WADKIN gave a shrug, indicating that he was willing to forgo further
argument. Danner turned to Harry and apologetically explained the reason for
the detective's presence.
     "I know Mr. Cranston by reputation," stated Danner, "and he said that you
are his friend. Still, with all these precautions of steel walls, it would be
poor policy for me to admit visitors without leaving an inside guard.
     "The Cambridge police understood the situation, and provided Wadkin. There
is no reason why he should not be present during our conference. Mr. Cranston is
interested simply in the purchase of some Inter-Coastal stock."
     Harry acknowledged that fact. Danner produced a portfolio that contained
photographs of the ships that formed the Inter-Coastal Line. They were not new
vessels, but Barney's term of "tubs" could scarcely apply to them.
     The merit of Inter-Coastal, as Dander explained it, was that the ships had
been purchased at a remarkably low price; therefore, the line was sure to pay
big dividends.
     "Of course," admitted Danner, "there was a catch to the deal, although I
did not know it at the time. Ferdinand Relf was in back of the sale. He wanted
Inter-Coastal to start well, so that he could gobble it later, and then wreck
the enterprise.
     "That manipulation was stifled just in time. Inter-Coastal is at last on a
solid basis. Sale of stock is slow because of the scandal, but that is an even
greater inducement to him. Those who come in early, will profit most."
     To prove his point, Danner turned toward the little office, remarking that
he would bring audited copies of the company's books. That promised to lead the
conversation away from the course that Harry wanted. He stopped Danner with the
question:
     "Are these all the ships that were bought by Inter-Coastal?"
     Danner returned, nodding as he came. He asked why Harry had put the
question.
     "I merely wondered," he remarked, "why you did not purchase more vessels
from the ghost fleet."
     "These did not come from there!" exclaimed Danner. "You are misinformed,
Mr. Vincent. These - and other vessels - were on sale; the ones that I rejected
went to the ghost fleet."
     Harry nodded as though he began to understand.
     "The others would not do," declared Danner. "I am long experienced in the
shipping business, Mr. Vincent."
     "You inspected the other ships?" asked Harry.
     "Most of them," returned Danner. "Why does that interest you?"
     "I heard some mention of a ship called the Escapade. One that I understood
was rejected."
     "What was she? A tanker?"
     "No. A rumrunner."
     Danner looked horrified.
     "Never!" he exclaimed. "There was not such a vessel in the lot. Probably
the Escapade was sold before I was asked to buy. But tell me" - Danner's eyes
had narrowed - "why does the Escapade interest you?"
     "I merely wondered who owned her."
     Danner stroked his chin, resting his elbow in his other hand. His eyes
were firm, his tone bitter as he stated:
     "I am convinced that all those ships were owned by Relf, because I bought
them from a salvage company that later proved to be a sham. That was probably
why the Escapade was gone. I would have recognized some crooked work had such a
ship been with the others. This news interests me, Mr. Vincent. I shall add it
to the notations that I am sending to Washington. Anything that may expose
Ferdinand Relf, is valuable."
     Considering the subject settled, Danner turned about and went into the
office. Harry could see him at the desk, opening a drawer to bring out the
books that he had mentioned. Across the parlor, Wadkin was leaning back,
puffing smoke rings. The two Filipinos were standing at the side walls, with
arms behind them and eyes straight ahead.


     HARRY'S own gaze had wandered for the moment, when he heard Danner give a
frantic shout.
     First to look into the office, Harry caught a glimpse of Danner springing
away from the desk toward a rear corner of the room. The shipping man was out
of sight when Wadkin sprang to his feet. Nor did the Filipinos see him as they
bounded from their posts.
     The thing they viewed was the slow slide of a steel door that rumbled from
the wall between parlor and office. With increasing glide, that barrier was
closing the doorway between the two halves of Danner's armored suite!
     Harry was already electrified to action. Realizing that Danner was in
danger, he had grabbed a weapon that chanced to be close at hand. The object
that Harry seized was a heavy poker, resting beside the fire place.
     Harry's instinctive quickness was remarkable when he came to consider it
afterward. As the steel door started shut, he was already springing toward the
office, although Wadkin was stopped, flat-footed, and the Filipinos were
stupidly slow in motion.
     Harry was too late, though, to pass the sliding door. There was less than
a foot of space remaining when he reached it. Again guided by sheer instinct,
Harry used the last fraction of a second to supply the only possible move.
     He shoved the poker between the edge of the heavy door and the steel
channel which waited to receive it.
     The door clanged heavily, wrenching the poker from Harry's hand, twisting
the iron into an odd-shaped curve. There was a crack, though, between the door
and the frame. The poker had stopped the door from locking shut.
     Detective Wadkin grabbed a pair of tongs, shouted for a Filipino to bring
the ash shovel. Harry pried with the bent poker, while they used the other
implements. The big door wouldn't budge, until the second Filipino aided with
another improvised tool. He pulled a floor lamp apart, brought its metal
standard for a lever.
     Though minutes had been lost, they at last made progress with the door. It
inched open under the leverage. Harry and Wadkin shoved their shoulders into the
space. A Filipino plugged the gap with the base of the floor lamp. The four went
through.
     During that hard work, Harry had been conscious of a squidgy sound that
had come from the little office. He would never have classed it as a muffled
gunshot, had he not viewed the result. There had been no outcry from Danner
during the activity at the door. His silence was explained.
     James Danner was back at the desk, half sprawled from the chair. His body
lay askew across the desk itself. His face was turned upward, dead. His shirt
front was stained with blood.
     Beneath Danner's right hand, its fingers star-spread on the desk, lay the
weapon that had caused his death - a .32 caliber revolver. All about was the
glimmer from steel walls, like myriad eyes that had witnessed doom.
     Except for James Danner, the steel-lined room had no occupant. If this
death proved murder, it must seemingly leave been accomplished by a ghostly
hand.


     CHAPTER XV

     DEATH'S PROMISE

     THEY stood, a strained group, within that hushed room where death had come
despite the most elaborate precautions. Detective Wadkin was stooping above
Danner's body, while Harry Vincent stood in a corner of the room. The
Filipinos, awed, were just inside the doorway.
     Then, into that place of death, came a sound that was almost a ghostly
manifestation. It was a muffled tap-tap-tap, its exact source uncertain.
     "What was that?"
     Wadkin had sprung about. He was staring toward the wall near Harry. Again
the taps sounded; they seemed nearer to the corner of the room. Wadkin moved
there, listened. He heard nothing, although Harry sensed faint beats from
somewhere.
     Wadkin pounded the steel wall with his fist. He was rewarded by its solid
clang. Patrolling the room, he picked up the twisted poker and hammered
elsewhere, always with the same result. He kicked up the edge of the carpet and
thumped the floor. It was steel-plated; so was the ceiling.
     Coming back to the desk, the detective swept a hand toward Danner's body,
with the comment:
     "Suicide."
     The case looked it, but Harry didn't agree.
     Why had Danner first given a shout of alarm?
     What had he seen that made him spring from the desk?
     How had Danner managed to press the switch that controlled the steel door,
when it was on an opposite wall from the direction toward which he had gone?
     Those were questions that perplexed Harry Vincent, but they were no more
puzzling than the problem of how a murderer could have come and gone within
this steel-clad chamber.
     Detective Wadkin had formed a suicide theory by totally ignoring the
questions that bothered Harry.
     Wadkin had heard Danner's cry, but considered it unimportant. He had not
seen Danner's scared face when the victim sprang from the desk. In fact, Wadkin
had not seen Danner at all; therefore, he wasn't puzzled over the matter of the
wall switch.
     All that Wadkin observed was Danner's body at the desk, shot through the
heart, with a gun close at hand. In a room as tight as this one, that meant
suicide.
     Danner had been troubled, nervous about business matters. Maybe a bit off
mentally, thinking a man named Relf was after him. That was the way Wadkin
analyzed it, and his idea was supported by a search of the desk drawers.


     THEY were empty, yet the Filipinos testified that Danner had kept
thousands of dollars here. There were books to prove it, there on Danner's
desk. Thumbing through one, Wadkin found transactions that totaled half a
million dollars.
     "He'd lost his money," said Wadkin to Harry. "Poor guy, putting up a big
front after he'd been cleaned out. Look at all these sales he'd marked up, the
cash and stocks he was supposed to have here. All on paper, but none of it
real."
     That analysis simply served to increase Harry's certainty that murder was
the cause of Danner's death.
     Harry could picture Danner's archenemy, Relf, lurking in this very room.
He visualized Danner threatened by a revolver. Relf could have pulled the
switch when Danner dived away.
     After that, there had been a time element in which the steel door had
screened events in this office. That time had been at least five minutes, maybe
more. The revolver shot could have come early, as Harry remembered it.
     That gave the picture of the intruder, plopping Danner's body in the
chair, putting the wiped gun in the dead man's nerveless fingers - which had
promptly dropped it. Next, a quick clean-out of Danner's stocks and cash, funds
that he had kept here as the safest place, considering that the room itself was
steel.
     Another fact occurred to Harry.
     If that steel door had shut completely, it would have taken a long while
to open it. Harry's thrust of the poker had partly spoiled a perfect set-up for
a murder.
     It all depended, though, on the assumption that a killer had found a way
in and out. There, Harry's well-formed theory flopped. The room was definitely
solid. Those curious taps, coming afterward from a corner near the fire tower,
were certainly mysterious, but they helped very little.
     Harry began to wonder. His mind jumped to the fantastic possibility of
some remote cause. Perhaps Danner had heard the mysterious taps; had taken them
as a threat from Relf. Danner might have found his funds were gone. Such coupled
events could have maddened him into a suicide that could almost be classed as
murder.
     Harry's thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a jangle of the telephone on
Danner's desk. Wadkin took charge of the call, after glaring suspiciously at the
telephone.
     "Hello..." Wadkin hesitated. Then: "Who wants to speak to him... Mr.
Cranston?... All right. Vincent is here..."
     Wadkin handed the telephone to Harry with the admonition that he make sure
that it was Cranston. After a few words, Harry nodded. Since Wadkin offered no
objection. Harry spoke the news of Danner's death.


     THERE was something odd about Cranston's voice, even though Harry
recognized it. Some of the questions that he put were a trifle disjointed; this
forced Harry to repeat things that he had said. In turn, Wadkin became annoyed.
     "Say!" snapped the dick. "You ain't talking to the D. A.; who does this
guy Cranston think he is? Let me talk to him."
     Snatching the telephone from Harry, Wadkin began to shout into the
mouthpiece. Soon, he was impressed by the calm tone of Cranston. Harry grinned
when Wadkin politely furnished the very details that Harry had been unable to
supply because of interruption.
     There was one point, though, that Wadkin did not mention - the matter of
the raps.
     The facts that The Shadow received made the case sound definitely like
suicide, although it could be the sort that Harry had so fantastically imagined
- practically a self-murder on Danner's part, induced by some outside influence.
     Impatiently, Harry waited to take the telephone from Wadkin. He saw the
dick stare open-mouthed, nodding at something that Cranston said. A few seconds
later Wadkin abruptly clanked the receiver on its hook and stood gaping at the
wall.
     Harry pulled the telephone from the man's grasp, tried to resume the
connection. It was too late. Cranston was cut off. Harry started to call the
hotel where Cranston had been registered. Wadkin interrupted savagely:
     "What are you trying to do?"
     "Call Cranston again," replied Harry, "at his hotel. You didn't tell him
all of it."
     "He ain't at his hotel. He's calling from a pay station. I heard the coin
clink. Anyway" - Wadkin took back the telephone - "I got a call of my own to
make."
     He began to dial the number. During that process, he told Harry more.
     "This guy Cranston," commented Wadkin, "has got a bean. He says no matter
what happened to Danner, it looks bad. Yeah, bad enough so that we ought to
warn others like him.
     "There's a bird in the same boat, a fellow that's got a joint fixed up
like this one because he's scared of Relf, the way Danner was. The guy's name
is Henry Tilmot. He's a banker in Boston, and Cranston gave me his number. I'm
calling Tilmot."


     THERE was no response to Wadkin's call. The dick dialed again, then looked
up Tilmot's number in the telephone book. It was unlisted, but Wadkin said he
could get it through persons who knew Tilmot. He finally did acquire the number
after three calls that consumed a full ten minutes.
     The number was the one that Cranston had given.
     Wadkin rang it again. This time his face showed conviction.
     "Something's screwy with that number" he declared. "Say - you don't think
anything's gone wrong there at Tilmot's?"
     "It looks that way," said Harry.
     "I'll call headquarters," decided Wadkin. "They'll notify Boston. There'll
be detectives up to Tilmot's place in no time. Don't worry about him."
     Harry worried despite that assurance. He chafed to think that valuable
minutes had been lost getting a warning to Tilmot. For The Shadow had
definitely depended upon that being done.
     Behind the death of Danner lay an insidious prowess, whatever it might be;
and that same menace threatened the life of Tilmot. The fact that the banker's
telephone line had been cut off, was mute proof that The Shadow was right.
     Harry Vincent could do nothing until word came. Here in Cambridge, he was
too remote to aid Tilmot. Moreover, Harry could not travel across the Charles,
to Boston, because he had to stay here as a witness in the case of Danner's
death.
     To Harry's mind, however, there came one definite hope, a logical
conclusion in itself.
     The Shadow had left it to Wadkin to call Tilmot. That meant The Shadow
intended to waste no time of his own. The Shadow had chosen a set mission, and
Harry was confident of what it was. The Shadow was already on his way to visit
Tilmot in person.
     That surmise was correct. At that very moment, a taxicab was twisting from
a mass of traffic clear Boston Common, getting clear for its last spurt to an
address on Beacon Street. In the rear seat of that cab sat a calm-faced, steady
passenger who looked fit for action despite the paleness of his hawkish features.
     Soon, Henry Tilmot would receive a caller, in the person of Lamont
Cranston.
     From the moment that the new visitor entered the house, Tilmot would be
under the protection of The Shadow.


     CHAPTER XVI

     THE VANISHED MILLION

     HENRY TILMOT already had a visitor: Vic Marquette of the F.B.I.; they were
seated in the banker's upstairs study. The room was much different than when The
Shadow had last seen it. In most details it resembled the stronghold that Harry
had viewed in Danner's apartment.
     Like Danner, Tilmot had no windows in his room. Also, in order to give his
tiny fortress some privacy, it had been separated into two sections. These
simply had a partition between. The partition lacked a steel door. A curtain
hung over the small doorway that connected.
     They were seated in the outer of the two rooms; there, Marquette was
coming to the purpose of his visit.
     "Relf's chucked a bad scare into you, Mr. Tilmot," declared Marquette.
"Bad enough to make me think that maybe you have heard from him."
     Tilmot shook his head.
     "Then why all this steel work?" asked Marquette. "It doesn't seem worth
the bother, unless it's needed."
     "It was Danner's idea," declared Tilmot. "I installed these walls chiefly
to humor him."
     "And to humor Nick Langion?"
     Tilmot winced. He didn't like the connection. Marquette saw the banker's
fists clench.
     "Langion is nobody," declared Tilmot harshly. "He thrust his acquaintance
upon me. He offered to fortify Danner's apartment in return for the services of
two servants that I could supply.
     "I've seen them down at Langion's place. He says he wouldn't trust his own
men.
     "Precisely the way he stated it to me. To help Danner, I had to favor
Langion. Since I was included in the arrangement, I merely took advantage of
it."
     Marquette eyed the steel-faced ceiling. There was a glint in his darkish
eyes. Then, abruptly:
     "If Relf hasn't threatened you," put Marquette, "why have you got a
million dollars here?"


     THE question startled Tilmot. For a few moments, he seemed ready to deny
it. It struck him, finally, that Marquette must be too well informed to be
bluffed.
     "The million," admitted Tilmot, "is the amount that I once intended to
lend Inter-Coastal Lines; cash that would have eventually reached Relf."
     "I know that," chided Marquette. "But it ought to be in a bank."
     "Not necessarily," argued Tilmot. "The funds are quite secure here.
Besides -"
     He hesitated. Marquette's tone changed. It was understanding, friendly.
     "I know your trouble," he told Tilmot. "You think that Ferdinand Relf may
pop in here despite all your precautions. If he does, you'd rather settle than
take the death you think he can give."
     Tilmot furnished a weak nod.
     "Maybe you're right," soothed Marquette. "Relf might be a murderer.
Anyway, I can't stop you from keeping the cash here for him. If Relf did extort
that money from you, though, we'd have a charge against him. Wouldn't we?"
     Tilmot gave agreement.
     "All right," decided Marquette. "That's why I'd like to see that cash. Let
me take a list of the serial numbers. If Relf ever gets the dough, we'll have a
tracer to him."
     Slowly, Tilmot arose. Without a word he walked past the curtain, into the
room where the big safe was. Marquette lolled back in his chair. He heard a
slight thump, as though Tilmot had knocked over something close to the safe.
     After that there was the gurgly sound of water being poured into a glass.
Marquette decided that Tilmot had paused to take a drink.
     A minute later another sound actually puzzled Marquette. It was a
tap-tap-tap, that might have come from the inner room, but Vic decided it was
too remote. It might be something in the hallway; perhaps a noise from the roof.
     Certainly the steel walls would muffle noises. Certainly that they would
be difficult to recognize. The tapping was repeated; it faded, but Vic still
thought he could hear it. It annoyed him so much that he was about to call to
Tilmot - when he heard a louder rap.
     The new sound came from the sliding steel door that closed these rooms
from the hall. It was a signal from one of Tilmot's servants. There was a
switch close by. Vic pulled it. The door slid open.
     "Mr. Cranston is here," announced the servant. "Does Mr. Tilmot wish to
see him?
     "Certainly," replied Marquette. "Tell him to come up."
     "There was something else," declared the servant. "The telephone
downstairs - it's out of order -"
     "I'll tell Mr. Tilmot to try his extension. Meanwhile, usher Mr. Cranston
here."
     When Cranston stepped across the threshold, Marquette greeted him with a
handshake. Pulling the switch. Vic closed the steel door. Cranston looked about
for Tilmot. Marquette pointed to the curtain.
     Before he had a chance to state that Tilmot was busy at the safe and would
not wish to be disturbed, Cranston sprang toward the connecting door. Marquette
followed, telling him to come back. Instead, Cranston whipped open the curtain.
     With that move, Cranston stepped sideways. It was Marquette who halted on
the threshold with horrified stare.


     ON the floor in front of the open safe, lay Tilmot, stone dead. His head
could have struck the edge of the safe door, for there was a bruise behind the
banker's ear. On the desk stood a glass of water; beside it, a box of pills.
     To Marquette, those elements did not account for Tilmot's death. Vic
looked for someone in the room. He was holding a stubby revolver as he stared
about. But the room was empty.
     Cranston had turned, was heading out through the hallway. Marquette heard
him unlock a door farther along the hall. Soon he returned. Marquette demanded:
     "Where did you go?"
     "Into the adjoining storeroom," replied Cranston coolly. "It used to
connect with this room - at that corner. But there was no one in the storeroom.
Only an unlocked window."
     Marquette went to the corner indicated; he hammered the steel wall. It was
solid.
     "Nobody could have gone through there," he declared. "But say! Look at
that safe! It's empty - but Tilmot says he had a million bucks in it. Could
Relf have -"
     Marquette paused. He shook his head, bewildered.
     "Quite odd," mused Cranston. "Danner had half a million - so it was said -
in stocks and cash. They are gone."
     "Gone!" echoed Marquette. "What does Danner have to say about it?"
     "Nothing. Danner is dead."
     That news shook Marquette from his lethargy. He shouted for Tilmot's
servants. When they arrived, he told them to send for a physician and call the
police. Marquette was already joggling the receiver hook of Tilmot's telephone,
to find the instrument dead.
     The physician's examination proved that Tilmot could have died from either
of two causes. The pills, it proved, were poison of a most virulent sort. There
were traces on Tilmot's tongue to show that he had swallowed some of them.
     The blow against the banker's head was close to the base of the brain, a
sort that might easily have been fatal.
     Marquette came to the conclusion that the death was suicide. Tilmot didn't
have the million dollars, decided Vic. What he had done with it, was a guess;
but he was in a pinch, like Danner, especially when Marquette had demanded to
see the cash.
     In a sense, Marquette was showing himself as blind as Detective Wadkin -
but with more logic. He made a full report to the police, then went out to find
Cranston, who had been allowed to leave at Vic's own urge. Quite a while had
passed. When Marquette found Cranston in the lobby of the Parker house, he
apologized for having kept him waiting so long.


     "I HAVE been to Cambridge," stated Cranston, "to talk with Vincent, who is
staying there as witness. He mentioned an odd fact, Marquette - one that the
police have practically ignored."
     "What was it?"
     "A corner of Danner's strongroom once opened to a fire tower," explained
Cranston. "Much like the door to the strongroom at Tilmot's house. After they
found Danner's body, Vincent heard a tapping. It sounded from that corner of
the room -"
     Marquette thwacked his left palm with his right fist.
     "I heard taps at Tilmot's!" he exclaimed. "They could have come from the
corner at the strongroom door. Say - that may make it -"
     "Murder?"
     "Yes." Marquette was grim. "What's more, you've jogged me into remembering
something else. I heard a gurgle of water when Tilmot swallowed those pills. I
heard the thump when he hit his head. But -"
     "The thump came before the gurgle?"
     Cranston's keen question took the words that Marquette intended to utter.
Vic nodded.
     "Somebody could have shot Danner," declared the Fed. "And the same man
could have tapped Tilmot's skull and forced those pills down his throat. It's
double murder. Two deaths to pin on Ferdinand Relf."
     "Why not a third?" asked Cranston.
     "A third?" returned Marquette. Who?"
     "Relf's other enemy, Nick Langion. Have you seen him tonight, Marquette?"
     Vic was on his feet, beckoning his companion to the door. They took a cab
on Tremont Street. Marquette told the driver to rush them to the old Caravan
Club.
     "There's been plenty happened tonight," declared Marquette as they rode
along, "and maybe a lot more is due."
     Marquette did not see Cranston's face at that moment, for his companion
was leaning back in the cushions of the seat. But the smile on Cranston's lips
would have told Vic more than words. Marquette was right; more events -
startling ones - were still to come. The Shadow knew.
     That was not all. There were things to happen that even The Shadow did not
foresee.


     CHAPTER XVII

     THE THIRD THRUST

     THE stronghold above the deserted Caravan Club was far larger than those
that Nick Langion had provided for Danner and Tilmot. It had half a dozen
armored rooms. The outer ones were peopled with some of Nick's former
bodyguards.
     The racketeer's own quarters were in the closest room. There, his only
companions were the two servants that he had borrowed from Henry Tilmot. The
pair closed a steel door as soon as Cranston and Marquette had entered. The
servants remained outside.
     Nick was wearing a garish dressing gown, and seemed half asleep. He shook
hands with Cranston when Marquette introduced him. Hearing that Cranston was a
wealthy New Yorker. Nick made a remark while pouring drinks:
     "I guess you know my friends - Danner and Tilmot? Am I right, Mr.
Cranston?"
     "I did know them."
     Nick looked puzzled. He turned to Marquette.
     "Say!" put in Nick, "What is this - a gag?"
     "Not much," replied Marquette. "Danner and Tilmot are dead."
     Nick staggered two steps backward. He steadied himself, gave a short laugh.
     "What did they do - try to get together somewhere?" - Nick's tone was
forced - "outside of those castles I rigged up for them? The saps! I told 'em
to stay where they belonged - like I've been doing - on account of Relf."
     "That's what they did do," informed Marquette. "Each died in his own
place, with no visible sight of a murderer."
     Nick's hand tightened about a glass that he had started to offer to
Marquette. With a quick gulp, the racketeer swallowed the drink, then followed
by drinking one he had poured for Cranston. Whether it was the raw liquor or
his shaken nerves that made him choke, Nick didn't state. After he had slumped
to a chair, he managed to cough:
     "Tell me about it."


     MARQUETTE gave the details. The more that Nick heard, the more nervousness
he displayed. His olive face looked sickly; he kept shoving his hands through
his slick black hair.
     "Relf couldn't have done it," he insisted. "He couldn't. Those joints were
rigged as good as this one. Those boobs got jittery; they croaked themselves -
that's all."
     Nick was so positive that he almost persuaded Marquette. It was Cranston
who quietly provided the evidence that changed Nick's tune. From his pocket The
Shadow produced two envelopes, handed them to Marquette. One was marked
"Tilmot"; the other, "Danner".
     From the first envelope, Marquette brought two steel rivets; in the
second, he found another. With it was a loose rivet head.
     "Where did you get these?" demanded Marquette.
     "From Tilmot's storeroom," replied Cranston, "and from the fire tower
outside Danner's apartment."
     Marquette began to understand.
     "Those steel plates were fixed", Vic didn't realize that Cranston had
already proven the fact. "They had dummy rivets on the overlaps. One was fixed
at Danner's; another at Tilmot's."
     Marquette was so elated at what he thought was his own discovery that he
pictured the scenes aloud, without waiting for Cranston's further theories
regarding them.
     "Relf came in from the fire tower and murdered Danner," continued
Marquette. "There were stocks there - and cash. He took them. He came through
from Tilmot's storeroom, staged another murder and got away with that million.
     "Each time, he had to pound in some solid rivets to replace the dummies,
so the walls would stand inspection. He thought the steel door would give him
time at Danner's. Maybe he didn't know I was at Tilmot's.
     "Anyway, he had to work quick after he got started. He'll have to keep on
working quick if he's coming here. This time we'll be ready for him."
     Marquette's final words were assurance for Nick Langion, but the racketeer
didn't look pleased. Then, before Cranston could speak, Marquette suddenly
demanded:
     "What about those strongrooms, Nick? Didn't you guarantee Danner and
Tilmot that you'd make them right?"
     Nick nodded hopelessly. His lips were twitching when he answered.
     "That's what I said," he asserted. "Only there was something else I told
'em. I said I didn't trust my own mob. That's why I wanted a couple of Tilmot's
flunkies down here. There ain't a guy in my whole outfit that wouldn't sell out
to Relf.
     "He got to 'em quicker than I thought - him and that guy Shervel who
worked for him. They bought out the bunch that put the steel work in at
Danner's and Tilmot's. Only I never guessed it until right now.
     "You know who brought over the crew that tried to rub me out a few nights
ago? Relf did it. And there was a fight down near the water front, with guys in
the mob that used to work for me. And tonight - here's news for you, Marquette -
Relf croaked Shervel!"


     IT was news for Marquette. So much so, that he didn't believe it. Nick
insisted that it was a fact.
     "The cops just called up," declared Nick. "Told me that they'd knocked off
a couple of gorillas who quit on me pretty near a week ago. They found Shervel
with a knife in him.
     "He knew too much to suit Relf. Say - did you ever meet up with Relf? He's
powerful, that guy. He could drive a knife right through a wall."
     Nick gestured forcibly, to illustrate the point. He finished his arm
thrust, then talked excitedly as he paced the room, pawing at the steel walls.
     "He'll be coming here next" - Nick was panting his words - "to get me.
Only he won't cut in here - He can't - because these walls were put here before
I ever met Relf. Go ahead - tap 'em - see for yourself that they're solid.
     "The lights are working, too" - Nick motioned to a row of them - "and
these alarms. Watch - they'll bring everybody in a hurry." Nick stopped to
press buttons along the wall. "And the floor plugs are in tight. I'm safe here
- only I'll never leave the joint until you've sent Relf to the hot seat where
he belongs."
     Nick was rising, having tested the last floor plug in a corner beneath a
table. There were pounds at the steel door; guards had arrived, as Nick said
they would. The racketeer thumped the door, giving a signal. He turned around,
mopping his forehead with the sleeve of his dressing gown.
     "That'll send 'em back," said Nick as he paced across the room. "Cripes,
Marquette! You got me in a sweat with all this talk. I've got some dough of my
own - in there - and I guess I'd better see that none's gone."
     Nick indicated a steel door at the side of the room. He pressed a switch.
The door slid back to show a tiny, metal-lined room that housed a safe half its
size. Nick began to work the combination. He had made the final turn, when he
paused to beckon.
     Marquette approached while Cranston watched. There was a new glint in The
Shadow's eyes.
     "Hear it?" Nick whispered to Marquette. "It ain't taps, like you heard -
It's a tick -"
     "Comes from the floor," inserted Marquette. "What's underneath here, Nick?"
     "The kitchen of the Caravan Club. No - it ain't the kitchen. It's the
refrigerator room."
     "How do you get to it?"
     "Through the club - or from outside the -"
     Nick's own words produced the startled look that came to his face. He
gestured wildly with his arms, then jumped for the switch that controlled the
outer floor.
     "Get going!" he yelled. "Relf's mined the joint. He's going to blast it!"


     NICK pulled the switch. As the door slid back Marquette grabbed Cranston,
started him out through. Nick was close behind them, shoving hard. At the door
he suddenly gulped:
     "The dough! I got time to get it!"
     He dived back to the safe, yanked it open. They saw him pulling out
bundles, then his nerve seemed to leave him. Nick sprang away with only a few
bundles under his arm. Apparently figuring that the vault room would muffle the
explosion, if closed, he grabbed for a switch.
     In his haste, Nick pulled the wrong one. They saw him staring, a puzzled
look on his nearly greenish face. He was looking at the vault as if expecting
it to shut. Instead, the outer door slid across its doorway, cutting Nick from
view.
     Marquette was starting to pound that door in order to attract the
attention of the stupefied racketeer. This time, it was Cranston who provided
the urge for prompt departure. He shoved Marquette toward the outer rooms,
voiced a command in quick tone strangely like The Shadow's - though Vic didn't
notice it.
     "Get away!" was the order. "Nick can release himself. Nobody else can.
Don't wait to help him."
     They dashed through to the final door where Nick's henchmen were already
diving through, followed by Tilmot's servants. The Shadow turned, to propel
Marquette down the stairs. At that instant Marquette was taking a last look
back through the passages.
     There was no sign yet of Nick Langion. The maddened racketeer had lost
valuable seconds.
     "He'll be killed!" shouted Marquette. "If he doesn't get here -"
     Marquette himself was close to death. As The Shadow shoved him down the
stairway, following with a dive of his own, the big blast came. The whole
premises of the Caravan Club rocked with the titanic explosion. There was a
crackle of steel as Nick Langion's stronghold warped like tissue paper.
     The stairway crumpled, with masonry crashing down from above it. But with
the cyclonic burst of air that roared from the lower doorway, came two figures
that staggered, fell, recovered themselves to seek the shelter of the alley.
     The Shadow had brought Vic Marquette alive from that shattered building
where death was certain for any who remained.


     CHAPTER XVIII

     CRIME'S COUNTERSTROKE

     BIG fire engines were clanging in from surrounding streets, to fight the
blaze that engulfed the Caravan Club. Midtown Boston was lurid with wavering
light that flickered its vivid reflections along Washington Street to the
somber building fronts of Newspaper Row.
     Seldom had The Hub viewed so swift a holocaust as this; but the speed of
the fire's sweep was fortunate. That blaze was burning itself out, before it
could reach adjacent buildings that firemen worked to save. Luck was with the
smoke-eaters. There was no breeze tonight.
     Meanwhile, the conflagration roared and crackled with the gorging rage of
an inferno. In the midst of that volcanic hell were the withered, melted
remnants of the steel stronghold that Nick Langion had once regarded as secure.
     Vic Marquette watched the destruction from a block away. He was within the
fire line, with Cranston beside him. Refugees were pouring from neighboring
buildings; cars were being wheeled from the garage where Nick had kept his
armored limousine.
     The big, bulletproof car was forgotten. Nick Langion would never again
have use for it.
     The glare of the dancing flames brought a glinted reflection from
Marquette's dark eyes. The Federal agent was grim; there were mutters from his
lips. They included imprecations against the man who had eluded Vic too long:
Ferdinand Relf.
     Marquette phrased coherent words. Cranston heard them.
     "He got in there," affirmed Marquette, "just like he did at Danner's and
Tilmot's. Relf was there, all right, in the refrigerator room. He had to be, to
set that time bomb.
     "It couldn't have been long ago. Just the same, he got away too soon.
Without a trace to where he's gone - not a trace. You can't even see Relf, let
alone locate him."
     Marquette turned to Cranston with his appeal. Vic was recalling how his
calm-faced companion had doped out affairs at earlier scenes of crime. Above
the crackle of the fire, Marquette snapped the almost hopeless question:
     "Where could Relf have headed? Could you give me any kind of a guess, Mr.
Cranston?"
     Cranston's eyes looked far away. A slight smile came to his thin, even
lips.
     "It is possible," spoke Cranston, in reflective tone, "that Relf has
returned to Rhode Island."


     MARQUETTE looked startled; then, he laughed, shortly.
     "That won't do," he said. "The one place Relf ought to stay away from is
that house in Rhode Island."
     "And that," observed Cranston, "is precisely why he might be found there."
     There was an odd emphasis to that steady tone, but Marquette did not
detect it. The suggestion had awakened other ideas. Marquette began to sum them.
     "There's a couple of deputy sheriffs on duty at that house," said
Marquette, stating a fact that was also known to The Shadow. "But it's just
routine, having them there. I know what you're getting at, Mr. Cranston - the
old stuff of a murderer returning to the scene of crime. But it won't go, in
this case. Relf didn't murder any one in that bay shore house of his."
     Cranston's gaze was still reflective.
     "There was a girl," he said to Marquette. "Her name was Ruth Bryand."
     "Yeah," put in Marquette. "She used to own the old Rhode Island house. But
she is in Europe."
     "You have heard from her?"
     "No, we haven't. Because we didn't have reason to talk to her."
     "Who has heard from Ruth Bryand?"
     Marquette didn't answer Cranston's question. Firemen were hauling up a
reserve hose in order to attack the fire at closer range, for the flames had
shown a marked ebb. Marquette was separated from Cranston, but he flashed a
look toward him.
     "Maybe Relf did kill the girl!" shouted Marquette suddenly. "Still, he's
not the kind of murderer to go racing back there."
     Firemen were coming through in a squad, carrying big axes. Marquette was
farther away from Cranston when he heard his companion call back:
     "Any murderer would return to remove a body - one that might prove a
corpus delicti - to convict him, afterward -"
     The rest of Cranston's words were drowned by shouted orders from a fire
chief. New fire lines were being formed. Marquette flashed his badge, to hold
his place, but Cranston had no badge. Firemen were jostling him toward a
corner. Marquette cupped his hands around his lips.
     "I'm going to Rhode Island!" he yelled - "with a squad. We'll rip that
house apart from top to bottom -"
     There was no use continuing the shouting. Cranston was out of sight.
Marquette saw an opening to his right, hurried through the ropes. He was on his
way to summon a picked batch of operatives. Inside half an hour, they would he
riding for Rhode Island.


     AROUND the corner, Lamont Cranston was showing the same speed that he had
utilized in rescuing Vic Marquette. He hurried for his new hotel; reaching
there, he took a suitcase from the check room. At a writing desk he penned a
brief note with a fountain pen.
     Putting the note in an envelope, he used a desk pen to address it to Harry
Vincent. Giving the envelope to the clerk, Cranston placed a dollar bill with
it. The clerk agreed to send the note by messenger to Harry's hotel.
     Boarding a cab, Cranston rode past Faneuil Hall, down South Market Street,
where the long market buildings stretched on the left, with North Market Street
on the other side of them. He was not interested in that odd arrangement of
Boston thoroughfares, for he was directing the cab driver into a maze of narrow
streets where some squalid dwelling houses were located.
     During the last stretch of that ride, Cranston changed identity. From his
suitcase he produced the black garb that transformed him into The Shadow. As
soon as he had paid his fare, he slid a black glove over his hand. He was gone
into darkness before the cab driver wondered what had become of the
aristocratic passenger who had business in so disreputable a district.
     Soon, The Shadow was listening in the darkness of an upstairs room, where
a man's harsh, raucous breathing came muffled from a corner cot. Ignoring the
room's occupant, The Shadow glimmered his flashlight into a closet. The Shadow
was busy there for a short while. He was familiar with the place, for he had
visited it earlier today.
     Finally the flashlight vanished. A whispered laugh crept through the
blackness, drowning that heavy breathing from the corner. Chill echoes faded.
The Shadow was gone. His own plans had reached another stage, one that promised
no complications.


     THAT prospect was not so smooth as The Shadow supposed it. In his note to
Harry, The Shadow had ordered his agent off duty. There were links from the
past that made it necessary. Crooks had connected The Shadow with Lamont
Cranston; in turn, they might tie Cranston with Harry Vincent. From Harry,
there was another lead - to Ruth Bryand.
     In the haste of coming events, crooks would have little time to join those
links. Harry was keen enough to outsmart them if they tried. He could detect
fake messages supposedly from The Shadow. Once he picked up the real one and
read its code. Harry would understand all matters thoroughly.
     Such was The Shadow's logic, and it was sound. But even The Shadow's
calculations could go astray when remote factors entered. Tonight, trouble was
due from a person who had no desire to cause it.
     The Shadow had not reckoned with the part to be played by a man who no
longer seemed important: Detective Wadkin, of the Cambridge police.
     Harry Vincent was still at Danner's apartment wondering how long he would
have to remain there. Some Boston detectives were present, checking Danner's
death with that of Tilmot. Harry intended to ride across the river with them
when they left, to make sure he encountered no trouble before picking up the
expected word from The Shadow.
     There was a ring from the telephone bell. It was Wadkin who answered it.
The Cambridge detective was grinning when he finished the call. He turned to
Harry, with the remark:
     "It was your friend, Cranston."
     "You're sure?" questioned Harry.
     "Positive," replied Wadkin. "I recognized his voice. He had a message for
you."
     Wadkin hadn't recognized Cranston's voice; the one that he had heard had
actually been quite different. But the caller had announced himself as
Cranston, and had sold the idea. After that, Wadkin would have imagined that
any voice was the right one.
     "Cranston wants to see you," chuckled Wadkin. "He'll be at the Eastern
Coffee Shop, near Scollay Square. And he says to bring your girl-friend; he's
anxious to meet her."
     "Which girl-friend?" quizzed Harry.
     "The one you met last week," replied Wadkin. "That's what Cranston said. I
told him okay, Vincent. We don't need you here any longer."


     RELAYED through Wadkin, the message was just subtle enough to carry
weight. Harry already knew that The Shadow was keeping Ruth ready as a witness,
regarding that night at Relf's. He supposed that his chief must have cracked the
case; that The Shadow was ready to expose a murderer to the law.
     The Eastern Coffee Shop, a quiet place on Cornhill Street, near Scollay
Square, was an ideal spot, the sort that The Shadow would choose for this
meeting. Harry asked Wadkin if he could use the telephone. The detective nodded.
     Harry called Ruth at Framingham.
     Luck was with him, Harry thought, after he had talked to Ruth; and that,
again, influenced him to believe that the meeting was of The Shadow's design.
     Inquiring from her friends, Ruth told Harry over the wire that an inbound
express was due on the Boston and Albany in just ten minutes. She could make
the Framingham Station in time. She would arrive at South Station in exactly
three-quarters of an hour.
     Such prompt connection was purely a coincidence. To Harry, it indicated
another of The Shadow's well-timed arrangements. He told Ruth to start
immediately. Hanging up, he chatted for a while with Wadkin, shook hands and
made his departure.
     Riding into Boston by tunnel, Harry kept sharp lookout to make sure that
he was unwatched. The car in which he rode was almost deserted, for it was an
off hour in evening travel. None of the few passengers were suspicious
characters, and Harry was soon convinced that he had not been trailed from
Danner's apartment.
     In that conclusion, Harry was correct. After their unfortunate experiences
with The Shadow, crooks had been warned not to spoil their traps by springing
them too soon. Harry Vincent was practically forgotten for the present.
     But he would be remembered later - he and Ruth - when the right time came.
Again the hand of a master murderer was tugging the cords to thwart The Shadow.
     This time, the plotter had pushed his threat against two persons whose
lives The Shadow valued.


     CHAPTER XIX

     MEN FROM THE SEA

     IT was not until he reached Cornhill that Harry began to suspect brewing
trouble. He had met Ruth at South Station; she was with him in the cab when it
stopped in front of the Eastern Coffee Shop.
     The place was closed; so were other coffee shops and the little book
stores that lined the crooked walls of the curved street. Half out of the cab,
Harry decided that there would be no use hammering at a blank door.
     Taking his seat beside Ruth, Harry wailed, hoping that there might be some
signal from The Shadow. He looked back toward the lights of Scollay Square,
realized something that had not occurred to him before.
     The square was about midway between North Station and South Station. If it
had been close to one, it would not be a likely place to bring a person who had
come in from the other.
     What if the call from Cranston had been a fake!
     Harry hadn't stopped at his hotel; he had been too anxious to meet Ruth.
He was realizing that some crafty enemy could have arranged this rendezvous,
picking this location as a neutral midpoint on the guess that Ruth was in some
Boston suburb and might arrive at either depot.
     The Shadow did not appear. The best plan was to get clear before a menace
came. Harry ordered the driver ahead. Without knowing it, he was putting
himself deeper into the snare.
     Another cab rolled in from Scollay Square, to follow Harry's. At the next
corner a second cab cut in from the right. In the multitude of variegated taxis
that cruise Boston's streets, Harry was unable to distinguish these as
crook-manned vehicles, brought from cover especially for this occasion.
     They were boxing Harry and Ruth; ready to smash the helpless cab should it
break their cordon. Instead, Harry's driver happened to take the direction that
the crooks wanted. Harry had told him to get out of traffic. He was doing it.
     Caught in a web of narrow streets some blocks from Cornhill, the cab's
dilemma was revealed.


     A GRIMY taxi suddenly swooped around from a coming corner, blocked the
path. Another wheeled up from behind. Both machines disgorged thugs. Amid the
echoes of shrieking brakes, Harry tightened his fingers on an automatic.
     He realized, an instant later, that fight was useless. His own chances of
escape were slim; there would be none for Ruth.
     Gunfire wouldn't come, if they surrendered, for this street, though dark,
was too close to larger thoroughfares. Harry spoke quickly to Ruth; when guns
poked through the windows, they both stretched their arms.
     Bound and gagged, on the floor of another cab, Harry and Ruth were soon
riding through a section that Harry recognized. Staring upward, he could see
the superstructure of the elevated that ran above Atlantic Avenue.
     Sounds from the harbor kept Harry informed of their progress along the
water front. When the prisoners were finally hauled from the cab, darkness
prevented Harry from learning the exact location. But he soon guessed it.
     He and Ruth were carried along a rickety dock that made him remember the
one mentioned by Barney. The wharf was high. They were lowered to the deck of
the darkened vessel that was moored beside it.
     The ship was the Escapade.
     The prisoners were placed in a cramped forecastle, where a lighted lantern
hung. The lantern's sway soon indicated that the Escapade was in motion; and
Harry was conscious that the old craft was traveling with speed.
     She had to be fast, with silent thrumming motors, to have participated in
the rumrunning trade. That was years ago; but the Escapade had evidently been
kept in sleek shape, or reconditioned for her present enterprises.
     What concerned Harry most was the plight that would exist when the voyage
ended. Neither he nor Ruth had been handled roughly by their tough captors, but
that did not indicate that later treatment would be gentle.
     Harry expected just the opposite. He knew that he was marked as an agent
of The Shadow; that Ruth was classed as a person who knew too much about the
affairs of Ferdinand Relf.
     Perhaps they were being held as hostages. It might be that information
would be demanded of them. At any rate, their probable destiny would be a trip
overboard somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean. Harry expected no mercy from his
present captors.


     AN hour passed. Propped in a front corner of the forecastle, Harry
occasionally looked toward Ruth, gave her nods of encouragement that he did not
feel. There was a sweatered husky on watch, a stocky fellow whose sneery eyes
frequently looked toward Harry. It took a while for Harry to get an idea across
to him, but finally the fellow shuttled forward.
     He lifted Harry's gag, to listen to what the prisoner had to say.
     "Look here, Jake" - Harry had heard the rowdy's name - "where are we
headed?"
     "Around Cape Cod," jeered Jake. "Taking this moll" - he gestured toward
Ruth - "back to where she belongs."
     "We'll be close to shore before we get there -"
     "Sure. But what's it to you?"
     Harry half closed his eyes, lowered his whisper.
     "It's a lot to you, Jake," he informed. "I'll pay you a grand and a half
if you shove us ashore."
     "Got the dough on you?"
     "I'll have it before you've left us."
     Harry did have the money. It was the cash that he had given Barney, only
to have the fellow return it. Harry's captors hadn't bothered to frisk him on
the way to the Escapade; but Jake didn't know that. He hadn't been with the
gang.
     Jake's eyes showed interest.
     "Reach into my coat," Harry told him. "On the left - just inside the
lining."
     Jake complied. From a pocket that he didn't expect, he brought out a small
wad of bills. He counted them - twenties and fifties - then growled:
     "There's only a couple of centuries here."
     "Sure," whispered Harry. "That's just a sample. Keep it for a deposit."
     The rest of the cash was in other pockets, inner ones at the sides of
Harry's vest. Harry kept that fact to himself, for he saw that Jake was
convinced that cash would be had. The fellow had a rattish look; whether he
intended to go through with the deal, Harry didn't know. It seemed worth the
chance, though.
     Jake shoved the gag between Harry's teeth, tightened it. Starting to put
the few hundred in his pocket, he toned in Harry's car:
     "I gotta get another guy in on it. We gotta grab a boat, to shove off when
the time comes. But -"
     Jake swung about. A tall, stooped man was coming down the short
companionway. He shoved himself into the light. His face was rough, with
squinty eyes and ugly protruding lip. Canvas trousers and rubber slicker marked
him as one of the few actual seamen aboard the Escapade.


     "HELLO, Long Jack," gruffed Jake. "I was just making sure this guy was
fixed tight."
     "Long Jack" nodded; his lip-thrust was too wise to suit Jake. The tough
suddenly decided to go through with the deal that Harry wanted. Long Jack was
an obstacle to be handled at once.
     "You think different, huh?" demanded Jake. "Well, you won't be figurin'
that way much longer."
     Jake whipped a revolver from his hip, shoved it for a space beneath the
tall man's slicker. His purpose was to drill Long Jack through the heart,
muffling the shot. A multitude of hopes flashed to Harry at that moment. They
were near Cape Cod - if Jake finished Long Jack, he'd have to start the escape
to save his own hide - it would work, with the shore close by!
     In the midst of those quick thoughts, Long Jack ended Harry's last ray of
opportunity.
     Long Jack had a gun; he used it quicker than Jake. He sledged it with a
jerky arm motion against Jake's skull before the confident thug knew the blow
was on its way. Jake collapsed; dead, perhaps, for that blow had been hard
driven.
     Leaping back to the companionway, Long Jack bellowed to those above. A
scurry of arriving men was immediate. Long Jack didn't have to tell his story.
Sight of Jake gave the news.
     The slugged thug's right hand held the revolver; his left fingers still
clenched the bribe money that he had accepted from Harry. Without ado, Long
Jack's companions lugged the traitor up the companionway.
     From then on, orders from above kept Long Jack as sole guard of the
forecastle. As hours passed, Harry and Ruth tried to sleep. There were
intervals, though, when one or the other opened their eyes, only to see that
constant sentinel watching them. There might be others aboard, like Jake, who
would sell out if occasion offered; but Long Jack was not one of them. Nor
could any of Jake's sort be reached while Long Jack had the prisoners in charge.
     It must have been near dawn when Harry awakened from a doze to note that
the lantern was hanging almost steady. He knew that the Escapade had reached
the bay near Relf's former home. The old rumrunner was coming along shore.
     Someone spoke to Long Jack from the companionway. Harry caught snatches of
the conversation.
     A batch of men were going ashore, but three were remaining to man a
machine gun from a low cabin amidships. Long Jack was to watch the prisoners,
with another crew member waiting at the top of the companionway. In case of
trouble, word was to be passed to the machine-gun crew.
     Engines had ceased their faint thrum. The Escapade was moored. The last
episode of crime was to begin.
     The hopeless look that Harry Vincent gave to Ruth Bryand was one that the
girl had long feared would come.
     Ruth sensed, at last, that no aid would be possible.
     Not even from The Shadow.


     CHAPTER XX

     PROOF OF CRIME

     A CLUSTER of muffled men was creeping across the darkness of the shrubbed
lawn beside Relf's mansion. From the east, the first faint tints of dawn shed
no light upon that blackened stretch. These invaders were making their trip
under perfect cover.
     They listened to the low, sharp tones of the man who commanded them. Near
the house, they deployed. The leader and three others remained close to the
mansion wall; there, they dug rapidly with spades.
     A muffled flashlight showed a slab uncovered from the turf. Two men
hoisted it; there were steep stone steps beneath. The leader waited, a
companion with him. He ordered the other two to descend.
     Through a musty, stone-walled passage, the pair came to what seemed a
solid wall. It was an old entrance used by smugglers. These thugs knew the
trick to it; they found the catch, and the wall pressed aside.
     They stepped into a square room that consisted of a rocky pool with
footholds around the fringes. Straight above was a shaft; this was the bottom
of the pit beneath the study formerly occupied by Ferdinand Relf.
     There was another entrance to this rocky space from the other side of the
pool. It came from the cellar of the old mansion, but its mouth was as well
concealed as the passage that these crooks had used.
     The two men let grappling hooks down into the pool. They hauled. Something
caught the hooks and came up with them. A shapeless, water-soaked corpse was
tugged to the rocks. The men stooped to examine it with flashlights. Before
they could roll the corpse on its back, brilliance surrounded them.
     The hollow chamber was lighted with spotlights from the opposite wall. Men
were stepping into the glare, half a dozen of them. They held the snarling
crooks covered. The blinking thugs recognized Vic Marquette as the leader of
the squad. One of the flat-footed hoodlums gulped:
     "The Feds!"
     Marquette stepped forward to examine the water-logged body. He was puzzled
as he eyed its clothing, but his real surprise came when he gingerly tipped the
dead face-upward. The name that Vic uttered was spontaneous, as though he spoke
it without real belief:
     "Ferdinand Relf!"


     OTHER Feds crowded close. They recognized the face that they had seen in
many photographs. Incredible though they considered it, the dead man - whose
condition showed that he had been drowned for days - was the very person that
they sought on charges of murder!
     Relf's face was gashed; his body badly broken. He had taken a fearful
tumble from high above, to bash on rocks below the surface of the pool. Little
able to move, he had drowned as a natural consequence.
     While Marquette still stared, too amazed to speak, his next surprise
arrived. A rasped voice, commanded from the outer passage, a tone that
Marquette recognized.
     "Stretch 'em!" ordered the voice. "We got you covered."
     It was the voice of Nick Langion!
     Vic Marquette showed brisk judgment in that pinch. He nudged two men
beside him as he let his own revolver fall. They copied his example; all stood
with upraised arms.
     In the background were other Feds, shielded by the glaring lights. To
bluff Nick was the only course; the longer such a game continued, the better
would be the chances later. At this moment, Nick and his accompanying pal would
use their triggers rapidly.
     Nick Langion strolled into the light. As his first pair of thugs reclaimed
their revolvers, Nick gave Relf's body a kick.
     "There he is," sneered Nick. "Ferdinand Relf, the biggest of the big
shots. The guy that handed James Danner a half million to start the
Inter-Coastal Lines and slipped Henry Tilmot a whole million so's he could
start passing out loans."
     Marquette gaped despite himself.
     "You didn't wise up to that, did you?" sneered Nick. "Those mugs were in
it as deep as I was. Worse - because they were supposed to be honest, while
Relf paid me outright to do his dirty work.
     "When Relf had to bury himself in this dump" - Nick licked his lips as he
continued - "we all had the same idea. Danner and Tilmot kept the dough he'd
handed them, claiming it was theirs. So I helped 'em along, by squealing about
Relf myself, never mentioning that I had plenty of his dough."
     Nick enjoyed his recollections. He chuckled as he paused. Then:
     "Why not? Relf had told me about Danner and Tilmot; but they didn't know
it. So I saw a way to snag their dough - by making 'em think Relf was after
them and me."


     THE whole story was unfolded to Vic Marquette.
     Nick Langion had been smart enough to go after Relf first. He had done it
by buying out Shervel. If Marquette had been furnished with The Shadow's
information, he would have seen exactly how that had been done.
     The Escapade had come here, bringing Langion. Nick had popped in on Relf,
thanks to Shervel. Caught off guard, Relf had been an easy victim. Under the
threat of Nick's gun, he had been forced to the alcove. Shervel had yanked the
switch to drop him to doom.
     It was Nick who had fled through the Walnut Room, muffled in Relf's
attire. Shervel had kept calling him Relf, to keep the dumb servants ignorant
of their master's death.
     Once in Boston, Shervel had worked with Nick. He had even bought out some
of the racketeer's henchmen in order to stage that attack outside the Caravan
Club, a thrust for which Nick had been ready. That made it look as though Relf
still lived, and was out to get Langion.
     But there had been no sell-out by the crooks who had fitted the steel
walls at Danner's apartment and Tilmot's house.
     They had worked under Nick's own orders, leaving sliding panels through
which Nick could come to murder Danner and Tilmot.
     Nick had taken swag from both abodes. He had riveted the walls when he
left, well enough to pass inspection. But he knew his game had slipped when
Cranston and Marquette came to see him. That had forced Nick to play his final
ace.
     Marquette remembered how Nick had fumbled with the floor plugs. That was
when he had started a time bomb set by himself! Probably one that ticked, but
wouldn't go off until he pulled another switch.
     While others had been forced to flee the premises, Nick had hastily
gathered his swag - all from his own safe - and made a getaway through a wall
exit in his own room. He had been clear of harm when the blast hit.
     "It's drilling through your skull, ain't it?" jeered Nick as he watched
Marquette's expression. "Well, your konk ain't so thick, Marquette. I always
did figure you had more brains than the dumb bulls I run up against.
     "It wasn't you, though, that counted. The guy I had to figure was The
Shadow. I tried to shiv him here, after Shervel shoved him into the wrong room
without Relf knowing it. But I missed. He nearly clipped me when I lammed.
Maybe he wised up to some of the game, right then.
     "That's why I shivved a guy named Faskin - and Shervel, too. They were
lugs who knew too much. And I'll tell you something, Marquette. This friend
Cranston of yours is close to The Shadow. Working with him, although" - Nick
was thinking of Kent Allard - "although I don't think Cranston is The Shadow.
     "He messed it, leaving the pay-off to you. Here you are, digging through
this joint to find that Bryand girl's body, when I've already got her on a boat
right outside here. Her and a guy named Vincent - one of The Shadow's stooges.
     "I had to come here" - Nick's tone was vicious - "to get Relf's body.
Because The Shadow was too wise. But what I can't take out on The Shadow, I'm
taking out on them - and on you!"
     Nick stepped back. He was ready for the signal that would start guns
blasting toward the men who stood before him. In the background, the extra Feds
were tense, ready to beat the crooks to the shots. It was a bad spot, though,
for Vic Marquette. He was the main target. Something was needed to assure his
safety.


     IT came, from the passage behind Nick Langion, a fierce, shuddering laugh
that could not be mistaken. It was like the roll of doom, with echoes that were
hollow, mirthless.
     Nick Langion sprang about, dived through the passage, shouting for his
comrades to finish Marquette and the Feds. But those crooks, like their leader,
had turned, startled by The Shadow's challenge.
     In those grim seconds, Marquette and the men beside him had a chance to
pile upon the three who were waveringly anxious to follow Nick. Instead,
Marquette grabbed the others, hauled them to the rocky floor. The reserves in
the background fired.
     Nick's three thugs were sprawled by bullets. Marquette came to his feet,
sprang over the forms of the three crooks who had been eliminated from battle.
Followed by his squad. Marquette took up the chase of Nick Langion.
     The master crook had gained the outside air, only to hear the roar of
battle. The Shadow was somewhere on the lawn, picking off the outspread crooks.
He shifted, his position impossible to guess, as he stabbed bullets at the
rooted gunners who revealed themselves by their own shots.
     Nick bolted in the direction of the Escapade, hoping to reach its deck
before The Shadow blocked him. He saw a gun flame from beside a bush. It was
The Shadow's. Marquette and the Feds were out from the passage, taking over the
fight. Nick realized suddenly that The Shadow's goal was also the Escapade.
     Swinging a gun, Nick tried to find The Shadow in the darkness. He ran
right into him. Nick's gun was wrenched away. He fought back, ripping furiously
at The Shadow's throat. The cloak came half away and The Shadow's slouch hat was
gone, when Nick managed a wild shout.
     "The searchlight!" He was calling to the crew aboard the rumrunner. "Flash
it! Start the typewriter!"


     BRIGHT-SHAFTED light cleaved from the deck of the Escapade. It flooded the
lawn, showed Marquette and the Feds caught in the glare. Under the fringe of the
searchlight were the three machine-gunners, ready to start action.
     But Nick saw other figures rising against the streaky dawn from the deck
of the rumrunner. They were the prisoners. Harry and Ruth, aiming revolvers for
the machine-gun crew. They fired squarely into the midst of the unsuspecting
trio.
     The machine gun never clicked. One of its handlers rolled from the deck,
to splash into the bay. Another did a long stagger, toward the stern, and
sprawled there. The third coiled beside the machine gun. His curled position
was the same as that of the guard left on the deck beside the forecastle.
     That watcher had been slugged long ago by The Shadow. For Nick Langion
knew the truth as he tussled anew with the foe who gripped him. He could see
The Shadow's uncovered face in the glare of the searchlight.
     It was the face of Long Jack! Nick Langion never guessed about the room in
Boston, where the real Long Jack lay. He never realized that The Shadow had
looked the fellow up beforehand, profiting from a list of names supplied by
Barney Faskin.
     Nick had no time to realize anything, except that the muzzle of a .45 was
planted between his eyes, its cold, round pressure as icy as actual death.
     His arms relaxing, Nick fell away. He met the blaze of merciless eyes from
the face that no longer cared about disguise. With a frantic yell, Nick dived
away and fled in the very direction that The Shadow wanted - straight toward
the arms of the waiting Feds.
     Marquette saw that Nick was unarmed; shouted for his men to hold their
fire. It was too late. Guns spurted. Nick Langion nose-dived to the turf. He
was dead when Marquette reached him. As Vic announced the fact, the searchlight
suddenly went black.
     From the dawn-streaked darkness came the quiver of The Shadow's laugh. It
sounded triumphant when it reached the deck of the Escapade. There was stirring
aboard the rakish boat. Its motor throbbed.
     Vic Marquette was the first to the shore. There lay others from the
Escapade, wounded thugs whose urge for battle was finished. Stacked beside them
were huge bundles - Nick's own cash that he had received from Relf, plus the
swag that he had taken from Danner and Tilmot.
     The Escapade was cleaving through the waters of the bay, a low,
swift-moving ship manned by a new crew of three. It was heading toward that
little isle where the lighthouse stood; there, it would pass from view as it
had before.
     From the stretch of water came the laugh that listeners had heard before;
louder, unleashed to strident strength ending with a shuddering crescendo.
     The trees, the walls of the old mansion, even the blackened spaces of the
fading night, brought back their echoes of The Shadow's mirth!


     THE END