THE SHADOW'S RIVAL
                                by Maxwell Grant

      As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," June 15, 1937.


    CHAPTER I

    ZERO HOUR

     A CLUSTER of hard-faced men was spread about a large, square room. The
place was well-furnished with cushioned chairs and tables; its windows were
heavily curtained. Those windows were all at one end of the room; the other
three walls had doors.
     The doors differed. One was a sliding barrier that marked the entrance to
an elevator shaft. Opposite it was a metal door that led to an upward
stairway,
for it was one step above the floor level. The third door was straight across
the room from the windows. It was open; and a passage beyond led to the
bedrooms of the sumptuous apartment.
     Among the hard-faced men was one who sat glum and sullen, watching his
companions as they helped themselves to a buffet supper. On the table beside
the sullen man lay outspread newspapers. From every front page glowered a
photograph of his own ugly face.
     The captions with those photographs named the sullen man as "Chink"
Rethlo, New York's own Public Enemy.
     Nickname and title were both appropriate.
     Chink's narrow-slitted eyes and yellowish complexion gave him a Mongolian
appearance, as did his straight black hair. His face was one that could be
easily recognized; as it had been, during his recent career of crime.
     Staging three bank holdups at one-week intervals, Chink had openly bagged
nearly a million dollars in boodle. His final raid, perpetrated four days ago,
had been the most desperate.
     It had produced a fray in which two bank guards and a uniformed policeman
had been shot dead by Chink's squad of killers.
     When Chink brooded, his pals felt uneasy. They were wise enough to keep
their thoughts to themselves; but their leader had a faculty for guessing what
was in their minds. He showed that ability as he rose from his chair with a
sudden snarl.
     "You're wondering what's eating me, huh?"
     Chink grated the query; then pointed to the newspapers. He gave his own
answer.
     "It's these news sheets! My mug staring offa every front page! The bulls
saying nothing! That may sound good to you lugs, but it's sour to me! When the
bulls have got nothing, they promise a lot!"
     Chink looked away from his silent followers, to eye the doorways and
windows with suspicion.
     "It looks like a swell hide-away, this joint," he added. "A regular
castle, on the twelfth floor of an old loft building that everybody's
forgotten. With our own elevator shaft, tucked in a corner, running straight
up
from the basement."
     "Yeah, and Plugger Kilgey down there, with a cover-up crew. Trigger men
in
a pill-box waiting to chop down anybody who barges in on us. It looks swell;
still, I don't like it!" Chink sat down in his chair. He picked out one of his
tough-visaged companions. Giving a nudge to the door at his left, Chink
ordered:
     "Get up to the roof, Herk. Take over Dave's lookout. Send him down here."
     Herk hurried to obey Chink's order. When the door had closed behind him,
Chink thought over his previous statements and made an amendment.
     "Maybe I'm wrong about the bulls," he declared. "They've been knocking
off
a lot of small-timers lately. That's probably luck. The bulls are dumb clucks,
mostly. But there's one guy that ain't. The Shadow!"
     Mention of the name caused listeners to share Chink's concern. Scourge of
the underworld, The Shadow was dreaded by all men of crime. Mysterious,
invisible, he revealed himself only as a fighter cloaked in black. His
arrivals
occurred at times and places that crooks least expected.
     "Why's The Shadow been laying off us?" demanded Chink, hoarsely. "I'll
tell you why. He's got something up that big sleeve of his! We gotta be on our
toes or first thing you know, The Shadow will be dropping in on us!"


      THOSE words were not only a correct prophecy; they were to be actually
realized, precisely as Chink had stated. Already a scene was set as The Shadow
wanted it.
      The roof that topped the loft building was as secluded a spot as any in
Manhattan. Herk and Dave, exchanging guard duty, were commenting on that very
fact. Situated among lower structures, in a poorly built section of the city,
the loft building commanded an excellent view.
      The roof was surrounded by a high parapet. Poking their chins above the
rail, the two crooks chuckled at their security.
      "I don't see why Chink's jittery," gruffed Herk. "Nobody can come up from
the cellar; and it's a cinch nobody's going to land here."
      "Not unless he's got wings;" returned Dave. "Look down there, Herk, at
the
next building. It's two stories short of this one. And thirty feet between."
      The two walked to the trapdoor that led to the stairs. Dave went down.
Herk paused to strike a match on the tinned surface of the closed trapdoor. He
was lighting a cigar, preparatory to taking over lookout duty.
      It was then that motion occurred above the roof of the adjacent building.
In their survey of that roof, the lookouts had ignored a high water tank at
the
rear corner. Mounted upon high metal stilts, the tower came above the level of
the loft building.
      Running from the conical peak of the water tank was a thin line of blue
steel wire; a mere thread, unnoticeable in the darkness. That stout but
slender
wire circled a bulgy ornamental post at the corner of the parapet, on the roof
that Herk guarded. The wire returned at a downward angle, to a steel strut
beneath the water tank.
      The double track, affording both access and departure, had been put there
as the result of a clever boomerang throw while Dave was on lookout duty. The
boomerang had carried a thin cord around the post and back to its sender. The
string had been used to draw the wire into its present fast position.
      The present motion at the top of the water tank was caused by a figure
that detached itself from darkness. A weirdly cloaked shape swung out into
space. Gloved hands gripped a tiny, wheeled trolley. The little car slid
smoothly, swiftly along the taut wire, carrying its tall passenger through the
air beneath it.
      Herk heard the sing of the wire. He halted where he was; tightened his
grip upon a revolver. The sound was evasive. It ended while Herk stared about.
All that the lookout heard was the final fade of an echo that toned like a
tuning fork. Herk looked in the right direction at last; but he saw no one.
      The black-cloaked figure had blended with the darkness at the corner
post.
He was across the rail, crouched on the roof itself. He was waiting for Herk's
next move.
     If the crook turned away, he would spell his own finish. If he approached
the corner post, he would accomplish the same result. The situation was a
toss-up, with Herk due to lose in either case.


     AS it happened, Herk decided to approach the rail. He was positive that
the sound had come from beyond the roof edge. He wanted to take a look below.
He chose the corner, because it promised two easy views, each in a different
direction. Herk gained neither.
     The crook's lookout duty ended six feet from the corner. Blackness rose
like a living thing. Before Herk could aim, long arms shot forward. Gloved
fists clamped Herk's neck, choked the words that came from the thug's throat.
Only Herk's soundless lips phrased the name of the attacker whom the crook had
recognized:
     "The Shadow!"
     Soon, Herk lay face downward in the corner. He was silenced by a tight
gag. His legs were bent up in back of him. A crisscrossed leather thong held
his wrists and ankles, almost in a bunch. That mode of binding was both quick
and efficient. On his face, Herk was as helpless as a beetle on its back.
     The night glow of Manhattan showed the figure that stalked toward the
trapdoor. Tall, lithe; The Shadow was clad in his familiar cloak. His head was
topped by a slouch hat. The down-turned brim hid all features except his
burning eyes.
     In one fist, The Shadow held a massive automatic. Beneath his cloak, a
second .45 was in readiness for an instant draw.
     Lone-handed, The Shadow was faring downward to settle scores with Chink
Rethlo and the murderer's tribe of killers.
     At the bottom of the steps, The Shadow found the closed door. In
darkness,
he turned the knob, so imperceptibly that no one on the other side could
notice
it. After that, The Shadow eased the door outward, with the same consummate
skill.
     Through a narrow crack, The Shadow saw Chink Rethlo. The jaundiced public
enemy was growling from his chair, saying more about the bulls. This time, he
was specifying one police officer.
     "Joe Cardona! Huh! That palooka thinks he's big time since they made him
an inspector. Look at what this news sheet calls him. An ace! If Cardona's an
ace, I'll take a hand of deuces!"
     The Shadow's second gun was out. His shoulder was ready to jam the door
open. He could see some members of Chink's crew. They were in suitable
position. Then came a sudden change that made the layout even better. Chink
was
leaning forward in his chair, one hand upraised.
     "Listen, you bozos. I hear the elevator coming up. It must be Morry,
bringing up some news."
     With that, Chink rose from his chair. He gazed toward the elevator and
the
others did the same. Crooks were totally off guard, so far as The Shadow's
door
was concerned. Shifting, the black-clad avenger could just see the elevator
door. The Shadow delayed action.
     His attack was ready. The opening of that door would be the zero hour.
Morry, in the elevator, would be the only one to see The Shadow's door swing
open. The fellow's shout would turn Chink and the other crooks squarely toward
the muzzles of The Shadow's guns.
     Zero hour. The time for the long-awaited thrust. Another stroke from The
Shadow, straight to the heart of crimeland. Helpless astonishment was due for
Chink Rethlo and his wanted band.
      THE SHADOW, likewise, was due for a surprise.
      The elevator had stopped. Its door clanged open with a vicious sweep.
Inside were six headquarters men, their guns bristling toward the center of
Chink's living room. Foremost in the unexpected group was a swarthy, stocky
man
whose poker-face meant business.
      The law's leader was Inspector Joe Cardona.
      The Shadow could not fire. His bullets might have reached the elevator.
He
was fortunate to have a metal-sheathed door between himself and the barrage
that
came. Cardona and his squad lost no time in starting battle. Chink Rethlo's
savage roar was their signal for action.
      With his shout, Chink whipped out a revolver. His pals grabbed for their
guns. The only one who brought his gat to aim was Chink, and be never pulled
the trigger. Cardona beat him to the shot. Hard upon the bark of Joe's
revolver
came a supporting salvo from the elevator.
      Chink Rethlo toppled, riddled by the bullets of the law. Other crooks
staggered, clipped by police shots. The rest let their guns fall; reached
their
hands high.
      Piling into the room, detectives straddled Chink's dead body and clamped
handcuffs on sprawling wounded men, along with the unscathed few who had
surrendered.
      At the elevator door, Joe Cardona stood triumphant; with revolver
leveled,
he stood like a watchful hawk while his men gathered in the members of Chink's
marauding band. This was a real catch, one of the best that Cardona had ever
managed. The ace had a right to feel proud. In fact, Joe's chest could have
swelled more than it actually did.
      Beyond the opposite door, keen eyes were viewing the scene that meant
more
than it showed. The law had done more than capture Chink's renegade outfit.
The
law had plucked that crew from the grasp of The Shadow.
      Long had The Shadow anticipated that conquest. To-night, he had brought
his plans to a point of certainty. In such endeavors, The Shadow was
invariably
hours, sometimes days, ahead of all others. This time, the law had reversed
the
situation.
      Joe Cardona had won the victory entirely on his own. The Shadow's zero
hour had brought him absolutely nothing.


    CHAPTER II

    THE SECOND SURPRISE

     THE SHADOW did not begrudge Cardona's victory. Often, in the past, The
Shadow had stepped back into darkness to let Cardona take credit for deeds
that
were actually the cloaked fighter's own. What did concern The Shadow was the
situation produced by the law's remarkable invasion.
     It meant that The Shadow's efforts had suddenly become unnecessary. He
could hang his cloak and hat upon the rack; use his automatics as wall
trophies. Either that, or seek some other city where crime ran rampant because
the town lacked a police officer as efficient as Joe Cardona.
      Those were disconcerting prospects, even for The Shadow. Added to those
future possibilities was a present dilemma. Right now, The Shadow was in a
spot
that he did not like. He would rather be circled by a squad of aiming killers
than found, like a skeleton in a closet, behind a door in Chink Rethlo's
headquarters.
      Cardona had spotted the door that hid The Shadow. Joe was striding across
the room, to see what might be beyond it. The Shadow eased the door shut; let
the knob turn. The latch had behaved properly when opening; in closing, it
slipped. Joe heard the click.
      With a leap, Cardona crossed the living room, whipped open the door and
aimed his gun up the darkened stairs. He shouted a command to halt. Instead,
The Shadow gave a quick upward kick that reached Joe's gun wrist. There was
leverage in the swift move.
      Joe went plopping back into the living room. His gun was pointed upward
when he fired. The bullet found the ceiling above the stairway door.
      Leaving the crooks to the headquarters squad, Cardona took to the stairs,
in pursuit of his unknown antagonist. The Shadow was at the top before Joe had
come five steps upward.
      Reaching the roof, The Shadow closed the trapdoor and hooked a metal
catch
in place. That would hold Cardona for a few minutes; all that The Shadow
needed.
      Reaching the corner of the rail, The Shadow slashed the thongs that held
Herk. As the fellow squirmed to rid his arms and legs of their numbness, The
Shadow clipped the gag. His automatics beneath his cloak, The Shadow gripped
Herk and hauled him to his feet.
      As the thug gulped at sight of The Shadow, he received a greater surprise
than his release. Into Herk's fist The Shadow shoved the crook's own gun. For
a
moment, Herk gaped at the weapon; then, with a snarl, he raised it to aim for
The Shadow. A gloved fist jabbed the side of Herk's jaw.
      Spun clear about, the roof guard went staggering toward the trapdoor,
trying to catch his footing. He sagged to one knee; he came up half groggy. He
was facing the trapdoor when it bounced upward under a hook-breaking heave
from
Cardona's wide shoulders.
      Coming out upon the roof, Cardona saw Herk. He took the crook for the
adversary on the stairs. He thought that Herk's effort to raise his gun was
the
challenge of a thug who wanted battle. Joe piled upon the groggy lookout and
flattened him upon the roof.
      Herk could not ease his fall. The back of his head thwacked the roof.
Knocked cold, the last thug was Cardona's prisoner.


      WHILE Joe was pounding upon the already helpless thug, The Shadow went
over the rail. The wire whined as the cloaked rider zimmed downward to the
next
roof.
      Cardona did not hear the faint sound. Looking around his own roof, Joe
saw
that it was deserted. He hauled Herk through the trapdoor and dragged him
downwards.
      It took The Shadow only a short moment to cut the wire and haul it
inward.
He descended through his own building and watched an alleyway out back. Soon,
a
cellar door came open from the adjoining building. Cardona and his squad
appeared, marching more prisoners ahead of them. They had captured "Plugger"
Kilgey and the downstairs gun crew.
      After the police had gone, The Shadow headed through darkness. A few
blocks away, he entered a parked limousine. Through a speaking tube, he spoke
in quiet, leisurely tone to his chauffeur:
      "The club, Stanley."
      During that ride, The Shadow divested himself of black cloak and hat. He
placed those garments in a special drawer that pulled out from beneath the big
rear seat. Passing street lights showed the limousine's passenger to be a
gentleman attired in evening clothes.
      His features were hawkish, almost masklike; that face was the well-known
countenance of Lamont Cranston. In his present guise, The Shadow passed as a
millionaire member of the exclusive Cobalt Club. Lamont Cranston, wealthy
globe-trotter, was frequently seen at that club when he happened to be in New
York.
      It had been some time since Cranston had appeared at his club; and there
was a definite reason for his arrival there to-night. As Cranston, The Shadow
wanted to meet a man who would probably be there. That man was Ralph Weston,
police commissioner of New York.
      In his analysis of to-night's episode, The Shadow had decided that
something unusual must lie behind it. Chink Rethlo had mentioned that the law
had recently "knocked off" some small-timers. The Shadow was conversant with
that fact.
      Some of the small-timers were bigger than Chink had cared to admit. The
Shadow could cite three definite instances.
      "Kid" Lombroy, head of a budding dope ring, had been arrested in
Chinatown
with the goods on him. Perry Candreth, blackmailer de luxe, had been cornered
while threatening a wealthy Californian. "Goggles" Barchew, a fake peddler who
specialized in warehouse robberies, had found his whole crowd surrounded by
detectives. The law had caught those crooks during a job.
      Oddly, The Shadow had planned to handle Lombroy as soon as the dopester
received his next shipment. He had arranged a special trap that would later
have snared Candreth. The Shadow had also started out to pick up Barchew's
trail, only to find the police in charge.
      In each case, there were elements whereby the law could have managed to
get in ahead, although the chances had been remote. The raid of Chink Rethlo's
hide-out was something different. The Shadow had not foreseen the slightest
possibility that the law could have figured where Chink was located.
      This final instance proved that there must have been something unusual
about the others. As he rode along, The Shadow became more positive that some
unknown element must be at work.


     WHEN Lamont Cranston appeared in the Cobalt Club, he immediately
encountered Ralph Weston. The police commissioner was exuberant over the law's
latest triumph. He gave Cranston details that Cardona had just telephoned.
     "Congratulations, commissioner;" remarked Cranston, in an indifferent
tone. "Your department is most fortunate!"
     "Fortunate!" snapped Weston. "You talk like the newspapers, Cranston.
They
never give the police proper credit."
     "In hunting big game in the jungle," observed Cranston, in reminiscent
tone, "we sometimes use native beaters. They correspond to your plain-clothes
men. Sometimes we use tame animals as decoys, like your stool pigeons.
     "There are times, though, when we obtain the services of a man who knows
the habits of the beasts we seek. He advises us. We find the tigers or the
elephants. We shoot them and take the credit. That credit actually belongs to
some one else. The man whom we consulted."
     Weston stared. Meeting Cranston's gaze, his look became sheepish. Then,
brusquely, he asked his friend to come with him. They entered the
commissioner's official car. Weston gave an address; as the car started, he
spoke to Cranston.
     "You've guessed it," admitted Weston. "A secret that we have kept for
months. The expert in question is named Gannet Seard. He is a wealthy chap who
has a giant intellect. Gradually, he has taken up criminology as a hobby. He
informed us privately of his conclusions.
     "Seard has cracked a dozen crime cases in the past five months. Three
cases involved criminals of considerable ability. And this discovery of Chink
Rethlo is the greatest of all.
     "Seard has always asked if I have kept matters secret. He has also
reminded me that he would like to meet any person who either guessed or
learned
that a master-brain was behind the law's recent activities. Therefore, I am
taking you to meet Seard."


      WESTON turned on the dome light and drew out paper and pencil. In his
enthusiasm, the commissioner wanted to show Cranston how Seard had worked out
the Rethlo case. The steps seemed simple, when Weston put them on paper.
      Seard had figured that Chink had a hide-out convenient in Manhattan,
because of the recurrent robberies. He had studied data concerning Chink's
past. An ex-racketeer, Chink had liked luxury; and his underlings had enjoyed
comfort also. Chink always chose a lavish, penthouse apartment when he was in
the money.
      Since he had ample time and cash to prepare for his recent crimes, Chink
-
according to Seard's logic - would have prepared a hide-away in lavish style.
At
the same time, it would require certain specifications, such as protection and
isolation.
      Seard had first worked on a map of Manhattan, eliminating various areas.
He had next studied individual buildings from their descriptions. Those had
been cut down to a few that would suit Chink's probable tastes. Seard had
finally checked over the histories and ownerships of those buildings.
      Old records had produced forgotten facts. The original owner of a certain
loft building had placed his own offices on the top story, with a special
elevator running up from the basement, so that the rest of the building could
be locked at night. At present, the building was little used. The owner who
had
recently purchased it appeared to be a mythical person.
      Recognizing that the cellar would be guarded against outside attack,
Seard
had adopted a unique plan for reaching the top-floor hide-out. He told the
police to carefully tap the wall on one of the middle stories. Cardona and his
squad managed the job. As Seard had foreseen, they found wires that supplied
current both to operate the mechanism and the call bell.
      They had sent a signal to the elevator operator. Morry, coming up in the
cage, suddenly found the elevator halted and darkened, when the dicks cut off
the juice. Through the wall, they had overpowered the operator. Cardona had
shoved him out through the break, to be held by reserve detectives.
      The police had completed the upward trip, which had resulted in the death
of Chink; the capture of others. Descending to the basement, they had
experienced no trouble with Plugger's cellar crew. The pill-box had been
placed
to repel outside invaders; not persons who came down by the elevator.
      Oddly, Weston revealed these facts to one who had already analyzed them
on
his own. Cranston, as The Shadow, had made progress similar to Seard's. The
only
difference was that The Shadow, playing his lone, daring game, had chosen the
roof as a means of entry.
     "What do you think of it, Cranston?"
     Weston's query called for admiration. Quietly, Cranston replied:
     "Excellent, commissioner! I am most anxious to meet Gannet Seard."
     "You should be," chuckled Weston - "for another reason. I have made some
deductions of my own, that Seard does not know about. I can tell you something
that he has not chosen to reveal; but which I have pieced together, to my own
satisfaction."
     Cranston's face was quizzical beneath the glow of the dome light. In
confidential tone, Weston inquired:
     "You have heard of The Shadow, that mysterious personage who has helped
us
overcome crime?"
     A nod from Cranston. Weston remembered something.
     "Of course," he said. "As I recall it, Cranston, you have actually seen
The Shadow, on certain occasions."
     "I have."
     Weston smiled in anticipation of the surprise that he intended to
produce.
In a sense, it was a surprise, even for The Shadow. In confident tone, Weston
stated:
     "You have heard of The Shadow. You have seen him. To-night, Cranston, you
will meet him!"
     To emphasize his positive opinion, Weston added: "Gannet Seard is The
Shadow!"


    CHAPTER III

    THE GIANT BRAIN

     THE existence of Gannet Seard was remarkable in itself. The fact that
Weston took the man to be The Shadow, made the surprise a double-barreled one.
Nevertheless, Weston's belief was logical enough, when The Shadow analyzed it.
     On a few previous occasions, The Shadow had come very close to
anticipating police moves designed by Seard. It was possible that he had been
seen in Chinatown, and at the warehouse, when the law thwarted robbery there.
     To-night, The Shadow had encountered one of Chink's men, Herk, upon the
roof of the loft building. Perhaps Herk, when captured by the police, had
blabbed something about The Shadow. Such reports would naturally strengthen
Weston's theory that Seard was The Shadow. Since Seard had arranged the law's
campaigns, he could easily have been present when the police battled the
crooks.
     Considering these angles, The Shadow found himself whetted to the
prospect
of a meeting with Seard. That episode was not long delayed. Within ten
minutes,
Weston's big car pulled up in front of a quiet, old-fashioned house with
brownstone front.
     A frail, tired-faced servant admitted Weston and Cranston. The fellow
wore
black clothes and answered to the name of Havlett. He led the way to a huge
library at the rear of the ground floor. The room's walls were lined with
books; and all about were stacks of volumes that had not been classified.
     As the visitors picked their way through irregular passages between the
piles of books, Weston remarked:
     "A curious collection, these books. They deal with all sorts of unusual
subjects, criminology included. Seard has another stack room in the cellar. A
secretary comes here every day, to classify the volumes."
     There was a tiny elevator in the hall that led off the library. They
entered it, and the car pumped slowly upward. Passing the second floor, Weston
pointed through a glass window in the shaft door. Cranston saw a room that
looked like a laboratory.
     "Seard makes tests in there. Sometimes he brings in experts to help him.
He is a busy man. That is why he needs this elevator. He has a bad limp; too
many stairs would tire him."


     AT the third floor, Havlett led the way directly to Seard's study. There,
The Shadow viewed a most unusual room.
     There was little attempt at orderly arrangement. Seard had apparently
gathered all the objects that particularly pleased him, and placed them
somewhere in the study.
     On the right was a table that bore a chessboard. A few chessmen were on
the squares; beside them were sheaves of paper covered with pencil marks, that
indicated an unfinished chess problem. Close by the table was a small bookcase
with volumes that pertained only to chess.
     In the far corner were four display cases, their glass tops tilted at an
angle. They contained a collection of rare coins. There were books on coins
near the showcases; but numismatics was not Seard's only hobby. Big shelves
above supported a row of massive stamp albums.
     At the left of the room was an odd-looking radio set, with a screen above
it. Not content with short-wave experiments, Seard had also gone in for
television.
     The room was furnished with all sorts of oddities - teakwood chairs,
gold-crusted taborets, tapestries of Persian origin. Oriental rugs lay thick
upon the floor, so plentiful that they overlapped each other.
     In the inner corner at the left was a desk, which looked as though it had
been pushed there to make room for the rest of the furnishings. In the cramped
space behind the desk sat Gannet Seard.
     The man was as unique as the abode that he occupied. Seard was
long-limbed
and thin; almost spidery in appearance. His shoulders were narrow and sloping;
they supported a head that seemed to tax their strength. Seard's chin started
up from a narrow point; though his cheeks were hollow, his face widened to
accommodate eyes that were well apart, with a broad nose between.
     Above, Seard's head continued its bulge, so that his forehead was high
and
his cranium broad. The whole result was a greatly oversize head, far out of
proportion to his frail build.
     Some persons might have considered Seard's head a deformity; but not
Weston. To the police commissioner, that skull bulged with brains. In fact,
Weston looked to Cranston, hoping that his friend would have the same opinion.
     Cranston's eyes did show considerable interest, which could have been
taken for mild admiration. He noted a bookcase beside Seard's desk. It
contained the books that Seard liked most. Some of those pertained to
criminology; others related to deep mathematical subjects, including such
theoretical matters as the fourth dimension.
     Seard's desk was strewn with papers and books. He was busy when the
visitors entered. His top-heavy head was bobbing up and down. He was too
engrossed to see the arrivals; but he recognized Weston's voice when the
commissioner spoke.


     SEARD tilted back in his chair. He saw Cranston; Seard's large eyes
glistened, his wan lips smiled.
     "Ah, commissioner," rumbled Seard, "a friend of yours, who suspected that
such a person as myself existed!"
     Weston was awed by Seard's prompt deduction. He introduced Cranston.
Seard
reached across the desk to shake hands. While his visitors seated themselves,
Weston repeated the remarks that Cranston had made at the Cobalt Club.
      "A good analysis," commended Seard. "Criminals do resemble big game.
Sometimes, though, they hide like ostriches. Chink Rethlo, for instance. His
head was buried; but his feathers were in view."
      He pointed to a cradle telephone that was on his desk.
      "Inspector Cardona just called me," said Seard. "Unfortunately, he did
not
find Rethlo's loot. It was not at the hide-out."
      "You doubted that it would be there," recalled Weston. "You told us that
the swag would probably be elsewhere; and you assured us that you could learn
its hiding place."
      Seard's lips pursed. He reached to the wall and pulled up a small, blocky
machine that was mounted on wheels.
      "This is my perfected lie detector," stated Seard. "It makes other
devices
of the sort look primitive. It registers the effort behind every lie. It tells
whether questions were hot or cold. From its records, I can prepare suitable
questions for another quiz. I can work to the very answers that a person is
seeking to hide. Step by step, this detector forces the truth."
      Seard showed enthusiasm as he spoke; but he finished his statements with
a
shrug.
      "I intended to use my detector upon Rethlo," he added. "Unfortunately,
the
man is dead. The prisoners probably know nothing. There was Cardona's mistake,
commissioner."
      With a long-fingered fist, Seard pounded the desk.
      "I told Cardona to take Rethlo," he reminded. "Such a stroke, I said,
would end all fight from the others. Instead of taking Rethlo, Cardona killed
him.
      "True," admitted Weston. "But it was in self-defense."
      "Of course," rumbled Seard. "Still, Cardona might have acted less
hastily.
After all, Rethlo is dead. Furthermore, commissioner, you have forgotten a
reminder that I gave you. I said not to let the newspapers know about Rethlo's
capture."
      "That could not be helped, Seard."
      The crime expert smiled indulgently.
      "My business is to give advice," he declared. "I aid the police
department. I do not run it. I am doing the best I can. By to-morrow" - he
indicated the papers on his desk - "I may have come to some conclusion
regarding the hiding place where Rethlo put his loot. I hope that my finding
will not be too late."


     PAPERS crinkled near Seard's telephone. A small black cat had jumped up
from a taboret. Seard petted the kitten and let it stroll about the desk.
Havlett entered at that moment and set a tray on a little table that he
wheeled
beside Seard.
     "You will pardon me," said Seard, to the visitors. "I am having my
supper.
Not a large repast - crackers, cheese, a bottle of milk. Ah, Havlett" - Seard
smiled up at the servant - "I see that you brought to-day's milk. Remember
that
such is to be the rule. You can clear the chessboard, Havlett. I shall not use
it again to-night."
     "Yes, sir."
      While Seard was spreading cheese on crackers, Weston put an anxious
question:
      "Have you had any more trouble from Creep Hoyran?"
      "No," replied Seard, "He is about due again. I am glad that you reminded
me, commissioner."
      The Shadow recognized the name of "Creep" Hoyran. The fellow was a
dangerous murderer who had been captured a few years before. Found to be
criminally insane, Creep had escaped the electric chair, to be committed to an
asylum instead. As Cranston, The Shadow gave no indication that he had ever
heard of Creep.
      Noting his friend's questioning expression, Weston explained who Creep
Hoyran was. He added facts, however, that were new to The Shadow.
      "Mr. Seard was the man who produced evidence of Creep's murders," said
the
commissioner. "A few weeks ago, Creep escaped from the asylum. Since then, he
had been trying to take Seard's life."
      "Once with a bomb," chuckled Seard. "It came in a package so beautifully
wrapped that I suspected it at once. It happened to be my birthday; and no one
ever sends me presents."
      "He tried to shoot you, later," recalled Weston. "From the roof of the
house across the street."
      "Yes," nodded Seard. "When I was in the front room on this floor. I
frequently sit there, quite conspicuously, beside the big window. Long ago, I
recognized that I made an excellent target at that window. That was why I had
it equipped with bulletproof glass. That was a little detail unknown to Creep
Hoyran."
      Still chuckling, Seard reached for the bottle of milk. He started to
remove the cap that had the day of the week printed on it. There was a little
tab of cardboard in the center, that made removal of the bottle-top easy.
Those
tabs usually needed to be loosened with a thumb nail.
      This tab came up without effort. Cranston saw it; but Seard did not, for
he was looking toward Weston. All that told Seard of the tab's looseness was
the touch of his thumb.
      While he again spoke to Weston, Seard looked about the desk. He saw a
small empty ash tray. Nodding in reply to a remark from Weston, he poured a
little of the milk into the ash tray and set it in front of the black kitten.
      Weston looked puzzled. He had never seen Seard do that before. Seard
wagged a forefinger for silence. They watched the cat lap the milk. The result
was surprisingly swift. After a few licks, the kitten rolled dead.


    "HAVLETT!" The servant came over as Seard called. "Take away the cat.
Also
dispose of this milk. Bring me a bottle of yesterday's. I think I shall enjoy
it
better!"
     Cranston sat calm-faced, while Weston gaped along with Havlett. It was
the
commissioner who finally voiced:
     "Creeper Hoyran!"
     "Of course," declared Seard. "Poison, this time. The fellow is insanely
clever!"
     "We must trap him for you -"
     "Not yet, commissioner. His efforts intrigue me. A sound brain" - Seard
tapped his bulgy forehead - "can always outwit a demented mind. This is a
fascinating game! It gives me firsthand information concerning an insane
murderer's methods. Creep Hoyran will harm no one else while I am alive. His
fixation is settled upon my death!"
     Rising, Seard plucked a heavy cane from beside the desk. He stepped
forward, leaning heavily upon the stick. Smiling, he remarked that he had work
to do; that he would prefer to resume his conversation to-morrow night.
     Weston nodded to Cranston. The two arose and shook hands with Seard.
     As they rode away in the commissioner's car, Weston bubbled over Seard's
uncanny cleverness. He talked about the incident of the milk. He repeated his
belief that Gannet Seard was The Shadow. Cranston heard the commissioner's
comments in silence.
     Weston was right. Seard a man whose debut as a crime-solver had
accomplished remarkable results. In a sense, he was The Shadow's rival. That
thought was spurring The Shadow onward to new action.
     Before this night was ended, The Shadow intended to gain an important
goal
before it was uncovered by Gannet Seard.


     CHAPTER IV

     THE BELATED GOAL

      UNTIL his visit to Seard's, The Shadow had been confident that Chink's
swag had been at the bank robber's luxurious hide-out. Chink was the sort of
crook who held on to all he grabbed. True, Weston had not mentioned the swag
when he talked about Cardona's raid, but that meant nothing.
      Cardona would not have found the swag without a search; moreover, Weston
had been too full of talk about Seard. Such a minor matter as the recovery of
a
million dollars in stolen funds was the sort of thing that the self-important
police commissioner was likely to forget. Weston was the sort of person who
would not hear an elephant's approach, if he happened to be interested in
watching an ant.
      Seard had not forgotten that the police were after a million dollars: Nor
had Joe Cardona. That was the main thing that they had discussed during their
telephone conversation. It proved that Cardona must have made a good search at
Chink's. In all likelihood, the swag was missing.
      It proved something else. Seard had figured Chink Rethlo differently than
had The Shadow. Both had picked the hide-out. The friendly rivalry stood equal
on that point. But Seard had gone The Shadow one better, in deciding that the
stolen bank funds would be elsewhere.
      Soon after Cranston had left Weston at the Cobalt Club, a bluish light
appeared in the corner of a pitch-black room. Lamont Cranston had become The
Shadow. Cloaked in black, the master of mystery was considering the subject of
Chink Rethlo's swag. That meant a brief review of Chink's methods.
      Chink had not finished with crime, when death caught up with him. If he
had, he would have left the city, instead of keeping to the hide-out. Chink
was
wanted; but he had ways of getting out of town. Since Chink had remained in
Manhattan, the stolen money must also be in New York. Chink would not have
shipped it out piecemeal.
      Where did Chink put the swag?
      At his hide-out, The Shadow had said. Somewhere else, Seard had decided.
Seard was right where The Shadow was mistaken. No need to waste time over that
point. Granting that Seard had made a better deduction, The Shadow's course
was
to regain lost ground and this time beat Seard to the find.
      Beneath the blue light, The Shadow had sheaves of data that pertained to
Chink Rethlo. Not a pal of Chink's was important enough to have held Chink's
complete trust. From a file, The Shadow brought other papers. He began to
study
different names.
      What The Shadow wanted was the name of a man who might have known Chink,
and who was of the caliber to hold the crook's full confidence. It was a big
order; and that made it all the easier. Like Chink's hide-out, it became more
obvious, the longer investigation proceeded on the right track.
     One by one, The Shadow eliminated names, until his finger rested on that
of "Blackey" Brenby. Of all the eligible parties, Blackey was a stand-out.


      BLACKEY BRENBY was a bookie, whose place of business was an obscure cigar
store. Blackey, himself, was only there at intervals. He made occasional trips
out of town, never for longer than a day or two; and he left his betting
business in the hands of capable assistants. There were always times, though,
when Blackey was at the place alone.
      Sometimes, he slept upstairs over the cigar store.
      Blackey was a man that Chink could have contacted secretly after each big
job. It would have been easy for the bank robber to leave his full spoils with
the bookie. With that for a starter, there was another reason why Blackey
might
be the swag-keeper.
      Blackey Brenby, whatever his shortcomings, had never crossed a friend.
There were times when huge sums of money had been entrusted to his care. Once,
when a racketeer had died from bullet poisoning, leaving a few hundred
thousand
dollars of supposedly legitimate funds, Blackey had kept the money while
lieutenants had arbitrated over its division.
      That was only one instance. Every time that Blackey had been custodian of
any cash, he always turned it back to the owners. He collected a fee, of
course; anywhere from five to ten percent. Blackey simply deposited such funds
in his bank, and waited until they were wanted.
      Chink Rethlo had played the races. Chances were, he knew Blackey. Perhaps
the bookie's integrity concerned only the keeping of money, not the source
from
which it had been obtained. Chink could easily have sounded out Blackey. If he
had, the odds were fair that Blackey would have made the undercover deal.
      If so, the funds could be in one spot only: the cellar under Blackey's
cigar store. No one would ever think of entering there. The place contained
nothing worth stealing; and Blackey was well liked in the underworld.
      From Chink's standpoint that cellar, with Blackey in charge, could
certainly have been an ideal location for the profits from the bank jobs.
      The Shadow was ready to leave the sanctum. As he clicked out the bluish
light, a tiny white spot glowed from the wall. The Shadow reached for
earphones. A quiet voice spoke; it was Burbank, who served as The Shadow's
contact with active agents.
      Burbank had word from Clyde Burke, a reporter who worked for The Shadow.
Joe Cardona had left headquarters, to meet Commissioner Weston.
      A laugh whispered through the sanctum. Sinister, weird in its shivering
echoes, that mirth marked The Shadow's departure. To-night, the laugh told
more. While Weston and Cardona were talking matters over and hoping for advice
from Seard by to-morrow morning, The Shadow might be reaching the very goal
that they hoped to eventually gain.
      This time, The Shadow foresaw success. The law would recognize his skill,
not Seard's, as the factor that had produced the return of a missing million.


     INSTEAD of using his limousine, The Shadow rode to his destination in a
special taxi, handled by a driver - Moe Shrevnitz - who was one of The
Shadow's
lesser agents. A limousine would have been noticed, cruising the shabby
section
where Blackey's cigar store was situated.
     The cab rolled along the front street.
     It took an avenue; then the back street. The front street looked
preferable. The Shadow ordered the cab to continue. At the next avenue, the
taxi followed the line of an overhead "el" structure. There was a station at
the corner; at the foot of the steps, an enterprising newsboy was selling his
wares.
     The newsie's shouts proclaimed the death of Chink Rethlo. The bulldog
editions of the morning newspapers had probably been on the streets for half
an
hour. Blackey's cigar store was closed, which meant that he might be out. If
so,
there was a slight chance that Blackey had learned the latest news.
     When the cab again approached the front of the cigar store, it slackened
speed. There was motion between the cab door and a blackened stretch of
sidewalk; but that motion was indiscernible. No eye could have discerned the
shape that blended with the building wall.
     By the time the cab was two blocks away, The Shadow had opened the door
of
the cigar store. The double lock, though strong, was not formidable to The
Shadow.
     Blackey's place looked like a regular cigar store, under the wary gleam
of
The Shadow's searching flashlight. At the back, however, it had a rather
commodious office, which the bookie used for his actual business. The office
had the sort of safe that one would expect to find there. It was an antiquated
boxlike affair, with faded gold paint ornamentations.
     Plenty of visitors had seen the interior of the safe. Blackey used it in
the daytime, but he never left important books there. The bookie either put
those in a safe-deposit vault, or slept with them. His cash was regularly
deposited in an all-night bank, although Blackey frequently carried large sums
of money on his person.
     That accounted for the strong-locked door that The Shadow found in the
hall. It was the entrance to Blackey's upstairs apartment. There was a cellar
door, too, and it was strongly locked. The Shadow took longer with it than he
had at the front door. Once the cellar door was open, The Shadow made an
expected discovery.
     The inside of the door was sheathed with metal. Its battered outer
surface
of plain wood was simply a blind to make it look unimportant. Blackey's cellar
promised to produce the find that The Shadow wanted.


      THE cellar itself was stone-walled; ancient but strong. Its windows were
so narrow that no one could have squeezed through them. They had bars that
looked simple enough; but close inspection showed their strength. Blackey had
taken protection even against contortionists.
      There was a door that led outside. It was at the back of the cellar and
obviously opened to some rear courtyard. That door was more heavily plated
than
the one at the top of the cellar steps. With these indications, The Shadow
made
a prompt search for some special hiding place in the cellar.
      He found it, in the most remote corner. Deep in an old coal bin, The
Shadow came to a wooden backboard instead of a stone wall. He studied every
board, noticed that all were tongued-and-grooved. One board had a loosened
nail.
      The Shadow removed it and found it to be a short one. He inserted a steel
pick. After a short probe, something clicked. The Shadow slid aside the wooden
barrier. It was metal on the other side.
      What interested The Shadow more was the space that he uncovered. It was
the secret vault room that belonged to Blackey Brenby. The space was fairly
wide, but quite shallow. The reason for its short depth was a vault door.
     The Shadow had to stoop to enter the cavity. In that hollow, musty space
the slightest echo was audible. That aided The Shadow in his painstaking work.
His own efforts were silent; but there were slight clicks as he worked the
combination dials. Those sounds were magnified for The Shadow's ear.
     The Shadow could sense each tumbler's fall. Blackey's vault yielded with
an ease that would have dismayed its owner. The door opened smoothly under The
Shadow's careful pull. Inside, the vault proved shallow. It was divided into
numerous compartments, open like pigeonholes.
     Certain papers were worthless to The Shadow. Others were those that he
wanted. Out came stacks of securities, bundles of bank notes. The Shadow
recognized them instantly as loot from Chink's bank robberies. The Shadow had
hit the truth. Blackey Brenby had kept the swag for Chink Rethlo.
     Estimating the various bundles, The Shadow had accounted for
approximately
a quarter million when he reached the finish of the hoard. Oddly, he had come
across spoils from all three robberies, which indicated that Chink had placed
all his loot here. Yet two-thirds of it was gone.
     The Shadow gained an answer to that riddle when he checked on the
bundles.
He learned that all the securities were non-negotiable. The currency consisted
of bills with known numbers, all of which had been reported to the police.
     Obviously, all the worth-while wealth had been removed. The man who had
taken it had saved himself the trouble of taking away funds that could not be
unloaded. That smacked of hasty flight by a rogue who did not care to be
overburdened with excess weight.
     It also proved that The Shadow had reached his goal too late. One by one,
the cloaked investigator replaced the bundles.


     EXTINGUISHING his flashlight, The Shadow turned to leave the hidden
vault.
This partial find would be welcomed by the police. The law could have its
tip-off from The Shadow, instead of Gannet Seard. The Shadow had gained crumbs
where he had hoped for a whole loaf; but at least he had won a race against
his
new rival in the field of crime investigation.
     Events were to deny The Shadow even that small satisfaction. As he moved
stealthily through the darkness of the empty coal bin, a sound reached him.
That slight scuffling noise was due to bring a chain of consequences. For the
present, The Shadow regarded it only as a lone indication.
     Footsteps, shuffling warily across the cellar floor. Some one was in this
cellar, blindly approaching the very place where The Shadow waited. That
sneaking prowler, whoever he might be, was due for a surprise.
     So was The Shadow.


    CHAPTER V

    SNATCHED VICTORY

    THE footsteps ceased. The man in the darkness was blundering badly. He
did
not find the coal bin; in fact, it became evident that he was not even looking
for it. The Shadow heard him groping hazily, as if fishing for a ceiling
light.
At last the prowler found one.
     A chain clinked as a hand tugged it. From the coal bin, The Shadow saw a
chunky, dark-faced man whose features were flat and pudgy. He recognized the
fellow as a tough "torpedo" named "Pug" Sheedy. Once Pug had been a gang
lieutenant, with a crew at his command. That job had ended when The Shadow had
settled with the big-shot who had hired Pug.
     The chunky crook was carrying a revolver; but his hand was lowered. Pug
squinted all around the cellar; he grinned for a short while, then looked
uncertain. He saw the entrance to the coal bin and tiptoed toward it.
Hoarsely,
Pug whispered the name:
     "Blackey!"
     Pug had called for Blackey. Instead, he was confronted by blackness. Not
ordinary, lifeless gloom, but blackness that materialized into a living form.
From the coal bin emerged a shape that swung solidly into the light. Before a
snarl could come from Pug's soured lips, the crook was squinting at a cloaked
foeman whose very presence shook Pug's nerve.
     "The Shadow!"
     The name gulped from Pug's throat. He saw the sinister eyes beneath the
slouch hat. He felt the powerful loom of the automatic muzzle that yawned upon
him like a tunnel of doom. Hissed words came from invisible lips. They ordered
Pug to speak.
     The crook talked.
     "I ain't stagin' no job," he pleaded. "It was on account of Blackey that
I
come here! Blackey Brenby! Maybe you know the guy - he's a bookie."
     Pug was trying to square himself; and his effort showed earnestness. He
let his revolver clatter to the floor. He was reaching with both hands.
     "I can prove it," he insisted. "Honest! It's stickin' here in my coat
pocket - the note Blackey sent me!"
     The Shadow saw a protruding wad of paper. He stepped forward; as Pug
shrank back, The Shadow used his free hand to whisk out the paper. Deftly, he
unfolded it with one hand. Raising the paper, he studied it without taking his
gaze from Pug.
     The paper was a race-track dope sheet. Typed across a blank space was the
message:

         PUG: Cover the place for me to-night. After ten bells. Make
    sure I'm out before you go. Take a gander down cellar. Use the keys.
    Thanks.
                                                     BLACKEY.

     The Shadow recalled an old typewriter with ragged purplish ribbon,
upstairs in Blackey's office. The message looked as if it had been typed on
that machine. That indicated that Pug had actually received it. The torpedo
would have had no purpose in typing the message himself. He had not expected
to
meet The Shadow. If he had, he would have stayed away.
     "It was shoved under my door," explained Pug. "I found it when I come in
to-night. Blackey's always been a right guy; there wasn't no harm in doin' him
a favor."
     Pug paused. He nervously tried to lick his lips; but his tongue was dry.
He waited for The Shadow to speak. No words came from those hidden lips.


     THE SHADOW was considering the possibilities of the message. It had a
certain face value. Taken step by step, it indicated that Blackey Brenby had
picked up one of the first newspapers that reached the street. Reading of
Chink's death, the bookie had hot-footed it for his cigar store.
     Blackey's deal regarding the bank loot had probably been made solely
between himself and Chink. Nothing had been included of taking care of Chink's
followers, in case of their leader's death. Therefore, Blackey could have
regarded himself as the rightful heir to Chink's swag. Perhaps that proviso
had
even been part of the deal.
     Then Blackey could have experienced the jitters. He might have pictured a
chance visit from some survivors of Chink's outfit, who had luckily learned
where the swag lay. Blackey's natural cautiousness would have called for a
suitable convoy to cover his removal of the swag.
     Pug Sheedy was a natural choice. The fellow was capable in his tough way,
but too dumb to suspect that Blackey would be walking out with more than a
half
a million dollars. While The Shadow considered this likelihood, Pug did some
more talking. The Shadow's cold silence was making the crook uneasy.
     "I didn't figure nothin' much in back of it," said Pug. "Maybe some lug
owed Blackey for a marker, an' talked tough about it. Blackey's an old bozo;
he'd be scared, seein' as he carries a big bank roll. He thought of me,
because
I hang out close to here. I was out; but I'd left the light burnin' an'
Blackey
thought I was in. I got the keys to this place on me. Blackey left 'em with
the
dope sheet."
     Pug lowered his left arm to tap his side pocket with his elbow. The
Shadow
could hear the jangle of the keys. Figuring that he was crawling out of a bad
jam, Pug added:
     "I come in by the front door. Then down here into the cellar. I left" -
Pug hesitated - "I left the other guys out front. They're waitin' for me."
     The Shadow did not need Seard's improved lie detector to know that Pug
had
departed from the truth. All was straight, up to Pug's final statement that he
had left his pals out front. That did not fit with Blackey's request; nor with
Pug's natural method. Pug had slipped badly when he admitted that he had pals
with him. The Shadow immediately pieced the rest of the situation.
     By this time, Pug's outfit was closing in, wondering what had become of
him. The crook was trying a bluff, to turn the cellar into a trap for The
Shadow.


     STEPPING forward, The Shadow crumpled the message and thrust it back into
Pug's pocket. A gesture of the automatic sent Pug backing toward the front of
the cellar. The Shadow side-kicked the torpedo's fallen revolver out of Pug's
reach. With a quick turn, The Shadow saw the back door of the cellar; an
instant later, he was again covering Pug. Meanwhile, The Shadow edged toward
that rear door.
     The barrier was unlocked. Pug had seen to that when he reached the
cellar.
He had hoped The Shadow would not notice it; for the door was almost on the
edge
of the lighted area where Pug stood helpless. When thugs came, they would
arrive
from two directions. That time was close.
     More battle for The Shadow. He knew how to fix the odds in his own favor.
The cornering of Pug's band would be a good occasion upon which to summon the
law. With a thrust of his gun, The Shadow forced Pug farther to the front of
the cellar. The crook cowered at a spot where he could scarcely be seen.
     The Shadow took a position between the rear door and the stairs. He was
obscured in darkness; but Pug dared no move. He knew that The Shadow was
watching him. When Pug's pals came, any shout from their leader would start
The
Shadow's artillery.
     Pug knew who would receive the first bullet under such circumstances:
Himself.
      Slow minutes passed. There were scuffling sounds upstairs. Crooks halted
above; then decided to wait. The rear door began to grate. It opened slowly
inward. Ratty faces poked themselves dimly into the fringe of light. Crooks
did
not see Pug, but they thought the way was clear.
      They left the door wide open. Three in all, they approached the light.
One
gave a low call. There was a stir from the stairs. Other thugs were coming
down.
The Shadow shifted in the darkness. By a perfect side shove, he reached the
open
doorway; felt the breeze of outside air.
      Pug, more scared than ever, had backed farther into the front darkness.
His crew was looking for him. One of the first three was poking into the coal
bin. Newcomers - two of them - were almost at the bottom of the stairs.
      Half a minute more, they would be with the others. The stage would be set
for The Shadow's taunting laugh. Bunched crooks would quail, as Pug had.
      Before the half minute had fairly started, the whole scene changed. The
sudden shrill of a police whistle cleaved the air of the back alleyway. Almost
like an echo came a distant whistle from the front street.
      A shout; Joe Cardona's: "Go and get them!"


      POWERFUL flashlights burned from the alleyway. The Shadow had scarcely
time to spring for darkness before the whole back doorway was bathed in light.
Pug's five thugs swung about to start a gunfire. Blasts came from Police
Positives; thug-triggered revolvers answered from the center of the floor.
      The thugs by the stairs were aiming. They missed their fire by a scant
half second. The Shadow had hurled himself upon them, risking that path as the
one way to avoid bullets. Like a sweeping avalanche, he bowled both hoodlums
to
the floor.
      One rolled clear; leveled his gun upward to fire futile shots at the
cloaked attacker. The Shadow was on the stairs before the thug knew it. Police
were pouring in through the rear door. Their flashlights turned for the two
thugs, and so did their revolvers.
      The gunman who had aimed at The Shadow was turning, along with his pal,
to
battle the law. Both sprawled as they fired. The officers had beaten that
flank
attack, thanks to The Shadow's temporary elimination of the two crooks. A
barrage of police bullets did the trick.
      Sweeping up the stairs, The Shadow was away before the light revealed
him.
He had served the law; but again, he was in an undesirable spot. As at Chink's
rendezvous, he was unneeded. Once more, The Shadow was faced by the problem of
troublesome departure.
      He gained a slight break by reaching the top of the stairs before police
surged through from the cigar store. Diving across the hall, ahead of sweeping
flashlights, The Shadow rolled into Blackey's empty office.
      Bluecoats and plain-clothes men poured down into the cellar. Sounds of
firing became spasmodic. The law had won a quick victory. Two detectives
stopped at the office door; they flicked a light around the walls.
      "Looks empty, Kerry," remarked one. "I'll check, though. You can go out
front."
      "All right, Shelvin."
      Alone, Shelvin found the office light. He poked into a closet; it was
empty except for one of Blackey's old overcoats. The dick came over toward the
desk. He leaned across to look at Blackey's old safe. From the space between
the desk and the wall The Shadow rose beside him, like a shape that came from
nowhere.
      Shelvin neither heard nor saw The Shadow. His first impression was that a
hurricane had sneaked indoors to snatch him. The dick was hoisted bodily from
the floor, caught in an expert jujutsu hold. Whirled across the room, Shelvin
finished with a somersault into the closet. The door slammed shut upon him.
      It was three minutes before the astonished detective figured where he
was.
Though unhurt, he was bewildered. In those three minutes, Kerry, standing at
the
darkened front door, was treated to an incident that puzzled him later. Kerry
heard heavy footsteps; felt a friendly thwack upon his shoulders. He heard a
gruff tone, a perfect mate for Shelvin's:
      "All jake, Kerry! Cardona told me to put in a call to headquarters.
You're
to stick here."
      There was a bluecoat in the doorway. It was Kerry who nudged him aside,
so
that Shelvin could pass. Soon afterward, The Shadow, elusive in the darkness,
was gliding from the area where the police had scored another triumph. As he
departed, The Shadow pieced new facts.
      The conference between Weston and Cardona had resulted in more than a
mere
routine report from Joe. It had been topped by a telephone call from Gannet
Seard. The big-brained crime solver had kept on working at his task of
locating
Chink's swag.
      Duplicating The Shadow's process, Seard had struck upon the connection
with Blackey Brenby, whose name must have been among the numerous files that
the police had turned over to the investigator. As a result, Cardona and his
squad had headed promptly for the bookie's place.
      Again, the fruits of The Shadow's labor had been plucked by the law. The
public would acclaim Joe Cardona - as The Shadow, himself, had intended. But
with Weston, Cardona and others who stood high up, there would be no
recognition of The Shadow's prowess, as there used to be, so often in the
past.
      Credit would go to The Shadow's unerring rival, Gannet Seard.


     CHAPTER VI

     THE NEXT CAMPAIGN

     THE law had put the clamps on crime; but the trail ended with Blackey
Brenby's cellar. Even Gannet Seard was stalled at that point, as Joe Cardona
reluctantly admitted. It was a few days later when Cardona mentioned the fact
at headquarters. Joe confided to his assistant, Detective Sergeant Markham.
     "It was a tough break," growled Joe - "Blackey taking a run-out, the way
he did. He knew the town was getting hot for Chink. That's why Blackey was set
to travel."
     Cardona crinkled stacks of paper that lay upon his much-used desk. They
were reports from other cities. No word of Blackey. There were printed flyers,
with pictures of the missing bookie; those had gone throughout the country,
but
without result.
     "Blackey guessed what was coming," grumbled Cardona. "He was fixed for
it.
You know how he used to leave somebody in charge of that store of his, while
he
took a trip to the country. Well, Markham, that's what Blackey did this time;
only he didn't take the trip."
     Markham nodded. Among the police exhibits was a sheet from the register
of
the Westward Hotel. Blackey had checked in there a few days before the raid at
Chink's. No one knew when he had gone. Blackey had not checked out; he had
left
an old suitcase containing some odd clothes that furnished no clue.
     "What does Big Brain think about it?" questioned Markham, cautiously.
"You
know - the guy that's figured out all this stuff?"
     "Seard is stumped," returned Joe. Then, as an afterthought: "No, I
shouldn't put it that way, Markham. Seard never gets stumped on anything
that's
properly in his line. But this search stuff, like the dragnet, comes in our
department.
     "All Seard wants is a recent clue, even if it doesn't make sense to any
one else. But we haven't got one. Blackey just wasn't seen, those last couple
of days. The boys running his place had their own keys. They locked up as
usual. They didn't know anything about the cellar. You could have floored them
when we told them."
     Cardona rose, shaking his head. He stomped to the door and paused, long
enough to add:
     "I'll bet that if any one does figure where Blackey's gone with that half
million, it will be Seard! I'm going up to his place now. The commissioner is
coming there with his friend Cranston. Nobody's to know where I am."
     In the corridor, Cardona ran into Clyde Burke, the reporter from the New
York Classic. Clyde wanted news, so Joe referred him to Markham. On the way
out, Cardona chuckled. Burke was one fellow who would never find out where Joe
was going.
     That was a bad guess. Clyde already knew. He had received word from The
Shadow, through Burbank.


      WHEN Cardona reached Seard's, Havlett conducted him to the second floor
laboratory. Methodically, the servant remarked that Mr. Seard was performing
some experiments with the kitten that had died from the poisoned milk. In the
lab, Joe found Seard wearing white gown and rubber gloves.
      The big-headed man was standing beside a small vat about half the size of
a laundry tub. The vat contained a muddy-looking liquid; and Seard was
watching
a test tube filled with the substance, which was bubbling above the flame of a
Bunsen burner.
      When Joe spoke, Seard waved for quiet. He drew off a rubber glove and
made
notations on a sheet of paper. Extinguishing the burner, he poured the
sizzling
liquid back into the vat. He smiled as he gathered up papers from all about
him.
      "That completes my experiments."
      "Huh?" Cardona stared about. "Where's the cat?"
      "In there." Seard indicated the vat. He pulled a handle to release a
plug.
"Don't fish for it. You won't find it. There it goes."
      The last of the liquid gurgled down the drain. The answer hit Cardona. He
questioned:
      "You dissolved it in acid?"
      "Yes," replied Seard, "and the test worked. These experiments prove that
traces of poison will be present despite an acid treatment. Also certain
compounds that indicate that the body of an animal was dissolved."
      Cardona thought that over while Seard was removing his gown.
      "Say!" exclaimed Joe. "Those tests would be a great way to pin it on a
guy
that got rid of a human body with an acid bath! Maybe we could bring a stiff
up
from the morgue, so you could repeat the test."
     "Unfortunately," interposed Seard, "any one using an acid treatment would
drain off the liquid just as I have done. I performed the experiment purely
for
my satisfaction, inspector. It would be practically worthless in crime
detection."
     Seard had turned toward the door. He smiled when he saw new arrivals who
entered. To Cardona, Seard remarked:
     "Here comes Commissioner Weston, with his friend Cranston."
     Joe was telling enthusiastically about Seard's test while they went up to
the third floor. When they reached Seard's study, he motioned them to chairs.
Instead of going to his desk, Seard paced the room with his heavy cane. He
stopped beside a small fireplace and sat on the arm of a heavily upholstered
chair.
     "I take it that there are no new traces of Blackey Brenby," expressed
Seard, in his rumbled tone. "We can therefore proceed no further with that
case, at present. I regret that situation; but I feel that no one, in my
position, could possibly gain results without something in the way of clues."
     As he finished speaking, Seard looked toward Cranston. His expression
indicated that he was stating his case merely for the benefit of a neutral
party who was present. Nevertheless, Seard's eyes were large when they met
Cranston's gaze.
     Actually, Seard might have been speaking as one crime investigator to
another. Perhaps his keen insight had told him something that even Weston did
not know: that Lamont Cranston had more than a passing interest in these
matters.
     It was even possible that in Cranston, Seard recognized the personality
of
a remarkable personage of whom he certainly had heard. If any one could be
keen
enough to identify Cranston as The Shadow, that person would be Gannet Seard.


      WHATEVER the deeper thoughts in Seard's great mind, the criminologist did
not state them. Instead, he rose; turned to the wall and pulled down a roller
blind that proved to be a chart. The surface was covered with many names that
had been written in careful hand. Among the dozens listed were those of
various
underworld characters. The names were blocked off; connected by lines. The
whole
effect was something like a genealogy chart.
      Seard leaned forward on his cane, his left hand gripping its knobby top.
He raised his right forefinger and declared, solemnly:
      "To-night, we shall begin a quest as important as the capture of Chink
Rethlo! I shall reveal the workings of the secret racket ring that has already
forced payments from a dozen well-known enterprises!"
      Cranston showed interest along with Weston and Cardona. The racket ring
was a recent development that threatened to reach ominous proportions. Instead
of putting heavy pressure on single lines of business, the new ring had eased
into many fields.
      Motion-picture houses, taxicab companies, apartment houses, public
garages, and laundries had all felt its evil hand. Demands, however, had been
gentle. Light threats, small contributions had prevailed. Behind that velvet,
though, had lurked the suspicion of an iron threat.
      Many business men preferred to pay, since the terms were not heavy. Those
who refused had been subjected to annoyances, rather than hard attacks. Thus,
before the law had realized it, the racket ring had taken in a huge profit;
and
the perpetrators, all well hidden, were ready to show their teeth. Soon, it
would be bad business, in a big way.
     "These names are ones that I selected." Seard held to the chair back with
his left hand, while he used his cane to point to the chart. "These are the
men
that I have picked as the ringleaders."
     He weaved a course from name to name; some were persons known as bad
characters, others were merely doubtful. At times, Seard explained the links.
In each case, his analysis seemed good. The surprise came when he stopped upon
a final name.
     "Louis Devoort," pronounced Seard. "Proprietor of the Rickshaw Club.
Secretary and treasurer of a small and seemingly insignificant organization
known as the Allied Night Club Association. That organization, I believe, is
the blind for the racket ring."
     "You mean Devoort heads it?" demanded Weston. "That he has charge of the
million and a half that the ring is supposed to have collected?"
     "I do," affirmed Seard. "What is more, I believe that Devoort holds
complete records of all collections!"


      CRANSTON'S face showed no change when he heard the statement. With The
Shadow's keenness, he recognized the probability of Seard's statement.
      The racket ring was so widely involved, its collections so numerous, that
its big-shots would have to depend upon accurately kept books. Whether or not
Devoort was top man, he could certainly be both secretary and treasurer of the
ring.
      "Devoort just took a trip to Havana," recalled Cardona. "He's due back
to-morrow, on the Santiago."
      "Which means," added Seard, "that there will be a meeting of the ring
leaders to-morrow night, at the Rickshaw Club."
      From his pocket, Seard passed a typewritten paper that Cardona
recognized.
It was a police report on the Rickshaw Club, similar to a ream of others that
concerned Manhattan's bright spots. It had been supplied to Seard along with
material from headquarters files.
      "I have studied this," stated Seard. "The Rickshaw Club has a special
entrance, which leads directly to the office. It is well guarded; and the
outside man is a former private detective named Tinker Crowth."
      "That's just the trouble," nodded Cardona. "Tinker is smart. He knows
enough to stall a raid. We'd have no right barging into the Rickshaw Club
without evidence. Tinker wouldn't let us by. Neither would the bunch inside.
They're all too wise."
      Seard's triangular face took on a distant look.
      "Suppose," he said, "that you were passed through -"
      "Not a chance," broke in Cardona. "Tinker wouldn't turn stoolie. Any job
he holds means big dough. He'd fool us."
      Seard turned to the chart. He found the name of "Tinker" Crowth and
pointed to it with his cane. He followed a line in one direction to the name
Peggy Kelder.
      "Tinker's girl," remarked Seard. "Listed in a file as a shoplifter.
Something that Tinker does not know about. You can persuade her to use her
ingenuity in drawing Tinker from his post at the last minute."
      Finished with Peggy Kelder, Seard moved back to Tinker's name; then along
another line, to the name of Jake Buker.
      "Buker is listed as a stool pigeon,", reminded Seard. "Reports show that
you have not used him much. You have been grooming him for future service."
      Cardona nodded. Jake Buker had been a runner for shyster lawyers. Later,
he had aided in the fencing of stolen goods. Rather than go "up the river," he
had turned stoolie. Jake had been too good a bet for ordinary tasks. The
police
were holding him until they had a tough case to crack; one wherein Jake could
procure the evidence.
     "Tinker and Jake were pals;" declared Seard. "They still are. Jake is
close-mouthed; he would not have talked to Tinker. If Tinker needed a
substitute, at the last minute, and Jake happened to be at hand -"
     Seard did not finish. Cardona was on his feet, turning to Weston.
Enthusiastically, Joe exclaimed:
     "It's sure-fire, commissioner! What's more, I can swing it! Mr. Seard has
figured it from start to finish! We can move right in on that meeting! Leave
it
to me."


     SEARD loosened the chart and let it roll up above the fireplace. The
conference was finished. While Blackey Brenby remained missing with the swag
from the bank robberies, Seard had found the way by which the law could claim
an even greater hoard of stolen funds.
     To-night, The Shadow had witnessed Seard's method of crime analysis. Like
the others present, The Shadow was impressed. He was ready and willing to
follow Seard's lead, since it would aid the law.
     This time, The Shadow would be prepared to furnish complete cooperation.
He had observed the one flaw in Seard's methods. The big-brained crime
investigator calculated far ahead; but expected everything to click like
clockwork. Being a man of an inactive nature, Seard did not fully allow for
events that could happen under stress.
     The death of Chink Rethlo was an example. Seard had requested Cardona to
take the killer alive; and Joe had probably boasted that he could. It hadn't
worked. To-morrow night could furnish similar consequences. The Shadow could
picture smart crooks getting rid of incriminating records when Joe and his
squad entered.
     Destruction of Devoort's ledgers would ruin the raid. No matter how much
money was found in the night club-owner's safe, the law would have nothing.
Racketeers would laugh; with mock politeness, they would show the invaders to
the gate.
     There was a way, however, to preserve the victory that Seard had outlined
for the law. That way would be The Shadow's. His entry, ahead of the police,
would accomplish the required result. Crooks would wait, respectfully, when
under the muzzles of The Shadow's guns.
     With twenty-four hours in which to plan his own campaign, The Shadow
foresaw double success: his own and the law's. Weston, thinking Seard to be
The
Shadow, would probably give him all the credit. Seard, however, would guess
the
truth.
     The Shadow and his rival had teamed, this time, to win sure victory.
Unfortunately, there were hidden angles in the game that Seard had not
analyzed
in his discussion; and which The Shadow, in turn, had not yet learned.
     Those were to appear to-morrow night. Seard, waiting at home for news
from
the police, would be safe when the trouble struck. The Shadow, in the thick of
things, would encounter the real hazard.


    CHAPTER VII

    THE CLOSED TRAP

    CARDONA talked with Jake Buker the next day, and the stoolie listened.
Jake was a smooth customer, sallow-faced and wise-lipped. His eyes had a
droopy
habit of staying half shut; but they opened when Cardona was finished.
     "You've got it straight, Joe," admitted Jake. "Me and Tinker Crowth are
pals. He's one guy I'd never double-cross."
     "Maybe you'd rather head up the river -"
     "Not a chance! The way I figure it, I'm not double-crossing Tinker. He
don't owe nothing to those big-shots that hired him. I'm getting him away from
trouble."
     That suited Cardona. The ace did not care how the stoolie looked at the
ethics of the proposition, so long as Jake fulfilled demands. Having sold
himself on the arrangement, Jake furnished suggestions.
     "It'll be a cinch," he said. "Tinker wanted to get me in over there at
the
Rickshaw Club. I turned down the job, thinking you'd be wanting me for
something
else. Anyway, I know the other lookouts. They won't think nothing about it, if
I
show up instead of Tinker.
     "Every night the bunch takes over, along about six o'clock. They go
through the place right, to make sure nobody's in there. Then they get posted.
Only, nine o'clock is about the time the big boys drop in on Devoort."
     Cardona liked the information. He wanted more suggestions, particularly
regarding Jake's preliminary arrangements with Tinker.
     "That's easy," assured Jake. "I'll drop in on Tinker at quarter to six.
He'll be putting on his soup and fish; even the bouncers have got to wear a
tux
at the Rickshaw Club. Right then is when you have the moll call Tinker. If she
raises enough holler to worry Tinker, he'll turn the job over to me."


     CARDONA'S next stop, was at Peggy Kelder's apartment. The girl answered
the door; turned white when she saw Joe. The job made Cardona feel cheap. Jake
hadn't worried Joe, because the fellow was a crook. But the girl was
different.
     Peggy was a nice-looking kid; and Joe remembered that her record was a
trifling one. Necessity had forced her to the shoplifting tours; and she had
lived down the short term that she had served on the Island. Her blue eyes
studied Cardona as if he were some monster.
     Peggy's timidity ended when Cardona told her why he had come.
     "You cheap fly-cop!" she snapped. "Trying to get me to sell out the best
guy. I ever knew! Go ahead, tell Tinker all about me! He'd forgive that; but
he'd never forget it if I made a sap out of him!"
     Cardona took the verbal barrage. For a comeback, he stole a leaf from
Jake's notebook. It began to work.
     "Don't get it wrong, Peggy," insisted Joe. "We've got nothing against
Tinker. I was a fool to mention that shoplifting charge. You're right, kid.
Only I'm sorry for you."
     Cardona was shaking his head when he reached the door. Peggy had started
to look worried. Sympathetically, Cardona remarked:
     "You've got grit. You may be needing friends after to-night. Count me as
one of them."
     "Do you - you mean" - Peggy was anxious-eyed - "that it may go tough with
Tinker?"
     "It sure will," affirmed Joe, grimly, "unless some one pulls him off that
job. We're going through; and we can't give anybody the chance to pass the
word
upstairs."
     Peggy was dropping to a chair. Cardona patted her on the shoulder.
     "Tinker's with the wrong bunch," he said soothingly, "only he don't know
it. He wouldn't believe it if I tried to tell him. Or if you told him, either.
Jake saw it; he's Tinker's pal. He's doing his part on account of Tinker."
     Cardona had not told Peggy that Jake was a budding stool pigeon. The
argument clinched matters. With Joe's assurance that he would square things
afterward, the girl consented.
     "Sure, we'll square it." Joe meant what he said. "Only there won't be any
squaring needed, if we put it over right. You can tell Tinker all about it,
five years from now."


     AT quarter of six that afternoon, Jake Buker stopped in to see Tinker
Crowth. Two minutes later, the telephone bell rang. Tinker had just brought
his
tuxedo from the closet. He answered, in a brisk voice.
     Peggy was on the wire. Jake heard a rapid conversation. It didn't make
much sense, even when Tinker said something about the Grand Central Station.
When Tinker hung up, though, Jake got the story.
     "It's Peggy," said Tinker. "Telegram from New Haven, saying her sister
was
hit by an auto and may be dead before she gets there."
     "Tough, Tinker -"
     "That's not the worst of it. Like a sap, she called that greasy guy she
used to know - Fish Birkins - and asked him to drive her up to New Haven. I
asked her if the train's had stopped running. She said she didn't know.
Bawling
over the telephone; said she couldn't go alone. So I told her to meet me at
Grand Central. We're hopping the next rattler."
     "Anything I can do to help out, Tinker?"
     Tinker nodded prompt reply. He tore a corner from the cardboard that he
pulled from his tuxedo shirt. He scrawled a note on it.
     "Take over the outside job at the Rickshaw Club, Jake. This note will fix
it. These glad rags of mine will fit you. Get into them."
     Jake was grinning when Tinker left. Cardona had given Peggy a great
alibi.
The telegram had actually come from New Haven; but Joe had seen that it was
sent. If Peggy could keep up the weeps until the train reached New Haven,
Tinker would never think that she had aided in the fake.


     THE Rickshaw Club was a place with a pretentious front and a back that
resembled a fortress. It had been made over from an old mansion; it boasted a
grand staircase in its ample hallway. There were bars and dining rooms on both
the first and second floor; but the upstairs was used chiefly when the crowd
overflowed below. Only a few of the regular patrons preferred it.
     Soon after seven o'clock, some diners appeared upstairs. They were
recognized by Lamont Cranston as he sat at a corner table. Every one of the
group was a man named on Seard's big chart.
     Seard was right; these fellows made up the racket ring. They were waiting
to see Louis Devoort. The proprietor of the Rickshaw Club had not yet
appeared.
His boat was just about due to dock.
     Some faces were absent. Nevertheless, The Shadow did not believe that
Seard was mistaken. He caught a chance remark that included the words "nine
o'clock"; and decided that it meant the meeting hour. The others were dining
elsewhere. They would arrive.
     A half hour later, Lamont Cranston left the Rickshaw Club. He did not
descend the staircase. Instead, he became another being. From a darkened spot
in the hallway, just past the deserted cloakroom, Cranston produced a
briefcase. His full dress suit was immediately enveloped in black.
     Slouch hat on his head, The Shadow reached an obscure stairway that led
to
the third floor. It had a locked door. That did not deter The Shadow. Soon, he
arrived on the third floor, to find the place a storeroom.
      Looking down from a tiny window, The Shadow saw what he expected. The
first floor was larger than the second; as a result, a roof extended along a
line just below the second floor windows. Since the front of the building was
part of a solid block, that courtyard roof could only be reached from the
back.
      A trip through to the courtyard from the rear would have been a bad
mistake. Jake Buker was expecting the police; not The Shadow. On that account,
The Shadow preferred his present route. Edging through the window, he lowered
himself to the roof.
      At the windows, he discovered something. One opened into a tiny passage.
The Shadow learned that by forcing the sash in noiseless fashion. His hand,
extended inside, used a flashlight to find the inner wall. Squeezing through,
The Shadow closed the window and latched it.
      Going back along the passage, he found a spiral staircase that appeared
to
lead all the way down to the basement. Evidently, Louis Devoort had arranged
this secret way to reach his own office. That explained why the outside roof
had been somewhat narrower than The Shadow expected.
      In fixing the second floor, Devoort had ordered the passage, confident
that no one would note the slight discrepancy. The only bad feature was the
window, halfway along. Devoort had seen to it that the window was fitted with
frosted glass. The window had been an unusually tight one, when The Shadow
forced it.
      Going to the back of the passage, The Shadow came to a solid wall that
marked the back of the building. Probing along the inner wall, tapping with
silent thumps of his gloved fingers, The Shadow discovered a sliding door. He
found the spring that opened it, and stepped into a closet.
      The outer door of that closet opened into Devoort's office. The Shadow
had
reached the best possible spot from which to interrupt the conference of the
racketeers.


    THE SHADOW opened the closet door and looked into Devoort's office. It
was
a square room, well furnished, and it was lighted in preparation for the
coming
meeting. Evidently persons working at the Rickshaw Club went in and out when
Devoort was absent.
     There was a door that came from the front, near the upstairs bar. That
was
where a few huskies always congregated. They would stop any persons who tried
to
enter from the front. There was another door, at the back of the room. The
Shadow knew that it led to the rear stairway, guarded by at least three
watchers, who included Jake Buker.
     Only one guard - usually Tinker; to-night Jake - stayed on outside duty
below. That was not suspicious; many places of this sort had a man out back.
The others, however, were wisely kept inside, so that they would not attract
attention. They were keyed to answer any signal from below.
     Devoort's office had a small vault in the wall opposite the closet door.
The Shadow approached the vault and studied it carefully. It was a good one;
but obviously second-hand. It would take time to open it; but the vault was by
no means the sort to baffle an expert.
     For the present, The Shadow decided to leave the vault alone. He heard a
slight sound outside the front door of the room. He was back in the closet
instantly, with the door almost closed. Two of the racketeers from the dining
room came into the office. They had finished dinner; they preferred the office
to their table.
      The two helped themselves to some of Devoort's cigars. Soon a third
arrived; they began to chat, but their talk was unimportant.
      It was after half past eight when the rest appeared; with the last comers
The Shadow saw a portly, mustached man whom he recognized as Louis Devoort.
Door closed, the crooks were ready for their parley.
      There was a momentary lull. In it, The Shadow caught a scraping sound
that
echoed. It was from the passage that he had used to reach the closet. Easing
to
the open wall slide, The Shadow heard whispers. They came from the front of
the
passage. Some one spoke the word "typewriter"; there was a heavy, muffled
clank
of metal.
      The "typewriter" was a machine gun! Thugs had brought it up the spiral
staircase from the cellar. The secret passage was to serve some ominous
purpose, if any one tried to use it. Until this moment, The Shadow had held a
key position. With the passage at his back, he had no worry concerning inroads
from either the front or rear of the office.
      That situation was changed. The arrival of a death squad had made the
meeting room a formidable trap. Chances were that guards had increased at both
the office doors. Shooting through from the closet could prove suicidal.
      Crooks had closed a three-way snare; and in the very center of that mesh
they held The Shadow!


     CHAPTER VIII

     CRIME WITHOUT PROFIT

      MANY fighters in The Shadow's position would have made a prompt break
before their presence was discovered. That was not The Shadow's method. He
remained where he was, in the darkness of the little closet. He knew that
crooks would expect The Shadow at any time, if they expected him at all.
      The last part of that proviso was important.
      Were these preparations actually for The Shadow's benefit? The Shadow
doubted it.
      Any leak from police headquarters would not have posted crooks for a
visit
from The Shadow. Machine guns in the secret passage were definitely a poor
plan
to make against the law. If the racketeers knew that the police were coming,
they would do one thing only: destroy their books and enjoy a good laugh when
Joe Cardona appeared.
      The answer was that crooks expected neither The Shadow nor the police.
They were concerned with some one else - a person, who belonged to their own
group.
      Of that group, one man had definitely designed the secret passage for his
own protection. He was Louis Devoort. He would be apt to use that passage in a
pinch.
      The Shadow had the answer. Devoort was on the spot.
      That gave the situation an unusual twist. It was something that Seard had
not outlined; something that The Shadow had not pictured as a likelihood. It
was an odd circumstance - Devoort coming back from Havana, to face a ring of
pointing fingers.
      The Shadow advanced to the closet door. He worked it an inch outward.
Devoort was at his desk, looking from one to another of the half dozen men who
faced him. His expression mingled anger with amazement.
    "Everything was fine," he gruffed, "when I left here. When I get back,
you
act like I'd pulled something!"
     "Show us the dough! That's what we want to see!"
     "You think I walked off with it," grumbled Devoort, "That's why you had
me
covered in Havana. I expected it when I went there, just for a little trip.
All
the while, the mazuma was here with the books, proving that I trusted you with
it!"
     He turned to the vault. Working the combination, Devoort soon had the
door
open. He brought out the books, planked them on the desk. He dug deeper; then
crouched motionless. When he turned, his face was drawn.
     "The dough! It - it isn't here!"


     REVOLVERS bristled as Devoort was hauled to the desk. One racketeer, a
tough-faced fellow known as "Pink" Dellick, took charge of proceedings.
     "Talk fast," snapped Pink, "and spill the works!"
     "The whole sock was here," insisted Devoort. "I - I figured there were
too
many of you - that you'd be keeping tabs on each other. Somebody's got into it
-
that's all!"
     "Yeah?" broke in Pink. "Well, tell us this! How could anybody have
breezed
in here? We've coveted the place for you."
     "Maybe" - Devoort pointed to a shaded window - "maybe they came through
there. Or - or -"
     "Or how?"
     Devoort failed to answer. Sneeringly, Pink declared:
     "We can tell you how! We got wise to plenty, just from tip-offs here and
there. Somebody squawked about that secret passage of yours. We got the dope
to-day, and found it! Thought you could make monkeys out of us, huh? Well it's
the works for you, Devoort! Make a break for it if you want. We got torpedoes
waiting for you. With a typewriter!"
     "I can explain!" protested Devoort. "The passage was put in years ago!
When this place was a speakeasy -"
     "But you owned it. You could have told us about the passage, when we
elected you. You held out! So you're going out -"
     A low hiss halted Pink's command for death. Racketeers wheeled; their gun
hands remained motionless, numbed as they still pointed toward Devoort. The
Shadow had stepped from the closet; he was holding two guns as he elbowed the
door shut behind him.
     Clustered racketeers were helpless. They knew from the burn of The
Shadow's eyes that one shot toward Devoort would begin their slaughter. The
Shadow wanted their dethroned leader as a prize.
     A clock showed ten minutes of nine. The Shadow moved his guns forward.
Revolvers clattered to the floor. The rest were reaching their arms upward,
like Devoort. Steadily, The Shadow let the minutes tick by. Crooks could not
understand why.
     They never guessed that they and their records were to be given to the
law. The Shadow intended that their interrupted conference should be finished
at police headquarters.


     THE only man who half welcomed the changed situation was Devoort. Death
had looked certain for him, at the hands of Pink and the other racketeers. It
might not come from The Shadow. Like the others, Devoort knew that some of
gangdom's best - or worst - had felt the heart-stabs of The Shadow's bullets;
but they had been murderers.
      Devoort was no killer. Nor had he ever threatened any one with death.
That, in his opinion, put him on a better level than his companions, for The
Shadow had surprised them in the preliminary stage of rubbing out a victim.
Devoort guessed that The Shadow wanted the money that had been in the vault.
He
showed bravado enough to appeal to the fighter in black.
      "I didn't take the cash," declared Devoort, his eyes steady. "It was
here,
every dollar of it, just as the books show! One of this bunch may know about
it."
      Snarls of protest came from the rest. They were all trying to save their
hides, including Pink. The Shadow's fierce whisper called for silence. His
eyes
were fixed on Devoort.
      "I didn't start this racket," pleaded the mustached man, his tone less
confident. "They counted me in because they figured I was regular."
      "That's where we were screwy," broke in Pink, forgetting himself. "The
guy
that piped that along the grapevine was a sap!"
      An automatic waggled its muzzle in Pink's direction. The big talker
subsided.
      These new remarks, added to old ones, proved something of real interest
to
The Shadow. By the "grapevine," the racketeers did not refer to the
mouth-to-mouth telegraph system that constantly sent rumors through the
underworld. They meant a grapevine of their own. It was logical enough.
      Starting with little organizations, this racket ring had merged into a
chain system, pyramiding upward, raising its big-shots higher. The choice of
Devoort as financial secretary had added a capstone to the pyramid. Individual
members of the inner circle had lieutenants they could trust; those, in turn,
had lesser toadies. Rumors that came from anywhere could safely be passed
along.
      That grapevine had raised Devoort. It had also overthrown him. The
discovery of the secret passage had stood as proof of Devoort's treachery,
since he had never mentioned it.
      Looking from face to face, The Shadow sought one man whose pose might
reveal him as the crook who had first located the passage, then tapped the
vault. That crook would have had good reason to undermine Devoort.
      Pink Dellick was the first one that The Shadow eliminated. He had used
his
big mouth too much. The real double-crosser who had robbed the others, along
with Devoort, would have to be some one who had said little. As he studied the
faces, The Shadow calmly ordered Devoort to talk.
      The Shadow did not need Seard's improved lie detector on this occasion.
Devoort guessed what The Shadow was after. He was eager to help.
      "None of this bunch was around here in the old speak days," admitted
Devoort. "None of them got me to go to Havana, either. That was a trip I
always
take. I went there as usual, so people wouldn't be wondering why I stayed
here.
If I had -"


     DEVOORT gulped short. The Shadow heard it, just as he completed a survey
of the circle. He did not look toward Devoort to see the direction in which
the
portly man stared. That was unnecessary. Another sound told enough.
     It was a groan of a hinge, back of The Shadow's left shoulder. Some one
was pushing open the closet door, a trifle too fast. Only Devoort had seen the
motion; for he alone faced directly toward that door.
     The Shadow whirled, spinning leftward. The move carried him clear, just
as
a pair of thugs sprang into the room. They had come forward from the
machine-gun
squad in the other end of the passage. They saw The Shadow as he wheeled. They
turned to the left, to aim their revolvers.
     The first of the pair was clear from the closet. The second was just
coming out of the doorway. The Shadow's right foot hooked the swinging door.
     Reversing toward the front thug, The Shadow's first stride was a long,
hard kick against the door.
     As The Shadow fell upon the foremost foeman, the door whacked the second.
Both crooks went down. The first took a gun blow; he was out to stay. The
second, landing on his knees, had blocked the door. He made a lucky dive for
The Shadow. His tackle gave the cloaked fighter a half spill.
     Pink and the other racketeers were snatching up their revolvers. Devoort
went under the desk. Shots barked widely - all from the rear half of the room;
for the racketeers had chosen that direction as The Shadow was gaining his
feet
near the front. The hasty bullets were wasted.
     Shots that were to count were due, from The Shadow's guns. For position,
The Shadow whirled toward the closet door, slashing the rising thug with a
backhand swing, on the way. His laugh came in sinister mockery, as a prelude
to
the gun blasts.
     In the midst of his taunt, The Shadow halted. The rear door of the
meeting
room rocketed inward. Cardona and his squad poured in with shouts. The Shadow
restrained his fire. Pink and the racketeers thought that he had gone. They
turned to meet Cardona.
     Police revolvers had the bulge. Racketeers sprawled. The front door
ripped
open. Facing it, Cardona and his men repeated a fire in which The Shadow
joined.
Hidden by the half-opened closet door, The Shadow was not seen by the police.
They thought that their fire, alone, was dropping the startled entrants.
Actually, sight of The Shadow had diverted that front crew.
     From beneath his desk, Devoort saw The Shadow. Unable to witness events,
the portly man did not guess how badly the racketeers had fared. Squeezing
out,
Devoort came from the front of the desk, hoping to reach The Shadow for
protection.
     That foolhardy rush disposed of the one man whose life The Shadow was
anxious to preserve. Devoort crossed the path of a final volley between the
police and sagging crooks at the front door. From the floor, Pink Dellick
managed two last shots at Devoort's toppling figure. A detective socked Pink,
too late.
     Devoort was dead. His chance to piece information for either The Shadow
or
the law way a matter of the past.


     CARDONA was pointing to the closet door. He guessed that some one could
have gone through there. Again, The Shadow was hampered. This time, he had
figured more definitely in the battle; but efforts for the law had passed
unwitnessed. He had a route for departure, but it led to a machine gun, still
manned by a crew. Nevertheless, The Shadow took to the passage.
     The moment that he was through the rear of the closet, he slid the back
wall shut. In the darkness of the passage, he gave a hoarse shout to the
crooks
at the rear:
      "Hop up here, lugs! With your gats! It's The Shadow! We got him boxed!"
      In the echoing darkness, that thick tone could not be recognized as
belonging to any one in particular. The crooks who heard it thought that the
shout came from one of the pair that had gone ahead. They needed no more
urging. Not bothering with flashlights, a trio of lurkers abandoned the
machine
gun and dashed forward.
      The Shadow moved to meet them, stopping just short of the frosted halfway
window. With a low drive, he met the three as they came into the dim light.
Crooks went sprawling in a row, their guns bouncing from their fists as The
Shadow bowled them sidewards and lashed with his automatics.
      With long strides, The Shadow reached the machine gun. He did not have to
use it. Cardona had yanked open the rear wall of the closet, that The Shadow
had left loose for him. Joe's flashlight blazed along the passage.
      Crooks, fumbling for their guns were met by a sharp fire from Joe and an
accompanying detective. Two sprawled. The third gained aim. Coiled below the
top step of the spiral stairs, The Shadow saw the crook outlined in the beam
of
Cardona's flashlight. An automatic spoke. The last thug jolted and fell.
      By the time Cardona reached the abandoned machine gun, The Shadow was at
the bottom of the spiral stairs. The cloaked avenger was taking a sure route
out into the night, leaving another victory to the law.
      Once more the triumph was hollow, as at Chink's and Blackey's. The racket
ring was broken; the proof of its activities found. But the funds mentioned in
the captured books could not be restored to the victims who had furnished
them.
      Wanted wealth was gone. Seard had not uncovered the whole story. The
spoils of the racket ring should have been in Devoort's vault; but they were
not. Still, Seard's giant intellect could not be discredited. His analysis
certainly had been a complete one, as far as the names upon his chart
permitted.
      The Shadow's rival would have new angles to consider, when visitors
called
upon him to-morrow night.


     CHAPTER IX

     THE STALEMATES

     WHEN Weston and Cranston called the next night, they found Seard seated
in
front of his fireplace staring mournfully at glowing embers. Havlett announced
the visitors; Seard shook himself from his reverie, wagging his big head in
the
fashion of a huge St. Bernard.
     He arose; but moved only a short way from his chair, for his cane was
over
by the desk. As he shook hands, Seard declared:
     "I was contemplating matters, commissioner. These last two failures annoy
me!"
     "Failures?" exclaimed Weston. "You ferreted out Chink Rethlo! You
uncovered Louis Devoort!"
     "But their spoils are still missing. Do not shake your head,
commissioner.
I am being fair to myself. The Rethlo case was excusable. I foresaw that Chink
would not be holding the swag. I failed, though, to trace Blackey Brenby soon
enough."
     Weston smiled regretfully.
     "That was our fault, Seard," he said. "Cardona's, because he did not take
Chink alive. Mine, because I let the news get out too soon. If those early
newspapers had not carried word of Chink's death, Blackey would not have fled
that night."
     Seard appeared mollified. His big head nodded; but gradually stopped its
motion. Again, his expression showed gloom.
     "I fell short on the Devoort case," he declared. "That was not excusable.
Cardona tells me that the books of the racket ring show one million six
hundred
thousand dollars in profits. That was too much for the law to lose."
     "Devoort was the head of the ring," insisted Weston. "You had every
reason
to believe that funds were in his vault."
     "Every reason except that the money was not there," returned Seard,
dryly.
"No, commissioner, I should have anticipated that situation. All that I can
say
in excuse, is that I shall be more thorough in the future."
     Weston looked at Cranston, saw that his friend was impressed by Seard's
willingness to hold himself at fault for incomplete analysis. Most
investigators would have minimized the matter of the vanished funds. Not
Seard;
he was never satisfied with less than one hundred per cent success.


      CONVERSATION lagged, for they were waiting for Cardona, not yet arrived
from headquarters. Seard saw Cranston looking at the chessboard, where the men
were set in readiness for a game. Others had admired the carved ivory pieces;
the board, with its black squares of ebony, its yellow squares of unstained
mahogany.
      In Cranston's gaze, however, Seard detected the look of an expert chess
player. He invited the visitor to play a game. Cranston accepted.
      As they sat down, Seard smiled. He drew a meerschaum pipe from the pocket
of his smoking jacket and filled it with tobacco from an oilskin pouch.
Weston,
drawing up another chair, indulged in a smile of his own.
      Chess, he knew, was the game that appealed to giant intellects. To a
brain
like Seard, it was meat. This would be interesting, watching Cranston fall for
Seard's neat snares. Fortunately, Cranston was a chap who could take a bad
defeat in a gracious manner.
      The opening moves were conventional, completed without much delay. After
that, the game slowed. Seard puffed his pipe steadily - as he thought out each
move, taking a full five minutes on one occasion.
      Cranston, on the contrary, mapped his moves while Seard pondered. Almost
every time that Seard completed a move, Cranston followed immediately with his
own. That convinced Weston that the victory would be even more rapid for
Seard.
Cranston was showing far too little study for an expert chess player.
      From Weston's slight knowledge of the game, it was apparent that matters
stood about even; but that would soon cease. Seard castled; the move after, he
thrust a bishop into a key position. He was ready to clinch the game.
      Cranston countered with a knight threat against Seard's queen. Seard
moved
the queen to sidestep it. One of Cranston's rooks came into play. Seard began
to
look anxious. On the next move, he lost his bishop. He made an attack;
Cranston
countered with an exchange of pawns and finished by capturing one of Seard's
knights.
     Weston gaped. The game was going to Cranston! Almost in offhand fashion,
he was overwhelming the genius of Seard.
     There was a long pause while Seard studied the board. He shook his big
head groggily; for, to Seard, a chess game could involve the same physical
energy as a fist fight. He looked punch-drunk.
     Passing a hand across his forehead, Seard found moisture. He looked about
the room, as if seeking a reason. The study was blue with tobacco smoke.
Whatever the mixture Seard was smoking, it certainly could produce a heavy
atmosphere. The air was tinged with the odor of strong perique.
     Seard took that as an excuse for a delay. He called to Havlett, who was
at
the door.
     "Open the front window," ordered Seard. "The room is stuffy."


     THE front window had a metal frame. It was divided by a central post;
each
half swung outward on a hinge. The two swinging portions clamped at the center
post. Havlett opened the one on the left, to a distance of about six inches.
      A breeze whistled in from the night air. The servant fixed a special
lower
clamp, to keep the opened window in its exact position.
      Fresh air stimulated Seard. He concentrated upon the chess game, trying
to
recoup his losses. His moves were intricate; but Cranston's attack still
functioned. Seard lost two pawns; he suddenly captured one of Cranston's
valuable rooks. Weston's restrained delight came to an end two moves later.
      In sacrificing the rook, The Shadow opened the way to his best stroke. He
took Seard's queen. Weston knew that the game was in the bag. He scarcely
noticed the moves that followed, until a chuckle came from Seard.
      Weston stared. The game still seemed Cranston's. Seard did not have
enough
strong pieces left to win the game. Nevertheless, he pointed triumphantly
toward
his king, hemmed in a corner of the board. To Weston, he said:
      "The game is to trap the king, commissioner."
      "Cranston has done it," observed Weston.
      "Not quite," chuckled Seard. "My king is safe, unless I move it. By the
rules of chess, I cannot move the king into check. Therefore, the game is a
stalemate. With all Cranston's strength, he can do nothing. The stalemate
makes
the game a draw."
      Weston looked at Cranston. He saw his friend's eyes still on the board.
Seard was right; he had pulled himself from the hole. He seemed as pleased as
if he had actually won the game.
      Havlett appeared with Cardona. Seard forgot the chess game. He asked if
Cardona had brought new clues. Joe shook his head.
      "Not a one. It's as bad as looking for Blackey!"
      Seard pulled down a rough chart. It had a few names on it; but there was
plenty of blank space. Seard remarked:
      "This is Blackey Brenby's chart."
      He pulled down another chart, much like the first, with the comment:
      "Louis Devoort's."
      Facing about, Seard added:
      "Each case is the same. We narrowed down the hunt." He spread his arms,
brought his hands downward obliquely until they met. "We reached a focal
point.
We succeeded with Blackey. We were wrong with Devoort."
      Cardona nodded agreement.
     "This Devoort case is tough," said Joe. "Maybe he took that dough to
Havana. Some one of the dead bunch - like Pink Dellick - may have grabbed it.
Or an outsider could have muscled into it. It's a tough case, all right, Mr.
Seard."
     "It is a new case," corrected Seard. "We are looking for an unknown
criminal. I must have names and more names - those of every one who could
possibly have figured. Even then, the material may be too scattered. We shall
have to depend upon luck."
     "Maybe I'll have some," put in Joe, "if I find the right guy -"
     "Bring him here," interposed Seard. "Any one who thinks that he can give
real information will be vitally important. I fear, though, that our game is
lost." He was frowning; but his expression showed a dry smile as he saw the
chessboard. "Not exactly lost. More like that game. A stalemate."


      CRANSTON was still studying the board. Seard received his cane from
Havlett, and walked over beside his seated rival. With a shake of his head,
Seard commented:
      "You can never alter a stalemate, Mr. Cranston."
      Cranston gave a slight smile, as Seard began to remove the pieces from
the
board. When they were gone, the board glistened; its rare woods showed their
beauty.
      "I see that you admire the board," remarked Seard, to Cranston. "Let me
hold it in a better light. At that reading lamp near the window."
      Laying his cane aside, Seard picked up the board from its table. Slowly
he
led the way to the lamp, where he held the board in the glow, to show the
grain
of the wood.
      Seard's back was against the opened window. He had the board in front of
him. Cranston's fingers were rubbing the ebony, when Seard caught a sound that
he alone was close enough to hear. It came from outside the window. With a
quick swing, Seard turned, half sprawling against the window frame. As he
twisted, he shoved the chessboard in front of him, gripped with both hands. It
served as an immediate shield.
      Through the window slithered a driving knife blade that drove clear
through the chessboard until the hilt stopped it. The wooden shield had served
its purpose, stopping the knife-point short of Seard's heart.
      "Creep Hoyran!"
      Cardona shouted the name as he reached the window. Pulling Seard away,
Joe
jabbed a gun through the open space. He was too late to fire. He saw a hunchy
figure diving into a window of the next house, from a front balcony. That
house
happened to be empty. Creep was off to a get-away.
      "Do not pursue him," chuckled Seard, stepping toward the fireplace. "He
has done no more than ruin my chessboard. I had intended to discard it for one
with squares set in ivory, a better contrast to the black ebony."
      Weston put in a vociferous objection.
      "This can't go on, Seard! Creep's game is to murder you!"
      "And I have moved into a stalemate," chuckled Seard, with a glance at
Cranston. "Ah, commissioner! You have forgotten that I possess that faculty!"
      "Creep is becoming more dangerous all the time -"
      "And that will prove his undoing. Look, commissioner. First, a rifle shot
from a distance. Second, a bomb sent in from outside. Third, close enough
approach to poison my milk. Fourth, a thrust in through the window -"
      "And next?"
      Seard considered.
      "Creep will actually enter here," he decided, "or come close to it. Let
us
allow him to do so. I assure you that I shall escape harm. Once he has come
that
far, he will be utterly bold. He will come again; may even roam inside the
house."
     "We can't let that happen, Seard."
     "Why not?" Seard's chuckle was a pleased one. "That night, I shall be
absent. You can send men here to trap him."
     The scheme pleased Weston; and Cardona added his approval. Both agreed to
wait for Seard to settle the time when Creep was to be snared. Weston
insisted,
though, that he and Cardona should make nightly visits. That suited Seard.
     To Cranston, the large-headed man said: "Will you come also? Perhaps we
may have opportunity for other games of chess."
     Cranston spoke his acceptance.
     "Let us hope," said Seard to Cardona, "that you will bring some tangible
facts concerning Louis Devoort. Perhaps some person may furnish fresh
information on the racket ring. Meanwhile" - he waved a long arm toward his
desk - "I shall be working on other files. There is still crime in this city.
I
shall analyze another case, and work out a campaign."


     AFTER a trip to the Cobalt Club, Cranston said good-night to Weston. A
while later, The Shadow appeared in his sanctum. There he considered the
evening's events. The chess game had ended in a stalemate. That was final.
     Seard had pictured stalemates also in the case of the bank loot that had
disappeared with Blackey Brenby; and the funds of the racket ring that were
gone from the keeping of Louis Devoort. He had also compared his own position
against Creep's thrusts, as a stalemate.
     Those games could be likened to chess; but the comparison was not
absolute. There could still be ways to locate the swag that Blackey had held;
to trail the fate of the racket ring funds. There was also another
possibility,
a grim one.
     Gannet Seard might be overconfident of his ability to forestall the
thrust
from Creep Hoyran.
     There could be startling consequences from those games that Seard had
placed in stalemate class. When those developments came, The Shadow would be
ready to make use of them, much to the astonishment of his rival, Gannet
Seard.


    CHAPTER X

    THE NEEDED LINK

     THE next afternoon, The Shadow was in his sanctum before dusk. His table
was strewn with reports from agents. Those papers contained lists of names.
The
Shadow was checking over data that concerned Louis Devoort.
     Along with the records of the racket ring, the police had acquired others
that pertained to the business of the Rickshaw Club. Some of those had been
important enough to be stowed in Devoort's safe. Others were from his desk and
file cabinet.
     Oddly, one type of list was absent. It was the one that contained the
names of patrons who visited the Rickshaw Club.
     Devoort, so some of his employees stated, had kept such a list. He always
wrote down the name and address of any one whom he considered to be a
worth-while customer. A person important enough to gain Devoort's individual
attention came in that classification.
     To The Shadow, the absence of the list was highly significant.
Undoubtedly, the raider who had made away with the funds was a person who had
met Devoort; perhaps one who had found some excuse to talk with the dead
night-club owner in his office. Knowing of the files, the raider had wisely
taken them along with the spoils.
     Devoort had changed his head waiters often. Only one had been on the job
for longer than six months; and he had a poor memory for names and faces. The
head waiters had not helped the law with their testimony; at least, not
directly. They had, however, given a lead that The Shadow regarded as
important, when he learned of it.
     They had named a former head waiter, who had quit his job soon after
Devoort left for Havana. The man's name was Homer Lane. The circumstances of
his resignation were not suspicious. Lane had simply been the recipient of bad
luck and good.
     First, he had been injured in an automobile accident. While in the
hospital, he had received a sum of money from some anonymous source. It was
supposed that wealthy patrons of the Rickshaw Club had decided to help him
out,
through pure sympathy. On the strength of the welcome gift, Homer Lane had
gone
away for a rest.
     In Lane, The Shadow saw the needed link. All day, his agents had made
inquiries, seeking the fellow's whereabouts. The last address that The Shadow
gained was one in Philadelphia. He had sent Harry Vincent, his most capable
agent, down there to learn more.


      AT the precise moment that The Shadow was summing the slim facts
regarding
Lane, Joe Cardona was arriving at the home of Gannet Seard.
      There was a meeting scheduled for the evening, when Commissioner Weston
would arrive with Lamont Cranston; but Cardona had decided to pay Seard a
visit
before dinner. Joe had gathered a mixed list of names, too many to read over
the
telephone. He was taking them in person.
      Outside Seard's mansion, Joe eyed the gathering dusk in suspicious
fashion. He was hoping for a glimpse of Creep Hoyran. There was no sign of the
lunatic killer.
      Joe decided that it was too early for Creep to show up. Perhaps he might
not come at all. There had been intervals between Creep's other attempts to
murder Seard; although the time spaces had lessened.
      Joe still felt fidgety about letting Creep stay at large. Nevertheless,
he
was forced to admit that Seard was right in his analysis of the murderer's
intent. Creep would not bother with other crimes until he had disposed of
Seard.
      If Seard felt so confident that he could balk all of Creep's thrusts, he
was welcome to do so. Just so long as he remembered his promise to give the
police their whack, when the time ripened for Creep's capture.
      Cardona found Seard in his study. The spidery investigator received the
new list with thanks. He began to review the names and the comments that went
with them. They included those of some persons who had patronized the Rickshaw
Club. Joe had culled them from the head waiters.
      Seard was seated at the fireplace, merely because the chair there was
comfortable. The weather was too warm for a fire. Only ashes lay on the
hearth.
For twenty minutes, Seard studied the lists, while darkness deepened outside.
Finally, he shook his head and laid the list aside.
     As Seard started to speak, he paused. He tilted his head intently. He
asked:
     "Did you hear it, inspector?"
     "Hear what?" queried Joe. "Where?"
     "That slight scraping sound. Listen!"
     Both harkened. There was no repetition until Seard had asked Joe to bring
other papers from the desk. Just as Cardona returned to the fireplace, Seard
remarked:
     "There it was again! Odd that I cannot just locate it."
     He stroked his pointed chin with thumb and fingers until they came
together at the tip. Cardona remarked that the noise might indicate a visit
from Creep. Seard smiled at Joe's anxiety.
     "Let Creep come," said Seard. "I shall not worry. He may be due to-night;
but whatever his new design, he will not be ready with it quite this early."


     RECEIVING the papers that Cardona had brought from the desk, Seard looked
for a name and found it. He spoke significantly.
     "We must find this man: Homer Lane."
     Cardona wondered why Seard had suddenly chosen the ex-head waiter. Seard
explained.
     "I had supposed," he declared, "that you could jog the memories of
Devoort's staff. Instead, they have given you only a few names of the chief
patrons at the Rickshaw Club. The key may lie in such names. Only Lane can
supply them."
     With that, Seard put away the papers with an air of finality. He had come
to the same conclusion as The Shadow.
     "If Lane took that dough," remarked Cardona, "he'll be as tough to locate
as Blackey Brenby."
     "Agreed," returned Seard. "But I do not credit Lane with the robbery. I
merely believe that he can name the right man. Probably, without knowing that
the person is the crook who outwitted the racket ring."
     Cardona arose to go. Seard leaned in his chair, to listen for new sounds.
One came, but there was nothing mysterious about it. The sound was a sudden
ring of Seard's telephone bell.
     Seard reached for his cane, to walk across the room. To save him the
trouble, Cardona answered the call.
     It was for Joe. From headquarters. It brought exciting news, that Joe
relayed to Seard the moment the call was finished.
     "Lane's in town!" exclaimed Cardona. "He just called headquarters!
Instead
of holding him on the wire, those clucks let him go. They told him to call
again, though, in five minutes. So I told them to give Lane this number."
     "Very good!" approved Seard. He studied the facts on Lane. "Hm-m-m. The
fellow was quite badly injured in that auto smash. He must have recuperated
quite rapidly. So he was out of town. Let us see - what could that mean -"
     Seard was still musing when the phone bell rang again. Cardona grabbed
the
telephone from its cradle. He nodded, to indicate that Lane was on the wire.
     "Hello... Yes, this is Inspector Cardona... Certainly, Lane, I'll be glad
to talk to you. No, no. We aren't looking for you. Don't be worried. We won't
pinch you..."
     Joe covered the mouthpiece; spoke quickly to Seard.
     "He's jittery about something. Afraid we'll grab him if he comes to
headquarters."
     "Find out where he is," suggested Seard. "Invite him up here."
     Joe nodded. Over the telephone, he stated:
     "You won't have to come to headquarters, Lane... You can talk to me
privately, instead... I see... We'll understand. I've got a friend here who
can
help you. Let's see - where are you now? Good! Hop a cab and come right up."
      As he concluded the conversation, Cardona gave the house address. He put
down the telephone and gave the details to Seard.
      "Lane's in from Philadelphia," explained Cardona. "Said he got a letter,
with more money. A thousand bucks. The letter told him to go to Florida and
keep quiet. He's still crippled from his auto accident; but he was well enough
to travel. So he started."
      "What made him change his destination?"
      "He telephoned the boarding house from the station in Philly, just before
he bought his ticket. Learned that some fellow had stopped there to ask for
him. That scared him. He figures he's in deep in the racket ring mess, but he
doesn't know how. So he grabbed a train for New York. Made his phone calls
from
the Pennsy Station."
      Seard considered the case. He pondered over the possible connection
between the money received by Lane and the stranger who had called at the
boarding house. While Seard pondered, the matter was partly explained
elsewhere.
      The signal light flashed in The Shadow's sanctum. Two reports came from
Burbank. The first was from Harry Vincent, in Wilmington, Delaware. Harry had
called at Lane's Philadelphia residence, to learn that the man had left for
Florida. Harry had caught the same train. Lane was not aboard it.
      The other report came from Clyde Burke. At headquarters, the reporter had
learned of Lane's call. Markham had received it; and Clyde had heard him call
Seard's home. Later, Markham had told Lane to call there.
      Instantly, The Shadow pieced the circumstances. Harry's stop at Lane's
residence had produced a result that could be turned to prompt advantage. The
Shadow was sure that Lane had been summoned to Seard's for an interview. The
Shadow's move was to be there when the talk took place.
      It was too early to appear at Seard's as Cranston. The Shadow's course
was
to arrive in his garb of black; remain as a silent, unseen listener. That
could
be accomplished with speed, for The Shadow was familiar with the arrangements
of Seard's house.
      The bluish light clicked off. In darkness, The Shadow started for his
quest. His departure marked the beginning of unexpected adventure. Though The
Shadow anticipated cross-factors that might develop, there was one that he did
not know was due.
      Homer Lane, the needed link, was to prove vital in the chain of crime.
Yet
neither The Shadow nor his rival, Gannet Seard, was to hear the testimony that
Lane was prepared to give.


     CHAPTER XI

     DEATH FROM ABOVE

     SPLOTCHY light from a street lamp showed Lane's cab when it pulled up in
front of Seard's. The taxi was visible from the front windows of the study,
where Seard and Cardona were on watch. The cab had an open top, slid back
because of the mild weather. The viewers could see the passenger leaning
forward to pay the driver.
     Seard and Cardona had decided to let Havlett admit Lane. The less fuss
they made, the more likely he would be to furnish evidence.
     Keeping close watch on Lane, neither observer saw the cab that stopped
some distance down the street. From it stepped a cloaked figure that merged
instantly with the blackness of the house walls. Before Lane had finished
paying the driver, The Shadow had arrived close by.
      The cloaked investigator was at the front door of the house next to
Seard's. It was The Shadow's plan to reach the balcony on the third floor. A
shift across would enable him to listen through the window of Seard's study.
      The Shadow, therefore, was concentrating on the door itself, instead of
watching Lane's cab. As he turned the knob, The Shadow felt the door yield to
his push. It was unlocked. That told The Shadow of a possible danger: Creep
Hoyran.
      The murderer had arrived again to-night. He had already entered this
empty
house to gain position for a new thrust against Seard.
      Meanwhile, Lane was stepping from his cab. As he pushed the door open, he
picked up a heavy cane and thrust it out ahead of him. Lane had a limp as a
result of the automobile accident. Seen from above, the visitor could be
identified only as a man wearing hat and overcoat and carrying a cane.
      That last item gave The Shadow full warning of an instant menace. With a
turn, he started to spring from the steps of the house next door. He caught
himself before it was too late. Still clutching the door edge, The Shadow
hauled himself back to safety.
      From above, he heard a triumphant shriek, an insane cackle that announced
Creep Hoyran. The shout was delivered from the front edge of Seard's roof.
      Lane heard the cry; he looked up. It was his last moment of life. He saw
a
round, black object dropping almost for his head. He gave a frightened gasp.
That was all.
      From the roof edge, Creep saw the terrified face. Arms extended, Creep
uttered an angry snarl and jumped back. In that last flash, Creep had seen his
mistake. The heavy cane had caused him to think that Lane was Seard. Creep had
pitched his bomb too soon.


     SEARD and Cardona were the real witnesses to the tragedy. Their window
was
closed; they could not hear Creep's cry. They saw Lane's startled look; with
it
they glimpsed the final fall of Creep's bomb. The missile landed squarely
through the open roof of the cab.
      The effect was as elusive as the bursting of a soap bubble, that seems to
vanish before it strikes. The bomb exploded with devastating effect, changing
the scene to blackness in a twinkling. There was a titanic roar, mountainous
fountains of flame. Then there was nothing where the cab had been.
      Clattering chunks of metal hit the cracked asphalt and sidewalks. With
them was no sign of Homer Lane. The State's witness had been blasted into
nothingness. The taxi driver was also atomized. Double death had come in a
single instant.
      Windows crashed all along the block, in every house but Seard's. There,
bulletproof glass withstood the shock. From the third story, Seard and Cardona
continued their gape; but soon their senses rallied. In horrified tone, Seard
summed the tragedy:
      "Creep Hoyran! On the roof! He mistook Lane for myself, because of the
cane! Wait! I have it - those sounds I heard! It was Creep, testing the
chimney
with a weight. He intended lower the bomb into my fireplace!"
      Cardona saw a chance for action.
      "If he's on the roof," exclaimed Joe, "he'll have to be coming down
through the house next door! We'll get downstairs in the elevator and head him
off!"
      Cardona started for the elevator. Seard followed rapidly, even though
handicapped by his cane.
      The Shadow, meanwhile, had started his own pursuit of Creep.
     Halfway through the door of the empty house, The Shadow had escaped the
blast. Glass panes had clattered from the door; the terrific concussion had
floored The Shadow. Though showered with glass, he was unhurt.
     Nor was The Shadow seriously delayed.
     Rising, he dashed through the hallway, found a flight of stairs and
headed
up to the third floor. He reached the front balcony and took a quick look.
     This house was several feet higher than Seard's; and its front was
slightly deeper. Coming by the balcony route, Creep had found it as easy to
reach Seard's roof as it had been to hurl the knife the night before. The
knife-thrust had been downward; the grasp for the roof upward.
     Scaling the balcony rail, The Shadow duplicated Creep's course. His hands
clutched the side edge of Seard's roof. A moment later, he was clambering over
the top. As he rolled sideways on the roof, The Shadow brought out an
automatic.
     The city's glow made the rooftop plain. The Shadow saw Creep, still at
the
front edge. The killer was peering below, to gloat over the devastation that
he
had wreaked. He had not yet seen Seard and Cardona. They had wisely halted
inside Seard's front door.


     CREEP could not have heard The Shadow's arrival; but the demented killer
apparently had an amazing ability to sense approaching danger. He jumped back
from the roof edge, staring straight toward the figure in black. With long,
loping leap, Creep made for cover. He chose the protection of the chimney.
     The Shadow fired; but Creep was clear. He had passed the big chimney; The
Shadow's bullet gouged the brick corner. Creep's hand was at his hip when he
reached cover. He was pulling a gun of his own.
     The duel that followed was a remarkable one. The Shadow's skill was
matched against Creep's insane cunning. Reaching the front of the chimney, he
saw Creep take quick aim from the far corner. The Shadow stabbed a sizzling
shot. Creep was gone, ducking for another chimney, using the first as perfect
cover for his path.
     Following, The Shadow had Creep in a position where the killer's logical
step was to make for the next-door roof. Instead, Creep shifted roundabout; as
soon as The Shadow reached the far side of the chimney, Creep made a mad dash
back to his first shelter.
     That gave The Shadow an apparent edge. Closing upon the front chimney, he
had Creep at bay, when the slippery crook suddenly poked his head over the
chimney top, ready for a downward spring.
     The Shadow looked straight upward. He saw a thin, emaciated face, its
lips
spread to show tusklike teeth. A scrawny arm swung to view, showing the
revolver
clutched in Creep's clawlike fist.
     The Shadow's .45 loomed upward, quicker than Creep could aim. Again, the
killer was quick as a whipping snake. He slid suddenly backward; The Shadow
saw
his arms shoot upward. An instant later, they were out of sight. Creep's lusty
chuckle died in a trailing muffle.
     Creep had taken a feet-first dive, straight down the chimney. His thin
body wasted to the proportions of a human skeleton, Creep had been able to
take
that path. It was a route too narrow for The Shadow to follow.


     THERE was a witness to Creep's finished journey. The wiry killer landed
in
the fireplace in Seard's study. Havlett had just come up in the elevator. The
servant saw Creep crawl out, covered with soot and ashes. With a yell, Havlett
made for the elevator.
      Creep cared nothing for the servant's flight. He glared about the room,
expecting to see Seard. Slowly a wise, ugly smile registered upon Creep's
drawn
lips. The killer looked up toward the ceiling. He muttered to himself,
deciding
that he had already met Seard upon the roof. Creep was making Weston's
mistake:
identifying Seard as The Shadow.
      Glaring toward the fireplace, Creep pictured the absurd possibility of
returning up through the chimney. A shake of his head told that the idea was
too fantastic even for his demented brain. Instead, Creep hurried out into the
hall and looked for a stairway. He found one and dashed down to the second
floor.
      There, the killer met Joe Cardona coming up from the first floor. Seard
was not with Joe, for the investigator could not stand the climb. Desirous
only
of a meeting with Seard, Creep did not aim for Cardona. Instead, he darted
back
through the hall, with the ace in pursuit.
      Creep found a back stairway. He hurtled downward to the first floor,
arriving in a kitchen. A fat-faced chef dived behind the stove. Leering, Creep
looked for another outlet. He found a doorway to the cellar, and dived in that
direction just as Cardona reached the kitchen.
      Chasing to the cellar, Cardona blundered about. He used his flashlight;
beyond stacks of books he saw Creep pulling the bolt of a door that led
outside. Uncannily, the crook had found that exit in the darkness. Creep was
going through when Cardona fired. Joe's hurried shots were wild.
      It was pure luck that aided Creep in the final stage of his escape. When
he reached a passage outside, he darted in the opposite direction from the
house next door. The excitement of the pursuit must have caused him to forget
temporarily his hope of meeting Seard. Had Creep gone toward that adjoining
house, he would have met with instant capture.
      The Shadow arrived from the back door of the empty house just as Creep
bolted.


     COOLLY, The Shadow took aim in the direction of Creep's clattering
flight.
     One winging shot was all he needed to bring the crazed murderer to earth.
It was fortunate that The Shadow took such deliberate aim. Had he been hasty,
he might not have noticed an unwanted target that lunged suddenly into his
path
of fire.
     It was Cardona, coming from Seard's cellar. Unwittingly, Joe thrust his
head and his broad shoulders squarely in front of The Shadow's gun. A gloved
finger halted its trigger squeeze. By that instinctive stop, The Shadow
prevented himself from shooting Joe Cardona.
     Creep dashed away to safety, thanks to Cardona's blunder. Joe fired three
shots; but they were useless. He was going only by the direction of Creep's
footfalls; and they were too evasive for Joe's judgment.
     Pocketing his stubby revolver, Cardona glanced about; then went back into
the cellar.
     The Shadow detached himself from darkness. Pursuit of Creep was useless.
It could not amend the death of Homer Lane. The needed link was lost.
     Since The Shadow had an appointment with Commissioner Weston, his best
course was to keep it - in the usual guise of Lamont Cranston. It would mean a
conventional call upon Gannet Seard; and The Shadow already knew what he would
hear when he arrived as Cranston. Seard and Cardona would give their version
of
Creep's mistaken attempt at murder.
     Those details would be slim, small change compared with the wealth of
information that Lane might have given. Nevertheless, The Shadow intended to
add those item's to his collection of facts. Even the most slender clues might
prove useful.
     Mere items from the past, added to those of the present and future, might
give The Shadow keys to facts that he wanted. As a master of deduction, he had
shown himself as keen as Gannet Seard.
     The future offered chance for The Shadow to move ahead of his keen rival
in the field of crime detection.
     The Shadow could foresee that prospect.


     CHAPTER XII

     SEARD'S ANALYSIS

      BY a quick trip to the Cobalt Club, The Shadow paved the way for a
prompt,
ordinary visit to Seard's house. When he reached the club, The Shadow had
become
Cranston; and he met Commissioner Weston coming from the front door. Weston
showed high excitement.
      "Jove, Cranston!" he exclaimed, "I'm glad you arrived early! I just left
word for you to meet me at the usual place."
      Cranston smiled slightly, as they stepped into the commissioner's car.
      "By the usual place," he remarked, "I suppose you meant Seard's."
      "Yes," affirmed Weston. "There has been the deuce to pay there! We shall
learn about it when we arrive."
      Uniformed police were patrolling the neighborhood when the commissioner's
car reached Seard's. When Weston and Cranston were ushered into the third
floor
study, they received details of all that had happened. Joe Cardona supplied
them, while Seard sat behind his desk, his big head nodding its corroboration.
      Certain details, though, were lacking. The account contained no mention
of
The Shadow. His battle with Creep remained unknown. No one had heard the shots
upon the roof.
      Seard had not been idle during the interim, since Creep's murder of Lane.
A ring of the telephone indicated something important, for Cardona sprang to
answer the call at Seard's nod. The call was from Philadelphia. Cardona began
to jot down notations while Seard mentioned:
      "We called the Philadelphia police for a full report on Homer Lane."
      As soon as that call was ended, there was another ring of the phone bell.
This time it was Detective Sergeant Markham. While Cardona talked, Seard
explained:
      "We sent Markham for information from the hospital where Lane was a
patient after his automobile accident."
      From Joe's notations, Seard picked certain names. They were persons whom
informants connected with Lane. Cardona made a call to headquarters; he gave
new instructions, as ordered by Seard.
      Meanwhile, Havlett entered, to announce that Seard's secretary had
arrived. Seard sent Cardona's notes downstairs, to be typed.
      All during the next hour, the telephone was busy. So was Seard. He was
studying the reports that came to Cardona; he was looking over the typed
sheets
that arrived from downstairs. He did not stop with checking on Lane. He added
data that concerned Creep Hoyran; those involved long-distance calls to the
asylum where the crazed murderer had been confined.


     AT last, Seard was satisfied.
     He went to the fireplace, carrying his typed sheets with him. He drew
down
a black chart that was made of thin, flexible silicate. It formed a blank
blackboard. With chalks of different colors, Seard began to write names.
      At times, he called for data from his files. Cardona found the wanted
information and supplied it. All the while, Weston looked on in profound
admiration. He saw Cranston watching the process. In an undertone, the
commissioner confided:
      "See that, Cranston? It looks like a hodgepodge. But wait! I have seen
Seard do this before! Those various colors represent names which have
connected
themselves in his giant mind. Later, he will join the links."
      The time came. Stepping back from the hanging blackboard chart, Seard
leaned on his cane and surveyed the accumulation of names. He steadied himself
against a chair; used his cane as a pointer.
      "Creep Hoyran," he announced. The name was written in blue. "I consider
him because his action was most recent. Notice those others in blue. They are
persons who knew Creep, or visited him while he was confined."
      Shifting to the board, Seard linked the names with blue chalk lines. He
shook his head.
      "They lead nowhere," he declared. "There is not the slightest chance that
Creep intended to murder Lane. Ah, commissioner" - Seard smiled dryly as he
looked toward Weston - "you are saying to yourself that we knew that fact
already.
      "We did not know it. We merely supposed it. I have been considering the
possibility" - Seard tapped his forehead - "that Creep might have some other
purpose than making death-thrusts toward me. After all, Creep did dispose of
Lane.
      "So it was necessary to consider his case in detail. Our finding proves
nil. We can summarize Creep's case simply and accurately. Creep mistook Lane
for myself. There is just one question that might be asked. Does it occur to
any one?"
      Seard looked benignly about the group, like a teacher beaming upon a
class
in grammar school. It was Cardona who asked the question:
      "Why did Creep think you would be coming into the house, when you are
always in here every evening? Is that it, Mr. Seard?"
      "That is the question," approved Seard. "Here is the answer. On certain
afternoons, I have gone for short rides in Central Park, always returning
before dusk. Since Creep always came here after dark, I supposed that he did
not know of my brief pleasure excursions. I was mistaken. Creep did know.
      "Waiting on the roof, he wanted to be sure that I was home before he
lowered the bomb into the fireplace. While he made his tests, he kept watching
the street. When he saw the cab, he thought I might be arriving late from a
park ride. He spied Lane. That was sufficient."


     WITH an eraser, Seard eliminated blue names and lines from the
blackboard.
He pointed to a yellow name: Homer Lane. He began to link that name with
others
written in yellow.
     "Lane worked at the Rickshaw Club," reviewed Seard. "He was injured in an
automobile accident. He received visits from various friends." Seard checked
yellow names. "Some of them were patrons of the Rickshaw Club. During that
time, Lane received some money.
      "We have the statement of the nurse who saw Lane open the envelope and
destroy the note that was with it. Lane told her that his friends had sent him
the gift. That seemed probable, since many of them had called."
      Seard tapped the various yellow names with the eraser. With a flourish,
he
eradicated every one of them, including that of Lane. He picked up a piece of
green chalk; wrote Lane's name again, in the place where it had been.
      "Why did I eliminate the yellow?" he rumbled. "Because it was the
obvious.
Let me tell you this" - Seard wagged his hand with the green chalk: "Lane
would
have received that money whether or not he had been injured in an automobile
accident.
      "It was a bribe to induce him to leave the Rickshaw Club and go to parts
unknown. The man who gave the bribe intended, originally, to slip the money
secretly to Lane. He could not do so after the accident. He had to use some
excuse. The note told Lane to pretend that the cash was a donation from
friends.
      "It specified what Lane was to do in return. He followed instructions. He
went to Philadelphia. To-day, he received more money. We know the rest.
Instead
of going to Florida, Lane became frightened; and hurried to New York."
      Standing back, Seard stroked his chin and studied the name of Lane, also
others that were written in green. Seard commented on the names.
      "Those," he declared, "represent persons who could have known Lane. By
that, I mean persons who might have visited the Rickshaw Club, on rare
occasions. Persons, moreover, who had something in common with Lane."
      From Lane's name, Seard drew lines to two others.
      "These men worked at other night clubs," he said. "Their jobs were
similar
to the one that Lane held. This man" - Seard made another line - "came from
Lane's home town. Here are four who frequented places where Lane had worked
before he came to the Rickshaw Club."
      Seard shook his head. Those leads meant nothing. His smile, though,
showed
that a real connection was coming. He drew three lines, fanning out from
Lane's
name to a trio of names above it.
      "Those three men," announced Seard, "have a common failing. They play the
races heavily. In order to do so, they placed many bets. With whom? This man!"
      Seard drew three quick lines to the top of the chart, arriving at a name
that had, so far, passed unnoticed by Weston and Cardona; although Cranston
had
spied it. Around that green-chalk name, Seard drew an emphatic circle.
Weston's
eyes read the name; his lips voiced it:
      "Blackey Brenby!"


     SEARD nodded, as he erased all names from the chart with the exception of
Blackey's, which remained within its circle.
     "We made the same mistake as the underworld," declared Seard, in a
rumbled
drone. "We credited Blackey with being honest. Let us suppose the opposite.
Consider Blackey as a man who built up his honest reputation with the purpose
of using it for a grand clean-up.
     "Blackey held Chink's loot in his vault. He was ready to decamp with it.
Since that would have branded him as a double-crosser, Blackey planned another
haul: the profits of the racket ring.
     "He learned facts from visits to the Rickshaw Club. The one man who would
have remembered those visits was Lane. Blackey bribed the fellow -
anonymously,
of course - to leave his job there and remain away."
      Commissioner Weston was elated over Seard's conclusions. Briefly and
effectively, Seard had linked two stupendous crimes and had named the same
master crook for both. Blackey Brenby, ex-bookie, stood as the one criminal
that the law must seek.
      If Seard had stopped there, Weston would still have been overwhelmed by
the master investigator's ability at analyzing crime. To Seard's giant brain,
however, the naming of Blackey Brenby was but a stepping stone.
      Pointing dramatically to the chart, Seard declared:
      "Blackey Brenby is still in New York! The underworld does not suspect his
treachery. Crooks think that he was entitled to Chink's swag. They do not know
that he took Devoort's also. The way is still open for Blackey to stage
another
haul!"
      That statement made Weston's eyes pop. With white chalk, Seard wrote
three
names upon the board. Dramatically, he declared:
      "I have written these names in white; but they are blacker than that
board
itself! Reds Lurthan, Tiger Hyrick, Nemo Javley. Every one of them has gone in
for big crime! Those are the three that Blackey will watch! Sooner or later,
he
will contact them. Shrewdly, he will mention Chink Rethlo; but not Louis
Devoort.
      "Blackey will boast of his honest reputation. He will refer to his
connection with Chink as proof that he can be trusted. Those three crooks will
remember that the evidence shows that Blackey did not disappear with Chink's
swag until he knew that Chink was dead. He will offer to hold swag for them.
      "We do not care whether or not they accept his terms. Our task is to
watch
those three: Reds, Tiger and Nemo. When one or all meet Blackey, the law can
close in upon them!"
      Seard had completed his analysis. In addition, he had prepared a campaign
for the law. From the files, he produced a photograph of Blackey Brenby. It
showed a sallow, square-faced man with a black mustache. Seard smiled as he
told Cardona:
      "Remember Blackey when you see him."


     THE visitors left Seard's. Again, as on other nights, a blue light
appeared in The Shadow's sanctum. Beneath its glow lay a duplicate of
Blackey's
photograph. The Shadow's hand put that picture aside; brought three others
into
the light.
     Those portraits represented the trio whose names Seard had mentioned. The
Shadow expected to see those three crooks in person, within the very near
future.
     Like the law, The Shadow was planning a campaign upon the analysis that
Gannet Seard had outlined.


     CHAPTER XIII

     THREE CROOKS CONFER

     THE next day Lamont Cranston stopped at the Cobalt Club, in a limousine
loaded with suitcases and sporting equipment. He was leaving for Canada, so he
told Ralph Weston. The news brought vociferous objection from the police
commissioner.
     "Why go there, Cranston?" exclaimed Weston. "The sport is greater here
than in Canada. Can't you picture what the capture of Blackey Brenby will
mean?"
     "To the law - yes," rejoined Cranston, "but not to me. Our tastes differ,
commissioner. I prefer to bag big game. You are welcome to your man hunts."
     Weston would have been quite amazed, had he known the real reason for
Cranston's supposed departure from New York. Weston, himself, was responsible
for it. He had made it a routine for Cranston to accompany him on visits to
the
home of Gannet Seard.
     There was only one way for The Shadow to clear himself from that routine.
That course was to send himself out of town. From to-day on, The Shadow needed
complete leeway for excursions in his garb of black. To preserve his double
identity, he had to account for Cranston's absence. The trip to Canada was
sufficient excuse.
     Actually, Cranston's journey ended at Stamford, Connecticut, the first
stop that the Canada-bound train made after leaving New York. From Stamford,
The Shadow returned to New York.


     THE direct result of The Shadow's return was realized at eight o'clock
that evening, an hour when Weston was visiting Seard. To-night, The Shadow was
present at a more important spot.
     Three men were seated in the living room of a luxurious apartment. Heavy
window curtains were drawn. Glasses clinked as the trio talked business. Those
three were the men whose pictures lay in The Shadow's sanctum.
     The apartment belonged to "Reds" Lurthan. His visitors were "Tiger"
Hyrick
and "Nemo" Javley.
     Each of the three possessed individual talents in respective lines of
crime.
     Reds Lurthan owned a hidden printing plant that boasted an excellent
engraving department. That plant turned out fake bonds and stock certificates
that were fine mutations of originals. Reds had staged many smooth robberies;
in every case, he had left fraudulent stocks and bonds in place of the genuine
ones that he had stolen. So far, that game had slipped past the law.
     Tiger Hyrick was a shakedown artist. His deals ran all the way from con
games to outright blackmail. Lesser crooks did the work; Tiger was the brain
behind the business. Some of the small-fry had taken raps; but Tiger had never
been reached.
     Nemo Javley fancied jewelry. The gems that suited his taste were those
that belonged to other persons, particularly wholesale jewel merchants. Nemo
stood tops in that specialized, field of crime.
     Though the law recognized each man as a dangerous crook, no tangible
evidence could be gained against any one of them. Reds, Tiger and Nemo never
talked to the wrong people.
     In fact, this was the first time that they had ever talked openly between
themselves. They were speaking only because they had found something in
common,
and because they were confident that their meeting place was one of absolute
seclusion.
     "Here's the note that came from Blackey Brenby," announced Reds,
producing
a crumpled sheet of paper. "It told me to wait until I got a birthday greeting
telegram. The wire came in this afternoon."
     Tiger compared the paper with one of his own. He gave a gruff guffaw.
     "Same as mine," he said: "Only I was to wait until somebody sent me
flowers! They were delivered to-day."
     "I tore up my note," added Nemo. "It said I would get a bill for five
tons
of coal. The bill showed up this afternoon."
      The fact that Nemo had destroyed his note, caused Reds and Tiger to do
the
same with theirs. They burned them and put the charred remnants in an ash
tray.


      "THOSE notes were typed," remarked Reds. "I've got a hunch that Blackey
banged them off on that old typewriter in his office. Which means he did it
before he lammed with all that swag belonging to Chink Rethlo."
      "So what?" snapped Tiger. "That don't mean that Blackey pulled a fast one
on Chink! He wouldn't have got in touch with us, if he had."
      "I figure Blackey as O.K.," assured Reds. "Here's the way I size it.
Blackey was waiting for Chink to bring in more swag. After that, Blackey was
to
clear town and unload it. A sweet stunt, with the bulls looking for Chink."
      Nods from Tiger and Nemo. Their interpretation of notes was similar to
the
one that Reds had made.
      "Blackey said one thing that counts." Reds thumbed toward the ash tray.
"He said he could do for us what he was going to do for Chink, if we'd slip
him
the goods. That's why he wants to meet us."
      From a table drawer, Reds produced a fat sheaf of engraved stock
certificates.
      "These are the McCoy," he told the others. "Worth three hundred grand.
Came out of safes in brokerage houses. Phonies planted in their place. It
would
be bad, though, to try and unload them in New York.
      "I'm going to let Blackey handle them. They're hot here; but they'll be
cool wherever he's going. The way he's had the cops buffaloed shows that he
knows his stuff. I'm one guy that's going to meet Blackey and make a deal with
him, to-night."
      Reds had hardly announced his decision before Tiger showed a fat,
large-sized wallet. From it, Tiger brought currency of high denomination. He
stacked thousand-dollar bills upon the table; then counted others of
five-hundred and one-hundred-dollar denomination.
      "One hundred and sixty-five grand," stated Tiger. "Dough that came from
some of the saps who wanted things kept quiet. Only they weren't so dumb as
they might have been. This mazuma is marked. I used the microscope on it. It's
a cinch the suckers squawked to the Feds.
      "That's why I've hung on to this wad. It's been getting bigger and
bigger.
If Blackey can unload your stuff, Reds, he can handle this dough, too. I'm
going
along with you, to make a deal with Blackey."
      The two looked to Nemo. They saw him place his hand in his coat pocket.
They expected him to bring out a bag of gems. Instead, Nemo produced a pack of
cigarettes. Lighting one, he remarked:
      "Count me out."
      Worried looks passed between the others. It was Reds who inquired:
      "What's the gag, Nemo? Do you think Blackey's a phony?"
      A headshake from Nemo.
      "Blackey sounds all right," he said. "The whole thing listens good. Only
I
don't need Blackey. Listen to this: I've stowed away sparklers worth a half a
million bucks! To-morrow night, I'm staging another job; and I'll double what
I've got!
     "All the sparklers will be hot, only that won't mean anything. I go after
big ones. They can be recut, reset, fixed so neat that they could be sold back
to the clucks that I took them from."
     Nemo paused for a long puff on his cigarette. His lips showed a wise
smile. He added:
     "I'll handle all that through a guy that knows how. One guy that nobody
could suspect. A big-time jeweler who makes trips abroad. That's why I don't
need Blackey."


     NEMO'S explanation was sufficient. He arose, dunked his half-smoked
cigarette in an ash tray and remarked:
     "I think I'll run along, Reds. Only listen: Joe Cardona dropped in to see
me this afternoon. He had a hokum story; but I've got a hunch that he's had
some dicks watching me. That won't matter. I'm going to do a duck into a
hide-out. Only you fellows - to-night -"
     Reds was on his feet, showing Nemo to a private elevator. Thwacking the
visitor on the shoulder, Reds grunted:
     "Don't worry about me and Tiger. We can shake off the fly-cops. There
won't be anybody tailing us when we get to the Claybrook Hotel. What's more,
we
can count on Blackey being there."
     Nemo added another warning headshake.
     "Don't be too sure on anything, Reds. Better ride past the joint to make
sure it isn't cased. You'll be boxed, once you're down in that old basement
dining room."
     "We'll make sure the room's empty. Leave it to us, Nemo. Blackey couldn't
have picked a better spot!"
     As soon as Nemo had gone, Reds and Tiger prepared for their own
departure.
They pocketed the swag that they intended to deliver to Blackey. Reds turned
out
all the lights except a small table lamp. He pushed the button to bring up the
elevator that Nemo had used. Reds and Tiger entered the cage.
     While the mechanism of the descending elevator still gave a muffled
thrum,
a window curtain stirred in the emptied living room. Draperies parted; from a
broad ledge came a shape that looked ghostlike in the dull light.
     Approaching the spot where the lamp glowed, the shape became a cloaked
figure. Keen eyes burned from beneath the brim of a slouch hat. The
materialized being was The Shadow. The master of darkness had listened in on
the entire conference.


     THE SHADOW had penetrated to this living room by an outside route.
Scaling
the wall of the apartment house, he had picked the right window. Unseen and
unheard, he had found a suitable lurking spot behind the drawn curtains.
     Burned paper in the ash tray showed traces of typewritten words that, a
while ago, might have been important clues for The Shadow. That evidence was
no
longer necessary. The parting conversation between Reds and Nemo had given The
Shadow all the facts he wanted.
     Reds and Tiger were going to the old Claybrook Hotel, near Eighth Avenue.
The hotel was an obscure one; and its downstairs dining room had been closed
for the past year. It was an ideal spot for crooks to use as a meeting place;
and it could serve The Shadow, also.
     Since Reds and Tiger would be taking a roundabout course to shake off any
trailing police, The Shadow could reach the hotel ahead of them. That would be
easy, despite the head start that the two crooks had gained.
      Bringing up the elevator, The Shadow entered and descended. He reached a
downstairs passage; left the apartment house through a dark side door.
Outside,
The Shadow glided away with absolute stealth. He had reason for that process.
      Across the street he saw a parked car that contained watchers of the law.
There would be others in the vicinity. Probably they had spotted Nemo and sent
the word along. Chances were that they had also sighted Reds and Tiger. Nemo
would give them no trail; but the law could gain one from Reds and Tiger.
      Perhaps the course would not be so easy as Reds and Tiger had
anticipated.
There could be trouble from the law to-night, for the police were working
under
orders that came direct from Gannet Seard. The Shadow's rival knew how to
outguess men of crime.
      So did The Shadow. One thing was certain. The Shadow would reach the
Claybrook Hotel ahead of the law. He would have first chance to deal with
crooks when they arrived there.
      That coming opportunity was attractive to The Shadow, at the present
moment. It was to prove the very opposite when he reached his chosen goal.


     CHAPTER XIV

     TWO FROM THREE

      REDS LURTHAN and Tiger Hyrick had taken excellent precautions when they
reached the street; measures good enough to shake off a usual procession of
trailing detectives. One block away, they entered a narrow garage, where Reds
sometimes kept a car. With a nudge, Reds motioned the garage man to close the
door.
      Satisfied that no dicks were about, Reds led Tiger to a stairway. They
reached the garage roof; entered the second floor window of an adjoining
building. They descended to a doorway on another street. Reds watched across
the street and saw a shambly panhandler go into a little store. After a few
minutes, Reds spoke to Tiger:
      "It's all clear. That guy was my lookout. I keep him posted here. They
flash the glims on the second floor if he reports any moochers around here.
That goes for fly-cops."
      Tiger was not surprised to learn of the precautions used by Reds. Like
all
so-called big-shots, Reds had enemies and was wise to keep them in mind.
To-night, his measures against underworld opposition were serving to balk the
law.
      With the coast clear, the two crooks made for an opposite alleyway. Soon
they emerged near another corner. Reds slid out and hailed a passing taxi.
Tiger followed him into it. Reds gave the driver an address near Times Square.
      All during the ride, the two kept looking through the back window. No one
was tailing them. They chuckled over their skill at slipping Cardona's
watchers. All that they failed to notice was the roundabout route that the cab
driver took.
      Before the taxi reached Times Square, Reds and Tiger had forgotten their
worries about trailing detectives. By that time, cars were following them.
To-night, the law was working under the management of Gannet Seard.
      By Seard's order, every cab had been commandeered in the neighborhood
where Reds lived. The driver of this particular cab was following police
instructions. He had passed a given point to show off his passengers.
      Near Times Square, Reds and Tiger left their cab and walked two blocks to
take another. The new taxi was not controlled by the law; but detectives were
close enough to spot it. The crooks made a conspicuous trail when they rode to
the Claybrook Hotel. They looked the place over, as Nemo had advised. Seeing
no
dicks about, they alighted.
      After their cab had gone, another pulled up and disgorged a pair of
headquarters men, who took a quick peek into the lobby. They saw Reds and
Tiger
going downstairs. The detectives put in prompt word to Joe Cardona.


      MEANWHILE, the two crooks reached the basement of the old hotel and found
it deserted. A barber shop had closed for the night. Across the hallway was
the
closed door of the abandoned dining room.
      Reds opened the door; used a flashlight. He gestured for Tiger to join
him.
      Inside, the two used their flashlights more widely. The dining room was a
large, low-ceilinged place, its walls papered with dark, imitation tapestry.
There were bare tables stacked in the corners; but those afforded no hiding
places.
      All that the pair failed to notice was an open spot near one corner.
Their
flashlights did not quite reach its depths; but the glowing rays gave the
illusion that the space was empty.
      Satisfied, Reds crossed the dining room and reached an end door. He
opened
it and entered, with Tiger. They closed the door behind them.
      Immediately, darkness stirred from darkness. Another flashlight
glimmered.
The Shadow had come from his corner spot. He was moving toward the inner room
where the crooks had gone.
      Inside that room, Reds had pressed a wall switch. The light showed the
room to be about fifteen feet square. Its walls had large garish paintings in
heavy gilded frames.
      Reds pointed across the room, to a picture that showed Peter Stuyvesant,
governor of New Amsterdam, offering defiance to the English. The irate
Dutchman
was backed by a squad of soldiers and a few pitiful cannon.
      "I remember old Pegleg," recalled Reds. "We threw a party in this joint,
about five years ago. It used to be a private dining room."
      "Yeah," agreed Tiger Hyrick. "Only where's Blackey Brenby?"
      "He'll be here." Reds reached to the pocket that contained the bulging
stock certificates. "Get your dough ready, Tiger. We won't want to lose much
time."
      "We won't have to. Not if I know Blackey -"
      Tiger broke off, turning nervously as he heard a click from the door
latch.
      He clamped his inside pocket with his left hand, to hold the money that
bulged there; he started his right hand toward his hip.
      Reds turned also, but did not start to reach for a gun. He thought that
the entrant would be Blackey Brenby.
      Tiger's move for his revolver was too late. Reds, in his turn, was caught
flatfooted. Both let their arms stretch upward as they faced a pair of looming
automatic muzzles.
      Instead of Blackey, they had met the black-cloaked foe to gangdom, The
Shadow.


     THERE was a reason for The Shadow's early entry into the affairs of Reds
and Tiger. From the outer door of the dining room, he had caught muffled
sounds
above. He knew the law had invaded the Claybrook Hotel.
     Soon, police would be on the way down. It was The Shadow's intent that
they should meet Reds and Tiger coming up. Gannet Seard had planned that the
law should have that pair. The Shadow would complete the delivery.
     Best of all, both were carrying incriminating wealth, fruits of their
past
crimes. Reds and Tiger would have a tough time explaining the funds that they
carried.
     Astonishment was plain on both faces. Reds Lurthan, square-jawed,
ugly-eyed; Tiger Hyrick, his lips rounded in an unuttered snarl that showed
long, fangish teeth, yellow like his face - they were trying to guess the
riddle of The Shadow's appearance.
     Had Blackey sold them out? No, that was too unlikely. It might be that
The
Shadow had trapped Blackey. That was more probable. There was a chance,
perhaps,
that The Shadow had faked those messages from Blackey.
     The crooks had no knowledge of Gannet Seard. They never guessed that The
Shadow's rival had analyzed facts for the law, to bring out the actual truth
that Reds and Tiger would seek a meeting with Blackey Brenby. Therefore, the
trapped pair did not realize that The Shadow intended to march them out
through
the big dining room, into the hands of the law.
     Reds and Tiger forgot that they were big-shots, as they backed against
the
big painting of old Peter Stuyvesant. They eyed The Shadow, outlined against
the
door that he had closed. In turn, The Shadow held his burning gaze upon the
crooks.
     It was then that The Shadow saw an oddity in the big wall-painting.
     The cannon that flanked the figure of Stuyvesant were silvery, with black
muzzles; but not bright enough to catch the glisten of the ceiling light.
     Yet one muzzle actually shone!
     That muzzle was real. It was steel, poked through the canvas. It was the
muzzle of a machine gun, trained upon The Shadow!
     Instantly, The Shadow knew that if he aimed for the painting, he would
betray himself. A hidden murderer was ready to cut loose. A false shift by The
Shadow; the sudden arrival of the law - either would bring a drilling stream
of
bullets.


    A BOLD game was the only course. The Shadow gave no indication that he
saw
the camouflaged machine gun. Calmly, he concentrated upon Reds and Tiger.
Slowly, deliberately, he thrust his guns beneath his cloak and stood with
folded arms.
     Reds and Tiger showed sour smiles. They decided that The Shadow's pose
was
intended to bait them. They knew that The Shadow could whip out those
automatics
before they could grab their own guns. They were not ready to take a chance,
just yet.
     Still playing a game to bluff the hidden killer behind the painting, The
Shadow stepped forward from the door. He spoke to Reds and Tiger in cold,
sinister tone:
     "When I command, you will go through that door!"
     Half turning as he spoke, The Shadow pointed with his right hand toward
the door behind him. His left was still against his cloak. His ears, however,
had apparently heard something, for he turned his head toward the door as if
to
watch it. The bluff fooled Reds and Tiger.
      They thought that Blackey had arrived. This was their one chance. Without
waiting to pull guns, the two big-shots hurled themselves forward upon The
Shadow. Both had caught the same idea.
      Like a flash, The Shadow wheeled to meet the attacking pair. Half
dropping, he grabbed for the doorknob with his right hand; yanked an automatic
with his left. He wanted, Reds and Tiger to bowl him to the door, their bodies
covering him in the grapple.
      The gunner behind the wall canvas wanted The Shadow as his target, he
would fail to have that opportunity, while Reds and Tiger blocked the path.
      Thirty seconds more, The Shadow would be clear. The hidden marksman knew
it. He denied the respite.
      The machine gun began its clatter.
      Ripping bullets lashed the plunging bodies of Reds Lurthan and Tiger
Hyrick; jolted them as they clutched at The Shadow. Waggling from side to
side,
the machine gun was clearing the blockers from the path.
      They sprawled; the drilling stream continued. The gunner, peering through
a hole in the eye of Stuyvesant's portrait, expected to see The Shadow
spread-eagled against the door.
      Instead, the door was blank. The Shadow had flattened when the barrage
began. He was covered by the tumbled bodies of Reds and Tiger. Before the
hidden machine gunner realized that piece of strategy, The Shadow was in
action.
      He had no time for calculated aim. He had to halt the stream of bullets
before the killer had a chance to tilt the machine gun toward the floor. With
his drawn automatic, The Shadow blasted haphazard shots in the direction of
the
big painting. Burning slugs seared the canvas. The machine gun's rattle ended.
      Twisting up from beneath the bullet-riddled bodies of the crooks, The
Shadow delivered true shots as he sprang toward the inner wall. Thrusting his
fingers into bullet holes, he ripped away the canvas.
      Beyond was an empty space - a small window-ledge that had been hidden by
the painting. There lay the abandoned machine gun. Its handler was gone.


     THE SHADOW clambered to the ledge; squirmed through an opened window. He
heard shouts from the room that he had left. The police were arriving there,
to
find the bodies of Reds and Tiger. The Shadow did not wait.
     He was in a narrow high-walled air shaft boxed between the hotel and the
next building. Across the shaft was another window, like the one through which
he had come. It was closed and clamped. The killer had taken time to jam it.
     The Shadow smashed the glass with his automatic; unclamped the window and
tugged it upward. He went through. Landing in a dimly lighted corridor, The
Shadow realized instantly where he was. This building had a long underground
passageway that formed a route to the Eighth Avenue subway. The machine gunner
had made an escape through the corridor.
     A ninety-foot dash brought The Shadow to a turn; past it, he saw a
padlocked iron gate, closed for the night.
     From the distance came the rumble of a departing subway train in the
underground station. The fleeing killer had not only padlocked the gate behind
him; he had been lucky enough to catch a subway local.
     The Shadow smashed the padlock with a hard stroke of the gun handle. He
whipped off his cloak and hat; bundled them on his arm. As Cranston, he
strolled through the gate and quickened his pace toward the subway platform.
     The killer had taken a southbound train. The Shadow boarded a northbound
local that came along a minute after he reached the platform.
     One station north, he left the train. As Cranston, he boarded a taxi,
just
as the wail of sirens began from far down Eighth Avenue. Calmly, Cranston's
voice ordered the driver to go southward on Eighth.
     Wild-driving police cars never paused to inspect the cab that was rolling
back in the direction of the Claybrook Hotel. That would have been ridiculous,
since flight had been in the opposite direction. At the hotel's street,
Cranston instructed the driver to turn left.
     There was a tangle of traffic outside the hotel. From his cab window The
Shadow saw Joe Cardona on the curb, excitedly explaining matters to
Commissioner Weston, who was alighting from his official car. From the short
time that it had taken Weston to reach the scene, The Shadow knew that the
commissioner must have been at the Cobalt Club when word of the raid reached
him.
     Much though The Shadow would have liked to hear Weston's version of the
battle, he did not stop; nor did he go to the Cobalt Club, to appear there as
Cranston. He gave the taxi driver another address - that of a small uptown
hotel.
     It would be wise for Lamont Cranston to remain absent from New York
another night; or at least to feign such absence.
     For The Shadow had not forgotten the facts that he had learned at Reds
Lurthan's apartment. Reds, like Tiger Hyrick, was dead. Two big-shots out of
three had been eliminated; one, however, still was alive.
     That one was Nemo Javley. He, too, had received a message from Blackey
Brenby. Nemo, moreover, had planned crime for to-morrow night. Nemo Javley
could prove important later. It would be worth while to watch him.
     The Shadow's laugh sounded softly from the lips of Lamont Cranston. By
to-morrow night, The Shadow would have facts concerning crime that would prove
astonishing even to his rival, Gannet Seard.


    CHAPTER XV

    THE CROSSED TRAIL

     AT dusk the next day, Lamont Cranston was seated in the stuffy hotel room
that formed his temporary New York residence. Beside him were stacks of
newspapers. On his table were report sheets. Facts were ample. Those that were
absent were ones that The Shadow could supply for himself.
     The police had found the bodies of Reds Lurthan and Tiger Hyrick, their
pockets stuffed with evidence of their past crimes. Reds was exposed as a
counterfeiter of stocks and bonds. Tiger was revealed as a big-time
blackmailer.
     The law had declared the name of their murderer: Blackey Brenby.
     The missing bookie had suddenly loomed as a supercriminal. Not content
with the swag from Chink Rethlo's bank robberies, he had duped Reds and Tiger
into a trap. His hope had been to get the spoils that they had bought with
them
for a deal.
     Behind these statements, The Shadow saw the source from which they had
come. The law had gained a new analysis from Gannet Seard.
     There was evidence that proved Blackey's lone-wolf crime. Finger prints
were lacking on the abandoned machine gun; but shoe marks had been found in a
dusty corner of the air shaft.
     A heel print matched one from a pair of shoes found in Blackey's little
apartment. A shoe repairman in the neighborhood testified that he had put on
several pairs of heels for Blackey, and that they were all the same.
     A trifling piece of blue serge cloth, caught in the gate near the subway
platform, was obviously from the suit that Blackey had worn when he had gone
for parts unknown. That suit had an extra pair of trousers, found at
Blackey's.
The serge matched.
     The final evidence, uncovered later, produced Blackey's actual finger
prints.
     The killer had thrown a pair of gloves into a big rubbish container in
the
subway station. Analysis brought traces of the wanted finger prints, within
the
thin kid gloves themselves. Blackey had been finger-printed once, after his
arrest at a gambling establishment with which he had been connected. Those
records would send him to the chair, if he happened to be caught.
     Piecing facts, the law pictured that Blackey had used the gloves to
handle
the machine gun. He had chosen the first chance to get rid of them.
     Dropping these facts, Lamont Cranston began to read reports that dealt
with Nemo Javley. The law had dropped Nemo's trail, soon after he had left the
conference with Reds and Tiger. Nemo had gone his own way, and had spent most
of the evening at a night club. Detectives had seen him there - they had
dropped him when the news came in from the Claybrook Hotel.
     To-day, however, Nemo was missing, although the law had not mentioned it.
The Shadow had that fact from his own agents. They had trailed Nemo after he
knew that he was clear of the police. His hide-out was above a second-story
Chinese restaurant, not far from Sixth Avenue.
     Nemo was set to stage a job to-night. Nothing was known, however, of the
place that he intended to rob; nor of the man to whom Nemo might trust the
keeping of stolen gems. Those were facts that The Shadow intended to learn.
His
agents were keeping tabs on Nemo's hide-out until he arrived.
     All that delayed The Shadow was a single mission. He wanted to hear what
Gannet Seard discussed with Commissioner Weston at their eight o'clock meeting
to-night. The Shadow intended to overhear that conference without returning as
Cranston.


     SHORTLY before eight o'clock, Lamont Cranston strolled from the obscure
hotel and entered a waiting cab. It was The Shadow's taxi. Moe Shrevnitz, the
driver, had just come from a patrol near Nemo's hide-out and reported that all
was quiet there.
     Moe gave this news while Cranston was performing a blackout. By the time
the report was finished, it was The Shadow who occupied the rear seat of the
cab.
     The taxi neared Seard's. Leaving it, The Shadow glided to the house next
door. Entering, he reached the third-floor windows and shifted over to Seard's
roof. An almost invisible figure, The Shadow reached the chimney down which
Creep Hoyran had once planned to lower a bomb.
     The Shadow had brought equipment from the cab. It consisted of a coil of
wire with a microphone attached, plus compact batteries. Planting the
batteries
against the chimney, The Shadow lowered the "mike" down the chimney. When he
had
dangled it far enough, he donned earphones and listened for word to follow.
     In Seard's study, Commissioner Weston and Joe Cardona were in conference
with the big-skulled investigator. Seard was at the fireplace, pointing at a
new chart which he had prepared. Every tone of his booming voice reached The
Shadow through the microphone.
     "Lurthan and Hyrick were two," declared Seard. "What of the third man,
Javley? He is yet to be heard from. He may supply us with facts regarding
Blackey Brenby."
     There was a pause, as Seard looked toward Cardona. Joe shrugged his
shoulders.
     "Maybe Blackey never got in touch with Nemo -"
     "Ridiculous!" interrupted Seard. "I was right regarding two men whom
Blackey did contact. I am right regarding the third. Nemo Javley had some
reason that kept him away from last night's meeting."
     "Maybe he suspected something -"
     Seard rumbled another objection. He tapped the chart with his cane.
     "Reds Lurthan invited both Tiger Hyrick and Nemo Javley to his apartment.
They must have discussed their plans. If Nemo foresaw trouble, he would have
mentioned it to the others. No, inspector, we must look for another answer."
     There was a longer pause, while Seard studied the chart. Finally, the
investigator declared:
     "Nemo must be planning some crime! He must have some one who can handle
his stolen goods. Some one preferable to Blackey Brenby. You were unwise,
Cardona, to drop Nemo's trail last night."
     "But you said to trail him along with the others. After we found them
dead, Nemo didn't count. He won't be looking up Blackey after what happened to
Reds and Tiger!"
     Cardona's argument was a strong one. For once, it impressed Seard. The
latter was mollified when he spoke.
     "You are right, Cardona," he decided. "We must concentrate upon finding
Blackey. At the same time, if Nemo intends crime of his own, we should learn
of
it."
     "Of course!" interjected Weston. "Jove, Cardona! The machinery of the law
must not stand still just because of Blackey Brenby!"
     "I shall analyze Blackey's case further," declared Seard. "Meanwhile,
Cardona, bring me more data on Nemo. A few days from now will be soon enough."


     ABOVE the chimney, The Shadow drew up his wire. He had heard all that he
required. To-night, his concern was with Nemo. This time, the law would
definitely be out of the game, since Seard was giving Cardona a few days to
gather facts.
     The Shadow's visit to Seard's roof had brought the very results that he
wanted. The Shadow was ready for a campaign that promised sure results. Only
the sheer unexpected could spoil that prospect.
     The unexpected was due, from a source that The Shadow had not forgotten,
yet from which he did not anticipate trouble. The coming hour was to become
one
of the most desperate in The Shadow's entire career.
     Down through the empty house and out to the rear street; not an incident
disturbed The Shadow's progress. Near the next corner, he saw Moe's taxi.
     As he approached the cab, The Shadow sighted Moe at a telephone in a
corner cigar store. Moe was putting in a call to Burbank, to learn if there
were any changes in the scene near Nemo's hide-out.
     His eyes toward the window where Moe occupied a pay booth, The Shadow
opened the door of the cab and eased inside. He closed the door after him. He
took one step inward as he shifted toward the center of the rear seat.
     The Shadow's foot struck something that lay on the floor. It was a
darkened cylinder that crackled like an eggshell under the mere touch of The
Shadow's shoe-tip. There was a puff of whitish smoke; stifling, pungent fumes
reached The Shadow's throat before he could catch his breath.
     A gloved hand went for the doorknob, too late. The gas had an
instantaneous, choking effect. Spasmodic gasps were involuntary. The Shadow's
coughing spell drew more fumes into his lungs. He sagged against the window.
     The cab started forward. Moe saw it from the telephone booth, and caught
a
chance glimpse of The Shadow against the cab window. He saw the cloaked figure
slump to the floor, amid a fading cloud of white vapor.
     A huddled driver had popped up in front of the closed partition. Wildly,
gleefully, he was driving away with his captured cab, carrying The Shadow as
his prisoner.
     Sagged against the rear seat, The Shadow managed to clamp his arms across
his face, cutting off further effects of the gas. That effort kept him
conscious; but it did not save him.
     As the vapor subsided, The Shadow's arms dropped. He was limp; his head
was swimming. The air, though no longer choking, still had a gaseous content.
It was impossible to revive in that atmosphere. His head propped against the
rear seat, The Shadow could only stare at the front window.
     There, like a hideous countenance in an opium smoker's dream, The Shadow
saw the face of his captor. It was wizened, wild-eyed; too vague for The
Shadow
to recognize it. Drawn lips spread to deliver a crazed cackle that could not
reach The Shadow's ears because of the closed partition.
     The Shadow's captor was Creep Hoyran.
     Persistent in his death thrusts, Creep had tried a new type of action
against Gannet Seard. Through error, Creep had bagged The Shadow instead. He
seemed fully pleased, though, when he swung a corner and saw the cloaked
figure
roll to the rear floor.
     Seard or The Shadow. It did not matter. Creep planned one definite deed
to
cap the finish of this ride.
     That deed was murder. Death for the prisoner! As he glared ahead, Creep
gave a harsh, triumphant snarl that told of intended doom.


     CHAPTER XVI

     THE GAS BLAST

      A HARD jolt roused The Shadow to a conscious state. His eyes opened to
view a small, square-walled room that he could view from the corner where he
lay. A single electric light showed Creep Hoyran in the center of a curious
lair.
      The room was less than six feet high. If Creep had not been
hunch-shouldered, his head would have scraped the ceiling. Perhaps it was
living here that caused Creep to maintain such a crouching posture.
      The room was stone-walled; windowless. It had a workbench and some items
of laboratory equipment. The Shadow saw an odd gun that looked like a
high-powered air rifle, probably some device that Creep hoped to use against
Seard.
      There were shells of unfinished bombs; also some objects that looked like
giant capsules. The light showed their thin surfaces to be fragile. They were
like the gas bomb that The Shadow had broken when he stepped into the cab.
      The oddest feature of the room was its entrance. That was in the ceiling;
it was a vertical shaft four feet in diameter. From the hole dangled the
bottom
rung of a rope ladder. Sight of the hole gave The Shadow some idea of his
present location.
      This underground chamber had once served as a base for workmen who had
been installing gas mains and conduits. The shaft was a manhole, through which
the workers had descended from the street. The project finished, this room had
been walled; but had been kept as a permanent compartment in case of future
need.
      Creep Hoyran had known of the underground room. He had taken it for
headquarters during his campaign against Seard. It served the maniac as
hide-out as well as workshop.
      The cord from which the light hung came from the manhole. Creep had
evidently tapped a power line that ran beneath the street.
      One fact impressed The Shadow. Creep, wily enough to have chosen and
equipped this perfect hide-away, had certainly been smart enough to follow a
zigzag route in Moe's cab. Wherever he had left the stolen taxi, it would be a
long while before any of The Shadow's agents could locate it.
     Meanwhile, The Shadow would have to deal with Creep alone. That seemed a
hopeless task. Still feeling the effects of the soporific gas, The Shadow was
in no condition for immediate battle. Moving his arms wearily, he found that
his guns were gone. The Shadow was weaponless against Creep.


      THE SHADOW'S unguarded stir attracted Creep's attention. Creep was turned
toward the workbench, packing some articles in a squarish wooden box. He came
around, glaring; his expression became a malicious leer as he saw The Shadow
subside.
      With a loping approach, Creep reached The Shadow. He whipped the slouch
hat from The Shadow's head.
      It was the first view that Creep had gained of his prisoner's face. Creep
snarled when he saw the features of Cranston. The Shadow knew why.
      Creep, like Commissioner Weston, had identified The Shadow with Gannet
Seard. The crazed killer was puzzled to find himself wrong. After a few
moments, Creep remembered Cranston's face.
      "I've seen you!" spat Creep. "Through the window at Seard's! So you're
The
Shadow! Unless -"
      Creep wrenched a knife from beneath his jacket. He drove the blade
downward, stopping a half inch short of The Shadow's throat. The Shadow
remained motionless, his eyes undisturbed. Creep's face spread in a cunning
leer.
      "You're The Shadow, all right," he crackled. "Only The Shadow could sit
tight with a dirk coming for his neck! I thought you were Seard! I saw the cab
- a taxi driver who went to telephone -"
      Creep's lips stiffened. His eyes showed some recollection. At last, he
snarled:
      "Seard slid out that way before. Last night - other nights - he's always
been wise enough to duck me! I killed the wrong man once! This time I took no
chances! I used the white gas. It was quiet."
      Creep picked up the large wooden box. He reached for the rope ladder,
with
the remark:
      "You're The Shadow! You'll croak here! To-morrow night, I'll get Seard!"
      The Shadow appeared indifferent. It angered Creep. Savagely, he demanded:
      "Why were you at Seard's?"
      The Shadow gave answer, in the impassive tone of Cranston.
      "I went to settle scores with Seard," he told Creep. "The man is a
criminal! More dangerous than yourself!"
      The statement would not have registered upon a sane mind. It was the sort
of theory, though, that could impress a crack-brained fellow like Creep. The
wild-eyed killer listened.
      "Seard is a murderer," declared The Shadow, calmly. "Let me give him to
the law. Go back to the place from which you escaped. Remain there. Make
yourself happy while you learn the full truth.
      "Newspapers will tell you of Seard's crimes. You will read the details of
his trial. You can wait, every day a happier one, while Seard spends his hours
in the death house. Then will come the final hour -"


      WHILE The Shadow talked, Creep stood entranced. His face had taken on a
frenzied joy. It was frozen with that expression. A few words more, Creep
would
have been persuaded.
      Then some quirk of fancy broke the spell. Creep's glare returned.
      "You lie!" he snarled. "I know why you went to get Seard! Because he is
smarter than you! More clever than The Shadow! You have proven it!"
     Gloating, Creep eyed his prisoner.
     "Seard has been smart enough to dodge me," reminded Creep. "But The
Shadow
wasn't! That shows he is keener than you are. You could never snag him. I can!
Without your help! To-morrow night! But you won't be around to know it."
     The final sentence was Creep's decree of death. The Shadow's ruse had
failed. Creep had shown enough sanity to reject the outlandish suggestion that
Seard was crooked.
     "Maybe you weren't after Seard at all," added Creep. "Maybe you were
trying to get me. Pretty smart, Shadow, but not smart enough. And it won't
help
Seard, like you wanted. You're through, Shadow!"
     Nimbly, Creep hoisted himself up the rope ladder, lugging the square box
with him. The Shadow heard him clamber through the manhole.
     With an effort, The Shadow arose. For a moment, he staggered; then his
strength returned.
     It was too late. Before The Shadow could grab for the dangling rope
ladder, Creep whisked it upward from above. Stooped beneath the outlet, The
Shadow saw the upper opening, a dozen feet over his head. Creep had reached
the
top. He was glaring down through the manhole.
     On the workbench, The Shadow saw a telephone. He made a dive for it, on
the chance that Creep had connected it with an outside wire. The telephone was
a dummy. Its wire pulled loose from the workbench.
     An instant later, the single light was extinguished. Creep had
disconnected it from above. Down the shaft came a clattering echo. Creep had
clamped the manhole cover. The Shadow was buried in the pit, amid total
darkness.


     UNDER ordinary circumstances, The Shadow could count upon several hours
of
survival, before the air became exhausted. Creep, however, did not intend that
The Shadow should live that long. Two sounds became apparent in the gloom.
      The first was the hiss of gas, that seemed to leak from everywhere. Creep
had tapped some hidden pipe, for The Shadow could scent the odor of ordinary
illuminating gas. The other sound was the singing bzz-bzz of an electric
spark.
      Once the gas filled the underground chamber, The Shadow would lie dead.
Soon afterward, the spark would ignite the gas-charged air. The explosion
would
bury The Shadow's body in a stony tomb.
      Heavier than air, the gas was creeping up from the floor. The Shadow did
not wait for it. Reaching the center of the room, he raised to full height.
Arms spread, he started an upward course through the twelve-foot shaft by
which
Creep had departed.
      The effort failed, as Creep had foreseen it would. The rope ladder was
gone. The inner surface of the tubular shaft was smooth concrete that offered
no grips for fingers and no chance for toeholds. The Shadow lacked any
implements that could have aided him. Creep had taken everything that The
Shadow carried with him.
      After two feet, The Shadow slumped down to the floor. Another prisoner
might have accepted doom. Not The Shadow. In that frustrated effort, The
Shadow
had discovered a way to navigate the shaft.
      Groping through the increasing gas, he found Creep's workbench and
dragged
it to the center of the room. Mounting the bench, The Shadow thrust himself
well
up into the shaft. He started another climb. This time, his method differed.
     Taking advantage of the comparatively narrow diameter of the shaft, The
Shadow wedged himself across it. The shaft was four feet wide; The Shadow had
a
height of six. Knees and shoulders held him braced in horizontal position.
     Something in the manner of an inchworm, The Shadow worked his way upward.
His knees crept higher than his shoulders; then, with arms aiding, he lifted
his head to a greater level.
     Though he lacked his usual strength, The Shadow continued his jerky
course. When forced to rest, he could not fall. His body was wedged in place.
     It was a strange race, that slow upward pace, matched against the
gathering gas below. The Shadow could barely hear the hissing flow from the
underground room; but the buzz of the electric spark was plainly audible. The
Shadow did not calculate the time element. He was doing his utmost to offset
it.
     The Shadow's head thumped the manhole cover. His hands pressed. The lid
was clamped. Its inner surface offered no grip. The upward push of The
Shadow's
arms was insufficient. There was no way to put his shoulders behind the heave;
they were bracing his body.
     On the very brink of escape, the way was blocked. All that The Shadow
could do was wait. His nostrils scented a trace of gas, wafted up from the
lair
that he had left. The instant was almost due.
     Pressed hard against the manhole cover, face buried in his cloak, The
Shadow took a long breath and held it.
     A dozen seconds later, the blast came.


      WITH a furious puff, the air of the underground chamber burst upward,
accompanied with a sheet of searing flame that momentarily engulfed The
Shadow.
With that explosion; the one weakness of the trap was evidenced.
      The clamps of the manhole cover gave instantly. Flaming gas gushed high,
heaving the steel cap twenty feet upward. With that terrific puff, The Shadow
was blown clear. Spreading flame showed him as a whirling figure, hoisted
eight
feet in air, to flatten upon the paving beside the opened manhole.
      The street was quivering when The Shadow landed. Masonry caved below. The
ceiling of the underground room collapsed. The shaft closed in funnel fashion,
sucking The Shadow into its crumbling vortex. Clogging stones blocked the way.
The Shadow's slipping course ended. His body was in the stone-choked hole; his
head and shoulders were just above the level of the pavement.
      Mechanically, The Shadow crawled clear and reached the curb. Shaken, he
came to his feet unsteadily. The whole street seemed to spin.
      As it whirled, The Shadow found himself staring at a blank wall, which he
finally identified as the buttress of an East River bridge. There was a car
parked there. Reeling, The Shadow reached it.
      The car was Moe's cab. Creep had abandoned it. Dizzily, The Shadow took
the wheel. He started the motor and began a careening course. Two wheels on
the
sidewalk, he passed the shattered center of the street.
      From there on, The Shadow's course was an odd one. It seemed as though
the
cab stood still; that the streets and avenues rolled beneath it. On an avenue
where the elevated ran, pillars bobbed up, moved aside as the cab threaded
beneath them.
      His brain swimming, The Shadow was driving by sheer instinct. Hazily, he
was heading back to Seard's, until he realized that he did not want to go
there.
      He took a side street, heading against traffic. As cars whisked from his
path, he realized that something was wrong. Applying the brakes, The Shadow
jolted the cab to a stop against the curb.
      Slumped behind the wheel. The Shadow would have become a surprising
discovery for a police patrol car, if others had not found him sooner. A coupe
happened to come along the one-way street. Its driver recognized the cab and
stopped.
      From the coupe popped two of The Shadow's agents: Harry Vincent and Cliff
Marsland. Moe Shrevnitz was with them; the taxi driver clambered from the
rumble seat. The trio looked into the cab, expecting to find Creep Hoyran.
Instead, they saw The Shadow, motionless behind the wheel. His strength had
lapsed at last.
      Two minutes later, Moe Shrevnitz was driving his cab the right direction
along the one-way street. The Shadow was a passenger in the back seat, Harry
Vincent with him. Cliff Marsland was following in the coupe, as convoy.
      The Shadow's agents had reclaimed their chief. To-morrow, The Shadow
would
renew his campaign against crime, from the point where his chance episode with
Creep had interrupted it.


     CHAPTER XVII

     THE SHADOW PROPOSES

      DURING that interlude with Creep Hoyran, The Shadow had missed events
elsewhere. He learned that the next day, when he received reports from his
agents. Nemo Javley had left his hideout above the Chinese restaurant while
The
Shadow's aids had been frantically searching for their chief.
      Fortunately, they had left one man on duty. That agent was "Hawkeye."
Harry and Cliff had not informed him of The Shadow's plight, when they
received
news from Burbank. Hence Hawkeye, one of the cleverest of trailers, had
followed
Nemo.
      The crook had come from his hide-out carrying a large, well-weighted
satchel. He had stepped aboard a subway express that took him to downtown
Manhattan. There, he had joined a thuggish crew in a touring car. They had
cruised to the vicinity of Maiden Lane.
      There, the crooks had evidently found their own route into a building
that
housed wholesale jewelry offices. They must have known the lay and found a
clear
route for their operations. When Hawkeye spotted them again, they were loading
other heavy bags aboard their car.
      After a ride of two dozen blocks, Nemo had transferred to a parked coupe,
taking the loaded bags with him. Hawkeye had seen the transfer, for he had
followed in a cab. He had trailed Nemo to the neighborhood of Fourteenth
Street. After losing trace for a short while, Hawkeye had spotted the crook
coming from the rear of a darkened ten-story building.
      Nemo had unloaded the heavy bags, leaving them somewhere in the building.
Later, he abandoned his coupe. Hawkeye found it empty. Meanwhile, other
agents,
returning to the vicinity of Nemo's hide-out, saw the crook arrive there. That
was after they had found The Shadow.


     TO-DAY'S newspapers carried reports of a sensational robbery in Maiden
Lane. Crooks had completely silenced an elaborate alarm system that protected
the offices of the Allied Jewelers Association. The robbers had rifled a vault
that contained half a million in gems.
     The job fitted with the plans that The Shadow had heard Nemo discuss with
Reds and Tiger. So did the stop that Nemo made near Fourteenth Street. The
Shadow had received the address of that building from Hawkeye. A gem broker
named Howard Morridon had an office on the fifth floor.
     Records showed nothing against Morridon. He ran what appeared to be a
legitimate business, making occasional trips abroad to buy and sell gems. The
Shadow saw the purpose that would be behind Morridon's next trans-Atlantic
voyage. On that journey, Morridon intended to carry the swag left with him by
Nemo Javley.
     Clever crooks like Nemo no longer worked through "fences," who disposed
of
gems for a mere fraction of their value. They had their own agents; men like
Morridon, who knew the jewelry trade. The old joke of making little ones out
of
big ones no longer pertained to rock piles. It was serious business, and
profitable, when applied to gems.
     If Nemo's swag totaled the million dollars that the crook had boasted, it
would bring nearly two-thirds of that amount, after Morridon disposed of the
gems. The few hundred thousand dollars lost in the transactions would include
Morridon's commission and the charges made by foreign gem cutters. Offsetting
the loss would be the fact that smaller gems would bring a more rapid sale.
     Nemo Javley would be ready to retire from the jewel-snatching racket when
the disposal of the gems was completed. He had staged crime on a big-time
scale. It was that very fact that made The Shadow consider prompt moves to
deal
with Nemo's case.

     Chink Rethlo
     Louis Devoort
     Nemo Javley

     Those three names appeared in blue ink, as The Shadow wrote them, beneath
the glowing lamp in his sanctum. Nemo Javley could no longer be classed with
Reds Lurthan and Tiger Hyrick. That pair had been overloaded with "hot" goods
that could not be easily handled. Nemo's stolen gems were cool.
     Like Chink's bank swag and Devoort's racket money, Nemo's jewels were a
prize that would suit a hidden master crook. The Shadow knew exactly what had
happened to Chink's spoils and Devoort's cash. Soon, Nemo's gems would go the
same route.
     Chink and Devoort had been trapped through the keen methods of Gannet
Seard. In both cases, there had been time for a hidden hand to sweep the
hidden
spoils before the law could uncover the full game. The police were still
looking
for Blackey Brenby. That was proof that the law could not prevent another
clean-up by the master criminal who preyed on others.
     Proof, too, that Seard's deductions were too slow to fully serve the law.
Though accurate, they were based on long analysis, that usually meant delay.
Offsetting that was the fact that Seard admittedly depended upon data supplied
by the police. That could account for his slowed process.
     To push Seard's methods to a higher speed, The Shadow generously decided
to supply his rival with needed facts in the case of Nemo Javley. In this
instance, The Shadow had gained a definite head start. He was willing to
reduce
the handicap for Seard's benefit.
      LEAVING the sanctum, The Shadow first rode past the building near
Fourteenth Street; then traveled to the street where Nemo's hide-out was
located. Afternoon was almost ended when he arrived at the Cobalt Club as
Cranston.
      Inside, he found Commissioner Weston. He had expected to meet his friend,
for The Shadow had received a report that the commissioner was at the club.
      Weston was surprised to see Cranston back so soon from Canada. Cranston
quietly explained that he had returned because of some unexpected business. He
asked Weston how matters had progressed. The commissioner's reply was glum.
      "Blackey Brenby is a tartar," declared Weston. "He is a lone wolf, with
no
contacts. Seard has found it utterly hopeless to locate the rogue! We cannot
uncover a fact for him to work upon!"
      "Not even the murders of Reds Lurthan and Tiger Hyrick?"
      "Those led us nowhere, Cranston. Except to definitely establish Blackey
as
a superkiller."
      "I read about a jewel robbery to-day," recalled Cranston. "Has Seard
produced any theories concerning it?"
      "Yes. He is working on the case. He believes that Nemo Javley is the
crook
responsible. Seard hopes to solve the crime shortly; but he frankly doubts
that
he can trace Blackey Brenby. He thinks, though, that Blackey may become
overconfident and bob up again."
      There was a short lull in the conversation. Weston's remarks about
Blackey's overconfidence apparently gave Cranston a recollection.
      "Speaking of bold criminals," remarked Cranston, "what has happened to
that crazed killer, Creep Hoyran?"
      "I'm glad you mentioned that," returned Weston. "We have allowed Creep to
go far enough. I insisted that Seard allow us to trap Creep. Seard finally
agreed to do so."
      Cranston remembered an important telephone call to a lawyer's office. He
left Weston in the grillroom and went to a telephone booth. He did not call a
lawyer's office. Instead, he telephoned headquarters and was connected with
Joe
Cardona. Across the wire, he spoke in the voice of The Shadow.
      When he had finished that call, Cranston rejoined the commissioner. He
estimated that Cardona would reach the Cobalt Club within twenty minutes. Joe
arrived in fifteen. He appeared excitedly in the grillroom, just as Cranston
and the commissioner were preparing to order dinner.
      "A tip-off from The Shadow!" puffed Cardona. "It's about Nemo Javley! He
says he'll have Nemo located two hours from now! He'll see that the word gets
here to you, personally, commissioner!"
      "In two hours!" exclaimed Weston. He turned to Cranston. "That will allow
us time to see Seard first; then come back here and have dinner -"
      "And bring Seard with us?"
      Cranston's question was so natural that Weston never guessed it had a
purpose. Very enthusiastically, Weston added:
      "Of course! A capital idea!" Then, doubtfully: "Unless Seard has some
objection. After all, we can not drag the man away from home unless he is
willing."
      "Which he will be."
      "Why do you say that, Cranston?"
      "Because of Creep Hoyran. You told me that Seard agreed to let you trap
the fellow. As I remember it, you planned to bag Creep while Seard was absent
from the house. By giving Creep a chance to sneak inside."
      "Yes, that was the plan." Weston smiled approval. "Come! Let us start for
Seard's. I shall tell him that he is to dine with us to-night."
     IT was not quite dark when Weston's big car reached Seard's. In the
third-floor study, the visitors found Seard studying a new set of charts. The
large-headed investigator showed some surprise at the commissioner's early
arrival.
     "Nothing here," rumbled Seard, tapping a chart that bore the name of
Blackey Brenby. "But this one, Nemo Javley's, is promising. Look,
commissioner!"
     Seard pulled down a big map of Manhattan. With a crayon, he drew a circle
that included about a dozen city blocks.
     "Nemo has a hide-out," declared Seard, emphatically. "It is somewhere in
that area!"
     The deduction was accurate. Cranston's keen eyes saw that Seard had
actually picked the neighborhood where Nemo's hide-out was.
     "The question, though," continued Seard, "is whether or not Nemo has his
swag at the hide-out. I think that he has stowed it elsewhere, in some other
person's keeping. Who would that man be? A fence - a crook - or some person of
fairly good repute?
     "That is the question that I must answer before we move. I am going
through lists of names" - Seard displayed some typewritten sheets - "and I
hope
to find the answer. But it may take long."
     Weston smiled. He told Seard of The Shadow's call to Joe Cardona.
Weston's
smile persisted, because he still believed that Seard was The Shadow. Though
Seard received the story with something of a frown, Weston supposed that the
expression was merely a pose. Good policy, thought Weston, on the part of
Seard.
     The investigator began to shake his head when Weston suggested that he
dine at the Cobalt Club. The commissioner promptly added the argument that
Cranston had supplied. He reminded Seard of his promise to let the law trap
Creep Hoyran.
     "Cardona has arranged everything," declared Weston. "Immediately after
dark, a cordon will form. It will close in while we are dining at the Cobalt
Club. Creep will be captured; the tip-off will come from The Shadow. The whole
plan dovetails, Seard."
     "Very well." Seard turned to order Havlett to bring his hat and coat. "I
shall accompany you."


     THEY went downstairs in the elevator. Seard told Havlett to take the
evening off, and to instruct the other servants to do likewise. Bearing
heavily
on his cane, he limped down the steps to the commissioner's car.
     Dusk had gathered during the short time spent at Seard's. As the big car
passed a corner two blocks from Seard's, Cranston was gazing from the window.
He caught a flash of a hunched figure, sneaking from one doorway to another.
The crouched man was lugging a square box, very much like the large kit that
Creep had carried up through the manhole, last night.
     Creep would come to Seard's to-night, bringing a potent death-thrust.
Thanks to The Shadow, Seard would be absent. The law's trap would snap, to
snare Creep Hoyran. As for The Shadow's message, it would arrive at the Cobalt
Club at the appointed hour; and Seard would be there, to learn its contents.
     After that, events would move. They would shape exactly as The Shadow
wanted them. Spurred by The Shadow, the law would gain quick triumphs. There
were three to come: first, the capture of Nemo Javley; then the discovery of
the stolen gems; finally, and most important of all, an end to the chain of
supercrimes that had involved the name of Blackey Brenby.
     To-night, a mastermind of crime would find his game exposed. The Shadow
had started the wheels in action; he was counting upon Gannet Seard to supply
the finish.
     The Shadow was confident that his rival would follow every lead that The
Shadow gave him.


     CHAPTER XVIII

     PLACED EVIDENCE

      COMMISSIONER WESTON and his companions were sipping their after-dinner
coffee when Joe Cardona suddenly arrived in the grillroom. The ace inspector
had been busy while Weston dined with Cranston and Seard. Joe was bringing
news.
      "We got Creep!" he declared. "You'll need new wall paper, though, in that
second-floor parlor, Mr. Seard."
      "There was gun play?"
      The anxious question came from Weston. Cardona nodded solemnly.
      "We tried to get Creep alive," assured Joe, "but it didn't work. He got
into the house; how he got in, we don't know. He was in the second-floor hall
when we ran into him. He ducked into the parlor and we cornered him.
      "Creep had a gun and he began to use it. We had to shoot. His shots were
wild; but he kept on giving them, even after he was full of bullets. If we'd
slowed up, we'd have lost a couple of men."
      Weston decided that the death of Creep Hoyran needed no further
explanation. He asked if the killer had made a dying statement. Cardona's
answer was a headshake.
      "He was lugging a wooden tool kit with him," declared Joe. "That was all
we got. It was the size of a suitcase and it was about half full of tools. We
haven't figured what Creep intended to do with it."
      Seard was wrapped in thought. He was interested in Cardona's story. After
a short while, Seard remarked, dryly:
      "I should like to know what Creep intended as a death-thrust against me.
Perhaps I shall find slight clues when I return home. If I do, I shall piece
them."
      With a rueful headshake, Seard added:
      "I am sorry, in a sense, that Creep is no longer at large. It intrigued
me, the constant game of matching wits against him. I did consider him
harmless; and felt that I had a right to risk my life if others believed the
opposite. Lane's death changed that, even though it was accidental."
      Seard might have said more, but for an interruption. A telegraph
messenger
had entered the grillroom; a waiter was showing him to Weston's table.
Receiving
a telegram, the commissioner ripped it open. Tensely, he announced:
      "From The Shadow!"
      As he spoke, Weston eyed Seard and saw the investigator smile. That was
significant to Weston. He had expected a telephone call from The Shadow. Since
a telegram had come instead, Weston was quite convinced that Seard must be The
Shadow.
      The commissioner did not observe the slight smile that also appeared upon
the lips of his friend Cranston.
      Studying the telegram, Weston read it aloud; slowly and in a low tone:
      "Nemo located in rear room; floor above Yang Toy Cafe."
      Cardona brought a telephone book and looked up the Yang Toy. He looked at
Seard when he gave the address. Again, the investigator smiled. The Chinese
restaurant was definitely in the circled area where Seard had decided that
Nemo's hide-out must be.
      Obviously, the law's step was to capture Nemo. Weston began to map
arrangements with Cardona. Cranston, listening in almost indifferent fashion,
kept his eyes upon Seard. He expected the investigator to amend the plan.
Seard
did.
     "Let us first consider the consequences," warned Seard, interrupting
Weston and Cardona. "If The Shadow's tip-off is correct, we can trap Nemo at
almost any time we choose. That, however, does not mean that we shall find his
loot with him."
     "Maybe not," admitted Cardona. "I guess Nemo would be taking long
chances,
keeping the swag in a hide-out over a chop-suey joint."
     "The gems must be elsewhere," decided Seard. "Like Rethlo's bank swag and
Devoort's racket money. It might be preferable to postpone our raid upon
Nemo."
     The proposal was logical. The others considered it. Weston saw one
objection.
     "If we wait too long," said the commissioner, "we shall lose out
completely."
     "Quite true," conceded Seard. His eyes had a roundish, meditative look.
"We cannot afford to wait too long. Nevertheless, it would be wise to know our
next move. We had no next move with either Rethlo or Devoort."
     The significance was plain. Both Weston and Cardona thought immediately
of
Blackey Brenby. They could picture the ex-bookie, already scheming to acquire
Nemo's loot.
     "If we wait one day," mused Seard. "Two days - or possibly three - we
shall not be ahead of ourselves, as we were before. Within that time, I may be
able to reduce my list of names and learn the identity of the man who holds
the
stolen gems for Nemo."
     Weston and Cardona were impressed. They knew that Seard could get
results.
His approximate location of Nemo's hide-out was the latest proof of his
ability.
Weston decided that Seard was right.
     "We did move too soon on those other occasions," began the commissioner.
"We should not make the same mistake again. I think we are all agreed on that
point -"
     "Not quite."


     THE interruption came from Cranston. It brought surprised looks from
Weston and Cardona; a direct stare from Seard. With a smile, Cranston
explained
why he dissented with the opinion.
     "Purely as an observer," he said, in even tone, "I would state that the
law was not ahead of time in the past. On the contrary, it was belated. The
facts themselves prove it. You found Chink Rethlo; but his loot was gone when
you reached Blackey's cellar. You trapped Devoort; his money had entirely
disappeared.
     "Perhaps if you had located Chink earlier, you would have reached Blackey
in time. If you had moved against Devoort, prior to his trip to Havana, you
would certainly have found his collections in the safe with his books.
     "My opinion may be worthless; nevertheless, I feel that I should give it.
I would say that the sooner you trap Nemo Javley, the greater will be your
chances of finding his loot. You may gain clues to its location, enabling you
to surprise the man who holds the gems. In any event, you will increase your
chance of uncovering the loot in advance of Blackey Brenby."
     Cranston's calm-toned summary won Weston and Cardona. Both gave nods and
looked to Seard. The investigator stroked his pointed chin; he added a slow
nod
of his own.
     "Your theory has flaws," he told Cranston. "Nevertheless, it follows
facts. To some degree, we have overlooked the obvious. Frankly, I still
believe
that our stroke may be too soon. I grant, though, that it is better to be too
soon than too late."
     Seard was giving way to a majority opinion, largely to save his own
prestige. If he continued to insist on delay, and won out with such
insistence,
the burden would be entirely his own. Yet, in following good policy, Seard
also
showed graciousness. He was not at all irked by Cranston's suggestion. On the
contrary, his tone was one that carried both thanks and admiration.
     "We shall move at once!" decided Weston, enthusiastically. "And to-night,
Seard, we shall have you with us. You still need facts. Perhaps you can find
some prompt clues on the scene of crime."
     "Quite possibly," agreed Seard, in a pleased tone. "Yes, it may work that
way. The adventure intrigues me, commissioner. But remember" - he turned to
Cardona - "you must do your utmost to capture Nemo alive. Something that you
failed to do with Chink Rethlo."


      TWENTY minutes later, the law was on the move. Plain-clothes men were
closing in upon the Yang Toy Cafe. Outside, a patrolling watcher spotted them.
It was Hawkeye. The spotter sneaked to a doorway and hunched there to light a
cigarette. He took two matches for the job.
      From a front window in the Chinese restaurant, two diners saw the tiny
flares from the darkened doorway across the street. Those two were Harry
Vincent and Cliff Marsland.
      They finished their tea; paid their checks at a counter near the hallway
door.
      At the stairs, a bowing Chinese waiter helped them don hats and coats.
Past the line of coat racks was a telephone booth; beyond that a stretch of
hall. Cliff stepped to the booth, started to fumble with the chain-hung
telephone book; then spoke gruffly to the Chinaman. The waiter approached him.
      Cliff thrust a folded slip of paper into the waiter's hand; with it, a
wadded five-dollar bill. He motioned toward a darkened stairway at the rear of
the hall.
      "Sneak this note up to the guy on the third floor," said Cliff, in a
gruff
undertone. "Keep the dough for yourself. Make it snappy!"
      The Chinaman nodded. Cliff headed for the front stairs. Harry was at the
bottom, wigwagging for speed. Cliff joined his fellow agent in a hurry. Both
were leisurely, however, when they stepped out to the sidewalk. Moe's cab was
waiting there. The agents boarded it.
      Hawkeye was gone from his doorway. Half a minute later, Harry and Cliff
were also clear of the neighborhood. Right after that, the cordon tightened.
Detectives entered the front and rear portals below the Yang Toy Cafe.
      On the third floor, the Chinese waiter was thumping softly at a closed
door. A growled voice demanded suspiciously:
      "Yeah!"
      "Message for you; Mlister Javley," replied the Chinaman, stooping to the
keyhole. "Fellow hand it to me down on slecond floor."
      "Who was he?"
      "No say, Mlister Javley."
      "All right," decided Nemo. "Shove it under the door, Sung Look."
      The folded paper went beneath. Sung Look started downstairs, unfolding
the
five-spot that Cliff had tendered him. Sung Look had reached the telephone
booth
when he guessed that something was wrong. Then, it was too late.
     A detective pounced upon Sung Look; dragged him to the front of the
hallway. The startled waiter saw a squad of headquarters men in the cafe
itself. They had rounded up diners along with the personnel.
     Joe Cardona was in charge of the invaders. He spoke to the detective who
brought in Sung Look.
     "Where'd you find this fellow?"
     "Coming down from the third floor, inspector."
     Joe concentrated on Sung Look; caught the waiter's hand before it could
pocket the five-dollar bill. Sung Look explained.
     "Fellow give me this to take message upstairs."
     "Who'd you take it to?" quizzed Cardona. "Nemo Javley?"
     Sung Look nodded.
     "Tapee door soft like this," he explained, with a motion of his hand.
"Mlister Javley, he listen."
     "Great!" decided Cardona. "That gives me an idea!"


     IN the confines of his third-story room, Nemo Javley was studying the
note
that Sung Look had slipped him. Long-faced, pasty of complexion, Nemo had
squinty eyes that looked puzzled. He mouthed a lighted cigarette between his
thin, sallow lips.
     Nemo could not make out the message. It consisted solely of four numbers:

                               924 - 4 - 38 - 27.

     Folding the paper, Nemo thrust it in his vest pocket. He swung as he
heard
a soft rap. Moving toward the door, Nemo demanded:
      "Yeah?"
      "It's Sung Look," came a low, singsong tone. "Forget something fellow
tell
me."
      "Spill it!"
      "Bletter inside. May be important, Mlister Javley."
      Nemo let his revolver slide into his pocket. He unlocked the door.
Instantly, a surge of men came through, with leveled guns. As Nemo tried to
whip away, a window crashed; its shade shot upward. Nemo saw another pair of
detectives, aiming through.
      Then the flood was upon him. Lost beneath a half dozen attackers, Nemo
was
flattened. One hand plucked away his gun; others twisted his arms behind him
and
clamped handcuffs on his wrists.
      When Nemo was dragged to his feet, he faced a captor whom he recognized.
The crook snarled at sight of Joe Cardona.
      Thanks to The Shadow's tip-off and the ruse that followed it, Nemo Javley
had been taken alive.


     CHAPTER XIX

     SPOILS UNGAINED

     COMMISSIONER WESTON arrived soon afterward. He was accompanied by Seard
and Cranston. After a brief report from Cardona, the commissioner gave the nod
to Seard. It was the investigator's cue to quiz Nemo.
     Seard came straight to the point. He asked Nemo what he had done with the
jewels. Nemo's response was a contemptuous stare. Finally, he growled:
     "Where do you get that jewel stuff? I never went in for sparklers! You
can't pin anything on me!"
     Dryly, Seard outlined a few facts of Nemo's past. The crook merely
shrugged his shoulders when he heard them. Seard demanded to know why Nemo had
given up an excellent apartment to live in this cheap room. Nemo gave a prompt
reason.
     "I've been going straight, that's why," he insisted. "I couldn't pay the
rent any longer. I didn't like this joint, but it's all I can afford. You're
just cluck enough to think it's a hide-out! That sure is a funny one!"
     The laugh that Nemo gave was not even strained. The crook actually seemed
to enjoy his own joke. He added another laugh, when Seard questioned him about
the message that Sung Look had brought upstairs.
     "It's in my vest pocket," guffawed Nemo. "Some guy must have sent it for
a
gag! Take a gander at it, Sherlock. If you can dope it out, you'll be one head
of me!"
     Cardona found the message and handed it to Seard. The investigator
pondered over the numbers. He stroked his chin and eyed Nemo wisely. All the
while, the prisoner grinned, Weston and Cardona studied the message along with
Seard.
     "Obviously a code," declared Seard. "Too brief, though, to crack by any
ordinary process. Come outside a moment, commissioner. I have a plan."
     Weston followed with Cardona. All the while, Cranston had been watching
detectives search the room. The dicks were finding nothing and probably would
finish empty-handed, if Nemo's grin could be taken as an accurate barometer.
Noting that the commissioner had gone to the hall, Cranston strolled out to
join the group there.
     Seard was pocketing the message when Cranston arrived. Quietly, the
investigator announced:
     "We must find out all that Nemo knows. There is one way to do it. We can
use my improved lie detector, as I intended to do with Chink Rethlo."
     The suggestion pleased Weston. He asked how soon the test could be made.
     "It will take about half an hour to set up the equipment. Havlett can
attend to it. I shall call him."
     Seard went downstairs to the telephone booth. He came back, three minutes
later.
     "Havlett has not returned," he declared. "He generally stays out late,
when I give him an evening off. Since no one is at the house, I shall have to
go there and prepare the equipment myself."
     "Shall we bring Nemo along with us?"
     Weston put the question. Seard nodded; then changed his mind.
     "Not yet," he declared. "It would be best to give him a sustained quiz,
first. Inspector Cardona can handle that in the usual police fashion."
     Seard turned to Cardona, with the question: "Will half an hour suffice?"
     "Not to get very far," replied Joe, "unless Nemo softens. He don't look
like he intends to."
     "Allow longer then. Keep quizzing him until I telephone here. I shall
depend upon your report, inspector, when we use the lie detector. Do not tell
Nemo that he is to meet me again. I shall have some surprises ready for him."


     SEARD went downstairs. Weston and Cranston followed Cardona into Nemo's
room. The crook was puffing a cigarette that an obliging detective had placed
between his lips. Cardona's first act was to pluck the cigarette and chuck it
through the open window."
     "Bad stuff, Joe," mocked Nemo. "There's a law against pitching lighted
butts out of windows. Maybe some of your own dicks will catch up with you."
     "Cut the wisecracks!" gruffed Cardona. "I've got some questions, and
you're going to answer them!"
     There was an interruption. It came from Cranston. Calmly, he motioned for
Cardona to wait. Eyeing Nemo, Cranston remarked in steady tone:
      "I saw you not long ago, at the Hotel Metrolite. You were talking with a
man whom I happened to know. A jewel broker named Howard Morridon."
      Nemo's lips compressed.
      "Morridon is no longer stopping at the Metrolite," resumed Cranston.
"Possibly he would have reason to let you know where he has gone. He might
send
his address - or his telephone number -"
      The significant tone brought a sudden panic to Nemo. He remembered the
mysterious message that he had received. Though it puzzled him, Nemo had not
actually believed it a fake.
      Weston and Cardona saw Nemo's expression. They were ready for the
question
that Cranston put to them.
      "What was on the note that you gave to Seard?"
      Weston recalled the first number as 924. When Cardona repeated the others
- 4, 38, 27 - Weston nodded that Joe was right. Obviously, it could not be a
telephone number. Weston said as much.
      "The first number is a very large one," mused Cranston. "It could refer
to
a page in a large book. Perhaps the telephone directory -"
      "Jove, Cranston!" broke in Weston. "That could be it! And the next number
-"
      "The column. After that, the name, counting from the top. Suppose we
check
on it. We can consider the fourth number later."


     LEAVING Nemo, they went to the telephone booth on the second floor.
Cranston found Page 924; placed his finger on the fourth column. The
thirty-eighth listing from the top was the Stanton Apartments, located only a
few blocks away.
     "That explains the last number," assured Cranston. "No. 27 signifies an
apartment. Suppose we telephone, commissioner, and find who has that
apartment."
     Cardona made the telephone call; he gained the prompt news that Apartment
27 was occupied by a Mr. Howard Morridon, who was not at home this evening.
     As Cardona came from the booth, Cranston was looking through the
directory
again. He found the address of Morridon's office, and remarked:
     "Perhaps Morridon is there."
     "We'll call him," began Weston. "If Morridon knows Nemo, we -"
     "He does know Nemo," inserted Cranston. "Therefore, it would be
preferable
to go to that office, commissioner. Morridon may be the man who is holding
Nemo's loot."
     Weston became as excited as a bloodhound on the scent. He gestured to
Cardona, with the exclamation:
     "We must start at once! Call Seard first, to let him know what we have
learned!"
     "Seard won't be home yet, commissioner."
     "I can notify Seard," suggested Cranston, quietly. "I can go to his house
by cab. A quick trip should enable me to reach there a few minutes after he
arrives."
     The plan suited Weston. When they reached the street, the commissioner
boarded his official car and Cardona joined him. Followed by squad cars, they
started for the office building near Fourteenth Street.
     Soon afterward, Lamont Cranston boarded a taxi at a near-by corner. The
cab that he chose was the streamliner driven by Moe Shrevnitz.
     INVASION of the ten-story office building was a simple matter for the
law.
A cordon was formed around it; entry was gained through a lower window. All
that
took time; but haste seemed unnecessary, thanks to a dim beacon that shone
from
the fifth floor. The light filtered through a yellow window shade; and it
marked the location of Morridon's office. Some one was at the jewel broker's.
      Weston went up the dark stairway with Cardona. Two detectives accompanied
them, and others remained ready below. The four reached the office that they
wanted.
      The light through its glass pane was dim. It indicated a darkened outer
office, with an inner private one that was illuminated. The door was open
between.
      Cardona tried the outside door. It gave. The reason was apparent, when
Cardona viewed the lock. The office was protected by an automatic burglar
alarm
that operated when the door was locked.
      Once inside the outer office, Cardona saw that the door opposite was half
closed. He motioned to the others to enter.
      Halfway to the inner office, Cardona stopped. He gained a slanted view
through the connecting door. He saw a man who lay half across a desk; bound,
and with adhesive plaster spread across his mouth. As Weston drew up beside
him, Cardona whispered:
      "It's Morridon! Somebody's trapped him!"
      There was a motion across the desk. Into the light came a stooping
figure,
only its gloved hands visible. Upon the desk, those hands planted an array of
sparkling gems that the looter had just taken from Morridon's safe.
      Cardona edged away.
      "Blackey Brenby!" he told Weston, in undertone. "He's gotten here to grab
the swag that Nemo placed with Morridon! We'll stick by the outside door.
We'll
be ready for Blackey when he comes out!"
      Weston was content to let Cardona take charge. Joe found the light switch
by the outer door; but did not press it. Shoulder to shoulder, the invaders
waited by the wall. They heard a stir from the inner office. The light was
extinguished.
      Joe waited. He was giving Blackey time to come from the inner office.
Creaking boards told that the mastercrook was making his approach. Figuring
the
right moment, Cardona suddenly pressed the light switch. The outer office was
flooded with glow. Four men were aiming for the doorway where they expected to
see Blackey.
      Instead, the space was vacant. The door was still half closed. A voice
spoke from beyond it; its harsh tone gave command to those who heard it:
      "Let those guns drop! You're covered!"
      To back the threat, a revolver muzzle projected through the wide crack of
the connecting door. The man who handled that gun was completely protected by
his position. He could deal death to any invader who opened fire.


     REVOLVERS dropped. Hands reached reluctantly. It was Cardona who gruffed,
sourly:
     "You win this time, Blackey!"
     The revolver was pulled from the floor crack. A half second later it
appeared past the door edge. The barrier opened wide. Through stepped the
supercrook who held his foemen covered. He came into the light.
     Amazed gasps sounded from the lips of four helpless men. The surprise
that
had trapped them was nothing compared to the amazing revelation that was
following it.
     Weston, Cardona, the two detectives with them - all had expected to view
the long-sought Blackey Brenby.
     Instead, they saw a person whom they knew much better; for they had been
with him only half an hour ago. Then, he had been with the law; at present, he
stood against it. The insidious expression upon his face told that he could be
as ruthless in dealing with men of the law as he had been in his efforts
against men of crime.
     The supercrook who had turned the tables upon his would-be trappers was
The Shadow's rival, Gannet Seard!


     CHAPTER XX

     DEATH DEFIED

      TO Commissioner Weston, Seard's self-revelation was unbelievable. The two
detectives were completely stupefied. One man of the threatened four alone
realized the menace that would be instantly due. The one who recognized it was
Joe Cardona.
      Joe could tell from Seard's glare that the fellow intended to waste no
time with words. Seard was unencumbered by his cane, a proof that he had never
needed it. His left hand was carrying a fattened satchel that held the spoils
gathered by Nemo Javley.
      As with Chink's loot, and Devoort's, Seard intended a get-away with
Nemo's. He had handled Morridon so that the fellow had not recognized him;
therefore, Morridon could live. But Seard could not afford to spare any one of
the four who now faced him.
      It was that fact that roused Cardona to wild action. Joe was ready to
risk
his own life for the others. He stiffened as he met Seard's glare; then, with
all his speed, Cardona made a mad lunge for the supercrook.
      Death seemed certain for Cardona. Oddly, it did not come. Something
happened too rapidly for Seard to outrace it with a gunshot. Blackness drove
like a living avalanche straight from the opened door behind Seard's back.
      That figure from the darkened inner office struck Seard in the center of
his back. The schemer took a long, sprawling jolt. His spidery arms sped
outward. From one hand scaled the revolver. The other lost its hold upon the
jewel-laden satchel.
      Past Seard, Cardona saw The Shadow, finishing his terrific surge. He
heard
the cloaked fighter's quick-hissed order.
      Joe changed direction; fell upon Seard before the flattened crook could
regain his gun. Weston and the detectives arrived from the outer door. In half
a minute they had Seard handcuffed in a chair.
      Seard's captors looked for The Shadow. They saw him at the outer door. He
was cloaking an automatic that he did not need. Both Weston and Cardona
expected a statement from The Shadow, who alone could explain this amazing
climax that showed Seard as a master crook.
      The Shadow spoke; but his words were addressed to Seard.
      "You studied ways of crime," pronounced The Shadow, "until you learned
that you could trail them more rapidly than the law. That was when you decided
to put your ability to profit, by preying upon criminals themselves."
      Seard met The Shadow's burning gaze. The master crook still retained his
confidence.
      "You located Chink Rethlo's hideout," declared The Shadow. "You linked
Blackey Brenby as the man who held the loot. You rifled Blackey's vault; then
arranged for the law to capture Chink. You showed the trail to Blackey after
the news of Chink's death had become known. That served to explain the missing
swag."
     The Shadow paused; then came to the second case.
     "You learned of Louis Devoort and his racket connection," he told Seard.
"You took Devoort's funds. You let the law have Devoort. Mystery surrounded
the
disappearance of the money. You laid its theft upon Blackey Brenby.
     "You did that safely. It gave the law a trail that would never be
completed. Blackey Brenby was already dead - even before the time that Chink
was taken - because you murdered him. His body, too, was gone. You dissolved
it
in an acid bath, in your test vat."
     The words struck home to Joe Cardona. The ace remembered Seard's tests
with the dead kitten. A name suddenly flashed to Cardona's mind. A moment
later, The Shadow spoke it.
     "Homer Lane would have recognized you as a patron of the Rickshaw Club,"
stated The Shadow to Seard. "You bribed him with mysterious funds to stay away
from New York. He returned. You let him come to your house because you had
heard Creep Hoyran working from the chimney."
     "You knew that Lane was crippled; that Creep would mistake him for you.
Lane's death was therefore another murder against you, Seard. It made Creep
useful, as you had hoped he might be."
     The Shadow's analysis explained much to Cardona. It answered one question
that had always bothered Joe. He had never seen any good reason for Seard to
let Creep keep on with those attempted death-thrusts.
     "You wanted two things more," resumed The Shadow, his gaze fixed steadily
on Seard. "A chance to further establish Blackey as a living criminal; also,
another opportunity to add to your spoils. You thought of all that long
before,
when you wrote notes on Blackey's typewriter.
     "You contacted three big-shots. Two of them - Reds Lurthan and Tiger
Hyrick - came to meet Blackey Brenby. You murdered them, because they had
nothing that you wanted. You left a trail that pointed to Blackey Brenby."
     The statement was a clincher. It explained itself. Cardona remembered the
clues that had furnished the supposed trail to Blackey. All were items that
Seard had easily acquired after he had murdered Blackey. Not one, when
analyzed, proved that Blackey had still been alive.
     "I arrived there also," reminded The Shadow, "giving you an opportunity
that you also desired. You failed to take my life. Instead, you gave me added
evidence of your criminal career. After that, I foresaw your next move. Since
Nemo Javley did not come to the meeting, you knew that he had plans of his
own.
     "I beat you to Nemo's trail. To-night, my message forced your move. Nemo
was captured. On him was found a note that he said he did not understand. You
did not believe him; but he spoke the truth.
     "That note came from me. Its purpose was to bring you here, in quest of
Nemo's loot. I arrived ahead of you, intending to summon the law. Since the
police arrived of their own accord, that was unnecessary."


     TRUE to form, The Shadow had preserved his identity of Cranston. Weston
would have been amazed, had he known that his friend had played the double
part. In fact, The Shadow's early arrival seemed to disprove it. That,
however,
was explainable.
     Seard had guessed the meaning of the numbered note. He had checked on the
telephone book at the Chinese cafe. He had detoured by way of Morridon's
apartment house to learn who occupied Apartment 27. After that, he had looked
up Morridon's office address.
     Meanwhile, The Shadow - as Cranston - had put the law straight. The
Shadow
had come here by cab; made his entry while the police were planning their
cordon. He had seen Morridon at the open safe in the inner office. The Shadow
was out of sight when Seard arrived, only a few minutes later.
     There was one man who pieced the actual facts. Gannet Seard pictured The
Shadow as Lamont Cranston. Shrewdly, he kept that knowledge to himself. It was
something that he thought he could use later, for Seard was not ready to
concede that his career of crime had ended.
     The Shadow's facts were given. He turned and stepped through the doorway
to the hall. His lips issued a chilly, whispered laugh that seemed to speak a
final settlement for Seard. The tone merely brought a sneer to the lips of the
crooked investigator. Seard turned to his captors.
     "Why not take off these handcuffs?" he questioned. "Come up to the house
with me. I shall give you some more information there. More interesting than
the stuff that you have heard!"
     "We shall go to your house," decided Weston. "But you can wear the
handcuffs until we get there."


     WHEN they arrived at Seard's, they found Cranston waiting outside. He
expressed surprise when he heard the story of Seard's capture.
     Weston used Seard's door key. They went up to the investigator's study.
There, Weston removed Seard's handcuffs and let the prisoner sit at his desk.
     Seard pointed to a desk drawer. In it, Weston found cash and negotiable
securities that totaled more than half a million dollars.
     "Chink's swag!" exclaimed the commissioner. "From the bank robberies!"
     "Wrong, commissioner," mocked Seard. "Those funds are mine! You can never
prove otherwise. All listed securities and registered currency was left in
Blackey's vault."
     He pointed to another drawer. Weston found a bundle twice the size of the
first, all in cash. He could not help but say:
     "Devoort's collections from the racket ring!"
     "Wrong again," gibed Seard. "No one can prove that a dollar of this cash
was ever in Devoort's vault!"
     He leaned across the desk, to tell the listeners something more. Seard's
eyes were fixed on Cranston in particular. Confidently, Seard announced:
     "Technically, Blackey Brenby is still alive. He will remain so, until you
find his body. Without the corpus delicti, you have no case! Your own eyes saw
Creep Hoyran murder Homer Lane. As for Reds and Tiger, the only evidence
points
to Blackey - still alive, remember - as their killer."
     Reaching across the desk, Seard tapped the open suitcase that was crammed
with Nemo's stolen gems. Seard eyed that million dollars' worth in envious
fashion. He shook his head sadly.
     "You can keep these," he declared. "They belong to the law. That fact" -
his smile broadened - "is something that pleases me. Let me remind you,
commissioner, that I was working for the law, under your order! I had a right
to follow any trail that opened! It was my privilege to bind Morridon and
remove the gems from his safe!"
     Seard had turned to Weston. The commissioner gaped; then snorted angrily.
     "You threatened us!" he exclaimed. "Four of us - in Morridon's office -"
     "Because I did not recognize you," interjected Seard. "I was looking
through a door crack. After I came into the light, I saw who you were. I made
no further threat."
     Seard leaned back in his chair. In rumbling tone, he added:
     "I intended to put my gun away. A mere mistake, that was all. No one
suffered from it; for not a shot was fired. The revolver, by the way, was one
that you gave me a permit to carry. I would appreciate its return,
commissioner."
     Weston was on his feet, enraged:
     "You can't get away with this, Seard!" he shouted. "I'm going to put you
under arrest for murder! You'll go to the electric chair before the law is
through with you! You'll burn for those crimes, Seard!"
      "Since you seem determined to arrest me," remarked Seard, "I suppose that
I should notify my attorney. Have you any objections to my calling him,
commissioner?"
      "Telephone to all the lawyers that you want!" roared Weston. "You'll
stand
trial, Seard! I tell you again, you'll burn!"


     JOE CARDONA was standing doubtful. He saw the problems that lay ahead.
Seard had certainly covered the evidence. With smart lawyers on his side, the
master crook could laugh at indictments. Worst of all, as Joe saw it, Seard
had
appropriated more than two million dollars that the law would have to return
to
him.
     In all of Cardona's experiences in fighting crime, none had ever reached
the magnitude of this. For sheer audacity, Seard was the tops. He was still
jumps ahead of the law, and promised to remain so.
     One person, alone, could hope to deal with Seard, in Cardona's opinion.
That person was The Shadow.
     Seard, himself, had the same thought. He mentioned it, ignoring both
Weston and Cardona. His hand on the telephone, ready to make the call to his
attorney, Seard turned to Cranston.
     "It is a stalemate again," declared Seard. "I am hedged on every side,
and
yet the game is not lost - and never will be! Of course, there is still The
Shadow, but even he is helpless! You see, I am still an innocent man. If The
Shadow should make a move to take my life, he would become an attempted
murderer! Not I!"
     There was no reply from Cranston. His eyes - The Shadow's eyes - were
looking toward the telephone, as Seard turned to deliver another gibe at
Weston. That phone was a compact one of the modern type, resting in a cradle.
It looked like the one that had always been on Seard's desk; but The Shadow
noted a slight difference.
     The Shadow's thoughts jumped instantly to another telephone that he
remembered: a dummy instrument that he had tried to use during those menacing
moments in Creep Hoyran's underground lair. The Shadow's train of thought was
suddenly interrupted by Seard's defiant snarl to Weston.
     "I shall never spend a day in prison!" sneered Seard. "As for a death
sentence, that is preposterous! I shall never burn!"
     With that, Seard lifted the telephone to put through his call to the
attorney.


     THE result was stupendous. With his action, Seard completed a hidden
connection. Sparks burst from the telephone. The lights of the room went down,
as a huge voltage was diverted through Seard's body. The electric jolt was
terrific. Seard writhed as his form came erect. His face was contorted in a
horrible twist.
     Creep Hoyran had penetrated further than the detectives had guessed. He
had placed the tricked telephone, and had wired it to the house current. The
juice was far greater than in an ordinary house circuit; high voltage was
necessary for Seard's laboratory.
     A singeing odor permeated the dimmed room, as Weston and Cardona sprang
to
give Seard aid. With speed unusual for Cranston, The Shadow blocked the
rescuers. It would be death to any one who touched Seard, while the heavy
amperage ripped through his body.
     The crackling current lashed Seard into a spin, accompanied by a flash of
sparks. His fall snapped his hand from the telephone. The circuit was broken.
As the crackle ceased, the room-lights rose. The witnesses reached Seard's
scorched body.
     Creep's final death snare had succeeded. Like the crazed killer who had
planted it, Gannet Seard was dead. The defiant words: "I shall never burn!" -
had been his last. That defy had caused The Shadow to issue a silent death
sentence against the master murderer who planned to thwart the law.
     Gannet Seard, superman of crime who posed as The Shadow's rival, had died
with a final lie upon his evil lips.


    THE END