THE HYDRA
                               by Maxwell Grant

     As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," December 1, 1942.

     The original Hydra was a beast that grew two new heads for each one that
was cut off. The Shadow faced its counterpart - a master villain who called
himself the Hydra.


    CHAPTER I

    MONSTER OF CRIME

     GUESTS were arriving at the home of Edmund Glencoe. They came in clusters
from taxicabs and limousines that rolled along the curved driveway leading up
from the great gates. Dozens of guests were absorbed by the huge mansion, as
though it patiently awaited more.
     When Edmund Glencoe gave parties, he gave them in a very large way, which
was logical enough, considering the enormous size of his Long Island home. As
for the expense of such entertainments, Glencoe could well afford it, for he
was a millionaire.
     Within the house, staid servants were ushering the guests into reception
rooms, where the arrivals met other friends who attended Glencoe's parties.
Those most familiar with the place became an overflow that trickled into a
glass-inclosed conservatory at one side of the mansion, the usual place where
the regulars gathered.
     Conviviality filled the air. Everybody was happy to be at this party -
except Edmund Glencoe.
     Not that Glencoe showed it openly. On the contrary, he was all smiles and
handshakes as he received the guests and sent them on their way. But when he
found his chance for a break, he took it.
     Timed to a lull among the arriving guests, Glencoe stepped through a
curtained doorway to a hall, plucked the arm of a passing servant, and
ordered:
"Find Mr. Mance. Tell him I must see him in my study; privately, and at once.
     Reaching his lavishly furnished study, Edmund Glencoe sat behind a desk
and waited. Alone, he was able to show the worry that he felt, and the effect
was very marked. A huddled figure, with drawn face the color of his thin gray
hair, Glencoe appeared more than worried. He looked frightened.
     The door opened to admit Willard Mance.
     At sight of his friend, Glencoe brightened somewhat. Mance was the sort
of
person who inspired confidence. He was tall, broad of build, a figure of
latent
strength. His face was tawny, of a chiseled type, the sort that went with a
man
of iron. His grizzled hair did not detract from his youthful vigor; rather, it
marked him as a man who possessed experience, along with force.
     Mance's dark eyes flashed a look of understanding at Glencoe.
     "I could tell that you were worried, Edmund," spoke Mance in a deep tone.
"But don't tell me that it's about those robberies that happened recently. No
harm could reach you here."
     "That's what the police commissioner says," returned Glencoe nervously.
"But those crimes weren't just robberies. Certain wealthy people disappeared."
     "Probably as a mere precaution." Mance inserted a cigarette in a holder
and reached in his pocket for a lighter. "Very foolish of them to run away
from
imaginary danger." He paused, about to flick the lighter, and asked sharply:
"Are you intending to do the same?"
     Glencoe shook his head emphatically. Leaning across the desk, he tapped
it
rapidly.
     "No, Willard, I'm not," declared Glencoe. "I'll tell you why. There's a
rumor around that those persons disappeared not because they feared crime, but
because they had a part in it."
     Mance furnished an incredulous stare.
     "That's what the police commissioner thinks," insisted Glencoe. "He's
holding a conference with prominent citizens tonight. Men like Dustin Bardell
-"
     "An old fogy, if ever there was one!" interrupted Mance. "Come, Edmund,
be
sensible. There can't be an epidemic of hit-and-run crime staged by reputable
people. Granted that a criminal organization exists, it must have a brain."
     "There is a brain," declared Glencoe solemnly. "It is called by a very
appropriate title: the Hydra."
     Mance's eyes took on a puzzled look.
     "The Hydra was a fabulous monster," explained Glencoe. "According to
legend, it had several heads, with its brains divided among them. If anything
happened to any of those heads, the others continued to function. What is more
-"
     Glencoe was up from the desk, wagging his hand excitedly, when Mance
clapped him on the back and laughed in interruption:
     "I suppose the Hydra grew new heads?"
     "Exactly!" exclaimed Glencoe. "And that is what we fear this modern Hydra
is doing. It is a monster of crime that must be stamped out!"
     Mance laughed again, said, "Come along, Edmund. Your guests are waiting
to
have you show them around the house. They want to see what new curios you have
collected."
     Glencoe gave an obedient nod, but at the door he spoke an earnest
request:
     "Will you do one thing for me, Willard?"
     "Of course.
     "Keep an eye on the servants." Glencoe gestured before Mance could
interrupt. "I know they're all reliable, but I'm afraid to trust anyone. So
please watch all of them."
     "Including Selbert?"
     "All except Selbert" corrected Glencoe. "After all, he is my confidential
secretary. I'd have asked him to perform this duty, but I was afraid it would
worry him. He's a nervous chap."


     THEY went out to a reception room, where Glencoe summoned the guests to
begin a tour of the mansion.
     Selbert immediately appeared; he was a dapper little man, who carried a
big book under his arm, the volume being a catalogue of Glencoe's curios,
antiques, and art treasures.
     The first stop was at the music room, which Glencoe unlocked and invited
the guests to enter. They thronged after Glencoe and Selbert, because all were
anxious to view Glencoe's collection of rare violins and original folios of
music compiled by famous composers.
     Looking past the crowd, Glencoe noted that Mance was by the door, near
enough to catch any conversation between two livened servants who were
standing
there.
     Quite pleased, Glencoe left Mance to his task and devoted his own efforts
to displaying musical rarities. Nevertheless, when Mance spoke to the two
servants, he was careful to do so in an undertone, hiding his mouth under
cover
of the hand with which he removed his cigarette holder from his lips.
      What Willard Mance said was:
      "Head No. 4."
      "Eye 4C," responded a servant. "The opening beyond the second piano is
ready."
      "You made it large enough to remove the Borgian harp?"
      "Six inches clearance, tested."
      At that moment, Glencoe was pointing guests to the Borgian harp that
Mance
mentioned. The gold decorations of the priceless instrument were alone worth a
small fortune, its many jewels another sizable item. Mance turned to the
second
servant.
      "Ear 4K," the fellow said. "Formerly 2B. The trucks have arrived behind
the tennis courts."
      "Are any of the guest cars there?" queried Mance.
      "None," replied 4K. "All were diverted to parking spaces on the other
side
of the house."
      The guests came from the music room, shepherded by Glencoe, with Selbert
following patiently behind his employer, still carrying the bulky catalogue.
The next stop was Glencoe's art gallery, which formed a special wing of the
house.
      While the guests admired a long tow of valuable paintings, Mance strolled
about looking over other servants.
      Near a door, Mance turned his back and identified himself as Head Four to
a servant who proved to be Eye 4D. This Hydra spy informed him that the
selected paintings were already cut from their frames, but held invisibly in
place by tape that would give way at a single tug. Quite intrigued, Mance
strolled along the gallery and checked the work himself. It was perfect.
      On the way from the art gallery to Glencoe's antique room, Mance paused
to
contact another of Glencoe's reliable servants. To Head No. 4, the servant
identified himself as Tooth 4B. When Mance asked him if he'd done the picture
job, the Tooth nodded, then beamed with pleasure when the Head complimented
him
on such clean work.
      So it went throughout the tour, from Glencoe's antique room to the
heavily
locked wing on the second floor where the millionaire kept his main curio
collection, valued at a hundred thousand dollars.
      By then, Mance had finished his survey of the servants, and Glencoe was
pleased to see his friend looking over some of the doubtful guests, even
sounding them out through casual conversation.
      Doubtful, indeed, those guests!
      Each one was an Eye, Ear or Tooth, all answering to letters prefaced by
the number four, which symbolized the Head they secretly served. Not once did
Mance nor any of his helpers overdo the countersign by which they introduced
themselves. It consisted merely in spreading a loose-clenched fist into an
open
hand, the fingers standing for the Heads of the Hydra.
      At the finish of the insidious parade, Glencoe bowed his guests into
reception rooms, remarking that servants were busy setting supper tables in
the
conservatory. Plucking Mance's arm, Glencoe drew his friend aside for a few
words.
      "You did nobly, Willard," complimented Glencoe. "All my qualms are ended.
Wait - here comes Selbert. We can discuss the Hydra matter later."
     GLENCOE turned one way, Mance the other, but after a few paces, the
latter
paused. Mance's loose fist opened as Selbert approached; the dapper secretary
gave a similar gesture with a hand that clutched Glencoe's private catalogue.
     Mance's undertone was a quick statement of identity.
     "Head No. 4."
     "Tooth 4A," whispered Selbert. He opened the catalogue showing where he
had torn pages from it. "I marked the wanted items, and left the sheets in
their proper rooms for the Eyes, Ears, and Teeth to find."
     "All are Teeth from now on," declared Mance. "And you, Selbert - are you
ready?"
     "I have the combination to Glencoe's safe," replied Selbert. "Ear 4B
reports that the light switch in the study is properly connected to the oil
tank."
     Mance frowned, whereupon Selbert quickly informed him that the light
switch was seldom used, Glencoe preferring his desk lamp. When Selbert added
that he could rifle Glencoe's safe within the next ten minutes, Head No. 4
nodded his complete approval. Selbert continued to the study, while Mance
strolled off to find Glencoe.
     The trouble was, Mance didn't find Glencoe. The host wasn't with his
guests. Mance's emotionless face began to show worry of its own, as he
detached
himself from friends and made a side trip to the study. The door was ajar, so
Mance pushed it open. By the glow of the big desk lamp, Head No. 4 saw all
that
he expected.
     Glencoe's safe was open. In front of it stood Selbert, his hands raised.
The desk was strewn with the contents of the safe - cash, stocks, and bonds
already stacked in separate piles. In front of all was Glencoe, nervous no
longer.
     The gray-haired man was covering his treacherous secretary with a
revolver. Hearing Mance enter, Glencoe sped a quick look across his shoulder.
     "I'm glad you're here, Willard!" exclaimed Glencoe. "Look what I found!
Selbert, the man I trusted most, robbing my safe! I'll hold him while you
summon the servants - or, better still, call the police."
     "A little more light would help," spoke Mance coolly. "Where is the light
switch?"
     "Right by the door," began Glencoe. Impatiently, he added: "No, never
mind
the switch. It isn't important."
     "I think it is," argued Mance, "and so is this!"
     With a darted glance, Glencoe saw what Mance meant by "this." It was a
revolver that Mance himself had drawn and was aiming straight at Glencoe. With
a fierce gasp, old Glencoe swung about to meet his false friend's aim.
     There wasn't a chance for Edmund Glencoe.
     Mance's trigger finger tugged, while the thumb of his other hand pressed
the light switch that he had found.
     The gun burst that dispatched a bullet straight to Glencoe's heart was
drowned by an exploding roar that shook the very foundations of the massive
mansion. The floor of the study was shuddering when it received Glencoe's
sprawling body.
     Crime had struck in a titanic way, as planned by Willard Mance, Head No.
4
of evil's manifold monster: the Hydra!


    CHAPTER II

    ENTER THE SHADOW
     SELBERT was right. The light switch on the study wall was connected to
the
tremendous fuel tank supplying the furnace of the great mansion. A big furnace
like Glencoe's took a lot of oil, a liquid that could explode with wrecking
power when pepped up with high-test stuff, as Glencoe's fuel happened to be.
      Teeth of the Hydra had seen to that, along with other important details.
In fact, the full preparations for this tremendous crime hadn't more than
begun
to show themselves. The explosion from the cellar merely primed the holocaust
to
come.
      Glencoe's mansion was built of stone, its walls as thick as bastions. If
it hadn't been of such strong construction, Mance and his Hydra helpers
wouldn't have risked a heavy explosion while they were still in the place.
Thus, though the building shuddered, it did not cave in. However, floors
heaved
when timbers buckled; partitions split asunder, while cracking ceilings
delivered deluges of plaster.
      Every light in the house was extinguished, but darkness did not take
over.
Up through rifts in the floor, writhing in from broken partitions, came great
licks of livid flame like the tongues of Gargantuan gas jets. Guests shrieked
at sight of the searing fire which should have subsided, but didn't.
      It wasn't just oil that fed the flames. Those hungry tongues found much
to
gobble. In one reception room, a whole stretch of paneling spurted into blaze.
Recently varnished by one of Glencoe's servants, the woodwork had been treated
with pure collodion, which ignited like a mammoth sheet of celluloid.
      As guests fled to another reception room, the conflagration pursued them.
They fled from its hellish midst through the only remaining route, a wide
doorway to Glencoe's great front hall.
      There the fugitives found that a mass of flame had cut off all exit
except
through the front door and a few adjacent windows. They saw a grand staircase
transformed to a huge torch, the reason being that combustibles had been
stored
in a closet beneath it. Most of the fugitives didn't worry over that. With
door
and windows available, they took those routes to safety.
      Some, however, remained to battle the holocaust. What happened to those
few was tragic. Two guests grabbed buckets of sand that they happened to see
in
a vestibule. Sand buckets had been ordered months ago by Glencoe as a
precaution
against air raids, and sand could prove a big help in ease of fire.
      This sand was a big help - to the fire.
      As each man chucked a load of sand into the flames by the staircase,
there
was a brilliant puff, like a bursting skyrocket. That sand was stuff of which
fireworks were composed. It obliterated itself and the hapless men with it, at
the same time spreading the flame to new portions of the hall.
      Similar was the experience of loyal servants who tried to use fire
extinguishers on the flames. The extinguishers were loaded with explosive
mixtures that blasted the moment that they sprayed. Other victims vanished
with
the fiery torrent that was now engulfing the great mansion with volcanic fury.
      Yet amid that sea of blaze were paths that the roaring flames had not
reached. Byways through a literal hell, free for travel by a host of lesser
demons who knew their pattern. Demons who in their human form had announced
themselves as servers of The Hydra.


     FROM the door of Glencoe's study, Willard Mance, Head No. 4, was shouting
orders to those workers between the crackles of the flames, while behind him
stood Selbert, top man of the Teeth. Their stretch of hallway was free from
the
seething fire, and they knew the routes to safety.
     For along those routes Mance's workers were carrying the most valued of
Glencoe's treasures. Folios, violins, the great Borgian harp, were coming
through the rear gap of the music room. Two men with packs of rolled paintings
were leaving by one door of Glencoe's art gallery, while the fire swept in
from
the other direction to gorge itself on carved wainscoting and empty frames.
     The best of Glencoe's antiques were being removed bodily, the rest
remaining as added fuel for the mighty fire; while from the second floor,
servants laden with the finest curios were coming down a rear stairway which
the flames hadn't quite surrounded.
     All these routes were converging to one goal - a side door that opened
behind the conservatory and afforded a direct route to the trucks beyond the
tennis courts.
     This explained why Mance, the Hydra Head, had ordered the holocaust so
arranged that fugitives would be cut off from all exits except the front. He
didn't want them to go through the conservatory, from which they could view
the
looting of Glencoe's treasures. Fire, a mighty mass of it, lifted to
staggering
proportions, was to be the cover-up for murder and robbery.
     As yet, the conservatory was unscathed, but the time had come to add it
to
the pyre. Like a satanic majesty in the midst of his favorite element, Mance
ordered Selbert to that task, while the Hydra Head personally stepped into
Glencoe's study, where flames were beginning to appear, and gathered up the
accumulated wealth that strewed the desk.
     Viewed from the front driveway, Glencoe's burning mansion was a most
horrendous sight. It formed a great pyramid of tapering flame, the fire
streaming up from the sides into long tongues that were lashing through the
roof, giving the effect that the whole interior was ablaze, though such was
not
the case.
     At the right of the building was the only untouched portion - the
glass-inclosed conservatory, two stories high, filled with grass rugs and wall
hangings, wicker furniture and potted plants, the exterior adorned with
pillars
of dry, clinging vines.
     The lurid glare revealed a garage to the right of the house; near it were
parked a few of the guest cars. But the glow did not show the parking space
beyond the tennis courts, for that area, the courts included, was directly
behind the great conservatory.
     All over the front lawn were scattered guests. Some of them were burned
or
injured, and these were being helped off to the left of the house by
chauffeurs
who had come running from the dozen limousines parked there. One more car was
coming in the driveway, bringing a belated guest to Glencoe's ill-fated party.
     The arriving car was a limousine, its passenger a gentleman named Lamont
Cranston.
     A world traveler of repute, Cranston was a man who had seen many things
and always took them calmly. He instantly sized Glencoe's mansion as a total
loss, but at the same time recognized that it might still have occupants in
need of aid. There was just one way to reach such persons - through the
conservatory, which, so far, was undamaged. Since the driveway skirted in by
the conservatory, Cranston spoke to his chauffeur:
     "Stop here, Stanley."
     The voice was calm, and so was Cranston's face. Reflected firelight
showed
a visage that was serious and masklike, carrying a hawkish profile that fitted
a
man who could combine action with reserve.
     The door of the limousine opened and Cranston stepped out. His
calculating
survey of the situation offset the fact that he wasn't attired in
fire-fighting
garb. Lamont Cranston was immaculately clad in evening clothes.
     The car had stopped just past a line of very bushy shrubs that skirted
the
driveway. It was only a few dozen yards to the conservatory, but the windows
there were fairly high above the ground.


      WHILE Cranston was taking a quick look for something that resembled a
door, only to see none, an odd thing happened at the corner windows of the
inclosure.
      A man arrived within those windows and began to hammer frantically
against
the panes. The fellow was Selbert, and Cranston recognized the secretary from
a
previous trip to Glencoe's.
      Apparently, Selbert was trapped; but if so, he wasn't using his head
about
it. All he had to do was yank a window open and jump out. If he happened to be
worrying about someone else inside the house, Selbert should by rights be
opening the window anyway, so that his shouts could be heard.
      At least, someone did see Selbert's actions. A stocky chauffeur was
hurrying over from a car parked near the garage. Why that chauffeur should be
staying there, while all others were on the front lawn helping the guests, was
only a short-lived mystery. As he reached the corner wall, the chauffeur
stooped and grabbed up the nozzle of a big hose. In heroic style, he smashed
the corner window with the nozzle.
      Then came a shout from Selbert, words which Cranston could hear beside
his
car, though he was the only person close enough to catch the call that Selbert
addressed to the stocky chauffeur.
      "Turn it on, Kirthle!" ordered Selbert. "Make it quick! I'm going back
through!"
      With that, Selbert turned about and picked a path through a
flame-bordered
doorway that led from the conservatory into the mansion. At the same time,
Kirthle beckoned and a pair of servants sprang into sight from the outer
corner
of the conservatory. Kirthle handed them the nozzle, while he dived to a water
spigot where the hose was already attached!
      In through the conservatory window went a long stream that reached the
outward-lashing flames. Instead of subduing the blaze, the stream fed it. The
spurt from that hose wasn't water; it was gasoline, piped from an underground
tank near the garage!
      It seemed that half the fire in the mansion came out to engulf the
conservatory. New fuel for the holocaust, delivered by design! The servants
knew that it was coming, for they fled around the house, leaving the hose
thrust through the broken window to continue its devastating work.
     About to follow, Kirthle saw Cranston. Realizing that this lone witness
could testily to the incendiary origin of the giant conflagration, Kirthle
yanked a revolver. He was aiming the gun at Cranston when the latter turned,
saw the menacing weapon, and made a quick dart toward the open door of the
limousine as though to seek the shelter of the car.
     Before Kirthle could follow with his aim, a strange thing happened;
something all the more amazing because the sweep of flame through the
conservatory was adding a tremendous burst of light. Amid all that glow,
Cranston was swallowed by blackness before he reached the car door.
     Blackness that seemed to swoop at Cranston's beck, envelop him and take
him off to nowhere! As blackness whirled, the door of the limousine slammed,
but the inky mass remained outside the car. Living blackness of human size,
that issued a weird, challenging laugh which Kirthle knew was meant not alone
for him, but for the Hydra.
     For that blotting shape had turned itself into a cloaked figure, whose
eyes, beneath the brim of a slouch hat, caught the glow from the fire-swept
mansion and transformed it into a burning gaze that promised ill to crime.
     In a manner so swift that the transformation seemed under way before it
happened, Lamont Cranston had completely vanished, to be replaced by that
superfoe feared by all men of evil:
     The Shadow!


    CHAPTER III

    MASTER OF FLAME

     THE SHADOW was surging forward, intent upon taking Kirthle alive, to make
the fellow talk about the Hydra. Kirthle fired one frantic shot, missing The
Shadow by three feet. The bullet didn't even wing the limousine, for it was
gone from behind the path that The Shadow had retaken.
     Kirthle wasn't the only smart chauffeur on hand. Stanley, Cranston's man,
was trained to pull away when he heard shooting start. Though Stanley regarded
it odd that a complacent gentleman like Cranston should be in the vicinity of
gunfire so often, the chauffeur never questioned his master's orders, nor did
he link Cranston with The Shadow. Among other elements in Stanley's training,
he'd learned to mind his own business thoroughly.
     As for Kirthle, he was thinking only of The Shadow. Under the muzzle of
an
automatic that the cloaked fighter aimed, Kirthle tried another gun stab, that
didn't deliver. The first shot from The Shadow's gun preceded Kirthle's tug of
the trigger.
     The leaden slug found Kirthle's forearm, just above his gun hand. Jounced
by the impact, Kirthle staggered around, his arm flinging wide, while his
loosened hand let his revolver scale against the wall below the conservatory
windows. Wounded and unarmed, Kirthle turned to run; then, seeing The Shadow
looming hard upon him, the stocky man turned back.
     Diving for the wall, Kirthle grabbed up his gun with his left hand and
swung triumphantly, hoping to cripple The Shadow in turn. Within reach, The
Shadow made a swoop to grab Kirthle's arm, but the fellow made a successful
dodge along the wall, escaping the cloaked fighter's clutch.
     It was death for Kirthle.
     Down came a great chunk of the conservatory wall, a mass of molten metal
and white-hot glass. Kirthle hadn't realized how quickly the conservatory had
become a furnace under the feeding spray of gasoline which he himself had
started. Probably Kirthle never realized it, for he was buried out of sight in
an avalanche as deadly as a flow of volcanic lava.
     Only by a long, swift dive did The Shadow escape the fiery debris.
Wheeling from the scorching flames that now were climbing the vine pillars,
The
Shadow made a wider circuit toward the rear of the mansion, hoping to overtake
the two treacherous servants who had helped Kirthle with the hose.
     They were beyond the tennis courts, those crooks and others. The Shadow
couldn't see the trucks because of an intervening wall, but he did spy the
last
of the men who were bringing burdens from Glencoe's side door.
     The Shadow gave them a weird laugh that made them falter; then, in
response to the mirth, came a deluge of gunfire from beyond the tennis courts.
     That barrage was meant for The Shadow. Though it didn't reach him, it
allowed the burden carriers to escape. Attacked by the whole Hydra tribe, The
Shadow needed shelter of his own in order to fight back. He took the only spot
he saw, which happened to be the best, the very door from which the Hydra's
men
had brought the last of Glencoe's curios!
     Once within that shelter, The Shadow jabbed a few shots toward the
distant
marksmen. Dropping deeper to let them spot themselves with unwary shots, The
Shadow suddenly lost interest in such random battle. Here within the
fire-gorged mansion, The Shadow was viewing the pathways through which The
Hydra's workers had maneuvered their departure with a vast supply of loot.
     It wasn't a question now of rescuing helpless persons who weren't even
likely to be around. Here was The Shadow's chance to trap some of the Hydra's
clan in the very pitfall which they had designed as coverage for crime!


     ONE candidate was already in sight. Turning a corner toward The Shadow
was
the very man who had signaled the destruction of the conservatory - Glencoe's
false secretary, Selbert!
      Mere chance warned Selbert of danger ahead. Dropping back as a stretch of
floor gave underfoot, Selbert looked up and saw The Shadow bearing straight
toward him. With a wild look, the dapper man turned and dashed back around the
corner.
      With a leap, The Shadow was across the cavity. Around the corner he
side-stepped as Selbert peppered frantic shots in return. Scrambling for
Glencoe's study, Selbert stumbled on the threshold. He was up again, clutching
his gun and a precious bundle, when The Shadow overtook him. With a wild
wrench, Selbert went through the doorway, right into the arms of Willard
Mance.
      The Hydra Head was perfect in his pretext. He didn't waste half a second
asking any questions. One look told him that Selbert had met with something
supernormal, and Mance acted just as though he expected someone like The
Shadow. He pinned Selbert against the only stretch of wall that the flames
hadn't reached, grabbed the man's gun, and tried to get the bundle.
      "I've got him!" bellowed Mance. "The traitor who murdered Glencoe and
robbed him! Help me... somebody!"
      It wasn't just anybody who appeared. Staring across Selbert's shoulder,
Mance looked amazed when he saw The Shadow enter.
      It looked like Selbert's crime, even though he hadn't done it. To all
appearances, Mance had reached the study too late to aid Glencoe and was now
demanding vengeance for his murdered friend.
      That fact, plus The Shadow's own wish to check on Glencoe's death, worked
in favor of the Hydra's cause. The Shadow turned toward Glencoe's body and saw
the desk beyond it, strewn with papers that the flames had just begun to
devour. Mance had stayed to see that Selbert had missed nothing of value and
that sudden doubt flashed to The Shadow. He wheeled, automatic ready in his
fist.
      Mance and Selbert were already gone, the Hydra Head shoving the Tooth
through the doorway to the hall, their departure drowned by a sudden crackle
of
flames that poured through the study walls. If Selbert had paused long enough
to
fire, he might have clipped The Shadow; but the secretary was too fearful, too
amazed by Mance's sudden shift.
     As for Mance, his gun was out, but he didn't have it aimed when he fired.
His shot was wide, and he was smart enough to duck through the door ahead of
The Shadow's reply. Then Selbert was dashing for the corner with Mance behind
him, but all the while, the rugged Hydra Head was shooting back, hoping to
nail
The Shadow in the doorway.
     From that shelter, The Shadow fired as Mance turned the corner. Again,
flames rallied to a criminal's aid. These were the flames that roared through
the study walls, flaring up from the supporting beams. Literally that fiery
mass swallowed the floor of the entire room, and The Shadow plunged as the
whole room caved into a flaming pit.


     CLUTCHING the doorway as he went, The Shadow clung there watching the
collapse. Glencoe's body, the desk beyond it, finally the big safe, went
splashing into a sea of red fire that spouted like a mighty geyser, seeking
another victim in the person of The Shadow.
     One heave and The Shadow was clear of the lashing flame, safe in the
hallway that formed a last oasis amid disaster.
     The Shadow reached the corner of the passage, only to find it transformed
to another pit of flame that Mance and Selbert had just managed to bridge. The
route to the conservatory was cut off; it was from that direction that new
waves of fire had reached the doomed study. One path alone remained: the back
staircase to the second floor.
     It led up and down; nevertheless, The Shadow took the stairs ahead of a
rising wall of fire. On the floor above, he saw the outline of a window
through
a raging torrent of smoke-clouded red. Floor boards cracked and fell as The
Shadow drove across them, but his lunging arms reached the window and drove
through the space from which glass had already cracked and fallen.
     Again, The Shadow's hauling hands made up for lack of footing. Over the
sill, he struck headlong on a small, sloping roof of slate that held the
temperature of a griddle. That ordeal was short, for the roof gave as The
Shadow struck it and he scaled off to the ground, landing clear of burning
porch posts and a shower of loosened slates that seemed to hiss their heat as
they knifed into the turf and stopped there, upright, like Druid monuments in
miniature.
     Cars were spurting away through a back driveway, off to the left of the
house. Seeing an abandoned sedan, The Shadow reached it, found the keys that
the frightened owner had left, and started the blistered car away from the
tremendous mountain of flame and smoke that now entirely obscured the whole of
Glencoe's home.
     The chase, however, was short-lived. It ended at the emergency entrance
of
a hospital two miles from Glencoe's. The vehicles ahead weren't trucks, nor
even
the sort of getaway cars that crooks might use. They were limousines piloted
by
faithful chauffeurs, who had brought the burned and injured guests from
Glencoe's fiery party.
     Mance and his Hydra followers had gone the other direction. With many
roads to choose, their four-mile start would be sufficient. Dealing with them
would be a matter of the future. Such was The Shadow's verdict as he turned
the
borrowed car about and started back toward the mighty beacon that had once
been
Glencoe's home.
     Great flames lashing to the sky, billows of smoke that rose to heights of
clouds, were symbols of the wrath that the Hydra, vast organization of evil
Heads, could wreak upon whatever men of wealth it chose to devour as its
victims. Never in the history of modern crime had there existed so terrible a
menace as the Hydra.
     But there was something that all Hydra Heads, Mance included, could
remember, along with those workers who termed themselves Eyes, Ears, and
Teeth.
With all their individual effort, plus the fury of the holocaust they had
created, these men who formed the Hydra had failed to obliterate a lone foe
who
tonight had challenged them with single-handed might.
     He could still rise to challenge them, should the Hydra foment new crime.
     He was crime's nemesis: The Shadow!


    CHAPTER IV

    CRANSTON AND CRANSTON

     LAMONT CRANSTON woke up and wondered why his head still whirled. It took
him about half a minute to learn that the motion came from the fact he was
riding in his limousine. Which didn't make sense at first, because the last
thing Cranston remembered, he'd been out of his car watching Glencoe's mansion
go up in one great blanket of flame.
     Slowly, reflectively, Cranston nodded. Someone must have put him back in
the limousine and Stanley was driving him home. He didn't have to guess who
had
helped him on his way, for at that moment Cranston heard a low-toned laugh
beside him. He turned to see the black-cloaked figure of The Shadow.
     "What did you hit me with?" asked Cranston. "All four of your
automatics?"
     "I'm only carrying a pair tonight," replied The Shadow, "and they were
inside my cloak when I tossed you in the car. Your head must have struck the
opposite door."
     "A bit overzealous, weren't you?"
     "Hardly. A chap was aiming at you with a revolver. I had to send you away
fast, which I did. So rapidly, that he thought you turned into me."
     Cranston chuckled at The Shadow's statement.
     "That's quite all right," declared Cranston. "A lot of people think
they've seen me become The Shadow."
     "And others," added The Shadow, "are quite sure that I have become Lamont
Cranston."
     "But no one knows that there are two of us."
     "No one except the two of us."
     The big car was rolling along a country road. Cranston was surprised to
note that it was the highway leading to his New Jersey estate. Calculating the
distance from Glencoe's, Cranston realized he'd been out of circulation quite
a
while.
     "That fellow who was taking a shot at me," inquired Cranston,
reminiscently. "Who was he?"
     "His name was Kirthle," replied The Shadow. "He worked for the Hydra. I
was trailing him from the last case, the only lead I had. I didn't know that
crime was due at Glencoe's; otherwise, I'd have gone there in place of you.
The
Hydra is assuming larger proportions than I expected."
     "You mean this Hydra business is on the level?" demanded Cranston. "Why,
I
thought it was just another of Commissioner Weston's pipe dreams!"
      It was The Shadow's turn to laugh, which he did, though his low-throbbed
tone lacked mirth.
      "Frankly, Cranston," stated The Shadow, "I classed those recent crimes as
individual cases. One night when I was you, I told Weston that they seemed the
work of a group with multiple heads, like a Hydra. I simply wanted to stir our
friend, the commissioner, to furnish more cooperation from the law.
      "But I struck the thing right on the head - or Heads. There is a Hydra,
and tonight its work was managed by a head named Willard Mance. That fire was
of incendiary origin, intended to cover a big robbery. It finished by masking
murder as well. Edmund Glencoe is dead, slain by the man he called his best
friend, Willard Mance."
      For the rest of the ride, Cranston sat in stupefied silence. Knowing both
Mance and Glencoe, he wouldn't have deemed the thing possible but for the fact
of his own narrow escape from death at the hands of Kirthle. Cranston was
still
pondering deeply when the car pulled up in front of his own sizable residence.
      "After you, Cranston," undertoned The Shadow. "Only one of us can go in
the house openly. I shall meet you in the trophy room."
      Going up the front steps of his house, Cranston looked over his shoulder,
hoping to catch some token of The Shadow's exit from the limousine. All that
Cranston saw was blackness, thick within the car, and likewise on the ground
where the car had been after Stanley swung the limousine around the corner of
the garage.
      Meeting servants inside the house, Cranston was detained a few minutes
before he went upstairs, as he had to inquire about phone calls during his
absence, particularly because some might be of importance to his friend, The
Shadow. At last, Cranston reached the second floor and opened the door of the
trophy room.
      There Lamont Cranston found himself.
      Seated in a comfortable armchair, languidly smoking one of Cranston's
favorite cigars, was his double. Feature for feature, pose for pose, the man
in
the chair was Lamont Cranston. Actually, he was The Shadow, who through
perfect
make-up and long practice had become as much Cranston as himself.
      This had been going on for years, so it should have been perfect. But
when
Cranston thought back to the time when he had first met The Shadow as himself,
he remembered that the impersonation had been flawless, even then.


     "I SUPPOSE I owe you an apology, Cranston," declared The Shadow in his
friend's own calm tone. "When I first decided to supplant you, it was purely
because you were away from home for such long periods. It was very convenient
to be someone who wouldn't show up for a year or more."
     "No fault of mine that I came back to stay," returned Cranston.
"Globe-trotting is an obsolete sport nowadays, with world conditions as they
are. However, I still enjoy our little game. I've made a lot of real friends
through you."
     "And enemies, perhaps?"
     "Plenty of enemies," laughed Cranston, "but they haven't been permanent!
You seem to have the habit of writing them off."
     The Shadow joined in Cranston's laugh. It was singular, how their tones
blended into a single voice. When the mutual mirth ended, it was The Shadow
who
remarked:
     "Speaking of friends, Cranston, you have made a few for me. One in
particular -"
     "Margo Lane," interrupted Cranston. "I knew we'd get around to her. But
how did I know that I was going to meet her on that Caribbean cruise I took?
How could I guess that she would run into you at a night club two days after
we
landed? Naturally, she mistook you for me. I even would myself if I could
forget
who I am. Anyway, you've found Margo useful."
      "Very useful," agreed The Shadow. "Whenever trouble is coming up, I know
it from the way Margo gets into it. It's a wonder she didn't get tangled in
this Hydra business."
      The Shadow had risen from his chair. He was strolling the room in slow,
easy fashion. Watching his double, Cranston caught the mood and began a stroll
of his own. He came face to face with The Shadow in a doorway and waited for
his impersonator to speak. When The Shadow did, his voice came from behind
Cranston's shoulder.
      "When did you install that door mirror?" asked The Shadow. "You should
have told me that you were having the trophy room remodeled."
      Cranston spun away from his own reflection. His face showed blank
surprise
as it met The Shadow's, who copied the expression to show Cranston what he'd
missed by not continuing to watch the mirror. Finding his wits again, Cranston
gestured about the room.
      "I had the place repapered," he explained. "I'd forgotten about the
mirror. It was fitted only a few days ago."
      "Where have you put your rifles?" asked The Shadow, studying the blank
wall. "In the gun room?"
      Cranston nodded.
      "I think I'll leave them there," he said. "There isn't room for them when
the trophies are hung. Of course, I'll keep the cup cabinet here."
      He pointed to a corner where a huge cabinet showed shelves that were
laden
with dozens of cups, all tributes to Cranston's skill as a sportsman. The
Shadow
smiled when he noted that one shelf was devoted to the trophies that he, The
Shadow, had personally won during times when Cranston was away. Nice of
Cranston to arrange a special Shadow shelf.
      "Keep me posted on all changes," suggested The Shadow. "I might come home
while you are out and find myself a trifle confused. By the way, you hired a
new house man lately. What is his name?"
      "Kendrick," replied Cranston. "He always answers the door, so you'll
probably meet him if you forget your pass-key. A rather stolid chap, but
capable -"
      The Shadow raised his hand in interruption. He could hear slow footsteps
coming up the front stairs. Plucking his hat and cloak from a chair, The
Shadow
passed them to Cranston and gestured toward the door with the mirror.
      "Step in the closet a minute," suggested The Shadow. "That must be
Kendrick coming upstairs, because the footsteps are new to me. I might as well
get acquainted with him while I'm here."
      A big surprise was due.
      What caused it was the fact that The Shadow was totally off guard. He had
to be so because he was posing as Cranston. There wasn't any reason for
Cranston to be alert, or even abrupt, when opening the door of the trophy room
to admit an arriving servant. Since The Shadow was playing the part of
Cranston, he opened the door in most deliberate style.
      Then The Shadow's hands were rising, shoulder high. The back steps that
he
took were forced upon him by the pressure of a revolver muzzle planted
squarely
in his chest. And the stare that The Shadow gave was Cranston's blank one,
that
he had imitated only a few minutes earlier.
     The man behind the gun was the murderer who had tricked The Shadow at
Glencoe's. Not satisfied with that exploit, Willard Mance had sprung another
clever stroke. Linking The Shadow with Lamont Cranston, the belated guest who
had come to Glencoe's home, the Hydra Head was here for a final showdown!


    CHAPTER V

    DOUBLE DEATH

     HIS eyes fixed on The Shadow's, Mance gave an ugly laugh. Not for an
instant did the killer relax his gun hand, even when he reached behind him to
close the door. There was murder in Mance's glare. It stood for the future as
well as the past.
     "I'm going to kill you, Cranston," informed Mance in a deep undertone.
"You crossed my path at Glencoe's, and that was once too often!"
     "Too bad what happened at Glencoe's," parried The Shadow calmly. "I
suppose you escaped with the other guests. But your attitude puzzles me,
Mance.
Did the heat of the fire affect you?"
     "Now, I know you're bluffing, Shadow," sneered Mance. "But you don't do
it
well without your cloak and hat."
     In a bland fashion that suited his impersonation of Cranston, The Shadow
stepped back so that Mance could have a better look at him.
     Like Cranston, The Shadow was attired in evening clothes. Protected by
the
cloak, the full-dress suit hadn't suffered during the episode at Glencoe's. If
Mance sought evidence to prove his claim that Cranston and The Shadow were
identical, he wasn't getting it.
     "Naturally, you've hung your hat and cloak somewhere," Mance told The
Shadow. "What is more important, you had them with you when you came to
Glencoe's. Selbert told me that he saw your limousine arrive out front. You're
the only person who could have spotted Kirthle's work.
     "First Cranston, then The Shadow. Quite a coincidence. Kirthle must have
seen you switch from one into the other. It meant nothing to the rest, except
possibly Selbert, but it meant enough to me. So much, that I decided to settle
the problem quite on my own"
     "You need a drink, Mance," suggested The Shadow indulgently. "Unless
you've already had too many -"
     By interruption, Mance pushed his gun forward, thrusting The Shadow hard
against a chair. Whipping his free hand beneath The Shadow's evening coat,
Mance hauled out an automatic from its holster and sent it thudding to the
floor. In the same quick sweep, he reached across The Shadow's body and pulled
out the other .45. The second weapon hit the floor just as The Shadow regained
his balance.
     As he drew back, Mance gave a triumphant sniff. He'd caught the trifling
odor of smoke from The Shadow's evening coat. It was helpful, though, that
discovery, for it caused Mance to pause and gloat.
     "That covers your case, Shadow," was Mance's verdict. "I'm going to kill
you, like I did Glencoe! Not that you matter, because you never could defeat
the Hydra. You've heard of the original Hydra, with its many heads - and
more."
     The Shadow acted as though he hadn't, so Mance explained what he meant by
"more."
     "Every time you lop off a Hydra head," gloated Mance, "two others grow in
its place. That was the legend of the original creature called the Hydra, and
our system is the same. If you'd killed me tonight, Shadow, the other Heads
would have elected two more of their kind.
    "It happens that I'm going to kill you. When the police commissioner
finds
his friend Cranston murdered, he will never blame me for it. I happen to be a
man who has a perfect alibi. That is, I'm sure to have one when you're no
longer alive to dispute it.
      "But you can die with the satisfaction that, sooner or later, the Hydra
would have finished you. It was just a question of time, Shadow, and that time
is now!"


     THE word "now" was The Shadow's cue. Expecting it, he knew the gesture
that would follow it - a forward thrust of Mance's gun, even though the muzzle
was less than a foot from The Shadow's chest. Likewise, The Shadow foresaw
that
Mance would withhold his trigger tug just long enough to see if his victim
yielded to the emotion of horror.
     Had the Shadow lowered his hands or made any more other than a slight
waver, Mance would have fired instantly. So all The Shadow did was waver, and
it proved quite enough. He faltered sideward, then forward with a trifling
twist. Mance's gun was closer to his tight-drawn arm than to his chest, when
The Shadow suddenly clamped biceps against forearm.
     Right in the groove about his elbow, The Shadow caught the barrel of
Mance's revolver. Not once did his hand signal what was coming, nor did that
hand stir after The Shadow gave the arm clutch. It couldn't, for The Shadow's
arm stayed rigid like a gripping vise.
     What The Shadow did was spin full about, packing all the weight of his
body into the leverage that whipped the revolver from Mance's clutch and
scaled
it into the corner by the trophy case!
     Finishing his twirl, The Shadow lunged for Mance. Though tricked, the
killer was already on the move. Stooped to the floor, Mance was snatching up
one of The Shadow's automatics. As Mance swung the gun toward its rightful
owner, The Shadow sped a hand for the killer's wrist. Life or death were
hinging on a split-second, the question being whether The Shadow could stop
Mance's gun hand before it completed its aim.
     A split-second with inches at stake! Inches that might spell the end of
The Shadow's duel with the Hydra! The Shadow's fate depending on the first
spurt of his own gun, now in the grip of an enemy's hand!
     The automatic tongued flame, but its burst was unheard. Just as with
Mance's earlier shot at Glencoe, so was this report drowned out by a much
greater roar. The whole room shuddered, its very walls seemed to split. The
Shadow reeled from the concussion almost at his elbow. He didn't feel the
bullet that seared his shoulder when it passed - proof that Mance's shot had
missed.
     Staggered by something really tremendous, The Shadow grabbed for Mance,
only to find that his foeman wasn't there. The murderer was gone with the
blast, and the discordant clatter of metal that followed was something that
The
Shadow couldn't connect with the killer's disappearance.
     Then, across the room, The Shadow saw Cranston rising from the floor
beside the open door of the closet. Cranston looked dazed, too, for he'd taken
a kick as hard as the toss that The Shadow had given him earlier. From the
floor, Cranston picked up a mammoth weapon, more sizable than a one-man
burden.
The thing was an old-fashioned elephant gun.
     "I found it in the closet," explained Cranston. "It was the only gun left
here. The cartridges were on the shelf. So I let Mance have one. He went over
there while I was coming here."
     "Over there" was beside the trophy cabinet. The charge from the elephant
gun had given Mance a permanent wallop, along with the temporary kick it
handed
Cranston. Folded right in half, Mance had hit the cabinet and overturned it.
His
crumpled body was covered with a blanket of cups, which accounted for the
clatter that followed the gun blast.
     Mance hadn't heard that belated crash. He was dead when his body started
it.


     RELIEVING Cranston of the elephant gun, The Shadow steered his friend
into
the closet. Hauling the big weapon with him, The Shadow opened the door to
meet
arriving servants who had dashed upstairs when they felt the house quake.
      In Cranston's calm style, The Shadow inquired who had left the elephant
gun loaded. The servants looked at one another as they shook their heads, so
The Shadow coolly dismissed them, saying that he would take up the matter
later.
      "Whenever I see this gun," began Cranston, coming from the closet, "I'll
remember what I did with it -"
      "Quite right," interposed The Shadow approvingly. "What you did to Mance
will make amends for any elephants you may have killed. Too bad Mance didn't
bring along a few more Hydra Heads. At that close range, you could have bagged
a batch with one shot."
      Slowly, understanding dawned on Cranston. He'd never compared his
big-game
hunts with The Shadow's quests for men of crime. He felt that The Shadow's
cause
was justified, but it had seemed outside the field of sport. It still was, but
Cranston, now that he had dealt with a murderer who deserved to die, was
realizing that his game hunts were more deserving of rebuke.
      Bringing his cloak and hat from the closet, The Shadow put them on.
Gazing
at Mance's body, he spoke in the whispered tone that suited his black garb:
      "Mance mentioned an alibi. He said he could kill me and never be called
to
account -"
      There was a radio in another corner. The Shadow tuned in for a news
report
and waited silently until it came. The first flash was a summary of the fire
at
Glencoe's, listing the victims who had perished there. Heading the list, next
to the name of Edmund Glencoe, was that of Willard Mance. More names followed,
among them Selbert's.
      No wonder Mance had come to Cranston's bent on murder! Already marked as
dead, Mance would never have become a murder suspect. Clear of blame in
Glencoe's death, he could have killed at leisure, beginning with The Shadow.
      Though Mance hadn't known it, he would have needed to do a double murder
to dispose of both The Shadow and Lamont Cranston, the two that he believed
were one. Justly enough, the matter of double death had boomeranged on Mance.
Already counted dead, the Hydra Head had met with actual doom.
      "This solves our present problem," The Shadow told Cranston. "Since Mance
is already dead, there is no need to report what happened here. It is better
to
let the other Hydra Heads believe that Mance is still at large, rather than
have
them elect two more to replace him. Be ready later to admit my agents. They
will
remove the body after your servants have retired."
      While The Shadow was descending by the window route, Cranston went
downstairs inside the house and informed his servants that he would need them
no more this evening. Outside, Cranston walked along the driveway toward the
gates, listening for other crunches on the gravel. None came; instead,
Cranston
heard a whispered voice beside him. The Shadow had arrived silently, an
invisible companion in the darkness.
      "I've been thinking over what you told me," Cranston confided. "It's
given
me a new definition of sport, though I always did argue that it wasn't the
kill
that counted. Hunting big game seems small compared to tracking down
criminals."
      The Shadow's responding laugh told that he had found it that way for a
very long while.
      "I seem to have moved in on this hunt," added Cranston, "so I feel
entitled to see it through. Whenever you sight the other Hydra Heads, give me
a
tallyho. Meanwhile -"
      "Meanwhile, you can still be yourself," inserted The Shadow. "As such you
may be the first to meet another Hydra Head. I often find a trail when I am
you, Cranston."
      They were at the gate. Turning, Cranston started to ask another question,
only to learn that The Shadow was no longer beside him. The proof was a
whispered laugh that floated back from the night.
      Encouraging, that laugh. More than a token of departure, it carried The
Shadow's full approval of Cranston's offer to continue in the quest against
the
multiple monster of crime that called itself the Hydra!


     CHAPTER VI

     THE LONE TRAIL

     TWO evenings later, Lamont Cranston learned what it could mean to be
himself. In response to a phone call from The Shadow, Cranston went to the
Cobalt Club to meet his friend, Police Commissioner Ralph Weston. It was a
long
while since Cranston had seen the commissioner, because The Shadow had
monopolized those meetings.
     From the moment he reached the club, Cranston realized that Weston hadn't
asked him to a social session. Crime was on the board, and the commissioner
was
actually asking Cranston's advice. Moreover, there were two others present who
seemed to value it.
     One, of course, was Inspector Joe Cardona, a swarthy man of poker-faced
expression. Though Joe said little, he was always interested when Cranston
spoke. Cranston knew that The Shadow had often sided with Cardona when the
commissioner disputed his ace inspector's judgment.
     The other man was Dustin Bardell, chairman of a citizen's committee that
had convened with Commissioner Weston on the evening of the Glencoe tragedy.
He
was a serious man, Bardell, past middle age but very active, and at times
dynamic. He seemed as determined to ferret out the Hydra business as was
Weston.
     Square of face, sharp of eye, Bardell did more than come bluntly to the
issue. In slam-bang style, he thwacked his hand upon the table and fairly
rumbled at Cranston:
     "Come! You were at Glencoe's. You can tell us if incendiaries started
that
fire!"
     "I wasn't there when it began," pleaded Cranston. "They say there was an
explosion that caused it."
     "If so, the explosion was arranged," argued Bardell. "Glencoe isn't the
first wealthy man who has been subjected to attack. There was something wrong
about that whole business. You must find more evidence, commissioner." Bardell
paused, about to bang the table again, then held his hand poised. "Ah! Here is
the man who can help us!"
     The man in question was a tall, sharp-faced individual who entered the
scene with a long, brisk stride, opening a brief case as he arrived. He spread
a batch of papers on the table between Weston and Bardell, then turned from
one
to the other, giving each a decisive gaze.
     Cranston recognized the newcomer as Charles Medor, head of the United
Insurance Bureau, which made a business of investigating claims against large
insurance companies. Impartial in its decisions, the United Bureau was never
questioned in its verdicts. Noted for his thorough work, paid highly for his
services, Medor was the final authority on insurance claims.
     Medor's report was a bombshell that turned out to be a dud when he
delivered it.
     "The explosion was an accident at Glencoe's," asserted Medor, referring
to
the report sheets that he brought. "A faulty valve in the oil pipe to the
furnace, slow seepage from the storage tank were the contributory causes.
     "The quick spread of the fire was not surprising, considering that
hundreds of gallons of oil were in the tank. All testimony proves that the
flames spread too rapidly for any of Glencoe's furnishings to be saved.
     "Since the insurance companies have a full inventory of Glencoe's
treasures and their value, I have recommended that all claims be paid,
particularly as the guests at Glencoe's home have stated that every item named
was in the house when the fire started."
     Bardell came to his feet angrily.
     "You can't do this!" he stormed. "Why, suppose that fire was meant to
ruin
Glencoe! Enemies might even have wanted him to perish, along with poor Mance!
Suppose, for example, that Glencoe had been blackmailed, but had refused to
pay
-"
     "I do not deal in suppositions," inserted Medor icily. His eyes were very
cold under his bristly brows. "I go by facts, and in this case they are plain.
Any delay in settlement of Glencoe's just claims would injure the reputation
of
the insurance companies that I represent."
     "But who could object, now that Glencoe is dead?"
     "Certain new corporations in which Glencoe had an interest," returned
Medor. "Glencoe had agreed to finance several budding industries. He had even
given his notes, pending the issue of stock in those companies."
     Bardell nodded slowly.
     "I know about those companies," he admitted. "I'd hoped to buy into some
of them myself. Still, Medor, if this could only wait!"
     "It can't," emphasized Medor. "The law has provided no evidence of crime
directed at either Glencoe or Mance."
     Commissioner Weston sat as though handcuffed. Medor was right; too right.
Even the bodies of Glencoe and Mance had not been recovered from the heaped
ashes and cinders that represented all that was left of Glencoe's mansion and
its treasures. Even to suggest that the pair had been murdered, would be
preposterous, if voiced publicly.
     As for Lamont Cranston, he sat back wishing that he really were The
Shadow. He was sure that his un-cloaked double could have found some way to
change Medor's set opinion in a case where The Shadow knew that crime had been
committed on three counts: arson, robbery, and murder!


     PERHAPS if Cranston had reasoned a bit further, he'd have realized why
The
Shadow hadn't chosen to come here in his place. Actually, The Shadow was
taking
the best of steps to unveil the true facts of crime at Glencoe's. He was using
the same system as before - that of trailing a worker of the Hydra, as in the
case of Kirthle.
     This time, however, The Shadow was doing more than haunt the footsteps of
a mere tool.
     He was trailing Selbert, Glencoe's "dead" secretary!
     Only a few nights ago, Willard Mance, a supposed dead man, had tried to
trick The Shadow. The result had proven disastrous for Mance, establishing him
as really dead; still, Mance had won a point. He'd shown, for instance, that a
man supposed to be dead would not have to worry over alibis for murder.
     The same applied to Selbert. Like Mance, he could feel secure, except for
one proviso.
     If publicly recognized by anyone, Selbert would be in serious plight. The
fact made him an outcast with the rest of the Hydra's tribe. He couldn't go
around with them in the mobile fashion that they preferred, because if marked,
he'd make trouble for the rest.
     There was another interesting slant in Selbert's case.
     Unquestionably the Hydra, through its various Heads, owned hide-aways of
the deepest sort. Pooled wealth could give the lesser workers benefit of many
advantages that ordinary criminals did not possess.
     But it would be folly for the Hydra to waste any such assets on Selbert.
The dead man wasn't hunted, not to the Hydra's knowledge. All Selbert had to
do
was stay some place where he wouldn't be recognized. In brief, Selbert was on
his own for the present.
     For two days, The Shadow had been working on that theory. From his
sanctum, a black-walled room deep in the heart of Manhattan, the cloaked
investigator was keeping contact with many secret agents skilled in locating
men that their chief wanted found.
     It wasn't like looking for a needle in a haystack, not the way The Shadow
handled it. On the table beneath the bluish light that formed the only
illumination in his sanctum, The Shadow had spread a large map of Manhattan,
divided into many squares, most of which were shaded. The rest were the ones
that counted.
     This was a map that covered cases like Selbert's. A man in his situation
would stay in Manhattan rather than go to one of the other boroughs. He would
avoid Chinatown and the other numerous foreign quarters where he would be too
conspicuous, so those were shaded off.
     Naturally, business areas were out. So were hotel sections, amusement
centers, even big apartment sectors, where people often had chance meetings
with acquaintances.
     Conversely, Selbert wouldn't be around old-fashioned neighborhoods or in
the realm of cheap rooming houses where strangers attracted attention. He'd
probably picked an apartment larger than a converted house, yet one that
didn't
have an attendant on duty. Preferably a furnished place on a month-to-month
basis, which narrowed the field even more.
     Such were shown in the comparatively few squares that remained unshaded
on
The Shadow's man. There, his agents were scouting for someone who looked like
Selbert. And now, even while The Shadow was tapping new squares with his
finger, a tiny light glowed on the wall.
     Reaching for earphones, The Shadow heard from his contact man, Burbank.
      Selbert was found. Clyde Burke, an agent who worked as a newspaper
reporter, had spotted the former secretary leaving a delicatessen with a three
days supply of food. He'd watched the small apartment house where Selbert
went,
and had seen lights come on. Selbert was living in Apartment 3D of a
side-street
apartment house known as the Monolith Arms.
      The bluish light clicked off. There was a crinkle as the map was folded
in
the darkness. A whispered laugh stirred the sanctum, its tone so shivery that
echoes answered in repeated sibilance, only to fade into a silence as solid as
the blackness, a double proof that The Shadow, master of night, had left his
hidden domain.


      AT the same time, Lamont Cranston was dropping Charles Medor at the
office
of the United Insurance Bureau. Alighting from the limousine, Medor smiled as
he
thanked Cranston for the lift.
      It happened that Cranston had left the Cobalt Club at the same time as
Medor. The reason was that Cranston had received a telephone call from a very
insistent young lady named Margo Lane.
      Commissioner Weston had griped about the way Cranston's girl-friend so
often talked him out of conferences, but it had done no good. For a week,
Cranston had been promising to take Margo to a night club, and always
something
had postponed it. He'd said that if he didn't keep the date tonight, Margo
would
be through with him.
      That had brought a grunt of "Good riddance" from Weston, but Cranston
hadn't seen it that way. Medor's office being on the way to the place where
Cranston was to meet the Lane girl, the insurance man had gotten a ride.
      Though Cranston had said little during the trip, Medor watched the car
until it was out of sight. Then, striding into his office, the rangy man
nodded
to his night clerk and went on through.
      Reaching his private office, Medor locked the door behind him and sat
down
in front of a square-shaped instrument that looked like the microphone of an
interoffice communication system.
      First, Medor pressed a button. A curious whir came from the device. Medor
spoke aloud, and waited. A garbled voice responded, its words chopped to
nonsense by the whir. Medor turned a dial until the voice was clear.
      This instrument was a short-wave radio set, fitted with a mixer; only the
two persons who held a conversation could shift the whirring sound so that
they
would hear their statements ungarbled.
      Interrupting the other voice, Medor spoke again, his sharp face pressing
close to the microphone, until its flat top was on direct level with his bushy
eyebrows. The words that Medor uttered were:
      "This is Head No. 7."


     CHAPTER VII

     CRIME'S STRANGE LAIR

     FROM the vestibule of the Monolith Arms, Selbert poked his pale face and
gave a wary look both ways along the street. Two nights ago, Selbert's manner
had been dapper; this evening, he looked scared. Maybe his fright at his first
meeting with The Shadow was the reason, for Selbert's glances were the utmost
in suspicion each time he studied a darkened patch of street.
      Any of those blotted-out segments might be The Shadow. So thought
Selbert,
until he counted so many splotches that he suddenly changed his mind. Quite
sure
that The Shadow couldn't be around, Selbert stole from the doorway and off
along
the street. His anxious eyes were set straight ahead, as if his fear had
become
a matter of the future.
      It would have made no difference if Selbert had looked back. The
particular clump of darkness that moved did so in a style that no one would
have noticed. The solid gloom of a basement doorway seemed simply to surge
forward, then spread; not for an instant did it reveal itself as a figure
cloaked in black. Rather, it drifted into the surrounding gloom, to be
absorbed
like a cloud of dispelling smoke.
      Selbert's hurry, his anxiety, both made it easier for The Shadow to stalk
him. Turning a corner, Selbert threw a furtive glance at a subway entrance in
the next block, then decided that he couldn't afford the benefit of a nickel
fare. His picture had appeared in the newspapers as one of the victims at
Glencoe's house. Though small and a poor photograph, the resemblance might
strike some subway rider.
      A cab was the only vehicle that Selbert could safely use, so he took one.
Which suited The Shadow, because he had stationed that cab for Selbert to
find.
      The cab belonged to The Shadow and its driver was Moe Shrevnitz, one of
The Shadow's capable secret agents. Accepting Selbert as a passenger, Shrevvy
stalled a bit while starting his motor, which gave The Shadow time to enter a
cab across the street.
      The driver of the other cab was quite astonished by the whispered voice
that told him to follow the cab ahead, because he'd seen no one enter from the
darkness.
      But the tone wasn't the sort to brook an argument, so The Shadow won his
point, while Moe, up ahead, saw that the trailing cab didn't lose him.
      Maybe Selbert suspected something, for after a dozen blocks he paid Moe
off and transferred to another cab. That old trick didn't help him. The Shadow
paid off his cabby and shifted to Moe's waiting cab. From then on, Selbert
couldn't know that he was trailed, for The Shadow had trained Moe to such
business.
      Moe ducked around through other streets and picked up the trail on
another
avenue. Sometimes he would get ahead of Selbert and let The Shadow check on
the
other cab. On avenues, Moe would lose his cab from sight behind trucks and
busses, like a porpoise playing amid a school of whales.
      Thus when Selbert reached his goal, The Shadow still was right behind
him.
On foot, the cloaked trailer merged with a building wall until Selbert entered
the side door of a large building. After a brief pause, The Shadow took the
same route.


     SINGULAR was Selbert's choice of destination. He had picked the promenade
of a huge office building that was much like an arcade, with rows of shops on
each side. Few of the shops were open in the evening, but there was an arrow
ahead that pointed to a door with the sign:
                      MUSEUM OF MECHANICAL SCIENCE

      The museum was due to close within an hour, hence it was almost deserted.
Selbert paid fifty-five cents, for admittance and tax, to a uniformed
gatekeeper, who watched him go through a railed entrance fitted with a
photoelectric beam. A recording device gave a sharp click, then another, which
caused the gateman to turn in sudden surprise.
      For the first time in its history the beam had worked twice when only one
person went through, and the keeper couldn't understand it. He looked toward
the beam, then shot a long glance after Selbert. Finally, he gazed in other
directions, but by then it was too late.
      As he had boldly stepped from darkness, so had The Shadow returned to it.
Openly visible only when the gateman's attention was diverted, The Shadow had
promptly veered to a space behind a huge exhibit case that showed an enlarged
mechanism of an automatic lock. Selbert having gone the other way, the puzzled
man at the gate took his first look in the wrong direction, and that was
enough
for The Shadow to complete a glide to cover.
      Shifting to a deeper corner next to a big case that inclosed a large
model
of an ocean liner, The Shadow watched Selbert move around the wall and stop at
exhibits whenever other customers came by.
      At one case, Selbert dropped a nickel in a slot to watch a model
locomotive run on treadmill tracks. While that was going on, The Shadow saw an
attendant pause and take a steady look at the drab secretary.
      Similarly, another attendant checked Selbert when he was going into an
adjacent room, where The Shadow followed as soon as the way was clear.
Whisking
into a farther room, The Shadow looked back from the doorway to see Selbert
finishing a quick round of exhibits under the scrutinizing eye of a third
attendant.
      The far room was empty of people, but it lacked suitable cover for The
Shadow. At one side were a few steps leading down to a door that bore the
sign:

                              CHAMBER OF MARVELS

     Reaching the door, The Shadow was opening it and shifting though when
Selbert came in sight. Fortunately, the fellow stopped to play with a
hand-crank movie machine, otherwise he might have caught his first glimpse of
The Shadow entering the marvel room.
     In fact, The Shadow was just working the door shut to the slightest
crack,
when Selbert left the movie machine and came directly to the Chamber of
Marvels
itself.
     Completely closing the door, The Shadow turned about. The first thing he
saw was a robot standing on a platform against the far wall. It was a large,
cumbersome thing, its limbs, body and head nothing but cylinders of
considerably more than human proportions. Hung from its neckless head was a
placard, reading:

                                OUT OF ORDER

      Gripping the robot, The Shadow found that it came apart. Evidently its
machinery had been sent away for repair, for the interior was quite empty. So
the Shadow stepped into the robot's legs and eased the lightweight body and
head down over him.
      From within the thin-shelled contraption, he peered out through tiny
holes
that were drilled to make an ornamental pattern.
     When Selbert entered, The Shadow was able to take stock of the room as
well as the man, for Selbert began a tour of the chamber. It didn't take him
long, for the square room was quite small, but its exhibits were highly
interesting, all being of a freakish sort.


     ONE corner formed a railed square, wherein a huge metal rim was slowly
spinning in a mysterious fashion, covering a circle about equal to its own
five-foot diameter. It was obviously controlled by an electromagnet that
revolved beneath the floor, but the effect was surprising, nevertheless.
Selbert stared, quite fascinated, at this marvel, then moved along.
     Next was an exhibit case containing a model stratosphere balloon. Selbert
pressed a button and the balloon inflated with gas, to rise to the top of the
high case. There a valve was released and the balloon came down again.
     Another corner contained a combination dredger and sifter. It was much
like a full-sized scoop seen on a steam shovel, but its edges were like teeth.
The thing was used for dredging coal from river beds, since the fine particles
of coal would sift out through the teeth.
     This device was in operation. Each minute it would open its great steel
jaws like Jonah's whale, and clamp them shut again.
     Leaving that corner, Selbert passed the robot, giving it a mere glance as
he went by. He came to another case, containing poison gases and their various
reagents. Here were half a dozen slots, each calling for a nickel for the
privilege of seeing gases travel through spiral tubes and produce bubbles or
color changes in glass jars containing liquids of proper chemical content.
     Selbert didn't waste any nickels. He was turning to the final corner to
look at an automatic metal crusher, when the door of the marvel chamber opened
and three attendants filed into the room. They were the same trio who had eyed
Selbert during his earlier tour. Each man had a fist slightly clenched, and
all
let their hands come open.
     In response, Selbert spread his fingers to give the Hydra signal.
     "Tooth 4A," spoke Selbert, as soon as the door was closed. "Awaiting new
assignment."
     "Ear 7C," replied one of the attendants. "We have heard from Head No. 7,
telling us to expect you, but not so soon as this. We understood you were on
vacation."
     Selbert nodded. Then:
     "I guess you know all about me," he said. "I'm supposed to be dead, so I
have to stay out of sight. But my former Head, No, 4, told me if I didn't hear
from him, I'd be transferred to Seven. I was to make contact here."
     The Ear knew that such were Selbert's orders. He said that he had heard
from Head No. 7 only a short while ago and that Tooth 7A had been mentioned.
Proper arrangements had been made on Selbert's account.
     "We're pulling out of here tonight," explained the Ear. "Our Head has
rigged a job for us. We're going to clean out the Paragon Trust Co. some time
tomorrow."
     "You'll come back here then?" inquired Selbert.
     "No," replied the Ear. "The museum won't be staying open evenings, so
we're no longer needed. The Head was just waiting until we could quit. Working
here was soft for us, and saved expenses. Besides, we were ready to help
anybody in a pinch, like you."
     With that, the Ear gestured to the robot that formed The Shadow's hiding
place.
     "We took the guts out of old Roger," continued the Ear, "so we could use
him to hold a stowaway. That "out-of-order" sign is so people won't bother
him.
If you'd come racing in here, we'd have piled you in Roger, clamped the
catches
tight and chucked away the sign. A guy inside can do the robot act as good as
any machinery. You tell Roger to raise his right hand, he does it. Simple
stuff
like that."
      The Shadow resisted the impulse to prove that Roger was an obedient
robot.
Selbert gave the metal man a stare, as though glad he hadn't been called upon
for robot duty. Then the Ear was plucking Selbert's arm, gesturing to a device
that stood on a table between the gas case and the crusher.
      The thing looked like an ordinary radio set, but it was labeled:

                                RADIO MIXER
                                 Hands Off

    "You'd better talk with Head Seven direct," the Ear told Selbert. "Make
it
short, though. We're closing the dump soon."
     Selbert began to thumb the dials of the mixer. One of the attendants
showed him a hidden switch that started the whir. Another turned to the Ear
and
asked him if he wanted to turn off the perpetual lamp, which was an object
like
a gas jet, burning in a glass cylinder on a shelf above the radio mixer.
     The Ear shook his head. He said the perpetual lamp could burn out for all
he cared, since this was their last night on duty. With that, the Ear gestured
his companions out through the door behind them, leaving Selbert to hold a
private interview with his new Head.
     An interview that would be overheard by Roger the Robot, in the person of
The Shadow!


    CHAPTER VIII

    MACHINES GONE MAD

     IT took Selbert several minutes to get the hang of the radio mixer. He
kept talking to it while he played with the dials, but everything sounded
garbled. At last, a voice spoke in response to Selbert's efforts. It said:
     "This is Head No. 7."
     As occupant of the robot, The Shadow could hear as well as see, but he
wasn't able to identify the voice of Head Seven. The whir from the mixer
disguised the tone, making it quite crackly. That didn't matter to Selbert.
Knowing that he'd opened conversation with a new chief, Selbert began to talk.
     First, he expressed loyalty to the Hydra and all its heads. That seemed
to
impress Head Seven, who announced that he could use the services of a capable
Tooth. Then the voice that really belonged to Charles Medor put an important
question.
     "Why have you not heard from Head No. 4?" was the query. "We who form the
Hydra expected more from him."
     "So did I," returned Selbert. "Something must have happened -"
     "Because Head Four met The Shadow?"
     "That might be it," replied Selbert. Then, a bit puzzled, he added: "How
did you know about The Shadow?"
     Head No. 7 gave a cryptic chuckle. It didn't perplex The Shadow, because
he knew that others of Mance's followers had seen him around Glencoe's,
something that Selbert probably had not learned before Mance sent him away
alone.
     "The Hydra is everywhere," spoke Head No. 7. "His Heads are many, his
Eyes
numberless, like his Ears and Teeth. The Hydra cares for all who obey his
mandates."
      "I know," said Selbert gratefully. "I could have hidden here, had I been
in danger. No one would have found me."
      "No one could have found you," stressed the whirring voice of Medor.
"Turn
to the robot that was to be your hiding place."
      Selbert turned to face Roger.
      "Beside the robot is a lever," continued Head Seven. "Take hold of it and
draw it toward you, hard."
      As Selbert gripped the lever that projected from the robot's platform,
The
Shadow not only voiced a warning hiss, but he raised the shell arms in hope of
stopping Selbert.
      The Shadow's intuitive brain had grasped a thing that hadn't struck
Selbert. A menace was at hand, and though The Shadow held no regrets for
Selbert, he didn't want to share the consequences. The crackly laugh of Head
Seven's voice was a giveaway to The Shadow, though not to Selbert.
      Unfortunately, The Shadow's hiss and the sudden movement of the robot's
arms failed utterly to halt Selbert. The dupe simply thought that the robot's
machinery was in action, for Selbert's own problems had caused him to pay
little attention to the things that the Ear mentioned. This lapse on Selbert's
part was fatal.
      Selbert pulled the lever. It came loose in his hand the moment it
released
a mechanism beneath the floor.
      With that, the room went mad.
      All the machinery cut loose at once. The huge revolving hoop began to
spin
at stepped-up speed. The stratosphere balloon puffed, shot upward, deflated,
and
filled again, within its tall glass case. The toothed scoop clapped open,
clanged shut, and began to jab forward on a long rod, like a crane in action.
      Poison gases were seething in their ease. A heavy crusher in the last
corner banged down, popped up, banged down again in tremendous fashion. Fully
five feet square, that crusher was horrendous when it began to act that way.
      The perpetual lamp did nothing; it simply continued to flicker in the
glass case on the shelf above the radio mixer. The fact that the robot hurled
itself apart and clattered in sections on the platform, was simply part of the
chaos, so far as Selbert was concerned.
      The dazed man didn't see The Shadow come from the robot's interior, for
Selbert had swung back to the mixer, shrieking that the lever had broken loose
and hell along with it.
      To which came Medor's response, the triumphant crackle of Head No. 7,
delivering words that were wrong in every fact until the final statement.
      "You tricked us, Selbert!" accused Head Seven. "We know you for who you
were, The Shadow in disguise! Clever of you to play the part of a simple
secretary. Things went further than you thought they would, but you did manage
to finish Mance afterward, otherwise we would have heard from Head No. 4.
      "Now you are back again, trying to trick the Hydra. We were waiting for
you, to make this effort the last. It is death for you, Selbert! Things have
gone too far again. This time, they are designed for doom - to The Shadow!"


     DOOM to The Shadow!
     The whole mistaken motion of the Hydra was bearing fruit, for The Shadow
himself was in the very trap designed for Selbert, the man the Hydra Heads had
marked as the black-cloaked warrior in disguise!
     Terrible, indeed, was that trap! Famous waxwork museums of the past had
held their so-called Chamber of Horrors. This modern museum of mechanical
science had a Chamber of Marvels that inventive genius had transformed to one
of real horrors. It didn't take the statement of a Hydra Head to prove it.
      Mere delivery of high speed did the trick.
      Spearhead of the mechanical attack was the great rim that normally kept
spinning in its corner. The huge hoop weighed at least a quarter of a ton, and
the hidden electromagnet that controlled it was on a greater eccentric than
the
corner confines. It was geared to cover the whole room when the power was on
in
full.
      Smashing through the wooden rail that hemmed it in, the mighty hoop cut a
swath across the room. Its spin was still moderate, but its force was
terrific.
It simply chopped down anything it struck. The Shadow dodged it, as did
Selbert,
and the hoop struck the table that held the radio mixer. Medor's whirry voice
chopped off as table and cabinet went to tinder.
      Grabbing Selbert, The Shadow flung him sidewards. The massive hoop,
slashing past the platform, crunched the shell of the robot into a flattened
mess of metal. But in flinging Selbert, The Shadow saved him from a menace
equal to the whirling hoop.
      The toothed scoop was shoving forward with its hungry jaws, hoping to
gobble a human victim. All that it gained was The Shadow's cloak, as he dived
along with Selbert. The massive teeth chewed the cloak into shreds.
      Up again, The Shadow hauled Selbert away from the hoop's path. The
smashing rim took the stratosphere cabinet instead and broke it all apart. A
fierce hiss told that hydrogen was coming in quantity from the crushed tank.
Still, there wasn't a chance for The Shadow and Selbert to reach the door. The
hoop was after them, forcing them to another dodge.
      As the two figures rolled in the center of the room, the hoop went past
and smashed the cabinet of poison gases, releasing them as another surety of
doom. The Shadow tried to haul Selbert toward the door, only to be blocked by
the rim in its next circuit.
      This time, The Shadow barely saved Selbert from the crusher in the other
corner. All that the crusher caught was the brim of The Shadow's hat. Flipping
beneath the crusher, the slouch headpiece became the replica of a pancake.
      Grabbing the lever that Selbert had wrenched and dropped, The Shadow took
a slash at the revolving rim. Playing hoop with that thing didn't work. The
lever flew away like a feather and landed on the platform belonging to the
ruined robot.
      Away again went The Shadow, dragging Selbert with him. It was lucky they
didn't head toward the platform, for the rim cut through it like a buzz saw
hitting a pine board.
      All the while, the toothed scoop was clamping, the crusher bashing, ready
for their deadly work if the mighty rim failed.
      How long those menaces could be dodged was something that hardly
mattered,
for the gases would bring death within a few more minutes. The Shadow reached
the door and tried to open it, only to find it bolted on the other side. He
dodged back to avoid the metal rim's gyration and came into Selbert's clutch
in
the middle of the floor.
      Having realized that his companion was The Shadow, Selbert had gone as
mad
as the machines. The crazed man still had faith in the Hydra, and seemed to
think that by fighting the uncloaked Shadow he could win favor with the
multiple master who had disowned him.
      Not to be bothered with Selbert, The Shadow hurled him over by the
demolished platform. Grabbing the discarded lever, Selbert drove for his human
foe.
      With mere minutes to live, it was a question of one life or the other.
Selbert, accomplice in murder, deserved to die. Still, The Shadow was ready to
go the limit to keep the dupe alive. He grabbed at the lever when Selbert
swung
it, locked with the madman and reeled him away from the approaching hoop.
      Selbert wouldn't have it that way. He fought back, and thereby finished
himself. The hoop glanced him, sent him against the scoop, which chopped him
hard. Mangled, Selbert went shrieking forward, to meet the hoop again. This
time it threw him to the crusher, which sprawled him, and more.
      What was left of Selbert rolled, or rather slid, away dead. The hoop came
slashing around again to make worse pulp of the victim's body. The Shadow had
scarcely any time to glance at Selbert during those devastating stages. Still
carrying the lever, The Shadow was dodging the hoop and its allies: the
long-necked scoop and the hammering crusher.


      PRECIOUS minutes were gone. The Shadow couldn't survive another in the
gas-filled room. His own brain was whirling madly, but one thing stuck. That
lamp on the shelf, the only thing undamaged! The Hydra's men had mentioned it,
but hadn't thought it important.
      It could be important to The Shadow. Among the deadly gases that were
filling the room was an oversupply of inflammable hydrogen!
      Finding himself near the remnants of the platform, The Shadow turned and
flung the lever at the glass cylinder on the shell. Even before the iron rod
reached its mark, The Shadow saw the great hoop on a new eccentric, coming
straight at him across the room, to block the one place that he must reach,
the
door.
      The rim was endwise. Instinctively, The Shadow took a dive straight at
it.
He was arrowing one way, while the hoop revolved, coming the opposite
direction.
Straight through the great rim went The Shadow. His feet were grazed by the
edge
as it finished the turn, but they came clear. In the midst of that long slide
toward the door, The Shadow heard the iron lever crash the glass cylinder that
housed the perpetual lamp.
      When the glass shattered, the flame was bare. The flame spoke with a
mighty puff as it ignited the gas that filled the room. The gas produced a
terrific blast that packed more wallop than all the mechanical contrivances
put
together.
      The room didn't blow apart. Instead, its weak spot gave, and that weak
spot was the door. It burst like a safety valve, and with the flame that
hurtled through went The Shadow!
      So swift was the explosion, so complete its result, that The Shadow
wasn't
scorched by the vanishing flame. He landed clear across the outer exhibit
room,
and came groggily to his feet while men were dashing in from the other door.
They didn't even see the rising shape that looked like Cranston. They were on
their way to stop the mechanical madness in the Chamber of Marvels.
      When the current was turned off, the arrivals found Selbert's body, or
what was left of it. Certain men, workers for the Hydra, also discovered tiny
shreds of black cloth and a flattened piece of felt. That settled them in
their
opinion regarding Selbert.
      The Hydra had eliminated The Shadow.
      A certain cab driver named Moe Shrevnitz would have disagreed. At that
very moment, he was carrying a very groggy passenger to the hospital. Having
had both Selbert and The Shadow as passengers earlier in the evening, Moe knew
which was which.
     This person who had stumbled out of the building and collapsed in the
waiting cab was certainly The Shadow. Moe's chief had taken a terrific
beating,
but he would come through. Moe knew it from experience. Whenever The Shadow
muttered, he was all right. He had a way of pushing every ounce of strength
into words that were important.
     Moe caught those words. It was his business to catch them at a crucial
time like this.
     "Paragon Trust," came The Shadow's mutter. "Robbery tomorrow. The Hydra
-"
     That was all, and it was enough. Loyal agents would pick up where The
Shadow had left off. Wheeling the cab in through the hospital gates, Moe was
grimly sure that crime would be stopped cold when the time came.
     Tonight's events should have told Moe that he was being overhopeful. One
thing had been proven very definitely by The Shadow's masterful escape from
the
lair of murderous machines.
     The logic was this: the Hydra hadn't managed to stop The Shadow.
     Therefore, only The Shadow could stop the Hydra!


    CHAPTER IX

    CRIME WITHOUT CRIME

     IT was noon when Dr. Rupert Sayre told the nurse to remove the oxygen
tent. That done, Sayre had a look at his patient, Lamont Cranston. The oxygen
had proved efficacious, the best of treatments, considering that Cranston had
been treated to about every other kind of gas, the night before.
     Of course, the hospital reports did not indicate it. Only Dr. Sayre knew
what The Shadow had gone through. Sayre had heard the true facts from Burbank,
as relayed by Moe, who had learned something of what was happening inside the
scientific museum, while waiting for The Shadow to rejoin him.
     Burbank had stressed one point. If possible, Sayre was to suppress the
fact that Cranston was hospitalized. Sayre managed to do this because he was
Cranston's private physician. Moreover, Sayre knew that his present patient
was
The Shadow, to whom he owed a great debt. Not only had The Shadow once rescued
Sayre from death, he had set up the young physician in a Park Avenue practice.
     Thus Sayre would go to any limits for The Shadow, and in this instance
the
doctor was keeping to himself a thing that he had long suspected: namely, that
there were two Cranstons - a real one, and another who used Cranston's
personality when occasion required. Sayre also was convinced that none of The
Shadow's other agents, with the possible exception of Burbank, knew that there
were two Cranstons.
     To preserve The Shadow's all-essential secret, Dr. Sayre announced that
the patient could be discharged from the hospital. He said he'd call for
Cranston personally, but that until he returned, the oxygen treatment could be
continued.
     Sayre gave the impression that he would be back very shortly, but when he
left, it was with the actual intention not to return until late in the
afternoon. Knowing the whole story of this case, Sayre felt that the more
oxygen his patient received, the better.
     Thanks to Sayre's system, it was quite all right for the real Lamont
Cranston to keep a one-o'clock luncheon appointment with Commissioner Weston.
Should the matter ever be uncovered in the future, Weston might be surprised
to
learn that Cranston had come straight from a hospital cot to lunch with him.
But
there would be no question of an overlap. The hospital records would show that
Cranston had been discharged in time to keep his appointment.
      During lunch, Weston spoke briefly of a strange accident that had
occurred
the night before. He told how the mechanical marvels at the scientific museum
had gone berserk and killed an unidentified visitor who had been in the place.
      Mangled beyond recognition, the victim had paid a ghastly penalty for
toying with a power lever that shouldn't have been touched. The attendants had
done their best to save the fellow, but without avail.
      Next, Weston shifted to a far more important subject, a tip-off that the
police had received.
      "It may have been a crank call," declared the commissioner, "but we
didn't
ignore it. Our informant claims that criminals intend to stage a robbery at
the
Paragon Trust Co. sometime today."
      Cranston looked interested as he inquired:
      "More of the Hydra's work?"
      "Very probably," returned Weston, "unless the whole thing is a hoax. But
I
can assure you that robbery will be impossible. Inspector Cardona is watching
the bank building with a dozen plain-clothes men. He has two armored cars
bristling with machine guns. They look like bank cars, nothing more. Crooks
will be due for a real surprise if they start anything."
      Weston was adding that they'd start down to the Paragon Trust after they
finished lunch, when Cranston was informed that he had a phone call. Answering
it in a booth, he was a bit startled to hear his own voice over the wire.
Then,
realizing that it must be The Shadow, he relaxed.
      "Hello, Cranston," said The Shadow. "Where do you suppose I just woke up?
In an oxygen tent, of all places!"
      "I envy you," replied Cranston. "You must be far more comfortable than I
am in this phone booth."
      "I won't keep you long," The Shadow promised. "All I want you to do is
give our friend, the commissioner, the slip after you finish lunch."
      "So that you can take my place?"
      "Exactly! I'll show up outside the club after he begins to get tired
waiting for you."
      "Very good," agreed Cranston. "Anything else?"
      "One more thing," stated The Shadow. "Insist upon an extra cup of coffee,
and make sure it disagrees with you."
      "But coffee never disagrees with me -"
      "A bit of spoof, old man," The Shadow interrupted. "I'm likely to have a
dizzy spell in the commissioner's car. I'd rather he attributed it to an
overdose of caffeine, instead of too much oxygen. I'll see you later, Cranston
- much later."


     DOWN at the Paragon Trust Co., the tellers were returning from lunch, one
by one. They worked in relays early in the day, but all were in their
respective cages during the final hour from two o'clock to three. They had to
be, for the Paragon Trust was always flooded with customers near closing time.
     Stolid fellows, these tellers. They didn't even nod to one another as
they
took their places. Each simply opened his window, hung his nameplate on the
bars, and went to work taking in deposits and paying out checks.
     The tellers hadn't been informed of the robbery rumor. It wasn't
necessary
to bother them. Each had a revolver within reach of his hand, an alarm treadle
where his foot could press it. Two watchmen were on duty, ready with guns and
tear gas at instant call. The bank was set to stave off any average robbery.
      As for the sort of crime that the Hydra might order, the police could
take
care of that. As Weston had told Cranston, they were all about the place.
Certain plain-clothes men took their places in the long lines of customers
leading to the tellers' windows, then stepped out again and reported to
Inspector Cardona across the street.
      It was business as usual at the Paragon Trust Co. Others besides
Cardona's
men could so testify. The others were The Shadow's agents. Three were on the
job. One was Rutledge Mann, an investment broker; another, a friend of his
named Harry Vincent. They had business in the bank, arranging a loan through
the cashier.
      The third was Clyde Burke, present as a reporter at Cardona's invitation,
since Clyde had somehow learned about the threatened robbery.
      Going in and out, Clyde not only caught nods from the other agents; he
checked on Cardona's men and carried messages from them to the inspector.
      There were some odd-looking characters in the lines outside the windows,
but that was to be expected, since this was a wholesale district representing
a
cross section of Manhattan life. None of those customers ventured a false
move.
They were here only to deposit cash or withdraw it.
      Some of the deposits were very large; so were the withdrawals. Many of
the
customers had bags into which they dumped big bundles of bank notes and
rolled-up stacks of change. Clyde didn't bother to count those sums. The mere
fact that a customer's check was accepted by a teller marked the man as
honest.
      Such was Clyde's estimate of the customers. As for the tellers, he didn't
give them a second look, nor did the headquarters men bother to watch them.
The
tellers were just so many human machines, going through the same old routine.
They all looked alike, except for the nameplates on their windows. Skilled men
who could count out money, so trained in the work that they lost all
individuality.
      Even when they went out to lunch and came back, they followed an
identical
routine. True, one wore tortoise-shell glasses, another was rather baldish,
while a third had hunched shoulders with a broad chin squatting between. You
could tell them apart when you studied their features closely, but no one ever
did.
      Through the barred windows, their faces weren't easy to discern, while
the
sides of their cages were so heavily grilled that each teller had but little
chance of recognizing the man next door to him, except by voice. Occasionally,
one needed more money and asked his neighbor for it, whereupon a wicket opened
and bundles of cash were pushed through from one cage to the next.
      From the customers, the tellers received only glances, along with an
occasional nod. During this rush hour there wasn't time to chat with the men
in
gray teller's jackets. They were too busy, and other customers became annoyed
if
persons ahead of them held up the line. Yes, the men in gray were very busy.
      And their business was the Hydra's!


     THE three tellers in the middle were the Teeth. All servers of the Head
who styled himself No. 7. They weren't the men whose names were on the
windows,
though they were made up to resemble them. Nor were certain customers who
thronged those windows regular depositors in the Paragon Trust.
     Checks were coming through those center windows made out for sums like
fifty thousand dollars, bearing such signatures as John Doe and Mary Lamb.
Some
checks were even inscribed in jestful fashion, saying "Diller Dollars and
Nonsense," or anything else that pleased the Eyes or Ears who presented them.
     To every one of these fake customers, the false tellers shoved big
bundles
of currency wherein large bills were hidden by small ones that were on the top
and bottom of the packets. Rolls of coin went along, just to make it look as
though the customers were bona fide wholesale merchants.
     An apt term, for the Paragon Trust Co. was being robbed wholesale under
the eyes of its guards, the surrounding police, and the watchful agents of The
Shadow!
     Robbed in a fashion as simple as it was unique, through the process of
pushing all the available cash right through the tellers' windows into the
hands of ready takers who had come here by design. The Paragon Trust was
paying
through the nose and under it!
     Occasionally, the middle teller left his window and went to the vault, to
come back with more bundles of money for the bags, brief cases, and wallets of
the pretended customers. Usually that central man supplied the tellers on each
side of him, though they were also drawing heavily on the bona fide tellers
who
flanked them.
     So heavily, that the men on the flanks had to go to the vaults
themselves;
but by then it was closing time and the lines of customers were thinning.
First,
the central teller slapped the front of his window, gesturing customers to the
others. Before the lines could shift, two more windows were shut.
     That sent the customers to the extreme flanks, to stand in front of the
vacant windows, for both genuine tellers had gone to the vault. They hadn't
returned because they couldn't find any funds, which was why the middle three,
the Hydra's men, had decided to close shop so suddenly.
     They didn't even stop at lockers to change from their gray linen cloaks.
Coming out through a door near the cashier's office, the three fake tellers
filed right past the watchmen and Cardona's detectives, and went out to the
street.
     Simultaneously, several customers with empty bags decided that they
didn't
need any money after all and headed for that same side door. They had a right
to
leave if they wanted, so no one tried to stop them until Clyde Burke, who had
a
reporter's eagle eye, realized that what looked usual was producing the
unusual.
     Clyde gave a signal. Up from beside the cashier's desk swung Harry
Vincent, leaving Rutledge Mann to talk of loans. The Shadow's two agents could
have stopped the sudden exit of tellers and customers, if they'd only been
able
to draw guns. But that mere action would have brought the guards their way,
instead of sending them after the departing crooks.
     Reaching the door together, Harry and Clyde sprang to the sidewalk, their
hands going for their pockets. There they were caught flat-footed, too late to
drop back.
     Flanked by the bag-carrying customers, three crooks in gray were
displaying revolvers borrowed from the bank itself. Sensing trailers from the
bank, the fake tellers had their guns close to their hips. Their faces were no
longer placid in expression. The need for disguise was over; these men could
show the savage looks that went along with murder.
     Murder it would have been, but for a rapid intervention - a startling
episode in full daylight. A door flipped open from a big, official car that
was
stopping near the corner. From it lunged a man who looked like Lamont
Cranston,
but wasn't.
     The arrival was The Shadow. He wasn't clad in black, nor did he grip an
automatic. The gun in his fist was a stubby Police Positive that he had
snatched from the handy pocket of the police commissioner in the car beside
him. Nor did the quick-flinging attacker deliver The Shadow's famous laugh.
     All that this rescuer did was open fire, and it was enough. As the gun
barked their direction, murderous crooks forgot the helpless men beside the
bank door and swung to do battle with The Shadow!


     CHAPTER X

     DOOM'S INVITATION

      THE moment that strife began, Commissioner Weston was quite sure that his
friend Cranston had gone mad. Even the fact that The Shadow's fire was
returned
was not enough to convince Weston that crime was on the loose.
      How could there be crime where there was no crime? Such was the
commissioner's logic, based on the fact that all was serene around the Paragon
Trust Co. until his mad friend flung himself into a self-made fray.
      Weston made two very bad guesses.
      First, he thought that the shots directed toward The Shadow were being
fired by some of Cardona's men, it being natural enough that they should
mistake the berserk fighter for a trouble-maker. Second, Weston thought that
his friend Cranston had been clipped by the gunfire that he drew, for The
Shadow took a long sprawl when he reached the curb. Frantically, the
commissioner hopped from the official car and bellowed for the shooting to
stop.
      Weston's shouts were drowned by new volleys.
      Not only were The Shadow's agents shooting at the fake tellers and their
companions; Cardona and his squad were really in it, piling from across the
street, loosing long-range fire at the men in gray. Amid the mixed barrage,
the
excited commissioner thought that he heard a peal of challenging laughter,
incongruous in daylight. That weird sound belonged to darkness, for it was the
mirth of The Shadow!
      Whence it came, Weston couldn't guess. He wrote it off as something
inspired by imagination, for his nerves had been on edge over the Hydra
business. Weston felt that something superhuman was needed to counteract the
Hydra, so maybe he had The Shadow on his mind.
      Shaking off such thoughts, Weston looked for Cranston, never suspecting
that the man he saw was The Shadow. The commissioner's friend was still in the
thick of things, using Weston's gun from a propped-up hand and elbow. It
struck
Weston then that the sprawl had been caused by a stumble across the curb,
which
was true, though it was only part of the answer.
      The Shadow was really dizzy in the open air. He'd jumped from a moving
car
and he had felt his legs going from under him. So he'd purposely hooked the
curb
when he reached it, knowing that a fall would make crooks change their aim.
     It had, with double results. Not only did The Shadow's enemies miss their
mark; his quick subterfuge gave others time to join combat.
     With it, The Shadow turned police guns in the right direction. He knew
the
rule that cops invariably applied. In a gun duel between unidentified parties,
police always went after those who felled their rivals. By playing the part of
victim, The Shadow put Cardona's men straight.
     Crooks took the hint immediately. Turning, they ducked through an alley
just below the bank. They were away before anyone could clip them. Even The
Shadow's shots were belated. After all, he'd stumbled, and in recovering he
had
to remember that he was Cranston. Using a strange gun, particularly a type
that
wasn't suited to long range, he couldn't be expected to do miracles of
gunnery.
     There were plenty of other persons handy to round up the fugitives, and
besides, The Shadow had visions of reserve crooks who might pop out and need
attention.
     Among the men with the fake tellers, The Shadow recognized one of the
ex-attendants from the scientific museum, who had been posing as a bank
customer. Knowing the brutal way of those fellows, The Shadow wanted to be
ready for any others who might be around.
     None was around. The rest who served Hydra Head Seven were gone with the
loot that they had rifled from the trust company - a thing that The Shadow had
not yet learned. But when he saw the size of Cardona's squad, with the armored
trucks serving as mechanized units, The Shadow no longer worried over a
counterattack. The thing to do was scour for the fugitives, three men in gray
who looked like bank tellers being the ones most easily marked.


     ON his feet, The Shadow found himself gripped by Commissioner Weston, who
wanted his gun back.
     Rutledge Mann came dashing from the bank, accompanied by the cashier, and
together they began to pour out their story, which made Weston forget the gun.
     The cashier, though quite bewildered, was stating that everything had
been
all right when the tellers returned from lunch, though they might have hatched
up something at the little cafe around the corner of the next street.
     When Weston turned to ask Cranston's opinion, his friend was gone, gun
and
all. Such was The Shadow's way, even when he posed as Cranston, though in such
guise he didn't fade from sight, but merely moved away when he found an
opportune moment.
     Having heard what the cashier said, Cranston had started for the corner.
Around it, he saw the cafe in question, a neat though unpretentious eating
place. The personnel, consisting of proprietor and waiter, were outside,
wondering about the shooting. They didn't notice the calm-faced customer who
went past them, through the door, much faster than his strolling gait
indicated.
     Noting that the cafe had an upstairs room, The Shadow ascended the steps
that led to it. Arrived there, he saw a door, opened it and entered a
storeroom. A low laugh issued from the lips that resembled Cranston's when
eyes
that carried The Shadow's gleam saw the sight that they expected.
     Three men wearing gray linen coats were lying bound and gagged upon the
floor. They were the real tellers, waylaid in their favorite eating place,
that
crooked substitutes might take their place after lunch. But The Shadow didn't
release them. He preferred not to spoil their alibi.
     Footsteps were coming up from below. The Shadow slipped behind a door as
two men entered. The Shadow recognized them as a pair who had been finishing
lunch down in the cafe. One was for unbinding the prisoners, on the chance
that
it would hurt their story. The other was more concerned about a stranger who
had
just come upstairs.
     "He was a tall guy," the fellow said. "Kind of important-looking; at
least, as if he thought he was. Suppose he came in here -"
     "Why should he?" demanded the other. "How could he know about these
dopes?"
     "Where is he, then? Answer me that!"
     The Shadow wasn't waiting for one man to answer the other. Out from
behind
the door, he was poising Weston's gun to land it on one crook's skull as a
starter. It would take a deft swing to score a sure knockout with Weston's
stubby revolver.
     The poise lasted too long.
     A window shot open from the rear of the storeroom, revealing two men, a
gray-clad crook and an ordinary companion, both fugitives from the police
chase. They had guns, and they were entering this room from a low roof. They
saw The Shadow about to make his swing. They yelled.
     Immediately, The Shadow was mingling in new battle. He swung for one man,
gave him a glancing blow as he turned, then dodged as the other made a grab.
Quickly, The Shadow blasted the last few of Weston's cartridges, aiming at the
window, but his shots were spoiled when his adversary jogged his arm.
     Odd, that jog! The Shadow didn't realize that his own waver had allowed
it. Sayre was right; his patient had needed a further dose of oxygen. Then men
were piling through the window and The Shadow was a lone fighter in the midst
of four. It was only fair to count the fellow that The Shadow had partly
slugged, for groggy though he was, the crook didn't stagger much more than the
uncloaked fighter.


     LUCKY these thugs didn't know they were tackling The Shadow - or was it?
     If cloaked, The Shadow could have given them a laugh. With a brace of
automatics, his glancing strokes might have counted when they landed, thanks
to
the weight. Crooks would have mistaken his reeling strides for clever tactics.
But in Cranston's guise, The Shadow was just a meddler who needed attention of
a permanent sort.
     One to another, The Shadow's adversaries were snarling to "give it." They
weren't limiting the idea to their lone foe. They meant to give it to the
tellers, too. Men of the Hydra were in a mood for murder, now that their work
was uncovered.
     With a wild lurch, The Shadow carried grapplers with him. He took them in
the one direction that counted, toward the bound men on the floor. Those chaps
could help, though they didn't know it. In fact, they were better bound than
loose.
     Headlong, The Shadow and his foemen went tripping across the prisoners.
It
was enough of a surprise for the crooks. Though his knees buckled in keeping
with his swimming head, The Shadow still had strength enough and wits to roll
from the pile-up that he caused. Then, with his head half buried in his arm,
The Shadow did deliver his famous laugh.
     Low, sibilant, it rose with sinister quiver, its effect increased by the
surrounding gloom. The muffling arm gave it a peculiar effect, that of a voice
rising from a tomb. There being no tomb in this vicinity, the mirth could only
have come from beyond the half-opened door, which was where crooks faced as
they scrambled to their feet.
      Just as Weston had rejected Cranston as a giver of that laugh, so did the
Hydra's men. To them, The Shadow was an approaching menace, not one in their
very midst.
      They shifted to take aim through the doorway. As they did, The Shadow's
hand pushed beyond the feet of a bound teller. Fingers stretching to their
limit reached the door and pressed hard against its lower corner. The door
creaked shut, exactly as if someone on the other side had chosen to draw it as
a shield.
      Again the laugh, muffled more deeply in a coat sleeve. It was enough for
men of crime. They dived for the window, shooting back at the closing door,
jabbing bullets through the woodwork to prevent The Shadow's entry. Headlong
across the roof, down to a courtyard in back, went those enemies who had
actually trapped The Shadow, only to believe him still at large!
      Footsteps were pounding on the stairs. The door flung wide to admit
Inspector Cardona, followed by members of his squad. They sprang to the window
and took a few shots at the disappearing fugitives. Cardona growled when he
realized that his men had overrun the chase, giving mobsters a chance to cut
back into safety.
      Then Joe took a look at the men on the floor. He was surprised to find
Cranston among the bound tellers. But the very plight of the commissioner's
friend, the fact that he'd blundered into trouble, was quite enough to divert
any thoughts that he could be The Shadow. To add to that much-desired
impression, The Shadow thanked Cardona in a manner befitting Cranston.
      When Cardona's men helped The Shadow downstairs, along with the released
tellers, Weston met them and began to chide his friend. In Weston's opinion,
Cranston's whole behavior had been an invitation to doom. The commissioner
suggested that his friend return to the car and wait there until he felt
better
- and more sensible.
      Actually, The Shadow did need a rest, and it was policy to follow
Weston's
orders. Cranston would have done it under circumstances like this. So The
Shadow
was piloted to the car, and once there, he settled gratefully in the rear
seat,
letting his eyes go half shut. He watched until the door closed, and he saw
that he was alone.
      Then came an undertoned laugh, a mere echo of The Shadow's former mirth.
He was thinking of Weston's term, an invitation to doom. Sometimes the
commissioner could produce very apt expressions. This was one of them.
      An invitation to doom was exactly what The Shadow wanted, and he intended
to get one - from the Hydra!


     CHAPTER XI

     THE SHOW GOES ON

     AFTER ten minutes' rest, The Shadow felt rested enough to emerge from
Weston's car, under the watchful eye of detectives posted to see that Cranston
didn't get himself into more trouble. All he wanted to do was make a telephone
call, so the detectives steered him to a booth in a corner drugstore.
     Returning, The Shadow stated that he'd called for his own car. It would
be
here soon, so the detectives wouldn't have to wait. Cranston was going to sit
down in the drugstore to drink a bromide that the druggist was mixing for him.
So the detectives went over by the bank, but they kept a watchful eye on the
drugstore.
     When Cranston's car arrived, it stopped just around the corner. Soon The
Shadow came from the drugstore and entered it, first noting that Stanley, the
chauffeur, was looking over toward the bank.
     The Shadow didn't want to give Stanley too much of a shock, which the
chauffeur, a very sober man, might have received if he'd found himself seeing
double.
     Lamont Cranston was seated in the limousine.
     Briefly, The Shadow told his replica what had happened at the bank. Next,
he asked Cranston what had come of last night's conference. Thereupon Cranston
unburdened completely, telling how his hopes had risen only to dwindle.
     "Dustin Bardell was really getting somewhere," declared Cranston. "He was
urging Commissioner Weston to open Glencoe's case. He classed the fire as the
work of the Hydra, even though he couldn't offer any proof. Bardell was
guessing at what we know was fact.
     "Then Charles Medor arrived with his report. You know how exacting Medor
is when working for insurance companies. His bureau never misses a chance to
dispute a claim. Of course, it would happen that Medor was on the job in one
case where crime was really covered.
     "Medor said the fire was an accident, and that settled it. After all, he
can't be blamed, for the facts were quite positive - unless you want to call
them negative. Either way, it's just the same. Poor Medor! He couldn't have
covered crime any better if he'd been working for the Hydra!"
     For once, Cranston saw himself in a most singular mood. As he turned
toward The Shadow, Cranston was met by a burning gaze that he never could have
duplicated. He saw his own face as a mask rather than an image. Something was
striking home to The Shadow's keen mind.
     "So you dropped Medor at his office," remarked The Shadow. "I hope he
appreciated the ride."
     "He did," assured Cranston. "He invited me to a theater party this
evening. Margo Lane was delighted when I told her that I had two tickets to
Medor's private box."
     "Medor's private box?"
     "Yes. He's interested in the Stage Group. You know, those amateur players
who have come up so rapidly."
     The Shadow remembered the Stage Group. He asked what play they were
producing this evening.
     "I don't know," replied Cranston, "but it's probably a costume piece.
They
go in for that sort of stuff. It's apt to prove rather boring."
     "Quite," agreed The Shadow. "Why don't you pass it up?"
     "I can't very well," said Cranston ruefully, "because Margo wants to go.
Personally, I'd rather go over to New Jersey and finish arrangements in the
trophy room. By the way, I want to thank you for the prompt disposal of the
debris."
     "I take it you mean Mance," remarked The Shadow, with one of Cranston's
smiles. "The thanks still are mine, on that score. Suppose I sub for you at
the
theater party. That will help even things."
     "But I'm to take Margo to dinner -"
     "I'll relieve you of that burden, too. Still, Cranston" - The Shadow's
tone was whimsical - "that would put you under obligation to me. Suppose you
make it really even by spending the rest of the afternoon with Commissioner
Weston, while he checks over the list of depositors at the Paragon Trust, in
case they start to raise a fuss. I'll have to spend a few more hours sulking
in
my oxygen tent, or I won't be able to survive this evening's ordeal."


     DUSK was clouding the hospital windows when The Shadow finished a
delightful whiff of oxygen and reached for the ringing telephone. Cranston was
on the wire, ready to call off the list of depositors. The Shadow told him to
go ahead, but to limit himself to those he thought the most important.
      After about twenty names, Cranston stressed one.
      "Here's a coincidence," he said. "The Stage Group was a depositor at the
Paragon Trust Co."
      "Too bad," returned The Shadow dryly. "I hate to see a struggling young
organization suffer a financial loss."
      "They won't lose anything," informed Cranston. "All depositors were
insured up to five thousand dollars. They didn't have that much in the bank.
Each day, somebody deposited the receipts of the previous night, and they used
the account to pay current expenses."
      The Shadow seemed pleased that the Group was not in financial jeopardy.
But it struck him that such a worthy organization ought to be farther ahead
than it was.
      "Do me a favor, Cranston," he suggested. "Send Stanley to some of the
ticket agencies and have him buy about fifty seats for tonight's Group show."
      "Fifty tickets!" echoed Cranston. "Why -"
      "They will cost a lot," interposed The Shadow, "but I'll send you a check
from the special account that I carry in your name. Now about those tickets,
Cranston, and what I want you to do with them. On your way home -"
      The rest of The Shadow's statement was audible only to Cranston. Someone
was stopping at the door of the hospital room, so The Shadow lowered his tone
to a whisper and confined it to the mouthpiece.
      Cutting off Cranston's good-by, The Shadow settled the telephone on its
stand and rolled back beneath the oxygen tent just as Dr. Sayre entered.
      Finding his patient much recuperated, Sayre took him to the Cobalt Club
on
the promise that he'd return home shortly. After that, Sayre made a few late
calls. He was swinging into Park Avenue in his coupe, when he saw Cranston's
limousine stopped by a corner curb.
      The big car was New Jersey bound, but Stanley must have violated some
traffic rule, for Sayre saw Cranston leaning from the window trying to square
things with a cop. It made Sayre smile to think of The Shadow disputing such a
trifling matter as a traffic ticket.
      Apparently he was making out all right, for the traffic cop was beginning
to nod. So Sayre continued on his way, glad that his patient had taken his
advice about going home.
      This simply proved that Sayre was forgetting his own theory regarding two
Cranstons. Otherwise, he might have realized that his ex-patient wasn't the
man
in the limousine. The real Cranston was homeward bound, but the double who had
done a stint in the oxygen tent was elsewhere.
      The Shadow was dining with Margo Lane under the lights of a sidewalk
cafe,
where he could sniff the pleasing aroma of exhaust fumes from passing cars and
reiterate how much he enjoyed fresh air.
      Margo didn't share his opinion regarding the atmosphere, but she
naturally
wouldn't appreciate it, not having occupied an oxygen tent that afternoon.
      Besides, Margo had other things to think about. Most important was Lamont
Cranston himself.
      Margo Lane allowed for people's moods, since her own were inclined to
vary. Indeed, it was Margo's ability as a listener that made her popular in
cafe society. Physically, Margo was a very attractive brunette, with a
photogenic face that required only a minimum of make-up to show it at its
best.
      Usually, conviviality formed a portion of her charm, but she could go
soulful quite as readily, and her serious manner generally brought a response
when she turned it on. Sometimes it worked with Cranston, but that was the odd
part. Just when Mango was most sure that she really understood Lamont, she'd
find out that she didn't.
     LAST night, Margo had learned that her complacent friend didn't care for
old-style theatrical performances. He'd termed them "too artificial." This
evening, his opinion was changed. Lamont was actually showing enthusiasm over
the current production of the Stage Group, which was a drama of the French
Revolution.
     Thus Margo's eyes were tending toward perplexity when The Shadow, sensing
the reason, supplied a simple answer.
     "I've been reading up on Carlyle," he remarked. "Spent half the morning -
the half I was awake - digging through his 'French Revolution.' The title of
tonight's show, 'Robespierre,' began to intrigue me. I wouldn't want to miss
it."
     Margo's perplexity changed to understanding.
     "So that's it!" the brunette laughed. "I'd been wondering how to account
for your sudden Parisian tastes, Lamont."
     The Shadow's eyebrows gave a Cranston query.
     "Your picking this sidewalk cafe for dinner," explained Margo, with a
gesture. "Last night you insisted that such places were abominable, with the
noise from automobile horns and the stares of passers-by."
     "So I did," remarked The Shadow in a recollective tone. "Do you know,
Mango, sometimes I feel that I'm a split personality. I really should discuss
matters more fully with my other self."
     Margo smiled. She thought her friend meant The Shadow, not the actual
Lamont Cranston. For Margo Lane had long identified the black-cloaked fighter
and the leisurely clubman as one and the same. A situation which was so
intriguing in itself that Margo never dreamed that there could be a further
riddle within the enigma.
     Why should she even imagine that there could be two Cranstons, when one
was so amazing?
     The answer was, Margo didn't imagine it - which suited The Shadow
perfectly. Nevertheless, it wasn't good policy to get out of character while
playing the part of Cranston. So The Shadow emphasized his new interest in
historical dramas by glancing at his watch and remarking that it was time to
start to the theater.
     There was a good crowd at the Victoria Garden, the playhouse used by the
Stage Group. The theater was so named from a courtyard entrance that lay
between two streets. Something of a garden, the courtyard not only gave access
to the main entrance, but to a short inner alley that led to the stage door.
     Charles Medor was waiting for the members of his box party. Hardly had
The
Shadow arrived with Margo, before Commissioner Weston appeared, bringing
Dustin
Bardell with him. Weston was in one of his most impatient moods, stating
bluntly that he wished the show was over, an opinion in which Bardell solemnly
concurred.
     "Well have to hold another conference," ordained Weston. "I want you
there, Cranston, and you too, Bardell. This robbery today - a hundred thousand
dollars rifled from the Paragon Trust - it was outrageous!"
     "Particularly since we were there to see it happen," put in The Shadow.
"That made it worse, commissioner."
     "We didn't arrive soon enough," argued Weston. "I'd have identified those
tellers as criminals. I can tell a crook at a glance!"
     Only Margo saw the slight smile that appeared on the lips of the man she
thought was Cranston. Then they were entering the theater and being ushered to
their box, while Weston was remembering that he'd brought along Cranston's
brief case from the Cobalt Club. Handing the bag to The Shadow, the
commissioner said:
     "It's lucky your broker phoned me. Careless of you, Cranston, to leave a
brief case lying about, filled with valuable stocks and bonds. But they're all
there. I checked them over the phone with Mann."
     House lights were darkening as they reached the curtained box. Casually,
The Shadow glanced over the audience and saw that the seats were well filled.
Buzzing conversation ceased as the curtain rose upon a scene that was a mass
of
blackness.
     There was something prophetic about the blacked-out set. It seemed to
welcome more than mere actors. Blackness was The Shadow's favored habitat.
This
was the sort of stage that he might choose for action. For the present,
however,
The Shadow retained his Cranston pose.
     The Shadow was letting the show go on. He wanted to be sure of certain
things before he projected himself into a play that had been advertised as a
drama of death. An apt term, that: one that promised The Shadow another
meeting
with the master mob that operated as the Hydra!


     CHAPTER XII

     INTO THE BASKET

      A SPOT of light picked out a figure on the left side of the stage, an
actor attired in royal regalia of the Seventeenth Century. He represented King
Louis of France, complete to ruffles and ornamental wig. In stentorian tone,
King Louis announced his identity and proceeded to recount what he had done
for
France.
      At the finish, the actor solemnly declared:
      "These were my crimes -"
      A great crash sounded from the rear of the stage. Its clangor was
unmistakable. It was the dropping of a guillotine ax, its echoes chilling as
they rang through the startled audience.
      Then the spotlight was picking up another man, to the right of the stage.
He, too, was made up in Seventeenth Century style, though his garb was simpler
than court dress. He was the famous Danton, great sponsor of revolution. He
declaimed upon his deeds, and finished:
      "These were my crimes -"
      Again the smash of the unseen ax, bringing new shudders to the audience.
Each fall of the hidden chopper seemed to be wrenching a human life. Whoever
designed this prologue knew his stagecraft.
      The lighted circle reached the center of the stage. There stood
Robespierre, a hunched man with his chin buried in the ruffle of a more
fastidious garb than Danton's. A good touch, this, for Robespierre was usually
portrayed as chinless, and the neckpiece was a token of his vanity.
      A man of oratory, this Robespierre. He told his tale as had the others,
and finished with the guillotine cue:
      "These were my crimes -"
      The third whack of the ax brought more than clatter. It produced light
that flooded the entire stage. A grim scene, this, with an actual guillotine
its back drop. A huge frame more than twenty feet in height, with a broad,
sharp blade climbing slowly up the vertical tracks, to preen itself for a
swoop
upon another victim!
      Onto the stage stepped other actors, one by one. Characters male and
female, all from the pages of horrible history. Silent, these, which made
their
appearance all the more impressive, now that the guillotine had been unveiled.
For each newcomer was hardly posted before the ax descended with its furious
slash, to cut off any words that might have been said.
      The allegory was excellent. These characters were to appear in the
ensuing
acts of "Robespierre," and their fate was predetermined. The audience was to
remember throughout the play that over each person in the drama loomed the
hideous specter of the guillotine. They would disappear from the cast one by
one, always to the tune of an off-stage crash of the mammoth chopper.
      In front of the guillotine, and below its pedestal, lay a shallow basket,
the common receptacle for the heads of the doomed. Somehow, that wicker
container was more terrible than the mighty cleaver - at least to Margo Lane,
who was staring, transfixed, like the rest of the audience. Even Weston and
Bardell were impressed, forgetful of the things that they had intended to
discuss during the prologue.
      One person in the box was speaking, now that the heavier dramatics were
through. In an undertone, Charles Medor was excusing himself, stating that
he'd
be needed in the office for a short while. Then he was stepping out through
the
box curtains, not bothering to count the heads of his companions.
      They were one head short, as surprisingly as if the guillotine had
reached
out to the box and claimed a victim.
      The Shadow had opened his brief case, not at the top but underneath, to
reveal a section shaped like an inverted V between the normal compartments
that
were filled with stocks and other papers.
      From that hidden section, he had produced a thin black cloak and a slouch
hat. Those garments were already obscuring the figure of Cranston when Medor
turned away.
      Laying the brief case aside, The Shadow followed Medor. He already had
his
guns; they were in well-fitted holsters beneath the evening jacket that The
Shadow wore when doubling as Cranston. They'd be needed, those automatics,
because Medor wasn't going to the office as he claimed. The man that The
Shadow
suspected as a Hydra Head was taking a passage that led backstage.
      The curtain was falling on the prologue when Medor reached the wing. The
play called for a five-minute intermission after the prologue, to allow the
audience to catch its breath and the stage crew to rig another set.
      The last part was simple, for all the stage hands had to do was lower a
back drop that showed the fountains of Versailles, where the first act was
laid.
      But no one was bothering about the curtain that was to hide the
guillotine. Like the actors, the stage hands were crowding about Medor, who,
with a cunning smile upon his overhandsome face, was producing a suitcase from
a locked closet near the wing.
      Opening the bag, Medor began to count out sheaves of bank notes, the loot
from the Paragon Trust Co.!


      THREE actors edged forward to assist. King Louis, Danton and Robespierre
forgot their historical animosities, while their deft hands thumbed through
money the way they had that afternoon. Three of a kind, these thieves. In
order
from left to right, they were the fake bank tellers who had swindled the
Paragon
Trust. And of them, the middle man was Robespierre, hunched exactly as he had
been in the central teller's cage!
      A repressed laugh trickled from The Shadow's hidden lips as he moved
forward from darkness. He was timing his personal appearance until the payoff.
He wanted all hands to be present, which they were. Even the stage hands!
     They were three, those stage hands, the former attendants at the
scientific museum. Along with a dozen actors, they were getting their cut of
two thousand dollars each, the rest to be retained by Medor, the Hydra Head,
for benefit of himself and the other leaders of the sinister organization.
     Forward moved The Shadow. His laugh grew as he came. Plotters heard it
when he was almost among them. Like Medor, the rest wheeled to find themselves
under the muzzles of two moving automatics that threatened all with the doom
that they thought they had already delivered to The Shadow!
     By then, The Shadow's laugh was striking a strong pitch. Strident, it
hurled its sinister mirth for the audience to hear. Beyond the curtain were
people who should be told what the real crimes of the actors were. Not
fanciful
exaggerations of French Revolutionary lore, but modern, streamlined villainy
done by criminals who used a theater as their hideout and fancy costumes as
their disguises!
     Fiercer, more chill-inspiring than the crash of the guillotine was that
accusation of The Shadow, a mocking laugh for the world to hear. Persons out
front didn't have to see what was happening backstage to know that crime was
uncovered. With one mighty taunt, The Shadow was shattering the Hydra's latest
game, throwing Head Seven and his followers into complete panic.
     They did just what a disorganized group would do: some lunged forward
independently, others dodged for shelter, while a few actually fled. Some let
their money flutter in their excitement; the rest clung to their share of the
stolen funds, tightly and grimly. All, however, were yanking weapons of their
own. Nobody who served the Hydra ever went unarmed.
     The Shadow's guns blasted first. Tongues of fire stabbed the nearest
foemen before they could jab their own revolvers in return. Tongues of flame
with bullets of metal that cut a swath through the ranks of murderers. Asking
for such treatment, they were allowing The Shadow no choice but to give it.
     The principal members of the cast were the ones who took the brunt.
Across
the sprawling forms of King Louis, Danton, and Robespierre sprang The Shadow,
wheeling to a better vantage point where he could deal with the rest. In
particular, he wanted Medor, but it wasn't judgment to forget the others.
     Guns were popping from all about the stage; even those who had started to
flee were rallying for the fray. And Medor wasn't where he could be touched.
     Clutching the great bulk of the bank swag, the Hydra Head was keeping
behind his followers as he shouted for them to flank The Shadow and thus
dispose of their mutual menace. Time was short, and Medor wanted to keep it
that way for The Shadow.
     Wheeling toward the center of the stage, The Shadow was revolving like a
human gun turret, but there was still a chance to trap him. Keeping behind a
screen of charging followers, Medor continued his urging shouts.
     Bullets were chopping hard into the stage. They were coming from many
angles, including balconies that led to the dressing rooms. Scattered, The
Shadow's enemies were dangerous, a thing he had foreseen. But he was keeping
them here on this battleground until aid arrived. Still, with metal slugs
whistling through the folds of his cloak and slicing his hat brim, mere
dodging
wouldn't be enough.


     THE SHADOW saw a vantage point: the rear of the stage beyond the hovering
guillotine. He feinted toward the footlights, then reversed while gunners were
peppering along the lowered curtain. He'd fooled the Hydra's crew that time -
with one exception.
     Namely, Medor.
     Head No. 7 made a perfect guess. His hunch was that The Shadow wouldn't
go
stage front; otherwise, stray bullets would cleave the curtain after missing
him
and produce casualties in the audience. Hence Medor, playing still farther
ahead, swung about and barked an order to a henchman near the rear corner of
the stage.
      "Pull it!" called Medor, with an appropriate gesture. "The guillotine
release!"
      The fellow paused only for a quick glance at The Shadow, now in his
rearward whirl. At another gesture from Medor, the fake stage hand tugged the
cord. There was a tremble from the guillotine frame as the great ax wavered
for
its downward journey.
      At that moment, The Shadow was right beside the wicker basket. Guns were
swinging in his direction, more of them than he could put out of combat with a
single volley. To The Shadow, the drop of the chopper could prove fatal,
because the broad ax, once down, would block off passage to shelter beyond it.
      Again The Shadow did the unexpected, this time with a risk so great that
aiming foemen stopped with staring eyes, their guns idle in their fists.
Finishing his whirl with a dive, The Shadow cleared the basket and shot
headlong between the uprights of the guillotine while the mighty ax was
sizzing
down those very rods!
      A thing amazing, that mass of human blackness arrowing beneath a dropping
juggernaut of sharp-edged steel. Head, shoulders, body, feet - all were
vulnerable to the murderous blade. It was a matter of split-seconds, sliced to
the fraction of an inch. A frequent hazard with The Shadow, but never on such
a
gruesome scale as this.
      Blackness disappeared as though banished, as it was cut off by the
scintillating chopper. But it was cut off intact, that blackness. Smash!
      Foemen were staring at a three-foot expanse of glittering steel, with no
fragment of The Shadow in sight. Unless they chose to count the mere patch of
black cloth, a bit of sweeping cloak fold that the knife edge clipped and let
flutter as testimony that The Shadow had split his escape to the thinness of a
hair.
      Then guns talked, too late. Bullets were flattening against steel from
beyond which came The Shadow's laugh. He'd turned the menace into a bulwark,
and from near one post, his gloved hand poked a gun to jab responding shots
across the top of his steel barricade.
      Medor was hopping over to haul up the guillotine blade. He took that duty
for himself, because the man in the corner had ventured too far out and was
staggering from a bullet that The Shadow gave him.
      Medor was too late with his haul. His horde had begun to scatter under
The
Shadow's fire. The cloaked fighter could afford to let them flee, for aid was
arriving in plenty.
      In from both wings of the stage, from the alley door that afforded the
only exit, came brawny men by dozens, most of them with guns. Thanks to
Cranston, The Shadow had stocked the house with them. They were the recipients
of the fifty theater tickets, friendly traffic cops that Cranston had
contacted
all along the avenue, inviting them to a show after they finished duty!
      The chopper was up again, with Medor clinging to its rope. Shoving the
cord into the hands of the wounded man beside him, Medor ordered him to hang
on. Savagely, Medor dashed across the stage, to meet The Shadow coming through
the guillotine posts.
      They met gun for gun, but The Shadow's trigger finger had already begun
its squeeze. Medor staggered sideward, clutching his mass of currency beneath
a
wounded shoulder, while his other hand kept stabbing with its gun.
     Fading from Medor's fire, The Shadow supplied a return jab just as Medor
sprang between the posts to gain a deeper shelter. Money fluttered from
Medor's
clutch as he clamped his hand painfully to his side. He was spinning like a
faltering top, weakening beyond the guillotine. His turn finished with a
forward sprawl, as his gun dropped from his slipping fingers.
     Another hand was failing, that of the man who held the release rope.
Fingers gave and the mighty chopper was again on its way.
     Medor heard the horrendous rattle from above him and voiced a terrified
scream, but he couldn't pull himself forward when he tried. Small wonder, for
Medor's head was coming over the baseboard of the guillotine's base and his
shoulders wouldn't follow. Medor started to raise his neck too late.
     The great blade found its mark. It didn't even quiver as it made the
slice. Something plopped and landed in the basket. It was a Hydra Head,
chopped
off literally. The slice not only ended Medor's shriek; it left stout cops and
their prisoners staring at a thing that gave them a deadly leer from a
blood-bathed wicker basket.
     From the stage door came a strange grim laugh, The Shadow's. It wasn't
just a knell to mark the passing of Charles Medor, man of murder. That tone
marked The Shadow's recollection of the Hydra's ways. For every head chopped
off, two others would arise!
     The Hydra would avenge its seventh Head with a new and wider campaign of
relentless crime, with every stroke an effort to dispose of the perpetual
monster's one invulnerable foe:
     The Shadow!


    CHAPTER XIII

    HEAD NO. 10

     CRIME was striking everywhere at once.
     For a week, such crime had seethed, hissing like the tongues of a dozen
snakish heads about to rear themselves. There had been run-ins between The
Shadow's agents and workers of the Hydra, but with no avail. Eyes and Ears had
always been backed by Teeth who maneuvered their escape before The Shadow
arrived upon the scene.
     Then the strokes.
     Sudden attempts at robbery, efforts at murder, always directed against
wealthy men. All the more insidious, those crime strokes, because the hidden
brains behind them were of the same class - men of substance and standing.
     So greatly did the Hydra admire and seek wealth, that it enlisted
money-minded men as Heads. That went without saying; the thing to prove was
who
these men might be. They were the sort who had always upheld the law because
it
protected their property.
     Finding something bigger than the law - the Hydra - they embraced it and
became its Heads because it also promised to protect their wealth and gain for
them that of others.
     Separating the good from the bad was the peculiar province of
Commissioner
Weston, and he was at a total loss. At a secret conference in the Cobalt Club,
he expressed his opinions to The Shadow, who had come there as Lamont
Cranston.
     Present also was Dustin Bardell, the one man of affluence that Weston
could trust, because Bardell had been suspicious of Medor. Even though
Glencoe's case was written off and its claims paid, Bardell was to be praised.
If Medor hadn't been wrong on the Glencoe matter, he had been plotting against
the Paragon Trust Co.
      Thus Bardell was the nucleus of a group that Weston wanted to organize
into a civic committee to help against the Hydra. So far, except for Cranston,
who belonged without question, there had been only one safe candidate. He was
present tonight, a man named Lloyd Casler, who couldn't be under the Hydra's
influence, because he was bringing data that might ruin the insidious
organization.
      A broad-built man with an austere countenance, Casler looked both blunt
and honest. Further, he preferred to sit back and listen to what others said,
before pressing his own opinions.
      "So far, we've blocked everything since the Paragon Trust robbery,"
affirmed Weston. "We stopped a penthouse robbery, a Wall Street holdup, and
stalled three attempted murders. But we answered a thousand crank calls
managing it. The trouble is, the crimes we did stop looked like feelers. The
Hydra is too smart to let a whole crew be annihilated again. Lately, they've
pulled out when things didn't seem too pleasant."
      The Shadow could have corroborated that statement. The crimes mentioned,
and several others, had been forestalled largely through his vigilance. But
they weren't just feelers, as Weston chose to term them.
      "Big crime needs opportunity," remarked The Shadow. "As soon as the right
time arrives, you'll be in for it, commissioner."
      "I know we will," groused Weston. "Gad! If we could only think ahead of
these chaps. Remember, Cranston, how they tricked us at the Paragon Trust?"
      "But The Shadow settled that one, commissioner. The crooks are dead or
captured and the funds were regained."
      "Yes, The Shadow did well," conceded Weston. "He used the facts that we
overlooked. He realized that only clever actors could have impersonated those
bank tellers; more than that, they would have had to visit the bank often, to
study the men whose places they were to take.
      "Somehow The Shadow learned that the Stage Group made steady deposits at
the Paragon Trust. That was the vital link he needed. He did a fine job at the
theater, while I was sitting in the box looking right at the criminals we
wanted!"
      The Shadow smiled.
      "Remember what you said beforehand, commissioner?" he asked. "How you
could tell a crook when you saw one? You saw three, but you didn't tell them
anything."
      "You wouldn't have known if I had," snapped Weston. "Why, the first shots
from backstage must have blown you right out of the box! You were gone when I
started to find what the trouble was. The next place I saw you was in the
front
courtyard!"
      The Shadow acknowledged Weston's skill at repartee, whereupon the
commissioner returned to business.


     "SOMETHING may happen tonight," predicted Weston. "It's the opening of
the
jewelry show at the International Antique Gallery. The display of European
crown
gems alone would satisfy the Hydra."
      "What precautions are you taking?" inquired Bardell.
      "Every precaution," returned Weston. "Detectives inside and outside;
armored cars like we had at the bank; patrol cars and motorcycles. Every
visitor has to show a special pass, and they've all been warned that if the
alarms go off, they'll have to take their dose of tear gas. It may cut down
the
attendance, but it certainly will prevent crime."
      Bardell agreed that it would. Whereupon, Weston added that Inspector
Cardona was in personal charge of the jewel show. If no one had any better
suggestion to offer, the commissioner thought it would be a good plan to go
over and view the arrangements he had mentioned, though everything was under
complete control.
     Commissioner Weston had just about forgotten that Lloyd Casler was
present. The blunt man reminded him of it.
     "I have something better," insisted Casler. "That is why I asked Mr.
Bardell to bring me here. I think we should attend the meeting of the World
Wide Friendship Society."
     That brought an indulgent smile from Weston.
     "It is more important than you think," continued Casler. "The society is
composed of very wealthy people, and tonight they are subscribing to an
international aviation fund for men in the services of all United Nations.
Hart
Ribold is the sponsor."
     Weston recalled the name of Hart Ribold as that of a well-known society
man. He couldn't see anything wrong about Ribold leading a drive for funds.
Casler didn't agree.
     "Ribold wants a quarter million," he declared. "The whole amount is to be
placed in his hands in the form of certified checks. So far, there have been
no
objections. Now suppose that Ribold happened to be a Hydra Head -"
     "He'd clear out with the entire fund!" interrupted Weston. "You've made
your point plain, Casler. It's just the subtle sort of crime that the Hydra
would try, and with the organization behind him, Ribold would vanish
completely.
     "You're right, Casler: we must go to that meeting. At a time when men of
reputed character may all be criminals, we can't afford to overlook a case
like
this!"


     LEAVING the club in Weston's car, they drove past the International
Antique Gallery, where the famous display of crown jewels was to be held.
Fronting on an open square where Broadway crossed an avenue, the Antique
Gallery occupied the ground floor of an early-modern office building.
     Its location was convenient, for there were several subway entrances
nearby, and from them branched numerous underground concourses to other lines.
This was a spot where visitors could converge from all sections of the city.
     An excellent place, likewise, for police precautions. From side streets
as
well as locations in the parklike square, detectives could command the Antique
Gallery to the extent of setting up machine guns, had they so chosen. Indeed,
the area was already an armed camp, the best feature being that the fact
wasn't
visible.
     So many parking spaces were handy that patrol cats and armored trucks
looked few and far apart. Uniformed police, though numerous, were too
scattered
to attract more than passing attention. As for the detectives, they couldn't
be
spotted at all. They were everywhere, by newsstands, in doorways, near subway
entrances. It was a perfect setup, not for crime but against it.
     The jewelry show was to open this evening, and it was already dusk. The
last exhibits were arriving, but they were chiefly antiques, loaned by the
directors of the gallery. Some large objects were needed to trim the exhibit
room, which would look too monotonous if nothing but jewel cases were about
the
place.
     Weston ordered his chauffeur to stop behind the gallery. There, Inspector
Cardona was supervising the unloading of crates and boxes, checking on their
contents. Four truck-men appeared carrying a box that measured about six by
ten
feet.
      They paused with their burden on their shoulders, while Cardona checked
the bill of lading.
      The item in the packing box was an antique spinet. Looking through an
antique catalogue, Cardona found the number of the exhibit and learned that a
spinet was an early form of piano. So he waved the truckers through, and was
examining a marble statue in an open crate when Weston's car pulled up beside
him.
      Briefly, Cardona reported that all was quite in order. Unless the Hydra
had subsidized half of the headquarters force, there wouldn't be a chance for
crime tonight.
      After that quip, Joe added emphatically that there wasn't a disloyal man
in all the force. He'd picked men who had already tangled with the Hydra's
followers, and Cardona's present contingent included a batch of the traffic
squad who had mopped up at the theater following The Shadow's single-handed
rout of Medor and his henchmen.
      So the commissioner's car rolled along, with The Shadow peering from a
window to catch signals from certain men he passed. They were his secret
agents, on duty like Cardona's squad. They, too, were reporting all well to
their chief.
      There was only one thing unusual in the whole vicinity of the Antique
Gallery. The Shadow didn't notice it, because the commissioner's car arrived
by
another street. Neither did Cardona nor the agents report it, because it could
hardly be classed as important.
      Two blocks away from the Antique Gallery were a pair of subway entrances,
of the old kiosk type that looked like little houses set up on the sidewalk.
These old structures were quite close together, because one was used only
during the rush hours when the crowds were heavy. At present, some workmen
were
busy in the extra entrance. They were about to paint the interior, now that
the
rush hour was past. They were laying boards down the steps to the landing and
beyond. While some began to prime their paint brushes, others put up a wooden
barrier at the top of the steps and stenciled the word "Closed" upon it.
      That done, the workmen suddenly lost interest in their job. They drifted
away one by one, a fact which wasn't noticed because the barrier hid the steps
where they had been. A few blocks distant and completely away from the
Broadway
square, the workers assembled anew, entered a truck containing more supplies,
and drove off to complete another job.
      They had a new trick, these. In identifying one another, they used the
clenched-fist system, but each man opened his hand twice and stressed the fact
that all fingers were extended. Anyone could count those fingers, thumbs
included, at a glance.
      The sign of the Hydra, with the number of fingers shown announcing the
Head for whom this crew worked. Twice five told the fact that tonight Head No.
10 would strike.
      How Head No. 10 expected to succeed in impossible crime was something
that
would be learned only when it happened. A crime was planned that was
calculated
to produce double surprise - this time to The Shadow as well as the law!


     CHAPTER XIV

     THE CHANGED TRAIL
     THE World Wide Friendship Society was throwing quite a dinner, to welcome
new guests. Impounded under that clause, Commissioner Weston and his
companions
joined the banquet table. Over glasses of rare champagne supplied by one of
their group, the members of the society heard Hart Ribold deliver his
impassioned plea for funds.
     He was a convincing speaker, this Ribold. His tone was a persuasive basso
that he modulated to a musical pitch. Handsome in a virile way, Ribold had a
bronzed complexion topped by light-blond hair, giving him the appearance of a
Viking back from an adventurous voyage in tropic seas.
     In dress, Ribold was different. Where others wore conventional evening
clothes, he sported a plum-colored uniform jacket shaped to a Tuxedo cut, with
a single epaulette upon its right shoulder. Below his other shoulder were
ribbons and medals tastefully arranged upon his manly chest.
     From what he knew about Ribold, The Shadow assumed that the sun tan was a
product of Palm Beach rather than Equatorial Africa. The uniform was that of a
foreign air force that had been very free with honorary commissions. The
medals
were the sort that could be obtained through certain channels for a price.
     Men like Ribold weren't uncommon among Manhattan's social set. As
Cranston, the Shadow had met many of them and found them generally harmless.
But the people present were taking this comic-opera character seriously.
Precisely as claimed by Lloyd Casler, the self-flattering Mr. Ribold was
seeking funds and getting them.
     This affair was being held in a private dining room of the Hotel
Metrolite. A connecting office had been hired for the occasion, and from it
secretaries were bring sheaves of letters and impressive documents as fast as
Ribold called for them.
     Correspondence from high officials of exiled governments gave indorsement
to Ribold's work. They backed his claim that if funds were available at the
right time and place, much could be done to aid a united cause. It wasn't just
a case of aiding the morale of airmen fighting in the forces of other nations.
     Captain Ribold, as some of the letters addressed him, was planning the
organization of new corps everywhere. He believed that he could reach men who
were immobilized in occupied countries, smuggle them out and place them where
they would count. Such an effort would require three things. All three were
money.
     Of the thirty-odd people present, all were willing to subscribe. Many had
brought along certified checks and were tendering them to Ribold. The Shadow
saw the look that Casler gave Weston, along with the nod that the commissioner
returned. Then Weston came to his feet and asked just how Ribold intended to
safeguard those funds.
     It was a neat point. Subtly, Weston was expressing concern for Ribold,
whereas he actually felt it toward the subscribers. The commissioner was
handling that angle quite well, so The Shadow arose and strolled away among
the
guests who were crowding around Weston and Ribold.
     Stepping into the little office, The Shadow found that the secretaries
had
gone, taking along Ribold's records.
     Picking up a telephone, The Shadow made a call. There was something that
he wanted, and when he learned that it could be delivered within ten minutes,
he gave a satisfied laugh, then sat down to have a smoke while he waited.


     DURING those ten minutes, Weston was making out well with Ribold, who was
quite willing to accept suggestions. Ribold agreed that the funds should be
safeguarded and offered to place them in the hands of certain persons present.
When Weston insisted upon choosing the people in question, Ribold shrugged his
epaulette and gave Weston the privilege.
      Thereupon, Weston chose a retired jurist, Judge Kerland, who was the very
symbol of integrity; a lawyer named Hubert Luhrig; and finally a prominent
banker, James Aldan. Having thus combined honesty, legal skill and finance,
Weston announced himself as an ex-officio member of the fund committee.
      This was all accomplished when The Shadow reappeared. When he gave an
inquiring look that suited Cranston, he was drawn aside by Bardell and Casler,
who told him privately how his friend the commissioner had managed matters.
      Lloyd Casler was particularly elated.
      "Look at Ribold," he undertoned. "See the way he frowns. No wonder, with
a
fortune going right out of his clutch!"
      At that moment, Ribold explained his frown. He was thinking of future
problems, so he said. Ways in which to disburse the fund that he had raised,
so
that there would be no question about its proper use and that every dollar of
the hundred and fifty thousand would be spent to best advantage.
      He would report on these problems when he solved them. Meanwhile, he
hoped
that the fund would continue to accumulate. Ribold said he'd like to see it
reach a quarter million.
      "No wonder!" whispered Casler caustically. "The bigger it gets, the more
for Ribold when he completes the flimflam. But the only future problem that
really worries him is how he can manage that grab. I'd say that Captain Ribold
is due for some headaches."
      Judge, lawyer and banker were about to leave with the cash and certified
checks. While shaking hands with them, Ribald took a few looks toward the
connecting office. Weston noticed it when he joined Bardell and Casler. It was
Casler who commented:
      "That chap is plotting something."
      Noting the glances he received, Ribold came over. In his smooth style, he
suggested that the men with the funds might need protection on the way to the
bank, that he'd thought of sending his secretaries along with them. The
secretaries had left, but Ribold was sure he could reach them if he phoned to
the hotel lobby.
      "I'll do better than that," rejoined Weston. "Tell the committee to wait,
Bardell. I want to talk to you, Ribold, and meanwhile, Cranston can phone
headquarters to say that I want two men for special detail."
      Turning as he gestured, Weston stared blankly when he found that Cranston
was no longer present. Casler stated that the commissioner's friend had just
remembered an important date and had left to keep it. Weston gave a
deprecating
grunt.
      Those sudden dates that so often spirited Lamont Cranston away could all
be blamed on a nuisance named Margo Lane. Without inquiring why Weston was so
annoyed, Casler volunteered to make the call in Cranston's place.
      From the moment that Lloyd Casler entered the adjoining office, his
actions became peculiar. A gleam on his broad, blunt face, Casler took a quick
look at his watch, then locked the door behind him. Crossing the office, he
opened another door and found that it led to a back stairway.
      Locking that door, Casler tried a third. It showed a closet where several
coats and hats were hanging. Closing the closet, Casler went to the desk and
picked up the telephone. Its cord was hooked in the crack of a top drawer, so
Casler wrenched it loose, then dialed a number. When a voice responded, Casler
spoke:
      "This is Head No. 10 -"
      An amazing statement! Given in as insidious tone as Casler could command,
it revealed him as a master of subterfuge. As a Hydra Head, Casler was
planning
crime tonight, a thrust wherein his Teeth would act upon information supplied
by
Eyes and Ears, who could also have had much to do with the preliminary
arrangements.
     To cover his identity as a Hydra Head, Casler had picked a perfect alibi.
He had arranged a side issue under the auspices of Commissioner Weston, in
whose company Casler would be when crime struck elsewhere!


      WHILE plotting his own crime, Casler had been looking for a man toward
whom he could divert attention, and he had found one: Hart Ribold. Whatever
the
shortcomings of the pretentious captain, they could be no worse than Casler's
own.
      What Casler was now saying to the Ear at the other end of the wire proved
that Head No. 10 considered his own future as assured.
      "I've steered the commissioner the way I wanted," spoke Casler. "I'll
hold
him here so he can't make trouble. He's leaving the jewelry show to Cardona.
We've fixed that angle."
      There was a pause as Casler listened to something from the other end.
Then:
      "Well, what about The Shadow?" demanded Casler. "He hasn't shown up so
far, has he? I tell you, he's an unknown element that has to be handled when
and where he enters. I'd be willing to take my chances with The Shadow right
now!"
      That settled the Ear. He must have reverted to the matter of scheduled
crime, for when Casler spoke again, the Head used a confirming tone.
      "Correct," declared Casler, glancing at his watch. "The zero hour is nine
o'clock. No change."
      It was just ten minutes of nine. Replacing the phone with one hand,
Casler
was putting his watch away, when its dial seemed to cloud. Odd, the lighting
in
this office to dim itself so suddenly. While Casler puzzled, the phenomenon
was
explained.
      Close to the Head's ear came a whispered laugh. Looking up, Casler saw
why
the light had faded. Between him and the wall bracket had stepped a figure
cloaked in black, whose eyes bored from beneath the brim of a slouch hat.
      The Shadow!
      Mere moments ago, Casler had said that he'd like to meet this personage
in
black. Here was his chance to test the unknown element. As proof that The
Shadow
wasn't supernatural, Casler saw the open door of the closet and realized that
the weird visitor had simply been in hiding behind the hanging coats.
      If so, The Shadow had heard everything.
      That alone was enough to make Casler turn murderer. If he could kill The
Shadow, the Head would be clear. Casler could call it a mistake, claiming that
he'd thought the cloaked master was a criminal teamed with Ribold. After all,
Casler was supposed to be calling headquarters for the police commissioner.
He'd naturally think that anyone who interfered must be tied up with crime.
      Those were reasons why Casler boldly whipped a revolver from his pocket
and aimed it at The Shadow. But the final and most important reason was The
Shadow's pose. Arms folded calmly, the cloaked accuser didn't look prepared
for
the surprise attack that Casler gave.
      The surprise proved Casler's.
      Up came The Shadow's hand, gunless and ungloved. Thumb and second finger
snapped together, straight toward Casler's face. The result was a sharp
explosion that sounded like a cannon shot. Two chemical pastes, meeting in the
friction of thumb and finger, produced a burst of flame along with the huge
report. (Note: Because The Shadow's explosive powder used in this instance is
too dangerous for any but the most experienced to use, we do not reveal the
nature of its formula, so that the inexperienced might not attempt this
experiment and thereby suffer harm. - Maxwell Grant.)
      The blast staggered Lloyd Casler.
      Shaken, dazzled, the Hydra Head nearly lost his grip on the revolver
while
he tried vainly to glimpse The Shadow anew. All that Casler saw was blackness,
enveloping himself and the desk against which he leaned. Living blackness that
gripped Casler and delivered another of those weird laughs that came as a
whisper of doom.
      Blindly, Casler was reeling toward the door, the gun plucked from his
hand. He thought he was getting clear of The Shadow, not realizing that he was
actually being guided to further disaster.
      For when Casler managed to unbolt the door, The Shadow gripped him again,
sending him into a whirl that carried the Head away from the door, then back
to
it, into the clutch of Commissioner Weston and a pair of husky hotel
detectives
who had started for the office when they heard The Shadow's blast.
      Before Casler could even begin to alibi himself, full attention was
captured by The Shadow's laugh. The cloaked master was opening the top drawer
of the desk to display a flat recording machine, which was the thing that The
Shadow had ordered earlier.
      Beside the device was a broken thread, which The Shadow had attached to
the telephone cord. In jerking the cord from the edge of the drawer, Casler
had
broken the thread and started the recorder!
      Now the machine was speaking back in Casler's own voice, disclosing him
as
the tenth Head of the Hydra and revealing that the zero hour was at hand for
his
thrust at the Antique Gallery. As that criminal confession ended, the laugh of
The Shadow came anew.
      Weston and his companions looked for the master in black. He was gone,
through the outer door, which he had opened while their attention was on
Casler's recorded statement. This laugh that they heard was the one that The
Shadow had first given Casler. The recorder had picked up that sinister mirth.
      The Shadow had left on a rapid trip to the Antique Gallery, a race
against
time, wherein he hoped to conquer crime at its own zero hour!


     CHAPTER XV

     WHEELS OF CRIME

     ALREADY wheels of crime were on the move. Lloyd Casler, the tenth Hydra
Head, had started them - human cogwheels, deft in evil. But they weren't the
only wheels that were to produce results.
     One wheel had already done its stint. It was the circular turntable of
the
recording device in the desk drawer. That wheel provided an odd aftermath,
hard
upon the mechanical laugh that symbolized The Shadow's recent departure.
     The recorder issued a terrific bang! - a replica of the explosion with
which The Shadow had startled Casler. This time the sound marked Casler's
recuperation. He sprang away from the desk, shaking off the grip of the hotel
detectives. Punching his way past Bardell in the doorway, Casler raced across
the banquet room.
      Ribold was too far away to block him. The fancy-dressed captain began
barking orders, but no hands could stop Casler's frenzied surge.
      Out through another door, down a stairway to the lobby, the frantic Head
was off to safety.
      Spurring Casler, came a mocking laugh. It was the final taunt that The
Shadow had given during the office scene. Casler snarled happily as he heard
it. This time, The Shadow wasn't here to back his powerful mirth. Yet the
laugh
still had merit.
      Though Lloyd Casler didn't realize it, The Shadow was no longer lopping
Hydra heads, unless dire circumstances should compel him. Instead, he was
seeking to ensnare the various leaders while breaking up their crimes. For the
way in which the Hydra branched was its most insidious feature.
      Wheels were whirling The Shadow to his appointment with crime - the swift
wheels of Moe's cab, which had been waiting outside the Hotel Metrolite ever
since The Shadow went there. But with all Moe's efforts, the cab was some
blocks short of its goal when the zero hour struck.
      Visitors at the jewelry show heard the nine-o'clock clang of a great
clock
in a tower across the square. They were giving the time little heed, for the
famed crown jewels were on display.
      Beside the exhibit stood Inspector Joe Cardona, somewhat annoyed by the
way some people mistook him for a guide. Joe kept gesturing to a withery old
gentleman who was describing the various gems.
      These were the crown jewels of many countries, brought to America for
safety, placed on display that the proceeds from their show might go to the
aid
of refugees from those lands. Crowns, tiaras, scepters, rings, and even sword
hilts, provided a glittering array of color from the closely guarded stand on
which they reposed.
      Diamonds were, of course, the main attraction, though rubies, emeralds,
sapphires and some rare specimens of topaz were in abundance. The lecturer was
finished with the diamonds and was pointing out the rubies.
      Close to the display, Clyde Burke and Harry Vincent were noting the faces
around them and finding none that was suspicious. As visitors to the show,
these agents of the Shadow had so far failed to scent a trace of budding
crime.
Nor, for that matter, had Inspector Cardona.
      "This immense gem," declared the lecturer, pointing to a great red stone
that studded a sword hilt, "was long regarded as the world's largest ruby. A
misnomer, because in the actual sense there is no true ruby. Garnets,
carbuncles, other ruddy stones, were all termed rubies by the ancients.
      "The Oriental ruby, most precious of the entire category, is properly a
red variety of sapphire. Being the most valued of ruddy gems, it has claimed
the title of ruby. If this great stone" - he gestured to the sword hilt -
"were
of Oriental origin, its value would be fabulous.
      "Unfortunately, it is only a spinel, identified as such in recent years.
A
spinel is a gem stone found in various color varieties, among them red. So you
are viewing not the world's largest ruby, but a fine specimen of spinel."
      The repeated term was striking home to Cardona. Half aloud, Joe muttered:
      "A spinel. Where did I hear that before? Spinel... spinet! One looks like
a ruby and the other a piano. Spinet -"
      With that, Cardona turned to look at the antiques, hoping he'd see the
spinet. But there wasn't anything resembling a piano among the ancient
furniture that was ranged to cover barren spots amid the showcases. Behind the
exhibit of crown jewels, Joe saw a fancy, gold-decorated screen. Past the
screen, he spied a corner of the six-by-ten packing box that contained the
spinet.
     Before more than a flicker of suspicion could cross Joe's mind, crime
crashed through.


     THERE was a roar from behind the screen, muffled only for a few seconds.
Then, with a splintering smash, the front of the box ripped wide. Something
avalanched forth, flattening the screen, and hurtled like a miniature
juggernaut toward the display of crown jewels.
     All the visitors dodged, with men's shouts and women's shrieks
punctuating
the process. The withery lecturer went away in a hurried dive. Harry and Clyde
were among those who cleared a path as they would have for a raging bull. For
the thing that was hurtling at them meant business.
     It was a bantam automobile, spurting with a power that threatened mayhem
to anyone who blocked its course!
     This was the thing that truckers had brought into the Antique Gallery.
Light in weight, four men could easily carry it on their shoulders. Instead of
an old-fashioned piano, Cardona was seeing the latest type of midget car, a
two-passenger coupe occupied by its advertised human quota.
     Two Teeth of the Hydra!
     The driver of the bantam car could have cut a vicious swath right through
the witnesses, but he didn't. Instead, he jammed the brakes and the midget
menace shrieked to a halt beside the display of crown gems. The door on the
right flipped open and the man beside the driver scooped the plush drape that
covered the jewel stand.
     Bundling a vast fortune of gems as a waiter would gather up silverware
when removing a tablecloth, the daring thief hauled his wholesale prize into
the tiny car and slammed the door.
     Only Cardona could have stopped it. He'd been standing at one side of the
display, hence hadn't needed to dodge along with The Shadow's agents and
detectives who were in the car's path. But Joe was handicapped very
unfortunately. He was on the wrong side of the car. Before he could get around
to the right, the door had banged shut.
     The way ahead was clear. The midget machine had transformed itself from a
mechanized menace into a getaway car. Two men made a valiant effort to stop it
when they grabbed for its rear bumper. Those two were Harry and Clyde. If
they'd gotten their grip, they could have lifted the rear wheels of the
undersized car and kept them whirling uselessly.
     But the car spurted off too soon. It was roaring down an aisle between
showcases, ducking antique couches and other furniture while Cardona tried to
stop it in his own way, with gunfire. Other detectives joined in with their
revolvers, but no shots counted.
     You could armor-plate a midget ear and supply it with bulletproof glass
and tires, just as with a full-sized vehicle.
     The Hydra had.
     Deluged by bashing slugs, the peewee vehicle reached the street door,
dented by impact. Like a hummingbird buzzing out through a window, it hopped
the curb and spurted across the square. Mere sight of the tiny car was enough
for Cardona's outside squad. All the machinery of the law went into motion to
make the escape short-lived.
     Patrol cars were wheeling in from side streets. Big armored trucks were
heaving up to throw a blockade. But the midget car was as difficult to catch
as
a greased pig. It could take to sidewalks and it did, as soon as traffic
snarled
about it. Cut off from a corner, it wheeled through the park, trimming benches
so closely that a group of bums went diving over the bench backs to escape the
half-pint menace.
      What it lacked in size, the bantam made up for in speed and
maneuverability. All the while, its occupants were safe from the steady hail
of
lead that flew about it. One car alone, of all in the vicinity, could have
given
the midget a hard run. That was Moe's cab, arriving with The Shadow.
      Moe would have found a way to cut off the thing's escape, for he could
handle his hack like a stunt driver. But there were places where the cab
couldn't go, and one of them was through the mess of traffic that cluttered
the
avenue from curb to curb. The sidewalks, wide enough for the midget auto, were
just too narrow for the cab.
      Still, crooks didn't seem to have a chance. Streets were blocked, and the
sirens of motorcycles told that a new class of vehicles were in the chase. The
trouble was that the cycle cops were vulnerable, which the men in the bantam
weren't. A gun was chattering from the top of the small car's window when it
neared the subway kiosk where workmen had begun a paint job.
      With a rip like its departure from the crate, the tiny car carved through
the flimsy barrier and zoomed down the steps into the subway, using lengthwise
boards for a roadway, the very boards that the fake painters placed there
beforehand!


      MOTORCYCLES rallied to the chase. From side streets where they had
dodged,
they converged upon the kiosk, racing to see who could reach it first.
      The cop who won wasn't happy over it. His motorcycle took a jolt and he
disappeared down the opening, while others pulled up their two-wheeled steeds
and tumbled to the street, in preference to a longer fall.
      The men in the midget car had stopped at the bottom of the subway steps
just long enough to grab the lower ends of the boards and haul them to the
bottom. That done, they were on their way again, traveling underground.
      Officers and plain-clothes men were dashing for the various subway
entrances all around the square. They still thought they had a chance to trap
the midget car where it was. Sooner or later, they would hound it to a subway
platform. Police were getting to those platforms to make sure the crooks
didn't
hop from the car and run along the tracks or board a train.
      Meanwhile, The Shadow's cab was gone.
      To Moe's amazement, his black-cloaked chief ordered him to wheel from the
beleaguered square and drive across to the other side of town. It wasn't until
the trip was under way that Moe realized what it might produce.
      Never calculating that the subway could have played the part it did, the
police had treated the situation as a local one. They knew that two subways
crossed at the square and that both were express stops. That meant several
platforms on two levels would have to be covered. But the police had just
about
forgotten that those subways linked to a concourse that led to another subway
on
the opposite side of town!
      When they remembered, it would be too late. On foot, they couldn't hope
to
overtake the tiny automobile. By the time they hauled motorcycles down the
steps, a mechanized pursuit would be useless. Of all the trickery that the
Hydra's men had shown, their final stroke was best - that of leading the
police
underground, only to learn that they should have stayed on the street and sent
cars everywhere to cut off the crooks wherever they might reappear.
      That was exactly what The Shadow planned, and he wasn't trusting to mere
chance. The Hydra had gauged this thing so well that there was a chance it
could have been handled too well. On the barren cross street, The Shadow's cab
was making as good time as the midget car in the underground concourse.
Therein
lay his hope that the Hydra had itself provided a clue.
      The Shadow's hunch proved justified.
      Reaching the far side of town, Moe was up against a tough proposition.
There were subway exits here in plenty, a dozen of them, some several blocks
apart. How to find the right one, was the question; but it answered itself,
thanks to the Hydra.
      As Moe cruised rapidly in and about this sector, still following The
Shadow's order, a closed exit came in sight. The Hydra had overdone its trick,
by providing the tiny getaway car with a quick way out when it finished its
underground trip. The painters had come here after finishing their first job,
and in preparing the last lap for the getaway they had planted a marker for
The
Shadow!
      From within the cab, Moe heard a whispered laugh. Needing no further
order
from The Shadow, Moe plunged the brake pedal and brought the cab to the spot
where the crooks would soon emerge.
      Wheels of crime were still in motion, rolling perpetrators to a new
meeting with The Shadow!


    CHAPTER XVI

    WEALTH REGAINED

     LIGHTS out, Moe's cab was a lurking thing in darkness, while his chief,
The Shadow, waited. The cab had come by a straight route, whereas its midget
prey had veered considerably. This accounted for the difference, but during
the
wait it was quite evident that the Hydra's strategy had completely baffled the
law.
     Sounds of sirens were so distant as to be practically negligible. Only
The
Shadow had guessed where the trail would lead. This time, The Shadow was ahead
of crime!
     To Moe, the game seemed as good as won, until he heard a singular whisper
close behind him. It was The Shadow's warning tone, ordering Moe to keep low,
which often meant that Moe would have to claw the floor boards. Such a warning
promised shooting, which made Moe think that The Shadow's keen ear had heard
the underground approach of the midget getaway car.
     As Moe slid down into the seat, his last glance in the mirror showed him
another cab pulling up behind his own. He realized then that The Shadow had
looked even farther ahead. The arriving cab belonged to the Hydra. It was here
for transfer purpose when the midget car arrived.
     Almost inaudible was the soft thud of the rear door in Moe's cab.
Absolutely invisible was the cloaked shape that slid to the darkened sidewalk
and glided under the shelter of one cab back to the other. Mobsters had
extinguished their lights while coasting up to Moe's cab. Now men were
creeping
out to slug the unfortunate hackie who had accidentally - so they thought -
chosen their rendezvous as a parking spot.
     Those Teeth of the Hydra never reached Moe's cab.
     Blackness whirled literally among them. It was as if night itself had
solidified to strike like an invisible thunderbolt. The guns that slugged were
The Shadow's. They found targets with every stroke. Three thugs literally
melted with hardly an outcry. Not one even found a gun trigger, for they
hadn't
intended to start shooting this soon.
     In the cab up front, Moe heard The Shadow's low, triumphant laugh and
popped up behind the wheel. No need laying low any longer, Moe knew.
     Another cabby heard that strange mirth from the darkness where figures
were mysteriously thudding the curb. He reached for a gun and thrust it
through
the window, this man in the Hydra's cab. A Tooth like the rest, he was ready
to
do his bit for Head No. 10.
     His bit was simply proving that he couldn't take it. In from the opposite
window came a gloved hand that pressed a cold gun muzzle against the driver's
neck. Wilting, the crook let his own gun clatter outside his cab. His hands
were rising, when The Shadow ordered them down again.
     Then, with harder pressure of his gun, The Shadow was ordering the fellow
to get going, which the cabby did. How his hands managed to grip the steering
wheel, was something quite remarkable; but the speed with which the cab shot
away was to be expected. The driver simply let his foot jam to the floor and
stay there.
     Back at his own cab, The Shadow found Moe climbing anxiously out. Hearing
his chief's whisper, Moe subsided, to learn why The Shadow had sent the other
cab away. The Shadow simply stated that since only one cab was supposed to be
waiting here, he'd sent the other away. Moe began to understand.
     "And say, chief," declared Moe, "can those Blue Spots travel! They're a
new job, those hacks. How they'll make dough, I don't know, with so many
companies already in the business. I'll bet that guy you just chased still
doesn't know how lucky -"
     Moe broke off at a whisper from The Shadow, who was now inside the cab.
There was a muffled roar below ground, a hard rising spurt, the clatter of
boards that served as tracks. Then, like a jack-in-the-box, out popped the
midget car that was bringing the crown gems!


      SMASHING through the thin boards of the subway exit, the mechanical
jackrabbit took a bounce across the sidewalk and stopped by the curb. Its
doors
popped open and out sprang its two-man crew, one carrying a large suitcase in
which he had packed the royal jewels.
      While he was dashing to the cab with it, the other crook shoved the front
of the stalled bantam and sent the tiny car backward down the subway steps.
      At that moment, the cab door was opening. The crook who shoved the bag
inside let go of it and snatched for a gun. He didn't reach the weapon, nor
did
his lips finish the savage oath they started. An interruption came in the
shape
of an automatic, landing hard against the skull of the astonished jewel thief.
      The other thug heard nothing because of the clatter that the bantam car
was making as it zigzagged, unguided, down the subway steps. When the fellow
turned, he saw the cab pulling away; at the same time, the chug of a
motorcycle
joined the wail of a patrol-car siren from a few blocks away.
      This Hydra Tooth didn't realize that he was being given a chance for
short-lived flight on foot, with peaceable surrender to the law. He thought he
was being double-crossed by pals, who preferred not to wait for him, now that
the police were coming to this side of town. Angrily, the crook pulled a gun
and opened fire at the departing cab.
      An automatic answered with a single stab. The Tooth reeled, wounded. The
Shadow's shot was necessary, for with a few bullets more, his frantic foe
would
have found the window of the cab. Looking back, The Shadow saw his adversary
sag
beside the huddled figures who had been lying behind Moe's cab. The other man
from the midget car was caved in the gutter.
      This concluding episode had proven very rapid. The last shots came amid
the echoes of the final crash from the midget car when it reached the subway
platform. The wail of the approaching siren had halted just before the
gunfire,
hence the shots were heard.
      As ill luck had it, a patrol car zoomed down the very street that Moe
intended to take. When the cab veered to take a new route, the men in the
patrol car saw it and the chase was on. Dodging one patrol car was a simple
task for Moe, but by the time he did it, motorcycles were in the chase.
      They were everywhere, those pests, passing word to each other that crooks
had transferred to a cab, which didn't make it pleasant for The Shadow,
considering that he didn't care to throw away a suitcase full of rare crown
jewels. So he kept them, but with the knowledge that he would take the blame
for the crime if found with such baubles in his possession.
      Calmly, The Shadow guided Moe through devious routes that promised
safety.
Strange, how this cloaked fugitive could tell the exact locations of the
pursuing vehicles. Time and again, Moe cut across a street thinking he was
going right into a snare, only to see a motorcycle going the other way.
      Usually, the cops spotted the cab, but they had to turn around to go
after
it, and by then, Moe was elsewhere. Cops were constantly overhauling the wrong
cabs and stopping them, which helped a great deal; but there were still too
many in motorcycles.
      In fact, Moe felt that, for once, the game was through when The Shadow
ordered him to wheel through a side street near the Times Square area. Even
worse, The Shadow called for a stop midway through the block.
      As Moe pressed down on the brake pedal, the cab slewed beside a limousine
that was parked in front of a night club. Moe didn't hear what happened, nor
did the drowsy chauffeur in the limousine. Out one window, in through another
went a heavy suitcase of untold value. With that transfer of the crown gems
from cab to limousine, The Shadow gave Moe the order for another spurt.
      The motorcycle cops proved too pesky. Twenty blocks to the south, one of
them overhauled the cab and inquired about its hurry. A second cop arrived and
each yanked open a door. Moe gave an anxious look in back, then opened his
eyes
wide when he saw that his passenger was no longer The Shadow. Nor was there
any
suitcase.
      In Cranston's guise, The Shadow was leaning back in the seat smoking a
thin cigar. His cloak and hat were tucked away in a special drawer beneath the
rear seat. He'd put his guns there, too, in case the cops decided to frisk
him.
But they weren't in a frisky mood.
      "Say!" exclaimed one. "Here's the pal who handed us those tickets to the
theater!"
      "We want to thank you, mister," expressed the other. "What a party that
turned out to be!"
      The Shadow was shaking hands with both the cops. When they got around to
the present question, he told them that he hadn't seen any cab that appeared
to
have crooks in it; at least, no such cab in flight. He'd noted a parked cab
that
looked suspicious, but the cops told him the one they wanted wouldn't be
stopping anywhere.
      "When you see the police commissioner," remarked The Shadow, "give him my
regards. We're old friends, you know. In fact, I think I'll pick up my car and
stop around to see him shortly. Maybe this very evening."
      As the cab pulled away, the motorcycle cops went to a phone and called
headquarters. They were told to report to Inspector Cardona at the Cobalt
Club,
where he had gone to see Commissioner Weston.


      MEANWHILE, The Shadow was putting in a call around the corner. It was
another of those Cranston to Cranston conversations that brought prompt
results. Called to a phone booth in a night club, the real Cranston caught the
drift of things. Margo Lane was finishing a dance with another partner when
Cranston joined her and suggested that they leave.
      In the limousine, Margo almost stumbled over a suitcase, which Cranston
promptly lifted to the seat beside him. He was smiling somewhat cryptically
when Margo asked where they were going. She learned the answer after a
northward trip, when the cab pulled up in front of the Cobalt Club.
      Some motorcycle cops were coming out, and others were arriving on the
street. They nodded to Cranston as he went by carrying the suitcase. Inside
the
club, Cranston and Margo reached the grillroom which Weston had turned into
his
headquarters. Interrupting a report by Inspector Cardona, Cranston planked the
suitcase on the table and opened it.
      Margo gasped at sight of the fabulous crown jewels, but her surprise was
mild. Weston and Cardona were pawing through the gems, totally confounded,
while motorcycle cops came flocking back at Weston's bellow. Then Cranston was
explaining how he'd found the suitcase in his limousine, entirely by accident
-
a thing to which Margo could testify, and did.
      There were two things that still puzzled Margo.
      She couldn't understand how Lamont had turned himself into The Shadow,
recovered the jewels for which the whole police force were searching, and
still
stayed around the night club as much as he had. Margo was sure she hadn't been
absent from Lamont for more than a single dance. Whatever miracles he'd
performed as The Shadow, he must have managed them in something less than ten
minutes at a stretch.
      Which would have caused Margo to decide that someone other than The
Shadow
had stifled crime tonight, except for the second fact that puzzled her.
      That was: when Cranston found the suitcase in the limousine, he didn't
open it. So how could he have known the gems were in it unless he had
personally reclaimed them as The Shadow?
      Again, Margo's case was mild.
      As she and Lamont left the Cobalt Club to the congratulations of
Cranston's friends, the traffic cops, two new officers arrived on motorcycles
and alighted to learn the news. They happened to be the pair who had
overhauled
The Shadow's cab twenty blocks the other side of the street where the night
club
was.
      They stared very hard at Lamont Cranston.
      "So the guy did have the jewels!" exclaimed one. "And he brought them
here!"
      "That's what he meant when he said he was going to see the commissioner,"
put in the other. "It shows he was right all the time."
      "But how did he get here ahead of us?"
      "Say... now you're asking something! Don't that beat all?"
      The two cops stared at the departing limousine as though they expected it
to sprout wings and take off over the Empire State Building. The more they
tried to explain the thing, the more it bothered them, considering that they'd
lost but little time in coming to the Cobalt Club.
     To those two cops, The Shadow's latest victory over the Hydra was
dropping
right out of mind. They knew that The Shadow could work wonders. But if they'd
been asked to name the champion at such business, they'd have voiced their
candidate as Lamont Cranston!


     CHAPTER XVII

     CRIME COMES C.O.D.

      THE blue light glimmered in The Shadow's sanctum. Long, deft fingers were
sorting through reports from agents. From one of those fingers gleamed a rare
gem, a fire opal that changed from hue to hue. This stone, known as a girasol,
wasn't a souvenir from the crown jewels that The Shadow had reclaimed.
      Rather, this girasol that The Shadow had worn for years was the magnet
that had attracted the other gems into his hands. For never did The Shadow
fare
forth without this strange talisman, which had carried him through threats of
death that had seemingly required more than mortal effort to survive.
      First of the reports were from Rutledge Mann. They went back to the death
of Edmund Glencoe, a Hydra case that still was unidentified as such by the
law.
Mann was seeking data that would prove murder and robbery in that instance.
      The evidence looked negative. The funds paid to Glencoe's estate had been
used to purchase stocks in legitimate companies, as he provided. All the
companies were doing well, their shares selling at a premium. Bardell and
others were buying into them, and Mann's advice, as a broker, was that either
The Shadow or Cranston should do the same.
      Passing from that routine report, The Shadow found one from Moe. The cab
had been in an accident and would need a few weeks for repairs. Substitute
cabs
were hard to find, so Moe was taking a job with a company for a while. He'd
still be available when The Shadow needed him, but fares would count when ran
up on the meter.
      The Shadow's low laugh was whimsical as he finished that brief report.
      Clippings on The Shadow's table told of his victory over the Hydra, and
described the widespread hunt that the police were making for Lloyd Casler.
The
Shadow had already read those, and they didn't matter much. He preferred that
Casler should be alive and at large, rather than have new Hydra Heads appear.
      Hunted by the law, with most of his crew eradicated, Head No. 10 was
Eyeless and Toothless. At most, he could still have only a few Ears left.
      One more report was needed, from Clyde Burke. It hadn't arrived, so The
Shadow reached for the earphones. Before he grasped them, a tiny light
blinked,
announcing a call from Burbank.
      The contact man stated that Lamont Cranston was on the wire. The Shadow
said to put the call through.
      Phoning from his home in New Jersey, Cranston begged to be excused that
evening. He felt his present popularity would handicap The Shadow. With the
Hydra still a pressing menace, every motorcycle cop in Manhattan felt it a
duty
to convoy Cranston's limousine each time it appeared in town.
      "I'm too much of a hero," complained Cranston. "I hope you settle this
Hydra business promptly, so I'll be forgotten. What's more, I can't see Margo
because she asks too many questions, and if I don't see her, she'll cook up
more.
      "I wish you'd take over a while, old man. It would be to our mutual
interest. You can get around places in that cloak of yours without being
recognized as me. So you won't be bothered by the motorcycle squad, and when
you meet Margo you can give her a few answers which I can't."
      Granting Cranston a deserved leave of absence, The Shadow resumed his
chat
with Burbank and inquired about Burke's report. He learned that Clyde was
still
at the commissioner's office and would probably be heard from shortly.


     INTERWOVEN through all The Shadow's campaigns were many important twists.
Clyde Burke's visit to the commissioner was one of them.
     Clyde's effort to halt crime at its source during the jewel robbery had
not escaped Cardona's notice. In return for services rendered, the inspector
had promised Clyde an inside track on future stories.
     Cardona was making good his promise, by inviting Clyde to a conference
where he had a reasonable right to be, anyway, since he'd figured in one Hydra
case. At Weston's office, Clyde had met Dustin Bardell, who was still at loss
regarding members for his civic committee.
     "It's impossible to trust anyone!" Bardell was declaiming, with one of
those hand thwacks that struck the desk resoundingly. "When Lloyd Casler
turned
out to be a Hydra Head, my faith in friends was utterly destroyed!"
     "Why not look elsewhere than among your friends?" queried Weston. "What
about Hart Ribold?"
     Bardell's eyes narrowed sharply. "Can you be serious, commissioner?"
     "Certainly," returned Weston. "It was Casler who threw suspicion on
Ribold. That ought to prove Ribold's integrity."
     "It doesn't follow, commissioner," argued Bardell. "I still don't trust
Ribold. He might have made away with that fund, if you hadn't appointed
trustworthy men to keep it."
     "If he had," declared Weston brusquely, "he'd have done crime his own
way,
not the Hydra's. We are sure that Ribold isn't a Hydra Head. Mark that to his
credit."
     Bardell wrote Ribold's name on a sheet of paper. Weston then told him to
begin another list, headed by the names of Kerland, Luhrig and Aldan - judge,
lawyer, and banker who were holding the World Wide Friendship Society fund.
     "There are three good men," asserted Weston, "but we can keep them for
the
future. This evening, I shall confer with them regarding the fund. After that,
they may be candidates for the civic committee. And now -"
     The commissioner paused in a manner so impressive that Clyde knew his
story was coming up. Taking some report sheets that Cardona handed him, Weston
glanced from Bardell to Clyde and asked:
     "Did either of you ever hear of Ira Ilchester?"
     "Why, certainly," returned Bardell promptly. "Ilchester is noted for his
philanthropic achievements."
     "His latest being the gift of his very valuable library," added Clyde.
"He
turned it over to an upstate university. Before that -"
     Bardell broke in with a recitation of Ilchester's earlier endowments,
since they had begun years ago, at a time that Bardell remembered but Clyde
didn't. However, the reporter was able to correct Bardell as he went along.
Bardell had lost track of Ilchester's later philanthropies.
     "That's all I need to bear," declared Weston. "It proves that Ilchester
is
more interested in humanity than in wealth. Therefore, we can accept whatever
he
says as valid."
     Thinking that he was going to obtain a committee member, Bardell started
to put Ilchester's name on paper, when Weston stopped him.
     "Ilchester is no longer active," stated Weston. "We can not ask him to
help us uncover Hydra Heads. We must do that for him. We must find at least
one
Head on his account. Ilchester has been threatened by The Hydra."
     From Cardona's reports, Weston laid bare the Ilchester situation. The
philanthropist had been hearing from a mysterious extortionist who liked to
deal in the number twelve. Phone calls had come at noon and midnight, all
bearing the same demand: that Ilchester pay the sum of fifty thousand dollars,
or take unstated consequences.
     True to the number twelve, the unknown persecutor had sent messages in
packages delivered to Ilchester's home. Every dozen eggs included an extortion
note. When Ilchester ordered new silverware, there had been a message with
each
twelve-piece batch. An encyclopedia which happened to come in twelve volumes
contained a loose threat note in each book.
     "What Ilchester fears is abduction," stated Weston. "He's been living in
a
bomb shelter that was dug in his cellar some months ago. He went so deep with
the shelter that he struck an old water main and had to have it cemented over.
     "He decided that was deep enough for a bomb shelter." With a slight
smile,
Weston produced a picture of the cellar. "But it wouldn't do against this
terrorist whom Ilchester terms 'No. 12.' That title that Ilchester chose at
random should suggest something to you."
     "Another Hydra Head!" exclaimed Clyde.
     "Head No. 12!" added Bardell. "The Heads have probably reached that
total,
since Casler's number was Ten!"
     "That is my opinion," agreed Weston. "And Head Twelve has informed
Ilchester that the deadline will be twelve o'clock the night of the twelfth.
Which means" - the commissioner gestured to his calendar - "that Ilchester's
limit will be midnight this very evening!"


     CLYDE couldn't hold back his enthusiasm over such a story. Telling him
he'd have to hold it for tomorrow's newspaper, Weston assigned Clyde to a
meeting with Ilchester this evening.
     Clyde went out to call his newspaper, the Classic. In the meantime Weston
phoned the club to see if Cranston happened to be there.
     Cranston wasn't, but before Weston could put in a call to New Jersey, his
friend rang up. Needless to say, it was The Shadow, phoning after receiving a
rapid report from Clyde. Repeating the details of the Ilchester case, Weston
asked Cranston to visit the threatened man that evening.
     The idea was this: Ilchester simply would not trust the police inside the
house, fearing that No. 12 would notice their arrival and use extreme measures
in retaliation. Between them, Weston and Cardona had wheedled him into
inviting
other guests. With people present, Ilchester's abduction would prove
difficult.
     Naturally, police would be on hand outdoors. Inspector Cardona was taking
the assignment, with a few hand-picked men, the sort who could stay under
cover. As for the party, if Cranston could suggest suitable persons to attend
it, Weston would be grateful.
     Stating first that he'd reach Ilchester's before midnight, The Shadow
suggested that Harry Vincent be invited. Weston approved the choice, since
Harry rated well with Clyde Burke, the two having teamed against crime at the
jewelry show.
      Adding that if Vincent had a girlfriend for the evening, her presence
should be suitable, too, The Shadow hung up. The conclusion of his call irked
Weston immensely.
      "Cranston and that Lane girl again!" snapped Weston. "She's dated him
this
evening, so he wants other guests to bring their girlfriends, or he won't show
up at Ilchester's."
      "That Lane dame!" gruffed Cardona. "She's getting to be a milestone
around
Cranston's neck!"
      "You mean millstone," corrected Weston. "Still, it doesn't matter. Both
are heavy enough. Nevertheless" - an idea struck Weston - "some feminine charm
would help the occasion. It would look like a genuine party to the Hydra's
spies, if ladies were present. Call up Vincent, inspector, and ask him to
bring
a girl along."


      LEAVING the sanctum, The Shadow was enjoying a laugh at Weston's partial
expense. The Shadow's suggestion had solved a pressing problem. He'd decided
how to postpone Margo's questions, perhaps to sidetrack them permanently.
Through Burbank, The Shadow was instructing Harry to invite Margo to
Ilchester's party.
      Thus Margo wouldn't meet The Shadow until nearly midnight, by which time
the situation would be tense. If the Hydra should take over the party in the
shape of Head No. 12, enough things would happen to make Margo forget the
previous episode involving Cranston.
      Darkness had already settled, hence The Shadow found his cloaked garb to
his liking. Contacting Moe, The Shadow found him driving a Blue Spot cab. As
they cruised along, with the meter ticking very slowly, Moe talked about the
taxicab company that was employing him.
      "It's like you thought, chief," informed Moe. "There's a bunch of
deadpans
working for this outfit. A couple of dozen hacks on the street, with a zombie
back of every wheel."
      "Do they know your lingo?" queried The Shadow.
      "How can I tell?" demanded Moe. "They don't open their faces except to
eat. Take tonight, for instance. I never saw so many rush jobs. While we were
in the one-arm lunch joint across from the garage, the checker pops in and
orders five guys onto the street all at once. I was the only Blue Spot driver
left in the hash house."
      The Shadow was keeping a strict lookout for other Blue Spot cabs. He
noted
one parked in front of a pretentious apartment house on the avenue that Moe
was
following. Telling Moe to pull up beside the company cab, The Shadow added a
question for his own driver to ask.
      Moe piped it from alongside.
      "Hey, Blue Boy! Seen any coolie cabs around?"
      "How would I know?" retorted the deadpan in the other Blue Spot. "I ain't
been down to Chinatown!"
      Wheeling along, Moe spoke eagerly to The Shadow.
      "That did it, chief!" declaimed Moe. "One crack at your suggestion and I
found out what I couldn't get for three days! That guy isn't even imitation
McCoy! If he was -"
      "He wouldn't have confused a coolie cab with Chinatown," put in The
Shadow. "He would have found out that the coolies are the drivers who are
stationed at the ferries, so called because they work long shifts."
      Moe nodded. He was particularly pleased when The Shadow told him to keep
cruising this area. Moe sensed from his chief's tone that The Shadow's keen
brain was thinking in terms of crime. Oddly, though, the evening was yet
young,
and this wasn't Ilchester's neighborhood.
     Therefore, other crime must be brewing, though The Shadow had sound
reasons for linking it with the Hydra. Considering the unique methods used by
Hydra Heads, as displayed by Mance, Medor and Casler, The Shadow was again
expecting something startling or novel.
     Nor would The Shadow he disappointed on that score, should he manage to
witness the scheduled events of evil. Tonight, crime was operating on a sound
merchandising system. It was coming C.O.D.
     Cash on delivery to the Hydra!


    CHAPTER XVIII

    HEADS OFF AND ON

    A CAB was rolling slowly along a side street, its driver acting as if
he'd
lost his way. An impatient man in cape and high silk hat wagged a cane through
the window to the driver's seat and snapped testily:
      "Come, my man! Make up your mind, or I'll be late to the opera!"
      The cab stopped under a light, while the driver thumbed a street guide.
The blue spot on the door was quite conspicuous. At last the driver started
again, remarking to his passenger:
      "I'm headed the wrong way. I'll cut through this alley to the next
street.
That will fix us."
      It fixed them, right enough. The alley widened into a courtyard, where
lights were glowing. A man stepped up and opened the door, to press a gun
against the passenger's chest. Coming out with raised hands, the man with the
high hat gave a hopeful look back to the street from which they had come.
      Therewith, the victim's hope became despair. There wasn't any street,
nothing but a solid wall of brick! Then, still gasping with amazement, the
silk-hatted man was piloted around the corner of the courtyard, to find other
rueful prisoners like himself.
      They were seated under a low roof fitted with large panes of frosted
glass
that covered the entire courtyard. All had come in Blue Spot cabs, for others
of
these vehicles were parked across the court. The cab drivers, men with
hardened
faces, were keeping guard with guns.
      Tables were spread for a buffet supper, with thuggish waiters presiding,
but none of the guests were inclined to eat. They knew one another, for they
were all members of the World Wide Friendship Society. As for their host, he
was the fanciful Captain Ribold, wearing his honorary uniform with its
customary display of medals.
      "Relax, everybody," suggested Ribold, in his eager tone. "You are all
worth more alive than dead. I am not treating you like goods delivered C.O.D.,
though in fact you are. I hired this forgotten dining garden for your benefit,
so you may as well enjoy it."
      A buzzer sounded and Ribold stepped to a deep wall to press a switch.
Those near enough to the corner saw an amazing happening in the alley. The
front wall rose inward on hinges to admit a Blue Spot cab. Once the vehicle
was
past, the baffler dropped again. Another piece of human baggage was delivered
when the cab stopped.
      Another cab was approaching along the street out front. This one
contained
a very observant passenger in the person of Hubert Luhrig.
     The lawyer was shrewd enough to suspect that something was wrong. His
driver had been acting queerly ever since leaving Luhrig's apartment house for
the Cobalt Club.
     Temporarily ignoring the driver, Luhrig reached for a revolver that he
carried under special permit, and looked to see who might be lurking on the
street. All appeared serene, particularly in front of a two-story brick house
that was wedged between two other buildings. The only peculiar thing about the
house was its lack of front steps. Its closed door was on the sidewalk level;
the windows above showed drawn shades.
     Just when Luhrig was beginning to relax, he saw the house front rising
inward. A dummy house front, its wall of canvas painted to resemble brick,
with
door and windows!
     Before Luhrig could shake off his surprise, the cab was wheeling into the
alley that the dummy front had hidden. By the time the lawyer could haul his
gun from his pocket, he had no chance to use it.
     His cab was in a courtyard, where someone opening the door was displaying
a gun of his own. Letting his revolver slide back in his pocket, Luhrig came
out with hands raised. He was marched to the group over which Ribold presided.
     "The visitor we have awaited," announced Ribold with a smile. "If others
come, they will be welcome, but we can now proceed with business. My terms are
simple. I want a ransom for your persons, in the form of funds already paid. I
refer to the subscriptions that you so obligingly raised at my behest."
     Ribold was speaking chiefly to Luhrig, who met him with an angry glare.
To
which Ribold responded:
     "It may help matters if I introduce myself as Hydra Head Twelve. Our
organization owns the Blue Spot Cab Co., whose drivers were assigned to pick
you up and bring you here. My lookout is admitting only those cabs, so you
have
no chance of rescue.
     "In fact, the police have no idea that this could even happen. I decoyed
them to the home of a gentleman named Ira Ilchester. I threatened him with
death at midnight unless he paid over a given sum. Whether I choose to collect
from Ilchester has nothing to do with yourselves."


     STEPPING to a table, Ribold picked up a telephone and handed it to
Luhrig.
     "Call Commissioner Weston," ordered Ribold, in a grating tone. "Tell him
that you want to talk with Judge Kerland and James Aldan, the banker. State
that you have checked my last report concerning disbursement of the fund; that
you have contacted a majority of the society and that they agree I should
receive the fund tonight. Make it impressive, Luhrig, for yours is only one of
the lives at stake, should you fail!"
     Luhrig made the call, while mopping perspiration from his high forehead.
The lawyer had a determined jaw and he kept thrusting it as he talked.
Finished, Luhrig sat down heavily, too weak to glare.
     "I settled it," he declared. "Kerland and Aldan took me at my word. The
commissioner would have been easy, too, if he hadn't kept talking to that fool
Bardell, who shouldn't have been there anyway. Bardell kept telling him that
he
shouldn't accept one man's say-so, not even mine.
     The Teeth who served Hydra Head Twelve were moving forward with their
guns. Ribold waved them back, then stepped to the wall to press the switch in
answer to another buzz from the lookout. While a gun-laden Tooth was bringing
in another prisoner, Ribold demanded:
     "So how did you settle it, Luhrig?"
     "The commissioner asked if others would call him," replied Luhrig. "I
said
they would. That satisfied him, or at least it will after he hears from enough
of them."
      Prisoners were crowding forward frantically, each anxious to make the
first call. Using a gun as a pointer, Ribold picked the ones he thought could
tell the most convincing tale. He gestured his first choice to the telephone,
then stepped back to press the wall switch, for the buzzer had given another
summons.
      "When this red tape has been unwound," stated Ribold, "I shall leave you
here while I collect the fund. How long you will all remain depends on
circumstance. I am sure that Aldan will give me cash for those certified
checks, so I can start for Lisbon at once. Perhaps by morning, you can be
released. Possibly I may demand a longer wait -"
      Ribold's speculations ceased. At that moment, the last cab had stopped.
Something was happening to the Tooth who opened the door.
      A chunk of blackness swooped like a living arm, drove the fellow's gun
straight upward, and descended with a hard thud to his skull.
      As the thug collapsed, blackness materialized into a cloaked fighter who
sprang from the cab and whirled like a human gun turret, blasting the fake cab
drivers who served the Hydra. The Shadow was in action at his mightiest,
losing
no time in withering that horde of foemen.
      They were far too many for any single fighter to handle, but The Shadow
had a capable ally. As a whole crew of gunners swept across the courtyard to
gain a sure angle of fire against The Shadow, Moe spurted his cab into their
midst. Thugs went flying right and left, save for a hapless few who were
bashed
against the wall. With a spin of the wheel, Moe was around again, looking for
more human marks.
      These Blue Spot taxis were good jobs, Moe learned. They could turn on a
dime, and people simply couldn't dodge them. With The Shadow knocking off
Hydra
followers like clay pigeons, Moe was turning the remainder into sheep,
literally
herding them with his cab into the hands of prisoners, who were now on the
loose
and showing their mettle.
      Ribold was wrenching himself from half a dozen hands. The Shadow, so far,
hadn't time to deal with him. It was all the better, for The Shadow wanted to
keep Head Twelve alive, rather than have the Hydra sprout two others like him.
      But Ribold was loose, aiming at his cloaked foe. As the Head fired, The
Shadow faded, half faking a fall to make Ribold forget other foemen in his
overzeal.
      Luhrig saw The Shadow's falter and misunderstood it. Whipping out the gun
that Ribold didn't know he had, Luhrig poured close-range shots into the
murderous Head.
      As Ribold struck the cement court, riddled with bullets, Luhrig gave a
grateful cry to see The Shadow rising. By then, battle was ended. Dead,
wounded, captured, the Hydra's men had met with complete disaster.


     THE SHADOW gestured Luhrig to the phone. Pocketing his gun, the
grim-jawed
man put in a prompt call to the commissioner and told him the truth about
Ribold, adding that Head Twelve was dead.
     By then, The Shadow was placing the Hydra's followers in batches and
pointing the members of the World Wide Friendship Society to their cabs.
     With former passengers as drivers, the Blue Spots wheeled out to the
street, The Shadow standing with one hand on the switch, the other keeping a
gun turned toward the line of huddled prisoners, whose own guns were heaped on
the other side of the court.
     "The commissioner is coming right over," announced Luhrig. "I told him he
would find an open alley when he arrived. He is bringing men to take away the
prisoners. Kerland and Aldan are coming with him."
     With a low laugh of approval, The Shadow moved away, leaving the switch
to
Luhrig, whose eyes followed the mysterious cloaked being with an expression of
full admiration. The last of the cabs was gone, with the exception of Moe's.
The Shadow's driver followed his chief along the row of prisoners, awaiting
new
orders from him.
     The telephone bell began to ring. Turning, The Shadow saw Luhrig leave
the
switch to answer it. Finishing his patrol, The Shadow returned to the near end
of the row. Luhrig was putting down the telephone as The Shadow gave the
prisoners another glance.
     And then - close by The Shadow's ear came a voice, a low harsh tone that
carried strange foreboding. It said:
     "You did me a good turn, Shadow. I appreciated it when it happened, but
matters are different now. The Hydra is too big for you to ever squelch. We
both know its way: how its remaining Heads appoint new ones whenever such a
member dies."
     A revolver was pressing between The Shadow's shoulders to emphasize the
words to come.
     "I have just heard from the Hydra," the harsh voice continued. "I have
been offered the post of Head Fourteen. Any man would be a fool to refuse such
a proposition, especially when he is in a position to immediately dispose of
the Hydra's only menace. I am no fool, Shadow!"
     The speaker was Hubert Luhrig! Loyal through it all, Luhrig had accepted
the insidious offer of the Hydra to become one of the replacements for the
very
Head that he himself had killed, Hart Ribold!
     Only the Hydra could have inspired such double-dyed treachery in any
human. Ready to serve his manifold master, Luhrig meant his threat of death.
     Hard upon his victory over Ribold, The Shadow was on the verge of defeat
and doom, both to be delivered by Hubert Luhrig, Hydra Head Fourteen!


    CHAPTER XIX

    CRIME TRIES TWICE

     ONE question was pounding through The Shadow's brain: why didn't Luhrig
deliver the death shot?
     It was a question that must be answered instantly; yet, for once, The
Shadow groped. The Hydra menace had multiplied to so incredible a degree that
answers simply wouldn't seem to come. Then, like a flash, The Shadow saw the
answer.
     It was pacing the courtyard in the person of Moe.
     Luhrig was holding The Shadow's fate in abeyance until he'd be sure of
getting Shrevvy, too. As a Hydra Head, Luhrig wanted a profitable future, not
quick death as vengeance for The Shadow's. Moe's handling of the juggernaut
cab
had given Luhrig respect for the cabby's ingenuity. He was waiting for Moe to
pace to the proper angle and the right range, where a quick shot would get him
after The Shadow was finished.
     And Moe was on his way to the fatal spot, at this moment only a few paces
short of it!
     If The Shadow had whirled, he'd have done something Luhrig wanted.
Cleverly, the newly appointed Head had let his gun recede, so The Shadow
couldn't catch it with his shoulder blade while starting a spin.
     There was only one other course. The Shadow took it on the instant,
though
it was something that Luhrig preferred. With a long fling, The Shadow dived to
the cement courtyard ahead of Luhrig's gunshots.
     Perfect for Luhrig. With three shots from his reloaded gun, he'd surely
bag The Shadow and have a clear aim at Moe. The courtyard was wide open. It
didn't have a single spot of shelter. At least, so Luhrig thought. In becoming
an inhuman Hydra Head, he had forgotten the human element, if it could be
termed such.
     As Luhrig's first shot whined above The Shadow's head, the black-cloaked
diver veered into the ranks of the nearest prisoners, those fake cab drivers
who had served as Hydra Teeth. He was clutching two of them as Luhrig's next
bullet chipped the cement, this shot grazing The Shadow's leg.
     Then the cloaked fighter was up and around, two struggling men between
himself and Luhrig before the Head could fire the third and fatal shot!
     The Shadow didn't keep these men as human shields. They were still too
active. Instead, he used them as missiles, heaving them hard at Luhrig. Then
The Shadow was wheeling away, bringing his own guns into action, while Luhrig,
half dragging the men who had encountered him, was making for the pile of
discarded guns.
     Half a dozen hitherto helpless Teeth were piling for The Shadow,
clutching
him frantically to destroy his aim. As The Shadow flung them off, they dived
for
the gun heap to become Teeth again. Servers of a man they recognized as a new
Hydra Head, Hubert Luhrig!
     It was battle all over again, this time with no aid for The Shadow.
Whipping loose, the cloaked fighter thrust Moe into the cab, but his aid was
helpless, for the vehicle was pointed out into the alley. Moe heard The
Shadow's quick command, "Get started!" but he was loath to obey.
     Then The Shadow was doing the amazing. He was among the tables, jabbing
shots from behind them. As Luhrig dodged behind a screen of followers, The
Shadow planked one table on another and sprang on both, carrying a chair to
top
the pyramid. He was short on bullets and men were almost at the tables,
pointing
guns upward to clip their black-clad foe, when The Shadow delivered a single,
timely shot.
     He aimed it for one of the big glass roof panes. His shot cracked the
square just above the heads of aiming foemen. Down came the shattered mass of
heavy frosting, its chunks felling the men who didn't dive away. Even Luhrig
was forced to dodge from the spot that he had reached.
     That was their last chance at The Shadow. A spring from upper table to
chair; then, like a trick balancer, The Shadow was tumbling the pyramid
forward. Down came the furniture at other aiming men, while The Shadow's
hands,
swooping upward at a forward angle, caught the edge of the empty frame from
which he had shot the glass and took himself up through, and out, with a
strong
lift of his forearms!
     A dozen feet to that roof, which seemingly could give no exit. The Shadow
had cut three fourths of the distance with his improvised pyramid, and chopped
an outlet which he first used as a missile. His final launch was simplicity
itself. He was gone while enemies were still taking the brunt of the final
missiles, in the form of tables and chairs that he had toppled at them!
     And Moe was gone, too, spurting his car through the alley. There was a
note close to accusation in The Shadow's parting laugh, which Moe took as a
personal rebuke for not obeying orders. Straight through the wall that looked
like brick but wasn't, Moe hurled his car, to learn why The Shadow had wanted
him to go.
     Weston and the police cars had arrived. The barrier being shut, the fake
house front had fooled them. They didn't know how to reach the source of
gunfire. Sight of Moe's cab ripping out through brick-painted canvas told the
police the proper place to go.
     The patrols wheeled into the courtyard. There, frantic crooks were
bringing more than panic on themselves. They were shooting at the glass roof,
hoping to clip The Shadow, but they were only bringing frosted glass down upon
one another.
     They couldn't find The Shadow, because he was using the simple system of
moving to the squares that were broken by gunfire. Trying new panes all the
while, crooks were forgetting the blackened blocks that were perfect blending
spots for The Shadow.
     Of those who wheeled to meet the arriving police, only one man was
dangerous. He was Luhrig, the new Hydra Head. Spotting Weston, Luhrig aimed
point-blank, but never fired. From an empty space above, The Shadow staggered
Luhrig with the last shot from his otherwise empty guns. As Luhrig reeled,
policemen flattened him among his sagging followers.
     Better to have left him wounded from The Shadow's bullet. Two new Hydra
Heads would crop up to replace dead No. 14!


      DURING the progress of this second garden party, the siege had lifted at
Ilchester's. Guests, among whom were Clyde Burke, Harry Vincent and Margo
Lane,
had been humoring old Ira Ilchester and finding him a responsive but wheedly
old
gentleman.
      The party was being held in Ilchester's first-floor parlor when Inspector
Cardona shouldered into the house. At first, Ilchester had shown panic, but
when he learned that Hydra Head Twelve was dead, he became elated.
      A keen old man with sharp face and bright, beady eyes, Ilchester had
craned his neck forward, one hand to his ear, while Cardona related the facts
concerning Hart Ribold.
      Knowing nothing about the prompt way in which Hubert Luhrig had accepted
appointment as another Hydra Head, Cardona bluntly announced that the menace
was permanently ended. Which, in Ilchester's language, called for a
celebration. He sent his butler down to the cellar for some of his best wine.
      The wine had just arrived when Ilchester received a phone call. He
answered it and chortled happily. Laying the phone aside, he said he'd
received
new word from Commissioner Weston, corroborating Cardona's tidings. But
Ilchester's glee soured when he saw the bottles that the butler had brought.
      "Bah! These are not the best!" snapped Ilchester. "We can choose better
for ourselves. To the cellar, everyone, to take your choice of the best that
we
can find!"
      When they reached the cellar, Ilchester smiled. He pointed to a flight of
narrow steps and beckoned. They followed the sharp-faced man down into the
bomb
shelter that he had built. It was a square room, supplied with all the
comforts
for a long stay. Gesturing his guests to chairs, Ilchester paced over to the
far wall.
      With a smile at his own expense, Ilchester faced a square of cement which
looked quite new. It was where his diggers had struck the old water main, he
said. Though no longer in use, the pipe was still city property, hence it had
to be covered again.
      "And to think," declared Ilchester, "that I intended to stay cooped up in
this horrible hole! Why, I even had these!" From a rack on the wall, he
produced a pair of long-barreled revolvers. "I kept them here thinking I would
need them for my self-defense.
     "But that time is over. Really over." Ilchester chortled as he cocked the
loaded guns. "Because now I am the hunter, not the hunted. More than that" -
the old man's eyes were narrow slits, his tone a ferocious gloat - "I have
already trapped my prey. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Hydra Head
Fifteen!"


      LISTENERS didn't believe it until they made slight motions. Then
Ilchester
became so threatening with the guns that they subsided.
      Ilchester laughed in gritty style as he looked over his human prizes.
There were four who counted: Inspector Cardona first; next Burke, the
troublesome reporter; third, the chap Vincent, who had meddled with the
Hydra's
business, too.
      Finally, Ilchester's cunning eyes settled on Margo Lane. She was a close
friend of Lamont Cranston, reputed millionaire. For Margo alone, Ilchester
could demand a sizable ransom. The look that he gave the others so belittled
them that they felt themselves slated for death, rather than belonging in
Margo's category.
      Back and forth, with short paces, Ilchester's feet clicked on the cement,
but always his thin hands were steady with their guns, while he declaimed more
for his own amusement than the information of his prisoners:
      "I was wealthy once. Very wealthy." Ilchester's features mingled smiles
and frowns. "So wealthy that I became a philanthropist. A bad mistake, for it
made me a forgotten man. I might as well have been dead, with my name engraved
on a tombstone, as to have it placed on buildings which my money had endowed.
      "My fortune dwindled from many causes. Where, then, was my share of
wealth? Gone into things for which I had no use. My last endowment, that
library of mine! Bah! I would have sold it, but the prices offered were
insults. I had no room for it, having been forced to sell my country mansion.
So I gave my books away."
      The guns were quivering in Ilchester's hands, but not because his grip
had
weakened. Weapons seemed eager of their own accord, like deadly fangs of
snakes
about to strike.
      Harry and Clyde were exchanging looks with Cardona. They were ready to
rush those guns, though chances were that two men would be doomed. The third
might make it before Ilchester could again cock one of the old-fashioned
weapons.
      "Then came the Hydra," spoke Ilchester, "as personified by Head No. 12.
The Hydra, hungrily demanding what money I had left. I feared... and I
admired.
The Hydra was honest in its way. It didn't wheedle for funds and then forget
me.
It asked for them outright.
      "The Hydra must have known my thoughts. When the twelfth Head was lopped
tonight, the others got together. They needed new Heads and they considered
me,
because as a threatened man I was in the very position to turn the game about.
I
could turn guests into prisoners and demand a ransom by merely cocking these
guns.
      "That phone call I answered wasn't from Commissioner Weston. It was from
the Hydra, offering me the chance that I accepted. I shall have wealth equal
to
my former dreams! Crime - even murder - why should I forego it? I have
experienced everything else. With the Hydra there can be no penalty. Because
by
now the Hydra's only dangerous enemy is dead. I mean The Shadow!"
      That was enough for the trapped men. Their glances said one word:
      "Now." Leaving Margo by the steps, the three men charged. Clyde and Harry
were ahead of Cardona, but not because Joe wanted it that way. They were
simply
quicker on the take-off, that was all.
      A take-off to doom!
      For with the moment of their lunge, Ilchester thrust his guns at Harry
and
Clyde respectively. Before they'd covered three paces, the new Hydra Head
fired
both weapons point-blank at his victims!


     TREMENDOUS was the blast, far greater than a double discharge of
revolvers
could produce. Like the explosion at Glencoe's, this one rocked the premises.
Only stone walls could have stood its force, which they did. But cement gave,
the thin layer beneath Ilchester's feet. It sprouted upward like the mushroom
puff of a fired oil well, and Ilchester went with it.
     The man of intended murder seemed to fly apart. His guns were scaling to
the ceiling as they flashed. Harry and Clyde were hurled to the wall, not by
the impact of bullets but by the concussion from the floor. They found
themselves on the floor beside Margo and Cardona, staring at the whitish smoke
that issued in grotesque shape from the great gap in the cement.
     The white cloud cleared. Blackness replaced it in the shape of a rising
form. There stood The Shadow, up through the hole that he had blasted with a
well-placed charge of explosive. He'd come to Ilchester's after his fray with
Luhrig, knowing quite well what he might find there.
     Instead of wasting effort upon the cellar door that Ilchester had barred
above the stairs, The Shadow had remembered the old water main. He'd crawled
through it, and listened to Ilchester's threats and paces while setting the
charge that could alone effect the rescue of four helpless prisoners.
     The way above was open, for the upper door was bolted from this side. The
Shadow gestured his friends along that route, while he returned to the
underground tunnel from which he had arrived. As the four ascended the steps
to
freedom, they heard the strains of a hollow, deep-toned laugh.
     Regretful mirth, The Shadow's. Not so much for Ira Ilchester, who had
voluntarily accepted his course of evil, as for Hydra Head Fifteen, which the
dead man represented. For Ilchester's death would bring another duo to the
many-brained monster of crime.
     Tonight, in winning three triumphs over the Hydra, The Shadow had
actually
added four future tasks to the already formidable campaign that he had
undertaken.
     Without a doubt, the greatest foe that The Shadow had ever met was that
one composed of many: the Hydra.


     CHAPTER XX

     THE STROKE SUPREME

     LAMONT CRANSTON was reading up on mythology. He already knew that the
Hydra was a many-headed monster, but he wanted to know what was done about it
in ancient times. Cranston learned that a gentleman named Hercules had
strangled the creature, more or less.
      So Cranston went to the telephone and called Burbank, who connected him
with The Shadow. In identical voices they discussed the Hydra, and Cranston
learned a few things about the modern model. He had a chat on the subject
later, with Richards, his valet.
      "About the Hydra, Richards -"
      "A horrible creature, Mr. Cranston," agreed Richards. "Such a plethora of
information that one hears on the radio. Yet no one seems to know what to do
about it."
      "I do," asserted Cranston. "It must be strangled."
      "But how, sir, with so many Heads?"
      "That's just it, Richards. Those Heads have been deprived of Eyes, Ears
and Teeth. Now is the time to defeat them."
      "Very good, sir," Richards acknowledged. "I trust that you will voice
your
opinion to the civic committee."
      Something other than the civic committee was at that moment busy on the
Hydra situation. The Shadow was in his sanctum, studying reports from agents.
To those from Clyde and Harry, The Shadow added another, the mutual report of
Cliff Marsland and his side-kick, Hawkeye, who covered the underworld.
      What The Shadow had told Cranston seemed definitely true. Shorn of lesser
workers, the Hydra was dependent solely on its Heads. They would soon grow the
needed members with which they saw, heard, and bit their way to supercrime.
The
time to stop the Hydra was now.
      Rutledge Mann had submitted his usual report. Recommended investments
were
doing better than before. New stocks were being issued in all the companies
that
Glencoe liked. But The Shadow was interested in all reports only so far as
they
pertained directly to crime.
      Leaving the sanctum, The Shadow paid a Cranston visit to Weston's office.
Bardell was there with a list of names for his committee. He'd just about
given
up after Luhrig and Ilchester had swung over to the Hydra. Then, on the basis
that no men were perfect, Bardell had formed his committee anyway.
      "Nothing can be lost," declared Bardell, "and much can be gained. Our
only
danger is that the Hydra may threaten us. On that account, we have not yet
decided upon a meeting place."
      The Shadow pondered over that one; then, in Cranston's casual style, he
stated that he could find one. Indeed, he could think of one already, the roof
garden of the old Hotel Marmora. It was being remodeled into a private dining
room and would probably be available whenever the committee required it.
      When Weston suggested tomorrow evening, The Shadow called the Marmora and
found that it could be arranged. The rest of that day he spent with his
agents.
There were four that he could use: Harry, Clyde, Cliff and Hawkeye.
      Burbank and Moe being required for their present duties, The Shadow
wanted
another, because for his particular purpose he required five. So he sent for
Miles Crofton, an aviator who had served him on other important occasions.
      That done, The Shadow made provision for a sixth man, one whose special
abilities would prove very useful.


     LATE the next afternoon, The Shadow entered Moe's cab. Not the Blue Spot,
but the old reliable, again in service. A week had passed since the
Ribold-Luhrig fray, and out of that entire period Moe had but one thing to
report to his cloaked chief. The incident had occurred today.
     "Got rid of the Blue Spot this afternoon," said Moe. "Took it out for
another cruise and picked up a fare who steered me to a repair shop. They were
buying cabs. Paid me cash on the line, no questions asked."
     Moe exhibited the cash in question, a fistful of it. Quite interesting,
since Moe hadn't owned the Blue Spot cab. The Shadow's laugh anticipated
further facts from Moe. They came.
     "They had some other hacks there," continued Moe. "All new paint jobs.
Looks like they've been calling in all that were left. They thought I was
another guy named Joe who didn't get around to that big brawl where you staged
the cleanup."
     Modest of Moe to overlook the helpful part that he had played in the
courtyard fight. But The Shadow was more interested in what had happened
today.
Questioning Moe, he learned that the repair shop where the Blue Spot cabs were
being camouflaged occupied a portion of a warehouse belonging to the Diana
Storage Co. Apparently the repair shop had served previously as a garage for
the trucks that served the storage company.
     But there were no trucks there any longer. Nothing but the cabs that were
undergoing transformation. Again The Shadow laughed. He could deal in
camouflage, too, as he intended to prove before this night was over.
     Becoming Cranston, The Shadow stopped at the Cobalt Club, to find
Commissioner Weston all enthused about tonight's committee meeting. When The
Shadow casually stated that he wouldn't be there, Weston glared indignantly,
then changed his expression when he thought he understood.
     "I know you're not on the committee, Cranston," declared the
commissioner.
"But you will have to help me explain matters to the members. Bardell has
chosen
a dozen men of repute, who have heard only vaguely of the Hydra menace. Your
recovery of the crown gems is something they would like to hear about,
firsthand.
     "Similarly, I think Miss Lane's testimony would help, since she was the
target of crime in the Ilchester episode. And so" - Weston's eyes showed a
twinkle - "I would appreciate it if you would bring Miss Lane to the meeting.
It wouldn't chance that you have a date with her this evening?"
     It chanced that Cranston had. That was all arranged, with The Shadow
fishing for the very invitation that Weston extended. But it wasn't The Shadow
who would take Margo to the Hotel Marmora. The assignment belonged to the real
Lamont Cranston.
     The Shadow notified his double in a most unusual way.
     When the phone rang at Cranston's, both Richards and his master answered
it, one downstairs, the other on the second floor. When he heard Richards
speak, Cranston hung up, as he left most of his calls to the valet.
     Strolling to the top of the stairs, Cranston saw Richards coming from the
telephone. Looking upstairs, the valet inquired:
     "Were you jesting, sir?"
     "About what, Richards?"
     "That phone call," explained Richards. "There was no one on the wire.
Except you, sir, using the extension phone. I distinctly heard you say
'tallyho' before you hung up."
     For a moment, Cranston's eyebrows raised. Then:
     "An odd habit of mine," he said. "Acquired from my fox-hunting friends in
England. Curious how it cropped up on me. By the way, Richards, tell Stanley
to
bring the car. I am going into town at once."
     Tallyho!
     The token that The Shadow had promised. The word that would bring
Cranston
to the kill of some thing more than a mere fox. In this case, it could apply
to
one creature only: the Hydra!


      WHEN the commissioner's official car arrived at the old Hotel Marmora, it
was accompanied by a flock of motorcycles, whose riders were again convoying
their friend and hero, Lamont Cranston, along with the police commissioner.
Margo Lane also alighted, and the trio entered the hotel.
      Again, Weston thanked Cranston for selecting this meeting place. By
stationing detectives in the lobby, Weston was protecting the upper floors,
including the roof dining room.
      Inspector Cardona joined the group and went up in the elevator, since he
was to testify before the civic committee, too. At the top floor, the arrivals
were received by an African attendant in a resplendent uniform. Hired
specially
for this occasion, he bowed them to the remodeled dining room, where Dustin
Bardell and the rest of the committee awaited.
      Placed beside Cranston, Margo glanced about at the decorations of the new
dining room. It bore no resemblance to an old-fashioned roof garden, the sort
of place that would have full-length windows opening outdoors. Instead, it was
like a modern night club, sleek and streamlined.
      An oblong room, with smooth, unbroken walls done in tasteful style, a
compromise between plain papering and mural paintings. A plain pattern would
have made the place boxlike, whereas murals would be too garish. So the
decorator had chosen an ornamental wallpaper bearing pictures of old-time
ships
in New York harbor.
      The same motif was repeated all about the room, there being just enough
variety in the design to make it interesting. Margo was counting the masts on
an old frigate, when Cranston quietly informed her that the meeting had been
called to order.
      Amid the dozen committee members, one man had risen: Dustin Bardell.
Bluntly, he was voicing the sentiments of his companions, who listened
approvingly, their faces firm with dignity. What Bardell had to say was very
pointed.
      "Crime has gone beyond all bounds," declared Bardell. "We concur in the
opinion that the law is unable to cope with the monster known as the Hydra.
For
example" - he swung to Weston - "can you tell me, commissioner, how many Hydra
Heads are still active?"
      Weston shook his head.
      "You are admitting negligence," snapped Bardell. "I have been able to
compute the number. My records show that Heads Two, Three, Five and Six are
men
who have purposely disappeared from sight. Heads Four, Seven, Ten, Twelve,
Fourteen and Fifteen have been eliminated, not by you, commissioner, but by
The
Shadow.
      "Allowing for five Heads with numbers lower than Fourteen, six new
appointments after Ribold's death; eliminating two, namely Luhrig and
Ilchester, the Hydra should by now have four more. Five and four are nine in
all - do you follow me, commissioner?"
      Weston was using his fingers on which to count, and Joe Cardona was
trying
to help him, which mixed them both. Bardell gave a pleased chuckle.
      "I know more about the Hydra than you do, commissioner," declared
Bardell.
"For instance, it has occurred to me that Head No. 1, the original Hydra, is
still at large and active."
      "Impossible!" exclaimed Weston. "Why, then the Hydra would actually be
embodied in a single man, the rest of the so-called Heads being his
lieutenants. I couldn't believe that, Bardell, not without proof!"
      Hands in his pockets, Bardell bowed. As his face came up, it displayed a
vicious glare, as fiendish a gloat as any that Weston and his companions had
ever seen. Bardell's eyes glinted like steel, as did the object that his hand
whipped from his pocket. For the object in question was steel. It was a
revolver.
      The gun's sparkle flashed a signal for others. The rest of the committee
men were on their feet, producing guns. Those prominent persons chosen by
Bardell to aid in a campaign against crime were showing their preference for
evil.
      Bardell was Head No. 1, the real Hydra! These others were the remaining
Heads that he had appointed to replace those lopped by The Shadow. An
organization by one superbrain, the Hydra, with lieutenants to whom that
leader
had granted title equal to his own.
      Such was the Hydra, personified by Dustin Bardell & Co. Deprived of
lesser
workers, the Heads were taking over on their own. This was crime's stroke
supreme!


     CHAPTER XXI

     TOO MANY SHADOWS

     WHILE the many Hydra Heads held their prisoners helpless, Dustin Bardell
explained the reason for his supreme stroke. He began with a few preliminary
remarks, delivered in caustic style.
     "New York needs a new police commissioner," decided Bardell. "You have
been very inefficient, Weston, as we, the Hydra, are qualified to judge. As
for
your ace inspector, we have found Cardona stupid but troublesome. So we shall
dispose of you both."
     Looming gun muzzles backed the Hydra's threat, but Bardell did not give
the order for slaughter. He preferred more subtle methods of delivering death
to helpless victims. Besides, he had more to say.
     "However, commissioner," the chief Head gloated, "you must not flatter
yourself with thoughts of importance. We could put up with you and Cardona, if
we chose. We staged this stroke for the prime purpose of trapping our only
dangerous enemy, The Shadow!"
     With that, Bardell turned his eyes directly upon Lamont Cranston!
     The way Cranston took it was remarkable. Glancing toward her companion,
Margo was amazed at his calmness. She'd always thought that in a pinch like
this, Cranston would galvanize into The Shadow in a trice. Instead, he was
blandly returning Bardell's gaze.
     "Come, Cranston!" sneered Bardell. "You know that Willard Mance was Head
No. 4. We finally learned that he went to your home after he had murdered
Edmund Glencoe. Which proves that Mance had marked you as The Shadow!"
     "So that was it!" remarked Cranston. "I wondered why Mance talked about a
showdown over something that I couldn't understand."
     "Therefore, you killed Mance -"
     "Because I had no other choice. The elephant gun went off and that was
the
end of him. When I learned he was already supposed to be dead, I hushed up the
matter."
     Cranston's reference to an elephant gun left Bardell somewhat puzzled.
Thinking in terms of .45 automatics, Bardell was finding it hard to visualize
Cranston as The Shadow. Then:
     "You can't deny your identity," asserted Bardell. "Your recovery of those
jewels was another give-away."
    "A mere accident," insisted Cranston. "You see -"
    "Your broker kept snooping into my investments," interrupted Bardell.
"You
should have learned enough to know that I controlled the companies in which
Glencoe had promised to buy stock. I was getting mine from Glencoe while Mance
was getting his!"
     Cranston simply sat speechless. He hadn't an idea that any such thing was
going on. The Shadow should have told him.
     "I covered my trail well," continued Bardell, "until the night when
Ribold
died. Knowing that you were The Shadow, I tried to finish you, Cranston. I was
with the commissioner when he heard of Ribold's death, and I stayed at the
club
when he left.
     "From there I phoned Luhrig and Ilchester, appointing them Hydra Heads.
One was to kill you, Cranston, the other to trap the Lane girl, in case the
first missed out. You finished them both, and from that time on, you should
have marked me as the Hydra. Furthermore, there are many other heads working
for me, that you do not know about!"
     The fact was self-evident. Only Bardell could have signed up Luhrig and
Ilchester so promptly after Ribold's death. What amazed the listeners,
Cranston
included, was that The Shadow hadn't divined those facts himself. True, no one
else had grasped them, but analyzing such matters was The Shadow's specialty.
     Perhaps The Shadow did know!
     If so, he had been letting Bardell live on sufferance until the present.
Worried by the thought, Bardell had staged his present trick of forming a
committee all of Hydra Heads. If only The Shadow could have foreseen that
prospect, too!
     Apparently The Shadow hadn't. There was no place for him to be concealed
in this room of barren walls, with its heavy, bolted door. Hence Bardell,
confident that The Shadow would not miss this meeting, was more than positive
that Cranston was The Shadow.
     Venom flashing from his eyes, the Hydra could wait no longer to dispose
of
his arch-foe. With a snarl that promised death, Bardell thrust his gun toward
Cranston.


     FIERCE, challenging was the mighty laugh that interrupted, a mirth so
unmistakable that Bardell forgot his prey for the moment. A dozen Hydra Heads
were turning, all with guns, hoping to deal with a lone foe. Bardell's theory
regarding Cranston was therewith rejected. The Shadow's laugh hadn't come from
Cranston's lips.
     A laugh from nowhere!
     Such was the effect, until Bardell broke the spell by snarling across his
shoulder to Cranston:
     "Another trick of yours, Shadow! You can't be nowhere any more than you
can hope to be everywhere."
     Bardell was wrong. Amid the snarled statement, The Shadow arrived from
nowhere and appeared everywhere. The echoes of his laugh were drowned by
surrounding crashes as the side walls of the room broke open, delivering six
fighters cloaked in black.
     Six Shadows, three to a wall, each with a brace of automatics. Twelve
guns
in all, to match the weapons of the Hydra. Those guns talked ahead of their
rivals. Automatics were jabbing deadly tongues of flame, while revolvers were
merely glinting in the light, as their owners swung them to aim.
     This was The Shadow's way of strangling the Hydra. Bringing its Heads
together, he was smothering them en masse with a blanket of gunfire. If the
Hydra could have twelve Heads, The Shadow could supply six Selves. It stood
proven.
     Every revolver had been beaten to the shot. Each of six Shadows had
picked
a pair of Hydra Heads. Only Bardell remained unscathed, for he had dodged
instead of trying to shoot. Now, Bardell was springing to the door, unbolting
it under a shield of crippled lieutenants, those who had managed to detach
themselves from their more seriously wounded companions.
     Weston and Cardona were after the remnants of the villainous tribe.
Cranston remained calmly at the table, restraining Margo. Quite foolish,
Cranston thought it, to block off six avenging Shadows from their prey. Weston
and Cardona were too impetuous.
     Yanking the door wide, Bardell dashed through. Six other Heads were
behind
him, but their dash didn't last. They wagged guns back at Weston and Cardona,
who ducked for cover; but the delay suited the giant African who was standing
outside the door.
     His name was Jericho and he worked for The Shadow. Plucking the crippled
Hydra Heads in pairs, Jericho clapped their skulls together and tossed them
aside, using each pair as a shield, until he thrust his massive hands for the
next two comers.
     The last pair offered trouble. They were aiming their guns when Jericho
reached them. But by then, a flood of Shadows was upon them from the rear,
snatching their weapons away from them while Jericho took the necks of his
foemen and showed what should be done to Hydra Heads.
     Only one Head had escaped, the one who was truly the Hydra, Dustin
Bardell. He was in an elevator, going down; but in a second car, The Shadow
followed. Five other Shadows were taking to a stairway, removing their cloaks
and hats. They weren't the one and only Shadow; he had taken the Hydra's
trail.
These were The Shadow's secret agents, the five that he had chosen to aid him
in
a multiple appearance.
     Back in the dining room, Lamont Cranston was pointing to the gaping
walls.
There, Margo Lane saw six deep, full-length windows, a feature of the old
Marmora roof garden in the days when a sixteen-story hotel offered a good view
of Manhattan.
     Those deep-set spaces had been papered over. Six Shadows had reached the
windows along the narrow promenade outside the garden. Screened only by
wallpaper, they were ready to rip through from the moment the meeting began.
They had waited only for Dustin Bardell to declare himself the supreme Hydra.
     It happened that The Shadow, as Cranston, had suggested this meeting
place, knowing how effective its arrangements could be. Conversely Bardell,
the
Hydra, had totally overlooked the purpose behind the suggestion.


     RACING from the Hotel Marmora, Bardell was on his way to the Diana
Storage
Co. Gesturing his revolver, Bardell frightened away the cabby who had brought
him and dashed into the repair shop that had once been a garage.
     In answer to Bardell's bellows, men hurried down from storage rooms on
the
floor above.
     They were the Heads that Bardell had written off. Foremost of these men
who had disappeared was Lloyd Casler. Bardell had mentioned him along with
lopped Heads, purely because Casler had been trapped in crime by The Shadow.
     Bardell gestured his living associates to the repainted cabs. When they
hesitated, the chief Hydra roared:
     "Forget Glencoe's treasures stored upstairs! Let the police recover them,
as they did the bank money and the crown jewels. The Hydra still lives and it
yet possesses Heads! We are stronger now than when we first encountered The
Shadow! But time is short and we cannot afford to waste it!"
     Time was too short. As taxicabs wheeled from the garage, the whines of
sirens came from all around. Scattering, the Heads drove their vehicles
savagely, but to no avail. Tuned to the shrieking sirens was the laugh of the
fighter who had purposely brought police cars along this trail.
     Again The Shadow seemed to be nowhere, yet everywhere. He was shifting
rapidly as he spurted his guns at the tires of the fugitive cabs. They weren't
armored like the bantam car that had once served the Hydra. These cabs were
vulnerable.
     So were their occupants. Some were clipped by The Shadow's gunfire.
Others
wrecked their cabs when his bullets burst their tires. As they clambered out
with guns, the Heads were confronted by arriving police, who gave them short
shrift. The desperate criminals wanted to fight to the finish.
     So they did - to their own finish.
     One alone managed to offset the odds of many police guns. Out of his
wrecked cab, Dustin Bardell flung himself across the hood to reach the
sidewalk
side. Turning spryly about, he jutted his gun across the hood, hoping to
riddle
three motorcycle cops who were already shooting after him.
     From behind Bardell came a sinister laugh, the final warning of The
Shadow. Swinging about, Bardell jabbed shots at blackness, probing for a
foeman
that he couldn't find. Blackness was thick and plentiful, too great an expanse
for Bardell's frantic shots to cover. Besides, it was filled with shelters -
doorways, house steps, and other objects that he couldn't see.
     One shot answered the Hydra's frenzied volley. Clipped by The Shadow's
unerring aim, Bardell jolted high, twisting half across the hood of the cab,
his gun hand going ahead of him. A hand with an empty gun that it couldn't
aim;
but that was something the motorcycle cops didn't know.
     Three police guns spoke, completing The Shadow's work. Slumping to the
gutter, Dustin Bardell emitted a rattling snarl, his last. That dying gasp had
a peculiar likeness to the gargle of a strangling creature.
     It represented such. With the death of Dustin Bardell, the Hydra was gone
forever, strangled by that modern Hercules, The Shadow. Instead of lopping off
Heads, The Shadow had choked them all at once, the final member of that
cluster
being the one Head that contained the real brain of the Hydra.
     Strange was the laugh that faded into night, trailing into echoes that
still persisted in this battle area where crime had been totally conquered.
     The triumph laugh of The Shadow!


     ELSEWHERE, Margo Lane was frowning in perplexity as she stared at Lamont
Cranston, riding beside her in Weston's official car. Until tonight, Margo was
sure that Lamont must be The Shadow.
     And now -
     Cranston couldn't be The Shadow, because he'd been himself when the
cloaked avalanche smothered the Heads of the Hydra.
     And yet -
     There could only be one Shadow.
     With six on the scene, five must have been mere masqueraders, enlisted to
confuse the Hydra Heads. If five were spurious, why not six?
     In that case, Lamont Cranston still could be The Shadow. Yes, it would be
his way to guise six men in black and let them deliver an attack from ambush
under conditions where they couldn't lose.
     Still, the laugh that produced six Shadows couldn't possibly have come
from Cranston's immobile lips. Or could it?
     Strange, this riddle of The Shadow!


    THE END