The Red Menace s-4

by Maxwell Grant

  Yet he was still alone. He felt the oppressive gloom of this strange house. He decided to walk about the

  room.

  After a few paces, he was tempted to open one of the doors and look about; but he desisted, and it was

  well that he did, for at that moment the man with the twisted face suddenly reappeared.

  HE approached Harry, and pointed to the nearest door. Harry took this as a signal to enter. He stepped

  forward alone.

  The door opened into a small hallway. There was a door opposite. It was ajar, and rays of light were

  visible.

  Harry pushed the door open, and stepped into a lighted room. Then he stood still in astonishment at his

  surroundings.

  The room was in great disorder. One wall was a huge bookcase, but the shelves were only half filled.

  The missing volumes were piled about the room; some on chairs and tables; others on the floor, which

  was also strewn with papers.

  Among the books were glass jars, and bits of mechanism. A shelf in the corner was piled with bottles and

  tubes of varicolored liquids.

  A large tiger cat sat upon a window sill, nestled in the midst of papers. The animal seemed to have

  chosen that place as the only vacant spot.

  In the midst of this chaos, behind a desk that was completely covered with books, papers, and odd

  contrivances, sat the strangest looking man whom Harry Vincent had ever encountered.

  He was old, stooped, and thin. His hair was a mass of untrimmed white. He wore a huge white mustache,

  with long drooping ends.

  He was muttering to himself as he wrote upon a sheet of paper which lay upon an opened book. He

  seemed totally unconscious of Harry's arrival.

  The objects in the room were interesting; and Harry took advantage of the man's preoccupation to study

  his surroundings. Everywhere he looked he saw something which seemed to no apparent purpose.

  He forgot all about the man at the desk for a few minutes. When his eyes returned to that spot, the

  white-haired individual was staring at him with a strange, fixed gaze.

  Harry uttered a slight exclamation; then bowed to the old man.

  "You are Professor Whitburn?" he questioned.

  "Yes," replied the old man, in a raspy voice. "What is your name?"

  "Harry Vincent."

  "Ah, yes. I had forgotten it. You are the new man. Sit down. I would like to talk to you."

  Harry carefully removed books and papers from the nearest chair, and deposited them upon a table. He

  drew the chair to the side of the desk, directly opposite Professor Whitburn.

  The desk lamp shone upon the old man's features. Harry seemed to detect an unusual gleam in the

  professor's eyes.

  "I chose you after much consideration," said Professor Whitburn, in a slow voice. His tones were almost

  accusing. "You studied engineering, did you not?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Did you put your learning into practical experience?"

  "Not very long, sir. I had an opportunity in another business. I must confess that my technical training is

  no longer what it used to be."

  "Good!" asserted Professor Whitburn. "Good!"

  Harry was surprised at the man's tone of approval. He had imagined that his inactivity in engineering

  would have been to his disadvantage.

  "Training!" exclaimed Professor Whitburn. "Bah! There is only one real training experience, and that must

  be of the right sort, mind you. Not the kind of experience that most young men get. I am glad you have

  had little of it."

  He brought his thin fists up from beneath the desk, and thomped them simultaneously upon the wood in

  front of him.

  "Young men tell me what to do!" he said, in apparent fury. "I have had them tell me what to do! They

  think that their parrot learning is knowledge! They find out differently, when they have worked with me! I

  demand more than a few simple facts tucked away up here!"

  He tapped his forehead as he spoke. Then he became quiet, and looked intently at Harry. The old man's

  hands went beneath the desk.

  His eyes became wild and staring; then suddenly he whipped out an automatic revolver and leveled it at

  Harry. His lips broke forth with an insane laugh.

  HARRY instinctively raised himself from his chair. But he caught himself as he was about to leap

  forward. His better judgment dominated his mind.

  While the professor still flourished the automatic, Harry settled back in his chair, and smiled indulgently.

  Professor Whitburn thrust the gun in a desk drawer, without removing his eyes from Harry's

  countenance. Then the old man's lips formed a sour smile.

  "I have demonstrated my point," said the professor, in his rasping voice. "That is a test which I frequently

  use. Some men jump at me, and I toss the gun aside. Others plead, or throw up their hands. A very few

  behave as you have done.

  "Young man, I observed every emotion that passed through your mind. First you were startled. Then

  came the desire for action, coupled with fear—natural fear. Then reason withheld you. You thought you

  were dealing with a lunatic; you sought to outwit me."

  He wagged a long, thin forefinger toward Harry.

  "Study cannot teach a man to behave as you did," he said. "Your actions were the result of a mind that is

  both quick and experienced.

  "You knew how to encounter danger. Therefore you would be willing to face danger. You are the type of

  man I need."

  The old man became silent. He was speculating upon something. Harry did not disturb his thoughts,

  although he wondered what new surprise might be in store.

  "This island is a strange place," remarked Professor Whitburn. "A strange place, with a bad reputation.

  That is why I chose the place.

  "I like to be alone—assisted only by those whom I have chosen to help me in my labors. In a place like

  this, I am left alone.

  "I am a man with great vision"—the professor's voice became less raspy, and his eyes seemed to glow in

  reminiscence—"but few have been able to appreciate it. One man became interested in my plans; but I

  would not work for him, until he made me financially independent.

  "Even then, the desire for material gain dominated him. He constantly annoyed me, demanding action and

  results. Now he is dead, for which I am truly sorry; but it has left me free to develop my work without

  troublesome interruption.

  "I have chosen rather unusual men to be here with me. They know how to keep silence. They do not

  talk—even among themselves. They realize that reward lies in the future; but they devote their efforts to

  the present. Are you willing to do the same?"

  "The present always interests me more than the future," replied Harry.

  "Good! Then you shall work for me," said the professor. "But wait— there is one more point. Your work

  will involve danger. Will you assume it at your own risk?"

  "Certainly."

  "The reason that I ask," said Professor Whitburn, in warning tones, "is because two men have died in my

  service. They suffered because of their own carelessness. I was able to prove that fact.

  "I regret that they died. They were valuable men. But my work must go on— it is more important than

  human life, although I have never demanded a sacrifice."

  "I am willing," answered Harry.

  The professor rummaged in the drawer of the desk. He brought out a typewritten sheet of paper, and

  passed it across to Harry.r />
  The document proved to be an agreement, stating that the undersigned contracted to work for Professor

  Whitburn, and assumed all responsibility for any accidents that might befall in the course of his labors.

  While Harry was reading the paper, the professor pressed a buzzer once; then twice. Just as Harry had

  completed his perusal of the agreement, two men entered the room. They were the same men whom

  Harry had seen before.

  Professor Whitburn pointed to Harry, and then to the man with the beard.

  "Vincent," he said, "this is Crawford."

  The bearded man nodded.

  "Vincent, this is Stokes."

  Without further ado, he handed a pen across the desk. Harry took it and signed the document. Stokes

  and Crawford applied their names as witnesses.

  "Have you eaten dinner?" questioned the professor.

  "No, sir," replied Harry.

  "Crawford will cook you something. Go with him. He will introduce you to Marsh—my other man.

  "We have no formalities here, Vincent. If you wish to see me, knock at the outer door; then enter. If I do

  not hear you, that is my mistake.

  "The buzzer on my desk can be heard in all parts of the house even a short distance outside. Four is your

  signal."

  He turned to the side of the desk, and made a note on a pad.

  "Crawford, one; Stokes, two; Marsh, three; Vincent, four," he muttered.

  The professor again faced Harry.

  "Do not leave the island without my permission," he stated. "That is important. Answer every summons

  promptly. Is there anything else?"

  "What are the salary arrangements?" questioned Harry.

  "Ah! I had forgotten," answered the old man. "Your first term of service will be three months. After that,

  you may expect an advance. Will two hundred dollars a month be satisfactory? Remember, you have no

  living expenses here."

  "Two hundred a month will be quite satisfactory," replied Harry.

  "Very good," said the professor, with his peculiar smile. "I want you to be satisfied. So your salary will be

  two hundred and fifty, instead of two hundred."

  Professor Whitburn was busy with his papers. He had become totally oblivious to Harry's presence;

  Crawford tapped Harry on the shoulder, and pointed significantly toward the door, showing that the

  interview was ended.

  Rising, he followed the other two men from the room. As he left, Harry glanced back. The old professor

  was still engrossed in his work.

  CHAPTER XVII. A VISIT TO PRINCE ZUVOR

  LAMONT CRANSTON strolled into the Cobalt Club, and took his place in a comfortable chair. He

  looked about him, as though expecting to see some one. Then he languidly tapped a cigarette on a gold

  case, and leaned back in his chair.

  A week had passed since Lamont Cranston's chat with Prince Zuvor— the Russian who called himself

  Richard Albion. During that week, Cranston had been at the Cobalt Club infrequently; and then only for

  short stays. On his last visit, he had left a brief note for Richard Albion.

  "Telephone, sir," said an attendant, who approached the chair where Lamont Cranston was seated.

  The millionaire arose slowly, and went to the private telephone room. He displayed no enthusiasm

  whatever. Even when he answered the phone, in a place free from observation, he acted in a most

  disinterested manner.

  "This is Burbank," came a voice over the wire. "Shall I talk to you now?"

  "Everything all right at your end?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Go ahead then."

  "I have been watching Volovick -"

  "Never mind the name, Burbank."

  "All right, sir. I have been watching the man. I have talked with him. I have learned nothing of importance

  except one very small detail."

  "Which is -"

  "When he opened his wallet to take out some money, he pulled out a yellow card. It was a blank card; I

  saw both sides of it. But he put it away so quickly that I thought it might have some significance."

  "A yellow card, Burbank? Are you sure it was not a white one?"

  "Positive, sir. I thought it was white for a moment; but when he held it in his hand, I noted that it was

  yellow. A pale yellow— almost white."

  "Where is the man now?"

  "At the Pink Rat. He has been drinking a great deal."

  "All right, Burbank. Let him stay there. Go off duty. I'll let you know when you are needed."

  Lamont Cranston sat in thought for a few minutes after he had hung up the receiver. Then he smiled.

  "A yellow card," he murmured. "Yellow—almost white. Volovick has been drinking. Rather a bad

  practice if he is engaged in active work."

  He drew a pad from his pocket, and wrote:

  Black—A meeting to-night.

  Gray—Meeting: do not come if in danger.

  White—Work ended. No more meetings.

  He paused momentarily; then added:

  Yellow—No work or meetings until specially notified.

  LAMONT CRANSTON laughed. The matter of Volovick had troubled him during the past few days.

  Now he understood that the man was temporarily inactive.

  The millionaire left the telephone room. When he arrived in the lobby of the club, the doorman accosted

  him.

  "Note just came for you, Mr. Cranston."

  Mr. Cranston opened the envelope and read the message. It was from Prince Zuvor. It bore the

  letterhead of a New York hotel. Lamont Cranston read it at a glance.

  I shall be unable to meet you at the club as I had hoped. I do not expect to be there until the end of the

  week. But I am at home to-night. If you choose to call, you are welcome. But remember—

  The abrupt termination of the message was a reminder of the previous conversation, when Zuvor had

  mentioned the dangers which surrounded him. The note was signed "Richard Albion."

  Lamont Cranston left the Cobalt Club. He summoned a taxicab. He drove directly to the home of Prince

  Zuvor.

  When he reached his destination, he stood looking at the house, from the street. He did not appear to

  notice a large sedan that was parked opposite the house. He went up the steps and rang the bell.

  He was admitted by the Russian servant, who conducted him upstairs, as soon as he gave his name. He

  was ushered into the front room, where the wolfhound walked silently over to greet him.

  Prince Zuvor appeared.

  "This is a pleasure," exclaimed the prince, in a tone of welcome. "I had not expected you to accept my

  invitation."

  Lamont Cranston rose leisurely, and grasped Prince Zuvor's hand.

  "You did not expect me?" he asked.

  "I did not," replied the prince. "You recall, of course, the dangers that I mentioned. I had supposed that

  you would rely on your better judgment, after you had considered the matter.

  "This house is watched. Those thick curtains are evidence of that fact. They are not merely ornaments."

  Lamont Cranston shrugged his shoulders.

  "The danger does not worry me," he said. "I would even welcome a bit of danger. My life is one of

  leisure. It grows monotonous at times."

  Prince Zuvor looked toward the large dog that was standing by Cranston. He snapped his fingers as a

  command for the wolfhound to retire to the corner. Then his gaze became fixed upon the floor, and

  Cranston detected a look of surprise upon his face.

  "What is it?" asked the millionaire.

  "Nothing," replied Zuvor, lifting his head. "I was perplexed for a moment, th
at was all. Your

  shadow—here on the floor. It seems grotesque, when I look at it."

  Lamont Cranston smiled as he sat down.

  "It must be the arrangement of the lights," observed Prince Zuvor, glancing about the room. "It actually

  startled me for a moment."

  He looked toward the floor again, then added: "It is different now, when you are sitting down."

  "A shadow," observed Cranston, "is a very unimportant thing. It has no life; in fact, it has no existence. It

  is, actually, nothingness."

  "Perhaps," returned Zuvor, "but when one has undergone the experiences that I have, even a shadow can

  seem very real. Often I have seen shadows that were indications of living men. A shadow may betray the

  person who owns it, my friend."

  HE took a chair opposite the millionaire, and looked at Cranston thoughtfully.

  "I have heard," said Zuvor, "that there is a man whom they call The Shadow. He is a being who comes

  and goes, in the darkness of night."

  "Interesting, if true," remarked Cranston. "I should be pleased to meet the fellow."

  "The Shadow;" mused Prince Zuvor, "is considered a reality by men of the criminal class. They mention

  his name with awe. They know that he exists—yet they have never managed to trace him.

  "Even his purpose in life is a mystery. Some claim that he is a detective; others, that he is an archcriminal

  who thwarts the schemes of other crooks, and profits through them."

  "Even more interesting," laughed Cranston. "Where did you learn of this mysterious person?"

  "Through refugees whom I have aided," replied Prince Zuvor. "Some of the unfortunates from Russia

  have been forced to mingle with low associates. Whenever they appeal to me for aid, I learn all about

  their actions. Two or three have mentioned The Shadow.

  "My knowledge of criminal activities in New York is by no means small. I could give the police important

  information if I chose to do so. But criminals mean nothing in my life. Thieves—robbers— burglars—I

  fear none of them. Those who oppose me are more than criminals. They are agents of Moscow."

  "They are watching you now?" questioned Cranston.

  "They are watching me always. You have told me very little of your past life, friend Cranston; but I know

  that you were familiar to some extent with the espionage system of the czarist government. It was