The Red Menace s-4

by Maxwell Grant

  "Mr. Peterson?" he asked.

  "Yes."

  "I must see Lieutenant Raymond Branson immediately."

  Peterson smiled as he shook his head.

  "It's all set for to-morrow," he said. "Looks like we'll have the break he's been waiting for. He's asleep

  now. Can't be disturbed." He noted the firm look on Marquette's face. "Who are you, anyway?" he

  asked.

  The secret-service man drew back the lapel of his coat, and revealed a badge. A surprised look came

  over Peterson's face.

  "What's up?" he questioned anxiously. "Nothing the matter, is there? No trouble for Branson? I can't

  figure this, at all -" He rose from the desk as he spoke.

  "No trouble at all," said Marquette quietly. "I want to see Branson in private. That's all. He'll understand

  when he talks to me."

  "I'll take you to his room," agreed Peterson. "Come on. I'll get the key."

  FIVE minutes later, Lieutenant Raymond Branson was aroused from sleep. He was indignant for a

  moment, as he sat up in bed; then Marquette's badge proved a talisman that quieted him.

  Peterson was dismissed. Marquette talked to the man alone.

  It was half an hour before the secret-service man had concluded his conversation with the lieutenant. As

  Marquette rose to leave, Branson smiled rather bitterly.

  "I hadn't figured on this," he said. "It's very sudden, and I can't quite realize it. But -"

  "It may mean a lot to your country," replied Marquette.

  Lieutenant Branson arose from his chair. He walked to the window, and stood with his back toward the

  room.

  "All right," he said. "You'll arrange everything?"

  "I shall," replied Marquette. "Get up early as you planned; meet me, and I'll take care of the rest. You will

  sail on the Colonia to-morrow morning."

  "What if this fellow fails -"

  "We can worry about that later. I'm figuring that he'll make it. You had no particular destination, did

  you?"

  "Anywhere on the other side," replied Branson. "But can he play the part?"

  "He can play any part," replied Marquette. "I'm going with you on the Colonia; we'll fix everything up.

  Count on me. Don't be discouraged, old man. You'll get another chance at it."

  Vic Marquette received a phone call shortly after he reached his hotel.

  A quiet voice asked him if everything had been satisfactorily arranged. Marquette gave an affirmative

  reply.

  A LARGE crowd was assembled at a Long Island flying field early the next morning. The dim light of a

  new day shone on the wings of a glistening monoplane, which gleamed like burnished silver.

  An automobile rolled up, and four men stepped out. Among them was one dressed in an aviator's

  costume.

  "It's Branson!"

  A cheer went up from the crowd. The man did not appear to notice it. He walked over to inspect the

  plane.

  Another aviator joined him; the two shook hands, while photographers sought to obtain shots.

  "Branson's in great shape, isn't he?" said one of the men who had driven up in the car.

  "Never saw him looking better." It was Peterson who spoke. "He had a good rest last night. I saw to

  that."

  The men entered the plane; the one whom the crowd had acclaimed as Branson took the pilot's seat. The

  propeller whirled; the plane rolled heavily along the ground.

  As it gained speed, it slowly rose in the air, and its wings, flashing in the dawn, gave it the appearance of

  a graceful bird.

  The Silver Comet, it was called, and as it headed toward the northeast, it ascended higher and sped

  onward, until it became a silver speck in the clear sky.

  The crowd broke into little groups; then disbanded. A solemnity had fallen over the people gathered at

  the flying field.

  Two men had left America. They were matching their man-made bird against the mighty pitfalls of the

  great Atlantic. They were attempting a transoceanic flight.

  That afternoon the papers reported that the plane flown by Lieutenant Raymond Branson had been

  sighted off the Maine coast. Later reports stated that it had been seen near Newfoundland.

  All touch with the aviators had been lost. Hours passed with no report of their progress. The flight had

  been delayed by head winds; it was certain that the aviators were behind their anticipated schedule.

  Some thirty-six hours after the take-off, there was a rumor that the plane had been seen above Ireland.

  It was believed that the fliers were keeping on to continental Europe. They had run into night, and it was

  impossible to trace them.

  This report was received by radio, aboard the Steamship Colonia outward bound from New York. It

  was discussed by a group of men, in the salon.

  "Well," said one man, "there's another pair lost in the Atlantic. Take it from me, young fellow, you'll never

  hear anything of this man Branson, again."

  The person to whom the speaker chanced to address his remark was none other than Lieutenant

  Raymond Branson, in person.

  Vic Marquette smiled as he heard the statement. To the world, it was Branson who was flying the Silver

  Comet. No one even suspected that the actual pilot was The Shadow!

  CHAPTER XXXIII. ON THE TRAIN DE LUXE

  A MAN came down the corridor of a car on the train de luxe that was moving swiftly toward Berlin. He

  reached a compartment, and entered. He closed the door, and seated himself with a quiet chuckle.

  He glanced at a newspaper, and noted that two Americans were attempting to fly the Atlantic.

  "Americans," he muttered in English. "Bah! I have seen enough of Americans and America."

  The man noted an account of an explosion in New York City. His eyes lighted as he looked for details;

  but the report was meager. Even the time was not given. Twenty people were reported killed. A building

  had collapsed.

  The man folded the paper, and leaned back in his seat. He began to doze. The train rolled steadily

  onward. It had made a stop half an hour before; the next station would be reached in another half hour.

  The wind began to sweep against the window, and rain appeared there. The window was totally black;

  darkness held sway. The train passed through a tunnel; smoke poured by the window.

  The man in the compartment had fallen asleep.

  The knob of the door began to turn. The door opened slowly. As it swung inward, nothing was revealed

  except a blackness in the corridor. Then that blackness assumed a human form. A man stepped in and

  closed the door.

  The sleeper stirred, but did not awaken. The man who had entered began a close search of the

  compartment. He came to the man who dozed.

  The sleeper was a man of middle age with aristocratic features. His hair was gray; he wore a

  close-clipped mustache, apparently of recent growth.

  The mysterious visitor leaned over the occupant of the compartment. His black cloak seemed to envelop

  the sleeper, as it obscured him from view. When the man in black stepped away, his hand held a thin

  package of folded papers.

  He stood there, studying the man before him. The man in black seemed to have no face; it was entirely

  hidden by his upturned collar, and by the brim of his dark hat. His form cast a huge, fantastic shadow.

  The mysterious man laughed softly.

  The sound awakened the sleeper. The man of aristocratic appearance was leaning with his head turned to

  one side.

  As he opened his eyes, he saw the shadow o
n the seat beside him. He looked up quickly. His face paled;

  his arms dropped helplessly. An expression of complete astonishment came over him.

  "The Shadow!" he exclaimed.

  The figure in black bowed.

  "I am pleased to meet you, Prince Zuvor," he said, in a sinister whisper. "I am surprised to find you here

  in Germany."

  THE seated man bit his lips. He raised himself, as he regained his composure. He watched the figure as it

  moved backward toward the door.

  "The Shadow," said Prince Zuvor musingly. "Strange that I should think of that name. I discussed The

  Shadow once, with a friend of mine - a gentleman named Cranston. Do you chance to know

  him—Lamont Cranston?"

  There was a suave calmness in the man's voice. Completely recovered from his first surprise, he was

  endeavoring to cover his mistake.

  "Prince Zuvor," said The Shadow, in the same uncanny whisper, "we have met in various places, under

  different identities.

  "Perhaps you believe that you know who I am. I can assure you that you are wrong.

  "Perhaps you believe that I did not recognize you the last time we met. If so, you are wrong again. The

  crimson mask that disguised your face was not sufficient—especially when I tell you that I had previously

  learned that Prince Zuvor and the Red Envoy were one individual."

  The Russian smiled.

  "I suspected you each time I met you," said The Shadow tersely. "I was suspicious at the Cobalt Club,

  when you invited me to come to your house—at my own risk.

  "When I did call to see you, your suggestion that I leave by your secret exit was just a bit overdone. So I

  came again, to take advantage of your suggestion.

  "Of course, I was prepared. I had learned of Berchik's death."

  The smile faded from Prince Zuvor's countenance. The Shadow spoke as though he was about to reveal

  new discoveries.

  "Strange," whispered The Shadow. "Strange, was it not, that your servant, Fritz Bloch, was never at your

  house? I suspected why.

  "Fritz did not exist. He was a pretense—you—in disguise. Prince Zuvor never stood face to face, with

  Fritz, until a few nights ago. Then two of us had other personalities.

  "I was Prince Zuvor. Ivan Shiskin became Fritz Bloch."

  Bewilderment registered itself on the Russian's features. Then his expression became one of silent anger.

  "That is how Ivan happened to attend the Red meeting," said The Shadow. "Of course Prokop gave him

  the bomb. You had arranged the gray card, so that Prokop would not be surprised when Fritz did not

  appear; but Fritz did appear.

  "He used the bomb, too, for which I am very sorry; because he lost his life. The fact that Prokop and all

  his agents also died does not lessen my grief for Ivan."

  Prince Zuvor could not believe his ears. Twenty killed in an explosion! It was not an exaggeration, after

  all. His eyes turned unconsciously toward the newspaper.

  "Ah!" The Shadow's tone expressed approval. "I see that you are interested in my transatlantic flight.

  "It was on your account that I made that journey. I had to make up for lost time. Lieutenant Branson will

  receive credit for it, even though I took his place. I could easily have reached Berlin; but I preferred to

  complete my trip on this train de luxe."

  THE Russian could not restrain the gasp that escaped his lips. He stared at the man before him, and his

  hopes fell, as he realized the superhuman ability of his opponent.

  "Your game was a clever one, Prince Zuvor," said The Shadow. "I do not care whether you played it by

  choice, or whether it was forced upon you. The result was the same.

  "It was pleasant to live in New York, as a representative of the former aristocracy of Russia, and to hold

  the position of Red Envoy, also. One protected the other.

  "You could trap your czarist friends without suspicion. As Fritz Bloch, you reported Prince Zuvor's

  doings. As the Red Envoy, you could prevent Prokop from molesting Prince Zuvor. And through it all,

  Ivan was faithful to his master."

  The Shadow ceased speaking, and stood silent, his black cloak swaying with the motion of the train. It

  seemed almost as though he was lost in admiration of Prince Zuvor's cleverness. His next remark carried

  that thought.

  "So now you return to Russia, Prince Zuvor. Very well; return if you wish. But first you will hand over to

  me the plans which you stole from Professor Whitburn. Where are they?"

  Prince Zuvor quietly folded his arms in front of his body. He could feel the pressure of a thick envelope

  beneath his coat.

  "They are in the lining of my traveling bag," he said. "Open it, and take them. You deserve some reward

  for your efforts."

  The Shadow ignored the sarcastic tone. He leaned forward, and carefully opened the bag. His back was

  partly turned. Prince Zuvor whipped his right hand from beneath his coat, and swung an automatic

  toward the leaning man.

  But The Shadow was alert. He caught the Russian's wrist with a grip of steel. A twist, and the revolver

  dropped to the floor.

  The Shadow removed the papers from the lining of the bag. He examined them, at the same time

  watching Prince Zuvor. The Russian's face flamed with intense anger and suppressed rage.

  "These are Professor Whitburn's plans," said The Shadow. "I appreciate your willingness in delivering

  them to me.

  "I shall leave you now. You are going back to Russia"—his voice became a total whisper—"to

  Russia—the land where failure means death!"

  The door of the compartment swung inward, as The Shadow released it. The black form seemed to melt

  into the darkness of the dim corridor.

  The door was drawn shut; The Shadow was gone. But as he disappeared, a laugh came from his invisible

  lips—a taunting laugh.

  Prince Zuvor snatched the revolver from the floor. He stood in the center of the compartment, watching

  the door. Then he resumed his seat.

  He smiled, as he held the gun in readiness, while he thrust his other hand deep in the lining of his coat, and

  drew forth a long envelope.

  As though to enjoy the triumph which he felt, Prince Zuvor opened the envelope, in which he carried

  exact duplicates of Professor Whitburn's plans— copies which he had made on the Dresden. Still

  watching the door, the Russian spread the papers in his lap.

  "Fool!" he hissed. "Fool, called The Shadow! You thought because I drew a revolver that I was fighting

  to keep my only set of plans. You are welcome to those you took. These will serve me every bit as well!"

  He looked at the papers in his lap. They were blank!

  HE turned them over—both sides were blank. Nervously, the Russian dropped his revolver, and it

  clattered to the floor. As Zuvor spread the blank sheets, he heard a laugh that came from the other side

  of the closed door.

  The truth dawned on Prince Zuvor. The Shadow had entered without awakening him, and had taken the

  duplicate plans from his coat, substituting these blank papers instead.

  The Red Envoy had been tricked into delivering up the original plans. He had given them with a pretense

  of reluctance; he had even made a gesture to recover them.

  For he had felt the packet in his coat, and had been sure that the duplicates were safe.

  By his subtle methods, The Shadow had led Zuvor to reveal the set of plans that were in the traveling

  bag, and now the
Red Envoy held nothing. The man in the compartment groaned.

  The details of Professor Whitburn's invention were too complicated to be remembered without the plans

  themselves, he could not rely upon his memory.

  He had stolen the plans; he had brought them with him. He had reached Germany, where he was beyond

  the reach of the agents of the United States government.

  But he had not escaped The Shadow—that man who could span an ocean when he set out in pursuit.

  The Russian leaped to the door of the compartment. He unlocked the door, and stared up and down the

  corridor. There was no sign of the man who had emitted that uncanny laugh. Yet the sound of the taunting

  merriment still echoed through Prince Zuvor's maddened brain.

  He closed the door, and slumped into his seat.

  "To Russia—the land where failure means death!"

  The Shadow's words were true. Even the Red Envoy must report to one higher up, exactly as the agents

  had reported to Prokop, and Prokop to the Red Envoy.

  The situation was terrifying to Prince Zuvor. As a renegade royalist, he had worked long to obtain his

  position of immunity. In order to maintain his security against enemies, he had promised to bring the plans

  of Professor Whitburn's invention, that his superiors might make use of it before it had reached the

  American government.

  The train was slowing as it neared a station. Prince Zuvor did not notice the slackening speed. He sat

  motionless, dazed and staring. He knew that he had failed; he realized that no excuse would be accepted.

  When the train de luxe reached Berlin, a startling discovery was made.

  The body of a man—a Russian—was found in a compartment. The dead man was identified as Prince

  Zuvor, a member of the old regime.

  His death was pronounced suicide. He had swallowed poison. The bottle which had contained the

  death-dealing fluid was lying on the seat beside the body.

  CHAPTER XXXIV. THE DEPARTURE

  THE successful nonstop flight of the Silver Comet was a front-page sensation in the American

  newspapers. The fact that the Transatlantic plane had been given up as lost added to the interest of the

  story.

  Furthermore, Lieutenant Raymond Branson had disappeared after his successful landing in Germany, and