thin green wire, which became visible only beneath the sill. There it extended to a spot behind a radiator.
Legira smiled at his secretary's apprehension. The consul, like Lopez, did not notice the thin wire. It, too,
had made its appearance in that spot on the same night when Pete Ballou had called to deliver his
ultimatum. It had been left after Ballou had gone. The Shadow had placed it there for future use.
“Remember this,” said Legira, speaking quietly to Lopez. “When a man has important work to do, it is
well that he should deal with one - not with many.”
Lopez nodded.
“There is nothing more to-night,” declared Legira. “I shall resume my reading. You may go, Lopez. The
office, to-morrow, at nine o'clock.”
The secretary left the room. Alvarez Legira took a book from the table and commenced to read.
Lopez, however, did not share his master's calm. He went to the dark front room and peered out from
the depths of the window. He was looking for vague shapes of watching men—those who were always
there, yet who could know nothing of what transpired within these walls.
Despite his concern, Lopez did not for one moment suspect that there were other ways whereby tabs
could be kept on what was happening at this house. He did not know that everything that he and Legira
had said had been heard by a man stationed in the front room of the house next door—a man who could
also see the street below.
Lopez ended his inspection of the street below. All was quiet to-night; quiet, as it had been for one week.
The secretary returned and passed the door of the room where the consul was reading. A clock on the
mantel was chiming twelve.
AT that very moment, the exact stroke of midnight, a light clicked in a room in another part of New
York, far from the residence of Alvarez Legira. The rays of a green-shaded lamp fell upon a
smooth-topped table. There, two hands appeared, bringing a long white envelope beneath the glare.
Strange hands! White, with long, slender fingers, the hands seemed as living objects that moved detached
from the form that governed them.
As the left hand deftly tore open the end of the envelope, the light from above reflected the luster of a
jewel that gleamed with a strange glow upon the third finger.
That gem was a girasol—the priceless fire opal which was the prized possession of The Shadow. It was
unmatched in all the world; and the shafts of light that sprang from its iridescent depths were changing and
mysterious. From a rich crimson, they varied to a purplish hue, then glimmered a deep blue.
Folded papers tumbled from the envelope. The hands of The Shadow opened them, and eyes from the
dark began a study of the messages which they contained. These were reports from agents of The
Shadow.
A tiny light shone from a black patch on the other side of the table. A hand stretched in that direction. It
returned with a pair of earphones. They were adjusted in the darkness. A whispered voice spoke.
“Report, Burbank.”
The clicking sound of a voice vibrated through the receiver. The Shadow was listening, hearing the words
of Burbank, the one operative who held direct communication with The Shadow himself.
“Report from Vincent,” came Burbank's words.
“Proceed,” said The Shadow.
“No activities on the part of Martin Powell, when away from the vicinity of Legira's residence.”
A pause; then Burbank followed with his next statement.
“Report from Burke.”
“Proceed.”
“Ballou has held communication with Silk Dowdy, who is watching Legira's residence. No developments.
Ballou has had no contact with others.”
“Give your own report.”
“Observations,” declared Burbank. “Martin Powell appeared on street at nine five, walking westward.
Returned at nine sixteen, walking eastward. Appeared again at eleven eighteen. Remained until eleven
twenty-two.
“Another man, identity unknown. Appeared at eleven eleven. Stopped at entrance of alley, apparently to
receive instructions from Silk Dowdy. Resumed progress eastward at eleven thirteen.”
There was a momentary pause; then Burbank's low voice continued its methodical monotony.
“Heard on the dictograph—”
The Shadow's hand was at work as Burbank spoke slowly and steadily. The hand was transcribing a
verbatim report of the conversation that had taken place between Alvarez Legira and his secretary,
Lopez. With the completion of that message, Burbank's report ended.
On the illuminated table lay the transcribed conversation. From the darkness, keen eyes were studying it.
In black and white, that conversation was cryptic. It did not describe the actions of Legira and Lopez;
how the consul had stared in the mirror; how the secretary had suddenly divined a hidden meaning in
what had been said.
Now, the hands held the sheet of paper. They crumpled it and tossed it aside. The light went out. From
the darkness came a low, sinister laugh that reechoed from the walls of a pitch-black room. Then silence
reigned. The man of the night had gone.
IT was nine o'clock the next morning when Alvarez Legira and his man Lopez rode along a side street
near Times Square, in a taxicab. The street was almost blocked by a crowd of men who were swarming
toward the door of a narrow-fronted building.
“More men seeking employment,” observed Legira. “Every morning— always such a throng.”
“Yes, senor,” returned Lopez. “It has been that way for all this last week.”
Legira's keen eyes spotted a man standing in the line. For an instant, the consul seemed elated; then he
repressed the words that were coming to his lips. He shrugged his shoulders and smiled. The cab swept
by and turned the next corner. On the avenue, it stopped before an office building. Legira and his
secretary alighted.
The man from Santander walked leisurely through the lobby, chatting with Lopez as he went. He paid no
attention to a thickset man who stepped on the elevator with him, and who alighted at the fourth floor
when he and Lopez stepped off.
The stranger walked in the opposite direction. His presence meant nothing to Legira. As the consul and
his secretary passed the door of a deserted office, there was a slight click of a closing latch. Legira did
not seem to notice it.
They reached the end of the passage. Before them was an office which bore the coat of arms of
Santander emblazoned on the door. Lopez applied a key. He stood aside as Legira entered the consular
office.
This was a large, single room, with a clothes closet in the corner. Neither Legira nor Lopez observed a
thin green wire which ran from behind a desk along the baseboard of the wall and out beneath the door
Lopez had closed.
“They are watching again, senor,” declared Lopez, in a low voice.
“As always,” returned Legira. “Watching—the fools. Martin Powell on the elevator. One of Ballou's
men, hiding in an office.”
“But they are not in here, senor—”
“No?” Legira's question was accompanied by an arching of his dark eyebrows. “Perhaps not, Lopez.
But remember what I said last night. Walls do not always prevent persons from hearing.”
Legira walked to the door of the closet. He opened it and stepped within. He pressed a hook on the
wall. A panel slid aside to reveal a passageway. Legira
released the hook. The barrier closed. The man
emerged from the closet.
“Perhaps, Lopez”—Legira's voice was cautious—“perhaps there will be a reason to use—”
He pointed toward the secret opening. Lopez looked puzzled. He knew of the existence of the sliding
panel, but did not understand its purpose; had never known it to be used.
“They are watching,” said Legira softly. “Perhaps they are listening also. Let them watch. Let them listen.
They will not learn.”
The consul smiled as he sat down before a large desk. The thoughts that were passing through his brain
were known to himself alone.
Here, as in his residence, Alvarez Legira could not move without his actions being discovered. He knew
the identity of certain watchers. Did he suspect the presence of others?
THE eyes of The Shadow had joined the vigil that surrounded this man from Santander. Through his
agents The Shadow was watching. More than that, The Shadow had ears which Alvarez Legira did not
know existed.
Yet the consul from Santander appeared unperturbed. Was his attitude due to confidence, or ignorance?
Even Lopez, his one confidant, was perplexed by the expression which appeared on Legira's face. The
secretary could not fathom the consul's thoughts.
Legira's eyes were half closed. His lips were smiling as his fingers twisted the ends of his pointed
mustache. He was picturing a face that he had seen that very morning—the countenance of the man
whom he had noticed standing in the line outside of the employment bureau.
“This is the seventh day, Lopez?” the consul inquired suddenly.
“The seventh, senor,” replied the secretary solemnly. “There are only three more, senor.”
“Three will be sufficient,” declared Legira.
The cryptic remark was accompanied by a smile as Legira reached to the desk and began to consult a
pile of papers that lay before him. Whatever eyes and ears might be watching and listening, the consul
from Santander was unconcerned.
CHAPTER VI. A THOUSAND A WEEK
THE line was moving in through the door of the employment agency. Men were filing by a desk where a
stenographer was noting questions regarding age, former occupation, and experience. The man whom
Alvarez Legira had noted on the curb had now reached the inner door.
“Your name, please?”
“Perry Wallace.”
The girl looked up at the sound of the man's quiet, well-modulated voice. Perry Wallace had the
appearance of a gentleman, despite the shabby appearance of his clothes. His tanned face was passive;
his dark eyes were dull as they stared toward the questioner. There was a certain sullenness about the
thin lips beneath the black, unkempt mustache—the expression of a man who has been beaten in his
battle with the world.
“What qualifications, Mr. Wallace?”
“Not many,” said the man frankly. “I worked as a bank teller for three years. I guess there's not much
call for any one in that line—”
“Just a moment, Mr. Wallace.”
The girl was noting the man's appearance. She rang a bell on the desk, and an office boy appeared.
“This is Mr. Wallace,” said the girl. “Take him into Mr. Desmond's office.”
The boy conducted the applicant to a door at the other end of the large room. Perry Wallace, hat in
hand, was perplexed as he strode along. He had expected further questioning before being admitted to a
special interview. He wondered why he had made so effective an impression.
The boy knocked at a glass-paneled door that bore the name:
FRANK DESMOND
A voice responded from within. The boy opened the door and pointed to the inner room.
“This is Mr. Wallace,” he announced.
“Shut the door,” said Desmond.
Perry Wallace complied; then turned to look at his interviewer.
Frank Desmond was a bland sort of a man; big, pudgy, and narrow-eyed. He was seated behind a desk
in the center of the room, and he stared steadily at his visitor.
“Sit down, Mr. Wallace,” he said, after a short inspection. “I want to talk with you.”
Wallace dropped his hat on a table and took a chair opposite the employment manager.
“What is your experience?” questioned Desmond.
“Bank teller for the last three years,” answered Wallace mechanically. “Worked up-State—little town
called Halsworth. The bank went up. I came to New York. Figured a job—”
“Before that?”
“Before I worked in the bank? I had a real-estate office with my uncle. Developing a summer resort. It
went sour. I landed a job with the bank.”
“And before that?”
“Just odd jobs. I was in the army during the War. Served in France. Came back. Tried various forms of
work; then joined up with my uncle.”
DESMOND, chin in hand, was staring firmly at his visitor. Wallace wondered about that stare. He knew
that Desmond was on the point of asking an important question. He could not divine what it might be.
“You say you served in the army,” remarked Desmond. “Did you enjoy the excitement?”
Perry's eyes gleamed.
“Sure thing!” he declared. “Say—if I saw another opportunity like that one, I'd hop to it in a minute!”
“I know of a job,” mused Desmond reflectively. “It will require nerve. It may mean danger. Most of all, it
demands obedience to orders. Would you take it —without question?”
Perry Wallace eyed his questioner narrowly. He scented a hidden meaning in Desmond's tone. Despite
the fact that he was down and out, he was not willing to commit himself unknowingly.
“I do not believe so, Mr. Desmond,” he said coldly.
“There is excellent compensation,” replied the employment agent.
Perry Wallace shrugged his shoulders indifferently.
“What of it?” he asked. “There is excellent compensation for many jobs. Murder, for instance.”
“This does not involve murder,” declared Desmond.
“Crime, then?” questioned Perry shrewdly.
Desmond leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands.
“What if it did involve crime?” he asked.
“I would not be interested!” declared Perry.
“Crime is not involved,” said Desmond slowly. “You, yourself, will not be responsible for anything that
may occur through your acceptance of the position which I have to offer. Is that sufficient?”
“Yes,” said Perry quietly. He rose from his chair and placed his hat upon his head. “It is quite sufficient,
Mr. Desmond. It convinces me that I do not want to take the job.”
Desmond's eyes flashed. He was furious. Perry Wallace smiled at the oddity of the situation. Desmond
chewed his puffy lips. Then, as he saw Perry turning toward the door, he smiled in return and raised his
hand.
“Wait!” he called.
Perry turned.
“I can tell you more about this job,” said the employment manager. “I can convince you that it would be
wise for you to accept it. Does that sound fair?”
“Certainly,” replied Perry.
Desmond opened a drawer in the desk. He drew out a gleaming revolver and pointed it directly at Perry
Wallace.
“Sit down!” ordered Desmond, in a low, rasping voice. “Sit down and listen. You understand?”
Perry was motionless for a moment. A rush of scattered thoughts passed through his brain. He did not
believe that
Desmond would dare to fire; at the same time, he realized that the man was angry. A chance
shot might lead to disastrous consequences. Perry pictured himself in conflict with this man— people
rushing in—the burden placed upon him.
“All right,” he said calmly. “I'll listen.”
DESMOND thumped the revolver on the desk as Perry took his seat. The gun was close at hand. Perry
realized its threat. Desmond had spoken of danger. It was beginning now.
“One thousand dollars a week,” declared Desmond, in a low, emphatic tone. “Does that interest you,
Mr. Wallace?”
Perry smiled, but did not reply.
“If you have qualms”—Desmond's voice was sneering—“you can forget them. You are going to take this
job, Mr. Wallace. You're going to take it whether or not you like it—simply because you are the only
man who is suited to it!”
The offer of money had struck no responsive chord. Broke though he was, Perry Wallace was not
impressed. Desmond had threatened. He had tried to entice. In both he had failed. But, unwittingly, the
smug man had said something which aroused Perry Wallace's interest.
“You say I am the only man”—Perry's tone was sharply quizzical— “the only man suited to this job?”
“Yes,” declared Desmond.
“Why?” asked Perry.
Desmond smiled cunningly.
“That,” he said emphatically, “is one thing that you will learn within five minutes after you take the offer.”
Perry began to nod reflectively. Desmond saw that he had gained a point. He spoke persuasively.
“Forget the thought of crime,” he said, in an easy tone. “If any occurs, it will not be your fault. I do not
know the details of this plan myself. I am simply acting for another. I have no qualms. Why should you?”
“Well—” Perry was hesitant.
“This gun is a threat,” declared Desmond quietly. “Whatever you do can be attributed to force. I am
threatening you now. That lets you out, if it comes to a show-down.”
“Perhaps.”
“Absolutely. It gives you a perfect alibi. You have no alternative. You say you like excitement. You say
you do not mind danger. You are on the verge of a real adventure—with a thousand dollars for every
week you are engaged. Your part will be an easy one. But—most important—you are the only man who
can play it!”
Shadowed Millions s-21 Page 4