Shadowed Millions s-21

by Maxwell Grant

  Desmond, treading on air, left and strode along the corridor.

  “Good-by,” he heard Zelva say.

  He did not know that the remark was a signal. Scarcely had Zelva stepped back into his room; hardly

  had Desmond made the turn in the corridor before a door opened and a stoop-shouldered, sallow-faced

  man took up the trail. It was Pesano, one of Zelva's watchdogs.

  Having thus made precaution regarding Desmond's actions, Rodriguez Zelva forgot the matter. He had

  important matters to which he must attend.

  THE master schemer had already evolved his plan—a fact which he had mentioned to Frank Desmond.

  Sitting at a writing desk, he carefully prepared a wireless message, in code. Going to the telephone, he

  called his other faithful watcher, Ellsdorff, who replied in a guttural voice. Zelva gave him the message.

  Minutes went by. They became hours. It was late afternoon when the telephone rang in Zelva's room.

  Ellsdorff spoke and Zelva wrote down the words that the man gave.

  Looking at what he had written, the ingenious South American laughed cruelly. By simple artifice and

  quick, decisive action, he had accomplished all that was necessary. Only one slight point remained, now,

  to complete the action he had planned.

  Zelva went to the telephone. He called and was connected with Pete Ballou at the Hotel Oriental.

  “Do not wait until midnight,” he said. “Strike before nine o'clock. Shortly after eight will be best. It must

  be a surprise. You understand? Wait for the dark.”

  Zelva smiled with satisfaction as he completed the call. Now, if Alvarez Legira should mistrust Frank

  Desmond, it would make no difference. A telephone call from Legira to Lopez could do no good. Ballou

  would act before Lopez.

  Perry Wallace and Lopez were but pawns in this game. Yet to Zelva, who could move men like chess

  pieces, pawns were important and dangerous. He intended to leave none on the board.

  Master schemer though he was, Rodriguez Zelva did not know that The Shadow had a hand in this

  strange complication of events. But what could hidden hands do now?

  The treachery of Frank Desmond—something which even The Shadow had not anticipated—had

  completely changed the tide. Alvarez Legira no longer held the edge in his crafty battle with Zelva. All

  was in Zelva's favor.

  The Shadow remained only as an unknown quantity. For some reason he was playing a passive game.

  Yet only his hand, thrust from the dark, could possibly alter the cross purposes that were at work.

  The Shadow was watching Legira; but he had eliminated Zelva as a factor. Ten million dollars at stake

  and lives to be lost in the gaining of it.

  For once The Shadow was faced by a problem of which he had no inkling!

  CHAPTER XXII. BEFORE NINE

  “BURBANK speaking.”

  The man who made this announcement was seated before a table in the corner of a darkened room. He

  had earphones on his head; the table was littered with sheets of paper. Here, almost in the shadow of

  Legira's home, a man was keeping watch.

  A voice clicked through the earphones. Burbank uttered a reply. He disconnected a wire in a small

  switchboard. Upon a sheet of paper he wrote the report that he had just received from Harry Vincent.

  It was after eight o'clock. Darkness had settled outside. Burbank, oblivious to day and night, was

  proceeding with his affairs in the quiet, methodical manner that had made him useful as The Shadow's

  contact man.

  “Burbank.”

  A whispered voice spoke the name. It came from the darkness itself. Burbank never moved. He

  recognized the voice of The Shadow. The strange master of the night had entered here without Burbank's

  cognizance.

  “Yes,” said Burbank quietly.

  “Vincent's report,” said the voice.

  “Legira still waiting,” responded Burbank. “All quiet. The three will be ready.”

  “No wireless dispatches from the Cordova?”

  “None but the original which I forwarded this morning. Here are numerous codes that I have overheard

  from other sources. This one that came in at five o'clock—”

  Burbank picked up a few odd sheets and held them at arm's length. They left his hand as though

  swallowed by the darkness. A tiny light glimmered. Eyes in the dark were studying the code as though it

  were written in ordinary words.

  The papers rustled as black-gloved hands went through the other sheets, seeking some dispatch that

  might give a clew to this one. The search ended. The earlier paper rested in the glimmer of the light. The

  papers dropped back on Burbank's table.

  “From what ship?”

  The whispered question sounded in Burbank's ear. It referred to the message which the man had picked

  up at five o'clock.

  “The message was interrupted,” said Burbank. “It's source was not given.”

  “Stand by,” said The Shadow, in a foreboding voice. “Watch the street. Call Legira's home in

  emergency.”

  “Understood,” said Burbank.

  The room became silent. The Shadow was gone. Burbank extinguished the light and lifted the bottom of

  a window shade. He peered out into the street. His scanning eye watched for vague shapes, lingering in

  the darkness.

  Burbank was staring from a corner window. Looking in the opposite direction, he sought to distinguish

  objects between the two houses— the one where he was located and the residence of Alvarez Legira.

  He saw nothing.

  YET there was a person moving in that blackness—a strange being whose ways were as dark as the

  night itself. A living figure was approaching the side window on the second floor of Legira's house— not

  from below, but from above.

  Suspended momentarily from a thin, almost invisible line that stretched from one building to the other, this

  creature of the gloom left his perch and began a precipitous descent of the brownstone wall.

  Invisible from every angle, he clung like a huge bat to the projecting surface. Foot by foot he edged his

  way to the heavy shutter that barred the window of the second-story room.

  There The Shadow rested, listening for every sound. At length, his figure moved. Hands, working in the

  dark, unfastened the bars that held the shutter. The barrier opened without a creak.

  Despite that opening, none of the glow from the room within appeared upon the wall of the opposite

  building. The Shadow's form blocked the path of the light.

  The agile form moved inward. The shutter closed behind it. The Shadow stood within the room. Tall,

  amazing and weird, he surveyed the only occupant of the chamber.

  Perry Wallace lay slumped in a large chair. The man appeared to be asleep. He was totally oblivious to

  the arrival of The Shadow. There was no sign of Lopez.

  The visitor from the night advanced and placed a gloved hand upon the shoulder of the inanimate man.

  Perry did not move.

  A black hand went beneath the cloak which The Shadow wore. The garment swayed and its crimson

  lining gleamed as The Shadow brought forth a vial which contained a purplish liquid. He placed the small

  bottle to Perry's nostrils. Perry tossed back his head as though awakened in a fright. He opened his eyes

  and stared dully at the form that towered before him.

  The Shadow's whisper was a warning for Perry to make no noise. Perry nodded that he understood. His

  eyes closed wearily. Again, The Shadow applied the vial. Per
ry came to life with a start.

  “Where is Lopez?”

  The whispered question came to Perry's ears. He rubbed his forehead and looked at his questioner.

  “Downstairs,” he answered, in a low voice. “I—I'm groggy. Wait a minute; then I can talk.”

  The Shadow stepped away. He stood at the other side of the room, his gleaming eyes focused upon the

  man in the chair. The Shadow's left hand rested upon the receiver of the telephone.

  “He—he—must have doped me—” Perry's voice came wearily. “I—I did as I was ordered. Made

  friends with him. Got groggy—don't know when—this afternoon, I guess. Lopez said he was going

  downstairs. I - I don't remember much after that.”

  The Shadow waited in silence. Perry Wallace recovered his senses rapidly. The pungent odor of the

  liquid in the vial had completely overcome his lethargy.

  “I have an important message,” declared The Shadow. “You must remain here until midnight. An attack

  has been ordered upon the house. I have provided against it. If Lopez wants you to go, insist upon

  remaining.”

  The voice broke off. The Shadow's form moved away and blended with the darkness near the window.

  Lopez was coming up the stairs. Perry dropped back in his chair. He opened his eyes wearily when the

  secretary entered.

  “H'lo,” he said, in a groggy voice. “What time's it?”

  “Nearly half past eight,” answered Lopez.

  “How long we goin' t'be here?” mumbled Perry.

  “We are not going away,” responded Lopez. “Not unless we receive word to leave.”

  He looked at Perry closely. In response, Perry shut his eyes and sank back for another nap. Lopez

  grinned and left the room. His footsteps echoed from the hall below.

  THE SHADOW was back at the telephone. Through the brief visit of Lopez, he had learned a vital

  fact—that Desmond had failed to follow orders. All was well with Legira. Vincent's report to Burbank

  checked that matter. Nine o'clock should be the time for flight—or for the summoning of aid. That fitted

  with Legira's message from the Cordova.

  The Shadow's keen brain was seeking the answer. Then, from his hidden lips came a low, shuddering

  laugh, no louder than a whisper. His hand gripped the receiver of the telephone.

  Before he could lift it, the bell began to ring. The dingle lasted less than the fraction of a second. So

  quickly did The Shadow raise the receiver that the sound could not possibly have reached Lopez, below.

  Burbank's voice came over the wire in response to The Shadow's query. Just as The Shadow had been

  about to call his agent, Burbank himself had put in the call.

  “Preparations,” announced Burbank. “Observation from window.”

  “Wait reply,” answered The Shadow.

  Quickly, the man in the black cloak jiggled the hook and called the Hotel Oriental. He asked to be

  connected with Pete Ballou. He was informed that the man had left a while before.

  The Shadow hung up the phone. He stepped to the window. The black hands held a tiny box, from

  which they produced two small pills. The Shadow pushed these between the shutter.

  In the darkness, these tiny objects made tiny spots of light as they fell. They were visible to Burbank,

  staring from the other house. The Shadow had used this method of signaling to accomplish results more

  rapidly than by a phone call.

  Perry Wallace, despite his desire for further sleep, managed to look on with interest. The Shadow was

  back at the telephone, his hand upon the hook. Tense minutes went by. Again the beginning of a ring—

  quickly interrupted.

  The Shadow raised the receiver and spoke. He heard the voice of Burbank once more.

  “Signal witnessed. Order obeyed.”

  “Cardona answered?” questioned The Shadow.

  “Yes,” was the reply. “Gave him emergency instructions.”

  “Good.” The Shadow's tone denoted satisfaction. “Guard window for emergency.”

  The tall form of The Shadow stalked the room. Perry Wallace was mystified. He could not understand

  these happenings. Little did he realize that the house was surrounded by a horde of gangsters, waiting for

  a signal to attack.

  The word ordered by The Shadow was a summons to Cardona. The man in black had planned to let the

  police take care of Pete Ballou. His mission lay elsewhere to-night. But with these altered circumstances,

  he was waiting, to give Cardona and his squad time to arrive.

  A SUDDEN explosion shook the front of the house! The room trembled. Perry Wallace swayed dizzily

  in his chair. The Shadow, untroubled, stood alert. Then came wild shouts from below.

  Pete Ballou had arrived! He had ordered the attack. Determined not to be delayed in their swift stroke,

  the thugs had planted a bomb against the front door, to blow it from its fastenings!

  The Shadow headed for the top of the stairs. Shots sounded from below. Lopez, his snarling face turned

  upward, was dashing up the steps.

  Had the man continued his flight, he might have reached a place of safety. But even as The Shadow

  watched, Lopez turned and flashed a revolver. He shot back at his pursuers. A burst of firing followed.

  Lopez sprawled dead upon the steps.

  The triumphant cry of Pete Ballou sounded from below. He was urging his cohorts onward. He believed

  that the real Alvarez Legira was in this house. Rodriguez Zelva had not informed him otherwise.

  “Get up in a hurry!” was Ballou's shout. “We got one of them. Get the other!”

  Three mobsters came piling over the body of Lopez. They reached the turn in the steps. One of them

  shouted as he saw a figure above. He swung his revolver to fire.

  Crack!

  In each hand The Shadow held an automatic. His first bullet downed the leading man of the invaders. The

  others sprang forward, both about to fire at once.

  A second report sounded and another invader fell. The third made a wild scramble for safety, shooting as

  he dived. His shot was wide. The Shadow's third bullet clipped him in the shoulder. The man plunged

  headlong down the stairs, into the arms of Pete Ballou.

  “The Shadow!”

  This was the awe-stricken cry uttered by the wounded gangster. Pete Ballou did not seem to understand.

  He thrust the injured man aside. His foot was on the lowest step. Silk Dowdy, close beside him, gripped

  Ballou's arm.

  “The Shadow!” exclaimed Dowdy.

  “The Shadow?” questioned Pete Ballou.

  “Yes”—Dowdy's tone was breathless—“if he's in this, we're up against it. I know what he's like,

  Ballou—”

  The seriousness of Dowdy's tone impressed the leader. Pete Ballou looked about him and saw that the

  others of the mob were also restrained by indecision.

  “We'll get him!” declared Ballou.

  “Wait!” Silk Dowdy spoke quickly. “He's got us blocked. Heave that pineapple.”

  The last words were uttered to a short, swarthy man. The fellow grinned as he brought a bomb into view.

  Ballou nodded his approval.

  “Scatter!”

  At Ballou's order, the gangsters rapidly withdrew toward the front door, with the exception of the man

  who held the bomb. This intrepid expert stood poised at an angle, ready to throw the deadly missive and

  dive in the direction of his companions.

  Before he could move, the tall figure of The Shadow stood in view upon the landing. At the sight of that

  ominous form, with its fist-gripped auto
matics, Silk Dowdy barked a spontaneous command.

  “Quick!” he cried. “Throw it quick!”

  The man's arm was swinging. The Shadow fired. His target was that moving arm. His bullet struck the

  bomber's wrist. The deadly pineapple slipped sidewise from the crippled hand. It struck against the wall

  at the bottom of the stairs and exploded with a mighty burst.

  A wave of nauseating smoke swept through the lower hall. Wreckage tumbled from everywhere. Plaster,

  bits of wood and fragments of metal fell in a deluge. The bomber was buried in the midst of the debris, a

  victim of his own weapon. The lower portion of the stairs was tilted at an angle. Above, on the protected

  landing, stood The Shadow, unharmed.

  The concussion had produced an effect near the front door. The gangsters there were halted by the

  shock. Lying on the floor and against the walls, they recovered themselves. Pete Ballou, who had

  reached the front steps with Silk Dowdy, issued a sharp command.

  “Get him! Get him!”

  THROUGH the clearing smoke, the form of The Shadow came suddenly to view. It loomed like the

  figure of death amid an inferno. The sight of the enemy was as effective as Ballou's cry. Standing, leaning,

  and kneeling, the gangsters aimed their guns.

  Flashes of flame shot from the landing. The Shadow's automatics were taking their toll before his enemies

  could recover and drive him to safety. Three men went down; only one was able to discharge a wide

  shot before he fell. The others, realizing the menace, leaped for the door. The Shadow's deadly fire

  followed the cowardly fugitives.

  Pete Ballou and Silk Dowdy, standing outside, saw their men come sprawling forth. One big fellow tried

  to grip Dowdy as he staggered; he missed and struck headforemost on the pavement. Other mobsters

  were here, ready for the fray. Pete Ballou gave a quick order. He stationed three men at the front door.

  They poked their heads into view, looking for The Shadow. He was gone from the landing. Cautiously,

  the trio entered.

  They were to block the front. Pete Ballou, crafty and determined, was directing the others. Crouched

  figures were stealing past the house. Men were seeking ways to ascend the walls. A ladder appeared in

  the alleyway.

  The new attack was beginning. From front, back and sides, the powerful mob was coming into action.