unexpectedly received. On the contrary, that innocent-looking card spelled
danger in large letters, the way The Shadow read it.
Behind the alias of R. G. Dean lay the crafty brain of an insidious
plotter, who had already demonstrated his murderous technique when he wrecked
the Chem-Lab plant and ruined Parringer's laboratory.
Death came to those who tried to block the unknown killer whose purpose
was to obtain great wealth through seemingly legal methods detached from his
deeds of crime. The Shadow had been lucky to escape such doom a few nights ago.
He was even luckier at present.
The lamp on the office table could have projected a poisoned needle as
easily as it had shot out the calling card. The reason why it had merely been
used to deliver a warning was quite obvious to The Shadow. The conniving Mr.
Dean did not want dead bodies lying around an office that he used for
legitimate purposes; that was all.
Here, The Shadow stood on safe ground within the enemy's territory. But he
did not deceive himself with the notion that he had made headway. This office
belonged to the so-called R. G. Dean, but it was obviously a place where the
supercrook never came in person. The Shadow had an idea that the master
criminal was at this moment chuckling to himself in the security of some remote
headquarters.
The hunch was right. It was proven while The Shadow still stood staring at
the card. The telephone bell began to ring. Apparently, the telephone was
connected to the lamp, and the operation of the latter had flashed a signal
across the wire. The call was meant for The Shadow. He lifted the receiver, but
did not speak.
A chuckly voice reached The Shadow's ear; he recognized that the chortle
meant more than mere mirth. It was the speaker's effective way of disguising
his usual tone, so that The Shadow would not be able to identify it afterward.
"Hello, Shadow!" clucked the speaker. "We know all about you. We do not
fear you. But you will have occasion to fear us unless you cease your useless
meddling!"
There was a pause, during which the chortle was replaced by the mechanical
sounds of a poor connection, which The Shadow decided was deliberately intended.
"I am giving you an opportunity for life," resumed the chuckly voice.
"Remove your hat and cloak. Carry them over one arm, and tie a white
handkerchief about the other. If you display that token of complete truce, as
guarantee that you will no longer annoy me, you may walk out free and
unmolested. Otherwise -"
The voice paused. The silence, broken only by rasping sounds from the
receiver, was more ominous than any spoken word. Finally, came the click of the
receiver being hung up. The wire went dead. It symbolized what would happen to
The Shadow, if he did not heed the warning of the unknown foe who had voiced
the unfinished threat.
CALMLY, The Shadow extinguished the office light. Moving to the window, he
began his precarious descent. At the ground level, he summoned Hawkeye with
varicolored blinks of the flashlight and told the wizened man to make a prompt
and stealthy departure.
Danger was due, and The Shadow intended to meet it alone. In the darkness,
he made a careful analysis of the situation.
Evidently the dangerous Mr. Dean had miscalculated on one important point.
He supposed that The Shadow had entered the office by picking the door lock, and
would go out by the same route. There was no menace here behind the office
building, for Hawkeye, competent as well as stealthy, would have spotted some
trace of it.
The front street was the danger zone. The Shadow made a circuit in that
direction. Avoiding the front entrance of the office building, he picked a
blackened stretch between two street lamps and glided across the thoroughfare.
There was another building opposite; its dark entrance commanded a perfect
view of the Harmon Building. The Shadow conjectured that he would find a lurker
in that vantage spot.
Approaching the doorway, The Shadow drew an automatic. He had lost one
brace of guns in the ruins below Parringer's laboratory and intended to keep a
firm grip on the ones he carried tonight. Creeping close, holding to the
darkness, The Shadow could hear the tense breathing of a man who occupied the
doorway. With a swift surge, he sprang for the lurking crook.
A warning bell clanged, actuated by a strip of metal in a crack of the
sidewalk. The man in the doorway flung himself about, made an inward dive, just
in time to escape a slugging swing from The Shadow's heavy gun. The building
door was of the revolving type, divided into four sections. The man landed in
one, whirling the door as he passed through. The Shadow followed.
Half into the revolving door, The Shadow spun about diving back to the
sidewalk just as the traveling partition skimmed his shoulder. He had whisked
himself from a trap just in time. The fleeing man was a decoy. The door locked
as The Shallow left it.
From the closed section of the door came a muffled puff; a cloud of white
steam filled the interior. The locking door had automatically released that
jet. Even the protecting folds of The Shadow's cloak could not have saved him
from a scalding death, had he been trapped within the revolving door.
AGAINST the whiteness of the steam, The Shadow's cloaked form was plainly
visible. Guns barked from a spot across the street well past the Harmon
Building. Dropping behind the partial protection of a lighting standard, The
Shadow answered the long-range fire. He saw two men jump into a parked coupe.
The car started away.
Moe's cab was not around, but another taxi was cruising through the
street. The Shadow knew that its arrival was a mere coincidence; that the
driver could not be a member of the crooked band. There was no way in which the
cab's arrival might have been timed.
Furthermore, the cab was halting with a shriek of brakes. The driver was
anxious to turn about and buck traffic on the one-way street to get away from a
district where guns were cutting loose. The Shadow did not give him time to make
a retreat.
Springing into the cab, the cloaked fighter ordered the wide-mouthed cabby
to pursue the coupe and emphasized the order with a flourish of a .45 automatic.
The cab took up the chase, with The Shadow leaning from the window, ready to
fire at the coupe as soon as they overhauled it.
The fleeing car was zigzagging as if crippled. Nearing the avenue, it
skidded. Something had struck the street; an object that had dropped from the
coupe, to spread an oily substance from curb to curb.
The Shadow saw the thing strike. As the cab's front wheels hit the oil, he
shoved a gloved hand through to the driver's seat. Giving the steering wheel a
hard yank. The Shadow whipped the cab over the curb, up to the broad sidewalk,
just as a sizzling fuse was tossed back from the car ahead.
As the fuse struck, the oily stuff ignited. The whole street broke loose
with liquid fire. The coupe outraced that roaring flame, carrying away another
pair of decoys. Cars parked along the cur
b were withered; their gasoline tanks
burst with sharp explosions that literally twisted their steel frames.
That sight told what would have happened to the taxicab, or any other
pursuing car that contained The Shadow, had it continued along the street. By
wrenching the cab to the sidewalk, The Shadow had jolted it above the level of
the curb, the boundary line of the engulfing fire.
The cab thudded a building wall, but its occupants were safe from harm.
Leaving the stupefied driver staring at the fading fire, The Shadow cut through
between two buildings to the next street, in the direction toward which the
coupe had turned. Coming out from shelter, with guns drawn, he saw the fleeing
car speed by.
Opening fire, The Shadow employed his usual method of dropping back to
cover as he loosed the shots. It was well that he did so, instead of springing
to the middle of the street. where the average marksman would have gone to get
better aim.
A new lurker had seen The Shadow's lunge; not expecting the fade-away that
followed, the crook released the third of the Dean-laid devices. There was a
manhole in the center of the street. It lifted thirty feet in air, hoisted by a
gigantic cough that carried great chunks of paving with it.
Ripped asphalt spread, dropping like hail into the mouth of the alley that
formed The Shadow's present shelter. From darkness came a mocking laugh: The
Shadow's answer to departing bombers. Then, reversing his own path, The Shadow
took a quick course through the night.
IN a quiet area several blocks away, The Shadow reappeared as Cranston. He
was carrying his cloak and hat across his left arm, but there was no sign of a
white handkerchief around his right. Entering a limousine, he lighted a
cigarette, then spoke calmly through the speaking tube to the chauffeur.
"Drive through Central Park, Stanley," was Cranston's order. "It is too
early to go to the club. I shall tell you when to start there."
While the limousine rolled placidly through Manhattan streets, The Shadow
gave deliberate thought to the devastating events that had occurred in such
rapid fashion. Those three thrusts by a scientific killer would scarcely be
classed as accidents when the law heard about them. Nevertheless, they would
carry elements of mystery.
A broken steam pipe opening into a revolving door; a flood of fire that
had come and gone without a trace, a blasted mass of paving that might have
been caused by a faulty gas line underneath the street - none of those could be
linked to a quiet inconspicuous office in the Harmon Building, where the name of
R. G. Dean appeared upon the door.
The search for the master crook would remain The Shadow's problem. The
question was, would the hidden foe again find The Shadow first? Evidently, the
self-styled Mr. Dean knew more about The Shadow than the black-cloaked
investigator had supposed.
For perhaps the first time in his career, The Shadow faced a future that
offered nothing but uncertainty of a most precarious sort. His only policy was
to be prepared for another thrust, that might come any time and anywhere!
CHAPTER VIII
AT THE COBALT CLUB
THOUGH the chaos near the Harmon Building attracted a flock of police cars
and fire engines, it did not interest a stocky swarthy-faced man who rode past
the scene in a taxicab some ten minutes after the commotion had occurred.
Ordinarily, that cab rider would have stopped off to see what it was all
about, for he was a police inspector and had a reputation for being around soon
after things happened. But Joe Cardona hadn't time to investigate any matters
that seemed of an accidental nature; not this evening.
Joe was on his way to see Police Commissioner Ralph Weston, and he was
late.
As Cardona alighted in front of the Cobalt Club, he saw an elderly man
step from an old-fashioned limousine. The man was gray-haired, with whiskers to
match, and he carried a cane in one hand and a heavy square-shaped bundle under
the other arm. Cardona approached him, with the query:
"You're Cyrus Shawnwood?"
The whiskered man gave Cardona a sharp but troubled look; then seeing the
badge that the inspector displayed, Shawnwood gave a relieved nod.
"You must be Inspector Cardona," said Shawnwood, in a wheezy tone. "The
commissioner said that he had called you."
"That's right," returned Joe. "It looks like we're both late, Mr.
Shawnwood. Which helps me a lot, because the commissioner gets sore sometimes,
if I don't show up as soon as he expects. Let's go in and see him together."
They entered the Cobalt Club, were informed that Commissioner Weston was
in the grillroom, which rather surprised Joe Cardona because he knew that the
room in question was being redecorated. They descended the steep stairs that
led down to the grillroom, Cardona carrying the heavy package while Shawnwood
used the cane to hobble down the steep steps.
Cardona had heard correctly. The grillroom was under a course of
reconstruction. Tables were stacked in corners, with chairs surmounting them.
There were ladders and planks along one wall, where some artist had partly
finished a mural decoration showing a tropical scene.
But the inner corner of the room was still in use. A table had been laid
there especially for Commissioner Weston. A waiter was peering in from a door
that led to the kitchen, to see if the commissioner was ready for dinner.
Weston waved him impatiently away, then arose to meet the arrivals.
A broad-faced man, with short-clipped military mustache, Ralph Weston was
brisk in everything he did. He shook hands with Cyrus Shawnwood, told Joe
Cardona to put the package on the table, then invited both to be seated.
JOE CARDONA cast a curious eye around the grillroom, then remarked:
"They're changing the old place, aren't they, commissioner?"
"Yes, they are," snapped Weston. "They're ruining it! Look at those
murals, Cardona, and those rubber plants over in the alcove. When they get
through with their messing, the place will look like a tropical garden!"
"Tropical garden -"
The voice croaked from the center of the room, near the ceiling. Looking
up, Cardona saw a large cage that contained a fair-sized parrot. Weston was
glaring at the green-plumed bird, and the parrot slanted its head to survey the
police commissioner.
"Look at the fool bird," grumbled Weston. "Some member gave it to the
club, and they finally decided to put it down here. Having a parrot to begin
with, they gained the notion that they ought to have a tropical grillroom. I
tell you, inspector" - Weston's tone rose to an indignant pitch - "everyone
around here has gone crazy!"
"Crazy!" squawked the parrot. "Crazy... crazy -"
Weston reached for his own cane, as if he intended to march over and smash
the cage. The parrot fluttered its feathers, walked up the side of the cage,
under the top, and down the other side. All during that acrobatic performance,
it kept one eye cocked on the commissioner.
Weston finally subsided and laid aside his cane, but the parrot kept on
w
alking, muttering the same words as though it liked them and was keeping them
for future reference: "Crazy... crazy... crazy -"
"Let us get to the matter at hand," declared Weston, his brisk voice
drowning the parrot's mutters. "I'm sorry that Cranston has not yet arrived, as
I think this would interest him. However, I left word for him to come down here
and he will be with us shortly.
"As I told you over the telephone, inspector" - Weston had turned to
Cardona - "Mr. Shawnwood has received some sort of a threat. That is why I
suggested that he come here and give us all the details. Very well, Mr.
Shawnwood" - Weston swung to the gray-haired man - "you may proceed."
Shawnwood drew a small bundle of papers from his pocket, unfolded them and
placed them on the square package.
"Some months ago," he wheezed, "I was approached by a chemist named Isaac
Loman. A very eccentric fellow, Loman, but apparently sincere in everything he
said. He was working on a process to extract motor fuel from cottonseed oil. It
seemed to have great possibilities."
"I've heard that sort of stuff before," grunted Cardona. "All those ideas
are whacky! They just don't work. The guy was trying to flim-flam you, Mr.
Shawnwood."
"Very possibly he was," admitted Shawnwood, stroking his bearded chin. "At
the same time, his process sounded plausible. I agreed to buy it."
"For how much?" queried Weston.
"Twenty thousand dollars," replied Shawnwood. "Here is the contract, all
signed. Also a receipt for the first payment, of five thousand dollars."
"That's tough," put in Cardona. "If my hunch is right, Mr. Shawnwood, you
can kiss that cash good-by!"
Shawnwood's eyes showed surprise, as though the possibility had never
occurred to him. In the momentary silence, the parrot picked up Cardona's final
word.
"Good-by!" croaked the green bird. "Good-by... good-by... good-by -"
The rest was a trail of squawks, which included some muttered profanity.
The parrot had caught another glare from Weston and saw the commissioner's hand
going toward the cane. Then Weston suddenly relaxed, a broad smile beneath his
mustache.
All evening, the parrot had been picking up everything that Weston said.
It had begun that process when the commissioner had first talked to the waiter.
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