Gray Fist s-48

by Maxwell Grant

  Reports from Cliff Marsland and Harry Vincent were absent. They, like Clyde Burke, had evidently learned nothing concerning Worth Varden, who had vanished as completely as Seth Cowry. The hand of The Shadow stretched forth and grasped the ear phones.

  No light glowed upon the wall. There was no voice across the wire. For the first time in The Shadow's weird career, communication had been broken over this line. There was no response from Burbank!

  A chilly stillness followed. The blue light clicked off. Shrouded in complete darkness, The Shadow was as silent as death. Keen ears were listening in response to an amazing emergency. Long, tense minutes passed undisturbed.

  A soft laugh sounded in the gloom. The laugh lacked mockery, yet it carried a bold challenge. Even its echoes seemed absent, as though The Shadow expected human voices to cry back an answer in place of the ghoulish reverberations which so often leaped from those pitch-black walls.

  Still silence. The Shadow moved unheard within the darkness. The swish of his cloak was inaudible. The touch of his hand against a spot upon the wall was an action which no eye could have seen, nor any ear have heard.

  A slight click came. Instead of the bluish light above the table, an indirect glow came into being. A spectral, bluish illumination pervaded the entire sanctum, casting its rays from shaded spots about the blackened walls and ceiling.

  The Shadow, standing silent upon a tufted carpet of inky hue, appeared as a tall, supernatural creature amid this strange setting. His very presence would have chilled the hearts of hardened foemen. Here, in his sanctum, The Shadow had created a mellow glow which showed him as a terror-dealing power.

  It was The Shadow's challenge to all who might dare his might. It was the action of a superbeing who feared nothing. It proved The Shadow's readiness to meet all who might seek to cross his purpose. It was also a signal of The Shadow's knowledge that some one sought to defy his strength.

  The Shadow was seeking the answer to his thoughts. The answer lay before him. There, upon the floor of The Shadow's unknown sanctum, was a sight that brought the instant glare of The Shadow's burning eyes.

  A figure of a man lay flattened on the floor. A white face was staring upward from the tufted blackness.

  A gaping mouth was open. Glassy eyes were fixed in sightless death.

  Here, in The Shadow's secret abode, was the corpse of a murdered man!

  THE creepy, whispered laugh that echoed from The Shadow's lips was one that betokened understanding. Despite the unexpectedness of this discovery, despite the amazing fact that some one had penetrated to this secret sanctum, The Shadow's keen eyes were studying the man who lay dead before him.

  The identity of the victim was certain. That pale visage, with its thin gray hair, could be the face of no one but the man whom The Shadow and his agents had been seeking.

  The man on the floor was Worth Varden. The importer had met death because he had sought to betray the fiend who held him under sway. He had met his end through deliberate murder, the very means of which was viewed by The Shadow's eyes.

  For the glassy stare of Worth Varden was that of a doomed person who had seen the approach of death. Driven deep into the heart of the dead importer was a knife blade, its upper portion gleaming dully under the strange light that pervaded The Shadow's sanctum.

  The handle of the knife projected like a pointer—a reminder of some fierce hand that had dealt the death stroke. So had death come to Worth Varden; yet in the very deed of doom, the enemy who had ordained that death had meant it as a token to The Shadow.

  Below the handle of the knife, pressed against Worth Varden's bosom, and pierced by the blade itself, was a sheet of paper that showed its grayish color even in the weird glow of the sanctum.

  Upon the dull surface of the paper were written words that stood in black inscription. The paper which had been skewered above Worth Varden's heart was a message.

  Such was Gray Fist's challenge to The Shadow!

  CHAPTER VIII. THE SHADOW COMPLIES

  GRAY FIST had delivered a home thrust to the heart of Worth Varden. That stroke had also been a home thrust to The Shadow. Gray Fist, the unknown fiend who planned great crime, had accomplished the seemingly impossible. He had left the evidence of his villainy—the corpse of Worth Varden—in the most inaccessible of all places: The Shadow's sanctum!

  The laugh had died from The Shadow's lips. Silently, the black-clad warrior moved forward across the tufted carpeting. Like an unreal specter, he stood within the walls of his secret room—the chamber which was secret no longer.

  Despite the fact that his sanctum had been invaded, The Shadow showed no trepidation. Well did he know that those who had brought Worth Varden's body hither would not have dared to stay within these gloomy walls. The unreal atmosphere made the sanctum seem a trap. The Shadow feared no attack while he was here.

  His interest lay in the note pinned to Worth Varden's body. The hand that wore the girasol stretched forth and plucked the paper. The projecting portion of the knife blade sliced the gray sheet as The Shadow drew the paper sidewise. The Shadow raised the note and read its written lines.

  This was not a doubled sheet. It was a single piece of gray paper, and its words were in a cipher. The Shadow's eyes roved along the lines. A soft laugh came from the whispering lips. The writer of the note had anticipated that the reader would quickly solve the simple code.

  The message, as The Shadow deciphered it, was direct and concise. Its legend showed that the writer had guessed the identity of the personage who would receive it. The message was as follows: TO THE SHADOW:

  You are seeking to block my plans. Such effort will be futile. You have sought Worth Varden. He lies dead before you. Others are in my power. If you seek them, they, too, will die.

  This is my warning. You must leave New York. You must not return. You must give surety that you have gone. Unless you voluntarily accept my terms, you will die.

  A car will await you at midnight. It will be one block south of the Black Ship. You may enter it in any character you choose. That car will take you from New York.

  Those who convey you need not know your true identity. That is known to me alone. If you show your willingness to avoid interference with my plans, no harm will befall you or those who serve you.

  My identity is as closely guarded as your own. I have strength beside which yours is nothing. The choice is yours. The verdict is mine. GRAY FIST.

  His burning eyes upon the gray paper, The Shadow, for the first time, read the name by which his formidable enemy was known. Gray Fist! This was the title of the superfiend whom The Shadow knew had brought death to Worth Varden—and probably to the missing racketeer, Seth Cowry.

  IT was not the threatening tenor of the note that caused The Shadow to study the cryptic lines. The masterful brain was at work, thinking out the causes which had produced this message. The Shadow was summing up the menacing of Gray Fist's threatening message.

  The fact that his sanctum had been discovered was the basis of The Shadow's reasoning. Tracing backward, The Shadow sought to learn how Gray Fist had penetrated to this hidden abode. There was only one possible way in which it could have been uncovered.

  Some one, working for Gray Fist, had managed to follow the special wire that led into The Shadow's sanctum. That wire came from the place where Burbank had been posted; Burbank, had he been given the opportunity, would have destroyed the connection. The deadened wire indicated that he had attempted to do so.

  Therefore, Burbank's work had been disturbed. Either the contact man had been captured, or had been forced to flee. But how had Burbank been discovered?

  That was another question which The Shadow could answer. Either Cliff Marsland or Harry Vincent—perhaps both—had been discovered in the act of calling Burbank to give the contact man a report. Some prying eyes had learned the number of the telephone at which Burbank could be reached.

  Therefore either Cliff Marsland, Harry Vincent, or both, might be in Gray Fist's power. T
he fiend's note indicated that they were. His statement, "you or those who serve you," meant plainly that Gray Fist knew of the existence of The Shadow's agents.

  SO far as Rutledge Mann and Clyde Burke were concerned, The Shadow held no apprehensions. Those two were safe. Vincent, Marsland, and Burbank were the trio whose safety must be considered along with The Shadow's own.

  It was evident to The Shadow that Gray Fist must have a powerful group of mobsters under his control.

  They had figured in the capture of The Shadow's agents. No amount of torture would force any of The Shadow's men to admit a connection with their mysterious chief, but Gray Fist had evidently divined the identity of the master whom they served.

  Gray Fist had made his first stroke to balk The Shadow. He had ordered the death of Worth Varden.

  That had come—so The Shadow supposed—after the discovery of the sanctum. Then Gray Fist had ordered Varden's body to be placed within the confines of the black-walled room.

  Why had Gray Fist inscribed his message in code?

  A soft laugh was The Shadow's answer to this question. Evidently Gray Fist's mobsmen—the ones deputed to bring Varden's body here— had not suspected the identity of the owner of the sanctum. Had Gray Fist written an uncoded threat to The Shadow, it would have been read by those who had brought Varden's body.

  As it was, the gangsters had simply carried a corpse to a strange place, and had left it there. Perhaps one or more of Gray Fist's closest henchmen were in the know; but certainly the rank and file were in ignorance. That was proof of Gray Fist's cunning. The menace of The Shadow rested heavily upon the small fry of the bad lands. The scheming fiend did not care to let consternation seize his lesser followers.

  The order that The Shadow should appear in any character he chose was added proof that Gray Fist's henchmen did not know that The Shadow was ready to meet their leader. The location of the place where The Shadow was to appear—the underworld dive known as the Black Ship— was definite evidence that Gray Fist had hordes of gangdom at his heels.

  Here, within his sanctum, The Shadow was safe. He knew that Gray Fist would not have left men in this vicinity. Indeed, The Shadow had numerous artifices at his command, when he was in his sanctum. Gray Fist had acted wisely when he had decided to make no invasion while The Shadow was present.

  Yet, in a sense, The Shadow was confined. He could not act from his sanctum. This place was useless, so long as Gray Fist and others knew its location.

  THE SHADOW'S roving eyes looked about the room. A soft laugh rippled from The Shadow's lips. The appurtenances of the sanctum had been untouched. Secret wall safes which contained The Shadow's archives had been carefully avoided. Well was it for the invaders that they had not ventured deeply into the secrets of this grim abode! Unseen mechanical devices would have brought them doom, had they so dared!

  By leaving his sanctum, The Shadow could begin a strategic campaign to meet Gray Fist. Yet if The Shadow sought darkness and tried to act through stealth, Gray Fist might underestimate his power. The Shadow knew that the safety of his agents was at stake. He knew that if Gray Fist regarded him as no threat, those men would surely die.

  Gray Fist must know The Shadow as a menace; or else he must know that The Shadow was willing to accept his terms. There could be no middle course. Either Gray Fist, through fear, must continue to hold his prisoners until The Shadow was eliminated; or Gray Fist, through knowledge that The Shadow had accepted defeat, must be persuaded to release The Shadow's men.

  This was the problem that The Shadow faced. Minutes were passing— minutes that brought midnight closer. A great decision was burning within The Shadow's brain. Never before had the superfighter been faced with a dilemma such as this.

  The Shadow must strike or yield. His step must be made before the hour of midnight. The solemn laugh that The Shadow uttered showed plainly that he realized the urgency of this tremendous case.

  The laugh ended with swift action. The Shadow moved to the wall. The light went out. A cloak swished in the darkness. A grim laugh rippled through the room, then died. Silence reigned; then came dull metallic clicks that seemed to creep mysteriously through heavy walls.

  The Shadow had left his sanctum. For the first time, he was sealing this secret room so effectively that entrance would be doom to any who might attempt it. Should failure greet The Shadow in his encounter with Gray Fist's minions, the secrets of the sanctum would be permanently preserved. Hidden bombs would utterly destroy The Shadow's abode—with it, the body of Worth Varden.

  Should The Shadow gain freedom from the toils which gripped him, he, with his own knowledge of the traps that he had set, could reopen the sanctum and gain new access to it. Whether or not The Shadow would ever return to this place depended upon his ability to cope with the vast dangers that lay across his immediate path.

  Midnight was approaching when a strange shaft of darkness showed upon the lighted paving of a lower Manhattan street. The black patch moved along. It disappeared in darkness. It flitted beneath a new light, then merged with gloom once more.

  The direction of the moving splotch indicated The Shadow's destination. For once, The Shadow had complied with an enemy's order. He was taking the only course which offered. He was traveling to the appointed spot, to the place, one block from the Black Ship, where Gray Fist's minions would be waiting at the preordained hour of midnight!

  Voluntarily, The Shadow was going into the very heart of the region where his enemies lay. He was facing the most desperate issue that he had ever encountered.

  The Shadow was obeying the order of Gray Fist!

  CHAPTER IX. THE SHADOW SPEAKS

  THE street on which the Black Ship was located formed one of the most somber of thoroughfares in Manhattan. Dingy buildings lined both sides of the narrow way. Dirty alleys vied with deserted buildings in offering shelter to prowling denizens of the underworld.

  Yet it was seldom that trouble started in this immediate vicinity. The Black Ship rested in a district which served as an oasis in the bad lands. Gangsters congregated here only to get away from the strife and turmoil that prevailed throughout the underworld.

  Gray Fist's ultimatum to The Shadow had taken this into account. The plotter knew that The Shadow must be acquainted with the ways of the underworld. Hence he had given The Shadow the opportunity to enter an area which was quiet, yet which also would place The Shadow under the bond of preserving any pact that might be formed.

  As in his discovered sanctum, The Shadow would be forced to maintain a strict defensive. The safety of the sanctum would be denied him; yet he would possess a comparative security in this blind spot of the underworld.

  So the situation appeared upon the surface. Events, however, along the street by the Black Ship, produced a different atmosphere as the hour of twelve neared. Peering faces were looking forth from obscure alleys. Watchers were at the windows of the empty houses.

  A stoop-shouldered ruffian, sidling along the street, went by a parked sedan and continued on to enter an alley some hundred yards ahead. He emitted a low whistle. A whispery growl answered from the dark.

  "That you, Snakes?"

  "Yeah," responded the arrival. "Lay low, Ruff."

  "What do you think I'm doing?" came the gang leader's growl. "You haven't seen anybody snooping around, have you?"

  "No," returned Snakes, as he crouched beside Ruff in the shelter of the alley. "Things look O.K. We're going to keep them that way. You've got everybody set?"

  "Sure thing. But what I'd like to know is why this guy is so important. The guy Gray Fist wants to get."

  "We don't know who he is." Snakes was cautious in his tone. "He might be anybody, Ruff. Besides that—he might have some other bimboes with him."

  "He'd have to have a regiment," growled Ruff, "the way you've ordered things. Say—maybe you've forgotten how big those emergency orders were."

  "I haven't forgotten."

  "Well, then you're sure of one thing. There won't be no co
ps butting in. Boney's up ahead with his mob.

  Woody has a crew inside the Black Ship. Farther out, we've got -"

  "Never mind, Ruff. I know the lay."

  "It's up to Gray Fist to pay the freight."

  "Don't worry about that, Ruff."

  "I figure he wants to see how the emergency orders work. Well, he'll get what he wants. Stick around, Snakes. The only trouble is that it will all be over so quick -"

  Snakes Blakey shot out a hand in interruption. Crouched near the entrance of the alley, the sneaky gangster was watching toward the parked sedan. The rear of the car was close to one of the few dimly-lighted portions of the narrow street.

  SOME one had stepped into the sphere of light. A tall man, dressed in evening clothes, had made a rather sudden appearance by the parked car. It was impossible to discern the stranger's features. His attire, however, seemed incongruous in this locality. Tucked beneath his arm, the arrival held a briefcase.

  He paused to stare inquiringly at the sedan. He was apparently noting that the car was empty.

  With deliberate action, the stranger opened the door of the car, and stepped within. The door closed after him. Snakes Blakey, sensing that Ruff Shefflin was watching beside him, spoke in a low whisper.

  "That's the guy," said Snakes.

  "You've seen him before?" questioned Ruff.

  "No," returned Snakes, "but it's him all right."

  "He might have got somebody else to come instead -"

  "Yeah? Down here? Not a chance. I was wondering whether he'd have the nerve to come himself.

  Say—it's pretty close to midnight, ain't it?"

  There was the flicker of a match as Ruff edged back into the alley to consult the dial of his watch. The gang leader grunted his corroboration.

  "Only two minutes to go."

  "What about the men for the car?" quizzed Snakes.

  "They'll be along," replied Ruff, as he returned to his post beside Snakes. "I put Jake and Caulkey on the job. Jake's taking the wheel. Caulkey will be beside him."