Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 049 - The Circle of Death

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THE CIRCLE OF DEATH

Maxwell Grant

http://www.blackmask.com

? CHAPTER I. LIGHTS OF DOOM

? CHAPTER II. THE TRAIL

? CHAPTER III. THE EVIDENCE

? CHAPTER IV. MEN OF MONEY

? CHAPTER V. THE SHADOW PREPARES

? CHAPTER VI. THE FIRST OPTION

? CHAPTER VII. AGAIN THE CIRCLE

? CHAPTER VIII. REPORTS RECEIVED

? CHAPTER IX. THE SECOND WARNING

? CHAPTER X. WORD OF THE SHADOW

? CHAPTER XI. DYING WORDS

? CHAPTER XII. WITHIN THE CIRCLE

? CHAPTER XIII. THE INTERLUDE

? CHAPTER XIV. THE MAN WHO FEARED

? CHAPTER XV. THE DOOM TRAIL

? CHAPTER XVI. A MAN FROM THE WEST

? CHAPTER XVII. THE SHADOW ORDAINS

? CHAPTER XVIII. THE SHADOW'S CIRCLE

? CHAPTER XIX. THE CONFERENCE

? CHAPTER XX. CARDONA ENTERS

? CHAPTER XXI. TRESSLER ACTS

? CHAPTER XXII. THE SHADOW MOVES

? CHAPTER XXIII. THE SHADOW KNOWS

? CHAPTER XXIV. THE FINAL ORDER

? CHAPTER XXV. DEATH SURGES

? CHAPTER XXVI. THE FOCAL SPOT

CHAPTER I. LIGHTS OF DOOM

IT was evening in Manhattan. The blazing illumination of the Times Square district showed teeming

throngs amid the man-made chasms. Blocked traffic was noisy with the sound of tooting horns.

A taxi twisted out of line. It negotiated a difficult right turn while pedestrians scrambled out of its path.

The cab reached the clear stretch of a side street, shot along for a block, turned left through close but

broken traffic, and followed an avenue a block.

Another quick left turn; the cab pulled up at the entrance to one of Manhattan's popular low-priced

hostelries - the Hotel Zenith. A pale-faced occupant alighted. He seemed nervous as he paid the driver.

He puffed at a cigarette, then tossed it, half-smoked, to the sidewalk.

A big doorman in gorgeous uniform was superintending the unloading of the arrival's luggage. A porter

had stepped up to take the bags. The door of the taxi closed. The car pulled away while the man who

had occupied it turned to enter the hotel.

The prospective guest of the Hotel Zenith was a man of about forty-five years. His haggard features

indicated worry. His shrewd eyes looked about; his thin lips twitched nervously. Then, with an apparent

effort, the man threw back his shoulders and drew himself up to his full height of nearly six feet. He paced

toward the hotel lobby.

Had this man feared spying eyes? His actions indicated it. He had shown a hunted look as he had gazed

about. Yet in his quick glances, he had totally ignored the person who was standing closest to him.

THE hotel doorman, bulky in his gold-braid uniform, had been watching the change of expression upon

the arrival's face. As the man from the taxi walked into the lobby, the doorman stalked behind him.

Stopping as he reached a niche at the entrance of the hotel, the doorman watched the worried man cross

the lobby toward the desk.

A sour grin appeared upon the doorman's bluff face. Turning to his left, the doorman picked up a

telephone with his right hand. Referring to a card that lay beneath the telephone, he put in a call to the

hotel garage.

While thus engaged on regular routine work, the doorman replaced the instrument upon the ledge which it

occupied. He still held the receiver in his left hand; his right, however, crept beneath the ledge. There, the

doorman's fingers encountered a little switch. They pressed it once.

His signal given, the doorman strode back to the curb to meet another arriving cab. He shouted angrily to

the driver of a car who was blocking curb space reserved in front of the hotel. Routine was again the

doorman's duty, but as he went about his work, the big fellow kept casting occasional glances toward a

huge electric sign that showed running, resplendent lights from atop a distant building.

That sign had clusters of white lights at each of its four corners. These lights, like the thin lines of white

borders between them, were motionless. Only the wording that occupied the center of the sign showed

running, changing designs and colors.

But, as the doorman watched, the corners of the sign altered their condition. White lights faded; green

replaced them. The doorman, as he dispatched the cab, continued to keep his eye upon the altered sign.

Half a block away, a sandwich-board man stopped in his slow pacing. He let the painted boards sag

from his shoulders while he watched the green lights in the corners of the electric sign.

Further on - by the next avenue - a taxi driver leaned from his parked cab and studied those lights

intently. The cashier in a restaurant on another side street was watching the same green glow. So were

others in that immediate neighborhood.

These were not chance observers. Their actions were unnoticed by the throngs that moved by them.

These men - isolated individuals amid the thousands who teemed the streets about Times Square - were

the only ones who showed a knowledge of the change that had occurred in the corners of the electric

sign.

Lights of clustered green! A signal that kept all eyes on watch. Then came the next pronouncement from

the sign. The steady border lights blinked: once - then again, again and again.

Four flashes.

The doorman grinned as he walked back to his post. The sandwich-board man turned abruptly and

shambled slowly in the direction of the Hotel Zenith. The cab driver by the avenue snapped his fingers as

though in response to a prospective passenger. A man with a suitcase approached the cab and entered it.

The taxi pulled away.

IN the lobby of the Hotel Zenith, the nervous man who had just arrived was lighting a cigarette while he

waited beside the desk. Another guest had registered; the waiting man stepped up, threw his cigarette

into a receptacle, and scrawled his name upon the registration card.

"Mr. Dustin Cruett?" read the clerk.

The man nodded.

"A room high up?" inquired the clerk. "I can give you -"

"Hold it for a minute," interrupted Cruett, in an irritable tone. "I have a telephone call to make. My bags

are over there" - he nudged his thumb toward a pillar - "and I'll be back shortly."

The clerk turned to register another guest while Cruett strode across the lobby to a row of telephones.

Reaching a booth, Cruett dropped a coin in the box and dialed a number. While his left hand held the

receiver, his right was producing another cigarette from his pocket.

A busy signal. Cruett scowled. He remained in the booth, his face displaying impatience. Reaching in his

right vest pocket, he produced a packet of paper matches. He struck a match and lighted his cigarette. A

few puffs - Cruett reclaimed his returned coin and put in a new call.

His face gleamed as an answer came through the receiver. Cruett stamped out his cigarette and became

intent as he talked across the wire.

"Hello..." Cruett's tone was anxious. "Is Mr. Bewkel there?... No?... How soon?... I see... Yes... This is

Dustin Cruett...

"He wants me to come to the house? Very well, I shall start at once. Half an hour. Mr. Bewkel will

probably be back before I arrive... Yes, tell him I am on the way..."

With a confident expression on his face, Dustin Cruett left the booth and went back to the desk. There he

found that the clerk had assigned him to a room on the fourteenth floor. This was satisfactory. Cruett

waited while the clerk called a bell boy and handed him a key.

It was at that moment that another arrival came striding into the lobby. Like Cruett, this new guest had

evidently come by taxi, for he had entered through the door from the side street. He was carrying a single

bag. A bell boy approached to take it. The man waved him aside.

Shrewd-eyed and sallow, this arrival glimpsed Dustin Cruett standing by the desk. A quick shift and his

gaze fell upon the suitcases by the pillar. Stepping in that direction, the sallow man deposited his own bag

beside Cruett's. He turned toward the desk just as Cruett and the bell boy headed in his direction.

OUTSIDE the Hotel Zenith, the distant sign still showed its corners of clustered green. The change,

unnoticed by ordinary observers, still stood as a signal for those who knew its meaning.

The doorman watched it every now and then. So did others. To twenty pairs of eyes, those green lights

were a signal that must be heeded. They were lights of doom!

Shining with ghoulish gleam, green bulbs had begun a man hunt in the most thickly thronged district of

Manhattan. The four blinks of the border lights had designated the spot where the quarry was located -

the Hotel Zenith.

Dustin Cruett's nervousness had ended. The man who had registered at the Hotel Zenith did not know

that lights of doom were blazing. He felt secure in the center of Manhattan, unaware of the fate that was

awaiting him!

CHAPTER II. THE TRAIL

"PARDON me - that is my bag you have -"

The speaker was the sallow man who had entered the hotel lobby. He was springing forward just as the

bell boy was about to pick up Dustin Cruett's suitcases.

The bag which the sallow stranger indicated was a black one. It was actually Cruett's, but it did bear a

resemblance to the stranger's bag which was beside the other two.

Cruett swung angrily as the stranger jostled against him. The man was motioning the bell boy to replace

the bag beside the pillar. Cruett uttered an order to the contrary. He scowled as he glared into the face of

the interrupter.

"Your bag?" he inquired, hotly. "Where do you get that idea? Both of those bags are mine!"

The sallow-faced man was meeting Cruett's gaze. His left shoulder was thrust against Cruett's right. As

the argument threatened, the stranger's hand was busy. With deft fingers, he was drawing the pack of

paper matches from Cruett's right vest pocket.

"Don't become excited," purred the intruder. "I laid this bag here myself - just a moment ago. Examine it

more closely - you will admit that it is mine."

Cruett stooped toward the bag. So did the stranger. Cruett uttered an irritated laugh as he tapped his

hand upon the black leather. He tipped the bag on end.

"Yours?" he questioned, sarcastically, "with my initials?"

The stranger stared at the gold letters, D. C., as Cruett indicated them. Both men were stooping; the

fellow with the sallow face turned to Cruett with a blank, apologetic look upon his features.

"I guess - I guess" - he was stammering in apparent confusion - "I guess it isn't my bag after all. But I put

my bag down here -"

Cruett was laughing at the man's chagrin. He never gained an inkling of an action which the stranger was

performing. The sallow-faced man had dropped Cruett's matches in his pocket. With the same swift

deftness of his hand, he had produced a packet of his own. Edged close against Cruett's shoulder, he

cleverly inserted this new pack into the pocket from which he had purloined the first.

"Here's another bag, sir," came the bell boy's statement.

Both Cruett and the stranger looked toward the pillar.

"Ah!" The sallow-faced man uttered a pleased exclamation. "That's my bag. I must apologize to you, sir"

- he was bowing to Cruett as he spoke - "for my hastiness. I thought that the boy had made a stupid

mistake -"

"That's all right," interrupted Cruett. "I don't blame you. The bags do look a lot alike."

Again the stranger bowed. He stepped over and picked up his own suitcase. He carried it with him to the

desk. There, as he reached for the registration card, he threw a sidelong glance back toward the pillar.

The sallow face showed satisfaction. Dustin Cruett was drawing a cigarette from his pocket.

"Take the bags up to my room," ordered Cruett, handing the bell boy a tip. "Leave the key at the desk

when you come down. I am going out."

AS the bell boy started for the elevator, Cruett reached in his right vest pocket and drew out the pack of

matches that he found there. He lighted a match and applied it to the tip of his cigarette. The flame

seemed to die as Cruett puffed. The light went out; a thin curl of greenish smoke came from its tip.

Cruett lighted a second match. Again, he puffed heavily while the flame died. Suspecting a draft, he

cupped his bands for the third match. This time, quick puffs sucked up the flame. Cruett threw the match

upon the floor. A tiny green stain appeared upon the whitened marble.

The sallow-faced stranger had registered. As a bell boy took his bag, he headed to the telephone booths.

Entering one, he dialed as he watched Cruett stroll from the lobby. A voice came over the wire. The

sallow man spoke.

"Hello," he said. "I met your friend tonight... Yes... The meeting was a pleasant one... Yes... The matter is

already under way..."

Hanging up, the stranger left the booth and crossed the lobby to the elevators. Dustin Cruett had passed

out of view - through the door to the side street.

It was the doorman now who was watching Dustin Cruett. The green lights were still glowing as Cruett

stood for a moment and puffed his cigarette, then tossed it, half-smoked, into the gutter. Evidently it had

tasted bad.

After a moment's pause, Cruett drew another cigarette from his pocket. He required two matches to light

it. Smoking, he started along the side street.

The doorman's gaze went upward toward the distant sign. A slow smile appeared upon his face. Another

change had come. In the center of each cluster of green, a single red light was glowing.

The signal had been changed. Green had indicated that the quarry was in readiness. Red, within green,

told that a trapper had acted!

The doorman of the Hotel Zenith, stepping to his telephone, pressed the switch beneath the ledge.

Twenty seconds elapsed. Four blinks came from the ribboned borders of the electric sign.

The sandwich-board man, slouching along the side street, spotted that signal just as Dustin Cruett came

strolling by. He noted Cruett's face. He shambled along a short distance behind. He saw Cruett toss a

half-smoked cigarette into a grating.

A squatty, pug-faced fellow was standing at the door of a garage, a block away from the Hotel Zenith. In

shirt sleeves, with the butt of a cigar projecting from the side of his mouth, this man was obviously an

employee of the garage.

He, too, had watched the blinking border. He could see the small red lights, each in its circle of green.

Looking up the street, he observed Dustin Cruett approaching, with the sandwich man a dozen yards

behind.

The garage man reached behind the rough edge of the doorway. He pressed a hidden switch. It was his

report that Dustin Cruett was nearing this spot. Fifteen seconds passed. Just as Cruett reached the door,

the border lights of the sign blinked once; then, after a pause, twice.

The sandwich-board man saw it. He stopped and turned in the opposite direction. It was the garage man

who was observing Dustin Cruett. He saw Cruett stop to draw a cigarette from his pocket. Cruett was

an inveterate smoker. A match flickered and went out; another did the same. A third - Cruett obtained

his light.

BY the glow of the match, the garage man saw a peculiar pallor on Cruett's face. He laughed as Cruett

went on and turned a corner. There were throngs here, but Cruett scarcely noticed them. He felt dizzy.

Looking ahead, he spied a subway kiosk on the avenue. He headed for it, for he intended to take a train

uptown to the home of Maurice Bewkel.

Then his footsteps failed. At the next corner, Cruett staggered. Some people at a soft-drink stand saw

him fall. A taxi driver whistled to a policeman. The officer hurried over to render first aid.

A crowd was gathering. More police hurried. The group formed about the spot where Dustin Cruett had

collapsed. Then, as uniformed men pushed the people back, Cruett's form was lifted into a taxi. With a

policeman on the running board, the taxi shot along Seventh Avenue.

One of the observers approached the soft-drink stand, where the industrious counter man was serving a

white drink called "Chromo" in tall, tapering glasses.

"Looks like the guy dropped dead," commented the observer. "He didn't move when the cops picked

him up."

The counter man stretched a white-sleeved arm beneath the portion of the counter where the cash

of Chromo to new patrons, he watched the big electric sign which was visible from this booth.

Two short blinks - a pause - then a third. This was the signal that located the spot near the Chromo

counter. Then came another change. In each corner of the sign a red light remained glowing while the

green lights faded. Red lights replaced the green. Solid red, in every corner.

The sign had told two stories. It had given the location where Dustin Cruett had fallen. Now it told that

death had struck. It was a token to all watching eyes that the task was ended.

The red lights faded. White replaced them. The sign was in its original state. Up in a room at the Hotel

Zenith, the sallow-faced man who had exchanged Cruett's match pack laughed as he saw the final result.

He was but one of many, that sallow-visaged villain. Dustin Cruett had followed a trail where danger

lurked at every corner and at spots between. Yet other hands had waited, to see if the first man's trap

would succeed.

It had. Before Dustin Cruett had reached the limit of a strange circle, he had dropped, dying, to the

sidewalk. Insidious crime had struck down a helpless victim.

Here, in the most densely thronged portion of Manhattan, agents of a superfiend were at work.

Camouflaged as persons of innocuous appearance, they were ready to follow the signal which all could

view!

Death had struck within their midst. Not one of them had shown his hand in it. Uptown Manhattan left no

ripple of the murder which had occurred upon its lighted streets and avenues.

The circle of death had taken its first toll!

CHAPTER III. THE EVIDENCE

"FUNNY, the way that fellow Cruett dropped."

The speaker was Detective Joe Cardona. Stocky, swarthy-faced and square-jawed, Cardona was

recognized as the ace of Manhattan sleuths. He was talking to Inspector Timothy Klein, at headquarters.

"No signs of foul play?"

The question came from Klein. A gray-haired veteran of the force, the inspector had come to recognize

Cardona as the most able detective with whom he had ever dealt.

"None." Cardona was emphatic in the statement. "I've got a hunch - that's all."

Klein nodded. He had great faith in Cardona's hunches.

"There's the stuff from his pockets," resumed the detective. "Look it over, inspector. You won't find

anything in the lot. A Pullman stub from Washington. Cards of identification. A pack of cigarettes.

Matches. Nothing else of consequence.

"We've gotten in touch with Cruett's relatives, since he dropped dead last night. From all they tell us, he

was out of a job. Had money in the bank, though, several thousand dollars. Probably down in

Washington, looking for a job."

"His line?" queried Klein.

"Sort of a jack of all trades," returned Cardona. "Been a promoter in his time - traveled a lot - connected

with oil-well deals down in Texas. Had a lot of acquaintances, but very few close friends."

Klein looked up suddenly. He had heard a footfall at the door. Cardona turned. He joined the inspector

in a grin.

A tall, stoop-shouldered man had entered the office. He was wearing overalls and he carried pail and

mop.

"Hello, Fritz," greeted Klein. "On the job again, eh? You like to clean up early, don't you?"

"Yah." The janitor stared dully as he spoke.

"They come and go," commented Cardona, "but Fritz is always here. Say, Fritz, why don't you work on

regular schedule. It would work out better, wouldn't it?"

"Yah."

It was plain that the janitor did not understand the question. Cardona and Klein laughed.

"Fritz is all right, Joe," remarked the inspector. "Some nights he shows up early - some nights late. That's

what puts variety into his work."

"I guess you're right, inspector." Cardona surveyed the janitor closely. "He looks different at times, too,

Fritz does. Sometimes he seems paler and thinner. Looks like he changes day by day."

"Maybe," admitted Klein. "But there's one thing sure. Fritz will be here until the place falls down. He'll be

here when they've forgotten us, Joe."

THE inspector arose. He picked up the objects from the desk and piled them in a little box.

"Well, Joe," he decided, "if these don't give you any clew on Cruett's death, you'll have to work on a

hunch. That's all. Meanwhile, the report stands. Death from natural causes."

"I'd accept it, inspector," agreed Cardona, "if it wasn't for that toxic condition. The doctors said it could

be natural - a sort of poisoning that crept into the man's system. Cruett was registered at the Hotel

Zenith. He left there in good shape. Then this hit him. That's what bothers me. A slow condition like that

shouldn't hit with a bang."

"A man has to succumb some time, Joe. Poor physical condition often means quick death. According to

your report" - Klein was pointing to a paper on the desk - "Cruett smoked as many as five packs of

cigarettes a day. That's a pretty big load for one man's system."

"I got that from his relatives," nodded Cardona. "They all said Cruett was a nervous sort. Well, I guess

natural death goes, inspector. Just the same, I've got a funny hunch."

Klein had put the little box in a desk drawer, along with Cardona's report sheet. Fritz, his tall form bent

almost double, was swabbing up the floor near a corner. The two men paid no further attention to him as

they left.

Alone in the office, Fritz kept on mopping. He went about his work in a slow, methodical fashion. His tall

form threw a grotesque shadow across the floor. It formed a blackened splotch upon Klein's desk as the

janitor stepped in that direction.

Five minutes had elapsed since Klein had departed with Cardona. Straightening, Fritz deposited his mop

in the bucket and let the handle rest against the wall. With a sudden stride that showed unusual swiftness,

he approached the desk.

Klein had locked the drawer. Fritz produced a bundle of keys. With them was a thin, skeleton-shaped

piece of metal. The janitor inserted it into the keyhole of the drawer. Long fingers twisted in expert

fashion. The lock gave; the drawer came open.

THE dullness was gone from Fritz's eyes. The janitor studied the articles in the box. Keenly, he read

Cardona's report sheet. Then, with definite intent, he plucked the half-used pack of paper matches from

the desk drawer.

The packet was a type seen commonly in Manhattan. It advertised a show about to open at a

Forty-second Street theater. This was the very reason why Fritz, suddenly turned sleuth, had picked it

from the other articles.

The janitor had suspected something which had passed Joe Cardona. Dustin Cruett, according to

Cardona's report, had come in from Washington. He had gone directly to the Hotel Zenith by taxicab.

The Pullman stub substantiated this fact.

Unless Cruett had purchased cigarettes at a stand in the Pennsylvania station, he would not have obtained

a packet of paper matches. The cigarette pack was almost empty. It did not bear the customary label on

packs sold at station stands.

Where, then, had Cruett obtained this pack of matches - a paper folder which bore an advertisement

seen only in Manhattan? Certainly not on the train. It was probable that this pack of matches had entered

Cruett's pocket after his arrival in New York.

Fritz's study of the packet indicated this train of thought. It also showed that the mind of someone more

capable than a dull-faced janitor was at work.

With deft fingers, Fritz pried up the bit of wire that held the matches in their place. He removed the

matches from the pack. From his overalls, he produced another pack of matches; he removed its

matches in the same fashion and inserted them instead of those he had taken.

Fritz added to this procedure by plucking away several matches so that the pack appeared exactly the

same as it had been. The drawer slid shut. Fritz locked it with the pick. Gathering mop and bucket, the

janitor shambled from the office. He turned out the light and closed the door so it locked automatically

behind him.

Fritz's tall, bent figure showed a weird silhouette as the janitor moved crablike through a gloomy,

deserted corridor. Fritz reached an obscure spot where light was almost absent. He opened a locker.

Overalls went into the locker; mop and pail were deposited beside the wall.

Dark cloth rippled as Fritz drew garments from the locker. Long folds of black descended upon the

janitor's form. A soft, ghostly laugh rippled from unseen lips. The changed form turned; two spots like

blazing eyes were all that showed until the figure stepped forward.

Had Inspector Timothy Klein or Detective Joe Cardona been there to view that transformation, they

would have gaped in amazement. Instead of Fritz, the janitor, a tall shape in black was now apparent.

A being clad in a cloak that shrouded form and shoulders. A personage whose visage was concealed by

the turned-down brim of a slouch hat. A weird creature whose very presence was awe inspiring.

Fritz, the janitor, had become The Shadow!

AN amazing specter who roamed Manhattan, The Shadow was a mystery to all. Though he had shown

his hand on definite occasions; though it had been proven that his power sided with the law against men

of crime, neither the police nor the underworld had gained a tangible clew to the identity of this phantom

being.

A supersleuth as well as a fighter who dealt in action, The Shadow used many ruses which had escaped

all knowledge. His impersonation of Fritz, the janitor, was one. Through this device, The Shadow had

access to detective headquarters. There, he could obtain evidence to certain crime cases that could be

gained in no other way.

Moving stealthily through a deserted corridor, The Shadow now appeared as a black-garbed apparition.

His very course was scarcely discernible. His tall form reached a side door. The barrier seemed to open

of its own accord. A few moments later, a thing of blackness descended stone steps. Merging with the

darkness of a wall, The Shadow moved forth upon an untraceable course.

Fleeting blackness beneath a lamp light, a block from headquarters. A whispered laugh that came with an

eerie shudder - a peculiar strain of mockery that seemed to cling with sighing echoes. These were the

tokens of The Shadow's strange departure.

Where Joe Cardona had had a hunch, The Shadow had gained a clew. With him, this phantom of

blackness was carrying the one bit of evidence that pointed to the sudden death of Dustin Cruett.

The circle of death had taken its first victim. Tonight, twenty-four hours after Cruett's demise, The

Shadow had gained the evidence!

Master who battled crime, The Shadow was embarking upon one of the most difficult episodes that had

ever marked his strange career.

Death was due to strike again before The Shadow could solve the riddle that hovered about Times

Square!

CHAPTER IV. MEN OF MONEY

WHILE The Shadow was making his spectral departure from the neighborhood near police

headquarters, a tall gray-haired man was walking through the lighted district that forms Manhattan's

Rialto.

A man of dignity, proud in bearing from his stride to the gold-headed cane that he carried, this individual

seemed bound on an errand of importance. Turning along a side street, he entered the lobby of a tall, but

narrow building - the Hotel Delavan.

The visitor said nothing as he joined a group of passengers in a waiting elevator. It was not until the last of

this group had stepped forth on the twentieth floor that the operator glanced curiously at the passenger

with the cane.

"The penthouse," informed the dignified man.

The operator hesitated; then seemed to remember instructions. He nodded and drove the car upward. It

stopped at the top of the shaft. The operator opened the door, and the visitor stepped into a room that

resembled a patio.

Everything denoted luxury. A tinkling fountain sprayed in a basin in the middle of the tiled floor. Lights of

changing hues played upon the spreading water. The visitor gazed in admiration. He looked up suddenly

to see a young man who had come from the door beyond.

This chap had a sly, crafty look in his eye. He was studying the visitor. The expression changed as the

gray-haired man met the other's gaze. The young man bowed.

"You are Mr. Bewkel?" he questioned.

"Yes," returned the visitor, in a haughty tone. "I have come to see Mr. Felix Tressler - by appointment."

As he spoke, the gray-haired man proffered a card. It bore the name:

MAURICE BEWKEL

"Mr. Tressler will see you at once, sir," informed the young man. "He has been awaiting your arrival. This

way, please."

BEWKEL looked about him as he followed his guide through the penthouse. Lavishly furnished rooms

showed wherever doors were open. Other doors were closed. Finally, the guide led the guest out

through a wide doorway to a roof. Rows of plants showed at intervals. Indirect lights provided a mellow

illumination.

"Ah! Bewkel!"

A man was rising to greet the guest. Stocky and heavy of build, he seemed almost too bulky to support

himself. In fact, he moved forward as though trying to avoid overexertion. He thrust out a massive paw to

meet Bewkel's handclasp.

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THECIRCLEOFDEATHMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.LIGHTSOFDOOM?CHAPTERII.THETRAIL?CHAPTERIII.THEEVIDENCE?CHAPTERIV.MENOFMONEY?CHAPTERV.THESHADOWPREPARES?CHAPTERVI.THEFIRSTOPTION?CHAPTERVII.AGAINTHECIRCLE?CHAPTERVIII.REPORTSRECEIVED?CHAPTERIX.THESECON...

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