Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 061 - Spoils of the Shadow

SPOILS OF THE SHADOW

Maxwell Grant

http://www.blackmask.com

? CHAPTER I. THE MESSAGE

? CHAPTER II. THE SHADOW'S FORAY

? CHAPTER III. FACE TO FACE

? CHAPTER IV. THE INTERVIEW

? CHAPTER V. THE SCHEMER PREPARES

? CHAPTER VI. THE FIRST CRIME

? CHAPTER VII. THE SECOND CRIME

? CHAPTER VIII. THE AFTERMATH

? CHAPTER IX. THE THIRD CRIME

? CHAPTER X. THE FOURTH CRIME

? CHAPTER XI. THE FIFTH CRIME

? CHAPTER XII. THE SHADOW EXPLAINS

? CHAPTER XIII. NEW CRIME BREWS

? CHAPTER XIV. CROOK VERSUS SHADOW

? CHAPTER XV. STRATEGY

? CHAPTER XVI. IN THE TRAP

? CHAPTER XVII. DEATH DELIVERED

? CHAPTER XVIII. THE BROKEN TRAIL

? CHAPTER XIX. THE MASTER HAND

? CHAPTER XX. ENEMIES SPEAK

CHAPTER I. THE MESSAGE

THE Southern States Limited was clicking northward across Virginia. Forty minutes out of

Quantico, the fast train was nearing the end of its run. Passengers on the observation

platform were moving into the car, in anticipation of the arrival at Washington.

One person alone remained upon the platform. Tall, quiet in bearing, this passenger was

gazing reflectively back along the tracks that seemed to sweep from beneath the speeding

limited. In the fading light of late afternoon, his countenance showed with the clearness of

chiseled marble.

A strange gem glowed firelike upon the passenger's left hand as fingers plucked a cigarette

from immobile lips. Keen eyes burned from either side of a hawklike nose as the strange

personage let his gaze follow the swiftly moving scenery. Then the faint semblance of a

smile showed upon the lips which had been inflexible.

From among the signboards that lined this section of the railroad, the lingering passenger

had spied one that stood out even in the dwindling light. It was an advertisement that

proclaimed the merits of a popular low-priced automobile: the Paragon Eight.

Fingers flicked the cigarette from the platform. Turning, the tall passenger entered the

lounge car. Although a dozen minutes still remained before the limited would reach the

Washington terminal, other passengers had gone to their own cars to prepare for the arrival.

This tall traveler did not follow their example. He chose a comfortable chair in the deserted

car and picked up a magazine that lay upon a table.

RUNNING through the pages, the passenger stopped upon an advertisement that

corresponded with the sign that he had viewed. It was one that boomed the Paragon Eight.

Above a picture of an automobile, the tall passenger placed a long white forefinger upon this

statement:

PARAGON

TO-MORROW'S AUTOMOBILE!

THE NEW PERFECTED SILENT

SHIFT HAS GAINED COMPLETE

ADMIRATION FROM SATISFIED

OWNERS THROUGHOUT THE LAND

The flicker of a smile again appeared upon the thin lips. This advertisement was part of a

national campaign. Thousands of persons had read its legend. This one reader had alone

discovered a peculiar significance to its wording.

Long fingers produced a pencil. The smile persisted while the passenger's hand drew heavy

marks through the printed lines. The keen-eyed personage left only the first two letters on the

top line; the first three on the next; the first two on each remaining line. The lettering that

remained gave forth this terse announcement:

TO

THE

SH

AD

OW

To The Shadow! A remarkable discovery, this announcement. It told a story of its own.

Some ingenious man had been desirous of communicating with the master of the unknown,

that strange, unaccountable being called The Shadow. Through this advertisement, spread

throughout the United States, he had issued his request, confident that it would reach the

eyes of the one he wanted to see it.

The object had been gained. The tall, hawkish traveler ten minutes from his journey's end

was none other than The Shadow. Alone in the spacious lounge car of the Southern States

Limited he was studying this announcement that had been printed for his perusal.

Beneath the picture of the automobile appeared another statement. The Shadow's keen

eyes scanned the lower wording, which read:

Call any dealer. Ask to see the new

Paragon Eight. At your home, your

hotel, or your office. Learn the

room it allows for comfort. The price,

850 dollars, f. o. b., will amaze you.

Again the pencil was busy. This time it crossed out all but the first word in each line. The

result was a vertical arrangement of words that delivered a terse message:

Call

Paragon

Hotel

room

850

"To The Shadow. Call Paragon Hotel, room 850"—such was the total of the concealed

message. The Shadow had discovered it; the smile upon the thin lips beneath the aquiline

nose showed that he had already intended to answer the request.

The train was crossing the Potomac. Thrusting the magazine in his pocket, The Shadow

arose from his chair and moved toward the front of the car. In the light, his face showed as a

masklike countenance. A calm, well-molded visage, it obscured the real features that lay

beneath. The Shadow, when he traveled, chose a countenance other than his own.

Six minutes after The Shadow's departure from the lounge car, the Southern States Limited

completed its curving journey through the tunnels under Washington and stopped at a lower

platform. The calm-faced stranger stepped from a Pullman. A red-cap seized his bags and

led the way up the steps to the huge concourse of the mammoth Union Depot. Arriving at the

taxi entrance, The Shadow stepped into a cab and ordered the driver to take him to the

Colonnade Hotel.

Ten minutes later, the tall arrival was in the lobby of the hotel. Speaking quietly to the clerk

on duty, he was announcing himself as Lamont Cranston and asking for the room reserved

in his name.

"Six forty-two, Mr. Cranston," informed the clerk. "Front, boy! Here is some mail, Mr.

Cranston. It arrived for you yesterday and to-day. We have been holding it, sir."

ALONE in his room, Lamont Cranston seated himself at a writing desk beside the window.

The only light was that of a small table lamp. Within this circle of illumination, Cranston

opened a long envelope. This letter, addressed to him, bore the return address of Rutledge

Mann, an investment broker in the Badger Building, New York City.

Rutledge Mann was a secret agent of The Shadow. Those hands beneath the light were the

hands of The Shadow. Long, white fingers removed papers from the envelope. Written

sheets, phrased in simple code, came beneath The Shadow's view. These were reports

from agents in New York, forwarded through Rutledge Mann.

Bluish writing faded as The Shadow completed his perusal. These messages had been

inscribed in disappearing ink. No trace of writing remained as The Shadow let the sheets

slide into a wastebasket beside the table. A soft laugh came from lips in the darkness as

The Shadow arose from his chair. Hands raised a telephone from the table. In the quiet

tones of Lamont Cranston, The Shadow called long distance and gave a New York

number—that of the Paragon Hotel, in Manhattan.

Off in the distance beyond the window, the mighty shaft of the Washington Monument

gleamed white amid the searchlights that bathed the huge obelisk. But The Shadow's eyes,

though they gazed in that direction, were picturing a different scene. They were visualizing a

hotel room in New York—Room 850 at the Paragon. That was the number which The

Shadow gave over the wire, as he heard the voice of the switchboard operator, speaking

from the New York hotel.

A brief pause. The receiver clicked. Some one was on the line. A suave voice greeted The

Shadow's ears. Still feigning an even-toned manner of expression, The Shadow spoke in

response.

"I received your message," he announced. "I presume that you wish to meet me... Yes...

To-night... I can be there... Yes, I am calling by long distance. From Washington... Yes...

Yes... I understand... Your terms are acceptable... Yes, a friendly meeting... I shall arrive

some time before midnight..."

The receiver clicked. The telephone was replaced upon the table. A hand pulled the cord of

the little lamp. A form moved softly through the room and pressed the light switch by the

door. In the full illumination which came to the room, the tall form of Lamont Cranston was

revealed.

Opening a large grip, the occupant of the room removed a flat briefcase. He followed by

bringing out a folded garment of black—a cloak which showed a crimson lining. Then came

the flattened shape of a slouch hat. After that, a pair of businesslike automatics. Last of all, a

black pouch that glistened like oilskin.

These objects went into the briefcase. Closing the grip, Cranston strolled to the telephone. In

his quiet tones, he called the desk.

"I am checking out," he informed. "Charge me for a single night... Yes, this is Mr. Cranston

speaking. Send a porter for my luggage... The room will be open..."

The call completed, The Shadow held the hook depressed. Then he called a number; when

a response occurred, he spoke again, still in the quiet tones of Cranston.

"Airport?" he questioned. "This is Lamont Cranston speaking... Yes, I am back in

Washington... Yes, I am ready to use the plane I left here... All ready? Good. I shall be there

within a half hour..."

The porter had not arrived when The Shadow's call was finished. Picking up his briefcase,

the tall stranger walked from the room in the leisurely fashion that was characteristic of

Lamont Cranston. Reaching the lobby, he approached the desk and passed a railroad

ticket to the clerk.

"Send my luggage to the Union Depot," he ordered. "Check it through to the Pennsylvania

Station in New York. Mail the stubs to my New Jersey address."

"Very well, Mr. Cranston."

After laying his bill at the cashier's cage, the departing guest strolled from the lobby.

Briefcase in hand, he entered a taxi outside the hotel. He gave a quiet order to the driver.

The taximan nodded and started the cab.

Headed toward a bridge across the Potomac, the taxi started on a swift journey to the

airport—the destination given. Street lamps showed a faint smile upon the lips of the

passenger who held the briefcase. Then, like an echoed whisper, a soft tone of subdued

mockery came from the unmoving mouth.

The laugh of The Shadow! Audible only to the personage who uttered it, the repressed tone

carried a presaging note. It was a prediction of strange events that lay ahead; a weird token

of coming adventure.

A message to The Shadow! It had been received before to-night. The Shadow had

discovered it a few days back; and he had acted in preparation. Absent from New

York—the logical city for the appointment—The Shadow had ordered trusted agents to do

preliminary work. The word from Rutledge Mann had told him that their investigations were

completed. Acquainted with certain important facts, The Shadow had communicated

directly with Room 850 at the Paragon Hotel, New York.

HALF an hour after Lamont Cranston's departure from the Washington hotel, a

broad-winged monoplane took off from the airport across the Potomac.

Rising high above the glow of the nation's capital, it zoomed northward along the airway to

New York.

The Shadow, mysterious master of the night, was heading toward Manhattan. He was on his

way to perform an unprecedented task. From the darkness that enshrouded him, The

Shadow would soon emerge to meet the bold man who had summoned him to conference

in New York.

Whether he was to meet friend or foe, The Shadow was prepared to answer the challenge

of this unaccountable meeting. Before midnight, he would know the reason for the strange

request that had been issued to him.

CHAPTER II. THE SHADOW'S FORAY

THE Paragon Hotel was a decrepit structure that rose gloomily from a side street in

Manhattan. Decadent for several years, it had become a place of poor repute. Its rooms

were sparsely occupied; little account was kept of the guests. Although the neighborhood

was fairly respectable, the Paragon was a hotel that no longer catered to the elect.

Two hours after The Shadow had begun his air trip from Washington, a young man

appeared in the dismal lobby of the Paragon Hotel. He entered the elevator in

inconspicuous fashion and rode up to the eighth floor. Leaving the elevator, he moved to a

gloomy corridor, cast a wary look and headed for a room halfway along the hall. The door,

which bore the number 847, was unlocked. The young man entered a darkened room and

closed the door behind him.

"Harry?" came a whispered question.

"Right," was the young man's response. "What's new, Cliff?"

"Both in the room," answered the first speaker. "The tough looking fellow is Pug Halfin, all

right; but I don't know the smooth chap that's with him."

"All right, Cliff. Slide out. I'll keep watch."

The man who had been in the room made for the door. His square-shouldered form showed

as he opened the barrier. Then the door closed and the later arrival remained alone. The

watch had been changed.

These two men were agents of The Shadow. Harry Vincent, an experienced operative, had

just replaced Cliff Marsland. Harry had been longer in The Shadow's service than had Cliff;

the latter, however, had the advantage of being in close contact with the affairs of the

underworld.

HARRY VINCENT, posted here to watch Room 850, had been the first to spy the occupants

across the hall—one, a hard-faced fellow who had taken Room 850 under the name of

Bates; the other, a suave individual who was not registered. It was Cliff Marsland, however,

who had peered through the transom to identify "Bates" as "Pug" Halfin, a one-time

mobleader well known in the badlands of New York.

These facts had been submitted in reports to Rutledge Mann. While awaiting The Shadow's

orders, Cliff and Harry had continued their relayed vigil. Both had worked from under cover;

neither had been observed by either Pug Halfin or his unknown companion.

Seating himself in the corner of the darkened room, Harry put in a telephone call. This was

to Burbank, The Shadow's contact man. Harry was terse and non-committal in his

statements. He was merely reporting that he was on duty; and doing it in a fashion that

indicated nothing more than a call to a friend. It was Cliff, now outside the hotel, who would

give Burbank a more detailed report.

The situation, however, presented nothing new. Harry and Cliff had been on watch for three

nights; since Cliff's early identification of Pug Halfin, nothing new had developed.

While Harry Vincent was engaged in his call to Burbank, a peculiar phenomenon took place.

Without Harry noticing it, the door of the room opened inward. No light came from the

corridor, for a blackened shape filled the opened portion of the doorway. It was not until he

arose from his chair that Harry Vincent realized he was not alone. The token of another

presence came in a whispered tone.

The Shadow!

Harry was startled by the unexpected arrival of his chief. He could see no one in the

darkness. That, however, was not unusual. Enshrouded by gloom, The Shadow had a

marked ability for rendering himself invisible.

"Remain on duty," came the whispered order. "Timed report. Zero."

Nodding in the darkness, Harry drew a watch from his pocket. He pressed the stem and

held it in readiness, awaiting the next word.

"Set," came The Shadow's whisper.

A slight click from Harry's hand was answered by a similar sound from the spot where The

Shadow stood. Two stop-watches, set at the same beginning, were ticking off identical

seconds.

Something swished softly in the darkness. Harry saw the door move inward. He noted

blocking blackness; then the door was closed. The Shadow had started forth. Harry drew a

chair to the door and stood upon it, keeping watch through the transom. There was no sign

of The Shadow. Already, the master sleuth had passed along the corridor, beyond the door

of Room 850.

THE corridor terminated in an exit to a fire escape. This was the course that The Shadow

had taken. Room 850 was the last door on the left. Room 852 was one door inward; and it

was catercornered to 847, from which Harry Vincent was spying.

The Shadow had passed both doors. A shrouded figure in the darkness of the fire exit, he

was looking along the brick wall to the left. His keen eyes spied what he required—a cornice

jotting from the bricks.

Such projections existed on each floor level. The space provided was no more than a few

inches; to The Shadow, that was satisfactory.

A splotch of blackness moved from the dull illumination of the fire exit. A few moments later,

a shady figure had pressed itself against the wall of the building.

Beetlelike, The Shadow was moving along the cornice. A journey of a dozen feet brought

him to the window of Room 850. A heavy shade was drawn within the window; no light

glimmered from its edges. The Shadow paused; then kept onward to the very corner of this

wing of the hotel.

Like a clinging bat, the phantom investigator made the turn. He reached a second window of

Room 850. Like the first, it showed a drawn shade. This time, a slight glimmer gave a clue.

The Shadow proceeded along the cornice until he reached another window.

Here, The Shadow's form huddled downward. Fingers clutched cracks between bricks as

firm feet remained upon the cornice. The Shadow had reached an open window to a lighted

room. His eyes, coming upward to the sill, observed two men within; they also saw a

partly-opened door that obviously led to 850.

This was Room 852; it was the inner room of a suite for it connected with 850. It also had a

door to the corridor. The Shadow observed these facts in the gloomy light of a single floor

lamp. He also studied the faces of the two men who were in the room; and his keen ears

caught their low conversation.

One man, stocky of build, sullen of expression, was standing near the door that led to 850.

His face was a hardened one. The Shadow knew him for the mobleader, Pug Halfin. The

other was a man of suave and shrewd appearance. He was seated, smoking a cigarette,

and his lips wore a wise, satisfied smile.

"Getting nervous, Pug?" this man was questioning, in a smooth, purring tone.

"Yeah," growled Pug. "This is tricky business, Tyrell. I don't like it."

"No?" There was sarcasm in Tyrell's suave tone. "Why should you be worried, Pug? The real

game is mine; and I am unconcerned."

"Maybe you don't know much about The Shadow."

"On the contrary, I do. The fact that he communicated with me is sufficient proof."

"Don't it give you the jitters? Knowin' that he's comin' here to talk to you -"

"Why should it?"

"He's death on crooks -"

"Do not include me in that category. My business with The Shadow concerns the future, not

the past."

THERE was a pause. Tyrell continued to smile calmly while he smoked the cigarette. Pug's

face still wore its troubled look. At last, Tyrell arose from his chair. Turning toward the

window, he flicked his cigarette out into darkness. The glowing object shot above The

Shadow's head. The peering intruder had crouched out of sight as Tyrell had turned in his

direction.

"At six thirty"—Tyrell was talking suavely to Pug—"The Shadow called here from

Washington. He stated that he would arrive before midnight. He could do so by taking the

limited that left at six forty-five. That would bring him here almost at the hour of twelve.

"However, if he chose to come by scheduled plane, he could arrive shortly after ten o'clock. It

is nearly half-past nine. That, Pug, will allow me to take a short trip to the lobby."

"Leavin' me here alone?"

"Of course. I shall return before The Shadow gets here. Since you seem to be annoyed by

the interval that yet remains, I think it would be best for you to make yourself comfortable

before I depart. Come, Pug."

Peering through the window, The Shadow saw the two men move through the door into

Room 850. Tyrell left the barrier partly open. A slight click sounded outside the window. Brief

minutes passed. Neither Tyrell nor Pug returned. The Shadow began his return trip along the

cornice.

It was a slow, precarious journey. More minutes passed before The Shadow reached his

goal, the fire exit.

From the darkness of the fire escape he peered into the gloomy corridor. It was empty. In

ghostlike fashion, The Shadow moved from the fire exit and glided swiftly to the door of

Harry Vincent's room. He entered in noiseless fashion.

Harry had removed the chair from within the door. Standing a short space away, he sensed

The Shadow's return. He heard the whispered order:

"Report."

"Pug's companion left," returned Harry, in a low tone. "Went toward the elevator."

"Time."

"Registered."

"Leave. Report from outside."

Harry Vincent strolled from the room. The Shadow moved toward the table. A tiny flashlight

glimmered in his gloved hand. It showed Harry's stop watch lying on the table. The Shadow

placed his own timepiece beside it.

Both watches had been set at zero. Yet The Shadow's had stopped three minutes before

Harry's. The significance was apparent. From the time that he had moved from 852 into

850, Tyrell had lingered for three minutes before beginning his trip to the lobby. Harry had

timed the man's exit.

The flashlight glimmered toward a closet. Opening the door, The Shadow threw rays toward

a high shelf. He drew forth a large, flat suitcase. He carried it to the bed and opened it. A

soft laugh crept from The Shadow's lips as his eyes spied various articles within. This

special bag had been brought here by Harry Vincent. It was to prove useful to The Shadow.

THE flashlight glimmered upon a polished mirror set in the top of the bag. Setting the little

light so that it projected from the open cover of the bag, The Shadow pushed back the brim

of his slouch hat and dropped away the folds of his cloak collar to reveal the masklike

visage of Lamont Cranston. Gloves came from white hands; long, tapering fingers began to

press against the face above.

A buzz from near the table in the corner. It was the telephone. Harry and Cliff had kept the

bell well muffled. The Shadow answered. He spoke in a quiet voice. A reply came over the

wire.

"I saw my friend." The announcement was in Harry Vincent's voice. "I found him where I

expected. He seemed to be in no hurry to leave."

"Never mind then," replied The Shadow, in an easy tone. "I won't have to see you to-night."

The receiver clicked, following the statement that meant Harry was off duty. The Shadow

turned back toward the suitcase on the bed. A soft whisper came from his lips. Its repressed

tones were a mockery.

While Tyrell remained in the lobby, The Shadow was making ready for the appointment that

was to come. His own plane had brought him to New York much sooner than Tyrell had

anticipated. The Shadow had viewed and studied the man he was to meet.

Whatever Tyrell's schemes might be, whatever his purpose in requesting an interview with

The Shadow, one fact was sure. The suave individual who had issued his cunning summons

would be due for a surprise before this evening ended.

CHAPTER III. FACE TO FACE

LESS than ten minutes after Harry Vincent had made his final report to The Shadow, a hand

turned the knob of the door to Room 850. The gloom of the corridor gave a fleeting trace of

the features of the man called Tyrell. Entering the room, the arrival closed the door behind

him.

"Pug!"

Tyrell's voice was a whisper. It brought a growl from a corner of the room. Barely discernible

in the slight light that came from the connecting door to 852, Pug Halfin rose from behind a

heavy chair.

"Yeah?" questioned the mobleader.

"He'll be here soon," purred Tyrell. "I called up the airport. The Washington plane is in."

"But if he ain't on it -"

"Don't worry. The Shadow wouldn't lose much time getting here."

"Well, I'm all set."

"Good. The only question now is your nerve."

"Say"—Pug paused indignantly—"it's waitin' that gets my goat—that's all. It'll give me the

creeps, havin' to let The Shadow go by, when I could bag him. But when he comes back this

way—well, this rod's done its work before."

As he spoke, Pug raised a revolver, which glimmered slightly in the scant light. Tyrell's form

moved forward. A low exclamation came from his lips.

"Let's see that gun!"

Pug handed over the revolver. He saw Tyrell hold it to the light. Then came an expression of

contempt.

"A .38!" Tyrell's tone had sarcasm. "Where are your brains, Pug? Is this the largest rod you

handle?"

"It ain't no bean-shooter," retorted Pug, "Say—that gat's done plenty. I'll finish any guy with it

-"

"But not The Shadow," came Tyrell's suave interruption. "The less shots, the better. I'll take

this gun. You use my .45."

Pocketing Pug's revolver, the speaker produced a larger weapon. He handed a glimmering

gun to the mobleader. He uttered a warning as Pug gripped the weapon.

"Easy with that cannon," he warned. "It has no safety catch; and that's a hair-trigger. There

won't be any argument when you use that gun."

"All right." Pug kept finger from trigger as he gripped the .45. "Say—I guess you're right,

Tyrell. This smoke wagon makes my old rod look like a cap-pistol."

"Ease back," ordered Tyrell, motioning Pug down behind the chair. "I'm taking a stroll out in

the corridor. When I come back again, I'll be ready for business."

Pug remained silent after the other had gone. Minutes passed; at last, the door of 850

opened. From his hiding place, Pug saw that Tyrell had returned. The suave man closed the

door behind him and walked across the room to the door to the adjoining chamber.

"All set, Pug?" he whispered.

"Right," came the mobleader's final growl.

TYRELL entered the other room. Silence persisted in Room 850. There was silence also in

the outer corridor, but not for long. The door of 847 opened. A swish occurred as The

Shadow emerged from the darkness of the room.

Watching, The Shadow had marked Tyrell's return. He was ready for the appointment.

Crossing the corridor, he opened the door of 850 and glided into the darkened room,

closing the door behind him.

Keenly, The Shadow spied the light from the connecting door. He moved in that direction.

His manner was stealthy. Pug Halfin, waiting in the gloom, did not sense The Shadow's

presence until the black-garbed visitant had actually arrived at the connecting door. Then,

only, did Pug glimpse what appeared to be a solid silhouette against the wall. A moment

later, The Shadow had passed into Room 852.

The man whom Pug had addressed as Tyrell was standing by the window. He was staring

Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 061 - Spoils of the Shadow

相关推荐

开通VIP享超值会员特权

作者详情

相关内容

热门标签

举报选择: