Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 030 - The Death Giver

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THE DEATH GIVER
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. DEATH UNEXPLAINED
? CHAPTER II. THE THIRD TRAGEDY
? CHAPTER III. ONE MILLION DOLLARS
? CHAPTER IV. CARDONA SEES NOTHING
? CHAPTER V. THADE STRIKES
? CHAPTER VI. THE NEXT VICTIM
? CHAPTER VII. THADE SUMMONS
? CHAPTER VIII. THADE ORDERS
? CHAPTER IX. DEATH IN MANHATTAN
? CHAPTER X. EYES OF THE SHADOW
? CHAPTER XI. THE SHADOW WARNS
? CHAPTER XII. THE STROKE OF DEATH
? CHAPTER XIII. CHANCE INTERVENES
? CHAPTER XIV. FIENDS CONFER
? CHAPTER XV. THE NEXT NIGHT
? CHAPTER XVI. ABOVE BROADWAY
? CHAPTER XVII. BUBBLES OF DEATH
? CHAPTER XVIII. THE SHADOW SPEAKS
? CHAPTER XIX. THE LAST CHANCE
? CHAPTER XX. THADE ORDAINS
? CHAPTER XXI. THE MASTER OF DEATH
CHAPTER I. DEATH UNEXPLAINED
"EXTRY! Extry! Anudder moider on de Suboiban!"
The New York newsboys wigwagged a large-headlined journal in front of a stocky, swarthy-visaged
man, who was walking hastily along the street. The man pushed the newspaper aside and growled aloud
as he turned his steps into one of Manhattan's downtown canyons.
"Extry! Extry!"
All along his route, the swarthy man had been hounded by that cry. A product of sensational journalism
that knew how to awaken public interest, the story dominated the front page, and brought inspiration to
every hawker who peddled evening newspapers.
"Second moider on de Suboiban!"
The walking man restrained himself with difficulty. He glowered toward the leather-lunged youth who had
shouted this new cry to the swarthy man, these were words of derision directed at himself. They were
utterances that foretold a stormy event in store for him.
There was a reason.
The swarthy man was none other than Joe Cardona, ace detective on the New York force; and this
afternoon Joe was on his way to an interview with Police Commissioner Ralph Weston, regarding this
very case.
Two successive, unexplainable murders on the Suburban Railway. Both had taken place at the same
spot; both at the same hour of the day. One had occurred yesterday morning; the other had taken place
this morning.
Joe Cardona, back from a fruitless investigation, had walked directly into the area where newsboys were
blaring forth the latest details from the huge presses of the evening journals.
The cries waned as Cardona neared his destination. The silence of the elevator in which he rode upward
to the commissioner's office brought him no ease of mind. To Cardona, this was the quiet preceding a
hurricane. Joe Cardona dreaded his meeting with the police commissioner.
IMMEDIATELY after he announced his arrival, the star detective was ushered into the presence of the
commissioner. Stepping into a large office, Cardona faced a stern, keen-eyed man whose firm face and
mustached lip gave him the appearance of a business executive. This was Ralph Weston, whose power
had been constantly increasing ever since he had taken over the duties of police commissioner.
Commissioner Weston was talking into a desk telephone. He noticed Cardona from the corners of his
eyes, and motioned the detective to be seated.
Cardona took a chair opposite the commissioner and assumed his usual attitude—a poker-faced
expression that served as a defensive. He made no move; he registered no change of countenance, even
when Weston finished his call and turned from the telephone to stare squarely at the detective.
"Well?" questioned Weston. "What about it?"
"No clews, sir," responded Cardona gruffly. "We'll have to wait until tomorrow."
"Until to-morrow? Why?"
"To reconstruct the scene of the crime."
"Humph!" A derisive smile flickered on the commissioner's lips. "Wait until to-morrow, eh? Why didn't
you do it to-day? You might have prevented the second killing."
"I know that now," responded Cardona grimly. "It simply looked like an accident—that first death. It
looks the same now, commissioner, but two accidents like that one don't happen. We're watching the
scene to-day—and I'll be there to-morrow -"
Ralph Weston settled back in his chair. The police commissioner, despite his sternness, had a great deal
of confidence in Joe Cardona. Nevertheless, it was his custom to drive the detective.
When Weston summoned Cardona, it meant that the detective was being called to the carpet. The result
was usually intensive effort on Cardona's part. An efficient trailer of crime, a man who had done great
things on the force, Cardona, nevertheless, remained in constant awe of his superior, the brusque police
commissioner.
"Give me the details," stated Weston.
"Pretty much as you've already had them," declared Cardona. "A Suburban commuters' train reaches
Felswood station at eight thirty-eight in the morning. Yesterday, when the train was leaving the station,
the conductor noticed a man slumped by the window. The side of his face was bruised and slightly
scarred. Looked like it had been scratched with glass and burned by acid.
"The conductor thought the man was unconscious. It turned out that he was dead. A regular commuter,
named Arthur Howley. Got on the train at Barbrook, two stations before Felswood.
"It had all the earmarks of an accident. Some object must have come through the open window, struck
the man, and rebounded onto the right of way.
"It might have happened before Felswood; it might have happened after the train left the station. But we
couldn't find anything in the car—nor along the tracks.
"The station is only a platform with a small waiting room. A vacant lot is near by, with commuters' cars
parked. We searched the whole place on the accident theory. I looked at the body. Police surgeon found
poison traces—but we couldn't figure what had hit the victim.
"We left it as an accidental death. This morning, the same thing happened again. Same train; same
car—and almost the same seat. This time the dead man was discovered by a fellow sitting alongside of
him.
"The new victim is Julius Forkney. He got on at Claytown, three stations up.
"Same marks—like scratches and burns. Same result—nothing to show what hit the victim. We haven't
gotten to the beginning of an explanation, commissioner. That's why the only thing to do is watch the
place carefully tomorrow."
"What details do you have on the slain men?" questioned Weston.
"Howley was the head waiter in an uptown restaurant," answered Cardona. "Married—wife and two
children. Forkney was an ad writer, with an agency in the Stanford Building. Single man—lived with
relatives.
"I have the reports on both of them"—Cardona paused to draw typewritten sheets from his
pocket—"and there's nothing to show. They are both unimportant persons—apparently had no
enemies—and didn't know each other."
"Which backs up the accident theory," remarked Weston.
"Yes," agreed Cardona, "except for the manner of death and the mystery about it -"
"Which indicates," interposed the commissioner, "that some one desired to kill, but didn't particularly care
who the victim might be."
Cardona nodded. He had held the same idea himself, but had been loath to put it forth.
JOE CARDONA was noted as a practical detective. Commissioner Weston had little regard for his
abilities as a deductive reasoner. But with the commissioner putting forth a theory, Joe was ready to
agree with it.
"You think I am correct?" quizzed the commissioner sharply.
"Yes," replied Cardona, with emphasis.
"Why?" asked Weston shrewdly.
The detective clenched his fists. He had walked into the trap. Weston had put forward the theory simply
to try him out. Cardona had no answer.
"A hunch again?" demanded Weston.
"I guess that's it," growled Detective Cardona.
"Cardona"—Weston's voice was critical—"we've talked over this hunch business before. You know
what I think of you—you're the ideal man to take practical evidence and follow it up for facts. But when
you come to theory, you take no basis. If an idea looks right to you, you lay it to a hunch."
"Hunches work sometimes."
"Perhaps—but not always. When you get them, see if you can find a tangible reason."
"There's a reason here, commissioner. Two men with no connection, killed at the same spot -"
"A reason to look for something unusual," interrupted the commissioner, "but not a reason to lay it on a
killer instead of an accident. You're just where you were, Cardona. You know nothing. Find out
something. Then talk to me."
"I'll get somewhere, after to-morrow," said Cardona gruffly.
"See that you do," said the commissioner dryly. "If you find facts, follow them. If you gain theories,
substantiate them."
There was a long pause; then the commissioner spoke again, his voice still hard in tone.
"I admire good theory, Cardona," he said. "It clears the way to fact."
"If it's on the level," responded Cardona.
The commissioner winced. For a moment, he appeared angry; then a thin smile crept beneath his trimmed
mustache. He knew the meaning of Cardona's subtle thrust. Once the commissioner had teamed the
detective with a professor who had claimed great ability in the theories of crime. The professor had
turned out to be a criminal himself!
Cardona was sorry that he had spoken; for the thought of the past pricked the detective's conscience. In
the case to which Cardona referred, the detective had received credit for the death of the supercriminal.
In reality, Cardona had been aided by a master mind who warred on crime—a strange being known only
as The Shadow. In Commissioner Weston's mind, The Shadow was a myth. Cardona could tell by
Weston's smile that reference to that fact was coming:
"AH, yes," observed the commissioner. "I recall that I made a mistake upon one occasion—a very
serious mistake—in my handling of crime theory. We all make mistakes, Cardona. By the way, have you
heard anything more of a certain person called The Shadow?"
"I haven't mentioned such a name in any of my reports," declared Cardona cautiously.
"Then we may eliminate all thought of such an absurd person," said Weston, looking straight into
Cardona's eyes. "The Shadow—some one dressed in black— a hidden face—a mysterious being who
can be used very conveniently to fill a gap in reports that would otherwise be incomplete.
"The Shadow, as I remembered the accounts concerning him, had a penchant for bringing criminals to
bay. But he did it in his own way— independent of the law. Such a person—if he exist—would be quite
dangerous, Cardona. He might even turn crook himself.
"Perhaps—with the two mysterious deaths on the Suburban trains— The Shadow might be testing out his
ability as a crime maker."
Commissioner Weston shook his head thoughtfully.
"I must desist from these thoughts," he said, in a sorrowful tone. "I am stepping into your error, Cardona.
Theory without substantiation. So let us forget The Shadow—and let him remain forgotten. In the
meantime"—Weston shrugged his shoulders—"go ahead as you are. Keep working on these deaths and
see what you can learn to-morrow. I shall reserve further opinion until then."
The interview was ended. Joe Cardona left the office and departed from the building.
He threaded his way between mammoth skyscrapers. A few belated newsboys were still crying out their
wares in terms of death unexplained; but Cardona did not notice the occasional shouts.
The ace detective was deep in thought. The reference to The Shadow had aroused old memories. To
Cardona, The Shadow was an identity—a supersleuth who could fight crime as effectively as he could
trace it - who never knew failure.
Death unexplained!
That was the lure that would bring The Shadow. These mysterious killings aboard the Suburban trains
were the very type of crime that The Shadow had so often met and unraveled.
Perhaps to-morrow's investigation would bring a clew to the mystery. If so, Cardona would rise to his
zenith. If not, the detective could see no possible way of tracing the unusual deaths, unless The Shadow
should enter into their discovery.
The Shadow!
Who was he?
Where was he?
Cardona had never managed to trace the whereabouts of the mysterious stranger. There was no reason,
at present, why The Shadow should even be in New York. But somehow Cardona, walking through the
gloom of that later afternoon, gained a new hunch for his collection. He seemed to see the hand of The
Shadow entering into a new perplexing mystery, of which these deaths were the forerunner. If it were
only so!
Cardona was still thoughtful as he made his way to headquarters. He was wondering if, somewhere in
great Manhattan, The Shadow was at work. The question persisted, even after he had reached his office.
WHILE Cardona sat at his battered desk, speculatively drumming with his finger tips, another man in a
different part of Manhattan was also considering the Suburban train deaths in terms that included The
Shadow.
In the inner office of his suite in the towering Badger Building, a chubby-faced investment broker named
Rutledge Mann was carefully clipping items from a stack of evening newspapers. The columns which he
chose were ones which referred to the strange killings at Felswood.
The windows of adjacent buildings were glimmering amid the dusk when Rutledge Mann slipped his
accumulated clippings into a large envelope. Pocketing the packet, the investment broker left his office.
He rode by cab to Twenty-third Street, entered a dilapidated building, and went to the second floor. He
stopped before a door which bore a name upon its smudgy glass panel:
B. JONAS
Rutledge Mann had never seen the interior of that office. His occasional visits terminated at the door.
Here, Mann produced the envelope and dropped it in a letter slot. His work of the afternoon was
complete.
An agent of The Shadow, it was Mann's duty to bring items on unsolved crimes to this particular place.
Deposited there, such data reached The Shadow.
Whether or not The Shadow was in New York; whether or not The Shadow would display an interest in
these reports—these were factors which did not concern Rutledge Mann.
The agent had performed his appointed task. The details of crime had been accumulated for use. Action
now lay with The Shadow himself.
CHAPTER II. THE THIRD TRAGEDY
DETECTIVE JOE CARDONA stood upon the platform of the station at Felswood. His sharp, dark
eyes were scanning the roadbed toward the curve near the station. The time was thirty five minutes past
eight.
To all appearances, Cardona was merely one of the dozen or more commuters who thronged the station
platform. But the detective was there with a more important purpose than that of a morning ride into
Manhattan. He was the captain of a crew of able men who were here to study every detail that occurred
when the eight thirty-eight arrived upon its westward journey.
A trackwalker was loitering on the curve. Standing aside, as though to await the train, the man was part
of Cardona's scheme. The supposed trackwalker was a detective.
Cardona turned idly and glanced in the opposite direction. Another pretended trackwalker was strolling
along the tracks, slowly nearing the station platform.
As Cardona swung and faced the parking lot, he saw a pair of men engaged in conversation. One was at
the wheel of a roadster; the other was alongside. Both were detectives, studying the situation as it existed
there.
Another car drove up while Cardona watched. It was an old sedan, and the driver parked it in the ample
space, drawing it alongside the other cars which rested parallel with the railroad track. A nervous
commuter hurried from the car and walked rapidly toward the platform.
This man, Cardona decided, would be about the last to catch the train. These electrics ran close to
schedule, and less than a minute remained.
The commuter was a well-dressed individual—a man of middle age, with trim Vandyke beard and broad
fedora hat.
His face lightened as he saw the waiting crowd. The man appeared to be relieved because he was in time
for the train. Joe Cardona laughed softly. A great worry—that of making the eight thirty-eight! Probably
all that concerned these commuters in the morning!
Cardona turned his eyes toward the curve. He was just in time. A train of red cars was sliding into view,
approaching with the stealthy speed typical of electric locomotion.
Cardona counted eight cars as each one swung around the bend; the rails were clicking, and the train
was coming to a sharp stop. The fake trackwalker was swinging his arms in a signal that nothing had
occurred.
Cardona, quickly noting the train, and then observing the commuters as they stepped aboard, could
testify that nothing was amiss here. The detective glanced toward the parking lot. The two men at the
roadster indicated that all was well in their field of observation.
Cardona grunted. He had hoped that something would happen at this station —some unusual incident
that would serve as a clew to the strange accidents of the two preceding days. He watched the train,
anxious for it to start so that he could observe what happened after the departure and get the report from
the man waiting beyond. The train, however, did not start.
THE uniformed conductor, his face bewildered, came from one of the vestibules. With him was a man
whom Cardona recognized instantly— Detective Sergeant Mayhew.
This police officer had been stationed on the third car of the train—the car in which both deaths had
occurred. Mayhew's face was excited. It became even more so when the detective sergeant spied
Cardona. Mayhew beckoned wildly. Cardona hurried forward.
Mayhew stopped Cardona and pointed to an open window in the car. Staring in astonishment, Cardona
saw the form of a man slumped in the seat by the window. The upturned face was ghastly. It was scarred
and puckered with red marks. The eyes were bulging.
The man was dead.
"I was looking back through the car," explained Mayhew. "I wasn't expecting anything like this to
happen. Just watching for whatever might be unusual. Then—I saw him here. It must have gotten him just
before the train stopped."
Joe Cardona grimly took charge of the situation. This mysterious death brooked extreme measures.
There were other detectives aboard the train. None reported any untoward events in the cars where they
had been riding.
With all his men assembled, Cardona quarantined the death car. Detectives took names and addresses of
commuters, quizzing all as they worked.
Cardona demanded the cooperation of the train crew, and he received it. The seriousness of the killing
was highly impressive. A man slain, for the third consecutive day; this time while thorough vigil had been
kept! It seemed unbelievable.
Railroad orders were received over the station telephone. A supervisor was riding on this train, and he
arranged to have the death car detached. The train was broken; the one car was shunted to a siding; and
the rest of the train went on. The delay tied up traffic back along the line.
The passengers from the car in which the man had died were herded into the little Felswood station.
There, one by one, they were allowed to leave, after being searched and quizzed.
Cardona was in charge; Mayhew remained in the sidetracked car. The car became Cardona's destination
as soon as he had made certain that the examination of the passengers was being properly handled by his
carefully selected subordinates.
Mayhew had learned the identity of the dead man. A search of his pockets had brought forth papers that
showed him to be Danby Grayson, a public accountant with a Broadway firm. Identification cards gave
his address as the town of Duxbury, several stations east of Felswood.
Grayson was a man of about fifty years of age. Cardona stared solemnly at the body. The appearance of
the face, with its scarred cheek, was identical with the others that the detective had observed on the two
preceding days.
"It looks like another useless death," volunteered Mayhew. "This man—by appearance and
occupation—doesn't look like somebody a murderer would be out to get."
"We'll find out about that later," growled Cardona. "Have you searched the car?"
"Yes," responded Mayhew. "Nothing here."
Cardona went to work. He looked everywhere for clews. He could discover none. Leaving Mayhew in
charge, the detective went out to the roadbed to talk with the subordinates who were searching there.
They, too, reported no trace of any missile.
Commuters' trains, delayed by the hold-up which the death had caused, were coming into the station at
close intervals; and Cardona watched the passengers from the death car continue their trip to Manhattan
as rapidly as the police released them. There had not been a shred of evidence sufficient to hold a single
person.
After ordering one of his men to obtain a complete report on Danby Grayson, Joe Cardona went over to
the parking lot to confer with the men who had been watching from that point. They had made a thorough
search of the premises, but had not found any one hiding there. Every automobile had been entered, to
no avail.
THE events of the next few hours were trying to Joe Cardona.
A report received concerning Danby Grayson served to back up Mayhew's belief. The accountant was
described as a widower who lived with two sons at Duxbury. News of his death had come as a great
shock both to his employers and his family. There seemed no possible reason why Grayson should have
been the victim of a murderer.
On top of that, Inspector Timothy Klein arrived with a police surgeon. In their wake came a tribe of
newspaper reporters seeking details of the new death. Photographers aimed their cameras at the
sidetracked car; and throngs of curious bystanders began to assemble.
Cardona put a curb to these activities. The reporters received terse, begrudged details. The camera men
wisely cleared out, and the curiosity seekers were dispersed. Detectives saw to it that only persons who
were prospective train passengers could approach and leave the station.
What was the menace that lay at this spot? Why had death struck only when a certain train approached,
always killing a person in the same car?
Cardona, grim-faced and low-voiced, discussed the important problem with Inspector Klein. Although
he growled of a hidden murder, Cardona was forced to admit that the deaths might be the result of some
amazing accident. Until clews were gained, that must be accepted as the natural theory. Nevertheless,
both mystery and menace remained as great as ever.
While Cardona was discoursing thus, a powerful roadster coasted up to the parking lot, and a tall man
alighted. With a long, easy stride, this arrival walked toward the station platform. There he stood,
apparently waiting for a train.
Cardona became suddenly aware of the man's presence, and turned to stare at him. The man's eyes met
those of the detective. Cardona found himself gazing at a firm, calm face that was almost masklike in its
expression. From the sides of a sharp, hawkish nose, gleaming optics sparkled with strange, uncanny
gaze.
The appearance of the stranger was impressive. Cardona sensed a hypnotic power in those eyes.
Instinctively, the detective was sure that this man had overheard his remarks to Inspector Klein.
But the detective was loath to make a move. This man was here to take a train; he had come hours after
the death aboard the eight thirty-eight. Cardona could see no connection between this individual and the
case at hand.
Inspector Klein did not notice the man toward whom Cardona was looking. The inspector was watching
up the track; and now, at a moment when the stranger could hear, Klein made definite remarks without
turning his head in Cardona's direction.
"Stick here until three o'clock, Joe," ordered the inspector. "If you haven't landed anything by then,
there's no use wasting your time. You can leave a couple of men on duty; let them stay all night and
watch for the same train in the morning."
"I'll be here to-morrow morning," promised Cardona.
AN approaching train, coming around the bend, ended the conversation. Cardona, glancing toward the
hawk-faced stranger, noted that the man was watching the train intently.
The stranger stepped aboard, and that was the last Cardona saw of him. Yet, all during the remainder of
his fruitless investigation, Cardona could not help but recall the remarkable appearance of the man whom
he had seen upon the platform.
The detective had not noticed the stranger's arrival. He did not know that the powerful roadster belonged
to that man. When Cardona had hunches, he did not hesitate to follow them; but in this instance, Cardona
had no hunch. He was simply impressed by a chance observation; and he reasoned with himself that he
should forget this detail which had no apparent bearing on the death that struck at Felswood. Hence
Cardona did not inquire if any one had noted the stranger arrive.
It was shortly after three o'clock when Cardona reluctantly boarded a westbound train for Manhattan.
Extreme measures had brought no result. Grayson's body had been removed from the death car; and the
car itself was to be shunted from the siding.
Riding toward New York, Cardona mulled over the police surgeon's report, which corresponded exactly
with those on the two previous deaths. Grayson's system had shown traces of a poison. There must be
something odd and unexplainable about the unfound missile that had brought such immediate death.
As the train dipped into the tube beneath the East River, Cardona had a last thought of the stranger on
the station platform. He decided that the man must be merely a resident of Felswood—some late
morning commuter. He wondered what time the man would be returning to the local station.
Cardona was sorry that he had not waited at Felswood; but he knew that it would be a great mistake to
go against Inspector Klein's instructions because of a blind quest.
When the train pulled into the New York station, Cardona's thoughts were back at Felswood. Singularly
enough, a train was just then stopping at the way station out on Long Island, and from it was alighting the
very man who had been so definitely in Cardona's mind!
There was nothing suspicious in the man's carriage; indeed, his bearing and important appearance
certified him as a person of influence. Cardona had merely noted the man particularly because he had
chanced to come within earshot of the conversation between detective and inspector.
The hawk-faced stranger went directly to the expensive roadster and took his place behind the wheel.
But he did not drive away.
Two men were still on duty; they did not pay special attention to this returning commuter. Hence the man
sat unobserved, well back in the deep seat within the shelter of the blind sides of the long, heavy car. At
times, he peered intently forth; and his sharp eyes were keenly observant.
Parked directly alongside of the roadster was the sedan which Cardona had seen come to the parking lot
just before the eight thirty-eight had arrived at Felswood. The hawk-faced stranger was noting the
position of that car; the fact that it was no more than forty feet from the railroad track; and that it rested
parallel to the right of way, its position differing to some degree from that of other parked cars.
HALF an hour went by; another train arrived from New York. Several commuters stepped off, among
them the nervous man with the Vandyke, who had just made the eight thirty-eight that morning. The man
went to the sedan. He did not notice the eyes that were watching him from the roadster.
The sedan backed from the parking lot and turned up the road that led from the station. The motor of the
heavy roadster now purred rhythmically but softly. The powerful car swung away and moved in the
direction that the sedan had taken.
As the roadster came into a side street half a mile from the station, the sedan was turning up a driveway
beside a new house. The driver of the roadster, leaning over the wheel, saw the sedan move into a
garage. The roadster kept on along the street.
A block away, a strange, low sound came from the interior of the roadster. The whispered tones of a
mocking laugh emerged from the lips below the hawklike nose. That laugh was one of understanding—a
weird, mirthless cry that carried a chilling note.
Had Joe Cardona been there to hear that sinister burst of irony, he would have recognized the author of
the weird laughter. He would have known then why he had been impressed by the tall, hawk-nosed
stranger at the station.
For the eerie cry was the laugh of The Shadow—the strange, shuddering note of doom that had spread
terror through every bailiwick of the underworld. The laugh of a superbeing, it betokened the power of
that unknown personage called The Shadow.
To-day, Joe Cardona had failed. A third tragedy had occurred at Felswood station, under the very eyes
of the ace detective. A squad of sleuths had failed to find the inkling of a clew.
But The Shadow had not failed. He had arrived after the crime had been committed; but, nevertheless, he
摘要：

THEDEATHGIVERMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.DEATHUNEXPLAINED?CHAPTERII.THETHIRDTRAGEDY?CHAPTERIII.ONEMILLIONDOLLARS?CHAPTERIV.CARDONASEESNOTHING?CHAPTERV.THADESTRIKES?CHAPTERVI.THENEXTVICTIM?CHAPTERVII.THADESUMMONS?CHAPTERVIII.THADEORDERS?CHAPTERI...

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