Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 008 - The Black Master

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THE BLACK MASTER
Maxwell Grant
? CHAPTER I. TERROR GRIPS MANHATTAN
? CHAPTER II. THE MAN WHO FEARED DEATH
? CHAPTER III. THE POLICE SEEK EVIDENCE
? CHAPTER IV. THE HANDS OF THE SHADOW
? CHAPTER V. A HAND INTERVENES
? CHAPTER VI. DOCTOR ZERNDORFF ACTS
? CHAPTER VII. THE HUNTED MAN
? CHAPTER VIII. SHOTS IN THE DARK
? CHAPTER IX. THE SECOND MURDER
? CHAPTER X. KILLER BRYAN SPEAKS
? CHAPTER XI. THE MAD MILLIONAIRE
? CHAPTER XII. DOCTOR ZERNDORFF AGREES
? CHAPTER XIII. HARRY OBSERVES
? CHAPTER XIV. THE UNSEEN HARD
? CHAPTER XV. HARRY OBEYS ORDERS
? CHAPTER XVI. THE BLACK MASTER STRIKES
? CHAPTER XVII. DOCTOR ZERNDORFF IS AMAZED
? CHAPTER XVIII. MYSTERY HOUSE
? CHAPTER XIX. ENTER THE SHADOW
? CHAPTER XX. THE MASTER MAKES TERMS
? CHAPTER XXI. THE SHADOW RETURNS
? CHAPTER XXII. THE SHADOW'S TURN
? CHAPTER XXIII. A SECOND TO SPARE
CHAPTER I. TERROR GRIPS MANHATTAN
IT was morning on Wall Street. Crowds of people were moving hurriedly along the pavements of that
man-made ravine that threads its way through the heart of New York's financial district. Viewed from the
buildings above, they appeared as tiny creatures.
Two men turned into the thoroughfare from a side sweet. They jostled their way through a cluster of
people who were waiting on the curb, and walked leisurely, side-by-side, down Wall Street.
There was nothing in the appearance of these men to attract attention. They seemed typical of the drab
passers-by who are seen constantly in that part of Manhattan.
One man was carrying a briefcase. That, alone, distinguished him from his companion.
Both were oblivious of their surroundings. They paid no attention to the walls of the huge buildings that
loomed on either side of them. They came to a spot where construction was underway and they were
forced to cross to the other side of the narrow street.
The crowd had thinned for the moment. The men were nearing a corner. They stopped an instant as their
path was blocked by a man hurrying in the opposite direction. Then they moved by him in single file,
forced to the middle of the sidewalk by two large ashcans that stood against the wall of the building.
The man with the briefcase brushed shoulders with the man who was going the other way.
It was one of those unnoticed passings. A few seconds later, each would have forgotten the existence of
the other, had the usual law of the city held true. But this passing was the forerunner of an unusual event.
Before the hurrying man had moved ten feet along the street, a terrific explosion occurred. Where three
men had been momentarily grouped, none remained.
All along the block lay persons who were thrown to the sidewalks. Men were staggering, trying to
recover from the mighty concussion which had shaken them.
A gaping hole appeared in the front of the building on the right - a hole from which ran a series of
irregular cracks. A deluge of debris poured from the building across the way. Helpless persons were
buried amid loose stone and mortar.
From the stricken area came a cloud of smokelike dust. Then followed an ominous silence that seemed
to last for endless seconds. Out of the silence came the cries of the victims.
Crowds began to gather at the ends of the block. As though by prearrangement, uniformed policemen
appeared to take control. They made their way to the spot where the explosion had occurred.
With disregard of danger, they began their work of rescue. While they labored, the clang of bells
approached. With the amazing speed that characterizes the working of Manhattan's machinery, rescue
squads were rushing to the scene.
Patrols and ambulances arrived with fire trucks. Bodies of both living and dead were carried away.
Groups of police blocked off the district.
Then came reporters. Within thirty minutes after the catastrophe, mighty presses were grinding out the
hideous details of the unexpected tragedy. Five men were known to be dead; the number of the injured
was a matter of conjecture.
One hour after Lower Manhattan had been rocked by the explosion, eager persons were buying
newspapers in Grand Central Station.
Only the meager details of the catastrophe were available; yet it had already become the sole topic of
conversation in the great terminal.
A man entered one of the small cigar stores near the main concourse and nodded to the clerk. He was
reading a newspaper as he entered. He tucked it under his arm and approached the cigar case.
The clerk came over and methodically removed a box of cigars. The newcomer was one of his hundreds
of regular customers. The clerk knew the brand he smoked.
"Big news today," remarked the clerk, indicating the newspaper under the customer's arm.
"Yes," came the reply. "Terrible! They don't know much about it yet."
"The next editions will be out soon," said the clerk. "They'll have a big account then. Those reporters
work fast, you know."
The customer drew a wallet from his inside coat pocket. He reached forward to pluck five cigars from
the box that lay upon the counter. As his fingers slipped on the outside wrappings, the clerk politely
raised the box.
The customer's left hand rested on the counter as he grasped the cigars successfully. There was a slight
smile upon his lips. It was the last action he made in life, and the one man who witnessed it did not remain
to tell the tale!
The cigar store was rocked by a mighty tremor. The counter and the cases disappeared in a tremendous
explosion that sent pieces of wreckage flying in all directions. The crowds that were hurrying through the
concourse of the terminal fell in struggling heaps.
Showers of broken glass clattered everywhere. In a trice, the serene regularity of the huge depot had
been changed to a scene of chaos! Smoke swept through the concourse! Women screamed in terror!
Utter confusion reigned!
Another catastrophe had terrorized New York! Here, scenes of Wall Street were reenacted, but in a
different setting.
Police arrived and were joined by hospital attendants. Railroad employees were prompt in giving aid.
Trains were held; emergency orders were put in force.
The explosion had been confined to a corner of the concourse. The cigar store and two neighboring
shops were completely wrecked. Two clerks and three customers were killed in the cigar store.
One man, who had been telephoning from a booth, escaped miraculously and was drawn from the
wreckage virtually uninjured. Hundreds of persons had been stunned, and many had suffered minor
injuries.
The huge extent of the concourse, with its acres of open space and its high-domed ceiling, had offset the
death-dealing power of the explosion.
It became a day of terror in New York.
The newspapers were spreading the details of these catastrophes like wildfire. With the exact reports of
the Wall Street explosion came the stop-press news of the bombing in Grand Central Station.
Police were appearing everywhere.
It was exactly half-past twelve when an enterprising newsboy took his stand at the entrance to the
downtown side of the Broadway subway at Columbus Circle. He had a stock of the latest editions of the
afternoon newspapers. He was selling them with great rapidity.
A well-dressed man stopped and gave the boy a twenty-five cent piece. The gamin fumbled for the
change and found it. Some of the coins fell to the sidewalk as the boy turned to another customer and
began his repeated cry:
"Big explosions! Read about the big explosions! Hundreds killed in Wall Street -"
The man who had bought the newspaper stopped and picked up the loose coins. He seemed annoyed.
He drew a large watch from his pocket and glanced at the time. He noted that the watch was stopped.
He looked around for a clock by which to set his timepiece. Then, apparently disturbed by his delay, he
thrust the watch angrily in his pocket and hurried down the steps.
Two of the automatic turnstiles were open at the right of the entrance to the subway station. A train was
just pulling out. The man was too late to make it.
Fuming, he went through the turnstile. Another man followed and bumped against him. The first man
swung rather angrily; but the other paid no attention to him.
"What's the hurry?" growled the well-dressed man.
The other turned to look at him. But their argument went no further. The underground tube reverberated
with a tremendous explosion that sounded like a mighty cannonade.
The station became a mass of wreckage. Girders were twisted between the tracks. The change booth
was demolished and its occupant was killed. There were half a dozen people entering the southbound
station; not one remained alive!
On the street above, the newsboy's cry of "Big explosions!" came to a sudden end as the urchin was
thrown headlong and his expressive words were drowned by the muffled report that came from below.
People entering the subway staggered back in the face of a vast volume of white smoke that reeked with
fumes of sulphur!
From across the street, terror-stricken persons from the northbound subway station emerged from the
kiosk, shouting frantically for assistance for those who remained below!
Once again some unseen hand had caused doom and destruction! A third terror had come to New York,
and another chain of hideous details was ready for the grinding presses that thrived on death and
tragedy.
The pleasant, open circle on the fringe of Central Park became the headquarters for a group of rescue
workers, while mounted police arrived to drive back the curious thousands who assembled in spite of the
danger which might still exist.
In three hours, terror had gripped Manhattan! Three terrible calamities - each a horrible event in itself -
had occurred at intervals of approximately sixty minutes!
What might happen next was something that no one could venture to foretell. Any spot in busy New
York might become a mass of wreckage, with victims shrieking their misfortune.
Danger lay everywhere, and emergency squads of police could only wait, hopeful that they might be
nearby to lend their aid should another mighty tragedy follow those that had gone before!
CHAPTER II. THE MAN WHO FEARED DEATH
OF all the mad frenzy that gripped New York on that momentous day, none could equal the wild
excitement in the office of the Evening Classic.
In the realm of tabloid newspapers, the Classic led all others in sensationalism. Its reporters were familiar
with all quarters of the underworld. Its photographers stopped at nothing to obtain pictures.
The Classic claimed an inside knowledge of all that went on in New York!
From the moment that news of the first explosion reached the Classic office, the managing editor gave
orders that resembled those of a general whose army is going into battle.
The editorial offices of the tabloid were located in an old, squalid building that was on the verge of
condemnation. The reporters' room was cramped for space. The city editor sat in a corner before a
broken-down desk and gave out assignments to reporters as rapidly as they entered the office.
The clicking of typewriters and the loud telephone conversations caused a continual hubbub.
The Grand Central explosion added to the excitement of the Classic office. Photographers were
dispatched to the new scene of tragedy. Reporters wrote wild rumors linking the two explosions.
Acting on a hunch, one story predicted more bombings. The Columbus Circle explosion fulfilled the
prediction.
Basing its claims on vague inside information gained by its reporters, the Classic predicted a fourth
catastrophe, setting it at half-past one in the afternoon, an hour after the third explosion.
When two o'clock arrived and no news of a fresh calamity came to the Classic office, another sensational
feature was launched by the tabloid.
This was an offer of five thousand dollars reward for information that would lead to the discovery of the
fiends who had started the wave of terror.
Special editions of the Classic were rushed from the presses.
Shortly after three o'clock, a tall, thin man came into the editorial office of the Classic and elbowed his
way between the typewriter desks.
"Hello, Grimes," said the city editor. "What have you got?"
The tall man shrugged his shoulders.
"Is the old man in?" asked Grimes.
"Yes;" replied the city editor.
"Guess I'd better see him," returned Grimes.
He went to the corner door marked "Hardan Raynor, Managing Editor," opened it, and entered.
A short, dark-visaged man was sitting in front of a mahogany desk. His surroundings seemed a marked
contrast to the dilapidated furnishings of the reporters' room.
The man, himself, was a contrast. There was no excitement in his bearing. He was carefully reading the
latest edition of the Classic and he did not look up for several minutes.
Finally he surveyed Grimes with a Napoleonic stare.
Harlan Raynor, managing editor of the Classic, was the directing brain of the most sensational tabloid
newspaper in the world.
It was his offer of five thousand dollars that had brought Grimes to see him. Raynor knew it, for Grimes
was one of the Classic's star reporters, a man whose value increased with the importance of whatever
matter might be at stake.
"I think we'll have something for you, chief," said Grimes quietly. "I've been working with Tewkson. He's
been out all day, trying to locate a bird named Vervick.
"Tewkson has inside dope that Vervick knows something about bombs. He thinks the five thousand
dollars is going to work it! I've come in to keep contact with Tewkson."
Raynor nodded approvingly.
"This may fetch it, chief," said Grimes, picking up a late copy of the Classic. "I've got to hand it to you!
Five grand for information - and no questions asked! Complete confidence!
"That's the gag, all right! This stuff of rewards for arrest and conviction are all baloney. You've got the
right idea! Keep it between ourselves; don't squeal on the guy that spills the dope! Every rat in the
underworld will have his tongue hanging out when he sees that offer!"
"That's only part of it, Grimes," said Raynor tersely. "I have planned further than you think. There may be
several implicated in these explosions. Perhaps one of the guilty men may come to see us. Such things
have happened before!"
"That's right!" agreed Grimes admiringly. "And I'll tell you, chief, that Tewkson will pull it if this bloke he's
after really knows something about it!"
There was a knock at the door. A porter entered carrying a bundle of tied-up newspapers.
"Put them in the corner," said the managing editor. Whenever a big story broke, Harlan Raynor kept two
hundred copies of every edition. They were brought up to his office regularly.
He handed a newspaper to Grimes and phoned instructions that any call for the star reporter should be
relayed to the managing editor's office.
Ten minutes passed before the telephone rang. Raynor answered it, then turned over the instrument to
Grimes.
"Tewkson," he said.
Grimes spoke in short, disconnected sentences. Finally he said:
"All right, boy, I'll meet you at the corner. I'll handle him from there on. Let me talk to him a moment."
There was a pause; then Grimes continued:
"This is Mr. Grimes of the Classic. You have heard of me? Good! Yes, I'm with Mr. Raynor, the
managing editor.
"He means just what he said in the newspaper. His promise is good. You'll come with Tewkson? All
right!"
He hung up the phone and turned to the managing editor, who was quietly marking lines in the newspaper
that laid before him.
"Tewkson has found Vervick," said Grimes. "He's bringing him here right away. I'll meet them outside."
"Get him in here as soon as possible," ordered Raynor. He pointed across the room. "In the side door."
"Okay, chief!"
Fifteen minutes later, a taxicab stopped around the corner from the Classic office. Grimes stepped from
the side of the building, to greet the two men who came from the cab.
One was Tewkson, young, but hard-faced, with a mass of red hair upon his hatless head. The other,
Grimes knew, was Vervick.
The man looked like a Russian. His face was tense and showed intelligence. But despite an appearance
of physical strength, the man seemed nervous and apprehensive.
"Hello, Vervick," said Grimes, in a low voice. "I'm Mr. Grimes. Don't worry! We're with you!"
The man nodded. Then he spoke in a thick voce.
"It is not you," he said, "that makes me afraid! It is someone else! The one who - I cannot tell you now!
Take me where I may be safe!"
He glanced up and down the street. The cab was pulling away. No one was in sight in this side alley.
Vervick seemed a bit reassured. Grimes slapped him lightly on the back.
"We're going to see Mr. Raynor," he said. "Come right along. We'll take care of you!"
He led the way to a side entrance. They went into the building and climbed a flight of silent, dingy stairs.
They came to a locked door. Grimes knocked softly. The door opened.
Vervick blinked as they entered the office of Harlan Raynor. He seemed surprised at his surroundings.
He pulled his hat from his head and twisted it between his hands.
He did not advance after the door closed behind him. Then his eyes were fascinated by the steady gaze
of the man who sat at the mahogany desk.
"What do you have to say?" asked Raynor quietly.
"I am afraid - I am afraid! I am afraid to die, and if I speak - I will die!"
"You will be safe if you speak!" returned Raynor. "We will see to that! Whom do you fear?"
"I cannot say his name! I am afraid! He strikes - and he kills!"
"He cannot strike you here!"
"He can strike anywhere! He is everywhere! I am afraid! I cannot speak!"
The man closed his lips firmly. He bowed his head and gave every sign that he intended to remain mute.
"Five thousand dollars," said Raynor quietly. "Five thousand dollars - and complete protection.
Understand?"
Vervick nodded, but remained silent.
"Listen, chief," broke in Tewkson, "this man may not know everything, but he knows a lot! He told me
some of it - but he's kept off the important details. He's got the story we want!"
Raynor nodded. He rose from his, chair and walked over to Vervick. Vervick looked up at him and
seemed to gain confidence.
"This is the safest place in New York," said Raynor. "If you are afraid of someone, we can help you. We
cannot help you unless we know your story.
"There is a car waiting below. The minute you are through talking, you will be whisked away and only I
will know where you are. I have helped men like you before. I can help you now. But you must tell me
everything - now!"
He walked back to the desk.
"I believe you, Mr. Raynor," said Vervick thickly. "I am going to talk to you!"
"Good," said Raynor, with a nod. He glanced quickly at Grimes. The reporter pulled a pad of paper from
his pocket.
"We'll be in time for the next edition," he mumbled to Tewkson, and the red-haired reporter grinned.
"Forty minutes from now, this story will be on the street!"
"You've got to hand it to the old man," whispered Tewkson. Then he became silent and tense. Vervick
was speaking.
"I have made bombs," said the Russian, in a low voice. "I do not know why I have made them. I mean, I
did not know what they were for - until today.
"I have my address here -" He fumbled in his pocket and brought out a paper. "This is the place. But all
my bombs were taken away last night - by the man who had made me make them."
"Who is he?" Raynor's voice was softly commanding.
"I do not know his name. He is black - all black - I mean, he is dressed in the clothes which are black,
and he has talked to me only in a dark room.
"He has told me to do what he wants done - and I have called him 'The Master.' That is the name he has
told me to use with him. You understand?"
"Why did you do what he told you?"
"Because I have made bombs before - I did not know why then - but there was trouble, and I would
have been taken to prison if the police had known.
"It was then that The Master came to me. He gave me money. He told me all was well - but all was not
well. Today -"
He stopped. His face bore signs of dread.
"Go on!" ordered Raynor.
"I am afraid!" objected Vervick. "I have talked too much now! I am afraid to die - I am afraid!"
"Come here. You will not die!"
Vervick approached the desk slowly. He looked about the room. He stared at Grimes and Tewkson. He
stared suspiciously at the opposite side of the room, where the stacks of newspapers lay.
"You will not die!" Raynor repeated.
Vervick shuddered, then suddenly regained his composure. He came closer to the desk.
"I said that I did not know the name of the - of the man I call The Master! But I did not speak true! I
have found out who is The Master!
"I am afraid to speak that name! But I shall give it to you - because you have promised to keep me from
death!"
His fingers trembled as he reached for a piece of paper. He picked up a pencil and scrawled a name, and
thrust the paper toward Raynor.
An amazing change came over the face of the editor.
"Grimes!" he exclaimed. "Look at this! Get busy right away! Look! If this is true -"
Grimes stared at the name as if he could not believe his eyes.
Raynor turned to Vervick.
"Are you sure?" he demanded.
"I am sure!" replied the Russian. "It is true - but I am afraid! What I know cannot help me. He is The
Master! I am afraid."
Raynor wheeled.
"Get this man away safely!" he said to Grimes and Tewkson. "He'll talk to you now! You know where to
take him! Leave this to me! I'm going to lift the lid!"
Vervick held out his hands pleadingly as the managing editor rose from his chair and moved to the side of
the desk.
"I am afraid to die!" he said, in a trembling voice. "I fear death!"
Raynor placed his hands upon the man's shoulders. Curbing his impatience, he spoke in his usual
reassuring tone.
"You are safe -" He pressed Vervick gently away from the desk toward the corner of the room, that he
might have a clear path to the door that opened in the reporters' room. "Do not worry. Nothing can harm
you here, because we -"
The sentence was never completed. As Vervick stepped back from the desk, the entire room rose and
spread in all directions.
The roar of a terrific explosion burst forth. The whole wall of the Classic building crumbled - the side of
the timeworn structure collapsed with a mighty crash.
The four men who stood in that doomed room were blown to atoms. The wreckage that remained
poured forth into the street amid a volume of thick smoke. The blast shook the entire building.
The name that Harlan Raynor had learned would never reach the public! Harlan Raynor was dead, with
his two star reporters; and with them perished Vervick, the man who feared death!
CHAPTER III. THE POLICE SEEK EVIDENCE
THREE men were seated in a luxurious apartment. They were engaged in earnest conversation. Each
was a man of imposing appearance. Their expressions were serious and their consultation bore signs of
vast importance.
A keen observer would have recognized two of the men as police officials. Their bearing indicated it,
even though they were garbed in civilian clothes.
One was Inspector James Burke; the other was Detective Joe Cardona. They were two of the keenest
men on the New York police force.
The third man in the group was evidently the owner of the apartment. He was tall and dignified,
white-haired and keen-eyed. His whole bearing was impressive, even to the military mustache that
formed a white line upon his upper lip.
He was a man of vast importance in New York, though unknown to most of the inhabitants of the city.
This was Doctor Heinrich Zerndorff, international criminologist.
This man was speaking, and his words carried a quiet conviction that had a marked effect upon the
listeners.
"We must not be impatient," he said. His voice had a slightly guttural accent. "We are confronted with a
great problem. I can see the light" - he tapped his forehead as he spoke - "and that is why I say not to be
impatient."
"You know best, professor," said Inspector Burke. "You're expecting the government men; you've talked
with them already, and this is their job as well as ours."
"But don't forget what we're up against. We have to police this city. Four explosions in one day is bad
stuff! We don't know what to expect next!"
"You are watching?" the professor queried.
"We are! If they try anything in any public place, we may spot it before it breaks."
"But we don't want any more bombings! If any more are scheduled, we want to find it out!"
"I've been after evidence, professor," interrupted Cardona, "and I'll say it's tough to get. When one of
those bombs goes off, it wrecks everything!
"There'll be some clues that'll show up, right enough, but how soon will we get them?"
"We're counting on you to spot the men for us, professor," interposed Burke. "You say you will be able
to find them. Why not do it right now, so they won't give us any more trouble?"
"Right now, yes?" questioned Zerndorff, with a faint smile. "You want them right now, yes? Do you want
them all at once, or some of them now and more of them at some time later?"
"We want all we can get, whenever we can get them!"
"Inspector," said Zerndorff, spreading his hands in a slight, unconscious gesture, "you must understand, as
I do, the men with whom we have to deal.
"As our friend here, the detective, has said, we must have evidence. We must take them all when we do
take them. Not just one or two, but all! I shall tell you why, yes?
"It is because if we take part of them, the others will continue to do what they have done. They will try to
make it seem that those whom we have taken first had nothing to do with these explosions that have gone
before! You understand, yes?"
"The professor is right, inspector," said Cardona, nodding. "I get his point. He figures that they are going
to lay low for a while, anyway.
"If we wait them out we can make a real clean-up. But if we move too fast, they'll blow the works. We
摘要：

THEBLACKMASTERMaxwellGrant?CHAPTERI.TERRORGRIPSMANHATTAN?CHAPTERII.THEMANWHOFEAREDDEATH?CHAPTERIII.THEPOLICESEEKEVIDENCE?CHAPTERIV.THEHANDSOFTHESHADOW?CHAPTERV.AHANDINTERVENES?CHAPTERVI.DOCTORZERNDORFFACTS?CHAPTERVII.THEHUNTEDMAN?CHAPTERVIII.SHOTSINTHEDARK?CHAPTERIX.THESECONDMURDER?CHAPTERX.KILLERBR...

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