Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 004 - The Red Menace

THE RED MENACE
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2002 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
?  CHAPTER I. A DESPERATE FLIGHT 
?  CHAPTER II. ONE HOUR TO LIVE 
?  CHAPTER III. THE SHADOW KNOWS 
?  CHAPTER IV. THE RED ENVOY 
?  CHAPTER V. VINCENT GOES ON DUTY 
?  CHAPTER VI. THE SHADOW INVESTIGATES 
?  CHAPTER VII. AT THE PINK RAT 
?  CHAPTER VIII. ANOTHER VISITOR 
?  CHAPTER IX. HOW VINCENT ESCAPED 
?  CHAPTER X. BRUCE DUNCAN'S FRIEND 
?  CHAPTER XI. NEW DEVELOPMENTS 
?  CHAPTER XII. AT THE COBALT CLUB 
?  CHAPTER XIII. THE RED MEETING 
?  CHAPTER XIV. HARRY RECEIVES A WARNING 
?  CHAPTER XV. DEATH ISLAND 
?  CHAPTER XVI. PROFESSOR WHITBURN 
?  CHAPTER XVII. A VISIT TO PRINCE ZUVOR 
?  CHAPTER XVIII. THOSE WHO FOLLOWED 
?  CHAPTER XIX. THE GHOSTS OF DEATH ISLAND 
?  CHAPTER XX. THE MESSENGER 
?  CHAPTER XXI. THE ROOM IN THE TOWER 
?  CHAPTER XXII. THE SECRET OF THE TOWER 
?  CHAPTER XXIII. THE REDS MEET 
?  CHAPTER XXIV. LATER THAT NIGHT 
?  CHAPTER XXV. THE SHADOW HEARS 
?  CHAPTER XXVI. HARRY MAKES A CAPTURE 
?  CHAPTER XXVII. INTO THE SNARE 
?  CHAPTER XXVIII. MASTER MINDS MEET 
?  CHAPTER XXIX. IN THE SUBMARINE CHAMBER 
?  CHAPTER XXX. BEFORE THE MEETING 
?  CHAPTER XXXI. AT THE MEETING 
?  CHAPTER XXXII. THE SILVER COMET 
?  CHAPTER XXXIII. ON THE TRAIN DE LUXE 
?  CHAPTER XXXIV. THE DEPARTURE 
CHAPTER I. A DESPERATE FLIGHT
A TAXICAB stopped at a corner in upper Manhattan. As it pulled to the curb, the passenger thrust his
hand through the open window beside the driver and pressed a ten-dollar bill into the taximan's glove. 

"Keep the change," came a low, quick voice with a foreign accent. "Keep the change, and drive away.

Tell no one that you brought me here."

Before the astonished driver could reply, the passenger was gone. The taximan caught a glimpse of his

back as the man hurried across the sidewalk and turned the corner.

It was one of those strange episodes which occur nightly in New York. The taxi driver shrugged his

shoulders as he pocketed the ten-dollar bill.

As the cab drew away from the brightly lighted corner, a sedan pulled up alongside of it. The two

vehicles ran along together, while unseen eyes from the sedan peered into the cab, as though seeking

some one.

Then the large automobile stopped; and as the cab went on, the driver of the sedan turned his car down

the street where the stranger had gone.

The block was a long one. The sedan had arrived in less than a minute after the passenger had left the

cab. There was little chance that the pedestrian could reach the next corner before the pursuing car

overtook him.

BUT the man had chosen a closer destination. At the very moment that the sedan had begun its chase,

the man on foot stopped at a house midway in the block.

He heard the approach of the sedan as he waited for admittance to the house. Instinctively he drew his

body into the protecting shadows of the doorway.

The effort to gain concealment was a failure. The eyes that peered from the sedan were too keen. An

exclamation came from the car; it stopped suddenly as the driver applied the brakes.

But as the sedan's momentum ceased, the door of the house was opened, and the man on the steps was

admitted.

Within the house, the hunted man gasped breathlessly as he stood in the dimly lighted hallway. He had

been admitted by a dull-faced, brutal-looking servant, and this individual now studied him in a rather

antagonistic manner.

"What do you want?" demanded the servant, in guttural tones.

"I must see Mr. Albion. At once!" The visitor's reply was urgent. "Tell him it is important."

"What is your name?"

"Berchik."

The servant turned and went up the stairs.

The visitor stared anxiously at the closed door. He was a heavy-set man, dark in complexion, and with a

stern yet expressive face. His features showed the marks of worry.

The servant returned.

"Follow me," he said.

He led the way upstairs. They came to a front room on the second floor. The visitor was admitted, and

the servant retired, closing the door behind him.

THE man called Berchik found himself in a most luxurious apartment. The decorations of the room were

almost barbaric in their splendor.

A Russian wolfhound was reclining upon a magnificent Oriental rug. The huge dog arose and stretched

itself; then it stalked across the room and rubbed its head against the visitor's hand. Berchik smiled as he

stroked the dog's back.

Two velvet curtains parted at the left side of the room. A man entered.

He was a tall man, of courtly appearance. His hair was gray; his face was clean-shaven. His features

were those of a stern, unyielding fighter; his entire appearance showed that he regarded himself as

superior to other persons.

The visitor bowed as he observed the man enter.

"Your name is Berchik?"

The tall man's words came in sharp syllables, with a slight accent.

"Yes," replied the visitor, in a respectful tone.

"You asked to see me," replied the tall man. "I am Mr. Albion."

Berchik looked at the tall man, and a smile of recognition dawned upon his face.

Despite the plainness of the man's attire—he was dressed in somber black —the visitor knew that he

stood in the presence of an important personage.

"I know you, sir," explained Berchik, in a respectful tone. "You are Prince Zuvor."

The tall man held up a warning hand.

"Hush!" he commanded. "Do not mention that name. It must be forgotten."

HE walked across the room, and sat in a huge armchair. He waved his hand, and Berchik took his seat

opposite him.

"My name is Richard Albion," said the tall man, with a slight smile. "It is better that I should be known by

that name than by my former title."

He stared anxiously about him; then pointed to the windows at the front of the room.

There were black window shades there. One was not fully drawn, and Berchik could see the bottom of

an outer yellow shade.

"I am Prince Zuvor," admitted the man, in a low voice. "But you can see the precautions I take to conceal

my identity and my actions. I always fear spies and intruders. As Richard Albion, I manage to avoid

troubles."

Berchik nodded. He was still stroking the wolfhound, which stood beside his chair.

Prince Zuvor gazed intently at Berchik.

"I believe I recognize you," he said. "I remember you now. It is many years since you came to my palace

in Petrograd, with your master -"

The tall man ended his sentence abruptly, as though loath to mention the name that was upon his lips.

Berchik nodded to show that he understood.

"Your master is dead," said Prince Zuvor quietly.

"Yes," replied Berchik, in a voice choked with emotion.

"He was not so fortunate as I," continued Zuvor. "All of my wealth has been saved. He lost much; but I

have heard that he managed to retain a considerable portion of his valuables."

Berchik nodded.

"That is why I have come here to-night," he said eagerly. "I am in danger, your excellency. You are the

only one to whom I can turn for help."

Prince Zuvor smiled sympathetically.

"When Prince"—Berchik caught his words—"when my master died, he left me with a singular mission. I

was to bring what remained of his vast wealth here to America, to divide it among men who had

befriended my master when he was in trouble."

"Did you succeed?"

"Yes. After difficulties. I dealt with one man alone—the man who had been appointed by my master to

divide the wealth among the others.

"But since then, I have been hounded. Agents of the Reds have been upon my trail. I have not dared to

attempt an escape."

"What do they want of you? Do you still have any of your master's wealth?"

"None of it. I have some money of my own enough to enable me to escape."

"Why do they seek you then?"

"To learn the name of the man to whom I delivered the jewels," explained Berchik. "They seek to capture

me, to torture me; that I may betray my trust.

"For if they learn the name of that man—a name which I alone know - they will seek to take his portion

from him."

"He received more than the others?" questioned Prince Zuvor.

"Yes," replied Berchik, "he gained twice as much as any other; and he knows the names of all to whom

he delivered a share."

PRINCE ZUVOR was silent. So was Berchik. Both men listened. They could hear sounds from the

street outside the house the throbbing of a motor came to their ears.

Were Berchik's pursuers waiting there?

"Where do you wish to go?" asked Prince Zuvor suddenly.

"To Australia," replied Berchik. "If I can elude these Soviet agents, I can easily gain safety. Then I can

communicate with the American to whom I gave the jewels."

Prince Zuvor nodded.

"He should be warned," he said. "But is it right that you should leave? He may be in danger, and may

need your advice."

"It is dangerous for me to stay here," objected Berchik.

"That is true," replied Prince Zuvor. He seemed to be formulating a plan.

"Perhaps I can help you—to escape. Perhaps I can also—keep a guarding eye upon this American

whom you have mentioned."

A smile of relief appeared upon Berchik's face. The Russian servant seemed to be freed of his former

anxiety. His appeal to Prince Zuvor had been successful.

"What is the American's name?" questioned Prince Zuvor quietly.

"Bruce Duncan," whispered Berchik. He drew a slip of paper from his pocket, and scrawled some

words upon it. "This is his address. Can I count on you to protect him, your excellency?"

"Certainly," replied Prince Zuvor, with a smile. "Now for your escape, Berchik!

"Unknown to any one, I have devised a plan whereby I can flee from here at a moment's notice. That

plan will be utilized to-night; but it will be you who will escape. You have money, you say?"

Berchik nodded.

Prince Zuvor went to a handsome mahogany writing table, and inscribed a series of directions. He

passed the paper to Berchik. The servant read the words, and smiled. Prince Zuvor shook hands with

Berchik, as the latter rose.

"Go!" he said. "Ivan will start you on the way to safety."

He rang the bell, and the dull-faced man entered. Berchik followed him, and was conducted to the cellar.

There, Ivan, with amazing skill, placed make-up on Berchik's face that gave an entirely different

appearance to Berchik's features. Then Ivan supplied him with a new overcoat, of different pattern than

his own.

Prince Zuvor's servant opened a door, and Berchik found himself in a concealed alleyway that led to the

street in back of the house.

Berchik was off to safety!

HE followed the alleyway to the side of the house in back of Prince Zuvor's residence. The house was

apparently deserted. But Berchik, following the directions which he had read, opened the side door and

entered.

He went to the front door of the house and peered through the glass panel. A taxicab drove up. It had

been summoned to this address by Prince Zuvor. Berchik hurried out and entered the cab.

As they turned the corner to the avenue, a car rolled by in the opposite direction. It was the sedan that

had followed Berchik to Prince Zuvor's house. The eyes within must have spotted Berchik in spite of his

disguise, for the sedan stopped suddenly.

"Hurry!" said Berchik to the driver. He had given the man an address named on the list of directions.

The cab sped rapidly onward. It turned into a side street, and Berchik left it.

He entered a small unpretentious house, which was entirely dark, and locked the door behind him. He

saw the sedan draw up as the cab pulled away.

Berchik dashed through the empty house and ran out the back door into another tiny alley which did not

go to the front of the house. This way led him to another street, where he found a second cab awaiting

him.

He instructed the driver to take him to the One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street railway station.

The sedan had lost the trail.

Berchik caught his train; one hour later, he reached a small town in Connecticut. There he went to a

garage, and gave his name as Robert Jennings. The garage man brought out a small coupe. The car was

an old one, but as Berchik drove away, he realized that it was in excellent running order.

A few miles outside the little town, Berchik stopped the car. Beneath the front seat, he found two New

York license plates.

He removed the Connecticut plates, and threw them into the woods beside the road. He attached the

New York plates and drove along.

He smiled contentedly in the darkness. His safety was now assured.

This automobile, kept in the Connecticut town under an assumed name, would enable him to reach a city

named in the directions; there he would take a train for the West.

AS Berchik's car whirled along the deserted road, the fleeing man felt the first relief that he had known

since he had come to America to deliver his master's wealth.

The Red agents had picked up his trail after he had given the jewels to Bruce Duncan. Since then they

had played a waiting, catlike game.

Now he was safe—free from any avenging hand. He could write a warning letter to Bruce Duncan from

the Middle West; and could keep on to California; then to Australia.

These thoughts were in Berchik's mind as he rounded a long curve, on the side of a hill. Below him, at the

right, yawned a deep ravine.

"Prince Zuvor is clever," murmured Berchik. "This is the plan he chose for escape. They are watching

him—as they watched me. But there is no danger for me now. I am safe. They cannot strike me."

He turned the wheel to the left, as the curve increased. From the back of the car he heard a slight click.

He wondered what it meant. Then came a second click.

A sudden fear came over Berchik. He thrust his foot forward to the brake pedal.

But his action was too late. Before Berchik could save himself from the unknown danger, a terrific

explosion came from the rear of the car.

The back of the light coupe was lifted upward as though by a giant hand. The shattered automobile

hurtled forward and crashed through the fence at the side of the road.

Rolling in its plunge, the car fell over and over into the ravine below, leaving a trail of wreckage as it

went. It smashed into a large tree, and its course ended there.

In ten brief seconds, the speeding automobile had become a battered hulk, and in the mass of twisted

metal and broken glass lay the dead body of Berchik.

CHAPTER II. ONE HOUR TO LIVE

THE young reporter glanced nervously at his wrist watch as he sat by the window in the waiting room.

Nearly four o'clock. He had been waiting half an hour.

He looked out the window and studied the myriad buildings that lay below. Manhattan was an amazing

spectacle when viewed from the thirty-eighth floor of the Farworth Building; but his eyes scarcely saw the

scene.

He was anxiously waiting his interview with Jonathan Graham, the millionaire importer.

The reporter started suddenly as a quiet, somber man approached and spoke to him.

"I am Mr. Berger," explained the man. "I am Mr. Graham's secretary. What can I do for you?"

The reporter arose and fumbled nervously with his hat.

"Stevens is my name," he said. "Reporter on the Morning Sphere. I'd like a private interview with Mr.

Graham."

"He is very busy," replied the secretary smoothly. "I usually take care of these matters for him."

"I must see him personally."

The secretary shrugged his shoulders.

"I think that will be impossible," he told the reporter. "It is late in the afternoon. Mr. Graham has urgent

matters on his mind."

"I made the appointment by phone this morning," objected Stevens.

"I understand that well," answered Berger. "But I attend to all matters such as newspaper interviews. You

will have to talk with me."

The door of the inner office opened, and a stout, gray-haired man entered the waiting room. He spoke to

a stenographer seated at a desk; then he turned to go back into his office.

The reporter saw him and recognized him.

"Mr. Graham!" he exclaimed, darting away from the secretary. "I am from the Sphere, Mr. Graham. May

I talk with you for a few minutes?"

The millionaire looked disapprovingly at Stevens. Then he pointed to his secretary.

"Mr. Berger will take care of you," he said.

"But this is a personal interview, Mr. Graham," pleaded the reporter. "I won't be long, sir. Just a few

minutes. I hate to bother you, sir. But it means a lot to me -"

The millionaire smiled indulgently.

"Come in," he said, holding the door open. "I'll see you in ten minutes, Berger. Bring Miss Smythe with

you. I have some letters to dictate."

Safely within the private office, the young reporter sat on the edge of a large leather-covered chair, and

looked at the millionaire as the latter took his position behind a mahogany desk.

"My name is Stevens, sir," explained the reporter. "They gave me this assignment because our regular

man was laid up. They waited for him to come back; but he won't be in until to-morrow. So I have to get

this interview. Your name was on the list -"

"What is it all about?" demanded Jonathan Graham.

"It's a series of articles we're running," said the reporter. "Prominent people are interviewed on the same

subject. We get all kinds of different opinions.

"We ask them what they would do if they had only one hour more in which to live -"

Jonathan Graham held up his hand.

"That's enough," he said coldly. "I've seen that absurd column in the Sphere. One man says that he would

call up all of his friends and give them a farewell party. Another says that he would take the opportunity

to pay off debts of gratitude.

"That's the column you mean, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir."

"The idea is preposterous. I can't give you an interview on that subject."

The reporter looked dismayed.

"It means a lot to me, sir," he said. "It's too late for me to see any one else. I have to get the interview,

Mr. Graham. I'll quote you accurately -"

A look of mild sympathy came over the millionaire's face as he saw the worried expression of the

reporter. He arose from his chair, placed his hands behind his back, and strolled to the large open

window. There he pressed one knee against the low sill, and looked out at the city.

Finally he turned and faced the reporter.

"I'll give you a short interview, my boy," he said, in a kindly tone. "I don't like the subject, and I would

ignore it under ordinary circumstances.

"But I'll help you out. I'll tell you just what I would do if I had one hour to live."

Instinctively, the reporter glanced at his watch and saw that it registered exactly four o'clock.

"At this particular moment," said Jonathan Graham, "I have several letters to dictate. It is the wind-up of a

day's routine. I shall be finished at exactly five o'clock. That's just about an hour from now, isn't it?"

The reporter nodded.

"Very well," continued the millionaire. "This coming hour is set and established in my mind. I expect to

carry it to its normal conclusion.

"It matters not to me whether I have one hour, or one hundred years, of life ahead of me. That hour will

be devoted to the work for which I have appointed it."

While Stevens jotted his notes, the millionaire walked a few steps; then turned and took his position

facing the window.

The reporter looked up and spoke.

"What else, sir?" he questioned.

"That is all," replied the millionaire, resting his knee against the window sill.

"Nothing else, sir?" asked Stevens.

The millionaire retained his pose, which seemed to be a favorite position.

"Nothing else," he said. "Your interview is over. That will have to satisfy you. I have work to do, and you

must go now."

SHORTLY before five o'clock, Stevens humbly submitted his story to the city editor. The result was a

storm of sarcastic disapproval.

"Is this all you got!" exclaimed the city editor. "I wanted a column. You bring me a couple of sticks!"

"That's all he told me, sir," said Stevens.

"Didn't you ask him any questions?"

"No, sir. I told him what I wanted to know; and that's what he gave me."

The city editor glared at the copy.

"Stevens," he said, angrily, "you're the dumbest man I've ever had on the staff. Your work hasn't been

worth a plugged nickel.

"I thought I'd give you a chance to-day. You flopped. This story is so punk that it can't even be

rewritten."

He started to toss the copy into the wastebasket; then, changing his mind, he thrust it in a desk drawer.

"I'm keeping it, Stevens," he said gruffly, "so there will be no comeback if you kick because I fired you.

Don't bother about any assignments to-night. You're through right now.

"I sent you out to find out what a man would do if he had one hour to live. You bring back a story that

has nothing in it. Jonathan Graham simply ignored the whole idea, and you were too dumb to ask him

questions that might get him started.

"The column won't appear in to-morrow's paper. Your copy is no good, and neither are you. That's final.

Goodbye."

"It was very late when I saw Mr. Graham," pleaded the reporter. "Four o'clock, you know. I mentioned

that in the story. He had a lot of work to do— I couldn't bother him too much -"

"Get out!" ordered the city editor.

Stevens was dejected when he left the newspaper building. He had counted a lot on his job as a reporter.

Now it was all over.

He stopped at a lunch wagon near his uptown rooming house, and ate a tasteless meal. Then he went to

his lodging.

He sat mournfully in his room until nearly eight o'clock. His mind seemed unable to grasp the fact that his

job was gone.

Some one knocked at his door. It was the landlady.

"Telephone call for you, Mr. Stevens," she said.

The young man walked slowly downstairs and answered the telephone. He recognized the voice of the

city editor.

"Hello—Stevens?" came the question.

"Yes, sir," replied the ex-reporter.

"Get back here to the office, right away. I want to talk to you."

"But"—Stevens' voice was doubtful—"I thought you fired me, sir."

"I did. But I'm hiring you again. You're due for an increase in salary. I want to discuss it with you."

"But I don't understand," blurted Stevens. "You said -"

"Forget what I said. We've put your story on the front page in a two-column box. It's a scoop!"

The receiver clicked at the other end.

Stevens started for the subway. He stopped at a stand and bought a copy of the final edition of his paper.

The big headlines on the front page brought a gasp of astonishment to his lips.

Jonathan Graham was dead! The millionaire had committed suicide by leaping from the window of his

office on the thirty-eighth floor of the Farworth Building, at exactly five o'clock.

He had lived just one hour after his interview!

CHAPTER III. THE SHADOW KNOWS

A CHUBBY-FACED man was seated at a desk in his office in the Grandville Building. Before him lay a

pile of newspapers. Through his spectacles, he was studying clippings that he had cut from the journals.

Some one tapped at the door. The man arose and opened it, peering into the outer office. It was the

stenographer who had knocked.

"It's nearly five o'clock, Mr. Fellows," said the girl. "My work is finished. Is it all right for me to leave?"

"Certainly," replied the round-faced man.

He closed the door and returned to his desk.

This man, despite his quiet and almost lethargic appearance, was in reality a very unusual person.

As Claude H. Fellows, the insurance broker, he had a wide circle of acquaintances, who looked upon

Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 004 - The Red Menace

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: