Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 218 - The White Column

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THE WHITE COLUMN
by Maxwell Grant
As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," March 15, 1941.
Five men of evil drop from a plane in a raging Adirondack snowstorm and
embroil The Shadow in a plot that rocks the United States to its very
foundations!
CHAPTER I
SKY RAIDERS
IT was snowing heavily in the Adirondacks. The storm had started at dusk.
It was now long past midnight.
A worse night for flying could scarcely be imagined. Millions of
wind-tossed snowflakes clouded the darkness like a dense, milky veil. Every
commercial and private airplane along the eastern seaboard had been grounded
long before darkness had set in, by a warning from the weather bureau.
But one plane had ignored the warning.
It was a transport plane with an enormous wingspread. Twin motors enabled
it to ride through the storm with ease. But it was not behaving normally. It
was flying at a dangerously low height. Its course was queer, too. It was
describing a giant circle over a desolate section of the Adirondacks.
There was no airfield within miles of the spot. The transport was in no
difficulties, so that a forced landing was not necessary. A forced landing, in
fact, would have been suicidal. The pilots were well aware of this. They had
no
intention of nosing their big ship earthward.
There were two pilots. One handled the controls. The other was examining
the contour of the hills below through powerful night glasses. He was looking
for a landmark he had never seen before. But that lack of experience didn't
bother him. For days, he had studied an accurate map of this hilly region.
Every contour below was an accurate picture in his army-trained memory.
Suddenly, he rasped a guttural word to the pilot at the controls. Below
the big transport, a shaggy hill whizzed briefly into view and was gone. The
plane narrowed its circle. The snow-covered hill swam back into sight.
The man with the glasses opened a sliding door and peered into the
transport's cabin. There were five men in that cabin. None of them occupied
seats. They sat in a row on the floor, one man behind another.
They didn't look human. All of them were helmeted and goggled. All wore
bulky ski suits, tucked into thick, hob-nailed shoes. Warm gloves covered
their
hands. Each was equipped with a parachute pack and a stout knapsack.
Their goggled eyes watched the man who peered back at them. They knew
what
was coming. They were ready.
Suddenly, a signal was given. A startling thing happened. Only four men
remained seated on the cabin floor of the plane. The first man had vanished.
He had dropped into space through an open trapdoor!
He was well used to an air jump from a dangerously low height. It was
part
of his army training. As his falling body cleared the ship, his parachute
opened
almost instantly. He began to drift earthward under the billowing silk of his
'chute.
The man who had given the signal saw nothing of what happened to the
first
man. He was staring grimly at his watch. Again his hand waved. A hole yawned
beneath the crouched figure of the second parachute soldier. He vanished. Then
the remaining three dropped in succession.
The transport plane ceased its slow circling. It headed backward in the
direction from which it had come - a route that would bring it in a swift line
to the Atlantic seaboard. Its job was done.
But the job of the five parachute jumpers was just beginning.
THE leader of the five landed with a jarring impact on the slope of the
hill. Snow flew upward like a small geyser. Weighted with his equipment, he
struck hard enough to knock the breath out of him. But he recovered quickly.
Like his four comrades, he had been trained and toughened for this dangerous
assignment.
He floundered through the snow to a clearing that faced the valley below.
Driving white flakes made it impossible to see for more than a few yards. But
the sky raider was prepared for that, too.
He had divested himself of his parachute and dragged it after him. He
bunched it into an unwieldy pile and reached into his pack. He scattered a
reddish powder all over the 'chute. Then he struck a match and touched it off.
Flame leaped high for a few moments. It was not an ordinary flame. Its
hue
was blood-red. The chemical powder that produced the color had come from the
war
laboratory of a foreign nation. Traitorous eyes, watching from the valley
below,
would be able to see that flame for a long distance.
It burned out quickly. The parachute dissolved into thin ash, which the
wind blew away. Strapped to the side of the air-raider's pack were a pair of
collapsible snowshoes. He adjusted them and buckled them on.
He waited.
One by one, his four comrades joined him, sliding along on snowshoes.
Their parachutes, too, had been burned. But not with the aid of the reddish
powder. The five men drew guns. They stood back-to-back, in a circle of grim
defense.
The leader's goggled eyes watched the snow-blurred valley.
Suddenly, he saw an answering glare of red. It glowed briefly, then it
vanished. The leader of the goggled and helmeted invaders growled a brief
command.
He led the way down the slope of the hill, toward a valley road that
skirted its base. The quintet of air invaders began to follow the road,
sliding
swiftly along on snowshoes with machinelike precision.
But before they had gone very far, they encountered an obstacle not
included in their plans. Two men floundered into view from a wooded thicket.
They were hunters who had been trapped by the storm. They staggered with
exhaustion.
The sight of the five men brought a faint shout of joy from them.
But their joy was short-lived. Goggled eyes stared. Four of the invaders
clutched at small glass spheres about the size of a walnut.
The four waited silently for an order from their leader.
It came swiftly.
Glass pellets were hurled at the faces of the two hunters who had
accidentally found out something that no American eyes were to be permitted to
behold. The fragile glass shattered. Liquid splashed on terrified faces.
From the dripping liquid rose a pleasant, flowerlike perfume. It
penetrated the nostrils and mouths of the gasping victims.
Its effect was deadly. For a moment, the two hunters stiffened, their
clawing hands at their throats. Then they pitched headlong to the snow-covered
road. The leader of the parachute men waited. It was dangerous to approach the
bodies too soon. The gas that had killed them was potent even in the open air
of the valley road.
Presently, an order was given.
Two of the invaders produced collapsible tools from their packs. Handles
were fitted into the sockets of a pick and shovel. The two parachute men
disappeared behind a snow-whitened screen of bushes.
Two more picked up the corpses and carried them into the thicket. The
leader followed. He carried in his hand a copper-colored metal can. It looked
like a sort of can in which beer is sold. But it was slightly larger than
that.
It had a silver tip, like the nipple on a baby's feeding bottle. The leader
unscrewed the silver tip. Under it was a projecting bit of glass.
The men with the pick and shovel completed their grisly job hastily. The
bodies of the two hunters were rolled into a shallow pit. The leader of the
parachute men broke the glass tip of his copper-colored can. He poured a thick
amber liquid over the bodies in the grave.
Then he lighted a match and tossed it.
Flames crawled instantly. They were like green-and-yellow serpents over
the clothing and the flesh of the dead victims. None of those tongues of flame
spouted more than an inch or two high. But their effect was horrible.
Intense heat was generated. Snow all around the grave began to melt. In
the center of the shallow grave the bodies of the two hunters dissolved!
Flesh vanished. Bones were consumed. The flame liquid was a well-guarded
secret of a foreign power overseas. It had never yet been used in war. It was
being held in reserve as a prelude to the conquest of the world.
The guttural laughter of the helmeted invaders testified to the power of
that deadly agency of destruction, as they peered into what was now an empty
pit in the snowy ground.
No sign remained of clothing, of flesh or bone. All that was left was a
reddish hue in the scorched earth. It looked like streaks of red clay.
The grave was filled. Snowflakes began to cover the spot. The snow-shoed
invaders shuffled back to the valley road.
Presently, the road branched. A narrow private lane led through
snow-covered pines and balsams to what was evidently a private estate. There
was a sign at the entrance to the lane. The leader of the sky invaders brushed
off the thick covering of snow with his gloved hand.
The sign announced that the land beyond the highway was private property.
It was owned by Henry Norman.
Norman was one of America's biggest industrial leaders. He was many times
a millionaire. He owned the Norman Repeating Arms Co. His factories supplied
the United States army with a large part of the rifles and ammunition needed
by
America, in its gigantic rearmament program, to make itself strong in the face
of foreign peril.
Henry Norman had bought this isolated estate in the Adirondacks as a
deer-hunting preserve for himself and his friends. He had built here what he
called a "rustic hunting lodge." It was more like a Park Avenue mansion than a
cabin. Wealthy friends of the arms manufacturer came on invitation to "rough
it."
The parachute spies snowshoed up the lane toward the lodge. It was from
this spot that a red flare had glowed briefly in reply to the signal from the
mountain. The spies were expected here.
The lodge door was not locked. The five invaders entered, after removing
their clogged snowshoes.
The living room was brilliantly lighted, but there was no one present to
greet the invaders.
It was a gorgeous room. Foreign eyes bulged with astonishment at its
magnificence. Costly rugs covered the floor. On the walls were paintings that
had been brought by Henry Norman from the most famous museums in Europe. A log
fire crackled comfortably in a fireplace. Over the fireplace, the mantel was a
solid piece of teakwood.
A map of the United States covered a section of the wall.
The invaders were more interested in the map than in any object in the
room. Guttural sounds came from their lips. They clustered in front of the
map,
like flies gathered near a cube of sugar. America was, indeed, a rich lump of
sugar for a hungry warlord overseas. Three-quarters of the world's gold was
held in America. Oil, coal, steel, iron! Factories, belching smoke from a
million chimneys! America, alarmed at aggression, was arming herself for
defense.
That defense must be broken, was the thought of the foreign invaders.
No sound indicated the entrance into the room of the host of these five
enemies of America who had dropped from the sky. But there were six men in the
room, now. The spies saw their unknown American leader when they turned away
from the wall.
The man was garbed in a heavy ski suit, like his guests. Gloves were on
his hands. But he wore neither helmet nor aviation goggles. A hooded mask
covered his entire skull. Glittering eyes peered through narrow slits in his
mask.
"Welcome!" he said in a muffled tone.
There was delight in that snarled word. When the time came that America
lay crushed and helpless, this man would control the destinies of the country.
There would be only one man on earth higher than himself. That was the All
High
overseas, who had sent these five men dropping from the sky to cripple the
rearmament efforts of a free America and soften her up for invasion by land,
sea and air.
"ARE you alone here?" asked the leader of the parachute men.
"No. Two servants. Both are tied up and gagged in the cellar. One of them
saw me light the flare, in answer to your signal."
There was a grunt, then a harsh command. The ugly routine that had taken
place on the mountain slope was repeated. Three men went tramping down to the
cellar. Two of them carried a pick and a shovel. The third carried a small
copper-colored can with a silver tip.
They were gone quite a while. When they returned, they saluted and said
nothing. Words were unnecessary.
The masked host of these ruthless killers finally spoke.
"Everything is ready. American aviation will feel our strength first. You
have come here to receive definite orders where to go. Let me show you on the
map."
He strode toward the wall. Eager enemies of America crowded close behind
him. The masked traitor stuck a pin in that map. He stuck it into the dot of a
town located in a middle-western State.
"Oakmont," he said.
The name was repeated in guttural chorus.
"In this town is located the heart of America's aviation defense. Here
were built the factories that are now turning out the means to make America
too
strong in the air for a successful attack against her."
His voice growled harshly.
"Airplanes, with new liquid-cooled engines better than any possessed
abroad. A secret bomb sight that makes it possible to hit a target as big as a
barrel from a height of 20,000 feet. Machine guns and light cannons to arm
those monster planes. Oil, piped from distant fields and refined in the
Oakmont
area as high-octane gasoline!"
The masked man withdrew the pin from the map.
"You will go at once to Oakmont. You know the man with whom you will
co-operate there?"
"We do."
"Excellent!"
From a tall cabinet in the living room, the masked traitor to his native
land produced six wine glasses. He filled them and passed them around.
"Death to democracy!" he toasted.
The toast was drunk. The empty glasses were snapped, and flung into the
fireplace where they shattered to pieces. The parachute invaders of America
left the room. The masked man alone remained, chuckling as he stared at the
map.
He knew that his henchmen were changing their attire. They would be no
longer soldiers, but civilians. Fifth Columnists!
All of them spoke perfect English. All had been trained for months for
the
specialized tasks that awaited them in Oakmont. A horse-drawn sleigh was
waiting
outside the rear door of the lonely lodge. The sleigh would take five ruthless
enemies of America over snow-covered road to a railroad station.
Fifth Columnists had secretly invaded a free country. Their presence was
unknown. How could police, the F.B.I. - any of America's defense agencies deal
with this invisible threat?
Only one man in America was strong enough to take up this challenge to a
nation.
The Shadow!
CHAPTER II
THE SECOND FLAME
THE room in New York was shrouded in darkness.
Not a sound was audible. Not even a current of air moved. A human eye
could have stared indefinitely into that velvet blackness without being able
to
say positively that the room contained a human being. But a human being was
there.
The Shadow was in his sanctum!
Sibilant laughter hissed through the darkness. The laughter died into
silence. Then suddenly a blue light glowed from a hanging covered globe
overhead, and threw an oval of brilliance on the surface of a polished desk.
The hands of The Shadow rested in that pool of brilliance. Part of his
face was visible. His hawklike features betokened strength and power. Thin
lips
were curved slightly in an ominous smile. The Shadow was examining interesting
material.
His tapering fingers had drawn two small packets of news clippings into
the brilliant oval of light. One was a collection clipped from various
newspapers published in upper New York State. The other items had appeared in
the morning and evening papers of a middle-western town.
The Shadow read the latter clippings first. They dealt with the strange
madness and death of a workman in the town of Oakmont.
The man was a trusted foreman in a government rearmament factory. The
plant was jointly owned by two wealthy industrialists named Peter Kirk and
Ralph Jackson. Originally, agricultural implements had been manufactured
there.
But the United States government had taken over the factory as part of its
preparedness program at the threat of war abroad. The factory now produced one
of the most vital weapons of national defense. From it came thousands of the
new airplane bomb sights that had revolutionized the art of aerial attack in
warfare.
The dead workman about whom The Shadow now read had long been a trusted
employee of Kirk and Jackson. In his charge was the machinery which turned out
the most delicate mechanism of the secret bomb sight. He was at his post of
duty when his sudden attack of madness occurred.
Workmen closest to him had no warning of trouble, until he suddenly
screamed with crazy laughter. He darted at his helper and smashed out his
brains with a murderous blow of a heavy wrench. Then he flung himself at the
delicate bomb-sight machine and began to demolish it with wild blows of the
wrench.
Luckily, he was stopped before he could do fatal damage. There were
guards
stationed in the war plant. They rushed at the demented foreman. Other workmen
aided the guards. The foreman was seized.
He fought fiercely and broke away. A blow of his fist knocked down one of
his captors. He seized a pistol and tried to flee. Two men died before they
could get out of his path. Others were wounded. Then the guns of other guards
ended the slaughter. The foreman fell, pierced by bullets.
Insanity seemed the only explanation. The foreman's record had been
excellent. He was a native, patriotic American. His son was a soldier in the
United States army. There was no reason to suspect sabotage behind this
strange
outbreak.
The Shadow examined the second packet of clippings, from upper New York
State.
THE story those clippings told was more vague than the account of the
outrage in Oakmont. It dealt with mysterious rumors and happenings in the
Adirondack region. People had reported hearing the buzzing of an airplane
motor
during a night snowstorm. A strange red glow had been seen on a hill long past
midnight. Two local hunters had disappeared that same night.
The Shadow's sibilant laughter hissed as he considered more facts.
Every plane in the East had been grounded that night by the snowstorm.
The
Shadow had checked up on both commercial and privately-owned ships. All had
been
accounted for. No plane smaller than a transport would have dared to fight
that
snowstorm. Where had it come from? Where had it vanished?
The Shadow decided that these two unrelated events - the Oakmont affair
and the mystery in the Adirondacks - were equally important. There was a
strong
possibility that the activity of Fifth Columnists might be in back of one or
both. The Shadow faced a dilemma. Which of the two should be investigated
first?
He chose the Adirondack mystery for his initial move.
There was a simple reason for this. In the valley, not far from the hill
where a strange signal light had flared briefly after midnight, was the
luxurious hunting lodge of Henry Norman. Norman used this cabin for winter
sports. Wealthy friends of his had been often invited there.
Lamont Cranston had refused an invitation only two weeks earlier. Social
engagements in New York had forced him to decline. Now The Shadow intended
Cranston to accept - and to accept promptly by wire, without giving Norman a
chance to refuse.
For Lamont Cranston was an identity of The Shadow!
The newspaper clippings vanished from the bright oval of light on The
Shadow's desk. The light winked abruptly out. The sanctum was shrouded in
darkness. Through that darkness The Shadow vanished without sound -
Two hours later, a telegram was dispatched to Henry Norman. It told him
that Lamont Cranston had reconsidered his earlier refusal and was now on his
way for a weekend of winter sport.
There was no chance for Henry Norman to advise Cranston that this
particular time might be inconvenient. Long before the telegram was sent, The
Shadow was speeding upstate by swift train. He had already changed to a branch
line that connected with the sparsely-settled valley in the Adirondacks where
Norman's hunting lodge was located.
LAMONT CRANSTON arrived at the lodge in a hired sleigh just as dusk was
changing to darkness. His greeting was friendly. So was Henry Norman's. But
there was dismay in back of the millionaire industrialist's smiling eyes.
He was a tall man, with powerful shoulders. Power was his keynote. Power
and ambition. He had risen from poverty by a series of ruthless deals that had
brought him wealth and leadership in the arms industry. The threat of war from
abroad had increased Norman's power. He not only owned the enormously
important
Norman Repeating Arms Co., but he had also been appointed to the president's
aviation rearmament board.
A Norman plant had been erected in the defense zone of Oakmont in the
middle west. It was turning out machine-gun ammunition to be used in the new
pursuit planes and bombers destined to cloud the skies over America.
The Shadow wondered grimly about Norman's lust for power, as he listened
to the millionaire's deep voice. How far did Norman's secret ambitions reach?
"I wish you had given me time to countermand that telegram of yours,"
Norman murmured. "A later time would have been more pleasant for both of us.
Things are rather awkward here, right now. Perhaps you won't want to stay,
after I explain."
His explanation was prosaic: Servant trouble.
"I brought Giles and Thomas up here with me. They didn't like the
solitude. Last night, both of them quit. They demanded to be sent back to New
York. There was nothing I could do. So I drove them by sleigh to the railhead,
and now they're gone."
"You mean you have no servants here at all?"
"Not exactly. I have three - local men whom I had to pick up in a hurry.
They're not well trained. I really hate to subject you to annoyance."
Cranston noticed a quick upward glance that Norman unconsciously made
while he talked. Both men were standing outside the door in the open, where
the
driver of the sleigh that had brought Cranston waited. Norman's glance went
toward the snowy roof of the hunting lodge. There was a metal rod on the peak
of the roof, that looked like a small lightning rod.
Norman was unaware that The Shadow had noticed the direction of his
upward
gaze. He shrugged, and Lamont Cranston followed him indoors to a luxurious
living room with a vast fireplace.
Norman became more genial. There were drinks, followed by a perfectly
cooked and served meal. The three new servants seemed excellent substitutes
for
the two missing ones. They didn't utter a word unless spoken to. The Shadow
insisted on complimenting all three of them at various times during the
evening. He was anxious to hear the manner in which they replied.
They spoke very precise English. They sounded like men who had learned
the
language in a university, rather than by birth. There was a slight foreign
intonation to everything they said.
Yet Henry Norman had declared these three servants were Americans whom he
had hired in a nearby town. Was Norman a victim of intrigue, or was he
deliberately lying?
The Shadow decided to seek an answer to that question after everyone in
the lodge was asleep.
He was particularly interested in two items his keen eyes had noted
before
he went upstairs to his room. One was the upright metal rod on the roof. The
other was a glint of broken glass below the roaring log flames in the
fireplace.
It was well past midnight when the door of Lamont Cranston's bedroom
opened softly. The Shadow emerged. He was robed in black. The upturned collar
of his cloak, the tilted brim of his slouch hat, hid most of his face except
the watchful gleam of his eyes. He crept noiselessly down the broad staircase
to the living room.
The embers in the fireplace had almost burned out. The Shadow had
substituted heavier gloves for the black ones he usually wore. He poked with
swift urgency among the hot ashes, and was rewarded by an interesting find. He
discovered not one broken piece of glass, but many! Some of the pieces were
thin stems. There were six like that. The Shadow divined that six men had
drunk
a toast here at some very recent date. They had then hurled the empty wine
glasses into the fireplace.
The glasses must have been fragile and very expensive. They were the most
delicate type of crystal. In the home of Lamont Cranston there was glassware
similar to this. Only a man of means could afford so costly a set.
Noiselessly, The Shadow glided toward a corner of the living room. He
examined a tall cabinet that stood there. On an upper shelf he found six
glasses similar to the smashed ones he had uncovered in the ashes of the
fireplace. Empty spots on the shelf showed where the missing half dozen had
stood.
Who were the six unknown men who had drunk a toast before the fireplace?
And what was the meaning of that glass-breaking ceremony?
The Shadow sought an answer above the mantelpiece of teakwood that
spanned
the fireplace. There was a large map on the wall there, a map of the United
States. It seemed out of place as a wall decoration. All the other decorations
were sporting items. Snowshoes, rifles, bows and arrows, the mounted heads of
deer and elk, made a more normal appearance on the walls of a hunting lodge.
The Shadow examined the map closely.
There was a small stain on the lower edge - a wine stain. Someone had
leaned a hand carelessly, while he had pointed out some spot on the map to the
other five men with whom he had drunk the toast. The spot was not easily
discoverable to an ordinary eye, but The Shadow soon located what he was
searching for.
A pin had been stuck briefly into a town. The pin had been withdrawn, but
it had left a tiny perforation on the glazed paper of the map. The tiny
indentation did not escape The Shadow's eyes. Nor did the name of the town
itself.
Oakmont! Heart of the Midwest territory where the government's airplane
rearmament program was in progress! Where a workman in a bomb-sight factory
had
gone suddenly crazy and attempted to wreck delicate machinery useful in the
nation's defense.
Was there a sinister connection between a secret toast drunk by six men
in
the Adirondacks and that queer happening out West? The Shadow had no time to
ponder about the meaning of the clues he had found. With a sudden bound, he
darted away from the fireplace.
His quick withdrawal made no sound on the soft rug. The black cloak
shielded him from sight as he faded quietly into a dim recess at the room's
corner. Scarcely breathing, he watched the hall doorway. From that hall had
come a faint creak that had warned The Shadow.
Someone was stealthily approaching the living room!
A moment later, The Shadow saw a figure, faintly illuminated by the dim
hall light behind it. The man was tall, as tall as Henry Norman or any of
Norman's three huskily-built servants. But it was impossible to determine the
identity of the intruder.
He was wearing a mask that fitted entirely over his face and skull, like
a
cloth helmet. His hands were gloved. He wore a heavy jacket and bulky ski
pants.
His shoes, however, didn't match the rest of his costume. Instead of
hob-nailed
boots, the masked man was wearing thin-soled slippers. They made no sound as
he
cautiously advanced into the darkness of the living room.
As though drawn by malevolent fate, he tiptoed close to the dark recess
in
the corner where The Shadow waited.
The Shadow wanted no fight with this masked figure. A premature battle
might ruin the entire success of The Shadow's subsequent investigations. The
Shadow had barely scratched the surface of what he now believed was a Fifth
Column plot against the security of the United States.
The masked man wasn't sure that there was anyone hidden in the dark
living
room. Suspicion alone had drawn him here on this midnight prowl. The Shadow
intended to keep that vague suspicion from becoming knowledge.
His gloved hand emerged from under his black robe. There was a .45
cartridge in it. It was part of the extra ammunition for the twin .45's The
Shadow always carried. Hidden in the shallow recess where he crouched, The
Shadow estimated the distance between his hiding place and the two doors that
gave access to the living room.
One was the corridor doorway through which the masked intruder had
glided.
The other was an opening that led to a smaller room. The Shadow threw his
palmed
cartridge through this second door. It landed with a faint thump on the rug of
the adjoining chamber.
Like a jungle cat, the masked man whirled. A swift leap carried him
through the curtained doorway. A gun gleamed in his fist.
It took him only a few seconds to realize that no human being was in the
tiny sitting room. He decided that his strained hearing had tricked him. Those
few seconds made up the precious margin that The Shadow needed. He was already
a black patch on the corridor staircase, returning swiftly to his bedroom
above. He moved as soundlessly as if he trod on air. In an instant, his
bedroom
door was locked on the inside. The disguise of The Shadow was swiftly peeled
off.
Lamont Cranston was revealed. He was dressed only in pajamas. He got into
bed and drew the covers upward. He rumpled the sheets and the pillow, in case
shrewd eyes might try to determine how long that bed had been slept in.
The Shadow expected a prompt visitor.
His guess was justified barely two minutes later. A hand tried the knob,
then knuckles rapped on the panel outside.
The Shadow replied sleepily. He went in bare feet to the door and
unlocked
it. The man outside was one of Henry Norman's three servants. His sharp glance
studied the sleepy appearance of Lamont Cranston.
"Sorry to disturb you, sir. I thought I heard you ring."
"You must have been dreaming," Cranston smiled. "I've been asleep for the
past two hours."
"Excuse me, sir."
He departed with the quiet humility of a well-trained servant.
Again, Lamont Cranston became the black-cloaked figure of The Shadow.
A PERILOUS trip downstairs was still necessary. When The Shadow finally
made it, the house was as quiet as a tomb. The Shadow glided swiftly to the
little chamber into which he had thrown his .45 cartridge. He estimated the
exact spot beyond the doorway at which the missile must have fallen. He found
it where it had rolled out of sight. It was under the squat bottom of a heavy
chair.
The masked man hadn't located that bit of evidence. Unable to remember
exactly the nature of the sound he had heard, he had decided that his
suspicious ears had tricked him. A shutter was banging outside the window in
the night wind. The masked man had concluded that the shutter was the source
of
the thud which had so alarmed him on his midnight prowl.
The Shadow retreated with the only object that might have betrayed his
presence downstairs. But his activity was far from ended. It was just
beginning. Presently, the window of Lamont Cranston's bedroom lifted softly.
The Shadow squirmed out on the sill. His questing arms lifted above his head.
Fingers clutched at the dark overhang of the roof.
He chinned himself slowly aloft, careful not to make the slightest sound.
He crawled silently up the slant of the roof toward the ridgepole. It was on
the ridgepole that a queer metal rod projected vertically. A rod in whose
purpose The Shadow was grimly interested.
He noticed a clamp on it, that suggested the existence of something that
had topped the rod - something that had since been removed. The upper end of
the rod was tinged a queer reddish color. It was flaky as if flame might have
burned it.
Flame! A red glow that had been seen briefly during a snowstorm on a
nearby mountain? Had there been an answering red light here, on the roof of
Henry Norman's lodge?
Laughter whispered sibilantly from The Shadow's lips. The object that had
been clamped to the top of that metal rod must have been a metal cup. Flame
had
burned in that cup. It was intense enough to have badly corroded the steel rod
below. A red flame!
To The Shadow's brain, the color of the flame had grim significance. The
mountain was distant. The air on that earlier night had been thick with
falling
snow. An ordinary light would never be seen through such a milky veil. But a
red
light, fed by chemicals - a light that produced infra-red rays as well - could
have been easily distinguished.
The twin exchange of signals on a night when a plane had been heard
circling over the mountain, now made ugly truth in The Shadow's mind. Five men
had descended from that mystery plane by parachute. They had headed straight
for Norman's lodge. There, they had drunk a toast with a sixth man concerning
the middle-western town of Oakmont.
Quietly, The Shadow crawled down the steep roof. He lowered himself to
the
sill of his bedroom window.
CHAPTER III
PERFUMED DEATH
AS soon as The Shadow reached the privacy of his top-floor bedroom, he
listened. The only sound he could hear was the dreary whine of the north wind
over the eaves of the roof.
摘要：

THEWHITECOLUMNbyMaxwellGrantAsoriginallypublishedin"TheShadowMagazine,"March15,1941.FivemenofevildropfromaplaneinaragingAdirondacksnowstormandembroilTheShadowinaplotthatrockstheUnitedStatestoitsveryfoundations!CHAPTERISKYRAIDERSITwassnowingheavilyintheAdirondacks.Thestormhadstartedatdusk.Itwasnowlon...

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