Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 294 - Murder by Magic

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MURDER BY MAGIC

Maxwell Grant

http://www.blackmask.com

? CHAPTER I.

? CHAPTER II.

? Chapter III

? CHAPTER IV

? CHAPTER V

? CHAPTER VI

? CHAPTER VII

? CHAPTER VIII

? CHAPTER IX

? CHAPTER X

? CHAPTER XI

? CHAPTER XII

? CHAPTER XIII

? CHAPTER XIV

? CHAPTER XV

? CHAPTER XVI

? CHAPTER XVII

? CHAPTER XVIII

? CHAPTER XIX

? CHAPTER XX

CHAPTER I. CIGAM SPELLS MAGIC

From the street the sign read:

CIGAM SPELLS MAGIC

Cigam was a neat name for a magic shop, even though it wasn't the name of the man who ran the place.

Spelling Magic backward to form the word Cigam, was an old gag, perhaps, but it was new to the

general public.

And Cigam was making a play for the general trade, even to demonstrating tricks in his second floor front

window, which drew attention - and customers - from the street. He was rather clever, this drab

proprietor who called himself Cigam.

Only today, Cigam wasn't working in the window.

It was six o'clock and the shop was packed because this was a Saturday afternoon. Usually though, the

crowd began to thin before six, which was the closing hour, but today Cigam couldn't get rid of the

customers.

Maybe it was because this Saturday fell on the full of the moon, or possibly it was on account of the

show that the Universal Wizards Association had scheduled for tomorrow night. Some of Cigam's

customers were at least buying tickets for the show, even though they weren't purchasing any of the

magical apparatus with which his shelves and counters were full.

Yes, Saturday was just a big headache for a magic dealer.

Youngsters in short pants were gawking into the glass-topped counters trying to guess the purposes of

the gimmicks they saw displayed there. Others, a few years older, were dropping billiard balls and

thimbles as they tried to show each other their pet sleights.

Over in a corner, Val Varno was performing deft one-hand cuts with a pack of cards, winning

enthusiastic acclaim from an adolescent gallery whose quick-change voices tempted Cigam to sell them

ventriloquist dummies instead of magical apparatus.

What bothered Cigam even more was the private conference between Glanville Frost and Zed Zito.

Suave and persuasive, Frost was a manufacturer of magical apparatus who looked as though he could

sell anything. Blunt, challenging Zito was a performer who didn't want to be sold. Nevertheless, Cigam

didn't like to have other people doing business in a shop where he paid the rent.

Then Cigam forgot his lesser troubles because of Wade Winstrom.

Big, imposing, firm of eye and jaw, Winstrom looked like the business magnate that he was. Brushing

through the juvenile customers as he would a flock of office boys, Winstrom arrived at the counter, laid

down a bundle of currency, and gave Cigam a steady stare.

"Sorry, Mr. Winstrom," Cigam apologized. "I haven't had a chance to pack the stuff you want. If you can

only give me until Monday -"

Winstrom looked around the shop and its confusion caused a sympathetic smile to appear on his broad

lips. Waving for Cigam to keep the money, Winstrom gave an obliging nod, and turned toward the door.

He was blocked off by a squad of whipper-snappers who were pouncing for the counter telephone, only

to have Cigam intervene.

"No phone calls, boys!" declared Cigam. "The shop is closing right away."

That brought an argument.

"We're only calling Demo Sharpe -"

"So we can try the new phone trick you sold us -"

"The instruction sheet says to call him any time after six o'clock -"

"And he'll name any card we think of -"

Cigam ended all that by banging the counter.

"If it's six o'clock, this shop is closed," he asserted, "and that's official. Use the phone in the lunch room

across the street. I charge a nickel for all calls you make here anyway."

Across the street a calm-faced gentleman was sitting in the window of the lunch room finishing a cup of

coffee while he idly studied Cigam's second floor shop, or as much of it as could be seen through the

upstairs show window.

The gentleman's name was Lamont Cranston and he could easily have learned all that was happening in

Cigam's by going up there, but in that case he would have missed something else that was happening in

the lunch room.

Two rather obnoxious characters were also keeping their eyes on Cigam's without realizing that Cranston

had them under observation.

Familiarly, these two characters were known as Louie the Grift and Side-face Sam and they represented

what might have been termed in better circles a renaissance of the gangster epoch in American history.

Louie the Grift saw Mr. Winstrom come out the street door beneath Cigam's shop and get into a

chauffeured limousine that promptly drove away.

"There goes the big dough customer." It was the Grift who said it. "I'll bet he left a sheaf of moola with

Cigam for some of the junk the guy peddles."

"Peel an eye upstairs," suggested Side-face, speaking from the side of his mouth that he wasn't feeding

with a ham sandwich, "and you'll win your own money."

The upstairs window showed Cigam opening an old-fashioned safe which had a door that unfortunately

opened in the other direction. Cigam was equally unfortunate in counting his cash slowly and twice before

putting it away. The long-distance witnesses could see that it was plenty.

Having seen all they wanted in Cigam's window, neither Side-face nor the Grift bothered to watch the

lights go out. It was the astute Mr. Cranston who studied that procedure and later saw Cigam come out

the street door with three of his professional patrons.

Those three were recognizable at a distance, even in the dusk. From left to right they were:

Val Varno, master manipulator, whose offer of five thousand dollars to anyone who could duplicate his

skill at sleight of hand had never been challenged, chiefly because it was known that Varno didn't have

the money.

Glanville Frost, creator and manufacturer of more magical tricks and illusions than any other inventive

genius, including all persons whose ideas he had appropriated.

Zed Zito, hypnotist, mentalist and manager of the famed Miss Libra whose uncanny faculty had baffled

every scientist who had witnessed her amazing performances which by a peculiar coincidence had never

excited scientific investigation.

Cranston didn't blame Cigam for locking the street door. Only Cigam should have had more judgment

than to use a type of padlock that anybody could open with one of the gadgets that Cigam himself sold

for fifty cents.

These masters of mystery, Cigam included, didn't bother to come across the street and learn how

Demo's telephone trick was working. They simply parted and stalked away in their various directions.

Maybe they took it for granted that Demo was naming the cards that people called for. In fact Demo

was, much to the annoyance of two lunch room customers.

"If them punks would lam," side-mouthed Side-face, "we could start working on that joint across the

way."

"Give 'em time," returned Louie. "It ought to be a little darker anyhow."

"It's dark enough now. For me, anyway, providing you stick here to flash copper if one comes along."

"Okay, only let's wait until the dead-pan guy fills up on Java. I'd rather see new faces before we move."

The "dead-pan guy" was Cranston and he became obliging a few minutes later. Maybe he'd just been

waiting until Cigam's younger customers had finished letting Demo baffle them with his telephone mystery.

Whatever the case as soon as the cluster had gone from around the telephone, Cranston strolled out too

and moved leisurely away along the almost-deserted street.

Only Cranston didn't walk far.

Half way down the block, he stepped into a darkened doorway and opened the bottom of a special

briefcase that he carried. From between the inverted V of the two partitions, Cranston brought out a

tight-packed black cloak and a flattened slouch hat.

As Cranston put on those garments, he adjusted a brace of automatics that he already packed beneath

his business suit in their well-designed holsters. Then, a gliding shape of blackness, this transformed

personage edged forth into the thickened dusk.

It was rather magical, the way Lamont Cranston became The Shadow.

CHAPTER II. Louie the Grift didn't have one of Cigam's fifty-cent gadgets.

What he had was a revolver and one whack of the butt did a complete job with the street door padlock.

Turning around, Louie blocked all sight of that damage and looked over at the lunch room.

Side-face Sam kept working on another sandwich. He saw nothing to worry him and neither did Louie.

The grunt Louie gave meant that if the street had become dark enough for Side-face, it was dark enough

for Louie too.

Only it happened to be too dark for both of them.

Close enough to touch Louie with a ten foot pole and have three yards to spare was a figure so black

that it passed as part of the wall against which it stood. With a simple reach of his gloved fist The

Shadow could have stopped Louie's first move toward burglary.

Only it wasn't The Shadow's policy to frustrate people like the Grift until they neared their ultimate

objective. Crime was coming back and The Shadow recognized it; therefore he needed a few examples

to prove properly that crime did not pay. Tonight was an excellent opportunity for such an object lesson.

To trap Louie actually at Cigam's safe and phone the police to round up Side-face as a preliminary would

be a feather in The Shadow's cap. But he would prefer to divide the feather between a police inspector

named Joe Cardona and a reporter, Clyde Burke, who would give the incident due publicity and thereby

discourage similar endeavors by lawless characters.

So when Louie opened the street door, The Shadow let the Grift enter unmolested. In fact he gave Louie

considerable leeway. The Shadow was timing his own entry until he saw Side-face begin to look upward

at Cigam's window. However small Sam's chance of glimpsing The Shadow, it wasn't worth the taking

while a moral issue was at stake.

That was why Louie the Grift had little trouble reaching Cigam's upstairs door and not much more in

cracking that second barrier. For the door that said CIGAM - MAGIC had a glass panel and by

cracking a chunk from the corner, Louie was able to reach through and turn the knob on the inside.

Closing the door behind him, Louie looked around a trifle warily. Street lamps that didn't show the lower

doorway did manage to give the shop a glow and Louie had never seen any more of this shop than the

area visible through the show window.

And a magic shop was a rather uncanny place to anyone unused to it.

The counters weren't so bad. They contained small items like silk handkerchiefs, packs of cards, small

canisters, miniature billiard balls, glasses, odd-looking coins that weren't money, and small nickel-plated

tubes and boxes.

What impressed the Grift were the shelves behind the counter. There he saw boxes big enough for

rabbits, portable tables with fancy drapes, big dice that would half fill a hat, fancy trays, bowls, and

clusters of peculiar looking flowers.

One rack in particular commanded full attention. It formed a sort of wall beside a door leading to a back

room and on its shelves were exhibits of magic as it used to be.

At the left of one tall shelf hung a curious clock dial made entirely of glass and furnished with a long flat

pointer like a single hand. Over at the right, past a pyramid of small square bird cages was an upright

metal rod set in a pedestal. On this rod was a large ball, pierced through the center to allow the passage

of the rod. The surface of the globe was studded with fancy stars.

It was the large clock dial that captured Louie's eye and with good reason, for the pointer suddenly

began to spin as though actuated by some invisible hand. Creeping toward the counter, Louie planted his

hands there, forgetful of such minor things as fingerprints, and simply gawked.

That whirring pointer was making Louie's own wits whirl. He hadn't expected Cigam's shop to go magic

on him!

Outside the shop door, blackness was looming up the stairs from below, its approach a symbol of

coming trouble for Louie the Grift. But Louie was too busy wondering about Cigam's mysteries to be

thinking in terms of The Shadow.

It wasn't just the clock dial that was behaving oddly now. The big ball was starting to move up and down

on the rod finishing each drop with a sharp click as though counting off the seconds that the one-hand

clock wasn't registering.

In the hallway The Shadow halted, his cloaked form barely outlined against the thicker blackness of the

wall. The Shadow could hear those clacks from the spirit ball and for the moment was at a loss to define

them.

The Shadow wasn't expecting Louie to be watching magic. Right now, the Grift should have been

working at Cigam's safe. Not only were the sounds coming from the wrong direction; they weren't the

sort that a safe-cracker would make. The Shadow paused to reconcile those noises with the

circumstances.

And now The Shadow was missing the feature of the show.

Between the spirit clock and the mystic ball, a larger piece of antique magic towered above the pint-sized

bird cages. It was a big grinning mask with horns that made Louie mistake it for a devil though actually it

represented a satyr. The thing was mounted on a single pedestal and it was of more than human size,

grotesquely lifelike with its bulging eyes and grinning mouth.

The satyr was coming to life!

First the head rolled its eyes as though looking Louie over and the huddled crook shied away. Then,

classing the eyes as mechanical, Louie reared half across the counter and snarled at the satyr's head. At

that moment the satyr wiggled its horns and Louie, suddenly infuriated, decided to throw something at the

mechanical head.

All that was lying handy on the counter was a pack of cards, but Louie decided it might be enough to

stop the works of this self-acting gadget.

As Louie's arm went back for the throw, the gloved hand of The Shadow was coming through the

broken corner of the door to turn the inside knob, but Louie wasn't looking around behind him. Instead,

Louie was throwing the pack of cards directly at the satyr's face.

The flying pack splashed all over the big head and the eyes stopped their contortions. The horns were

frozen too, but Louie hadn't put an end to the magic. Instead, he'd actually played stooge to the climax.

From among the flutter of descending cards, four stood out. They were the aces from the pack, standing

balanced in a slightly curving row on top of the weird head, directly between the horns!

The outer door had opened silently, but Louie hadn't turned to see it. The crook's face was as rigid as the

satyr's until, a moment later, Louie's jaw sagged of its own accord as a token of sheer amazement.

At that moment, Louie was half across the counter, balanced on both hands in the exact position that had

marked the finish of his fling. The bulge of the satyr's eyes seemed a copy of Louie's own. To make it

perfect, the leering face had only to drop its own jaw, which it did.

Though inside the shop, The Shadow hadn't a chance to stop the thing that happened even if he'd

expected it.

From the satyr's opening mouth came a tongue of flame accompanied by the sharp report of a gun. The

stab was downward, straight toward the chest of Louie the Grift.

With a shriek the crook reared upward, staggered back and lost his balance, flattening supine on the

floor!

Even before Louie landed, The Shadow was clearing the counter at the left, dropping there with a crouch

that turned into a forward drive. He was out of sight behind the sliding doors that lined the rear of the

counter and therefore as good as out of range.

His drive however was a quest for a close-range meeting for whomever stood behind the satyr, for The

Shadow's route was straight past the display rack where the clock hand was slowly ending its spin, the

metal ball having earlier ceased its rise and fall.

Through the doorway, The Shadow reached Cigam's back room, a dimly lighted place stacked with filing

cabinets, assorted boxes, desk and shipping bench. There was nothing large enough to hide a human

being, so all indications were that the murderer had gone through the window at the rear, which furnished

the back room with what light it had.

Reaching the window, The Shadow established that theory when he found that the sash was unclamped.

It came flying up with the whip of his hands and in the same gesture The Shadow was through the

window and out across a ledge from which he made a twirling drop to the ground behind the building.

This was one way to take up a murderer's trail, except that it proved too precipitous for The Shadow to

conceal his presence.

Even as The Shadow landed, a chunky figure came flinging upon him, swinging something that had the

glint of a revolver. Only The Shadow, even during his rapid drop, had been thinking in just such terms.

The gloved hands that swept upward from the folds of The Shadow's cloak carried the dark bulk of a

gun-metal automatic that stopped the descending revolver in mid-air. Sparks flashed from the clashing

weapons, preliminary to the more spectacular fireworks that were to follow.

For as The Shadow wheeled one way, his antagonist the other, the man with the revolver let loose with

the wild sort of shots that The Shadow expected. In return came The Shadow's taunting laugh, as though

commending such wasted fire. With his mirth, The Shadow whirled still further in the dark to gain the

vantage of an alley that he knew led to the front street. Another foolhardy stab from his opponent's gun

and The Shadow would wing him with a single.

Only the man with the revolver didn't choose to use it.

He knew this backyard better than The Shadow and he made the most of it. All that The Shadow heard

was the wild clatter of footsteps making off through another passage to a side street. By the time The

Shadow cut across the yard, found the narrow cleft and probed it with two shots to discourage any

return fire, the passage was empty. The fugitive, whoever he was, had reached the street and was away.

Windows were clattering all around. Shouts were accompanying the cautious sweep of flashlights. From

somewhere a police whistle shrilled and a siren responded not too far away.

It wasn't The Shadow's policy to stay around and take the blame for somebody else's crime. Speeding

back to the alley that he preferred, he continued through it and seemed to evaporate somewhere in its

gloom.

When Lamont Cranston, a calm stroller who carried a briefcase, stopped in front of a little lunch room to

join the curious throng that watched the police going up to Cigam's it was only natural that he should

glance into the lunch room too.

There was no sign of Side-face Sam.

In death, Louie the Grift had lost the services of the side-kick who had been willing to help him out in life.

Like an unknown murderer, Side-face had decided to become scarce, leaving the riddle to the police -

and the Shadow.

Chapter III

"Yes, my name is Demo Sharpe."

Pete Noland said it over the telephone in the half-sepulchral tone that so fitted Demo's style that it had

taken Pete a long while to rehearse it.

Somebody put a query over the wire and Pete answered without changing voice:

"I know you are thinking of a card. You have that card in your hand, of course."

The person didn't have the card so Pete told him to get it and concentrate, then write the name of the

card upon a sheet of paper. All this was done without the person stating the card aloud; that part was up

to Demo, or rather Pete.

"You have concentrated enough," announced Pete in that same impressive tone. "Your card was the five

of clubs."

There was an amazed gasp from the telephone receiver but Pete was used to all that. Besides, somebody

was knuckling at the window pane, so there wasn't time to waste listening to a customer's reaction to the

phone trick.

Pete simply hung up the phone and opened the window. It was Demo of course, since he was the only

person who entered his own apartment by that route. For the first time, Demo seemed unnerved by his

crawl along the twelfth story ledge.

Demo went to pour himself a drink, which was unusual.

"Why don't you quit this fool stuff?" queried Pete in the frank style that went with his looks. "This

steeplejack act will throw you, if you don't throw yourself. Taking a drink is bad, if you're intending to go

out again -"

"Only I'm not going out again." Demo shoved his face up from the chunky shoulders that supported it, His

face had the same squarish look. "Not tonight, I mean."

"Then why go out at all?"

The phone bell interrupted and Demo gave a jerky gesture.

"Answer it, Pete."

It was somebody else wanting to know a card so Pete went through the usual routine and named it. Eyes

eager, Demo listened to Pete's copy of his style and nodded approval.

"I'm fed up, Demo," argued Pete, in his own tone, as he clamped down the receiver. "If we're going to be

partners in this telephone gag, let me be myself at least."

Demo shook his head.

"It won't work that way, Pete. I've been selling those instruction sheets under the title of Demo's Own

Mystery. Nobody's going to buy them if I make it common."

"Then handle the works yourself." Pete went to the closet to get his hat and coat. "I'm leaving and not by

the window. Good luck, Demo."

Frantically Demo threw his hunched form across the door to block Pete's departure. Demo looked really

wild with his gasping lips, his blinking eyes, and the tangled hair that strewed down across his forehead.

"You can't walk out on me, Pete."

"I'm doing it." Pete's handsome face had clouded, though not in a too unfriendly way. "Sorry, Demo."

The telephone rang.

"Answer it, Pete. Just once more. I'm still shaky."

"All right, Demo, for the last time."

Pete almost botched Demo's tone, because his mind wasn't on the telephone mystery. Vague thoughts

and troubled ones were cluttering Pete's mind regarding the in-and-out act that Demo had been staging

every evening, leaving Pete to double for him in the apartment. So when he finished this last call, Pete

wheeled and demanded:

"Out with it, Demo."

Demo nodded and took the telephone off its hook. To Pete, Demo said:

"That will cut off those calls for a while. Shed your hat and coat so you can listen. Remember, I said we'd

go fifty-fifty. That goes for more than just the take on the telephone trick."

Demo wasn't forgetting the phone trick, though, because he made his story rapid and brief, so as not to

keep too many customers waiting. Besides, Demo was thinking of an alibi.

"Here's the whole story, Pete," declared Demo earnestly. "I asked you to stay up here evenings and fake

like you were me answering calls on the phone trick I've been peddling at two bucks a throw. My

sneaking in and out by the ledge to the roof next door may have struck you as kind of eccentric, but you

knew I was that sort of a guy."

"Until now I thought that was it, Demo."

"Well, I'm still eccentric," admitted Demo, "but in a way that may pay off for both of us. Look at this

stuff." Pawing through a desk drawer, Demo brought out some yellowed newspaper clippings, and a few

old frayed playbills. "These will give you the general idea."

As Pete began to study the exhibits, Demo glanced at the stifled telephone and became impatient.

"I'll explain them, Pete," said Demo rapidly. "The clippings are about the treasures belonging to the Sultan

of Malkara that disappeared from his palace during a revolt of the populace, a good many years ago."

Pete nodded. He'd gotten that far with the clippings.

"The chief harem beauty disappeared at the same time," he added. "Kwana, her name was."

"And later all the stuff showed up," declared Demo, gesturing to the clippings. "Here, there and

everywhere, with one important exception. None of the sultan's crown jewels ever showed - not

anywhere."

That brought a shrug from Pete.

"Perhaps the rabble got them."

"I don't think so," argued Demo. "Look, Pete. How would you guess Kwana got out of Malkara?"

Pete couldn't answer.

"These tell how." Demo brandished the long, old-fashioned playbills. "You've heard of Savanti, the

Magician of Many Lands. Look where he was playing, right at the time Kwana disappeared along with

the sultan's treasures!"

Staring at the playbill, Pete exclaimed:

"In Grandoq, the capital of Malkara!"

"Right," confirmed Demo, "and here's something more. Look at this billing a year later." He was

spreading the other playbill. "Where did Savanti get Mysteria, the Maid of the Himalaya Mists, exotic

creature of the higher atmosphere, who floats in mid-air?"

The playbill made Pete smile.

"You mean where did Savanti get the levitation act," he laughed. "Swiped it, I suppose, like he did with

most everything in his show. Savanti was notorious for that -"

Stopping short, Pete stared at the playbill, then at Demo.

"You mean Savanti was behind that palace robbery?"

"If you want to call it a robbery," returned Demo blandly. "I wouldn't say that Savanti would go in for

that, though. Maybe Kwana had a right to her share of the sultan's wealth. Her deal with Savanti could

have been just to get her out of Malkara."

"And Savanti's cut was the crown jewels!"

"That's what I think, Pete."

Chin buried in hand, Pete watched Demo hang the receiver on its hook to resume the answering of card

calls. It fitted except for one thing, on which Pete commented.

"Only Savanti died broke, Demo."

"He died on his last world tour," corrected Demo, "before he could get back home where he had stored

most of his old apparatus." Demo's eyes narrowed Pete's way. "A lot of Savanti's props have been

junked off lately."

"Then you mean the sultan's jewels may be hidden in one of Savanti's old tricks?"

"I couldn't think of anywhere better," returned Demo. "Nobody would steal magic apparatus, and if they

did, they wouldn't know what it was all about."

The phone was ringing. Demo answered it personally and by his peculiar system of queries told some

lady that she had picked the jack of spades, which proved correct. Then, hanging up:

"There are some smart characters who may have guessed what I have," Demo told Pete. "That's why I

don't want them to know that I'm checking on all old apparatus that may once have belonged to Savanti.

The best way to keep them from knowing is to make them think I'm here in the apartment every

evening."

Now the whole business of the telephone tie-up was clearing itself in Pete's mind, along with Demo's

procedure of using the window route instead of the apartment house elevator. No wonder Pete had been

called upon to rehearse the part of Demo!

"There's only one man who makes a specialty of buying old apparatus," expressed Pete. "That's Wade

Winstrom. He must have a ton of it along with his thousand books."

"And his million bucks," added Demo. "Winstrom loves to waste dough on junk that nobody else wants -

or let's call it stuff nobody else wanted until now."

Another phone call gave Pete time to think over that analysis. Then, after Demo had floored somebody

who took the two of diamonds, Pete suggested:

"Why not let Winstrom keep buying up old apparatus? Then go around to his place and ask to look it

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Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 294 - Murder by Magic

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