Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 293 - The Mask of Mephisto

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THE MASK OF MEPHISTO

by Maxwell Grant

As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," July 1945.

Somewhere, in that gay carnival of Mardi Gras - somehow, connected with a

torn half of a one-hundred-dollar-bill - lurked a macabre problem for The

Shadow - pitted against Mephisto!

CHAPTER I

IT was Mardi Gras night and New Orleans was lush with light, mellow with

music, bizarre with costumery. Everybody cared except Ken Langdon.

Reluctantly Ken was forced to admit that he wasn't entirely sad. Mardi

Gras Day presented the last and biggest in a long procession of days filled

with noise and revelry.

Tomorrow - or specifically at midnight tonight - Carnival would be over

and quiet would again be in order. Ken's headaches would be ended and Wingless

Victory would be finished.

Wingless Victory was the statue that Ken was molding in his upstairs

studio in the patio off Dumaine Street, if anybody cared to know. The trouble

was that the people who cared didn't know. As a result, Ken was four months

behind on his rent, which was bad business in the French Quarter where

everybody else was only three. But this was Carnival time and Ken's landlord,

whoever he was, had probably gone amasking with the rest of New Orleans.

Revelry was drifting up through the arched entry to the patio and

filtering its way into the room that Ken called a studio. Into that medley

shrilled a familiar sound that Ken recognized, the ring of the telephone bell

in the downstairs renting office.

Usually Ken paused breathless at that sound, hoping that some patron was

summoning him to accept a fabulous offer for Wingless Victory when completed.

Those phone calls always proved to be for someone else, but tonight Ken wasn't

taking chances.

Ken hurried out through the door and scurried down the outdoor steps to

the courtyard which he crossed at a speed the neighborhood rats would have

envied. Breathless, Ken unhooked the telephone.

The voice came thickly:

"Mr. Kenneth Langdon? Could I speak to him?"

"This is Langdon." Ken couldn't believe that it had happened. "What can I

do for you?"

"Would you like to make some money?"

"Why, yes. Of course the statue isn't finished -"

"One hundred dollars?"

Ken tried to answer but couldn't find words. The toil of six months was

heavy on his hands and this insult was too much. What Ken might have said

would

have been plenty if the voice hadn't intervened:

"One hundred dollars for one hour's work."

It was foolish, but so was Mardi Gras with its weeks of revelry,

pageantry

and idiocy. Ken gulped aloud that he would listen and the voice proceeded, its

phrases still thick but disjointed.

"The costume," it said. "In the box - in your studio - wear it, you

understand?"

How Ken would wear a costume that didn't exist was something of a

question, but he didn't argue it. He just said, "Yes."

"Follow the schedule," the voice continued. "You will find it with the

box. You understand?"

This was clearing the situation somewhat.

"Half payment in advance," the thick voice promised, "and the remainder

later. If you agree, dial this number."

The voice gave a number, the receiver clicked and the call was over,

leaving Ken wondering if it were all a joke. However, Ken decided to dial the

number that the voice had given him.

The number didn't answer in the three times Ken tried it, so he decided

go back up to the studio and lay some more clay on Wingless Victory.

The usual lights in the courtyard were missing. But between the glow from

the little office and Ken's upstairs studio, the archway was reasonably

visible.

As he started back Ken could have sworn that there was something in that

archway, a solid something that slid away hastily as he approached. By the

time

Ken reached the arch and looked through, there was nothing to see except

Dumaine

Street and the passing show of masqueraders who were turning Frenchtown into

anything but a haven for harassed sculptors like Ken Langdon.

Still wondering who had sneaked out through the arch, Ken reached his

studio and climbed the ladder that brought him on a line with Wingless

Victory's chin. On the top step of the ladder was a package neatly tied and

thoroughly delivered just as somebody on the telephone had promised it would

be.

Ken opened the package.

It was hard to swallow Mardi Gras, tough to admit that the Carnival could

breed artistic merit. But Ken's eye was stirred by the contents of that large,

square package.

The costume proper was a mass of crimson sheen, a cape as gorgeous in

texture as it was ample in proportions. The black ruffle around the neck was

obviously intended for a contrast and Ken saw why when he studied the

remaining

contents. Out from the box peered a devil's head so realistic in its ruddy

features that Ken wished he could do as good a facial with Wingless Victory.

A Mask of Mephisto and a masterpiece!

From the costume fluttered an envelope which Ken plucked promptly from

the

floor. Within it was a sheet of paper with a typewritten schedule telling the

places where he was to be at given times. And that wasn't all; the envelope

also contained fifty percent of Ken's wages in the form of a hundred dollar

bill torn in half.

This Mephisto proposition was devilishly clever.

The sponsor had certainly invested his whole hundred, but Ken would be an

equal loser unless he followed the trail to its completion, an equal loser

both

of the trail and the hundred dollar bill.

Ken caped himself in the crimson robe, picked up the Mephisto head and

set

it down over his own. Peering down through the ample nostrils of the nose, he

read the time sheet and found that he was due to be parading along Canal

Street

in exactly ten minutes. He set forth, wearing what the well-dressed Satan

should

wear.

Frenchtown struck Ken as a strange world on this last night of Carnival.

The narrow streets with their overhanging balconies and lattice ironwork were

the same, but the people looked different. True, they were in costume, but

that

hardly accounted for their odd behavior, for the way they stopped and stared.

Ken Langdon was stopping these maskers in their tracks!

If His Mephistophelean Majesty had popped up in person from the

antiquated

paving of the French Quarter, he couldn't have riveted the passers-by in any

better style.

But why?

Somewhere along Royal Street, the answer filtered through. It wasn't the

horror of his costume that impressed them; it was the magnificence.

Whoever had squandered too much on this Satanic outfit had done it well.

Never had a more resplendent Mephistopheles stalked the by-ways of New Orleans

during Mardi Gras. As the murmurs of appreciation reached Ken, he began to

feel

a pride, even though the costume wasn't his own idea.

Ken found himself liking Mardi Gras until he reached Iberville Street.

There something happened that wasn't listed on his schedule sheet. The

admiring

eyes that trailed the magnificent Mephisto opened wider as they saw a rival

for

the title of the Carnival's outstanding masker.

They came face to face, Mephisto and The Shadow!

Cloaked in black, his features lost beneath the downturned brim of a

slouch hat, the masquerader who confronted Ken immediately stole the show.

Until a moment before, this black-clad personage had been inconspicuous in the

general parade, but in contrast to the flaming crimson of Mephisto's regalia,

The Shadow's somber garb literally leaped into prominence.

It was as if some impossible challenger had risen to meet an equally

fabulous foe, and the prominence that The Shadow gained so suddenly gave a

startling realism to the Mephisto who confronted him.

Then, as the eager crowd jostled forward to witness what seemed an actual

crisis, the masqueraders were separated by the swirl. Through design more than

chance, The Shadow blotted himself into the patchy darkness where the street

lights were few, while Mephisto, with all his gorgeous shimmer, was forgotten

by the eyes that stared after the cloaked figure that disappeared so suddenly.

And Ken Langdon, swirled along toward Canal Street, was looking back,

wondering what had become of the cloaked Nemesis who had disturbed the

triumphal parade. Again, however, Ken's majestic trappings were attracting

attention from new observers who hadn't seen The Shadow's brief eclipse of the

brilliant Satanic grandeur.

This singular encounter was a mere incident amid the masked revelers who

were celebrating the end of Carnival's reign, but it had all the semblance of

an omen, The Shadow's crossing of Mephisto's path!

CHAPTER II

AROUND a corner where no one would have expected him to reappear, the

masker who wore the black cloak and hat stepped suddenly from a doorway. With

few short strides he reached a masked girl who was wearing a short-skirted

Columbine costume and literally plucked her from the crowd.

Next they were sweeping through the door of a little cafe where a sleepy

waiter was eyeing a stretch of empty tables. Taking a table in a subdued

corner, the man in black removed his hat and dropped back his cloak, while

Miss

Columbine discarded her domino mask.

The girl spoke first with a slight laugh of relief.

"I knew this would happen," she said. "You just can't do it, Lamont."

"Do what, Margo?"

The man's query had an even tone that went with his calm face. Both were

habits with Lamont Cranston. Being used to them, Margo Lane suspected that

Cranston knew exactly what was in her mind, but she didn't say so. Instead:

"You can't put on a black coat and hat and expect people not to notice

it," Margo declared. "That is not if you let them see you, not even during

Mardi Gras."

"You're positive?"

"Absolutely positive."

"Then why talk in negatives?" queried Cranston with a slight smile.

"That's all you've been using, Margo, and all that backs your argument was my

chance meeting with that chap in the Mephisto outfit."

Margo had to admit that Cranston was right. Among all the quaint

characters represented by the merrymakers, The Shadow had been the least

noticed until the Red Devil had popped up to meet him. Still, Margo was

wondering why Cranston had chosen his Shadow costume and that brought up the

question of why he had come to New Orleans at all.

"I was perfectly happy at Miami Beach," sighed Margo, ruefully, "until I

received your wire telling me to fly to New Orleans for Mardi Gras Day. I

suppose you've been here all along, enjoying the preliminary features of the

Carnival?"

Cranston shook his head.

"No, Margo. I just arrived from New York today."

"Just to see the parades?" queried Margo. "Well, I suppose they're worth

it. The Rex parade was wonderful and I really can't wait to see the night

parade of Comus."

"Except that you aren't going to see it, Margo."

A flash of indignation sparked Margo's dark eyes; then smiling it away,

the girl treated the subject as a jest.

"So I won't see Miss Muffet and her tuffet," declared Margo, "Jack and

his

bean-stalk, or the rest of them. The floats are all supposed to represent

Mother

Goose stories, you know. I just delight in Mother Goose."

"You'd better read up on it then. You won't find Jack's bean-stalk in

among those yarns."

"Anyway, I wouldn't miss the parade for a thousand dollars!"

"Not for a hundred thousand, Margo?"

There was something so steady in Cranston's tone that Margo knew he meant

it. In reply to Margo's questioning eyes, Cranston passed a small, thin-paper

certificate across the table. The official look of the paper impressed Margo

and as she read its title, she exclaimed:

"Why, it's a ticket for the Louisiana Lottery!"

"A winning ticket, Margo. Worth a hundred thousand if it draws the grand

and only prize."

"But I thought the Louisiana Lottery was banned!"

"So was horse racing," reminded Cranston, "and recently. Certain ways had

to be designed for people to stake money, and the Louisiana Lottery was one of

them. It always had a solid reputation in gaming circles. Therefore its

revival

won immediate confidence."

"But how does the lottery pay off - and where?"

Cranston answered that with a question of his own.

"Did you ever hear of the Krewe of the Mystic Knights of Hades?"

Margo shook her head, then said brightly:

"It sounds like one of these New Orleans Carnival associations."

"It is," stated Cranston, "but the Knights of Hades are strictly secret

and do not parade. They hold a Ball of Death in what they term the Devil's Den

and all the guests are strangers."

"Why strangers?"

"Because New Orleans is full of them, all fighting to get invitations

from

the dozen or more organizations that are unable to fill all requests."

"But how is anyone invited to the Ball of Death?"

"By lot." Cranston emphasized the words. "Names are picked from hotel

registers or other sources and the invitations sent."

"And what goes on at the Ball of Death?"

"Some curious ceremony with a Wheel of Fate in which the winner is called

the loser and is banished from the Realm Below, with some slight gift so he

won't feel too unhappy. Only this year, the gift may be different."

The point dawned slowly on Margo. Then:

"You mean that the Krewe of Hades is the front for the Louisiana

Lottery!"

As Cranston nodded, he tossed an engraved card across the table.

"Your surmise is correct, Margo, and there is the proof."

Reading the card Margo saw that it was an invitation to the Grand Ball of

Death, to be held in the Devil's Den, otherwise known as the Hoodoo House,

under auspices of the Scribe, the Seneschal and the Messenger, the official

representatives of his Satanic Majesty, Mephistopheles the Faust.

Margo frowned. "There's no name on the invitation."

"Nor on the lottery ticket," reminded Cranston. "One simply went to the

holder of the other."

"But how did you get them, Lamont?"

"I bought the ticket for a thousand dollars. It cost a dollar originally

but it turned out to be one of the lucky fifty that qualify for the grand

drawing of one hundred thousand dollars. It has a potential value of two

thousand dollars and its owner was willing to settle for half."

"And he gave you the invitation card too?"

"That's right, Margo. Just as I am giving both to you."

Really startling, this offer which explained in part why Cranston had

summoned Margo to New Orleans; yet the girl couldn't quite understand why she

was needed to serve as proxy.

"It wouldn't hurt if either of us drew the lucky number, Lamont -"

"But it might if someone else did," interposed Cranston, "and the chances

are fifty to one that someone else will. I wouldn't care to be immobilized as

guest at the Ball of Death."

"Why not? It sounds interesting."

"Then you can have it, Margo. I want to see what happens to the

prize-winner when he leaves the Devil's Den."

The possible complications sprang to Margo's mind.

"You mean somebody might try to grab the prize money!"

"There are rumors, Margo," said Cranston, with a smile, "that somebody

does intend to acquire that bundle of cash. Also it has been stated, in fact

stipulated, that the sponsors of the lottery will guarantee complete

protection

to the winner. However -"

"However you're not sure which will happen?"

"On the contrary I am sure. I intend to see that the winner does not

become a victim and that the prize money does not disappear. Whatever personal

effort may be required should prove worth it."

Knowing Cranston's penchant for adventure, Margo could quite understand.

Too, it was now plain why he had chosen the panoply of The Shadow instead of

some gayer costume for the particular part that he was to play in the affairs

of Mardi Gras.

Time was evidently short, for Cranston immediately suggested that they

start from the cafe and as they reached the streets where lights seemed

brighter than ever in the much-thickened dusk, Margo realized that it must be

almost seven o'clock, the hour when the grand parade of Comus started and the

hour also, that the Knights of Hades, disdainful of the parade that was

regarded as the big event of Mardi Gras, had set for their reception in the

Devil's Den.

It was then that an afterthought struck Margo.

"The Masked Mephisto!" she exclaimed. "The man in the gorgeous costume

that everybody noticed until you came along! Could he be the Satanic Majesty

the Krewe of Hades?"

"He probably was," returned Cranston. "As head of the Knights of Hades,

King Satan makes the rounds of other functions to pay his respects - or

disrespects. Since it wasn't time to meet him officially, it was better to

avoid him."

Those were the last words that Margo heard from Cranston, for he had

become his other self, The Shadow. On the gloomy street that they had reached

it seemed that slender Columbine was walking all alone, for the shrouded

figure

that stalked beside her was like a shade of night itself.

Yet despite The Shadow's presence, Margo Lane shuddered. Somehow her

recollection of the crimson-clad Mephisto with his leering, insidious mask,

was

a fearful thing that boded further ill!

CHAPTER III

AT an alleyway a few blocks deeper in the French Quarter, Margo Lane

paused suddenly as a gloved hand clutched her arm. At that moment Margo was

forgetful of her qualms for she was interested in what little of the Comus

parade she might expect to see.

Down the street was a float mounted on a flat car some twenty feet by

eight, with four bedecked mules hitched patiently in front of it. The float

had

a crew of several men, all in fancy costumes, but Margo was more interested in

the grotesque decorations that topped the cart. The theme was Humpty Dumpty,

represented by an enormous egg supporting a squatty dummy figure, the

combination rising to a height of eighteen feet.

Then, as the gloved hand turned her toward the alley, Margo heard The

Shadow's whispered parting:

"Hoodoo House. Have your invitation ready."

Wishing she'd never come to New Orleans, Margo tripped along the cobbled

paving of the alley, hoping only that The Shadow's eyes were watching her

venture into what seemed oblivion. As she reached the door of the grim stone

house that blocked the alley, it opened, gushing a mass of welcome light.

Handing her invitation card to the costumed attendant Margo Lane entered the

Devil's Den.

Other guests were coming to that same alley. The Shadow saw them as he

glided further along the street, to the darker vantage of a deep doorway.

Satisfied that all was proceeding normally where the Ball of Death was

concerned, The Shadow turned his attention elsewhere.

What interested The Shadow was the single float which by now should be on

its way to join the Comus parade which was forming at St. Charles Avenue and

Calliope Street. Just why Humpty Dumpty should be so far out of line was

something that called for investigation.

The same applied to the two slinking figures that were working their way

along the front of an opposite building. They were men in dark clothes, barely

visible in the last vestiges of twilight. Sensing their menace, The Shadow

drew

a brace of automatics from beneath his cloak and began to glide across the

narrow street.

The skulkers acted before The Shadow reached them. Switching from their

sneaky tactics, they bore with one accord upon the mummers who were standing

around the float. To a man, the entire float crew found themselves with guns

planted in the middle of their backs.

As docile as the harnessed mules, the costumed men allowed themselves to

be marched across the street and into a deserted building that adjoined the

little alley.

The Shadow followed, ready to intervene in case the situation showed

violence, but the gaudy prisoners were thoroughly subdued. They allowed

themselves to be bound in a room where their captors locked them, while The

Shadow watched from the darkness of the outer doorway. Then the captors

stripped off their baggy outer-garments and emerged in trappings quite as

fancy

as those worn by the prisoners.

One crew was simply replacing the other and The Shadow could well

understand why. His whispered laugh denoted that understanding as he moved out

to the street, there to await the next developments.

Those developments were under way in the Devil's Den, where Margo Lane

was

finding that the Knights of Hades were far more convivial hosts than their

sinister title indicated.

The Den consisted of a large, square room, with a platform accommodating

an orchestra beneath a quaint old stairway that turned at a landing and angled

its way to the floor above. The orchestra was playing an old and merry tune

called "The Devil's Ball" while the presiding officials greeted the numerous

guests.

These officials wore badges which identified them. One was the Scribe,

who

had a set of whiskers that would have suited Father Time. Another was the

Messenger, clad in a skeleton outfit with a skull painted on its hood. The

third was the Seneschal who wore a military uniform of the zouave type with

red

trousers and blue coat.

Attending the masked Seneschal were four guards attired in similar but

less imposing uniforms, their whole regalia being a simple blue. They were

busy

serving drinks in mugs that were fashioned like miniature skulls. Since none

the other guests had qualms, Margo accepted one of the mugs and looked around

at her fellow-visitors.

Nearly all the delegates were men and through their various masks they

were admiring Margo's Columbine costume with its short skirt and sleeveless

jacket. The costume was the sort that would have made Margo's legs appear too

long if they hadn't been so shapely, and they were commanding generous

attention until the music stopped.

Then came a sonorous announcement from the bearded Scribe that brought

all

eyes about.

"I, Scribe, salute you!" With folded arms the speaker surveyed the group.

"I cannot say that I welcome you, because soon one of our members will be

gone,

back to the drab life that dwells outside this Nether Region."

Unfolding his arms, the Scribe gestured to the Seneschal who in turn

commanded the guards to unveil a bulky object that was standing in the corner.

Its covering lifted, the object proved to be a lottery wheel which was brought

to the center of the room.

"It is your turn, Messenger." The Scribe bowed to the man who wore the

skeleton costume. "Your sad duty will be to banish some unfortunate who will

longer share our happy misery."

The Messenger took over while the guests waited breathless. They watched

his skeleton hand sift the wadded papers that rested within the lower rim of

the broad wheel. The situation grew more tense when the Seneschal approached,

bringing a scaled box that looked like a jewel case. Imperiously, the Scribe

demanded:

"What do you bring Seneschal?"

"A gift from the fortunate dead," returned the Seneschal, "that our

unfortunate friend may carry when he returns to the unhappy land of the

living."

A thick, oblong case, shaped like an oversized wallet, real meat for

hungry eyes!

The utter silence told that all were acquainted with the true contents of

that packet: one hundred thousand dollars to be delivered by the famous

Louisiana Lottery, famous because in all its history it had never defaulted.

This clandestine delivery was being managed under the mummery of the Knights

Hades, whose pretence of ill-luck would be the best luck of some person's

lifetime!

"A mere token," spoke the Scribe, "but it would please His

Mephistophelean

Majesty, who believes that all should receive all that they deserve. I shall

deliver the gift, Seneschal."

The Seneschal handed over the oblong box and retired with a profound bow.

Then the Scribe ordered:

"Come, Messenger! Whirl the Wheel of Fate and let us be rid of the fool

who will not share our torments! He must be gone before our great King Satan

joins us!"

The silence was broken by the clatter of the wheel with the tight pellets

jouncing within it. Running his hand into the flow, the Messenger brought out

the winning wad and opened it. The hushed guests were clutching the numbered

envelopes that contained the similarly numbered invitations and the lottery

tickets that they represented.

Opening the number, the Messenger showed it to the Scribe, who announced

it:

"Eighteen!"

A happy cry stabbed the disappointed murmur and a frail man in a

Harlequin

costume pressed forward waving the winning envelope and all that went with it.

He was nervous this winner, until his numbers were checked; when the box was

placed in his hands, he began to gulp thanks that the Messenger promptly

abbreviated.

"Begone!" The Messenger pointed a skeleton hand toward the door. "The

Seneschal will show you to your carriage, fool who prefers life to death!"

Looking around, Margo saw the uniformed Seneschal standing at the outer

door. It dawned on her that the carriage could only be the Humpty Dumpty float

that was waiting in the street. Then with a regretful sigh that marked the

passing of a hundred thousand dollars, Margo decided to enjoy what fun, if

any,

the coming festivities might provide.

Much was to happen, though not under the head of fun. The first person to

realize that was the winning Harlequin after the Seneschal bowed him out into

the alley and closed the door.

Anxious to reach the waiting float, the frail man took a few quick paces,

only to stop warily and look back toward a little side gate that flanked the

doorway of Hoodoo House. The Harlequin fancied that he had heard a slight

clink

from that iron gate.

Imagination, probably, but it quickened his pace and that in turn made

him

stumble. Then, from the blackness came part of it that lived, unseen hands

that

clutched the faltering Harlequin, stifled his startled cry and whirled him

into

the doorway of a deserted house, a side door, just within the mouth of the

blind

alley.

More happened swiftly.

Dazed by his spin, the Harlequin was bound and gagged by frills ripped

from his own costume. They weren't the sort of bonds that would survive a

healthy struggle, but they would last long enough for the unseen personage to

travel far with the box that he had plucked from Harlequin's failing grasp.

All that the captive Harlequin heard next was the closing of a door, but

there were others who were treated to some of The Shadow's rapid tactics. In

the big room where the mummers from the float were sitting bound and gagged,

The Shadow paused long enough in the darkness to loosen one prisoner's bonds.

Neat, this, to start the release of those prisoners while he dealt with

the men who had trapped them, but The Shadow's mode of dealing with the

imposters on the float was rather unusual too.

Doubling around through the alley, The Shadow arrived openly in the glare

of torches that had been lighted by the phony float crew. His appearance

started consternation that threatened violence, judging by the way hands went

for their guns.

Only The Shadow himself was gunless. All he carried was an oblong box

that

he waved quite joyously and the gang that had taken over the float remembered

that this was Mardi Gras where anybody might masquerade in any character -

even

that of The Shadow.

Quite a coincidence that the lottery winner should have chosen such a

costume, but that merely added to the irony of it. They were smirking beneath

their masks, these thuggish imposters, as they politely opened the Humpty

Dumpty egg and bowed The Shadow indoors.

The egg clanked shut with the sound of steel, not the dull thud of papier

mache, the usual material used in Carnival float construction. Then the false

mummers were on board and the mules were lumbering ahead, inspired by the

flames that the torch bearers waved in their faces.

From within the hollow egg came an unheard laugh, the sardonic mirth of

The Shadow, foretelling that this Mardi Gras would witness the unscheduled

excitement of frustrated crime.

The Shadow intended to take a personal hand in that frustration, although

he had planned it so his services would not be too badly needed. Indeed, The

Shadow wouldn't have come along if he'd known of something more important to

settled.

Which proved that The Shadow's present calculations didn't include an

analysis of what was going on behind the Mask of Mephisto!

CHAPTER IV

THE gloom that followed the departure of the lottery winner was not

dispelled when the Seneschal returned into the Devil's Den, clicked his heels

and saluted first the Scribe and then the Messenger.

Even Margo shared the general envy of the lucky Harlequin whose luck

already was undergoing a rapid change that none of them knew about, although

that change was to prove for the better. Glumly, the guests accepted skull

mugs

that the guards passed around, while the Seneschal remained at the outer door

and the Scribe stood with folded arms. It was the Messenger who furnished the

index to the next event.

The man with the skull hood was staring toward the stairs as though

expecting someone who had so far purposely refrained from joining this scene

where merriment was lacking.

One thought was general: The Krewe of the Knights of Hades would have to

furnish something startling in the way of entertainment if they hoped to

enliven these guests, whose interest at least had gone very, very dead.

The silence gripped even the orchestra, which remained idle on its

platform, and through the hush came the muffled beat of mule hoofs that faded

from the front street. A dozen seconds later, the watchful eye of the

Messenger

detected a stir from the stairs and he raised a skeleton hand in signal.

A cymbal crashed from the orchestra platform. A drum began a rattle that

ended in an even louder smash and with it, a descending huddle of crimson

spread suddenly upon the landing in the shape of the awaited master of the

coming ceremonies, His Satanic Majesty.

Though Margo had seen such resplendence earlier, she felt the same chill

as the other guests. It was highly dramatic, this entry of Mephistopheles into

his own Devil's Den. The lights were arranged to accentuate the crimson of the

costume that shimmered from the landing and the man who wore the Mask of

Mephisto was an actor who could play his part.

Even to the trousers that showed below his knee-length cape, King Satan

was complete in ruddy dye, as though he had gathered the flames from his

favorite fire-pit and used them to permanently tint his costume.

King Satan was wearing gauntlets, long red ones, of some material that

had

the same sheen as his spreading cape, and with each forward step that he took

down from the landing, the fingers of those hands writhed, as though seeking

something suitable for their scarlet touch.

Instinctively, the guests drew back and away, forming an awed semicircle,

while the Scribe, as if in their behalf, stepped cautiously forward with a

cringing bow. The Scribe's voice came plaintive:

"If it please your Devilish Highness -"

Interrupting with a majestic sweep of his shimmering arm, Mephistopheles

pressed the Scribe aside.

"But these guests are of the dead." The Scribe tapped a record sheet to

prove it. "We have found the lone scapegoat who belonged among the living."

King Satan turned to the Messenger as though demanding that he prove it.

The living skeleton bowed and made a gesture toward the lottery wheel.

"His number was called and he was unchosen." The Messenger reared back

his

skull-face and spread his painted arms. "Oh, Ruler of these Nether Regions,

you

may strike me living if I speak not true."

The lines that the Messenger recited were so stilted that Margo decided

would be a favor to strike him dead instead of living. So did the man in the

Mask of Mephisto.

Without a word, the impersonator of King Satan drew a revolver from his

carmine cape and fired three shots into the body of the skeleton-clad

Messenger.

People stared as though they expected a rattle of bones when the

Messenger

struck the floor. What he did was thud and roll over.

It was somewhat ludicrous the way the Messenger sprawled. What proved it

wasn't all in fun was the way the white-painted bones on his costume began to

take on splotches of color that were too much like the sheen of Satan's cape.

This was murder, committed in the presence of half a hundred witnesses!

It was the bearded Scribe who started the hue and cry. Wildly, he pointed

to the doorway toward which the murderer had started only to be blocked by the

uniformed Seneschal. He was raising his smoking gun, this Satan who was living

the part, when he saw that the Seneschal wasn't to be cowed. Turning, the man

with the Mephisto Mask dashed for the stairs, took them with long strides and

was around the turn of the landing by the time people began to follow.

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摘要：

THEMASKOFMEPHISTObyMaxwellGrantAsoriginallypublishedin"TheShadowMagazine,"July1945.Somewhere,inthatgaycarnivalofMardiGras-somehow,connectedwithatornhalfofaone-hundred-dollar-bill-lurkedamacabreproblemforTheShadow-pittedagainstMephisto!CHAPTERIITwasMardiGrasnightandNewOrleanswaslushwithlight,mellowwi...

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Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 293 - The Mask of Mephisto

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