Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 282 - Death in the Crystal

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DEATH IN THE CRYSTAL

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

MAHATMA XANADU stepped from the purple curtains, bowed to his small but fashionable audience,

polished his crystal ball, and went right to work.

He was a singular personage, this bearded gentleman who claimed that he had brought the deepest

wisdom from Tibet, to retail it via the crystal ball. But perhaps the most singular thing about Mahatma

Xanadu was his ability to sell that same idea to swank New Yorkers at ten dollars a customer.

Since there were about two dozen clients in his fancy seance parlor, the Mahatma was doing all right - or

would be until the police slapped down with a fortune telling charge, which was something always

imminent. That was why the gentleman from Tibet conducted his affairs with the same charm and finesse

that characterized a gambling joint.

The barred door had a peep-hole, through which visitors could be eyed, and the man in charge was

Akbar, a huge Turk, who stood with folded arms and tilted fez. When not engaged in admitting visitors, it

was Akbar's duty to stare at Mahatma Xanadu as though believing that his Tibetan master had stopped in

Egypt to pick up the riddle of the Sphinx as a mere by-product to augment his Himalayan wisdom.

Odd, the way intelligent people fell for this stuff.

Such was the opinion of Margo Lane on this, her first trip to the garish preserves of Mahatma Xanadu.

Maybe the mystic could be excused for having his headquarters over an East Side tailor shop, because

even a genuine vision in a crystal ball couldn't answer the present housing shortage in Manhattan. But to

Margo, everything about the Mahatma spelled fake.

His fancy turban and rhinestone studded tunic looked like fugitives from a costume shop that had raced

here under the leg power of the baggy pantaloons that didn't match them. The gleaming smile from the

bearded mouth, like the roll of the Mahatma's eyes, reminded Margo of a side-show performer finishing

a ballyhoo.

When Xanadu gestured to the crystal ball and finished with a hitch of his droopy purple sash, Margo

almost broke the tension with a laugh. Then, like the customers who formed the sucker trade, she finished

with a gasp.

The Mahatma had just picked up a folded slip that a wan-faced gentleman had written. With a toss,

Xanadu flipped the wadded paper into a bowl that was filled with water, but which lacked gold-fish.

There was a sudden puff of flame and the slip was gone, leaving the spectators dazzled.

When Xanadu was resting one hand on the gentleman's shoulder, holding the crystal ball before him with

the other, asking the customer to concentrate upon the words that he had written on the vanished slip. In

purring tones, the Tibetan marvel was revealing the very question, while the stupefied client nodded.

"You are awaiting word from someone," pronounced the Mahatma. "Someone whose initials we can

both visualize in the crystal. The initials K. J. are very clear -"

"Very clear," the customer interrupted. "Yes, just as clear as when I wrote them."

"And the letter K," purred Xanadu, "signifies the name Kathleen. Ah, the crystal clears and I see the

other name. J for Jenkinson, which is your name, sir!"

"That's right. Kathleen was -"

"Is your niece," corrected Xanadu. "Not 'was' because they do not recognize the past in the spirit plane

where Kathleen now dwells. See! Her face is appearing in the crystal!"

Mr. Jenkinson blinked and nodded wonderingly. As he turned his face toward Xanadu, the latter bowed

and stepped away. The crystal ball was no longer handy when Jenkinson took another look for the image

of his departed niece. Having delivered an honest ten dollars worth, Xanadu was attending to another

customer.

Another flame puffed as a folded slip was tossed to mysterious oblivion. This time a Peke-faced dowager

was favored with information regarding her lamented dog Chan Chu who was drifting happily through

interstellar spaces somewhere in the vicinity of Procyon, according to Xanadu, who evidently had a dash

of humor. Margo tried to smile this off with the supposition that the dowager was merely getting a peek

of her own reflection from the crystal, but that wasn't a satisfactory answer.

Not considering the way that Mahatma Xanadu was piling up the evidence in favor of his occult powers.

In turn, the remaining customers were seeing their folded questions puff into flame, followed by accurate

readings from the crystal. They were viewing things in that mysterious ball and the subjects were

becoming important.

Advice on stocks, matters concerning contracts, which relatives to trust - all these and more were piping

through from spirit land under the helpful influence of the Mahatma. One shocker came when an elderly

lady began quoting passages from her will, while Xanadu, keeping his own eyes on the crystal sphere,

nodded or shook his head as the spirits recommended the retention or elimination of certain clauses.

Despite herself, Margo was very nearly sold when Mahatma Xanadu came her way. However, Margo

was determined first to gauge his results with Sheila Waltham, the skittish blonde who had suggested

attending this soiree. Margo had maneuvered a glimpse at Sheila's slip and knew its question, which

read:

"What do I value most?"

Sheila's eyes followed the slip as Xanadu tossed it to a blazing fate in the bowl of water that he wheeled

on its ornamental metal stand. Taking Sheila's elbow, he drew her gently forward so that she could stare

into the crystal ball; then, in a tone that was becoming musical the more one listened, Xanadu declared:

"You are thinking in terms of value, Miss Waltham. You want the spirit guides to decide that which you

find uncertain."

Eagerly, Sheila nodded, while Margo raised a puzzled, wondering frown. This business was getting too

far beyond her.

"The answer is in the crystal," assured Xanadu. "If you do not see what you believe you should, close

your eyes before you stare again. The spirits may question your sincerity - but only at first."

Sheila squinted at the crystal, then shut her eyes with determination. Her eyes came open as she shook

her head, but they went shut again. As she repeated the process, Sheila winced and at last she began to

sob.

"Only - only jewels," the blonde blurted. "Every color - like my own - as I see them every night. But they

aren't what I value most" - she looked up with dimmed eyes at Xanadu - "or are they?"

"The spirits never lie," reminded the Mahatma. "Through the crystal they always tell. Look again."

Sheila looked and the image of those jewels must have glistened through her tears for she buried her face

in her arm. Xanadu turned away, shrugging as he hitched his fancy sash; pausing, he patted Sheila

soothingly on the shoulder.

"Perhaps some day you may value something more," declared Xanadu. "When you do, the crystal will

reveal it. When you are really certain in your mind, you will know - and see."

With that, Mahatma Xanadu turned to Margo Lane. He must have read challenge in her gaze and

marked her as the firm brunette type in contrast to Sheila, the sobbing blonde. For as Xanadu plucked up

the slip that Margo had folded and placed on the little table beside her, Xanadu delivered what was

certainly a hypnotic stare.

Black eyes glistened with an almost frightening power. Then, as Margo stiffened, the sharp gaze ended,

and she was attracted by the wave of Xanadu's hand as he lopped the folded paper into the fishless

bowl. Margo strained to see what happened and went back in her chair as the paper disappeared in

another of those amazing flame puffs.

Then, his hand on Margo's elbow, Xanadu was politely directing Margo's gaze into the crystal as he

spoke convincingly:

"You are thinking of a person - someone very close to you - a person whose name and face are often in

your mind -"

"I wrote the name," interrupted Margo. "I want to see the face."

Something was forming in the depths of the crystal but it remained only a blur. Noting Margo's intensity,

the eager tremble of her hands, Xanadu let her hold the crystal, but still the image did not form. All that

Margo could make out was blackness, yet that in a sense amazed her.

"You recognize the face?" queried Xanadu.

"No." Margo was grim but truthful. "I see a shape, but no features."

"You are asking too much perhaps. The spirits can not always develop -"

"This person is not in spirit land," interposed Margo, triumphantly, thinking she had trapped Xanadu. "He

is still very much alive."

"You mean of this plane," corrected Xanadu, suavely. "When you interrupted, I was about to say that the

spirits can not always develop the faces of mortals, particularly those who happen to be skeptics."

Margo bit her lip, wishing she hadn't tried to catch the Mahatma so quickly. Then, bluntly, she stated:

"But I don't see this face at all."

"You see something, though," reminded Xanadu, "and you must admit that it is significant."

Despite herself, Margo started a nod; then halted, with the guess that it was more significant than Xanadu

actually realized. He wasn't going to catch her off guard again.

"The crystal is clearing," declared Margo, a bit sarcastic as she repeated the Mahatma's own pet phrase.

"I haven't seen the face at all."

"Then I shall ask the spirits to reveal the name," asserted Xanadu, blandly. Taking the crystal from Margo

he planted it in the hand that he removed from her elbow. "Gaze!"

Margo focused her eyes upon the crystal and gave a truly genuine gasp. In the depths of the sphere a

name appeared as if inscribed by a spirit hand, its letters huge and bold. It was the very name that she

had written and involuntarily Margo exclaimed it:

"Lamont!"

With a salaam, Mahatma Xanadu polished the all-revealing crystal and placed it upon a stand to

announce the conclusion of a highly successful seance. Big Akbar unbolted the door and opened it so the

customers could leave, which they did silently, with Margo the most subdued of the entire party.

From the threshold, Mahatma Xanadu, the man who knew all, watched his departing clients with a

gleaming smile. But there was something in the flash of his dark eyes that Akbar understood. The Turk

expressed it as soon as the door was closed.

"I shall pack at once, master."

The turbaned head answered with an approving nod which could have meant that all was not well with

the man who knew all.

Or perhaps all was too well. The future alone would tell, whether or not Mahatma Xanadu could or

would disclose it!

CHAPTER II

BREAKING into conferences at the Cobalt Club wasn't one of Margo's regular habits. It was a fairly

simple process though, after getting through the portals of the club itself, which Margo accomplished by

default. This happened to be an evening when the Cobalt Club was receiving visitors and the clerk was

checking the names of several when Margo barged past.

The brunette's entry created quite a stir. Sedate, conservative and exclusive, the Cobalt Club was

distinctly a gentlemen's habitat. One hundred and fifteen pounds of femininity crashing the gate was as

startling as a ton of dynamite bashing through the roof. Before the astonished hired help could rise to the

occasion, Margo sensed their dilemma and applied it to herself. Sighting the sign marked grillroom,

Margo hurried down the stairs to which it pointed, hoping she'd find Lamont Cranston below.

Margo did.

In conference with half a dozen industrial giants, Cranston was the first to recognize the familiar clatter of

high heels. Rising from the table he flagged Margo as she came flying through, wheeled her breathless to

a chair and politely introduced her to his friends with a series of gestures that ended in a sweep of

dismissal to the club attendants who appeared at the bottom of the stairs.

Margo's smile of relief was reflected by Justin Cadbury, who sat on the other side of the table.

This wasn't the first time that Margo had met Cadbury, who was the most imposing and in a sense the

most important member of the group. So Margo looked at Cadbury as though inquiring what the

conference was all about.

Justin Cadbury arose to the occasion. From his broad, bland face, he fixed his gray eyes on Margo and

spoke in a tone that was crisp but genial.

"We are seeking advice, Miss Lane," he said. "We are looking for ways and means to increase legitimate

business at the expense of the black market. Rather a reversal of the usual procedure, but a noteworthy

cause. Perhaps your opinions would be helpful."

Behind Cadbury's dry manner, Margo could sense a probe as though he were actually questioning the

reason for her precipitate arrival. So Margo met the issue promptly.

"What about fortune tellers?" she queried. "Is their business bothered by a black market, too?"

Cadbury's chuckle was echoed by the men about him.

"All fortune telling is a racket," said Cadbury. "You wouldn't be referring specifically to crystal gazing?"

"I would," replied Margo, "and more specifically to a bearded gentleman who calls himself Mahatma

Xanadu."

That statement brought an outburst from the group.

"You mean the man from Tibet!"

"The chap who claims he can predict the stock market -"

"- And names sure winners at the race track -"

"An outright fake if ever there was one!"

It was Cadbury who waved for silence. His face had suddenly become serious and again he was

reflecting Margo's expression, for many of her doubts had been dispelled by that strange seance with

Mahatma Xanadu.

"Faker or not," declared Cadbury in crisp tone, "this so called Mahatma is becoming a very important

influence in wealthy circles. I might say a dangerous influence."

"Dangerous?" It was Cranston who put the question in a casual manner. "How?"

"He has evidently impressed Miss Lane," replied Cadbury, with a gesture toward Margo. "Is she merely

the exception - or the rule?"

"I'm afraid I'm the rule," admitted Margo. "The Mahatma gave some remarkable answers this evening.

Why, he told Sheila Waltham that she -"

"Never mind Sheila," interposed Cranston. "Did the Mahatma make any actual predictions?"

Margo's eyes flashed sudden inquiry. She wasn't usually jealous where Lamont was concerned, but his

sudden switching of the subject from Sheila might have a purpose. After all, it had been through Cranston

that Margo had met Sheila and perhaps his suggestion that they attend the seance together had been with

the purpose of playing one against the other.

It was Margo's mistrust of blondes that gave her that idea, rather than any lack of confidence in Lamont.

This was no time to debate that subject, however, so Margo simply said: "I don't remember any actual

predictions -"

"Then I'll make one," inserted Cranston. "Unless I usher you out of here, the whole Cobalt Club will be in

a furor. Come" - rising he took Margo's arm - "and let me conduct you to the ladies' reception parlor."

On the way upstairs, Cranston was rapid with his questions regarding Xanadu's seance. By the time they

had reached the secluded parlor, his calm, masklike face was tracing a slight smile at Margo's description

of the Mahatma's act.

"So he fooled you with the old billet switch," said Cranston. "Here. Sit down and write something on this

paper from my notebook. Fold it the way you did with the paper the Mahatma gave you."

Margo obliged and Cranston picked up the slip from the table where she laid it. Transferring the paper

from one hand to the other, he gave a tossing gesture.

"Was that the way the Mahatma did it?"

"Yes," nodded Margo, "but the paper burst into flame when it landed in the fish-bowl."

"Because he had a bit of potassium in it," explained Cranston. "The stuff forms hydrogen when water

reaches it; so rapidly that the hydrogen ignites."

"But how did Xanadu put the potassium in the slips?"

"He didn't. He simply switched the slips he picked up for others that were already prepared. Just like I

did."

With his left hand, Cranston was unfolding the visible slip and Margo saw to her surprise that it was

blank. At the same time, she felt a nudge at her elbow and looking there, Margo saw Cranston exhibiting,

the slip that she had just written.

"That's how Xanadu read it," stated Cranston. "At your elbow while you were staring at the crystal ball.

So you've written 'Lamont'. Very nice of you, but was that what you wrote on the slip Xanadu gave

you?"

Margo nodded. Then:

"People saw faces in the crystal ball -"

"They thought they did," corrected Cranston. "The potassium flare dazzled their eyes and gave them an

afterimage. It doesn't take much exaggeration to form those blurry shapes into imaginary images."

"That's what I tried to do!" exclaimed Margo. "Only the blur stayed and I - well, I thought it represented

you, but in another self."

Cranston smiled at this description of himself as a big black wavering spot in the depths of a crystal ball.

Nevertheless, the analogy was accurate, for Cranston in his other self was a cloaked personage known

as The Shadow who, to many observers, appeared as a vague patch of living blackness.

"The image faded," recalled Margo, "but then I saw your name, Lamont, right in the center of the

crystal."

"After Xanadu took it?"

"Yes. But what had that to do with it?"

"A lot." Cranston made a gesture as though planting something on the palm that held the written paper.

"Xanadu laid the ball right on your own slip Margo. The name you saw was the one you wrote yourself,

only it was so magnified by the crystal that you didn't recognize it."

So it was as simple as all that! Piqued at her own stupidity, Margo tried to think of someone dumber than

herself and suddenly remembered Sheila.

"I think Sheila was looking for a face," declared Margo, "and it might have been yours, Lamont. She tried

to be smart by saying that she wanted to see what she valued most, but that was just to bluff me."

"And whose face did she see?"

"Nobody's. She caught the blur effect all right, until Xanadu suggested that she close her eyes -"

"And then?"

"She saw jewels." Margo's tone was a bit puzzled. "I can't understand why."

"Because a flash of light makes you see colors," explained Cranston, "provided that you keep your eyes

at least half way shut. Just another of Xanadu's gags."

"But Sheila said they were her own jewels," spoke Margo, reflectively. "The ones she looks at every

night. She was still talking about them when I left her at the Cafe Marimba."

"You mean Sheila keeps those gems of hers in that penthouse where she lives?"

"I suppose so -"

Margo went no further. Cranston was ushering her out through the side door of the Cobalt Club,

undertoning as they went:

"Get over to the Cafe Marimba and stick close to Sheila. Maybe you'll need an alibi before tonight is

over. After all, Sheila talked to you about the gems."

A taxicab was handy and Cranston put Margo right in it. As the cab started, Margo looked back, only to

see that Lamont was gone. He couldn't have returned into the club nor could he have become The

Shadow so suddenly, but he must certainly have started on his way somewhere.

That final factor meant that Lamont Cranston would at least change his identity before he reached his

destination, wherever it might be. Margo was wondering whether he'd need an alibi too, before the

evening ended.

Margo wouldn't have wondered, if she had seen Justin Cadbury at that moment.

Cadbury, too, had left the grillroom conference. He was in a phone booth in the lobby of the Cobalt

Club, gazing blandly through the glass as he spoke from the other side of his broad mouth.

"All set Fitz?" Cadbury was inquiring. "Good... Now get working in a hurry... Just one point, Fitz. Whose

card are you leaving with the flowers?"

There was a reply which didn't suit Cadbury.

"Better change it," he said crisply. "Go through that batch I gave you... You have the cards with you?

Excellent... You'll find one there with the name Lamont Cranston... Yes, use it."

With a dry chuckle, Justin Cadbury hung up the receiver, satisfied that he had added a neat touch to an

imminent crime problem.

CHAPTER III

THE slim man in the smooth-fitting tuxedo glanced around the foyer of the Allingham Apartments and

saw to his pleasure that Fred was absent. Fred was termed the elevator man, but his title didn't exactly

fit, for a reason soon to be explained.

Since Fred was absent, as expected, Fitz Crosset tucked a cellophaned bouquet of flowers under his

arm, and proceeded to light a cigarette which occupied the end of a long holder. The signal brought two

men in from the street and Fitz opened the elevator door to gesture them inside.

Fitz Crosset, smooth, roundish of face and with a well-combed flock of light, wavy hair, looked the part

of a visitor to the exclusive Allingham Apartments. His companions, however, didn't fit, which applied to

their tuxedos. The big man looked like a professional bouncer, which he was; while the stocky,

hunch-shouldered chap couldn't hide the restless manner of an orchestra drummer who took life as a

perpetual off-beat.

It was the big man who spoke first, his tone low and suspicious, like the glower on his thick, dark face.

He was watching Fitz press the top button in the elevator.

"How come this elevator runs itself?"

"Because it's automatic," replied Fitz. "You've been around the better places, Griff. You ought to know

there are such things."

"Yeah, but if it's that kind, why does this joint have an elevator man?"

"You mean Fred?" Fitz laughed indulgently. "That's just his honorary title. He takes up visitors to

announce them and he assists the home folks when they're too drunk to push the right buttons. Besides,

he answers calls downstairs."

"You mean on that funny board inside the door?"

"That's right. The people here have their own private telephones, but there's a house system which keeps

Fred on call, except when he slides across the street for a quickie at the neighborhood bar and grill."

The hunched man put an abrupt query:

"Who's taking care of Fred?"

"A couple of friends he never met before," replied Fitz, "and never will again. They're taking turns buying

each other drinks and they're including Fred in every round. He won't be back until we're through, but

the faster we work the better. This is for you, Teach."

Abruptly, Fitz handed the hunched man a bandanna mask. Teach gave a dirty look at the thing and

inquired:

"What's this for?"

"To put on," stated Fitz. "Here's another for you, Griff."

The elevator was stopping at the penthouse level. Instead of putting on the mask, Teach gripped Fitz's

arm.

"I thought the job was fixed."

"So it is," affirmed Fitz. "But we've got to make it easy for the dame."

"What dame?" demanded Griff.

"The maid who works here," explained Fitz. "She will have to tell a sensible story to Miss Waltham, who

owns the gems. So we're going to make it look sensible."

To set the example, Fitz produced a third bandanna and put it on. Teach and Griff silently did the same

and copied Fitz's action of drawing revolvers. Opening the elevator door, Fitz strode out with his

companions behind him. As they entered the penthouse they were greeted by a foreign-looking maid who

lost her French accent when she saw the guns.

"Don't kill me!" gasped the maid. "I won't tell! You know I won't tell!"

"You'll tell a lot," said Fitz, through his mask. "That combination for one thing. It's part of the bargain."

Momentarily the maid looked relieved. Fitz eased her further by gesturing for his companions to lower

their guns.

"I'll open the wall safe for you," the maid began. Then, her eyes worried, she added: "But how do I know

you won't kill me afterward?"

"Because of these." Fitz gestured to the very masks which caused the maid's uncertainty. "Don't you get

it? Why should we croak you if you don't know who we are?"

Enlightenment wiped away the maid's scared look. She could tell that Fitz's voice was forced, another

point that would make it difficult for her to describe him. As for Griff and Teach, they were a pair of

nondescripts who could only be classed as average thugs. Griff was hunching forward to reduce his

height to Teach's, which made it all the better.

The maid recovered her accent.

"Ah, certainly, m'sieu!" she said to Fitz. "You force me to geeve over the jewels of Mademoiselle

Waltham? Ah, m'sieu, with guns to threaten me, what else could I do? Non?"

"You can cut the chatter for one thing," snapped Fitz. "We want this to look real, on your account more

than ours. First thing, ring for that guy downstairs."

"But if he should come up here -"

"He won't, because he isn't down there. But the arrow will register on the call board. That's part of your

story."

The maid suddenly understood. Turning to the wall, she pressed a button; then shuddered as she felt

Fitz's gun pressing her neck.

"This happened next," reminded Fitz. "Remember?"

The maid nodded.

"You were just going out when we popped from the elevator," continued Fitz. "Better put on your coat as

part of the story."

Trembling, the maid went to a hallway closet and produced a second-hand mink. From her shivers, she

seemed to need it. Prodding his gun through the fur, Fitz marched the girl ahead of him into a living room

furnished in rococo style. Pausing at a table, he dropped the cellophane-wrapped bouquet.

"You remember me bringing these," stated Fitz, gruffly. "Later I'm going to forget them in my hurry. Get

it?"

The maid nodded.

"Now the wall safe," ordered Fitz. "I don't know where it is, but you'll say I did."

The maid went through the living room into a modernistic boudoir, where she stopped at a wall which

bore a curious futuristic painting, set in a chromium frame. Her hands shook as she pressed the picture at

the lower corners.

"Take it easy," ordered Fitz. "We'll cover everything -"

There was a sharp interruption from Teach, much like a low whistle, which sounded plainly despite his

mask. Fitz turned to see Teach gesturing to a large square package on the dressing table opposite the

picture.

Teach gestured to the maid.

"Ask her what's in it."

Fitz didn't have to relay the question. The maid was already shaking her head.

"It came for Miss Waltham this afternoon," said the maid. "She never lets me open packages."

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Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 282 - Death in the Crystal

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