Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 228 - The Shadow Meets The Mask

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THE SHADOW MEETS THE MASK
by Walter Gibson
As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," August 15, 1941.
The law was powerless to uncover this frozen-faced fiend! Could The
Shadow
unmask him before he completed his dire plans?
CHAPTER I
MASKED MURDER
POLICE COMMISSIONER RALPH WESTON glanced at the last appointment on his
daily calendar. It was marked 5:30 p.m., and it said: "Call Hubert
Warrendale."
With a tight smile beneath his short-clipped mustache, Weston reached for
the telephone and gave Warrendale's number. At that moment, Weston heard a
brief knock, followed by the opening of the office door. The commissioner
looked up to see a swarthy, poker-faced man, of stocky build.
"I'm here, commissioner."
The arrival was Inspector Joe Cardona of the New York City police, the
ace
of Weston's staff. Cardona made it a habit to be punctual, which sometimes
irked
Weston, who liked to chalk up errors against inferiors in order to prevent
them
from becoming too self-satisfied.
Today, the commissioner had hoped that he would complete this important
phone call before the ace inspector arrived to keep a five-thirty appointment.
But Cardona, in his accustomed style, had shown up on schedule.
Briskly motioning for Cardona to be seated, Weston concentrated on the
telephone call. He heard a slow, precise voice answer, and recognized it as
belonging to Lathan, Warrendale's secretary.
"Hello, Lathan," spoke Weston. "This is the police commissioner. Is Mr.
Warrendale there?"
"Yes, commissioner," returned Lathan. "He is occupied at present, but I
shall summon him."
"No need to do that," declared Weston. "I merely want to know how soon he
will be starting to Malvin's."
"I shall ask him, sir."
During the pause, Weston glanced at Cardona. Catching the look, the
swarthy inspector inquired bluntly:
"Is that Hubert Warrendale you are calling, commissioner?"
"It is," said Weston. "He's at his Long Island home."
"Hubert Warrendale, the financial wizard," mused Cardona. "Sounds
interesting, commissioner."
"Have you ever met Warrendale, inspector?"
Cardona shook his head.
"I've seen his picture. So often, that I'd know him on sight. But I
understand that very few people ever do see Hubert Warrendale."
"You'll meet him this evening."
By then, Lathan was back on the wire, informing Weston that Warrendale
would be ready to leave in a quarter hour. He added the request from
Warrendale
that the commissioner go at once to the office of Cedric Malvin, where
Warrendale would arrive by half-past six.
The call finished, Weston arose.
"Here is the situation," he told Cardona. "Hubert Warrendale is going
into
partnership with a promoter named Cedric Malvin. The final papers will be
signed
in Malvin's office."
"But I thought Warrendale already had a partner," put in Cardona. "A
fellow named Philip Renz. I've heard the two names often: Warrendale and Renz.
Like ham and eggs."
"That partnership is to be dissolved," stated Weston. "From now on, it
will be Warrendale and Malvin. Inasmuch as Malvin will bind the deal with a
cash payment of fifty thousand dollars to Warrendale, it is advisable that we
should be witnesses to the transaction, to make sure that the money is safe."
Cardona began to understand why this appointment was so important, and he
was glad that he hadn't forgotten it. Joe was inwardly pleased when Weston
displayed forgetfulness. They were just getting into an elevator, when the
commissioner recalled something and went back to the office, Cardona with him.
"Call the Cobalt Club," Weston told his secretary. "Tell Mr. Cranston
that
I'll be late. If he wants to reach me, he can call me at Warrendale's."
It happened that Weston was going to Malvin's office in Manhattan; not to
Warrendale's home on Long Island. However, Cardona did not correct the
commissioner's slip. It was better policy to let such things pass. Later,
Weston would recall his mistake and realize that he wasn't always infallible.
AT quarter of six, a leisurely, calm-faced gentleman sauntered into the
exclusive Cobalt Club. Other members recognized him as Lamont Cranston,
wealthy
traveler, whose globe-trotting had been curtailed by unsettled world
conditions.
He found Weston's message, and a curious light came to the keen eyes that
peered from Cranston's hawkish face.
Had Commissioner Weston stated that he was visiting Cedric Malvin, it
would have meant comparatively little. Mention of Hubert Warrendale signified
a
great deal.
Famed as a financial wizard, Warrendale had piled up millions, carrying
his lucky partner, Philip Renz, along on a tidal wave of accumulating wealth.
Warrendale dealt only with large matters; hence, a visit from the police
commissioner indicated that something of real magnitude was at stake.
Cranston decided to phone Warrendale's home at once.
It was Lathan who answered. Having visited Warrendale's often, Cranston
was familiar with the secretary's voice. In his turn, Lathan recognized
Cranston's steady tone. But Lathan was quite at a loss when Cranston asked to
speak to the police commissioner.
"There must be some mistake, Mr. Cranston," protested Lathan. "The
commissioner isn't coming here. He intends to meet Mr. Warrendale in
Manhattan."
"Where will the meeting be?"
"I'm not supposed to say," returned Lathan. "I'm sorry, Mr. Cranston."
"At least," persisted Cranston, "you can tell me the time, if not the
place."
"I'd say about six-thirty."
Cranston made a quick calculation. It would take at least three quarters
of an hour for Warrendale to get to Wall Street, assuming that the meeting was
to be in that vicinity. Cranston was about to ask if Warrendale had left, when
Lathan supplied the information himself.
"One moment, Mr. Cranston!" exclaimed Lathan. "I thought that Mr.
Warrendale had started, but I hear him in the study. He must have come back
for
some papers. I shall speak to him."
Lathan was gone, but in half a minute he was back, his slow tone a trifle
breathless.
"Mr. Warrendale says it's quite all right to tell you," panted Lathan.
"He
is going to the downtown office of Cedric Malvin, to meet the commissioner
there. Mr. Warrendale will be glad to have you join them, Mr. Cranston."
The call finished, Cranston left the Cobalt Club. His stride, though
leisurely, was faster than it seemed. A limousine wheeled over to receive him;
in the car, Cranston spoke through a speaking tube to the chauffeur:
"Wall Street, Stanley."
As the big car rolled away, a remarkable transformation took place. From
beneath the rear seat, Cranston drew out a hidden drawer. He removed garments
of black - a cloak and a slouch hat. After he had put them on, he added a pair
of black gloves, and tucked a brace of .45 automatics beneath his cloak. As he
slid the drawer shut, his hidden lips phrased a strange laugh.
This personage who posed as Lamont Cranston was actually The Shadow.
Master fighter who tracked down men of crime, The Shadow knew that
transactions involving wealth were magnets that attracted workers of evil.
Whatever the deal between Hubert Warrendale, genius of finance, and Cedric
Malvin, successful promoter, it meant money. Commissioner Weston would be a
witness to the deal; but it was a question whether he would provide adequate
protection. The Shadow knew, from experience, that if the law gave away its
presence before-hand, smart crime connivers would change their own plans
accordingly.
Calculating that he could reach Malvin's office a few minutes after six,
The Shadow intended to look over the terrain before discarding his black garb
to make a casual appearance in the guise of Cranston.
SIX o'clock.
In his office, Cedric Malvin, a smallish, birdlike man, was seated behind
a large desk, chatting with two visitors: Commissioner Weston and Inspector
Cardona. On the desk lay a stack of papers beside a bundle of currency.
"The agreements," explained Malvin, "and the money. This deal is as good
as settled, although there is one man who may not like it."
Cardona thought of Warrendale's partner, Philip Renz, mentioned by
Weston.
But Malvin did not have Renz in mind.
"I have a silent partner," stated Malvin in a troubled tone. "Another
promoter, named Roy Alker. He has lost his claim, however, because he failed
to
supply money that he promised. That is why I approached Hubert Warrendale.
When
Warrendale arrives -"
At that, the door of the office opened. Swinging about, Cardona had a
stubby revolver half drawn from his pocket, only to let it slide back again as
he heard both Malvin and Weston voice the pleasant greeting:
"Hello, Warrendale!"
On the threshold stood Hubert Warrendale, a man of medium height, whose
face had the firm mold that Cardona had so often observed in newspaper
photographs and newsreels.
Warrendale's forehead was high; it gave a backward tilt to his derby hat.
His nose was straight, his lips made a slight, smiling curve. His chin, though
square, was double, but its lower paunch was half hidden by a muffler wrapped
tightly as a protection against the chill outside air.
Warrendale gave a nod to Weston and threw a curious look at Cardona, the
only expression coming from a pair of sharp eyes. Hands in his overcoat
pockets
as though they, too, were cold, Warrendale stepped forward to the desk without
a
word. He stood face to face with Malvin, in the glare of the lamp from the
desk.
Half behind Warrendale, Weston and Cardona saw him lift his left hand
from
his pocket and extend it to the desk. Malvin was thumbing through the stack of
contracts, so Warrendale picked up the bundle of cash. They heard him say:
"I presume this is the full fifty thousand, Malvin -"
The tone was odd. Weston recalled Warrendale's voice from telephone
conversations; Cardona remembered it from newsreels. It seemed off key, with a
bit of a snarl that didn't fit with Warrendale's usually emphatic speech.
While
Weston and Cardona were puzzled, Malvin was actually alarmed. He knew
Warrendale
better than his visitors did.
Malvin's face popped up. He saw Warrendale's face in the full light, and
mouthed a harsh cry. Springing from his chair, Malvin flung himself half
across
the desk, to grab at the money in the other man's left hand.
Malvin never reached the cash.
The man who had come as Warrendale was whipping a revolver from his right
coat pocket. He gave Malvin three quick bullets in the region of the heart,
collapsing him like a dummy figure. So rapid were those shots that all were
delivered before Joe Cardona could get to his feet and draw his own gun.
Whipping about, the derby-hatted assassin wagged his smoking revolver
between Weston and Cardona, finally centering it on the inspector. Weston's
hands were both in view, while Cardona's right had actually reached its
pocket.
At the murderer's snarl, Cardona let his own hands come up empty, like
Weston's.
Both representatives of the law were staring at the face of the bold
killer who had delivered open death. The man was in the light, and for the
first time, Weston and Cardona saw what Malvin had observed with startlement.
The killer had the features of Hubert Warrendale, but the face that the
witnesses saw was not the financial wizard's own. It was a mask!
Detail for detail, it matched the countenance of Hubert Warrendale; but
its frozen expression, the fact that mouthed words brought no lip motion, were
proof that the face was false.
Masked murder had been done in the very presence of the law! But it was
masked crime of a unique sort.
Instead of merely being content to hide his own features, the killer had
put on those of Hubert Warrendale, that blame for crime, on sight, might be
placed upon the noted financier whose visit had been expected by Cedric
Malvin,
the victim!
CHAPTER II
THE MASK DEPARTS
THE Mask!
The name sprang instantly to Cardona's mind. It was the only term that
could define this killer who had so cleverly covered his identity. He couldn't
be Hubert Warrendale; therefore, he would have to be termed the Mask.
Weston's mind was working, too. He was appreciating why the Mask could
not
be Warrendale, aside from the fact that the killer's face was obviously false.
Weston had due cause to chide his own stupidity.
At half-past five, the commissioner had called Warrendale's home and
learned that he was still there. Warrendale couldn't have reached Malvin's in
half an hour. Therefore, Weston should have known, from the moment of the
Mask's entry, that the visitor could not be Hubert Warrendale.
Such mental reflections ended abruptly. Weston resolved to keep them for
future reference, should he ever have the chance. For the Mask, with one
murder
accomplished, seemed quite disposed to add two more to his list.
He was drawing back from the light, eyeing Weston and Cardona sharply, as
though trying to guess whether their gaze had penetrated his disguise. A gun
in
one hand, fifty thousand dollars in the other, the Mask was planning a
departure
that would certainly be quicker, could he prevent Weston and Cardona from
following him.
There was a reason, however, why he might not want to kill these other
victims.
The Mask had come as Warrendale. By departing as Warrendale, he could pin
murder on the financier. Provided, of course, that neither of the living men
guessed that his face was false, as Malvin had. Looking from man to man, the
Mask tried to discern how much each knew.
Weston tried to cover up his discovery by sheer bluff. He spoke in
gasping
tone:
"Warrendale! You... you've murdered Malvin! He was your friend,
Warrendale!"
"You were wrong, commissioner." Again, the Mask snarled an off-key
imitation of Warrendale's voice. "Malvin was a double-crosser, not to be
trusted."
By then, the Mask was away from the light. Near the door, his lack of lip
motion could not be observed. His eyes, however, showed a glitter as they
fixed
on Joe Cardona.
The inspector was using a system quite the opposite of the commissioner's
bluff. Joe wasn't saying a thing. He was simply staring, poker-faced, as
though
taking it for granted that the Mask was Warrendale.
A strange tableau, with Malvin's body stretched across the desk as token
of what two other men might expect, if either betrayed his knowledge of the
murderer's unique disguise!
"I am leaving here." The Mask's tone took on a harshness. "Should either
of you attempt to follow me -"
He was poking the big bundle of currency into an inside pocket as he
spoke, and the move produced a result that threatened tragedy. His fingers
engaging the muffler, the Mask hooked it downward from his neck, revealing the
thing that he had so definitely covered by moving from the light: namely, that
his face was a mask, ending just below his chin!
As quickly as he could, the Mask rectified the matter. Stowing away the
money delayed him, however, before he could fling the muffler up again. His
other hand, using the gun to cover the men in the room, was unable to help.
A harsh snarl voiced the Mask's suspicion that the observers might have
seen too much. The snarl made Weston tighten, and start another bluff. But the
effect was the opposite on Cardona.
While Weston was voicing "Warrendale!" Cardona made a spring behind the
desk where Malvin lay. Joe was taking it for granted that the Mask would start
shooting. The desk offered a bulwark against bullets, and Malvin's body could
serve as an additional shield.
While drawing shots his own way, Cardona hoped that Weston would have a
chance to dodge through a door into an adjoining office. Moreover, Joe
expected
to gain the desk lamp as a weapon against the Mask. Used as such, the lamp
would
be extinguished, giving Joe a still better chance in the darkness.
Things went wrong, doubly.
IN diving for the desk, Cardona tripped over the lamp cord and sprawled
to
the floor, where he madly tried to get his gun from his pocket. As for Weston,
he didn't even think of the door to the other office, for it was behind his
back.
Instead, Weston snatched open a door that opened right into a closet,
thus
boxing himself in beautifully.
With three bullets left in his revolver, the Mask had one for each
victim,
with a third to spare.
He was to use the third bullet first.
So timely, that it seemed a voice from the void, came a shivery laugh of
challenge, weird mirth that betokened a new arrival on this scene of death. It
was mockery that meant doom to men of crime, along with rescue to persons who
represented right. Weird and fateful, that taunt.
The laugh of The Shadow!
So singular was the uncanny peal, that it would not have betrayed The
Shadow's position, except that he had wished it. With the laugh came the
clatter of a door, the one connecting with the other office. The Shadow was
hurling it wide, to draw the attention of the Mask.
The Shadow wanted the man with the fake face to swing his way. A duel
between The Shadow and the Mask could mark salvation for two threatened
victims. Recognizing The Shadow's mirth, spying the cloaked figure that lunged
in from the connecting doorway, Weston and Cardona responded.
The commissioner grabbed a cane that was standing in the closet; while
the
inspector, finding his coat pocket twisted, seized the lamp that was still
rocking on the desk as a result of the cord's tug.
Two guns blasted at that moment; each shot was directed from one doorway
to the other.
Neither bullet found a mark. The Shadow was fading, the Mask was ducking.
The Shadow fired hastily, with purpose. He wanted to draw the Mask's aim his
way, in order to make the rescue of Weston and Cardona a certainty. As for the
Mask, his rapid dodge caused his shot to go far wide of the cloaked figure
that
was twisting inward from the other door.
Wheeling out into the hallway, the Mask struck his hat brim against the
doorway. The stiff derby did a half flip from his head. By then, the lamp was
flying through the air, flung by Cardona. The lamp shade was gone, and the
full
glare of the light showed the Mask quite plainly to both Cardona and Weston,
who
were nearer than The Shadow.
Beneath the uptilted derby, they saw the top line of the false
countenance
that the Mask wore. Madly, he clamped the derby down again, to hide the fact
that Warrendale's features were a mask.
In that same instant, the flying lamp reached the end of its cord. The
jerk put the light out and slowed the lamp's flight. Instead of reaching the
Mask, the missile crashed short of the hallway door.
In that last glimpse, The Shadow, wheeling to the center of Malvin's
office, saw the Mask dash away. Starting a drive toward the hallway, The
Shadow
intended to pepper bullets after him, along the dim hall. From the door edge,
The Shadow would have had an easy time of it; but he did not get his chance.
Almost at the door, The Shadow encountered the lunging figure of
Commissioner Weston, who was going after the Mask with Malvin's cane.
Totally excited, Weston actually started to grapple with The Shadow, who
twisted him about and sent him reeling to a corner. Tripping over the cane,
Weston sprawled before he realized that he had made a bad mistake.
By then, Cardona was across the room, to reach the doorway first because
of The Shadow's delay. It was Joe who ripped bullets after the fleeing figure
of the Mask, far down the hall.
Those first shots missed. By the time Cardona had the range, the Mask was
around a corner leading to a stairway. Cardona chased after him, and Weston
sprang to his feet, to follow, still brandishing the cane, forgetting that he,
too, had a gun in his pocket.
The Shadow was gone.
WHEN Cardona blocked the doorway and started shooting, The Shadow decided
to take another course. He cut through the adjoining office and reached a
hallway.
Unfortunately, the Mask didn't come The Shadow's way, for the stairway
was
around a different corner. This hall opened into a fire tower, the route that
The Shadow had used in coming up to Malvin's. Hoping to cut off the fugitive
outside, The Shadow sped down the fire tower.
There were several flights down to the ground, and The Shadow reached the
bottom as soon as the Mask. From the alleyway where he arrived, The Shadow
heard the spurt of a car from the street, and it didn't come past the alley.
Reaching the alley's mouth, The Shadow saw the twinkle of tail lights; nothing
more, as the Mask's car rounded the next corner.
Among the narrow, short-blocked streets of the financial district, where
traffic was almost entirely stilled by evening, it was practically impossible
to overtake the Mask in his mad getaway, particularly as The Shadow's
limousine
was stationed a block from Malvin's building.
Weston and Cardona also recognized the futility of a chase, for The
Shadow
saw them return through the doorway from which they had emerged, too late to
fire after the Mask's escaping car.
Skirting the block on foot, The Shadow left his black garb in the
limousine; then returned and entered the building by the usual entrance. He
was
Cranston, strolling in his usual style, when he stepped into Malvin's office,
to
halt abruptly on the threshold.
Weston and Cardona, stooped beside Malvin's body, were coming up with
leveled guns as they heard the footsteps of a new arrival.
"Cranston!" exclaimed Weston. "You received my message saying that I
would
be here."
"He couldn't have," inserted Cardona bluntly. "You made a mistake,
commissioner. You said you'd be at Warrendale's."
"I called Warrendale's," explained The Shadow, in Cranston's even style.
"It was quarter of six, and he was just about to leave. Lathan told him I was
on the wire, and Warrendale said I could meet him here."
Quizzically, Cranston was surveying Malvin's body. Ruefully, Weston told
his friend what had happened, giving all the details of the crime. The
commissioner stressed the details of the mask that the killer had worn.
"A perfect replica of Warrendale's face," asserted Weston. "We didn't
suspect that it was false, until after the Mask murdered Malvin."
"The Mask -"
The Shadow spoke the title slowly. Cardona inserted an explanation.
"That's what I termed him, Mr. Cranston," said Joe. "The commissioner
seems to think it fits: the Mask. That's all we know him by. He may not know
it, but we got a good look at that phony mug of his. Let's hope that he still
thinks we identified him as Hubert Warrendale."
The Shadow, too, had gotten a glimpse of the murderer's mask during the
lamp flight; but, as Cranston, he could not add his testimony to that which he
had heard. The Shadow was thinking in terms of the future, rather than the
past, since neither Weston nor Cardona had supplied any proof as to the Mask's
actual identity. They were talking in terms of Philip Renz and Roy Alker, when
they heard Cranston's quiet tone:
"Half-past six. The real Warrendale should be arriving by this time.
Lathan said that he was starting at quarter of six."
Snatching up the telephone, Weston called Warrendale's number. He could
hear the phone ringing, but there was no answer. Dropping the telephone,
Weston
turned, aghast.
"The Mask murdered Malvin!" he exclaimed. "Do you think he's killed
Warrendale, too?"
"Hardly," replied The Shadow calmly, "considering that the Mask tried to
brand Warrendale as Malvin's murderer. But I would say that a trip to
Warrendale's is next in order."
Cardona supplied an approving nod.
"Mr. Cranston has the right idea," said Joe. "Let's go, commissioner."
They started for Warrendale's in the commissioner's car, and on the way,
The Shadow sat silent in his guise of Cranston. Volubly, Weston was commending
his friend Cranston on suggesting this trip, but those words produced no
response.
The riddle of the Mask was deepening, the more The Shadow considered it.
Somehow, that riddle seemed to be riding ahead, as though crime would surely
rear its ugly self at Warrendale's as it had at Malvin's!
CHAPTER III
THE MAN FROM THE DARK
IT was quarter-past seven when the commissioner's big car rolled up in
front of Warrendale's Long Island mansion, and, from first sight onward, the
place had a forbidding look. By the time the arrivals were out of their car,
both Weston and Cardona were sharing The Shadow's secret apprehensions that
they had arrived too late.
Warrendale's house was isolated. High hedges cut off all view of it,
except from within the actual grounds. As the residence of a millionaire
financier, the mansion should have shown some signs of life and light. What
little it expressed of each was just enough to make it all the more ominous.
From outside the big front door, the visitors could hear a very muffled
thumping, its location untraceable. It ended abruptly, began again, and ceased
just as suddenly as before. The front door proved to be unlocked.
Opening it, Weston led the way inside, to disclose a great hall which was
very dim, for only a single light was burning under the shelter of a stairway.
This house could well have been a haunted manor, judging from those
mysterious thumps and the ghostly dimness of the light. It became even more
forbidding as the visitors approached the stairway.
From above came another dim light, which seemed to waver and fade away,
like a will-o'-the-wisp, as the men went up the stairs. Accompanying the
curious change of light, was another sound, more ghostly than the strange
pounding.
The sound was a distinct moan, coming from somewhere on the second floor.
Pausing momentarily, Weston lost his lead of the procession. Cranston was
ahead of him; taking the final turn of the staircase, the commissioner's
friend
paused and beckoned. The mysterious light was explained. It came from a room
near the front of the second floor, and had changed simply because the door
was
half open, blocking the glow from certain portions of the stairway.
Familiar with the house, Cranston identified the room. In quiet tone, he
said:
"Warrendale's study."
The moans lost their weird effect as Cranston and the others neared the
study. The moans were coming from the room itself, and they were human. That
fact, however, was prelude to a sight more ghastly than any spooky groans.
In the study, lying beneath the glow of a floor lamp, was Lathan, the
secretary. Warrendale's long-trusted employee was in his death throes. Lathan
was a smallish man, of complexion ordinarily pale. At present, he looked
absolutely shriveled, and his face was the color of pure chalk.
Perhaps it was the dye of Lathan's shirt front that made his pallor so
perceptible. The shirt was stained crimson, from a copious flow of blood.
Oddly, Lathan's hands weren't pressed to his body. They were clutching
his
throat, as though he sought to choke himself. That riddle explained itself as
the arrivals came closer. Blood was oozing between Lathan's fingers. He had
been shot in the neck, as well as the breast.
Cardona shoved forward, to drop at Lathan's side. Witnessing a man's
death
agony was a matter of routine for the experienced police inspector. In
Cardona's
mind, something else was more important.
"Who did it?" demanded Cardona. "Who shot you?"
Lathan couldn't answer. The best he managed was a wheeze. Releasing one
hand from his throat, he gestured feebly toward a closet door; then, in
pitifully choking tone, he coughed:
"In there... you'll find Mr. Warrendale -"
"And who put him in there?" queried Cardona. "The same fellow who shot
you?"
This time, Lathan couldn't find his voice at all. Both hands again
clutching his throat, he managed to pull his head into a nod. Cardona
persisted
with his questions:
"And who was the killer? Do you know him? Can you tell what he looks
like?"
Lathan voiced a gargle. It might have been a name, but it sounded more
like a death rattle. What little chance Cardona had to hear it was lost when
other sounds occurred.
FIRST came the ringing of the telephone, which ended as Weston pounced
over and snatched up the receiver. As though the telephone bell had started it
going, the pounding began again. The same pounding that had been heard from
outside. This time, the thumps were very close, and heavy.
They came from within the closet where Lathan had testified that
Warrendale was a prisoner. Warrendale was evidently quite alive, for he was
making a valiant effort to batter his way out.
Whether Weston's brusque hello, or the sounds of Warrendale's hammering,
was the cause, the telephone call ended instantly. Weston found himself at the
end of a dead wire, as evidenced by a receiver's click at the other end. The
only voice that was heard came muffled from the closet:
"Help... help me out of here! I'm suffocating!"
The Shadow was at the closet door. He had stepped there in Cranston's
easy
style. He opened the door and a man reeled out, carrying what was left of a
golf
club. He had splintered away several, trying to smash the door open. The
others
were lying broken on the closet floor beside an overturned golf bag.
The man was Hubert Warrendale. As the financier sagged, panting, to a
couch, Cardona studied his face. It was much like the false one that the Mask
had worn, yet remarkably different when stirred by emotion.
Warrendale's features were haggard from combined terror and effort. His
eyes were blinking, his lips trembling. Only when his gaze lighted on Lathan
did Warrendale's features gain any of the immobile effect that had
characterized the imitation face of the Mask.
"Lathan!" exclaimed Warrendale. "They've killed him!"
He bounded forward from the couch, and Cardona observed that Warrendale
had a stoopish posture that the Mask had failed to imitate. Crouched above
Lathan, Warrendale queried in earnest tone:
"Who were they, Lathan? Did you see their faces? Can't you tell us
something about them?"
Lathan's eyes opened in a glazed look. They met Warrendale's in an
appealing gaze that served as a farewell between secretary and master. For,
with the effort whereby he tried to move his blood-flecked lips, Lathan's
strength failed. His face froze, the eyes still holding their glassy stare.
Rising from beside the dead man, Warrendale dropped the remnants of the
niblick that he had carried from the closet. He looked at the three men about
him as though they were ghosts. He was muttering to himself as he looked for
another. Then, in normal tone, Warrendale asked:
"Where is Cedric Malvin?"
The words had emphasis, totally lacking the snarling note that the Mask
had added when rendering an imitation of Warrendale's normal voice. Knowing
that Commissioner Weston had been at Malvin's office, Warrendale had reason to
show puzzlement because his future partner had not come along. His eyes,
though, began to flicker with apprehension as he observed Weston's grim look.
"Something... happened?"
"Yes." Weston nodded as he replied. "Malvin was murdered at six o'clock,
in his office."
"By the same men who came here!" Warrendale exclaimed. Then, shaking his
head: "No, that couldn't have been the case. They would have been unable to
get
there and back. They must have been here all the while."
"Tell us exactly what happened here, Warrendale."
"Very well, commissioner."
EMPHATICALLY, Warrendale gave the details. He began by mentioning
Weston's
call at half-past five; then the other, that had come from Cranston at quarter
of six. Ready to leave immediately after, Warrendale had stopped when he heard
the phone bell ring again.
"I'd sent Lathan out to the garage," he explained, "to see why the
chauffeur hadn't brought up the car. So I answered the phone myself. It was a
long-distance call, and I switched it up here to the study from the phone
downstairs.
"The moment I stepped into this room, two men prodded me with guns. Their
voices were ugly, and they warned me not to look around, so I didn't see their
faces. They shoved me in the closet and closed the door. I was practically
locked in there, because there is no knob on the inside."
Like the others, The Shadow looked at the open closet door. It had no
inside knob. The surface was deeply scarred from Warrendale's hacking with the
golf clubs. Warrendale had done heavy work, considering the cramped confines
of
摘要：

THESHADOWMEETSTHEMASKbyWalterGibsonAsoriginallypublishedin"TheShadowMagazine,"August15,1941.Thelawwaspowerlesstouncoverthisfrozen-facedfiend!CouldTheShadowunmaskhimbeforehecompletedhisdireplans?CHAPTERIMASKEDMURDERPOLICECOMMISSIONERRALPHWESTONglancedatthelastappointmentonhisdailycalendar.Itwasmarked...

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