Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 215 - The Wasp Returns

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THE WASP RETURNS
by Maxwell Grant
As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," February 1, 1941.
Louis Dore watched the tiny object flutter to the desk, face gripped in
fear. For that tiny token was the wing of a wasp, the symbol of a human wasp
whose sting meant death! The Wasp had returned!
CHAPTER I
THE MAN FROM THE PAST
QUEER visitors often came to the offices of the Amalgamated Export Co.,
in
downtown New York, but there had been a dearth of them during recent months.
With world trade badly disturbed, business had been none too good for
Amalgamated Export. The girl behind the information desk sized up all
strangers
as creditors, and had routine replies when they asked when their bills would
be
paid.
Hence, she was really surprised by the queer visitor who entered; not
only
did he seem a figure from the past, but he was the queerest that the girl had
ever seen. It was almost as if all the forgotten customers of Amalgamated
Export had banded together, picked the member of their lot, and sent that one
character to represent them.
The man was neither tall nor short, neither stout nor angular. He was
stoopish, and in the threadbare topcoat that he wore, looked as if he were
bundled together.
It was odd that he should be wearing a coat at all, for the weather was
quite warm; and equally curious, considering that he classed the temperature
as
cool, was the fact that his eyes were shielded by a pair of dark sun goggles.
When he took his hat off, he revealed gray-streaked hair, plastered
outward from a part in the middle. His bow, though a profound one, came only
from his neck, as though his stooped shoulders were too stiff to move. He was
wearing gloves, too, as the girl noticed when he tendered her a card, which
read:
JEROBOAM TWINGLE
Central American Representative
The business card told Twingle's story. He was one of many small-fry
trading agents scattered over the globe. Ruined commerce had probably starved
him out, like others, so Twingle had boarded a steamer at some banana port and
come to New York, hoping to improve his lot.
Accustomed to very hot weather, he was wearing gloves and topcoat, while
the sun goggles were part of his usual regalia when in the tropics. Maybe be
wanted to look at the tall buildings in New York and did not care to risk his
eyes against the sun.
Twingle's face, though pinched and drawn, had something of a tan, which
fitted with his tropical background. So the girl at the desk politely invited
the human antique to be seated.
"I am sure that Mr. Upman will see you," the girl told Twingle. "He is
very busy, at present, with the directors, but I know that he will be free
later. I shall take your card in to Mr. Upman right away."
Mention of Upman brought a pleased nod from Twingle. Craig Upman was the
president of the Amalgamated Export Co., and therefore the man that Twingle
would particularly want to meet. A sharp glint flashed through the sun glasses
as the girl left her desk and went through a doorway to the inner offices.
As soon as the door closed, Twingle's actions became surprising. Lifting
from his chair, the stoopish man reached the desk with a quick dart. There was
a rack on the desk, with compartments arranged for mail and other
communications. One compartment already held a few envelopes, and it was
labeled with the word: AUDITOR.
Whipping a thin envelope from his pocket, Twingle slipped it into the
auditor's box, placing it neatly between the other letters. Then, back to his
chair again, the goggled man resumed his dull and almost stupid pose. He was
sitting there, hunched and solemn-faced, when the girl returned.
Soon, an office boy came into the reception room and picked out the
envelopes from the racked compartments, keeping them carefully separated in
little bundles.
As the boy went away, Twingle's lips flickered with a shrewd smile, an
expression that the girl did not notice, for she was busy and had practically
forgotten the curious visitor from Central America.
IN a little office, Louis Dore, auditor for Amalgamated Export, was going
over typewritten sheets of figures, statements that would be needed at the
meeting of the directors.
Dore was a middle-aged man, of efficient manner, but his long, wise
features bore a definite trace of worry. Pencil in hand, he was studying a
sheet of figures, debating whether or not he should cross out a certain item.
At last, Dore's face stiffened. The tightness of his lips told that he
had
come to an important decision. Still holding the pencil, he reached for the
telephone and gave a number. Soon, Dore was speaking:
"Hello... Cobalt Club? I'd like to speak to Commissioner Weston... My
name? I'll give it to the police commissioner personally. Yes, it is very
important. Commissioner Weston will understand -"
Dore's authoritative tone brought results. He relaxed with a smile, as
someone at the other end of the wire promised to call the police commissioner
immediately. He showed a momentary trace of worry when someone knocked at the
office door; then, recognizing that it was only the office boy, Dore called
for
him to enter.
The boy came in, left the envelopes, and went out again. Putting his
pencil in back of his ear, Dore used his free hand to thumb through the mail
that the boy had brought, still holding the telephone receiver with his other
hand.
Among the envelopes, Dore found the blank one that Twingle had added to
the stack. It was sealed, and its thinness puzzled him. Shifting the
telephone,
he planted his elbow on the envelope, reached for a paper cutter and opened
the
message. Blowing into the envelope, he tilted it.
A tiny object fluttered to the desk, a transparent thing that many
persons
might have failed to notice. Not so with Louis Dore. He saw the object.
It was a wasp's wing.
The expression which Dore's face registered was not a mere return of
worry. His features whitened, as though their own distortion had forced the
blood away from them. The emotion that overwhelmed Louis Dore was that of
stark
fear.
"Hello! Hello!"
The voice was coming from the telephone; it was a brisk tone, that could
only mean Commissioner Weston. Dore gave a gargly reply, which he managed to
change into a forced whisper.
"Hello," said Dore. "It's a mistake... just a mistake -"
Weston could not have heard the choking tone that followed, for Dore was
letting the telephone sink from his hand. It reached the stand and clattered
there, Dore's fingers trembling as they guided it. Then, with wildly nervous
action, Dore brushed the wasp's wing from his desk into a wastebasket and
dropped the envelope after it.
"The Wasp!" he gulped. "The Wasp... returned!"
There was another knock at the door. Dore wheeled in his swivel chair,
his
hands half raised, as though he expected an invader with a gun. He was trying
to
mouth a protest, a plea to the Wasp, but his voice failed to reach his lips.
Whoever the Wasp might be, it was evident that Dore dreaded him, to the full
limit that one human being could dread another.
The knock at the door was repeated; with it, came a woman's voice:
"The directors are in meeting, Mr. Dore. They want you to bring the
report
sheets."
Dore reached for the papers. His hand touched the pencil, and he flicked
it aside as though it were a poisonous thing. Gathering his reports, he
stumbled to the door and opened it, to thrust the sheets into the hands of a
surprised stenographer, who was waiting outside.
"You... you'd better take these, Miss Lane," Dore stammered. "They're...
they're all complete... exactly as Mr. Upman wants them. I'm a bit ill. I've
been working too heavily... against doctor's orders. Good day, Miss Lane."
The last that the stenographer saw of Dore, he was groping along the
hallway toward a door that only the executives used, a route that enabled him
to leave the premises without going through the reception room. Dore knew too
well from what direction the sinister envelope had come, and he was not
anxious
to meet the Wasp.
SEATED at a large table in a long conference room, Craig Upman showed
some
surprise when the stenographer arrived to state that Dore could not attend the
meeting.
Upman was a brusque, square-jawed man, who never tolerated laxity on the
part of his subordinates. However, when he glanced at the figures on Dore's
reports, his manner changed.
"You may go," he said to the stenographer. "If you see Mr. Dore, tell him
we shall not need him. These figures speak for themselves."
Spreading the auditor's report upon the desk, Upman turned to the
directors.
"We are still solvent, gentlemen," he declared. "Evidently our business
did not suffer so badly at the hand of Basil Gannaford."
Mention of Gannaford caused the directors to exchange troubled looks. To
them, the name had ominous significance. Noting their expressions, Upman let
his strong face show a disdainful smile.
"Basil Gannaford," he repeated. "The brain of crime who called himself
the
Wasp. Many of you knew Gannaford when he was a business counselor; he was a
schemer who gained control of large corporations and pillaged them.
"Fortunately, he was exposed and forced to flee, before he could get a
strong hold upon the Amalgamated Export Co. Look at the figures and see for
yourselves how well we stand."
The directors began to paw over the sheets of the auditor's reports.
Meanwhile, Upman continued:
"We can pay off our creditors at once. The question, then, is whether we
should remain in business in the face of present trade conditions. At any
rate,
we shall have plenty of funds. None of our debts are very large."
"Except this one," observed a director, handing a sheet to Upman. "We owe
fifty thousand dollars to a man named Jeroboam Twingle, as commissions for
sales in the West Indies."
The item to which the director pointed was the very one that Louis Dore
had been planning to cross out at the time he telephoned the police
commissioner. Upman stared at the entry, then reached for a card which lay on
his desk.
"Jeroboam Twingle," he repeated, slowly. "He is waiting in the outside
office. Evidently the fellow is a go-getter, or he could not have run up so
large an account. Suppose we send for him and hear what he has to say."
The directors agreed. Upman sent for Twingle and the stooped man soon
appeared, still wearing his topcoat. There were smiles among the directors
when
they looked at Twingle, and his wheezy voice fitted his absurd appearance. But
when Twingle began to talk, they listened.
The man from the tropics merely nodded his thanks when Upman passed him a
check for fifty thousand dollars. Despite his seedy appearance, he seemed to
regard the money as a mere trifle. Wheezily, he declared that he had not come
from Central America to collect a debt which - so he affirmed - had never
caused him the slightest worry. His business in New York concerned the future,
not the past.
An elbow propped upon the table, Twingle wagged an upraised finger.
"I bring you opportunity," he declared. "Central America is the great
market of the future, an area of new development. You have nothing to lose,
and
everything to gain, by handling exports to the tropics. You own ships,
gentlemen; very well, keep them and use them, for they will certainly be
needed.
"I have many contacts" - Twingle's eyes were glinting through the dark
goggles - "both here and in Central America. I can arrange for the exports,
and
dispose of them, if you will provide the ships to carry them. If you are
thinking of selling out this business, you are making a great mistake."
Word by word, Twingle was impressing the directors more and more. But
there was one man whose interest slackened and whose doubts increased, as
Twingle proceeded with the proposition. He was the square-jawed man at the
head
of the table: Craig Upman. Long in the export business, Upman could not bring
himself to full belief in the picture that Twingle portrayed.
THE meeting ended. From his chair, Upman watched the directors leave,
still chatting with Twingle, as the stoopish man hobbled through the door.
When they were gone, Upman shook his head. The Amalgamated Export Co. had
gone through one crisis, when under the baleful influence of Basil Gannaford;
he was afraid that it would encounter another, if the directors caught the
contagious enthusiasm that Jeroboam Twingle had spread.
Gannaford and Twingle - so different, so far apart. Such was the point
that deceived Craig Upman and made him overlook the very fact that would have
explained his deep-felt suspicions: the fact that Gannaford and Twingle were
one and the same man!
Names did not matter, personalities were a sham, when the master of crime
was on the move. The Wasp, whose mighty brain dealt in twisted schemes of
evil,
had returned, to resume his outrageous career. Men such as Craig Upman could
never hope to oppose him; nor could the law, itself, defeat so shrewd a
supercrook.
In all New York, there was only one living being capable of coping with
the Wasp.
That being was The Shadow!
CHAPTER II
THE WASP PREPARES
VELMA CORL looked at herself in the mirror and gave a blue-eyed stare
that
ended in a wince. Turning, she brushed back the blond hair that strewed across
her eyes and gazed about the tawdry, dimly lighted room.
Then, stepping to the window, she raised the tattered shade and gave a
mournful look across the dingy court, toward the glare that shone above the
roofs of squatty buildings.
The glare represented the bright lights of Manhattan, and Velma yearned
for them. But her prospect of sampling New York's night life was very slim
indeed. So slim, that Velma wondered if she would ever have a good time again.
Perhaps she didn't deserve to have a good time; but arguing the other way
around, maybe she had a right to one. It all resolved to the question: should
Velma hate herself, or hate everyone else.
It all went back to the time when Velma had served the Wasp. She'd gone
into it much deeper than she had expected; nevertheless, she had to admit that
her eyes had been open all the while. She had been valuable to the Wasp, and
he, in turn, had promised Velma big reward. She had lost out, but Velma
couldn't blame the Wasp, for he had lost out, too.
It had been a mad whirl, that past of Velma's. A whirl of money,
excitement, everything that had seemed worthwhile at the time. It had resulted
in a cold awakening, and Velma was paying the price.
Others had paid more: some had died, the rest were in prison, some of
them
with terms that would run for life. But maybe they were luckier than Velma,
even
if she had gone free through lack of solid evidence against her.
The world despised Velma Corl, and she was inclined to share the world's
opinion. The fact that she had a job and a place to live, was due to the
kindness of the very persons who could have supplied evidence to convict her:
a
young man named Keith Ellerton, and his sweetheart, Ruth Gorham.
They would both have died, with Velma quite responsible, if The Shadow
had
not saved them. Instead, Keith and Ruth were married, very happily, and had
seen
to it that Velma had gotten a new start in life.
Which was all the more reason for Velma to feel as she did at present. It
seemed impossible for her to ever really redeem herself and be worthwhile, and
that, in turn, made her wonder if there was any use to try.
Out of the misery which oppressed her, Velma Corl could find only one
lifting thought, which gripped her more and more, even though she strove to
shake it off. It was the hope that the Wasp might some time return and offer
her the old, adventurous life.
The distant glow, and the glitter it represented, made Velma think of the
Wasp, and as she recalled the past, she felt that she could condone his
crimes.
Hearing a knock at her door, the blonde turned mechanically and stared at a
yellow envelope that someone had pushed beneath the door. Picking up the
envelope, Velma opened it and found a message typed on a telegraph blank. It
read:
Come to Apartment H3, Belgrade Arms.
There was no signature to the message. It needed none. The transparent
thing that fluttered from the yellow paper was sufficient to name the sender
of
the message.
The object was a wasp's wing!
IMMEDIATELY, Velma Corl was swept by the same emotion that had gripped
Louis Dore that afternoon. But where Dore had represented the Wasp quite
secretly, and had kept his past covered, Velma was deep-dyed in the game and
bore the Wasp's brand. Hence, her reaction was quite different.
Her panic ended as suddenly as it had begun, and a look of determination
settled upon her attractive features.
Tearing the message to shreds, Velma burned the pieces in an ash tray and
dropped the wasp's wing into the miniature blaze. She surveyed herself in the
mirror, then dressed in a sophisticated costume she knew would appeal to the
Wasp.
Arriving by cab at the Belgrade Arms, Velma handed the driver the last
dollar she had, then gave the apartment house a rather dubious look. The name,
"Belgrade Arms," implied that the place would be fashionable, but it looked
cheap and antiquated. The elevator was a jerky one, and the third-floor hall
was uncarpeted.
Arriving at H3, Velma found it to be a rear apartment. No one responded
to
her knock, so she tried the door, found it unlocked, and stepped into a
plainly
furnished living room, which was very dim, for it was lighted only by small
table lamps.
Then, as Velma waited, a door opened and the Wasp stepped into sight.
Despite herself, Velma shuddered; when she received the Wasp's extended hand,
she recoiled from a stinging sensation. At that, the Wasp spoke, his tone a
drone.
"I have summoned you and others," declared the Wasp, "to aid me in a new
campaign. My first motive will please you. It shall be revenge."
Velma was staring as she nodded. She expected the Wasp to have the
features of Basil Gannaford, which were mild and elderly and accompanied by a
friendly, easy voice. But she remembered that the Wasp had kept his real
identity covered, up to the very last. He preferred to appear in character, as
suited his name, the Wasp, and he was doing so on this occasion. In fact, the
Wasp was really himself.
In appearance, he was a human wasp, his body long and very thin,
particularly at the waist. His spindly legs were like an insect's, and he
managed his scrawny hands as if they were feelers, rubbing them constantly
together.
His head was large as a wasp's should be. The light blurred his features,
though such was hardly necessary, for the Wasp, in private, made no effort to
suppress the devilish gloat which so perfectly depicted his inner nature.
"My first victim," the Wasp continued, "shall be a gentleman who made a
great deal of trouble for Basil Gannaford. I refer to Lamont Cranston."
Velma remembered Cranston all too well. He was a wealthy friend of the
police commissioner, Ralph Weston, and had been highly instrumental in
exposing
Gannaford as the Wasp. Cranston was very wealthy, and had befriended both
Keith
Ellerton and Ruth Gorham. At times, Velma had believed that Cranston was
really
responsible for providing her with a job, and that Ruth had merely served as
go-between.
If so, Cranston was closer to The Shadow than either Keith or Ruth, for
it
was plain that the hand of The Shadow controlled everything. Thinking in terms
of her own prolonged misery, Velma felt a real surge of animosity toward
Cranston. She was turned so the Wasp could see her face in the light, and a
study of her expression caused him to drone a laugh.
"You will serve me well," commended the Wasp. "As always, I am ready to
reward in advance. This is for you."
He pressed an envelope in Velma's hand, and from its crinkle, the girl
knew that the envelope contained money. Then, drawing closer and lowering his
drone, the Wasp gave specific instructions.
"TOMORROW night," the Wasp said, "you will call Cranston at the Cobalt
Club. Tell him that you are in trouble, but do not mention who you are. Make
the call as mysterious as possible. Tell him to come to the second floor of a
certain house and look from the window of the front room. You will find the
address in the envelope, with the money."
"But if Cranston refuses -"
"He will not refuse," interposed the Wasp. "What is more" - the drone
took
on a chuckle - "he will see nothing after he looks from that window. There
will
be a machine gun in the second floor of the house across the way, ready to
write off the debt that Lamont Cranston owes to Basil Gannaford."
Velma swayed slightly. This business of murder in cold blood, planned and
announced beforehand, was stronger stuff than any that she had previously
experienced.
Then, Velma caught the glitter of the Wasp's eyes, fixed hard upon her.
She steeled herself and gave him a look of understanding. Desire for revenge
was firmly evident in the girl's expression. In a low, harsh voice, Velma
declared:
"I shall make the call as you have ordered."
The door of the apartment had hardly closed behind Velma, before there
was
an answering click from the inner door that the Wasp had used when he entered
the living room.
Turning, the Wasp motioned to a wiry man who was standing in the inner
doorway, ordering him back into the other room. Joining his companion, the
Wasp
stepped into better light, making no further effort to conceal his features.
In a way, concealment was unnecessary, for the Wasp was already in
disguise. His pinched, drawn face, topped by plastered hair, was the
countenance of Jeroboam Twingle, the personality which the Wasp had assumed to
trick the directors of Amalgamated Export, and their president, Craig Upman.
The Wasp's wiry companion was, himself, a man of unusual appearance. His
face was youngish, yet crafty, and his features seemed as sleek as his glossy
black hair. The sleek man would have been recognized by many police officers,
though none had seen him for several years.
He was known as Gopher Spenk, and his nickname came from his ability to
burrow into hidden places, particularly bank vaults and the like. But Gopher,
finding the law too close upon his trail, had given up his old vocation, to do
undercover work for the Wasp.
During the Wasp's previous run of crime, Gopher had not appeared at all,
for the simple reason that the Wasp had been grooming him for the future.
Thus,
Gopher was the first of his old retinue that the Wasp had summoned, even
before
calling Velma, and it was plain that the Wasp intended to use Gopher as his
chief lieutenant in the coming campaign.
AT present, Gopher felt specially privileged, because he alone knew the
Wasp was posing as Jeroboam Twingle. From the door crack, Gopher had noticed
that the Wasp did not show his face to Velma Corl. But Gopher had gotten a
good
look at the blond visitor, since Velma's face had been turned toward the
light.
"I've seen that dame before," Gopher told the Wasp in an oily tone. "She
looks like she could help us in a big way. Only, the stuff you told her has me
guessing. I don't get it."
"Why not, Gopher?"
"Because you said we're going to machine gun this guy Cranston. But you
told me -"
The Wasp intervened with a cackle that went well with the pinched face of
Twingle. But his tone, when he spoke, was the buzz that befitted the Wasp.
"We shall have the machine gun posted opposite," declared the Wasp. "I
expect you to arrange that detail, Gopher."
"But we won't need it -"
"We shall need it. Not so much on Cranston's account, but because of
Velma."
Gopher gave a few quick blinks; then the inference struck home to him.
"You mean the dame may cross us?" he queried. "That maybe she'll tip off
this guy Cranston?"
"She might," conceded the Wasp. "But there is also the possibility that
Lamont Cranston has already placed Velma Corl under surveillance."
"You mean he's watching her, huh?" grunted Gopher. "Say - if this guy
Cranston is so smart, why don't you let him cool a while? Forget the dame,
too,
and get on with the big jobs you've talked about. This revenge stuff is all
right, but it ought to come later."
The Wasp clapped an approving hand on Gopher's shoulder. The sleek crook
gave an involuntary twinge, for he felt a sharp sting from the Wasp's palm.
Gopher wondered if the Wasp carried a special gadget to produce that result,
but his speculations on that point were ended by the Wasp's next statement.
"Revenge is sweet," quoted the Wasp, in droning style, "and therefore it
should be reserved for the time when it can be most enjoyed. I shall reserve
revenge for many persons who once opposed me. But revenge is not my motive for
disposing of Lamont Cranston. My statement to Velma was merely a pretext."
The Wasp's hand had relaxed. Gopher felt the sting no longer, as his
strange chief leaned closer, to buzz a confidential whisper. Gopher expected
something startling, but his wildest conjecture could not approach the fact
that came.
"Had I told Velma the full truth," spoke the Wasp, "she would never have
consented to lure Cranston to his doom. Nor would your men go through with
your
orders, Gopher, if you gave the real facts to them. I am telling you, because,
like myself, you will be in a safe place when the death trap springs.
"The elimination of Lamont Cranston is more than important; it is
imperative. He happens to be the one man who might thwart my future plans. If
we fail in the first attempt, we must make a new endeavor. I, alone, have
learned Cranston's actual identity, and intend to make use of my knowledge.
Lamont Cranston is -"
The Wasp paused. His eyes, glittery with venom, were fixed upon those of
Gopher Spenk. But the ugliness of that glare was not meant for Gopher;
instead,
the Wasp's gaze was distant, as if meant for Cranston, the man he so hated.
Those evil eyes told the rest. They spelled the name that the Wasp was
loath to mention. It was Gopher who furnished the two words needed to complete
the Wasp's defiant statement. The name sprang, in a half-awed gasp, from
Gopher's lips:
"The Shadow!"
CHAPTER III
THE HOUSE ACROSS THE WAY
LAMONT CRANSTON was very, very bored. He usually was bored when he
listened to the chatter of his friend, Commissioner Ralph Weston, as they
dined
in the grillroom of the exclusive Cobalt Club.
If the matter had been Cranston's own choice, he might have crossed
Weston
from his list of acquaintances, and made the fact quite evident. But Cranston
had no choice.
To begin with, Cranston was not Cranston. He was The Shadow, and the
personality of Cranston was one that he assumed to further his battles against
crime. As Lamont Cranston, The Shadow was in an excellent position to proceed
with such tasks.
As Cranston, The Shadow appeared to be a gentleman of leisure. His
features, with their hawkish profile, produced a masklike effect. His face was
so immobile that even a mere flicker of his lips could be construed as a
smile.
Moreover, Cranston was an expert at being bored, which caused people to keep
on
boring him, in hope that they could finally make an impression upon his
reserve.
In Weston's case, the policy was excellent, for it enabled The Shadow to
obtain exclusive facts relating to recent crime. Brusque, domineering, and
sometimes ill-tempered, Commissioner Weston was always trying to impress his
friend Cranston, and in so doing, frequently let out news that he would have
furnished no one else.
On this particular evening, however, Weston had nothing to tell, and The
Shadow, to keep up his pose of Cranston, found it necessary to listen to a run
of ever-increasing drivel.
The break came at last. An attendant entered the grillroom, to announce
that Mr. Cranston was wanted on the telephone. Excusing himself, The Shadow
strolled up to the foyer, intending to send back word that he had been called
away and could not return to resume his chat with the police commissioner.
The moment that he spoke into the telephone, The Shadow recognized that
something important was actually afoot. His voice, an easy tone that suited
Cranston, received a prompt response.
A girl was speaking across the wire eagerly, breathlessly, as though she
did not want to be overheard by someone near the telephone from which she was
calling.
"Mr. Cranston!" The girl put the name anxiously. "You must help me, I'm
in
real danger! A friend told me to call. A friend we both know... Wait! Someone
may be listening... No, it's all right. Take this address, please, quickly -"
Keenly, The Shadow was seeking to identify the voice he heard. It was
disguised, as he could tell by its forced tone, but the speaker was very
artful. She was using her eager manner to make her tone seem natural, even
though it wasn't. Hoping to ease the tension, and thereby get the clue he
wanted, The Shadow replied coolly in Cranston's style:
"I'm writing down the address. Give it slowly; then tell me what the
trouble is."
The girl spoke slowly, lowering her voice to a definite contralto,
disguising the tone still further. She covered the fact neatly, by ignoring
Cranston's request for information and giving him instructions, instead.
"The front room on the second floor," the girl said. "You will find the
trouble there. If you look from the window, toward the house across the way -"
THERE was an emphasis to those final words, expressing an ardor which the
girl could not withhold. She was giving the definite impression that she did
not want Cranston to follow the instructions to the letter; that the "trouble"
which she mentioned could concern him, rather than herself.
It couldn't have been an unconscious give-away on her part, for the
emphasis was too evident. Moreover, the way her voice trailed to its pause was
indication that she was listening for Cranston's response, to learn the effect
of her own statement.
"Hello, hello -"
The Shadow was speaking quizzically, as though he didn't fully
understand.
He was testing his unknown caller, in a very subtle style.
A click of the receiver would have told him that the girl wanted him to
find the trouble which she had mentioned, for she had given him the address
and
excited his curiosity; therefore, an abrupt ending of the call would add to
its
malignant purpose.
Instead, the girl stayed on the line. She seemed to be waiting to make
sure that Cranston did understand more than she had implied.
"Hello!" There was annoyance in Cranston's tone. "Hello! Who are you?"
No response. The Shadow tried another tack, still keeping to his pretext
of puzzlement.
"You mentioned a friend," he reminded. "What friend of mine do you mean?"
This time, the girl responded. Her lips must have been very close to the
mouthpiece of the telephone, when she spoke the name:
"Ruth Gorham."
Then, sharply, the other receiver descended. With a slight smile, The
Shadow hung his own receiver on the hook. He knew who his caller was: Velma
Corl. Only she would have mentioned Ruth Gorham.
She had risked a lot, Velma had, in giving that tip-off, for it went back
to Velma herself. But it was the only way in which Velma could have driven
home
the point she wanted Cranston to get: that of a pressing danger.
For Ruth Gorham, who at present was absent from New York, had been
menaced
only by one master of crime; namely, the Wasp. However dumb Cranston might be
-
and his talk had indicated that he was really puzzled - he would certainly
catch the connection, once Ruth's name was mentioned.
The Wasp had returned.
Stepping from the telephone booth, The Shadow suppressed his momentary
smile. He had anticipated the Wasp's return, and for that very reason had
given
Velma Corl all possible leeway. Velma was, in a sense, a straw in the wind,
who
would come The Shadow's direction once the Wasp was again upon the wing.
The Shadow had looked forward to the present situation. It was one that
called for special strategy, and, as he gazed across the foyer, he saw the
answer.
Commissioner Weston had come up from the grillroom, and was talking to a
stocky, swarthy man who had just arrived at the Cobalt Club. The newcomer was
Inspector Joe Cardona, whose penchant for playing hunches had made him famous.
Strolling over, The Shadow nodded to Cardona, then addressed Weston in
摘要：

THEWASPRETURNSbyMaxwellGrantAsoriginallypublishedin"TheShadowMagazine,"February1,1941.LouisDorewatchedthetinyobjectfluttertothedesk,facegrippedinfear.Forthattinytokenwasthewingofawasp,thesymbolofahumanwaspwhosestingmeantdeath!TheWasphadreturned!CHAPTERITHEMANFROMTHEPASTQUEERvisitorsoftencametotheoff...

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