Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 144 - The Murder Master

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THE MURDER MASTER

by Maxwell Grant

As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," February 15, 1938.

Thousands heard the death-dealing orders of the Murder Master over the

air-waves! But only The Shadow dared take the one chance to uncover this

fiend!

CHAPTER I

THE MURDER MASTER

STATION WQJ was on the air. Its waves were spreading through the ether,

seeking the favor of a vast audience that ignored it. Few radio listeners had

ever heard of WQJ. Their dials were tuned for larger and more popular

stations;

particularly at this hour - eight in the evening - when national networks were

parading their best-liked programs.

Those millions who scorned station WQJ were to miss the most sensational

radio mystery that had ever been staged. Real tragedy, not the mock variety,

was on the air tonight.

One group of listeners was interested in the program from WQJ, although

they had not been forewarned regarding its real significance. That group was

gathered in a small, well-furnished office that formed part of an apartment.

They were the guests of New York's police commissioner, Ralph Weston.

The commissioner, a brisk man with a military mustache, was still

explaining matters to his friends, while a voice from the radio was filling in

with a drab announcement of the program. Beside the radio set was a stocky,

swarthy man who was trying to hear the announcer over Commissioner Weston's

voice. The swarthy man was Joe Cardona, ace inspector of the New York police

force.

"It's a new kind of mystery drama," stated Weston. "This letter" - he

showed a typewritten sheet - "suggested that we listen in. Apparently, the

program has some features that give new slants on crime detection. That ought

to interest you, Graham."

The man that Weston addressed was a tall, aristocratic individual, whose

high nose supported gold-rimmed spectacles in front of his mild gray eyes.

Faultless in attire, Melvin Graham was quite the most distinguished looking

person in the group, not excluding the police commissioner. The smile that

Graham gave was indulgent, but well-mannered.

"I am interested in crime elimination, commissioner," observed Graham,

his

voice a modulated baritone. "Once it is accomplished, crime detection will be

secondary matter. Reform, not reprisal, is the way to deal with criminals."

Weston didn't agree; but there was no time to argue it. Cardona motioned

that the announcer was about to say something important. Commissioner Weston

shrugged his shoulders and turned toward the radio. As his eyes took a last

flash at the group, he muttered:

"I wonder why Allard didn't get here."

The commissioner had reference to Kent Allard, a friend of his who had a

strong liking for adventure. Weston had called the Cobalt Club, which they

both

belonged, to invite Allard to join the group tonight. Allard had not been

there,

so Weston had left a message for him. With another shrug, Weston decided that

the message must have been overlooked or delayed.

At that particular moment, the police commissioner held the opinion that

Allard wouldn't be missing anything of consequence. Weston was due to change

that impression within the next few minutes.

The announcer's voice had come at last to a dramatic pitch. With a sudden

gusto, it declared:

"WQJ presents - the Murder Master!"

There was a blare of music from a tinny orchestra. It took a peculiar

discord; faded out. Cardona was thumbing the dials; the program seemed to be

cut off. It came back again, but the music had changed.

The orchestra must have added a few members, or changed entirely, for its

tone was much improved. So was the theme. There was a grip to the haunting

tune

that strained from the ether. It brought creeps, even to this group of blase

listeners. The music swelled; finished with a sharp blare that echoed with the

crash of cymbals.

A voice took the air. It was cackly, incoherent, like the babble of a

self-satisfied maniac. Its words gained a chuckling tone, direct and

insidious.

That voice from the void was speaking directly to this audience. Its words

were

addressed specifically to one man present: Commissioner Ralph Weston!

"DO you hear me, commissioner?" The cackle was frenzied. So was the

crazed

laugh that followed it. "Yes - you hear me. You shall remember me! I am the

Murder Master!"

A lull brought gasps from the listening group. Weston looked toward

Cardona; the inspector's poker face was grim. Beside the commissioner, Melvin

Graham gripped the arms of his chair. There was horror in the pale eyes that

peered through the reformer's gold-rimmed spectacles.

"I am the Murder Master!" The chuckle from the radio was a forced

monotone. "I decree death! It shall strike within five minutes. The victim - a

lawyer. His name" - the pause was the space of a long-drawn breath - "his name

is Richard Hyvran!"

Weston had heard that name; he couldn't place it for the moment. He

looked

toward Graham, who nodded. He, also, had a recollection of a man named Richard

Hyvran. It was hard to place thoughts, though, under that strain, for the

Murder Master had resumed his insidious chortle and was holding it prolonged.

It was Joe Cardona who had the right idea. He was grabbing telephone

directories from atop the radio cabinet. He shoved the Manhattan book to

Weston; tossed another, at random, to Graham. With a third book for himself,

Cardona thumbed the pages to find the letter "H." Weston and Graham started

the

same process.

It was Cardona who found the name of Richard Hyvran; it was in the Queens

directory, which the inspector had chanced to keep. Pouncing for the

telephone,

Cardona began to dial the lawyer's number. By odd coincidence, the Murder

Master's voice spoke fitting words from the radio.

"Efforts to save Hyvran will fail," gloated the voice. "He is marked to

die! Marked!" The words rose shrill. "Marked, I tell you! It is I who have

marked him - I, the Murder Master!"

Cardona received an answer to his phone call. There was only a faint

crackle of static from the radio. Everyone in the room was intent upon

Cardona.

His end of the conversation told everything.

"Hello..." Joe was gruff, but rapid. "I want to talk to Richard Hyvran.

I'm Inspector Cardona, of the New York police... Yes, it's very urgent...

Still

time to reach him? Good... Yes, summon him at once..."

The inspector's grim face relaxed into a smile. Holding the telephone

away

from his ear, Cardona faced the group. He gestured toward the radio, where the

subdued half-chuckle of the Murder Master had resumed.

"We'll soon have a line on that hoax," expressed Cardona. "I just talked

to Hyvran's butler. Just in time to catch Hyvran before he left. He's started

out to the garage to get his car. The butler is calling him -"

A sound interrupted. It didn't come from the radio; instead, the

telephone

produced it: a splitting crackle that vibrated the instrument in Cardona's

hand.

Faint echoes rattled from the receiver. They were audible to every person in

that room. Cardona, with the telephone in his own fist, showed a look that

told

he recognized the sound. He shouted into the mouthpiece.

The Murder Master had resumed his cackle. Again, it was that crazed

incoherence; but the babble was toned with satisfaction. The words took sense,

but the listeners scarcely noticed them. Cardona was getting an answer from

the

telephone.

The inspector's features froze. Stolidly, Cardona replaced the telephone

on the desk. He turned to the anxious group.

"The butler didn't get to the garage," Cardona told them, solemnly. "That

sound we heard was an explosion. The butler says the blast wrecked the garage.

All that he saw in the flash were chunks of an automobile, flying everywhere."

"And Richard Hyvran?"

It was Weston who shot the question. Cardona slowly shook his head. He

answered:

"The butler says there's only one place that Hyvran could have been. That

was in the automobile!"

NEWS of grim tragedy awed the listeners. There was to be no rest, though,

for their jarred nerves. A voice was rising in that very room - the chortle of

the Murder Master gloating its satisfaction over the air.

"Five minutes have ended!" The glee was high-pitched. "My prediction of

death has been fulfilled! Richard Hyvran was doomed, as I declared!" A

chuckle;

then the question: "Do you hear me, commissioner? Do you believe me? You do!

Very, very good!"

The frenzied laugh descended the scale, a full octave. Dryly, the voice

resumed its words, at lower pitch. It repeated its reminder of accomplished

murder, and in its harsh cackle the tone earned the ominous impression that it

intended another prophecy.

"Five minutes have marked the death of Richard Hyvran." The gloat was

ugly; contemptuous in its satisfaction. "Five minutes is but a fraction of our

program. Shall we have another murder? Why not? I am the Murder Master!"

The voice scaled its chortle upward, shrilling to its former frenzy. It

shrieked with new prediction:

"Another five minutes! Within that time, another murder! One that you

cannot prevent, commissioner, though I shall name the man - likewise, the

place

where he shall die!"

Static crackled with the glee that furled from the radio. Slumped men sat

helpless; chief among them was Commissioner Ralph Weston. He, the commander of

the law's entire force, was most powerless of all.

The proof of the Murder Master's strength had been established. Weston

could do no more than listen, until the fiend's new croak pronounced another

stroke of doom.

CHAPTER II

DEATH IN THE CROWD

BRIEF seconds lingered; the pause was torture for the listeners,

especially Joe Cardona. The ace inspector hadn't yet admitted the cause

impossible. Cardona thought there would still be time to avert another

killing,

if the Murder Master would hurry with his promised decree.

Moments were precious, since five minutes were to be the time limit.

The murderous cluck came from the air:

"My second victim is a retired manufacturer! His name is Justin Palbrock!

His place of death" - the cackling voice delayed, enjoying a malicious

pleasure

- "the Pennsylvania Station!"

Justin Palbrock!

All the listeners knew that name. Palbrock was wealthy; he had spent

large

sums in civic welfare; he had championed the building of low-rental

apartments,

to replace slummy tenements. Hyvran, perhaps, had made enemies; certainly

Palbrock had not.

Those thoughts were striking Commissioner Weston; but Joe Cardona's mind

was centered elsewhere. He was thinking of the Pennsylvania Station, a huge

haystack in which to find a human needle. It was a place, though, where things

could be started in a hurry and finished in short order.

Five minutes! Cardona set his lips as his finger hurried the telephone

dial. Maybe it would be time enough.

In less than one minute, Cardona had the railway station on the wire and

was talking to the man he needed. All the while, the Murder Master was

gloating

over the radio.

Weston turned the dial down, so Cardona could talk. But the commissioner

didn't turn the program entirely off. There was no telling what gruesome clues

might suddenly come from the Murder Master. That killer seemed to think he

could spread his cards so everyone could see them, and still win.

"The ball's rolling," assured Cardona, as he finished his phone call. "It

won't take them long to locate Palbrock at the Pennsy Station, if he's there."

"There are only five minutes -"

"That's more than enough, commissioner. There'll be a report back before

that time is up. Leave it to them; they'll handle it!"

Confident in his statement, Cardona tuned the radio to hear the full tone

of the Murder Master's voice. This time - Joe was sure of it - death would be

foiled. Justin Palbrock would receive protection that could defeat the

murderer's swiftness.

EVENTS at the Pennsylvania Station seemed to be justifying Cardona's

belief.

A human voice, amplified dozens of times its normal strength, was calling

a stentorian summons over a loudspeaker. That impressive announcement reached

every nook of the vast terminal. Hundreds of persons halted, riveted by its

call.

"Justin Palbrock!" The name came clear from the loudspeaker. "Justin

Palbrock! Wherever you are, declare yourself to the nearest uniformed

attendant! Justin Palbrock! This is urgent! Make yourself known at once! To

any

attendant in the station -"

Cardona had started action at precisely five and a half minutes after

eight. The big clocks in the huge terminal showed eight minutes past the hour.

Cardona's headwork had clipped into the five minutes that the Murder Master

had

allowed.

A rangy, gray-haired man was standing at a telegraph booth, while a

porter

waited, holding a heavy suitcase. The man had just arrived on a train from

Washington. He had come directly to the booth to write the telegram.

There were usually pencils at that counter. Tonight, there was a

shortage.

The rangy man had found a pencil in his own pocket. The lead was hard; he was

chewing the end of it, as he paused between the words he wrote.

"Justin Palbrock!"

The rangy man snapped his head upward, as he realized that his own name

was issuing from the loudspeaker. The big-throated voice had an impelling

tone:

"You are in danger, Justin Palbrock! Declare yourself at once! To a

uniformed attendant only. This order comes from police headquarters! Justin

Palbrock -"

Mechanically, Palbrock let the telegraph blank flutter. His hand shoved

the pencil in his pocket. He stared at the waiting porter; he wondered whether

the redcap rated as an attendant. He looked toward the information booth in

the

center of the concourse. There were several attendants there.

Palbrock hurried toward the booth. He quickened his step as the resonant

tone from the loudspeaker began to repeat his name. As he hastened, Palbrock

winced. He had to halt; a sudden pain had gripped him at the side of the

stomach.

After a momentary waver, Palbrock resumed his course. He stretched his

hand toward the information booth. An attendant saw the gesture; sensing

something wrong, he beckoned to some passing redcaps. They came on the run.

Palbrock's hands were clutching the edge of the booth's counter. The

attendant saw a face that had gone suddenly haggard. Eyes were bulging; lips

looked bloated, puffy, as they gasped.

"I'm - I'm Justin Palbrock!"

Hands slipped. The attendant made a futile grab for them. Scrambling

redcaps arrived to catch Palbrock's slumping body before it hit the floor.

There were three of them, yet the weight was all that they could manage. The

man in the booth knew the reason, when Palbrock's head rolled backward.

The haggard face was ashen. Bulging eyes had glazed. Foam flecked those

puffed lips. The attendant gulped one word

"Dead!"

The long hand of a huge terminal clock was marking the ninth minute past

the hour.

THIRTY seconds later, Joe Cardona was taking the report by telephone. He

turned to Weston, Graham and the others of the gloomy group. They knew from

Cardona's expression that new doom had struck.

"They paged Palbrock in the Pennsy Station." Cardona's glum announcement

was given to the accompaniment of a tuned-down chuckling from the radio.

"Right

after that, a man collapsed at the information booth. They don't know for sure

yet, but they think it's Palbrock. They say it looks as if he's dead."

There was a trace of vaguely hopeful doubt in Cardona's statement, but

there was none in the harsh ripple that rose from the radio. The tenth minute

had ended. It was time for the Murder Master to cluck new evil triumph.

Commissioner Weston turned the knob, to bring the mysterious speaker's

voice to its full pitch. Much though he hated it, the commissioner could not

ignore the Murder Master. With two men mysteriously assassinated, the only

clue

to the man who ordained death would be the memory of that voice from the

ether.

Commissioner Weston urged his companions to listen to every peculiarity of

tone.

"Five minutes have marked the death of Justin Palbrock!" The evil

confidence of the Murder Master dispelled Cardona's last hope to the contrary:

"Our time on the air" - the voice was precise - "is not yet ended! For your

entertainment, commissioner, I shall decree another death! Again, it shall

strike within five minutes!"

Moments seemed endless; yet only a few seconds lapsed before the next

pronouncement.

"The victim - a politician!"

Quick looks passed between Weston and Cardona. This might be someone

known

personally to both of them.

"His name - Frank Denniman!"

They did know Denniman. "Big Frank," a friend to every cop in town. One

fellow who had gained his influence through good will. To Frank Denniman,

politics was a game, and he always played it square.

"The place - the Metrolite Hotel!" The Murder Master paused; then added

another detail. "To be specific, Frank Denniman will lie dead outside the

hotel's main entrance. Within five minutes!"

Mumbled laughter followed. Again the Murder Master was filling time while

the law sprang to futile effort. Cardona was at the telephone, calling the

Metrolite. Joe was assuring the commissioner that he would have doormen,

bellboys, house detectives flocking to the space outside the Metrolite before

the precious five minutes were half gone.

To Commissioner Weston, that promise meant nothing.

Weston was resigned to the belief that Denniman's death was a certainty.

Looking further, the commissioner groaned with the conviction that the Murder

Master, himself, was out of reach. The program, Weston remembered, was a

fifteen-minute one. That, at least, indicated that the chain of death would

soon be finished.

But what of the future? Who could cope with a monstrous fiend like this

killer, whose cackled laugh reeked with malicious pride in his own security?

That high pitch from the radio was proof that the Murder Master regarded

himself immune. If the law could take no steps against him, who else could?

Commissioner Weston was too strained to think of an answer to his own

mental question; but there was one. Already, a friend of justice was taking

measures to combat the Murder Master before the superfiend could leave the

studio where he issued his decrees of doom.

The Shadow, foe to all who dealt in crime, was nearing a swift-chosen

destination.

That goal was the obscure radio station, WQJ.

CHAPTER III

THE LAST DECREE

COMMISSIONER WESTON had mentioned his friend, Kent Allard. Though Weston

did not know it, Kent Allard was The Shadow. (Note: See "The Shadow Unmasks,"

Vol. XXII, No.5.) That was something, too, that the Murder Master had not

guessed. He would probably have given his broadcast a different twist, had he

known that The Shadow had been invited to Weston's apartment to hear the

mystery broadcast.

Luck had favored the Murder Master. Weston's message to Allard had been

temporarily forgotten by a negligent clerk at the Cobalt Club. The fellow

hadn't remembered it until just before eight o'clock. Finding a note that

Allard was visiting a friend in New Jersey, the clerk had phoned the message

there.

The Shadow's intuition was acute. He had sensed the ominous in the

request

that Commissioner Weston listen in on the program from WQJ. It couldn't be a

publicity stunt; in that case, the commissioner would have been invited to the

studio. A hoax was out of the question. WQJ couldn't risk its license with a

proposition of that sort.

Something definite lay at stake. That was why Kent Allard had started at

once for New York.

Allard's big limousine had reached the Skyway leading to the Holland

Tunnel when the program began. While the chauffeur kept the car at the top

speed the law allowed, Allard was tuning in on the limousine's radio. His

long,

hawk-featured face was immobile in the tiny light of the dial. Keen ears heard

every tone of the Murder Master's threats.

Allard's eyes, usually quiet in their gaze, had taken on a strange,

far-seeing burn.

They were the eyes of The Shadow.

Hyvran was dead. So was Palbrock. The Shadow took those deaths as

certainties, when he heard the Murder Master's chuckles. The very confidence

the evil voice proved that those murders had been prearranged, so cunningly

that

nothing could avert them in the brief periods that the Murder Master allowed.

The limousine was almost through the Holland Tunnel, when The Shadow

heard

the announcement of Denniman's doom. There wasn't a chance that it could be

halted, even by The Shadow. The Murder Master's insidious gloat was still

audible, despite the poor reception of the radio while the limousine roared up

the incline leading from the river tunnel.

OUTSIDE the Hotel Metrolite, at that very moment, hastily called men were

learning that their efforts were too late. They were on the sidewalk, looking

anxiously about, one minute after they had received Cardona's call. They saw a

taxi swing up to the curb.

Large hands were on the ledge of the door window; a broad face was

pressed

against the glass, the head above it hatless. Before the driver could reach

out

to open the rear door, a hotel detective sprang to do it for him. The door

whipped open; the bully passenger pitched headlong to the sidewalk.

Eager hands raised the body. A policeman, pressing through the throng,

saw

the face and gulped:

"It's Big Frank! Big Frank Denniman! Dead!"

The group stood silent, for five stunned seconds. Then a house dick made

sudden dash into the hotel to give the news to Joe Cardona, who was holding

the

wire open.

The clock above the hotel desk pointed to thirteen minutes after eight.

DOWN near the tip of Manhattan, The Shadow's limousine was making its

final spurt along a cross-town street. The passenger was no longer Allard.

Every trace of his tuxedoed figure had disappeared. From beneath the seat, The

Shadow had pulled out a drawerlike shelf that contained garments of black. He

was attired in long cloak, a slouch hat on his head. His hands were gloved.

The limousine slid to a stop beside a dingy, six-story building where

lights glowed on the top floor only. To The Shadow, those lights were a

beacon.

They marked the location of the broadcasting rooms used by station WQJ.

With his left hand, The Shadow cut off the car radio, stopping the

chortle

of the Murder Master as it rose to the high pitch that predicted a new

announcement.

Simultaneously, The Shadow opened the door with his other hand. He was

out

of the limousine. Swiftly, unseen, he crossed the sidewalk as the big car

started away. Reaching the darkened entry to the building, The Shadow

glimmered

a flashlight on the door of an elevator shaft.

The dial showed that the elevator was at the sixth floor, and The Shadow

decided immediately that it must be out of use. Lights were off in this lower

entry; that was sufficient proof that something had gone wrong. The Shadow's

flashlight showed a stairway - the only available route to the sixth floor.

The Shadow began the long ascent. He had one minute to spare before WQJ

went off the air.

BECAUSE of his effort to reach the studio in that last minute, The Shadow

was unable to hear the finish of the Murder Master's program. That climax was

reserved for the group assembled at Weston's.

Amid the glee of the Murder Master, Joe Cardona was repeating facts that

came across the telephone from the Hotel Metrolite. Denniman was dead, like

Hyvran and Palbrock. The cab driver was being questioned, but the fellow was

too overwhelmed to give any details. It appeared he didn't know what had

happened to his passenger.

That seemed proven by the announcement that came suddenly from the Murder

Master.

"Five minutes have marked the death of Frank Denniman," croaked the

voice.

"A third mystery to baffle you, commissioner! Perhaps" - the tone had a bitter

ugliness - "you regret, as I do, that this program is finished.

"More time - more deaths! More deaths - more clues!" The laugh went high.

"Clues? There will be none, commissioner! Unless, perhaps, a final death will

serve! Very well, we shall have one, as a fitting sequel!"

Cardona wasn't listening. For the first time, his own folly had struck

him. He'd wasted fifteen minute trying frantically to halt three sure-fire

murders, and, all the while, he'd missed the biggest bet of all. That was the

quest of the murderer himself.

Cardona would have given plenty to have that quarter hour back again. He

knew what he would do with it. He would head hotfoot for WQJ, to snag the

killer in that lair. It wasn't too late to try it, anyway. Cardona was dialing

the operator, to get headquarters on the wire, to start police squads on their

chase.

The hoarse orders that Cardona shouted were brisk but adequate. Soon,

patrol cars would arrive downtown. The law would form a cordon. Maybe the nest

would be empty. Cardona would find out for himself, when he reached there.

Slamming the telephone on the desk, the ace inspector grabbed for his

hat.

He halted before he reached the door.

Cardona had seen the tense expression on the faces of the listeners. They

were clustered close about the radio, with Weston and Graham in the center of

the group. They were straining to catch the last falsetto pronouncement from

the Murder Master. Only fifteen seconds left; that quarter minute was to prove

as vital as the quarter hour that had just gone by.

In those fifteen seconds, Joe Cardona was to realize the value of the

quick orders that he had just dispatched to headquarters.

"One more death!"

The precise chuckle over the radio repeated the promise that Cardona had

failed to hear.

"This time," came the gloat, "I shall name the place first! Murder will

occur here, in this very studio!"

A PAUSE, so timed that it had a terrific effect upon the craning

listeners. It was almost as if the Murder Master were present, the way he held

the attention of the group. This was no aftermath; it was a superclimax. Those

tragedies that had gone before were a build-up to this monstrous, sensational

finish.

Everyone present knew it; Joe Cardona was so powerfully gripped that he

couldn't budge beyond the door until he heard that final sentence. It didn't

occur to him that the threat itself made it all the more imperative for him to

be on his way. He had to listen to that last pronouncement. Like the others,

Cardona was oblivious to all else.

"The scene is set," voiced the Murder Master. "The victim will be -"

A gong struck. That reverberation over the ether indicated a studio

signal, announcing that the program's time was up. It seemed that the Murder

Master heard it, for he halted. The listeners thought, for the instant, that

would not complete his sentence.

Then came the cackle once again, its tone determined. Despite the signal,

the speaker was snatching a last few seconds in which to complete his ominous

decree. Defiantly, the Murder Master croaked:

"The victim will be the meddler who calls himself The Shadow!"

The name was uttered with a rising pitch, that broke into a screechy

jubilation. The hideous laugh trilled, blended with a sudden crackle of

static.

Then came the blot of an abrupt silence.

That hush solemnized the Murder Master's decree.

Station WQJ was off the air.

CHAPTER IV

LURKERS OF DEATH

SILENCE gripped the sixth floor; with it, darkness. The entire studio was

blanketed with a gloom that had occurred within the past few dozen seconds.

Two

minutes ago; The Shadow had heard the air-cast voice of the Murder Master. He

had seen lights in this very studio. The voice had silenced, the lights had

faded while The Shadow was on the stairs.

The situation offered no surprise. The Shadow had more or less expected

it. It was logical that the Murder Master would have called for lights off the

moment that the broadcast was concluded. Unquestionably, the killer-chief had

aids. Darkness would help their departure. Probably they would take

precautions

when they fled. That did not trouble The Shadow.

As The Shadow considered it, the odds were all in his favor. He had

arrived at the most timely moment, when crooks would think that they had

gained

security. Darkness had produced the situation that he liked best. Gloom was

the

favorite shroud in which The Shadow moved to his attacks on crime.

So natural was this sequel that The Shadow failed to sense the trap that

it concealed. The subtle Murder Master had called for The Shadow's own

element,

darkness, to make a perfect lure. In delivering other deaths, the Murder

Master

had left little to chance. This time, he was risking more; nevertheless, he

had

provided death that was prearranged.

The murderer had calculated that The Shadow would start for the studio

while the broadcast was still in progress. He had estimated The Shadow would

arrive near the finish of the program. Where the murderer had seemingly taken

long chance was when he had added that final threat. Had The Shadow still been

in his car, had he reached the sixth floor a half minute sooner, he would have

been prepared for a direct thrust of doom.

Curiously, the radio broadcast itself bore proof that the Murder Master

had not left that detail to chance.

The gong, had the Murder Master wished it, could have meant the cut-off

the program without the addition of The Shadow's name. The reason that it had

gone through completely was because The Shadow's big car had been spotted -

not

from the studio, but by a watcher in a house on the other side of the street.

The Murder Master had foreseen that The Shadow would be the first comer

reach the studio. The time element had suited the watcher, even though he had

not spied The Shadow's blackened form. Therefore, the complete threat had been

delivered.

Moving through the darkness of the sixth floor, The Shadow heard muffled

pounding. He discerned white faces pressing against glass. They were the

personnel of the office, locked in an unused broadcasting room.

Easing along the wall, The Shadow found another panel of glass. This was

the darkened room he wanted - the one that the Murder Master's crew had take

over for their own insidious program.

THE door opened silently under The Shadow's grip. He came into the

stillness of a soundproof room. He blinked his flashlight warily along the

floor, keeping its rays well controlled. In his other fist, The Shadow gripped

an automatic.

The broadcasting room was empty. No one had left it by the main door.

There was only one plausible answer: Exit had been managed through the control

room on the other side.

Working in that direction, The Shadow eased past a microphone. His

flashlight revealed other equipment among tangled wires. Familiar with methods

that he himself had used in broadcasts, The Shadow decided that the Murder

Master had not spoken from this room at all. Instead, his voice had been piped

in from elsewhere.

That meant that a meeting with the supercrook would have to be postponed.

The discovery, however, changed none of The Shadow's determination. The quest

was still important, for others must be lurking here. Those tools of the

Murder

Master would be the persons through whom The Shadow could locate their evil

chief.

There was an element in the situation that The Shadow missed.

Proof of the Murder Master's absence made the present quest seem easier.

Instinctively, The Shadow increased his progress. He had less need of caution,

dealing with hirelings, than if he actually had to encounter a foe so crafty

the Murder Master.

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摘要：

THEMURDERMASTERbyMaxwellGrantAsoriginallypublishedin"TheShadowMagazine,"February15,1938.Thousandsheardthedeath-dealingordersoftheMurderMasterovertheair-waves!ButonlyTheShadowdaredtaketheonechancetouncoverthisfiend!CHAPTERITHEMURDERMASTERSTATIONWQJwasontheair.Itswaveswerespreadingthroughtheether,seek...

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Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 144 - The Murder Master

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