Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 324 - The Black Circle

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THE BLACK CIRCLE
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. THE COFFEE POT
? CHAPTER II. AMONG THE SHADOWS
? CHAPTER III. ONE MAN MISSING
? CHAPTER IV. THE SHADOW'S THEORY
? CHAPTER V. PAWNS IN THE GAME
? CHAPTER VI. TRAILS ABOUT TOWN
? CHAPTER VII. THE DIAMOND TIARA
? CHAPTER VIII. THE CIRCLE MOVES
? CHAPTER IX. BETWEEN TWO FIRES
? CHAPTER X. CRIME IN THE DARK
? CHAPTER XI. THE BROKEN TRAIL
? CHAPTER XII. A JOB FOR THE SHADOW
? CHAPTER XIII. TRAILS CROSS AGAIN
? CHAPTER XIV. THE TRAP CLOSES
? CHAPTER XV. THE SHADOW'S PRISONER
? CHAPTER XVI. THE HIDDEN CLUE
? CHAPTER XVII. THE WRONG VENUS
? CHAPTER XVIII. CRIME ON THE BOARD
? CHAPTER XIX. FORTUNA SPEAKS AGAIN
? CHAPTER XX. THE CIRCLE'S END
CHAPTER I. THE COFFEE POT
IF FRED BLANDING hadn't lost himself in Greenwich Village that rainy night, it would be hard to guess
how far The Shadow would have gotten in his efforts to crack the riddle of the Black Circle. Until the
evening when it all began, Fred had never even heard of The Shadow or the Black Circle and Greenwich
Village was a name he only associated vaguely with New York City.
Nor had Fred ever dreamed that such peculiar byways and cul-de-sacs as Gay Street, Milligan Place
and MacDougall Alley existed in the maze of that so-called Village. Certainly, he would never have
believed that he would find himself at the corner of Fourth Street and Tenth Street, at least not in an area
so well regulated as Manhattan. But Fred unknowingly visited all those spots and others, during the
meanderings that eventually brought him to Jim's Coffee Pot.
Most of all, Fred Blanding would have liked to forget that he was ever in Jim's Coffee pot. This should
have been easy because it didn't exist, but somehow it only made it harder to forget.
It all began when Fred left the Parkview Hotel in the vicinity of Washington Square and started out to
find the Seventh Avenue Subway. As Fred wanted to go to Radio City, he would have done better to
take the Sixth Avenue Line, but since it ran beneath the Avenue of the Americas, Fred didn't know
where he was when he saw the street sign, the last sign he remembered noticing. Confused by this
misnomer, Fred crossed the avenue and found himself going along streets that angled into one another.
He discovered a diagonal avenue which he thought was Seventh but was actually Greenwich, decided he
was wrong and eventually twisted himself back into the maze of alleys.
Fred didn't mind the drizzle. He was used to a lot of it in San Francisco, where he came from. It was
rather exciting trying to find his way back into New York from the very midst of it. But Fred wanted to
get to Times Square, among other places, and he knew that the Seventh Avenue Subway would take him
there. So the only intelligent thing to do was to stop somewhere and inquire the way.
Greenwich Village, around midnight, can prove to be quiet and almost desolate, once anyone is out of
sight of its main drag, which is Eighth Street. In his tour of the alley, Fred found himself banked by old
houses which had been converted into apartments, where the lights were dim. There was not a sign of
any public place until Fred turned a corner and spied the sign of Jim's Coffee Pot. The place had a
basement entry under a set of stone steps which looked about like all the other stone steps that Fred had
been tripping over while he stalked the Village.
So Fred entered the Coffee Pot, intending to spare himself a dime for a cup of coffee and add a tip of the
same amount in return for directions to the Seventh Avenue Subway.
The tiny lunch room had four tables and a short counter that was set slightly at an angle. At one of the
tables sat two men in tuxedos who were arguing with a girl across from them. Fred couldn't see the men's
faces for they were turned away from him but he saw the girl's quite plainly. She was good-looking and
quite drunk. She was on the brunette side and her features were cute and perky. She had languid, dark
eyes, which she kept closing, as the men talked.
Behind the counter, his elbows propped between the cash register and the telephone, was Jim, a bland
character with a round face that had a flat, fish look, as though it had met too many punches. This was
explainable as he appeared to be of the inquisitive type, too inquisitive from Fred's viewpoint, judging by
the sharp, unfriendly glance that Jim threw his way. It certainly wasn't the sort of expression that the
well-trained restaurant proprietor should wear, if he expected to stay in business.
"Sorry, mister," was Jim's greeting. "The place is closing up. No more service tonight."
Before Fred could say that he only wanted directions to Seventh Avenue, one of the men spoke from the
table.
"More coffee, Jim," the man said. "We've got to give her another cup if we expect to get her out of
here."
"Better make it two cups," chimed in the other man. "Two cups for the girl, I mean."
Pouring two cups from a large coffee pot, Jim threw a surly glance at Fred. Then, deciding he'd set a
precedent, Jim turned to another pot and poured a cup for Fred, too. Jim shifted as he served Fred's
coffee, hence Fred didn't get a look at the man from the table, as he came over to pick up the girl's two
cups from the counter. Fred had good ears though and he caught the conversation that followed, though
the men spoke in undertones.
"Let's quit arguing, Kay," said one man. "You say you've quit, so all right. You've quit. Give us your
marker."
"Can't give you the marker." Kay's voice carried a tired tone. "Told you I threw it away."
"We thought you were kidding," put in the other man. "Quit the stall, if you are. We've got to have that
marker."
"Can't have it," returned Kay. "Haven't got it."
"You should have kept it," declared the first man. "You know what may happen, don't you, because you
got rid of it?"
Kay's answer was a bleary laugh. Then:
"What happens?" the girl asked. "What happens that wouldn't happen anyway?" She paused to gulp half
a cup of coffee, then added, "Only nothing's going to happen - not to me. I'm not talking, not to
anybody."
Eyes shut, the girl tilted back her head, swallowed the rest of the coffee. A moment later, she let herself
tilt forward and would have struck the table if the men hadn't caught her. Together, they lifted Kay up,
gave her the other cup of coffee, which she took in short, quick swallows. Then, limply, the girl settled in
their arms and together they raised her from the table.
Though a much interested observer, Fred tried to appear otherwise. The men were bringing the girl past
the end of the counter, practically carrying her. She wasn't helping them at all. In fact, she kept slumping
down between the men who gripped her. From appearances, she might have weighed about one hundred
and twenty, but from the way she dragged, Fred decided she must be heavier. Jim noticed the trouble the
men were having and came around from behind the counter, giving a nervous glance at an old clock
which hung from a partitioned wall at the back of the room. Then, Jim was lending a helping hand to get
the girl outside and as he raised her, Kay's hands flipped forward, dropping a purse and a pair of black
gloves from her limp grasp.
Fred stooped and picked the things up from beneath the feet of the men. He handed the purse and the
gloves to Jim, who gave a blunt nod and moved the procession onward. Then, they were out the door
and practically dragging their burden up the steps to the sidewalk, while Fred, alone in the Coffee Pot,
found himself mulling over the things that he had heard.
That business about a "marker" puzzled Fred. The word had a sinister tang, the way the men had spoken
it. Fred wondered how well Jim knew the pair; and if he knew the girl at all. Getting information from the
flat-faced proprietor would be an unlikely thing, though Fred wasn't too sure on that score. Maybe the
fellow would prove garrulous when he returned, now that the annoying customers had left. Perhaps his
talk of having to close up was just a bluff to get rid of the people he had shown out.
Thinking in terms of closing time, Fred glanced at the clock, noted that it registered five minutes of
twelve. Checking by his watch, Fred saw that the clock was slow, for his watch, which he had set when
he arrived in Penn Station, pointed to exactly twelve o'clock. Maybe midnight was Jim's closing hour, so
Fred decided to leave some money for the coffee, mind his own business and continue trying to find
Seventh Avenue on his own. With that thought, Fred pulled some change from his vest pocket. A nickel
slipped from his fingers, struck the floor and rolled to a stop.
Stooping to reclaim the coin, Fred halted, his hand at the very spot where the girl had dropped her
gloves. There on the floor lay Fred's nickel; beside it another coin of the same size, except that it wasn't a
coin at all. It was a brass token, with a shiny center and rim. Between those circles was another, a
jet-black circle of some alloy other than brass.
Pocketing his nickel, Fred picked up the strange token and examined it in the light. It was the same on
both sides and the black circle was slightly raised. The token gave a peculiarly dull plunk when Fred
tested it on the counter. Then, spinning the token with thumb and finger, Fred struck upon a sudden
thought. He felt certain that the brass token had fallen from the girl's gloves when she dropped them.
Therefore Fred felt equally sure that this was the "marker" which Kay claimed she had thrown away.
What could this marker mean?
It certainly meant something to Kay and the men who had been with her. What it might mean to Jim was
now the question. The less Fred asked Jim on that subject, the better; thinking in such terms, Fred
dropped the brass token in his vest pocket. But Fred still wanted the answer and while he was
wondering how he might find out, the telephone began to ring on the lunch counter beside him.
On a sudden hunch, Fred lifted the receiver and gave a "Hello" at the same time watching the door to
make sure that Jim did not return.
More peculiar than anything that had so far occurred, was the voice that spoke over the wire to Fred
Blanding.
"It is midnight," said the voice, in a slow, precise tone that emphasized each syllable. "Time is up. You
must leave at once."
Fred grunted, "I know," in a style that could have been mistaken for Jim's, or anybody else's.
"If any strangers are present," continued the voice, "check on them thoroughly and report in full
tomorrow. Unless it is urgent that you report now."
"Nothing urgent," gruffed Fred.
"State facts about the girl," spoke the voice, each word stressed in that slow style. "Was all O.K?"
"O.K."
Repeating those two letters, which the voice had said as though spelling a word and with no note of
query in its tone, Fred hung up, rather than get involved beyond his depth. Then, half-aloud, Fred said:
"Oh, Kay! That's a funny one. Oh, Kay is right. I wonder though" - Fred's fingers sought the brass token
in his pocket -"I wonder if she is all right."
He was realizing now that he might be mixed up in something which might prove not too healthy for him.
The sooner he got clear of it, the better, and the same might apply to the girl Kay. Undoubtedly, the
phone call had been meant for Jim, whose clock had now crept almost to the midnight mark, the time
he'd be getting back if he'd intended to receive the call. Fred promptly decided that his own time
shouldn't be wasted.
Without further hesitation, Fred left the Coffee Pot. He took rapid steps up to the street and looked
around to make sure Jim wasn't in sight. Crossing the street through the increasing drizzle, he reached a
doorway that showed dimly and paused there for a look back. Good judgment and bad had been tilting
in the balance, for as Fred turned, he saw Jim come from a passageway between two buildings on the
opposite side of the street. If Jim had arrived a few moments sooner, he would have seen Fred sliding for
cover; in which case, Fred's smart move would not have been smart at all.
However, since he now rated as smart, Fred decided to play another hunch. He waited in his doorway
until Jim had gone down into the Coffee Pot; then let a full minute tick by. During that minute, Fred heard
a car pull away from what might have been a back street behind the Coffee Pot, but it was difficult to
judge the exact directions of sounds in this area of twisting streets.
Fred guessed, though, that the two tuxedoed men were taking Kay away in their car, unless they'd
managed to hail a taxi, which was unlikely, since he himself hadn't even seen one during his foot tour.
Then, at the minute's end, Fred's speculations switched suddenly to his own dilemma.
The lights in the Coffee Pot blanked out; then they flashed on again, gave a few blinks, as though Jim
couldn't make up his mind whether to close the place or not. Before Fred could add this up, the lights
repeated their blinking process and Fred had gained the sum total, without the aid of arithmetic.
Those flashes were a signal!
They repeated again, the flashes, as Fred left his doorway and dodged rapidly along his side of the street,
intending to turn the first corner that he found. Back over his shoulder, he was sure that he saw a dark
figure move from a doorway of its own and copy his darting tactics. A corner was in sight now and
caticornered across the street beyond it, Fred saw a strolling man turn and move back out of sight. That
man too could have spotted the blinks of Jim's lights.
Fred Blanding had summed those flashed signals in terms of himself. Jim must have seen the clock,
discovered that it was wrong and realized that his one last customer might have intercepted the peculiar,
monotoned phone call. The voice's reference to strangers and urgent measures regarding them, was
something that Jim could be putting into practice on his own accord, with Fred as the case in point.
Turning into the next street, Fred glanced across his shoulder and was sure he caught a flashlight's blink
from a drizzle-swept doorway. Looking ahead, he glimpsed what could have been an answering flash
from beyond some house steps up ahead. From that Fred Blanding gained the positive conviction that he
was being stalked in this odd neighborhood where he had never been before and now wished that he had
never come!
CHAPTER II. AMONG THE SHADOWS
LIGHTS like bobbing fireflies kept flecking the misty rain as Fred continued his zigzag course. How
many there were, Fred couldn't estimate, but he was willing to concede that there were less than he
would ordinarily suppose. The reason was that Fred was turning every corner that he reached and the
corners were numerous. Unquestionably he was doubling back toward the Coffee Pot, hence the lights
were probably repeaters, whose path he had recrossed.
Nevertheless, Fred preferred these doubling tactics. They were the only device that might throw
followers off his trail. Fred had used such measures when prowling through Jap-infested jungles during
the War, and being hunted wasn't new to him. But Fred was tense because the circumstances were
strange; more so, indeed, than they had been in strange lands.
What the consequences would be if these hunters caught up with him; how he should combat them if they
did - these were puzzling factors to Fred Blanding. Of one thing alone Fred was certain; from the very
nature of the hunt, the relay method the men were using, they would use swift silent attack, when they
caught up with him. Therefore, Fred was avoiding doorways and steps where watchers might be
concealed, for it was from such places that attack would come. The hunters weren't attempting to guard
the flashes of their lights; by that they could be goading Fred to seek, as refuge, the very type of place
where their pals might be waiting in ambush.
As he rounded a corner, Fred saw a light truck swing into another street and he wished fervently that it
had continued in his own direction. In that case, he could have flagged it down, jumped in and urged the
driver to speed ahead. Reaching the corner where the truck had turned, Fred saw no sign of its taillights
along the street and therefore knew it must have swung into a side alley, but he couldn't risk boxing
himself by trying to locate the truck. Instead, he kept along his own street, made a sudden turn at a
corner he encountered shortly, trusting to luck that he would encounter another car.
It was there that luck came squarely Fred's way, such luck that he gave a light laugh at the expense of the
unknown men who were stalking him.
Coming along a street much like the one where Fred had stumbled into Jim's Coffee Pot, was a
patrolman, going his rounds, checking doorways in a habitual manner. Changing his gait to an easy stroll,
Fred crossed the street openly, intending to meet the policeman when he turned from a doorway and
make some inquiries which could be turned into an excuse to accompany the cop along his beat.
Fred timed it neatly, too neatly. He picked an innocent looking doorway, one that appeared to be the
deep entry of a small apartment building, up two steps. Fred had reached the curb when the patrolman
came turning from that doorway, stumbled for some unknown reason and pitched headlong toward the
sidewalk, where Fred, with a long dive, was able to partially break his fall. Rolling down the steps behind
him came the officer's hat. A moment later, Fred heard the clatter of metal, saw a shiny revolver bounce
down the steps. Then, came the slam of a door that Fred couldn't see in the darkness as he looked up
from beside the senseless patrolman.
Instinctively, Fred grabbed up the revolver, wheeled about with it. The gun wasn't the cop's; his was in
his holster. Somebody had slugged the patrolman; that was apparent from the fact that he was hatless
when he pitched down the steps. That same somebody had also tossed the revolver along and Fred, with
the gun in his fist, was realizing that he was playing right into the trap. Standing above the prone form in
blue, anybody would take Fred for the man who had slugged the officer.
Just then, with almost perfect timing, the lights of a car swung down the street, catching Fred in their glare
as they came from the corner. If Fred tried to stop that car, it would probably run him down, for the
evidence was all against him. It would look bad too, if he ducked for cover somewhere, but that was
about the only course open to him. At least he would keep his identity unknown and with the gun, he
would have a chance to shoot it out with those other unknowns who were hunting for him. The thought
occurred to Fred that he might even be mistaken for one of them, which would be all the better.
Then, as Fred took a quick glance for a direction in which to dart, he was confronted by a figure cloaked
in black that seemed for all the world to have materialized from the very shadows that were so thick
along this rain-drenched street.
The Shadow!
Odd that the name should have sprung to Fred's lips, even though he did not utter it. For that was the
dread title by which this amazing personage was known to the very class of murderous gentry who had
been trying to close a cordon around Fred. Above the cloak that flowed from the limber, swift-moving
form, was a slouch hat with downturned brim that concealed The Shadow's features except for his
burning eyes. Backing the sharpness of that challenging gaze were the blunt noses of two .45 automatics,
bulging from The Shadow's black-gloved fists.
He was whirling in Fred's direction, The Shadow was, and his sweeping shoulder would have jolted Fred
headlong to the sidewalk, but for Fred's unlucky turn. Seeing The Shadow, Fred didn't realize the
cloaked fighter's purpose. Though appearances were all against Fred; The Shadow based his judgment
more on a man's actions. Anticipating immediate combat, it was The Shadow's plan to put Fred out of it
briefly, then appraise him later. But Fred didn't see it that way. Taking The Shadow for one of his
enemies, perhaps the leader of the gang, Fred lunged straight for him, slugging with the gift gun.
Fred's clout never reached The Shadow's head. A gloved fist found Fred's jaw with a back-hand
uppercut. With the added weight of an automatic, the blow lifted Fred clear across the prostrate
patrolman, landing him beside the steps. Then, with the same whirl, The Shadow jabbed shots at the car
as its driver gave it a sudden, lurching spurt. Delayed by Fred's interference, The Shadow's shots were
too late to clip either the driver or a man beside him; but in their turn, they were unable to find The
Shadow when they returned his fire. Spinning away, The Shadow delivered a weird, taunting laugh that
he accompanied with echoing gun-shots as the car madly turned the corner.
Now, men with guns were springing from doorways, the same men who had been hounding Fred
Blanding, so shortly before. On his feet again, Fred didn't even see them, nor think about them. They
were flashing revolvers, aiming them for The Shadow, whose big guns again spoke first. But The Shadow
was also the object of Fred's mad attack and he was determined to slug down the menace in black.
Not only did Fred ruin The Shadow's aim; he gave their mutual enemies a double target. Even worse,
Fred branded himself as one of The Shadow's foemen and was treated accordingly, though without
severe result. The Shadow didn't bother to waste bullets on a grappler. He performed a double-jointed
twist, caught Fred's gun hand with a cross-stroke as it was swinging past him, and drove Fred's weapon
as well as his own back down upon Fred's head. With a long stagger, Fred brought up against an iron
gate that gave as he encountered it, pitching him beyond a picket fence into somebody's abbreviated
front yard.
Wild shots barked from along the street while The Shadow was settling Fred, but none found a mark.
The Shadow's reverse spin, Fred's sudden reel, saved them from becoming targets. What was more,
those hasty gunners were something in the nature of apprentices, a fact which The Shadow certified with
a sinister, derisive laugh, as he swung to deal with them anew. Their amateur status was the thing that
saved them, for they didn't wait to blast it out with The Shadow. Satisfied that their bullets couldn't reach
him, they had fled for the corner after their first volley and were turning it when The Shadow took up
pursuit.
Only one man dared to defy The Shadow; that was Fred Blanding. His fall broken by the gate, Fred was
up again. Though groggy and with black spots swimming before his eyes, Fred had enough of what he
thought was presence of mind to aim at the largest of those floating patches. Even though his shots would
probably be wild, Fred tugged at the gun trigger. The only result was a series of clicks. The man who had
framed him by tossing him a gun, had delivered Fred an empty.
Coming out through the gate, Fred found himself alone in the street. From somewhere in the distance
came the bark of guns, the shriek of car brakes, the roar of starting motors. The Shadow was evidently
clearing the vicinity of trouble-makers, but that didn't occur to Fred. Out of his jolted thoughts was
coming one recollection, that of a doorway from which a slugged patrolman had stumbled. Fred
recognized the door by the blot of blue that was sprawled in front of it. Stumbling there, he climbed the
steps, tried the door he found in the darkness.
The door gave. Fred shoved through and was promptly slugged by a hard blow on the head. A burly
man gathered him up, dragged him out through a back door into an alley that ended in a wall. There, two
men had just finished loading a truck with an odd assortment of crates. Giving a hand to the man who had
brought Fred along, they tossed their unconscious prisoner into the back of the truck and climbed in with
him while the burly man took the wheel.
The Shadow heard the rumble of that departing truck as he returned to the street where the patrolman
lay. He listened intently to the sound, traced it to the next corner, then heard it grow fainter, proving that it
had turned the other way. There was something reflective in The Shadow's whispered laugh as he
cloaked the brace of guns that he was holding in his fists. Evidently his prime purpose here had been to
find that mystery truck. Now, with the quest ended, The Shadow brought the stunned patrolman to his
feet, worked him into a condition in which he could walk along, though groggily, and steered him a few
blocks to the corner of an avenue. There, The Shadow literally evaporated into darkness, along with a
fleeting laugh that attracted the attention of the driver of a prowl car. Stopping, the police car disgorged
two officers from its green body. They found the patrolman in a dazed condition sitting on the steps of an
antique shop and took him along with them.
Meanwhile, Fred Blanding, whose own mistaken notions had caused him to be forgotten by The
Shadow, was experiencing a rougher ride in the truck as it reached the broad street that followed the
Hudson River waterfront. It wasn't bothering Fred at all, for he was still unconscious from the doorway
wallop. The two men in the back of the truck were bothered, however.
From their faces, that pair looked keen rather than tough and they weren't too well acquainted with this
territory. They were leaving the next move to the husky slugger who drove the truck. Pulling up beside a
deserted pier, the truck driver came from his seat, pushed his way through past a crate and studied
Fred's face with a flashlight.
"Still out," said the driver. "That makes it easier. Load him with some of that junk metal and we'll dump
him. Make it fast though, before the mob that works this part of the waterfront finds out we're pinning
something on them."
The flashlight showed the faces of the other two men. Any nervousness they betrayed was on their own
account, not Fred's. They were something like the pair who had escorted the girl named Kay from Jim's
Coffee Pot. Their chief difference was that although they were well-dressed, they weren't wearing
tuxedoes.
"There's only one thing," one man said. "You're sure this is the chap Jim said to get?"
"Who else could he be?" returned the truck driver. "He was coming over to talk to the copper that I
slugged."
"You are probably right," decided the other member of the well-dressed pair. "Anyway, it won't matter
too much if you are wrong. This fellow may know more than is good for him and us. Take whatever is in
his pockets before we pitch him. That's the way a mob would work."
In the light, they went through Fred's pockets and one man came up with something that caused him to
give a low, short whistle. In his palm, as he extended it, the fellow showed the disk with the black circle
that Fred had picked up from the floor of the Coffee Pot.
"What a mistake we might have made!" the man said. "Check through his wallet and find out who he is
and where he belongs. Maybe we can deliver him there. We'll report the full story through to the Voice."
They not only learned Fred's name from the cards in his wallet; among other things in his pocket, they
found the key to his room at the Parkview Hotel. The truck headed in that direction while the two men in
back were replacing all the items in Fred's pockets including the peculiar black disk which marked him as
one of their number.
The tides of fortune, good and bad, had toyed with Fred Blanding this night, eventually bringing him back
to his own port instead of sinking him at the bottom of the Hudson. One twist of circumstance had lost
Fred the aid which he should rightfully have gained from The Shadow; another had brought him
assistance from the very group that intended to destroy him, the men who mistook him for a member of
their own band, the Black Circle.
CHAPTER III. ONE MAN MISSING
FRED BLANDING awakened in the morning with a three-way headache. The worst of his triple pangs
came when he pressed his hand against his jaw. The mere stroke of his fingers sent anguished messages
clear up to his temples, and he kept gritting his teeth while he shaved his chin. Fred didn't find it difficult to
recall how he had gotten that particular ache.
Somebody that Fred still vaguely termed The Shadow had met Fred chin first with a heavy fist. It must
have been a solid blow rather than a sharp jolt, otherwise it might have broken Fred's jaw. Fred
remembered that the blow had made his head feel like a mass of rivets, jarring loose. Something certainly
had gone loose, probably Fred's wits, or he wouldn't have acted as stupidly as he had.
The stupid part was his second attack on The Shadow. His recollection of that event came from an
incessant throb located about three inches above his right eye. From the way that The Shadow had
ripped gunfire at their enemies along the street, Fred should have realized that he had been treated rather
tenderly by the fighter in the black cloak. In coming back for more, Fred had gotten what he deserved,
but he was willing to concede that the clout that had sent him through the gate, was enough to make him
groggy. Trying to shoot The Shadow with an empty gun was another mark of stupidity and Fred was
now very glad that the gun had been empty.
The pinnacle of Fred's folly was his invasion of the darkened doorway. Right now, he couldn't remember
a thing that happened after that, but the third ache, in the back of his head, was proof enough that
something had happened. As for any doubts that Fred might now be holding as to The Shadow's
sincerity, that last experience abolished them. The Shadow had gone before Fred entered the doorway,
so he couldn't have played a part in the final episode.
Fred next began to wonder who had brought him back to the hotel and how. Looking at his watch he
saw that it was nine o'clock, so he decided to go down to breakfast and inquire on the way. At the desk,
Fred nodded affably to the clerk, then broke the ice by saying:
"Funny thing, last night. Guess I was celebrating too heavily after my trip into New York. I don't
remember how I got back here. Hope I didn't make any trouble when I came in."
The clerk favored Fred with an indulgent smile.
"The night man would have reported it if you had," the clerk said. "Probably some of your friends brought
you in and took you up to the room. They usually do."
Buying a newspaper, Fred went into breakfast, trying to picture what it would have been like if The
Shadow had shown up and brought him back to the hotel. That certainly would been something for the
night man to report.
The newspaper hadn't a word to say about any shootings in Greenwich Village. It didn't occur to Fred
that the news wouldn't have made the columns of a morning newspaper unless it had been sensational
enough to prove stop-press stuff. So Fred finished his ham and eggs with the notion that since this was a
nice morning, some fresh air would do him good, particularly in the general area where he had been the
night before. A return tour by daylight, certainly could not prove very sinister.
It didn't take long for Fred to find the spot where he had first ventured into the maze of darkened streets.
Threading his way through the same area, he now noticed the street signs and was intrigued by the way
they confused the issue. At places one street seemed to run into another while others turned corners in a
most curious fashion. Fred was studying the streets too, and though by day they looked somewhat
different, their similarity was such as to leave them practically indistinguishable by night.
There were half a dozen basement stores that resembled Jim's Coffee Pot, but none of them were lunch
rooms. They were tailor shops, laundries or the like. As for iron fences with pint-sized yards behind
them, there were too many for Fred even to guess which gate he had jarred loose. The same applied to
apartment doorways, up two or three steps.
In this daylight tour, Fred kept coming out at Sheridan Square, which wasn't surprising because more
than half a dozen streets converged there. It was very close to the corner of Fourth and Tenth Streets, so
Fred couldn't quite calculate the exact position of the Square. The other streets had names instead of
numbers and Fred discovered that although the Seventh Avenue Subway had a station at Sheridan
Square, it answered to the name of Christopher Street, while the avenue above the subway was called
Seventh Avenue South. This having nothing to do with what he was after, Fred went into a drug store
and looked in the telephone Red Book for the listing of Jim's Coffee Pot. No such name was there.
There were some cabs parked near the subway station. Fred got into one and told the driver that he
wanted to find Jim's Coffee Pot. They rode around through all the streets that Fred had paced on foot,
but neither Fred nor the driver could spot Jim's place. They finally stopped to inquire of a passing letter
carrier. The mail man just shook his head and said:
"Never heard of the place."
Fred dipped his thumb and finger into his vest pocket to bring out the brass disk with the black circle. He
had carefully put it in that pocket so it wouldn't get mixed with his change. The pocket proved empty,
even when Fred turned it inside out. So that settled the question. The whole thing was just a crazy dream.
Fred didn't doubt that he'd cracked his head against something, while walking around in the dark, but it
was odd that it should have produced such a peculiar pattern of recollections.
"If you want," the cabby was suggesting, "we can ask a cop if he's ever heard of this Coffee Pot. Those
places kind of come and go, here in the Village. How long ago was it you were there?"
"A long while ago," replied Fred. "Longer than I thought, I suppose. Don't bother looking any more.
Drive me over to the Parkview."
At the hotel, Fred saw that the meter was close to the two dollar mark, so he decided to add some
change to a couple of bills. Bringing coins from his change pocket, he began to sort them, then stopped
abruptly. Among the nickels that he was about to give the cab driver was a brass token with a black
circle as its central band.
Clutching the token tightly in his hand, Fred went into the hotel, his thoughts in an utter whirl. That token
of the Black Circle couldn't possibly have gotten in with his money, unless some person had transferred it
there. Thrusting the token away, Fred pulled out his wallet, began looking through his cards. Always,
Fred kept those cards in regular order; now they were disarranged. It was dawning on Fred that
somebody had been through all his pockets and had put everything back.
Only one thing could account for such courtesy. That was the disk with the black circle. The men in the
vanished Coffee Pot had spoken of Kay's "marker" as important. The watchers who had spotted Fred at
Jim's signal must have been in league with the tuxedoed pair. Kay had admitted that she was quitting
something and the marker was connected with it. Therefore it struck home to Fred that the brass token
must be the identifying emblem of some secret organization.
The Black Circle!
That very name was logical and appropriate, considering Fred's adventures. Now, through a simple
piecing together of the facts, Fred Blanding could understand the matter of his safe return to the hotel.
Members of the Black Circle had found the token on him; had mistaken him for one of their own. Luck
摘要：

THEBLACKCIRCLEMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.THECOFFEEPOT?CHAPTERII.AMONGTHESHADOWS?CHAPTERIII.ONEMANMISSING?CHAPTERIV.THESHADOW'STHEORY?CHAPTERV.PAWNSINTHEGAME?CHAPTERVI.TRAILSABOUTTOWN?CHAPTERVII.THEDIAMONDTIARA?CHAPTERVIII.THECIRCLEMOVES?CHAPTE...

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