Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 292 - Three Stamps of Death

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THREE STAMPS OF DEATH

Maxwell Grant

http://www.blackmask.com

? I.

? II.

? III.

? IV.

? V.

? VI.

? VII.

? VIII.

? IX.

? X.

? XI.

? XII.

? XIII.

? XIV.

? XV.

? XVI.

? XVII.

? XVIII.

? XIX.

? XX.

THE broad window of Delancey's Stamp Mart was wonderfully designed to attract anybody who

wanted to collect stamps. Only why anybody would want to collect stamps was still a mystery to Gary

Barden, though he'd looked in that window often.

What Gary wanted was to find out more about a specific stamp: the two and a half penny orange, British

Solomon Islands, series of 1907. But there was nothing quite like it in the window; not even in the British

Colonial packets. These overlapping stamps, packed in envelopes with cellophane fronts, formed

attractive wholesale bargains ranging from five dollars up to fifty.

He had never seen any of his big-sized Solomons displayed, with their picture of a war canoe. Maybe

that meant they were worth a lot of money, but Gary doubted it. He had two of the orange stamps on

letters in his own pocket. If they were valuable, nobody would be using them for ordinary postage.

Yet for all Gary knew, Paul might be "nobody".

Gary's two stamps were on envelopes addressed to him at his proper address, mailed from someone

named Paul, somewhere in the Solomon Islands. Gary did know people in the Solomons, because a lot

of Americans had been around there lately. But Gary's friends had been sending their letters by V-mail,

which didn't require stamps. Besides, Gary couldn't place a friend named Paul, first name or last, and

whoever this Paul was, his particular message resembled double-talk.

Of course Gary's apartment had been sublet during his absence, which was something to be considered;

besides, he'd been accumulating a lot of circulars advertising the latest Delancey stamp bargains, all from

the "Mart Where Philatelists Meet", which happened to be this side-street store. Since the letters from

Paul bore the funny looking stamps, the thing formed a link in Gary's mind, though what to do about it

was another question.

Invading Delancey's Stamp Mart didn't exactly appall Gary; he'd figured in too many Ranger raids,

including the one that had shipped him home on a hospital ship, to worry about meeting a problem

directly. But the question was to find the problem. Delancey's business was buying and selling stamps,

not guessing who had mailed them. Gary didn't know just how to approach them.

Besides, there was the blonde who questioned most of the customers who entered the place. Judging

from Gary's observations through the window, she brushed anyone off fast unless they wanted to buy

stamps. Moreover, she was already prejudiced against Gary, for she had been giving him some

necessarily narrow looks between two frames that displayed the complete issues of Basutoland and a

batch of over-sized air-post stamps from Salvador.

She was rather a nice looking girl, but serious. She had a regular formula with customers: she frowned

when they asked for certain stamps; then smiled when she managed to find them. But so far Gary had

received only the frown, amplified by a glare from blue eyes and a determined tightening of the girl's lips.

"Two strikes," muttered Gary to himself. "Two strikes--and out!"

The final phrase came when the frowning blonde stepped to the window and turned out the lights as she

began to gather the display frames to put them in the big safe that stood near the back of the stamp shop.

Gary had watched her do this yesterday at the closing hour of six o'clock, which was why he hadn't

walked in and asked about the Solomon stamps.

Only then the girl hadn't turned out the window lights first.

It was plain why she'd done so this time. With the window darkened, the lights in the shop proper

reflected merely the pane, thus obliterating Gary's face. From his side, Gary could now see his own

reflection, thanks to the glow of street lamps, and it didn't look half-bad.

Those features were toughened perhaps, but not enough to frighten blondes. At least Gary's face hadn't

scared the European girls when he'd met them after beachhead landings. Recollection of that fact gave

Gary a happy notion. After all, he didn't have to claim that he was a stamp collector in order to turn this

blonde's frown into a smile.

He'd tell her who and what he really was, a discharged war veteran, but he wouldn't have to state that

he'd been engaged in the European invasion. When he produced the envelopes bearing the orange

stamps from the British Solomons, the blonde would presume that he'd been fighting on the opposite side

of the world and had received them from some correspondent that he'd met there.

That at least would open the way to further inquiries that would explain who had been using Gary's name

and why. But it would have to wait until tomorrow, because now Delancey, a wan man who looked as

though he had just crawled from a sack-full of stamps, was locking the door to close the mart for the

night.

So Gary Barden started off through the thickening dusk, his square face tight-lipped, his deep-set eyes

glancing keenly to each side. It wasn't just habit that produced such tactics on Gary's part while pacing

the side streets of Manhattan. Nor could he charge it off to imagination that he felt lately that he was

always watched. Gary had been through too many real experiences to let his imagination throw him.

Unseen eyes from slowing taxi cabs; rapid glances from figures that disappeared hastily down subway

entrances; observers from hidden doorways across from his apartment house; even fleeting faces outside

his living room window--all these were part of Gary's experience since his recent return to New York. It

was on account of such that Gary had been taking roundabout courses on his way home at dusk, in the

hope of catching some of them off guard, but so far he'd had no luck.

There was also the old lady in the blue cape who generally hobbled by when Gary neared the apartment

house, but she evidently belonged in the neighborhood and was probably quite harmless. She dwindled

into unimportance, however, compared with what a psychoanalyst would have termed "Exhibit A" in

Gary's catalog of illusions: the Creeping Shadow.

Gary was looking for it this evening as he turned the final corner leading to the remodeled brownstone

which his landlord called an apartment house. And there was that shadow, fading from a wall across the

street, so fleetingly that no one except an ex-Ranger would have believed that he had seen it.

You could ferret out the substance belonging to most shadows by looking ahead to the places where

their owners would logically go. But this patch of living blackness had a way of blending into nothingness

out in the very center of the street. Actually it seemed to evaporate there.

Tonight, for the first time, it struck Gary that this figment of imagination had passed across the sidewalk

right in front of him. Quickening his pace, he reached the precise spot, but there was nothing there.

Gary was no longer in a mood to investigate. He'd gone half a dozen blocks out of his way coming home

from Delancey's, and now that he was almost at his own door, he was thinking of home and what might

be waiting there.

The mail-box in the downstairs entrance might contain another of those mysterious letters from the

unknown Paul.

In the dim entry, Gary produced his key and unlocked the mail-box. He found two items: one, a weekly

circular from Delancey's Stamp Mart, the other a letter with the now familiar orange stamp. Flipping the

box shut, Gary stared out through the door to see if any funny little men were peering his direction.

All he saw was the little old lady in the cape, toddling stoop-shouldered along the opposite sidewalk,

probably on her way to the corner grocery. At least she was a relief, compared to such nebulous

creatures as dissolving shadows that filtered through brick walls.

Maybe Paul's letter would explain things. That thought was worth a laugh. As if these letters ever

explained anything. Nevertheless, Gary opened the letter on his way up to his third floor apartment, but

the landing lights were too dim to read it. Besides, Gary was too intent upon listening for creaks on the

stairs or for some shuffling footsteps on a floor above.

All was quiet, ominously so, as Gary unlocked the apartment door at the back of the third floor hall. Gary

was thinking about tomorrow.

Tomorrow he would go to Delancey's with three letters, not just two, and meanwhile he could read up on

some of the stamp circulars, just to appear coherent on the subject. In any event, he could demand to

know why Delancey was circularizing him, which might explain this riddle.

Inside the apartment, Gary closed the door and fumbled for the cord of the floor lamp.

As Gary tugged the cord he was met by a blinding burst of light that fairly dazzled him. Reeling away,

with his arm across his eyes, he felt the prod of a gun muzzle against his side, accompanied by a voice

that growled "Sit down." Then a shove landed him in a waiting chair.

Instinctively Gary Barden clenched his fist, then let it slowly open--empty. In the course of this surprise,

someone had plucked away that final letter from the unknown correspondent in the Solomon Islands.

II.

GARY'S captors were talking. There were just two of them, judging from their voices, though Gary still

couldn't see them. Wherever he looked, his gaze was clouded by a mass of floating blackness. This

explained the device the pair had used to take Gary unaware.

It was simply a flash bulb inserted in the lamp socket. Gary had been blinded temporarily when he pulled

the lamp cord. How long his vision would require to return to normal was a question best answered by

waiting it out. Meanwhile he could at least listen to what went on about him.

"It doesn't tell much, this letter," one man was saying, "except to prove what Holbart told us."

"About expecting three letters," agreed the other man. "Yes, Prentham mentions them here, when he says

he hoped his other letters were received."

"Others might mean more than two."

"Zalvar didn't think so, and he questioned Holbart personally. When we report back to--"

The rest was drowned in the first man's warning hiss, evidently intended to cover a repetition of the name

"Zalvar" which Gary thereupon determined to remember, whatever else he might forget. Evidently it

wasn't healthy to even hear the name once, for the first man said abruptly:

"Don't tell this fellow anything that isn't necessary. We're here to ask him questions and get the answers if

he has them. The less trouble he is, the better for him. People who find out too much can make trouble."

All this applied to Gary and now he could see the man who was stating the case. Amid the dwindling

blackness appeared a face that was sallow and very foreign, though more suave than the man's hard tone

would indicate.

"He must know something all ready." This argument came from the second man, whose face, puffy and

pock-marked, came floating into Gary's range like a sea-serpent poking its head from the deep. "The

letters are addressed to him."

"Holbart explained that." Rising, the sallow man stepped toward Gary. "He was using Barden's name and

address." Along with the thrusting face, Gary saw the glitter of a gun muzzle. Then came the question:

"All right. Barden, speak up. Why did you let Eric Holbart take this apartment?"

Gary blinked and not because his eyes still bothered him.

"All right, Barden, what about Holbart?"

The tone was harder this time. Gary saw no reason to avoid an answer. Quite coolly, he replied:

"I never heard of him."

"This was your apartment, wasn't it?"

"For a few weeks, yes," admitted Gary. "Then I went back to the hospital. The janitor said he could

arrange a sublet, so rather than lose a good apartment, I said to go ahead."

"And Holbart took the sublet?"

"I don't know who took it. When I came back the rent was paid up but the apartment was empty. The

old janitor was gone and the new one took it for granted the place was mine because I had the key."

Gary was seeing clearly now as he glanced from man to man. It was only when his eyes went past the

window that the blackness returned. The window was dark anyway, but its blotted surface seemed to

spread and splotch the walls like a mammoth, growing ink-spot.

The window was wide open, which indicated that Gary's visitors had used it as a means of entry.

"Getting back to Holbart." Sallow face was putting all the questions. "What was he doing, calling himself

you?"

"Better ask him," suggested Gary. "You seem to have been getting results so far."

It was a trifle too smart, and Gary regretted it the moment it was out. From the way the sallow man's face

clouded, and not from any optical illusions, Gary could tell that his thoughts were reverting to Pock

Mark's unwise reference to somebody named Zalvar. It was smooth though, the way the sallow man

glossed over his glower and pressed home another query.

"You know Paul Prentham of course?"

"Never heard of him," replied Gary. "He must be one of Holbart's friends."

"And one of yours too, or he wouldn't take chances sending letters to you."

"If you mean that letter"--Gary gestured to the envelope which he now saw in the hands of the

pock-faced man--"I wouldn't know. I didn't have time to read it before your friend here snatched it."

There was much of the hiss in the snarl that Sallow Face gave and he backed it with another gesture of

his gun.

"This wasn't the only letter, Barden! Let's have those others!"

"What others?"

"The two from the Solomon Islands. This makes the third and we know you were smart enough to keep

them. You would have been even if you didn't know Prentham!"

That challenge gave Gary a sudden idea. Delivery of the unexpected was some of the old Ranger

technique. Having taken tougher enemies than these into camp, Gary decided to outwit this pair of

Zalvarites.

Cagily, Gary put it:

"Suppose I did know Prentham?"

"That's better," commended Sallow Face with a leer. "So you kept the letters, like he told you."

"That wasn't what he told me."

"No?"

"You read the last letter." Gary gestured toward the envelope that Pock Mark held. "It happened that I

read it too, while I was downstairs. It told me to get rid of the others; so I did."

The sallow man's scowl became something more than vicious, though with a trace of half-belief. Then:

"There wasn't anything of that sort in the letter."

"You didn't hold it to the light," remarked Gary, wisely. "That's when the secret writing shows. It takes a

strong light too, or it wouldn't have sneaked past the censor's." Looking to his left, Gary gestured to a

table lamp. "Try it against that one and see for yourself."

Of course Gary picked the brighter of the two table lamps that his visitors had turned on. They fell for his

little game as nicely as he could have hoped under these strained circumstances. Sallow Face didn't

exactly forget himself, he just left too much for Pock Mark, by giving a double gesture calling for the

letter and indicating that his companion should take charge of Gary.

It was done and there was the sallow man holding the letter against the light with the envelope in his same

hand, while his thick-faced pal was keeping a gun turned on Gary.

Gary in turn had risen from his chair and when the sallow man snarled that the light didn't show the hidden

message, Gary politely persisted that it should. Just to prove it, Gary pointed over the sallow man's

shoulder, then extended a hand, urging him to hold the letter a little higher against the light.

The other man was getting interested and Gary sensed, without looking around, that the fellow's gun hand

had relaxed. This was the time for action.

Snatching the envelope and letter with one hand, Gary drove hard with his opposite shoulder, sending the

sallow man headlong, table, lamp, and all. The complete maneuver brought Gary full around and into a

low dive past the bigger man who held the gun, the other table lamp being the next objective. The only

thing that escaped Gary's calculations was the totally unnecessary foot-stool that formed a feature of this

furnished apartment.

Gary tripped over it.

Breaking his fall with one elbow, Gary shoved his other hand beyond him to reach the table that bore the

remaining lamp. His fingers gave the table a topple, but it wasn't quite enough. Literally the table was

balancing there on two legs with the lamp anchored by the cord that ran across, one so dependent on the

other's fall that neither seemed inclined to budge.

Maybe a second or two would have been enough, but the big man was already aiming in his direction,

and Sallow Face was rallying from the far wall. And far from being anything but helpless, Gary was

seeing black again. It was swarming anew in from the open window, that irregular blotch that had

deceived Gary's eyes before.

Only this time it was deception in reverse. Far from an illusion, the blackness was solid and alive.

It was the phantom figure that Gary had glimpsed across the street, now revealed as a cloaked form

armed to the teeth. Such was Gary's first--and brief--impression of a mighty fighter known as The

Shadow.

Brief because at the very moment The Shadow's guns were training on the cowering pair, who had

turned when they heard his vengeful laugh, the table slipped the noose that held it and crashed along with

the lamp.

Then all was blackness.

III.

IT was a swift and furious free-for-all, with two men who owned allegiance to somebody called Zalvar

flinging everything they could find in the way of furniture to stave off disaster as represented by The

Shadow. As for Gary, The Shadow was counting upon him to show good judgment by getting himself

where he wouldn't be in the way. Gary responded by taking a short cut to the open window.

Having no gun, Gary couldn't help The Shadow's cause by staying in the fray. Each time a revolver

coughed, there was a responding laugh from The Shadow, proving that he was simply baiting his foemen

into wasting their shots.

Yet Gary wasn't going further than the window. He intended to stay right there, should a counter-attack

be needed. The Shadow must have recognized this, for in sweeping past the window, he gave Gary a

sharp, whispered command to hurry down below. Still Gary stayed, half crouched on the ledge, ready

for the fight when the right time came.

Only there wasn't to be a right time.

One man reached the door and yanked it open; the other, seeing the handy exit, dived for it. Both were

thinking only of escape and Gary couldn't tell which was which in the glimpse he caught of them. What

Gary didn't realize was that the light from the hallway streamed straight over to the window, revealing him

quite plainly to anyone watching from outdoors.

It was The Shadow who took account of that situation. Bulging up suddenly, he hurtled Gary clear

through the window into the beginning of a headlong pitch to the cement yard three floors below!

Gary's surprise at having a friend turn foe was offset by the luck that he encountered. Clutching, Gary

caught the skeleton steps of the fire escape from the under side, and found himself dangling from what

amounted to a slanted ladder. And then, pawing forward for each lower step, Gary was descending the

contrivance madly, hand under hand.

The Shadow had given him a chance for life by heaving him wide of the window. Thudding bullets,

echoed by dull shots across the court, were spattering the brick of the window ledge, while some went

whining through to Gary's apartment.

Zalvar's men had kept a sharpshooter stationed on a roof of another house. Evidently this watcher hadn't

observed The Shadow's cloaked approach, but he had spotted Gary when the hallway light filled the

apartment. By prompt foresight The Shadow had saved Gary's life--and his own.

For The Shadow had dropped beneath the window ledge, inside the apartment, and now his gun made a

clean hit that brought a howl from the opposite roof. Having crippled the sharpshooter, The Shadow was

now free to pursue the pair who had fled out through the front.

Meanwhile, Gary had reached the lower landing of the fire escape and there he caught the sliding ladder

that automatically dipped him down into the courtyard. His next bet was to get around and help The

Shadow. Gary found the narrow alley and made for the front street.

The brief gunfire hadn't disturbed the neighborhood much. All that looked amiss was a taxicab, wheeling

away from near the house as though the driver were out of his wits. Another cab was swinging in from

the corner and Gary waved it to a stop. Breathless he climbed in through the door, to hear the driver

say:

"Yeah, I know. Follow that cab. All right, bud, that's why I cruise around here. Always somebody is

running after somebody else, generally some guy whose wife has walked out saying she won't be back.

You look too intelligent to fall for that hoke, but who am I to argue?"

Gary didn't care to argue either, since the loquacious driver was picking up the trail. But after a few

dozen zigzagged blocks, the other cab was lost.

"No use," sympathized the driver. "She was smart, having that hack dodge around. Where do I take you

now? Home again?"

"That wasn't where I lived," returned Gary, blandly. "We were just visiting there. Drop me off at Times

Square and I'll take in a movie before I go home."

It was good policy, thought Gary, to detach himself from recent events. For one thing, he wasn't going

back to his own apartment where somebody named Eric Holbart had posed as Gary Barden. It would

be better to let Holbart take the blame for any aftermath of the fireworks that had occurred there. All the

neater because Gary was at this moment drawing something from his pocket, an object that he had thrust

there amid the excitement.

It was the third letter from Paul Prentham, envelope and all, and not too badly crumpled. Smoothing it,

Gary added it to the previous exhibits that bore the orange stamps from the Solomon Islands.

In thinking he had been close on the trail of two fugitives, Gary was giving himself far too much credit. He

should have guessed that he wouldn't be ahead of The Shadow. The cab that Gary had seen speeding

away from the brownstone apartment house was actually The Shadow's, bent on overtaking the pair that

Gary had in mind.

Their head start proved to their advantage, for they had eluded The Shadow, temporarily at least. That

fact was proved by a scene now taking place in a small but sumptuously furnished apartment in another

section of Manhattan.

There, a man of broad face whose dark hair was parted in Napoleonic style, was seated beside a table,

telephone in hand. Not a flicker showed in his dark eyes as he listened to the voice across the wire. This

was the way with Felix Zalvar when he heard news he didn't like.

Across from Zalvar sat a little, nervous man with pasty face and quick-mannered eyes. He seemed much

out of place in these surroundings, and worried by the phone call. When Zalvar finally spoke, he

mentioned the little man by name, which only made the visitor more nervous.

"Yes, Jitter Breel is here." Those eyes of Zalvar's burrowed in Jitter's direction. "I shall arrange matters

with him. Meanwhile phone me at intervals, but only when you are sure that it is safe."

As Zalvar hung up the telephone, Jitter found his voice and asked nervously:

"Did something go sour for your crowd?"

Zalvar's eyebrows raised as his lips turned downward. It was his equivalent of a smile.

"Sour?" he inquired. "That is a strange word."

"But you said--"

"I told my men to use discretion." Zalvar's tone had an odd foreign accent, its origin difficult to trace.

"You see they speak like I do; not like Americans."

Jitter nodded; he had met some of Zalvar's men.

"Therefore they must be careful." Zalvar's hand gave an idle wave. "People might misunderstand them."

That brought a grin from Jitter and Zalvar rewarded it with a rebuke.

"You are misunderstanding me already," declared Zalvar. "Our business is to sell stamps, not to steal

them. We do not like to have people ask too many questions."

Jitter gave a hasty nod.

"Therefore we do not ask too many questions ourselves," continued Zalvar, in a tone as smooth as oil. "If

valuable stamps are brought to us, we do not inquire where they came from. We are more interested in

where we might be able to sell them."

"That's just it," put in Jitter, eagerly. "I'm putting it straight, Mr. Zalvar. We're all set to operate out of the

Cabana Malibu, and you know what a front that joint can mean to any racket --"

Zalvar's eyebrows had a different lift, as though Jitter's terms puzzled him. Interrupting himself, the little

man put the tale in something closer to Basic English.

"I mean we think it's easy, getting the stamps in the first place. Only we don't know how to pick them."

"You bring the stamps," suggested Zalvar "We will pick the valuable ones. Could anything be simpler?"

There was something smooth in Zalvar's query, as though he intended it to be a leading question. Jitter's

response was precisely what the Napoleonic man expected.

"I mean pick places," explained Jitter, "not just stamps. It's a goofy business right from the word go. For

instance, Rufe Thurner says--"

There was a disapproving head-shake from Zalvar, his favorite form of interruption.

"No names, please."

"Well, everybody says," amended Jitter, "that if you want to find which dealers handle the big money

stuff, you've got to know something about their business. If you go around finding out, they'll remember

you. Worst of all, these dealers don't put up a front, the way jewelers do. There's customers come to the

club who could tell us something, only we don't like to ask them too much either."

Zalvar nodded as Jitter relaxed and took a breath. Then in his imperial style, Zalvar reached for a pen,

gave a flourish as he wrote a name on a sheet of paper and handed the result to Jitter.

"Can you remember that name?"

Reading it, Jitter nodded and began to fold the piece of paper.

"Then remember it."

Plucking the paper, Zalvar tore it and fluttered the fragments into a waste-basket. "Be ready to go there

tomorrow night, if necessary."

The term 'necessary' didn't quite make sense to Jitter, and his puzzled stare showed it.

"Something must happen first," explained Zalvar, with one of his downward smiles. "That is all you need

to know. Good-night."

Bowing his nervous visitor out, Zalvar closed the door, then turned to a bookcase and brought down a

stamp album from a line that was perched upon a shelf. As he carefully turned the pages and studied the

album's contents, Zalvar smiled again, grimly.

Zalvar hadn't told Jitter Breel that The Shadow had interfered with a certain project that Zalvar's own

men had undertaken on this very evening.

Mention of The Shadow wouldn't be encouraging to the group that Jitter represented. Felix Zalvar was a

man who knew.

IV.

LATE the next afternoon, Gary Barden arrived at Delancey's Stamp Mart and boldly walked in the door.

The blue-eyed blonde behind the counter looked surprised. Gary had timed his unexpected arrival very

nicely, setting it about half an hour before the place closed. Gary had also paused just long enough to

make sure that Mr. Delancey wasn't busy.

He adopted a confidential tone with Delancey as the wan man looked up over the top of his glasses.

"I want to show you some interesting covers," stated Gary. He had picked up the term 'covers' from a

display in the window, where canceled stamps were exhibited on their original envelopes. "Maybe you

could give me an idea as to their value."

Old Delancey was interested at once, but he didn't entirely want to desert another customer who was

seated at the counter looking through some approval sheets. Delancey compromised by giving a terse

order to the blonde, who--not at all to Gary's surprise--was listening to his business with Delancey.

"Suppose you wait on Mr. Darr, Marcia," suggested Delancey. "I shall attend to this gentleman."

So the blonde's name was Marcia. Gary made a mental note of that while he watched the girl move along

behind the counter to where Darr was seated. Unfortunately Darr had overheard the term 'covers' and

was interested too. He turned a long sharp face, with prying eyes, in Gary's direction. Having broken the

ice, Gary decided not to worry about kibitzers. Retaining Prentham's letters in his pocket, he handed

Delancey the envelopes that bore the orange stamps.

"British Solomon Islands," defined Delancey. "An obsolete issue that carries the word 'Protectorate' and

not the later issue. These are the first issue, the large ones. Suppose I check them by the catalog."

Gary hadn't an idea that a postage stamp catalog could be as large as the massive volume which

Delancey consulted. Printed on thin paper it ran close to two thousand pages, but Delancey had no

trouble in finding British Solomon Islands in its alphabetical place.

"Two and a half-penny ultramarine"--Delancey paused, his finger on the column. "No, that was the

engraved series of 1908 to 1911, watermarked multiple crown and letters C. A., perforated fourteen.

"Your stamps"--Delancey's finger was moving higher while his elbow motioned toward Gary--"are

specimens of the two and a half-penny orange, series of 1907, lithographed, unwatermarked and

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