Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 284 - The Shadow Meets The Mask

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THE SHADOW MEETS THE MASK
by Maxwell Grant
As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," October 1944.
A reign of terror in a series of daring crimes that defied solution... An
accusing voice blocked The Shadow's moves toward justice, as a murdered
gangman
came back to life threatening death and destruction in a fear-ridden city!
CHAPTER I
"- AND this great city is in the grip of a continual crime wave, despite
the arguments of the police to the contrary. To refute those arguments, I give
you statistics which can not be denied. Remember: figures do not lie -"
It was the voice of Ron Meldor, self-styled the "Citizen of Justice" but
known in certain other circles as the "Crackpot of WVX." His tone, energetic
in
its delivery, had a flamboyance that attracted listeners, whether they agreed
with him or not. Whether crusader or fanatic - or perhaps a dash of both - Ron
Meldor had captured the highest Crossley rating of any Manhattan news
commentator.
Meldor's voice was striking a steady note, as it always did when he
talked
in facts and figures. Dispassionately he was comparing past statistics with
present, to prove that Manhattan was experiencing more crime per capita than
in
the gory times of the Five Points Gang or the heyday of such notorious
characters as Lefty Louie and Gyp the Blood.
Then, with a blatant rise, the announcer's voice proclaimed:
"- And even now, while I am broadcasting from my sealed suite in the
Hotel
Alexandra, crime may be rampant in Manhattan - and why not? My statistics show
that a crime is perpetrated on an average of seven minutes during a period of
twenty-four hours!
"It is now just seven minutes after ten o'clock on this Wednesday
evening.
So far as days of the week are concerned, Wednesday is as good as any other
from
the standpoint of criminals. Given a place for crime, they will choose their
own
time and operate at leisure.
"Nor do they respect persons. They will rob anyone if it proves
profitable
and dispose of anybody who tries to interfere, should convenience so demand.
Why, even now, perhaps within sight of this very hotel, some genius of crime
may be hard at work, mocking our police and the law for which they stand!"
There was an organ sting to emphasize Ron's pronouncement; then, the
commentator's voice resumed its low, convincing pitch:
"Yes, even now, some man of crime may be hard at work -"
The man with the mask gave a low, derisive laugh as he reached over and
turned down the radio. He'd enjoyed it so far, the masked man had, but he
didn't like that crack about being hard at work. The man with the mask liked
to
handle his crimes easily.
For instance, the wall safe that at present occupied his efforts. It
belonged to Rufus Howland, the millionaire who had been so active in the
United
Charity Drive. Old Howland had a habit of matching cash contributions with
equal
amounts of his own; like as not, this wall safe was stuffed with currency that
the philanthropist had parked, intending to deposit it in the bank tomorrow.
Anyway, it was worth a try -
Under the deft touch of the masked man's fingers, the combination was
responding with the click of hidden tumblers, sounds that he could hear
through
an appliance which he pressed against the safe front. His was the manner of a
physician handling a stethoscope, which indeed his device resembled. To him,
the clicks of a combination were like heart beats.
That was why he had tuned down Ron Meldor. Scientific crime presented
enough problems without vocal interference from the commentator who denounced
it. Still, this man who could have styled himself "The Mask" found Meldor's
half hour harangues rather amusing, even inspiring in the course of crime
except when they interfered with the sound of safe tumblers.
He could have called himself The Mask, could this genius of crime.
Whether
he did or not was another question, like that of his actual identity. At times
his mask could be regarded as superfluous; at the present moment for example.
His face could not have been seen even without the mask, for it was turned
directly toward the safe.
Hence only The Mask's eyes were visible; eyes as narrow as the mask-slits
that half hid them. They were glinting as they watched his own hand at work,
as
though the mind behind those eyes was exerting some strange force of will to
make the safe tumblers obey.
Then, tuned to another organ sting from Meldor's broadcast came a sharp,
harsh hiss muffled only by the hanging fringes of the bandana mask. It meant
success, as the action of the deft hands proved. One whipped away the
listening
device and bundled it beneath The Mask's top coat; the other turned the
safe-knob and brought the steel door wide.
Green currency displayed itself in neat crisp bundles, a sight that would
have excited the average crook. But there was nothing rabbity about The Mask,
not even when his slitted eyes viewed such tempting lettuce. The hard part of
his labors done, The Mask preferred a little relaxation. He reached to the
radio on the table beside the wall safe and tuned up Ron Meldor.
"Quarter past ten," the commentator was saying, "and my broadcast had
reached the half way mark. Time for another crime to be completed, if the law
of averages is running true to form. Remember, present statistics indicate
that
two hundred and fifty-seven crimes are committed daily in Greater New York."
The man with the mask was chuckling as he reached into the safe. Tilting
his head toward the radio, he mimicked the tone of Ron Meldor.
"That's a lot of crime, Ron," he remarked. "Well, tonight you can call it
two hundred and fifty-eight."
"Tomorrow I shall probably hear from my good friend the police
commissioner," came Meldor's tone, sharp with sarcasm. "He will say that I
have
exaggerated these statistics by including minor infractions of the law. I have
a
full right to count even small violations, considering how the commissioner
overlooks the large -"
"Nice going, Ron," chuckled The Mask. "Well, this counts as a large one -
a very large one -"
The Mask was counting the money as he threw the accent on "very." He
managed it rapidly, for the bills were all in sizeable denominations. They
totaled close to fifty thousand dollars, which The Mask bundled away beneath
his dark coat. Then, closing the safe, he removed his bandana mask and coolly
used it to wipe away anything bearing a reasonable similarity to fingerprints.
This process didn't reveal the unmasked face, for with his removal of the
bandana, The Mask canted his soft hat at a rakish angle and leaned to listen
to
Ron Meldor. While one hand was mopping the safe front, the other was again
toning down the radio, giving it a subdued effect.
"- And if the commissioner has crime so well in hand" - the tiny voice of
Ron Meldor was storming like a tempest in a tea-pot - "why should I find it
necessary to broadcast from a locked and isolated hotel room? Why should I
require my own bodyguards, privately hired, to watch outside this hotel? I can
tell you why!"
Ron Meldor must have taken a long pause for breath, because The Mask
found
time to insert a delayed remark.
"Tell us, Ron," imitated The Mask. From his pocket, he drew a cigarette
and raised it to his lips. "Don't you think the commish could protect you in a
pinch?"
"Because I have been marked for death," came the voice from the radio.
"Every day my mail-bag shows dozens of threatening letters. Crime is striking
closer - closer -"
"That's right, Ron." The Mask was lighting his cigarette as he spoke.
"It's going to strike even closer."
The Mask was turning toward the open window of Howland's living room.
Against the background of Manhattan's skyline was a lighted sign on an
old-fashioned building only a few blocks away. Its gleaming letters bore the
name:
HOTEL ALEXANDRA
There was something resembling a subdued echo in The Mask's chuckle as
though his narrowed eyes had picked out the very window of the room from which
Ron Meldor was making his nightly broadcast. Then, half-turning toward the
radio, The Mask halted short, his head tilted with his face away from the
light. He was listening to something quite different from the broadcast.
Creaky footsteps were coming from a darkened entry leading into this
front
living room. Reaching his hand to an ash-tray, The Mask tamped his cigarette
and
left it there. His other hand let the match-pack fall; with both hands free,
his
fingers began an impatient, clutching motion.
His hand finding the base of an ornamental table-lamp, The Mask shifted
at
an angle beyond, so that the shade hid his face. Yet the glow through the
translucent shade was sufficient to cast his shadow on the wall, where it
registered in huge proportions, like a crouching monster waiting for its prey.
Only a shadow, this, but enough to stir the creeping man to rapid action.
Into the living room sprang a worn-faced, gray-haired man whose cutaway jacket
and shoestring necktie listed him as Howland's butler. In his tight,
thin-knuckled fist, the fellow was brandishing a revolver that looked like a
family heirloom. Waving the gun in the direction of the black-splotched wall,
the butler shouted:
"Stop where you are, thief!"
The Mask must have gauged it to the length of the lamp-cord, for he
withheld action until the butler's drive had reached a precise point. Then,
even as the butler was aiming, The Mask gave the lamp a fling with a jerky,
side-armed motion. The missile was aimed as well as it was timed.
Dodging backward, the butler was throwing up a warding hand as he pointed
the gun with the other. The lamp drove his forearm back against his face; the
gun spurted upward as he reeled. The two shots that burrowed into the ceiling
seemed to help the butler's sprawl with their recoil.
The crash of the lamp broke the echoes of those futile shots and the
smash
was followed by the slam of a closing door, denoting the departure of The
Mask.
There was a feeble bleat from the felled butler; then a voice, tuned down but
defiant, stormed from the radio in the corner.
"- And if you are listening in, Commissioner Weston" - Ron Meldor was
working to his highest pitch - "I call upon you to heed this call from a
Citizen of Justice! Despite your claims to the contrary, crime has become a
paying game. I call upon you to put a stop to it, not tomorrow, but now!"
If Commissioner Weston happened to be heeding that demand, he was doing
so
too late. Already a smooth-working crook, known only as The Mask, had proved
that he could make crime pay - not tomorrow, but tonight!
CHAPTER II
THOSE shots in Howland's living room interrupted Ron Meldor's broadcast
ten minutes before its close. The voice that stood for justice was cut off by
a
gloved hand that clicked the button on the instant. Not the switch of
Howland's
radio, but one in a taxicab that was swinging a corner, nearly a block away.
"Hear them, boss?"
The anxious query came from the cab-driver and it brought an immediate
response from the gloved passenger.
"I heard them, Shrevvy." The tone was both calculating and calm. "Third
floor, northeast corner of the apartment house. Blank the lights and work
around to the back. We'll see who comes out."
Someone was coming out as the cab glided silently and darkly to a
coasting
stop. The somebody was a quick-moving man with his coat bundled tight and his
hat pulled down over his eyes. He didn't bother to look around; instead, he
made a quick turn into an alleyway and was instantly gone from sight.
Thus The Mask made his departure from a scene of crime.
A smooth operator, The Mask.
Smoother, however, was the figure that followed him. It came from the
halted taxicab with a glide that was totally invisible. In the gloom behind
the
apartment building, there wasn't a chance of spotting the cloaked form of The
Shadow.
The Shadow's only token of departure was a slight slam of the cab door
that wasn't accidental. The sound was for the benefit of the driver, Shrevvy,
who wouldn't otherwise have known that his chief had fared forth into the
night. The slam also meant that Shrevvy was to use his own judgment.
In other words, Shrevvy wasn't to go cruising around in search of the
fugitive whose trail The Shadow had taken, but he was to keep handily in this
vicinity in case his cab would be needed. So Shrevvy tallied off a
half-minute's leeway before he turned on the lights and started the cab in a
very normal fashion.
By then Shrevvy couldn't have begun to find the trail. Even The Shadow
was
encountering difficulties.
The Mask was both slippery and swift. He knew his way through darkened
alleys as though he had traced them previously. He couldn't have done better
if
he'd expected to have The Shadow on his trail. Into each alley where The Mask
disappeared, The Shadow in following encountered some unexpected obstacle.
For example, the fence with the barbed-wire top. It marked a dead-stop in
the very middle of what was hardly an alley at all, but rather a shoulder-wide
space between two brick walls where the owners of two adjacent buildings had
evidently disagreed over a property line.
Ordinarily The Shadow would have scaled an obstacle like the blocking
fence, by matting the barbed-wire with his cloak, but he knew The Mask must
have used some easier process, otherwise The Shadow would have overtaken him.
It took The Shadow half a minute to find the weak spot of the wooden fence, a
creaky board that worked in reverse like a panel in a Chinese puzzle and made
the entire barrier pivot horizontally like a paddle-wheel.
By then, The Mask had gained another lead in this silent but steady stalk
through peculiar by-ways. The Shadow's last glimpse of him came when the
huddled man made a quick sidle across the street in back of the Alexandra
Hotel, where ornate windows with heavy curtains showed dim cracks of light
from
lavish old-fashioned reception rooms.
There, before The Shadow could follow around another corner, a service
door swung open and two brawny men in shirt-sleeves put in an appearance. They
looked as if they belonged to the night shift, though there was no telling in
what capacity. Down the corridor behind them was the entrance to a service
elevator, beyond it the open door of a little office.
From the office, a radio was shouting full-blast in the familiar voice of
Ron Meldor, completing his nightly tirade against crime. One of the
shirt-sleeved men slid his arms into his coat and gave a thumb gesture.
"Turn it off, Kirby," he said. "The guy gets too loud. They'll be
hollering again from the dining room."
"He's most through, Jeff." returned Kirby. "He always winds up that way
just before the commercial. When that's over, he talks nice and quiet when be
says good-night."
"Yeah," recalled Jeff with a nod. "Anyway, he makes sense. There's, too
much crime, no matter what the cops say."
"Because there's too many guys the cops are too dumb to catch."
Stepping back behind the door, Kirby closed it, blotting out Meldor's
voice with the word: "And so, Commissioner Weston, I demand that you -"
Meanwhile Jeff was buttoning his coat as he started across the street to
a
little lunch room. With the sidewalk dark again, The Shadow cut close to the
door and thus behind Jeff's very back was on his way to the corner of the
hotel. Turning there, he found himself in a blind alley that ended in a solid
brick wall with a wooden door that bore a padlock.
There wasn't any trace of the man who answered what little description
The
Shadow had gained of The Mask. In fact there wasn't a sign of anyone.
On the left was the blank wall of a windowless garage; on the right, the
high basement windows of the hotel, all with heavy gratings. Licking a
flashlight along them, The Shadow saw that those tall upright bars were frozen
with the rust of years. The padlocked door promised better, since it might
have
a trick board like the fence The Shadow had encountered earlier, so the
cloaked
investigator turned his attention in that direction.
Not a thing proved wrong with the door. The logical conclusion therefore
was that The Mask had continued past this blind alley. Nevertheless, The
Shadow
wasn't always inclined to accept the logical; hence, he was turning from the
door and about to center his attention on the cornice above the basement
windows, when something brought him to rigid attention.
As The Shadow stiffened, his flashlight extinguished itself. With the
padlocked door as his background, The Shadow stared toward the outer end of
the
alley, where be had heard a scraping sound. He noted something huddled, which
his photographic memory recorded as a large ash-can, just within the alley,
but
not suited as a hiding place - at least not from this side.
From the street end, it could be more convenient, as The Shadow had
observed before entering the cul-de-sac. That was, somebody could be edging
out
from the front of the garage to take bearings on the alley depths. No such
observer could possibly have seen The Shadow, but there was something that he
might have spotted, the twinkle of the narrow-focussed flashlight.
Just by way of test, The Shadow took a long reach, let the light blink
from his fingertips; then snaked his hand back, with a body twirl that carried
him a double arm's length from the spot where he had made the decoy flash.
It was good judgment, that prolonged twist. It made allowance for lack of
accuracy on the part of the man who saw it, or any guess-work that he might
have added to his calculation. One thing, the result wasn't delayed.
Something arrived through the dark with the speed of a homeward-flying
bat. Its whirr seemed to literally carve the night and it finished with a
splintery thud that sliced the thick wood of the padlocked door. It quivered
there, eight inches from The Shadow's shoulder, a knife that showed about a
thumb's width of a much longer blade. The rest of the steel was driven through
the door.
The Shadow laid a gloved hand on the knife handle, but he didn't try to
pluck the weapon. His hand was fisted and it clutched a .45 automatic. The
power of the knife's arrival testified to the straight line it had followed
and
The Shadow had a message to send back along that path. With the barrel of his
automatic twinned to the knife handle, The Shadow gave the trigger a pull, as
his arm followed a forward thrust.
That shove was necessary to gain elbow room and a body shift to take the
recoil. As The Shadow fired, the ash-can clattered, heaved by the knife-hurler
who was already starting his getaway. The Shadow didn't even glimpse the man's
departure off beyond the garage, but he took up the trail with rapid strides.
Turning tables on The Shadow wasn't a trick for anyone to try, not even
The Mask. The Shadow had a habit of reversing all such situations which he was
now demonstrating. As he reached the mouth of the alley, he heard scurrying
footsteps further down the street and was gauging them for his next target,
when chance intervention came.
Jeff, the brawny who had gone to the lunch room, was coming back on the
lope, to learn what the shooting was about. The service door clattered open
and
Kirby sprang out, inspired with the same mission. The bright light from the
open
doorway showed them what it shouldn't have.
The pair saw The Shadow.
Explanations wouldn't do in such a situation. The Shadow neglected them,
along with the man who had thrown the knife, and fled. The question of The
Mask
was a score to be settled later; right now, The Shadow had his own reputation
to
consider. Perhaps his health was also at stake considering the sincerity of
the
surge that Jeff and Kirby were making, but The Shadow didn't even bother to
learn how well they were equipped with weapons.
With one swift wheel, The Shadow faded from the lighted sidewalk into the
darkness of the alley. Jeff and Kirby guessed which way he had gone, but they
didn't guess what was coming. Plunging into the darkness, they expected to
grab
a dodging figure; instead, they were met by a rolling obstacle.
The Shadow simply shoved the overturned ash-can, with plenty of push
behind it. Meeting his husky hecklers, it bowled their legs from under them.
Grabbing at each other, Jeff and Kirby performed a pretzel sprawl in the
alley,
while The Shadow took the outlet. Around the corner came a cab that zig-zagged
neatly to avoid the ash-can wobbling in front of it. That timely maneuver
identified the driver.
A slam of the door and Shrevvy was hearing The Shadow's calm tone telling
him to try another vicinity, now that this section was aroused. Starting a
blind hunt for The Mask was useless under present circumstances.
Settling back into the rear seat, The Shadow removed his slouch hat and
let his cloak slide back from his shoulders. Clicking the switch of the cab's
radio he caught the familiar tone of Ron Meldor, Citizen of Justice, bidding
the listeners of WVX good-night.
"And it behooves us, my fellow citizens" - Ron's voice was teeming with
sincerity - "to do our part in proving that crime can not pay."
Shrevvy heard that admonition and the whispered laugh that followed it,
uttered from the rear seat of the cab, but he noted a distinct lack of
satisfaction in The Shadow's singular mirth.
The Shadow had done his part tonight, but it still remained for him to
prove the point at issue. That would depend on his next meeting with The Mask.
CHAPTER III
POLICE COMMISSIONER WESTON glared around Howland's living room and
finally
settled his stare on Dobbs, the butler, who was propped in an easy chair with
a
bandage around his head. This was the visible result of the butler's head-on
crash with the flying lamp from which Dobbs had suffered a slight memory
lapse.
Also present was Rufus Howland, a burly, red-faced man who usually
affected a bulldozing manner. Tonight, however, the loss of fifty thousand
dollars had quelled his usual attitude and Howland, instead of trying to
browbeat Dobbs, was taking the butler's part.
"Dobbs is entirely trustworthy, commissioner," assured Howland. "I hired
him because of his reliability. I'm sure he couldn't have had a hand in the
robbery."
Dobbs shook his bandaged head to substantiate Howland's testimony. Trying
to speak, the butler found it difficult, so Howland motioned for him to rest a
little longer. Going to a sideboard, the millionaire brought out a bottle of
his favorite twenty-year brandy and poured the butler a drink.
All this was observed by a taciturn, poker-faced gentleman who answered
to
the name of Inspector Joe Cardona. Noting the steady eyes that stared from
Cardona's swarthy countenance, Howland became a trifle restless.
"It wasn't my money," stated Howland, "but I intend to make it good. Not
a
penny will be lost by the charity fund. In fact, I'll double it. I'll give one
hundred thousand dollars!"
The door opened at Howland's statement and Cardona turned quickly as
though anticipating some new menace. Instead, a calm-faced gentleman entered
and gave a nod all around. He was Lamont Cranston, close friend of the police
commissioner, and something of an advisor in cases where crime struck into
wealthy circles.
Recognizing Cranston, Howland was quick to repeat his generous offer
concerning the charity fund. Coming from a millionaire, it didn't exactly call
for cheers, but it relieved a certain tension which had begun with Dobbs and
was beginning to apply to Howland himself. Cranston's arrival gave
Commissioner
Weston a chance to tactfully admit the point.
"It's another big robbery, Cranston," stated the commissioner. "The sort
of thing that adds fuel to those flames that Ron Meldor is spreading in his
outrageous broadcasts."
There was a slight flicker to Cranston's sphinx-like expression, noted
chiefly in the raising of his eyebrows.
"Outrageous, commissioner?"
"Well - yes!" His first word slow, Weston put sharp emphasis on the
second. Then: "Meldor is an upstart, nothing more, capitalizing on statistics
that he shapes to suit his own arguments. And who" - Weston's tone became
bitterly sarcastic - "and just who do you think listens to his broadcasts?"
"You for one, commissioner."
Cranston's calm comment almost brought a smile from Cardona, which would
have been the equivalent of a boisterous laugh from anyone else. Fortunately
the ace inspector managed to retain his dead pan with a lip twitch that was
too
brief for the commissioner to notice.
"Yes, I listen!" stormed Weston. "I listen because I know who else does.
Every crook in town is tuning in on WVX between ten and ten thirty. Ron Meldor
is telling them just how easy a racket crime can be!"
"Rather odd, commissioner," commented Cranston, "that if criminals are
listening to those broadcasts there should have been so many crimes occurring
during that very half hour. Let me see -"
Pausing, Cranston began to tabulate.
"Last week, there were two taxicab hold-ups, a pay-roll grab, a
restaurant
robbery -"
"And the knock-off of a gambling club," added Cardona. "It was the
biggest
of the lot."
Cranston nodded his thanks for the reminder. Then:
"This week there was an attempted warehouse robbery that for some reason
was abandoned -"
"But there were a couple of others that went through," put in Cardona,
"and there have been more stick-ups -"
"I am speaking of crimes in this particular vicinity," interposed
Cranston. Then, turning to Weston: "Crimes all within sight of the Hotel
Alexandra, committed between ten and ten thirty in the evening." Cranston's
pause was emphatic to let its significance drive home. "I would presume,"
added
Cranston, "that such crimes apart from their profit motive, might be designed
to
heap ridicule upon Ron Meldor as much as yourself, commissioner."
"So they might!" stormed Weston. "Only Meldor is twisting it the other
way
about. Thanks for the suggestion, Cranston. I'll have my say to Meldor when I
see him."
"Of course there could be another aspect to these circumstances of crime
-"
Weston waved his hands to interrupt Cranston's further suggestions. It
was
Weston's fashion to be blunt when he felt that he had reached the point of
something. He never realized that he might be blunting a point that could
stand
further sharpening. That was partly because Weston had another habit of
getting
back to business at hand whenever he suddenly thought of it. Here in Howland's
apartment was evidence of robbery as yet unsolved, a thing which the
commissioner just happened to remember.
Turning to Dobbs, Weston asked the vindicated butler what the robber
looked like. Slowly, Dobbs shook his head.
"He was turned away when I first saw him," testified Dobbs. "He was
leaning to listen to the radio, because it was tuned low."
"Never mind the radio -"
"But it might be important," insisted Dobbs, whose wits were returning
with his power of speech. "You see, the robber was listening to Ron Meldor,
over Station WVX."
Weston gave an annoyed grunt, which was echoed by a slight chuckle from
Cranston.
"We were wrong, commissioner," conceded Cranston. "Apparently this
ingenious criminal still listens to his favorite commentator without
interfering with his own work."
"Never mind such side issues, Cranston," snapped Weston. "We're
interested
in the burglar, not Ron Meldor. What we still need is a description of him."
"I can give you a bit of that, sir," supplied Dobbs, promptly. "I was
well
out in the hallway when I first saw him; then he went over toward the window,
lighting his cigarette."
"Didn't you see his face then?"
"No. He was turned toward the window. But he was putting the cigarette
out
when I entered."
"And then?"
"Well, that was when I got my only good look at him." Dobbs rubbed his
bandage to clear his recollection. "Not at his face, you understand, because
he
was on the other side of the lamp. But he was outlined against the wall, just
as
plain as you're standing before me now, commissioner."
"Go on!" Weston's patience was at its limit. "Describe the man, Dobbs."
Puckers appeared under the edge of the butler's bandage. They smoothed as
Dobbs was struck with a happy thought.
"Why, that's easy, commissioner!" exclaimed Dobbs. "He looked like - yes
exactly like - well, like a great human shadow!"
Beaming happily, Dobbs expected to see smiles appear upon the faces about
him, but the result was quite the opposite. Weston's eyes delivered a startled
bulge that formed a natural accompaniment to his dropping jaw. Cardona's face,
though fixed in its poker expression, showed a peculiar change of color that
was difficult to define. Only Cranston's features remained unmoved, but that
in
itself was a surprise to Dobbs.
Before Weston could find words, Cardona spoke up suddenly and gruffly.
"Don't let it worry you, commissioner. It's just something that couldn't
happen."
"But it has happened!" blurted Weston. "You just heard the facts,
inspector. He's turned to crime."
Blandly, Cranston inserted the query:
"Who has turned to crime, commissioner?"
Wheeling toward his friend, Weston stormed the answer as though Cranston
himself might be the very person who stood accused:
"The Shadow!"
CHAPTER IV
COLD silence gripped the room at Weston's words, catching Dobbs, crime's
only witness, in its freezing grip. The butler's smile remained, but it turned
puzzled, giving him an expression as perplexed as that of his employer, Rufus
Howland.
Only Lamont Cranston seemed indifferent to the mental chill. As casual as
ever, he produced a cigarette from an engraved case, inserted it in a holder,
and applied the flame from a lighter. Then, as the lighter clicked shut,
Cranston announced:
"You may be right, commissioner."
This from Cranston was almost too much for Weston, who for years had felt
that his calm-mannered friend had some contact with The Shadow, though the
commissioner had never gone to the preposterous extreme of identifying the two
as one and the same.
There was something about Cranston's lackadaisical manner that made it
utterly impossible to picture him accomplishing the swift, kaleidoscopic
actions of which The Shadow was capable. True, Weston had often seen Cranston
rise in an emergency when speed was necessary, but only in brief, spasmodic
fashion that in itself indicated him to be incapable of sustained rapidity.
At any rate, Commissioner Weston was literally flabbergasted by
Cranston's
admission that he might be right.
Inspector Cardona wasn't quite so sure.
Not sure on two counts: first, that The Shadow could have turned to
crime;
second, that Cranston couldn't be The Shadow.
Trained to police work almost from boyhood, Cardona couldn't picture any
true crime hunter joining the ranks of the hunted. As for the matter of
identity, Cardona was ready to concede that The Shadow might be almost
anybody.
Oddly, that was the very tack that Cranston now took.
"You may be right, commissioner." As he repeated the phrase, Cranston
strolled toward the far wall of the living room. "It could have been The
Shadow
who opened this wall safe. As for The Shadow himself, he might be anybody."
Pausing, Cranston turned, as though gauging the exact spot for the
action.
Then:
"And anybody might be mistaken for The Shadow!"
As he made the statement, Cranston proved it!
The living room had twin tables, one on each side of the wall safe. Until
the butler's encounter with the unknown burglar, each of those tables had
borne
an identical lamp. The escaping robber had thrown one at Dobbs, but the other
lamp was still in the place where it belonged and it was beyond this second
lamp that Cranston had paused to make his well-timed pivot.
Not only did the lamp shade cut off sight of his face; his tuxedo clad
figure was difficult to distinguish because of the intervening glare. In turn,
Cranston's tall form did something to the lamplight, particularly when he
stooped.
Against the wall appeared a hovering shape, grotesquely human, but
magnified to startling proportions. It was a monstrous shadow, terminating in
a
silhouetted profile that blurred when Cranston turned his head. A further
stoop
by Cranston and the whole shape loomed monstrously, for in coming closer to
the
light, he was cutting off more of its area.
Viewed calmly, the illusion was surprising; it must have been stupendous
to Dobbs when he had witnessed it under stress. Indeed the memory of those
excited moments imbued the butler at present, for Dobbs was nodding at the
huge
silhouette as though he recognized it.
"That was it!" blurted Dobbs. "That was the way he looked - the burglar -
only he was over there!"
摘要：

THESHADOWMEETSTHEMASKbyMaxwellGrantAsoriginallypublishedin"TheShadowMagazine,"October1944.Areignofterrorinaseriesofdaringcrimesthatdefiedsolution...AnaccusingvoiceblockedTheShadow'smovestowardjustice,asamurderedgangmancamebacktolifethreateningdeathanddestructioninafear-riddencity!CHAPTERI"-ANDthisgr...

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