Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 128 - The Shadow's Rival

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THE SHADOW'S RIVAL
by Maxwell Grant
As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," June 15, 1937.
CHAPTER I
ZERO HOUR
A CLUSTER of hard-faced men was spread about a large, square room. The
place was well-furnished with cushioned chairs and tables; its windows were
heavily curtained. Those windows were all at one end of the room; the other
three walls had doors.
The doors differed. One was a sliding barrier that marked the entrance to
an elevator shaft. Opposite it was a metal door that led to an upward
stairway,
for it was one step above the floor level. The third door was straight across
the room from the windows. It was open; and a passage beyond led to the
bedrooms of the sumptuous apartment.
Among the hard-faced men was one who sat glum and sullen, watching his
companions as they helped themselves to a buffet supper. On the table beside
the sullen man lay outspread newspapers. From every front page glowered a
photograph of his own ugly face.
The captions with those photographs named the sullen man as "Chink"
Rethlo, New York's own Public Enemy.
Nickname and title were both appropriate.
Chink's narrow-slitted eyes and yellowish complexion gave him a Mongolian
appearance, as did his straight black hair. His face was one that could be
easily recognized; as it had been, during his recent career of crime.
Staging three bank holdups at one-week intervals, Chink had openly bagged
nearly a million dollars in boodle. His final raid, perpetrated four days ago,
had been the most desperate.
It had produced a fray in which two bank guards and a uniformed policeman
had been shot dead by Chink's squad of killers.
When Chink brooded, his pals felt uneasy. They were wise enough to keep
their thoughts to themselves; but their leader had a faculty for guessing what
was in their minds. He showed that ability as he rose from his chair with a
sudden snarl.
"You're wondering what's eating me, huh?"
Chink grated the query; then pointed to the newspapers. He gave his own
answer.
"It's these news sheets! My mug staring offa every front page! The bulls
saying nothing! That may sound good to you lugs, but it's sour to me! When the
bulls have got nothing, they promise a lot!"
Chink looked away from his silent followers, to eye the doorways and
windows with suspicion.
"It looks like a swell hide-away, this joint," he added. "A regular
castle, on the twelfth floor of an old loft building that everybody's
forgotten. With our own elevator shaft, tucked in a corner, running straight
up
from the basement."
"Yeah, and Plugger Kilgey down there, with a cover-up crew. Trigger men
in
a pill-box waiting to chop down anybody who barges in on us. It looks swell;
still, I don't like it!" Chink sat down in his chair. He picked out one of his
tough-visaged companions. Giving a nudge to the door at his left, Chink
ordered:
"Get up to the roof, Herk. Take over Dave's lookout. Send him down here."
Herk hurried to obey Chink's order. When the door had closed behind him,
Chink thought over his previous statements and made an amendment.
"Maybe I'm wrong about the bulls," he declared. "They've been knocking
off
a lot of small-timers lately. That's probably luck. The bulls are dumb clucks,
mostly. But there's one guy that ain't. The Shadow!"
Mention of the name caused listeners to share Chink's concern. Scourge of
the underworld, The Shadow was dreaded by all men of crime. Mysterious,
invisible, he revealed himself only as a fighter cloaked in black. His
arrivals
occurred at times and places that crooks least expected.
"Why's The Shadow been laying off us?" demanded Chink, hoarsely. "I'll
tell you why. He's got something up that big sleeve of his! We gotta be on our
toes or first thing you know, The Shadow will be dropping in on us!"
THOSE words were not only a correct prophecy; they were to be actually
realized, precisely as Chink had stated. Already a scene was set as The Shadow
wanted it.
The roof that topped the loft building was as secluded a spot as any in
Manhattan. Herk and Dave, exchanging guard duty, were commenting on that very
fact. Situated among lower structures, in a poorly built section of the city,
the loft building commanded an excellent view.
The roof was surrounded by a high parapet. Poking their chins above the
rail, the two crooks chuckled at their security.
"I don't see why Chink's jittery," gruffed Herk. "Nobody can come up from
the cellar; and it's a cinch nobody's going to land here."
"Not unless he's got wings;" returned Dave. "Look down there, Herk, at
the
next building. It's two stories short of this one. And thirty feet between."
The two walked to the trapdoor that led to the stairs. Dave went down.
Herk paused to strike a match on the tinned surface of the closed trapdoor. He
was lighting a cigar, preparatory to taking over lookout duty.
It was then that motion occurred above the roof of the adjacent building.
In their survey of that roof, the lookouts had ignored a high water tank at
the
rear corner. Mounted upon high metal stilts, the tower came above the level of
the loft building.
Running from the conical peak of the water tank was a thin line of blue
steel wire; a mere thread, unnoticeable in the darkness. That stout but
slender
wire circled a bulgy ornamental post at the corner of the parapet, on the roof
that Herk guarded. The wire returned at a downward angle, to a steel strut
beneath the water tank.
The double track, affording both access and departure, had been put there
as the result of a clever boomerang throw while Dave was on lookout duty. The
boomerang had carried a thin cord around the post and back to its sender. The
string had been used to draw the wire into its present fast position.
The present motion at the top of the water tank was caused by a figure
that detached itself from darkness. A weirdly cloaked shape swung out into
space. Gloved hands gripped a tiny, wheeled trolley. The little car slid
smoothly, swiftly along the taut wire, carrying its tall passenger through the
air beneath it.
Herk heard the sing of the wire. He halted where he was; tightened his
grip upon a revolver. The sound was evasive. It ended while Herk stared about.
All that the lookout heard was the final fade of an echo that toned like a
tuning fork. Herk looked in the right direction at last; but he saw no one.
The black-cloaked figure had blended with the darkness at the corner
post.
He was across the rail, crouched on the roof itself. He was waiting for Herk's
next move.
If the crook turned away, he would spell his own finish. If he approached
the corner post, he would accomplish the same result. The situation was a
toss-up, with Herk due to lose in either case.
AS it happened, Herk decided to approach the rail. He was positive that
the sound had come from beyond the roof edge. He wanted to take a look below.
He chose the corner, because it promised two easy views, each in a different
direction. Herk gained neither.
The crook's lookout duty ended six feet from the corner. Blackness rose
like a living thing. Before Herk could aim, long arms shot forward. Gloved
fists clamped Herk's neck, choked the words that came from the thug's throat.
Only Herk's soundless lips phrased the name of the attacker whom the crook had
recognized:
"The Shadow!"
Soon, Herk lay face downward in the corner. He was silenced by a tight
gag. His legs were bent up in back of him. A crisscrossed leather thong held
his wrists and ankles, almost in a bunch. That mode of binding was both quick
and efficient. On his face, Herk was as helpless as a beetle on its back.
The night glow of Manhattan showed the figure that stalked toward the
trapdoor. Tall, lithe; The Shadow was clad in his familiar cloak. His head was
topped by a slouch hat. The down-turned brim hid all features except his
burning eyes.
In one fist, The Shadow held a massive automatic. Beneath his cloak, a
second .45 was in readiness for an instant draw.
Lone-handed, The Shadow was faring downward to settle scores with Chink
Rethlo and the murderer's tribe of killers.
At the bottom of the steps, The Shadow found the closed door. In
darkness,
he turned the knob, so imperceptibly that no one on the other side could
notice
it. After that, The Shadow eased the door outward, with the same consummate
skill.
Through a narrow crack, The Shadow saw Chink Rethlo. The jaundiced public
enemy was growling from his chair, saying more about the bulls. This time, he
was specifying one police officer.
"Joe Cardona! Huh! That palooka thinks he's big time since they made him
an inspector. Look at what this news sheet calls him. An ace! If Cardona's an
ace, I'll take a hand of deuces!"
The Shadow's second gun was out. His shoulder was ready to jam the door
open. He could see some members of Chink's crew. They were in suitable
position. Then came a sudden change that made the layout even better. Chink
was
leaning forward in his chair, one hand upraised.
"Listen, you bozos. I hear the elevator coming up. It must be Morry,
bringing up some news."
With that, Chink rose from his chair. He gazed toward the elevator and
the
others did the same. Crooks were totally off guard, so far as The Shadow's
door
was concerned. Shifting, the black-clad avenger could just see the elevator
door. The Shadow delayed action.
His attack was ready. The opening of that door would be the zero hour.
Morry, in the elevator, would be the only one to see The Shadow's door swing
open. The fellow's shout would turn Chink and the other crooks squarely toward
the muzzles of The Shadow's guns.
Zero hour. The time for the long-awaited thrust. Another stroke from The
Shadow, straight to the heart of crimeland. Helpless astonishment was due for
Chink Rethlo and his wanted band.
THE SHADOW, likewise, was due for a surprise.
The elevator had stopped. Its door clanged open with a vicious sweep.
Inside were six headquarters men, their guns bristling toward the center of
Chink's living room. Foremost in the unexpected group was a swarthy, stocky
man
whose poker-face meant business.
The law's leader was Inspector Joe Cardona.
The Shadow could not fire. His bullets might have reached the elevator.
He
was fortunate to have a metal-sheathed door between himself and the barrage
that
came. Cardona and his squad lost no time in starting battle. Chink Rethlo's
savage roar was their signal for action.
With his shout, Chink whipped out a revolver. His pals grabbed for their
guns. The only one who brought his gat to aim was Chink, and be never pulled
the trigger. Cardona beat him to the shot. Hard upon the bark of Joe's
revolver
came a supporting salvo from the elevator.
Chink Rethlo toppled, riddled by the bullets of the law. Other crooks
staggered, clipped by police shots. The rest let their guns fall; reached
their
hands high.
Piling into the room, detectives straddled Chink's dead body and clamped
handcuffs on sprawling wounded men, along with the unscathed few who had
surrendered.
At the elevator door, Joe Cardona stood triumphant; with revolver
leveled,
he stood like a watchful hawk while his men gathered in the members of Chink's
marauding band. This was a real catch, one of the best that Cardona had ever
managed. The ace had a right to feel proud. In fact, Joe's chest could have
swelled more than it actually did.
Beyond the opposite door, keen eyes were viewing the scene that meant
more
than it showed. The law had done more than capture Chink's renegade outfit.
The
law had plucked that crew from the grasp of The Shadow.
Long had The Shadow anticipated that conquest. To-night, he had brought
his plans to a point of certainty. In such endeavors, The Shadow was
invariably
hours, sometimes days, ahead of all others. This time, the law had reversed
the
situation.
Joe Cardona had won the victory entirely on his own. The Shadow's zero
hour had brought him absolutely nothing.
CHAPTER II
THE SECOND SURPRISE
THE SHADOW did not begrudge Cardona's victory. Often, in the past, The
Shadow had stepped back into darkness to let Cardona take credit for deeds
that
were actually the cloaked fighter's own. What did concern The Shadow was the
situation produced by the law's remarkable invasion.
It meant that The Shadow's efforts had suddenly become unnecessary. He
could hang his cloak and hat upon the rack; use his automatics as wall
trophies. Either that, or seek some other city where crime ran rampant because
the town lacked a police officer as efficient as Joe Cardona.
Those were disconcerting prospects, even for The Shadow. Added to those
future possibilities was a present dilemma. Right now, The Shadow was in a
spot
that he did not like. He would rather be circled by a squad of aiming killers
than found, like a skeleton in a closet, behind a door in Chink Rethlo's
headquarters.
Cardona had spotted the door that hid The Shadow. Joe was striding across
the room, to see what might be beyond it. The Shadow eased the door shut; let
the knob turn. The latch had behaved properly when opening; in closing, it
slipped. Joe heard the click.
With a leap, Cardona crossed the living room, whipped open the door and
aimed his gun up the darkened stairs. He shouted a command to halt. Instead,
The Shadow gave a quick upward kick that reached Joe's gun wrist. There was
leverage in the swift move.
Joe went plopping back into the living room. His gun was pointed upward
when he fired. The bullet found the ceiling above the stairway door.
Leaving the crooks to the headquarters squad, Cardona took to the stairs,
in pursuit of his unknown antagonist. The Shadow was at the top before Joe had
come five steps upward.
Reaching the roof, The Shadow closed the trapdoor and hooked a metal
catch
in place. That would hold Cardona for a few minutes; all that The Shadow
needed.
Reaching the corner of the rail, The Shadow slashed the thongs that held
Herk. As the fellow squirmed to rid his arms and legs of their numbness, The
Shadow clipped the gag. His automatics beneath his cloak, The Shadow gripped
Herk and hauled him to his feet.
As the thug gulped at sight of The Shadow, he received a greater surprise
than his release. Into Herk's fist The Shadow shoved the crook's own gun. For
a
moment, Herk gaped at the weapon; then, with a snarl, he raised it to aim for
The Shadow. A gloved fist jabbed the side of Herk's jaw.
Spun clear about, the roof guard went staggering toward the trapdoor,
trying to catch his footing. He sagged to one knee; he came up half groggy. He
was facing the trapdoor when it bounced upward under a hook-breaking heave
from
Cardona's wide shoulders.
Coming out upon the roof, Cardona saw Herk. He took the crook for the
adversary on the stairs. He thought that Herk's effort to raise his gun was
the
challenge of a thug who wanted battle. Joe piled upon the groggy lookout and
flattened him upon the roof.
Herk could not ease his fall. The back of his head thwacked the roof.
Knocked cold, the last thug was Cardona's prisoner.
WHILE Joe was pounding upon the already helpless thug, The Shadow went
over the rail. The wire whined as the cloaked rider zimmed downward to the
next
roof.
Cardona did not hear the faint sound. Looking around his own roof, Joe
saw
that it was deserted. He hauled Herk through the trapdoor and dragged him
downwards.
It took The Shadow only a short moment to cut the wire and haul it
inward.
He descended through his own building and watched an alleyway out back. Soon,
a
cellar door came open from the adjoining building. Cardona and his squad
appeared, marching more prisoners ahead of them. They had captured "Plugger"
Kilgey and the downstairs gun crew.
After the police had gone, The Shadow headed through darkness. A few
blocks away, he entered a parked limousine. Through a speaking tube, he spoke
in quiet, leisurely tone to his chauffeur:
"The club, Stanley."
During that ride, The Shadow divested himself of black cloak and hat. He
placed those garments in a special drawer that pulled out from beneath the big
rear seat. Passing street lights showed the limousine's passenger to be a
gentleman attired in evening clothes.
His features were hawkish, almost masklike; that face was the well-known
countenance of Lamont Cranston. In his present guise, The Shadow passed as a
millionaire member of the exclusive Cobalt Club. Lamont Cranston, wealthy
globe-trotter, was frequently seen at that club when he happened to be in New
York.
It had been some time since Cranston had appeared at his club; and there
was a definite reason for his arrival there to-night. As Cranston, The Shadow
wanted to meet a man who would probably be there. That man was Ralph Weston,
police commissioner of New York.
In his analysis of to-night's episode, The Shadow had decided that
something unusual must lie behind it. Chink Rethlo had mentioned that the law
had recently "knocked off" some small-timers. The Shadow was conversant with
that fact.
Some of the small-timers were bigger than Chink had cared to admit. The
Shadow could cite three definite instances.
"Kid" Lombroy, head of a budding dope ring, had been arrested in
Chinatown
with the goods on him. Perry Candreth, blackmailer de luxe, had been cornered
while threatening a wealthy Californian. "Goggles" Barchew, a fake peddler who
specialized in warehouse robberies, had found his whole crowd surrounded by
detectives. The law had caught those crooks during a job.
Oddly, The Shadow had planned to handle Lombroy as soon as the dopester
received his next shipment. He had arranged a special trap that would later
have snared Candreth. The Shadow had also started out to pick up Barchew's
trail, only to find the police in charge.
In each case, there were elements whereby the law could have managed to
get in ahead, although the chances had been remote. The raid of Chink Rethlo's
hide-out was something different. The Shadow had not foreseen the slightest
possibility that the law could have figured where Chink was located.
This final instance proved that there must have been something unusual
about the others. As he rode along, The Shadow became more positive that some
unknown element must be at work.
WHEN Lamont Cranston appeared in the Cobalt Club, he immediately
encountered Ralph Weston. The police commissioner was exuberant over the law's
latest triumph. He gave Cranston details that Cardona had just telephoned.
"Congratulations, commissioner;" remarked Cranston, in an indifferent
tone. "Your department is most fortunate!"
"Fortunate!" snapped Weston. "You talk like the newspapers, Cranston.
They
never give the police proper credit."
"In hunting big game in the jungle," observed Cranston, in reminiscent
tone, "we sometimes use native beaters. They correspond to your plain-clothes
men. Sometimes we use tame animals as decoys, like your stool pigeons.
"There are times, though, when we obtain the services of a man who knows
the habits of the beasts we seek. He advises us. We find the tigers or the
elephants. We shoot them and take the credit. That credit actually belongs to
some one else. The man whom we consulted."
Weston stared. Meeting Cranston's gaze, his look became sheepish. Then,
brusquely, he asked his friend to come with him. They entered the
commissioner's official car. Weston gave an address; as the car started, he
spoke to Cranston.
"You've guessed it," admitted Weston. "A secret that we have kept for
months. The expert in question is named Gannet Seard. He is a wealthy chap who
has a giant intellect. Gradually, he has taken up criminology as a hobby. He
informed us privately of his conclusions.
"Seard has cracked a dozen crime cases in the past five months. Three
cases involved criminals of considerable ability. And this discovery of Chink
Rethlo is the greatest of all.
"Seard has always asked if I have kept matters secret. He has also
reminded me that he would like to meet any person who either guessed or
learned
that a master-brain was behind the law's recent activities. Therefore, I am
taking you to meet Seard."
WESTON turned on the dome light and drew out paper and pencil. In his
enthusiasm, the commissioner wanted to show Cranston how Seard had worked out
the Rethlo case. The steps seemed simple, when Weston put them on paper.
Seard had figured that Chink had a hide-out convenient in Manhattan,
because of the recurrent robberies. He had studied data concerning Chink's
past. An ex-racketeer, Chink had liked luxury; and his underlings had enjoyed
comfort also. Chink always chose a lavish, penthouse apartment when he was in
the money.
Since he had ample time and cash to prepare for his recent crimes, Chink
-
according to Seard's logic - would have prepared a hide-away in lavish style.
At
the same time, it would require certain specifications, such as protection and
isolation.
Seard had first worked on a map of Manhattan, eliminating various areas.
He had next studied individual buildings from their descriptions. Those had
been cut down to a few that would suit Chink's probable tastes. Seard had
finally checked over the histories and ownerships of those buildings.
Old records had produced forgotten facts. The original owner of a certain
loft building had placed his own offices on the top story, with a special
elevator running up from the basement, so that the rest of the building could
be locked at night. At present, the building was little used. The owner who
had
recently purchased it appeared to be a mythical person.
Recognizing that the cellar would be guarded against outside attack,
Seard
had adopted a unique plan for reaching the top-floor hide-out. He told the
police to carefully tap the wall on one of the middle stories. Cardona and his
squad managed the job. As Seard had foreseen, they found wires that supplied
current both to operate the mechanism and the call bell.
They had sent a signal to the elevator operator. Morry, coming up in the
cage, suddenly found the elevator halted and darkened, when the dicks cut off
the juice. Through the wall, they had overpowered the operator. Cardona had
shoved him out through the break, to be held by reserve detectives.
The police had completed the upward trip, which had resulted in the death
of Chink; the capture of others. Descending to the basement, they had
experienced no trouble with Plugger's cellar crew. The pill-box had been
placed
to repel outside invaders; not persons who came down by the elevator.
Oddly, Weston revealed these facts to one who had already analyzed them
on
his own. Cranston, as The Shadow, had made progress similar to Seard's. The
only
difference was that The Shadow, playing his lone, daring game, had chosen the
roof as a means of entry.
"What do you think of it, Cranston?"
Weston's query called for admiration. Quietly, Cranston replied:
"Excellent, commissioner! I am most anxious to meet Gannet Seard."
"You should be," chuckled Weston - "for another reason. I have made some
deductions of my own, that Seard does not know about. I can tell you something
that he has not chosen to reveal; but which I have pieced together, to my own
satisfaction."
Cranston's face was quizzical beneath the glow of the dome light. In
confidential tone, Weston inquired:
"You have heard of The Shadow, that mysterious personage who has helped
us
overcome crime?"
A nod from Cranston. Weston remembered something.
"Of course," he said. "As I recall it, Cranston, you have actually seen
The Shadow, on certain occasions."
"I have."
Weston smiled in anticipation of the surprise that he intended to
produce.
In a sense, it was a surprise, even for The Shadow. In confident tone, Weston
stated:
"You have heard of The Shadow. You have seen him. To-night, Cranston, you
will meet him!"
To emphasize his positive opinion, Weston added: "Gannet Seard is The
Shadow!"
CHAPTER III
THE GIANT BRAIN
THE existence of Gannet Seard was remarkable in itself. The fact that
Weston took the man to be The Shadow, made the surprise a double-barreled one.
Nevertheless, Weston's belief was logical enough, when The Shadow analyzed it.
On a few previous occasions, The Shadow had come very close to
anticipating police moves designed by Seard. It was possible that he had been
seen in Chinatown, and at the warehouse, when the law thwarted robbery there.
To-night, The Shadow had encountered one of Chink's men, Herk, upon the
roof of the loft building. Perhaps Herk, when captured by the police, had
blabbed something about The Shadow. Such reports would naturally strengthen
Weston's theory that Seard was The Shadow. Since Seard had arranged the law's
campaigns, he could easily have been present when the police battled the
crooks.
Considering these angles, The Shadow found himself whetted to the
prospect
of a meeting with Seard. That episode was not long delayed. Within ten
minutes,
Weston's big car pulled up in front of a quiet, old-fashioned house with
brownstone front.
A frail, tired-faced servant admitted Weston and Cranston. The fellow
wore
black clothes and answered to the name of Havlett. He led the way to a huge
library at the rear of the ground floor. The room's walls were lined with
books; and all about were stacks of volumes that had not been classified.
As the visitors picked their way through irregular passages between the
piles of books, Weston remarked:
"A curious collection, these books. They deal with all sorts of unusual
subjects, criminology included. Seard has another stack room in the cellar. A
secretary comes here every day, to classify the volumes."
There was a tiny elevator in the hall that led off the library. They
entered it, and the car pumped slowly upward. Passing the second floor, Weston
pointed through a glass window in the shaft door. Cranston saw a room that
looked like a laboratory.
"Seard makes tests in there. Sometimes he brings in experts to help him.
He is a busy man. That is why he needs this elevator. He has a bad limp; too
many stairs would tire him."
AT the third floor, Havlett led the way directly to Seard's study. There,
The Shadow viewed a most unusual room.
There was little attempt at orderly arrangement. Seard had apparently
gathered all the objects that particularly pleased him, and placed them
somewhere in the study.
On the right was a table that bore a chessboard. A few chessmen were on
the squares; beside them were sheaves of paper covered with pencil marks, that
indicated an unfinished chess problem. Close by the table was a small bookcase
with volumes that pertained only to chess.
In the far corner were four display cases, their glass tops tilted at an
angle. They contained a collection of rare coins. There were books on coins
near the showcases; but numismatics was not Seard's only hobby. Big shelves
above supported a row of massive stamp albums.
At the left of the room was an odd-looking radio set, with a screen above
it. Not content with short-wave experiments, Seard had also gone in for
television.
The room was furnished with all sorts of oddities - teakwood chairs,
gold-crusted taborets, tapestries of Persian origin. Oriental rugs lay thick
upon the floor, so plentiful that they overlapped each other.
In the inner corner at the left was a desk, which looked as though it had
been pushed there to make room for the rest of the furnishings. In the cramped
space behind the desk sat Gannet Seard.
The man was as unique as the abode that he occupied. Seard was
long-limbed
and thin; almost spidery in appearance. His shoulders were narrow and sloping;
they supported a head that seemed to tax their strength. Seard's chin started
up from a narrow point; though his cheeks were hollow, his face widened to
accommodate eyes that were well apart, with a broad nose between.
Above, Seard's head continued its bulge, so that his forehead was high
and
his cranium broad. The whole result was a greatly oversize head, far out of
proportion to his frail build.
Some persons might have considered Seard's head a deformity; but not
Weston. To the police commissioner, that skull bulged with brains. In fact,
Weston looked to Cranston, hoping that his friend would have the same opinion.
Cranston's eyes did show considerable interest, which could have been
taken for mild admiration. He noted a bookcase beside Seard's desk. It
contained the books that Seard liked most. Some of those pertained to
criminology; others related to deep mathematical subjects, including such
theoretical matters as the fourth dimension.
Seard's desk was strewn with papers and books. He was busy when the
visitors entered. His top-heavy head was bobbing up and down. He was too
engrossed to see the arrivals; but he recognized Weston's voice when the
commissioner spoke.
SEARD tilted back in his chair. He saw Cranston; Seard's large eyes
glistened, his wan lips smiled.
"Ah, commissioner," rumbled Seard, "a friend of yours, who suspected that
such a person as myself existed!"
Weston was awed by Seard's prompt deduction. He introduced Cranston.
Seard
reached across the desk to shake hands. While his visitors seated themselves,
Weston repeated the remarks that Cranston had made at the Cobalt Club.
"A good analysis," commended Seard. "Criminals do resemble big game.
Sometimes, though, they hide like ostriches. Chink Rethlo, for instance. His
head was buried; but his feathers were in view."
He pointed to a cradle telephone that was on his desk.
"Inspector Cardona just called me," said Seard. "Unfortunately, he did
not
find Rethlo's loot. It was not at the hide-out."
"You doubted that it would be there," recalled Weston. "You told us that
the swag would probably be elsewhere; and you assured us that you could learn
its hiding place."
Seard's lips pursed. He reached to the wall and pulled up a small, blocky
machine that was mounted on wheels.
"This is my perfected lie detector," stated Seard. "It makes other
devices
of the sort look primitive. It registers the effort behind every lie. It tells
whether questions were hot or cold. From its records, I can prepare suitable
questions for another quiz. I can work to the very answers that a person is
seeking to hide. Step by step, this detector forces the truth."
Seard showed enthusiasm as he spoke; but he finished his statements with
a
shrug.
"I intended to use my detector upon Rethlo," he added. "Unfortunately,
the
man is dead. The prisoners probably know nothing. There was Cardona's mistake,
commissioner."
With a long-fingered fist, Seard pounded the desk.
"I told Cardona to take Rethlo," he reminded. "Such a stroke, I said,
would end all fight from the others. Instead of taking Rethlo, Cardona killed
him.
"True," admitted Weston. "But it was in self-defense."
"Of course," rumbled Seard. "Still, Cardona might have acted less
hastily.
After all, Rethlo is dead. Furthermore, commissioner, you have forgotten a
reminder that I gave you. I said not to let the newspapers know about Rethlo's
capture."
"That could not be helped, Seard."
The crime expert smiled indulgently.
"My business is to give advice," he declared. "I aid the police
department. I do not run it. I am doing the best I can. By to-morrow" - he
indicated the papers on his desk - "I may have come to some conclusion
regarding the hiding place where Rethlo put his loot. I hope that my finding
will not be too late."
PAPERS crinkled near Seard's telephone. A small black cat had jumped up
from a taboret. Seard petted the kitten and let it stroll about the desk.
Havlett entered at that moment and set a tray on a little table that he
wheeled
beside Seard.
"You will pardon me," said Seard, to the visitors. "I am having my
supper.
Not a large repast - crackers, cheese, a bottle of milk. Ah, Havlett" - Seard
smiled up at the servant - "I see that you brought to-day's milk. Remember
that
such is to be the rule. You can clear the chessboard, Havlett. I shall not use
it again to-night."
"Yes, sir."
摘要：

THESHADOW'SRIVALbyMaxwellGrantAsoriginallypublishedin"TheShadowMagazine,"June15,1937.CHAPTERIZEROHOURACLUSTERofhard-facedmenwasspreadaboutalarge,squareroom.Theplacewaswell-furnishedwithcushionedchairsandtables;itswindowswereheavilycurtained.Thosewindowswereallatoneendoftheroom;theotherthreewallshadd...

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