Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 124 - The Masked Headsman

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THE MASKED HEADSMAN
by Maxwell Grant
As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," April 15, 1937.
Millions in jewels and golden plate were the stake - the treasure of Old
Spain! And The Shadow's blazing guns had to decide the issue!
CHAPTER I
THE PROTEST PARADE
"HERE they come!"
The word moved through the crowds that lined the main street of
Whitefield. Along that avenue came a bobbing array of banners and placards,
raised on high poles that dwarfed the men below them.
Though slow, irregular, almost ragged, that march came onward with the
crushing power of a juggernaut. There was something ominous in its approach.
Flares burst suddenly from the raised fists of marchers. Those flames
were
red. They transformed the parade into a torchlight procession; faces were dyed
with crimson, beneath the wavering glare.
A murmur went through the watching crowd. People on the sidewalks shifted
back into doorways. Fearfully, they eyed the gloating faces of the marchers;
heard the hoarse shouts from beneath the ruddy flares. Incredulously, the
onlookers read the signs that the paraders carried.
Violence and threat were the mottoes of those marchers. They were a mob
from the days of the French Revolution, brought to new life on the main street
of an American city. Here, in this modern setting, they were shouting for the
blood of aristocrats.
In a press car, parked by the curb, a young man watched the parade's
approach. He was Clyde Burke, reporter for the New York Classic. Clyde had
come
to Whitefield to cover the parade. He had expected some commotion; a mild
riot,
perhaps. But Clyde had not foreseen so fierce a march as this.
The parade was approaching the county courthouse, directly across the
street from Clyde's car. Already, the reflection of the first torches threw a
ruddy tinge upon the long white wall of the courthouse. That glare was
creeping
forward, giving its challenge to the law.
In the interval of the parade's approach, Clyde reviewed the events that
had produced this mad demonstration.
WHITEFIELD was a city of close to thirty thousand people, scarcely more
than twenty miles outside of New York City. Many residents were commuters, who
went to business in Manhattan. That, coupled to the fact that Whitefield was
the county seat, made the city an important one.
Whitefield boasted a large courthouse; a prosperous business district.
Amid its older, smaller buildings stood large apartment houses and a fine
modern hotel. On the outskirts were many large suburban residences; beyond
them
lay huge estates with palatial mansions.
Recently, wealthy strangers had come to Whitefield. They were Spaniards,
aristocrats of the old regime. Though they lived in separate homes and
apartments, they formed a definite colony of their own, with headquarters at
the mansion of Count Jernimo Darraga.
The presence of the Spanish aristocrats had caused a stir in radical
circles. A radical group that called itself the Spanish People's Party had set
up headquarters in Whitefield. The People's Party was backing this parade.
They had managed to gain a permit through the county authorities. That,
despite the contrary arguments of Police Chief Claude Winther, who threatened
to break up the parade upon the slightest provocation. The result was a march
far greater than any that either the county authorities or the police chief
had
expected.
Malcontents galore had come from New York. The march looked like a May
Day
celebration. Adding to the bold touch, were the crimson lights. Red flags were
taboo in Whitefield, so the police chief had declared. Winther, however had
made no proviso barring red lights.
The head of the parade reached Clyde's car. The reporter read the
placards
that termed aristocrats the bleeders of the Spanish nation. He saw the faces,
lurid in the glow. All were not Spanish; sympathizers of many nationalities
had
joined in this protest.
Some of the marchers were fanatics; others looked less rabid; they seemed
sincere believers in their cause. As a representative of the press, Clyde felt
a neutral attitude toward the whole scene. If the men were trouble-makers, it
was best to let them parade. Then they would be where they could be watched
and
controlled.
Numerous enough to maintain their ranks, these marchers would let off
steam by shouting and waving banners. They would disperse, contented. That was
Clyde's opinion; he had seen the thing work out on other occasions.
To-night, a different result was due. Something so unexpected that Clyde
Burke was astonished when it came.
THE parade was passing the silent courthouse, where windows formed black
blocks amid the white stone front. Clyde, glancing toward the center of the
parade, merely chanced to see a rounded object skim suddenly from one of those
dark windows. He did not recognize the thing until an instant before it
struck,
squarely in the center of the march.
That horrified instant was the longest in Clyde's life. Time seemed to
hold its march, like a stilled photograph in a trick motion picture.
The bomb exploded with a roar that drowned all tumult. A volcano of
out-flying flame made red flares and street lights feeble. Onlookers flattened
to their doorways. Echoes of the blast were accompanied by the crash of
clattering windowpanes in the courthouse and the buildings opposite. Fragments
of steel hailed the safety plate glass window of Clyde's car. He had wisely
closed that window as the parade approached.
Marchers were sprawled upon the street. Their placards had fallen; the
red
flares were sizzling from the ground. The massed procession looked like a long
caterpillar, halted in its progress. There was one grim detail that all eyes
saw.
The stretch of humanity was broken in the center. There, a black gap
marked the spot where the bomb had blasted a ten-foot space of paving. Of the
dozen marchers who had been passing there, no sign of one remained.
Lives had been wiped out through one insidious deed; and there was human
testimony to the power of the bomb. Along the fringes of the broken paving
crawled figures of wounded and maimed who had escaped death; but, perhaps,
were
less fortunate than their comrades who had gone to oblivion.
The terrible travesty struck Clyde Burke. People expected radicals to
throw bombs at the opposition. A "pineapple" tossed into a radical parade was
a
grim reversal of the usual. The horror made partisan opinions fade. Only the
stark facts remained.
Human lives had been brutally shattered. Sympathy belonged with the
victims. Justice stood against the terrorist who had caused that stroke of
death.
The outraged roars that arose along the street were not from the sprawled
marchers. The shouts came from the sidewalk crowds. Others, beside Clyde, had
seen the bomb scale from the window. Wildly, they pointed to the source from
which the destruction had come.
The murderer was still there. One arm raised to hide his face, he stood
against the glow of the street lights. Undeterred by the vengeful shouts that
greeted him, he swung his free arm in another throw. Again, time waited, while
an audible gasp sighed from the lips of terrified spectators.
A second bomb was leaving the murderer's hand, destined for another spot
along the line of march, where sprawled men had not regained their feet for
chance of flight. Clyde Burke sagged hopelessly behind the wheel of his coupe,
his eyes riveted by the new terror that was to come.
As the bomb launched from the murderer's hand, a stab of flame jabbed
from
the curb beside Clyde's car. Clyde was conscious of a pistol shot; but the
report was drowned by the result that it produced.
The bomb from the window was coming on an arc in the direction of Clyde's
car. The marksman winged it like a trapshooter picking off a clay pigeon.
The bomb exploded in air. Its shattering force was lost as fragments
scattered just below the murderer's window. Clyde sensed new stabs from the
pistol close beside his car. He could not hear the shots, for his ears were
deafened by the bomb's roar.
The marksman was shooting for the murderer. The man at the window had
dropped away. The menace was averted; those timely, inspiring shots began a
counterwave. Uniformed policemen leaped out from the sidewalk crowds. They
peppered the death window with revolver bullets.
Others were dashing toward the courthouse, hoping to reach the upper
floor
before the killer made his getaway. There was a good chance that bullets had
reached him; if so, he would be easily captured. While Clyde Burke gawked, the
door on the right of the coupe opened and closed.
Clyde turned. Beside him was a figure in black - the supermarksman who
had
so coolly winged the bomb. Clyde understood. Only one being could have been so
quick of aim and certain of fire to stop that second infernal missile. The
marksman wore a long cloak; a slouch hat topped his head. He was The Shadow,
superfoe of crime.
Clyde Burke was an agent of The Shadow. He knew that his chief had
orders.
They came. The Shadow told Clyde to follow the rush into the courthouse and
learn the details there. As Clyde climbed from the coupe, he saw the reason
why
The Shadow had remained.
Some of the paraders had rallied from their shock. The rear of the
procession was behaving in orderly fashion; but the group up ahead had other
plans. They were the banner carriers; the strongest fanatics were among them.
Past the spot where the bomb had exploded, those ringleaders had escaped the
brunt of the blast.
No police were present to halt them as they broke into a maddened surge.
Howling, their red torches raised anew, they were dashing along the main
street, turning their march into a charge. They were heading for the outskirts
of Whitefield. Their cries were murderous.
As Clyde reached the courthouse, he looked back. He saw The Shadow
wheeling the coupe about, trying to work it through the throngs that were
everywhere. Alone, The Shadow intended to follow that surge of maddened
fanatics.
An officer pressed Clyde back at the courthouse door. Clyde flashed a
reporter's card. The cop let him through. Upstairs, Clyde came to the room
where the murderer had been. Police and other arrivals were there ahead of
him,
grouped about a body on the floor.
Clyde heard them say that the murderer had been downed by timely bullets
from the street. They turned the face of the corpse upward. Clyde heard a gasp
of awe; he pressed through to see the dead man's face.
Clyde had seen that man's photograph in the afternoon newspapers. The man
was the very one who had promised, through unstated means, to break up the
protest parade. As incredible as the tossed bombs themselves, was the identity
of the dead man in the room where the attack had originated.
The dead man was Claude Winther, Whitefield's police chief.
While Clyde Burke stood astounded at this strange discovery, The Shadow
was on his way to prevent new slaughter that might prove as hideous as the
explosion that had wrecked the parade in Whitefield.
CHAPTER II
BROKEN BATTLE
FIFTY madmen were at their goal. They had reached a good-sized estate
just
outside of Whitefield. A massive gate blocked progress; on either side of it
stretched a high picket fence. The mob wasted no time in entry.
They chose the fence because it was easier. The enclosure went down.
Two-thirds of the horde piled across it, while the rest remained to demolish
the gate. Ahead, across a spacious lawn, the attackers saw the lighted windows
of a mansion. They howled in great glee.
Red torches broke the blackness of the night; showed the full size and
nature of the advancing mob. Unless stern resistance came, that crowd was due
to enter the mansion, bringing terror to hapless persons within its walls.
Through a side gate came a speeding car; another followed soon after it.
The automobiles reached the mansion, across a stretch of driveway where the
mob
had not arrived. Sight of these few reinforcements merely brought new cries
from
the mob. They considered the arrivals as added victims.
Behind the mob came a few automobiles, commandeered on the way. Wild men
were hanging to the running boards, ordering the unlucky drivers to follow. As
the cars neared the mansion, they halted. The men dropped off to join the
attack.
One car, a coupe, pulled off from the driveway and halted on the lawn.
Its
driver, deep behind the wheel, delivered a low-toned laugh. That driver was
The
Shadow. He had chosen the easiest way to follow. Stepping into the darkness
that the torchlight carriers had left, The Shadow unlimbered his brace of
automatics.
The Shadow knew this mansion. It was the home of Count Jernimo Darraga,
eldest of the Spanish aristocrats. The mob that represented the People's Party
had come here knowing that the entire colony of wealthy Spaniards would be
present. Originally, the marchers had planned a demonstration outside the
gates. Because of the bomb episode, the paraders had changed their purpose.
They wanted carnage.
The Shadow's own act had made this possible. By stopping the second bomb,
he had given the maddened paraders their chance to rally. The Shadow had
prevented death before; it was his duty to do the same again. Partisanship was
not known to The Shadow. His protection always went to those who were about to
suffer injustice.
In that mansion were people who knew nothing of the bombs in Whitefield.
It was not right that they should suffer for the evil that another had
performed.
There were weapons among the mob; but guns were comparatively few. Most
of
the attackers had picked up bricks and pieces of lead pipe to use in the first
sally. They were holding revolvers and knives in reserve. At present, they
depended upon sheer power of numbers.
THE mob's wrath was promptly displayed. As torchbearers spread around the
mansion, a young man sprang from a side door and entered an automobile. He
started to drive for the unguarded side gate. Shouts told that the mob had
recognized him.
"Ramos Ferrero! He goes to get others! Stop him!"
Men with cudgels sprang upon the car, forced it to the house wall. Ramos
Ferrero came tumbling from the driver's seat, his face pale but determined.
Two
murderous men went after him, swinging lengths of lead pipe. From darkness,
The
Shadow aimed an automatic. His shots were not needed.
Three servants piled from the house door; snatched Ramos from the arms of
the mob. Fighting, still anxious to drive away in his car, the young Spaniard
was hauled into the safety of the house. The door slammed shut.
The mob jeered; threatened to batter in the door. The pleasure of
smashing
Ramos's car proved greater. While that was going on, bricks began to smash
windows. Lights went out on the ground floor. The mob withdrew, suspiciously.
Goaded by the shouts of ringleaders, the torchbearers assembled at the front
of
the mansion.
A tall, stoop-shouldered man with white hair showed himself at a balcony
on the second floor. Bricks began to fly. Wild voices shrieked:
"Jernimo Darraga! Murderer! Death to Darraga!"
As bricks struck the balcony, persons pulled the old count in to safety.
The Shadow saw men in evening clothes; women dressed in beautiful evening
gowns. The aristocrats had been holding a social affair while the radicals
paraded. They had not expected the mob to arrive, unrestrained by the police.
Torchlights waved forward. The mob was ready for attack. The Shadow saw
the gleam of guns; knew that the invaders intended to bash the ground floor
windows and drive upstairs. Crouched, The Shadow was ready with both
automatics, when another halt came.
Instead of the hated Count Darraga, another man was stepping to the
balcony. Upraised torches threw light upon his face. His olive-tinted features
were rugged; his lips were straightened beneath his hooked nose. His black
eyes
caught the ruddy glow; showed a fierce flash toward the mob beneath.
The man on the balcony thrust a square jaw forward; stretched out a long
arm to quell the mob. Hoots sounded below; ended as snarly voices called for
silence. This unknown aristocrat was one who should be heard. Let him speak;
make poor excuses. The pleasure of attack and murder would be greater after he
had made his useless statements.
"I AM Don Luis Robera," announced the rugged-faced man, in booming
Spanish. "Whether you have heard of me does not matter. You will listen while
I
speak. There is something of which I should remind you.
"You are in America; not in Spain. Here, murder brings punishment. I say
that you are fools to come here. Go, before you suffer! If you choose to
battle
aristocrats, return to Spain. There will be plenty of caballeros ready to
receive you!"
The mob muttered. Some one shouted:
"Who talks of murder? Murder is what brought us here!"
The statement brought approving yells beneath the torchlight. Again the
cry rose:
"Death to the aristocrats! Death to the murderers!"
Don Luis leaned over the balcony, ignoring bricks that sailed past his
head to crash one small unbroken window. His fierce tones caused another lull.
"I came here bringing news," he told the mob. "The murderer who threw the
bomb has been captured, dead. He is not one of us. We made no threats against
your parade. The man who did so acted on his own. He was the police chief of
Whitefield, Claude Winther!"
Don Luis gave his statement the emphasis of fact. It produced a real
effect upon the mob. Gun hands lowered; mutters passed among the crowd.
Thoughts of attack wavered. Don Luis lighted a cigarette, surveyed the faces
below. His straight lips curved upward to form a triumphant smile.
Perhaps if Don Luis had withdrawn at that moment, the mob would have
dispersed. Behind him, the Count of Darraga showed his approving face. Don
Luis
had stemmed the attack; all seemed safe. But the square-jawed aristocrat was
not
content.
The Shadow saw Don Luis look beyond the torchlight. The man on the
balcony
saw lights on the road beyond the ruined gate. Confident that he was secure,
Don
Luis decided to bait the crowd. He did it too rapidly.
"Rabble!" he scoffed. "Attack us if you dare! Prove yourselves as wrong
as
ever! Why should you believe the truth that I have told you? You have never
believed the truth before!"
Don Luis overshot the mark. The stunned mob would have taken his
ridicule,
had he not raised the doubts himself. His statement regarding the police chief
was suddenly rejected as an impossibility by listening ringleaders."
"Don Luis lies!"
"He has tricked us!"
"Down with Don Luis!"
The shouts rose. Count Darraga, Ramos Ferrero and others sprang out upon
the balcony to drag Don Luis in to safety. Their appearance completely ended
any chance that Don Luis could take to make the mob believe him. Two servants
bobbed to the balcony, displaying revolvers. That flimsy attempt at protection
further infuriated the mob.
A dozen guns swung up toward the balcony. Massacre was due. Only a sharp
diverting attack could stay it. That attack came, from The Shadow.
Point-blank,
he aimed for rising gun arms. His automatics tongued from the night.
CHAOS broke as gun hands dropped. Clipped marksmen howled; their fellows
turned toward the spot where The Shadow crouched alone. Torches waved in The
Shadow's direction. Rioters fired into the blackness that lay beyond the red
glow.
The Shadow was shifting across the lawn, jabbing occasional shots to bait
his foemen. A score of men came after him, spreading everywhere, shooting
wildly. Others renewed the attack upon the mansion; but people were gone from
the balcony. The Shadow's sudden flank attack had diverted matters long enough
for the threatened men to retire.
Count Darraga and Ramos Ferrero had pulled Don Luis away from harm; but
the folly of Don Luis threatened disaster for The Shadow. The cloaked rescuer
was retreating under the pressure of huge numbers. Only his amazing zigzag
tactics saved him from the barrage that sizzled across the lawn.
Whenever The Shadow fired, his guns tongued from an unexpected place.
Enemies who tried to guess his new position invariably were mistaken. That
served for the present; but soon the pursuers would be too close.
The Shadow, however, had known the risk that he was taking. He depended
upon something that he had noticed - that far-away stare that Don Luis had
given from the balcony, just before he mocked the mob. Don Luis had seen
approaching aid. The Shadow was counting upon that same assistance.
Sirens whined from the battered gate. A squad of motor-cycle police
poured
through. They were from Whitefield, where the action of the mob had been
reported. They were coming to end the riot at the mansion of Count Darraga.
Rioters surrendered. Battle was broken; as it ended, Count Darraga
appeared again upon the balcony. Sadly, the white-haired noble looked below,
as
if the strife had sorrowed him.
Beside the count was Don Luis. His lips had resumed their straighteness.
His blackish eyes darted quick looks toward the darkness. He was trying to
locate the mysterious rescuer who had drawn off the attack.
In the gloom, The Shadow regained the coupe. Torches were gone; police
had
rounded up the last of the scattered rioters. The Shadow saw the men upon the
balcony as he drove away. Passing the shattered gate, The Shadow gave a
whispered laugh that carried forebodings of the future.
To-night was not the end of strife. It marked the beginning. Beneath the
surface lay seething forces. The protest parade, the strange case of a
bomb-throwing police chief, the riot at the mansion of Count Darraga - all
spoke of a master-plotter who had pulled the strings.
The Shadow had an inkling of the hidden purpose beneath. A quest lay here
in Whitefield. The Shadow did not intend to leave the city until he had dealt
with the superplotter whose hand had caused those grim events.
CHAPTER III
THE MASKED HEADSMAN
THERE was a small Spanish restaurant in Whitefield, located in one of the
poorer districts. On the floor above the restaurant was a cheap but overlarge
apartment that formed the headquarters of the Spanish People's Party.
The man in charge there was a hard-faced fellow named Projillo. He used
the front room as his office; the rest of the apartment was a living quarters
for Projillo and those whom he trusted.
Some persons found it easy to visit Projillo. Police Chief Winther had
called upon him, to deliver an ultimatum a few days before the parade.
Projillo's office was always open to those who represented the law, for it was
Projillo's policy to keep the People's Party in good standing.
Others, chance visitors or inquisitive persons, were never admitted. They
were stopped on the ground floor. The Spaniards who owned the restaurant were
in sympathy with Projillo; the place was a nest for the radical group.
All during the day after the parade, people tried to call on Projillo,
only to learn that he was not there. Most of these visitors were reporters,
Clyde Burke among them. All that they received for their trouble was a canned
statement written by Projillo, in which the leader of the People's Party
blamed
everything upon the police and the aristocrats.
When evening came, Projillo was seated in his office, behind drawn
blinds.
Ugly faced, with lips that constantly leered, Projillo thrust fingers through
his moppish hair and spoke to a stolid-faced man who served as his secretary.
"We hold the game like this, Alvara!" Projillo clutched the fingers of a
clawish hand. "Bah! What can the police do or say? Their own chief threw the
bomb. They were responsible for what followed. They have dismissed charges
against the men they arrested at Darraga's."
Projillo's chuckle ended. His face became serious, as he added:
"We are sorry for those sympathizers who died from the bomb explosion.
Their deaths, though, have united us completely. That will help the cause."
Projillo looked at Alvara as though he expected an opinion. The
stolid-faced secretary hesitated; then remarked:
"You did well, Projillo, to order the parade. Yet I wondered, at the
time,
why you did so. You told me that afterward you would explain why."
"So I did, Alvara. I shall give you the answer. The order was not mine.
It
came from the People's Emissary."
Alvara gaped. Projillo delivered a hard laugh.
"You did not know that the People's Emissary had come here, Alvara? I am
not surprised. That was something that no one guessed. It explains much, eh,
Alvara?"
IT explained much more than Alvara cared to state. The close-mouthed
secretary had been deeply puzzled by Projillo's recent action. To Alvara,
Projillo was a crude sort of leader, whose policy had always been noise and
little action. Until the night of the parade, Projillo had done nothing in
Whitefield beyond condemning the aristocrats with soap-box orations to which
no
one had listened.
This mention of the People's Emissary told that Projillo had become a
mere
tool in the hands of a master-plotter. Projillo was stupidly admitting that he
was a figurehead, and, apparently, he was too crude of mental process to
realize it. In fact, Projillo gloated in the fact that he was taking orders
from the Emissary.
"I have learned much, Alvara," declared Projillo. "Often we have heard of
the People's Emissary, who has gone everywhere, creating sympathy for our
cause. Until he came to Whitefield, I had never guessed who he might be. I
have
learned at last, Alvara."
Leaning across the desk, Projillo waited for the words to sink in; then
spoke in a triumphant whisper:
"The People's Emissary is Verdugo!"
Alvara's stolid face registered a horror that Projillo took for surprise.
The secretary realized that he had almost let his expression betray him. He
stammered quickly, to cover up his emotion.
"Verdugo - whose name means the executioner's sword! The most dreaded
murderer in all Spain! Verdugo - the Masked Headsman! Verdugo - serving the
People's Party; he - the People's Emissary."
"All that is true, Alvara," gloated Projillo. "It is good, as well as
true. Death, terror, must rule to bring power to the People's Party. Such men
as Verdugo will produce it. I was pleased when he came here with his
credentials. It means that anarchy is rising in our homeland.
"Until Verdugo came, my orders were to be cautious. Bah! What else could
I
be, here in America? Where had caution carried us? Were aristocrats in fear?
No!
They were jesting at our expense. That is changed at last, thanks to Verdugo."
Projillo was carried away by his own enthusiasm. He arose from his chair,
paced the floor beside the desk. He stopped suddenly to glare suspiciously at
Alvara. This time, he saw a pleased look written on the secretary's face.
"Good!" approved Projillo. "You like what I have told you, Alvara. So
will
the others whom I trust. I shall tell you something more. Soon, Verdugo will
visit here again. This very night, coming by the secret entrance.
"Therefore, I am at home to no one. Stay outside this door, Alvara. Tell
the others to be on watch. Nothing must disturb the visit of Verdugo, when I
meet him in my private quarters."
PROJILLO nudged his thumb to indicate an inner door. He waited for Alvara
to retire to the outside hall. The secretary left. Sneaking to the outer door,
Projillo listened. He heard Alvara go downstairs and give the word to others.
Satisfied with his secretary's action, Projillo began special precautions
of his own. From the floor, he lifted a thin metallic ribbon that ran along
the
wall. He stretched it across each window and fixed it carefully to insulated
hooks. He went to the door; raised another length of ribbon and arranged it
there. He connected the wirelike strip to a floor socket.
Projillo did not prepare the inner door in the same fashion as the outer
one. That was unnecessary. With his precaution, he thought that no one could
possibly enter the office. One touch against that ribbon, the alarm would
sound
instantly.
Projillo turned out the office lights; he moved to the inner door. A
click
of its latch told that he had gone to his private room to await the coming of
Verdugo.
Though the blinds of Projillo's office seemed tight-fitting, they
actually
revealed slight cracks along the edges. Those were enough for the shrouded
watcher who stood in a spot of blackness across the street from the Spanish
restaurant. The Shadow, obscured in darkness, was covering the headquarters of
the People's Party.
For an hour, The Shadow had seen a faint trickle of light from the edge
of
a window blind. The disappearance of that pin point glow told him that
Projillo
had left the office. Choosing a blackened sector of the street, The Shadow
crossed.
Next to the restaurant was a building that set farther back. The meeting
corners, both of brick, were the sort of walls that suited. Gloved fingers dug
into cracks where mortar had shriveled. The Shadow gained a toehold with his
soft-tipped shoes. Stealthy, lost in the blackness of the depressed corner, he
gained the level of the second floor.
There, he swung an arm to the front and gripped the frame of the nearest
office window. Soon, The Shadow was wedged upon the sill. He pried the window
fastening with a thin strip of steel that eased between the portions of the
sash. He raised the window. Softly, he rolled up the shade.
Scarcely moving from his position, The Shadow blinked a tiny flashlight
into the interior of Projillo's office. The glow came from beneath the fold of
The Shadow's black cloak. The light gave The Shadow a preliminary view of the
floor just beyond the window. As he turned the flashlight slightly upward,
something glistened.
Instantly, the light blinked off. The Shadow knew that the office lay
unguarded. He had seen the metal ribbon that Projillo had placed as a
precaution. It lay midway across the lower half of the window, where any
blundering entrant would certainly encounter it.
HOLDING his position, The Shadow lowered both portions of the Window
sash.
He swung across the upper space that he had provided. He cleared the ribbon
without difficulty. Carefully, The Shadow closed the window and lowered the
blind, avoiding contact with the alarm wire.
Blinking his flashlight, The Shadow began an inspection of the office. He
searched rapidly through Projillo's desk; found nothing except batches of
"throw-out" literature that had been distributed in Whitefield. When the
search
proved a blank, The Shadow went toward the outer door; used his flashlight to
discover the alarm wire that Projillo had placed there.
The inner door proved clear. That was sufficient for The Shadow. It meant
that Projillo must be somewhere in the interior of the apartment; that the
supposed head of the People's Party thought himself secure from all
disturbance.
The Shadow opened the inner door; encountered thick darkness. The tiny
flashlight blinked, making a splotch of silver dollar size. The Shadow was in
a
little hallway that terminated in a second door. The inner door showed a faint
bit of light from a partly blacked keyhole.
The Shadow tried the knob. The door was unlocked. As he eased the door
inward, The Shadow heard low-toned voices, speaking Spanish. One - a growl -
was probably Projillo's. The other was a pur that sometimes deepened to a
sharp
rasp.
Eye to the crack beside the door, The Shadow saw the speakers. Projillo
was the closer, seated at a table that had a small, shaded lamp. The other man
was beyond, almost obscured from The Shadow's view. Only once did his head
approach the light, close enough for a glimpse of his face.
Lips were the only features that The Shadow saw. The man's head was
tilted
forward, his chin buried in the crook of his elbow. Above his lips, he wore a
black mask; the eyeholes were no more than slits. Forehead and hair were
covered by a rounded skullcap.
The man looked like a medieval executioner. His lips, contorting to
phrase
their words, were venomous in every motion. Those lips were sufficient to mark
Projillo's visitor as a killer. They, like the mask above them, told the man's
identity.
The Shadow had heard of Verdugo, the most dangerous criminal in Spain.
The
former Spanish government had wanted the evil killer. Verdugo had been absent.
Political upheaval had produced this strange result. Verdugo, the man who
knew no law, had chosen a cause. He was the People's Emissary, who gave orders
to Projillo. In Verdugo, The Shadow had found the answer that he knew must
exist.
Death and riot in Whitefield were the work of the Masked Headsman!
CHAPTER IV
THE CHANCE TRAP
摘要：

THEMASKEDHEADSMANbyMaxwellGrantAsoriginallypublishedin"TheShadowMagazine,"April15,1937.Millionsinjewelsandgoldenplatewerethestake-thetreasureofOldSpain!AndTheShadow'sblazinggunshadtodecidetheissue!CHAPTERITHEPROTESTPARADE"HEREtheycome!"ThewordmovedthroughthecrowdsthatlinedthemainstreetofWhitefield.A...

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