Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 109 - The Golden Masks

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THE GOLDEN MASKS
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2002 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. FACES OF DOOM
? CHAPTER II. BEFORE THE LAW
? CHAPTER III. THE LAW'S BLUNDER
? CHAPTER IV. MASKED MEN MEET
? CHAPTER V. THE DESERTER
? CHAPTER VI. WHERE THE LAW HALTED
? CHAPTER VII. THE FUGITIVE'S STORY
? CHAPTER VIII. THE SHADOW'S ROUTE
? CHAPTER IX. WHERE BULLETS FAILED
? CHAPTER X. THE SLEEP OF SILENCE
? CHAPTER XI. THE SHADOW'S RUSE
? CHAPTER XII. THE AGENTS MOVE
? CHAPTER XIII. THE NEXT MORNING
? CHAPTER XIV. CHANCE SERVES THE SHADOW
? CHAPTER XV. WORD FROM WITHIN
? CHAPTER XVI. FROM THE DARK
? CHAPTER XVII. THE COMING VICTIM
? CHAPTER XVIII. THE ASHANTI MASK
? CHAPTER XIX. THE DOUBLE TRAIL
? CHAPTER XX. THE MASKS REPORT
? CHAPTER XXI. MASKED BATTLE
? CHAPTER XXII. THE SWIFT TRAIL
? CHAPTER XXIII. THE LAST TRAP
CHAPTER I. FACES OF DOOM
THE outer office of the Oceanic Steamship Co. was deserted. The lights were out, but a big clock on the
wall was visible. It showed the time as half past seven. The glow that revealed the clock dial came from
the frosted panel of an inner office that bore the lettered statement:
JAMES LENGERTON
President
Within that private office, a tall, stoop-shouldered man was pacing the room in front of a large desk. This
man was James Lengerton; his face, though firm, was haggard. At times, the steamship company
president paused to thrust long, nervous fingers through his hair.
There was a click at the glass-paneled door. The barrier opened inward. Lengerton swung hastily; his
face showed mingled expressions of suspicion and relief as his eyes recognized the man who had entered.
The newcomer was a middle-aged man; square-built and of medium height. His face though passive, was
as strained as Lengerton's.
“What brings you here, Froy?” questioned Lengerton.
“I received another letter,” announced Froy, in a worried tone. “It came a short while ago. There was
time to bring it here before eight o'clock.”
“Let me see it.” Froy handed an envelope to Lengerton. The latter noted that it was addressed to Burris
Froy, 582 Exton Avenue, New York City. With shaking hands, Lengerton pulled the letter from the
envelope; he scanned typewritten lines. Mechanically, he returned the letter to Froy.
“It specifies no new terms,” declared Lengerton. “It is simply a reminder that I must have the cash ready
by eight o'clock to-night.”
“That is all,” nodded Froy. “However, there is only half an hour remaining until eight o'clock.”
“I know that, Froy. The cash is here. I shall leave the office before eight.”
“Your decision is a wise one, Lengerton. I am sorry, though, that circumstances forced you to make it.”
With this statement, Froy pocketed the letter. He turned about and went out through the door. He closed
it behind him; Lengerton heard the footsteps fade away, then the muffled closing of the outer door.
MINUTES ticked by, while Lengerton continued his incessant pacing. Seven such minutes had passed
when the glass-paneled door again opened. A droopy-faced man entered, stared in surprise at the sight
of Lengerton.
The arrival was Lengerton's secretary, Sampler. It was plain that he had not expected to find his
employer in the office. Stammering, Sampler stated that he had come for a file of shipping reports that he
had intended to take home with him. The man's confusion was obviously honest. Lengerton cut Sampler
short with a sudden remark.
“Sampler,” declared Lengerton, “I am going to take you into my confidence, regarding a most serious
matter.”
Sampler nodded solemnly.
“Yesterday,” reminded Lengerton, “a man named Burris Froy came here to see me. You remember him,
Sampler. You ushered him into this office. He is a serious-looking chap. Very wealthy. A director in
several banks.”
Sampler repeated his nod.
“Recently,” declared Lengerton, “Froy received an anonymous letter which he saw fit to show to me. It
referred to certain securities that I purchased by proxy. Shares in Intercontinental Air Lines.”
“You own such shares?” gasped Sampler, amazed. “Why, they have doubled in value, Mr. Lengerton!
But—but Intercontinental Air Lines are expanding so rapidly that they threaten the shipping business—”
“Exactly,” interposed Lengerton, tersely. “That is why I chose to control Intercontinental Air Lines. My
shares cost me five hundred thousand dollars. To-day, they are worth a million!”
“But—but if it were known that you owned those shares—”
“My standing in the shipping business would be ruined. That is why the letter was sent to Froy. It is
blackmail, Sampler, with Burris Froy as the unwilling go-between. The letter threatened him with death if
he did not communicate with me.”
Turning about, Lengerton went to a safe behind his desk. He swung the metal door open; it was
unlocked. Sampler gaped at sight of stacked currency, bundles of bank notes, all of thousand-dollar
denomination.
“The terms were these,” declared Lengerton, sourly. “I was told to unload all my holdings in
Intercontinental Air Lines, which I did to-day, through my proxies. I was permitted to retain half a million,
the amount of my original investment. That sum has been placed in the bank.
“The rest—an equal sum, all profits—you see before you. At eight o'clock to-night, the unknown
blackmailer is to enter this office and pick up the money unmolested. That gives us”—Lengerton glanced
at his watch—“less than twenty minutes to be out of here.”
SAMPLER gaped helplessly. Lengerton seated himself behind the desk, drummed for a few moments,
then yanked open a drawer. From it, he produced a stack of newspaper clippings, which he tossed on
the desk with the comment:
“Look at these, Sampler.”
The secretary did as directed. The clippings were ominous. They were of various dates; they were from
newspapers in different cities. Each clipping carried its own strange tale. A few told of wealthy men, who
had died suddenly.
Others mentioned important persons whose present whereabouts were unknown, but whose absence
carried no suspicion of foul play. There were a few clippings that mentioned absent men who had
returned; but who had refused to state where they had been. Sampler remembered several of these cases
from the current news.
“Those came with the letter that Froy received,” remarked Lengerton. “He believes that the people
mentioned were victims of the blackmail ring. Some are dead; others are missing. Only the ones who will
not talk have been allowed to return. Since their lips are sealed, it indicates that they must have
experienced some terrible ordeal.”
Lengerton gathered the clippings, thrust them into the desk drawer and angrily threw a sheaf of loose
papers upon them. He glanced toward the open safe and grimaced. Lengerton did not relish the loss of a
cool half a million.
“A double-barreled threat,” mused the shipping president. “First, because I could not risk the exposure
of my ownings in Intercontinental Air Lines. Second, the veiled warning of death or injury if I did not
comply. Oddly, Sampler, it was the first threat that worried me. I would be willing to face the second.”
“The first threat is ended, Mr. Lengerton,” said Sampler. “Since you have already disposed of your
airline holdings, there can be no exposure. At present, it is simply money that you must protect.”
A sharp gleam came to Lengerton's eyes. The gray-haired man pounded the desk with his fist. Hurriedly,
Lengerton glanced at his watch. It showed twelve minutes before eight. Without further hesitation,
Lengerton snatched up the telephone. Sampler listened while his employer called police headquarters.
Lengerton's statement was brief. He said simply that he was threatened by grave danger, that he must
have protection before eight o'clock. After giving his name and office address, be promised that he would
explain matters when the police arrived.
With a satisfied smile, Lengerton hung up the receiver. He glanced at his watch again and spoke to
Sampler.
“I talked to an inspector named Cardona,” declared Lengerton. “The fellow wasted no time over details.
He says that he will be here with a squad of detectives in less than ten minutes. We have tricked our
enemies, Sampler.
“Since eight o'clock is the deadline, they will wait until after that hour before they enter. If they are
watching the office, they will probably think that I accidentally stayed too long. While they continue their
vigil, the law will arrive.”
Lengerton chuckled. His lips opened for another statement; suddenly, they froze. From his desk,
Lengerton stared straight past Sampler, toward the door of the office. A horrified expression came upon
Sampler's face, like a reflection of the terror that Lengerton had registered. Mechanically, Sampler turned
about. He saw the sight that Lengerton had spied.
THE door of the office was open. Two men had silently stepped in from the darkened outer office. As
they moved forward, side by side, three others followed, like slaves attendant upon their masters. The
foremost pair had guns; the rear trio carried a cubical wooden box that measured more than foot in each
direction. The box was black, of ebony.
It was not the sight of leveled revolvers or the ominous black box that caused both Lengerton and
Sampler to quail. The sight that horrified the trapped shipping president and his secretary was the
appearance of the invaders themselves. They looked like monsters, those intruders; creatures who had
shed their human features.
Each was clad in a robe of dull gold, with cowllike headpiece that encircled cheeks and forehead. Each
wore thin gauntlets of the same material. Their faces, amazingly lifelike, were also of gold. For a moment,
Lengerton and Sampler thought that these were real countenances, gilded.
The trapped men then realized that such was not the case. The answer lay in the fact that every one of the
five faces were identical. The leaders, with their glimmering revolvers; the followers, with their ebony
box—any one of the group could have passed for another.
Each golden face carried an insidious expression. Each visage was perfect in formation; that fact simply
added to the demonish touch. Golden lips were curved in half smiles that boded no mercy.
The only difference—and it was scarcely detectable—lay in the eyes that stared from golden sockets.
There was variance in the colors of the five pairs of eyes.
The golden faces were masks, beaten from metal that was almost pure. Their thinness gave them realism,
despite the fact that the golden features were immobile. Each mask hid the real face behind it; but the
golden smiles seemed to tell the feeling that was held by every evil heart.
These Golden Masks were fiends to the core. They had come to claim wealth that they had demanded.
Finding that their terms had not been obeyed, they were prepared to deal punishment upon the pair of
helpless victims who cowered by the desk.
CHAPTER II. BEFORE THE LAW
AS he shrank before the threat of the Golden Masks, James Lengerton realized the error that he had
made. He wished that he had closed and locked the safe; to leave with Sampler and meet the police
outside the building. Such a move might have tricked these golden-garbed invaders.
Another thought flashed through Lengerton's brain. The Golden Masks must have guessed that he
intended to offset their game. The fact that he had remained within his office almost until eight o'clock had
been their cue for entry.
One of the two leaders snarled a command that produced no motion of the metal lips. Immediately, the
three followers stepped to the desk. They placed the ebony box there and opened it. Another snarl made
Lengerton stare at the enemy in front of him; hence the shipping president did not see what the box
contained. Sampler observed it, however. The secretary gasped. One of the golden-faced servitors was
removing a large glass cylinder from the box. The cylinder was inverted; its mouth was covered with a
sheet of rubber, that had a central slit. Sampler saw a rubber hose stretch snakily from the box as the
Golden Mask lifted the cylinder high above his head. The hose formed a tubular connection between
cylinder and box.
The cylinder came downward. From in back of Lengerton, the man who held the cylinder clamped it
over the shipping president's head. Lengerton started a struggle; the other two servitors promptly gripped
him, one on either side. Clamped between these captors, Lengerton could scarcely writhe.
The victim made a grotesque sight, his haggard face staring through the rounded wall of glass. The rubber
cap beneath the cylinder had tightened about Lengerton's neck; his head was in an air-tight container.
The struggle that Lengerton made did not last long. The man who had capped his head within the cylinder
reached a golden gauntlet into the black box. Fingers pressed a lever. A hissing sound followed.
Sampler saw a yellowish gas issue into the cylinder. The vapor coiled about Lengerton's head; increasing,
the yellow cloud obscured the victim's face. Sampler caught one last glimpse of Lengerton's face; he
could tell that his employer's breath had given out. Lengerton was forced to inhale the yellowish gas.
THE effect was completed in less than a minute. Lengerton's body sagged back into the chair behind the
desk. His head tilted sidewise, carrying the glass cylinder to a precarious angle.
The men who held Lengerton let him slump; one of them caught the toppling cylinder and lifted it clear of
the victim's head. Lengerton's neck wobbled; his head tilted backward and thumped against the back of
the chair. One of the Golden Masks placed the cylinder back into the black box.
The other two raised Lengerton. The victim was staring, with goggly eyes, as though everything before his
gaze was distorted. His muscles lacked action; but his body was loose, like that of a jointed puppet. He
seemed to understand when one of the servitors snarled for him to walk; but he was unable to respond to
the command.
Supporting their victim, the two Golden Masks moved Lengerton away from the desk. His legs acted
mechanically, their footsteps draggy, as the two servitors walked him toward the door.
The last of the three masked underlings closed the black box and lugged it with him as he followed the
others toward the door. Forgetful of his own plight, Sampler stared after them. He heard the draggy
footsteps cross the outer office; he listened as the hallway door thumped shut.
Three of the Golden Masks had departed with their prisoner. Overwhelmed by the strange gas,
Lengerton had reached a condition that made his removal easy. What Lengerton's fate would be,
Sampler could not guess. Vaguely, the secretary realized that the Golden Masks had conquered
Lengerton within a few minutes after their arrival. There would still be an interval before the police
arrived.
During that period, Sampler knew that he would be at the mercy of the two Golden Masks who had
remained. They were the leaders of the insidious throng. They stood with ready revolvers, holding
Sampler prisoner. They did not intend to give him the gas treatment; for the ebony box and its glass
cylinder were gone.
Had Sampler used reason, he would have seen that his own cause was not hopeless. Lengerton's money
was still in the open safe. The leaders of the Golden Masks had further business here. It would serve
them best to postpone murder until they were ready for departure. Given five minutes longer, the police
would arrive.
Sampler's proper course was to stall, to plead with the Golden Masks; to promise them anything that
would delay them. In his terror, the secretary did not grasp the possibilities that such a policy offered. He
wanted a chance for flight; and he thought he saw such opportunity.
The leaders of the Golden Masks had turned toward the door. They were listening intently, even after
footsteps had died. They wanted to be sure that their followers had made an unhampered get-away with
James Lengerton.
The fixed stares on the golden faces made Sampler think that neither of the two men could see him.
Shakily, Sampler edged along the desk. He gave a sudden spring toward the man who stood nearest to
him.
THE golden-masked rogue spun away, with a fierce snarl. Sampler lunged wide. He was stopped by a
sudden jab of the masked man's right hand. The Golden Mask thrust his revolver muzzle against
Sampler's ribs; the gauntleted fist went deep beneath the secretary's coat. As Sampler tried to twist
away, the Golden Mask fired.
The report was muffled by the folds of Sampler's coat. The secretary jolted; smoke coiled outward from
his vest. With distorted lips that failed to give cry, Sampler sagged sidewise, flattened on the floor in front
of the desk. The man with the gun looked down at his victim's sprawled body. The unchanged smile upon
the Golden Mask seemed to denote the murderer's evil pleasure.
The other Golden Mask looked toward his comrade. His metal smile looked like an expression of
approval. Calmly, both men put away their revolvers, pocketing them through slits at the sides of their
robes.
One went to the safe, brought out the wads of currency and placed the money on the desk. The other
found a cardboard box on a table in the corner. Together, they thumbed the cash, then packed their
ill-gained wealth in the box.
Sampler's death had produced one result. Because the shot had been completely muffled, the Golden
Masks showed no hurry. They were oblivious to the fact that the law was on its way here. They took
four full minutes for work that they could have accomplished in less than two.
One of the evil pair tucked the pasteboard box beneath his arm. The other went to the door, turned the
knob, just as his companion pressed the light switch. The inner office was plunged in darkness, just as the
door came inward. Simultaneously, the man with the box remembered an important item. He snarled two
words:
“The clippings—”
The other stopped him, with an evil hiss, pointed a gauntleted finger across the outer office, toward the
door to the hall. Though both offices were almost completely dark, the rogue with the box detected his
companion's gesture and looked in the direction indicated.
The outer door had a glass panel, like the one between the offices. Beyond it was the light of the hallway,
dimmed because of the frosted glass. Nevertheless, it formed a semitransparent frame. Against that glass,
visible from where the Golden Masks stood, was a shadowed outline that made both villains reach
instantly for their revolvers.
THE shadow against the glass was a silhouette that showed a hawklike profile, topped by the brim of a
slouch hat. Motionless, it formed an uncanny symbol—a shape that might have stood alone, without
human form to produce it. Despite their evil prowess and the darkness that covered them, the Golden
Masks were halted by the sight.
The Golden Masks were men of crime. They recognized the silhouette that blocked the hallway light. The
hawkish profile told them that their trail had been crossed, that their path was covered by a master
foeman whose presence meant destruction for workers of evil.
That superfoe had arrived just after the servitors had taken James Lengerton away. Though too late to
deal with minions, he was in time to meet the perpetrators of crime, to halt the escape of the two leaders
who had seen to the murder of Sampler.
That sinister profile against the door belonged to The Shadow. It symbolized a master of crime detection,
whose ways were many, whose moves were hidden. Other crooks had seen that silhouette that marked
the advent of The Shadow. They had learned—through their own doom— that it was futile to attempt
open battle with an enemy whose actual form they could not see.
Evil though they were, the two Golden Masks feared to move. They crouched by their inner doorway,
hoping to evade the search of eyes that they felt might penetrate the frosted outer pane.
Their revolvers were drawn; but the fingers within the golden gauntlets were numbed by fear. Neither
rogue dared fire. A shot might prove useless; if so, it would be answered by a peal of mocking mirth. The
Shadow would know the location of his huddled enemies.
Great was the terror that had gripped Lengerton and Sampler at the sight of the Golden Masks. Much of
that same horror now held the Golden Masks themselves. Their golden garb was a mere masquerade
that hid their actual identities. The blackness that enveloped The Shadow was a shroud that rendered him
vague and invisible.
As the clock in the outer office ticked off the passing seconds, the masked murderers waited, banking all
upon the hope that The Shadow would depart. That seemed their only chance of safety against this
famed invader who had arrived before the law.
CHAPTER III. THE LAW'S BLUNDER
TEN seconds passed. Staring, the Golden Masks saw a slow motion of the silhouette beyond the frosted
door. With eerie glide, the profile faded to one side. It did not return. Complete silence persisted until a
slight click sounded from the outer hall. The dim light was extinguished. Total blackness reigned.
Without knowing it, the Golden Masks had held a temporary advantage. The Shadow had come to the
office of the Oceanic Steamship Co.; just outside the outer door, he had discerned the light from the inner
office. About to investigate, The Shadow had halted when the Golden Masks extinguished the inner light
and opened the connecting door.
With no chance to fade away unseen, The Shadow had held his ground. He knew that men within the
office would see his blackened silhouette; therefore, he had remained motionless, to make them think that
his outlined profile was a ruse. The Shadow timed his stay to perfection; when he did withdraw, his
deliberate move still bluffed the Golden Masks.
It was not until The Shadow pressed the hall switch that the rogues realized how close he had been to the
outer door. Their knowledge came too late. The Shadow had gained the element that he wanted:
darkness. The Golden Masks could risk no light. They were bottled in the office; there, The Shadow
intended to keep them until their nerves reached a breaking point.
The Golden Masks were in a tight spot. If this situation had continued for a few minutes longer, they
would have been due for a startling surprise. The Shadow had outguessed them; luck was all upon which
the Golden Masks could depend. Chance favored them beyond all hope.
ONE minute after the hall light had gone out, the Golden Masks heard a distant sound, like the thud of
approaching footsteps. It lasted for a few short seconds; The Shadow must have heard it also, for it
came from beyond the hallway door.
The noise ended; without warning, a glare of light flooded the outer hall. Some one had approached to
find the hall lights extinguished. The new arrival had supplied the brilliance of a bull's-eye lantern.
The flooding light showed a sight that the Golden Masks had not anticipated. The door from the hall was
halfway open. Across the threshold was an unmistakable figure, cloaked in black. It was The Shadow,
his gloved left hand upon the doorknob, his right gripping a mammoth automatic.
The light had come at a most inopportune instant. Had The Shadow been less advanced into the office,
he could have dived away along the hall before the big light was flashed.
Had he been given a few seconds more, he could have sprung past the door which he had so stealthily
opened. By finding darkness in the office, he could have shot it out with the surprised Golden Masks.
As it was, The Shadow stood trapped. His tall form was completely visible to the Golden Masks. Shouts
from the hall told that he had been spied by the new invaders. The Shadow needed split-second speed in
this emergency. He showed it.
Counting the men within the office as the most dangerous, because of their preparedness, The Shadow
took his chances with those in the hall. Spinning outward, he wheeled and dashed along the corridor,
away from the revealing light.
The Golden Masks came to life as The Shadow whirled. They fired rapidly with their revolvers; but The
Shadow was gone too rapidly. Useless bullets bashed the far wall of the hallway, beyond the opened
outer door.
The shouts in the hall were louder. Guns began to bark; at the end of the corridor, The Shadow heard
bullets whiz past him. He swung into a side passage; heavy-footed pursuers dashed after him. The
Shadow knew the false situation that he had encountered.
The men with the lantern were headquarters detectives. Sent to cover Lengerton's office, they had gone
after the first intruder whom they saw there. The shots fired by the Golden Masks had simply spurred on
the excited dicks. Without stopping to reason, they supposed that Lengerton and others who needed
help had opened fire on the black-clad intruder at the office door.
As The Shadow raced along the side passage, the light reached the turn behind him. From a stairway
ahead, two more detectives sprang up to block The Shadow's flight. The Shadow met the first man
head-on, sprawled him to the stairs with a swift uppercut. As the second detective fired hastily, The
Shadow grappled with him and swung the man between himself and the light.
The detectives at the turn could not fire; for their comrade was toward them. Hanging onto the fellow,
The Shadow was prepared to haul him down the stairs, away from gun range. Just then, a chance
incident started a new commotion.
One detective flashed a light back along the main corridor, to sight two figures hurrying from Lengerton's
office. One glimpse told him that they were enemies. The Golden Masks were staging a get-away; they
stopped the instant that the light flashed upon them.
Both crooks fired. The detective with the light dropped, wounded. Brief sight of the Golden Masks was
lost; amid the gunfire, another detective doused the bull's-eye lantern. Blindly, the detectives fired along
the darkened hall. The Golden Masks had dashed in the direction from which the headquarters men had
originally come. The crook who carried the swag clung to it.
NEW shouts arose as the Golden Masks reached the beginning of the corridor. A loud, gruff voice was
that of Inspector Joe Cardona. He had ordered his men ahead; he was moving up with others when the
Golden Masks encountered them on a wide stairway by the elevators.
Arms slashed; guns blasted wildly; flashlights glimmered, to be knocked from the hands that held them.
Fleeing men clattered down the stairway. The Golden Masks had broken through, unscathed.
Far distant, The Shadow heard the commotion. The detectives at the turn of the passage were dashing to
join Cardona in pursuit of the Golden Masks.
The Shadow flung off the man with whom he grappled, left him at the top of the little stairway and dashed
downward. It was The Shadow's only chance to head off the Golden Masks when they reached the
street.
There were three flights to the bottom. The Shadow came out through a doorway that opened on a
passage beside the building.
Shots were booming when The Shadow reached the front sidewalk. A big sedan careened from the
curb; revolvers spat from its windows as the automobile fled. Cardona and three detectives fired wasted
shots. The Golden Masks were off to a get-away. No police cars were on hand to chase them, for
Cardona had made his approach to the building a secret one.
There was a taxi near the curb, a little below the building. Before the police spied it, The Shadow sprang
toward the cab. As he neared the taxi, he came into view. A detective shouted as he saw The Shadow,
raised his arm to fire. Before the dick could fire, Cardona grabbed his arm and knocked the man's gun
upward.
Joe Cardona had also spied The Shadow. An ace sleuth, the inspector recognized the cloaked
combatant. Quicker in thought than the detective was with the trigger, Cardona not only saved The
Shadow from a chance bullet; he also realized how great a mistake had been made.
If Cardona had guessed beforehand that The Shadow intended to visit Lengerton's, the inspector would
have ordered his squad to stay in the background. Unfortunately, the law had bungled.
The Shadow snapped an order as be boarded the cab. The driver, a chance hackie who had parked
near Lengerton's building, was quick in response. He heard a fierce whisper that commanded him to
follow the car that had fled.
THE SHADOW'S commandeered cab sped past gaping detectives, who still could not guess why
Cardona had ordered them to stand by. The taxi took the corner; the driver spied the car that carried the
Golden Masks. The fleeing sedan was turning a corner two blocks ahead. It had gained too good a start.
When the taxi reached that corner, the sedan was out of sight. Though he did his best, the cab driver
failed to pick up its trail as he threaded from street to street.
The Shadow ordered him to halt the cab. The driver obeyed. A five-dollar bill wavered past the hackie's
shoulder and flipped to his lap. Clutching the unexpected fare, the cab driver looked into the back of the
car, hoping to see his passenger. The cab was empty. The Shadow had dropped off into the night,
closing the door silently, behind him.
The Shadow, always in touch with important financial matters, had learned earlier that large sales had
been made in Intercontinental Air Lines. Through confidential channels, he had gained sufficient data to
link James Lengerton with the stock sales. Scenting mystery, The Shadow had paid that surprise visit to
Lengerton's office. Ghostlike, he had arrived to trap the leaders of the Golden Masks. But the law's
blunder had allowed a pair of master crooks to escape.
Though he had not even seen his superfoes, The Shadow had observed previous evidence of their
depredations. To-night, he had come closer to the Golden Masks than before. The Shadow was
confident that his next endeavor would bring him face to face with these master criminals. All that The
Shadow needed was one more clue.
Strangely, that clue would soon be in the making. New twists of circumstances were destined to bring
The Shadow adventures of a sort that even he had never before experienced.
CHAPTER IV. MASKED MEN MEET
IT was midnight. Four hours had passed since the events at Lengerton's office. The early editions of the
morning newspapers had reached the streets of Manhattan; newsboys were already selling them at Times
Square. These “bulldog” extras carried sensational news concerning what had taken place at Lengerton's
office. It had been inserted as a stop-press item.
“Big skyscraper moider—”
As a newsboy shouted the statement, a peak-faced man stopped to purchase an extra. The man was
carrying a suitcase in his left hand; to it was attached a tag that bore the printed name of Clifford Sulgate.
The initials on the suitcase corroborated the tag; for the letters were C. S.
With his free hand, Sulgate fumbled for change, found a quarter and gave it to the newsie. He did not
wait for the twenty-three cents that the newsboy started to return to him. Instead, Sulgate walked hastily
away and did not stop until he had reached the nearest corner.
There, by the light from a pineapple juice stand, Sulgate scanned the headlines.
Clifford Sulgate was the type of man whom one would expect to see near Times Square at midnight. He
was dressed in a tuxedo; over that attire he wore a lightweight overcoat. His head was topped by an
expensive Derby hat. Apparently, he had been to the theater, for a program was sticking out from his
overcoat pocket. However, there was nothing in Sulgate's manner to indicate that he had enjoyed the
show. Sulgate's face was not only pale and dryish, but was almost the color of the gray hair that showed
below his Derby. His lips twitched; his eyes kept blinking. As he studied the newspaper, he set down his
suitcase in order to adjust his rimless spectacles. He fidgeted with the glasses until he had them as he
wanted them; even then, his blinking and twitching were as frequent as before.
摘要：

THEGOLDENMASKSMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2002BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.FACESOFDOOM?CHAPTERII.BEFORETHELAW?CHAPTERIII.THELAW'SBLUNDER?CHAPTERIV.MASKEDMENMEET?CHAPTERV.THEDESERTER?CHAPTERVI.WHERETHELAWHALTED?CHAPTERVII.THEFUGITIVE'SSTORY?CHAPTERVIII.THESHADOW'SROUTE?CHAPTERI...

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