Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 097 - The Voodoo Master

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THE VOODOO MASTER
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2002 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. THE MAN WHO STARED
? CHAPTER II. THE SHADOW EXPERIMENTS
? CHAPTER III. THE SHADOW'S ANTIDOTE
? CHAPTER IV. CLUES FROM THE PAST
? CHAPTER V. MILES OFF SHORE
? CHAPTER VI. BACK TO LAND
? CHAPTER VII. THE LAW INTERVENES
? CHAPTER VIII. THE ESCAPE
? CHAPTER IX. THE CONFERENCE
? CHAPTER X. CARDONA GAINS SUSPICIONS
? CHAPTER XI. WHEN TOM-TOMS BEAT
? CHAPTER XII. MOCQUINO DECREES
? CHAPTER XIII. DEATH IN THE PENTHOUSE
? CHAPTER XIV. FLIGHT BRINGS RESULTS
? CHAPTER XV. SAYRE RECEIVES VISITORS
? CHAPTER XVI. DARK BRINGS THE SHADOW
? CHAPTER XVII. MOCQUINO ENTERTAINS
? CHAPTER XVIII. CARDONA FINDS A CLUE
? CHAPTER XIX. THE VOODOO CULT MEETS
? CHAPTER XX. THE HALTED ORDEAL
? CHAPTER XXI. OUT OF THE VOID
CHAPTER I. THE MAN WHO STARED
“I HAVE no name.”
The words were uttered in a solemn, mechanical monotone, from lips that were expressionless. The
speaker was a rigid, staring man, who stood in the center of a room that was obviously a physician's
office.
“What about friends? Have you any?”
The question was put by a swarthy, stocky man who was standing beside a small group of listeners.
“I have no friends.”
Again the slow, mechanical tone. The man in the center of the room retained his rigid attitude. His eyes
were motionless, looking steadily at the farther wall. The swarthy questioner shook his head; then turned
to a companion, a serious-faced man who was seated at a desk. The swarthy man asked:
“What about it, Doctor Sayre?”
The serious-faced man considered.
“We must talk it over, inspector,” he decided. “Perhaps it would be best for us to be alone.”
The swarthy-faced man nodded. He motioned to the other listeners; they were three in number and all
looked like detectives. The three arose and took hold of the staring man. They started to walk him from
the room. Doctor Sayre intervened.
“Leave him here,” ordered the physician. Then, to the swarthy inspector: “It might be better if he heard us
talk, Cardona.”
The three detectives departed in a cluster. Sayre and Cardona remained in the office together; between
them stood the rigid man who stared. The trio formed an interesting contrast.
Doctor Rupert Sayre possessed the proper attitude of a consulting physician. Though youngish, he was
serious in manner; and his air was one that created confidence. This was in keeping with his reputation.
Sayre rated high among the practicing physicians of Manhattan.
Joe Cardona, ace detective of New York headquarters, was also a man of merit. Acknowledged as a
leader in his own profession, Cardona held the position of acting inspector. His dark eyes were keen; his
firm jaw marked him as a man of action.
As for the staring man, he possessed features which placed him above the common run. He was above
medium height, erect in carriage and handsome of countenance. His complexion was light; his hair a
medium brown. His eyes, despite their stare, were clear. Their color a bluish-gray.
“GIVE me the history of this case, Cardona,” suggested Doctor Sayre, in a brisk fashion. “It is quite all
right to speak while the patient is listening. Your words might produce some thought impulse that would
arouse him from his present condition.”
“All right,” agreed Cardona. “To begin with, the fellow arrived in New York at three o'clock Sunday
afternoon.”
“Two days ago,” mused Doctor Sayre. “He was in this condition when he arrived?”
“Yes. He came from a Jersey Central ferry, at Liberty Street. He had ridden into Jersey City on an
express from Mannegat, New Jersey.”
“Mannegat is between Asbury Park and Atlantic City?”
“Yes; north of Atlantic City, south of Asbury Park. You reach it by Pennsylvania Railroad from
Philadelphia; by Jersey Central from New York. Well, doctor, when this fellow reached the New York
side of the Hudson River, the first thing he did was walk straight in front of a taxicab. The driver jammed
the brakes; the man kept on, staring dead ahead.
“Another cab nearly bopped him. That's when a patrolman stepped in. He grabbed the chap and saw
what was wrong with him. He took him to the precinct. From there, he was shipped to a hospital for
observation.
“Forty-eight hours ago. No change in his condition. He slept at intervals, but stayed rigid when he did.
When he closes his eyes, it looks mechanical.”
The staring man must have caught an inspiration from the words. He closed his eyes a moment after
Cardona spoke. There was no flicker of the eyelids. They plopped shut like clamshells and remained
closed.
“Outside of a few dollars,” stated Cardona, “all this fellow had on him were two railway tickets. Here
they are.” Joe produced the items. “One is a Jersey Central receipt for a ticket purchased at Mannegat;
we know that the man boarded the train there at one o'clock, Sunday afternoon.
“The other is the return half of a Sunday excursion ticket from Philadelphia to Mannegat, via the
Pennsylvania Railroad. The stamp shows that it was bought in Philadelphia at nine o'clock Sunday
morning.”
Sayre nodded. He was listening to Cardona and watching the rigid man at the same time. Sayre saw
eyelids open. Blue-gray eyes resumed their blank stare.
“What he did,” assured Cardona, “was board a Pennsy train at Philly, intending to return there. When he
got to Mannegat, he must have changed his mind and taken the Jersey Central into New York, instead.
“That's all we know about him. We've sent pictures to the Philadelphia police. No results. Nobody
knows the fellow. He won't say anything that helps. The doctors at the hospital can't figure it. That's why
I brought him here to you.”
Doctor Sayre smiled.
“Why to me?” he queried. “I can scarcely be classed as a specialist in such cases as these.”
“I'm not so sure of that,” returned Cardona. “You've seen some cases that others haven't. Particularly
when you were the guest of a man named Eric Veldon.”
Doctor Sayre made a sudden exclamation. He arose and approached the staring man, to study the
patient at close range. He was trying to find a likeness between this man and others whom he had seen in
the past. Sayre turned to Cardona and spoke in an awed tone.
“Veldon's automata!” he half whispered. “Living dead men, who moved about like mechanical figures!
Victims of operations that had made their brains mere machines in the hands of a master criminal!”
APPROACHING the standing man, Sayre pressed fingers to the back of the patient's head. He was
searching for incisions, some trace of a surgical operation. He found none. This man was a different case
from those whom Cardona had mentioned.
“He may act like Veldon's machine men,” declared Sayre to Cardona, “but he is not the same. Of one
thing I can assure you, inspector: This man's condition is the result of a nervous shock; not of a surgical
operation.”
“Can you do anything to change his condition?”
“I cannot promise. I should like to keep him here a while. He is not dangerous, despite the fact that you
kept three detectives as his custodians.”
“I only brought them to move him along. He walks like a mechanical figure. You say you want to keep
him here, doctor. You mean alone?”
“Exactly.”
Cardona pondered.
“All right,” he decided. “This isn't a criminal case. I can leave him here, Doctor Sayre. Of course, the
responsibility will be yours.”
“I am willing to accept it.”
“That settles the matter. He is in your charge.”
“You will hear from me by this time to-morrow.”
Doctor Sayre indicated a desk clock, which showed half past five. Cardona nodded as he stepped
toward the door.
“By this time to-morrow afternoon,” reminded the acting inspector. “If I don't hear from you, I'll come
here, doctor.”
Sayre had risen. As soon as Cardona was gone, he stepped squarely in front of the staring man and met
the fellow's gaze. The electric lights were on in the office. The physician could see the staring optics
plainly. He knew that the man was observing him; but there was no motion or change in the patient's
gaze.
A human automaton. A “machine man,” as Cardona had described him. Sayre was not surprised that the
ace detective had classed this patient with those victims of Eric Veldon's. A flood of thoughts swept
through the physician's brain.
Sayre remembered Eric Veldon. A criminal who had called himself a “master of death.” (Note: See
“Master of Death.” Vol. VII, No. 2.) A fiend who had wanted Sayre to aid him in brain operations upon
captured thugs and outlaws, that they might do Veldon's bidding in schemes of crime.
Sayre, himself, had been a prisoner of Veldon's, subject to the evil master's bidding. Into that dilemma
had come a powerful fighter, greater than the insidious supercrook. The result had been Sayre's rescue.
Veldon and his minions had perished. Since then, Sayre had served the rescuer who had saved him.
That rescuer was The Shadow. A hidden being, a master sleuth, a fighter par excellence, The Shadow
was one who constantly warred against crime. He was an uncanny personage, whose ways were many,
whose very presence was a shroud of mystery. No matter what the mission might be, Sayre had never
known The Shadow to fail.
STEPPING toward the man who stared, Sayre placed his hands upon the patient's shoulders. He gave a
turning pressure; the staring man swung about without resistance. Sayre shifted hands and urged the
patient toward a door.
Regularly, with slow, automatic pace, the staring man walked forward. When they reached the barrier,
Sayre's pressure stopped him. The physician stepped ahead and opened the door. He turned on a light to
show a small reception room.
Coming back to the office, Sayre walked the patient forward to a chair in the reception room. Again, he
turned the human machine about; then pushed him downward. The rigid arms jerked sidewise and found
the chair arms. Abruptly, the man took a seated position, still staring dead ahead.
Doctor Sayre locked the outer door of the reception room and pocketed the key. He went back into the
office and closed the adjoining door. He picked up the telephone and called a number. A quiet voice
responded:
“Burbank speaking.”
Sayre replied by giving his own name. Tensely, he stated facts concerning the strange patient whom
Cardona had placed in his charge. Burbank's voice concluded:
“Report received. Await return call.”
Doctor Sayre hung up the receiver. Anxiously, he opened the door to the reception room and again
surveyed the patient. The staring man was exactly as Sayre had left him, seated in the big chair, his face
expressionless as he looked straight toward the wall. Seven minutes passed, while Sayre remained almost
as rigid as the man whom he was watching. Then the telephone bell rang.
Sayre bobbed back into the office and closed the door. He lifted the receiver and announced his name.
Again, he heard Burbank's voice; this time, with brief instructions.
The call completed, Sayre hung up and smiled. He opened the door to the reception room; then went to
his desk. Thanks to the opened door, he could keep tabs on his patient, should the man make motion.
No such indications came. Minutes ticked without a stir from the staring man in the next room. Doctor
Rupert Sayre, however, wore a smile of absolute confidence. His chat with Burbank had given him
assurance; for Burbank was The Shadow's contact man.
Sayre's report had been relayed. A return statement had been received. While dusk settled above
Manhattan, Doctor Sayre could wait without a worry. Within the next two hours, the physician would
have another visitor—one whom Sayre believed would surely solve the riddle of the man who stared.
The Shadow, master delver into unaccountable pasts, was coming to take charge of this unexplainable
case.
CHAPTER II. THE SHADOW EXPERIMENTS
DOCTOR SAYRE'S desk clock showed ten minutes after seven, when the physician suddenly chanced
to notice it. Sayre could not have explained the impulse that forced him to drop work that he was doing,
in order to consult the clock. Nor could he have told the reason for his next action.
Sayre had heard nothing; yet, after glancing at the clock, he looked directly toward the outer door of the
office. Tensely expectant, he expected it to open. Slow seconds passed; then the door swung slowly
inward. Silent, smiling, a tall visitor stood on the threshold.
Sayre recognized the countenance that he observed. The smile was slight, formed by thin lips. The visage,
itself, was masklike, with a hawkish aspect. Steady, burning eyes gazed from the immobile face.
“Lamont Cranston!”
In his greeting, Sayre spoke the name instinctively. The physician, like others, knew that Lamont
Cranston was a globe-trotting millionaire, who spent occasional periods at his estate in New Jersey.
More than that, however, Sayre had for a long while identified Lamont Cranston with The Shadow.
Later, Sayre had learned that The Shadow was not Lamont Cranston. There was a real Cranston, who
was seldom at home. The Shadow, when he chose, used Cranston's residence and lived there, passing
himself as the millionaire. This was with the real Cranston's knowledge and approval. But of the two, the
only one who would be visiting Doctor Sayre was The Shadow.
Closing the door, The Shadow advanced and shook hands with the physician. Keen eyes noted the open
doorway to the reception room. The Shadow spoke in a quiet, easy tone:
“Bring the man here.”
Sayre complied. He found his patient still seated in the adjoining room. He urged the man to his feet and
propelled him into the office. The Shadow pointed toward the desk. Sayre swung the staring man so that
he faced in that direction.
Leaning back against the desk, The Shadow motioned Sayre to join him. Together, they faced the staring
eyes. The Shadow nodded to Sayre. The physician understood. He tried the stock questions on the
patient.
“What is your name?”
“I have no name.”
“Who are your friends?”
“I have no friends.”
The Shadow was watching the expressionless eyes, as the staring man delivered the mechanical
monotones. There was no sign of intelligence behind the patient's bulging gaze.
“Some other experiments,” remarked Sayre to The Shadow. “Ones that they tried at the hospital; and
which I repeated when Cardona brought the man here.”
The physician picked up a small book and held it in front of the staring eyes. Sayre asked:
“What is this?”
“A book.”
“And this?” Sayre drew a fountain pen from his pocket. He held it close to the man's eyes. “What is it?”
“A fountain pen.”
Sayre pressed the book into the man's left hand. He pushed the right hand toward the volume.
“Take the book,” he ordered.
The staring man obeyed.
“Open it.”
The patient followed the instructions.
“Look at the pages.” Sayre forced the hands upward. “Read anything that you see there.”
Mechanically, the man read a few words; then stopped. Sayre shifted the book. Slow lips spoke a few
words more. Sayre took the book and tossed it to the desk.
“His eyes are focused,” explained the physician. “He can read only the few words that come directly in
front of them. That is why it is necessary to move the book. Incidentally, the man is color-blind also.”
SAYRE reached over and opened a desk drawer. He removed several pencils. He held one straight
across in front of the staring man's eyes.
“What is this?”
“A pencil.”
“What is its color?”
Lips moved, but made no utterance. Eyes, though they did not shift, were strained as they continued their
stare. The Shadow picked up a blue pencil; he took the yellow one from Sayre. He held the two so that
the man could see them.
“Which one is yellow?” queried The Shadow. “This?” He moved the blue. “Or this?” He moved the
yellow.
The staring man could see both. His lips moved. Each time they delivered a slow gasp. The Shadow put
down the pencils and picked up another, a green one.
“This is green,” he remarked, in the slow tone of Cranston. “Remember it: green.”
He turned about, mixed the pencils, then raised them one by one before the straining, staring eyes.
“Name the green pencil when you see it.”
The staring man's lips moved as each pencil passed his vision. Nevertheless, no words arrived. Sayre
made comment.
“As I remarked,” he said, “the man is color-blind.”
“I disagree,” returned The Shadow, with a slight smile. He tossed the pencils to the desk. “He has simply
lost his sense of color perception. It is a peculiar condition that accompanies his aphasia.”
Sayre looked puzzled. The Shadow explained.
“A person who is totally color-blind,” he declared, “should show one of two reactions. He will either
think that he knows colors and will therefore name them incorrectly, because of the shades that he sees,
or he will admit his inability to recognize colors and will show no effort.
“This man has tried to identify the colors of the pencils. He has found himself unable to do so.
Apparently, he has lost his color sense. Perhaps you can explain that, Doctor Sayre.”
“It is puzzling,” conceded the physician. “Your theory seems to strike the facts. I attribute the man's
aphasia to a shock. But this matter of colors, once recognized, but no longer—”
“What sort of a shock?”
Sayre stroked his chin.
“That opens a realm of speculation,” he declared. “Sound could have produced this condition, as with the
cases of shell-shocked victims. Brilliance might have done it; there have been cases of aphasia among
physicians who have witnessed terrific lightning flashes.”
“It was color shock, in this instance.”
Sayre looked toward The Shadow, as he heard the quiet statement. The physician was stopped with
amazement. The possibility had not gripped him until this moment.
“Color!” he gasped. “That could account for it! Deafness after sound; blindness after brilliance! Loss of
color reception, after some strange shock involving color!”
“Yes!” The Shadow pronounced the word with a sibilant hiss. “Color! That fact is known”—his voice
had become a weird whisper. “Through it, we can grasp forgotten facts that dwell within this stilled
brain.”
AS he spoke, The Shadow reached to the wall and pressed the light switch. Ceiling bulbs faded; the only
glow that remained came from a lamp upon Sayre's desk. Reaching for it, The Shadow tilted the shade
upward. A spot of light was thrown upon two faces: The Shadow's and that of the staring man who
gazed blankly across the desk.
Doctor Sayre watched The Shadow's countenance move eye to eye with the face of the unknown
patient. Sayre caught the glint of fire sparkling from The Shadow's optics. The glow seemed to reflect
into the blue-gray eyes of the staring man.
Again, The Shadow whispered. His visage, like his voice, had altered. Sayre was transfixed, as if
beholding a visitor from another world. The expression of The Shadow's face was commanding,
all-impelling. He was impressing his powerful personality upon the man before him.
There was something hypnotic in The Shadow's gaze. Sayre, being a physician, knew its purpose. The
Shadow was gaining the full attention of the staring man, forcing him to forget all except those eyes which
glowed before him. Though the staring man gave no visible sign, it was apparent that his gaze was fixed.
“Your thoughts return to the past.” The Shadow's tone was solemn. “Back to the time when memory was
full. Think! Remember! The scene lies all about you!”
No response from the staring man. Only sibilant echoes from the walls, reverberations of The Shadow's
hissed command.
“All about you. Color! Vivid color!”
Staring eyes bulged. Lips began to quiver, but gave no utterance. Again, The Shadow whispered:
“Color! Everywhere! You remember!”
Lips were forming words, no longer mechanical. The staring man gasped:
“Yes—yes! Color everywhere—the glow—”
“Lights!” hissed The Shadow. “Lights that glowed with color! You remember the color itself!”
“The color—yes! It—it was red—red—”
“Red! Vivid red!” The Shadow's hands, rising, reached the staring man's chin. One hand on either side,
The Shadow used his finger tips to tilt the man's face slightly upward. Gazing deep into the other's eyes,
The Shadow delivered final utterance: “Glowing red! Red that gripped you, that terrorized you—”
The Shadow's tone ended abruptly. His words were like a knife-thrust into the thoughts of the man
whose memory he sought to jab. A wild cry ripped from gaping lips. Hands came up; the victim clutched
the sides of his head.
“Red! Maddening red!” His voice was hoarse as he backed away. “Red— there! Upon the walls!”
Eyes were staring no longer. They were rolling, terrified, as though viewing a horrendous scene. The man
was wheeling, pointing to one wall, then to another. His head tilted toward the floor.
“Red!” he shrieked. His head went back, his eyes rolled upward as his hand pointed to the ceiling. “Red!
Terrible red! The light—the red light! Take it away! Away, before it kills me!”
The man recoiled; then drove forward with furious impulse. His face distorted, he leaped toward the
desk lamp. Young, powerful, he snatched the lamp from its resting place and swung back his arm, ready
to deliver a terrific hurl against the wall.
The Shadow's hand shot forward.
WITH one quick grasp, The Shadow clutched the fierce man's arm. With his other fist, he wrenched the
lamp from the fellow's grasp. Eyes, no longer staring, were wild with frenzy. As The Shadow wheeled
away, carrying the lamp, the maddened man straightened and spun about, clutching at his hair.
“Red—everywhere!” he screamed. “Take it away—the red—the light —”
He was focused in the glow, as The Shadow turned the light straight upon him. A frenzied scream; a
thwarted, desperate stare; then, with a choking gasp, the man crumpled and rolled crazily upon the floor.
Doctor Sayre sprang beside him, as The Shadow pressed the switch at the wall.
“His frenzy has overcome him,” declared the physician. “The memories that you induced have caused him
to reenact the former scene.”
“Results have been gained,” responded The Shadow, in the calm tone of Cranston. “We must be
prepared for his next awakening.”
“His memory will be gone—”
“Not necessarily. Come, doctor. Help me raise him.”
Together, they lifted the helpless man from the floor. One supporting each shoulder, The Shadow and
Sayre moved the patient toward the door. It was The Shadow who led the course; Sayre followed,
puzzled. Out through an entry, to the level of the front street. There Sayre saw a waiting limousine, a
chauffeur by the opened door.
The Shadow urged Sayre toward further effort. Together, they placed the unconscious man in the car.
The Shadow stepped aboard; the chauffeur closed the door, leaving Sayre on the sidewalk. The face of
Lamont Cranston appeared at the window.
“To-morrow,” came the quiet tone, “l shall summon you. Be ready to join me, Doctor Sayre.”
“But—but the patient!” stammered the physician. “He was in my charge. You are taking him—”
“He will be in good care. To-morrow, you will find him recovered.”
“Recovered? You mean—”
“Since I have found the cause of his condition,” interposed The Shadow, quietly, “I shall be able to
supply the antidote.”
The chauffeur had taken the wheel; the limousine pulled away. Standing on the curb, Doctor Sayre gazed
after the departing car with a dumfounded expression that almost matched the blankness of the man who
had stared.
Through Sayre's mind echoed The Shadow's final words. The Shadow had learned the cause. He would
find the antidote. To-morrow, the mysterious patient would be restored to a normal condition. Then
would come the opportunity to learn his story.
Doctor Sayre walked back into his office, pondering. To-night, as in the past, he had witnessed the
amazing power of The Shadow. From the moment when he had begun his deductions concerning color,
The Shadow had predominated, even to the point of awakening blurred memories within the mind of a
man who had forgotten.
To-morrow, Sayre was convinced, much would be learned. The Shadow's words had been a prophecy.
Sayre wondered what the future would bring. Perhaps it was well that he could not guess.
For The Shadow, to-night, had erased an unexpected trail of crime. One that was destined to produce
strange consequences, where death and evil hovered!
CHAPTER III. THE SHADOW'S ANTIDOTE
AT four o'clock the next afternoon, Doctor Rupert Sayre stepped from a local train at a small New
Jersey station. An automobile was awaiting him. It was the limousine that he had seen the night before.
The same chauffeur was at the wheel. Sayre stepped aboard; the car rolled from the station driveway.
Settling back in the cushions of the tonneau, Doctor Sayre felt that he had embarked upon adventure. He
had come to New Jersey in response to a summons from The Shadow. That fact indicated that results
had been accomplished.
The staring man must have recovered from his helpless condition. So Sayre reasoned, and with good
logic. Had the patient's state remained the same, The Shadow would have returned him to New York.
The fact that Sayre had been summoned here seemed proof that recuperation was the answer.
The journey from the station was not a long one. Soon the limousine had threaded its way along
secondary highways, to arrive at the gate of a large estate. The big car rolled between stone gateposts. It
took a curving driveway and pulled up in front of a large, well-kept mansion.
This was the home of Lamont Cranston. A servant descended the front steps to greet the visitor. Sayre
was ushered into a quiet living room. The servant went away; a few minutes later, a calm voice spoke in
greeting. Sayre looked up to see the tall form of Lamont Cranston. Daylight from the opened window
reflected a momentary sparkle in keen eyes. Sayre knew that his host was The Shadow.
“The patient?” queried Sayre, almost in a whisper. “He has improved?”
“Immensely.” Lips formed a slight smile. “Several hours of intensive treatment have proven of great
benefit.”
“He has spoken?”
“Not yet. It was preferable to await your arrival. A short while longer would be desirable.”
THE SHADOW glanced from the window as he spoke. It was plain that he was considering the matter
of daylight. Afternoon was waning; the sun was on a level with high trees that fringed the grounds about
the house. The glare would be lessened, once the sun lowered beyond those treetops.
“While we are waiting,” remarked The Shadow, quietly, “I shall reconstruct a few items in the history of
our patient. First: how he came to the condition in which he was discovered.
“He was subjected to a strange ordeal. Some enemy placed him in a room that was entirely red. I picture
deep crimson curtains upon every wall; a red carpet covering the entire floor; a glaring ceiling of the same
摘要：

THEVOODOOMASTERMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2002BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.THEMANWHOSTARED?CHAPTERII.THESHADOWEXPERIMENTS?CHAPTERIII.THESHADOW'SANTIDOTE?CHAPTERIV.CLUESFROMTHEPAST?CHAPTERV.MILESOFFSHORE?CHAPTERVI.BACKTOLAND?CHAPTERVII.THELAWINTERVENES?CHAPTERVIII.THEESCAPE?CH...

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