Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 082 - Atoms of Death

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ATOMS OF DEATH
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. WORD TO THE SHADOW
? CHAPTER II. CRIME'S VANGUARD
? CHAPTER III. THE BLIND TRAIL
? CHAPTER IV. THE INTERVIEW
? CHAPTER V. THE MIDNIGHT STROKE
? CHAPTER VI. SHADOW'S STRATEGY
? CHAPTER VII. THE DECISION
? CHAPTER VIII. THE SHADOW'S THRUST
? CHAPTER IX. DOUBLE FACES DOUBLE
? CHAPTER X. BRUCE DUNCAN'S STORY
? CHAPTER XI. THE SHADOW'S VIGIL
? CHAPTER XII. CLIFF'S PROPOSITION
? CHAPTER XIII. CRIME COMES THROUGH
? CHAPTER XIV. THE FALSE THRUST
? CHAPTER XV. LUKE MAKES A DEAL
? CHAPTER XVI. CRIME STRIKES AGAIN
? CHAPTER XVII. THE TRAP SPRINGS
? CHAPTER XVIII. AGENTS CHOOSE
? CHAPTER XIX. THE WAY IS PAVED
? CHAPTER XX. THE NEW PREY
? CHAPTER XXI. HANDS FROM THE DARK
? CHAPTER XXII. WITHIN THE HOUSE
? CHAPTER XXIII. JARK TRIUMPHS
CHAPTER I. WORD TO THE SHADOW
MANHATTAN formed a changing scene to the man who watched from his window. Dusk was settling
over the metropolis; twinkling lights had appeared upon streets and in buildings. Myriad points of
illumination were offering man's combat to the approaching gloom of night.
To most observers, this would have been an assuring spectacle. To the man at the window, it was the
opposite. He saw those lights as pitiful spots that could only temper darkness; not overpower it. His
eyes, as they looked toward the street below, spied deep, shaded patches, where grim blackness already
reigned.
Lurking spots. Places where enemies might be waiting. The far-off glitter of Times Square, already
glowing against the sky, was one district that might offer safety by its glare. But Times Square was distant
from this young man's lookout. Intervening spaces would have to be traversed should he begin a dash for
those far-off lights that shone like a beacon of safety.
The street was five stories below. Its darkness became more ominous the more the young man watched
it. Fading sunlight showed the man's face pale at the window. A keen face; a firm face - youthful, yet
haggard. It was tension, though, not fear, that held the man in its grip.
Turning from the window, the watcher looked about the room wherein he stood. Although he had been
watching lights, the young man had avoided using them in the room itself. The furniture that loomed in the
dusk of the room was typical of a moderate-priced hotel.
Hunted, avoiding enemies, the young man had chosen this haven. Here, while he awaited some
development, he was seeking to give the impression that he was not in his room. His worriment,
however, was indication that he felt his ruse was unsuccessful.
Stepping in from the window, the young man trod softly toward the door. There he listened, tensely,
trying to catch any signs of movement in the hall. His ears, straining in the darkness, caught a slight,
muffled sound that faded as he listened.
A foe? Or merely some chance passer? The listener did not know. But his breath came in a muffled hiss
as he moved back toward the center of the room. The suspense had brought his nerves to a point where
any noise meant danger. The solitude of the hotel room had quickened his imagination to an unreal pitch -
held him on edge.
A telephone bell jingled from a table in the corner of the room. With a stifled gasp, the young man
pounced upon the receiver. He raised the receiver from the hook; waited as the bell buzzed on; then
spoke in a low voice:
"Hello... Hello..."
A voice across the wire. The young man sank to a chair beside the table. A sigh of relief came from his
lips. He had recognized the tones of the speaker. He had at last made the contact that he sought.
"Hello..." Finding his voice, the young man spoke steadily. "Yes, this is Bruce Duncan... Yes, Harry, I
called you five times... I see. You just returned to your hotel. Well, I'm mighty glad you got my
message...
"I didn't want to call you again. Because of danger... Yes, great danger... Don't ask for the details yet. I'll
tell you all about it when I see you. But there's someone you must notify at once. The Shadow -"
Bruce Duncan broke off suddenly as he heard a warning word across the wire. He understood. Mention
of The Shadow was unwise. Warily, Bruce looked around toward the closed door of his room. He
chewed his lips as he realized the mistake that he had made. He had forgotten that there might be
listeners in the hall.
A careful voice was coming over the wire. The friend at the other end was making statements of
assurance. Bruce Duncan steadied. When he spoke again, it was in methodical fashion.
"Yes..." His voice was one of agreement. "It's best that I should get away from here... Before it is too
dark... I understand. Yes, I can be there in just half an hour... Good... Leave that to me, Harry."
Hanging up, Bruce breathed with confidence. He looked toward the window and smiled, despite the fact
that the sky had fully darkened. For he had found the solution to his problems. No long, hopeless trip to
safety, only a short, circuitous dash that would end in a meeting with a friend.
Half an hour. The time was more than ample. But time, from now on, would be working in his favor, so
Bruce thought. Listening at the door, the young man could detect no new sounds; but he still held a
suspicion that enemies had been outside that portal.
There was safety in this room; there would be safety for a short while when he reached the outside air.
But both would become too precarious if he waited too long. Ten minutes here; then it would be time for
prompt departure.
HOLDING his watch as he stood by the window, Bruce Duncan surveyed his present position. Last
night, he had escaped from a most threatening situation. He had come to this hotel believing that his trail
would be unfollowed. He had decided to remain in hiding.
All had been well until noon today. Then Bruce had realized that he had underestimated the power of the
foe that he had eluded. Lunching in the hotel restaurant, he had noted that he was under observation.
Men who looked like hardened denizens of the underworld had spotted him.
Coming back to his room, Bruce had summed the present. He realized that this hotel - the Palladium -
had been an unwise choice. Bruce had picked it believing that its obscurity would serve him. He had
discovered, too late, that this isolated, run-down hostelry would be the very place where searchers
would try to find him.
Men of evil had sought Bruce Duncan's life. The Shadow had thwarted them in the past. A strange, weird
personage who fought for right, The Shadow was one who could never be forgotten. The closeness of
new danger had inspired Bruce to seek The Shadow's aid again.
Bruce had known of but one way to reach The Shadow. Back in that dim past, Bruce had made the
friendship of a man who he knew must be in The Shadow's service. That man was Harry Vincent; when
Bruce had last seen him, Harry had been living at the Hotel Metrolite.
By reaching Harry; Bruce knew that he could reach The Shadow. He had made a call to the Metrolite
and had learned that Harry was stopping there. But when Bruce had made his first call, he had been
informed that his friend was out. Bruce had followed with four more calls throughout the afternoon. He
had finished with leaving word for Mr. Vincent to call him at the Palladium.
Harry's call had come at last. Aside from Bruce's error in mentioning The Shadow, the conversation had
produced complete results. Harry had pictured Bruce's present dilemma and had offered the best way
out. It was not wise for Bruce to remain much longer at the Palladium Hotel; nor was a long trip
advisable. The best plan was a rendezvous not too far distant.
Wisely, Harry had suggested a corner on Third Avenue. That thoroughfare lay east of the Palladium
Hotel. By heading eastward, Bruce would spring a surprise on followers who would be expecting him to
take a westward course. Moreover, the chosen meeting place was but ten minutes distant. Allowing
more time, Bruce would able to double back on his tracks.
The total space of thirty minutes would be ample for Harry Vincent. Bruce had a hunch that it would
enable other friends to be with Harry. Moreover, it meant that Harry might have time to communicate
with The Shadow. That thought brought a soft chuckle from Bruce Duncan.
Darkness was The Shadow's habitat. Night increased his formidable powers. Until now, Bruce had
dreaded the fading of day. But with word gone to The Shadow, the darkening of night promised greater
security.
TEN minutes had almost ended. Bruce stepped away from the window. A new thought inspired him. His
was a double task. Not only was his own security at stake; that of many others lay in the balance.
Crime was in the making. Hazy, indefinable crime that Bruce could not analyze. Its existence; its
imminence - these, however, were indisputable. It was Bruce's duty to make that threat known; and he
could think of no one better fitted to cope with it than The Shadow. In fact, as Bruce considered it, only
The Shadow would give full credence to the strange tale that Bruce himself could tell.
Seating himself at the writing desk, Bruce took pen and paper. The darkness of the room made it difficult
to write. Time had become short; and not until this moment had Bruce dared give thought to placing facts
upon paper. Realizing the double difficulty, the hunted man chose a course that promised brevity.
Instead of using words, he drew a diagram. The slight glow from the window enabled him to trace lines in
rough, exaggerated fashion. His chart completed, Bruce scrawled explanatory words at the bottom of the
sheet. Instead of using blotter, he carried the paper to the open window and blew upon the page to make
it dry.
Ten minutes had passed. Bruce folded the paper and thrust it in his pocket. He glanced hurriedly at his
watch; then moved toward the door. Softly he unlocked it. With fists clenched, body half set for a spring,
Bruce Duncan stepped into the hall.
No one was there. Bruce looked about, half puzzled. Though he had not anticipated a horde of enemies,
he had at least expected a few pretended loiterers who might be ready to make trouble. Bruce began to
wonder if his fears had possessed any groundwork.
When an elevator came in response to Bruce's ring, there was no one in it but the operator. When Bruce
reached the lobby, he noticed that it was almost deserted. The few guests that he did see looked more
respectable than any he had observed at lunchtime.
Heading for the street, Bruce felt increasing confidence. The thoroughfare looked brighter and more
peopled than it had from above. Among the wayfarers, Bruce spied none who aroused his suspicions.
Smiling to himself, the young man sauntered away from the Palladium Hotel.
TWO plans had occurred to Bruce Duncan. One was to take a cab and keep changing directions as he
drove along - if necessary, changing to another taxi. The other was to travel by foot, holding to lighted
districts until he made his final cut over toward Third Avenue.
The second plan seemed preferable, under present circumstances. As with the first, Bruce intended to
follow a circuitous route. As he walked along, however, his sense of security so increased that he saw no
reason for a lengthy course.
Harry Vincent had named a definite corner of Third Avenue. Reaching the street that led to it, Bruce
decided to go directly to his destination.
Turning from the lighted street, Bruce threw a hasty glance over his shoulder. He saw none but passers;
he smiled with satisfaction as he increased his walk to a brisk pace. Fears, Bruce thought, had been
groundless. He would have a good laugh when he talked with Harry Vincent.
But had Bruce troubled himself to take a longer look at the turning point, he would certainly have
reverted to original plans. From across the street which the young man had left, a stoop-shouldered figure
came shambling out of a doorway. Ugly eyes, peering from a grimy face, were quick as they spotted the
street that Bruce had taken.
This spy gave a signal with his arms. Back along the street, others emerged from hiding-places. More
signals were passed. Down a side street, a rakish touring car moved from the curb. Men on foot shuffled
hurriedly toward the street that Bruce had taken.
The hunted man had not been wrong in his original fears. Enemies had been watching the Palladium Hotel
since noon. Spies had been posted in the fifth-floor hallway, listening. Full word had been passed to the
leader who commanded this crew that was out to get Bruce Duncan.
Watchers had let their quarry pass. They were keeping tab on his trail until he reached some spot where
quick, ugly action could be sprung more effectively than close by the Palladium Hotel. Bruce Duncan,
heading eastward in advance of schedule, was putting himself into the hands of the foemen who awaited
him.
CHAPTER II. CRIME'S VANGUARD
BRUCE DUNCAN was looking straight ahead as he neared Third Avenue. The darkened structure of
the elevated loomed in front of him. The roar and clatter of a passing train, accompanied by the lights of
cars, reduced the impression of blackness. Bruce saw security rather than danger in the gloomy depths
beneath the "el."
Harry had named an opposite corner. As Bruce reached the avenue, he waited to make sure that traffic
was clear. No cars were coming from the north. A taxi shot by from the south; then Bruce saw a clear
spot, the next car being fully a hundred feet away.
Halfway across the street, Bruce stopped short. The bare quiver of dull, approaching light was the cue
that gave him sense of danger. Looking quickly, he saw the car that he had spied before. With only its
dim lights aglow, the automobile was bearing down upon him at a speed of fifty miles an hour.
Had Bruce sprung forward to gain the pillars opposite, the whirling car would have mowed him down.
Instinct and luck combined to save him. With a sudden twist, Bruce swung about and made a dive back
in the direction from which he had come.
With that move, Bruce outguessed the driver. At the same time, the ruffian at the wheel allowed no doubt
as to his murderous intention. Instead of keeping straight ahead, he veered left in hope of overhauling his
victim before Bruce could gain safety.
Luckily, an elevated pillar was close at hand. Diving for it, Bruce escaped death by a scant three feet.
The driver had swung in; Bruce was directly in the car's path; but to avert collision with the pillar, the
driver was forced to bear back to the center space of the avenue.
Brakes shrieked as a long touring car spun its length about. The driver had jammed for a stop as he
passed the pillar. Finding open space beyond, he was madly making halt, that he and his companions
might leap after the quarry that they had missed.
BRUCE DUNCAN was dashing for the sidewalk. He knew that murderers were after him. He saw
safety in the darkened street that he had left. It was not until he reached the curb that he realized his
error. From the very darkness that he sought, three men pounced up to confront him.
Thugs were seeking to deliver death without gunfire. They had the car into which they could pack a
slugged victim. Swift, silent evil was their aim. Revolvers flashed; but the hands that held them were
raised as though wielding clubs.
Bruce tried to spin about. A thug grappled with him. Ready for fight, Bruce clipped the fellow on the
chin. As two more sprang up, he sent one sprawling and dodged the swinging gun hand of the other.
Madly, he started a new dash out into the avenue.
Mobsmen from the touring car had him as their target. A new reason made them withhold their fire. Their
companions were piling after the escaping man. A revolver shot might have clipped one of their own
number. Five in a row, the rogues from the touring car spread out to block Bruce's flight.
Odds were too great. As Bruce made a leap for the first man who confronted him, another thug leaped
up from behind. This time, a swinging gun hand was not dodged. A revolver barrel thudded hard against
the side of Bruce Duncan's felt hat. The young man staggered dizzily.
Another thug swung hard with his gun. Bruce sprawled; as he tried to rise mechanically, his first assailant
piled upon him and bashed his head sideward against the cobblestones. Pummeling fists landed on Bruce
Duncan's body. The victim did not feel the blows. He was unconscious.
Two maulers dragged their quarry to his feet. As they started to haul Bruce to the touring car, their leader
snarled a vicious command. A huge mobster sprang forward to deliver a final blow that would end the
victim's life without the aid of a bullet.
Bruce's hat was gone. His head sagged forward uncovered, while blood trickled down his face. Almost
at the side of the touring car, his carriers paused to give their murderous companion a chance to swing his
cudgeled gun.
A revolver gleamed in the big fist that held it. The downward stroke began, driven by a malletlike arm.
But the killing blow was doomed to fail. An interruption came from the last spot where would-be
murderers expected it. An automatic roared from the darkened street that Bruce Duncan had left.
With the burst of the gun came a pointing tongue of flame. Like an arrow from gloom, it thrust its
reddened shaft straight toward the villain who was about to drive down a death swing. The bullet from
the speaking gun was true in its mark.
With a wild cry, the big thug spun about. His swinging hand poised in mid-air; then quivered as his body
toppled sidewise. The upraised arm dropped helpless; the body spin became a backward stagger as the
thwarted killer stretched his length upon the cobbles.
Hard on the echo of the gun shot came a taunting cry. A weird laugh rose; then blended with the
thunderous roar of a train that sped overhead. But that mockery had reached the ears of the killers for
whom it was intended. They knew the author of the shot that had spilled the big gorilla. Men of crime
were faced by The Shadow!
MOBSMEN swung their guns toward the corner whence the shot had come. The thugs who gripped
Bruce Duncan let their prey slip to the street as they, like their fellows, brought weapons into play.
Revolvers spat wild shots toward the side street. Bullets ricocheted as they dug the asphalt.
Crooks had seen the flash from midstreet. Blackness, however, had obscured The Shadow. When thugs
aimed for where The Shadow had been, they found their foe no longer there. Automatics answered
suddenly; their flashes, this time, came from the corner of an old brick building.
Killers broke before The Shadow's cannonade. Eight at the outset, their force was reduced to five.
Another fell as he tried to deliver a shot when he backed away. A gangleader's command came in a
high-pitched snarl. The Shadow heard the cry as he ended his barrage.
Crooks were leaping for cover - behind the touring car, into the shelter of elevated pillars. Before them
lay the body of Bruce Duncan, ready to be riddled with bullets should they fire at the man whom they had
knocked unconscious.
Out from his shelter sprang The Shadow. Entrenched mobsters raised a shout as they caught a flash of a
cloaked figure sweeping toward the elevated. Revolvers barked to stop The Shadow in his new
maneuver. Almost as if he had timed the exact second of the outburst, The Shadow swung back.
Shots whizzed wide. Thugs were forced to change their aim. As they did, gloved hands swept from
beneath The Shadow's cloak. Diving into blackness, the dread fighter unlimbered a new brace of
automatics. Mobsters ducked as he began a new barrage.
Just as the mobsmen had failed to pick off The Shadow, so was he failing with his present volley. But The
Shadow had purpose in his actions. By presenting himself as a momentary target, he had made the
crooks forget Bruce Duncan. By sending them to shelter, he was still keeping the intended victim from
their minds.
Apparently, The Shadow was wasting his ammunition. Attackers were holding their own bullets in
reserve. Again the snarl of the mob leader rose above the din. Triumph of evil seemed imminent, should
The Shadow continue his wasteful fire.
A sudden pause. Mobsmen were tense, watching the spot where they had seen the last flashes. The mob
leader barked a sudden order. Henchmen sprang out, opening fire into blackness. Automatics spurted
hastily, as if in retreat.
Then came the overdue break on which The Shadow had depended.
DOWN the avenue came a taxi that jolted to a sudden stop half up on the sidewalk. As the mob leader
whirled about to view this cab that had defied the danger zone, three men sprang from opening doors.
Harry Vincent and two others had arrived. Their faces could not be seen in the darkness; but the rattle of
their loaded automatics meant disaster to the cause of crooks. The Shadow's laugh rose triumphant. He
had tricked four thugs into exhausting their guns, that his expected agents would have a clear field before
them.
One mobster dived away from beyond the touring car. His gun empty, he wisely took to flight. He was
beyond The Shadow's range of vision; the shots of agents failed to drop the scurrying rat. Two others
snarled as they dived for pillars to fire their last shots. They sprawled, clipped by bullets from guns of The
Shadow's men.
Then from behind a pillar leaped the leader of the mob. Squarely into the path of one of The Shadow's
agents, he came face to face with this comrade of Harry Vincent. From the mob leader's bloated lips
came a snarl of recognition:
"Cliff Marsland!"
The mob leader had spotted a face he knew. He had learned a secret that the underworld had failed to
guess. He had identified Cliff Marsland, man of repute in gangland, as an agent of The Shadow.
Cliff, chisel-faced and firm-jawed, recognized the man who had snarled his name. The ugly, distorted
face of the mob leader was that of "Stinger" Lacey, who sold the services of his gorilla crew to bidders
who wanted murder. But Cliff did not reply by giving the mob leader's name.
Stinger's gun was coming up. Cliff swung his automatic to meet the revolver thrust. Harry Vincent and the
third agent swung about. They were too late to stop the duel. It looked like a double finish: Stinger
seeking vengeance with the last bullet in his gun.
An automatic barked from beside an "el" pillar. It beat the trigger finger of both contestants by a
split-second. The Shadow, too, had held one bullet in reserve. Catching the profiles of the fighters, he
had delivered his shot straight for Stinger.
The mob leader wavered. He tried to press trigger as he sagged; then Cliff's automatic boomed
spontaneously. The leader of the murderous crew went down, clutching an elevated pillar with the
slipping fingers of his left hand. His revolver clattered on the cobblestones as his weakened effort ended.
Police sirens were whining. From somewhere along the avenue, a harness bull was clattering his night
stick on the sidewalk. A hissed command came from near the touring car. The Shadow's agents swung
about to see their cloaked chief lifting Bruce Duncan's body.
No need to aid The Shadow. He had picked up that unconscious form as one might raise a child. His
command was for departure. Acknowledging it, the agents leaped back into their cab as The Shadow
headed for the street from which he had made his first appearance.
When police cars came spinning to a stop beneath the elevated, the taxicab was gone.
HALFWAY up the side street, a luxurious limousine was rolling away. A puzzled chauffeur was
wondering. He had stopped halfway down the block and had turned about to await his master's return.
He had listened, troubled, to the gunfire.
In the back seat, a shrouded figure was leaning above the form of Bruce Duncan. The Shadow's rescue
was successful. Though beaten into unconsciousness, Bruce still lived.
A gloved hand took the speaking tube. It was a quiet, almost methodical voice that spoke to the
chauffeur.
"Stanley," came the order, "turn left at the next street. Then continue to Doctor Sayre's."
The chauffeur nodded.
"Tell him," continued the quiet voice, "that you are from Mr. Cranston. That he is to keep this gentleman,
Bruce Duncan, at his home until I call."
Again Stanley nodded. He swung left at the next corner; slowing to let traffic pass. The Shadow,
blackened in the rear of the limousine, had eased Bruce Duncan into a comfortable position. Gloved
hands were probing the young man's pockets.
The light of a street lamp gave The Shadow a flash of lines drawn on a sheet of paper. Then the limousine
completed the left turn. It came almost to a standstill as Stanley was forced to let a car cut in, turning
right. The left side of the limousine was in darkness just past the corner.
The door opened softly. A figure stepped out and dropped easily to the curb. The door closed, just as
Stanley shifted gear. The limousine pulled away; the light on the corner gave a fleeting flash of a cloaked
shape in black.
Then the figure had blended with total darkness. Stanley was driving on, unwitting that his master had left
the car. Bruce Duncan was being carried to a haven where his wounds would be attended.
The Shadow had dealt with crime's vanguard. In the effort of eight killers to obliterate one lone victim, he
had seen impending evil beyond. Choosing blackness as his habitat, The Shadow was ready for new
plans. His first step would be a study of a solitary clue: the paper which he had gained from the
unconscious form of Bruce Duncan.
CHAPTER III. THE BLIND TRAIL
BRUCE DUNCAN'S diagram was an odd one. The Shadow recognized that fact as he surveyed the
rough chart beneath the rays of a blue-bulbed lamp. In his sanctum, hidden headquarters somewhere in
Manhattan, the mysterious master was studying his single clue.
Of Bruce Duncan's loyalty, The Shadow had no doubt. He had rescued Bruce from danger in the past.
Then Bruce had gone his way; even Harry Vincent's contact with the young man had ended. Tonight,
Bruce Duncan had bobbed back into view in most unexpected fashion.
Harry Vincent had relayed word to The Shadow. The chief had seen no reason to change his agent's
plans for meeting Bruce Duncan. In fact, the very strangeness of Bruce's situation had indicated to The
Shadow that the young man's predicament was genuine.
The Shadow, too, had headed for the meeting point. His rescue of Bruce Duncan had been timely; the
fact that evil workers had nearly murdered Bruce was capping proof that the young man's danger had not
been exaggerated.
Hence The Shadow, as he consulted the diagram, was convinced of two points. First, that its purpose
was important; second, that no time should be lost in following the clue which this chart offered.
Though The Shadow felt confident that Bruce would recover from the blows that thugs had dealt him, he
knew that the victim's condition was serious. There would be no chance of getting a statement from
Bruce Duncan for at least twenty-four hours, if that soon. In the meantime, Bruce's chart represented the
only fragment of the important knowledge which the thugged man had somehow gained.
THE diagram was obviously the floor plan of a house. It showed three entrances: front, back and side,
thus indicating that the chart marked the layout of the ground floor only. Both the front and back doors
were marked with the letter "S." Below the chart was the brief statement that "S" represented "signal."
The front door opened into a large hallway, with a staircase indicated at the inner end. At the beginning of
the stairs, Bruce had marked wavy lines, with the letter "D." This was explained by a bottom notation,
"D" meaning "danger."
Similar lines appeared just within the back door of the house. Even less leeway was afforded at that
point. But, the side door, obscure at the edge of the chart, bore neither the letters "S" nor "D." It led,
apparently, to a totally detached section of the building. A second stairway was marked just within the
door. An arrow pointed inward.
A soft laugh betokened The Shadow's understanding. The objective must be the second story of the
house. It could not be safely reached by either of the regular entrances. Only the obscure side door
would provide sure access. Probably a secret entrance, it had been left unprotected.
At the very bottom of the sheet, Bruce Duncan had scrawled the notation: "18 Delavar." That provided
information regarding the location of the house itself. Delavar Street was a short, one-block thoroughfare
that lay in a crisscrossed district below the numbered streets of Manhattan.
The Shadow recalled the street as one of those forgotten spots where a few old residences lay hemmed
in between warehouses and loft buildings. In fact, the name of the street had been dropped, except for
address reference concerning the few houses that still remained in use. Familiar with the most isolated
sections of Manhattan, The Shadow could picture the very building to which Bruce Duncan's chart
referred.
It was obvious that Bruce must have come from 18 Delavar. Either he had known how to pass the
danger zones at front and back; or he had taken that unprotected side exit as his means of departure
from the building where menace lurked. The fact that Bruce had been trailed and thugged was proof that
his absence was known.
Until this night, The Shadow had heard nothing of a lurking menace at the house on Delavar Street. Bruce
Duncan's call for help had come from clear sky. The diagram which The Shadow had gained gave no
further information concerning the hunted man's dilemma.
Mystery like this intrigued The Shadow. Not only because his chief investigations concerned the unusual;
but because the most dangerous of crimes invariably lay concealed behind masked fronts. To The
Shadow, one course alone lay open; namely, an excursion to the house on Delavar Street.
WHILE The Shadow was thus engaged in mapping his campaign, a tiny bulb glittered on the wall across
from the table. The Shadow reached for earphones. He spoke; a voice responded across the wire:
"Burbank speaking."
"Report," ordered The Shadow.
"Vincent at the Metrolite," came Burbank's words. "Marsland and Hawkeye at the Black Ship. Marsland
reports being recognized by Stinger Lacey, mob leader.
"Report, from Burke. At headquarters. Stinger Lacey one of those killed in the Third Avenue fight.
Wounded prisoners taken by the police admit Stinger to be their leader. No other information."
A soft laugh was The Shadow's answer. Some of the would-be killers had survived that fray in which
Bruce Duncan had been rescued. But the only one who could have passed Cliff Marsland's name to the
underworld was dead.
Cliff, with "Hawkeye," the third agent in the fight, was now stationed at the mobland dive called the
"Black Ship." That meant he would soon report to Burbank for new instructions. Clyde Burke, reporter
of the staff of the New York Classic, had covered detective headquarters to get information there.
All was well, despite the fact that one mobster had fled and others had been crippled but not eliminated.
Apparently the crew had taken orders direct from Stinger Lacey. This, though it meant complete
coverage of The Shadow's agents, also signified that there could be no tracing of the connection between
the mob and events at the house on Delavar Street. Stinger was the only man through whom such
information might be gained.
Burbank's voice came once more. This time the contact man was making a report of his own. He stated
in quiet tones:
"Call made to New Jersey. Richards has received word from Lamont Cranston. He will arrive within the
next half hour."
A pause. The Shadow was considering this information. Tonight, as often, he had played the role of
Lamont Cranston, taking the personality of a millionaire globe-trotter who seldom lived at his New Jersey
home. The Shadow had been ready to discard his part immediately upon Cranston's return.
Burbank, as a radio technician, visited Lamont Cranston's home on occasions, to take charge of a
sending station that the millionaire had installed in his mansion.
Tonight, therefore, Burbank had been posted to keep tab on the real Cranston's return. Doing so, he had
just learned that Richards, Cranston's valet, had received a wire from his employer. The Shadow laughed
in whispered tones as he thought of the servant's perplexity. Richards had believed that his master was in
摘要：

ATOMSOFDEATHMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.WORDTOTHESHADOW?CHAPTERII.CRIME'SVANGUARD?CHAPTERIII.THEBLINDTRAIL?CHAPTERIV.THEINTERVIEW?CHAPTERV.THEMIDNIGHTSTROKE?CHAPTERVI.SHADOW'SSTRATEGY?CHAPTERVII.THEDECISION?CHAPTERVIII.THESHADOW'STHRUST?CHAPTER...

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