Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 072 - The Dark Death

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THE DARK DEATH
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. TWO APPOINTMENTS
? CHAPTER II. AIDS OF THE SHADOW
? CHAPTER III. THE TRAIL
? CHAPTER IV. IN THE MANSION
? CHAPTER V. THROUGH THE NIGHT
? CHAPTER VI. THE SHADOW'S PASSENGER
? CHAPTER VII. THE NEW ALLIANCE
? CHAPTER VIII. THE FIRST THRUST
? CHAPTER IX. THE SHADOW LISTENS
? CHAPTER X. THE SECOND MACHINE
? CHAPTER XI. THE BROKEN TRAIL
? CHAPTER XII. A TRAP IS SET
? CHAPTER XIII. TRAILS IN THE NIGHT
? CHAPTER XIV. DARK DEATH STRIKES
? CHAPTER XV. TRAILS DIVERGE
? CHAPTER XVI. THE FINAL FACTS
? CHAPTER XVII. THE SCHEMER RESUMES
? CHAPTER XVIII. THE NEXT NIGHT
? CHAPTER XIX. FACE TO FACE
? CHAPTER XX. DARK DEATH FAILS
? CHAPTER XXI. THE POLICE SEARCH
? CHAPTER XXII. A MATTER OF IDENTITY
CHAPTER I. TWO APPOINTMENTS
EVENING traffic was heavy on Sixth Avenue. Throngs of taxicabs had chosen this route to escape the
jam of the theater district. The result was a tie-up as bad as any at Times Square. Stalled trolley cars;
blocked trucks; cabs and automobiles clustered between elevated pillars - these were hopelessly
entangled while traffic cops blew whistles and shouted orders that no one could obey.
All the while, the rumble of elevated trains sounded from above, as if derisive of the vehicles stalled
beneath. The roar of one train brought an impatient growl from a taxi driver. The fellow thrust a pointed
profile from the window of the cab. He saw a truck move ahead a dozen feet, opening a pathway.
The cabby yanked his car in gear. Snapping in front of a second taxi, he veered right, scraped an
elevated pillar and shot up to the nearest corner. He wheeled right, swung into an opening in cross-street
traffic and sped down the other thoroughfare.
The traffic cop stared after him; then dropped his whistle and grinned. Ordinarily he would have slated
the driver for a ticket: but there was no use in making a pinch tonight. One less car in that petrified jam of
vehicles was a help, so far as the policeman was concerned.
Two blocks away, the taxi driver pulled up in front of a towering office building. A tall passenger alighted.
He was out of the cab the moment that it stopped; the driver caught only a glimpse of head and shoulders
as his fare entered the building. The passenger had not paid for the trip. That did not trouble the driver.
The jehu simply eased his cab to a parking space across the street. He looked into the back seat and
saw a suitcase resting on the floor. His peaked face showed a slight grin. Then the driver settled back
behind the wheel. As he waited, he looked upward toward the building that his passenger had entered.
Moe Shrevnitz was the name of this taxi man. His cab was an independent, presumably. Moe owned it
himself. Actually, the cab belonged to a mysterious personage who had supplied Moe with the money for
its purchase. This cab was the property of The Shadow.
Day and night, Moe kept in touch with Burbank, The Shadow's contact agent. Early this evening, he had
called Burbank by telephone. He had received orders to be at Sixth Avenue and Twenty-third Street at
eight forty-five. There, his passenger had stepped aboard the cab before Moe had realized it. A hissed
voice had given this destination.
It was not Moe's policy to speculate on the doings of The Shadow. He had found it good business to
follow orders. Nevertheless, there were times when Moe could not refrain from being curious. Tonight
was one of those occasions.
The office building which his passenger had entered was totally dark except for one floor, which Moe
estimated as the tenth. From the windows of that story came the flicker of bluish lights that flashed with
intermittent brightness.
That floor, Moe decided, must be The Shadow's objective. The point settled in his mind, the taxi man
lighted a cigarette and began to idle the time while he awaited his passenger's return.
Up on the tenth floor of the office building was one window that Moe had not seen, for it was around the
corner of the skyscraper. The light from that window was a normal glare, for the room within was an
office. On the door of the room was the legend:
JAMES SUNDLER
Supervisor
Behind the desk in the office sat a shock-headed man. This was James Sundler. He was the supervisor,
in charge of the New York laboratories of the Universal Electric Company.
Opposite the supervisor sat a visitor. Sundler was fingering the caller's card. It bore the name of Lamont
Cranston.
Eyeing his visitor, Sundler was impressed by the calm demeanor of Cranston's countenance. The visage
was firm, almost masklike in its mold. An aquiline nose gave Cranston a hawk-like expression. Keen
eyes met Sundler's as the supervisor met his visitor's gaze.
"Ordinarily, Mr. Cranston," stated Sundler, "we could not discuss our experimental devices with persons
outside our company. These laboratories are used for perfecting new inventions. We do not encourage
visitors."
"So I understand," came the quiet reply, "I learned that from Guy Tawley."
"So Mr. Tawley told me," rejoined Sundler. "But he also requested that an exception be made in your
case. Inasmuch as Mr. Tawley is the executive vice president of this concern, I shall make that exception.
If you will come with me" - the supervisor arose - "I shall show you the new Q-ray machine that we have
developed."
He led the way from the office, along a corridor and into a small laboratory. This room was dark;
Sundler turned on a light and revealed a square-shaped machine that consisted of glass panels between
chromium-plated posts. Within the transparent box was a set-up of four long glass tubes.
Sundler pressed a switch. The tubes began to glow with a peculiar sparkle that showed through their
dark red surface. Sundler watched for a few moments; then extended his hand and nodded. Cranston did
the same.
"You can feel the heat already," remarked the supervisor. "Do you notice it, Mr. Cranston?"
"Yes," came the reply. "Tell me, Mr. Sundler, does this Q-ray fulfill the claims that were made in the
newspaper article? The one that appeared in the New York Classic?"
"It does," replied the supervisor, with a nod. "Originally designed for treatment of skin diseases, we
learned that the Q-ray caused an actual change in the structure of the epidermis. This fellow Clyde
Burke, who writes for the Classic, managed to get his facts without our knowledge."
"I understand then," remarked Cranston, "that the ray will give a Nordic complexion the heat-resisting
strength that is found in skins of darker races."
"Precisely. With a series of treatments, it will accomplish with the individual what nature has produced in
races. So far as color is concerned, the Q-ray will merely cause a slight tan. But structurally, it will
actually transform a blond skin tissue into that of a brunette."
Cranston made no comment. He was watching the machine. Sundler chewed his lips uneasily. Then he
put a question.
"May I ask, Mr. Cranston," he requested, "why you are interested in the Q-ray?"
"Certainly," was the response. "I mentioned the matter to Guy Tawley. I thought he had spoken to you
about it."
"No. He merely said that you wanted to see the machine."
"Small wonder then that you were puzzled by this visit of mine. I shall explain matters, Mr. Sundler. I am
a globe-trotter. I have visited nearly every country in the world. I have found tropical exploration greatly
to my liking."
"You have been in Africa?"
"Yes. I am going there again. I am choosing men for my expedition. Unfortunately, however, it is
impossible to learn whether or not a man can stand the burning power of the tropical sun until he has
actually experienced it.
"It occurred to me that this new Q-ray treatment would prove beneficial to members of my expedition.
With a machine of this sort, I could prepare them for the African ordeal. Does your opinion coincide with
mine, Mr. Sundler?"
"It does."
"Then it would be possible for you to deliver one of these machines if I ordered it?"
"No. Absolutely no!"
With this emphatic statement, Sundler stepped forward and turned off the Q-ray machine. Glowing tubes
subsided. Sundler turned and faced his visitor.
"Mr. Cranston," he questioned. "Did you notice anything odd in that story that appeared in the Classic?"
"Yes." replied the visitor. "It stated that the Q-ray machine, though effective, would be delayed in its
development. But the article did not specify why."
"I'll tell you why. This fellow Burke - the newspaper reporter - was stumped when he came to that detail.
This machine, Mr. Cranston, is one of the most dangerous devices that has ever been created!"
Cranston's eyes were steady. The supervisor noted their keen glow. Sundler continued:
"You saw the machine working at low power," he said. "Had I drawn this lever" - he touched a rod that
projected at the side - "those red tubes would have sparkled with a real fury. That high power is
necessary to develop the effectiveness of the Q-ray."
"And then -"
"It produces the tissue change upon Nordic skins. It strengthens them. It even makes them immune to
continued applications of the Q-ray itself."
"That seems to offset any danger."
"It does - so far as such persons are concurrent. The terrible effects of the Q-ray, Mr. Cranston, are
confined to persons of darker races. Not only to Africans or Malays, but to members of the
Indo-European race. People of the Mediterranean type."
SUNDLER stepped across the little laboratory. He reached for a roll of cloth that looked like a window
curtain. He drew down a chart that showed blocks of color from almost a clear white to an ebony
blackness.
"The top shows a pure albino, explained Sundler. "Here we have Nordic types. Here are light
complexions. Here are sallow com-"
He stopped. His fore-finger was upon a red line. With his other hand, Sundler indicated the color blocks
below.
"To persons of these complexions," he stated solemnly, "the Q-ray means destruction. Not slow burning,
but quick, startling death. We learned this when two of our experimenters were overpowered by the ray.
It was terrible, Mr. Cranston. Terrible!"
"When did this occur?"
"A few months ago. Just when the machine had been stepped up to its full intensity. A chap named
Cassgrove - dark-complexioned - was operating the device. It struck him down like that."
Sundler snapped his fingers.
"I was present," he added. "I turned off the machine. I felt no ill effects."
Keen eyes were on the speaker. Sundler, apparently a Norwegian, was very light of skin. Blue eyes - his
shocky hair was a mass of white.
"It's a death box," resumed the supervisor. "Only two feet square" - he eyed the machine as he spoke -
"but it packs a terrible power. Its range is approximately thirty feet. We kept people away from it after
Cassgrove's death. Then a lab assistant named LeGrand - chap we called Frenchy - blundered into the
radius when I was making a test. He dropped like a log, twenty feet away."
"If the machine is so dangerous," came Cranston's comment, "why is it not dismantled?"
"We are still experimenting," explained Sundler, "Trying to gain results with a lower intensity. Using
rabbits and guinea pigs as subjects."
"Our theory is that light-colored skins absorb the Q-ray. Even though they change structurally, they
preserve their immunity. But the darker skins apparently form no protection. The Q-ray reaches the
organs of the body and causes instant death to those of dark complexion.
"This is confidential information, Mr. Cranston. To you, because you have made a legitimate request for
one of these machines and because you are a friend of Mr. Tawley, I have explained why we cannot
supply you with one of the Q-ray machines."
"I understand." A slight smile showed upon Cranston's thin lips, "But suppose, Mr. Sundler, that I should
bring members of my expedition here for treatment. Would you give it to them?"
"Not at present. Perhaps later, in the presence of physicians. Assuming of course, that the men you
brought were of pronounced Nordic types."
There was a knock at the door. Sundler called to come in. A laboratory assistant entered to announce
that there was a call for Mr. Cranston on the office telephone. The tall visitor started for the office while
Sundler remained to lock the Q-ray laboratory.
Reaching the office, Cranston picked up the receiver that lay beside the telephone. He spoke. A quiet
voice came over the wire:
"Burbank speaking."
"Report." Cranston's response was a hissed whisper.
Burbank's voice clicked from the receiver. In the same whisper, Cranston gave brief instructions then
concluded the call. He was hanging up the receiver when Sundler entered.
"Something important, Mr. Cranston?" inquired the supervisor.
"An appointment," replied the visitor. "A friend has arrived in town. My club told him to call here."
He extended his hand. Sundler received it. He was about to repeat his injunction that the visitor should
preserve silence regarding the Q-ray machine. But one glance from Cranston's keen eyes told the
supervisor that further words were unnecessary.
Five minutes later. Moe Shrevnitz popped up from behind the wheel of his cab as he heard a hissed
order from within. His passenger had returned, unnoticed. Moe nodded as he heard the destination that
the arrival gave.
The cab pulled away.
From within a bag in the back seat, folds of black cloth were being drawn forth. Inky garments slipped
over head and shoulders. When the cab came to a stop on a secluded street, a door opened. Living
blackness glided forth.
Moe did not see the form that emerged; yet he knew, instinctively, that his passenger had become The
Shadow.
Looking into the rear of the cab, Moe saw that The Shadow had taken the bag along with him. Moe's
job was done. The taxi man glanced at his watch. Half past nine. Time to head for Times Square and
pick up business.
Moe drove away.
From a darkened portion of the street, keen eyes saw Moe's departure. A soft laugh came from hidden
lips. Blended with darkness, The Shadow moved off on paths unknown.
Tonight, The Shadow had followed up a lead started by Clyde Burke, of the New York Classic. The
reporter - a secret agent of The Shadow - had uncovered facts about the Q-ray machine.
As Lamont Cranston, millionaire globe-trotter, The Shadow had used Guy Tawley, vice president of
Universal Electric, to gain an appointment with James Sundler, the laboratory supervisor.
That appointment was ended. The Shadow knew the secret of the Q-ray. It was something that he would
remember for the future. At present, he was heading forth to keep another appointment. One that dealt
with crime.
Yet, strangely, events were shaping toward a climax that even The Shadow did not foresee. Two
appointments, disconnected, each of a different sort, were destined to have an unexpected bearing, one
upon the other.
CHAPTER II. AIDS OF THE SHADOW
IT was half past nine when Moe Shrevnitz had gone off duty. The taxi driver had left The Shadow at a
secluded spot near the border of the underworld. Moe had headed away from that vicinity.
But at exactly the same time, another driver was following the reverse course. Seated behind the wheel of
a trim sedan a young man was threading his way through the grimy, narrow thoroughfares of New York's
East Side.
Lights from the glittering front of a penny arcade showed the driver's features as he stopped in traffic. The
young man displayed a clean-cut visage as he eyed the people who were strolling along this avenue.
The driver of the coupe was Harry Vincent, a trusted agent of The Shadow. He had received orders
from Burbank. A call had come to the Metrolite Hotel, where Harry made his residence. In response to
that call, Harry was on his way to a rendezvous in the underworld.
Traffic started. Harry drove along, then swerved into the gloom of a side street. He picked out a parking
lot between two dilapidated buildings and swung into the opening. The parking lot was devoid of cars.
Few persons left their automobiles in this neighborhood.
Harry extinguished the lights of the sedan. A few moments later, fingers beat a light tattoo upon the
window at the right side of the car. Harry opened the door. A man came aboard. His face was barely
discernible. A square, chiseled countenance, Harry recognized Cliff Marsland.
Cliff served as The Shadow's agent in the underworld. Reputed to be a killer, Cliff stood in with the
gorilla element. It was Cliff who had passed the word to Burbank; news that the contact man had relayed
to The Shadow.
"You know what's up, Harry?" questioned Cliff, in a whisper.
"I know we're to tail a couple of cars," replied Harry. "Burbank told me to get the rest from you."
"Driller Borson's crew is on the move. Starting from the old Phoenix Garage, three blocks from here. At
ten o'clock. I was down at the Black Ship when Skeeter Wigan showed up and passed the news to
some of the gorillas."
"Any idea where they're going?"
"No. Driller is smart. Never lets his outfit in on the know until they get to their objective. But Driller's not
the only one concerned tonight."
"Who else?"
"I don't know. Some other crook leader with a crew of his own. The idea is to let the two outfits meet."
Harry nodded. This fitted with The Shadow's methods. He began to see the importance of brief
instructions that he had received from Burbank.
"Dash clock right?" questioned Cliff.
"To the minute," replied Harry.
"Ten of ten," noted Cliff. "We only need a couple of minutes to get to the garage. Hawkeye is due here
before we pull out."
"Where has he been?"
"Checking up. Doing a sneak near the garage. Just to make sure they're swarming. I tipped him off
outside the Black Ship. He was watching the alley while I was in the joint -"
FINGERS drummed an interruption against the window. Cliff opened the door of the sedan and a
hunched figure twisted in through the opening. A crafty, wizened face showed by the glow of the
dashlight as "Hawkeye" joined his comrades.
"Spotted 'em," he whispered. "They got a coupe and a crummy old touring car parked in the garage.
Looks like most of the crew is there. But they ain't starting until ten. Driller's a guy that works like a
clock."
"We can circle over that way, Harry," suggested Cliff.
"Wait a minute." Harry spoke quietly. "I want to try something, Cliff. There's no chance of any one
noticing us in here, is there?"
"Not much."
"Well, here goes - when the second hand of that dash clock hits the sixty mark."
As he spoke, Harry drew forth a small white tube that looked like the half of a cigarette. He pressed it
between his fingers, then tossed it from the window of the car. The tiny object fell in the darkness beside
the building.
"What's that?" questioned Hawkeye.
"You'll see," replied Harry. "Keep your eye on the dash clock."
One minute passed.
"Six minutes of ten," commented Cliff. "We ought to move inside of three minutes."
"I know it," said Harry.
Another minute passed without comment. Cliff and Hawkeye were puzzled; but they kept further
thoughts to themselves. Both had been instructed to join Harry Vincent at this spot. The job of trailing
"Driller's" crew belonged to him. Harry had the information about the garage. The rest was up to him.
Another minute. The clock on the dash showed four minutes before ten. A sudden fizz came from the
wall where Harry had tossed the tiny tube. Staring, Cliff and Hawkeye saw a tiny blaze - like the squibby
flash of a faulty firecracker. It ended with a slow white flame that continued to burn.
"Three minutes," commented Harry. He was calculating the time between the toss of the tube and the
flare. "Three minutes to the dot. All right. Let's go."
Cliff and Hawkeye offered no objection. Harry backed the car from the parking space. He turned left
and piloted the sedan in the direction of the Phoenix Garage. They passed the building - dilapidated and
deserted - in the middle of a block. It was not quite ten o'clock.
Hawkeye peered back as they rode by. Just as the sedan neared the next corner, the little man
whispered news.
"There they come," he informed. "Out to the street, and turning this way. The coupe's in the lead -"
HARRY grunted a response. He let his car glide across an avenue and into the next block. He peered
into the mirror. He saw the two cars reach the avenue and turn north.
"Heading up," said Hawkeye.
Harry stepped on the gas. He swung a corner to parallel the course that the mobster cars had taken.
Two speedy blocks; then Harry shot into a cross-street, heading back to the avenue.
"Look for them, Hawkeye." he ordered. "If you don't spot them, we'll know they turned off at the last
street."
Hawkeye was leaning from the window as they swung up the avenue. He bobbed back in beside Cliff.
"Half a block ahead," he stated. "I lamped the touring car first crack. A guy with half an eye could spot
that buggy."
Harry chuckled. Straightened into the avenue, he could see the touring car himself. A half block behind,
he was trailing the second of the mobster cars. An easy task in this traffic.
"Looks like they're heading for one of the bridges," remarked Cliff, as the course hung along the avenue.
"That means the job will be somewhere on Long Island."
"Yeah," added Hawkeye, "and it won't be a cinch to tail 'em after we get out in the open. If I was in one
of them cars, I'd be looking back to see if any mugs were coming after us."
"That's what I'm counting on, Hawkeye," put in Harry. "Keep watching. Pass me the word when you
think it's right."
"You mean keep watching back? In case some other mugs are tailing us?"
"No. Keep watching ahead. Let me know when you think those fellows up front are liable to be
suspicious."
"All right. But how's that going to help you?"
"I won't stick so close after that."
"Then how'll you tail 'em?"
Harry chuckled. This time Cliff joined him. They were swinging right, toward one of the big suspension
bridges that spanned the East River. That was the course which the mobster cars were taking.
"How'll you tail 'em?" repeated Hawkeye.
"You'll see," laughed Harry.
"Do you get the idea, Cliff?" demanded Hawkeye.
Cliff nodded.
"It beats me," growled Hawkeye. "If you stay close, they'll spot you. If you drop back, you can't tail 'em.
But that's for you to figure out. I'll tip you when I think those mugs are getting wise."
With that comment, Hawkeye hunched his shoulders and squeezed close beside the door. As they rolled
clear of the bridge and headed for a boulevard, the little spotter's shrewd eyes were fixed steadily upon
the rear of the decrepit touring car, two hundred feet ahead.
CHAPTER III. THE TRAIL
"THEY'RE getting leery."
The comment came from Hawkeye. It was the first statement that he had uttered since the bridge. Yet
the dash clock showed that the sedan had been traveling a full half hour since then.
The course had led along a boulevard. Then into a less-traveled road. It was on this highway that
Hawkeye made his comment. He added reasons a moment later.
"Did you see the touring car speed up a bit?" he questioned. "It was like a warning, to the car ahead.
They've been watching back. Other cars have turned off this road. But we're still coming along."
"At a steady thirty-five," remarked Harry. "Remember that, Cliff. It's the pace they're using."
Cliff nodded.
Harry peered to the right. He spied a filling station a few hundred yards ahead. He slackened speed a
trifle; then, as he neared the gasoline establishment, he swerved, applied the brakes and coasted up
beside a gas standard.
"Check three minutes, Cliff," he remarked.
"Right," replied Cliff.
Harry stepped from the car and met the service station man who was coming out to the gasoline tank.
"Sorry," said Harry. "I've got plenty of gas and oil. Radiators heating up a bit. Thought maybe it's short
on water."
"I'll fill the radiator, sir -"
"Never mind. I'll help myself."
Harry went to the radiator while the attendant was returning to the service station. Lifting the cap, Harry
peered in; then picked up a watering can and poured a few pints into the radiator. He replaced the cap
and climbed in back of the wheel.
"Thirty seconds left," stated Cliff.
Harry started the motor. He was easing out into the highway just as Cliff announced the expiration of the
three-minute period. Harry slid the car into high gear. The headlights formed a brilliant path as they rolled
along at thirty-five miles an hour.
They passed a few cars coming from the opposite direction; but there was no sign of the mobster cars
ahead. At this pace, there was no chance of overtaking those whom they were trailing.
Hawkeye eyed the speedometer; then grunted.
Like Cliff, Hawkeye had suddenly caught the idea. Crafty-eyed, he peered through the windshield. He
was the first of the trio to spot the signal that came suddenly from ahead. They had just reached a
crossroads sign when Hawkeye growled:
"There it comes."
SPARKS flared from the road. They were bluish; and as Harry applied the brakes, they sizzled down to
a purple flame that flickered in the slight wind. The fuse was close by the roadside, at the crossing. Harry
swung the sedan left.
A half mile along this new road. The Shadow's agents spied another signal. This time a sparkle of green
flashed from the highway. It was followed by a small green fire. Harry swung the car at a new
crossroads. His tire extinguished the blaze as he made a right turn.
This road was paved but little traveled. They came to a stop sign and Harry halted the sedan. At that
instant, a burst of white sparks flashed from beyond the crossing. Harry started the car straight ahead,
disregarding the yellowish blaze.
"A precaution," he remarked. "We'll get them at every crossroads where we're supposed to go straight
through. If we don't see the yellow, it means that we're ahead of time."
As he spoke, another yellow flame spurted from a crossing ahead. Another half mile; there a purple flame
was burning when they arrived. The mobsters must have sped up along this stretch. Harry swung left, the
direction indicated by purple, and increased the speed of the sedan.
It was a lonely road, swinging in the direction of Long Island Sound. Cliff and Hawkeye gazed steadily
while Harry drove along. They knew well enough that these signals were from The Shadow; that
摘要：

THEDARKDEATHMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.TWOAPPOINTMENTS?CHAPTERII.AIDSOFTHESHADOW?CHAPTERIII.THETRAIL?CHAPTERIV.INTHEMANSION?CHAPTERV.THROUGHTHENIGHT?CHAPTERVI.THESHADOW'SPASSENGER?CHAPTERVII.THENEWALLIANCE?CHAPTERVIII.THEFIRSTTHRUST?CHAPTERIX....

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