The Shadow - The Circle of Death Part 13

"The last spot," growled Tressler, letting Joe Cardona hear his words. "One man - free from the traps that lie behind him. He is the last I need. He shall be the last that I take!"

Red bulbs were burning. The neon light was creeping closer to its goal. The telephone was persistent in its ring. Wild bulbs were flas.h.i.+ng white, upon the map.

"He can be stopped." Tressler's voice was determined. "No one can escape the circle of death!"

Striding to the huge map, the bulky man seized a switch which he had not yet touched. This switch was painted red. Cardona could understand its use. It was the control for an emergency signal.

"When this is swung," Tressler turned to Cardona as he spoke, "the victim will die. A score of men are there to stop him at all odds. Battle will break loose, with many against one.

"After that, your turn will come. Harton will report what he has seen and heard from below. Mungren will admit my men. You will die, because you were a fool.

"There is a fool greater than you. He is the one below there." With his free hand, Tressler pointed to the map. "He has succeeded because he has dodged traps one by one. Let him fight against odds that will bring sure defeat. The circle of death has worked from cover. It will show its power in the open!"

Another glance at the luminous map. The neon line, gauged to indicate the victim's speed, was almost at the final light that showed the Hotel Zenith. That was the barrier upon which Felix Tressler counted. That was the spot where the loosing of death would start with certainty!

The bulky man pulled his revolver from his pocket. The weapon seemed to give him zest for his next deed. He was the leader of his warriors. Even though he was high above the street, out of the zone wheredanger reigned, Felix Tressler was ready for murder.

Joe Cardona watched. The hand moved upon the switch. With a powerful gesture, Felix Tressler yanked the control. Every light went out upon the map. Only the red circle remained. Even the crimson bulbs below were banished.

"Death is sure!" Tressler's voice was a snarl. "Death to the last of the victims that I need. Death to Channing Rightwood. The signal has been given. One minute longer; then I shall give the word that will bring my victorious fighters to headquarters.

"The circle of death cannot fail. Its work will end with triumph. You, fool!" - he spat the words at Joe Cardona - "You will live long enough to know my joy of victory. After that, you will join the others who knew too much!"

Felix Tressler's snarl became a fiendish, gleeful chuckle as the ruler of the death circle rested his free hand upon a second switch. Joe Cardona remained silent.

The detective had realized the power of the death circle. Like Felix Tressler, he believed that no living being could escape from that zone of doom, once its hidden forces were launched into final action!

CHAPTER XXV. DEATH SURGES.

AS Channing Rightwood, The Shadow was crossing the street to the Hotel Zenith. Two agents of Felix Tressler were watching him. One was the doorman at the hotel. The other was the sandwich-board man who slouched beside the curb.

Eyes were turned toward the sign that gave its word to the agents of the circle of death. The watchers expected some new word. They were ready when it came. Just as the stoop-shouldered form of Channing Rightwood reached the sidewalk by the hotel, the entire electric sign was plunged in darkness.

Felix Tressler had swung the emergency switch. Minions of doom responded. The doorman at the Hotel Zenith yanked a revolver from his pocket. He aimed point-blank at the approaching form of Channing Rightwood, no more than a dozen feet away.

Quick though the action was, it failed. As the doorman made his move. The Shadow's hands shot forth.

Each fist that came from beneath the coat he wore was clutching an automatic. One gun blazed. The shot was perfect.

With a big bra.s.s b.u.t.ton as his target, The Shadow sent a bullet to the doorman's chest. The revolver rattled, s.h.i.+ning, on the pavement, as the doorman fell.

As he fired, The Shadow whirled. The sandwich-board man had drawn a gun. He fired quickly. His shot was wide. He never had the chance to deliver another. The Shadow's automatic belched flame from its looming muzzle.

The sandwich-board man swayed. He toppled and sprawled, rolling on his side. The white surface of the sandwich-board began to show a spreading splotch of crimson.

A man was rounding the corner of the Hotel Zenith. The Shadow was not there when he arrived. This murderer had expected to greet Channing Rightwood in flight. Instead, The Shadow had played the unexpected. He was sweeping back into the circle of death!

The arrival caught a glimpse of a tall, stoop-shouldered figure and fired an opening shot. That was a mistake. The Shadow, whirling toward the curb, was a target which the ruffian missed. As the fellowdodged for cover beyond the corner of the hotel, The Shadow clipped him with a whistling shot.

Off into the circle. Such was The Shadow's course. Minions of death were rising. They did not know the power of the foe. The Shadow had familiarized himself with their own territory. He had made this zone his bailiwick.

NEAR the next corner, a fruit vender rose behind his wagon. He saw the approaching form of Channing Rightwood. He steadied for the shot.

He never dispatched it. Aiming with one sweep for the protruding head and arm, The Shadow loosed an automatic's fire. A shot, zimming through soft boxes of fruit, clipped the hidden sniper and laid him low.

Police whistles sounded loudly. The Shadow, with scurrying stride, had reached an avenue. A taxicab whirled up to the curb. The driver, his car still in motion, raised one hand to brandish a revolver. The Shadow caught its flash.

Before the fake cabman could use his weapon, The Shadow aimed a shot in his direction. The man slumped at the wheel. The cab crashed into the pillar of the elevated. The driver sprawled from his seat and plunged headlong to the street.

Police were arriving. The circle of death had become a zone in which pa.s.sers were hastening for cover.

People were fleeing; others were leaping into stores and doorways for protection.

Three forces were at work.

Minions of death were desperate. Police were meeting an emergency. The Shadow - the one who knew - was dropping every camouflaged crook who sought to stay his course!

Channing Rightwood's stooping form appeared at a corner. A Chinatown-bus barker pulled a gun as he sprang toward the front of an empty bus. He was too late. The Shadow's timely shot whistled through the opened windows of the big car and felled the man who had revealed himself as an ally of crime.

A man had stepped from the door of a garage. Police whistles shrilled, but they had not reached this street. Suddenly, the watcher saw the form of Channing Rightwood, scudding on the opposite side of the thoroughfare. Standing by the door of the garage, this murderer leveled his gun with the precision that he might have used with moving targets in a shooting gallery.

His finger was on the trigger. He was steady in his aim. He saw Rightwood's figure pause. Up came an arm. Before the garage man had a chance to fire, a burst of flame came in his direction. The Shadow had called the shot.

The garage man toppled. Revolver fire broke from both ends of the street. There was no responding shot. Instead, the hastening crooks heard the strident sound of a taunting laugh. Swerving, The Shadow picked an opening by an old theater and cut through, bound for the next street.

While police were surging through the zone of doom, the eyes of those who had escaped The Shadow's onslaught were turning upward toward the beacon. As he had announced to Joe Cardona, Felix Tressler was ready with another signal. The entire sign was blinking. This was the a.s.sembly call.

Dodging crooks took to cover while the police were finding those who had fallen. Skulkers were on their way. The window demonstrator - the restaurant cas.h.i.+er - all the unscathed minions of Felix Tressler were gathering toward a common goal.

CLIFF MARSLAND, seated in his coupe outside the Hotel Delavan, was quietly listening to the shrillblasts of whistles that were coming toward this spot. Suddenly, he saw a figure emerge from beyond a building. It was that of a stoop-shouldered man, whose face showed pale as he approached the entrance to the hotel.

An arm swung in a sweeping circle. Cliff Marsland slipped from behind the wheel. He picked up a suitcase that lay beside him. He walked across the street toward the hotel, just as the false Channing Rightwood was entering the door.

Clyde Burke saw the tall figure enter. He observed Cliff Marsland close behind. He dropped the newspaper that he was reading. An elevator was standing with open door, empty except for the operator. The three pa.s.sengers entered it. The one who looked like Channing Rightwood spoke as the operator closed the door.

"To the penthouse," was his order.

"Can't take you there," retorted the operator. "It's against my orders -"

Long hands caught the operator. The man slumped to the floor as The Shadow's grip pressed firmly behind the fellow's neck. The Shadow stooped and opened the bag that Cliff Marsland had laid on the floor. Black cloth showed within.

Clyde Burke was seizing the control. He pressed the b.u.t.ton for the penthouse and turned off the light, just as Cliff Marsland bundled up the operator and packed him in a corner. The car shot upward amid darkness. A swis.h.i.+ng sound occurred as The Shadow removed garments from the bag. Then came the clank of metal.

The elevator stopped. There was a pause. Gloved hands pressed against the barrier. Inch by inch, the doors opened. They spread wider. A strange, vague form moved through the opening. The doors closed.

Clyde Burke pressed the light switch. He grinned. The operator lay blinking on the floor. Cliff Marsland was watching him. The bag was empty. Clyde pressed the b.u.t.ton to drop the car to the lobby.

The Shadow's agents had been in readiness. With swift precision they had obeyed when their chief had arrived guised as Channing Rightwood. They had taken a tall, stoop-shouldered person aboard the car.

They had let another type of being off at the penthouse.

No longer playing the part of Channing Rightwood, The Shadow, garbed in his black cloak and slouch hat, had ventured alone into the realm where crime had been fostered. Again The Shadow, he had found the center point in the circle of death!

CHAPTER XXVI. THE FOCAL SPOT.

FELIX TRESSLER was standing above the huddled form of Joe Cardona. Revolver in hand, the master fiend was ready to vent his vengeance upon the hapless detective. Yet in his gloating, Tressler showed serenity. He was confident that his minions had done their appointed work.

A man appeared at the door of the room. It was Perry Harton. The crooked manager raised his hands in excitement. He motioned to Felix Tressler.

"Put the gun away!" he exclaimed. "Police are everywhere below. Don't fire a shot! Bring him to the roof!"

Tressler's brow clouded. Then a look of understanding came upon his thick-set face. He leered as hedropped his revolver in his pocket. With powerful strength, he lifted Joe Cardona and carried the detective out into the pa.s.sage. He followed Harton to the penthouse roof.

The sound of whistles was plain even at this height. There was hubbub in the streets below. The dull reports of occasional shots could be heard. Tressler dropped Cardona near an opening between two potted plants.

"Get rid of him!" suggested Harton. "If they find him in the street, he might have come from anywhere.

That roof below - it will make it impossible to tell -"

"Good," interjected Tressler. "Where is Mungren?"

The answer came in the appearance of the man himself. Logan Mungren arrived on the run from within the penthouse. He spoke breathlessly.

"It's all open," exclaimed Mungren, "They'll find the way clear -"

"If there's any of them left," interposed Harton, grimly. "Those shots may be raising hob below."

Felix Tressler stopped as he was about to lift up Joe Cardona's body. He growled and dropped the detective. He pulled a knife from his pocket and cut the ropes that bound the sleuth. He dragged Cardona to his feet.

"It won't do to have those on him," he a.s.serted. "He's going to look like he was in a brawl somewhere.

This will do it -"

Joe Cardona was steadying himself against the parapet. He ducked suddenly as Tressler's sentence ended. Joe was too late. Tressler's ma.s.sive fist clipped him on the jaw. The detective slumped, groggy.

"Now for it," sneered Tressler. "Pick the spot, Harton. We'll do this right."

Harton motioned to Mungren. Together, the pair moved away a potted plant. A blinking glow outlined their forms. Felix Tressler stared; then laughed. It was the beacon sign, casting its glimmer to the penthouse roof.

"I left it signaling," announced the master crook. "That's just as well. This is the last time we'll need it."

Stooping, the bulky millionaire dragged Joe Cardona's body toward the parapet. He paused for a moment. He rose to note the exact spot which Perry Harton was indicating. That was a s.h.i.+ny roof which showed projecting eaves a dozen flights below.

"Ready," proclaimed Tressler. "Stand aside -"

"Look!"

THE frenzied e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n came from Logan Mungren. The crooked promoter was pointing back to the entrance to the penthouse. Silhouetted against the light from within was a spectral form that loomed like a creature from the vast beyond.

The Shadow!

Crooks, all three, these men had heard of that superbeing who battled crime. Yet until this moment they had not realized that his hand had played its hidden part against their schemes.

Felix Tressler, snarling, was the first to understand the truth. Keen in crime, he was equal in deduction.He knew now who it must have been that had stalked through the circle of death unmolested.

"The Shadow!" he hissed. "He - he was the one! He was in place of Rightwood!"

A mocking laugh responded. Its tone proved the correctness of Felix Tressler's statement. The fiend and his lieutenants knew how completely they had been thwarted. Not only had The Shadow squared their circle; he had penetrated to their evil lair!

Hands were rising. Joe Cardona, lifting himself to a sitting position, stared. He saw why the crooks had cowered. In each fist, The Shadow clutched one of his famous automatics. He was one against three, but he had caught the trio without their guns!

Helpless before their superfoe, Tressler and his lieutenants made no move. They saw The Shadow's figure move forward. They sensed the approach of doom. They, the trappers, were trapped.

Again that weird laugh. It sounded clear as it rose to a triumphant crescendo. Its mockery faded as The Shadow stepped out to the roof. Echoes seemed to return from the very air. Then, of a sudden, The Shadow wheeled.

From the penthouse came the burst of a revolver. A bullet whistled past The Shadow's shoulder. Turned toward the pa.s.sage, The Shadow blazed with both his automatics. Amid the bark of the guns, Felix Tressler cried in elation.

"They've come!" Tressler's voice was thundering to the men beside him. "Now we can get him!"

THE fiend had given the answer. Those shots were coming from the patio by the elevators. Half a dozen minions of crime, remnants from the circle of death, had arrived by the service elevator.

Logan Mungren had opened the way. These men had a.s.sembled in response to the flas.h.i.+ng signal of the beacon sign. Their footsteps in the patio had been The Shadow's warning. They had seen him as he had turned. Silhouetted just beyond the penthouse door, The Shadow had been forced to meet their attack.

Despite the odds, The Shadow held a marked advantage. His foemen had dashed into the end of the pa.s.sage. Their scattered shots were coming as they aimed. He held the half dozen all in one spot. His bursting fire took its toll. The first bullets ricocheted into the ma.s.sed marauders; the later shots were aimed at scattering forms.

The bullets that returned were futile. The Shadow, weaving backward onto the roof, was a target that they could not pick. In one master display of rapid fire, the contents of The Shadow's automatics felled the entire crew.

The instant that those guns were emptied, the automatics fell from The Shadow's hands. Wheeling toward the edge of the roof, The Shadow whipped a brace of fresh weapons from beneath his cloak. His weaving form was moving backward toward the penthouse.

Quick though he had been, The Shadow had been forced to give opportunity to three while he disposed of six. Even before he turned, a bullet zimmed in his direction. Mungren and Harton had whipped out guns, along with Felix Tressler.

Roaring revolvers. They were hastily aimed. Yet such an advantage could not fail. As The Shadow turned to aim, a shot burst from Tressler's gun. The black-garbed figure staggered. Mungren and Harton fired wildly at the toppling form. The Shadow shot headlong into the penthouse.

"Finish him!" snarled Tressler. "Finish him!" The two men sprang forward. Felix Tressler dropped his gun into his pocket as he turned to seize Joe Cardona. The detective was rising. As Tressler's bulky form fell upon him, Joe sprang upward.

The two locked in a grip. The advantage was with Tressler. He forced Cardona against the parapet. He tried to lift the detective's body. Cardona put up a struggle. Gunshots sounded. Neither heeded them.