The Shadow - The Circle of Death Part 7

CHAPTER XII. WITHIN THE CIRCLE.

DETECTIVE JOE CARDONA was seated in his office. He was studying notes that he had scrawled upon a pad. Cardona's face was glum. The detective picked up a newspaper and read the headlines.

A news account told of Bigelow Zorman's death. Physicians had attributed it to the effect of poison. Yet there was no evidence that such a dose had been administered. Bigelow Zorman, a stranger in New York, had succ.u.mbed in mysterious fas.h.i.+on.

It was possible, Cardona knew, that Zorman could have received the poison in some food or drink. That death might have been due to a queer accident. Such, apparently, was the cause. There was no way to tell where Zorman had dined on the evening of his death.

He had come to his hotel room from the Times Square area. He might have stopped at any of one hundred places. He might have met any one of thousands of people. His death was of mysterious origin.

Fortunately, in Cardona's opinion, the newspapers had rejected certain facts which the detective considered as important. No connection had been noted between the deaths of Bigelow Zorman, Maurice Bewkel and Dustin Cruett. Yet Cardona saw a link. He, for one, had gained a suspicion of thetruth.

Somewhere, somehow, death could be delivered in untraceable fas.h.i.+on to persons who entered a certain zone near Times Square. Joe Cardona had no idea of the confines of that zone. He had refrained, for the time, to detail his growing suspicions to Inspector Timothy Klein.

As he arose from his desk, Cardona wore a grim expression on his face. Once again, the sleuth was faring forth on a seemingly hopeless task. He was going to place himself within that district where death had taken hold; yet where not one suspicious person could be located among the pa.s.sing thousands.

As he left his office, Joe Cardona experienced an odd recollection. He remembered a hawklike face that he had seen near Times Square. Was that a mere coincidence? Cardona did not think so. He was more convinced than before that he had seen The Shadow.

Time and again, crimes that had seemed unsolvable had yielded when The Shadow had stepped upon their trail. Cardona, much though he prided himself upon his ability as a sleuth, was wise enough to know that he could not match his own skill with that of The Shadow. Secretly, the detective held the hope that The Shadow, too, was on this trail of death.

CARDONA'S hope was a reality. As the detective was leaving headquarters for his nightly patrol of Times Square, The Shadow, too, was making plans. Within his secret sanctum, this supersleuth was studying the latest reports received from those who worked in his behalf.

Harry Vincent had uncovered but little at South Sh.o.r.eview. The plant of the Electro Oceanic Corporation was closed, pending the raising of new capital. The death of Bigelow Zorman had dropped like a bomb-sh.e.l.l there. Perry Harton, the plant manager, had left for the North. Harry could not learn whether or not the man had gone to New York.

Through Rutledge Mann had come important data. He had worked upon the names that The Shadow had given him. Rightwood - the first name uttered by Zorman's dying lips - had proven to be Channing Rightwood, who was, at present, in Chicago. Rightwood, Mann had learned, was a stockholder in Electro Oceanic.

Following this discovery, Mann had taken the incompleted name which Zorman had p.r.o.nounced as "Tress." He had decided that this must mean Felix Tressler, wealthy investor who was also a purchaser of Electro Oceanic.

Beneath the blue light of the sanctum, The Shadow had considered all this data. Now, with weird whisper, he was speaking across the wire to Burbank. The Shadow was giving orders which concerned two other agents.

Earphones clattered. The tiny bulb went out. The blue light disappeared. A soft laugh - that was the final sound. The Shadow had departed. Like Joe Cardona, he was faring forth toward Times Square. Unlike the detective, The Shadow was bound on a definite purpose.

Two names of potential victims! Those were all that The Shadow needed. One man, Channing Rightwood, was in Chicago. He was away from the area of danger. The other, Felix Tressler, was close at hand. The Shadow had taken steps for his protection.

STROLLING up Seventh Avenue, Joe Cardona had a strange impression that he was being watched.

He paused at intervals to glance over his shoulder. The impression became more evident just as Cardona arrived at the spot where he had previously spied Henry Arnaud - at the corner where the Chromo sellers were shouting out the merits of their drink. Joe Cardona had just crossed a side street. He wheeled. As a taxi whizzed past, he caught a short glimpse of a visage with an aquiline nose. It was the same countenance that he had seen before - even to the eyes that sparkled like the weird optics of that mysterious being, The Shadow!

The person whom Cardona spotted was on the other side of the street. A truck lumbered between.

When it had pa.s.sed, the detective no longer saw the face of Henry Arnaud. This, to Joe Cardona, was the final proof that he had seen The Shadow!

Who else could have disappeared in such mysterious fas.h.i.+on? True, the street was thronged; nevertheless, an interval of only two seconds had elapsed during the pa.s.sage of the truck. Cardona looked everywhere. He saw no sign of the face for which he was searching. Glumly, the detective strolled along his way.

Hardly had he pa.s.sed beyond the Chromo stand before a tall figure emerged from a spot of blackness near the corner. The projecting wall of a building had formed a single place of concealment in this illuminated district. That was the spot which The Shadow, as Henry Arnaud, had chosen to escape Joe Cardona's view.

A soft laugh rippled from thin, firm lips. A pa.s.sing stroller started. He stood still and looked in vain for the source of the uncanny sound. Meanwhile, Henry Arnaud was moving along the side street, away from the roar of Seventh Avenue.

Tonight, The Shadow had started forth to study the route of Bigelow Zorman. He had given up that task for the moment, due to his sighting of Joe Cardona. He picked his way along the side street, found a pa.s.sage beside an old theater building, and through it reached another street.

Here The Shadow paused. A flickering match, applied to the tip of a cigarette, lighted up the features of Henry Arnaud. The Shadow was standing in front of the narrow but pretentious building known as the Hotel Delavan.

Turning, The Shadow entered. He went through the lobby, purchased a newspaper and strolled out. In that brief inspection, he had observed that two elevators were in use. Besides these, he had spied a shaft which had no opening in the lobby. It was evidently a service elevator.

That was not all. The Shadow had noticed a young man seated in a lounging chair, reading a magazine.

Of medium height, quiet in demeanor, yet noticeably observant to one who viewed him closely, this chap could have been identified as a newspaper man.

It was Clyde Burke, police reporter of the New York Cla.s.sic; also one of The Shadow's agents. The thin smile showed on Henry Arnaud's lips as the tall visitor strode to the street.

A car was parked opposite. It was a coupe, and a man was leaning back behind the wheel. This fellow was of a different type than Burke. His face, though well-featured, bore a chiseled hardness that showed unusual determination. The smile remained upon Henry Arnaud's lips.

This man was Cliff Marsland, another agent of The Shadow. Usually delegated to duty in the underworld, The Shadow had brought Cliff to this vicinity. A pair of trusted agents were on the alert, ready to observe all who might enter the Hotel Delavan.

This was a follow-up of Rutledge Mann's information that Felix Tressler occupied the penthouse of the tall hotel. Yet The Shadow's men, observant though they were, had not for one moment suspected that this stroller who bore the countenance of Henry Arnaud was their master. The Shadow seldom revealed his various ident.i.ties to his agents. To them, he was a mysterious specter of blackness. Confident though they were in The Shadow's power, they had never met him face to face except in guises which The Shadow chose. That of Henry Arnaud was one which The Shadow had not disclosed.

LATER, Henry Arnaud might have been seen in the vicinity which Joe Cardona had left. Back to his original purpose, The Shadow followed a course up Seventh Avenue to the Hotel Goliath. He turned and retraced his steps.

The big sign which served as signal to the members of the death circle was gleaming white tonight. Agents of doom were quiet. Did The Shadow know that fact? The strange smile which showed on Henry Arnaud's lips might have been evidence of such knowledge.

The Shadow's course became untraceable. Even when he appeared in a guise such as that of Henry Arnaud, he still possessed a strange ability in disappearing from view. It was more than an hour later when The Shadow again manifested his presence - this time in his sanctum.

The bluish light clicked on. Beyond the table, a tiny bulb was glowing. The Shadow took the earphones and spoke. Burbank's voice responded.

A report. The Shadow wrote it as he listened to Burbank's voice. This was word from Clyde Burke, stationed at the Hotel Delavan. It concerned the affairs of Felix Tressler.

Burke had learned that the millionaire never left the penthouse. He had found out that Tressler's secretary, Wilton Byres, occasionally appeared in the lobby.

Burke had gained a description of Tressler, as well as one of Byres. The Shadow's writing gave terse details as they came from Burbank. This information completed, The Shadow disposed of the earphones.

His eyes again read the notes that he had made. The writing faded, word by word.

The large map of Manhattan came into view. This time, The Shadow marked it with three white pins and three of black. More than that, his hand traced courses through the thoroughfares near Times Square, to mark the paths that three men had followed to their doom.

Dustin Cruett, Maurice Bewkel, Bigelow Zorman: all had died within the s.p.a.ce of a few blocks. They had come into a realm of disaster. Certainly, there must be an explanation of these odd fates which had gripped the unfortunate trio.

The Shadow's laugh was a token of growing understanding. The pins were plucked from the route-marked map. The bluish light went out as the paper crinkled. The laugh still persisted. It rose to a shuddering crescendo.

Something swished in the darkness. Then came silence, with sinking echoes of the taunting laugh. Garbed in cloak and hat of black, The Shadow had departed.

Agents of The Shadow were within the circle of death. They were watching the strategic spot which The Shadow had picked for them. It was their task to report concerning Felix Tressler. Channing Rightwood, still out of town, was under The Shadow's care.

Yet the foreboding tone of The Shadow's laugh gave a strange impression that continued until the final whispered echo had ended.

The circle of death remained a menace. Its threat would strike again. When that occurred, The Shadow intended to be ready to meet the hordes of doom!

CHAPTER XIII. THE INTERLUDE

IT was late the next afternoon. A chubby-faced man was seated at a desk by a window high above Manhattan. He was busy with a stack of clippings that lay before him on his office desk. An interruption came in the form of a knock at the door.

"Come in," ordered the chubby-faced individual.

A stenographer entered, carrying a telegram. She laid the message upon the desk.

"This just arrived, Mr. Mann."

"Very well," replied the man at the desk. "It is getting late. We shall close the office at once."

As soon as the stenographer had departed to the outer office, the man at the desk tore open the telegram. It bore a terse message: RUTLEDGE MANN.

BADGER BUILDING.

NEW YORK CITY.

GOODS RECEIVED FROM ATLANTA INSURED FOR THREE THOUSAND UNDER.

NEW RATING.

HARRY VINCENT.

The telegram was from Chicago. It was obvious that this was a message that Rutledge Mann had been expecting, for the chubby-faced fellow arose from his desk. He tucked the telegram in an envelope and sealed it.

Mann pa.s.sed through the outer office, then through the door which bore his name and t.i.tle of investment broker. These offices high in the Badger Building were where Mann conducted a regular business. They were also the headquarters for his work in the service of The Shadow.

Reaching the street, Mann summoned a cab and rode to Twenty-third Street. There he dismissed the taxi and entered an old, dilapidated building. He went up a pair of stairs and came to an obscure office. A grimy gla.s.s panel bore the name: B. JONAS.

Mann shoved the envelope in a letter slit. He paused and stared at the gla.s.s panel, then departed. This office was always a puzzle to Rutledge Mann. Its cobwebbed door had apparently been closed for months. Nevertheless, the office within must sometimes have an occupant - at least so Mann reasoned to himself.

For this was the spot where Mann placed messages for The Shadow. The investment broker visited the Twenty-third Street building on numerous occasions, and whenever he left billets there, he was sure that they would reach their appointed destination.

MORE than an hour after Rutledge Mann had gone to Twenty-third Street, a light clicked in The Shadow's sanctum. The envelope that Mann had placed in the mail chute fell upon the polished surface of The Shadow's table. Long fingers opened it to draw the telegram from within. The Shadow inscribed words upon the telegram, in blue ink, between the typescript lines. They were the translation of the coded message: Man starting to New York leaving at eleven o'clock via Michigan Central Harry Vincent had been sent to Chicago, through wire dispatched by Rutledge Mann. His services no longer needed in South Sh.o.r.eview, Harry's new task was to watch Channing Rightwood.

This information was all that The Shadow needed. He could learn the hour at which Rightwood's train would reach New York. From the moment that Rightwood arrived at the Grand Central Station, he would be under The Shadow's surveillance.

Rightwood would not arrive until tomorrow. That left freedom for tonight. Of the two men whom Bigelow Zorman had declared to be in danger, only one was within reach of the murderous men who patrolled the sinister zone near Times Square. That was Felix Tressler, whose safety lay in the hands of The Shadow's agents.

The Shadow reached for the earphones. The little bulb burned. Burbank's voice spoke. The Shadow's whispered tones came in reply: "Report."

"No reports received," returned Burbank. "Burke and Marsland on duty."

"Await call."

The earphones clicked. The bluish light went out. The Shadow knew that no reports from Clyde Burke or Cliff Marsland meant that all was quiet. Nothing had occurred at the Hotel Delavan.

WHILE The Shadow was departing from his sanctum, Felix Tressler was entering his penthouse from the roof. Wilton Byres was not in evidence. The mustached millionaire stared about with furrowed eyebrows.

Satisfied that his secretary was not close by, he paused beside a locked door near the demonstration room.

Then, as an afterthought, Tressler stalked on until he reached the patio. He observed Byres opposite the fountain. The secretary was reading a magazine by a corner light.

Tressler turned, moved back toward the locked door. At the same moment, Byres rose stealthily and laid his magazine beside his chair.

Tiptoeing forward, he reached the pa.s.sage and peered cautiously from the edge of the entrance. He saw Felix Tressler unlocking a door. The bulky millionaire entered a room. The door closed.

Foot by foot, Byres stole along the pa.s.sage until he neared the doorway. The door bore a heavy lock.

Byres scowled at sight of the closed barrier. Suddenly, a soft gasp came from his lips. Tressler had not closed the door completely. A tiny streak of light showed between the crack beside the hinges.

Byres placed his hand upon the doork.n.o.b. With utmost caution, he pressed the door inward. His actions were a strange mingling of fear and bravery. There was a tremble to his hand; yet a boldness in the deed.

A clear inch opened; the s.p.a.ce was sufficient for Byres to view the interior of the room. The secretary suppressed another gasp at what he saw.

The opposite wall of the room bore a huge, large-scale map that projected in bas-relief. The chart wasclearly recognizable by the jutting points of buildings which extended horizontally. The map represented the district about Times Square.

A huge red circle had been painted upon the map. That circle included a restricted zone of which the Hotel Delavan formed the center. At each spot where the circle touched the intersection of a street or avenue, a tiny white bulb was in evidence.

There were other bulbs within the circle. Beneath were rows of red lights. Switches showed upon the wall underneath the molded map.

Felix Tressler was viewing the huge model that showed this section of Manhattan in such realistic form.

Wilton Byres heard a chuckle. He caught a momentary glimpse of Tressler's profile. The heavy-browed millionaire wore a fiendish, gloating expression.

As Tressler's back again turned toward the door, Byres noted a new feature of the map. Along the lines which represented streets were tubes of gla.s.s which looked like neon lights. Tressler fingered one and emitted another chuckle. This was enough.

Nervously, Wilton Byres closed the door. He let the k.n.o.b turn shut. The look that appeared upon his face was one of both fright and understanding. Quivering as he hastened toward the patio, the secretary showed a pallid, twitching face.

It was evident that Byres had made a terrifying discovery. His footsteps clicked upon the paving of the patio. His hand shook as he pressed the bell beside the elevator shaft. The car arrived. Byres made an effort to display composure. He entered the elevator and descended.

BACK in the map room, Felix Tressler was standing with his eyes focused upon the door. The bulky man had detected the sound of the turning k.n.o.b. He watched to see if any new activity occurred. A minute pa.s.sed.

With an impatient scowl, Tressler moved to the door and wrenched it open. He stared into the pa.s.sage as though expecting to see someone standing there. No one was in view. Tressler looked toward the roof. The door was shut. He turned and strode to the patio. His first glance was toward the chair where he had viewed Byres reading.

"Byres!" Tressler's call was a gruff one. "Byres!"

There was no response. Tressler's scowl increased. His pudgy fingers twisted at his bristling mustache.

"Byres!" bellowed the millionaire.

No answer. Angrily, Tressler strode to a telephone and raised the receiver. His voice calmed as he heard the tones of the clerk at the desk in the lobby.

"Tell me," questioned Tressler. "Did my secretary come down stairs?... Ah, I see... You say he just went out... Never mind... Never mind... Nothing important..."