The Shadow - The Shadow Unmasks Part 7

The procession moved up Broadway, beneath a storm of torn paper that was streaked with ribbons of ticker tape. Thousands of windows were disgorging that man-made deluge amid the fading light of late afternoon. The shouts of mult.i.tudes rolled among the canyon between the mighty buildings; drowning the music of the band that led the parade.

It was that spectacle that only Manhattan can produce: the home-coming welcome for a man of recognized achievement. It was a t.i.tanic expression of modern approval that dwarfed a Roman triumph; yet Kent Allard received it with surpa.s.sing calmness.

His bows to the welcoming throng were properly timed. His smile, when he showed it, was genuine.

When the procession had pa.s.sed the greatest tumult, Allard chatted with Weston and Clyde, showing no partiality between the commissioner and the reporter. At the city hall, the aviator received the formal greeting and spoke well chosen words into a microphone, that was hooked up with a countrywide circuit. He observed the radio announcer's watch and timed his talk to the exact five minutes that had been allotted him.

Then came the trip to the huge uptown hotel, where a suite had been reserved for Allard. Attired in evening clothes, the aviator met Weston later and appeared as guest of honor to a huge banquet.

Clyde was still the commissioner's guest; and all through that early evening, the reporter marveled at the tireless manner of Allard.

The speech that Allard made was a masterful account of the Xinca Indians, from the days of their ancient myths to an a.n.a.lysis of their modern life and customs. It was agreed by all who talked with the famous aviator, that they had never met a man quite the equal of Kent Allard.

NINE o'clock found Allard back in his suite, with only Weston and Clyde present; excepting, of course, the two Xincas, who were Allard's personal attendants.

There was one point upon which Allard had dwelt but little; namely, how the Xincas had accepted him as the white G.o.d from the sky. Allard seemed to consider that of but little importance.

Viewing the two Xincas, both Weston and Clyde noticed how definitely Allard had modified that detail.

It was plain that the servitors wors.h.i.+pped their white chief; that every action they made was hinged upon his command. In private, Kent Allard was quite as amazing a figure as in public.

"I admire the way you controlled those savage tribesmen," confided Weston. "I wish, by Jove, that we could use the same system with some of the dangerous characters that rove our underworld!"

Allard's clear blue eyes fixed themselves upon Weston. The commissioner met a stare that carried a hypnotic strength. He began to understand how the lost aviator had held complete mastery over hundreds of natives for twelve long, continuous years.

"Criminals can be handled," declared Allard. "But they should not be compared with the Xincas. The Indians, though savage, are human. Some denizens of your underworld could be better defined as jackals."

Weston agreed. He thought of Shark Meglo. He told Allard about the murderer, and the aviator added a comment. Shark, in his opinion, was a jungle killer, whose habitat happened to be the depths of a metropolis, instead of an impenetrable forest.

Finding Allard interested, Weston proceeded with further details; he discussed the quest for the master-crook who the law was sure existed. He told of the valuable advice that Madden Henshew had supplied.

WHEN Weston left, Clyde went with him. Allard sat in a comfortable chair beside the window, looking out over the lighted city.

His far gaze was reflective; he seemed to be feasting on his new view of New York, as if comparing it with the solitudes of the Jungle. He listened to the murmur of the city, so different from the noises of the tropical forest.

Meanwhile, the Xincas were prowling softly, their faces as stolid as ever. One moved out into the hallway, while the other waited at the opened door. When the first returned, the second went into another room. The first Xinca approached Allard and announced, in slow-toned English: "The way is open, master."

Kent Allard arose. As he crossed the room with his slow, long stride, he exhibited a slight limp. Both Weston and Clyde had noticed it. That limp was the result of a broken leg that Allard had sustained in his airplane crash. He had set the break himself; the fracture had not mended perfectly.

The first Xinca was at the hallway door, pointing to a fire tower that gave a clear path below. The second Indian came from the inner room, bringing dark garments.

Allard received a cloak and slid it over his shoulders. He slid thin gloves over his hands. The last article that he took was a slouch hat, that he pulled tightly upon his head.

Allard's limp ended as he took a long, gliding stride toward the fire tower. As he reached the darkened entrance, he turned. His shape was merged with blackness that matched his garb; all that the watching Xincas saw was the glow of burning eyes.

A moment later, the eyes were gone. A whispered laugh, delivered by hidden lips, marked the departure of Kent Allard.

An amazing thing had happened; an event so incredible that even Clyde Burke could not have believed it, had he been here to witness the whole occurrence. Kent Allard, returned to New York for the first time in twelve years, had transformed himself into the one personage that it seemed impossible for him to be.

Kent Allard had become The Shadow!

CHAPTER XIII. THE SHADOW'S STORY.

IN New York, there lived a remarkable man named Slade Farrow, who was at home on this particular evening. Farrow dwelt in a modest little apartment; he was a kindly faced man, of gentle manner. There were times, though, when Farrow's features became stern and his eye showed snap.

Farrow was a criminologist, who had devoted his life to two fine purposes: the reforming of crooks who were within redemption, and the righting of wrongs done innocent persons, who had been imprisoned for crimes that actually were committed by others.

Farrow literally took his coat off when he settled down to such work. Frequently he had entered a penitentiary, posing as a convict, to gain the confidence of certain prisoners. There was one thing about Farrow; no one could know him long without realizing that he was a man of absolute trust.

In his easy chair, beside a glowing table lamp, Farrow had set aside a book to reflect upon the past. He remembered the time when his generous career had been threatened by disaster. Rescue had come through a mysterious cloaked being called This Shadow. (See "The Green Box," Vol. IX, No. 2.) Since then, The Shadow had aided Farrow in many cases that required justice.

Who was The Shadow?

That was one question that Farrow could not answer. Sometimes The Shadow visited here in garb of black. Farrow also recalled a visitor who called himself Lamont Cranston, but was not actually the millionaire who bore that name. He remembered another, Henry Arnaud, but Farrow knew that the ident.i.ty was simply a disguise.

All those visitors had been The Shadow. Farrow had seen The Shadow in other guises, also; but had never learned who the mysterious person really was. Farrow however, had cherished one confident belief. If The Shadow ever revealed himself to any one, naming his ident.i.ty when unmasked, Farrow would be the person to whom The Shadow would so appear.

Despite that surety, Farrow had no inkling that The Shadow's unmasking would take place here tonight.

As Farrow reached for his book, he heard a whispered voice beside him. Looking up, Farrow saw the cloaked figure of The Shadow. He met the burn of eyes that were focused from beneath the slouch hat brim. As in the past, The Shadow had entered Farrow's apartment unheard.

Cloak fell away. Gloved hands lifted the slouch hat, then peeled away the gloves themselves. The visitor chose a chair and came into the light. Farrow saw a face that he had never viewed before, but it seemed familiar.

Catching a connected thought, he looked toward a newspaper that lay on the table. He saw a photograph that tallied with the visitor. Farrow exclaimed the name: "Kent Allard!"

"Yes." Allard's reply was an even-toned one. "I am Kent Allard."

For a moment, Farrow thought that he was seeing The Shadow in some new disguise, then the sheer impossibility of the situation awoke a different idea. Long ago, Farrow had decided that The Shadow's real ident.i.ty must be a remarkable one, as incredible as The Shadow himself.

Kent Allard had been twelve years in the Guatemala jungle. All that while The Shadow had been battling crime in New York and elsewhere. On the face of it, Allard and The Shadow could not be the same person. That was why Farrow decided that they were. He was used to the impossible, where The Shadow was concerned.

"It is amazing," confessed Farrow, "but I am confident that you are actually Kent Allard."

"I am," stated Allard. "Because I have actually returned to my own ident.i.ty, I have decided that you should know it."

The tone indicated that Farrow could ask questions. Reaching for the newspaper, Farrow refreshed himself on certain details that he had read that afternoon.

"It states here," declared Farrow, "that you were an aviator in the World War; an ace who was shot down within the enemy's lines. You were believed dead until a short while before the Armistice. Then you returned, after escaping from a prison camp where you had been confined for months.

"After the war, you retained your interest in aviation and made several outstanding flights. The last was the long hop to South America, which ended somewhere in Central America. You were believed dead until a few weeks ago when it was learned that you were in Guatemala."

FARROW laid the newspaper aside. With a slight smile, he questioned, frankly: "How much of this is true?"

"A great deal of it," declared Allard. "I was actually a War ace. Winning air battles seemed to come to me naturally, and I gained a preference for night flights. The enemy called me the Dark Eagle. They were glad when they shot down my plane."

Allard paused. His smile was as reflective as Farrow's. In reminiscent tone, he added: "But I was not shot down. I landed by design; and drilled the gas tank of my own s.h.i.+p. Wearing a black garb, I traveled by night, on foot, within the enemy's lines. I entered prison camps, yes; but never as a prisoner. I visited them only to release men who were held there, to guide them in their escape.

"By day, I adopted disguises; and working entirely on my own, I contacted our secret agents. That was when I learned my faculty for penetrating the deepest schemes. I met persons who were amazed to learn that I had discovered the actual parts they played.

"I became a roving secret agent, and finally located a secret air base maintained by the enemy. It seemed suicidal to visit that place and map it. They actually trapped me after I had finished. But my experience as aviator served me. I escaped from the base itself, in one of the enemy's own planes."

Farrow understood the rest of that adventure. Kent Allard, returned to his own friends, had naturally stated that he had escaped from a prison camp. By thus accounting for his absence, he had kept the future open for further service as a secret agent.

"The war ended," continued Allard. "I found that aviation offered part of the life I needed; but it provided neither the action of battle, nor the keen work of the secret agent. I rejected the idea of becoming a soldier of fortune. I considered warfare an uncivilized inst.i.tution except when absolute necessity required it.

"I saw such necessity in a field that others had neglected. Crime was becoming rampant in America and elsewhere. Underworlds were organized, with their own hidden battle lines. Only a lone foe could pierce that cordon; once inside, he would have to move by stealth, and strike with power and suddenness. I chose that mission."

FARROW could see the expression of Allard's face. In the light, the clear eyes concealed their burning power. At moments, however, Farrow noted the hawklike semblance of Allard's countenance. He remembered the same trace in other faces that he had seen The Shadow wear.

"I resolved to bury my ident.i.ty," declared Allard. "I flew South and landed purposely in Guatemala. I spent a few months among the Xincas and gained their friends.h.i.+p. I came home, disguised so none could recognize me. I became The Shadow.

"During my new career, I found it necessary to appear in many places. Sometimes the actors in the scenes of the underworld were mere puppets, manipulated by master-plotters who posed as men of high esteem. There was need, too, to learn what the law intended.

"I had once known Lamont Cranston, millionaire globe-trotter, whose hobbies were exploration and aviation. Cranston was often absent from the country; so I adopted his appearance. It gave me all the advantages that I needed. As Cranston, I found occasional opportunities to stop in Central America and visit my isolated friends of the Xinca tribe."

Farrow had listened breathless. A sudden thought struck him. He started the question: "Did Cranston ever learn -"

"That I look his place?" smiled Allard. "Yes. I had to settle that matter, once. I visited Cranston, as The Shadow. I let him see me as himself. That visit gained Cranston's full cooperation. Ever since, he has obligingly stayed away, whenever I have requested his absence. There have been occasional complications; but all were easily managed, until the present case."

Farrow understood. That Croydon air crash had left Cranston unable to cooperate further, for thepresent. The millionaire's name had come into headlines. Soon, Cranston would be back in America; but he might be unable to travel for the next few months. The Shadow had needed another role; so he had become himself.

"As The Shadow, I have become widely known," remarked Allard, in a methodical tone. "Though I have remained untraced, there are many who can testify to my whereabouts at certain times during the past twelve years. There is one place where I could never have been, during all that while.

"That place is Guatemala. By returning home as Kent Allard, I have chosen the best of all possible identifies. No one will ever link me with The Shadow. As Allard, I shall be welcome everywhere. I have already established myself with Commissioner Weston. I can enter the same circles where I appeared as Cranston.

"I have long foreseen this prospect. All that I awaited was the necessity of becoming myself. The longer I waited, the better. Twelve years were long enough."

RISING from his chair, Allard raised his cloak and placed it over his shoulders. He donned the slouch hat. As he drew on his gloves, Farrow saw the glow of a fire opal that shone from the third finger of The Shadow's left hand. That stone, s.h.i.+mmering with every hue of the rainbow, had long served as The Shadow's token.

The opal was a girasol, a gem of sparkling beauty, found only near Zimapan, in southern Mexico. There was a history to the unmatched specimen that The Shadow wore. For the present, he did not take time to relate the details to Slade Farrow.

The Shadow's girasol was the great "eye-stone" of the Xinca tribe. Pressed southward, centuries ago, they had carried that gem to Guatemala as the symbol of promise, to be delivered to the great bird G.o.d who would arrive from the sky.

That Xinca legend involving the girasol probably had its origin in the Aztec myth of a white G.o.d who would some day visit them. The Aztecs had welcomed Cortez and the Spaniards, because of such a legend, and had suffered disaster thereby. The Xincas, persisting in a similar belief, had greeted Kent Allard.

He had been worthy of the legend. His coming had ended strife among the Xincas. Often had their white G.o.d left them; always had he returned. Ever from his finger shone the great "eye-stone," the Xinca gift that had awaited him.

A glove covered the girasol. Cloaked completely in black, Kent Allard was again The Shadow. In the guise that suited his return, The Shadow resumed the chair beside Slade Farrow.

The Shadow's past was told. He was ready to discuss the future. The Shadow was resuming the trail that he had left to others during his forced absence from New York.

CHAPTER XIV. CRIME'S NEXT STEP.

FARROW had all the data that The Shadow wanted. Burbank had forwarded all reports to the criminologist, so that they could be in order when The Shadow returned. Producing his files, Farrow placed typewritten sheets upon the table, together with newspaper clippings.

Clyde Burke had culled a great deal of information. Going the rounds with Joe Cardona, the reporter had listed the names of many possible suspects - all jewel brokers or salesmen of doubtful repute. Cardona had quizzed a dozen or more; and news of the police search had traveled. The rest of the questionablegroup were becoming hard to find.

When he had finished his study of the scattered evidence, The Shadow questioned Farrow regarding an opinion. Farrow had one.

"I would say that Cardona has taken the wrong course," he declared. "It seems obvious that there is a crime leader behind Shark's raids. But there is no real evidence to show that such a person belongs to the particular cla.s.s that Cardona supposes."

"Cardona is following Henshew's advice," reminded The Shadow. "No one knows the jewel trade better than Henshew."

There was a significance to The Shadow's tone that Farrow did not catch. Farrow was too concentrated upon his own ideas.

"Henshew knows the jewel market," admitted Farrow, "but that could indicate that he cannot see beyond it. He would naturally be prejudiced against unethical jewel brokers. That is why he suspects them."

Farrow picked up a report of Clyde's visit to Henshew. Carefully, Farrow read over every statement that the prominent jewel broker had made.

"Logical enough," commented Farrow, "but too restricted. In effect, Henshew believes that some small-time jewel merchant has developed into a master-crook. My opinion would be just the opposite. I suspect that some big-time crook has learned the gem business sufficiently well to dupe such victims as Hugo Silsam."

Farrow reached for lists of his own. He checked over names of known criminals. Some were swindlers; others racketeers. Any of them might have the capability that Farrow credited to them.

But Farrow admitted that the list did not satisfy him. He had been looking into the affairs of those criminals during The Shadow's absence. There seemed to be some flaw in every case.

"Perhaps I have missed on one of them," said Farrow. "What is more, I may be entirely mistaken.

Henshew's theory could be correct. Nevertheless, it is froth, whether right or wrong. It was Henshew's positive manner that convinced Cardona; not the man's accuracy in a.n.a.lyzing the case."

SEATED, The Shadow brushed Farrow's doc.u.ments aside. He drew off his right glove brought out a fountain pen and took a sheet of blank paper. He drew a circle near the top of the page in ink of vivid blue. In the circle, he neatly inscribed a name, using two lines: Hugo Silsam "Let us say," suggested The Shadow, "that the circle represents secrecy. That is why the victim was so completely enmeshed. Someone sold Silsam on the necessity of keeping his gem purchase as private as possible."

Farrow nodded. He recognized that Silsam's name typified the others who had been robbed and murdered before him. The circle applied for all. Silsam stood as the latest example.

The Shadow drew a second circle, below and to the right of Silsam's. Within it, he placed the name: Shark Meglo No comment was necessary. The circle represented Shark's hide-out, the measure of protection that kept the killer safe from capture. Moving the pen to the left, The Shadow drew a third circle. "This surrounds the master-criminal," expressed The Shadow, in a sibilant tone. "Possibly you can suggest the sort of protection that he would choose."

Farrow hadn't thought of it in that fas.h.i.+on. It struck him instantly that he had missed a vital point. Yes, the supercrook would need protection of his own. Something different than the measure he had used to hold victims quiet and keep Shark hidden.

"He would need a strong position," said Farrow, slowly. "One that would enable him to divert the law's attention from -"

Farrow stopped. The Shadow had started to fill the circle. Before Farrow's eyes appeared the finished name, within the third ring: Madden Henshew The chart told its story. Henshew, holder of the jewels, placed them with dupes like Silsam. His own persuasive advice - the very sort that had impressed Cardona - caused victims to keep their purchases confidential. That plus Henshew's high reputation. Next, the gems were seized by Shark; finally they came back to Henshew. The chain of circles was complete.

As if to prove The Shadow's a.n.a.lysis, the top circle faded. Its ink had dried; in that state it disappeared, for the fluid was the sort that The Shadow used in sending special messages.

For a final touch The Shadow made a new circle where Silsam's had been, but left it blank.

Shark's circle vanished. Henshew's followed. Only the ominous blank circle remained at the top of the page. It represented the mesh that would soon involve a new victim. The Shadow crumpled the paper before the circle faded. Farrow was awed.