The Shadow - The Devil's Partner Part 7

The fugitive was fleeing toward the rear exit door of the movie theater.

HASTILY, The Shadow made his way to the ground. He was only a step or two behind his quarry when the masked man leaped inside the partly opened exit door.

The fugitive managed to slam the door shut, but he had no time to bar it on the inside. The Shadow's hand yanked the door open. He sprang inside the theater.

Pitch-darkness made him blink. The only light was the cone of brilliance from the balcony projection booth to the screen. It wasn't enough to disclose the figure of the masked man.

But The Shadow could hear the faint thuds of his feet as he raced along the black aisle. The man was heading for the rear lobby, his flight protected by darkness and by the sounds of dialogue booming from the motion-picture screen.

Invisible in their seats, the audience was unaware of the grim drama taking place under their very noses.

Absorbed in the drama on the screen, they failed to hear or see anything unusual.

The masked man abruptly ended that state of affairs. Deliberately, he aimed his pistol into the air, sent a cras.h.i.+ng roar of bullets toward the black ceiling of the auditorium.

Spurting of flame and the snarling echoes of gunfire did exactly what the masked fugitive hoped it would.

Screams came from a suddenly terrified audience. People leaped to their feet, began to trample their neighbors in a wild effort to reach the aisles.

The invisible Shadow was knocked aside by a clawing man. Another panic-stricken man crashed headlong into him, knocking him off balance All over the theater terrified voices were screaming: "Lights! Lights!"

Suddenly the movie house leaped into blinding brilliance. The head usher, sprinting with worried haste for the switch panel, had found it. The lights came on too late to show any trace of the fugitive in the mask. He had reached the rear of the theater. Already he had mingled with the rest of the audience, the mask gone from his face.

The figure that the lights revealed halfway down the aisle was - The Shadow!

His appearance completed the wild panic that the shooting in the dark had started. Men and women cringed as they saw a tall, black-robed figure with eyes that blazed like reddish flame beneath the brim of a slouch hat.

"The Shadow!"

The cry was yelled by people who had read of the brutal murder of Seton Quinn in their newspapers.

They knew from those newspapers - or thought they knew - that The Shadow had killed Quinn and eluded the police.

They could see the glint of twin automatics in the black-gloved hands of the menacing figure trapped in a theater aisle. They were convinced they were in the presence of a murderer at bay.

Taking advantage of their terror, The Shadow beat a retreat. As men and women cringed backward, he raced along the aisle to the rear.

An usher attempted to brain him with a flashlight. The Shadow ducked, knocked the man headlong. He raced to the rear of the auditorium, where he had noticed the head usher when the lights came on.

A moment later, those lights went out!

This time, The Shadow reversed his flight. Under cover of darkness he fled up carpeted stairs toward the balcony. He had to double on his tracks because an escape from the theater was now denied him.

The shooting and the panic inside had been reported to the traffic cop on the corner. The cop was already racing into the theater, gun in hand. Ushers, leaping to all the doors, were trying to bolt them in the darkness.

But The Shadow was moving fast, too.

Unseen, he darted into the one place a fugitive would hardly be expected to select. He vanished into the narrow door of the projection booth in the balcony.

A second time The Shadow was forced to put a man out of action. He did so mercifully. The projectionist collapsed into the arms of The Shadow.

Lowering him to the floor, The Shadow vanished. In his place appeared a well-dressed gentleman with a well-bred smile. The cloak and hat of The Shadow remained on the floor of the projection booth.

IT was Lamont Cranston who returned to the balcony outside. He moved away from the vicinity of the booth and joined the excited crowd of movie patrons. He was among them when the cop came racing up the stairway.

The cop was impressed when Lamont Cranston identified himself. As Cranston, he suggested that The Shadow, on the run, might very well have darted inside the projection booth.

He was with the cop when the unconscious body of the projectionist was discovered. He uttered as startled an exclamation as the policeman did.

It was not a faked cry of surprise. For once in his career, The Shadow as dumfounded. The cloak and hat which The Shadow had left on the floor of the booth were no longer there! In the short interval between The Shadow's departure from the booth and his return as Cranston, someone had stolen The Shadow's regalia!

Whoever had stolen them had probably already slipped out of the theater.

The Shadow himself was denied that chance. Every door of the theater was now securely locked. More police had arrived. Not a single patron was allowed to leave while the futile search for The Shadow went on.

Lamont Cranston fumed. He was safe from discovery, but he was losing a good chance to blast a cunning criminal's alibi. The only telephones in the movie house were in the outer lobby. It was more than a half hour before Cranston was able to reach one.

He called the home of Anthony Kilby. Kilby answered the call in person. He seemed amused when he heard the voice of Cranston.

The Shadow had no better luck with Swade. The ex-business a.s.sociate of the late Dr. Marcus Kilby was just as amused as young Kilby had been. He pretended to accept Cranston's mild excuse for phoning.

But there was a jeer in his voice over the wire.

Fate had robbed The Shadow of putting a finger on either Kilby or Swade!

Worse than that, Porky Cane was dead. He could no longer be manipulated by the clever tactics of Cliff Marsland and Hawkeye.

Why had the masked man at the fire-escape window killed Porky so treacherously? Was that masked man Swade - or Kilby? And if so, who was the other masked man who had been slugged in the back yard? Whoever he was, he had long since vanished.

The Shadow was faced by a baffling complication - a masked man who wanted to prevent murder!

Why had the black cloak and hat of The Shadow been stolen?

Softly, The Shadow laughed. His laughter did not indicate doubt or dismay. He sensed a true explanation behind tangled events. The case was becoming not more complex, but simpler!

The next move of The Shadow was crystal clear. Jonah Minter faced immediate danger at the hands of criminal blackmailers. The Shadow would face it, too!

CHAPTER VIII. SLEIGHT OF HAND.

"I AM sorry to bother you in this way," Jonah Minter said.

"No bother at all," Simon Swade a.s.sured the nervous banker. "I am delighted you came to see me."

They sat in the study of Swade's rather large and pretentious New York apartment.

Minter wasn't as cheerful as his urbane host. He had refused one of Swade's cigars, had shaken his head at the offer of brandy. He was eager to talk, but he didn't know quite how to begin. What he had to tell Swade was a rather shameful and embarra.s.sing thing.

Simon Swade, of course, knew what was on Minter's conscience. He was aware of the cunningly camouflaged hypnotic stunt that had sent Jonah Minter to his home. But he remained quiet. Better to letMinter introduce the subject himself.

"I'd like to talk to you confidentially," Minter said abruptly. "It concerns something that must never be repeated outside this room."

"Is it some matter on which you desire my advice?"

"Very much so!"

"All right. In that case, you have my word of honor that whatever you say will never be repeated."

He reached over and pressed Minter's hand gently. It was like a solemn pact between gentlemen.

Minter's eyes filled with tears. His voice was uneven.

"Thank you, Simon. I knew I did right in coming to see you. You are the best friend I have. I shall never be able to repay you."

"Nonsense! What are friends for, if not to do favors and keep their mouths shut? What is this matter that is bothering you?"

Minter had trouble beginning, but once he was launched on his confession, his words tumbled out with a frightened rush. Simon Swade listened gravely. He allowed himself to look much concerned.

"Blackmail, Jonah? Good heavens! It seems hardly believable!"

"And yet it is, Simon! I've already had two warnings. Worse than that, I've had proof - horrible proof - that an unknown blackmailer has already started to move against me!"

He told Swade of a telephone message he had received. He told of the visit to his desk at the bank of a thuggish-looking stranger who had confirmed the phone warning. Finally, he described his unsuccessful visit to the home of Anthony Kilby to recover his confidential case history.

"There were blank papers in the envelope, Simon! Those incriminating confessions of mine have been stolen!"

"Incriminating seems a strong word. Surely a man like you - a man of respectability and rect.i.tude - would never do anything to give a blackmailer a chance to -"

"Unfortunately, I made a terrible mistake once," Minter whispered. "It happened when I was a young man. I... committed a crime." His voice trembled. "It doesn't matter that I repented of my crime later and paid back the money I stole. I was never caught. I was never punished. But as far as the crime is concerned, I am still a fugitive from justice. That is what the blackmailer now knows."

"Tell me about it," Swade said.

It was a familiar story of temptation and theft. As a young man, Jonah Minter had been employed in a small Western bank. He had needed money, had speculated, had lost. Aware that examiners were soon due at the bank, he fled.

"I came to New York. What my real name was doesn't matter. I changed it in New York to Jonah Minter. My conscience never stopped bothering me. I got a job, worked hard, began to save. As soon as I could, I restored every penny I had stolen, by mailing it back anonymously. I had had a terrible lesson. I found that a man prospers by strict honesty and hard work. My New York job was a small position in a bank. They had confidence in me. I was promoted rapidly." Minter's smile was ghastly.

"The New York bank, of course, is the Mid-Gotham. I am now its president. Can you imagine what would happen if it became known that I am an ex-thief - that I stole money from another bank years earlier?"

"An awkward situation," Swade murmured.

"What must I do, Simon?"

"It would be fatal to go to the police, or even to a private detective," Swade said. "You must keep this thing secret. More than that, you must find some way to trap this unknown blackmailer before he can wreck your life. Has he made any definite demand yet for money?"

"Not yet."

Swade pretended to consider some more. Then he touched Minter's slack hand. It was a strong and rea.s.suring gesture.

"The best thing to do at present is, nothing. Why not wait until the blackmailer makes a demand for money and instructs you how to turn it over to him? A trap might be arranged. The incriminating papers might be recovered and destroyed. Do you agree?"

"Yes, yes," Minter cried. "But how is it to be done?"

"You must allow me to help you. As a friend, I shall count it a privilege. Let's keep the whole thing quiet, for the present. Suppose you invite me to your Long Island estate. With my help - perhaps with the help of one other friend - Let me think. Someone who is intelligent, loyal, discreet -"

Simon Swade suddenly chuckled.

"I have it! I know just the man! Invite Anthony Kilby to your Long Island home. Between the three of us, we'll lay this unknown blackmailer by the heels!"

MINTER hesitated. His face was pale.

"Are you sure that Anthony Kilby is trustworthy? To tell you the truth, I am inclined to suspect him a little.

Don't you think it strange that the evidence against me should have vanished so mysteriously from his safe without his knowledge?"

"Nonsense," Swade said. He waved away Minter's vague suspicious with a bold gesture. "I can't think of a more honest man than young Kilby. Why, his father was practically a saint! No, he's a splendid chap, one that you will do well to trust. Invite Kilby to your estate by all means. As a trained psychoa.n.a.lyst he will be invaluable in helping us to formulate some scheme to trap the blackmailer."

Minter's face cleared of worry.

"Anything you say," he murmured. "I was probably overhasty in my doubts about young Kilby. I shall be glad to invite him along with you. But -"

"What's wrong now?" Swade said sharply.

"I'm doubtful about something else. It happens that I already have a house guest. Suppose this extra guest got wind of what you and I and Kilby were up to? It would not only be awkward, but downright dangerous to my secret." Swade's eyes were hard. He spoke brusquely. "Who is this extra house guest of yours?"

"Lamont Cranston. He telephoned me yesterday, practically invited himself. Since I had already invited Cranston numerous times before, it was impossible to refuse him. He is at my estate now."

"I see," Swade murmured. The tension went out of his taut lips. He laughed with a relieved sound.

"Lamont Cranston's presence need not cause us two seconds of worry! I've met him occasionally. I think I understand him as well as any man I've ever met - and I'm a pretty good judge of character. Cranston is nothing but a wealthy sap with more money than brains. Let him stay. That's a lot easier than trying to get rid of him."

It was so agreed. Minter looked years younger when he rose to his feet.

"I'll expect you tomorrow morning," he said. "Come out on an early train."

"I shall. I'll bring Anthony Kilby with me. Don't forget to invite him."

Minter nodded. He left in a daze of delight at his good fortune in having found such a pair of devoted friends.

As soon as Minter was gone, Simon Swade laughed with a metallic sound. He walked quietly to a closed door and rapped on it.

"Come on out, Anthony."

Kilby was grinning as he emerged from the adjoining room. A practical little wire connection had enabled him to hear every word of the private discussion between Swade and the banker.