Chapter I — A Man with a Message

The glaring headlight of the big locomotive came to a slow stop as the West Shore Express pulled into the Weehawken Terminal. A station attendant pulled open the exit gate. Dim figures of alighting passengers appeared upon the platform and became an advancing throng. The attendant idly watched the approaching group.

Two men were standing a short distance from the gate. Away from the glimmer of the locomotive headlight, they were obscure and unnoticed. Like the attendant, they were watching the people coming down the platform.

"He'll be here in half a minute, Jake," said one in an undertone. "We've got to spot him the second he shows up. Right on the ferry with him."

"I got you, Biff," was Jake's reply.

The two men waited. Although they were tense, neither one appeared excited. This was not surprising. Watching for a passenger coming from a train was no great task for "Biff" Towley and his fellow watcher, Jake Bosch. For Biff Towley was one of the craftiest mobsmen in all New York, and his companion was his counterpart.

A tall, youthful man came through the gate with the last of the passengers leaving the Express. Biff Towley nudged his companion.

Both men seemed to be disinterested bystanders as the tall passenger glanced nervously in their direction. But as the young man continued toward the ferry, the two self-effacing gangsters swung along behind him.

"It's Louis Steffan, all right," whispered Biff Towley. "Separate when we reach the boat. You stay ahead of him. I'll be in back."

Jake Bosch grunted his agreement.

In the ferryboat, Louis Steffan continued through to the front deck. There, he leaned against the rail and stared across the light-studded waters of the Hudson.

He fumbled in his pocket and drew forth a cigarette. He lighted it with trembling hand.

As he raised the match toward his face, Steffan did not notice another man who leaned upon the rail close beside him. It was Jake Bosch.

The gangster threw a sidelong glance toward Steffan. He could see the pallor of the young man's face; the twitching of his lips, the blinking of his eyelids. Then the match dropped over the rail and Steffan's face became a white blur in the darkness as the ferry slid from its slip.

Jake Bosch drew back as Louis Steffan nervously threw the cigarette into the river and started toward the front gate of the ferry. As Steffan paused there, Jake turned and sauntered idly into the cabin where he stood within the door. Biff Towley was seated close at hand. No one else was near.

"He looks nervous, Biff," said Jake, in a low tone.

"He ought to," came the reply, with an easy, ugly laugh. "Keep ahead of him on the other side. I'm sticking close with him. Remember one of us has got to point him out!" Jake nodded and went back on deck.

The water was churning as the ferry approached the slip on the New York side. The myriad lights of Manhattan were blotted as the boat came close to the roof of the ferryhouse.

When the gate was opened, Louis Steffan was one of the first to leave. He saw nothing suspicious in the form of Jake Bosch, walking swiftly ahead. Nor did he notice the idling shape of Biff Towley, who was strolling on behind him.

Louis Steffan stopped at a row of phone booths. He fumbled nervously through the pages of the Manhattan directory. Biff Towley, a few feet away, smiled grimly. He stepped into one of the telephone booths and held a nickel poised above the slot.

Louis Steffan's finger was checking a name. He had found what he desired — the telephone number of Clark Murdock. He moved toward the phone booths.

As he approached, Towley's nickel clicked and the gangster dialed Barmont 4-9356. A strange coincident! That was the very number that Steffan had noted in the book. Biff Towley was talking in a low, quiet voice when Louis Steffan began to dial. Listening at the receiver, Steffan heard the clang-clang of the busy signal. He hung up the telephone and waited. Biff Towley was still talking when Steffan dialed again. Once more, he caught the busy signal. Louis Steffan stepped from his phone booth and glanced nervously at his watch. He walked hurriedly away.

Biff Towley, seeing him through the window of the booth, quietly ended his conversation and stepped from the compartment. He saw Steffan's tall form going through the door to a taxi stand. When Biff reached the spot, two cabs were drawing away. Neither Louis Steffan nor Jake Bosch were in sight. Biff Towley grinned and walked eastward on Forty-second Street.

Louis Steffan had taken the first cab he had seen at the stand. He had given the address of Clark Murdock — which he had noted in the phone book. Now riding uptown, the young man was highly perturbed.

He had come to New York with a definite purpose — to communicate with Clark Murdock. Until he had reached the Manhattan ferry terminal, he had gained no opportunity. That phone call with the busy signal, had been a waste of time. Steffan was waiting no longer. He was going directly to the man who he wished to see.

As the cab stopped at a traffic light, Steffan pulled a notebook from his coat pocket. He scanned the pages of shorthand notations that he had made.

The recollection of the risk he had run to get them made him shudder. He pictured himself listening at the door of the room where two men had been talking; and to Steffan's blinking eyes came a vivid portrait of one of the speakers.

Ivan Orlinov! The name was inscribed among the notes. Steffan shut his eyes as the cab jerked forward. In fancy he saw a shrewd, bearded face — the countenance of a demon!

Steffan clenched his fists. Ivan Orlinov was everywhere, it seemed! He opened his eyes and blinked at the lights of the avenue, as the vision faded.

He laughed a hoarse, nervous laugh. He was safe, here, with all these lights. Safe in New York, with Orlinov miles away. He tried to feel at ease and gradually his qualms ended. Reason told him that there was no danger for the present. The immediate task was to deliver his message to Clark Murdock. Steffan glanced at his watch. It was ten minutes after nine. There was menace here in New York — but it threatened another man. Steffan alone could thwart it — for he, alone, knew the secret. He was sure that nothing could happen until ten o'clock. Fifty minutes yet — and now the cab was swerving from the avenue. One block — two blocks — the taxi stopped in the center of the third. Steffan was ready with the fare.

Thrusting his notebook in his pocket, the young man alighted and stood upon the sidewalk while the cab rolled away.

It was a somber neighborhood. The night was gloomy with overcasting clouds, and in this obscure part of Manhattan, the old buildings seemed like tombs. The number of this old house reflected by the light behind the transom, showed dimly above the door.

Louis Steffan had reached the home of Clark Murdock.

Steffan glanced up and down the street before he went toward the steps. He saw a car parked half a block away. Its lights were off and he gave it no second thought. Impulsively, he turned to approach the steps. As he did, he sensed a man beside him.

An exclamation froze on Steffan's lips. The stranger who had closed upon him was a short, stocky man; and in his hand was the glimmer of steel. The muzzle of a revolver pressed against Louis Steffan's ribs.

"Move along," came a harsh, cold voice. "One peep out of you and you get the works. Savvy?" Trembling, Louis Steffan allowed himself to be forced along the street — away from the house he had sought — away from the one place that offered safety. The parked car was moving slowly toward him. Shivering, with the pressure of the gun against his back, the young man faltered forward at his captor's bidding.

The low-lying car met them, twenty yards from the house. It was a sedan and the rear door opened as the automobile arrived beside Steffan and the man who guarded him.

Within the sedan, Louis Steffan saw the vague form of another enemy. There, as before, he caught the glimmer of a revolver.

A nudge from his captor and Steffan stepped into the car. He huddled back upon the cushions, his hands raised piteously as his frightened, staring eyes saw the second revolver covering him.

"Get going," said the man on the curb.

"Right, Jake," came the growl of Louis Steffan's new guard.

The first captor closed the door. The car pulled away. Louis Steffan was going for a ride.

Jake Bosch laughed as he saw the sedan disappear around the nearest corner. He gave his revolver a twirl and pocketed it in a leisurely manner.

He strolled along the street to the corner in the opposite direction. There, he walked calmly past a uniformed policeman and turned down the avenue. He reached a drug store on the next corner and entered a phone booth. A minute later, he was talking to Biff Towley.

"O.K., Biff," said Jake, tersely. "The boys were waiting. They've gone away — with a passenger."

"You were there first?" came the voice of Biff.

"I was near there first," replied Jake. "Made good time in my cab. Got out a block away. Walked down to the house and dropped out of sight when our friend came along."

"Good work, Jake. See you later. I've got another call to make." Leaving the drug store, Jake Bosch returned along the block past Clark Murdock's home. He grinned as he passed the house where he had made his capture. He continued on at a leisurely gait. His job was finished.

Hardened underling of a calloused gang leader, it was Jake Bosch's duty to obey orders, without knowing why. Tonight's business was a mystery to him.

Biff Towley had stationed mobsmen in the car near Murdock's home and had taken Jake with him to Weehawken to intercept Louis Steffan — a man of whom Jake had never before heard. Jake had done other jobs like this one. He was the skilled pilot who steered victims to waiting automobiles. Where they went or what happened to them was a matter of no concern to Jake Bosch. He felt no interest or sympathy for Louis Steffan. That young man was merely another on the list of those whom Biff Towley had chosen to obliterate.

So Jake forgot the entire matter as he headed for his favorite nightclub, a haunt where bright lights and gaudy women lured. He did not realize that tonight he had played a vital part in the schemes of men craftier than Biff Towley.

For Louis Steffan had brought a singular message to New York. Had he delivered it, he might have frustrated the progress of strange and incredible crime. But he had failed — he who alone had gained an inkling of a fiendish plot.

Up in the Bronx, the death car was stopped beside a deserted lot. A muffled shot — a dying gasp — and all was over. The door opened and the body of Louis Steffan tumbled from the sedan.

The car traveled on its way.

Then from the lowered window fluttered fragments of paper, which scattered widely in the breeze as the car swept homeward toward Manhattan. Louis Steffan's shorthand notes were meeting with destruction. The man with the message was dead — and his message was gone forever. To the police, it would be another gangland killing. By the time that Louis Steffan's body was found and his empty pockets searched, the unknown crime would be accomplished!

Chapter II — A Strange Discovery

"Step into the laboratory, gentlemen. My demonstration is ready." The speaker was a stoop-shouldered, gray-haired man of fifty years. He was garbed in a white gown. He was addressing a group of keen, intelligent-looking men who were seated in a little living room. This man, to whom the others gave close and respectful attention, was Clark Murdock, whose chemical experiments had gained him an envied reputation

The men arose and followed the chemist into his laboratory. It was the rear room on the second floor of Murdock's old house. He had chosen this secluded spot, away from the main arteries of Manhattan, that he might conduct his experiments without disturbance.

Murdock's laboratory was a remarkable place. It contained shelves of bottles, long tables strewn with appliances and pieces of oddly assorted machinery. His guests looked about them with interest, and the chemist smiled as he saw their wondering glances.

These men had come to see a practical demonstration of his new experiments in atomic disintegration. Clark Murdock had made some remarkable discoveries, but he realized that few of his visitors would understand their full significance.

Motioning the men to chairs, Murdock gazed about him with the air of an instructor about to address a class. He waited until silence had been obtained; then stared at his solemn-faced assistant in the corner.

"You may go, Stevens," he said, brusquely.

"Yes, sir," said the man, with a slight bow. "Do you wish me to wait until the truckmen come, sir?"

"That's right," declared Murdock, with a nod. "They were to return for that box they brought here by mistake. I shall attend to that, Stevens. You left it by the elevator, did you not?"

"Yes, sir."

"Very well. I shall answer their ring. Good night, Stevens." The solemn assistant left the laboratory and Murdock again smiled at his guests.

"Stevens is a good assistant, gentlemen," he said, quietly. "He knows nothing. That is much better than knowing too much — as some assistants do."

The others laughed at the chemist's witticism. Murdock looked about the group. He noted two men who impressed him more than any others. They were seated side by side.

One was Doctor Gerald Savette, a keen-visaged man who stood high in his profession.

The other was Lamont Cranston, a wealthy millionaire, who was a likely investor in promising inventions. Clark Murdock, despite his querulous disposition, had an eye to business. He was looking for financial aid in his present experiments, and it had occurred to him that Savette's approval would bring Cranston's interest. Hence it was upon these two that he centered his discourse.

"It is nearly ten o'clock," he said. "For two hours I have been discussing the value of atomic disintegration as a source of tremendous power. In that time, I have endeavored to fully outline the principles that are involved in this great subject. You have been patient, gentlemen — now I shall reward you with the actual demonstration."

Murdock went to a covered table near the center of the room. He drew aside the cloth to disclose a hollow sphere of glass. This globe, which measured more than a foot in diameter, was mounted upon a base of metal.

"Watch," said Murdock, quietly.

He pressed a switch and a motor began to hum. Tiny sparks appeared within the globe.

Then came quick soundless bursts of flame as invisible particles broke asunder.

"Atomic action," spoke the white-haired chemist.

The activity within the hollow sphere seemed like warfare in miniature. The onlookers stared in fascination, while Clark Murdock stood aside, watching the expressions on their faces.

When the chaos had reached its height and the globe seemed ready to break apart, Murdock again pressed the switch. The terrific commotion continued for a few minutes, then gradually ceased. The witnesses gazed at one another in amazement.

"That," declared Clark Murdock, "is a perfect demonstration of my discovery. You have seen the results of atomic disintegration conducted in a vacuum. Now imagine, gentlemen" — the chemist's face took on a visionary stare — "the same activity on a much larger scale — within a steel-walled chamber. There is power here that surpasses all dreams—"

He stopped suddenly as he heard the sound of a telephone bell in another room.

Carefully, Murdock disconnected the apparatus and went from the laboratory. He returned in a few minutes and spoke to Doctor Savette.

"You are wanted on the telephone, doctor," he said.

The physician went into the other room. When he returned a short while afterward he found Murdock again explaining the important points of his discovery.

"I have learned the secrets of the atom," the chemist was saying. "More than that, I have discovered a method of atomic control. Within a few months, I shall have complete success.

"As some of you have remarked, I do run a risk in my experiments; but that risk is in the interests of science. Often, I have been tempted to let the electric charge continue until the last possible moment; but I have always resisted that temptation."

He paused and smiled wanly at his listeners.

"Here, in this laboratory," he said, "a bursting of the crystal sphere would prove disastrous. The atomic energy would be quickly dispelled, but it might start explosions among certain of the chemicals you see upon these shelves and benches.

"Twice I have barely prevented fires, here. I have never been able to obtain insurance, and I have chosen this obscure place because there are comparatively few neighbors who could be harmed should things go wrong."

"It would mean a great loss to science," someone remarked. "You should be careful—"

"I must be careful of myself, yes," replied Murdock. "All the apparatus which you see here could all be replaced with ease — under my supervision. I carry all my plans here" — he tapped his forehead significantly — "and while my brain exists, these results can always be obtained.

"But it is a fact, gentlemen, that should I die, my discoveries would be lost. I do not say forever — for what one has learned, another may learn. But I do say that there is no other man alive who could duplicate what you have seen tonight!"

There was no braggadocio in Murdock's manner as he looked about the group. He had the air of a man who has stated a simple fact. This was not lost upon the visitors. They knew that they had heard the truth.

Doctor Savette advanced with out-stretched hand. Clark Murdock received his clasp.

"Let me congratulate you, Mr. Murdock," said the physician. "This is the most remarkable demonstration that I have ever witnessed. I predict the highest success. You have proven the value of your discoveries."

The man who had harnessed the atom beamed at these words of approval. The others of the group were visibly impressed by Doctor Savette's enthusiasm.

"My only regret," declared Doctor Savette, "is that I must leave you now. This second telephone call was more urgent than the first that I received tonight. I shall look forward to your next demonstration with eagerness, Mr. Murdock."

Good night, doctor," said Murdock warmly. "It has been a privilege to have you here. Upon your next visit, I shall show you how atomic energy works. By then I expect to have a globe of steel in which the atoms will explode to furnish driving power which can be utilized."

Doctor Savette shook hands with the other men in the group and left the laboratory. Murdock continued with his discussion; then evidenced that his demonstrations were finished for the night.

He ushered his guests from the laboratory.

"I shall continue to work tonight," he said as the visitors departed. "I work best when I am alone." Back in his laboratory, Clark Murdock sat down and smiled thoughtfully. He was pleased with tonight's results. Doctor Savette had been commending. Lamont Cranston and the others who had gone with him had also expressed their approval.

The chemist looked about the laboratory and gazed at the crystal sphere. Then his thoughts changed and he arose suddenly to step toward a door at the far corner of the room. He had remembered that two truckmen were coming to remove a huge box that they had left that afternoon. They had called up immediately afterward to state that there had been a mistake.

Another box should have been brought instead. It would be delivered later; in the meantime, the men would come to take away the original box.

Murdock wondered why the men had not yet arrived. He reached a small room outside his laboratory. On one side was a flight of stairs leading to the ground floor. Straight ahead was the elevator which had been installed for the lifting of heavy apparatus. The box was pushed in a corner near the elevator. The chemist shouted down the stairway. There was no response.

Evidently the expected men were still on their way.

Murdock started back toward the laboratory. Then, suddenly curious, he stopped to look at the box. It was a large, oblong contrivance. It was set on end, and the front of the box was hinged, like a door. Murdock studied the box. He could see no address upon it. He wondered if the truckmen had actually made a mistake. This box was twice as large as the one he had expected, nevertheless, it might contain the apparatus that was coming.

The chemist saw a heavy hammer hanging on the wall. His curiosity increased. He suddenly decided to open the box and view its contents.

Prying the front of the box with the hammer, Murdock gradually loosened the side which was securely nailed. He gained an opening for his fingers and tried to pull open the front. It was not an easy task, for the nails were still partly in position. But Murdock kept on at the work, resolved to complete it.

The box tilted forward as the chemist pulled at it. Then, at an unexpected moment, the door-like front yielded. Clark Murdock staggered backward and caught himself before he fell Then, leaning against the wall, he stared in utter bewilderment at an object that tumbled from the box and flattened upon the floor.

It was the form of a man — a lifeless, inert shape, that lay in a twisted, huddled pose. It was a man clad in white — a man with gray hair — whose shoulders were hunched up against his neck. Clark Murdock plucked his own coat with his hands. His garb and that of the dead man were identical. More than that, the size and shape of that body were the same as the chemist's own form!

Stepping slowly forward, Murdock bent down and-lifted the body back toward the box.

He noted that the interior of the wooden case was thickly padded to prevent its contents from being tossed about. But the chemist gave no second thought to that matter. He was interested in this form on the floor, with its bent-down head.

He turned the body sideways to get a glimpse of the face. The light was dim, here in the landing of the stairway. Yet even in the gloom, Clark Murdock saw a sight that startled him. His hands were holding the lifeless head. He was staring at the features of this person who had been the victim of some foul play. The sight of the features filled him with amazement. For Clark Murdock was looking at a countenance which he could not fail to recognize. The face of the dead man was almost an exact counterpart of his own!

Chapter III — A Visitor Returns

When Clark Murdock recovered from his bewilderment that followed his strange discovery, he stood with his chin resting in one hand and surveyed the body on the floor before him. A keen analyst, Murdock sought to fathom the mystery that lay here. But his mind was schooled to chemistry, not crime. The longer he surveyed the gruesome form, the more did he become perplexed. He was tempted at first to replace the body in the box and inclose it so that it could be taken away when the truckmen came. Then the thought occurred to him that the men were long overdue, that in all probability they had been instructed not to come back for the box.

The upshot was that Clark Murdock had in his possession the dead body of an unknown man, whose garb and features were characteristic of his own. This was something that seemed too amazing to be merely coincidence.

What should he do? Call the police? That would be the proper course, yet Murdock hesitated to take it. He realized that he would be subjected to a most undesirable cross-examination, and that it would be difficult for him to explain matters in a satisfactory way.

He had not seen the box come in. Stevens had been here, but Murdock knew the stupidity of his assistant. He doubted that either he or Stevens could give the police any information that would enable them to trace the owner of the box.

Nevertheless, the whole matter was a source of great annoyance to the chemist, and he felt that he must summon someone competent to handle it. He had planned extensive experiments tonight. These would be interrupted. Murdock did not like it.

Then it occurred to him that if the truckmen should return — even though that chance was remote — it would be advisable to apprehend them.

That left only one choice. He must call the police. Delay would be unwise. Nodding to himself, the stoop-shouldered chemist went back into his laboratory and continued into his living room. There he seated himself at the telephone table and began to consult the directory, to find the number of detective headquarters.

While he was thus engaged, he heard a slight sound nearby and looked up suddenly to see Doctor Gerald Savette. The physician had just entered the room from the hallway and was bowing courteously.

"I trust I am not intruding?" The physician's tone was smooth and easy. "I found that I could return immediately after I reached my office. I had hopes that your guests would still be here."

"How did you get in?" questioned Murdock, testily.

"Through the front door," replied Doctor Savette suavely. "I rang the bell and there was no response. Then I remembered that your man had gone for the night. I also recalled that you and the others had been in the laboratory when I left. So I took the liberty of opening the door and coming upstairs."

"But the door was locked," declared Murdock. "I haven't any objection to your entering, Doctor Savette. You are always welcome here. But I cannot understand how you came in through a locked door."

"I found it unlocked," returned the physician, with a smile. "Otherwise I could not have entered."

"I must have forgotten to lock it," observed Clark Murdock, thoughtfully. "Strange — I felt sure that I had pushed the bolts on the door. An oversight on my part, doctor, but a fortunate one. I am glad that you are here."

"I am pleased to hear that," said Savette. "I should like to talk with you further in reference to your experiments—"

"There is something more important for the moment, doctor. Something that demands immediate attention."

"Something more important than your experiments?" Doctor Savette's tone showed his puzzlement. "I can scarcely believe that, Mr. Murdock."

The chemist arose and placed the phone book to one side. He beckoned to his visitor and led the way through the laboratory. Murdock was speaking as they walked along.

"I was just about to telephone the police," he explained. "Your arrival was a timely one. I needed advice, immediately, and I could think of no one who could help me."

"My advice on what?" questioned Savette, as they reached the far door. "Why should you need the police?"

"Here is the reason," declared Murdock, calmly.

He opened the door to the landing and pointed to the body on the floor. Doctor Savette drew back with an exclamation of surprise. Then he stepped forward and examined the body.

"The man is dead," he declared. "He appears to have been strangled." He stared silently at the still face; then looked up at Murdock. He stepped back and surveyed the body; then gazed at his living companion.

"Amazing!" he exclaimed. "Amazing, Murdock! The man bears a remarkable resemblance to you!"

"That is what puzzles me," declared the chemist.

"When did this box come here?" questioned Savette.

"Today," said Murdock. "Delivered by mistake. That, at least, is what Stevens told me. The truckmen are supposed to come for it at any time."

"Hm-m-m," responded the physician. "This is perplexing, Murdock. Yet it seems to have a strange significance. It is not likely that the sender of such a box would let it go to the wrong place. Frankly, I don't think that those men will return. I think the box was intended to be left here."

"But why?"

"So that you would open it — and make the discovery, exactly as you have done."

"I had the same idea," admitted Murdock, "but I can't understand the purpose."

"It might be the work of some enemy," said Doctor Savette, slowly. "Some one may wish to hamper your experiments. You were about to call the police. If they should come here, it would mean a great deal of trouble and annoyance to you — enough, perhaps, to delay your work for some time."

"That is true," responded Murdock, "but I can not understand why the body should be specially dressed in working clothes like mine."

"I have another theory," resumed the physician, thoughtfully. "This may be a threat — a plan to frighten you. The person who sent this box could not have expected you to open it tonight. You were expecting men to take it away."

"That's right," agreed the chemist. "I can't explain exactly why I did open it. I suppose that I would ordinarily have allowed it to remain for several days, before investigating its contents."

"Correct," declared Savette. "Now let us suppose that a message is on its way, that you are to receive a threat — in which the box is mentioned. Opening the box, you find a dead body that resembles yourself. That would certainly make the threat emphatic, would it not? Particularly if the threat were directed against your life."

Clark Murdock nodded in accord. Then he showed a sudden response to Doctor Savette's statement:

"I think you have struck the right theory, doctor," he exclaimed. "That makes it imperative for me to call the police. I do not intend to lose another moment."

The chemist was turning to the door that led into the laboratory. His hand was already on the knob.

"Wait!"

There was a command in Doctor Savette's exclamation. Clark Murdock turned in surprise. He stared at the physician and noted a peculiar expression on the man's face.

Stocky and sallow, with shrewd eyes, Doctor Savette appeared as a menacing figure instead of the suave, polite professional man that he had been a moment before. It was Murdock's sudden turn that enabled him to catch his companion off poise.

While the chemist stared in consternation, Savette's masklike affability was resumed.

Again he became the suave physician and his persuasive voice sought to regain the confidence of Murdock.

"It would be inadvisable to call the police," purred the doctor. "That is exactly what the sender of this box would expect you to do—"

Murdock's voice sounded an interruption.

"You speak," he said coldly, "as though you are acquainted with the perpetrator of this outrage! It was very timely — your arrival — while I was at the telephone. Suppose" — Murdock's eyes were gleaming furiously — "that I should accuse you of complicity in the crime that lies evidenced there before us? What would you say to that, Doctor Savette?"

The stinging words had their effect. Savette's lips spread in an ugly leer. His sallow face became tense and a vein swelled in his forehead. No longer attempting to play his part of friendliness, he gave full rein to his fury as he moved slowly forward.

Murdock released his hold upon the doorknob and raised his clenched hands. Though light of build and older than his antagonist, the stoop-shouldered chemist was a wiry man, capable of putting up a battle. He met Savette's advance and the two men stood with their eyes no more than a foot apart, each meeting the other's gaze.

There was no fear in Murdock's stare and Savette, though he had become a veritable demon, hesitated as he saw the firm, unyielding glare in Murdock's determined eyes. It was the chemist who spoke first; and his words were ironical with bitter condemnation.

"So you returned," he said. "You passed through a double-bolted door. Anxious to reach here before the others had gone, eh? You lied, Savette! You never left this house! You waited in one of my empty rooms until the others had gone.

"You are here for an evil purpose. That body in the box is your doing. You are not my friend; you are my enemy! I do not know your scheme, but I can tell you this" — his voice hardened with emphasis — "I can tell you that you will not leave here tonight until I have learned your designs and placed you where you belong!

"I know what you are. Murderer!"

A hideous change had come over the physician's face. His clenched teeth were grinning like the fangs of a monster.

Murdock's accusation had done its work. Gerald Savette stood revealed as a fiend. Now, his voice, like his manner, betrayed his true character as he answered Murdock's words of scorn.

"You call me a murderer," he snarled. "I am a murderer! I killed the man whose body lies here on the floor! You accuse me of complicity. I am more than an accomplice. I sent that box here, Murdock. You blundered into it and learned what it contained. That is something you should never have discovered.

"But it makes no difference now. You think that I am thwarted" — a vicious laugh spattered from Savette's ugly lips — "and that I shall let you call the police. You are wrong, Murdock. Wrong, as you shall learn—" Savette's hands were stealing toward his pocket. He was trying to hold Murdock's gaze so that the chemist would not see the action.

Scarcely had Savette's fingers disappeared from view before Murdock leaped forward upon him. Savette twisted away as his attacker struck. But he was too late. The wiry chemist seized his right wrist as the hand came forth with an automatic.

A sharp twist and Savette was weaponless as the gun fell to the floor beside the dead body that lay there.

Then the men were locked in a ferocious struggle. Savette, though heavier and more powerful, had met an antagonist of unexpected strength. They hurtled back and forth in the narrow confines of the landing, each man grim and determined.

Clark Murdock was gaining the advantage. He gripped his opponent's arms and held them pinioned. He drove Savette backward until the snarling fiend stumbled over the body on the floor and fell, with Murdock pounding down upon him.

For a moment, Savette's left arm was free. His hand once more gained his pocket.

Murdock, suspecting another pistol, tugged at the wrist until the hand came into view.

Savette's fist was clenched tightly. It held no visible weapon. But Murdock, with grim determination, sought to pin the physician's arm underneath his body.

It was then that Savette made a wild, desperate motion. He struggled fiercely and clambered upward, clawing with his right hand at Murdock's eyes. The chemist dodged the sudden attack and wrapped his right arm about Savette's neck. He had turned the twist to his advantage. He was choking his foe into submission.

Savette's head went back and Murdock stared into the leering face as it purpled visibly.

Savette's arms swept free and stretched upon the floor. Then his left hand swung upward, unseen by the man who was conquering him.

A tiny object flashed in Savette's fist as he drove it toward Murdock's shoulder. A sharp grunt came from Murdock as the needle of a hypodermic pierced his flesh. Savette's arms dropped and his head thumped back against the floor. The hypodermic syringe clattered upon the floor. Savette was choking, gasping, helpless; but his needle had done its work.

Murdock's hold relaxed. The fighting chemist swayed backward and forward. His body flopped suddenly to one side and rolled upon the floor.

Three men lay motionless. Gerald Savette was scarcely breathing. Clark Murdock was slumped in a heap. Beside them was the stiffened form of the unknown dead man.

Soon Savette moved. Wearily, he raised his head and drew himself to a sitting position by gripping the side of the big box.

The fiendish leer glowered on his face. Then, as he raised himself to his feet, he took on his normal pose. He carefully dusted his clothes and stood, with folded arms, smiling serenely at the scene before him. Two motionless men — Clark Murdock and another. Two men, garbed alike, similar in features and appearance. A casual observer could not have told which was the famous chemist and which the body from the box.

Calmly, Savette picked up his automatic and pocketed it. He found the hypodermic near a corner of the box and examined it to make sure that it had done its full work. Then he inspected the form of Clark Murdock, as his face continued to wear its knowing smile.

To outward appearances, the famous chemist was dead. His wrinkled face had gained a chalk-like pallor. His body was stiffened as Doctor Savette lifted it and thrust it unmercifully into the box. Assuring himself that Murdock was well wedged among the cushions, Savette replaced the front of the box and carefully hammered it into place.

He pressed the button at the elevator shaft and brought the car to the second floor. Then he gradually edged the box into the lift and rode downstairs with it. He pushed it from the elevator. Then Doctor Savette opened an outer door and peered into the darkness of an alley. A flashlight glimmered in his hand. It was a signal.

A truck moved along the alley. It stopped by the open door and two husky, dark-clad men entered. They lifted the box and carried it away. They saw no sign of Doctor Savette. They heard only the mechanism of the elevator ascending.

The truck rolled from the alley, carrying its newly obtained baggage. All was silent at the old house. Upstairs, Doctor Gerald Savette was working quietly and with precision. He lifted the body of the dead man — that form that looked so much like Clark Murdock — and carried it into the chemist's laboratory. There he placed it in front of the table that bore the huge, hollow crystal. Doctor Savette laughed as he gazed at the face of the dead man. It looked amazingly like the countenance of Clark Murdock. It bore thin, close-knit scars that Savette stroked carefully with his forefinger. That face was the artifice of plastic surgery — a craft in which Doctor Gerald excelled. Leaving the body, the physician selected several bottles from the shelf. He poured a mixture of liquids into a shallow bowl and left it close beside the crystal sphere. He pressed the switch. A humming sound began and sparks flickered back and forth within the crystal.

Savette laughed as the weird activity increased. In a few minutes, the display of the atomic energy would be more evident. Then it would become forceful, bursting with increased fury until at last the walls of the crystal globe could not withstand it!

But Doctor Savette did not choose to wait for that tremendous moment. He walked quickly across the laboratory, latched the door behind him and went downstairs by the elevator.

He left the house by the exit to the dark alley.

Only the silence of death remained in the home of Clark Murdock. Up in the laboratory, the atomic power was surging soundless within the crystal sphere. Before it, stooped as though in thought, was the body of the dead man.

Dynamic, bursting particles were smashing against the sides of the crystal prison. It was a mighty spectacle in miniature. But the eyes that stared toward the weird display were sightless!

Chapter IV — Mann Assembles Data

The 'Morning Sphere' carried a sensational story of the holocaust at Clark Murdock's. Its sweeping headlines told New Yorkers of the fierce fire in which the celebrated chemist had died.

Murdock's experiments in atomic disintegration had long been a subject of news interest. It was known that he had made progress in the harnessing of the atom, and his demonstration of the preceding evening had been but one of many.

Now, by misadventure, the chemist had encountered trouble in one of his solitary experiments, and the resultant disaster had cost him his life. Shortly before midnight, there had been an explosion in his laboratory. Experts agreed that his crystal container must have burst through an overcharge of imprisoned energy.

Whether or not this had killed Clark Murdock was purely a matter of speculation. Had the crystal burst in an empty room, results might have been different. But Murdock's laboratory was stocked with dangerous chemicals. The freed atomic energy had evidently acted over a wide area, for other explosions had resulted.

When firemen arrived, the laboratory was the center of a mighty blaze. Heroic work had brought the flames under control, and in the wreckage of the place were found the mutilated remains of Clark Murdock. The body was not past recognition by those who had known the famous chemist. Among those who read the story with keen interest was a quiet-faced gentleman named Rutledge Mann. He was an investment broker who had his office in an upper story of one of Manhattan's new skyscrapers.

Secluded in his private office, Mann not only perused the account with deliberate care, but he concluded his study by clipping the story from the newspaper.

Mann opened a drawer in his desk and added the clipping to a mass of others. He sat with folded hands and stared in silence from the window. There was a rap at the door. In answer to Mann's response, a stenographer came in and placed an envelope upon her employer's desk.

When the girl had gone, Mann opened the envelope and took out a folded sheet of paper.

This proved to be a note inscribed in coded characters, which the investment broker read as easily as if it had been written in ordinary letters. He nodded as he read and when he had finished, Mann laid the paper on his desk. He picked up the telephone and gave a number.

While Mann was telephoning, the inscription on the letter began to fade. It disappeared completely, as if an invisible hand had stretched from nowhere to eradicate the writing.

Concluding a brief telephone conversation Mann picked up the blank sheet as though nothing had happened and tore the paper to fragments.

An hour later, a young man called at the office of Rutledge Mann. This was Clyde Burke, a newspaper reporter on the staff of the New York 'Classic'. He and Mann immediately engaged in a short, confidential conversation. It concerned a paragraph in the story of Clark Murdock's death

"Notice these names," said Mann quietly, pointing to the paragraph. "These men were at Murdock's home last night. They witnessed a demonstration of his atomic disintegration and then left. See what you can get me on each of them."

Burke nodded and left. Rutledge Mann turned his attention from newspaper clippings to investments. It was late in the afternoon when Clyde Burke returned. The reporter laid an envelope on Mann's desk and made an immediate departure.

Mann opened the envelope. Within he discovered typewritten sheets discussing each of the individuals who had been at Murdock's home.

The investment broker studied each sheet and laid them aside one by one until he came to a paper that bore the name of Lamont Cranston.

Mann read this page with interest. He knew Lamont Cranston by sight and by reputation.

The man was an eccentric multimillionaire, who lived on an estate in New Jersey.

He spent most of his time while in New York at his favorite clubs. But Cranston was seldom in New York. He had a habit of going on long journeys. The world was his playground.

Cranston, according to Burke's report, had financed a number of successful scientific projects, and it was likely that he had gone to Murdock's with some such plan in mind for the new process of harnessing the atom.

Cranston's sheet was laid aside and Rutledge Mann observed another page that bore the name of Doctor Gerald Savette. He had heard of this prominent physician, but until now there had been no occasion to go into his past history.

According to the report, Doctor Savette had experienced a varied medical career. At one time he had conducted a small sanitarium on Long Island. There had been a fire there nearly three years ago. Savette's heroic efforts had saved the lives of all his patients except one. Austin Bellamy, a retired manufacturer had perished in the blaze. His charred body had been recovered from the ruins. Since then, Savette had resided in New York, where he had gained considerable repute as a plastic surgeon, although this field represented but one of his many medical accomplishments. Recently, Savette had traveled occasionally from New York, but Burke had found no record of the physician's journeys. At the end of the sheets, Mann found a page which Burke had voluntarily supplied. It listed brief reports on persons indirectly concerned with those who had been at Murdock's home. Mann clipped these short paragraphs apart and pasted them to the pages where they belonged.

He folded the papers, added clippings from the newspapers and put them all in a large envelope. In order to obtain clippings, Mann had opened the desk drawer. He now began an examination of other clippings which he had assembled on various cases.

One of these caused a perplexed frown to appear upon the broad forehead of the investment broker. It pertained to the strange disappearance of Professor Pierre Rachaud, a radio technician who was considered an expert on television.

There were many supplementary reports concerning Professor Rachaud; for his loss had created a great stir in the radio industry.

But most important were the actual circumstances that surrounded the accredited death of the eminent professor. Mann studied the clipping which referred to it — a recent article which had summarized the entire case.

Professor Pierre Rachaud had departed from New York on a weekend cruise. He had made a regular hobby of such cruises and his familiar face, with its huge, bushy black beard, had been seen by passengers on the cruising ship Albania when it had sailed from New York harbor.

On the first night out, Professor Rachaud had visited the smoking room and had been observed in a secluded corner, enjoying a bottle of his favorite French wine. Shortly after he had left, a radiogram had been received for him. It was an urgent message from New York.

Professor Rachaud, being neither in his stateroom nor in the smoking room, a search was instituted for him. He was nowhere on the ship. In a period of not more than fifteen minutes, the radio technician had disappeared!

Rachaud's luggage had been discovered in his stateroom. But there was no sign of the man. He had not, of course, expected the radiogram.

The logical assumption was that the professor had gone overboard. Yet the sea was calm and there were many passengers on deck. It seemed incredible that the man could have been lost at sea under such circumstances — either through suicide or murder.

The case had developed into an international mystery. Professor Rachaud was a Frenchman, living in New York, and he had taken passage on a British ship. Dozens of eminent detectives were working on the case, with no success.

To Rutledge Mann, this strange affair was of great interest. Beside it, the death of Clark Murdock, which had been declared an accident, seemed trivial.

Nevertheless, it was Mann's duty to assemble data on the Murdock case alone. So he regretfully replaced the Rachaud clippings in the desk drawer.

Pocketing the envelope which dealt with Murdock's demise, Rutledge Mann glanced at his watch and noted that it was after five o'clock. He went into the outer office, told the girl that she could leave for the day; then descended in an elevator.

Taking the subway, he rode downtown to Twenty-third Street. There, Mann strolled along until he came to an old, squalid building that was virtually deserted. He entered and made his way upstairs to the door of a dingy office.

Upon the dirty glass panel appeared, in faded letters, the name:

B. Jonas

The investment broker dropped the envelope through the mail chute in the door. He heard it plunk behind the barrier. Then he went down the dimly lighted stairs and reached the street. He hailed a taxicab and rode to his club.

It was a strange business for an investment broker, this task of going over newspaper clippings and obtaining unprinted information through a reporter on the 'Classic'. Even more strange was the visit of Rutledge Mann to the squalid building on Twenty-third Street.

What dealings did the fastidious investment broker have with a man named Jonas, who inhabited one of the most obscure and decrepit offices in New York?

That was a fact known to a very few. Those who understood were sworn to secrecy. For Rutledge Mann and Clyde Burke were members of a small and obscure company. They were agents of the mysterious man called The Shadow — that strange figure whose name had become the terror of the underworld.

Clyde Burke had assembled material for Rutledge Mann. The investment broker had revised the data which the reporter had given him. Now the final reports were waiting in the mail chute for the man who had ordered them.

To all New York, the death of Clark Murdock might have been accepted as a misadventure. But to The Shadow, it must have a greater significance. For he had instructed Mann, through a mysterious message, to obtain information from Clyde Burke.

The calm activities of The Shadow's agents were the forerunners of approaching storm.

When The Shadow began such work, it meant doom to fiends of crime!

Chapter V — The Shadow Begins

A circle of light upon the smooth surface of a polished table. Long, slender fingers, moving like detached creatures of life. A resplendent fire opal, glimmering from its golden setting. The hands of The Shadow were at work!

Who was The Shadow?

That was a question none could answer.

Unknown even to his own operatives, The Shadow was a man of mystery. His very identity was a subject of unanswered speculation. To the hordes of the underworld, the very mention of The Shadow brought apprehension and terror.

Time and again, this dread figure had arrived from nowhere, to strike the foes of justice.

Brutal mobsters had died, with the name of The Shadow on their trembling lips. Men who called themselves masterminds of crime had quailed before an avenging figure clad in black, knowing him to be The Shadow. The police, too, knew of The Shadow, although they tactfully avoided mention of his existence. The Shadow, when he struck, did not remain to claim the glory.

Time and again, some shrewd detective had received credit for the capture of a desperate crook, with no one to dispute the honor. Experienced sleuths seldom talked of The Shadow.

There was a definite reason why The Shadow ignored publicity. His strength lay in the shroud of mystery that enveloped him.

It was true that his voice was heard over the radio, in a program over a national broadcasting chain. That also served The Shadow's purpose. The tones of his mysterious voice were recognized by all who heard them. Yet all the efforts of the underworld to learn the identity of the broadcaster had come to no avail. The Shadow spoke from a soundproof room, boxed with black curtains. His method of entrance and exit from the place was a mystery that had never been solved — not even by those connected with the broadcasting studio.

The Shadow's mission was war on crime. At night he stalked the streets of New York, ready to thwart the plans of evildoers. He was everywhere — yet nowhere. A champion of law and order, this man of the night hunted criminals as an explorer might scour the jungle in search of man-eating tigers. When unsolved crimes occurred, The Shadow became a master of detection.

His marvelous brain had developed the power of deduction to a miraculous degree. Clews bobbed up from nowhere, that the police might follow in the wake of The Shadow's findings.

Yet these faculties were not the greatest that The Shadow possessed. He had one power that was beyond all others. In this he surpassed all sleuths of fact or fiction. The Shadow's greatest work was the discovery of crime. In cases which the police passed over; in instances where even the craftiest schemers of the underworld saw nothing amiss, The Shadow appeared to disclose deep designs beneath unruffled surfaces.

A master of disguise, The Shadow could appear in any company unsuspected. But when he stepped from the night to appear as a power of vengeance, his chosen part was that of a tall figure garbed in black. His cry of triumph was a mocking laugh that chilled the ears of hearers.

The symbol of The Shadow was the gem upon his finger; that fire opal, known as a girasol — a stone unmatched in all the world. Few knew of its significance. But when The Shadow was at work, that sparkling jewel shone upon his hand, like a living eye.

Tonight, beneath the rays of a green shaded lamp, the girasol was glowing with ever-changing hues. From deep crimson it became rich purple; then it changed again to a shade of darkened blue. The hands of The Shadow opened an envelope. Out fell the papers that Rutledge Mann had assembled that afternoon. One by one, the pages fluttered aside, until only two of the reports remained. One bore the name of Lamont Cranston; the other that of Doctor Gerald Savette. The laugh of The Shadow echoed softly through the shrouded room, and returned in ringing mockery, as though from the walls of a tomb. The long pointed fingers spread over the sheet that told the history of Doctor Savette. A hand moved into the darkness; it returned with a pencil, and checked this paragraph:

The only victim of the fire in Savette's sanitarium at Garland, Long Island was Austin Bellamy, who perished in spite of Savette's vain effort to reach the room where he lay helpless.

Now the hand progressed to a pasted strip at the bottom of the page. It checked these words:

Austin Bellamy's sole heir was his stepbrother, Harold Sharrock, who is now living in Paris. Bellamy's estate was valued at approximately three million dollars.

On the margin beside the pasted paragraph, the hand marked this notation:

Send Vincent

There was a long, silent pause, while invisible eyes from the dark scanned the other references concerning Doctor Savette. The fingers picked up a small envelope that had come within the large one, and drew forth a dozen small clippings that told of different crimes. These were spread across the table. The left hand, with its gleaming gem, moved across them and poised above a single clipping. With uncanny precision, it picked that solitary item from the rest.

The clipping was a brief paragraph that told of the finding of a young man's body on a vacant lot in the Bronx. The hand placed the clipping upon the typed report.

Now another envelope came into view. From it the hands extracted a folded clipping.

That item would have interested Rutledge Mann, for it concerned the strange disappearance of Professor Pierre Rachaud. Mann had supplied the clipping to The Shadow, but had received no further orders concerning the case. With great precision, the hands set the Rachaud clipping in the center of the table. Below it, they placed the newspaper account of Clark Murdock's death. A space remained below. It was unfilled. There was significance in that blank area of polished table surface. It indicated that something was to follow.

The laugh of The Shadow was a whispered tone as the long right hand placed the tip of the pencil upon a sheet of blank paper. It wrote these words in column form, pausing momentarily between each one:

Money. Television. Atomic Energy. Aeronautics. Money.

After the word at the top of the column, the hand of The Shadow inscribed the name Bellamy. Next on the list came Rachaud. Third was Murdock. The two final words received no names. The list and the clippings were pushed aside. Once more the hand ran over the report on Doctor Savette. It found the statement:

Doctor Savette has left New York on several occasions within the past year, but no information of his destinations is obtainable.

Once more The Shadow's laugh resounded. Beside the sentence that told of the physician's journeys, the hand wrote a single word:

Albania.

That was the name of the ship from which Professor Pierre Rachaud had disappeared!

Now came the summary of The Shadow's findings; brief, cryptic statements, written by the hand that held the pencil.

Austin Bellamy: Body found in ruins of sanitarium. Pierre Rachaud: Last seen on board S. S. Albania. Clark Murdock: Body found in demolished laboratory.

The hand poised; then with one sweeping gesture, it drove a penciled line through the entire list. Again and again, it repeated the operation, until the writing was riddled with canceling marks. Then came a short, spasmodic burst of laughter; a sharp cry of mockery that stopped with amazing suddenness. The walls threw back the sound as though a host of hidden elves had answered the call of their master.

Papers and clippings were swept away. The top of the table shone uncovered. A click came from the darkness above. The spot of illumination disappeared.

Only impenetrable blackness remained — night-like gloom that murmured with the uncanny tones of a departing burst of eerie mirth.

The Shadow was gone!

Chapter VI — Two Men Plot

Doctor Gerald Savette was at home. Seated in an upstairs living room, the physician was smoking his pipe and reading the evening newspaper. His sallow face was placid, save for a slight smile that curled upon his lips. Evidently his reading was a source of pleasure.

A short, plainly dressed man stepped into the room. Doctor Savette turned toward him.

"What is it, Hughes?" he questioned.

"Mr. Tremont is here, sir."

"Very well. Ask him to come upstairs."

A few moments later, a gray-haired man entered. Savette rose to greet him. The two men were of about the same height. Tremont was the elder, but except for his grayish hair, he did not appear to be Savette's senior. Like Savette, Tremont was smiling. The two men clasped hands, then sat opposite each other. Savette picked up the newspaper and turned it so that his visitor could read the headlines.

"What do you think of it, Glade?" he asked.

"Very good, Gerald," replied Tremont approvingly. "Very, very good. Only it was pretty close."

"What of it?" queried Savette. "You were ready for it, weren't you?"

"Only because I happened to be with Orlinov," answered Glade Tremont. "As soon as he learned that Steffan had skipped, he told me about it. I sent a hurry call to Biff Towley."

"Yes," said Savette, "I received both his calls over at Murdock's. I had to alibi it by saying they were from my office. That is the advantage of the physician. Unexpected calls are unsuspected calls. The second one helped a lot, too. It gave me an excuse to say I was leaving early."

"The phony body worked well," observed Tremont.

"Of course," responded Savette. "That bum that Biff Towley picked for a subject was a lot like Murdock right from the start. It didn't take long for me to remedy the few facial defects. Plastic surgery is a quick matter with a corpse."

Tremont responded with a laugh. Savette smiled knowingly. Both men were meditative for a few minutes; then Savette asked a question.

"What about Louis Steffan?" he inquired. "Did he find out very much?"

"Too much," replied Tremont. "It was a mistake for Orlinov to have him up there. I knew that all along. Orlinov wanted him because he could speak Russian. That was unnecessary. Orlinov talks English well enough to get along with anyone, now."

"Yes," agreed Savette. "Still, he has to have someone intelligent enough to be his secretary. He can't use one of the mob. They are all right for the other jobs, but—"

He paused suddenly and stared past Tremont toward a side window of the room. The shade was drawn, but it appeared to be moving as though set in motion by a breeze from outside.