THE strange death of Philip Farmington, millionaire international banker, was tremendous news. The circumstances under which it had occurred, in the presence of Detective Joe Cardona during a discussion of the mysterious Double Z, brought stern realization to both police and press. It was obvious that a man who had previously dealt only in eccentricities had now become a shrewd, insidious killer.
What — who — was Double Z?
Was he a gangster, who had suddenly given up the usual undercover methods of crime?
Was he a tool of some one higher up — a blind to mislead police investigators?
Was he a maniac, who knew the ways of the underworld — who, after contenting himself with writing his eccentric letters, had now launched into a career of murder and thievery?
Was he a supermind — a criminal who had been waiting for the right opportunity to begin murder and destruction?
Was he a man entirely unknown in gangdom, who had suddenly developed criminal tendencies?
Was he a foreign agent bent on a campaign of terrorism, with New York as, its center?
These questions remained unanswered.
It was certain that Double Z, whoever he might be, must come under one or more of these classifications.
His paradoxical actions and unexplainable purposes marked him either as a person who obeyed any criminal impulse, or as a man gifted with remarkable genius.
In either event, the police had but one course: To track down this slayer before he loosed his evil powers throughout a wider range.
Everywhere one went, the talk was of Double Z. This was particularly evident at the exclusive Cobalt Club, where Philip Farmington had been a prominent member. The death of the international banker had cast a pall over the spirits of his friends.
The Cobalt Club was a gloomy place at best. Now, for once, its members were loquacious; but their talk was morbid. The death of Philip Farmington presaged future threats, directed at other men of wealth.
A small, tense group was discussing the matter in the club lounge. Half a dozen men had gathered together. Barnaby Hotchkiss, the lumber magnate, was speaking.
“It looks like an international plot,” he said emphatically. “The anti-Fascists are bad enough, but if the Bolsheviks are mixed in it—”
“That might be troublesome for you, eh?” quizzed Blaine Glover, the famous steamship man.
“Yes,” admitted Hotchkiss. “I have been successful in prohibiting the importation of lumber from Russia. That cheap Bolshevik timber was a menace. We’ve stopped a lot of it now. They don’t like it in Moscow.”
“I don’t think this can go far,” said Blaine Glover optimistically. “There’s nothing to be gained by attacking individuals.”
“Look at it from Farmington’s viewpoint,” Hotchkiss put in sourly.
“Well, Farmington’s dead.”
“Yes. That’s just the trouble. Who will be next?”
The words brought nods of understanding from other members of the group.
“No one is safe,” observed Stephen Baum, the chain-store director. “If this crazy man sets out to kill, they cannot stop him. How was Farmington murdered?”
“Poisoned,” declared Glover. “They discovered that right away. I read the report of the toxicologist in tonight’s Sphere—”
“Yes, but who administered the poison? How? Where?”
Glover shrugged his shoulders.
“They haven’t figured that out, yet,” he said.
“I believe they have discovered the nature of the poison,” declared Matthew Wade, the multimillionaire.
“That, at least, is one step in the right direction.”
“How does that help?” asked Hotchkiss.
“Certain poisons are peculiar to certain countries,” said Wade. “This one, from the description I have read, resembles a very virulent, but little-used, poison found in India. I heard of such a poison during my last visit to Bombay, when I was cruising around the world on one of your ships, Glover.”
“I think you are mistaken there, Wade,” came a quiet voice. The speaker was Lamont Cranston, like Wade, a gentleman of leisure reputed to possess great wealth. “I have not only heard of poisons; I have studied them. Farmington’s death indicates that he tasted a poison similar to the li-shun, a deadly product of Mongolia. It does not take effect immediately; when it does, it is extremely rapid.”
Matthew Wade shrugged his shoulders. He was an indolent man, who had inherited much of his money, and who had spent long periods of time in foreign countries. He was not one to discuss technicalities, although he had a somewhat challenging disposition.
“I’ll take your word for it, Cranston,” he replied. “I guess you’ve traveled as much as I have. I spent most of my time on big-game hunts in India. But I was too busy to study the Oriental methods of artistic assassination.”
THE group was breaking up. Some of the men started toward the billiard room; others toward the lobby.
Lamont Cranston remained in the lounge. He seated himself in a comfortable chair and turned to observe a man who was sitting near by. This individual had not been taking part in the discussion.
The man whom Cranston surveyed was a sober, quiet-faced chap in his thirties. He was dressed in evening clothes. He was smoking a panatella in a methodical manner, and seemed very much concerned with his own thoughts.
He, alone, seemed to reflect the usual atmosphere of the Cobalt Club. The only expression on his face was a look of glumness that seemed to be habitual. It disappeared suddenly when the man noticed that he was being observed. He cast a slow glance at Lamont Cranston, recognized the firm, chiseled face of the millionaire, and spoke words of greeting.
“Good evening, Mr. Cranston,” was all he said.
“Good evening, er— er—” Cranston seemed at loss.
“Mann,” was the reply. “Rutledge Mann.”
“Ah, yes!” exclaimed Cranston. “I remember, now. I’ve met you here several times before. Were you listening to the conversation of the worried plutocrats?”
“It hardly concerned me,” replied Mann, with a wan smile.
“Why not?”
“I don’t belong in the plutocrat class.”
Lamont Cranston was studious. Despite his pretense, he had recognized Rutledge Mann. Moreover, he knew a great deal of his history.
Mann was of a family that had once been wealthy. He had conducted a small brokerage business, and had dealt with members of the Cobalt Club. Now, it was evident that he had fallen into hard times.
“Business not so good, eh?” questioned Cranston.
“There is no business at all,” replied Mann quietly.
“Closed out?”
“Yes.”
“That’s too bad,” observed Cranston. There was an understanding in his tone that impressed Rutledge Mann. “What are you going to do now?”
“I don’t know,” Mann replied. “I’d do anything to get started again. I owe a lot of debts. If it wasn’t for that—”
He stopped abruptly. Although he never ended the sentence, Lamont Cranston inferred the rest. The peculiar flicker that appeared on Mann’s face told him all.
Rutledge Mann was up against it — badly. Only his sense of obligation prevented him from taking desperate measures. In fact, his thoughts were dwelling right now upon an automatic that reposed in the table drawer of his apartment.
Mann did not notice that Cranston was still watching him. Had he been alert enough to observe that fact, he would have been surprised. For Cranston’s sharp eyes were focused keenly on the face of the ex-broker. He seemed to be reading the innermost thoughts of the man beside him.
Rutledge Mann arose from his chair. He glanced at the clock that showed through the door from the lobby. That action was significant to Lamont Cranston.
He knew that Mann must have pawned the expensive wrist watch which he had been wearing a few nights before. For Lamont Cranston had been secretly observing Rutledge Mann for a considerable period of time.
“Good night,” said Mann abruptly. “It’s rather late. I’m going to ride uptown to my apartment.”
He left the lounge and obtained his coat in the lobby. He carried it over his arm until he had passed through the revolving door. For that coat was threadbare. The only respectable garb which Rutledge Mann still possessed was the full-dress suit which he donned for his evening visits to the Cobalt Club.
OUTSIDE, it was drizzling. Rutledge Mann faced the rain and strode along the Avenue. It was several blocks to the subway station, yet he ignored the taxicabs waiting at the door of the club. He did this for a good reason. He had only fifty cents in his pocket.
Mann chided himself as he strode along, particularly when a taxicab, swinging away from the entrance of the Cobalt Club, splattered past him. Accustomed to surroundings of wealth, the club had been his only haven during the past few months. He spent most of his time there, but felt strangely out of place.
With men like Lamont Cranston, for instance — or Matthew Wade. To either of them, a thousand dollars was pin money. Yet, tonight, Rutledge Mann would have sacrificed anything for half that sum.
The drizzle had become a torrent when Mann emerged from the subway station near the apartment house where he lived. Two blocks through the deluge. He made it on the run. He entered his apartment, dripping wet. He threw his coat in the closet and surveyed the ruin of his evening clothes. He hung the coat up to dry, placed the vest over the back of a chair, and pulled away his tie and collar. He sat down in front of the table. Acting on sudden impulse, he pulled open the table drawer and picked up the gun.
It was the only item of any value which still belonged to him. Should he pawn it, or—
The gun was in his left hand. Mann was staring, fascinated, into the gleaming muzzle. Instinctively, his finger sought the trigger. He seemed in a little world of his own, within the circled glare of the table lamp.
Even the rest of the room about him was a black, unknown realm. Mann’s finger steadied. Then, from that outside world, came a black-clad hand that plucked the automatic from his grasp.
Mann stared upward to find himself facing a tall being, who seemed a fantastic specter come from nowhere.
The visitor was clad entirely in black. He wore a long black cloak, with a high collar that obscured his face. Over his forehead was the broad brim of a slouch hat. Two eyes were all that Mann could see eyes that glowed like sparkling coals.
The automatic disappeared beneath the folds of the black cloak. Mann, astounded and empty-handed, was unable even to gasp his surprise.
“Why do you seek death?”
The question came in a whispered voice. Its uncanny tones made Mann shudder; yet he felt no fear because of the stranger’s presence.
“There’s nothing to live for,” he replied. “I’m broke. No friends. No future. No one depends on me. I’ve reached the end — that’s all. Why hold off?”
A black-gloved hand advanced. The gun was replaced in Mann’s grasp. Mann felt that he was dreaming; that his harassed mind had fancied all this. The touch of the cold metal brought reality. But he held the gun loosely, his thoughts of suicide temporarily forgotten.
“If you have good reasons for death,” came the whispered voice, “I shall not deny you the privilege. But if all you need is money and friendship to make life worth continuing, they are yours — if you will do my bidding.”
Mann laid the gun on the table. He stared straight at the man in black.
“What do you ask?” he inquired.
“Obedience. Full obedience. Without question. You will have life and honor. But my bidding shall be law.”
Silence. Mann stared at that strange figure, seeking to observe the hidden lips that had spoken those all-important words. He was thinking of the future.
Which would it be — his body, lifeless in this chair — or Rutledge Mann, alive and active, freed from poverty. It all seemed unreal, but he treated it with seriousness.
“I accept your offer,” was Mann’s spoken decision, as he stared into those glowing eyes.
“You promise full obedience.”
“I promise.”
A black-gloved hand placed something upon the table, beside the automatic. Mann looked at the object.
It was a check book. He opened it. The checks bore the imprint:
RUTLEDGE MANN 909 Badger Building New York
“Be at your office to-morrow morning,” came the whispered voice from beside him.
Projecting from the end of the check book was a deposit book. Mann drew it out and opened it. At the top of the first column was the statement of a deposit of $2,500.
Mann wheeled in his chair to face the stranger. He saw no one. He leaped to the door and pressed the wall switch. He was alone. The man in black had gone!
He stepped swiftly back to the table. In one hand he held the pistol; in the other, the check book. One meant death. The other life a life worth living. He put the automatic into the table drawer. He sat staring at the check book as a man in a dream, while the minutes ticked by.
When morning arrived, Rutledge Mann saw the check book on his bureau, where he had placed it before retiring. It amazed him, even now, to find that it was real. The strange events of last night were dim recollections. Mann could not repress the suspicion that he had been hoaxed.
He dressed, left his apartment, and hurried downtown to the Badger Building, near Times Square. He went up to the ninth floor, and found Office 909. There he stood stupefied. On the door was the gilt lettering:
RUTLEDGE MANN Investments
He tried the door. It was unlocked. Within, he found a small office, beyond it a door, and an inner office.
On the desk of the private office lay two objects — a key and an envelope.
Mann sat before the desk. He opened the envelope and extracted a folded paper. He began to read, and with reading came understanding.
WHILE Rutledge Mann was gaining his first insight into the methods of the mysterious man who had befriended him, another man who had business in New York was opening a letter at his breakfast table in his home in New Jersey. This was Cliff Marsland, a veteran of the World War, who had done his part in a recent campaign against the New York racketeers.
The letter which Cliff read was written in blue ink, and its words formed a private code which only he understood. Scarcely had he finished reading, when the writing began to disappear. The paper was blank when Cliff dropped it on the breakfast table.
“Darling,” he said to his wife, “I think it would be a good idea for you to take that Florida trip with your father. So plan to leave with him tonight. I have work to do that may take me away for a while.”
Meanwhile, in the club car of the Eastern Limited, a young man known as Harry Vincent, was smoking a cigar and staring meditatively at the passing scenery. Harry had terminated his vacation early that morning. He had left his parents’ home in the little town of Colon, and was riding east from Michigan, in response to an oddly worded telegram which he had received the night before — a message which he alone could understand.
And at precisely the same moment, Clyde Burke was hanging up the receiver of a telephone at the Classic office. He had just been listening to the words of a quiet voice which had spoken to him over the wire.
“Burbank!” Clyde Burke said in an undertone. “Burbank, the trusted agent of The Shadow! Burbank is on the job, and I have received instructions!”
Five men had received their orders. Simultaneously, The Shadow, the unknown master of mystery, had summoned his underlings, each to await his commands. While the police, with hundreds at their disposal, were blindly seeking to learn the identity of Double Z, The Shadow had prepared for battle with the newcomer in the world of crime.