A WIZENED old man sat in a little room, staring over the curving banks of the Harlem River. He was in a veritable watchtower — the third story of an old building on the border of the Bronx. On the desk before him lay a pile of newspapers.
The old man laughed and showed his toothless gums. He was gloating happily. He picked up a newspaper and read its screaming headlines. He laid his head upon the desk and chuckled convulsively.
The headlines which so pleased the old man dealt with the death of Matthew Wade. The famous millionaire sportsman had been lost at sea in his airplane. But it was the wording of that heading that caused the wizened man’s greatest glee. It flashed its message for all the world to see:
WADE A VICTIM OF DOUBLE Z PLOT
While the old man still chuckled wildly, a buzzer sounded. The hideous creature pressed a button at the side of his desk. He held it with his thumb while a portion of the opposite wall moved aside.
A short man stepped through the opening. The old man raised his thumb from the button. The wall closed. The man who had entered turned. It was Luke Froy, the Chinese-American.
The newcomer sat down beside the desk. He waited for the old man’s wild chuckling to end. The last spasm ceased, and the wizened creature stared at his visitor.
“I have followed your instructions, sir,” he said.
“You mailed just one letter?”
“Yes, Mr. Shellmann.”
The old man became solemn. He picked up an envelope that lay upon the desk. It bore the name of Zachary Shellmann, typed in neat letters. Shellmann tore the envelope to bits and carefully burned the pieces.
“Is everything safe, Luke?” he inquired seriously.
“Yes, sir. Of course, that trouble at Loy Rook’s is still a slight source of worry to me—”
Luke Froy noted an expression of annoyance on Zachary Shellmann’s face. He hastened to reassure the old man.
“It is too bad, that’s all,” he said. “The police have no idea of my connection there.”
“That is good,” exclaimed the old man with satisfaction. “That is good. Look at this, Luke” — he passed the newspaper to the Chinaman— “read it to me. I long to hear it—”
Luke Froy read:
“Matthew Wade was killed by Double Z. Again the police have bungled. Detective Joe Cardona now admits receiving a message from Double Z. He stated that he had intended to keep secret, to protect Wade. This letter was received at headquarters on Monday morning.
“Exactly twenty-four hours later, while Wade and his pilot were winging southward, every newspaper office in New York city received a duplicate of the message which had been sent to Cardona. In view of this, it is safe to say that the disappearance of the plane was engineered by Double Z—”
While the old man leaned back and chuckled in delight, like some child pleased with a new toy, Luke Froy continued reading:
“—unless Joe Cardona can trace the source of the Double Z messages before to-morrow midnight, a new detective will be assigned to the case. It is well known that Cardona’s failure has jeopardized his job.
Those in the know state emphatically that the colorful sleuth’s career has reached its end.”
A new outburst of merriment came from old Zachary Shellmann. He made his attendant read and reread the passage that had pleased him so much. At last the wizened madman gained control of himself.
Luke Froy turned his head aside to keep the old man from seeing the look of pathos that had come over his features.
“There is one bad thing,” said Shellmann. “Somewhere in the paper I read that the secret service is investigating. They did that before. I do not like them, Luke.”
“They can do nothing,” said the Chinaman.
“I suppose not.” The old man stared from the window. “You mail each letter from a different post box, Luke?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That one package you received some time ago. The poison from Loy Rook. You did not mail that, did you?”
“No, sir. I told you all about it at the time. I left the box of li-shun on the doorstep of the empty house on Ninety-eighth Street and came back here immediately, as you instructed me.”
“I recall it now, Luke,” said the old man. His tone suddenly changed. “So poor Loy Rook is dead. He was a good friend to me, Luke. I knew him in Shanghai thirty years ago. At the time I adopted you, Luke.”
“Yes, sir.”
“He helped me, Luke, when times were hard two years ago. Then that day you came back from his place — ah! That was the beginning of this wonderful life!”
“Yes, sir.”
“When I say ‘Kill!’—men die! Ha-ha-ha-ha—” The voice of the old man trailed away, and once again he gave way to a spasm of convulsive, mad laughter. At last he regained control of himself. He became solemn again.
“That last letter, Luke. You mailed it to police headquarters.”
“I did, sir.”
“What will this absurd detective say when he reads it?”
Luke Froy shrugged his shoulders.
“He will be afraid to show it to any one! He will be afraid to keep it hidden! Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha—”
WHEN the old man’s outburst had ended, he became very serious. He went to a corner of the room, where a pair of earphones and a mouthpiece rested. He donned the earphones and held the mouthpiece before him. He glanced at the clock and waited. Luke Froy was speaking. The old man saw his lips move and removed the earphones.
“What is it, Luke?” he demanded querulously. “Do not interrupt—”
“You expect no message to-day, sir. Don’t you recall—”
“Ah, yes. You remember everything, Luke. By the way” — the old man became suddenly apprehensive — “are you sure that all is well? You are careful when you come and go? You are sure no—”
“I use the utmost caution, sir. I went to Loy Rook’s that one night, as you ordered. I am watchful when I mail the letters.”
“Very good,” said the old man. “You are faithful, Luke. You have always been faithful.”
“You have been very good to me, sir.”
“Ah, yes. Perhaps. But you are faithful. You have helped me in my great work. You have helped me wonderfully. You bring every letter that comes to me. You mail all that I give you. Every envelope is destroyed.
“That one I just burned — had you noticed it, it would not have been on my desk. I am forgetful, Luke. I am getting old. I was young once. I saw much. In China, when you were a little boy.”
“You saw my father die.”
“Yes. I looked on without moving while he was beheaded with twenty others. Then I took you, Luke. Everywhere with me. I have been a father to you, Luke.”
“You have, sir.”
“Luke” — a serious expression came over the old man’s face — “Luke, you must not stay here. Go back and see that all is well. The steel door in your room. It must be barred. Keep it that way always.”
The Chinaman bowed and walked to the wall. The old man pressed the button while his attendant walked through the opening. The wall closed. The old man stared from the window.
Dusk was gathering. Lights were glimmering on the Harlem. Shellmann crept across the room and drew the shade of the single window. He turned on a small wall light. He drew a loaded revolver from the desk drawer. He sat with the gun poised.
“Tonight,” he muttered happily. “Tonight — two more! They die — like those heads dropped off in Shanghai! But I must watch. Danger comes after dark. I can depend on Luke—”
His voice trailed away. His head began to nod. The hand that held the revolver was lowered to the desk.
The gray head rested on the arm. The old man slept.
AT headquarters, Joe Cardona paced back and forth, smiting each fist alternately against the opposite palm.
“Double Z!” he growled. “If they’d only give me a chance! This business tonight — well, I’m guarding the place. Men inside the house. No one suspects this last letter — it’s only natural that I might have men up at Wade’s!
“They think Wade’s dead! If I told them different, it would save my skin. But what if I do tell? Then he’s prey for Double Z. I’ve got one chance to get the man himself. ‘To die by my own hand.’”
Cardona was repeating words that he could not forget. He brought his fist against his palm and cried aloud:
“If I could only pull something now! Only how” — he walked back and forth a full minute, then repeated — “if I could only find out where those letters come from—”
He paused to stare at a man who had entered the office. It was the man who had come there one time before — Terry Blake, of the secret-service.
“Perhaps I can help you,” said the new arrival.
“To find the source of the Double Z letters?” quizzed Cardona.
“Yes.”
“Where is it?”
“I can take you there.”
“When?”
“Now.”
“How many men will I need?”
“Bring two.”
Cardona reached grimly for his hat.
“One moment,” said Blake. “Has anything new developed?”
Cardona thought quickly. He remembered that Tim Malloy had wondered that Terry Blake was in town.
Joe’s face was turned away. He assumed a calm expression, so that his face would not betray the fact that he did know something which might be of interest to Terry Blake.
“Nothing has come up,” he said quietly as he faced the secret-service man. “Why?”
“I thought some business might be more pressing than this which I suggest.”
“Nothing could be more important than that.”
Joe Cardona seized the phone and called for two detectives. They arrived promptly. The four men hurried into a police car.
“Where to?” asked Cardona.
Blake gave a destination in the Bronx.
As the car sped northward, Joe Cardona began to wonder about Terry Blake. The man’s manner reminded him of some one. Here, in the dark, the resemblance was most pronounced. Who was it, thought Cardona — a man whom he had met at night — a man whom—
Before Cardona’s mind had caught the resemblance, Blake spoke. In another second Cardona might have realized that Blake reminded him of The Shadow. But the interruption turned his thoughts.
“My men have been watching this place,” explained the speaker — without adding who his men were. “I have been in there myself. I have fixed it for our entrance. But it isn’t my job. I’m working independently. The pinch belongs to you, Cardona.”
“Thanks,” said the detective. “I’ll need it. My job’s hanging by a hair right now.”
The police car was crossing the Harlem River. It stopped at a spot indicated by Terry Blake. The four men left and crept forward toward an old house. Cardona began to wonder again. The ease with which Blake moved was amazing. They came to a side door. Blake produced a key. The door opened.
“Leave the men here,” instructed Blake, “until we call them.”
Cardona followed upstairs. At a nudge from Blake, he unlimbered his automatic. They stopped before a solid door.
Cardona watched the tiny ray of a little flashlight which Blake had produced. A thin, flat piece of metal glowed in the secret-service man’s hand. Delicately Blake wedged it in the crack of the door.
Cardona repressed a gasp. A portion of the door had been cut away— evidently some time before — so neatly that the eye could not have noticed it. This was Blake’s preparation!
Cardona noted the slender white hand that handled the thin piece of metal so smoothly. Now he saw muscles quiver; the metal moved noiselessly. In miraculous fashion Blake was lifting up a latched bar on the other side of the door — yet not a sound could be heard!
THE door moved now. The flashlight went out. Beams of light came through the crack. Blake slid through. Cardona followed, but Blake had moved so rapidly that Cardona was left well behind.
Within the room the detective discovered the secret-service man, gun in hand, covering a startled Chinaman who had been sitting in a chair.
The captive was garbed in American clothes. He had risen when Blake had surprised him, and now stood half out of the chair, his hands above his head.
“Get your men,” whispered Blake.
Cardona summoned his detectives. At Blake’s order they pressed the muzzles of their guns against the Chinaman’s body.
“If he says one word,” ordered Blake, “shoot him. Not a sound — or we kill!”
The secret-service man went to the opposite wall. He ran his hands up and down from side to side. At last he found a spot that suited him. He looked at the Chinaman.
“Is it three taps or four?” he questioned.
Luke Froy did not reply.
“Come,” said Blake. “I heard you once when I was outside. It sounded like three taps” — the Chinaman’s lips curled almost imperceptibly, but Blake detected the motion as a suppressed smile — “but I’ll try four!”
He beckoned to Cardona. With the detective at his side, Blake tapped four times against the wall. There was no response. He tapped harder. Cardona was astounded as the wall slid away; then, coming to his senses, he rushed into the next room.
An old man was raising his head from a desk. As his wild eyes saw the attackers, he seized a revolver that lay before him. Blake made a headlong dive as the old man rose. His quick hand caught the wrist that held the revolver and turned it aside just as the maniac pressed the trigger.
Blake was trying to capture the man alive, but Cardona spoiled the plan. Seeing the threat, the detective fired instinctively, and his bullets crashed into Zachary Shellmann’s brain.
The old man dropped dead, his wizened body sprawled in a pitiful heap.
“Double Z!” shouted Cardona. “Double Z! We’ve got him! We’ve got him!”
The detective’s eager eyes were taking in the scene — the earphones and the mouthpiece, the pile of clippings. He forgot the body and shoved a sheet of paper into a rickety typewriter in the corner. He struck off a line of letters and studied them.
“This looks like it!” he cried.
The keen eyes of Terry Blake were noting the typed characters. A frown appeared upon his forehead; then a gleam of understanding. The letters were identical to those of the Double Z notes.
Blake swung into the other room.
“Go in there and help Cardona,” he said to the detectives. “I’ll watch this man.”
As soon as the plain-clothes men had gone, Blake spoke to Luke Froy. Curiously, the secret-service man’s words were in the Chinese native dialect that Luke Froy used. A puzzled look appeared upon his face. Then he began to plead in his native tongue. He was looking squarely into the eyes of his inquisitor, and in those eyes Luke Froy saw understanding. He made a short statement and Blake stopped him.
“What!” the secret-service man exclaimed in English. “Another letter?”
Luke Froy nodded.
“Cardona!” called Blake.
A REPLY came from the other room. Cardona’s face appeared. He saw the secret-service man covering the Chinaman with a gun.
“Did you get a Double Z letter today?”
“Yes,” admitted Cardona. This was the statement he had held back at headquarters. “Here it is. But it doesn’t mean anything now. We’ve got Double Z.”
Blake seized the paper. He read the message aloud:
“Barnaby Hotchkiss. Blaine Glover. Tonight. They are to die by my own hand.”
“See?” said Cardona. “Signed by Double Z — and we’ve got him! Just found out his name, Zachary Shellmann. There’s the Z for you—”
“Where are Hotchkiss and Glover?” asked Blake.
“At Matthew Wade’s. They’ve gone there to take care of some affairs for him. He wrote them to be there tonight. My men are watching the place, but it’s safe now. Double Z is dead.”
For an instant the detective was off his guard. In that moment Luke Froy leaped forward and seized Cardona’s gun. Blake never moved. As Cardona made a clutch forward, the Chinaman turned the automatic to his own breast and fired. Luke Froy fell, dying, to the floor.
“Too bad,” murmured Blake as Cardona stood stupefied by Luke Froy’s unexpected action. Blake leaned forward and spoke to the Chinaman. His words were low, and in Luke Froy’s native tongue.
“You did well to tell me,” was his statement.
“He is dead — my master — ” gasped Luke Froy. “He is gone — so — I can speak! I could not — before! Now — he is dead — so I die, too!”
The death rattle was in the Chinaman’s throat. Blake arose and faced Cardona.
“I’m leaving,” he said. “You’ve got the old man and his accomplice. The rest is up to you.”
He caught Cardona’s hand, which the detective proffered in thanks. Then Blake wheeled and strode from the room. He hurried down the stairs and out into the night, where he was swallowed in the blackness.
Terry Blake was Terry Blake no longer — he had become The Shadow!
But upstairs in the old house, Joe Cardona knew nothing of that. He ordered his men to carry out the bodies, while he continued his search among Zachary Shellmann’s papers. For this was Joe Cardona’s hour of triumph. He had slain Double Z!