CHAPTER I

ALL was pitch-black in the seance room. That blackness was weird, like an invisible jelly that held all present in gluey imprisonment.

Only the moans of Madame Mathilda filtered through that gloom. Madame Mathilda was the medium and when she moaned, it meant that a materialization was likely to occur.

Hence the sitters in the seance room were tense, with one exception. Lamont Cranston was unperturbed. Cranston liked darkness - the blacker the better. When blackness became absolute, it saved him the inconvenience of wearing the black cloak and slouch hat that ordinarily enabled him to blend with dusk or gloom.

Which, in two words, meant that Lamont Cranston was none other than The Shadow.

Now Madame Mathilda was moaning louder, with accompanying tremolos that produced a ventriloquial effect in the darkness. Gasps sounded here and there among the sitters; they thought they were hearing spirit voices.

Space, direction, sense of proportions, were apt to fade from a person’s mind during a seance held in total darkness, but not in Cranston’s case.

To Cranston, this was just an overstuffed parlor on a side street a few doors east of Central Park. It contained the usual quota of about a dozen clients who came here in hope of witnessing spirit manifestations; plus a few strangers of whom Cranston was one.

The other strangers included Police Commissioner Ralph Weston and Inspector Joe Cardona. Cranston knew their exact location in the darkness, particularly that of Cardona.

Parked on the other side of the medium, Cardona was supposed to grab a ghost if one arrived and Cranston was expected to do the same from his flank. Turning on the lights was to be the province of Commissioner Weston, who was stationed near the door.

Except that there wouldn’t be any ghost to grab. Knowing that fact, Cranston was a trifle bored.

Madame Mathilda dealt in “clairvoyant and clairaudient materializations,” a high sounding definition which caused the commissioner to think a lot was due to happen. The police had received a lot of complaints lately about wealthy people investing large sums in questionable ventures due to spirit guidance. Therefore to grab a phoney ghost in a much advertised medium’s parlor would be a fine starting point toward cracking up a growing racket.

But those terms “clairvoyant and clairaudient” were a hitch that Weston didn’t recognize. They meant simply that Madame Mathilda saw and heard things to which ordinary eyes and ears were not sensitive. All she had to do would be describe spirits and relay what they said; that would satisfy the regular customers and with it disappoint the strangers.

Right now, Madame Mathilda was coming to that phase and Cranston was settling back in his chair hoping it would soon be over, when he saw the glimmer.

It was a dot of light, an uncanny thing that might have come from outer space. It blinked like some strange eye, nervous and untraceable.

Yet not untraceable to Cranston.

Before the seance began, Cranston had taken in every detail of the room. He had noted a loose-hanging corner at the top of an old blackout curtain that Madame Mathilda had drawn across a high window opening into a courtyard. Since the court itself was very dark, that gap had not admitted any light until now.

Only Cranston and the medium could see it, for they were the only two faced in that direction. Cranston studied the phenomenon calmly, analyzing the blinks as something distant from outdoors. The effect upon Madame Mathilda was electrifying.

The medium’s trill-sprinkled moans culminated in a stupendous shriek.

“Canhywllah Cyrth!” she shrilled. “Canhywllah Cyrth!”

Whatever those words mean, they were echoed by another woman’s voice, close by Cranston’s elbow.

“Canhywllah Cyrth!” This woman’s tone was a gasp. “I see it too! It will bring the Gwrach y Rhibyn!”

“She is materializing there upon the rock!” Madame Mathilda was shrieking anew, but her words were coherent. “She has raven tresses and her arms are ivory, she is reaching for the branch of lilac above the crystal pool!”

Apparently this referred to the Gwrach y Rhibyn, whoever she was, for the glimmers of light were no longer twinkling through the corner space of the blackout curtain. Calmly, Cranston waited to hear more. It came.

“In her other hand she holds a dirk!” There was hysteria in the medium’s high-pitched voice. “In one hand life, in the other death! Which is to be, you must ask her, for only she can answer!”

“Yes - yes -” Cranston could hear the words panted by the other woman. “I must ask her -”

“But you must wait!” screamed Madame Mathilda. “She is waving her hands, this woodland spirit, in token of farewell. The vision fades, all but the hands, now they are going into mist, but she is flinging tokens of this visitation. Here they are!”

The medium gurgled that last utterance. Something brushed past Cranston’s face and from the center of the room there came a clatter across the hardwood floor. Then those sounds were drowned by the hard, violent thud of the medium’s body landing on the floor, echoed by the crash of an overturning chair.

Other screams punctured the darkness, voiced by sitters who imagined that they too had seen the singular vision hysterically described by Madame Mathilda.

Strange how a cramped space, pitch-dark, could turn crazed shrieks into reality through the power of suggestion!

Except that Officer Reilly wasn’t cramped, nor was it pitch-dark about him. Just starting his nightly patrol, Reilly had all the open space of Central Park in which to amble and already the moonlight was silvering that vast expanse of green.

It was the moon that attracted Reilly’s notice. It was taking up a whole side street, over there to the east of the park, as if all the traffic lights in Manhattan had been rolled into one big yellow ball and hung there, saying “Caution.”

It wouldn’t have surprised Reilly if the moon had switched to red or green, the way all traffic lights did, after hovering on yellow. For Reilly had a strong dash of imagination and therefore liked to believe that the impossible could happen.

Of course if people told you of something that they’d really seen, that was different. It might be that they were right. For instance, Patrolman Reilly remembered his old aunt who had once sworn that she had seen a banshee. Therefore people found it unwholesome to argue against banshees with Reilly, because it might cast doubt upon his old aunt.

Therefore banshees came into the “seeing is believing” category where Reilly was concerned and that was why Reilly now stood stock-still.

Reilly was staring squarely at a banshee!

Outlined against the moon, the weird creature fitted banshee specifications and more. From above her shoulders streamed flowing long hair; her outstretched arms were sweeping as if her hands were casting curses upon everything within a wide enough range to include Reilly.

She was atop a rock, beyond a shrub-clustered slope that was skirted by a stony path. Below, hidden beyond the rock, lay a sizeable pool that had its outlet under a rustic bridge that Reilly crossed when covering his beat.

The path was the shortest route to the rock and Reilly would have taken it at once, except that his dread of banshees somewhat stilled his urge toward duty; but as Reilly stared, he began to wonder if this creature could be a banshee after all.

According to some authorities, Reilly’s aunt for one, banshees were fearsome hags who wore garments resembling tattered coffin shrouds. This sylvan sprite was slender and shapely, while at this distance and in the uncertain moonlight, her raiment seemed to consist solely of her flowing hair.

What broke the spell was the breaking of the bough. As Reilly stared, he saw the banshee’s arms complete their sweep by grasping the branch of an overhanging tree and breaking it away. That was against the rules of Central Park and banshees were no exception. Furthermore, a physical act by a spirit creature struck Reilly as against the rules governing banshees.

The lithe creature of the rock was snapping a smaller branch from the broken large one when Reilly, duty prevailing, began a dash up by the path which carried him briefly away from where he could see the rock. It was during that trifling interlude that Reilly proved himself a man of determination, unwilling to abandon whatever course he had begun.

For from the crag that overhung the pool, the spot that Reilly could not see, yet could locate by the direction of the sound, there came the certifying token of the banshee, a weird, rising wail that ended in a harrowing scream.

Hardly had the cry ended before the hurrying patrolman was above the slope, blowing his whistle as he arrived. Shouts came from across the pool as persons reached the rustic bridge and pointed excitedly to the overhanging rock in proof that they, too, had heard the unearthly wail.

Then Reilly was stock-still again, still trilling the alarm and beckoning to other persons who appeared along paths well down the flanks of the slope. Cars were stopping on a drive below, even two riders on a distant bridle path halted their quivering horses, as the steeds whinnied terrified answers to the trailing scream.

From further away came the rising siren of a patrol car, responding to Reilly’s call, but it seemed like something from another world. For the world in which Officer Reilly now stood could well be termed unearthly in itself.

Reilly was on the very crag where he had seen the beauteous maiden with the flowing hair; on every side were witnesses who could not only testify that they too had glimpsed the ethereal creature, but were placed where they could cut off all parts of escape.

Yet like the banshee that she represented, the spectral visitant was gone. The only proof that such a creature could have been here was a broken branch from a lilac tree that rustled lightly overhead.

Though Reilly did not notice it at this moment, that lilac branch was not intact. It lacked a twig that had been snapped from it as rudely as the branch itself had been wrested from the tree!

CHAPTER II

MADAME MATHILDA responded well to the aromatic spirits of ammonia. In fact they were the only spirits that had actually appeared in the seance room.

Nevertheless the scene was not without a trace of mystery.

Just before she had passed out with a horrible wail, the medium had shrieked something about objects representing life and death. Those items were on exhibit in the light that now filled the parlor. They were lying in the very middle of the room, the things that Madame Mathilda had named: a sprig of lilac and a dagger.

Commissioner Weston took the case in hand. That was, he took Madame Mathilda in hand, by planting a hard hand upon her shoulder and shaking her to her feet despite the protests of the faithful clients who surrounded their poor medium.

Announcing himself in a tone of final authority, the commissioner started to declare that the medium was under arrest for producing fraudulent materializations, only to find himself interrupted by a timid-looking client who suddenly became vociferous.

“Those aren’t materializations!” the man argued. “They are apports. You have no case against this medium, commissioner.”

The term “apports” rather stumped Weston until Cranston intervened in his calm style.

“This gentleman is right, commissioner,” declared Cranston. “A materialization is the partial or complete production of an actual spirit form. The mere arrival of an object in a seance room is called an apport, particularly when the object is inanimate.”

The distinction didn’t quite satisfy Weston.

“These things were materialized,” stormed the commissioner, gesturing to the knife and the sprig of lilac. “Of course the medium faked it, but she claims the objects came from the spirit land.”

It was Madame Mathilda now who was interrupting with emphatic headshakes. Somehow she couldn’t find the voice which had been so rampant only recently.

“You are wrong, commissioner,” continued Cranston, patiently. “These are obviously material objects which can be traced to a natural source. The twig for instance has been broken from a lilac tree quite recently; we may discover that the dagger belongs in some museum.

“True the medium may claim that they were brought here by spirit forces” - Cranston was glancing at Madame Mathilda, who halted her head shake and began to nod - “which certain scientists might decide to be evidence of some fourth dimensional activities. Outright skeptics might class the whole matter as a fraud, but it was not the sort that you came here to uncover, commissioner. You hoped to witness a materialization, but you saw none.”

Before Weston could reply, another person entered the argument. This was another of the medium’s clients, a gray-haired woman whose very vigor belied the term elderly. She was the person who had gasped the strange words when the medium talked of seeing a figure on a rock.

“Perhaps you have heard of me, commissioner.” The woman spoke with a hauteur that suited her tall and somewhat portly stature. “I am Sylvia Selmore, one of the very people whose affairs you are trying to protect by meddling into them!”

Weston acknowledged the introduction with a bow. He had often heard of Sylvia Selmore, former lecturer, writer, champion of peace and reform, as well as being generally eccentric and wealthy enough to continue so.

“There was a materialization,” Miss Selmore insisted. “I witnessed it along with the medium!”

At that, Madame Mathilda sank back with an unhappy gasp that called for more spirits of ammonia. To give the medium air, Cranston tugged away the blackout curtain covering the courtyard window, then opened the window itself. The darkness of the court was complete, with no trace of that distant light which had blinked the curious signal.

Yet at that moment, Cranston wouldn’t have wanted the blinks to recur.

Thanks to the darkness, Cranston was viewing something closer and better. The blackness of the window pane gave it the quality of a mirror in which he observed Madame Mathilda. All eyes had turned toward Cranston, therefore the medium relaxed in unguarded style.

Reflected by the lights of the room, Mathilda’s face revealed not only the opening of her shrewd eyes, but the satisfied smile that crept across her lips. Sole witness of the medium’s minor triumph, Cranston recognized the reason for it. Madame Mathilda was erroneously assuming that the clue of the dangling curtain now was gone. She didn’t guess that it remained in the memory of the very person who had destroyed it, Lamont Cranston, otherwise The Shadow!

Now attention was back upon Mathilda, so her eyes were closed again. Moaning feebly, the medium began to recuperate in slow, well-rehearsed style. Coming completely from her fake trance, she stared wonderingly at the faces about her, as though to ask what had happened.

Portly Miss Sylvia Selmore rallied to the medium’s aid.

“Poor dear,” expressed Sylvia, referring to Mathilda, “she can’t remember a thing that happened. She was in a trance you know and everything she saw was a clairvoyant phenomenon.”

Angrily, Weston drew himself up to say something, then switched to a brusque-mannered silence, his broad face glowering to a degree that seemed to bristle his short-clipped military mustache.

“She heard things too,” continued Sylvia, “because she is clairaudient. Then the spirit itself controlled her and spoke through the medium’s voice.”

Miss Sylvia nodded as though she knew all about such phenomena, but her theory didn’t help solve the question as to whether or not there had been an actual materialization, the thing that the law wanted to witness.

It was Inspector Joe Cardona, a swarthy, stocky individual who brought up that point. So far Cardona had been a good listener; now he proved himself a good talker. Facing Miss Sylvia, Cardona put a blunt query:

“Tell me, Miss Selmore, you saw these things that the medium talked about, didn’t you?”

“Partly,” acknowledged Sylvia. “I am sure I saw the Canhywllah Cyrth.”

Cardona repeated Sylvia’s pronunciation of a term he never could have spelled.

“Canhywllah Cyrth,” said Joe. “What does it mean?”

“The English call it a corpse candle,” explained Sylvia. “Canhywllah Cyrth is the Welsh term. I am Welsh, you know. My family dates back to early Pennsylvania, shortly after its settlement. The Canhywllah Cyrth is a strange, tiny light that announces the arrival of the Gwrach y Rhibyn.”

Weston gave a despairing gesture at hearing this second name repeated, but Cardona was persistent.

“What is the Gwrach y Rhibyn?”

“A family spirit,” explained Sylvia. “Some call its appearance a bad omen, but not those who understand. More often than not, the Gwrach y Rhibyn brings a fair warning. I didn’t see the Gwrach y Rhibyn, but Madame Mathilda did, which proves she must have materialized somewhere.”

“Who materialized?” put in Weston, briskly. “Madame Mathilda?”

“No,” retorted Sylvia. “The Gwrach y Rhibyn. I have seen her myself, when death threatened the family. She appeared as a hideous old hag -”

“I get it,” interrupted Cardona. “A banshee.”

The comment stiffened Sylvia’s hauteur.

“A banshee indeed!” The portly lady was indignant. “Banshees are wayward creatures that howl around the walls of Irish castles for any and all to see. In Wales our family spirits are more particular. They manifest themselves in ancient halls or beside sylvan pools.”

“That’s what Madame Mathilda saw!” Sylvia was becoming eager now. “She saw my family spirit materialized beside some forest pool. As a token, the Gwrach y Rhibyn sent this” - Sylvia picked up the sprig of lilac from the floor - “But with it there was a warning.” Pausing, the portly lady pointed stiffly at the dagger. “A warning that might mean death,” Sylvia continued. “No wonder the Gwrach y Rhibyn vanished with a wail!”

Sylvia finished that statement with a shudder and in a moment, most members of the group were quaking too. For from outside the house there came a rising wail that at this instant carried everything unearthly in its hideous cry.

Lamont Cranston wasn’t one who shuddered, but he had to press a reassuring hand upon the shoulder of a scared girl who was standing beside him. She was Margo Lane, who accompanied Cranston on many of his milder adventurers. Margo had thought it a lark to attend a spirit seance, but this one hadn’t proven the mild affair she’d anticipated.

In fact, despite Cranston’s steadying clasp, Margo would have let out a wild scream of her own, if she hadn’t suddenly recognized what the wail was - a thing which Cranston had caught upon the instant.

Neither human nor supernatural, the howl was purely a mechanical utterance from the siren of a police car wheeling past the house in the direction of Central Park.

Immediately alert, Weston and Cardona exchanged glances that were promptly answered by the jangle of the telephone. Cardona took the call in official fashion; then hung up and turned to Weston.

“Headquarters,” stated Cardona. “They knew you were here, commissioner. That’s why they called. All available patrol cars have been ordered to Central Park.”

Staring a moment, Weston demanded:

“A murder?”

Shaking his head, Cardona turned to Miss Sylvia.

“This thing you talked about, Miss Selmore,” said Cardona. “The family spook with a Welsh name. You’re sure it isn’t the same thing as a banshee?”

Again, Miss Sylvia exhibited her full dignity.

“Positively not!”

“Then you’re due for an argument, with an officer named Reilly,” announced Cardona. Plucking the lilac sprig from Sylvia’s hand, he added: “Right at the time Madame Mathilda was describing something, Reilly saw it. A beautiful creature over by a pool in Central Park, breaking off a bough from a lilac tree, which is against all regulations.”

Bringing two handkerchiefs from his pockets, Cardona laid the lilac twig in one, then picked up the dagger with the other, to wrap both items together. Then, to make the act official, the inspector furnished this addendum:

“Officer Reilly says the creature was a banshee,” declared Cardona, “and a banshee it is until we find out different!”

CHAPTER III

HUNTING a banshee in Central Park was a shivery sport, even on a warm night. At least Margo Lane found it so, despite the presence of police in plentitude. In fact it was the prevalence of uniformed searchers that made the situation so uncanny. Only a banshee or its equivalent could have eluded the sizeable cordon established around the rock-rimmed pool.

On the jutting rock where Reilly had seen the banshee, there was evidence to support the officer’s testimony. That evidence was a lilac bough which anybody might have wrenched from the tree, but it bore a distinctive mark linking Reilly’s banshee with Sylvia’s Gwrach y Rhibyn.

There was a jagged mark where a portion of the branch had been ripped away and when Cardona fitted the twig that he had brought from the seance room, it corresponded exactly!

Certainly this made it seem that Madame Mathilda had viewed the actual scene upon the cliff above the pool and that in departure, the phantom had projected a souvenir of the occasion into Mathilda’s parlor.

To emphasize his testimony, Reilly led the investigators back to the spot from which he had first seen the banshee. Pointing to the rock, he declaimed:

“‘Twas there she stood, reaching for the branch, which as any eye can see, was a good bit above her head. What she was wearing I wouldn’t know, after seeing her from this distance only, but ‘twas scanty. The moon is higher now, but right then it was bucking traffic over from across the park and against it I could see the banshee’s hair, all waving with the black glisten of a raven’s wings.

“Only half way there I was, when she gave the banshee screech and vanished. Mind you, there is nowhere else she could have gone except into nowhere, as others here will testify. Some saw her from the bridge, others heard her from the bridle path and the drive. It’s their word, not mine that you can take, though nobody lives that has ever questioned the word of a Reilly.”

At Weston’s suggestion, they went around to the bridge and studied the rock from there, only to find the mystery even tighter. Though the top of the rock was dim because of the overhanging tree, the front surface caught the full glisten of the moonlight.

Except for slight crevices and the tough, stunted bushes that grew from them, the rock was almost sheer until it reached the water’s edge. It certainly couldn’t have hidden a random figure, but Weston’s doubts concerned the brow of the rock. With a cautious look at Reilly, to make sure that the patrolman wouldn’t feel that his own testimony was being criticized, Weston spoke to persons who had been on the bridge.

“Regarding the woman on the rock,” said the commissioner. “Are you sure you really saw her there? It’s dark up there from this angle. You didn’t have as good a view as Reilly.”

“There was moonlight then,” returned one of the witnesses. “It was shining straight at the rock top. The lower part was darker at that time.”

Another witness corroborated this statement. In addition there were some who had arrived when they heard the wild departing shriek of the creature that was more and more assuming the proportions of a banshee. Some had heard the crackling of the lilac bough; others had glimpsed the sylphlike figure that had flung the tree branch. All admitted that their view was vague, but that the shape was real until the moment that it dwindled, as if swallowed by the rock itself.

One witness gave a novel bit of testimony. She was a middle-aged woman attired in an out-of-date riding habit and her face was as long in expression and as solemn as that of the horse that stood beside her.

“I did not see the rock, nor the person on it,” this woman declared. “What attracted my attention was the light that blinked very strangely, off yonder.”

The woman stabbed a long finger in a direction at an angle to the rock and on a level a trifle above the trees. Following her point, others saw only the silhouetted outline of a tall apartment building to the west of Central Park.

“That light,” suggested Cardona, suddenly. “Was it like a candle, floating through the air?”

The long-faced woman thought a while, then nodded so vehemently that her horse followed suit.

“The corpse candle,” said Cardona to Weston, “or whatever they call it in Wales. The thing Miss Selmore said she saw, commissioner.”

The commissioner wasn’t impressed. He eyed the long-faced woman dubiously as though wondering if she had played the banshee and then skipped off to acquire her riding habit and her horse. But after a brief appraisal, Weston decided that this witness couldn’t have come up to the specifications of the woodland sprite who had been described in captivating terms.

It was time to tighten the cordon and bring in the banshee. So the commissioner dismissed class and went about his business, which left Margo on the bridge by moonlight, thinking she’d have a few quiet words with Lamont. But when Margo looked around, she found herself alone and realized only too suddenly that she hadn’t seen Lamont Cranston during the past ten minutes.

Somehow this setting was becoming a trifle too spooky. The ripple of the water beneath the bridge, the added tumult where it tumbled into a series of cascades down the lower slope, were sounds that threatened to drown anything less than a banshee’s wail. If such a howl should again disturb the night, Margo didn’t care to be the only person to hear it.

Looking for somewhere else to go, Margo happened to glance beyond the westward trees. A moment later she was riveted by a sight she didn’t want. It was starting again, that blinky light that Madame Mathilda and Miss Selmore had called the Canhywllah Cyrth!

Oddly, the sight stiffened Margo’s nerve. At least this was one mystery that she might solve in her small way. So she started in the direction of the intermittent light, even though it led around to the other side of the rocky pool which was unexplored territory to Margo.

The light was like a will-o-the-wisp, but it served as a beacon even though it might not be leading anywhere. Suddenly its flickers ceased and only then did Margo realize that her path had been guided by the light itself. Now she was suddenly worried, for she was past the pool and practically among the searchers who were clinging around it. If she ran into any of them, Margo might be arrested on suspicion of having impersonated a banshee, which would mean a lot of troublesome explanations.

That thought impelled Margo to undertake a detour further around the pool and the immediate result was grief. The turf gave suddenly and along with a deluge of spilling stones, Margo was precipitated down into a narrow gully which was completely hidden under the spread of overhanging trees.

Though startling, the slide proved brief. As for the gully, it furnished exactly what Margo wanted, an outlet past the cordon. As she crept along, moving away from the direction of the pool, Margo realized that at intervals this narrow passage actually burrowed under solid ground where drives and bridle paths crossed it. By the time the gully leveled off, the crowd of circling searchers was far behind.

Still, the ground was still high here, for as Margo ventured past some large boulders, she saw a downward slope and beyond it some rapid moving lights that flitted a reflection from among the tree roots. She realized then that she had reached a transverse, one of the speedways that cross Central Park below the level of the driveways.

Those were the lights of automobiles, rolling along the underpass. Since there was no way to cross the cut, Margo was about to turn and look for a pathway, when she saw a figure come stealthily from behind a tree near the transverse.

It was a singular figure, lean anal stoopish that could hardly be termed more than an outline of something human, though with a trifling stretch of the imagination it might have been mistaken for an orangutan escaped from the Central Park Zoo. If the thing hadn’t turned in Margo’s direction, she probably wouldn’t have attracted its attention, but it did turn.

Sight of an ugly, darkish face leering into the moonlight brought a half-scream from Margo and that was not only enough, but too much. The figure wheeled, unlimbered to full height, and whipped its arm back to throw.

Right then an avalanche struck Margo.

That avalanche came in the form of human blackness, launched from the darkness of a large rock that Margo had just skirted. Spilled by the drive, Margo sprawled headlong, hardly realizing that her rescuer was The Shadow. For rescuer he was, as testified by a whirring sound that whipped past the spot where Margo had just been, to end with a thud against a stout tree.

From her sprawl, Margo saw a sight that really dazed her. As The Shadow lunged toward the embankment, the stooped man who had thrown the knife made another of his unlimbering motions, but with a complete turnabout. It seemed that he literally scooped himself from The Shadow’s grasp and vanished into the darkness above the transverse which at that moment, fortunately for the fugitive, was devoid of passing cars and their tell-tale lights.

It was The Shadow’s voice that hissed the warning that Margo heeded. Scrambling up past the rocks, the girl found a driveway and ran along it toward where she knew a cab was waiting for Cranston. Finding the cab, Margo popped into it and felt safe at last, for she knew the driver. His name was Shrevvy and his cab was always at Cranston’s service, especially on nights like this.

Five minutes later, Cranston arrived back at the cab to report that the police hunt was still under way and accomplishing nothing. In fact, Cranston seemed rather bored with the whole business until the cab had rolled from Central Park and was swinging along a lighted avenue.

Then, turning to Margo, Cranston queried:

“Remember that mysterious apport business over at Madame Mathilda’s?”

“Of course.” Margo found her voice with a forced laugh. “You mean the sprig of lilac that they found there. But there was plenty more lilac out in the park.”

“And that was only half of it,” reminded Cranston. “There was a dagger that landed on the floor of the seance room. There seems to be plenty more of such out in the park too. I found this as a sample.”

In the light of the passing street lamps, Cranston exhibited the object which Margo realized was the whirring thing that had sped past her and planted itself in the trunk of a tree.

Glistening in Cranston’s hand was the exact twin of the dirk that had arrived so mysteriously in Madame Mathilda’s parlor!

CHAPTER IV

CENTRAL PARK was anything but sinister when seen in the pleasant light of afternoon. It was a melody in green, tempered by streaks of rocky gray, broken with the sheen of blue pools and ponds, plus a few spots where pleasant streams came into sight.

Of course there were paths and drives, along with occasional buildings. People were everywhere. Margo wondered how long they would stay around after dark, particularly if they thought in terms of a banshee’s wail.

Probably everyone was thinking in such terms, for the newspapers were full of the banshee business. Nothing quite like it had come along since the days of the famed Jersey Devil or the more recent Mattoon Madman.

Rather fun, having such a mystery right in your own front yard, which was what Central Park was to all Manhattan. Only the police had placed strong restrictions upon anyone trampling around in search of the vanished sprite. In fact, Commissioner Weston had issued an edict to the effect that officially the banshee did not exist.

Central Park did look like a huge front yard from where Margo viewed it and that was why the trees, people and everything else looked proportionately small. Margo’s vantage point was the top story of the sizeable Chateau Parkview, a huge apartment-hotel that towered from the lower side of Central Park South, once called Fifty-ninth Street.

This apartment belonged to Niles Ronjan and Margo had come here before with Lamont Cranston. The place was so curious that despite herself, Margo began to forget Central Park and its mystery of last night.

If the place was curious, so was Ronjan.

Here was a man with the genius of an inventor, the urge of an adventurer, and the air of a fanatic. He was sallow, quick of eye, and with shaggy, unkempt hair that fluttered on any provocation. Ronjan gave it plenty of provocation, the way he bobbed around the room.

Ronjan had to hop around because the room was large and the whole center was occupied by a large tank the size of a billiard table and similarly mounted on heavy legs. The tank was full of water, and the metal bottom was shaped irregularly, as though representing part of the ocean bottom, which it did.

Not only did Ronjan sail boats in this tank, he sank them. At present one was under water, hanging to a submerged ledge, while another was floating nearby. The two boats were connected by a curious piece of metal hose which was made in joined sections.

“There you are, Cranston.” Ronjan shook his shaggy hair and spread his arms deprecatingly. “The Good Wind sunk off Skipper’s Rock, with our salvage boat moored above. The treasure is there, the link is completed” - another shrug from Ronjan - “and now we must begin all over.”

Cranston’s eyes denoted query.

“We approached from the wrong side,” explained Ronjan. “We took the lee side, thinking that the sand would have piled from windward. We were wrong, as Yuble will tell you.”

Ronjan gave a gesture toward a corner of the room and Margo furnished a half-gasp from the window. Margo knew who Yuble was, but she hadn’t realized that the man was here at all. On the few occasions that she had previously seen Dom Yuble, he had at least been conspicuous.

Now Yuble was rising from the corner chair where he had been a silent witness to proceedings. Whether he’d been here all along or had come in silently later, Margo couldn’t guess. However Cranston didn’t appear perturbed, probably because he was used to silent tactics himself.

Dom Yuble, sometimes called Captain Yuble, looked like something washed up from the Spanish Main after having been lost there a long, long time. He couldn’t be termed a chunk of human wreckage because he had stood the test of time. Rather he was stout timber that had hardened into iron.

Solid of build, taller than he looked because of his brawny proportions gave him extra width, Yuble had a face that was a study in itself. That face looked like something that had been molded soft by an apprentice, who had not done his job too well; then, discouraged, the moulder had left the job alone and it had set like cooling metal.

Not that Yuble’s features were permanently fixed; that applied only to two scars, one across his cheek, the other a jagged line at the side of his forehead. Yuble’s face was usually stolid simply because he had no reason to make it otherwise. When he wished, he smiled by parting his straight lips and showing the gleam of white teeth, but the smile had no particular expression and might have been interpreted in a dozen ways.

As for Yuble’s complexion, it too fitted the hardened softness of the man. Yuble was dark, or had been once, but his face had become so weather-beaten that its color was reduced to a peculiar tawn that almost matched an olive drab.

In a way, Yuble seemed the tropical equivalent of a New England fishing skipper whose face had become as rugged as the rocks of his own shore. In Yuble’s case, his features had taken on something of the look and contour of a coral reef.

As Yuble stepped forward, his face caught the gleam of sunlight from the window and his ear-lobes showed large, with round, pierced holes showing in them. In his native habitat, Yuble evidently wore ear-rings, of a large and heavy variety. Those lobes had been stretched to double size and they were the only part of Yuble’s ears that showed. The rest was hidden by the mass of Yuble’s curly hair, which was so dark and glossy that Margo wondered why it wasn’t slick instead of curly.

When he spoke, Dom Yuble supplied an apologetic tone that was chiefly mannerism, though in this case there was cause for it, since he was ready to take part blame for Ronjan’s failure.

“There was sand,” agreed Yuble. “Much sand. More sand than would pile on reefs in the West Indies. But I should have thought to expect sand.”

“That’s why we need more money, Cranston,” asserted Ronjan. “We shall require new units for the articulated tube when we operate from windward.”

Carefully, Ronjan shifted the position of the floating boat and altered the miniature pipe line accordingly. It came short of the sunken model and because of the contour of the ocean bed, it was obvious that the new segments of pipe would have to be inserted at specific intervals along the line.

Cranston accepted this with an understanding nod; then queried calmly:

“What about Craig Farnsworth?”

“He has promised us more money,” returned Ronjan, frankly, “but so far he has not provided it. Perhaps if you talked to him, Cranston -”

With that Ronjan paused, his eyes so canny that Margo suspected that there was craft behind them. Ronjan was waiting for a response that came. Cranston nodded again.

With that, Ronjan started eagerly for the door, as though to speed Cranston to his coming conference with Farnsworth. Cranston followed and Margo did the same, with Ronjan talking all the while.

“It’s a sure investment, Cranston - no need for extra shares in the enterprise - merely a loan to be paid at interest - perhaps a special bonus for the investors - the basic arrangement should be the same -”

Repeating such running patter, Ronjan stepped into the elevator when it arrived and rode down to the ground floor, continuing his statements in a confidential tone close to Cranston’s ear. Out through the spacious lobby, clear to the street, Ronjan accompanied his parting guests, all the while emphasizing the very things that he had said before.

Standing by while Ronjan completed his repetitious discourse with Cranston, Margo stared across at Central Park, now deepening with dusk. As she asked herself the same old question of whether banshees did exist, Margo had a sudden start.

Something loomed into the glow of the early street lamps opposite. It wasn’t the exotic figure of some sylvan creature, but a shape even more unexpected.

For the moment, Margo thought she saw The Shadow!

Then the illusion ended. It was only some peculiar bird that had fluttered from the gloom, its wings giving the curious effect of a cloaked silhouette, magnified against the light.

Turning, Margo thought she saw the creature flying upward; then all sight of it was lost against the front of the tall hotel, though Margo had a vague impression that the bird had come to roost up beneath the long-eaved roof of the Chateau Parkview.

A taxicab horn interrupted Margo’s train of thought. Having finally shaken hands with Ronjan, Cranston had hailed the cab and it was waiting to take him and Margo to their interview with Craig Farnsworth.

“Yes, Margo,” said Cranston, “that’s Ronjan’s apartment up where you see the top floor lights. He’s gone back up there, so we can talk about other matters.”

Margo responded with a surprised smile as she stepped into the cab. If Lamont wanted to play at reading her thoughts, it would be just as well to let him think that he was right. No use mentioning the odd bird that had given such a brief but startling imitation of The Shadow.

If Cranston’s guess was wrong, so was Margo’s conclusion as was later to be proved!

CHAPTER V

MINUTES mean much in Manhattan. They produce surprising meetings, curious situations that often seem like something designed by fate’s hand. Yet for all the remarkable coincidences that occur, there are many more that miss. People who haven’t met for years may pass within a block of one another, or just around the corner, without ever realizing it.

Similarly, for every singular occurrence that a person may witness by chance, a dozen other similar incidents may remain unobserved because of the same freak. Usually though, there is a direct cause; this time it was a taxicab.

If Shrevvy’s cab hadn’t been at Cranston’s call, things would have taken a different turn. The slight delay that Cranston avoided by having the cab handy, caused him to miss a bit of luck that fate would otherwise have tossed right in his lap.

Another cab stopped in front of the Chateau Parkview just after Cranston’s pulled away. From it stepped a girl, an attractive blonde dressed in blue, which made her floral decoration seem rather drab and therefore conspicuous in a negative way.

The blonde was wearing a bunch of lilacs.

Looking about, the girl frowned rather prettily, then entered the lobby and stared at the people there. Her eyes returned to the door, then roved the lobby again, missing the young man who entered at that moment.

He was a rugged type, this young man, and his stolid expression made him look older than he was. He had a slight limp, but he wasn’t tired when he paused just inside the doorway. The reason that he paused was because he expected someone to be looking for him, which was evidenced by the way he took a stance well in the open of the lobby.

Against the dark brown of his suit, the flower that the young man wore in his lapel stood out very sharply, except that it wasn’t exactly a flower.

It was a tiny sprig of lilac.

At about that moment, the girl in blue decided that she too should be letting someone look for her, instead of the other way around. Relaxing, she turned toward the doorway and her gaze met that of the man in brown. She noticed a contrast instantly; the young man’s face looked very pale, but that was because his hair matched the color of his suit. A slight pallor would naturally be exaggerated in such a setting.

The young man smiled, both slightly and nicely, then took a few steps forward. Realizing that she was about to be accosted, the girl was worried, but only briefly. The man’s face was frank and he obviously intended to be polite. The girl started to smile in return, hesitated, then let the smile arrive.

She had seen the sprig of lilac.

“I’m Philip Harley,” the young man stated. “You expected me of course.”

The girl nodded. Then:

“And I’m Arlene Forster,” she declared. “Of course I knew that you would expect me, but I wasn’t quite sure -”

“Quite sure that I’d be here?”

“No, no.” Arlene spoke hastily. “I was certain that someone would meet me, but I wasn’t positive when it would be.”

“But the time was specified. Seven o’clock on the evening of the fifteenth.”

“That’s what I wasn’t sure about, whether you said the fifteenth or the sixteenth. It was you who phoned me, wasn’t it, Mr. Harley?”

A striking change came over the young man’s face. Phil Harley was puzzled, which was why his expression tightened. As quickly the expression faded, before Arlene Forster noticed it. The girl at that moment was answering her own question in a reminiscent tone and her violet eyes had a reflective stare.

“No, it couldn’t have been you, Mr. Harley,” Arlene mused. “The voice was different. Whoever called said the fifteenth, then changed the day to the sixteenth. I was sure of it at the time, yet afterward -”

Pausing, Arlene nodded.

“Well, this is the fifteenth,” she decided brightly. Her eyes sparkled as they again met Phil’s gaze. “Anyway, we were supposed to meet, and here we are. We know we’re the right people, because we’re both wearing a bit of lilac. It’s rather unusual, lilac as a flower, isn’t it?”

Phil agreed that it was. Now his expression was very steady. He wondered if this girl was trying to trick him, or whether she simply wanted him to declare himself. Since Phil had nothing to declare, the only alternative was to profess ignorance, which was something else he didn’t care to do.

Fortunately, the girl herself provided an opportunity for Phil to parry longer. She glanced across the lobby toward a pretentious restaurant; then remarked:

“One thing I remember from that long distance call. The date included dinner. Am I right this time?”

“You are,” assured Phil, “so let’s go.”

Though various things might puzzle Phil Harley, he had cultivated one faculty, that of sensing when something odd was occurring nearby. Right now, Phil was sure that somewhere in the lobby someone had observed his meeting with the blonde who answered to the name of Arlene Forster.

Phil could almost feel a stir among the patrons of the place, whether they lived here or merely intended to dine in the swanky cafe that flanked the lobby of the Chateau Parkview. Locating that stir or the invisible eyes it represented was a problem in itself, but Phil felt sure that something would happen to solve it.

Something did happen.

A bellboy emerged suddenly from behind a pillar, included Arlene with a quizzical look and called:

“Paging Miss Forster - paging Miss Forster -”

The blonde interrupted the process and announced herself as Miss Forster. The bell-hop gestured to a deep alcove around past a newsstand.

“Phone call for you,” he told Arlene. “You’ll find it in the phone booth where the receiver is off the hook.”

Phil tipped the bellboy a quarter and followed Arlene. To be polite, he paused at the newsstand while the blonde entered the booth. As Arlene closed the door, Phil gave her a final glance.

She was very charming. Her profile was shapely and the flowing fluff of her hair showed beautifully against the background of the booth, though it lost its blonde effect in the semi-darkness.

What interrupted Phil’s stare was the query of the man behind the newsstand, asking if he wanted anything. Phil decided to buy some cigarettes, so he named his brand and while the man was finding them, Phil glanced at the headlines of some newspapers lying on the stand.

Funny headlines, these, all about a banshee in Central Park. There wasn’t any picture of the banshee, but she was described as something very sprightly and beautiful. Apparently the banshee liked lilacs, for there was a picture of a lilac tree with inserts showing a broken bough and loose sprig that fitted it.

That cluster of lilac blossoms depicted in the photograph was oddly like Arlene’s corsage!

Eyes narrowing, a flush sweeping his pale face, Phil swung toward the phone booth. Another oddity impressed him now; he couldn’t see Arlene through the glass of the closed door. There were times when Phil Harley could become impulsive and this was one of them.

Striding to the phone booth, Phil thrust the door open on its inward hinges, intending to interrupt Arlene and ask her what the lilac was all about.

That was simply the beginning of a real surprise. Arlene Forster wasn’t in the phone booth. It was entirely empty!

This was something that just couldn’t happen - or could it? If Phil’s senses were right, and he prided himself on their accuracy, he certainly should have been aware of Arlene sneaking past him, if she’d chosen that course. Phil glared accusingly at the newsstand man, who stared back blankly.

“You saw the girl, didn’t you?” demanded Phil. “Where did she go?”

The man seemed to remember the girl vaguely; then, piecing events, he took the obvious that Phil rejected.

“Guess she went out to the lobby.” The newsstand man gestured in that direction. “I was getting cigarettes; when I turned around, you were reading the paper. No wonder neither of us saw her leave.”

The logic of it made Phil smile.

“I was reading about banshees,” he acknowledged. “I suppose I was in a mood to think somebody vanished.”

With that, Phil started to the lobby to seek Arlene, but he couldn’t subdue the belief that he wasn’t going to find her. The lobby was large and by Phil’s calculations, Arlene would have had to do some fast footwork to reach the street door before he saw her. Still, she wasn’t in sight, which was just what Phil expected.

An elevator was standing open; the dials of the others showed them around the higher floors. The only stairway, a rather grand affair, was as distant as the street door. That left only the restaurant as the one place near enough for Arlene to reach. But when Phil reached the entrance to the cafe and surveyed its expanse of tables, he still couldn’t locate the missing blonde.

The cafe was only about half-filled and spotting Arlene should have been easy, provided she was there, although the place had some pillars that partly obscured Phil’s view. More puzzled than ever, Phil turned toward the lobby again and stared right at a girl who met him with a smile.

The newcomer wasn’t Arlene. To even presume that she might he would mark the transformation as the fastest and most convincing quick-change on record. This girl was a brunette, with sleek, black hair, a complexion that was clear, yet in a sense darkish because of its slight olive tint. Her dark eyes seemed wondering and gave the same effect to her smile, yet with it there was something strangely exotic in the brunette’s demeanor.

Those dark eyes fixed on the tiny bit of lilac that embellished Phil’s lapel. The girl inquired:

“You are Mr. Phil Harley?”

That was what she said, but it didn’t sound the way it spelled. There was something musical about the girl’s accent that made the words sound better when she mispronounced them. Staring hard, to make sure this girl wouldn’t vanish, too, Phil acknowledged his identity with a nod.

“Very good,” the brunette declared. “I was told to meet you here. We are to have dinner together. Shall we?”

Blonde or brunette, name or no name, Phil Harley decided that it made no difference, provided there were no more vanishes. At least from this girl, he might learn something of the situation as it concerned Arlene Forster.

Phil Harley felt he was on the verge of a mystery. He was wrong. He was right in the middle of one!

CHAPTER VI

FROM the terrace apartment where Craig Farnsworth lived, Central Park appeared now as a vast patch of black velvet, studded with jewels of light. It seemed odd, as Margo Lane considered it, how great a change a few hours could produce in that setting.

Even more odd what a few minutes had done back at the Chateau Parkview, where a peculiar drama had developed involving Phil Harley and Arlene Forster, two persons whose connection with an existing mystery had begun too late for Lamont Cranston to learn about it!

While Margo studied the darkened park and also the distant line of buildings to the south of it, Cranston listened to Farnsworth’s discourse on the subject of Ronjan’s treasure quest.

Craig Farnsworth was a big man and emphatic in proportion to his size. He was also a big money man, or he couldn’t have afforded this fancy apartment in a high-priced neighborhood on the upper East Side. But having made his money, Farnsworth wasn’t the man to part with it too quickly.

“Ronjan’s proposal is very simple,” summed Farnsworth, in a scoffing tone. “We’re to put up the extra money, but he is to gain the big share of the treasure. How does that proposition strike you?”

“As a very minor shareholder,” returned Cranston, “I would prefer to hear your opinion, Farnsworth.”

“Quite naturally.” A smile spread over Farnsworth’s broad, ruddy face. “You would only have to contribute pro rata to the loan. If I risked much, you would be willing to risk little. Is that it?”

“That is it.”

“Very well then,” Farnsworth decided. “I shall advance Ronjan all the money he needs” - there was a pause while Farnsworth watched Cranston raise his eyebrows as an expression of surprise - “provided he puts up suitable bond.”

This brought an actual smile from Cranston.

“If Ronjan could post a bond,” he stated, “he wouldn’t need to borrow the money.”

“I said a suitable bond,” defined Farnsworth. “By that I mean that Ronjan should give over ownership in his articulated under-water tube provided he fails to deliver.”

“But failure would prove the tube worthless.”

“Not to my mind, Cranston. I believe the device is thoroughly practical. It may not be suited to present conditions and that is the chance that I am taking. I want Ronjan to share the hazard.”

Cranston understood. Full ownership of the diving tunnel would mean that Farnsworth and any associates could use it for other projects if this one failed. However, Farnsworth still had confidence in the present enterprise.

“We’ve double-checked the story of that treasure off Skipper’s Rock,” declared Farnsworth. “It belonged to Master Glanvil, who owned the brig Good Wind, which was chartered under a letter-of-marque. Unfortunately Master Glanvil turned pirate himself, while he was supposed to be preying on corsairs, much like Captain Kidd did.

“It was on account of what happened to Kidd that Glanvil wouldn’t come into port. Meanwhile, the men who had backed him as a privateer, an Association of Adventurers, they called themselves, saw their investment dwindling away if Glanvil skipped.”

Margo was listening now from the terrace rail, forgetful of Central Park and its mysterious charm, in view of this thrilling tale.

“The Association of Adventurers had their rights of course,” continued Farnsworth. “The treasure was declared legally theirs, the question of Glanvil’s status being another matter. However they unloaded their shares cheap and the whole was bought out by a hard-headed old Dutchman named Thales Van Woort.”

As Farnsworth paused, Cranston put in an appropriate comment.

“A good example, Farnsworth,” said Cranston. “Why don’t you buy out all other shares in the missing treasure the way Van Woort did?”

“Because a fool and his money are soon parted,” returned Farnsworth. “Not being a fool, I prefer to part with my money slowly. Still, if Ronjan wants to sell out entirely, I am willing to buy. But getting back to history -”

Pausing long enough to pour a round of drinks, Farnsworth proceeded.

“Old Van Woort hired a smuggler named Caleb Albersham to go out and urge Master Glanvil to come into port. It was a smart move, for Albersham was close to a pirate in his own right. Maybe the fact that Albersham was still at large was supposed to influence Glanvil, but it didn’t.

“After a few trips, made secretly of course, so the authorities wouldn’t interfere, Albersham went out again and this time he was supposed to have papers on him guaranteeing a safe-conduct to Glanvil. I suppose Van Woort paid for them too, through the proper official channels.

“Anyway, it was too late. A storm was coming up and Albersham’s sloop, the Rover, which left openly that trip, headed square into trouble that the Good Wind had already met. It was a bad wind for the Good Wind, because she went down off Skipper’s Rock and the Rover failed to outride the storm.

“Wreckage from the Good Wind was found on Skipper’s Rock and chunks of the Rover washed ashore out toward Montauk Point, where she was carried by the hurricane. So here’s to the Good Wind and the Rover” - Farnsworth raised his glass - “and salt your drink with a few tears for old Thales Van Woort whose fortune lies off Skipper’s Rock.”

It was the first time that Margo had heard the detailed story of the missing treasure, but she wasn’t crying over Van Woort’s loss. She was thinking of a legend she’d heard once: how mermaids were supposed to hover around sunken treasure, and the connection made her think of the Central Park banshee.

The ringing of the telephone was summoning Farnsworth into his living room and with the conversation lulled, Margo glanced toward the deep gloom of the park, only to hear Cranston’s calm and accurate query:

“Thinking about banshees, Margo?”

“Why, yes.” Momentarily surprised, Margo laughed it off. “I suppose a lot of other people are, too.”

“Miss Sylvia Selmore for one,” informed Cranston. “I forgot to tell you that she postponed her trip to Florida today.”

Still staring at the darkness, Margo asked why.

“Sylvia wants to attend more seances,” explained Cranston. “She hopes for another manifestation of the Gwrach y Rhibyn.”

Remembering the tense scene in the seance parlor, Margo wasn’t inclined to laugh.

“Of course the Canhywllah Cryth must appear first,” assured Cranston. “We saw it again in the park last night. Remember?”

Margo did remember. She shuddered; then asked in hollow tone:

“That creature near the transverse. Did it - did it really materialize when those lights appeared - over there?”

Staring straight across the park, Margo was looking toward the dimly outlined tower of a building, the same one she had noted the night before.

“The right place,” declared Cranston. “In fact the only place the blinks could have come from. That tower is on a direct line with the rear window of the parlor in Madame Mathilda’s house.”

Margo turned, surprised:

“How soon did you learn that?”

“Before we left Mathilda’s,” declared Cranston. “I took a good look from that window after I ripped away the blackout curtain.”

“Then why didn’t you send someone over there?”

“I did. Shrevvy took Hawkeye there to find if the way was clear. Harry Vincent and Cliff Marsland followed.”

“But the blinks occurred again -”

“Because Harry and Cliff sent them,” interposed Cranston, “to assure me that the roost was empty. It worried the lurker in the park. He was stationed where he was to cover the banshee’s trail.”

“But how could she slip through the cordon?”

“Very easily. A slide down the rock, slowed by the scrubby shrubs she encountered; then around to the gully.”