An elderly man was seated in the living room of an apartment. His armchair was drawn back from the open window. Below sparkled the lights of Riverside Drive; beyond them, the blackness of the Hudson River.
The gray-haired titan gazed thoughtfully into the night and smiled benignly. A deceiving smile! For this was the same man whom Stuart Bruxton had met in Maryland!
The door opened and another man entered quickly, closing the door behind him. The newcomer turned to face the old man. The person was Sidney Delmuth.
The old man seemed keenly interested in Delmuth's arrival. His eyes lit up with a weird gleam as he detected a tense look upon the face of the advertising man.
The old man was looking for an explanation. It was forthcoming. Delmuth sat down in a chair opposite the old man and began to speak in a low, guarded voice.
"Everything is fixed," he said. "You would have heard from me if there had been a hitch.
I couldn't talk when you called me about Grady. Something was happening — that's why I told you to wait. I knew I could explain better when I came here."
"What is the matter?" questioned the old man.
"I'm being followed," declared Delmuth. "Followed by a man whom I cannot see!" The old man smiled at the paradoxical statement. He was wondering how Delmuth knew he was being followed, if he could not observe the follower. The smile turned to a serious look, however, for the old man could tell that Delmuth was in earnest.
"So far, Benson," said the advertising man, "I've slipped it over on this fellow. I suspected he was on my trail when I came into my apartment this evening. I made that call to Philadelphia by using the phone the moment that I came in.
"When I talked to Chadwick, I was lucky enough to put through a quick call. Even at that, I'm not sure that I was not overheard. I took the precaution of carrying the telephone into the hall closet."
"You think the man who was trailing you was that close?" Benson asked.
"If he's who I think he is, he might have been at my elbow without my seeing him!"
"Who do you think he is?"
"The Shadow!"
Delmuth's revealing words were uttered in a low whisper. They were startling, even to the cagey old man. Benson was solemn for a moment; then he smiled wanly.
"The Shadow," he said, with a slight laugh. "I've heard of him, but I have always doubted his existence. A superman who fights with crooks. I have been active for years, Delmuth; yet I have never encountered The Shadow!"
"That does not signify that The Shadow is nonexistent," answered Delmuth. "I have never run up against him before; but this time, I think we're dealing with him.
"We have been active, lately — and we are just beginning. If The Shadow is mixing in our affairs, there's only one thing to do — get him!"
If you are so sure that The Shadow is following you," said Benson quietly, "why did you come here?"
"I took precautions," was the response. "I called Shamlin and gave him the tip-off. You know my gag."
"He came up in a taxi, and it stopped outside of my apartment. I stepped in it, as if it were a vacant cab; then Shamlin got out later, paid the driver, and walked away. In the dark, he easily passes for me.
"If The Shadow is still on the trail, he's following Shamlin. Probably on his way to take in a midnight movie. That's where Shamlin said he was going."
"Who was driving the cab?"
"Harmon. He works with Shamlin. I've used those fellows plenty. Two good men — but not in a class with you and Grady."
Old Benson smiled at the compliment.
"Grady called me from Trenton," he said. "Told me he would come directly here, after he meets Chadwick. He can make it in two hours — he drives rapidly at night."
"Good," said Delmuth.
"One more job," said Benson speculatively. "Then the way will be clear. There's only one mistake letting young Chadwick out."
"He will be safe!" said Delmuth emphatically. "He knows nothing!"
"He knows that you are playing some phony game."
"Yes; but he doesn't see the real connection. He is scared, because he knows that I know all about his affairs. He will never squeal."
"You and I," said Benson thoughtfully. "You and I and — " He smiled instead of pronouncing a name.
"Even Grady does not know. As for Shamlin and Harmon — "
"They know nothing," Delmuth interposed.
"Then The Shadow, if he is interested, cannot know," Benson concluded.
"I think he followed me last night," said Delmuth seriously. "That was when I had my first suspicion. But I played the game the way I always play it. I tore up the dope sheet and left an empty envelope in my pocket. If The Shadow found it, he will have a lot of guessing to do!"
"You look worried, Delmuth," said Benson quietly. "That is a mistake. You may be worrying over nothing. On the contrary, if it is not your imagination — if you are really being followed — " Delmuth stopped the speaker with a raised hand. As they sat in silence, the suave advertising man listened keenly. Then, he arose from his chair and tiptoed to the door.
He opened it cautiously and stepped quickly out into the hallway. He came back, shrugging his shoulders.
"Thought I heard a noise," he declared. "I am worried, Benson, but I have cause to be. It gives me the creeps, and I've never had them before.
"I tell you, again, we must be careful!"
The old man nodded thoughtfully. He did not appear to be worried, but he began to adopt shrewd tactics.
He looked about the room as though forming a plan. He peered from the window; then went to the door and made a brief inspection. After that, he traveled to an inner room and returned.
"If The Shadow is spying here," he said, "you can be sure that he is a man of miracles.
The hallway is empty. There is no one in the inner room. As for the window — we are on the fifth floor."
"There are other windows below," asserted Delmuth. "It would be possible — "
"Possible," agreed Benson. "Possible for a man to scale the wall, but highly improbable that he would risk it. Should we suspect The Shadow was outside our window, we could easily discover him."
"How?" Delmuth asked.
"I shall show you."
The old man went to a table and returned with a flashlight. He leaned deliberately from the window, and turned on the instrument. He focused its rays upon the wall below. When he again turned toward Delmuth, Benson wore a serious expression.
"Did you see anything?" questioned Delmuth.
"Yes and no," answered Benson softly. "I understand your qualms now, Delmuth."
"Why?"
"The entrance to the fire tower is twenty feet from this window." Benson's voice was little more than a whisper. "I observed a peculiar blackness there. It seemed to disappear as I turned the light directly toward it."
"That's the way it has been," said Delmuth hoarsely. "I have never seen a man — but I have observed signs of one. Always that way. What are we going to do about it, Benson?"
"Put on your hat," replied the old man, with a smile. "We are going out, together." While Delmuth was following the old man's instructions, Benson strolled about the room. He stopped at a corner near the doorway. There, he stared keenly at a screen with three panels. He stretched out his hands as though to touch this article of furniture; then desisted. Instead, he pressed a switch on the wall. This illuminated a series of wall brackets about the room.
The old man glanced toward the screen and smiled. He turned off the switch and nodded to Delmuth.
"Come along," he said.
The two men left the apartment. Benson was talking loudly as they walked along the hall, away from the entrance to the fire tower. They waited for the elevator; then descended to the lobby. Within two minutes after the men had made their departure, a slight motion occurred at the window of Benson's living room. It seemed at first as though a chunk of darkness had assumed a solid form, projecting itself into that deserted room. Then, the form took on the semblance of a human being. A tall man stood revealed in the glare of the single table lamp that illuminated the room. The visitor from the outer darkness was garbed entirely in black. About his shoulders rested the folds of a sable-hued cloak. A black slouch hat obscured his face. Only two burning eyes were visible. The Shadow, man of mystery, had scaled the wall from the fire tower!
He stood alone in the room which the men had left!
Stepping away from the window, he seemed to merge with the darkness of the wall. His step was cautious as he moved about the room.
Dark eyes sparkled as they observed the screen in the corner. The Shadow moved in that direction. He stopped. His black-gloved hand rested on the wall, close by the switch that controlled the wall brackets. Studying the screen, The Shadow laughed. The sound that came from his lips was a low, weird utterance.
The man in black carefully swung the end panel of the screen open. Then he began to move about the room.
His inspection was brief and thorough; but it yielded no tangible results. A letter lay upon a table, addressed to Jeremiah Benson. Its contents were of no importance.
The Shadow spied a telephone. He slipped quickly to the door, opened it, and peered into the hallway. Back he went, to the phone. His black-garbed finger dialed a number. A voice responded over the wire.
"Report," came The Shadow's order.
"Communication begun," came a quiet tone — the voice of Burbank. "Instructions given.
Awaiting regular report."
"Signal if necessary," said The Shadow. "Call this number" — he read from the mouthpiece of the phone "and use the false-number system."
"In emergency only?" came Burbank's voice.
"Emergency only," was The Shadow's low response.
The telephone was replaced and set exactly as it had been before. Then, the man in black performed a surprising action. He picked up a newspaper that lay beside a table, and quickly removed half a dozen of the inner sheets. Carrying them with him, he moved behind the screen.
He was out of sight for fully two minutes; then he reappeared from the other side of the screen. He seated himself in Jeremiah Benson's chair, just back from the window. There he waited, a silent, motionless figure, gazing toward the screen and the door beyond.
A key clicked at the door. The Shadow was on his feet, moving with incredible quickness. So rapid was his motion that when Benson entered, the man in black was no longer in view. Benson was accompanied by Delmuth. The two were engaged in conversation. Benson took the chair by the window. Delmuth sat opposite him. They talked in an abstract fashion for a while.
"Have a cigar?" questioned the old man.
"Sure thing," replied Delmuth. "I would enjoy one."
Benson arose and obtained a box of cigars from a table drawer. He paused, reached to the wall, and turned on the switch that controlled the wall brackets. This illuminated the portion of the room where he was standing, and he glanced at the box in his hands.
"These are the right ones," affirmed Benson. "I want you to try these Havanas, Delmuth."
He sat down in his accustomed chair and proffered the box of cigars. There was nothing in the old man's action to indicate that he might have noticed anything unusual.
But when he took a cigar himself, he lifted two, and then dropped one. It was a prearranged signal. Delmuth gave an imperceptible nod.
As the old man laid the box aside, the telephone bell rang. Benson answered it, spoke a few words, and hung up the receiver.
"Someone calling the wrong number," was his comment. "I thought maybe it was the call that I expected."
Delmuth, sitting by the window, was listening to the old man's comment. His ears failed to detect a slight noise that came from nearby.
"Well," said Delmuth, "I think I must be going. Glad to have seen you again, Benson."
"Wait a moment!" exclaimed the old man. "I haven't given you those addresses I promised. Here. I'll write them out for you."
Taking paper and pencil, the old man began to write. Sidney Delmuth was watching him, feigning careless interest.
Actually he was intently keyed upon the words that the old man's hand was forming: He is behind the screen. We will trap him. Remember the plan.
Close the door softly when you leave. I expected this. I noticed that the screen had been moved — saw it the moment I entered.
Delmuth folded the sheet of paper and placed it in his pocket. As he turned toward the door, his eyes glanced sidelong at the screen.
Jeremiah Benson's ruse had worked. The turning on of the wall lights had caused a dull glow to shine through the thin cloth screen, from the wall brackets behind.
Dimly visible in that filtered light was the crouching silhouette of a human figure!
Sidney Delmuth closed the door as he went out. It did not latch. Delmuth had wedged a wad of paper into the latch socket when he had come in with Benson.
In the deserted hall, Delmuth drew a revolver from his pocket. He placed his hand upon the knob of the door.
In the apartment, Jeremiah Benson stepped through the door that led to his bedroom.
There, in darkness, the old man drew an automatic.
With marked agility, he crept to the edge of the door and pointed his gun directly toward the screen in the corner of the living room. The muzzle covered the crouching shape.
Watching, Benson saw the door move open. Delmuth's hand came along the wall. It swept suddenly forward and toppled the screen toward the floor.
Benson was springing forward, his finger on the trigger of the gun that covered the area behind the screen. Simultaneously, Delmuth was coming through the door.
They were sweeping toward their prey — the man whom they believed was hiding in the corner of the room. Both were headed toward the same objective — death to The Shadow!
They stopped as suddenly as they had sprung. The silhouetted form had fallen forward with the screen. There was no one there!
Fastened flat against the inside of the center panel of the screen was a mass of newspaper, cunningly fashioned to resemble the silhouette of a man. The shadow that the plotters had fancied was the form of a living being was nothing more than a paper shape, designed to deceive them!
All that was needed to cap the climax of this artful deception was the sound of jibing laugh from without the window through which The Shadow had departed. That was The Shadow's way — to mock those whom he tricked. But the laugh was not forthcoming.
For The Shadow had departed the instant that he had heard the telephone conversation that Jeremiah Benson had held with the party who had called the wrong number. That had been Burbank's emergency signal!
Even now, The Shadow was talking on a telephone, half a block from the apartment house where Jeremiah Benson dwelt. He was receiving a report from Burbank; a report that told of interrupted plans of a wireless communication that had not been resumed as ordered. The Shadow swung out into the night. A swift, flitting figure, he moved unseen into the darkness and disappeared. No trace of him remained.
A few minutes later, a sleek, high-powered roadster was whirling southward along one of Manhattan's avenues. The muffled purr beneath the hood signified the terrific speed that lay in that powerful motor. As the car sped through the Holland Tunnel, a low, solemn laugh came from the driver. The man at the wheel was invisible in the darkness of the deep-seated car. The lighted dial of a dash-board clock showed half past twelve.
At quarter of one, the car was on the broad highway, sweeping onward at a pace that would have defied pursuit by the fastest motor-cycle patrolman. The giant motor roared in ceaseless rhythm. The speeding automobile shot along the road with bulletlike pace. Other cars, scenting its approach, swung to the side to let it pass.
The hands that held the wheel were steady and firm. The minute hand of the dashboard clock was creeping slowly upward. The pointer on the speedometer was wavering as it indicated a speed of one hundred and ten miles an hour. Yet the huge car, built to stand such a pace, held to the road unceasingly. The Shadow had work to do that night. He had sixty-five miles to go, and every moment was precious. A human life lay in the balance. Could he save it?
The Shadow never fails!