THE home of Doctor Jeremiah Brockbank was an old residence that had withstood the inroads of newer buildings in that vicinity. It stood like an old curio amid a mass of tall apartment buildings — a reminder of New York in the late ‘90s.
The house was closed. Its windows were boarded. The massive oak door was a formidable barrier.
There was nothing of value in the house — a casual observer could surmise that fact. The owner had been away for many months, and there was no indication of his return.
A shadow appeared in front of the building. It was only visible for a moment. Then it vanished. It did not reappear.
Behind the old house, in the darkness of a delivery alley, the same fleeting shadow crossed a spot of light.
A board came loose from a back window of the house. It seemed to move of its own volition, soundlessly, without the contact of a human hand. Another board followed. The window was raised.
Then the boards moved back into place.
No sound occurred as the window sash was lowered. Something from the blackness had entered the old house.
Only the boards had moved. Still, they were white in color, and white may be seen when it trembles in semidarkness. Eyes peering from a dark room in an apartment house behind the Brockbank residence had seen the motion of those white boards.
There was an immediate result. Stealthy forms crept up the delivery alley. Men in plain clothes stationed themselves on either side of the front of the Brockbank home. The back door was unlocked by a careful hand. Figures entered softly.
There was a light inside the house — a light that could not be detected outside. It was a tiny circle from an electric torch. It moved along the floor amid the sparsely furnished rooms. It arrived at the front stairs, and the person who carried it moved silently upward. The light stopped. It entered the room at the head of the stairs.
The light swept quickly about the room. It stopped on a telephone table. The dust-covered telephone was outlined; then the light was focused on a drawer.
The drawer came open. A thin white hand appeared. Nimble fingers moved through the drawer. They brought out a small key.
The light now sought an old-fashioned desk in a corner of the room. The hand that held the key unlocked the desk. It opened a drawer, and the light of the torch revealed a large brown envelope, thickly padded.
The light was carefully placed on the desk. Two hands, working with incredible smoothness, peeled back the flap of the envelope. Upon one hand was a ring with a stone that glowed a deep red.
It was the hand of The Shadow — the hand which wore the mysterious fire opal, a talismanic gem that seemed to protect its bearer from all harm.
The hands paused as they were taking the papers from the envelope. The light went out. From somewhere in the hall outside the room, the man in the darkness had heard a sound. He was listening now— listening with ears that were wonderfully acute — ears that could detect the slightest rustle.
No further sound occurred. The light flashed again. The papers were drawn completely from the envelope. The hands replaced a wad of folded blank papers.
One hand produced a tiny tube and applied a gummy substance to the opened flap of the envelope.
Delicate fingers smoothed the flap back into place. The envelope, perfectly sealed, was replaced in the drawer.
Out went the light. For nearly a minute absolute darkness prevailed.
A man was listening in that darkness. Not even his breathing disturbed the stillness. The light, still resting on the desk, came on again as the hands unfolded the original papers which had been taken from the envelope.
These papers were as blank as those that had been substituted!
THE hands remained motionless as though the mind directing them had been taken with surprise. Then came a low, almost inaudible laugh. It was a whispered laugh, scarcely more than a faint echo in the gloom.
The light was turned off; the hands reached the telephone table and replaced the key.
Silence prevailed for five full seconds. No one could have known that a man was moving through the darkness toward the door of the room. Perhaps it was that mysterious silence that brought action.
From somewhere in the house came a quick, short, trilling whistle. Some hand must have pressed a master switch. In an instant, the whole house was illuminated.
The little room at the head of the stairs was brilliant. Three men in plain clothes dashed up the stairs, headed for that room. Another— a tall fellow wearing a badge — stepped from a closet in the room. Two more closed in from the hallway. Every one of the six carried a loaded automatic.
In the midst of a suddenly formed group stood the object of their approach — a tall man clad in black.
The detectives stopped short. Their guns covered their victim. They waited before approaching him — waited the command of their leader, a short, stocky man who was one of those who had come up the stairs.
The stern, furrowed face of Stanley Warwick commanded the situation.
The Shadow was completely surrounded. He knew that all retreat was cut off — that, could he escape the men who surrounded him, he would encounter others downstairs and outside the house.
He stood motionless, awaiting capture. The collar of his cloak obscured his face. The broad-brimmed hat hid his forehead. Even his eyes were invisible. Their strange glow was lost in the brightness of the room.
The Shadow’s hands, hidden in the dark folds of his clothing, were pressed against his chest as though to hold his cloak about his face. Handcuffs jangled in Stanley Warwick’s fist.
The detectives waited for their chief to slip them on. Instead, Warwick waited. He stood firm and unyielding, viewing The Shadow as one might study a strange creature captured from the depths of the sea.
Stanley Warwick was perfect in his acting — so perfect that even The Shadow did not fathom his game.
The detective showed slight traces of surprise. He apparently had expected to find some other person there, in place of this black-clad figure. His pretense was so perfect that The Shadow wondered.
“The Shadow,” said Warwick quietly. “Still trying to conceal his identity! You thought, the other night, that you had deceived me. But I suspected you, even then.”
His meaning was plain to the man in black. Warwick was identifying The Shadow as Doctor Palermo, even though he did not mention the name.
It was cleverness on the part of the detective. He, like Thelda Blanchet, had received instructions from Palermo to deceive The Shadow, should he be captured. Not for one instant would Warwick reveal that he was working for other forces than those of the law.
Warwick seemed loath to use the handcuffs to complete the capture. There was a purpose in his waiting — a purpose founded on an explicit order from Palermo.
Warwick did not wish to capture The Shadow alive. He had planned the death of that man of mystery.
Even now he was turning events to his liking.
With his same deliberation, the detective approached and placed the handcuffs on The Shadow’s wrists.
He made no attempt to reveal his prisoner’s identity. He seemed chiefly concerned with the handcuffs, making sure that they were tightly locked.
He stepped behind The Shadow and planted the muzzle of his automatic between the prisoner’s shoulders.
“All right, men,” ordered Warwick. “I’ve got him all right. Go outside, and form along the stairs. I’ll march him down.”
The plainclothes men obeyed.
WARWICK waited, positive that The Shadow would make an effort to escape. And that action would spell his doom. Two detectives were posted on either side of the door, in the hallway. Encountering them, The Shadow would be forced to run the gamut of the stairs.
Any hesitation would lay him open to Warwick’s bullets from behind. Every man in plain clothes had been instructed to shoot the moment escape was attempted. Warwick counted on them to wound and stop The Shadow.
He himself would fire the fatal shot.
“Move,” said Warwick, and pressed the gun more firmly between The Shadow’s shoulders.
The detective did not want to kill his prisoner openly; he required a pretext to explain the killing to his men. Now the moment was at hand. Warwick expected The Shadow to duck and dive for the door.
Instead, the prisoner turned suddenly. As he turned, he extended his shoulder blade. The unexpected twist knocked the muzzle of Warwick’s automatic to one side. The detective fired, the barest fraction of a second too late.
Leaping back, he pointed his gun toward the handcuffed prisoner. As Warwick’s finger again pressed the trigger, The Shadow swung his manacled wrists downward. He hit the gun with the handcuffs. The bullet was diverted to the floor; the automatic fell from Warwick’s clutch.
Upward came those steel-joined wrists. The body of the handcuffs met Stanley Warwick’s square chin.
The detective’s head went back as he fell.
Wheeling toward the doorway, The Shadow kicked the half-opened door. It swung shut in the faces of the plainclothes men. The Shadow sprang to the door and locked it.
There was pandemonium outside. The man in sable black appeared not to notice it.
The keys to the handcuffs were in the possession of the unconscious detective; but The Shadow chose a quicker way to release himself.
The telephone table had an old-fashioned marble top. The Shadow swung his hands downward, striking the cuffs against the projecting edge of the table top. The marble cracked from the forceful blow. One arm of the handcuffs sprang open.
Another heavy stroke and The Shadow’s other hand was free. Silently, swiftly, the tall man removed his black cloak and hat.
The detectives were crashing at the door. The barrier began to break beneath their blows. Above the uproar came a sharp cry from within the room.
The men stopped as they recognized the voice of their chief, punctuated by a pistol shot.
“Hold it,” came Warwick’s voice. “I’ve finished him. Stand by. I’m opening the door.”
The key turned in the lock. The door opened inward. A gray-clad arm indicated a huddled figure in black that lay on the floor, face downward, with the broad-brimmed hat beside it.
“I shot him,” Warwick’s tones same from beside the door. The soft gray hat obscured the speaker’s face.
“Pick him up and carry him out.”
The detectives surged forward. Two of them lifted the limp body. The face came into view.
“It’s the chief!” cried one of the men.
THE others leaped toward the door, just as a gray-coated figure flashed from view. Shots followed; but they were wide.
Then did the detectives realize the ruse. The Shadow — with incredible speed — had donned Warwick’s coat and had enveloped the detective in the black cloak. He had even clipped handcuffs on Warwick’s wrists!
“Get him!” came the cry from the top of the stairs.
A man stationed at the front door heard the shout. He was bewildered for an instant as he saw the form of Stanley Warwick approaching him. Then he realized that the oncoming man was taller than his chief.
Before he could act, the detective fell beneath a sweeping punch. The front door opened. The escaping prisoner stepped forth, deliberately closing the door behind him.
The lights of the street did not betray his false identity. The Shadow had not assumed the features of Stanley Warwick but his pose was a perfect imitation of the detective.
With his head turned down, he glanced swiftly in both directions. He waved his thumb over his shoulder, and issued a command in Warwick’s customary tones.
“Inside men,” he ordered. “Make it snappy! We’ve got our man!”
Two detectives came from the front of the building. The man with the gray hat stepped to the sidewalk as they dashed up the steps. The front door opened before their arrival. Two men in plain clothes burst forth.
“There he goes!” cried one, indicating the man with the gray coat and hat, who was moving swiftly along the street.
Shots came from steps. They were answered by a gibing laugh that tantalized the pursuers. The range was too great for accuracy.
The detectives hurried to the sidewalk, in time to see their quarry disappear around the corner. When they reached the spot, their quarry was nowhere in sight.
The Shadow, superman of action, had escaped. Still living, he could block Palermo’s crimes.
Nevertheless, the keen-minded physician had scored a victory. That night, Stanley Warwick issued a statement that put in effect new police orders.
A dangerous criminal had eluded the police. All officers were instructed to watch for him. His name was not known; but his alias had been revealed.
The Shadow was wanted!