Steve Cronin looked over his shoulder as he walked through the lobby of the old hotel in Harrisburg. There was no one in view except the clerk behind the desk, yet the gangster felt uneasy.
"Must be getting the willies," he observed to himself as he walked up the steps, ignoring the antiquated elevator. "Funny I never felt this way before."
He paused at the door of his room. He looked back along the corridor. It was very dim back there — dim and shadowy. He stared for half a minute as though he expected some movement in the darkness. Then he opened his door, slipped his hand cautiously through the narrow space, and turned the switch.
He entered the room quickly, looked about him, and closed the door. The brightness was somewhat reassuring, yet Cronin was not content until he had peered beneath the bed and in the closet. Then he lowered the window shade.
The gangster sat in the chair which Harry Vincent had occupied on the previous night.
"Funny," he murmured. "First time I ever felt nervous like this. Always laughed at guys that acted like they were scared. But to-night — whew!"
He looked toward the closed door.
"Even the stairs," he muttered. "They creaked like blazes. This must be an old place, all right. Sounded funny, though. Wouldn't have thought that I could have made all that noise coming up. Sounded like somebody was with me! Could have been, too, in all that darkness."
He went to his grip and brought out a bottle. He took a long drink. Then he went back to the chair.
Three taps on the door. Cronin started. He gripped the arms of the chair for a moment. Then he laughed.
"Wally," he said. "Only Wally."
He unlocked the door and opened it, stepping back quickly. His henchman, Wally, looked at him, and Cronin was momentarily startled by the long shadow that was silhouetted upon the floor. Then he laughed again. He turned and walked back toward the window. Wally followed him.
Steve Cronin turned suddenly. He saw the door still open. He stepped rapidly across the room to close and lock it.
"What's the idea, Wally?" he demanded. "You ought to have enough sense to close a door in back of you."
Wally stared in surprise.
"What's the matter, Steve?" he asked. "You look kind o' queer to-night. Sort o' pale, ain't you? What's up?"
"Nothing," growled Cronin as he sat in the chair by the window. He lighted a cigarette.
"Yeah," reaffirmed Wally, "you look worried."
"Maybe I am," admitted Cronin. "I'm going to forget it, though. Guess I've been jumping around too much lately. I don't know when this hit me, Wally. About a half an hour ago, I guess, in the restaurant."
"What was the matter?"
"Nothing. That's the trouble. While I was sitting there, it seemed as though somebody was looking at me.
There were some people there, but none of them was paying any attention to me. When I looked around it was all right, but as soon as I began to eat again, I felt just like I had before."
"Huh," grunted Wally.
"All right," said Steve Cronin. "That wasn't all of it. As I was looking at the table, a big shadow fell right in front of me. A shadow like a man's head, with eyes like fire that burned into you. Then it was gone. I looked up quick. Nobody near me."
* * *
WALLY made no reply.
"All the way back to the hotel," continued Cronin, "it seemed like some one was following me. Through the lobby — up the stairs."
"All over a shadow. Shadows can't bother anybody."
"They can't, eh? I didn't think so, either. But there was a guy I knew once — a fellow they called Croaker. He went nuts over a shadow. Thought it was alive and following him. He wasn't any good at all after that. The boys bumped him off for double-crossing them, and I heard that when he went out he was still crying about The Shadow."
"All bunk, Steve."
"Bunk, nothing. I saw the guy the same night he died. He was telling me about The Shadow. He thought it was real. It made me laugh. But he wouldn't take much to convince me now that there is a real person — a real person called The Shadow."
There was silence for a moment. Steve Cronin took another drink and put the bottle back in the suitcase.
"Well," he said in a forced tone of briskness, "it looks like we're out of luck, Wally."
"There ain't no sign of this guy Meyers," replied the henchman. "I've been watching for him. He's gone, all right."
"Then he's back in Cleveland. He never stays away more than two days. I'll have to go back and begin operating again."
"Guess that's the best thing. Say, Steve. What about the guy we — the guy last night?"
"Him?" Cronin laughed. "He's out. You saw what I did. He didn't have a shoemaker's chance."
"Nothin' in the papers about it."
"Say, Wally, do you think that means anything? Maybe they haven't got the news yet. Even if they have, what of it? Thousands go out that way every year — clipped on railroad crossings. They don't call that news any more."
"Ought to've been in the papers, I think."
"Listen. I stopped at the station last night. Took a squint at the bulletin board. That train was forty-five minutes late. It was on time when we heard it whistling. Had about eighteen more miles to go. What do you think made it late? Maybe the engineer got out to pick some buttercups."
"I get it, Steve," laughed Wally. "The loco must have knocked that touring car galley-west."
"And left no traces of the mug who was in it," added Steve. "They probably thought the car had been abandoned. Forget that guy, Wally. Nobody will ever hear of Harry Vincent again."
Steve went to the desk and turned on the little lamp. He consulted a time-table.
"Eight fifteen now," he said. "There's a train for Cleveland about nine o'clock. Plenty of time for me to make it. That's where I'm going. You hang around here a while if you want. Take another look up at the hotel, then clear out for Philly."
"We'll give up this Meyers proposition, then?"
"Yeah. Wally, I think I've got the wrong dope this time. The guy never came to Harrisburg before. He couldn't have done it very well and got back to Cleveland as quick as he used to. This must be a new proposition he's on. But he would have got back as quick as possible. So I figure he's there now, like I said. I'll pick up his trail again. I'd like to know why he came here — but there's no way to find out."
"Well, all I know is he got in at nine thirty and was back at the station by ten o'clock."
"Maybe he went right out to Cleveland again. There's a train around ten thirty, I think."
"Guess that's what he did."
Steve Cronin tossed a few articles in the bag.
"I'll run along, Steve," said Wally. "If I see him up at the hotel, I'll drop over to the station before you leave."
He unlocked the door and went out. Cronin continued packing. Wally had closed the door, but Steve did not bother to lock it, although he kept his eyes upon it.
"Feel creepy again," he mumbled. "Guess I'll hop for the station."
He walked to the door. He turned out the light, then noticed that he had left the desk lamp burning. The room was gloomy and shadowy under the dim illumination.
He placed one hand on the doorknob. Then he glanced into the nearest corner — a space alongside the bed. It was quite dark there, and the blackness seemed to be actually solid.
"Whew," said Steve Cronin aloud. "Look at that shadow! Looks real."
He laughed, but without enjoyment.
"Maybe it is real," he declared. "Hello, shadow! Let's see you wake up!"
His nerve was returning as he uttered the words. But hardly had he finished speaking before his blood was chilled. His hand became limp upon the doorknob.
For the blackness at which he gazed began to move. It did not move toward him. It moved straight upward. It rose like a huge sable specter — a thing that was living, yet which seemed uncanny in the dimness.
Steve Cronin's fear-glazed eyes distinguished the outline of a black cloak with a broad-brimmed black hat that seemed to merge with the form beneath. From between the hat and the cloak glared two eyes that shone like beads of fire!
Then came the voice — a low, ghostly voice; a voice deeper than a whisper. It was a voice that made Steve Cronin tremble, and its tones were weird and chilling.
"Steve Cronin," it said, "I am The Shadow. You summoned me, and I am here."
Silence. The crook could not move. The figure remained motionless, yet real.
"Steve Cronin," said the voice of The Shadow, "I have watched you. Once before I watched you."
Again a pause, and then the voice:
"One time more will be the last. That is my warning. Three times will mean your doom."
Steve's eyes were half shut.
"Your doom," repeated the voice.
Still Steve Cronin was powerless. He did not move, even when a long arm came slowly upward and stretched forward until a black-gloved finger showed directly in front of the gangster's eyes.
"You have heard my warning," said the voice. Its tones were sinister. "I seldom give a warning. This is the only one — for you."
There was a sibilant hiss to the voice. Then came a single, emphatic word:
"Go!"
The figure seemed to dwindle as it merged into the darkness. Two burning spots glowed dull and disappeared. Steve Cronin's limbs gained a sudden strength of frenzied fear. A low, gasping scream escaped his lips as he yanked the door open and half flung himself into the hall. A sound followed him from the room — it was a mirthless, mocking laugh!
He had seen The Shadow! It was real! It had spoken! It had looked at him with its eyes of fire!
At the stairway Cronin paused in his flight. He steadied himself against the rail. He set his suitcase on the floor and drew a revolver from his pocket.
With shaking steps he stole softly back along the hall. He waited outside the open door for an instant, then thrust his hand against the switch, which he could see in the light from the desk lamp. He was in the room, facing that same corner, with his gun before him.
The room was empty!
Steve Cronin made a hurried search. Under the bed — in the closet. No one there. He stopped at the window. The shade was fully two inches higher than it had been before. He peered out into the darkness.
He could see nothing.
The gangster laughed in a relieved way. He reached to turn off the desk lamp. His hand trembled. A card lay before him. On it, in printed characters, were the words:
REMEMBER. ONCE MORE WILL MEAN YOUR DOOM.
The revolver nearly fell from Cronin's weakened fingers. With feigned boldness he managed to thrust it in his pocket. He still stared at the card with its ominous words. Then suddenly the writing faded. The card was blank!
Steve Cronin rushed from the room. He staggered down the stairs, his suitcase knocking against the rail.
He hailed a cab that was outside the hotel. His voice quivered as he directed the driver to take him to the station.
Cronin's train pulled out at nine o'clock. Alone in a compartment, the westward-bound crook sat huddled and unnerved. Steve feared pursuit, even though he was doing his utmost to escape The Shadow's wrath. Steve wondered where The Shadow had headed from Harrisburg. He might have guessed the answer had he left the city by air, instead of by train.
At that same hour — nine o'clock — an airplane took off from the Harrisburg airport. Its lone occupant was a black-cloaked pilot, whose figure was almost invisible at the controls of the fleet monoplane.
The ship's course was eastward, heading directly toward New York. As it roared low over the Pennsylvania countryside, its broad wings glinted in the moonlight, and cast a wide, spreading, moving shadow on the ground below.