A VISIT TO PRINCE ZUVOR
LAMONT CRANSTON strolled into the Cobalt Club, and took his place in a comfortable chair. He looked about him, as though expecting to see some one. Then he languidly tapped a cigarette on a gold case, and leaned back in his chair.
A week had passed since Lamont Cranston’s chat with Prince Zuvor — the Russian who called himself Richard Albion. During that week, Cranston had been at the Cobalt Club infrequently; and then only for short stays. On his last visit, he had left a brief note for Richard Albion.
“Telephone, sir,” said an attendant, who approached the chair where Lamont Cranston was seated.
The millionaire arose slowly, and went to the private telephone room. He displayed no enthusiasm whatever. Even when he answered the phone, in a place free from observation, he acted in a most disinterested manner.
“This is Burbank,” came a voice over the wire. “Shall I talk to you now?”
“Everything all right at your end?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Go ahead then.”
“I have been watching Volovick — “
“Never mind the name, Burbank.”
“All right, sir. I have been watching the man. I have talked with him. I have learned nothing of importance except one very small detail.”
“Which is — “
“When he opened his wallet to take out some money, he pulled out a yellow card. It was a blank card; I saw both sides of it. But he put it away so quickly that I thought it might have some significance.”
“A yellow card, Burbank? Are you sure it was not a white one?”
“Positive, sir. I thought it was white for a moment; but when he held it in his hand, I noted that it was yellow. A pale yellow — almost white.”
“Where is the man now?”
“At the Pink Rat. He has been drinking a great deal.”
“All right, Burbank. Let him stay there. Go off duty. I’ll let you know when you are needed.”
Lamont Cranston sat in thought for a few minutes after he had hung up the receiver. Then he smiled.
“A yellow card,” he murmured. “Yellow — almost white. Volovick has been drinking. Rather a bad practice if he is engaged in active work.”
He drew a pad from his pocket, and wrote:
Black — A meeting to-night. Gray — Meeting: do not come if in danger. White — Work ended. No more meetings.
He paused momentarily; then added:
Yellow — No work or meetings until specially notified.
LAMONT CRANSTON laughed. The matter of Volovick had troubled him during the past few days. Now he understood that the man was temporarily inactive.
The millionaire left the telephone room. When he arrived in the lobby of the club, the doorman accosted him.
“Note just came for you, Mr. Cranston.”
Mr. Cranston opened the envelope and read the message. It was from Prince Zuvor. It bore the letterhead of a New York hotel. Lamont Cranston read it at a glance.
I shall be unable to meet you at the club as I had hoped. I do not expect to be there until the end of the week. But I am at home to-night. If you choose to call, you are welcome. But remember -
The abrupt termination of the message was a reminder of the previous conversation, when Zuvor had mentioned the dangers which surrounded him. The note was signed “Richard Albion.”
Lamont Cranston left the Cobalt Club. He summoned a taxicab. He drove directly to the home of Prince Zuvor.
When he reached his destination, he stood looking at the house, from the street. He did not appear to notice a large sedan that was parked opposite the house. He went up the steps and rang the bell.
He was admitted by the Russian servant, who conducted him upstairs, as soon as he gave his name. He was ushered into the front room, where the wolfhound walked silently over to greet him.
Prince Zuvor appeared.
“This is a pleasure,” exclaimed the prince, in a tone of welcome. “I had not expected you to accept my invitation.”
Lamont Cranston rose leisurely, and grasped Prince Zuvor’s hand.
“You did not expect me?” he asked.
“I did not,” replied the prince. “You recall, of course, the dangers that I mentioned. I had supposed that you would rely on your better judgment, after you had considered the matter.
“This house is watched. Those thick curtains are evidence of that fact. They are not merely ornaments.”
Lamont Cranston shrugged his shoulders.
“The danger does not worry me,” he said. “I would even welcome a bit of danger. My life is one of leisure. It grows monotonous at times.”
Prince Zuvor looked toward the large dog that was standing by Cranston. He snapped his fingers as a command for the wolfhound to retire to the corner. Then his gaze became fixed upon the floor, and Cranston detected a look of surprise upon his face.
“What is it?” asked the millionaire.
“Nothing,” replied Zuvor, lifting his head. “I was perplexed for a moment, that was all. Your shadow — here on the floor. It seems grotesque, when I look at it.”
Lamont Cranston smiled as he sat down.
“It must be the arrangement of the lights,” observed Prince Zuvor, glancing about the room. “It actually startled me for a moment.”
He looked toward the floor again, then added: “It is different now, when you are sitting down.”
“A shadow,” observed Cranston, “is a very unimportant thing. It has no life; in fact, it has no existence. It is, actually, nothingness.”
“Perhaps,” returned Zuvor, “but when one has undergone the experiences that I have, even a shadow can seem very real. Often I have seen shadows that were indications of living men. A shadow may betray the person who owns it, my friend.”
HE took a chair opposite the millionaire, and looked at Cranston thoughtfully.
“I have heard,” said Zuvor, “that there is a man whom they call The Shadow. He is a being who comes and goes, in the darkness of night.”
“Interesting, if true,” remarked Cranston. “I should be pleased to meet the fellow.”
“The Shadow;” mused Prince Zuvor, “is considered a reality by men of the criminal class. They mention his name with awe. They know that he exists — yet they have never managed to trace him.
“Even his purpose in life is a mystery. Some claim that he is a detective; others, that he is an archcriminal who thwarts the schemes of other crooks, and profits through them.”
“Even more interesting,” laughed Cranston. “Where did you learn of this mysterious person?”
“Through refugees whom I have aided,” replied Prince Zuvor. “Some of the unfortunates from Russia have been forced to mingle with low associates. Whenever they appeal to me for aid, I learn all about their actions. Two or three have mentioned The Shadow.
“My knowledge of criminal activities in New York is by no means small. I could give the police important information if I chose to do so. But criminals mean nothing in my life. Thieves — robbers — burglars — I fear none of them. Those who oppose me are more than criminals. They are agents of Moscow.”
“They are watching you now?” questioned Cranston.
“They are watching me always. You have told me very little of your past life, friend Cranston; but I know that you were familiar to some extent with the espionage system of the czarist government. It was considered to be an organization of clever men; was it not?”
Lamont Cranston nodded.
“The czar’s agents,” said Zuvor, “were children compared to the men who now receive their orders from Moscow. Why? Because the Red agents can find a haven in any country.
“Here in America, they are received by communist organizations. They are protected.
“Silent, and unseen, they hide behind a perfect smoke screen. They let the American radicals blurt and fume; they remain silent, and direct the work. No man can cope with them.”
“Not even The Shadow that you mentioned?”
“The Shadow? He may be a power among criminals. Faced by the Red organization, he would be helpless. His cloak of mystery would prove a thin, ineffective disguise. Whether he works alone, or depends upon other men, he would be utterly unable to combat the agents of Moscow.”
“Who directs them?”
“Ah!” exclaimed Prince Zuvor. “That in itself is a mystery. It is said that they work in groups, and that the leaders — men of nerve and cunning — receive their instructions from one higher up, a Red Envoy, whose power is greater than that of a government ambassador.
“These are facts which I have heard; but I cannot say that they are thoroughly reliable. My own knowledge is imperfect. I only know that the Moscow government pretends to have no connection with the Red Envoy.”
“He must be more remarkable than The Shadow,” observed Lamont Cranston, with enthusiasm. “Have you ever encountered him?”
“No!” exclaimed Prince Zuvor. “May I never do so! Those who are watching me are his agents. That is why I exercise great caution.
“I do not know when they may decide to strike. My life is a defensive one. I am not afflicted by fear — if that emotion should dominate me, I would go insane. My one controlling power is caution. Constant caution.”
“Your Russian servant. Can you trust him?”
“Ivan? He is a relic of the czarist time. Faithful and honest. He obeys my commands implicitly. He would sacrifice his life if he thought for an instant that I was in danger.”
“Why do you stay here?”
“I have work to do. While I still possess sufficient freedom to aid those friends of the old regime, I shall stay.
“The invisible meshwork of the Red organization has been growing closer. Soon it will close — threatening to ensnare me. Then I shall leave — as Berchik left; by a way known only to myself.”
“In the meantime,” said Lamont Cranston thoughtfully, “you must remember that I am your friend. While it would be inadvisable for me to become entangled in the snare of which you speak, still, I may be able to help you.”
Prince Zuvor bowed in appreciation.
“Those words are welcome, sir,” he said. “Our acquaintance has been a short one; but the emblem which you carry beneath your ring is a token that I recognize. Perhaps, when we meet again, I shall propose certain plans which — “
“Very good. You can always reach me by a message to the Cobalt Club. At present I am staying away from my home; in fact, I am constantly in and out of New York during the daytime.”
LAMONT CRANSTON rose, as though about to leave. Prince Zuvor stopped him with an upraised hand.
“The danger does not lie in coming here,” he said. “The real risk is in departing. You will be watched, to-night, if you leave this house as you came in — “
“I shall assume that risk,” replied Cranston.
“I can provide a certain means of departure,” offered the Russian. “A method whereby you can escape followers — “
Cranston shook his head.
“I do not fear them,” he said. “I doubt that these men will trail me very far. It is worth the experience, at least.”
The prince rang for Ivan, and the Russian servant escorted the millionaire to the front door.
Lamont Cranston stepped forth into the darkness of the night. He walked a few paces; then observed a taxicab, and hailed it. As he rode away, the millionaire glanced up at the house of Prince Zuvor. The front of the building was totally dark.
But the curtains were no longer drawn on the second floor, although that fact was not discernible from the street.
Prince Zuvor had extinguished the light in his room. He was watching the departing cab; and as it went into motion, he saw a car move from the opposite curb, swerving outward, as though in pursuit.
Prince Zuvor closed the curtains. He turned on a light in the room. His face was grim, and his lips moved as though he was talking to himself. Ivan entered. The prince’s face assumed its accustomed calm.
“Ivan,” said Zuvor in Russian, “that man is our friend. You must receive him as a friend — when he comes here again.”
Then, as an afterthought, he added, in English:
“If he comes here again.”