ON THE TRAIN DE LUXE
A MAN came down the corridor of a car on the train de luxe that was moving swiftly toward Berlin. He reached a compartment, and entered. He closed the door, and seated himself with a quiet chuckle.
He glanced at a newspaper, and noted that two Americans were attempting to fly the Atlantic.
“Americans,” he muttered in English. “Bah! I have seen enough of Americans and America.”
The man noted an account of an explosion in New York City. His eyes lighted as he looked for details; but the report was meager. Even the time was not given. Twenty people were reported killed. A building had collapsed.
The man folded the paper, and leaned back in his seat. He began to doze. The train rolled steadily onward. It had made a stop half an hour before; the next station would be reached in another half hour.
The wind began to sweep against the window, and rain appeared there. The window was totally black; darkness held sway. The train passed through a tunnel; smoke poured by the window.
The man in the compartment had fallen asleep.
The knob of the door began to turn. The door opened slowly. As it swung inward, nothing was revealed except a blackness in the corridor. Then that blackness assumed a human form. A man stepped in and closed the door.
The sleeper stirred, but did not awaken. The man who had entered began a close search of the compartment. He came to the man who dozed.
The sleeper was a man of middle age with aristocratic features. His hair was gray; he wore a close-clipped mustache, apparently of recent growth.
The mysterious visitor leaned over the occupant of the compartment. His black cloak seemed to envelop the sleeper, as it obscured him from view. When the man in black stepped away, his hand held a thin package of folded papers.
He stood there, studying the man before him. The man in black seemed to have no face; it was entirely hidden by his upturned collar, and by the brim of his dark hat. His form cast a huge, fantastic shadow. The mysterious man laughed softly.
The sound awakened the sleeper. The man of aristocratic appearance was leaning with his head turned to one side.
As he opened his eyes, he saw the shadow on the seat beside him. He looked up quickly. His face paled; his arms dropped helplessly. An expression of complete astonishment came over him.
“The Shadow!” he exclaimed.
The figure in black bowed.
“I am pleased to meet you, Prince Zuvor,” he said, in a sinister whisper. “I am surprised to find you here in Germany.”
THE seated man bit his lips. He raised himself, as he regained his composure. He watched the figure as it moved backward toward the door.
“The Shadow,” said Prince Zuvor musingly. “Strange that I should think of that name. I discussed The Shadow once, with a friend of mine — a gentleman named Cranston. Do you chance to know him — Lamont Cranston?”
There was a suave calmness in the man’s voice. Completely recovered from his first surprise, he was endeavoring to cover his mistake.
“Prince Zuvor,” said The Shadow, in the same uncanny whisper, “we have met in various places, under different identities.
“Perhaps you believe that you know who I am. I can assure you that you are wrong.
“Perhaps you believe that I did not recognize you the last time we met. If so, you are wrong again. The crimson mask that disguised your face was not sufficient — especially when I tell you that I had previously learned that Prince Zuvor and the Red Envoy were one individual.”
The Russian smiled.
“I suspected you each time I met you,” said The Shadow tersely. “I was suspicious at the Cobalt Club, when you invited me to come to your house — at my own risk.
“When I did call to see you, your suggestion that I leave by your secret exit was just a bit overdone. So I came again, to take advantage of your suggestion.
“Of course, I was prepared. I had learned of Berchik’s death.”
The smile faded from Prince Zuvor’s countenance. The Shadow spoke as though he was about to reveal new discoveries.
“Strange,” whispered The Shadow. “Strange, was it not, that your servant, Fritz Bloch, was never at your house? I suspected why.
“Fritz did not exist. He was a pretense — you — in disguise. Prince Zuvor never stood face to face, with Fritz, until a few nights ago. Then two of us had other personalities.
“I was Prince Zuvor. Ivan Shiskin became Fritz Bloch.”
Bewilderment registered itself on the Russian’s features. Then his expression became one of silent anger.
“That is how Ivan happened to attend the Red meeting,” said The Shadow. “Of course Prokop gave him the bomb. You had arranged the gray card, so that Prokop would not be surprised when Fritz did not appear; but Fritz did appear.
“He used the bomb, too, for which I am very sorry; because he lost his life. The fact that Prokop and all his agents also died does not lessen my grief for Ivan.”
Prince Zuvor could not believe his ears. Twenty killed in an explosion! It was not an exaggeration, after all. His eyes turned unconsciously toward the newspaper.
“Ah!” The Shadow’s tone expressed approval. “I see that you are interested in my transatlantic flight.
“It was on your account that I made that journey. I had to make up for lost time. Lieutenant Branson will receive credit for it, even though I took his place. I could easily have reached Berlin; but I preferred to complete my trip on this train de luxe.”
THE Russian could not restrain the gasp that escaped his lips. He stared at the man before him, and his hopes fell, as he realized the superhuman ability of his opponent.
“Your game was a clever one, Prince Zuvor,” said The Shadow. “I do not care whether you played it by choice, or whether it was forced upon you. The result was the same.
“It was pleasant to live in New York, as a representative of the former aristocracy of Russia, and to hold the position of Red Envoy, also. One protected the other.
“You could trap your czarist friends without suspicion. As Fritz Bloch, you reported Prince Zuvor’s doings. As the Red Envoy, you could prevent Prokop from molesting Prince Zuvor. And through it all, Ivan was faithful to his master.”
The Shadow ceased speaking, and stood silent, his black cloak swaying with the motion of the train. It seemed almost as though he was lost in admiration of Prince Zuvor’s cleverness. His next remark carried that thought.
“So now you return to Russia, Prince Zuvor. Very well; return if you wish. But first you will hand over to me the plans which you stole from Professor Whitburn. Where are they?”
Prince Zuvor quietly folded his arms in front of his body. He could feel the pressure of a thick envelope beneath his coat.
“They are in the lining of my traveling bag,” he said. “Open it, and take them. You deserve some reward for your efforts.”
The Shadow ignored the sarcastic tone. He leaned forward, and carefully opened the bag. His back was partly turned. Prince Zuvor whipped his right hand from beneath his coat, and swung an automatic toward the leaning man.
But The Shadow was alert. He caught the Russian’s wrist with a grip of steel. A twist, and the revolver dropped to the floor.
The Shadow removed the papers from the lining of the bag. He examined them, at the same time watching Prince Zuvor. The Russian’s face flamed with intense anger and suppressed rage.
“These are Professor Whitburn’s plans,” said The Shadow. “I appreciate your willingness in delivering them to me.
“I shall leave you now. You are going back to Russia” — his voice became a total whisper — “to Russia — the land where failure means death!”
The door of the compartment swung inward, as The Shadow released it. The black form seemed to melt into the darkness of the dim corridor.
The door was drawn shut; The Shadow was gone. But as he disappeared, a laugh came from his invisible lips — a taunting laugh.
Prince Zuvor snatched the revolver from the floor. He stood in the center of the compartment, watching the door. Then he resumed his seat.
He smiled, as he held the gun in readiness, while he thrust his other hand deep in the lining of his coat, and drew forth a long envelope.
As though to enjoy the triumph which he felt, Prince Zuvor opened the envelope, in which he carried exact duplicates of Professor Whitburn’s plans — copies which he had made on the Dresden. Still watching the door, the Russian spread the papers in his lap.
“Fool!” he hissed. “Fool, called The Shadow! You thought because I drew a revolver that I was fighting to keep my only set of plans. You are welcome to those you took. These will serve me every bit as well!”
He looked at the papers in his lap. They were blank!
HE turned them over — both sides were blank. Nervously, the Russian dropped his revolver, and it clattered to the floor. As Zuvor spread the blank sheets, he heard a laugh that came from the other side of the closed door.
The truth dawned on Prince Zuvor. The Shadow had entered without awakening him, and had taken the duplicate plans from his coat, substituting these blank papers instead.
The Red Envoy had been tricked into delivering up the original plans. He had given them with a pretense of reluctance; he had even made a gesture to recover them.
For he had felt the packet in his coat, and had been sure that the duplicates were safe.
By his subtle methods, The Shadow had led Zuvor to reveal the set of plans that were in the traveling bag, and now the Red Envoy held nothing. The man in the compartment groaned.
The details of Professor Whitburn’s invention were too complicated to be remembered without the plans themselves, he could not rely upon his memory.
He had stolen the plans; he had brought them with him. He had reached Germany, where he was beyond the reach of the agents of the United States government.
But he had not escaped The Shadow — that man who could span an ocean when he set out in pursuit.
The Russian leaped to the door of the compartment. He unlocked the door, and stared up and down the corridor. There was no sign of the man who had emitted that uncanny laugh. Yet the sound of the taunting merriment still echoed through Prince Zuvor’s maddened brain.
He closed the door, and slumped into his seat.
“To Russia — the land where failure means death!”
The Shadow’s words were true. Even the Red Envoy must report to one higher up, exactly as the agents had reported to Prokop, and Prokop to the Red Envoy.
The situation was terrifying to Prince Zuvor. As a renegade royalist, he had worked long to obtain his position of immunity. In order to maintain his security against enemies, he had promised to bring the plans of Professor Whitburn’s invention, that his superiors might make use of it before it had reached the American government.
The train was slowing as it neared a station. Prince Zuvor did not notice the slackening speed. He sat motionless, dazed and staring. He knew that he had failed; he realized that no excuse would be accepted.
When the train de luxe reached Berlin, a startling discovery was made.
The body of a man — a Russian — was found in a compartment. The dead man was identified as Prince Zuvor, a member of the old regime.
His death was pronounced suicide. He had swallowed poison. The bottle which had contained the death-dealing fluid was lying on the seat beside the body.