MARCUS HOLTMANN was resting wearily upon the floor of his subterranean dungeon. He was no longer confined within the restraining folds of the straitjacket, yet his arms were huddled before his body.
The prisoner seemed still to feel the gripping clutch of the torturing device. The paleness of his blistered face, the weariness of his racked body, and the drooping of his head were indications of the ordeal which he had undergone.
The door of the dungeon opened. Frederick Froman, stolid-faced as ever, entered the gloomy room and stared steadily at the man before him. Holtmann, with apparent weakness, raised his head to meet the gaze of his captor.
No words were exchanged for the moment. Froman wore a look of satisfaction, but gave no sign of elation. Holtmann bore the appearance of a beaten man.
A harsh laugh came from Froman. It was filled more with contempt than with ridicule. He seemed to be eyeing his victim’s plight with the air of a connoisseur who had seen many others in the same position.
“If you have suffered,” he remarked coldly, “you have no one to blame except yourself. I offered you the opportunity to escape the agony which you underwent. You chose otherwise. The result was the same. You have spoken.”
Holtmann offered no reply.
“Perhaps,” said Froman dryly, “it will interest you to know that I have already utilized the information which you so kindly gave me. Therefore, I have no further use for you.”
A questioning light appeared in the captive’s eyes. Did these words mean hope or tragedy? Froman saw the question that was in Holtmann’s mind. He smiled.
“You are wondering about your release,” he said quietly. “That, I regret to say, is something which cannot be granted for the present. I suppose that by now the purpose of my actions has dawned upon you.
“There is no reason why I should add hazards to those that already exist. Therefore, I intend to keep you here for a while longer. You shall be my guest while you remain.”
With these words, Froman turned and raised the curtainlike door behind him. A tall henchman appeared, carrying a tray of food. For the first time, interest gleamed in Holtmann’s wearied eyes. The tray was laid upon the floor before him.
“An excellent dinner,” observed Froman. “Soup, entree, and dessert. I trust that you will enjoy the preserved peaches as the climax of your meal. I can assure you that they are excellent.”
The mild tone of Froman’s voice brought reassurance to Marcus Holtmann. His weak hands stretched toward the food. Froman laughed and turned away, followed by his retainer. The door closed behind them. Holtmann began to eat eagerly; then his strength failed momentarily, and he devoured the food more slowly.
OUTSIDE the closed barrier, the elevator rose to the cellar above. Frederick Froman’s face was smiling when it came under the rays of light at the top of the secret shaft. He and his henchman stepped from the lift. The elevator descended.
Froman continued upstairs until he reached the second floor. He glanced at his watch; then turned to the man beside him.
“It is approaching ten o’clock,” he said in Russian. “At twenty minutes past the hour you will return below. You understand?”
The henchman duplicated his master’s gloating smile as he nodded.
Seated in a chair in the front room, Froman drew a box of panatellas toward himself, and lighted one of the long cigars. Puffing slow wreaths of smoke, he became buried in thought. Once, he reached for the telephone beside him; then shook his head, and resumed his pondering, staring directly at the opposite wall.
Here, in this upstairs room, Froman was free from observation and intruders. The only means of entrance lay from the floor below. There, Froman’s servants were constantly on guard, secure behind triple-barred doors.
As a gentleman of wealth and leisure, Frederick Froman was able to pursue his affairs unmolested. Those affairs now savored of crime; yet they remained totally unsuspected by the police of New York.
The smile that seemed molded on the light-haired man’s face betokened the security that he felt. That smile might have faded had Froman turned his head.
Behind him, at the side of the room, a window curtain was slowly rising. It revealed a mass of gaping black. The sash beyond was open.
Two eyes gleamed from the darkness. Cold, piercing eyes, they noted the single occupant of the room.
They paused as Froman suddenly aroused from his lethargy.
The blackness began to waver as though retiring to the night. Then, as Froman picked up the telephone, the blackness advanced, and a portion of it lengthened into a long, eerie shadow that stretched across the floor.
Frederick Froman was calling the number of Parker Noyes. Just as he began his conversation, the form at the window took on a human shape. The sound of Froman’s voice drowned any noise made by the lowering of the sash and blind.
“Sixteen days…” Froman was speaking in a troubled tone. “It is very long… Yes, I know I should not call you so often, but this is important… I have sent the message. You understand? I told them twelve days, not sixteen… Yes, in code, with all the information… Let it remain at twelve. Affairs will be safe in Riga for a few days. Yes, Holtmann has told the exact location. They are prepared to strike…”
As Froman spoke, the strange figure was standing only a few feet away. Tall and somber in his black array, The Shadow was listening and watching as Froman continued.
“Holtmann?” Froman’s tone was contemptuous. “He is below. He will not be there long. By twenty minutes after ten” — Froman broke off as he stared toward a clock on the mantelpiece — “that is in ten minutes — he will no longer annoy me… Yes, I understand… It is wise to forget him…”
Swiftly, The Shadow was moving across the room. He glided through the open door without being sighted by Froman. The voice at the telephone dwindled as the form in black descended the stairs to the first floor.
ONE of Froman’s men was standing with his back toward the bottom of the stairs. The black-nosed muzzle of an automatic was visible in The Shadow’s gloved hand.
Had the henchman turned to spy the approaching figure, it would have been his last act. But The Shadow was not here to strike. His objective was the hall below the stairs. With infinite caution, he crept slowly downward, and stepped with noiseless tread as he gained the spot he sought.
Gliding into a room past the stairs, The Shadow pursued his stealthy course. Prowling noiselessly and invisibly, he discovered a low door that indicated the cellar stairs. Opening the door, The Shadow descended and reached the stone-floored basement.
Here the single light showed nothing but solid walls at the side, and cement blocks beneath. Softly, The Shadow traversed the room.
His hand moved as the butt of the automatic tapped each wall. The phantom in black paused to listen. He had discovered a hollow spot.
With great care, The Shadow examined the structure of the wall. His keen eyes could discover no secret opening. The black figure stood in solemn thought. Then it seemed moved by sudden inspiration.
With amazing intuition, The Shadow had realized the significance of the hollow wall. It was the vertical space that received the curtainlike door that barred the dungeon below. The Shadow’s eyes were staring toward the floor. He had suspected the presence of a cavity beneath the cellar. His keen gaze would be sure to discover the opening.
The cracks that divided the blocks of concrete came under The Shadow’s inspection. Shrewd eyes saw the slight elevation of one block. The Shadow’s gaze swept the room; then turned upward. Above him hung the single light. It was located just away from the edge of the bulging block.
With a soft laugh, The Shadow extended one hand upward and grasped the wire above the lamp socket.
He drew the wire downward. It yielded for the distance of about one foot. The block in the center of the floor began to rise.
The Shadow released the wire. The elevator kept ascending until its base reached the level of the cellar floor.
Stooping, The Shadow stepped beneath the rooflike surface of the supported block. Upon one of the posts he discovered a switch. He pressed it, and the elevator descended. This was the mechanism used to operate the lift from within.
The cleverly contrived wire that supported the lamp socket was the device that enabled one to operate the elevator when it was needed from below.
In the corridor beneath the cellar, The Shadow found the barrier to Marcus Holtmann’s dungeon. He turned the knob, and the door moved upward.
Less than ten minutes after leaving Froman’s room, The Shadow had discovered the hidden prison!
MARCUS HOLTMANN was seated on the floor, leaning against the wall. He was finishing his repast — the first that he had enjoyed since his incarceration. In one hand he held the saucer that had contained the preserved peaches.
Holtmann’s eyes were wide as he stared toward the opened door. As The Shadow entered, and the barrier dropped behind him, Holtmann’s hands trembled, and the saucer clattered and cracked upon the floor. The presence of the stranger in black was formidable and awe-inspiring.
Choking gasps came from Holtmann’s throat as he tried to speak to this amazing visitant. Then he caught the glint of the eyes beneath the brim of the slouch hat. They were stern, flashing eyes, yet in them the pitiful prisoner detected the light of friendliness.
Holtmann tried to rise, and sank back. The Shadow was beside him, lifting his helpless body. Then a choking scream came from Holtmann’s lips.
His form doubled, and he pressed his hands to his body. Twisting in new and unexpected torture, he toppled from The Shadow’s grasp, and lay writhing on the floor.
The Shadow’s eyes saw the broken fragments of the saucer. Quick understanding shone in those gleaming orbs. Then, as the figure in black stepped swiftly forward to aid the anguished prisoner, The Shadow’s thought was uttered by the victim.
“I am poisoned!” Holtmann’s cry was a hoarse scream. “Poisoned, because I spoke—”
His voice broke as his eyes stared, not toward the apparition who had come to save him, but toward the steel door beyond. The curtain had risen, and framed in the doorway stood the grim henchman who had come to the dungeon at Froman’s order.
The Shadow was stooping over Holtmann. He turned swiftly as he saw the poisoned man’s gaze.
Already, the Russian retainer was launched in a mighty spring from the steps. A huge dirk gleamed in his clenched fist.
The Shadow’s automatic was in readiness; but he never used it. He flung the gun aside, as though to avoid a shot that would spread the alarm if heard. Strange action, in this buried cell, where sounds would be deadened!
Rising, The Shadow met his foeman’s leap. The two forms went down from the force of the meeting.
The heavy Russian was swinging the knife; but before his blow could strike home, his wrist was caught in a grip more solid than the steel of his weapon.
Locked in a mighty struggle, the fighters strained to the utmost. The Russian was a huge brute, yet all his strength was not enough. As minutes went by, the silent conflict continued grimly, while Marcus Holtmann writhed grotesquely on the floor beside the strugglers.
The threatening knife never budged from its position. The hand that held it could not move an inch, despite the power that was being exerted. Arm to arm, and hand to wrist, The Shadow and his antagonist were lodged in a deathlike clasp.
But one was fighting a hopeless battle. That one was the Russian henchman. He did not realize, during those tense moments, that The Shadow was merely holding him at bay, waiting for his strength to fade.
The glowering Muscovite could not see the face before him. Two eyes alone gleamed from uncanny depths.
For an instant, the Russian’s power slackened. That was the sign that The Shadow had been awaiting.
Muscles bulged beneath the black, gripping gloves. With superhuman strength, The Shadow rose slowly and steadily from the floor, raising his massive foeman straight up in the air.
In wild fury, the Russian clawed the air. He wrested his right wrist free, and swung a savage thrust with the knife. The blow came too late. As his hand began its swing, Froman’s henchman was hurled upward and forward. His body somersaulted backward.
The knife-wielding hand was too late to break the terrific fall. The big Russian landed squarely on his skull. His body sprawled upon the floor, and his neck twisted crazily. His back rested flat on the stone base of the room. His face was turned almost directly downward.
The mania to kill had been the man’s undoing. Anxious to drive home the knife thrust, the would-be slayer had paved the road to his own death. His neck was broken. The fatal plunge had ended in instant destruction for the man who sought to oppose The Shadow.
THE SHADOW turned to Marcus Holtmann. The prisoner had reached the last throes of agony.
Froman’s inhuman scheme had accomplished its work. With glassy eyes, Holtmann stared toward the phantom who had arrived too late to save his life.
Death was clutching Marcus Holtmann; but in those last feverish moments of misery he realized clearly that the figure in black could be no friend of Frederick Froman. A hideous smile appeared upon Holtmann’s foam-flecked lips. With dying coughs he spat forth disjointed words.
“Moscow — Gostinny Ulitza — Prospekt—”
These broken names came in a delirium. The lips were growing feeble; words were no longer plain. The Shadow spoke, in low whispered tones that brought nods from the expiring man.
Holtmann’s eyes were closed; but his lips moved again, forming noiseless statements that the keen eyes of The Shadow read. Hushed questions came from the figure in black; words in English mixed with Russian terms.
The dying eyes opened and spread in momentary triumph. A wild cry followed, then a sudden spasm racked the poisoned man as he collapsed inert upon the floor. Marcus Holtmann was dead.
In dying, he had given his message. The facts that he had told to Frederick Froman were again revealed.
From barely coherent phrases, The Shadow had learned what Marcus Holtmann knew — the information that Froman had tortured to get and had killed to keep!
Rising, The Shadow strode silently across the dungeon and picked up his automatic. He surveyed the bodies on the floor; then moved Marcus Holtmann’s form so that it lay close to the dead Russian. With care, The Shadow fixed Holtmann’s hands so they stretched toward the other body. The fists of the poisoned victim were clenched.
The hand of The Shadow touched the knob upon the door. Before it turned the knob, the hand paused, and the eyes stared closely. Then the steel curtain rose. When it descended, silence pervaded the dungeon which death had visited.
The Shadow was a being of invisibility as he made his way upward through the house. Reaching the second floor, he entered a room away from the front. In the midst of darkness, The Shadow made his departure through a window that opened and closed without a sound.
Later, two hands appeared beneath a light above a table. The fire opal on the long white finger glowed in mysterious fashion, like a blinking eye staring from Promethean depths.
Upon the table appeared a slip of paper that listed the sailing schedule of the steamship Bremen, leaving New York on the following morning.
The right hand jotted a single word: “Moscow.”
The light clicked out. A low, mocking laugh swept through the inky room. Its tones were answered by the shrouding walls.
Death had intervened tonight, but not in time to thwart The Shadow. Single-handed, this amazing master was setting forth to frustrate the schemes of crafty brains.
Twelve days was the time that Frederick Froman had set, The Shadow had heard tonight. Twelve days until some fiendish plan would be perpetrated!
Before the fatal date, The Shadow would be there.
He was leaving for Moscow on the morrow!