DENSE gloom had descended upon the room on the second floor of Ivan Motkin’s residence. The early dusk of a long Moscow night was all-pervading. Prensky, seated by the front window, arose softly and turned on a light above the desk.
The mild illumination threw a soft glow through the room. It revealed the form of the man who had called himself Henry Arnaud, still resting in the chair by a side window.
In methodical manner, Prensky drew down the front window shade; then performed the same action at the window where Henry Arnaud still slept.
The clock on the mantel showed half past seven. Prensky, now in the center of the room, paused and rubbed his smooth chin. A wicked light gleamed in his dark, shifty eyes. He grinned in anticipation.
Noting the black cloak and hat lying on a chair where Motkin had tossed them, Prensky picked up the garments and examined them. These had been a disguise. Now, they would answer for a shroud.
While Prensky smiled maliciously, he sensed that some one was watching him. He looked quickly toward the chair by the window. The prisoner had opened his eyes, and was watching. Prensky’s evil grin turned suddenly to a token of friendliness.
“These are yours,” he declared, in Russian. “You may have them, when you leave.”
Arnaud’s eyes stared blankly, and Prensky remembered that the man had shown a complete ignorance of the Russian language. Slowly, Prensky repeated the statement in broken English, the best that he could command. Henry Arnaud nodded and smiled to show that he understood.
Weakly, he attempted to rise from his chair. The effort was sufficient for him to observe the clock; then he slumped back into the seat and lay exhausted.
“I am to leave before eight o’clock,” he said, in slow tones. “You understand that? Eight o’clock.”
Prensky nodded.
“You would like to leave more soon?” he questioned.
“Yes,” said Arnaud wearily.
“You may leave now,” declared Prensky, in a friendly tone.
He folded the black cloak and laid it on a chair. Upon it, he placed the slouch hat. He advanced to the chair and placed his left hand upon the wounded man’s shoulders. He brought Arnaud up to a sitting position.
“Rest a moment,” said Prensky, in a mechanical tone. “You are still too weak.”
Arnaud nodded. He raised his right arm, and placed it over Prensky’s shoulders. The Russian could feel the weakness of the grasp. With his left hand, Arnaud gripped Prensky’s right shoulder. He seemed to be gathering all his strength for an effort to rise to his feet.
Prensky’s right hand slipped beneath his own coat. He raised his body slightly; then relaxed and let Arnaud slide back into the chair. The man’s hands still rested on Prensky’s shoulders, but their grip was weak.
“Rest a moment,” repeated Prensky.
Arnaud nodded wearily and closed his eyes. Prensky withheld a grim laugh. His lips were grimacing as he appreciated the ease with which he could now accomplish his fell purpose. His right hand stole from beneath his coat, bringing forth a long, sharp knife.
PRENSKY was noted as a swift, efficient killer. He was one who struck coldly and with calculation. His shrewd gaze sought a spot by his victim’s heart. His hand poised with the blade. He forgot the closed eyes of the weary prisoner who was to die.
Prensky’s hand tightened for the thrust. A quick drive of that sharp-pointed blade would mean quick death. As Prensky drew slightly away with his right arm, he felt Arnaud’s hand slip from his shoulder and slide slowly downward.
This was the time to strike. But as Prensky’s hand responded to his thought, the slipping hand upon his arm worked with amazing swiftness. The knife thrust stopped suddenly as Arnaud’s hand caught Prensky’s wrist with a viselike clutch.
Simultaneously, the arm that hung over Prensky’s left shoulder became active. The man in the chair was no longer playing the part of weary Henry Arnaud. He was fighting with the skill of The Shadow!
With iron clasp, The Shadow bore Prensky downward to his right, while his left hand still gripped the intended assassin’s wrist. As Prensky lost his foothold, he tumbled to the floor and rolled away from the chair. The Shadow fell upon him, never once losing his clutch.
Prensky, with grinding teeth and snarling lips, struggled like a demon. The Shadow, his fierce eyes burning, held his adversary at bay, while he uttered mocking words in Russian.
The helpless quarry had tricked the would-be killer. Prensky realized this with mad dismay. Coldly taunting as he fought, The Shadow was telling how he had foiled his enemy. For four days he had feigned helplessness while he gathered information, and his strength returned for such a fray as this!
Now, The Shadow threw all his strength into the fight. He had been prepared for this encounter — for he had overheard Motkin’s instructions to his aid. The Shadow’s hold placed Prensky at a hopeless disadvantage. But while The Shadow strove with increasing power, Prensky resisted furiously.
The Shadow’s left hand began to waver. He had evidently overtaxed himself. His endurance reached an unexpected limit.
Prensky sensed the change. He wrested his hand free and drove a swift knife blow toward his enemy.
The Shadow’s arm swung sidewise as the point of the blade had almost reached his neck. The Shadow’s blow hit Prensky’s wrist, and the knife shot by, a fraction of an inch from the vein which it had been aimed to sever!
Prensky, knocked off balance by the force of the thrust which The Shadow had so narrowly avoided, lost precious moments as he sought to recover himself. The Shadow’s waning strength was spurred. He threw his adversary sidewise, and managed to press his entire weight upon that free right arm.
Off behind The Shadow’s back, Prensky’s hand was waving wildly as it sought some way to drive the point into the unguarded back. The Shadow, grimly battling for life, prevented the opportunity which the Russian needed.
Locked in a firm hold, neither could gain a new advantage. Prensky’s arm was becoming numb from the pressure that rested upon it. The quivering fingers lost their hold upon the knife. The steel blade clattered on the thin rug near the fireplace.
The Shadow heard that noise. It gave him a new opportunity. With a sudden twist, he rolled free from Prensky’s clutch. His body revolved safely over the flat blade of the knife.
With his left hand, The Shadow caught an ornamental pillar at the side of the fireplace near the window.
With his right he turned to seize the knife.
Here, fortune favored Prensky. He was rising to his knees when he saw The Shadow reach. The knife lay upon the end of a small, matlike rug. Prensky, thrown back by the recoil from The Shadow’s quick action, was a full yard from the gleaming blade. His hands were upon the nearer end of the rug.
With remarkable quickness of mind, Prensky snatched the end of the rug and yanked it toward himself.
The knife came along, eluding The Shadow’s desperate clutch.
PRENSKY caught the handle of the weapon. The Shadow, seeing his effort fruitless, was drawing away.
He gained his feet and stood clinging to the mantelpiece as Prensky rose for a new attack. Triumphant hatred was gleaming in the Russian’s face.
Untired by the grueling conflict, Prensky thought he had the advantage over the wounded foreigner. The Russian poised his body and flung himself forward, intent upon downing his foe at once. In that tense moment the chimes of the clock upon the mantel began to strike the hour of eight.
With the first stroke, The Shadow acted as with inspiration. Swaying, almost tottering, he seized the clock with both hands. The clock was a heavy timepiece, an antiquated relic pillaged from some noble’s palace. The Shadow, staggering backward to escape Prensky’s attack, raised the massive object above his head.
The chime was striking two as the clock was raised between The Shadow’s hands. Prensky, charging like a maddened bull, hurled himself forward with knife hand high.
Down came The Shadow’s arms. The falling clock chimed three as it crashed upon Prensky’s skull.
The Russian’s leap ended in a long, forward plunge. The knife hand descended of its own accord. The point of the weapon struck the side of The Shadow’s shoulder, and ripped a long, downward slit in the sleeve of the dressing gown which he was wearing.
The Shadow staggered away, too late to escape the final, headlong dive of Prensky’s sprawling form.
Together, the men collapsed upon the floor. They lay there, motionless for a few moments. Then The Shadow dragged himself away and rose to his feet, clinging by the side of Motkin’s desk.
Prensky lay still. The impact of the heavy clock had cracked his skull. The timepiece lay shattered on the hearth, where it had fallen, a mass of broken glass and split marble. Its chime had ended with the third stroke — the one that had marked the end of the villainous Prensky.
Yet the hands on the upturned dial still registered eight. That was a reminder to The Shadow. Gregori would soon be here, to take Prensky to the airport!
Faltering, The Shadow made his way along the hall until he reached an improvised bedroom; the place that had been his abode for more than a week. When he reappeared in the office, he still looked the part of Henry Arnaud; but instead of the dressing gown, he now wore a suit of plain black.
Recovered from the wearying conflict, he moved more certainly than before. The keen eyes saw the black cloak and hat upon the chair. Deliberately, The Shadow donned his familiar disguise. All traces of the man who called himself Henry Arnaud were lost within those spectral garments.
Two eyes alone shone from beneath the broad-brimmed hat. The crimson lining of the cloak flashed as The Shadow stepped to the spot where the form of Prensky lay. Stooping over the inert body, The Shadow withdrew a sheaf of papers from the dead man’s pocket.
Sharp eyes studied the documents beneath the light. A low, soft laugh echoed through this silent room. A white hand extinguished the light. There was a swishing sound amid the darkness. It continued through the hall and down the stairs.
A long, silhouetted shadow showed on the paving of the courtyard. It, alone, indicated that The Shadow, himself, had stepped from the house. That black blotch twisted in fanciful, grotesque shapes as the headlights of an automobile swept into the court. The car stopped beside the door.
“YOU are late, Gregori.”
These words, spoken in Russian, were heard by the chauffeur the moment that he had brought the big car to a standstill. They resembled the low tones of Prensky. Startled, Gregori heard the door close as some one entered the rear of the automobile. He stared into the darkness, in a puzzled manner; then, the repetition of the voice reassured him.
“Hurry, Gregori!” came the low words. “I must reach the airport before ten o’clock! Do not delay. It is Motkin’s bidding!”
Gregori seldom conversed with Prensky. The tones that he heard carried an odd accent, yet they also sounded like the voice of Motkin’s aid, as Gregori recalled it, the words were a command, and Gregori realized that it was his duty to obey. Ivan Motkin had told him to follow Prensky’s orders.
It was a long run to the airport. Nothing was said from the back seat on the way. Gregori was not surprised. Prensky was usually silent. Only when they neared the flying field did Gregori receive another order.
“Drive close to the Warsaw plane. Behind it.”
Gregori obeyed. He brought his car to a standstill, at a spot some yards away from a huge monoplane that glistened in lights of the flying field.
A choking exclamation came from Gregori’s lips as two hands clutched his throat from in back. The action was swift and certain. The chauffeur had no opportunity to emit a cry. He slumped in back of the wheel.
Leaning over the front seat, The Shadow gagged the senseless chauffeur with a handkerchief. He bound Gregori’s hands with a leather belt. Noting that the half-choked man was helpless, The Shadow slid back and removed his cloak and hat. He folded them into a compact bundle, and opened the car door.
The ship was making ready for its flight. A surly officer gazed curiously at the tall, hatless figure that approached him. This man did not announce himself as Henry Arnaud.
“M. Prensky, aid to Ivan Motkin,” he declared. “Here are my passports and instructions.”
The words were in perfect Russian. The officer examined the papers, and motioned the tall figure into the cabin of the plane. There were two other passengers, already in the ship. The officer gave instructions to the pilot.
The whirling propellers sped more swiftly. The big plane started across the field. Gaining speed, it took off into the wind. Rising, it swerved back across the field, where, far below, the automobile in which Gregori lay gagged appeared like a tiny toy.
Heading eastward, the huge monoplane swept on its way to Warsaw. Reclining quietly upon a cushioned seat was the passenger who called himself both Arnaud and Prensky — yet who was neither.
Ivan Motkin had promised his prisoner safe conduct from Moscow. That safe conduct had been gained, despite the faithlessness of Motkin’s word.
Motkin — Senov — Paris. New action stalked the bloody trail that the quest of the Romanoff jewels had caused. Two barbarous factions were aiming toward a brutal struggle for possession. Members of both sides had used crime and treachery.
The Shadow was speeding on to fight them all!