CLYDE BURKE rubbed his eyes and looked about him. He was dressed and sitting in a reclining chair.
His head no longer throbbed; all images of objects about him were clear and well defined.
He began to remember the events which had passed. He recalled various awakenings, and clearly recollected the last visit of the physician.
The doctor had said that he was virtually well; but had insisted that he rest a while longer. Clyde had dressed, and had been placed in this chair. A few scattered thoughts had worried him at the time, but he had yielded to the doctor’s orders to forget his worries.
His mind reverted to the encounter in front of Paget’s apartment. How long ago was it? A day? A week?
Time seemed strangely vague.
Suddenly a terrifying thought dominated the young man. What had become of Harry Vincent? Clyde closed his eyes and pictured the entrance to a warehouse on Sixty-ninth Street. That was the spot where Harry had disappeared — and he, Clyde Burke, had not reported it!
Good fortune favored his desire for duty. Clyde was alone in a lounge room. He remembered walking here from the ward, with a nurse supporting him. He rose unsteadily and entered the corridor.
There was no one in view. He walked along and passed a desk where a nurse was writing a report. He managed to go by unseen. He found a stairway and went down. A door at the right attracted him. He pushed it open, and found himself in a short corridor on the first floor. There was an open door that led to the ambulance driveway.
Without a moment’s hesitation, Clyde Burke left the hospital.
He was weak when he reached a taxi stand. He entered a cab and gave an address to the driver. He closed his eyes and rested.
After interminable moments, the cab stopped. Clyde entered the lobby of an antiquated hotel, where he made his way to a public phone booth that was virtually out of sight in a secluded corner.
He dropped a nickel in the slot and dialed a number. When he heard the ringing of the bell at the other end, he hung up the receiver. His nickel tumbled into the coin return.
Clyde used it again and called the same number. After a few rings, he again hung up and retrieved his coin. Then he waited.
At the lunch counter in the Grand Central Station, the silent attendant had noticed a ringing of the phone in the booth opposite. He heard its sudden termination, and kept on serving a customer until it rang again.
Then he left the counter and entered the back room. He dialed a number on the telephone.
Clyde Burke’s weary voice answered the call.
“Burbank,” said the attendant.
“Burke,” came the reply.
“Report. Where is V.?”
Burke’s voice was unintelligible for a moment. Then it became suddenly coherent. He poured out the story of Vincent’s pursuit of Rodney Paget.
“You’re hurt?” questioned Burbank tersely.
“Just out of the hospital — and they don’t know it,” came Burke’s reply.
“Can you get to the Metrolite Hotel?”
“Yes. I’m feeling better now.”
“Go there, then. Stay in V’s room.”
Burbank hung up the phone. He dialed another number. There was no response. He went back to the counter and returned a few minutes later. He dialed again. This time there was an answer.
“Burbank,” he said.
“Report,” came the voice.
Burbank made sure that no one was near by. Then he gave the information that he had received from Clyde Burke. He condensed it into terse, essential details.
“Good!” came the voice. “Be ready!” The receiver clicked at the other end.
TWELVE minutes later, a cab pulled up at the corner of Sixty-ninth Street and Ninth Avenue. The passenger paid the driver before he left.
He hurried from the cab and strode rapidly westward. He crossed the street and stopped in the shadow of the warehouse. He became strangely obscure as he approached the entrance. He seemed to be avoiding any watchful eyes.
The window across the street was open; and the man on duty was alert. He raised his gun as he saw a shadow appear on the pavement beneath the light at the warehouse entrance. He lowered the weapon when he saw that he had been deceived by a mere shadow which disappeared as suddenly as it had come.
A man was in the passageway, moving silently along toward the turn. It was The Shadow, feeling his way through the darkness, a creature of the night garbed in his cloak of sinister black.
The Shadow reached the wooden steps. He stopped short as his foot touched the boards. He tapped the wood with the toe of his shoe. He seemed to wonder why wooden steps had been inserted in this cement passageway.
Up he went, step by step. As he reached the top, he sank downward and clutched one of the steps as he placed his weight upon the landing. The boards sagged beneath him. The Shadow laughed softly.
He let the trap open and his flashlight came into play. It revealed the space into which Harry Vincent had fallen, two nights before. The Shadow slipped into the pit and landed with catlike skill. He turned his flashlight upward to observe the trap as it closed above him.
He turned off the light and stood in the darkness, waiting. He expected an attack, and he was not disappointed. A doorway opened and two men came in. They expected to find a half-stunned victim.
Instead, they were met by a powerful onslaught that came from the darkness.
One man gasped as he was struck by the butt of an automatic. The other sank beneath a driving fist. The Shadow laughed as he turned on his light and surveyed the men he had defeated.
He drew a pair of handcuffs from his pocket end locked them on the man who had passed into oblivion from the blow of the automatic. The other was groggy, but not unconscious. The Shadow prodded him with his revolver.
The fellow opened his eyes and raised his hands at sight of the automatic.
“Up!” ordered The Shadow. “Lead the way. Take me where you took the last man who came here — two nights ago.”
The man obeyed. He walked ahead and opened an artfully concealed door. This revealed a dim passage.
With The Shadow’s automatic reminding him of his helplessness, the prisoner was sullenly obedient. He knew that his captor would brook no trickery. He turned through various passages, up steps, until, by an air shaft, he arrived at an automatic elevator.
The man entered, and The Shadow followed. They ascended, The Shadow’s torch filling the car with light. The elevator stopped. The man walked into a small, barren room that had no outlet. He stopped.
“Go on!” ordered The Shadow.
“This is the end,” replied his prisoner.
“The end?”
“So help me. It is where we left him. I don’t know what happened to him after that.”
“Turn around!” The Shadow threw his light into the man’s face. He saw that the fellow had spoken the truth.
“Does the elevator go up higher?” questioned The Shadow.
“This is the top,” was the reply.
The Shadow stepped in the elevator and threw his light upward. Not for one instant did he lower the gun that covered the other man. Yet in that brief inspection he detected a space above the elevator.
“Come in,” ordered The Shadow.
WHILE his victim cowered in the corner of the car, the man in the black cloak ran his hands about the interior of the elevator. He found an ornamental molding. His keen fingers detected a concealed button.
He pressed it. The car moved upward.
It stopped in another small compartment. The Shadow forced his prisoner out. This room had a steel door on the opposite side. The Shadow pressed about it and found a catch that moved the frame of the steel doorway to one side.
A keyhole was revealed. The Shadow produced a slender, pointed steel instrument. In less than a minute he picked the lock. The door slid into the wall.
The Shadow’s light revealed the headquarters from which the leader of the Silent Seven had sent his orders.
The appearance of the mystery room might have been puzzling to some other person. The Shadow, however, wasted no time in surprised inspection. He found the light in the corner and turned it on.
He noted a crack in the wall, and saw that it was a door faced with tiny holes. The Shadow probed these openings with his pick. He sprang a catch and opened the door. It was an empty closet.
“In,” commanded The Shadow. He forced his prisoner into the closet and closed the door upon him.
Then he looked around the room.
There were no other entrances. The Shadow tapped the walls. He heard hollow sounds at spots. When he came to a solid place he paused and smiled. He was conversant with the ingenuity of the master of the Silent Seven. The opening that he suspected would probably be at the place where the wall was solid.
The Shadow stopped, suddenly intent. Until now, he had not been noiseless in his actions. He paused to listen. He heard the faint throbbing of some mechanism below the room.
Thrusting his automatic beneath his cloak, The Shadow began to act with great rapidity, as though realizing that time was precious. His sensitive fingers groped along the wall. Time and again, they covered every inch, until finally an invisible catch yielded. A solid sheet of metal slid upward. It revealed a spiral stairway.
The throbbing sound became more distinct.
The Shadow descended. At the bottom he found another barrier. This time his fingers were more familiar with the trick. They found the catch and another sheet of metal rose into the wall. The Shadow stopped abruptly. He realized now that he had come in the wrong garb.
This was unquestionably a haunt of the master of the Silent Seven. The Shadow had expected to find this place empty. Had he suspected a person here, he would have donned a hooded robe instead of the cloak and black hat which he now wore.
For directly before him, with hands alert and face leering with ferocity, stood a giant of a man. So close was the monster that The Shadow was virtually in his power. The man in the black cloak seemed a pygmy in front of this huge bulk.
HAD the light of the passage been more bright, and had Bron’s wits been keener, The Shadow’s quest would have come to a sad ending. But in the doorway, with darkness behind him, The Shadow’s cloak and hat bore a resemblance to the hood and cowl of the master of the Silent Seven. The similarity was enough to make Bron doubtful.
The giant hesitated momentarily as his hands approached The Shadow’s throat, and his gaze turned downward. The Shadow divined his thought. His left hand came from beneath his robe, and Bron observed the scarab ring which he was wearing. The giant stepped back a pace and bowed.
“The sign,” he said.
The Shadow had virtually memorized the instructions that he had read in Henry Marchand’s confession.
He knew that this huge man must be a member of the Faithful Fifty. He did not know what method Number One might use in speaking to him; but he assumed that the usual countersign was employed.
“Faithful,” he said.
His hand clutched his automatic as he spoke, and he was none too soon. The giant had leaped forward the moment that the word was uttered.
Bron’s arm struck The Shadow’s wrist as the man in black was pressing his finger to the trigger. For once, The Shadow’s finger slipped and the gun nearly fell from his hand.
Recovering it, he swung the automatic to the right, and its heavy barrel struck the giant’s jaw.
The blow did not stop Bron; but it turned his attention. With a sudden grasp, he plucked the revolver from The Shadow’s hand and flung it across the passage. He caught The Shadow’s arms and sought to hurl the man against the stone side of the corridor.
Then began a terrible conflict. The Shadow, with all his amazing power, was no match for the giant. He managed only to keep his antagonist from hurling him against the wall. He tried to wrest himself free from that mammoth clutch, and in the effort was forced to the other end of the corridor.
Bron had gripped The Shadow’s arms and was forcing them back over the shoulders. The Shadow’s hands were free, but helpless. As Bron ground them against the wall, they encountered a master switch.
A gleam of quick understanding came to the flashing eyes that were peering from beneath the broad-brimmed hat. With his right hand, The Shadow pulled the switch.
The muffled sound of machinery ended abruptly. Bron’s ferocity was suddenly curbed by the occurrence.
He released his hold upon the right arm of The Shadow and reached for the switch. At the same time, he showed his brute strength to the fullest as he used his right arm to whirl The Shadow sidewise across the passage.
The Shadow’s hat protected his head as he crashed against the wall. In that moment of half-stunned defeat, his weakened arm stretched out, and his hand struck against the leg of the stool which was Bron’s customary resting place.
The Shadow had dropped to one knee. He rose from the floor, starting a mighty swing. Bron, turning to finish his enemy, saw it coming, but too late.
The stool was a terrible weapon. It knocked aside the giant’s upraised arm. The legs of the stool broke into fragments as they struck the monster’s head. The Shadow’s formidable foe collapsed in a huge heap.
THE SHADOW was weak and breathless. Then he realized that the throbbing of the machinery had begun again when Bron had pressed the switch.
Above the sound he heard another noise. A weak tapping at the end of the corridor. He drew back the switch. He went to the door and found the hidden catch. The door arose and showed a most amazing sight.
Harry Vincent was prone on the floor, below the level of the door. His hands were reaching through a space scarcely more than a foot in width. Above him was a long, dark platform, like the level of a huge elevator. From beneath came a weird light — the last illumination furnished by the frame at the opposite end of the corridor of death!
The Shadow gripped Harry’s hands and pulled him through the narrow opening. It was a tight, close squeeze. For a moment it seemed as though the man’s body could not get through the space. Then Harry was free.
He lay motionless upon the floor of the passage, faint from the ordeal he had undergone.
“Were you alone?” came The Shadow’s whispered question.
Harry nodded weakly. The Shadow let the door drop and pulled the switch to complete the descent of the platform.
While the mechanism thrummed, he looked at Bron. The giant eyes were glassy. The Shadow’s mighty blow had killed him.
The man in the black cloak turned silently to the door at the side of the corridor. Here, again, his fingers sought the secret switch. The door arose. A lighted room lay beyond.
A man was sitting in a chair, his head buried against his arm. The Shadow approached and tapped him.
The man looked up hopelessly toward the figure in black. It was Wilbur Blake, haggard and unshaven!
With Blake’s aid, The Shadow carried Vincent up the spiral stairway. He released the man in the closet and made him conduct the party from the building. They made their exit near the air shaft through which they had passed on their journey.
Headquarters received another mysterious phone call that night. It resulted in the dispatch of a patrol to Tenth Avenue.
The police found a man bound and gagged in an air shaft beside a warehouse. They also discovered another man in a pit beneath an ingenious trapdoor.
They investigated a labyrinth of passages beneath the warehouse. Making a round-up of the neighborhood, they captured one suspicious character, and uncovered a room in the house across the way from the side entrance of the building.
A man had fled from the room just prior to their arrival. He had left behind him an automatic fitted with silencer.
But they did not penetrate to the sanctum which had once belonged to the commander of the Silent Seven. Nor did they reach the corridor below, where the body of a giant man lay at the end of the passage. Bron’s watch post had become his tomb.