turned its rays upon a table near the box. A slipper fell to the steel floor, as
Glenny lifted a fur-necked coat from the table.
"Do you recognize this?"
"Alicia's!" gasped Ralph. "She wore it tonight!"
Glenny let the coat drop back with the other objects on the table.
Extinguishing the flashlight, he turned to his chief and remarked:
"I told you we could depend upon Atgood."
The master crook's chortle followed them across the laboratory to the
elevator. Ralph caught its final cackle as the door slid shut. Riding back to
his apartment in the taxi, blindfolded and under guard, Ralph fancied that he
could still hear the master's parting gloat.
Whatever his previous intentions, Ralph had finally chosen to side with
crime.
The life of the girl he loved depended upon such a decision.
CHAPTER XVII
RALPH'S MISSION
EARLY the next afternoon, Lamont Cranston paid an unexpected visit to the
Cobalt Club. He timed his arrival there to meet Commissioner Weston, who had
just finished lunch and was coming from the newly decorated grillroom.
Weston was so pleased to see his friend that he actually forgot that
Cranston was responsible for the flock of many-colored tropical birds that were
squawking among the potted palms and rubber plants, making the grillroom a very
annoying place to eat.
"Folks have been inquiring about you, Cranston," announced the
commissioner. "I told them that we had received a message stating that you were
not seriously injured. But we've been wondering what hospital you were in."
The Shadow explained that he had not gone to a hospital at all. His
chauffeur had taken Cranston to his personal physician. The Shadow did not
state the doctor's name; he merely assured the commissioner that he, Cranston,
had suffered nothing more than painful bruises, slight cuts, and a badly
wrenched shoulder.
Weston was glad to hear that the latter had not been a dislocation.
There were some messages waiting for Cranston at the club. The Shadow read
one, passed it along to the commissioner, who read it with a broad smile.
"You're quite a hero, Cranston," he said. "So are the rest of those chaps
who helped scatter that mob at Weylan's. One of them, young Fitzcroft, called
me and asked if it would be all right for them to throw a celebration.
"I said yes, if they would accept police protection. Otherwise, there
might be some reprisals from the underworld. But Fitzcroft did not set the
time. He said that they would postpone the victory party until you were well
enough to attend."
Cranston's slight smile was a pleased one.
"I shall call Fitzcroft later," he told Weston, "and suggest that the
affair be held this evening, if convenient. You will probably hear from him
commissioner."
Before Weston could say anything more, his friend Cranston waved him a
farewell and strolled from the club. The commissioner wondered why Cranston
wasn't staying longer at the Cobalt Club.
He did not know that Cranston regarded both his home and the club as very
unhealthy places to stay, for anything longer than a few minutes.
When The Shadow left the club, he ignored his limousine and stepped into a
cab, instead. It was Moe's cab. and it wheeled into sight just as The Shadow
reached the sidewalk.
Soon, it was whisking through many streets, on a very roundabout route,
calculated to throw all followers off the trail.
While The Shadow was anxious to check on the law's progress since last
night, he preferred to get his information from indirect sources, rather than
through Commissioner Weston. It was safer to be out of sight, while planning a
campaign against a master crook whose chemical wizardry enabled him to throw
the equivalent of thunderbolts at the most unexpected times and places.
REACHING his sanctum, where blackness reigned by day as well as night, The
Shadow turned on the bluish light and opened a bundle of report sheets that he
had picked up on the way. While spreading the paper, he called Burbank, who put
through a connection to Montague Fitzcroft's apartment.
victory dinner. Fitzcroft decided to hold it at eight o'clock that evening, and
said that he would get in touch with Percy Caulden and the others. Later, he
would call the Cobalt Club and leave a message for Cranston, stating where the
affair would take place.
With that matter settled, The Shadow began to study the reports, which
were chiefly from Rutledge Mann and Clyde Burke. While Mann had been checking
on the business angles. Clyde had covered the law's investigation of crime.
The present affairs of R. G. Dean, unlimited and unincorporated,
constituted one of the most interesting cases that The Shadow had ever
encountered.
Federal agents, like the New York police, were looking for a man who
called himself R. G. Dean. They had raided an office which had that name on the
door, but had found nothing there but furniture.
Questioning Eugene Bristow, president of the Chem-Lab Co., along with the
heads of other chemical enterprises that looked like logical targets for crime,
the authorities had learned that several of them were paying tribute to the
crime head. All the victims detailed the ways in which they had been shaken
down, but none of them could furnish a lead to R. G. Dean.
They had received phone calls, all of them, and a chuckly voice had told
them to postpone further payments until later. The master crook was obviously
covering up his tracks, for the present. He could afford to do so. He was
already a million dollars to the good, hence had plenty of money to support his
hidden organization.
Later on, the mysterious Mr. Dean would get at his victims again. By that
time, if the law had failed to get results, they would be willing to pay
tribute secretly. Their businesses, life-blood to persons like Bristow, were
actually in pawn to the crime ring.
The law was trying to check on bank accounts in the name of R. G. Dean. By
the time the investigation had gotten that far, all such accounts had been
closed. The banks had made payments on checks this very morning. The crime
wizard's funds had been transferred to his own secret coffers.
Balked at every turn, the law was forced back to its starting point. A
nation-wide hunt was under way for a maniac named Isaac Loman, who had tried to
murder old Cyrus Shawnwood. The police guard had been doubled at Shawnwood's
home, and the bearded man who had defied the racket was living in fear and
trembling, never venturing below the third floor of his three-story house.
Shawnwood had refused further interviews to reporters, except by
telephone, fearing that some pretended scribe might be an assassin in disguise.
So far, however, Shawnwood had been protected, even though the law had failed to
find any trail to Loman, the man whose name was definitely linked to crime.
The only optimist was Carter J. Weylan. The Renovo manufacturer was
confident that he would get his money back eventually. He was pleased,
too,
because he had sent his only child, Alicia, on a cruise to the Mediterranean.
Weylan felt sure, in his quiet way, that his daughter was safe from harm.
He argued too, that he had nothing to fear, because he had met the full demands
of R. G. Dean. It wasn't likely that crooks would bother Weylan, even though he
had made matters difficult for them.
From Marsland and Hawkeye, The Shadow received barren reports. They had
scoured the underworld all night, seeking some trace of the vanished mob that
had battled the blue-blooded guests at Weylan's. But the thugs had made their
disappearing act a complete one.
Somehow they had slipped into hide-aways without leaving a ripple.
Usually, The Shadow's agents could gain inklings of such occurrences; on this
occasion, they were quite as nonplused as the police.
AGAIN, The Shadow was waiting for another break. He was content to play a
waiting game because of the many angles to the case, any one of which might
offer a sudden lead.
He was sure that crooks still regarded him as their most potent foe; that
the wizard who pulled the strings of crime would soon attempt another thrust at
Lamont Cranston, otherwise The Shadow. There was always a chance that such an
effort might boomerang back to the master crook who made it.
Nevertheless, The Shadow was not inviting such attempts, though he was on
the lookout for them. The previous Dean-designed thrusts had been anything but
boomerangs. In fact, The Shadow wondered just what type of instrument the
wizard of crime would use, should he try to deliver death again.
The answer to that question was unfolding itself in Ralph Atgood's
apartment.
There, Ralph was seated dopily in a chair, two half-filled bottles and an
empty glass beside him. He did not realize that Frederick Glenny had entered
the apartment, until he felt a hand shake his shoulder. Moodily, Ralph looked
up at the sleek man, saw Glenny smile.
"Snap out of it, old man," said Glenny. "When I told you to mix Renovo
with Gruble's Tonic, I didn't expect you to swig it like a kitten lapping milk!"
Muttering something about "trying to forget," Ralph reached for the
bottles. He started to fill the glass, pouring from a bottle in each hand as
the easiest way to make the proportions equal. Glenny stopped him.
"Better let the stuff wear off," he said. "It won't take more than an
hour. The chief may need you later."
"What for?" demanded Ralph.
"Almost anything." Glenny's quick eye was roving the room. He noted that
Ralph's telephone book lay open on the table. "Did you call anybody up this
afternoon?"
Ralph shook his head.
"I got a call from Monty Fitzcroft," he mumbled. "Wants me to come to a
dinner tonight. Told him I'd call him back later. Too much trouble, finding his
number in the book."
"Where's the dinner going to be?"
"Red Ribbon Cafe," replied Ralph. "Upstairs. Eight o'clock. Going to be a
celebration. Everybody will be there. Everybody that was out at Weylan's,
except me."
"Will Lamont Cranston be there?"
Ralph nodded to Glenny's question. The sleek man stepped to the telephone,
smiling as he went. Ralph knew that Glenny was calling the chief, but he didn't
care. Then Glenny was back again, shaking Ralph more violently, actually
rousing him.
"This is a great break for you!" insisted Glenny. "The chief is going to
give you a chance to get your girl friend out of hock!"
Ralph's eyes popped open.
"Here's the story," purred Glenny. "There's just one man the chief really
wants to get. That's Cranston. You'd do anything to help Alicia, wouldn't you?"
Ralph nodded, eagerly.
"Get rid of Cranston, then," said Glenny. "Go to that dinner, take this
with you" - he produced a .32 revolver - "and settle Cranston with it."
"You mean - murder him?"
"Call it that, if you like," returned Glenny. "But there is a better way
to look at it. Somebody is going to die: either Lamont Cranston or Alicia
Weylan. The choice is up to you."
Ralph's teeth were set tight, his eyes bulging wide, when Glenny hauled
him to his feet.
"Take a shower," Glenny advised him, "and get togged up for the party.
I'll fix things at the Red Ribbon. It will be easy enough to have someone yank
the lights, even if the police happen to be around. When the glims go out, it
will be your cue to put the blast on Cranston."
A night ago, Ralph would have used the revolver on Glenny, had the sleek
mobster thrust such a weapon in his hand. But that was before Ralph had learned
of Alicia's plight. Receiving the gun, Ralph steadied himself and walked to a
closet, where he put the revolver in the coat-tail pocket of his evening
clothes.
"Good luck!" purred Glenny, from the door. "Remember, Atgood - when the
lights go out."
Out in the hallway, Frederick Glenny indulged in a very ugly grin. He was
thinking of facts that Ralph Atgood did not know, and probably would never
guess. Again Glenny, chief lieutenant who served crime's great wizard, had told
only half the story to Ralph, who still remained a dupe.
The rest of crime's sequence would be revealed tonight, when Ralph Atgood
would acquire fame as the murderer of The Shadow!
CHAPTER XVIII
THE VICTORY DINNER
THE victory dinner was at its height. As guest of honor, Lamont Cranston
was the center of the scene. The celebration was making history as one of the
social events of the season, considering the caliber of the participants.
It was Montague Fitzcroft who suggested that the event be made an annual
institution, one of those reunions that would last through the years, until
someone in the far future, perhaps the next century, one lone member of the
group would open an aged bottle of wine and drink to the health of his departed
friends.
The motion was ably seconded by Percy Caulden, and received a chorus of
cultured ayes from the remaining diners. One voice, however, was lacking in the
unison: Ralph Atgood's.
All during the dinner, the eyes of Lamont Cranston had been observing
Ralph. The Shadow had recognized him as the young man who had come to look for
mail at the Dean office the evening when a series of thrusts had been made
against Cranston's life.
Ralph in his turn, was watching Cranston - so steadily, at times, that The
Shadow would have suspected that something was preying on the young man's mind,
even without that clue from the past.
In fact, Ralph's peculiar mood was so apparent that Harry Vincent seated
near him, had been puzzled by his manner and had begun to keep close watch on
him before receiving a signal from The Shadow.
Harry had not seen Ralph's face that night when the dupe had entered the
Harmon Building. At first. Harry had an idea that Ralph was uneasy because he
was something of an outsider among the swanky social group that included
Fitzcroft and Caulden. But Harry's position was the same and he did not feel
ill at ease. Reasoning from that point Harry wondered what was actually
&
nbsp; troubling Ralph.
Then came The Shadow's signals. He gave them with his eyes, whenever he
gazed toward Harry. The changes of Cranston's glances, with the slight tilts of
his head, spelled the letters of a visual code:
"Watch Atgood. Look for a gun."
Harry looked. He could see Ralph's coat tail, tucked on the side of the
chair. He noted the occasional creep of Ralph's fingers, saw the bulge of some
object in the coat-tail pocket. Harry's head nodded as he looked toward
Cranston. The Shadow flashed another message:
"Take it. Later."
Again Harry nodded. He was on the same side of the table as Ralph, in a
position to handle the matter capably. While he waited for the crisis Harry
began to reason matters, and they shaped rather clearly in his mind.
This dinner was protected by the police. Some were downstairs others at
the very portals of the banquet room. It would be useless for any mob to attack
the Red Ribbon Cafe. Even if such a crew broke through the police cordon they
would have to deal with Fitzcroft, Caulden, and the other socialites who had
shown themselves to be remarkable fighters in the battle around Weylan's home.
The only way to strike at The Shadow on such occasion would be through a
single assassin. The master crook who wanted The Shadow's life had obtained the
needed man: Ralph Atgood.
That was as far as Harry reasoned. But The Shadow's thoughts probed
further.
WHILE he chatted in the leisurely, pleasant style of Cranston, The Shadow
was wondering why Ralph was willing to take so long a chance. Unless he knew a
great deal about the so-called R. G. Dean, Ralph would not be willing to serve
the crime wizard by attempting a murder on an occasion such as this.
Steadily The Shadow watched Ralph. The scrutiny made the young man
nervous. His eyes shifted away. Noting him with sidelong gaze, The Shadow saw
Ralph glance toward the ceiling light. That was the give-away Ralph expected
the lights to go out as they had at Weylan's.
One light switch controlled all the illumination. It was in a corner near
the banquet table at a spot where no waiter could wedge through to reach it.
Furthermore, the waiters were picked men who had been thoroughly investigated