by the police before any were allowed to serve at this important dinner.
Unless some crooks had been detailed to fix the master switch in the
cellar of the restaurant, it would be a difficult job to extinguish those
lights. The thing had been done at Weylan's, but it was an easy matter there.
Unquestionably, Ralph was in a desperate mood. The Shadow could tell that
from the restless twitches of Ralph's face. But that did not apply to the
master crook who had somehow induced Ralph to play a murderer's role.
What if the lights did go out, giving Ralph a chance to try some gunplay?
He would be overwhelmed by Cranston's friends - Fitzcroft, Caulden and the
other society men. They wouldn't kill him; they would take him alive. A man who
knew much about the Dean business would be a prisoner, who might be forced to
talk.
The Shadow's train of thought came to an distant halt. He was on the wrong
track. The master behind this game of murder could not afford to let Ralph live
after attempting a kill. Gruble hadn't been given a chance to live after he had
rendered his required services at Weylan's.
Tracing back to the battle on Weylan's lawn, The Shadow considered the
mystery of the vanished mob. An amazing solution threaded itself through his
mind.
Letting his eyes close, The Shadow projected himself back further to the
ride that he had taken with a squad of killers after his crawl from the remains
of Parringer's blasted laboratory.
Voices came to mind. Voices that The Shadow had been unable to recall but
which came plainly to him at this moment, not as echoes from the past but as
actual sounds about this very table. Opening his eyes, The Shadow gave a
typical Cranston smile and began to chat with the other diners.
Not one of the jolly throng realized that their guest of honor had solved
crime's subtle secret.
There was no vanished mob!
The wizard who manipulated crime had been too crafty to hire a horde from
the underworld. He had chosen his followers, not from the rogues' gallery but
from the social register. Fitzcroft, Caulden, a dozen more who belonged to
their exclusive set were the high-priced thugs who worked for R. G. Dean!
Four of them had grabbed The Shadow outside Parringer's. They had acted
like mobbies, but they had talked like gentlemen. They had served again as
decoys and bomb-setters, the night that The Shadow had dodged a succession of
traps outside the Harmon Building. Their neatest trick however, was the one
that they had staged at Weylan's house.
One man had slipped down to the cellar to put out the lights. A few others
had sneaked outside, to put on masks and start the mob attack. The rest had
posed as what they were supposed to be: society men attending a fashionable
party.
They had carried that faked fray across the lawn, each man playing
whichever part he chose. Some had remembered to give raucous battle shouts, the
sort that went with the part of mobsmen. No wonder they had come back bringing
captured guns and masks. Those articles had belonged to them from the start!
Tonight, they were going to let Ralph Atgood do the dirty work. But they
wouldn't merely suppress him afterward. They would kill him and testify, one
and all, that he had gone berserk. They would claim that Ralph had jumped up
and turned off the lights, though The Shadow knew exactly who was to perform
that duty; Percy Caulden was seated closest to the light switch.
If Ralph failed to make the kill, these chaps would do it on their own.
They could still put the blame on Ralph. The only way to clear with these
well-groomed rats who had sold their birthright, was to make them show their
hand too soon.
SIGHTING a waiter, The Shadow called for champagne, which brought plaudits
from his pretended friends. When the waiter suggested two bottles they heard
Cranston order a magnum, which produced more acclaim.
In the midst of the hilarity that followed, The Shadow flashed quick looks
to Harry Vincent, giving him the news in brief.
The magnum arrived. It was a huge two-quart bottle that stood as high as
The Shadow's shoulder when the waiter rested it on the table.
When The Shadow nodded, the waiter poured the champagne finishing with
Cranston's glass. Rising, The Shadow raised his glass with his right hand, his
left elbow grazing the now emptied magnum.
All others rose with the guest of honor. Ralph Atgood was holding his
glass in his left hand. He let his right hand go to the coat-tail pocket where
he had the gun. Harry Vincent shifted in from Ralph's right, ready for a
sideward, left-handed grab.
This was the logical time for the stroke to come. In the act of sipping
champagne while standing, Lamont Cranston would be a perfect target, even when
the lights were gone. Ralph sensed that the lights would blacken the moment
that the glass reached Cranston's lips. But The Shadow planned to force that
action earlier.
Smiling as he looked toward the faces all about him The Shadow spoke in
Cranston's even fashion.
"I propose a toast" - there was a trace of mockery in that level tone -
"to a man who is not with us. One whose cleverness is great but not great
enough to prevent us from knowing one another as we really are."
Strained expressions showed on the faces of the listeners. The Shadow
broke the tension, as he uttered:
"To your friend and my enemy - R. G. Dean!"
THERE was a fierce shout from Fitzcroft, the leader of the gilt-edged mob.
Caulden yanked the light switch; before Ralph could get his revolver from his
pocket, Harry Vincent floored him with a punch and wrested the gun away from
him.
Men were springing for The Shadow, thinking that they could reach him
before he had a chance to ward them off. They thought that he was unarmed and
defenseless at the moment the lights went out. They had forgotten the empty
champagne magnum.
The Shadow caught the massive two-quart bottle by the neck and swung it
like an Indian club. It battered past the hands that grabbed for him, found
jaws and skulls beyond. Clearing a wide circle, he voiced a sinister,
challenging laugh that seemed a part of the very darkness that filled the room.
He was fading backward as he delivered that mockery. Guns blasted for the
spot where he had been. The Shadow answered with shots from an automatic that
he whipped from beneath his tail coat. He was picking out foemen by the spurts
of their guns, and Harry was doing the same with Ralph's revolver.
The terrific tumult brought smashes from the door. Under the glare of
police flashlights, de luxe crooks went mad, knowing that their game was up.
Some were sprawled, others were staggery, but the rest made a drive for the
doorway, preferring to rush a headquarters squad rather than risk further
chances with The Shadow.
As he wheeled to a small doorway, The Shadow flayed those crooks with
bullets. They were flattening beneath an avalanche of police, when the little
door broke inward.
Sidestepping, The Shadow flashed a red gleam with his tiny flashlight; it
changed to green as a pair of detectives charged in from the door to join the
fray, leaving the way open.
Catching the signal, Harry dragged Ralph from underneath the banquet
table. Groggily, Ralph stumbled ahead, for he was anxious to get away. The
Shadow caught him from the other side, helped Harry hustle the prisoner through
the little doorway.
A detective found the light switch, pulled it. In the glare that filled
the room, a dozen police found themselves winners over a crew of the same size.
No fight was left in the bedraggled, wounded men whose uniforms were evening
clothes.
The Shadow had found the vanished mob, conquered its members, and left the
roundup to the law. From a stairway beyond the little doorway, headquarters men
heard the weird, trailing tone of a parting laugh.
The victory dinner had ended with an actual triumph, instead of the murder
that society mobsters had planned as part of a fake celebration.
Victory belonged with The Shadow!
CHAPTER XIX
THE NEEDED LINK
RALPH ATGOOD found himself riding in a taxicab, staring into glowing eyes
that seemed to burn him with their intensity. He was listening to a whispered
voice - one that put questions in the tone of commands.
He wondered what had happened to Lamont Cranston. This being wasn't
Cranston. He was some superhuman sort of creature, who wore a black cloak and a
slouch hat that obscured his face, except for those amazing eyes.
Ralph was feeling the forceful power that only The Shadow could apply. The
whispered voice was telling him to talk, and Ralph responded. He felt as though
he had come into the province of an impartial judge, who would know the truth
of his story.
Coming rapidly to the events at Weylan's, Ralph told how he had found the
money in his own possession after the robbery. He heard The Shadow's
understanding laugh, and it seemed to clear up the mystery.
Fitzcroft and his stuffed-shirt crew were the ones who had taken the swag.
They had hidden it, by the simple expedient of dividing it into a dozen thin
bundles, each man carrying a quota.
Those small packets hadn't shown under their evening clothes. Strolling
outside so they could bid Alicia good-by, they had stuffed Ralph's topcoat with
the stolen goods after the police had searched the car.
Eagerly continuing with his story, Ralph told of his visit to crime's
headquarters, how he had met the wizard of crime in person, under the glare of
the bewildering green light that filled the low-ceilinged laboratory. He
described Alicia's plight; how he had agreed to murder Cranston, in order to
save her life.
The Shadow spoke. His words were an acceptance of Ralph's story. From that
tone, Ralph understood that he had been released from blame for his misguided
actions. In return, The Shadow stipulated that Ralph was to aid in an immediate
search for the master criminal to which Ralph willingly agreed.
He described the man, as much as he could. Oddly, the only important point
- the enormous size of the crime wizard's oval head - was the very clue that The
Shadow wanted. Ralph heard the whisper of a laugh, then the words:
"You spoke of the route you followed, blindfolded; how you remembered the
number of turns."
Ralph fumbled in his vest pocket, brought out a slip of paper upon which
he had dejectedly jotted that data, after returning to his apartment. The
Shadow's gloved hand passed the list to Harry Vincent, who sat on the other
side of Ralph. For the first time, Ralph realized that there was another
passenger in the car.
Giving the driver the address of Ralph's apartment, The Shadow spread a
map of Manhattan and studied it beneath a flashlight, while Harry read off the
lefts and rights.
Tracing a course, The Shadow checked it. His laugh was sibilant. Fitting
Ralph's clues to a trail he had in mind, The Shadow found that it finished at
the very place he expected.
BEGINNING the route from Ralph's apartment, the cab eventually pulled up
into an alleyway that Moe Shrevnitz found by cruising along the street. The
Shadow alighted, Harry and Ralph with him; he sent Moe back for other agents.
Finding the doorway that Ralph remembered, The Shadow used his flashlight
on the steep stone stairs, then through the long underground passage. They came
at last to the elevator.
Probing a loose board, The Shadow slid it aside and found a button that
controlled the lift. He brought the elevator down to the subbasement level and
left the button uncovered, so that others would notice it when they arrived.
Tonight, Ralph judged from the slow motion of the elevator that the trip
to the top of the shaft was not more than four or five stories. When the
elevator stopped, The Shadow began to slide the door open, very slowly.
A greenish glow reached it from the laboratory, then was blocked by The
Shadow's form.
Ralph heard The Shadow whisper something to Harry Vincent. The door, never
more than a quarter open, began to close again. Harry had his finger on the
control, ready to start the car down to the basement. Disquieted, Ralph asked
the reason.
In the darkness, Harry told him that The Shadow believed their arrival was
suspected; that it would be better to withdraw.
Before Ralph could offer a protest, Harry pressed the button. The elevator
again, the door slid wide, operated from the other side. This time, its slide
was swift.
The elevator was bathed in greenish light; the visitors found themselves
covered by a pair of guns, held by the two chunky men who served as the
chemical wizard's assistants.
Harry's hands lifted; so did Ralph's. As they stepped forward, Ralph
looked for The Shadow, wondering what the black-cloaked fighter was doing in
this emergency. To his surprise, he saw no sign of the black-clad leader who
had brought them to this lair!
Marched toward the front of the laboratory, the prisoners were greeted by
two men that Ralph could recognize by their voices. One was the master crook,
who used his chortling tone; the other, Glenny, who spoke in his purred style.
"So you have returned," chuckled the chief of crime, "and brought a
witness with you to testify, I suppose, that you disposed of our enemy
Cranston."
"Clever stuff, Atgood," added Glenny, in his smoothest manner, "finding
your way here. Who is this chap you brought along?"
Ralph introduced Harry, stammering as he did. He realized that the pair
were ridiculing them. By this time, the pretended Mr. Dean had probably learned
that matters had not worked out well at the Red Ribbon Cafe. Probably his
informant was Glenny, who could easily have been in the vicinity of the cafe.
Then came snarled words from the man with the enormous head. The master
crook had discarded his chortle. He was ready, apparently, to reveal his true
identity to these helpless prisoners.
Ralph and Harry saw a scrawny, green-dyed hand reach out and press a
switch. The gre
enish glow dwindled, white light gradually replacing it.
Under the changing illumination, the man with the great head seemed to
undergo a magical transformation. The size of his head was dwindling, although
another outline curved beneath it. Two ovals, a smaller and a larger, gradually
took on the complete form of a face.
The prisoners saw a gray-haired man, whose grizzled heard formed a large
curve beneath his chin. It was Harry who recognized that face, from a
description that he had previously been given. Harry exclaimed the name:
"Cyrus Shawnwood!"
BOWING, Shawnwood acknowledged his own name. Then, in a wheezy tone that
carried an ugly note of malice, he declared:
"You were fools, to let The Shadow send you here to test my trap! But I
could hardly expect fools to serve any one other than a fool! At last, The
Shadow's wandering brain has grasped the facts that he should have known long
ago!"
Tilting his head back, Shawnwood indulged in a reminiscent laugh.
"There never was an Isaac Loman," he announced. "I sent that death machine
to myself, through you, Atgood, and I arranged the Loman correspondence myself.
For weeks, the police have been looking for a man who does not exist.
"By passing myself as one of my own victims. I was able to meet the police
commissioner, at the Cobalt Club. I halted the action of the death machine, when
it showed the word 'danger,' until Cranston arrived. Then I let Cardona push the
buttons."
The cleverness of that scheme made Shawnwood laugh again, until he
remembered that the flying bomb had not killed The Shadow. From that, he
recalled that all his other methods of assassination had likewise failed.
Shawnwood's next snarl was venomous.
"Tonight," he spat, "The Shadow learned one fact that enabled him to guess
another. He found out that my mob was imaginary. That made him think about
Loman. He probably decided that Loman was a myth, also."
There was more to it than Shawnwood realized. On top of the possibility
regarding Loman's nonexistence, The Shadow had listened to Ralph's description
of a supercrook with a giant head. Ralph's details had been clouded because of
the laboratory's greenish glow. Discounting that, The Shadow had found a simple
answer.