the plant. How about having dinner with me this evening, here at the club? I'll
introduce you to the police commissioner."
With a wry expression, Bristow declined. He wasn't anxious to meet anyone
connected with the law. Public opinion was in agreement with the sentiments
expressed by George Thurver: namely, that Bristow's negligence was responsible
for two tragedies and therefore was of a criminal sort.
All the way to his New Jersey factory, Eugene Bristow felt worried.
Reaching his tower office, he dismissed his secretaries and shut himself up
alone, like a hiding fugitive. His lawyers had assured him that he was not
criminally liable for anything that had occurred, but Bristow was in a most
mistrustful mood.
The Shadow had foreseen that Bristow would be in such a state; and there
were reasons why it would prove to The Shadow's own advantage. But The Shadow
also calculated that Bristow's conscious-stricken condition would not be
observed by anyone connected with crime. That calculation missed
A knock at Bristow's door startled the chemical-plant president. Popping
up from his desk, Bristow gulped the words: "Come in." He was considerably
shaken when he saw George Thurver step across the threshold.
"I... I THOUGHT you had left!" exclaimed Bristow. "Is anything wrong,
Thurver - anything else?"
"Not at all," replied Thurver, in a serious tone. "I just wanted to
apologize for some of the things I said, Mr. Bristow. That's why I waited."
The two shook hands. Thurver could feel a tremble of Bristow's fingers.
About to leave, the chemist said:
"I meant to ask you about the old formula. Didn't you have an extra copy
of it?"
"Why... why, yes!" Bristow fumbled for his wallet; then, as if in
recollection. "I destroyed it, Thurver. You can forget it. Have a good
vacation; stay away as long as you want."
Outside the office door, Thurver paused to listen. He could hear Bristow
pacing the floor. When the footsteps stopped, he knew that Bristow was at the
telephone. Working the door slightly open, Thurver heard Bristow calling his
New York hotel apartment.
In a worried tone, Bristow was reminding his servant to say nothing of the
fact that Mr. Cranston had called the apartment a few nights before. he added:
"Call the Cobalt Club, Roger. See if you can get Mr. Cranston there. Tell
him I would like to join him at dinner with the police commissioner... Yes,
Cranston will be able to reach me here at the office..."
Thurver waited awhile, having pulled the door tight shut. He could still
hear Bristow pacing up and down, but there was no ring of the telephone bell.
Evidently Cranston was not at the Cobalt Club. With a shrewd smile, Thurver
stole away and reached his laboratory.
The place was empty except for Thurver's bags, which were packed and
bulging. Making a phone call of his own, Thurver talked to his hidden chief,
told him all that he had heard. His final remarks were emphatic.
"It looks like Cranston is The Shadow!" said Thurver. "Maybe he has that
copy of the formula... Yes, I'm all packed. I'll be on my way in five
minutes... If you want to get at The Shadow, you'll find him at the Cobalt
Club... Yes, he might head for the Dean office first..."
THERE was a sequel to Thurver's call. It came one hour later, when Ralph
Atgood heard a ring at the door of his apartment. A messenger was there, to
deliver a square wooden box addressed to Ralph, but bearing no other words.
Opening the box, Ralph found a cardboard container inside it. Tucked under
the flap of the carton was an envelope. Opening it, Ralph read:
Deliver this at once to Cyrus Shawnwood. State that it comes
from Isaac Loman. Give it to anyone of Shawnwood's servants. No
receipt will be necessary.
R. G. DEAN.
Finding Shawnwood's address in the telephone book, Ralph left the
apartment carrying the small but heavy carton. He reached an old brownstone
house on the West Side, and delivered the box to the servant who answered the
door.
date that evening with Alicia Weylan. It was just another bit of routine duty,
Ralph thought, in behalf of his benefactor, R. G. Dean. Certain phases of his
present job had begun to worry Ralph; but the delivery of a package was so
trifling, that his confidence was restored.
Oddly, that package was destined for a career that would have horrified
Ralph, had he guessed its purpose. But Ralph, as yet, had no idea of the
purposes that lay behind the ways of R. G. Dean.
Only The Shadow had found crime's links; he, alone, could forge them into
a connected chain. But crooks, in their turn, had gained a link to The Shadow.
When the master investigator moved, crime's chief would be prepared to meet him!
CHAPTER VI
THE BARREN TRAIL
IN a windowless room where black walls glistened, The Shadow was testing
the original formula used by the Chem-Lab Co. He was getting results identical
with those obtained by Ray Parringer. Even under superheat, the mixture did not
explode.
This room, with its tiled walls, was The Shadow's own laboratory. It
adjoined his sanctum, the hidden spot from which he contacted his loyal agents
when they aided him in tracking down crime.
From his experiments, The Shadow had proven the fact that he suspected:
namely, that George Thurver had deliberately doctored the chemicals used at the
Chem-Lab plant. No possible harm could have come to Ray Parringer with the
latter using a copy of the formula as supplied by Eugene Bristow.
For The Shadow was using one of Bristow's own copies - the last one in
existence. On the laboratory bench lay the crumpled sheet of paper that The
Shadow, as Cranston, had tossed into a wastebasket at the Cobalt Club. The
Shadow had recovered the discarded document soon after Bristow had left for the
factory.
One experiment concluded, The Shadow began another. He wanted an answer to
the riddle of tragedy at the Chem-Lab plant, as well as the matter of
Parringer's death. It did not take him long to settle his problem.
By slightly changing the quantities of certain solutions, The Shadow
brewed a mixture that bubbled under heat, then emitted puffs of flame. Taking a
very small amount, he added a few drops from a bottle marked "D" and put the
mixture over a burner.
Within a few seconds, there was a sharp explosion that shattered the test
tube containing the mixture. The blast was strong enough to shake the
laboratory bench, but other chemicals were too distant to be ignited.
On a tiny scale, The Shadow had duplicated the explosion that wrecked
Parringer's laboratory. Extinguishing the burner, he used a large black cloth
to mop up the remains of the experiment.
The flash of light, though small, had produced a blinding effect upon The
Shadow's eyes, which proved that he had not entirely recuperated from the
terrific experience at Parringer's. His left arm, too, seemed to ache, as he
recalled the plunge that he had taken into the old garage.
Resting in a corner of the laboratory, The Shadow let his thoughts drift
back to that horrendous night. He could remember everything perfectly, up until
the roar that had shaken the building clear to its foundations. From then on,
incidents were like snatches from a nightmare.
Fire - water - voices - gunshots: all formed an imperfect progression. Of
all those, The Shadow was most anxious to recall the voices; but there his
recollection failed him. They were threads to crime, those voices; had The
Shadow remembered them clearly, he could hope to someday identify their owners.
But the threads were tangled too hopelessly to be of present use.
Unfortunately, neither Harry Vincent nor Moe Shrevnitz had been able to
spot the number of the fugitive sedan. They had noticed a car pull away from
the scene of the explosion, had heard firemen speak of "a guy that was being
taken to the hospital." Guessing that it was The Shadow who was on his way to
the hospital, they had followed in time to aid their chief.
They had taken The Shadow to a small private hospital managed by Dr.
Rupert Sayre, who knew The Shadow as Lamont Cranston. After three delirious
nights, The Shadow had recovered from a brain concussion and had talked things
over with Sayre. The physician had provided one definite fact, to which both
Harry and Moe could testify:
The Shadow's captors could not possibly have identified him as Lamont
Cranston. His face, smeared with blood, grime, and streaks of black from
charred timbers, was such that no one could recognize it. Therefore, The Shadow
had felt confident that his Cranston personality would remain unknown - unless
Bristow supplied a clue.
In talking with Bristow this afternoon, The Shadow had spiked that
prospect. Thus he felt himself immune from any back-handed attacks by crooks
who served the unknown Mr. Dean. Lacking knowledge of Thurver's snoopy tactics,
The Shadow was therefore lulled into a faulty security that was to warp his
future actions.
MOVING into the sanctum, The Shadow pressed a switch upon the wall. A tiny
light glowed; a voice came through earphones as The Shadow adjusted them:
"Burbank speaking."
To Burbank, his contact man, The Shadow gave instructions for various
agents. They were to post themselves in the neighborhood of the Harmon Building
while The Shadow investigated the Dean office.
The Shadow was banking on the probability that his master foe would
consider the Dean alias sufficient protection. Such a theory was plausible, as
the Dean transactions were definitely legal. Even Bristow, who was handing over
half a million dollars in sizable payments, did not have any intention of trying
to brand the unknown Mr. Dean as a crook.
Dusk was heavy when The Shadow, cloaked in a new outfit of black, glided
toward the Harmon Building. He saw a young man sauntering along the street; a
taxicab was parked a few yards away. Harry Vincent and Moe Shrevnitz were both
on the job.
Pausing near a corner of the building, The Shadow saw another man alight
from an arriving cab, which promptly pulled away. The man was wearing a Tuxedo,
and seemed in quite a hurry to reach some office in the building. Harry also saw
him and started toward the building entrance.
A tiny red sparkle came from a flashlight in The Shadow's hand. Harry
spied the glimmer and stopped short. It was a signal, to halt him. The Shadow
was closer to the building entrance, and intended to take up the trail.
Harry failed to see The Shadow glide through the doorway. The lobby lights
were dim and The Shadow had a remarkable ability to keep close to the shelter of
gloomy side walls. But, as he entered, The Shadow flashed another signal. He had
shifted the lens; this time, the blink was green, and The Shadow repeated it.
Such a series of green flashes meant for Harry to keep on the move.
Resuming his stroll, the agent walked toward the next corner. On the way, Harry
reasoned out The Shadow's purpose.
Since the Tuxedoed man had come by cab, he would probably take one when he
left. Since Moe's cab was already parked near the Harmon Building, it would be
eligible to receive the Tuxedoed passenger. The Shadow often had Moe carry
suspicious-looking persons to their destinations.
Inside the building, The Shadow glimpsed the face above the Tuxedo. He
noted that the man was an earnest-looking fellow, light-haired and with a
rather well-shaped profile. In age, he was probably well into his twenties.
The Shadow was gaining his first view of Ralph Atgood, the sincere
emissary who served R. G. Dean. His scrutiny, however, was brief, for The
Shadow preferred to learn if this hasty visitor was going to the upstairs
office.
It was after six o'clock, and only one elevator was in operation. While
Ralph waited for it, The Shadow ascended a stairway that stood closer to the
building entrance. Finding the Dean office by the number that he had noted on
the lobby board, The Shadow was watching from an extension of the hallway when
Ralph arrived.
The cloaked observer saw the young man unlock the mailbox outside the
office door. Finding no letters in it, Ralph went his way, while The Shadow
blinked a message from the hallway window. Flashing from the folds of his
cloak, the tiny flashlight sparkled in ordinary white.
Its muffled beam was noted by Moe, watching from the cab directly below
the window. Moe read the brief coded message. He was ready when Ralph arrived
on the street. The young man rode away, a passenger in The Shadow's cab.
That trail proved shorter than either The Shadow or Moe expected. It was
not only short, but blind. Under orders to make his visits to the Dean office
inconspicuous, Ralph left the cab near a subway station. Moe was about to
discard his taxi driver's cap and follow him, when another fare stepped into
the cab.
It happened to be Frederick Glenny, covering Ralph's trail without the
latter's knowledge. Moe could not desert his cab while he had a passenger.
Taking Glenny for a chance customer, the cabby never suspected that the fellow
was in the game. He drove Glenny to Times Square, and there reported to
Burbank, stating that he had lost track of his first passenger.
WHILE Moe was muffling a second choice quite as good as the one that he
had lost, The Shadow descended to the ground floor of the office building.
Something about the locked office signified new danger. The best route of entry
would be an unexpected one.
In an area behind the building, the flashlight gave green blinks, then
red. The Shadow was joined by a wizened man who crept stealthily from the
darkness.
This was Hawkeye, another of The Shadow's agents. Burbank had posted him
behind the building, and Hawkeye reported that no hostile watchers were about.
Leaving Hawkeye on guard, The Shadow began an outside trip to the locked Dean
office.
Scaling the brick wall, with its cornices and window ledges, was an easy
matter for The Shadow. Hand over hand, he ascended the darkened surface,
gaining toe holds as he went. Lost even from Hawkeye's sharp view,
The Shadow
reached the window that he wanted. It was latched, but he worked a thin strip
of metal between the portions of the sash, to release the catch.
Inside the office, The Shadow probed the place with his thin-rayed
flashlight. Empty filing cases and vacant desk drawers supplied no clues
whatever. It was apparent that everything of any consequence had been removed;
that the office was used as a mailing address only.
In hope of some slight clue, The Shadow decided to examine the office more
thoroughly. He lowered the window shades, then stabbed his flashlight through
pitch-darkness. The ray focused on a squatty metal desk lamp that stood beside
the telephone.
The switch was at the bottom of the lamp. Extinguishing the flashlight,
The Shadow reached out to light the lamp and thus illuminate the office
completely. The instant that his fingers pressed the switch, he heard a muffled
click from deep within the lamp base. The light came on, but at the same moment
something sliced outward from a narrow slit just below the switch.
The Shadow whipped his hand away as the thin object struck his gloved
hand, close to the palm. For an instant, he thought that a knife had been
ejected from the lamp, but as he clenched his fist and looked along the
polished desk, he saw no sign of a blade.
Something crinkled in The Shadow's palm. Opening his fist, he saw a white
card. It was the thing from the lamp, and it had slithered squarely into The
Shadow's quick-formed fist before he had been able to whisk his hand from the
danger zone. As he eyed the card in the lamplight, The Shadow phrased a
whispered laugh.
There was no mockery in that tone. Rather, it carried a note of hidden
understanding. The Shadow knew that he was dealing with a superfoe whose tricky
ways were so numerous and varied that the crafty criminal could pass up
opportunities for murder, to show his contempt for those who tried to balk him.
The strip of pasteboard in The Shadow's hand was an engraved calling card
that bore the name: R. G. DEAN.
CHAPTER VII
CRIME'S ULTIMATUM
THERE was nothing trivial about the souvenir that The Shadow had so