The Living Shadow s-1

  The Living Shadow

  ( Shadow - 1 )

  Maxwell Grant

  This is the first Shadow story which appeared on April 1, 1931. It's sort of an introduction to the Shadow but, as such, does not give any actual background to the character.

  Most of the book actually deals with Harry Vincent, a man who was going to kill himself but was stopped by the Shadow. He then becomes one of the Shadow's agents and we see a little about how they operate. He's to keep watch on a certain man and report to Claude Fellows, another of the Shadow's agent.

  The Shadow is investigating the robbery and murder of a millionaire and, as with Shadow novels, things are not ever as simple as they seem at first. Harry Vincent has to visit someone named Wang Foo and that visit goes terribly wrong but he's rescued by the Shadow. Then Harry poses as a cab driver and nearly gets himself in more trouble and again the Shadow rescues him.

  THE LIVING SHADOW

  by Maxwell Grant

  As originally published in “The Shadow Magazine,” April/June 1931.

  The coin that meant death - or instant riches! Assisted by the fast legwork of young Harry Vincent and the efficient brain of Claude Fellows, The Shadow solves a series of seemingly unrelated murders and unmasks a ruthless arch villain.

  CHAPTER I

  OUT OF THE MIST

  The fog was thick at the center of the bridge where the man stood leaning against the rail. Although the streets of New York were scarcely a hundred yards away, he might have been in a little world of his own. For the only light in the midst of that cloud of black night fog came from an arc light on the bridge.

  A taxicab, carrying a late passenger home, shot through the mist.

  The man stepped away from the rail and crouched beside a post. He saw a flash of the red tail light on the cab; a moment later it was lost in the fog.

  As the noise of the motor died away, the man stood up again and placed his hands upon the rail.

  He listened, as though afraid that another cab might be coming across the bridge; then, reassured, he leaned over the rail and stared downward.

  Mist; thick, black mist - nothing but mist. It seemed to invite his plunge. Yet he hesitated as many wait, when they are upon the brink of death - until, with a mad impulse, he swung his body across the rail and loosened his hands.

  Something clamped upon his shoulder. An iron grip held him balanced between life and death. Then, as though his body possessed no weight whatever, the man felt himself pulled around in a sweeping circle. He staggered as his feet struck the sidewalk of the bridge.

  He turned to confront the person who had interfered. He swung his fist angrily, but a hand caught his wrist and twisted it behind his back with irresistible power.

  It seemed as though the man’s strength had been wrested from him as he faced a tall, black-cloaked figure that might have represented death itself. For he could not have sworn that he was looking at a human being.

  The stranger’s face was entirely obscured by a broad-brimmed felt hat bent downward over his features; and the long, black coat looked almost like part of the thickening fog.

  The man who had attempted suicide was too startled to speak. Fear had come upon him, and his only desire was to shrink from this grim and eerie master of the night. But he felt himself pulled across the sidewalk, and at the curb he stumbled through the open door of a large limousine, which he had not seen until that moment. His arm was freed, and he shrank into the far corner of the car.

  The door closed and the car moved on. The grim stranger was in the seat beside him, and fear still clutched the heart of the man whose life had been saved against his will.

  A voice spoke through the darkness. It was a weird, chilling voice - scarcely more than a whisper, yet clear and penetrating.

  “What is your name?”

  It was not a question. Rather, it was a command to speak.

  “Harry Vincent,” replied the man who had been deterred from self-destruction. The words had come to his lips automatically.

  “Why did you try suicide?”

  It was another command.

  “Melancholy, I suppose,” said Vincent. He was speaking of his own accord now; somehow he wanted to talk.

  “Go on,” came the voice.

  “It’s not much of a story,” replied Vincent. “Perhaps I was a fool. I’m all alone here in New York. No job, no friends, nothing to live for. My folks are all out in the Middle West, and I haven’t seen them for years. I don’t want to see them. I guess they think I’m a success here, but I’m not.”

  “You are well dressed,” the stranger’s voice remarked.

  Vincent laughed nervously. “Yes,” he said, “I’m wearing a light overcoat, and the weather hasn’t scarcely begun to be chilly. But that’s only appearance. Everything else is in hock. I have one dollar and thirteen cents in actual cash.”

  The mysterious stranger did not reply. The car was rolling along a side street, the bridge was now far behind. Vincent, his nerves somewhat settled, stared into the opposite corner of the limousine, vainly seeking to observe his companion’s face. But the shade was drawn and he could not even detect a blotch of white amid the darkness.

  “What about the girl?” came the voice.

  The penetrating whisper startled Vincent. The single, and most important, item that he had omitted from his brief story had been fathomed by this stranger whose cunning was the equal of his strength.

  “The girl?” questioned Vincent. “The girl? My - my girl out home?”

  “Yes.”

  “She married another man,” said Vincent. “That was the reason I was on the bridge tonight. I might have struggled on for a while if I hadn’t been so hard up. But when the letter came that told me she was married - well, that ended it.”

  He paused, and hearing no reply, added to his confession.

  “The letter came two days ago,” he said. “I haven’t slept since. I was on the bridge all last night, but I didn’t have nerve to jump - then. I guess it was the fog that helped me this time.”

  “Your life,” said the stranger’s voice slowly, “is no longer your own. It belongs to me now. But you are still free to destroy it. Shall we return to the bridge?”

  “I don’t know,” blurted Vincent. “This is all like a dream; I don’t understand it. Perhaps I did fall from the bridge, and this is death that I am now experiencing. Yet it seems real, after all. What good is my life to anyone? What will you do with it?”

  “I shall improve it,” replied the voice from the darkness. “I shall make it useful. But I shall risk it, too. Perhaps I shall lose it, for I have lost lives, just as I have saved them. This is my promise: life, with enjoyment, with danger, with excitement, and with money. Life, above all, with honor. But if I give it, I demand obedience. Absolute obedience. You may accept my terms, or you may refuse. I shall wait for you to choose.”

  The car rolled on comfortably through the side streets of upper New York. The motor seemed noiseless; Harry Vincent began to understand how it had approached him unheard upon the bridge.

  He was wondering about his strange companion; this man who had whirled him away from his fatal plunge as though his hundred and seventy pounds had been nothing; this man who could read his thoughts and whose questions were commands.

  He turned again toward the darkened corner, and hope returned to him. After all, he wanted life. He had come to New York because he had desired to live and to succeed. This was his opportunity. He pictured his lifeless body, beneath the bridge, and he realized that he could make but one choice.

  “I accept,” he said.

  “Remember then, obedience,” said the voice. “That must come always. I do not ask for cleverness, for strength or skill, altho
ugh I want them, and will expect them to the best of your ability.”

  There was a pause. The whispered voice seemed to echo in Vincent’s ears. He realized that there was neither approval nor surprise in the stranger’s words. Simply calmness. “You will be taken immediately to a hotel,” resumed the voice. “You will find a room reserved in your name. There will be money there. Your requirements will be filled. You will obtain everything you want. Your bills will be paid.”

  The point of a cane swung from the rear seat and tapped twice against the windowpane behind the chauffeur. It seemed to be a signal, for the speed of the car increased as it sharply swung a corner.

  “But, remember, Harry Vincent,” said the voice from the corner, “I must have your promise. Shut your eyes for one full minute while you think on it. Then promise, if you wish. Promise your obedience.”

  Vincent closed his eyes and thought. His mind cleared and life seemed to brighten. There was but one course; that was acceptance of the stranger’s terms.

  He opened his eyes and again gazed at that blackened corner.

  “I promise,” he said. “I promise full obedience.”

  “Very well,” came the stranger’s whisper. “Go to your hotel. Tomorrow you will receive a message. It will come from me, and my messages are meaningless to those who should not understand them. Listen well when you receive your message. Remember only the words which are emphasized in pronouncing like this.”

  There was a stressing of the last word. It seemed almost a sentence in itself and the hiss of the stranger’s whisper carried a weird, unearthly sound.

  The car swerved suddenly and stopped with a jolt against the curb on the left. An open car had forced it to the sidewalk; and the headlights of the other automobile were glaring through the window. A figure opened the door on the right and Vincent saw a man’s head and shoulders jutting up.

  “Stick ‘em up!” came a rough voice. Vincent raised his hands as he saw the glint of a revolver barrel. It was a holdup - a daring crime on this side street of Manhattan!

  Then something emerged from the darkened corner. It spread like a huge monster of the night, a black shape that swept forward and enveloped the gangster in its folds. There was a muffled cry, then a pistol shot, and the car suddenly darted forward.

  The door closed with a crash. Through the rear window of the limousine, Vincent saw a man sprawled in the street. Evidently it was the fellow who had attempted the holdup.

  Then the car burst into the glare of lights on Fifth Avenue. Vincent turned quickly to the corner where his strange companion sat. Now he would see his mysterious companion face to face!

  But, except for himself, the car was empty. He was alone in the limousine. A dark splotch showed on the inside of the door; he touched it and found blood on his hand.

  Who had been wounded the shadowy stranger or the assailant who had tried to enter the limousine? Vincent could not guess; he only knew that in the brief struggle the man who had found him on the bridge had left the automobile - unseen and unheard - and the door had closed behind him.

  The mysterious stranger had vanished like a shadow!

  CHAPTER II

  THE FIRST MESSAGE

  Harry Vincent was annoyed as the big limousine sped along Fifth Avenue. The promise he had made to the stranger was still uppermost in his mind, and he intended fully to keep his word. But his mind was busy ferreting out the strange things that had happened since the episode on the bridge.

  Alone, now, with thoughts of suicide gone, he began to wonder what coincidence had brought the stranger out of the night, and by what strange trick he had managed to disappear so completely.

  He found the light switch in the automobile and turned it on to examine the rich upholstery, which bore the stain of blood. The car was an imported Supra; that, at least, was tangible evidence. It would not be difficult to learn the name of the man who owned it.

  The car turned from Fifth Avenue and pulled up in front of the Metrolite, one of New York’s newest hotels. The attendant opened the door and Vincent stepped to the sidewalk. Then he opened the front door of the limousine and accosted the Negro chauffeur.

  “Was this where you were told to bring me?” he asked.

  “Yes, sah,” replied the chauffeur. “Whah’s de uddah man?”

  “He left the car when the taxi nearly bumped us.”

  The chauffeur’s eyes opened widely.

  “Lawdy, sah, Ah didn’t even stop at dat time.”

  Vincent looked at the man intently. He could see that the chauffeur was actually astonished. He put another question.

  “Whose car is this?”

  “Don’t say nuthin’, boss,” pleaded the chauffeur. “Dis am Mr. van Dyke’s cah, an’ Ah hadn’t no right to take you men along.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It was dis way, boss. Ah was keepin’ the cah in town tonight an’ de man in de black hat come up to me when Ah was startin’ for de garage. He come up jus’ like a ghost. Yas, he did, sah.”

  “He says to me: ‘Boy, Ah wants a ride. It’s all right; Ah know who you is, an’ Ah knows Mr. van Dyke, an’ here’s one hundred dollahs. Ah must find a friend o’ mine.’

  “So Ah drives him all ovah, an’ as we crosses the bridge, he says, ‘Stop,’ an’ the nex’ Ah knows he has you-all in de cah with him. An’ he had said befo’ dat when he gets his friend, Ah was to drive aroun’ little streets until he taps the window - den Ah was to come heah. Dat’s all Ah knows, boss, ‘deed it is.”

  Vincent could see the truth in the man’s worried story, so he dismissed the car and watched the huge Supra as it moved down the foggy street. Even the license number would be no clew. He entered the hotel and strolled to the desk. Then he began to worry about identifying himself.

  “Room reserved for Harry Vincent?” he asked.

  He was in suspense as the clerk turned away for a moment; then came the reassuring reply:

  “Fourteen-nineteen, Mr. Vincent,” said the clerk. “That was the room you wanted? Funny, we didn’t catch your name when you called up from Philadelphia this morning, but when you called again, ten minutes ago, we put everything right. Will you register, please?”’

  Vincent signed his name and supplied Philadelphia as his place of residence. The stranger must have called the hotel after leaving the car, he imagined.

  Vincent wondered about that as he rode up in the elevator with the bell boy. The stranger must have imitated his voice; he certainly would not have talked in that weird whisper.

  The room was a large one, equipped with the most modern hotel furnishings. The bell boy pointed to a valise, resting on a stand.

  “That’s your bag, isn’t it, sir? It was marked for this room when it came in this evening.”

  Vincent acknowledged the bag. He was curious to know what it contained. He fumbled in his pocket. His total wealth consisted of two half dollars, a nickel, and eight pennies, so he gave the bell boy one of the larger coins and waited until the door closed behind the attendant.

  Then he opened the suitcase. It held a pair of pajamas, comb and brushes, neckties, and a few other articles. Also there was a black leather wallet. Vincent removed this and opened it, to find two hundred dollars in bills of various denominations.

  He studied himself in the mirror. Here, in a comfortable hotel, with good surroundings and money, and with promise of future supplies, life seemed strangely new. He studied his reflection: tall, and well-featured. Here he was, a man under thirty, who had acknowledged himself beaten and who had tried suicide. Well, things were different now.

  He took a drink of ice water, and decided to retire for the night. Despite the many things that puzzled him, he was sleepy. He needed rest. He draped his clothes over the chair, donned the pajamas, and got into bed. In ten minutes he was sound asleep.

  A knock at the door awakened him. It was morning. A bell boy awaited him with a large package.

  “Want your breakfast sent up, sir?” asked the boy. “It’s
after ten o’clock.”

  Vincent followed the boy’s suggestion and phoned for the morning meal to be sent up. Then he opened the package.

  It contained shirts, socks and other apparel, with a new suit of clothes. He examined these articles and was amazed to find that all were his exact size. The stranger must have made a perfect estimate of Vincent’s proportions in the dark of the automobile!

  Breakfast arrived after Vincent had dressed and shaved, using a safety razor he had found in the valise. Then he sat by the window and stared speculatively at the sky line of Manhattan. What next? Well, he would wait and learn.

  A half hour passed. Then the phone bell rang. He answered it eagerly; but was disappointed when he did not recognize the voice of the stranger of the preceding night’s adventure. It was a man’s voice speaking, however, calling him by name, and talking in an easy tone.

  “Mr. Vincent?” the person said. “This is the jeweler. I have a message for you.”

  The word “message” made Vincent become suddenly alert. The voice was talking slowly now, and certain words came in a slight emphatic drawl.

  “Your WATCH was sent to another MAN by mistake. We expect to have another IN very soon; perhaps by NEXT Tuesday. It will be delivered to your ROOM.”

  The message was forming in Vincent’s mind. He did not reply.

  “Was my message clear?” came the question.

  “Yes,” Vincent replied.

  He hung up the receiver and repeated the stressed words slowly and softly to himself:

  “Watch - man - in - next - room.”

  Vincent chuckled. It was an order, and it was up to him to obey.

  He had grandly ordered cigars with his breakfast, so he lighted a perfecto and smoked for a while.

  Then he began to wonder about the next room, the occupant of which he was to watch.

  There should be two rooms next to his - one on each side. Vincent went into the hallway. No, the message left no doubt. His own room was a corner one; the only door near his in fact, it was right alongside and was numbered 1417.