The Eyes of the Shadow s-2 Page 6

  "Steve Cronin," it said, "I am The Shadow. You summoned me, and I am here."

  Silence. The crook could not move. The figure remained motionless, yet real.

  "Steve Cronin," said the voice of The Shadow, "I have watched you. Once before I watched you."

  Again a pause, and then the voice:

  "One time more will be the last. That is my warning. Three times will mean your doom."

  Steve's eyes were half shut.

  "Your doom," repeated the voice.

  Still Steve Cronin was powerless. He did not move, even when a long arm came slowly upward and stretched forward until a black-gloved finger showed directly in front of the gangster's eyes.

  "You have heard my warning," said the voice. Its tones were sinister. "I seldom give a warning. This is the only one - for you."

  There was a sibilant hiss to the voice. Then came a single, emphatic word:

  "Go!"

  The figure seemed to dwindle as it merged into the darkness. Two burning spots glowed dull and disappeared. Steve Cronin's limbs gained a sudden strength of frenzied fear. A low, gasping scream escaped his lips as he yanked the door open and half flung himself into the hall. A sound followed him from the room - it was a mirthless, mocking laugh!

  He had seen The Shadow! It was real! It had spoken! It had looked at him with its eyes of fire!

  At the stairway Cronin paused in his flight. He steadied himself against the rail. He set his suitcase on the floor and drew a revolver from his pocket.

  With shaking steps he stole softly back along the hall. He waited outside the open door for an instant, then thrust his hand against the switch, which he could see in the light from the desk lamp. He was in the room, facing that same corner, with his gun before him.

  The room was empty!

  Steve Cronin made a hurried search. Under the bed - in the closet. No one there. He stopped at the window. The shade was fully two inches higher than it had been before. He peered out into the darkness.

  He could see nothing.

  The gangster laughed in a relieved way. He reached to turn off the desk lamp. His hand trembled. A card lay before him. On it, in printed characters, were the words:

  REMEMBER. ONCE MORE WILL MEAN YOUR DOOM.

  The revolver nearly fell from Cronin's weakened fingers. With feigned boldness he managed to thrust it in his pocket. He still stared at the card with its ominous words. Then suddenly the writing faded. The card was blank!

  Steve Cronin rushed from the room. He staggered down the stairs, his suitcase knocking against the rail.

  He hailed a cab that was outside the hotel. His voice quivered as he directed the driver to take him to the station.

  Cronin's train pulled out at nine o'clock. Alone in a compartment, the westward-bound crook sat huddled and unnerved. Steve feared pursuit, even though he was doing his utmost to escape The Shadow's wrath. Steve wondered where The Shadow had headed from Harrisburg. He might have guessed the answer had he left the city by air, instead of by train.

  At that same hour - nine o'clock - an airplane took off from the Harrisburg airport. Its lone occupant was a black-cloaked pilot, whose figure was almost invisible at the controls of the fleet monoplane.

  The ship's course was eastward, heading directly toward New York. As it roared low over the Pennsylvania countryside, its broad wings glinted in the moonlight, and cast a wide, spreading, moving shadow on the ground below.

  CHAPTER XII. VINCENT TAKES ACTION

  IT was eleven o'clock. For three hours Harry Vincent had been watching from the vacant store across the street from Isaac Coffran's house.

  At eight o'clock a man had entered. In accordance with instructions, Vincent had called on the telephone.

  A quiet voice had answered him and had received the information.

  Harry had made a second report at nine o'clock, and a third at ten. It was time for a fourth call, yet he had nothing new to say - simply that the man who had entered the house had not come out.

  Speculation had gripped Harry's mind. He could see Isaac Coffran's house fairly well, for the street was lighted. The place appeared to be impregnable. The iron-shuttered windows formed a veritable fortress.

  He imagined that the sides and the rear of the house were similarly protected. He would have supposed that the house was empty had he not seen the man enter.

  He was sure that the visitor was Bruce Duncan. He had not had an opportunity to observe the man closely, but he could tell that he was not over thirty years of age, and of more than average height and weight.

  He picked up the telephone and called the number. While waiting for the connection, Harry wondered who the person with the quiet voice could be. Some agent of The Shadow. He doubted that it could be The Shadow himself. The Shadow might be out of town - perhaps in Harrisburg!

  The thought was not encouraging. To-night's adventure might show sudden developments. It was more than four hours from Harrisburg by the fastest train. The Shadow, superman that he was, could not be in the capital of Pennsylvania and in Manhattan at the same time. That might account for the delay in action.

  Vincent knew from experience that when danger threatened The Shadow's presence was invaluable.

  Harry also wondered where the person whom he was calling was located. Probably at some temporary place, which was being used for to-night only.

  "Hello." It was the quiet voice coming across the phone.

  "Hello," said Harry. "Everything the same."

  "Keep watching."

  "Wait!"

  Harry had seen a man come stealthily up the street. The fellow was outside the store window now, looking at the house across the street.

  "What's up?" asked the methodical voice.

  "There's a man outside the window," answered Harry in guarded tones.

  "Outside your window?" asked the voice. "Or outside the window of the house?"

  "Outside my window. Right here."

  "What does he look like?"

  "His back is toward me. Wait. He's turning now. I can see his face. It's a dark face. He looks like a Hindu."

  "What's he doing now?"

  "Sneaking across the street. He's trying the front door of the house."

  "Keep watching him."

  "I am watching him. He's back in the street. He's looking up at the house. Evidently he sees he can't get in. Now he's going around to the right side."

  "What's he doing there?"

  "I can't see. The house is a trifle down the street."

  "Tell me immediately if he comes back."

  There was a lapse of fully two minutes. Then Vincent saw the Hindu reappear in front of the house.

  "He's back," he said in the phone.

  "Keep watching," ordered the voice.

  "Right. He's looking at the front of the house, just above the sidewalk. He must have found cellar windows on the side. There are none here in front. Now he's going to the left side of the house."

  "Can you see him there?"

  "Just barely. He's in an alley - a narrow alley - and it's dark. I can just make out his outline. He's stooping now. Trying the windows. He won't have any luck; this house is certainly heavily barred. Ah!"

  "What is it?"

  "He must have found a loose fastening. He's working on a window. About halfway back. I can just see him."

  "Don't lose sight of him."

  "I won't. He seems to be working harder. Now he's stopped. He's trying to push himself into something.

  He's flat on the ground. There he goes! Feet-first! He's in - completely in!"

  "Wait one minute. Tell me if he reappears."

  HARRY remained silent, his eyes glued on the spot where the Hindu had disappeared into the side of the building. He could detect no motion.

  "Has he returned?" questioned the voice.

  "No," answered Harry. "I'm sure he has gained an entrance."

  "It is time for you to act," said the quiet tones. "Until to-night it has seemed impossible to effect an en
trance into that building. Now it has been done by some one else."

  "Shall I enter the way the Hindu went?"

  "Yes. But be cautious. Listen to my instructions."

  Harry was intent.

  "In the table drawer," said the person at the other end of the wire, "you will find three articles. A piece of chalk. A small flashlight. An automatic pistol, fully loaded.

  "When you leave the store, make a chalk mark on the door. Put a tiny arrow on the sidewalk pointing across the street. Mark your path to the spot where you enter.

  "Once in the house, your chief duty will be to find Bruce Duncan, the young man who entered at eight o'clock. Mark your path as you go through the house.

  "Use the flashlight as little as possible. Use the automatic only in case of necessity. I can give you no more advice. The rest is up to you."

  Harry waited, but the monotonous voice did not continue. He was about to speak when he heard the click of the receiver at the other end of the line. He opened the table drawer. Groping in the dark, he found the articles mentioned. He made his way cautiously to the street; there he placed the first chalk mark on the door.

  The fresh air added new vigor to Harry Vincent. The time for action had arrived! He was on the verge of a mysterious adventure. His mind dwelt on the thoughts of what lay ahead as he went stealthily toward the house, making his chalk marks as he moved along.

  The Hindu had pried open a hinged iron shutter. Harry discovered this after a quick examination which did not require the flashlight. Inside the shutter was an iron grating. This must also have been loose, for it was swung inward.

  The flashlight made a circle on the floor of the cellar as Harry pressed the button of the tiny instrument. It was a dark, gloomy cellar, that seemed to fade away in endless depths. The Hindu had entered in the darkness. Harry did likewise.

  His feet clicked as they struck the stone floor. Blindly, Harry Vincent moved forward; as he did, he sensed that something was taking place beyond him. He fancied that he heard a sound some distance away.

  CHAPTER XIII. THE ENEMY REVEALED

  THE stack of letters had dwindled by half during Bruce Duncan's reading. Bruce stopped for a moment's rest, and rubbed his eyes. Then he moved the last letter that he had perused, noting the sizes of the two heaps. Those that he had read were on the right; the unread letters were at the left edge of the desk.

  Bruce had not neglected to read a single word. It had been an interesting task, this exploration into the adventurous life of his uncle. The letters had been mailed from many parts of the world, and they went into great detail over many matters.

  Never before had Bruce Duncan realized the amazing features of his uncle's career. Remarkable facts and strange experiences were recounted in a simple, matter-of-fact manner. It seemed surprising that Isaac Coffran had been unable to recollect the contents of these letters.

  Duncan resumed his reading. He had not yet reached the portion of his uncle's life that dealt with Russia.

  Still, he had felt it wise to follow Isaac Coffran's advice and read all of the letters. There might be some slight clue in the early ones that would help later on.

  Furthermore, he was gaining a valuable insight into his uncle's methods and purposes. This, he felt, was preparing him for discoveries that might come later on. The mere mention of a prominent Russian name might be the very thread of circumstance he sought!

  He completed another letter. He felt a bit tired. How long had he been reading? It seemed scarcely more than an hour - more probably it was two or three. He was about to glance at his watch when he thought of Isaac Coffran's suggestion to forget time.

  Rising from his chair, Duncan felt a sudden return of exhilaration. It surprised him. He realized that the air had become a bit stuffy, yet it seemed like a complete change now. He walked around the room. He stopped by the door, but did not try to open it. He looked at the button beside the desk. Well, he could summon Pedro if he wished. That might be a good idea, but he would read a few more letters first.

  He sat at the desk. He seemed suddenly weary and out of breath. As he reached to the pile of letters at the left, he accidentally knocked them to the floor - all but one letter, the last of the group. Duncan picked it up and reached for the others.

  As he stooped to the floor, a sudden feeling of nausea came over him. He seized the letters and as he held them, he began to choke. His throat seemed to form a solid lump.

  It required a moment for him to recover after he regained his sitting position. He had picked up the loose letters hurriedly. In so doing he had added the final letter to the top of the pile. He was not aware of the fact, for he was fighting against an attack of temporary dizziness.

  DUNCAN closed his eyes, and his senses returned. Mechanically he opened the letter that lay on top of the heap at the left. He began to read it, wearily, without actually noting the words. Then a sudden difference in the appearance of the note attracted his attention.

  All of the previous letters had borne the introduction, "My dear Isaac." This one began with the simple statement, "Sir." Concentrating, Duncan followed each word. The task seemed laborious, his senses had become dulled. But even in his lethargic mental state, the full meaning of his uncle's writing burned itself into his mind with startling revelation. The letter read:

  This is the end. For many years I have been a trusting fool. I believed in your friendship. I told you much.

  Now I know you for what you are - a fiend - a fiend that has assumed a human form!

  You have used the information that I have given you to prey upon helpless people. You have sought to injure me, but without avail. I know now why I was attacked in Singapore. I have found out the source of the plot upon my life in Russia. I thought the Reds were back of it. But you were the man who caused it!

  You have covered your tracks well. Only the man who tried to murder me in France could testify against you. He died beside me during an attack on the German trenches. He told me all, with his last breath. So you are safe.

  But your schemes can no longer reach me. I am on my guard. The secret that you seek will never be yours. I shall reveal it on my deathbed, and the one who hears it will be warned against you. No inkling of you and your evilness will ever appear in anything I write. I am too wise to trust such statements to paper. But my own words will tell -

  The letter fell from Bruce Duncan's hand. He had reached the end of the first page. He had learned all he needed.

  Isaac Coffran was his uncle's enemy! The old man who had appeared so friendly had gained the secret after all. It was his messenger who had stolen the package and the envelopes!

  Rising, Duncan felt that former feeling of exhilaration. His mind, suddenly responsive, grasped the details of what had happened.

  Some one had visited his uncle. In his delirium, the dying man had fancied that Bruce had come at last.

  He had revealed the message which he had intended for his nephew.

  It could not have been Coffran. Even at the point of death, Uncle Harvey would have recognized his enemy. It could not have been the ape-faced man. It must have been a third person - an agent of Coffran's. It did not matter who it had been. The vital fact was that the secret had been learned.

  While he, Bruce Duncan, had been ignorant of his uncle's enmity toward Isaac Coffran, there had been no need for murder. But now, since Bruce had admitted that he intended to detect the thief, he had become a menace.

  He seized the letter and turned to the second page. He followed the denunciation that his uncle had written from the point where he had left off.

  - the man who will continue to keep my trust.

  When your name is mentioned, he will be warned against another - your companion in crime, Bernardo Chefano - whose twisted lips will reveal his identity, no matter what disguise or alias he may employ.

  Chefano is clever, but you are cunning. Yet I defy you both and I -

  Dizziness was seizing Duncan. He had taken the chair again. He rose to his f
eet and gasped. The letter fluttered to the floor. Bending slowly forward, Duncan lowered his head inch by inch. Gradually he felt the sensation of weakness returning.

  He rushed to the door. It was locked. Then he stood motionless, his mind alternating between fear and anger.

  The room was a death trap! Locked in this small compartment, he was to be the victim of Isaac Coffran's fiendish methods. That was cruelly plain.

  From somewhere - from hidden spots about the room, a slow, deadly poison gas was entering the compartment. It must be akin to carbon monoxide - a vapor that could not be sensed by smell. Heavier than air, it was creeping upward from the floor, gradually overcoming him.

  The last letter that revealed the true Isaac Coffran would never have been reached by Bruce Duncan.

  It was intended that he should die before he knew the truth. Now he had learned it. But to what avail?

  He could cry for help; he could batter against the solid door. These efforts would all be futile; they would add to the misery of death.

  He went to the desk and pressed the button. He waited. There was no response. Of course not. Isaac Coffran had probably received the signal and was gloating.

  The air was stifling. Life, Bruce realized, was a matter of short duration, now. He might prolong it by standing upon a chair, with his head against the low ceiling. That would mean twenty minutes more, perhaps half an hour.

  The little alcove attracted his attention. There was a button beside it - perhaps another signal. He staggered across the room and pressed the button. There was no result.

  Should he lie on the floor and die? It might be best, he thought, but the ordeal was hard to face. No, he would defy Isaac Coffran to the last moment. He stood upon the chair and braced himself against the wall.

  The relief was not great. Duncan fancied he could hear the insidious gas hissing into the death chamber.

  Perhaps it was coming more rapidly now; possibly his imagination was ruling him.

  He looked at his watch. Quarter past eleven. The room was beginning to whirl, so it seemed. He was losing his balance. In another minute, he would topple from his place of temporary security, and all would be over.