The Eyes of the Shadow s-2 Page 8

  The real Pedro lay on the floor, but above him stood his exact duplicate! It seemed incredible -

  impossible - yet it was actuality!

  For one brief instant the face of the false Pedro changed its expression. Then the sneer reappeared. The light was out; the standing figure was gone.

  As Harry Vincent rose to his feet and steadied himself against the wall, a weird, unforgettable sound echoed through the vaulted basement.

  It was the sound of a laugh - a whispered laugh a mocking laugh that brought a sudden throbbing to Harry Vincent's temples.

  It was the laugh of The Shadow!

  CHAPTER XVI. THE OLD MAN'S STRATEGY

  ISAAC COFFRAN was standing in the center of the front room on the second story. He was facing the curtained doorway, but his eyes were on the floor. A cunning smile was on his lips. He was gloating and triumphant. His hands were behind his back; his pose was one of enjoyable anticipation.

  A shadow moved across the floor and extended toward the old man. Isaac Coffran raised his head quickly. He grinned as he saw the leering face of Pedro. The Mexican had parted the curtains and was standing in the doorway. His left hand held the machete; his right arm supported a black bundle.

  "Well?" questioned Isaac Coffran.

  Pedro's lips parted in an ugly snarl of mirth. The big man tossed the machete on a chair and placed the bundle on top of it.

  "Did you find the man in the cellar?" asked Isaac Coffran.

  "Si, senor," replied Pedro. "Yes."

  "Ah!" exclaimed the old man. "I am glad I sent you down. I thought perhaps the rescuer had slipped out before the curtain closed. Where was Duncan - the young man? In the closing room?"

  "I think so."

  "He couldn't have escaped. He was too exhausted by the gas. Well, he has five minutes more to wait.

  What did you do to the other man?"

  Pedro pointed to the chair.

  "There is his hat, senor," he said. "There is his coat. Pedro can use the machete well. Very well."

  The old man chuckled.

  "You are useful, Pedro," he said. "But these are useful, too. He pointed to a row of buttons and lights above a table by the door. One by one he indicated them.

  "Here," he chortled, "is the gas button. That was first. The second was this light - when Duncan rang from the study. Then this light showed that some one within the cellar had brought down the elevator. How did the man get in? Through a loosely fastened window?"

  "Yes."

  "Careless of you, Pedro. We must attend to that. But look. I pressed this button. Up came the elevator.

  This button - down came the steel curtain. Here I released the trap - perhaps the young man has fallen in it. We shall see later. Then" - the old man's face gleamed with fiendish malice - "the last button. The wall is closing. Slowly closing. Soon it will be ended. Listen!"

  A faint, distant thumping could be heard from the depths of the house.

  "The machete is useful, Pedro," observed the old man. "Quick work - no noise. We will drop that body through the trap, too."

  He looked at the Mexican quizzically.

  Pedro grinned.

  "You look different than usual," said Isaac Coffran. "You must have had some trouble, Pedro. Your scar is a trifle redder than I have ever seen it before. You must have given way to excitement! I never knew you to do that before."

  The old man wheeled and faced a clock that hung on the wall opposite the door. Staring toward the dial, he became oblivious to Pedro's presence. Venomously, Isaac Coffran announced the moments that remained.

  "Three minutes more," he sneered. "No! Two minutes. The crushing is about to commence. This period is always enjoyable to me. That last minute, when the wall closes over the few remaining feet. The victim is at his last moment of helplessness. This is a rare pleasure, Pedro. I hope you enjoy it as much as I."

  He paused, listening, while he stared at the clock.

  "Can I be wrong?" he asked. "Impossible! Yet the mechanism has stopped! I can't hear its thumping beats. Can you, Pedro? No. I can't be wrong. There is more than a minute to go! I test it every week, Pedro. It is timed exactly!"

  THERE was no response from the door. Isaac Coffran did not turn. He still watched the clock.

  "I wonder if it stopped," he muttered. "I must investigate. Perhaps the body was stretched toward the wall. That must be it. Young Duncan was half unconscious. He may have lain where the other dragged him. A lengthwise body would crush slowly. It might stop the wall - yet the mechanism should still go on, at that!"

  The old man swung toward the table. He saw the buttons above it and a startled cry came from him.

  There had been little yellow lights over the two buttons which he had last indicated - the button that released the steel curtain and the button that operated the moving wall. Both of these lights were out.

  Some one had pressed the buttons!

  "Pedro!" exclaimed the old man.

  He looked up at the curtained doorway. The Mexican was gone. In his place stood a strange, silent figure - a man wearing a black cloak and hat, the same garments that Pedro had brought upstairs. The cloak seemed to envelop a shapeless form; the hat had a broad brim that obscured the face of the bent head. Isaac Coffran thought that he could glimpse two eyes between the hat and cloak.

  The fiendish old man stood staring, at the form in the doorway. He still held his hands behind his back.

  No sign of fear appeared upon his features. His smooth, parchmentlike face was calm and undisturbed.

  "Well," said Isaac Coffran. "Who may you be?"

  A sinister, whispering voice emerged from the shape in the doorway. It was a voice that would have chilled the blood of a brave, virile man. But old Isaac Coffran's withered veins did not quiver.

  "I?" asked the voice. "I am The Shadow!"

  Isaac Coffran's eyes dropped to the floor. The shadow that appeared there seemed to be an extension of the form in the doorway. It was a huge, black shadow. It merged with the figure as the old man turned his head slowly upward.

  "The Shadow!" said Isaac Coffran, in a sneering tone. "I have heard of you. Perhaps you have heard of me?"

  "I have," replied the cold, relentless voice.

  "Perhaps you know a bit about me. Perhaps you would like to know more. You have come to the right place to find out. What people learn here, they remember as long as they live. Unfortunately they never live long after that. Strange, isn't it?"

  The Shadow was silent. The form seemed to project from the half-drawn curtain against which it stood.

  "Those buttons on the wall," observed Isaac Coffran. "Perhaps you pressed them?"

  "I pressed them."

  "That interests me. On that account, you shall die. I understand now why Pedro looked different. You were Pedro. You have learned much here. You shall forget it all - within an hour. Perhaps within a minute. You shall die, because I do not wish you to live. You are dangerous, alive. You will be helpless, incapable of annoying me, when you are dead."

  The old man scanned the figure as if to discover the effect of his words.

  "Isaac Coffran." The whispered voice, though low, had penetrating volume. Its words seemed to take shape as they were uttered, as though they were living things. "Isaac Coffran, I shall not die. You would die, if I commanded it. But dead, you would be useless to me. Alive, you may prove useful. So live. But remember" - the voice was solemn and slow - "you live only because I choose to be indulgent."

  THE old man moved a step nearer as The Shadow finished speaking. Suddenly he swung his right hand from behind his back. The motion was marvelously quick.

  The hand held a small revolver. The finger was on the trigger. The gun covered the silent form by the curtain. Isaac Coffran's keen, beady eyes were searching as they watched the figure of The Shadow.

  "One motion on your part," threatened the old man, "will mean instant death. My hand is firm, but the slightest quiver of the finger will discharge the contents of this weapon. Stand wh
ere you are."

  The black form trembled slightly, but the old man did not press the trigger. Instead he smiled and chuckled. He had expected that. This fearless Shadow could yield to fear after all. Isaac Coffran moved a step nearer.

  "The Shadow!" he exclaimed sarcastically. "The man whose face has never been seen. The strange creature of the night, that comes and goes invisibly - that is here and there at once!"

  He fancied that the figure shook again. It slumped slightly, its black hat tilting forward, the edges of the cloak sagging as though the being within had lost his proud posture.

  The old man was close now. His revolver was pressed against The Shadow's cloak; his face was grinning triumphantly.

  "Die!" he cried. "Die, Shadow! And before you perish, I shall see your mysterious face!"

  Isaac Coffran's left hand shot forward and seized the broad brim of the black hat. The right forefinger pressed the trigger of the gun, and the automatic spat its bullets through the cloak. As the old man swept the hat away, the lower garment fell to the floor and collapsed into a small mass of cloth.

  Isaac Coffran almost staggered. The revolver slipped from his nerveless fingers. He had shot into nothingness. There was no one in the cloak; the removal of the hat had revealed no head and face!

  The figure had been standing between the half-opened curtains. Two gleaming pins revealed the ruse.

  The slump in the figure had not been caused by fear. It had been the exit of the real Shadow - the man within. Only the vacant shell - a cloak and hat - had remained to receive the bullets from Isaac Coffran's weapon. When the hat had been swept away, the cloak had fallen.

  The Shadow had gone, and Isaac Coffran stood in the hall, fuming with rage and anger. His lips spat oaths of disappointment.

  Then came a sound from the floor below; it was a long, tantalizing sound. A quivering laugh came up the stairs - a taunting, sardonic laugh. It was jeering, maddening to the ears of the old man above. The laugh came again - farther away; then a third time, fading in the distance.

  Trembling with rage, the old man still stood in the upstairs hallway, shaking his fist in wrath. The air seemed to quiver with the echoes of The Shadow's laugh.

  Back in his room the old man seized the black garments and flung them against the wall. He stamped upon them in sudden rage. Then he became suddenly calm. He had held The Shadow and had lost him.

  Well, they would meet again.

  Grimness was expressed upon Isaac Coffran's evil countenance as he drew another revolver from the table drawer and started downstairs to find the missing Pedro.

  CHAPTER XVII. MEN MARKED TO DIE

  WHILE Isaac Coffran had been watching the clock upstairs, the two men in the chamber of death had been witnessing the final approach of the wall that was designed to crush them.

  Bruce Duncan's eyes had become glassy. He was standing nearer to the archway than Abdul, the Hindu.

  His back was against the wall behind him; his arms were outstretched. He had felt certain that it must be too late for rescue.

  Only a few inches had intervened between his body and that moving surface. The air was stifling. Then, at the moment when death seemed imminent, a feeling of faintness had come over Duncan. Mercifully, consciousness had faded from him.

  The dark-faced Hindu had glanced stolidly at Duncan. Abdul was accepting death. Yet he had thrown his arm between his master and the moving wall. The solid surface pressed against his wrist and forced it toward Duncan's body. The Hindu realized that he could not withdraw his arm.

  The thumping of the machinery had drummed into Abdul's thoughts. Then suddenly it had ceased. The pressure against his wrist remained the same. The Hindu stared in front of him. The wall was no longer moving!

  Then came a grating sound, followed by a rush of cool fresh air. The steel curtain raised. The two men in the death chamber were revealed in the spot of a flashlight.

  "Bruce Duncan?" came a voice. "Are you alive?"

  "He is alive," replied Abdul.

  The Hindu pressed his arm firmly against his master's body and managed to draw it free. There was not sufficient space for him to turn sideways, but he managed to force Duncan's form toward the archway where the steel curtain had been.

  A pair of strong arms assisted him from the outside. A few seconds later Bruce Duncan was lying on the floor of the cellar. Abdul edged out of the narrow crevice and approached the man who held the flashlight.

  "I am a friend," the man whispered. "My name is Harry Vincent. I saw you enter the cellar. I came to help. We must get Duncan out immediately."

  He lifted the feet of the prostrate man. Abdul bore Duncan's head and shoulders. With Vincent's flashlight blazing the trail ahead, they carried their burden toward the open grating, passing the prone form of Pedro on the way.

  "Who is that?" asked Abdul.

  "Pedro," replied Harry. "An enemy. We can leave him where he is."

  It required two or three minutes to force Duncan's body through the opening in the side of the house.

  When Harry and Abdul had brought him to safety, the young man came to a state of semiconsciousness.

  This enabled them to help Duncan walk, one supporting him on each side.

  Harry left Abdul with Duncan at the side alley and hurried to the corner where he found an empty taxicab.

  He returned for the others. Duncan seemed fairly well roused. But he slumped in a corner of the cab.

  Harry glanced from the window as they went by Isaac Coffran's house and he blinked for a moment as he noticed the front door. It seemed to be closing. On the steps was a shadowy form that seemed to flit toward the sidewalk as they rolled along.

  Harry told the driver to take them to the Metrolite Hotel. Abdul offered no objection.

  BRUCE DUNCAN was conscious but bewildered when they reached their destination. Harry and Abdul took him upstairs and put him to bed, in Harry's room. Then Harry called the desk and arranged for an adjoining room. He slept there, leaving Abdul with his master. The Hindu sat in a chair and dozed comfortably.

  When morning arrived, Harry went to interview the man whom he had rescued. He was admitted to the room by Abdul. Bruce Duncan was sitting up in bed. His face looked weary; but Bruce managed a smile as he extended his hand to Harry Vincent.

  "Abdul has told me what you did to help us," he said. "I don't know how you came into the picture. But you were certainly a friend in need. How did you managed it?"

  Harry Vincent smiled.

  "I only managed a very little of it," he replied. "I may be able to tell you more later. I'm anxious to get your story. But let's have breakfast first."

  While Harry was calling downstairs, Abdul spoke to his master.

  "I shall leave you, burra sahib," he said in a knowing tone. "This other man - Vincent sahib - may have much to tell you. It is better I should go."

  He gave a slip of paper to Bruce Duncan.

  "This will be my address," Abdul explained. "I have a Hindu friend here in New York. You can reach me there."

  He drew a second paper from his pocket.

  "This, burra sahib," he added, "is why I came to you last night. It fell out of the pocket of the old man when he came to see you at your house."

  Duncan read the paper and whistled. He turned to question Abdul, but the Hindu had departed.

  Harry Vincent came over and sat on the edge of the bed.

  "Duncan," he said, "I'm going to tell you a few facts. In return, I want you to be frank with me. Last night I made a phone call after we arrived. I called from my room, to a number from which I had received instructions to assist you. I am permitted to tell you certain things concerning my own operations. But in return I am to find out all you know. I suspect that you had some secret reason for your visit to that house last night. I think we can help each other. Does that seem fair?"

  Bruce Duncan thought a moment. Then he decided. After all, it was Vincent's intervention that had saved his life. Without that, his secret would have perished wit
h him.

  "I agree," he said.

  The waiter arrived with their breakfast. While they were eating Harry told his story briefly.

  "I am the agent of a being called The Shadow," he said. "I can't tell you who he is or what he is, because I don't know. He saved me from suicide, and I've worked for him ever since. He saved your life last night. He expects your cooperation in return, and you are to keep secret what I tell you."

  "Agreed," said Duncan. "Go on."

  "I was watching Isaac Coffran's house," said The Shadow's agent. "We believe that the old man is mixed up in some shady business, involving the mysterious disappearance of three persons. I was told that you were coming.

  "I tried to rescue you last night, but I would have been killed by Coffran's big Mexican except for the intervention of a man who I believe was The Shadow himself. Somehow, he freed you from the death chamber. I helped your Hindu servant bring you here.

  "If you can shed any light on the affairs of Isaac Coffran, you may give us the clue that we need to explain the disappearances of three men - one from Trenton, one from Richmond, one from Cleveland. Each vanished on a Tuesday. One week apart. It is Friday now; the last one, Meyers of Cleveland, has been gone three days."

  "A Tuesday night," murmured Bruce Duncan. He counted on his fingers. "Why, the first one must have gone just one week after-"

  He paused.

  "One week after what?" quizzed Harry Vincent.

  "Vincent," blurted Duncan, "there's no use in trying to keep my secret any longer. I'm going to rely on you."

  DUNCAN felt relieved as he poured forth his story. He began with the mysterious visitor who had robbed the hiding place in the hearth. He told of his uncle's letter. He described the visit of Isaac Coffran, and his journey to the home of the man he believed to be his uncle's friend. He described the accidental reading of the last letter, and the terror he had known in the gas-filled study. The escape by the elevator was news to Harry Vincent; from then on, the account was plain. "What do you think about it?" asked Duncan when he had concluded.