“Call the Cobalt Club,” ordered The Shadow. “Leave word that Mr. Cranston wants his limousine brought to New Jersey. The message must be given to Stanley, as soon as he arrives at the club.”
“Instructions received,” replied Burbank.
“New instructions,” announced The Shadow. His right hand was inscribing words upon a sheet of paper. “Agents to go on special duty at midnight. Details as follows—”
The Shadow paused as his hand wrote on. Then he spoke again; the words that he gave were those that he had written in ink of vivid blue. Singularly, his hand continued writing as his voice spoke. One step ahead in his thoughts, The Shadow was passing his orders on to Burbank.
At times, the hand slowed, indicating that The Shadow was contemplating some detail. Then, before his voice approached that point, his hand sped its work, driving further ahead. Oddly, too, the writing on the paper was fading, line by line. Such was the way with the ink The Shadow used.
Thus The Shadow was making swift plans; he was repeating those that he had completed, that Burbank might follow them; and automatically, all written traces of The Shadow’s campaign were disappearing from view.
The writing ceased. The Shadow’s steady voice kept on speaking for five full seconds. Then the tones stopped. Written lines faded; as the last was disappearing, Burbank’s voice gave acknowledgment across the wire:
“Instructions received.”
Earphones moved across the table. Enshrouding darkness echoed a solemn laugh. The Shadow had completed his plan of campaign. Information from Burbank had given him an unusual opportunity. The Shadow was ready to take up his dangerous mission.
The blue light clicked out. There was movement in the darkness; then, moments later, came the hush that indicated the departure of The Shadow. He had left this hidden, blackened room by his own secret exit.
HALF an hour later, a taxi stopped a few blocks from the shortened thoroughfare that was known as Delavar Street. A tall passenger alighted, paid the driver, and strolled away in leisurely fashion. Garbed in evening clothes, he was an unusual sort of visitor in this grimy district.
The black of the evening clothes merged oddly with darkness in front of buildings. The stroller had pressed his coat lapels together. His garb had the same blackness of cloak and slouch hat. Only The Shadow could have blended with gloom in such unaccountable fashion.
A few minutes later, this same shape was gliding past a darkened warehouse that marked the corner of Delavar Street. Enshrouded by darkness, The Shadow reached an old, two-story brick house. He saw dully lighted windows on both stories; he noted a glass transom above the closed front door. Against the light that showed through the transom, he discerned the faded number “18.”
There was a narrow passage space between the house and the corner warehouse. That opening loomed black, to The Shadow’s liking. Cautiously, this strange prowler entered the narrow passage. A flashlight flickered its rays close to the brick side wall.
A glimmer showed an alcove. It was a peculiar niche with steps that led downward. The Shadow took this course; it ended with a door at the bottom of the steps. The location of this barrier corresponded with the side door on Bruce Duncan’s diagram.
The Shadow tried the door. He laughed softly as he found it unlocked. He stepped into a little entry and closed the door behind him. The flashlight showed another door at the left. This, too, opened at The Shadow’s touch.
Straight ahead was a stairway illuminated by a single light at the top. It offered access to the second floor of the building. With easy, steady stride, The Shadow ascended the steep stairs to reach a landing at the top.
Here another door led inward to the house itself. The Shadow tried the knob. This door was locked. A thin smile appeared upon the lips of the steady countenance which The Shadow wore. Again, the tall visitor placed hand to knob. At that instant, the landing light clicked off.
The Shadow wheeled about in darkness. He was too late to reach the stairs. Clicks came from portions of the wall; there was a flash of blinding light from every side. The atmosphere was charged instantly with the odor of ozone.
Huge arcs had shot a powerful current through the landing. As flaring carbons faded, new clicks announced the closing of the walls. The landing light came on. It showed the tall figure in evening clothes flattened on the floor, motionless.
The knob of the single door was opening. A trap had done its work. Entering by the path that Bruce Duncan had marked as safe, The Shadow had encountered an overwhelming snare.
Rendered helpless by a terrific electric shock, the master investigator had become a prisoner. The Shadow had fallen into the hands of those from whom Bruce Duncan had fled.
CHAPTER IV
THE INTERVIEW
“Good evening, Mr. Cranston.”
The greeting was uttered in a sarcastic cackle. The words came from the lips of a dry-faced old man whose eyes glared sharply through the rounded lenses of gold-rimmed spectacles.
To The Shadow, looking upward, the speaker’s face was a blur, in which the spectacles appeared as a pair of owlish eyes. Above the face was a mass of whiteness; as The Shadow stared more steadily, he made out the old man’s features, topped by a mass of shocky white hair.
Limp in an easy-chair, The Shadow formed a weakened figure as he turned his head to survey his surroundings. To his left, The Shadow saw a stocky, hard-faced man who looked like a mobster. A glance to his right showed him another man of the same sort.
These two rowdies were acting as servants of The Shadow’s captor. Their disguises, however, were thin. The Shadow knew them for small-fry gangsters recruited from scumland. His lips formed a thin smile as his eyes caught the venomous glares of these ruffians.
“Allow me to introduce myself,” came the old man’s crackly voice. “My name is Professor Baldridge Jark. Perhaps, Mr. Cranston” — again the tone had a sarcastic tinge — “perhaps you have heard my name before?”
The Shadow had finished his study of the room. His chair and a table were the only articles of furniture. The floor was uncarpeted. An old, unused fireplace was in back of Professor Jark. On the mantel above it was the only other moveable item — a clock that registered half past eleven.
“Half past eleven,” chuckled Professor Jark, as he saw his prisoner’s gaze turn toward the clock. “You arrived here shortly after nine. That was the time at which you experienced the forcible electric shock on the stairway landing. Perhaps, Mr. Cranston, that episode will jog your memory. I ask you again: have you ever heard of me?”
The Shadow moved leisurely in his chair. In the manner of Lamont Cranston, millionaire clubman, he reached in his pocket and found a cigarette case. Extracting a cigarette, he lighted it with a lighter that he drew from a vest pocket. Then he replied to the professor’s question.
“Yes,” remarked The Shadow, in the deliberate tone of Cranston, “I have heard of you. Professor Baldridge Jark, the electrical wizard. I suppose that it was one of your inventions that I encountered on the landing?”
“It was,” chuckled Jark. “You walked into a high-voltage area, Mr. Cranston. The direct current was not designed to kill. It merely stunned you and I have been waiting more than two hours for your recovery.”
“Quite considerate of you, professor,” acknowledged The Shadow, dryly. “It is a pleasure to meet you, although I feel that the circumstances could have well been less overwhelming. Tell me, professor — have you gone back to your inventive processes? I understood, from the last report I heard, that you were in retirement.”
The Shadow’s words were well calculated. He had learned immediately — when addressed as Cranston — that his pockets must have been searched for cards of identification. Jark had found some bearing the name of Lamont Cranston. But he knew also that the professor must have found Bruce Duncan’s diagram. In reaching for his cigarette case, The Shadow had gone to the pocket in which he had placed Bruce’s floor plan. He had found the paper missing.