Yet neither had learned of the reward of Charg. The death of Talbot, delivered in a hidden lair, was yet unknown. Only those whom Charg had chosen could find the body of Talbot at the spot where it now lay!
CHAPTER XII. CHARG ORDERS
HALF past twelve. While Cardona and The Shadow were leaving Bryce Towson’s, a new visitor was at the lair of Charg. Jerry Laffan had descended to the lair. He had given his three rings. He was waiting for the door to open.
Laffan was perplexed. On all previous visits, he had been admitted with promptitude. A minute passed; Laffan heard a noise behind him. He turned to see the elevator rising. The wall was coming downward from the closet above.
Laffan trembled. Had he arrived ahead of Charg? Was he to meet his terrible master face to face? The elevator stopped at the top; it began a descent while the wall arose. Laffan saw a man in the dropping lift; then, of a sudden, he recognized the arrival.
It was Bart Daper. Charg’s second minion was surprised to see Laffan waiting. Stepping from the elevator, Daper stood perplexed; then, in customary fashion, he advanced and pressed the button twice.
The door responded. It moved upward with a click. The reason for Laffan’s waiting was explained.
Charg had been within his lair all the while; tonight, however, he apparently desired to interview both minions at the same time.
The eyes of both men were on the screen ahead. Laffan and Daper had new confidence. Charg’s abode seemed less dreadful when visited with a companion. A light clicked behind the screen. Then the voice:
“Who are you, intruders?”
“I am Jerry Laffan. I am the servant of Charg.”
“I am Bart Daper. I am the servant of Charg.”
“Your numbers?”
“Three.”
“Two.”
A pause. Then the voice of Charg rasped insidious words. Laffan and Daper, staring, could see the turbaned head inclining forward, its jewels glittering through the dimness of the screen.
“When Charg commands,” was the announcement, “his servants obey. To linger with Charg means death. Look to your right. You will see Charg’s answer to a traitor.”
Laffan and Daper swung toward the direction indicated. For the first time since entering the room, they viewed a gruesome object. It was the body of Talbot. Crumpled on the dim floor by the door on the right, Loring Dyke’s servant was a horrible sight.
He had suffered terrific death. Beaten, twisted, mangled, his body was no pleasant sight. Yet Charg’s repeated tones carried new orders which forced Laffan and Daper toward the spot where Talbot lay.
“Remove him,” came the grating tone. “Carry him far from here. Act at once.”
STOOPING, Laffan and Daper gathered up the hulk that had once been a living human. They carried the battered corpse to the door through which they had entered. They paused there, while Charg declared:
“Charg has commanded.”
“When Charg commands,” gasped the two men, in unison, “his servants obey.”
“Then go. To linger with Charg means death.”
As the raspy words ended, the door moved upward. Daper and Laffan lugged their burden through the portal; the barrier descended.
Charg had planned well. Both Daper and Laffan believed — from the position of Talbot’s body — that Charg had delivered death because his orders had been disobeyed. They did not suspect for an instant that Charg’s own words had ordered Talbot to the trap.
Thus had Charg disposed of a new and undesirable aid. Talbot’s usefulness had ended with his betrayal of Loring Dyke. He was needed no longer; so his death had been arranged. It served, also, as an example which Jerry Laffan and Bart Daper would not forget.
Charg’s power over his real minions had been increased doubly by the death of Talbot. Passing through the doorway, the two carriers of Talbot’s body had caught the tones of an insidious chuckle from behind Charg’s screen. Well did they know the merciless, murderous power of their exacting master.
ONE o’clock. Half an hour had passed since Charg’s minions had held rendezvous with their evil chief.
Silence lay within the abode of Charg. There was silence, also, within the confines of a lighted room which the eyes of The Shadow were observing.
The Shadow was peering from the maroon curtains in Frederick Thorne’s paneled office. The Shadow had arrived here after his departure from Bryce Towson’s. He had expected to find Thorne at home.
More minutes passed. At last, the door opened. Thorne, attired in tuxedo, entered, with a servant following. The power magnate took his seat in the swivel chair.
“You say that Shelburne called?” Thorne’s voice was harsh as he addressed the servant.
“He called twice, sir,” replied the servant. “Twice, since eleven o’clock.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That you had gone out, unexpectedly, early in the evening. He said you spoke of an appointment with some visitors; I told him that it had been postponed.”
“And the second time Shelburne called?”
“I told him that I was sure you would return within an hour. He said that he would come here.”
“Very well. Usher him in when he arrives.”
The servant left. Thorne arose from his swivel chair. He stroked his chin as he paced back and forth across the room. He had evidently expected to find Shelburne here when he returned.
Five minutes passed. The servant returned. He announced Shelburne; a moment later, the baldheaded man came cringing into the room. The servant departed, leaving Shelburne alone with the power magnate.
“What is it, Shelburne?” questioned Thorne, in a harsh tone. “You look worried, man. What has happened?”
“Loring Dyke is dead,” responded Shelburne, in a feeble tone. “We heard the news at the committee meeting. Dyke is dead — murdered— like Meldon Fallow.”
Thorne stood stock-still. He eyed Shelburne steadily. The Shadow could see a peculiar expression upon Thorne’s countenance. It showed a trace of worriment, mingled with odd satisfaction.
“Why didn’t you come here at once?” demanded Thorne.
“I–I thought it best to call, sir,” whined Shelburne. “Towson dismissed me for the night. A detective was coming to talk with him. He wanted no one else there.”
“A detective?” Thorne’s question was harsh. “Does Towson intend to tell him about Fallow’s motor?”
“No, sir. Mr. Whilton forestalled that. Towson intends to say but little. Your name will not be mentioned.”
“So you were worried, eh?”
Thorne chuckled coarsely, as he put the question. Shelburne, cringing pitifully, nodded.
“About me?” demanded Thorne, coldly. “Or about yourself?”
“Both,” admitted Shelburne. “I was afraid — afraid to come here immediately. I–I called twice. When your servant was sure you would return, I decided it would be safe to come.”
“All right.” Thorne’s tone showed approval. “Sometimes, Shelburne, worry is good for people. It makes them refrain from too much talk. That applies to you. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You can go. Call me tomorrow.”
Thorne watched the spy’s departure. Shelburne slunk from the room in cowardly fashion. When the door had closed behind him, Thorne emitted a meditative laugh.
THE power magnate seemed pleased to know that Loring Dyke had died. He picked up papers that Shelburne had brought; he studied them and placed them in the desk drawer. He summoned his servant.
“Put the room in order,” instructed Thorne. “I am turning in for the night.”
The power magnate went out by the door. While the servant remained, arranging the room for the morrow, a patch of blackness glided along the floor and disappeared at the front of the velvet curtains.