But in the death of Talbot, The Shadow sensed new action. The way was clear for further crime. The fiend who had delivered murder was dependent only upon those who had served him well. Since his goal appeared to be the elimination of men who controlled the future of the supermotor, why should he wait too long to attain his final desire?
A SOFT laugh — grim, despite its ease of utterance. Such was The Shadow’s answer to the coming challenge. Paper and pen appeared upon the table. In tabulated form, The Shadow inscribed four names:
Shelburne
Thorne
Towson
Whilton
These were the four most vitally concerned. Shelburne, the go-between, Thorne, the magnate who was determined to gain the invention which he valued at five millions; Towson and Whilton, the surviving members of the committee which controlled the secret device.
One by one, the names faded; they had been written in The Shadow’s special ink. Then the hand rewrote the name of Shelburne; a soft laugh sounded as it faded. Side by side, The Shadow inscribed:
Frederick Thorne Bryce Towson
The space between the two was significant. It stood for Shelburne. He was between Thorne and Towson. The hand stretched forward and produced the earphones. The prompt voice sounded on the wire:
“Burbank speaking.”
“Instructions to Marsland,” ordered The Shadow, in a whispered, hissing tone. “He is to watch the home of Frederick Thorne. Report all activities there. Also” — a pause gave emphasis — “he is to keep exact tabulations on the arrival and departure of Shelburne.”
“Instructions received.”
“Instructions to Vincent. He is to watch the home of Bryce Towson. Report all activities there. Also” — again the pause — “he is to keep exact tabulations on the arrival and departure of Shelburne.”
“Instructions received.”
“Instructions to Burke. He is to remain in close touch with detective headquarters.”
“Instructions received.”
The earphones clattered as The Shadow replaced them on the wall. The hand picked up the pen. The sheet of paper lay blank. The names of Frederick Thorne and Bryce Towson had vanished.
Again, The Shadow wrote. The final name showed in vivid blue upon the white sheet:
Herbert Whilton
In a sense, the old philanthropist stood isolated. Bryce Towson was custodian of the invention; Frederick Thorne, the man who sought it. While Shelburne still played his dual role as secretary for Towson and spy for Thorne, matters would remain the same so far as those three were concerned.
But Whilton was in the position which both Meldon Fallow and Loring Dyke had occupied in turn. To the world, he would be a man of greater consequence than either the slain inventor or the murdered chemist. But from the standpoint of a schemer seeking to eliminate those who controlled the supermotor, Herbert Whilton could well be regarded as the next in line.
Whilton must be watched. His future was important to The Shadow. Therefore, the master of darkness had taken that work as his own choice.
Herbert Whilton would be well guarded against the schemes of the unknown brain. The Shadow, himself, was to be protector of the old philanthropist!
A laugh sounded as the blue light clicked into nothingness. Weird, whispered mirth was the token of The Shadow’s choice!
CHAPTER XIV. AT WHILTON’S
IT was half past eight in the evening. Lights were burning in the lair of Charg. Bart Daper was standing in front of the ornamental screen. His pug-nosed face was tense.
“Who are you, intruder?”
The voice of Charg seemed venomous in its grating tones. Daper, recalling the fate of Talbot, trembled as he replied:
“I am Bart Daper. I am the servant of Charg.”
“Your token?”
“Two.”
“Make your report.”
“All is ready. I have picked up the box at the express office. It is on the truck.”
A pause. Then Charg’s words:
“You will wait for Laffan. Also for another whom you have not met. His name is Quinton. He will meet you at the appointed spot. Follow his instructions. Make your report tomorrow night. Are my instructions plain?”
“They are.”
“Quinton has one as his token. Question him when he introduces himself. He will answer by naming his number. Is that plain also?”
“It is.”
The ominous pause; then came Charg’s dismissaclass="underline"
“Charg has commanded.”
“When Charg commands,” answered Daper, quickly, “his servants obey.”
From behind the screen came the final tones:
“Then go. To linger with Charg means death.”
The visible arm was reaching for the switch. Daper swung quickly. He gained the door at a fast pace, just as it was rising. He stepped through the portal and moved toward the elevator, while the barrier dropped behind him.
Daper’s fear of Charg had been highly magnified since last night’s episode. The removal of Talbot’s crushed and mutilated body had been a gruesome task. Laffan, too, had shown tremors.
Daper knew — from words that Laffan had dropped — that it was Jerry who had sworn in Talbot to Charg’s service. Laffan, however, had said nothing about any other minion. Tonight Daper had gained new information.
Daper’s own number was two; Laffan’s, three. There might be more— how many, Daper did not know.
Both he and Laffan had been gained as agents through mysterious calls from Charg himself. Daper had often wondered if there was a number one. Tonight, he had learned that there was such a man; and that the agent’s name was Quinton.
As far as Daper could determine, Quinton, like Laffan, had paved the way to another crime. A box was to be delivered. Quinton was going along. Perhaps they would find another inside man, a counterpart of Talbot.
WHILE Daper was leaving Charg’s crypt, a visitor of a different sort was arriving at a massive mansion on Long Island. A gentleman in evening clothes was ringing the doorbell of Herbert Whilton’s home. A solemn-faced servant answered.
“Good evening,” stated the visitor, in a quiet tone. “I am Mr. Cranston — Lamont Cranston. I have come to see Mr. Whilton.”
“Step in, sir,” said the solemn servant, with a bow. “Mr. Whilton is not yet back from town. I expect him shortly. Would you care to wait?”
“Yes.”
“Very well, sir. This way, please. I shall conduct you to Mr. Whilton’s smoking room.”
They entered a small room where a fire was burning in the fireplace. The servant bowed as he pointed to a comfortable armchair. Lamont Cranston took the seat and reclined before the fireplace. The servant departed.
The flickering flames of the fire threw an uncanny light upon the visitor’s masklike-face. There was something sardonic in the smile that showed on Cranston’s lips. From the side of the chair projected a splotch of black; a silhouette that wavered in the changing illumination of the fire seemed to signify the visitor’s true identity. That spread of darkness was the shadow of The Shadow!
An old-fashioned clock on the mantel was ticking away the minutes. Five — ten — twenty — the hands were approaching nine o’clock. A keen light showed in the eyes of the seated visitor. Lamont Cranston’s tall form arose and stalked to the door.
Peering through a narrow, vertical crack, the visitor eyed the outer hall. No one was in sight. Turning, he stepped to a telephone table in the corner of the smoking room. He picked up the receiver and listened intently, to make sure that no other wire was open. Then came the operator’s request for a number.
Cranston’s quiet tone responded. There was a short interval; then came the connection. A voice announced: