Clicking the receiver, Tressler strode bulkily past the tinkling fountain. His heavy footfalls pounded through the corridor. His big hand fumbled with the lock of the map room. Throwing open the door, he stamped toward the opposite wall.
Leaning forward, Tressler seized a switch. He pressed it. His eyes were bulging furiously. His face wore the expression of a fiend, as his lips uttered fierce epithets. Yet despite his rage, Felix Tressler was acting with precision.
Here in the room where the large map hung, Felix Tressler stood in his true character. No longer a friendly, complacent millionaire, he had revealed himself as a man of crime. His glare was murderous. His actions denoted determination. He was a fierce hunter, bent upon stalking down his prey. That quarry was the man who had so recently uncovered him. Wilton Byres was the victim that he sought.
High up in his penthouse atop the Hotel Delavan, Felix Tressler was the master who dealt doom. He was the hidden fiend who had sent three men to mysterious destruction. Felix Tressler was the ruler who controlled the dreaded circle of death!
CHAPTER XIV
THE MAN WHO FEARED
CLYDE BURKE had arisen from his chair in the lobby of the Hotel Delavan. He had strolled to the outer door. He was standing in full view as he looked up and down the street. Across the way, an arm emerged from a parked coupe. Cliff Marsland was pointing the way that Wilton Byres had taken.
Clyde Burke strode in that direction. Cliff stepped from his car and crossed the street. He, in place of Burke, was the one who would now watch within the lobby. Cliff’s first act after entering the hotel was to go to a telephone and put in a report call to Burbank.
Wilton Byres was nervous as he hurried along the street. Felix Tressler’s secretary was hastening toward a drug store at a corner a block away. Clyde Burke spotted him as he entered. Following, The Shadow’s agent saw Byres go into a telephone booth. Clyde paused a few moments, then stepped into the booth which adjoined the one which Byres had taken.
Neither Tressler’s secretary nor The Shadow’s agent were by a window which gave view to the huge electric sign which served as beacon for the circle of death. Hence they did not see the peculiar manifestations which occurred there.
Corner lights turned from yellow to green. Border lights flickered, then went out entirely. A short pause; next came a display that had not been seen before. Starting from each corner, border lights appeared one by one. Singly, they marked a number: one, two, three, four, five. A pause. Then the borders came on in their entirety.
Out went the border lights. Again, the count of five; on came the lights. Twice the numbered signal had been given — an order for all agents of crime to see.
The doorman at the Hotel Zenith reached into his pocket. He drew out two objects. One was a small pad of shiny paper. He thumbed to the fifth leaf; then handled the other object which he had produced — a tiny, circular box of tin.
The box snapped open. Its interior held a moistened sponge. Noting that no eyes were upon him, the doorman quickly rubbed the sponge across the fifth sheet of paper. A photograph developed.
It was the portrait of Wilton Byres.
This was the master method that Felix Tressler, ruler of the circle of death, employed in moments of emergency. Elsewhere in the district of doom, other men were copying the doorman’s action. The man behind the Chromo drink counter — the carrier of the sandwich-board — the Chinatown bus barker — the demonstrator in the store window — the foreman of a gang of workmen — the driver of a taxicab — these and others were checking on the potential victim whom Felix Tressler had designated as number five.
WITHIN his telephone booth, Clyde Burke was catching words that Wilton Byres uttered. Peering through the glass partition, Clyde could see a clipping in the secretary’s hand. Byres had marked a ring about a name in a news report. The name was that of Detective Joe Cardona.
“Hello…” Byres was speaking in a gasping tone. “Detective headquarters… I want to speak with Detective Cardona… Not there?… When do you expect him?… I see. He may be in at any time… No, no… No message… Yes! I have one… Tell him to wait when he comes in… Be sure… I am coming there to see him…”
Byres came from the telephone booth. He shuffled past Clyde Burke. His stride quickened as he reached the street.
Clyde arose and started on his trail. He saw Byres glance upward. Clyde stared as he saw the object which the secretary viewed. It was a huge electric sign.
Green corner lights had blinked to white. There was a reason for the change. Felix Tressler had put his murderers on the job. He had warned that a victim — Wilton Byres — was within the circle of death. It was up to his agents to locate the wanted man.
Byres showed relief as he saw the white lights. It was evident that the secretary had discovered some meaning to that big electric sign.
To Clyde Burke, however, it appeared that the man’s glance had been a mere passing gesture. For while Clyde watched the sign, no change occurred on it.
Clyde came suddenly to his wits as he saw Byres crossing the street. Intervening traffic stopped The Shadow’s agent. It was half a minute before Clyde could take up the trail.
Byres, shuffling along the street, seemed in a hurry to leave this neighborhood. His eyes were straight ahead as Clyde again gave pursuit. A panhandler, slouching forward, shoved out a hand as he whined for a dime. Byres shook the man aside. The fellow slunk away toward a barber shop. He entered there and went to an obscure telephone.
Clyde Burke, intent on following Byres, did not notice where the panhandler had gone. Byres, hurrying forward; Clyde, closing the space behind, were both intent. They did not see the phenomenon which occurred twenty seconds later.
On came green lights in the corners of the sign. The borders blinked their signal. Word to the members of the circle of death — a visible statement flashed from the switch in Felix Tressler’s penthouse. The quarry had been located!
On Seventh Avenue, Joe Cardona was walking toward a subway entrance. The detective was on his way to headquarters. He had put in a few hours in the district near Times Square. He was giving it up as a bad job. He was tired out.
Not far behind Cardona was a tall personage whose visage was noticeable because of its hawklike nose. This was one for whom Cardona had been searching, yet whom he had not discovered; the mysterious stranger who called himself Henry Arnaud.
GREEN lights in corners of a large electric sign. Blinking signals that flashed, then ended as the borders showed their lines of white.
Almost as though by coincidence, Henry Arnaud stepped into a restaurant and entered a telephone booth. His long finger was quick as it dialed a number.
“Burbank speaking,” came a quiet voice.
“Report.” Arnaud’s whisper was the tone of The Shadow.
“Report from Marsland,” informed Burbank. “Wilton Byres left the Hotel Delavan. Course eastward. Burke has followed.”
“Report received.”
There was a quickness to Henry Arnaud’s stride as his tall figure left the restaurant. With the swift motion that characterized The Shadow, this calm-faced investigator turned into a side street to take an eastward path. By his calculations, The Shadow had a chance to intercept the course which Wilton Byres and Clyde Burke might have taken.
Blinking lights along the borders of the sign. Those flashes told a new tale of men of crime. They gave the next point of the journey which Wilton Byres was taking. Secret murderers were on the trail. Furtive fiends of evil were heading toward the common point which The Shadow was seeking to discover.