Wilton Byres had fared forth to tell the facts that he had learned concerning Felix Tressler. He was fleeing the might of a fiend. Already, his minutes of life were numbered.
His location given, Byres was within a trap that never yet had failed. He was caught by the insidious mesh of doom — the unseen circle of death!
CHAPTER XV
THE DOOM TRAIL
WHILE secretive men were slinking along streets that constituted the area near Times Square, Felix Tressler was watching events upon the charted wall of his penthouse room.
High above the scenes below, this master who ruled the circle of death held another victim in his power. Tressler was the spider; the streets within the red-marked circle were his web.
Like colored mercury, a red light was creeping along a neon tube. That extending glow showed the course that Wilton Byres was following in frenzied flight. A white bulb shone. The neon line reached it.
This was a new report. One of Tressler’s minions had marked a new location. Tressler, seated in front of the big map, reached for a switch and pressed it.
This was his response. The pressure of that switch caused a methodical blinking of the electric sign that towered near Times Square. Border lights, controlled by Tressler’s hand, were flashing their new announcement to skulkers who were on the trail of Wilton Byres.
This was the third locating light that had blinked once, then faded, upon Tressler’s map. The neon line, however, kept on. It had turned a corner. It was in another block.
A white light blinked as the line reached it. Again, Tressler pressed a switch that controlled the borders of the big electric sign.
Wilton Byres had passed four location spots. His course was leading him along the line of a secant, cutting toward the border of the huge red circle. He had other spots to pass. Felix Tressler chuckled. The victim was within the web. The final outcome was assured. The circle of death could not fail.
DOWN on a street near Times Square, Clyde Burke was still trailing Wilton Byres. The Shadow’s agent was close behind Felix Tressler’s secretary. Clyde was ready, at any instant, to give aid should danger threaten.
Clyde saw Byres glance up. Looking in the same direction, Clyde noticed green corners of shining bulbs upon a distant electric sign. Those lights made no more than a passing impression upon The Shadow’s agent.
Clyde’s concern was for Wilton Byres. He noticed the man leap forward, quickening his pace almost to a frantic run. Byres stopped suddenly at a corner. He turned to look about him. Clyde caught a glimpse of a hunted face.
“Taxi?”
The call came from a cab which swung up to the curb. Wilton Byres heard it. The driver had seen him at the corner; evidently he had thought that Byres was about to hail a cab. The taximan was opening the door. Byres nodded. He leaped into the cab.
Clyde arrived just as the door was slamming. This sudden action on the part of Byres had been unexpected.
Clyde’s first thought was to hail another cab and follow on the trail. For the moment, however, he watched. Within six feet of the cab, he could see the pallid face of Wilton Byres as the man leaped forward to give his order to the driver.
“Detective headquarters!” gasped out Byres.
“Where?” Clyde could hear the driver’s gruff question.
“Detective headquarters!”
As he repeated the frantic order, Byres leaned through the front window. His hands pressed against the ledge. Then came a frightened, agonized scream. Wilton Byres shot backward into the rear seat as the cab yanked away from the curb.
Clyde Burke had leaped toward the vehicle. He was too late. But he caught a flash of what happened next. The driver thrust a gloved hand to the ledge that Byres had pressed. He pulled away a long, flat piece of metal. Then the cab shot through traffic, too late for Clyde to intercept it.
An idler near the opposite corner saw the passing cab. He caught a wave of the driver’s hand. He slouched into a cigar store and flipped a quarter on the counter.
“Pack of Crown Cigarettes,” he ordered. “Make ‘em cork tips.”
“They don’t come with corked tips,” returned the clerk.
“Make ‘em plain then,” said the purchaser. “They’ll do.”
As he spoke, the man spun the quarter on the counter. He knocked it flat with his hand and shoved it toward the clerk. The man behind the counter handed him the pack of cigarettes and took the coin. As he dropped it into the cash register, he noted that it was dated prior to 1900; that it was one of the old style quarters seldom seen today.
The clerk turned as he removed the change from the cash drawer. He moved a box of cigars within a wall case. His hand pressed a hidden switch. Swinging back to the counter, he tossed the change to the purchaser. The fellow slouched from the store.
Cab driver to idler to clerk — the relayed story had been carried in less than one minute. Actions and conversation had been brisk and pointed.
UP in his penthouse, Felix Tressler saw a bulb flicker twice upon the map. He pressed a special switch. He chuckled as he noted the spot where the neon line had crept along the marked streets that indicated thoroughfares near Times Square.
Murderous action had been made. Some member of the killing ring had performed an appointed deed. Tressler was awaiting new reports. He was sure that they would bring positive assurance that doom had been delivered.
EYES from the streets were watching the huge electric sign. A score of secret observers saw the corners change. Green clusters became centered with red. The borders blinked a new location.
A tall figure had stopped not far from a corner. In the semidarkness of a side street, the observer who bore the countenance of Henry Arnaud was watching a sandwich-board man as the fellow paused in his slouching pace to stare upward. The man turned and shuffled in Arnaud’s direction. The tall figure swung into a quickened stride.
A grim laugh. It came from steady lips. It was the whispered echo of The Shadow’s mirth. Though his course kept onward, The Shadow divined that his plan to intercept Wilton Byres had been spoiled by some unexpected action on the part of the fugitive.
This assumption was correct. The cab which Byres had taken was swerving a corner toward Times Square. Its passenger went hurtling across the back seat as the cab took the turn. Wilton Byres was an inert form, incapable of effort.
The cab came to a stop. Back at the corner, a window demonstrator had seen it pass. He had sent a signal. The big sign that told its story to minions of evil was showing new flashes along its borders.
The cab driver stepped from his vehicle. He shot a glance into the rear of the taxi. He saw Wilton Byres half sprawled upon the floor. The driver grinned. He walked hastily away.
As he passed the doorway of a garage, the driver drew off his gloves and slapped them against his left hand. He kept on in his hurried stride. A man, standing at the door of the garage, entered and pressed a switch behind the doorway.
AT his big map, Felix Tressler saw a bulb gleam with three short blinks. The neon line moved up to that point. With gleeful chuckle, the heavy-browed man placed a pudgy paw upon another switch and pressed it. He paused; then followed with another signal. Seated in his big chair, he waited while his face took on a fiendish leer.
Viewed from the street, the electric sign showed a new change. Its corners turned to solid crimson. Blinks from the borders marked the last location. Strolling watchers changed their direction. Stationed minions went back to their appointed tasks. All were moving from the last location, that street where Wilton Byres lay huddled, dead, in the back seat of a taxicab.
A soft-drink server cried the merits of Chromo. The Chinatown bus barker approached new passersby. The doorman at the Hotel Zenith strode forward to meet an arriving automobile. The window demonstrator showed new enthusiasm as he pointed to a razor and its blade, for the benefit of gathered onlookers.