A soft laugh sounded from behind the spot where Rightwood had dropped. The frenzied man, in his bewildered whirl, had observed his own reflection in a full length mirror upon the closet door. Thinking it to be the countenance of the impostor to whose bidding he had yielded, Rightwood had plunged against the door.
The Shadow’s cloak raised about his face. His black hat came down upon his forehead. Standing like a visitant from the tomb, this weird creature of darkness studied the man upon the floor. The first exuberant effects of the elixir had ended. When Channing Rightwood slowly raised himself, he wore a dull, blank stare.
Rightwood’s eyes turned toward The Shadow. Stooping, the black-garbed king raised the man to his feet and helped him to a chair. Rightwood sat with eyes half closed. The Shadow’s gloved hand produced an envelope. The Shadow placed the envelope in Rightwood’s now flabby hand.
Pressing the man’s fingers shut, The Shadow lifted Rightwood’s arm and made his hand put the envelope in the inside pocket of the coat which Rightwood had put on a chair. The Shadow’s strong grip raised Rightwood to his feet. A blackened finger pointed to the chair where the coat was resting.
Swaying dizzily, Rightwood obeyed the indicated order. He took his coat and vest from the chair. He donned the garments. He managed to button his vest; then, with definite recollection, he fumbled in the inside pocket of the cloak to make sure the envelope was there.
The Shadow’s hidden lips were close to Rightwood’s ear. The man could hear the whispered voice that impressed its slow message with an emphasis that could not be forgotten.
“Go down stairs.” Rightwood was nodding as The Shadow spoke. “Take a cab. Grand Central Terminal. Midnight Limited. Show the ticket. It is in the envelope.”
The Shadow drew back and watched the effect. There was no need for repetition. Rightwood was nodding. Again, his hand was clutching for the envelope. The potent draft which The Shadow had forced upon him had taken full effect on Rightwood.
Energy; dizziness; those sensations had passed. Rightwood was lethargic. His brain, its swimming ended, was capable only of holding the definite orders which The Shadow had impressed upon him.
The Shadow opened the door. Rightwood felt a puff of fresh air from the corridor. It seemed to revive him momentarily; more than that, it gave him purpose. Picking up the hat that lay upon the telephone table, Channing Rightwood moved out into the hall.
BURNING eyes, peering from the door of the room, watched Rightwood’s progress along the corridor. The man reached the elevator shaft. He stood stupidly for a few moments, then pressed the button.
A car arrived. Rightwood entered.
The door of the room closed. A soft laugh sounded from The Shadow’s unseen lips.
Down in the lobby, the elevator operator watched Channing Rightwood as he walked toward the outer door. There was a slight falter in Rightwood’s stride. The operator laughed. He spoke to the dispatcher.
“That guy must have hit a bottle heavy,” he remarked. “Looks like he’s picked up a good bun.”
The dispatcher nodded as he caught a glimpse of Rightwood’s stoop-shouldered figure passing through the outer door. On the street, Rightwood steadied at sight of lights and the coolness of the outer air.
“Let me see,” he muttered. “Taxicab — hey! Taxi!”
Rightwood entered a cab as it stopped. He mumbled his order to the driver:
“Grand Central Terminal.”
Ten minutes later, Channing Rightwood appeared in the upper concourse of Grand Central Terminal, the place which he had left not more than an hour before. Fumbling in his pocket, he produced his envelope as he approached a gate which bore the sign:
Midnight Limited
Rightwood’s motions were mechanical as he delivered the ticket and received the stub. He walked steadily but slowly through the gate. His staring eyes were like those of a man in a trance.
Wearily, he plodded to his car. The porter conducted him to a lower berth. Rightwood tumbled in upon the mattress and managed to draw off his shoes. Raising his hand, he fumbled with the berth light and extinguished it.
Channing Rightwood’s head plopped upon the pillow. His energy exhausted, the man breathed heavily as he fell asleep.
Channing Rightwood was bound back to Chicago. The Shadow had taken the place of the man from the West!
CHAPTER XVIII
THE SHADOW’S CIRCLE
IN Room 2016 at the Hotel Metrolite, Channing Rightwood was removing articles from his suitcase. At least, the person who was performing this action appeared to be Channing Rightwood. The Shadow, in the new guise which he had taken, was a perfect double for the man whom he had sent back to Chicago.
Even here alone, The Shadow was copying the gestures which he had noticed as part of Rightwood’s personality. When The Shadow dealt in impersonation, his clever skill could not be detected.
The clothes which the false Rightwood wore were not identical with those in which the man from Chicago had been garbed. That, however, was not a necessary part of the imposition. Rightwood might well have been wearing any suit.
In Rightwood’s bag, The Shadow discovered a telegram. It was to Channing Rightwood from Bigelow Zorman. It stated the importance of Rightwood’s option and advised the recipient that Zorman would communicate with him when he reached New York.
It was not at all singular that Channing Rightwood had heard no news of the deaths of Maurice Bewkel and Bigelow Zorman. Those deaths had been local items in New York newspapers; they had been copied by smaller cities but had evidently not taken much space in Chicago journals.
There was no trace of any option in Rightwood’s bag. The Shadow assumed that Rightwood must have a safe-deposit box in a New York bank. Two pass books on Manhattan trust companies indicated this possibility.
Half an hour had passed since Channing Rightwood’s odd departure when The Shadow folded black cloak and hat. With these garments beneath his arm, he peered out into the corridor; then followed the hallway to Room 2020.
A bag lay open on a chair in the room that Henry Arnaud had taken. It contained various articles and a piece of folded wrapping paper. The Shadow removed the last from the bag. He pressed the slouch hat flat and wrapped it, with cloak and gloves, within the paper.
A few minutes later, Channing Rightwood appeared in the corridor, carrying a neat package under his arm. He went to the elevators, rang for a car and descended.
The dispatcher stared a moment as he saw the face of Channing Rightwood. He had not seen the man return. He decided that Rightwood must have come in and was now going out again. Fresh air must certainly have had a reviving effect upon him, for the stooped shoulders were steady and the gait was not uncertain.
OUTSIDE the Metrolite Hotel, the false Channing Rightwood hailed a cab. He gave a destination. In the taxi, he unwrapped the package which he carried. As the cab sped along a side street, the folds of the cloak opened. The garment slipped over shoulders. The black hat pressed upon The Shadow’s head.
The cab stopped near a corner. A bill fluttered from the front window into the driver’s hand. The taximan started to make change, watching for his passenger to alight. There was no motion in the rear of the cab. The driver stepped to the street and yanked open the door. To his amazement, the cab was empty.
The Shadow had stepped forth in his mysterious and invisible fashion. The driver’s eyes stared as his ears heard a vague, creepy sound. It was like a fading laugh; yet look where he might, the cabby could see no one who might be the author of that mirth.
Pocketing the bill, the driver leaped back into his cab and drove away. He did not see the flitting streak of black that was moving along the sidewalk, nor did he observe the phantom shape beside it.