The Shadow merged with darkness.
Some time elapsed before his presence was again manifest. A click within the walls of his sanctum was the token that The Shadow had returned to the mysterious abode where his plans were formulated.
Clippings fell upon the table. The girasol sparkled as The Shadow moved them with his hands. These news notes concerned the mysterious death of an unknown man found in a taxicab near Times Square. They were items like the one which Channing Rightwood had noticed in the New York newspaper.
The Shadow studied these reports. Puzzling though they were to the police, they meant much to The Shadow. He knew the identity of that slain man: Wilton Byres, secretary to Felix Tressler. To The Shadow, the death of Byres was another key to the complicated case upon which he was working.
Ear phones clicked. A tiny bulb showed against the wall. A quiet voice announced:
“Burbank speaking.”
“Report.”
“Reports from Burke and Marsland. Identical. No one has come to Tressler’s. No one has left.”
“Single shifts,” ordered The Shadow, in a hissing whisper. “Outside the Hotel Delavan until tomorrow at six o’clock. Then resume double duty.”
“Instructions received,” replied Burbank.
After his call to his contact man, The Shadow opened an envelope from Rutledge Mann. It contained only a coded note from Harry Vincent — a summary of that agent’s work in South Shoreview and Chicago. The writing faded. The Shadow’s agents, like their master, used vanishing ink in their communications.
Paper crinkled. The map of Manhattan unfolded upon The Shadow’s table. White pins and black; this time there were four. Each white pin marked the location from which a doomed man had begun his journey in the zone of danger; each black pin pointed out the spot where death had struck.
NOW came other pins. These had green heads; and The Shadow inserted them at carefully-calculated spots. A soft laugh rippled through the sanctum as The Shadow worked. These pins were the result of his observations within the district where hidden death ruled.
The Shadow’s hand marked lines to trace the course taken by Wilton Byres. This, added to those of Dustin Cruett, Maurice Bewkel and Bigelow Zorman, produced a series of interwoven channels along the streets that were shown on the map.
Long, careful study followed. At times, The Shadow shifted positions of certain pins. At last, a triumphant laugh resounded. The Shadow had completed his calculations.
A dripping pen appeared in The Shadow’s hand. Its long quill was crimson. The ink upon its point was of the same bloody hue. The left hand lifted certain pins. The right, with a steady, well-guided stroke, drew a perfect circle upon the map of Manhattan.
Back went the pins. The Shadow viewed his handiwork. A circle of blood-red color! Well did it define the deeds that had transpired within that area of doom! One spot remained conspicuously blank. It was the very center of the circle.
Again, The Shadow laughed. His left hand appeared, bringing a pin larger than the others. This pin had a large head, of the same crimson that characterized the ink. The Shadow thrust it squarely in the center of the blood-colored circle.
Again the laugh. This time, its ominous tone was explained. With one stroke, The Shadow had automatically added the final touch to his discoveries. That lay in the position where the red-topped pin projected.
On the map, that pin located the Hotel Delavan — the building upon which Felix Tressler dwelt in the security of his protected penthouse. The Shadow’s own map was a small-sized edition of the huge chart that hung from Tressler’s wall — a map which The Shadow, as yet, had never seen.
Keen eyes studied the map with its crimson ring. The light clicked out as strident mirth broke forth with prophetic mockery. Within the black walls of his sanctum, The Shadow had marked his circle.
The Shadow’s circle was identical with the terror zone of Manhattan — Felix Tressler’s circle of death! That was the area where battle soon would come — where The Shadow, master of vengeance, would fare forth to balk the fiend who ruled the circle of death!
CHAPTER XIX
THE CONFERENCE
LOGAN MUNGREN was seated behind his mahogany desk. The portly, baldheaded stock promoter was expecting a visitor. He showed signs of nervous impatience. The ring of the telephone brought an ugly leer to his lips.
“Hello…” Mungren’s grin persisted. “I see… Mr. Rightwood is here… Yes, send him in at once.”
Mungren was standing by his desk when a tall, stoop-shouldered visitor appeared. Logan Mungren was quick to recognize the face of Channing Rightwood. He advanced with outstretched hand.
“Sit down,” suggested Mungren, as he turned back to the desk. “I have been waiting for you, Mr. Rightwood.”
The eyes that watched Logan Mungren were not the eyes of Channing Rightwood. They were the eyes of The Shadow. Blazing, they studied the portly president of the Acme Securities Company. The moment that Mungren turned, however, those eyes that peered from Rightwood’s visage seemed to lose their light.
Mungren, when he looked at Rightwood, saw no more than a mild-mannered man with large nose and chin, whose upper lip was adorned with a pointed, reddish mustache.
“About my option, Mr. Mungren.” The voice of Channing Rightwood seemed slightly worried. “I am here to exercise it. I feel that Electro Oceanic is a good investment.”
“You do?” Mungren smiled sourly. “I am sorry, Mr. Rightwood, to admit that I cannot agree with you. I must say that Electro Oceanic did look like a good investment when you purchased your first shares. At present, however, it would be a waste of money to invest one hundred and fifty thousand dollars in new shares.”
“I believe otherwise.” Rightwood’s voice became firm. “I have what I consider to be proof that Electro Oceanic should make an excellent purchase.”
“You spoke that way last night,” asserted Mungren. “I should like to see the proof, Mr. Rightwood.”
“Here it is.”
RIGHTWOOD’S hand came from his pocket. A telegram dropped on the desk. It was the message that Bigelow Zorman had wired to Chicago. A sudden gleam of pleasure came to Mungren’s face. Then the stock promoter resumed his suave composure.
“Interesting,” he remarked, “but not specific. Bigelow Zorman would naturally have advised you to exercise your option. His job as the president of Electro Oceanic depended upon new funds.
“However, the man who has taken his place is not so optimistic. Perry Harton, formerly general manager of the Electro Oceanic plant, is now the president of the corporation. He is here in New York. I expect to confer with him. Therefore, Mr. Rightwood, I should advise you to let your option drop.”
“I do not intend to do so,” asserted the visitor. “I am here to invest one hundred and fifty thousand dollars in the new stock issue. Tomorrow, I shall arrive in this office with the option and a certified check for the required amount. Is that clear?”
Mungren bowed. There was no further use of opposition. He listened while an added statement came.
“The option,” was Rightwood’s announcement, “is in a safe-deposit vault. At nine o’clock tomorrow morning I am going to obtain it and also to draw the required funds. I shall come here immediately afterward. I shall expect to receive the newly-issued shares of Electro Oceanic stock.”
Logan Mungren spread his hands. His demeanor had changed. He showed no inclination to reason as he had with Maurice Bewkel. Instead, he began to agree with his visitor’s opinion.
“Your purchase,” he asserted, “will be profitable to me, for I shall receive my commission. Perry Harton, though he honestly admits that Electro Oceanic is on the rocks, will be glad that you have made your decision to buy. You will be in New York, tonight?”