It was fortunate, perhaps, that Rightwood, in his hazy state, was not in New York. Had he been there, he might have seen the startling spectacle of his own self walking along Seventh Avenue.
The Shadow, impersonator who lived the parts he played, was the absolute double of Channing Rightwood. He had chosen this role for the definite purpose of entering the circle of death.
DANGER lured The Shadow. Ofttimes, he met it in his garb of black, appearing as a sinister creature of the night, to strike down hordes of evil. On this occasion, he was dealing with foemen of a new ilk.
Skulkers, watchers, fiends disguised — these were the enemies The Shadow must encounter. They did not expect The Shadow. One glimpse of the black-garbed warrior would warn them. They wanted Channing Rightwood. The Shadow had chosen that identity that he might meet them.
Nine o’clock. Rightwood was expected at that hour, if not before. It was after nine now. The circle of death was tingling. Never before had the hidden minions of Felix Tressler been so expectant, so ready to loose their subtle snares of death.
The Shadow knew this. In the guise of Channing Rightwood, he was beginning the most startling adventure of his remarkable career. He was nearing a zone where he would be surrounded by camouflaged enemies. Any person among thousands might be one set to launch at him some design of death!
The Shadow had traversed the district that he was now entering. Here was a huge electric sign. Its corners were solid white. Its borders were unblinking.
There was the token against the sky — the signalboard that would aid minions of evil in their vicious fight against a lone victim. A soft whisper came from the lips of Channing Rightwood. That whisper was a laugh.
UP in the penthouse atop of Hotel Delavan, Felix Tressler’s eyes were glued upon the big map of Manhattan. A frosted bulb, stationed on the red circle, glimmered with a single blink. A cry of elation came from Felix Tressler. Leaping to the map, the master fiend pressed a switch.
The trail had begun. Channing Rightwood was trudging to his doom. The first minion of murder had spotted him. The neon light began to move along one of the glass tubes that represented Manhattan streets.
Gloating faces peered over Tressler’s shoulders. Perry Harton and Logan Mungren, lieutenants of the superfiend, were sharing in their master’s glee. They knew the meaning of the blink; they knew the purpose of the neon light.
So did Detective Joe Cardona, staring from the corner where he lay in helpless plight. Like the others, he was sure that a living man was doomed. Like them, he knew that a new victim had entered the circle of death!
CHAPTER XXIII
THE SHADOW KNOWS
THE man behind the soft-drink counter at the corner of Seventh Avenue was the one who had spotted the arrival of Channing Rightwood. This villain had already received commendation for the murder of Bigelow Zorman. He was anxious to repeat his former triumph.
He had pressed the switch beneath the counter. A single signal had been given. This had taken place while the stoop-shouldered form of Channing Rightwood was visible across the street. As Rightwood neared the drink counter, the huge sign near Times Square suddenly changed its hue. Green corners replaced white. Then came the blinks of the borders that told the location where Rightwood had been spotted.
“Get your creamy Chromo!” The vender’s cry was innocuous. “Step right up. Big drink for a nickel!”
The man saw Channing Rightwood approach. A nickel fell upon the counter. The Chromo seller reached beneath and produced a hidden glass. His hand covered the lower portion of the container.
Keen eyes were on that masking hand as the Chromo seller siphoned foaming fluid into the glass. The man behind the counter set the glass in front of Channing Rightwood. As he stooped beneath the counter to arrange other glasses, he anticipated the result. He pressed the switch twice and a grin covered his face.
As the man bobbed up from behind the counter, he stared toward the sign that served as beacon. Already his report had been received. The center light of each corner had turned to red. This was the token that a death thrust had been made.
The Chromo man turned toward Channing Rightwood. He stopped as he met the blaze of a pair of flashing eyes. The glass was gripped in Rightwood’s right hand. It still contained the foamy, white-frosted drink.
The murderous drink render did not move as he saw those burning eyes before him. His startled brain realized that the game was known.
Before the man could make a decision, The Shadow acted. Playing the part of Channing Rightwood, he swung his right arm and sent the contents of the glass full in the face of the man behind the counter. Then, with a downward sweep, he crashed the glass upon the marble and shattered it into flying pieces.
With this gesture, The Shadow turned and moved toward the side street. The drink seller was clawing frantically. His face and lips were dripping with the poisoned liquid that he had intended for a victim. He grabbed a towel and mopped his mouth.
People were stopping to learn the cause of the commotion. Channing Rightwood was nowhere to be seen; but the balked murderer saw a policeman turning toward the corner where excitement reigned. Ducking beneath the counter, he pressed the switch once; then scrambled for a door in the wall and made his get-away.
THE SHADOW, strolling along the side street, turned his eyes upward. He watched the sign and saw the red centers of the corners turn back to solid green. A soft laugh came from the lips beneath the false mustache. The first trap had failed. The fiend who controlled the circle of death had recalled his signal.
Well along the block, a panhandler approached the personage who looked like Channing Rightwood. He whined for a dime. The Shadow slowed his pace and reached into his pocket. They neared the corner while coins were jingling.
The clerk in a cigar store saw Rightwood stop. He caught a motion of the panhandler’s arm. Reaching into the cigar case behind the counter, the cigar clerk pressed a switch. This was the signal of location. A pause; the clerk pressed the switch twice; for he knew that murder was on the way.
Border lights blinked on the sign that neither The Shadow nor the panhandler were noticing. Then came red centered in corners of green. Channing Rightwood’s hand had come from his pocket. It was stretched toward the panhandler. A quarter lay in the open palm.
As the panhandler reached to grip the coin with his left hand, his right came from the pocket of his grimy coat. A hypodermic syringe flashed in the man’s fingers. His hand rested above The Shadow’s shoulder, ready for the jab.
An ordinary passer would not have noted the coming act. The Shadow, however, was waiting for some such gesture. The panhandler had used his left hand for taking the coin. The Shadow knew that the right must be acting also.
Quick as a flash, The Shadow’s hand closed over the coin just before the murderer’s fingers reached it. The Shadow’s arm swung upward with the power of a rifle-kick. The malletlike fist landed squarely on the panhandler’s jaw.
The fellow was lifted clear from his feet. Landing flat on his back, he rolled unconscious as his head struck the solid paving. A laugh ripped from The Shadow’s lips. Swinging, The Shadow headed straight for the cigar store.
The clerk saw purpose in this action. Frantically, he pressed the switch a single time to reverse the word that he had sent before. He ducked out through a side door. Still uttering his whispered laugh, The Shadow strode past the store.
Green corners with red centers — again they changed to solid green. The second delivery of death had failed. An unconscious panhandler lay on the paving; a cigar-store clerk was in flight.