Even now, although aroused and disgruntled, Cliff could not overcome the drowsiness that gripped him. His restlessness ended. He slept.
Shafts of morning light flung a melancholy glare through the high, glass-barred slits that served as windows in Cliff's prison. The captive awoke and again — as on previous mornings — realized his plight. Cliff was in the same predicament as those other men whom Orlinov had shown him. He was one of the dead who lived.
Cliff raised his head and adjusted his pillow, preparing for another doze. His hand struck something. He raised the pillow; then quickly dropped it while he stared toward the door of the room to make sure that no one was watching him.
Beneath his pillow was a pocket-model automatic pistol! Half dazed, Cliff remembered a vague fit of wakefulness during the night, followed by a hazy dream that someone was in the room. He rose quickly from his bed and dressed.
With another glance at the door, he raised the pillow, half expecting to find nothing there.
He had not been mistaken. His hand clutched a gun.
A pocket .32, flat as a book, its magazine loaded to eight-cartridge capacity. Standing by the bed, Cliff slipped the handy weapon into his hip pocket. With the revolver was a box of cartridges. He dropped this in the other pocket. Also, he saw an envelope.
With his back toward the wall, Cliff removed a message from the envelope. It was written in code, in ink. It bore these words, as Cliff translated them.
Key on ledge of window. Be in readiness tonight. Act if shots are fired. Otherwise wait until midnight. Then take control of upper wing.
A message from The Shadow! Cliff was elated. Somehow, his leader had managed to penetrate to this isolated spot; to bring him a weapon; to leave him instructions. Cliff understood.
He slipped his hand to the window ledge, found the key, and left it there.
Sometime tonight, The Shadow intended to open an attack. Fiends of crime would meet their match, elsewhere in this strange, castle-like abode. This wing would be under guard. It was Cliff's appointed task to spring a surprise attack, to gain control of the wing, and hold it for whatever purpose The Shadow intended.
Thus The Shadow would strike from two directions. He himself would come from without; Cliff Marsland would hammer from within.
This place was a vital spot. Cliff, by a sortie, could control the wing for The Shadow, and thus protect the other prisoners.
Cliff foresaw a struggle against giant odds, and the thought elated him. He knew well that he could hardly hope to fight his way safety from this place, with nearly a score of enemies to block his path. But with The Shadow beating down the opposition, matters were quite different.
The Shadow alone was match for half a hundred hoodlums.
Cliff pondered. A pistol shot was to be the signal. He doubted that he could hear it. Then he remembered the exact wording of the message, which had disappeared from the sheet of paper he had read.
If shots are fired—
The Shadow, should he open an attack, would meet with a cannonade from Orlinov's henchmen. Cliff would hear that, surely. There was also the possibility of The Shadow waiting until midnight. Cliff knew the exactness of his mysterious chief. Midnight would be the zero hour, if nothing transpired before then. Cliff buried the envelope within the pages of a book. He thrust the paper with some other sheets. He sat down in a chair and puffed at an unlighted cigarette. He was allowed no matches here. The door opened, and Petri stepped in, carrying a tray of breakfast. Cliff looked stupidly toward the solemn-faced Russian. He knew that Petri was backed by a mobster in the corridor. He ate his breakfast after Petri had gone. He drank but little of the coffee furnished him, for he was convinced that it was doped.
The day wore on. A second meal at noon. Cliff busied himself reading various books that were in the room. A long afternoon dragged by. Dinner. Then evening.
Now, Cliff was tense. He realized well the security of his position. There was nothing in this room that could be used as a weapon, save the gun that he had obtained without the knowledge of his captors. It was safely tucked in his pocket. Orlinov and Petri were the only ones who had keys to this room. Any search of the prisoner would be unnecessary.
During the day, Cliff had come to the conclusion that The Shadow must have worked through one of Orlinov's henchmen. He did not believe that The Shadow could be here; nor was it likely that he had sent another operative to the castle.
Tonight, The Shadow would attack from without, knowing that Cliff would be on hand to take charge in the vital section of the castle. It would not be a question of Cliff fighting free; it would be The Shadow's work to battle his way inward.
Eight o'clock arrived, then nine neared. Cliff was anxious and on edge. While he was trying to maintain his composure, he saw the door move. It opened. In stepped Ivan Orlinov It was with difficulty that Cliff restrained himself from action. He might have overpowered the bearded Russian by a quick encounter, but he deemed it best to wait. He must not spoil The Shadow's well-laid plans.
Orlinov walked toward Cliff and stood glaring at him. The big, bearded man was a menacing figure. Cliff met his sparkling gaze with calmness. He saw one of the mobsmen in the background, holding a revolver in readiness.
This was a time for tact. Yet Cliff was perturbed. He feared that something must have gone awry; that Orlinov had learned that events were scheduled for tonight.
"Marslandt," growled Orlinov, in his deep bass, "I haff come here to speak with you. It iss wise that you should tell me tings that I haff not yet asked to know."
Cliff made no reply. He stared coldly toward his inquisitor. He was tempted to draw his automatic, but knew that such action would provoke a crisis. It was not until the Russian spoke again that Cliff fully understood the import of his visit.
"You haff come here," Orlinov declared, "to make trouble because someone hass sent you. We know who it iss who hass sent you. He iss called The Shadow."
The speaker paused, and his harsh eyes shone furiously as he advanced.
"You will tell us," he hissed. "You will tell us, Marslandt. Who iss The Shadow?"
"I know nothing of The Shadow," Cliff answered.
"We shall see," declared Orlinov, in an ominous growl. "Let me tell you this Marslandt. We haff ways here that can make you tell!"
He uttered loud words in his native tongue. It was a call to Petri. The second Russian appeared from the corridor. In his hand he held a revolver.
Again a command from Orlinov. Methodically, Petri approached and jabbed the muzzle of his gun into Cliff's back. Orlinov pointed toward the door. Petri nudged Cliff in that direction.
What did this mean?
Cliff realized that he was being forced into a predicament that might prove as dangerous as it was unexpected. His guard shoved him into the corridor; there a gangster waited, also armed. Along the corridor, past the rows of silent doors then down the stairs they went, to the ground floor. It was too late now to make a break for safety. There was nothing for Cliff to do but wait. At least his captors did not know that he was armed, and there would be no occasion to search him. Cliff's ears were keen, in case they might hear the report of a distant gun — the signal that would denote the arrival of The Shadow.
Orlinov passed the little group when they reached the first floor. He unlocked a panel in the wall. The barrier slid back to show a flight of stairs descending into the cellar. Cliff advanced when he heard the order. He entered the gloomy well and went down the steps, still feeling the threat of the revolver that pressed his back.