Petri was a vigilant captor. Not for one instant did Cliff have an opportunity to reach for his gun. He kept on his way until they reached a stone-walled room that had the mustiness of a dungeon. It was lighted by a single incandescent. Through a door they went, into another room, which also had a single large lamp.
Cliff's lips pressed firmly together. He realized the purpose of this journey. They had reached a veritable torture chamber, below the ground. At one side was a flat, spike-studded table. Across the room stood a coffin-like contrivance, upright, with a hinged door.
Here was a post, with manacles attached; there a yawning pit in the floor. Cliff's destination was a spot against the wall, where four metal loops dangled on the ends of ropes which passed through pulleys. In another moment, Cliff was backed against the side of the room, with Petri's revolver pressing the pit of his stomach.
Now the gangster member of the trio was covering Cliff. Orlinov stood by while Petri stooped to attach the lower bands to Cliff's ankles. Next came the wrists.
Petri walked to one side and turned a winch. It drew Cliff's body toward the right; as the rope went upward, his arm was raised above his head.
Methodically, Petri strode toward the other side of the room, and turned a second winch.
Cliff's left arm was hoisted forcibly. He stood spread-eagled in the clutches of the locking bands, while Orlinov's black face remained motionless. At length, the bearded Russian spoke.
"You see?" he questioned. "We haff placed you where you can tell. This iss how it hass been done in Siberia — many years ago. People have found it wise to speak when the torture hass been close to them." He motioned the gangster to the other winch. With Petri at one side, and the gunman at the other, both winches could be operated simultaneously.
"I haff given you the chance!" hissed Orlinov "Speak! Tell me: Who iss The Shadow? What haff you known about him? Speak!"
Cliff remained obdurate. Orlinov signaled his men. They turned the winches. Cliff felt a terrific agony as his limbs began to draw from his body. A gesture from the bearded Russian stopped the barbarous torture.
"You haff tasted what iss to follow," said Orlinov. "You shall haff more — unless you speak—" Cliff's answer was a furious scowl. He was determined to withstand this barbarity.
Orlinov watched him. Red lips leered through the jet-black beard. A sign from Orlinov, and the winches turned farther. As the strain ceased a second time, Cliff's maddened brain began to formulate a plan. He was willing to bear the agony until it killed him; but that seemed a futile plan.
His duty tonight was to serve The Shadow. Crippled and helpless, he would be of no use.
It was a long time until midnight. His endurance had not yet been fully taxed. Let them turn the winches farther; then he would offer to speak.
He could tell Orlinov of The Shadow — for Cliff's information would at best be barren.
Like the other agents of The Shadow, he knew little of the mysterious man's ways. Yes, that was the best course: to hold out; then pretend to cry for mercy.
While Cliff Marsland was thus planning, Orlinov, too, was scheming. He was a master of the almost extinct art of torture. He intended to let Cliff Marsland suffer a while; then to ease him, that he might experience the temporary relief that would make the thought of further barbarity unendurable. It was a battle of wits, with Orlinov the master. The huge Russian had looked forward to this hour, ever since Cliff had been made a prisoner. At his urging, Tremont had given him free rein. Whether The Shadow was alive or dead, Ivan Orlinov would force statements from the lips of his helpless agent. Such work was a pleasure to the bearded fiend.
The Russian spoke in his native tongue, and Petri nodded understanding.
The grim game began again. The winches tautened the ropes. Cliff Marsland set his lips.
Ivan Orlinov grinned in anticipation. He saw success.
Tonight, he would learn the truth about The Shadow!
Chapter XIX — The Man From Outside
The light switched on in the living room of Orlinov's castle. Glade Tremont entered and sat down in a chair. He lighted a cigar and stared thoughtfully at the large box which stood beside the fireplace. The gray-haired lawyer had undergone a metamorphosis during the stay at Glendale. Association with Ivan Orlinov had caused a change. Here, away from his staid office in New York, the attorney had lost his mask of respectability. He looked the scoundrel that he was.
It appeared from Tremont's air that he was expecting the arrival of someone. He had left the door of the room open. His eyes were watching toward the hall. The lawyer glanced at his watch. He rose and began to pace the floor.
Footsteps sounded in the hall. Tremont waited. A figure appeared, and Tremont recognized Doctor Gerald Savette. He waved a welcome to his companion in crime. The rascally physician entered, and the two seated themselves.
"Ah!" exclaimed Savette. "There are my trophies."
He pointed significantly to the box.
"Yes," said Tremont, with an evil smile. "We have kept the box here, awaiting your arrival."
"It might have been wise to open it."
"We discussed that, Orlinov and I. We decided to wait, chiefly because the box is such a strong one. We knew that you would have the keys. The contents are valuable, you know. It would not be wise to damage them by demolishing the box."
"That's true," said Savette. "No use to you until I arrived. I gave the usual death dose — forty-eight hours. There is plenty of time yet. We could wait another night; but I think it would be best to open the box now."
He brought the keys from his pocket; then, as an afterthought, he left the living room and returned with Lamont Cranston's portmanteau.
"This is the missing link," he declared. "Its contents are as vital as those of the box." He laid the suitcase on the floor, and opened it. Tremont drew close to watch the examination of the important articles that the bag contained.
"Where is Orlinov?" asked Savette, as he started to lift some books from the suitcase.
"He is quizzing this man Marsland," answered Tremont. "They are downstairs — below ground — in the wing of the house."
Savette uttered a sharp exclamation as he dropped a book upon the floor. He stood up and faced Tremont, an annoyed look upon his face.
"That's a mistake!" he declared "A bad mistake, Glade! Nothing can be gained. Something may be lost!"
"How?"
"Marsland won't talk. Probably he can't talk. You know enough of The Shadow's ways to realize that. We are only keeping Marsland here because we have not yet gained positive evidence that The Shadow is dead."
"Orlinov has been anxious to test Marsland," declared Tremont. "It occurred to me that he might learn something of value that would enable us to trace The Shadow's lair — to assure ourselves that the dangerous man is really dead."
"The fellow will resist," warned Savette. "Orlinov may carry the torture too far. He will learn nothing, and Marsland may die. Then it would be our ill fortune to find The Shadow alive and active. Our hostage would be gone; and we would have a revengeful enemy."
Tremont laughed.
"Don't worry about Orlinov," he said. "Ivan is a craftsman in torture. He will not overdo it. He handles his victims as a cat plays with a mouse. When he proposed torture for Marsland, I agreed. I wanted to see how he would succeed with such a close-mouthed fellow.
"He tells me that he will work to break the man's endurance. Easily, slowly — then a period of relief that is worse than the torture itself. Orlinov swears he will make Marsland talk. He is going about it by degrees. So there is no cause for alarm. Our precious hostage will not die — at least not tonight."