"I'll speak! I'll speak!"
The words were gasped by foam-flecked lips. Cliff Marsland, in the agony of exquisite torture, was calling pleadingly to Ivan Orlinov.
"You will tell all?"
The Russian's question was a growled retort.
"Yes!" Cliff's voice quavered. "Let me loose— I'll— I'll—" His choking voice could say no more. The strain of the maddening, limb-wrenching winches was too great for him to stand.
Cliff's head toppled forward on his chest.
Orlinov gave two commands. Both were the same. One was in Russian, and the other in English. Slowly, the winches were released. Cliff's arms dropped. The ropes became slack. He crumpled to the floor and lay there, inert.
Ivan Orlinov stared long at the man whom he had tortured. It was apparent that Cliff Marsland had held out until complete anguish forced him to yield. He had lost his senses now.
Orlinov was sorry. It might be some time before the man would speak.
Cliff had indeed suffered; but not so much as Orlinov supposed. All through the torture, he had played a part. He had winced without an outcry, feigning pain so effectively that Orlinov had imagined his anguish far greater than it actually was.
Now, too, Cliff was playing a part. He had tried to delay this torture until he felt that it was bringing injury from which he could not easily recover. The wrenching had reached that state. Then, Cliff had uttered his pleading cry.
On the floor, he resembled a man who had lost consciousness. Orlinov leaned over him and shook his body roughly. Cliff made no response. The Russian was convinced that his victim was senseless Orlinov became thoughtful. This torture had taken some time. It was late in the evening, now. By this time, Doctor Gerald Savette would be here. Both he and Tremont would want to see the victim; to hear Cliff Marsland speak.
The Russian knew his game. He had learned that the combined remembrance of past torture, coupled with the threat of future, was a weapon that could force the most hardened man to speak. In addition, present ease — as a pleasant lapse between two racking sessions — was also a way to make obdurate persons reasonable.
Cliff Marsland, weakened, unconscious, and weaponless, could make no trouble here.
Orlinov signaled to Petri and the gangster. The men approached while the big Russian undid the fetters that held Marsland's arms and legs.
The underlings raised Cliff Marsland, and carried his helpless body to a couch in an obscure corner of the room. They placed him so his head was propped up on a pillow. His arms and legs were sprawled. Cliff's eyes were closed; but when he opened them, he would see the room before him. He would view the pulleyed ropes that had caused his former torture. He would observe the other implements of brutality which boded other agonies.
It would not be a pleasant thought — the possibility of running the gamut of Ivan Orlinov's grim devices. The bed of spikes, the iron coffin, the blackened pit — all were formidable. Several minutes went by. Orlinov was waiting. He did not care to summon Tremont and Savette until this man would be ready to speak. Orlinov intended to put on an exhibition of his skill, the methods that he had learned so well in the days of czarist Russia
Cliff Marsland stirred, but his eyes did not open. His head rolled to one side. He seemed to sense the agony that he had suffered. He raised his arms and pressed them against his body.
He turned on his right side, his arm beneath him. His head slumped, and he remained inert.
A clever ruse! One that was natural enough to deceive Ivan Orlinov. It placed Cliff's right hand out of view, close to his hip pocket. At that instant he could have yanked out his gun and started a battle for safety. Both Petri and the gangster had revolvers; but neither was in readiness.
There were two reasons why Cliff desisted. One was because he had suffered greatly and was weak. Each minute, he knew, would help him to recuperate. The second was because time was moving. Any minute, now, might bring the shots that would be The Shadow's signal!
Orlinov studied Cliff closely. It appeared as though the victim had again lapsed into unconsciousness. Nevertheless, he could easily be revived, since he had shown momentary signs of life. Orlinov spoke to Petri; then repeated to the gangster, in English:
"Wait here. Wait until I return. If he hass begun to awake, watch him close. Haff your revolfer ready."
"Sure thing," growled the gunman, drawing his revolver and brandishing it significantly.
Orlinov departed. Cliff lay motionless. He did not allow his eyelids to even tremble. He could hear Orlinov's footsteps dying away. He would know when the Russian returned. Cliff's fingers, hidden, clutched the handle of the automatic. At any moment, now, he could begin a surprise attack. He intended to act quickly.
A sudden leap, a drawn gun — that was his chance to catch his adversaries off guard. He would have to beat two men to the shot. He was confident that he could do it.
Listening, Cliff could hear signs that indicated where each of his enemies stood. Even should Orlinov return, Cliff could act, for he felt sure that the bearded Russian would have no gun in readiness. The time for action might be imminent. Cliff's one fear was that this would prolong until midnight. How would he know that hour? Suppose The Shadow was waiting for him to act?
This was a dilemma. The minutes on the rack had been torturous ones that had seemed much longer then they really were.
It might be ten o'clock — eleven — even past midnight — for all Cliff knew. His natural craving for action urged him to draw his gun now, while he had the opportunity. But that might mean action before the arrival of The Shadow.
Without the man in black to help him, Cliff's efforts to escape could be no more than futile. There were too many mobsmen on these premises. Hasty action would spoil all. Patient waiting might bring success. So Cliff Marsland waited. Possum-like, he feigned unconsciousness, waiting for the signal that would mean The Shadow was at hand!
Chapter XXII — The Shadow Speaks
The echoes of a sinister, whispered laugh died away. The Shadow, master in the lair of villains, made a downward motion with his automatics.
Understanding, Glade Tremont lowered his hand and reluctantly dropped the weapon which he held. Gerald Savette lowered his hand also, but did not release the hypodermic syringe.
The Shadow's burning eyes glared at the men whom he had trapped. They were helpless, and they knew it. The Shadow had them at his mercy. What did he intend to do?
"Pick up the pistol, Sharrock," said The Shadow in a low, strange whisper. The tall man nodded. He was trying to recover his wits. Mechanically, he obtained the gun which Tremont had dropped on the floor. He stood between the two men whom The Shadow dominated.
"You thought me dead," whispered The Shadow.
He laughed as he addressed these words to Tremont and Savette. The strange emphasis on each uttered syllable made the villains tremble. Men without mercy, they expected none now.
The Shadow was a superman. The fact that he still lived made him more amazing, in their minds, than before.
"You thought me dead," repeated The Shadow. "But I live — as you have learned. I know your schemes in full. I knew your ways of plotting. Money. You needed it, Savette. You were looking for a victim. You found Lamont Cranston."
The Shadow paused, and Savette understood. The echoed mockery of another laugh came as a hateful sound to his ears. The Shadow spoke again.
"What little of your work I did not know," resumed The Shadow, "I have learned tonight. I shall tell you of your crimes, that you may know why I propose grave consequences.
"Austin Bellamy was your first victim. Lawyer betrayed his client; physician, his patient. Your death serum, Savette, worked then for the first time. You spirited Bellamy from your sanitarium, a few years ago. Then came the fire — in which another body was recognized by you as Bellamy's.