Maxwell Grant
Mox
CHAPTER I
THE DEAD LINE
THE green glass shade of the desk lamp threw a greenish, ghoulish glare upon the man who was seated at the desk. A twitching face betrayed the nervous thoughts of the man, a trembling hand that clutched a pen showed the fear that dominated his actions.
With shaky, fitful effort, the man placed the point of the pen upon a long sheet of lined yellow paper. As he leaned toward the desk, his face showed more plainly in the light.
It was a pointed face — a peaked countenance that betokened a glib, persuasive talker. Under the present circumstances, however, terror alone was registered upon that pale-hued visage.
A clock was ticking on the desk. Set on a swivel, it was turned slightly upward, so the man could watch it as he wrote. The clock marked the time as ten minutes before midnight. Glancing from paper to clock and back again, the man inscribed these words:
Statement of Schuyler Harlew.
A pause. Schuyler Harlew leaned back in his chair, aghast. His expression was that of a man who had taken an irretrievable step. A short, fearful gasp came from Harlew’s lips, as though he expected the very walls of the room to collapse about him. He threw a worried glance in every direction.
The room was small and plainly furnished. The door was locked. The solid transom was closed above it. A high window, one of a pair which swung inward on hinges, was partly opened, so a slight draft came upon Harlew’s right shoulder.
As he turned about in his chair, Harlew leaned toward the window. He rose slightly to reach the level of the sill. He listened intently, then peered out into the night.
Blackness dominated the vicinity. The room, three stories up, was above the level of the low houses on the other side of the street. In the distance, beyond the area of taller houses several blocks away, hung the dull glow of a great metropolis.
To any one familiar with New York City, that illumination and the direction from which it appeared, would have been sufficient to locate the spot where Schuyler Harlew was now situated. The house which contained this little room was located somewhere in the upper section of New York City — the Bronx.
Satisfied that no strange sound from outside might be a warning, Schuyler Harlew turned back to his desk. He held the pen more firmly. Beneath the line which revealed his name he wrote these startling words:
To be delivered to The Shadow.
As before, Harlew rested back in his chair. On this occasion, his lips ceased twitching. Their restlessness was replaced with a smile of satisfaction. The writing of that name, The Shadow, brought confidence to the nervous man.
THE SHADOW!
Known everywhere as a superbeing who battled against fiends of crime, he was one to whom those who knew of evil deeds could turn. A grim avenger, who stalked forth upon his missions enshrouded by night itself, The Shadow was always prepared to throw his might in favor of those whom danger threatened.
No one knew The Shadow’s real identity. No one knew where The Shadow could be reached. But Schuyler Harlew seemed satisfied that The Shadow, with all the power at his command, would certainly learn of this message, should it fall into the hands of any other than enemies.
Why not? Everything seemed possible to The Shadow. Millions knew his voice, for it had been broadcast. His exploits were legend. His raconteur had told the world of amazing episodes in the career of this master battler against crime.
Criminologists had stated that The Shadow, marvel of darkness, was, in himself, the great controlling agent who entered the endless war between crime and justice. When the depredations of evildoers seemed to outweigh the strength of the police, The Shadow was invariably thrust into the balance, upon the side of the law.
The Shadow might be anywhere; at times, he seemed to be everywhere. He scented crime of insidious purpose with the instinct of a bloodhound. He arrived at scenes where crime threatened with the speed of a hurricane. He struck with the power of a giant. A lone wolf who battled crime, his hand never failed.
Schuyler Harlew had considered these facts. To him, as he began to write, it seemed positive that the message would reach The Shadow. Imbued with confidence, Harlew began a rapid scrawl underneath the heading of his statement.
Death threatens me. I know that death has been the lot of others. I know that death will continue. I have been a fool. I have aided a monster in his schemes of death.
Harlew paused. His lips began to twitch. His eyes, steadying upon the words that his hand had written, saw the name of The Shadow emblazoned on the paper. Harlew’s hand steadied.
Midnight is the hour that the monster chooses. At midnight, he has talked with me. He has given me instructions and the time that I must return. I obeyed him in the past. I always returned to his hidden abode until one day ago; then I gained courage. I did not keep my appointment with my fiendish master.
The little clock on the desk showed five minutes before twelve. Harlew’s teeth grated with determination. Feverishly, he resumed his writing.
To fail in my appointment with this evil master held one penalty — doom. Sure doom, within twenty-four hours after such failure. I have risked my life. I have hidden. Less than five minutes remain before midnight. Once that dead line is passed, I shall be safe — for I shall know that the fiend has not found my hiding place.
I have been afraid to write my statement. I have begun now that I may be finished, when midnight comes. I dare not betray him until I am sure of safety. As soon as my little clock tells me that midnight has passed, I shall write the monster’s name.
Then I shall post this letter — or leave it here — which, I cannot decide. I can think more sanely, once I know that I am free. This letter must reach the one to whom I have addressed it. He, alone, can meet and defeat the monster. Once I am safe, I shall flee.
The clock showed one minute before twelve. Its measurement of time was precise; for it had a little second hand which was just starting on the final minute. Watching the clock, Harlew wrote mechanically — he inscribed an involuntary thought upon the paper:
One minute: then the name:
Pen poised in hand, Harlew watched the second hand mark off its tiny portions of time. Each second seemed endless to this man who had forgotten all else in his anxiety to make sure that he would escape the doom he feared.
Fifteen seconds; twenty. Harlew was a living statute. His eyes were bulging as they stared at the clock. His breath came in long, inaudible puffs.
Thirty seconds. Harlew remained rigid. He was fascinated by the slow upward journey of the tiny pointer that seemed to hold its course while life lay in the balance.
At fifteen seconds before twelve, an involuntary trembling caught Harlew’s frame. At ten seconds before the hour, the shaking had increased to a palsy.
Five seconds to go. Harlew’s face was twitching in fierce contortions. Four seconds; three; two; one — the pointer of the second hand reached the high spot, just as the minute and hour hands together formed an upright bar directly to the number twelve.
Midnight! The dead line!
To Schuyler Harlew, all hope clung to that single, lingering moment. Every hand of the clock seemed immobile; even the pointer that showed the seconds seemed reluctant to budge a hair’s breadth from its position.
Then Harlew’s eyes saw space. The second hand had moved. As a gasp came from the maddened man’s lips, the pointer seemed to swing downward in a merry, care-free journey, like a motor car that had labored over the crest of a terrific hill.
The dead line had been passed! The clock showed it!