Out of the blackness, Phil saw tiny, demoniac eyes and caught the glitter of sharp white teeth. He heard a sound that was like a high-pitched war shriek as he fell back, flinging his arms to ward off the unknown terror.
It was then that Phil was sprawled by an arm that swung from beside him. Landing backward, looking up toward the half-blotted light, Phil saw the literally incredible.
There were two of these monsters. One was making a furious downward swoop, as if from the wing while the other was lunging upward. For the moment, both seemed fantastically human. The swooping figure blocked the glow and therefore looked all out of proportion to its size, which didn’t apply to the shape that came up to meet it.
The illusion faded with a gun blast, delivered by the form that made the upward surge. With that, there were two Shadows no longer, but only one.
In fact one was all there ever had been.
The creature that had zoomed into the window was the thing that The Shadow had blasted in mid-air, an enormous vampire bat, a killer imported from the tropics!
A killer indeed, for it had slain Dom Yuble. How near it had come to doing the same to Phil was enough to send his head swimming. Relaxing, Phil went limp and felt the sweep of total blackness which gradually disseminated when hands shook his shoulder and splashed water lightly in his face.
Instead of The Shadow, Lamont Cranston was helping Phil into a chair. Revived, Phil stared at the body of Dom Yuble, its throat gory from the vampire’s deadly work. Near Yuble lay the killer, also dead, of huge size for a bat, but lacking the mammoth proportions that it had seemed to gain when cutting off the light.
Then Phil, his own throat tingling, even though untouched, was voicing hoarse details of all that had occurred, hoping that Cranston could interpret the rest.
“I saw the thing last night,” stated Phil, “or maybe something like it. Only Yuble couldn’t have been expecting this. He thought he was going to get a message, a confidential message.”
Sounds like little “eeks” attracted Cranston to the window. He beckoned Phil there and together they looked up beneath the eaves. Hanging there was a row of tiny bats which couldn’t compare in size to the vampire killer. In fact the little bats were frightened by the oversized visitor; hence their complaint.
“Carrier bats,” stated Cranston, very calmly. “It’s not uncommon for bats to have the homing sense. At short distances they are perfect message bearers, particularly at night, since it is impossible to see them except against the light.”
Both Margo and Arlene could have testified to that last-named fact along with Phil. As for Cranston, he was learning something that he had sought while playing the role of The Shadow; how strange prowlers in the park had managed to get back word to the person who maneuvered them. Here was the answer, these carrier bats that Dom Yuble received and from the messages they bore was able to pass the word along.
“I get it,” armed Phil, tersely. “When Ronjan is out, he can send word back to Yuble. Tonight Ronjan must have seen me coming up here. He figured I was wise, so he sent the killer bat, hoping it would get me -”
Cranston interposed with a headshake.
“You were not expected,” he told Phil. “Yuble was intended as the victim.”
“But why?”
“Because he knew too much about a certain treasure long sought on a sunken brig called the Good Wind.”
From his pocket Cranston brought a sheaf of photostats and spread them for Phil to see. As he went over them, Cranston kept glancing from the window, watching for distant twinkles from somewhere in Central Park.
“The Good Wind treasure rightfully belonged to a man named Thales Van Woort,” explained Cranston. “He sent a smuggler named Caleb Albersham out to bring in the treasure. Unfortunately, Albersham’s sloop, the Rover, was lost in the same storm that sank the Good Wind.”
Phil nodded. He had heard the treasure story.
“I’ve been tracking down the records of the Albersham family,” explained Cranston, “in hope that I might find some important data. Oddly, they seem to feel that their old ancestor Caleb was a hero, not a rascal.
“Here’s a picture taken in the early days of Central Park. It shows the slab marking Caleb’s grave. A lot of those markers still remain, particularly in the Oval, near the Willow Arch.”
Those terms struck home to Phil, but he was more interested in deciphering the picture. About all he could see inscribed on the stone were the words:
HERE LIES
CALEB ALBERSHAM
ADVENTURER & MARINER
ESTEEMED BY HIS
FAMILY & DESCENDANTS
Cranston was bringing out some other items, which he laid on the table.
“I checked on the Van Woort family too,” he explained. “They go further back than the Albershams. There was an old hunting shack owned by Thales’ grandfather Doorn. It was tucked right under two cliffs.”
Phil studied the crude drawing that showed the rude cabin. He nodded approvingly.
“A nice safe place.”
“It was until the Indians dropped down on it,” declared Cranston. “Right here on Manhattan Island. That was the end of Doorn. After that, the family wished they’d lived in a cave.”
“Why didn’t they?”
“Because they moved down to New Amsterdam proper, where land was more expensive but safer. Of course they still made expeditions way up into the wild lands which are now Central Park.”
“What happened to their old location?”
“Gone, long ago. It’s difficult to trace old landmarks in Central Park. The whole area was landscaped back in the Eighteen-fifties, a tremendous project for that day. Of course it followed the contour of the land, wherever possible.”
Pausing, Cranston studied some twinkles that appeared from the darkness of the park. Then, bringing an envelope from his pocket, he handed it to Phil.
“Getting down to date,” stated Cranston, “look those over Harley. They’re some photographs I managed to acquire. One may be Ames, another Older. Tell me if you recognize anybody else.”
The photos were rather poor prints, but one man did look like Ames, as Phil recalled him. There were other pictures, one of which brought a smile to Phil because it reminded him of an old uncle he remembered from childhood. Then:
“Why, this looks like Arlene Forster!” Phil exclaimed. “The girl I told you about. By the way” - Phil’s tone became apologetic - “I’m sorry I kicked up such a fuss about Arlene. Since she knew Ronjan, I’m beginning to think she was the girl who worked the banshee hoax.”
Cranston gave a slight nod from the telephone that he was using. He pointed to another picture.
“Look at that one.”
Phil studied a crude photo of a haughty old lady while Cranston was completing the call. Then:
“Who is she?” he asked. “Say - I have it! I’ve seen this face in the newspapers. It belongs to old Sylvia Selmore!”
At that moment, Cranston repeated the same name:
“Sylvia Selmore!”
With those words, Cranston ended the call, gave another look out into the dark, where twinkles no longer were visible. Then:
“I’ve just heard something,” declared Cranston, “that means tonight will be the big pay-off. Our business will be to make it pay the way it should!”
LAMONT CRANSTON had just heard from Margo Lane and she had told him some amazing news.
Old Sylvia Selmore was taking a sincere group out to Central Park to await the appearance of the banshee, which in her language was spelled Gwrach y Rhibyn.
When Cranston told this to Phil, the latter didn’t believe it.
“The police would be crazy to allow it!” exclaimed Phil.
“On the contrary, they think otherwise,” expressed Cranston. “I just talked to the commissioner.”
Phil’s eyes went nervous as they looked toward Yuble’s body.