CLIFF AWAKES
CLIFF MARSLAND opened his eyes. He was lying on a cot, in one of the strangest rooms that he had ever seen. Near him was a table and a chair; beyond that, a large cabinet projecting from the wall. Cliff blinked as a door swung open and a man stepped into the lighted room.
Cliff could not see the visitor’s face. The man was dressed in dark clothes and his back was toward The Shadow’s agent. He was stepping toward another door, which he opened to reveal a closet.
Cliff saw the man take down a garment. Stooping; he slipped trousers over his legs and drew a sort of cowl up over his back. Groggy, Cliff did not realize what this meant until the man turned and stepped from the closet. Then The Shadow’s agent gasped.
He was facing The Cobra! This room was The Cobra’s lair!
A hiss came from the painted, hooded face. It was the warning of The Cobra. Cliff stared as the brown-clad figure approached. He raised his arms and found them heavy.
“You have slept well,” hissed The Cobra. “You will sleep again — for long intervals — while you remain my prisoner.”
There was a forced tone to The Cobra’s voice. It was that of a speaker who chose his words in an effort to disguise his natural way of speaking.
“There are not many,” went on The Cobra, “who have become my prisoners. You are lucky. I am keeping you because I know your master — The Shadow.
“His time is up. Tonight, he will be outlawed. The police will be on his path. So will The Cobra. That is why I intend to let you live. You will aid me when I trap The Shadow.”
Cliff’s head was aching. The Shadow’s agent sank back upon the cot. The Cobra laughed in snarling fashion. He turned to the chair before the switchboard and seated himself.
Cliff’s eyes were closed, but he could hear The Cobra talking. Dully, Cliff heard the instructions which The Cobra gave.
Crackling through his brain was the thought that these words would be information for The Shadow; with it was the gloomy realization of total helplessness.
Cliff knew that he had been drugged. He had lain here probably for days and the effect of the dope had not worn off. Cliff’s hands were trembling; at moments, they seemed to regain their normal strength, but when Cliff clenched his fists, all power seemed to leave him.
THE COBRA had finished speaking. He arose and again turned to look at the helpless form of Cliff Marsland. Again, his hissing tone delivered insidious words. Cliff’s ears were pounding. He caught only momentary tones of The Cobra’s voice.
“Tonight… The Shadow… a fugitive… the law will seek him… when I have done…”
Cliff closed his eyes in bewilderment. He was trying to connect these utterances. They were ringing in his brain — words that he half understood. The Cobra’s voice ceased with a hiss. Cliff could hear his footsteps moving toward the closet.
Something was happening, but Cliff had only a hazy idea of what it was. He could hear The Cobra’s hiss, coming as though far away. Once Cliff opened his eyes; he stared in total amazement; then closed his lids and pressed his hands to his aching temples.
Wild visions gripped him. The Cobra’s hiss — it seemed to bring The Shadow’s laugh. Hope became despair. All was absurd and fantastic. Frenzied desire for The Shadow’s aid was racking Cliff’s brain.
Opening his eyes again, Cliff stared, glaring at the ceiling. It seemed to be whirling; as in a cloud, Cliff fancied leering faces.
The Cobra’s hood — The Shadow’s eyes — then ugly faces of scowling mobsters. Steadiness came back only when Cliff closed his eyes and gripped the sides of the cot. He heard The Cobra’s hiss. Then came the reply of a crackly voice, from the switchboard;
“Fang One.”
“I am coming up,” hissed The Cobra. “Is the way clear?”
“The way is clear.”
“Turn out all lights. Above and below.”
The lights went out as Cliff reopened his eyes. Complete darkness was the result. Cliff could hear The Cobra moving toward the door. He heard the barrier open; then close. A bolt shot. Muffled footsteps clicked from stone stairs beyond.
“The Cobra!” screamed Cliff. “The Cobra! The Shadow! Stop — stop—”
Cliff’s voice ended in a gurgle. Weakly, the deluded man sank head back upon the cot. Darkness seemed to grip Cliff by the throat. He moaned piteously amid these moments of awakened fantasy. The clicking of The Cobra’s footsteps seemed hours on those stairs, before they finally died.
YET The Cobra’s ascent had required less than half a minute. At the top of the stone steps, The Cobra was opening a door. He moved into the darkness of the ground floor. In pitch blackness, The Cobra hissed.
An answering response came in a crackling whisper. It was Fang One — the guardian of The Cobra’s lair.
“Which way, Master?”
“The side door,” hissed The Cobra. “I shall be gone at least two hours. Wait here until I return.”
“Yes, Master.”
“Be careful with the lights. None until I have left.”
“Yes, Master.”
Footsteps thudded softly on a thin rug as The Cobra crossed the room. A door closed. Faint footsteps from a passage beyond. The Cobra had left.
Fang One chuckled in the darkness. He seemed to like its atmosphere. Then, a full three minutes after The Cobra’s departure, a light came on as Fang One’s hand pulled a cord. The illumination, shaded in a table lamp, revealed a plainly furnished room — also its occupant.
Fang One was an old, wizened man. His hair was thin and gray — on his crown he wore a little rounded cap of black. Many denizens of the underworld would have recognized that face, with its wrinkled, toothless smile.
The old man was “Crazy” Lartin, a recluse whom all regarded as almost penniless. Crazy had been a beggar in his time. Whatever hoardings he owned could not be large. This was the humble room of Crazy Lartin’s abode. Below it was the lair of The Cobra!
A humble, crumbling old house in an ill-kept district. Such was the place that The Cobra had chosen as his headquarters. Crazy Lartin served as the guardian to the way below. He held the title of Fang One!
This was a room with many doors. One was the way by which The Cobra had come from his lair. There were four others. The old man was staring significantly across the room; his gaze indicated the direction which The Cobra had chosen for his departure.
Hands clasped and rubbing; lower lip protruding above the upper in a fiendish leer — Crazy Lartin seemed to enjoy the prospect of The Cobra’s return. It was plain that he took pride in The Cobra’s deeds. Fixed was Lartin’s gaze — so fixed that the old man did not hear a sound behind him.
One of the other doors was opening. Upon the floor stretched a long, thin streak of blackness that crept forward in ominous fashion. Then came a figure from darkness; that of a being clad in black. The Shadow!
The old man turned — too late. He gurgled as he caught a flash of blazing eyes from beneath the brim of a slouch hat. Then The Shadow was upon him.
Fang One writhed with surprising strength. He was overpowered. The Shadow, stooping, trussed the old man with remarkable swiftness. He raised Lartin’s body with one arm and dropped the old man on a couch in the corner.
Leaning forward, The Shadow held a gag above the old man’s face. Before applying it, he put a stern, whispered question.
“Where is the prisoner?”
“Below,” gasped Lartin. “Down the stone steps. The middle door — the light beside it—”
The gag wedged its way between the old man’s gums. As he twisted the ends into a knot, The Shadow laughed. His whispered mirth boded no good for The Cobra!
CHAPTER XXI
THE SHADOW’S COURSE
CLIFF MARSLAND blinked. The light had come on again. The period of darkness had broken his dizziness. In the dim glow of The Cobra’s lair, Cliff felt a returning strength. Surging through his mind were thoughts no longer scattered.