That was not all. The Cobra, through his sudden rise as a terrorist, had become a problem to The Shadow. The menace of The Cobra had eclipsed that of The Shadow. The episode that had marked the death of Deek Hundell had been the turning point.
IN all his battles against men of evil, The Shadow had taken advantage of the one phobia that lurks in every human brain — fear. Crooks noted for their steady trigger fingers had faltered when they faced The Shadow.
The scene had changed. The Cobra was the new terror of the underworld. He had struck down Deek Hundell amid a squad of protecting henchmen. Those men who had sat stupefied had later risen to do battle with The Shadow.
True, The Shadow had won a fight against great odds; but he had waged a futile conflict. He had been forced to retreat under fire. Skulking mobsters who had feared the very name of The Shadow were now boasting of what they would do should they meet him. The prestige of The Shadow was at stake.
Another envelope came between The Shadow’s hands. It held a message, written in code. The Shadow perused the blue-inked lines; then the writing faded, word by word.
A report from Cliff Marsland, The Shadow’s agent in the underworld. A low, weird laugh whispered from the darkness on the near side of the shaded lamp.
In his report, Cliff had emphasized the very pointers that The Shadow had realized. The underworld was speaking in awed tones of The Cobra; and boastful threats against The Shadow were being uttered in the same breath.
A pen appeared in The Shadow’s hand. The fingers wrote brief comments that showed the trend of The Shadow’s thoughts. The master sleuth was analyzing the situation which confronted him.
How had The Cobra learned Deek Hundell’s meeting place? The Shadow had picked up Deek’s trail through Harry Vincent, who had long been one of The Shadow’s trusted agents. Harry had watched Deek at the uptown hotel where the gang leader had been staying.
But The Cobra had used no watcher. Somehow, the new crime fighter had learned of the meeting spot without tracing Deek at all.
What was the answer? The Shadow’s whispered laugh showed that his keen brain had found an inkling.
A tiny bulb glimmered on the wall beyond the table. A hand moved forward and plucked a pair of earphones from the wall. The Shadow spoke in whispered tones. A quiet voice came over the wire:
“Burbank speaking.”
“Report.”
The Shadow’s whispered order seemed to cling with weird echoes. Burbank’s statement came:
“Report from Marsland. At the Black Ship. Members of Heater Darkin’s mob waiting for orders from their leader.”
“Instructions to Marsland,” responded The Shadow. “Remain on duty. Side door code message.”
“Instructions received.”
The earphones went back to the wall.
The Shadow’s laugh sounded as a sinister whisper. Through Burbank, his hidden contact man, The Shadow had received this special word from Cliff Marsland. It was the very type of information for which The Shadow had hoped.
CLIFF MARSLAND, when stationed in the underworld, had frequent opportunities to gain advance notice of impending crimes. Accepted as a gunman of importance, Cliff had the run of various hangouts, including the Black Ship.
During the past few days, Cliff had been roaming the badlands at The Shadow’s order. His present information, concerning “Heater” Darkin, a notorious gang leader, was exactly what The Shadow wanted.
Here was opportunity. The Shadow specialized in swift strokes dealt while crime was taking place. Heater Darkin was recognized as a big shot who dealt in merciless tactics. It was time that his evil career should be broken.
Gangdom was talking of The Cobra. It was time that such talk should end. The trend of gangland’s fears must return to the master whose prestige The Cobra had usurped. The Shadow! His fame would benefit through a meeting with Heater Darkin, while the big shot was engaged in crime.
A sibilant laugh crept through the confines of the sanctum. Black gloves appeared upon the table. Thin, smooth fitting cloth, they slipped over the long-fingered hands. Clippings and envelopes were pushed aside. A black hand rose; the light disappeared with a click.
The swish of The Shadow’s cloak sounded in the pitch-black gloom. Then came a repetition of The Shadow’s laugh; the whispered mockery took tone as it rose to an eerie crescendo.
The gibing mirth came to a sudden ending. In its place were echoes that reverberated from jet-black walls, as though uttered by a myriad of ghoulish tongues. The creepy echoes died. Complete silence followed.
The sanctum was empty. The Shadow had departed. Faring forth on a new mission, the master fighter was out to combat crime. Two purposes lay before The Shadow on this night.
One was the cause of right: The Shadow’s unceasing desire to bring disaster to crooks whom the law could not forestall. The other was a vital point that concerned The Shadow’s future dealing with affairs of the underworld.
Upon his success in frustrating Heater Darkin’s culminating crime, The Shadow was staking his reputation as the greatest of all menaces to evil.
This would be The Shadow’s counter challenge to the rising fame of The Cobra!
CHAPTER VII
THE COBRA’S LAIR
SOMEWHERE in Manhattan. Such was the location of The Shadow’s sanctum. The same phrase alone could be used to mark the position of another strange abode — the lair of The Cobra!
A stone-walled room, its musty, cobwebbed crevices gaping where plaster had fallen; a low ceiling from which glowed a single frosted incandescent — this was the spot which The Cobra had chosen for his headquarters.
The furnishings of this room consisted of a table, a cot and two chairs. A rounded wicker basket of Oriental design rested in one corner. At one side was a battered door, raised above a single stone step. Opposite, another door that evidently led to an adjoining compartment.
One chair faced the wall. Directly in front of it was a projecting box that looked like a radio cabinet. This was fitted with numbered holes, from one to thirty-six. Hanging in front were wired plugs. Wires ran from the big plug-box to the wall behind.
Muffled footsteps clicked outside the room. The door opened above the step. The Cobra, clad in wrinkled garb of brown, stepped into his lair. Behind him showed a dim stone stairway which he had used to reach this underground den.
The Cobra closed the door behind him. He moved toward the basket in the corner. He raised the lid and uttered his strange hiss. An answer came from the basket; the hood of a snake rose into view.
The reptile was a cobra; its brown skin made it appear like a miniature of its master. A forked tongue darted from the head above the hood. Again, The Cobra uttered his fierce hiss as he leaned toward the basket.
The venomous snake lowered its hood. The Cobra clapped the cover on the basket. His hiss had cowed the serpent.
THE COBRA seemed to enjoy this bit of by-play. His hiss became a chuckle as he approached the chair in front of the plug-box.
Seating himself, The Cobra waited. His weird hood with its painted front gave him a fierce appearance in the dull light of the underground lair. A low buzz sounded from the box. The Cobra inserted a plug in an unnumbered hole below the thirty-six.
“Ss-s-s-s-s-s!”
The Cobra’s hiss was the signal that connection had been formed. A voice came from the box on the wall; its distant tone increased as The Cobra turned a dial.
“Fang Eleven,” announced the voice. “The time is set at ten o’clock.”
“You will guard the passage?”
“Yes.”
“Ss-s-s-s-s-s-s!”
As he concluded the conversation with the hiss, The Cobra pulled the plug from the hole. He then moved the plug along the line above and pressed it into a hole numbered eight. There was a short pause; then a voice:
“Fang Eight.”
“Ss-s-s-s-s-s! You are ready?”
“Yes.”
“Wait fifteen minutes. Proceed if I do not call again. Ss-s-s-s-s!”
The Cobra moved the plug to another hole. This time a voice reported as Fang Four. The speaker received the same instructions as Fang Eight. Again, The Cobra plugged and gave the identical word to Fang Eighteen; his final action was a telephone call to Fang Nine.
Fangs of The Cobra! These were agents reached in some mysterious fashion through the telephone connection of The Cobra’s plug-box. In touch with workers in the underworld, The Cobra was utilizing a system which neither The Shadow nor the police had recognized.
Tonight, The Cobra was on the move. From his lair, this new power in the underworld was planning another stroke. His men had been posted; the statement from Fang Eleven had caused The Cobra to order action by the others who were waiting.
The Cobra remained in his chair. He opened the bottom of the plug-box and drew forth an instrument. It was the dial of a telephone, connected by wires to the plug-box.
A brown-coated finger turned the dial. The sound of a busy signal came from the plug-box. The Cobra pressed a switch. The clicking ended.
This dial represented a portion of regular telephone equipment. By using it, The Cobra was connecting his own apparatus with the regular telephone line. The person whom The Cobra had sought to call was evidently busy on the wire.