“I’m backed by a bigger guy than The Shadow! A guy that’s bigger than The Shadow ever thought of being. Let him come on — The Shadow. We’re ready for him!”
CHAPTER XIII
THE TEMPLE OF SILENCE
THE next night, Flash Donegan left his apartment and walked around the corner to the parking space where he kept his car. He was cautious, for he was bound on a very definite errand.
It was nearly midnight when he left the apartment, and once Flash was in his car, he sped rapidly northward. Nearing his destination, he parked on a side street and alighted. He sauntered through the darkness until he reached the man-made canyon that ran between the two warehouses.
Flash was alert. He was watching and listening, eager to detect any sign that might denote the presence of the watching men. But all was silent. Flash smiled to himself. This invisible lookout was to his liking.
Flash entered the narrow opening and walked slowly onward. He was listening for any sound. This narrow passageway, with its outlets on parallel streets, formed a perfect trap.
The watchers had their instructions. Any one could enter here; but leaving the snare was a different matter. Harry Vincent had learned that fact. Flash smiled at the thought.
Halfway along the paved alleyway, Flash stopped. His hand came from his coat pocket. A tiny green light glimmered with three distinct twinkles.
This was a signal that Harry Vincent had not seen Larkin give. Flash Donegan turned to his left and pressed against the wall. A door swung inward.
The racketeer entered the pitch-dark passage.
The door swung silently behind him. It blotted out the faintest trace of light that remained — the dim whiteness of the warehouse across the alleyway. Flash advanced and went through the second door into the lighted corridor.
He stopped after he had gone a few steps. He had the peculiar sensation that he was not alone. He glanced back toward the door through which he had come. There was only gloom at the end of the corridor, punctuated by small lights in the center of the passage.
Flash stared into the black shadows that obscured the end of the wall. For a moment he felt impelled to go back and probe that patch of gloom. Then he laughed at his folly. His dull mirth sounded hollow in the stone-walled corridor.
Flash turned and went ahead, his footsteps echoing as he walked. He moved into the darkness of the side passage. There he waited for a moment. There was no sound.
Flash moved along. He was satisfied now that no person was lurking in the outer corridor. He reached the elevator and entered.
An instant later, there were two clicks, and the door closed, while the light came on. Flash was staring at the walls of the shaft as the lift crept toward the roof.
The racketeer was a trifle impatient at the slow progress. He looked upward and gave no thought to the little compartment in which he was riding.
So close that a mere motion of the racketeer’s arm would have warned him of another presence, stood a tall form clad in black. Silently, gliding in like a ghost, the man had entered the elevator in the darkness, simultaneously with Flash Donegan!
The being in black might have been Donegan’s shadow, for his entire shape was of that sable hue. Donegan was wearing a soft hat. His coat was open, and a scarf hung over his shoulders.
The solid shadow behind him was almost a replica of his contour. The large hat, the edges of the cloak, the black-gloved hands — all these were a fantastic representation. But this shadow was a living one. It was — The Shadow!
THE elevator stopped at the top of the shaft. It reached an opening. Flash Donegan stepped out and walked along the dim corridor ahead. Softly, noiseless as any shadow, the man in black followed.
Flash turned into a dark entrance at the side of the corridor. The Shadow kept on and sidled against the wall.
His action was a timely one. The racketeer, acting upon some sudden impulse, leaned back from the opening which he had entered, and threw a suspicious glance back along the corridor to the elevator.
He saw nothing, and the light in the little lift assured him that all was well. With a grunt of satisfaction, Flash moved on to the spiral stairway.
His footsteps clanked upon the metal as he descended the twisting way. Again The Shadow was behind the racketeer, keeping pace with him. But The Shadow’s feet made no sound whatever.
Had Flash decided to look up, he would have seen no one. For the sharp curve to the staircase kept The Shadow entirely out of view.
At the foot of the stairway, Flash came to the sliding door. It opened. The racketeer went in. The door closed behind him. Flash looked about the oddly papered room while it was moving upward.
He was actually alone now. The Shadow had not followed here.
Soon Flash Donegan was standing before the carved door that bore the lion’s head. He saw the greenish glow of peering eyes. He passed inspection. The door slid aside, and Flash entered the reception hall.
He went no farther. It was evidently unnecessary for Flash to see the man who lived here. Chandra, the Burmese, approached, and Flash pulled a crinkling envelope from his pocket.
“Wait,” said the servant.
He was gone for several minutes. When he returned, he carried a large slate. Upon it, inscribed in closely written words, was a message which Flash perused. It was the answer to the note which the racketeer had sent in to Henri Zayata.
“The master cannot see you now,” informed Chandra. “He is busy. This is his reply.”
Flash nodded and chuckled. He gave the slate back to the Burmese, and turned toward the oaken door. Zayata’s reply was sufficient.
Chandra opened the door, and Flash returned to the moving room. The oak-paneled door closed. Flash descended and alighted at the foot of the spiral stairway.
He saw no one here. It was very dark behind the curving base of the iron staircase. Flash did not give any attention to the narrow space that existed there. He started his upward trip. His footsteps clanked less noticeably as he reached the top.
Then a form emerged from the space at the base of the stairs. It grew from nothingness — a black shape that took on the semblance of a human being. The Shadow, tall and mysterious, stood alone.
He advanced to the sliding door in front of the staircase. Here, black-clad hands began to probe. A thin, pliable instrument of steel gleamed dully in the dim light.
A secret spring clicked; the sliding door moved back. The Shadow entered the room with the curious wall paper. There, he remained, silent and unmoving.
Upstairs, Henri Zayata reclined upon the gorgeous divan. Beside him sat Margaret Glendenning. The girl was attired in a sweeping gown — a luxurious garment that she had found in the closet of the guest room.
She had enjoyed her stay at Henri Zayata’s mysterious and magnificent abode. She sighed as she realized that some time she must leave these delightful surroundings.
ZAYATA heard the sigh. He turned to the girl, a look of grave concern upon his face. His eyes were questioning and sympathetic. Margaret smiled.
“I was just thinking,” she said. “Thinking how wonderful it is here. Thinking how much I shall dislike leaving.”
“Leaving?” questioned Zayata gently.
“Of course,” declared Margaret. “I really should not have stayed at all. I could not leave after I heard the truth about my uncle. But now — well, Henri, it would be a mistake for me to stay longer.”
“My dear girl,” said Zayata soothingly, “it would be impossible for you to leave at present! Surely you must like it here—”
“Of course I like it!” exclaimed Margaret. “It is wonderful — living in those beautiful rooms that you have given me. The hours we have talked together — they are wonderful, too.