Cliff nodded. He left with the envelope in his pocket. He made for his own place — the little room in the house off the cul-de-sac.
Here, by the vapor from the kettle spout, Cliff steamed open the outer envelope. He found a ten-dollar bill; an inner envelope, sealed, addressed to Turk Bodell. Cliff steamed the second wrapper. He unfolded a sheet of paper. He stared. It bore no message whatever. The paper was blank!
A sudden suspicion rankled Cliff’s brain. He turned toward the door. Paper and envelope fluttered from his hands as they moved upward. Covering him, Cliff saw a pair of revolver muzzles. Looming smoke-wagons, they were formidable weapons. The men who bore them were members of Louie Harger’s crew — rowdies whom Cliff had left at The Black Ship!
Cliff expected death. It did not come. The entering men had been waiting behind a door at the other end of the hall; they were still silent as they backed their prisoner toward a corner of the room. Cliff realized that they were expecting some other arrival. One minute later, footsteps sounded on the stairs. Louie Harger appeared at the door.
“We got him,” growled one of the mobsters. “He’s a phony, right enough, Louie.”
The gangleader nodded. He motioned to his underlings to bring Cliff through the door. With the muzzles of .45s jostling against his ribs, Cliff descended the stairs. He was forced into a car that Louie had brought into the blind alley.
Cliff found himself between two mobsters in the rear seat. He made no move. The car followed a circuitous course, avoiding busy thoroughfares. It pulled up at the rear of what appeared to be an abandoned garage. Cliff was dragged out, shoved through a door and cornered in a room where only the glare of Louie’s flashlight furnished illumination.
A growl from the gangleader. Cliff’s captors set to work. In a few minutes, The Shadow’s agent lay bound and gagged upon the floor. The light clicked out. Helpless, Cliff heard the rumble of Louie’s motor. The gangleader and his henchmen had abandoned their prisoner.
Ten minutes passed. A smooth motor purred from in back of the garage. Footsteps clicked on the stone floor. The rays of a flashlight were focused upon Cliff. The new light went out; powerful arms raised Cliff and hoisted him like a sack. Out through the doorway, Cliff was tumbled into the broad tonneau of a limousine.
THE big man who had come to get the prisoner took the wheel and the large car moved forward. Jolts rolled Cliff to the floor. Trussed, he had no way of telling where the car was going. When it finally stopped, the driver came to get Cliff. Hanging from the big man’s shoulder, Cliff’s only impressions were those of a paved courtyard and the rear entrance to a large house.
Through passages — then a doorway. Cliff tumbled from his carrier’s shoulders and plopped helpless in a large arm chair. Blinking in the mellow light that pervaded a paneled room, he found himself staring at one of the strangest creatures whom he had ever seen.
An old man, his grayish countenance topped by a shock of white hair; sharp eyes, with slitted lids that flanked a thin, peaked nose; lips that showed fangs as they formed a snarling smile — these were Cliff’s impressions.
No further explanation was needed. The Shadow’s agent knew that he was face to face with the evil genius who dominated all the underworld. He had been brought to The Crime Master’s lair; the gloating fiend before him was The Crime Master himself.
“Henley!” A solemn-faced man stepped forward as the old man spoke. “Bring me the bottle — the cloth — and the knife.”
The objects appeared. With an evil glare, The Crime Master soaked a rag with a brownish liquid. He applied the cloth to Cliff’s face. A nauseating odor stifled the prisoner. Cliff felt his senses swimming.
It was not chloroform that The Crime Master had used, yet it was something even more potent. Though Cliff retained consciousness, he felt a helpless weariness. He knew, dully, that The Crime Master was cutting his bonds; yet he had no strength to offer once he was free.
Again the soaked cloth; this time, Cliff felt strangely detached from his body. All was like a dream; this paneled room; the old man with whitened hair; a voice that came from far away.
The Crime Master had seated himself at a table which Cliff had not previously noticed. On the level from which Cliff observed it, the board showed odd pieces that looked like chess men: red, blue, green and white. Though his vision was blurred, Cliff could make out the colors. He saw The Crime Master add a large, black man to the others.
“The Shadow!” The old man’s lips formed a venomous snarl as The Crime Master turned toward Cliff. “He has sought to thwart me, even since my cunning eliminated him from the game. While I am planning, he is recuperating.
“It is well.” There was a sudden easing of the old man’s tone. “Since The Shadow wishes to move upon my board, he shall have the opportunity. Through you — the one who served him — I shall bring The Shadow back into the game.”
THE CRIME MASTER motioned to Henley. As the servant approached, the old man also arose; together, they advanced to Cliff’s chair. The prisoner raised his hands in feeble opposition; then came the sopping rag upon his face. Groggily, Cliff slumped.
The Crime Master and his minion slid Cliff’s chair forward to the table. Cliff’s weak hands rested on the edge of the checkered board. When his eyes reopened, Cliff found himself staring, dazed, at the map beneath the checkered squares. He saw claws — the old man’s hands — shifting the pieces away.
“Here” — The Crime Master pointed with a bony finger as his lips formed a honeyed purr — “is a problem for The Shadow. This square represents the side of the Apex Silk Warehouse. Here, in this square, is the rear of a house across the street.
“My men can move from square to square. There is a secret tunnel, hollowed by my workers, beneath the street. Once, not long ago” — there was sarcasm in The Crime Master’s tone, an irony which Cliff was too groggy to detect — “you intercepted one of my messages. You sent information to The Shadow. That, I presume, was your duty.
“You have new information which I have just given you. The Shadow, tonight, can find my tunnel. Tonight, you understand, not later! For my men will occupy that house at midnight.”
Slitted eyes were glaring at Cliff Marsland. Ruled by The Crime Master’s new tone, Cliff could only nod. Woe to The Shadow! That was the point which the old man was impressing. The voice seemed to carry a commanding power.
“Listen to me.” The Crime Master’s tone came as a suggestion, not as a threat. It was artfully designed to sway Cliff’s groggy brain. “You will send word to The Shadow. You will tell him of The Crime Master’s scheme. Do not say that you are a prisoner; that would divert him from the great work that he can accomplish. Do not think of yourself. You will be safe. You must tell The Shadow how he can thwart The Crime Master.”
Venom had ended. Cliff, staring at the board, heard the voice, but no longer looked toward the old man’s face. By adopting an impersonal speech, by appealing to Cliff’s loyalty, The Crime Master had forced one thought upon The Shadow’s agent.
Dully, Cliff realized that he had learned something. Under the influence of the powerful drug which The Crime Master had used, Cliff could think of but one basic matter, the discovery that had been revealed to him. The fact that he was a prisoner faded from his thoughts.
The Crime Master motioned. Henley brought a telephone and placed it on the table. The Crime Master stared keenly as Cliff’s hands fumbled with the dial. Then, as Cliff held the receiver to his ear, a voice clicked over the wire:
“Burbank speaking.”
“Marsland reporting.” Cliff’s tone steadied, mechanically. “Old house opposite side of Apex Silk Warehouse. Entrance from the next block—”