The Crime Master was whispering in Cliff’s ear. Automatically, Cliff repeated the words that were thrust upon him.
“House number seventeen eleven. Tunnel from rear of cellar. House empty. Will be occupied at midnight…”
“Report received,” came Burbank’s click.
Abruptly, The Crime Master took the receiver from Cliff’s yielding hand. He ended the conversation by hanging up. Cliff stared; a sudden flash of antagonism showed upon his face. Then Henley bobbed forward and thrust the soaked rag over his mouth and nose. Cliff gasped and sank back in his chair.
“Summon Woodling,” ordered The Crime Master.
THE big man who had brought Cliff appeared at Henley’s call. A powerful ruffian, he looked the part of a servant. Obediently, Woodling gathered up Cliff’s collapsed form and carried it from the room.
The Crime Master chuckled. He carefully placed blue pieces on the board, surrounding the square that indicated the house. He beckoned to Henley.
“I suspected that The Shadow had an agent,” he declared. “Turk Bodell encountered trouble; therefore, I chose to have Harger watch the man who had relayed the message. It was this fellow Marsland.
“Through him, I have reached The Shadow. The man to whom Marsland has just spoken was not The Shadow. That was another agent; and he means nothing to us. The Shadow has had time to recover from his injuries; the fact that he was in the game last week is proof enough.
“Look at this trap!” The Crime Master was gleeful as he swept his hand toward the board. “It will imprison The Shadow. He will be out of the great game which I plan for to-morrow night!
“Midnight! That is not the time my agents shall occupy the old house. That story was a blind. At midnight, The Shadow will be a helpless prisoner. It is better to bottle him, rather than to fight him. I can hold him as long as I please. Then, after to-morrow night, I can deal with him like a rat in a trap!”
The Crime Master studied the board; then, from a box he drew out a white piece. He pointed to its knobbed top. It bore the letter W.
“This stands for Commissioner Weston,” scoffed The Crime Master. “He has taken personal supervision of the campaign against me. He is more dangerous than was Joe Cardona.
“I believe that The Shadow gave Cardona clues. I believe that Weston also received a tip. Very well; he shall have another — one that he will follow — one that will make him my helpless hostage.
“Your last report, Henley, tells of a stool pigeon named Squawky Sugler — a sneak whom one of my spies has placed under suspicion. We shall use him as the bait, Henley. Take this new order to Louie Harger.”
Henley nodded. He brought out a pad and pencil. While The Crime Master dictated, the secretary wrote in shorthand. The Crime Master’s words were broken by intermittent chuckles.
The fiend was plotting at his best. By a double stroke of preparation he had paved the way to nullify the only enemies who could counteract his coming crime!
CHAPTER XVII
THE SHADOW TRAPPED
“PLENTY of rest tonight. To-morrow, perhaps, you can leave your bed.”
Such was the advice of Doctor Rupert Sayre. He was giving it to his patient, who lay quietly in bed, with half-closed eyes. Sayre looked for a response. There was none. He feared that his patient had overtaxed himself. He knew that Lamont Cranston had been making telephone calls a short while before.
Thinking that the wounded man had gone to sleep, Sayre left the room. Immediately, the eyes of The Shadow opened. His left hand stretched forward and plucked the telephone from its hook. The voice of Cranston gave a number.
“Burbank speaking,” said a solemn voice.
“Further report from Marsland.” It was The Shadow’s sinister tone.
“No report,” came Burbank’s response.
A pause. The eyes of The Shadow flashed. Burbank had informed his chief of the abrupt ending which had followed Cliff Marsland’s call. The Shadow was pondering upon the circumstances.
“Orders to Vincent.” The Shadow’s voice began anew. “He must find a suitable place in the block where the old house is located. Remain on watch.”
“Instructions received.”
The telephone clattered on its hook. The Shadow rested against the pillows. Minutes passed — ten — fifteen — then, as though strengthened by the interval, the tall form moved. The left hand pressed the light switch by the bed.
Doctor Sayre, passing in the hallway, noted the darkness at the bottom of the door. He decided that his patient had decided to go to sleep. He failed to hear the faint sounds of motion that came from within the room.
The Shadow was preparing for a journey. Dressed, he was at the door of the closet. His one hand brought out the blood-clotted cloak. It followed by removing the hat. The table drawer slid open. One by one, The Shadow loaded and withdrew the automatics.
Sayre, in deep concentration at the desk in his office, failed to witness the phenomenon which occurred shortly afterward. Like a materializing thing of night, a tall figure came softly from the darkness of the corridor. The Shadow, equipped for battle, stood gazing at the physician’s back.
Stealthily, The Shadow moved across the office. His tall form paused, wavering; then regained its glide. Noiselessly, The Shadow reached the waiting room. The click of the outer door — a sound so slight that Sayre never heard it — was the final token of his departure.
THE house with the number 1711 was an unpretentious building in a secluded block. Many of the old residences on this street were vacant. Harry Vincent, trusted agent of The Shadow, had gained access to an old house diagonally opposite the one which he had been deputed to watch.
Harry had noticed no one in the street. Informed of all facts, he was keenly observant. He noted that the old house was dimly lighted. Evidently, it had been arranged to appear like an occupied residence.
Other eyes than Harry’s were upon that house. The Shadow had arrived in the darkened street. He noted the gloomy glow that came from windows on both the first floor and the second. He, like his agent, watched for prowlers. There were none.
Midnight! That was the hour when crooks were supposed to occupy this place. There was an hour yet until midnight. The Shadow, knowing that the way was clear, approached the steps.
The door of the house was dark. The splotch that The Shadow’s figure formed was something that Harry Vincent did not detect. The door opened; yet the skill of The Shadow was still in action. No gleam escaped from the gloomy vestibule as The Shadow sidled through the opening.
The Shadow had picked the lock. It had not been formidable. Nor was the second lock — that of the inner door — a problem. In the hallway, The Shadow paused. Then, with a soft laugh, almost inaudible, he moved upward instead of down.
From room to room, the cloaked investigator made a brief inspection of the poorly furnished second floor. He descended and went through the rooms of the ground floor. Nothing escaped his notice. The house looked like a special set-up — the very spot from which a tunnel would be made beneath the street.
A projecting portion of the wall attracted The Shadow’s attention. It was the indication of an old fireplace, now walled shut. The Shadow tapped; he could tell from the sound that his surmise was correct.
Moving to the hallway, The Shadow discovered a stairway leading to the cellar. His flashlight glimmered. He descended into a stone-walled basement, like a strongroom — ceiling reinforced with metal sheathing. This made The Shadow pause. It showed that this portion of the house had undergone reconstruction that fitted well with crime.
The Shadow’s light, its glare a tiny, circular beam, was cutting a swath to the rear of the cellar. Beyond a narrow archway, The Shadow’s keen eyes saw a heavy door that evidently led to a rear compartment. This was his objective.