Maxwell Grant
The Dark Death
CHAPTER I. TWO APPOINTMENTS
EVENING traffic was heavy on Sixth Avenue. Throngs of taxicabs had chosen this route to escape the jam of the theater district. The result was a tie-up as bad as any at Times Square. Stalled trolley cars; blocked trucks; cabs and automobiles clustered between elevated pillars — these were hopelessly entangled while traffic cops blew whistles and shouted orders that no one could obey.
All the while, the rumble of elevated trains sounded from above, as if derisive of the vehicles stalled beneath. The roar of one train brought an impatient growl from a taxi driver. The fellow thrust a pointed profile from the window of the cab. He saw a truck move ahead a dozen feet, opening a pathway.
The cabby yanked his car in gear. Snapping in front of a second taxi, he veered right, scraped an elevated pillar and shot up to the nearest corner. He wheeled right, swung into an opening in cross-street traffic and sped down the other thoroughfare.
The traffic cop stared after him; then dropped his whistle and grinned. Ordinarily he would have slated the driver for a ticket: but there was no use in making a pinch tonight. One less car in that petrified jam of vehicles was a help, so far as the policeman was concerned.
Two blocks away, the taxi driver pulled up in front of a towering office building. A tall passenger alighted.
He was out of the cab the moment that it stopped; the driver caught only a glimpse of head and shoulders as his fare entered the building. The passenger had not paid for the trip. That did not trouble the driver.
The jehu simply eased his cab to a parking space across the street. He looked into the back seat and saw a suitcase resting on the floor. His peaked face showed a slight grin. Then the driver settled back behind the wheel. As he waited, he looked upward toward the building that his passenger had entered.
Moe Shrevnitz was the name of this taxi man. His cab was an independent, presumably. Moe owned it himself. Actually, the cab belonged to a mysterious personage who had supplied Moe with the money for its purchase. This cab was the property of The Shadow.
Day and night, Moe kept in touch with Burbank, The Shadow’s contact agent. Early this evening, he had called Burbank by telephone. He had received orders to be at Sixth Avenue and Twenty-third Street at eight forty-five. There, his passenger had stepped aboard the cab before Moe had realized it. A hissed voice had given this destination.
It was not Moe’s policy to speculate on the doings of The Shadow. He had found it good business to follow orders. Nevertheless, there were times when Moe could not refrain from being curious. Tonight was one of those occasions.
The office building which his passenger had entered was totally dark except for one floor, which Moe estimated as the tenth. From the windows of that story came the flicker of bluish lights that flashed with intermittent brightness.
That floor, Moe decided, must be The Shadow’s objective. The point settled in his mind, the taxi man lighted a cigarette and began to idle the time while he awaited his passenger’s return.
Up on the tenth floor of the office building was one window that Moe had not seen, for it was around the corner of the skyscraper. The light from that window was a normal glare, for the room within was an office. On the door of the room was the legend:
JAMES SUNDLER
Supervisor
Behind the desk in the office sat a shock-headed man. This was James Sundler. He was the supervisor, in charge of the New York laboratories of the Universal Electric Company.
Opposite the supervisor sat a visitor. Sundler was fingering the caller’s card. It bore the name of Lamont Cranston.
Eyeing his visitor, Sundler was impressed by the calm demeanor of Cranston’s countenance. The visage was firm, almost masklike in its mold. An aquiline nose gave Cranston a hawk-like expression. Keen eyes met Sundler’s as the supervisor met his visitor’s gaze.
“Ordinarily, Mr. Cranston,” stated Sundler, “we could not discuss our experimental devices with persons outside our company. These laboratories are used for perfecting new inventions. We do not encourage visitors.”
“So I understand,” came the quiet reply, “I learned that from Guy Tawley.”
“So Mr. Tawley told me,” rejoined Sundler. “But he also requested that an exception be made in your case. Inasmuch as Mr. Tawley is the executive vice president of this concern, I shall make that exception.
If you will come with me” — the supervisor arose — “I shall show you the new Q-ray machine that we have developed.”
He led the way from the office, along a corridor and into a small laboratory. This room was dark; Sundler turned on a light and revealed a square-shaped machine that consisted of glass panels between chromium-plated posts. Within the transparent box was a set-up of four long glass tubes.
Sundler pressed a switch. The tubes began to glow with a peculiar sparkle that showed through their dark red surface. Sundler watched for a few moments; then extended his hand and nodded. Cranston did the same.
“You can feel the heat already,” remarked the supervisor. “Do you notice it, Mr. Cranston?”
“Yes,” came the reply. “Tell me, Mr. Sundler, does this Q-ray fulfill the claims that were made in the newspaper article? The one that appeared in the New York Classic?”
“It does,” replied the supervisor, with a nod. “Originally designed for treatment of skin diseases, we learned that the Q-ray caused an actual change in the structure of the epidermis. This fellow Clyde Burke, who writes for the Classic, managed to get his facts without our knowledge.”
“I understand then,” remarked Cranston, “that the ray will give a Nordic complexion the heat-resisting strength that is found in skins of darker races.”
“Precisely. With a series of treatments, it will accomplish with the individual what nature has produced in races. So far as color is concerned, the Q-ray will merely cause a slight tan. But structurally, it will actually transform a blond skin tissue into that of a brunette.”
Cranston made no comment. He was watching the machine. Sundler chewed his lips uneasily. Then he put a question.
“May I ask, Mr. Cranston,” he requested, “why you are interested in the Q-ray?”
“Certainly,” was the response. “I mentioned the matter to Guy Tawley. I thought he had spoken to you about it.”
“No. He merely said that you wanted to see the machine.”
“Small wonder then that you were puzzled by this visit of mine. I shall explain matters, Mr. Sundler. I am a globe-trotter. I have visited nearly every country in the world. I have found tropical exploration greatly to my liking.”
“You have been in Africa?”
“Yes. I am going there again. I am choosing men for my expedition. Unfortunately, however, it is impossible to learn whether or not a man can stand the burning power of the tropical sun until he has actually experienced it.
“It occurred to me that this new Q-ray treatment would prove beneficial to members of my expedition. With a machine of this sort, I could prepare them for the African ordeal. Does your opinion coincide with mine, Mr. Sundler?”
“It does.”
“Then it would be possible for you to deliver one of these machines if I ordered it?”
“No. Absolutely no!”
With this emphatic statement, Sundler stepped forward and turned off the Q-ray machine. Glowing tubes subsided. Sundler turned and faced his visitor.
“Mr. Cranston,” he questioned. “Did you notice anything odd in that story that appeared in the Classic?”
“Yes.” replied the visitor. “It stated that the Q-ray machine, though effective, would be delayed in its development. But the article did not specify why.”