“I’ll tell you why. This fellow Burke — the newspaper reporter — was stumped when he came to that detail. This machine, Mr. Cranston, is one of the most dangerous devices that has ever been created!”
Cranston’s eyes were steady. The supervisor noted their keen glow. Sundler continued:
“You saw the machine working at low power,” he said. “Had I drawn this lever” — he touched a rod that projected at the side — “those red tubes would have sparkled with a real fury. That high power is necessary to develop the effectiveness of the Q-ray.”
“And then—”
“It produces the tissue change upon Nordic skins. It strengthens them. It even makes them immune to continued applications of the Q-ray itself.”
“That seems to offset any danger.”
“It does — so far as such persons are concurrent. The terrible effects of the Q-ray, Mr. Cranston, are confined to persons of darker races. Not only to Africans or Malays, but to members of the Indo-European race. People of the Mediterranean type.”
SUNDLER stepped across the little laboratory. He reached for a roll of cloth that looked like a window curtain. He drew down a chart that showed blocks of color from almost a clear white to an ebony blackness.
“The top shows a pure albino, explained Sundler. “Here we have Nordic types. Here are light complexions. Here are sallow com—”
He stopped. His fore-finger was upon a red line. With his other hand, Sundler indicated the color blocks below.
“To persons of these complexions,” he stated solemnly, “the Q-ray means destruction. Not slow burning, but quick, startling death. We learned this when two of our experimenters were overpowered by the ray. It was terrible, Mr. Cranston. Terrible!”
“When did this occur?”
“A few months ago. Just when the machine had been stepped up to its full intensity. A chap named Cassgrove — dark-complexioned — was operating the device. It struck him down like that.”
Sundler snapped his fingers.
“I was present,” he added. “I turned off the machine. I felt no ill effects.”
Keen eyes were on the speaker. Sundler, apparently a Norwegian, was very light of skin. Blue eyes — his shocky hair was a mass of white.
“It’s a death box,” resumed the supervisor. “Only two feet square” — he eyed the machine as he spoke — “but it packs a terrible power. Its range is approximately thirty feet. We kept people away from it after Cassgrove’s death. Then a lab assistant named LeGrand — chap we called Frenchy — blundered into the radius when I was making a test. He dropped like a log, twenty feet away.”
“If the machine is so dangerous,” came Cranston’s comment, “why is it not dismantled?”
“We are still experimenting,” explained Sundler, “Trying to gain results with a lower intensity. Using rabbits and guinea pigs as subjects.”
“Our theory is that light-colored skins absorb the Q-ray. Even though they change structurally, they preserve their immunity. But the darker skins apparently form no protection. The Q-ray reaches the organs of the body and causes instant death to those of dark complexion.
“This is confidential information, Mr. Cranston. To you, because you have made a legitimate request for one of these machines and because you are a friend of Mr. Tawley, I have explained why we cannot supply you with one of the Q-ray machines.”
“I understand.” A slight smile showed upon Cranston’s thin lips, “But suppose, Mr. Sundler, that I should bring members of my expedition here for treatment. Would you give it to them?”
“Not at present. Perhaps later, in the presence of physicians. Assuming of course, that the men you brought were of pronounced Nordic types.”
There was a knock at the door. Sundler called to come in. A laboratory assistant entered to announce that there was a call for Mr. Cranston on the office telephone. The tall visitor started for the office while Sundler remained to lock the Q-ray laboratory.
Reaching the office, Cranston picked up the receiver that lay beside the telephone. He spoke. A quiet voice came over the wire:
“Burbank speaking.”
“Report.” Cranston’s response was a hissed whisper.
Burbank’s voice clicked from the receiver. In the same whisper, Cranston gave brief instructions then concluded the call. He was hanging up the receiver when Sundler entered.
“Something important, Mr. Cranston?” inquired the supervisor.
“An appointment,” replied the visitor. “A friend has arrived in town. My club told him to call here.”
He extended his hand. Sundler received it. He was about to repeat his injunction that the visitor should preserve silence regarding the Q-ray machine. But one glance from Cranston’s keen eyes told the supervisor that further words were unnecessary.
Five minutes later. Moe Shrevnitz popped up from behind the wheel of his cab as he heard a hissed order from within. His passenger had returned, unnoticed. Moe nodded as he heard the destination that the arrival gave.
The cab pulled away.
From within a bag in the back seat, folds of black cloth were being drawn forth. Inky garments slipped over head and shoulders. When the cab came to a stop on a secluded street, a door opened. Living blackness glided forth.
Moe did not see the form that emerged; yet he knew, instinctively, that his passenger had become The Shadow.
Looking into the rear of the cab, Moe saw that The Shadow had taken the bag along with him. Moe’s job was done. The taxi man glanced at his watch. Half past nine. Time to head for Times Square and pick up business.
Moe drove away.
From a darkened portion of the street, keen eyes saw Moe’s departure. A soft laugh came from hidden lips. Blended with darkness, The Shadow moved off on paths unknown.
Tonight, The Shadow had followed up a lead started by Clyde Burke, of the New York Classic. The reporter — a secret agent of The Shadow — had uncovered facts about the Q-ray machine.
As Lamont Cranston, millionaire globe-trotter, The Shadow had used Guy Tawley, vice president of Universal Electric, to gain an appointment with James Sundler, the laboratory supervisor.
That appointment was ended. The Shadow knew the secret of the Q-ray. It was something that he would remember for the future. At present, he was heading forth to keep another appointment. One that dealt with crime.
Yet, strangely, events were shaping toward a climax that even The Shadow did not foresee. Two appointments, disconnected, each of a different sort, were destined to have an unexpected bearing, one upon the other.
CHAPTER II. AIDS OF THE SHADOW
IT was half past nine when Moe Shrevnitz had gone off duty. The taxi driver had left The Shadow at a secluded spot near the border of the underworld. Moe had headed away from that vicinity.
But at exactly the same time, another driver was following the reverse course. Seated behind the wheel of a trim sedan a young man was threading his way through the grimy, narrow thoroughfares of New York’s East Side.
Lights from the glittering front of a penny arcade showed the driver’s features as he stopped in traffic. The young man displayed a clean-cut visage as he eyed the people who were strolling along this avenue.
The driver of the coupe was Harry Vincent, a trusted agent of The Shadow. He had received orders from Burbank. A call had come to the Metrolite Hotel, where Harry made his residence. In response to that call, Harry was on his way to a rendezvous in the underworld.
Traffic started. Harry drove along, then swerved into the gloom of a side street. He picked out a parking lot between two dilapidated buildings and swung into the opening. The parking lot was devoid of cars.
Few persons left their automobiles in this neighborhood.
Harry extinguished the lights of the sedan. A few moments later, fingers beat a light tattoo upon the window at the right side of the car. Harry opened the door. A man came aboard. His face was barely discernible. A square, chiseled countenance, Harry recognized Cliff Marsland.