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Upon the map rested one ominous pin. In contrast to the bright heads of the others, this pin was colored jet-black. Its location was quite near to the residence of Caleb Wilcox — less than fifteen minutes travel distance separated the two spots.

The black-headed pin marked the location of The Shadow’s sanctum, the very place where The Shadow now was. With the marauding mob thirty minutes away from their goal, The Shadow could give them leeway, and still beat them to their destination.

FINGERS plucked the pins from the map. The large sheet of paper disappeared. Only the clock remained upon the table. Lingering seconds crept onward, until the sixtieth second of a sixtieth minute brought a change to each circle on the dial of the timepiece. The strange clock now marked the hour of eleven.

The Shadow waited. The supple hands were motionless. One minute moved by; two minutes; then eight seconds of the third. A tiny bulb glowed from darkness beyond the table. The hands moved swiftly, and produced a pair of ear phones. These passed into the nearer darkness. The Shadow listened.

“Burbank speaking,” came the quiet voice over the wire.

“Report,” ordered The Shadow, in an eerie whisper.

“Report from Marsland,” announced Burbank. “Baxton and the mob have started for the Wilcox mansion.”

“Other reports.”

“None.”

A pause; then came concise instructions from The Shadow’s lips — words that sounded weirdly through the darkness.

“Send tip-off to Cardona immediately after Vincent reports departure of Quill and Hotz,” ordered The Shadow. “Then call Wilcox residence and await my reply.”

“Instructions received,” came Burbank’s answer.

The ear phones slid across the table. An invisible hand clicked the switch of the blue light. The sanctum was plunged into darkness. A soft swish announced the motion of an unseen being. Then, amid the weird blackness came a shuddering tone that throbbed forth the sound of sardonic mirth.

The laugh of The Shadow! Rising in ghoulish mockery, that amazing cry cleaved its way through the solid atmosphere. It broke into a chilling taunt, and died away, but in its wake came a myriad of wavering echoes. A host of demonic throats seemed shrouded in those blackened walls; lingering reverberations came back in waves that might have issued from the vaults of another world.

When the last reluctant echo had faded, deep silence pervaded the empty sanctum of The Shadow. The master of darkness had gone. A phantom, he had glided forth upon the quest that would lead him to the spot where men of crime were due.

The Shadow’s plans were made. Tonight, his hand would strike. Before it fell, however, all participants in crime would be enmeshed. Until Burbank’s call would announce the final report from Harry Vincent, The Shadow would remain unseen.

That would be the final word to The Shadow — the signal that would loose the dread avenger’s might!

CHAPTER II. THE THIRD MAN

FIVE minutes past eleven. Harry Vincent, agent of The Shadow, was seated in an easy-chair in his room at the Hotel Slater. He, like Burbank, was wearing ear phones, but the instruments on Vincent’s ears served a most unusual purpose.

They were connected to dictograph wire which came from a room across the hallway. Hidden from Harry’s view, but brought within his range of hearing, Possum Quill and Lefty Hotz were discussing their part in tonight’s crime, as they prepared to leave on their appointed mission.

Harry had learned all the important details. He was still listening in, hoping to glean a few new items of information. While he waited, The Shadow’s agent visualized the scene in the other room. He could picture Possum Quill, shrewd and cunning-faced, talking with Lefty Hotz, a hard-visaged gorilla.

Harry had seen both of the men upon whom he was spying. They, on the contrary, had never seen Harry Vincent.

Hence, Possum and Lefty, as they chatted in their room, had no idea that their conversation was being overheard by any one.

Possum Quill, sprawled in an easy-chair beside the window, was flicking cigarette ashes over the top of the radiator. Those ashes were trickling past the microphone which The Shadow, himself, had planted there during Possum’s absence.

Lefty Hotz, big and lumbering, was leaning against the doorway that led into a smaller room. He lacked Possum’s calmness. His attitude showed that he was nothing more than a henchman of the crook by the window.

“Gettin’ close to eleven thirty,” growled Lefty, in an impatient tone.

“Twenty minutes to wait,” retorted Possum, staring idly toward the city lights beyond the window. “Keep your shirt on, Lefty. We’re in no kind of hurry.”

“Yeah,” said the big gangster, “but we don’t want to take no chances on missin’ Punch Baxton when he gallops up with the swag.”

“I figured it all out, Lefty,” returned Possum, in a weary tone. “What do you want me to do — draw a diagram? We’ll be out of here by the time Punch is working on the job. We’ll get to the end of that alley before he shows up. There’s no use hanging around the place before we’re needed.”

“Punch is countin’ on you—”

“Don’t I know it? I’ll be there — and you with me. Say — you might think we were in on the dough, the way you’re talking.”

“Aren’t we in on it?”

“Sure!” Possum’s snort was contemptuous. “We’re in it for a lousy grand — while Punch is grabbing off the gravy.”

“It’s a soft way to pick up a grand, Possum — just by bein’ around so a guy like Punch can scram from one gas buggy to another through an alleyway.”

“Is that the way you figure it, Lefty? Well, let me give you a real idea of values. A thousand dollars is small change for the work we’re doing — and I’m a sucker to be bothering with it. Say — it’s a twenty-to-one shot that some one will spot that car of Punch Baxton’s after he makes the getaway. He’s got to transfer to be safe — and he needs a guy that knows how to drive. That’s me.”

“I guess you’re right, Possum—”

Lefty Hotz did not complete the sentence. Possum Quill, indifferent to his companion’s remarks, had picked up a tabloid newspaper, and was looking at the pictures on the front page.

Lefty grunted. Possum Quill was a cool one, sure enough. Tonight’s work did not perturb him in the least. Lefty knew what would follow. Possum would pay no attention to the passing of the minutes. He would leave it to Lefty — always anxious — to notify him when eleven thirty had arrived.

ORDINARILY, Possum would have read his newspaper in total obliviousness of Lefty’s presence. The shrewd-faced crook regarded his husky companion as a huge watchdog. It was Lefty’s business to obey Possum’s instructions, to battle for him when occasion demanded. As an underling, Lefty was formidable.

Tonight, however, Possum Quill spied a photograph that he considered to be within Lefty’s sphere of interest. He turned the green-sheeted newspaper toward the big gangster’s eyes, and pointed to a picture of a high-walled building.

“There’s where the boys made the jail break, Lefty,” informed Possum. “Neat job, eh? Getting over that wall was no cinch.”

“The big house out in the Middle West?” queried Lefty.

“That’s it,” said Possum.

“Say” — Lefty’s voice was reminiscent — “that old buddy of yours was in the crowd, wasn’t he? What was his name? You told me once—”

“Zach Telvin,” interposed Possum, again perusing the newspaper. “A slick worker, if ever there was one. Only don’t go spilling that, Lefty. I don’t want any smart dick tailing me on his account.”