“Tim Waldron knows his own racket, and when he finds a guy that’s yellow, like Ernie Shires, he—”
The sentence was never completed. As Waldron leaned toward the desk, Shires suspected something in his action.
Like a flash, Ernie’s hand came from beneath his coat. His arm shot forward, and the muzzle of his automatic was buried against Waldron’s body. There were two muffled reports. The storage racketeer sprawled forward upon the desk.
Ernie Shires laughed sullenly. He thrust his automatic into his pocket. Then, as an afterthought, he withdrew the weapon, wiped the handle, and dropped it on the table beside Waldron’s body.
“So you’ve got your gorillas!” he said, in a low, sarcastic tone, addressing the inert form of the racketeer. “That’s why there were some new mugs in the lobby tonight!
“You’re up here alone, waiting for a tough guy, Cliff Marsland, who’s been spotted by your gang! Well, let him come! See what happens to him!”
Ernie Shires turned on his heel and left the room. Only the body of Tim Waldron remained. From the vest-clad form, blood oozed forth and formed a crimson pool upon the stationery that bore the title: “Storage Warehouse Security Association.”
Tim Waldron’s racket — which only he could control — was now no more than a name, and even that name was now being literally blotted out with blood!
There was silence in the room of death. Silence that was undisturbed except for a slight rattling at the window, which might easily have been caused by the rumbling of an elevated train at the other side of the shaky old building.
The pool of blood spread over the top of the desk, while the room of death awaited its new arrival.
CHAPTER III
A STRANGE MEETING
THE clock on the table in the outer room of Tim Waldron’s little suite had ticked off ten minutes since the departure of Ernie Shires. The door from the hallway opened, and a man walked into the apartment.
He closed the door carefully behind him. He turned to view his surroundings. Seeing no one, he quietly seated himself and lighted a cigarette.
The appearance of this new visitor was distinctly different from that of the usual mobster who came to Tim Waldron’s headquarters.
He was neither roughly dressed nor flashily attired. He represented neither of the extremes. He could not have been classed as a tough gorilla nor as a smooth racketeer.
His face, too, was different from the usual gangland physiognomy. His features were firm and well-molded. His eyes were blue in color, and his hair was light. He seemed more the athlete than the gangster.
Yet there was a threat in his square jaw, and his immobile expression carried a certain forcefulness.
It had been nearly eight years since he had been identified with New York’s underworld. Eight years is a long time in gangdom. Yet the name of Cliff Marsland was not forgotten!
As the minutes went by, Marsland retained his expression of immobility. He was a man who seemed accustomed to waiting. He lighted a second cigarette in a mechanical fashion; then a third.
When he had flicked the final cigarette into a bowl that served as an ash tray, Marsland noted the clock on the table. He had been waiting ten minutes. He arose and glanced at the half-opened door that led to the inner room. He stepped over and tapped on the door. Hearing no response, he entered. He stopped short the moment that he stepped through the doorway. Neither surprise nor confusion were registered upon his firm features. Marsland merely stood motionless as he stared at the form of Tim Waldron, with its crazily spread arms.
Marsland’s eyes were focused on that one spot in the room. He walked forward and examined the body with the cold precision of a man to whom death is no stranger.
He picked up the automatic that lay on the table. He examined the weapon in a matter-of-fact manner, then replaced it upon the table.
A low sound came from the end of the room. Marsland turned without haste.
Once more he stood motionless. In the corner of the room, at a spot where the light was obscure, stood a tall man clad in black. He formed a strange, imposing figure, with a huge cloak over his shoulders. His broad-brimmed hat, turned down in front, shrouded his face in shadow.
The only color that showed amidst this mass of black was a splotch of red, where the lining of the cloak was folded back. The crimson hue of the lining rivaled the blood that covered the desk where Tim Waldron’s body lay.
CLIFF MARSLAND made no move. He did not even attempt to reach for the gun that lay on the desk. He studied the man in black with a steady glance.
For a few moments neither moved. Then Marsland calmly slipped his hand into his left coat pocket. He drew forth a cigarette, and lighted it.
A low, chuckling laugh came from the man in the corner. For the first time, Marsland was startled. The match dropped from his fingers.
He suddenly regained his composure and stepped upon the lighted match.
The man in black stepped from the corner. He extended an arm and waved a black-gloved hand in the direction of a chair. Marsland sat down. He still puffed his cigarette, but a puzzled expression had appeared upon his face.
The puzzlement was mingled with awe. He began to feel uneasy. He could see no face beneath that broad-brimmed hat — only the glint of two eyes that seemed to fathom everything.
“You are Cliff Marsland,” spoke a whispered voice.
Marsland nodded.
“Why did you come here?” asked the man in black.
Marsland pointed his thumb toward the body of Tim Waldron.
“To see him,” he said tersely.
“For what purpose?” came the question.
Marsland shrugged his shoulders.
A low laugh came from beneath the broad-brimmed hat. Even to Marsland, the laugh was chilling. He shifted uneasily and stared narrowly at his inquisitor.
“Cliff Marsland!” said the whispered voice. “That was not your name — fourteen years ago — when you were overseas—”
Marsland stared incredulously as the voice trailed away. He moved slightly in his chair, seeking to gain a new angle from which to view the man in black. He was unsuccessful.
“Perhaps,” said the voice, “you remember the village of Esternay, in the Spring of ‘18 or, perhaps, that trip to Monte Carlo, three weeks after the Armistice? Do you recall Blanton, the Frenchman—”
Marsland half rose from his chair, his hands gripping the arms, his face suddenly tense, his body rigid with suppressed excitement.
“Who are you?” he demanded hoarsely. “Who are you?”
A low, whispered laugh was the only response. Its sibilant sound seemed to come from the walls, from the floor, from the ceiling — as if the room itself were taunting the listener. Marsland sank back in his chair.
“Like yourself,” came the low voice, “I am a man whose name has been forgotten. We shall speak no more of years gone by. You are now Clifford Marsland. I am” — the voice halted impressively — “The Shadow!”
“The Shadow!” echoed Marsland.
“Yes! You have never met me in my present guise. For I began my new career while you were in—”
“Sing Sing,” supplied Marsland.
“In Sing Sing,” said The Shadow. “There — for a robbery you did not commit!”
CLIFF MARSLAND raised his head in sudden surprise.
“How do you know that?” he questioned. “I made no defense. I never denied it — I never—”
The low voice of The Shadow interrupted him.
“The fact that I know is sufficient,” came in his even tones. “Nor is that all I know.
“There was another crime a greater one — a murder — which has also been attributed to you. Not by the police, for they do not know; but by the underworld, whose secrets belong to The Shadow!”