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“Why ain’t Doc back here himself?”

“He will be,” replied Chuck. “But he’s got something to do meanwhile. He frisked The Shadow before making that call. Found a wallet on him; what was in it, I don’t know. But Doc does; and he’s using what he learned to frame things so’s nobody’ll know The Shadow’s missing.”

“Then when The Python gets here he’ll—”

Bevo stopped short. A signal tap was coming at the outer door. Chuck nodded. Bevo, opened the barrier.

A BLOCKY, square-faced man entered. He was wearing an expensive overcoat, with kid gloves and a derby hat. His face, though hardened, had a professional look, which was accentuated by a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles.

“Hello, Doc,” greeted Chuck. “Ready for us to move this guy?”

Doc shook his head. He went over to the cot, raised a limp arm and felt the pulse. Drawing a leather case from his pocket, he extracted a hypodermic needle and made an injection. A sour smile showed on his lips.

“That’ll hold him,” chuckled Doc. “For an hour more, anyway. He won’t need more than one of us to watch him. You stay here, Bevo. Chuck, you come along with me.”

“Going back to watch for Jurrice?”

“No. He’s gone out by this time. We’ll have to trust to more luck — take a chance that Jurrice hasn’t become jittery enough to leave town. The Shadow was more important. Much more important.” Doc paused significantly. “That is something which I learned since his capture.”

“Where are we going then, Doc?”

“To grab a hamburger and a cup of Java. Neither of us have eaten yet, Chuck. Don’t worry about our leaving, Bevo. There’s no chance of The Shadow waking up while we’re gone.”

Doc motioned for departure. Chuck followed him. Bevo remained alone. He looked toward The Shadow. A confident gloat had come over Bevo’s pockmarked features. He, too, shared the elation that the others felt.

For Bevo and Chuck, as aids to Doc, were henchmen of The Python, an insidious master whose ways were those of evil. Yet in such service, these underlings had held one fear. Men of crime, they dreaded a foe whose name had long compelled the awe of crookdom.

That foe was The Shadow, the only being who could thwart The Python. His probable entry into the affairs of the supercrook had been the doubtful element; the event that minions felt inevitable; and toward which they had shared a secret fear.

Tonight, haphazard fate had brought an unexpected triumph to the cause of crime. For The Shadow, helpless, was to be delivered to the Python. And that delivery would mean The Shadow’s final doom. The Python, as his chosen name implied, was a personage who would show no mercy to a captured foe.

CHAPTER II

THE PYTHON’S WILES

CHUCK, in his chat with Bevo, had used some specific terms. He had spoken of a “flash-back” in response to a call that Doc had made. He had later referred to “blue lights blinking”; as if the two references had signified the same occurrence.

They did. In fact, while Bevo remained on lone guard over The Shadow, blue lights were blinking another flash-back. A man was watching them.

Stationed at a window of a darkened apartment in the Fifties, this individual was staring across a low sweep of buildings toward a loft building that stood near the East River.

A corner of the loft building was visible from the apartment window; and that was the spot that the watcher noted. As he kept observation, corner lights blinked slightly. Their signals came in quick succession. They paused, then blinked again.

Then the blinks had ceased. A satisfied chuckle sounded in the gloom of the apartment. Footsteps moved toward the door; a hand turned the knob. The apartment occupant stepped out into the hall and closed the door behind him.

Standing in the light, the man from the apartment appeared youthful and immaculate of attire. Though the assurance of his face indicated his correct age as nearly forty, most persons would have considered him as being much younger. He was sleek, well-groomed; his tuxedo fitted him to perfection.

There was poise in this man’s manner as his lips formed a calculated smile. His face, white-complexioned beneath his light-brown hair, was one that pretended frankness. His actions gave the semblance of a dress rehearsal as he nonchalantly adjusted a cigarette in its holder, applied a flame from a sterling-silver lighter.

This man’s name was Albert Thurney, a fact which he revealed as he stepped away from the apartment door. For the action removed his figure from a name plate which contained a cut-out center of one of Thurney’s calling cards.

Donning a Derby hat that he carried with him, Thurney went to the elevator.

WHEN he reached the street, Thurney stepped into a cab that the doorman hailed for him. Giving the driver an address near the East River, Thurney settled back to puff his cigarette.

As the cab rolled along an avenue, he looked out and upward — toward a window on the fourteenth floor of the apartment building. That window, on the topmost story, represented Thurney’s own apartment.

He had chosen it because it afforded a view of the distant building with the blue lights. Riding in the cab, Thurney could gain no immediate glimpse of that glare. But as the taxi continued eastward, he sighted it three or four times, thanks to partially open spaces. The lights were no longer blinking.

The cab reached a wide, secluded avenue, the last thoroughfare before the river. It stopped a few doors above a large apartment house, on the west side of the street.

Thurney alighted, paid the driver and strolled toward the house where they had stopped. As the cab pulled away, he changed his course. Crossing the avenue, he picked a three-story building on the corner. Ascending the steps, Thurney rang the doorbell.

The visitor knew this neighborhood. It was an exclusive section, newly developed and named Versailles Place. Several large apartment buildings had sprouted up from a dingy setting of abandoned tenement houses. The tenements, in turn, had been reconstructed into swanky apartments that commanded fabulous rentals.

The house which Thurney now stood before was the home of Danton Califax, a retired manufacturer who had foreseen the development of Versailles Place and had bought this property before values had jumped.

THE front door opened and a suspicious-eyed flunky surveyed Albert Thurney. The servant had seen the visitor before; and Thurney addressed him by name.

“Hello, Sykes,” greeted Thurney, in a suave manner. “Is Miss Califax at home this evening?”

“No, sir,” returned Sykes, gruffly. “Miss Califax has gone to the theater.”

“By the way, Sykes. Was it you who answered the telephone this afternoon? When I called Miss Califax?”

“Yes, Mr. Thurney.”

“Ah, yes. I thought I recognized your inimitable voice. So you were the fellow who informed me that Miss Califax did not wish to speak with me?”

“I obeyed the instructions that Miss Califax gave me. Moreover, Mr. Thurney, she told me to repeat another message should you chance to call here. Miss Califax does not care to see you in the future.”

Thurney’s smile retained its suavity. He eyed Sykes; and the fellow waited for him to speak. The door was half open. Looking beyond, Thurney could see a lighted hallway. At the rear was a peering face, that of another servant. Thurney caught a nod from the man whom Sykes did not see.

“Very well,” decided Thurney, in a nonchalant tone. “You may tell Miss Califax that I hope she will reverse her decision.”

Sykes nodded. Thurney turned about and strolled down the steps. Sykes watched him walk toward the avenue; then closed the door with a slam. Thurney looked about as he heard the bang. He sidled to the house wall, returned toward the steps, where he waited.