He was a prisoner. His arms and legs were securely bound, and he was sitting upright in a rickety chair. Before him was a table; beyond that a single door. That barrier was the only entrance to this stone-walled, windowless room, where the atmosphere was dank and cobwebbed corners shimmered in the glow of a single light.
The door of the underground room suddenly swung outward. Hazily, a figure stepped into view. Doubled almost to the floor, it approached like a human crab until it reached a chair on the near side of the table. Huddled, with clawlike, twitching hands, the arrival leered across the table.
The Shadow saw a brownish, senile face beneath a mass of snow-white hair. He heard a hoarse gloat. He caught the sharp glint of harsh eyes between narrowed lids. His own vision clearing, The Shadow began to study this odd creature who had become his captor.
“So!” The word was an evil hiss from twisted lips. “At last, I have met you. I have discovered The Shadow. We meet: you, The Shadow; and I, The Python.”
The statement was followed by a cackling chuckle which proved all that The Shadow needed to establish conclusions regarding this insidious foe.
Whatever The Python’s true appearance, he had covered it before coming on this visit. Whatever The Python’s game might be, one point was already definite. He was a master at the art of make-up.
His only fault was that he had overdone the job on this occasion. The Python — so The Shadow discerned — had gone to every length to disguise his true identity.
The brownish face was stained to its present complexion. The senile grin was a pose; so were the half-closed eyelids. The moppish, white hair was a perfect-fitting wig. Even the clawlike fingers were faked for this occasion.
The cackling laugh, an afterthought, was proof that The Python never used such a chuckle in real life. Though he could not penetrate the disguise, The Shadow recognized its falsity; and he added another point to his opinion: namely, The Python’s crouch, a device which the rogue was using to completely hide his actual height.
“You meddler!” ejaculated The Python, harshly. “I expected your attempt to nullify my game. At first I moved too quickly for you.” A pause, punctuated by a cackle. “My robberies were timed. They struck at unsuspected weaknesses. The Hildebrand collection; the uncut diamonds from the liner; three other jobs of lesser magnitude — I did them all.
“I covered my crimes” — lips were twisted in their gloat — “covered them so all that you could do was to watch for new attempts. When Craig Jurrice talked too much regarding a Cuban treasure, certain of his statements reached my ears. You heard them also. Both of us entered: I, to intercept Louis Revoort and wrest the treasure from him. You, to continue your meddlesome policy of thwarting well-planned schemes.”
THE PYTHON stopped. His eyes were studying The Shadow’s half-twisted form. From beside The Shadow’s body extended his bound left hand. The Python saw the gleaming girasol and chuckled. Then he eyed The Shadow’s impassive, masklike countenance.
“Chance made our paths cross,” jeered The Python, “to your misfortune. Through it I learned the masquerade that you have been making. How you have passed yourself off as a man named Lamont Cranston. You were in his limousine when it crashed. My men were prompt enough to snare you.
“The contents of your wallet have been examined. I have found your airplane ticket to Savannah. I know that you intended to fly there tonight, after a visit to Craig Jurrice. You intended to warn him to be careful. Then you planned to reach Louis Revoort before his ship — the Tropical — left that city tomorrow.”
The Shadow offered no rebuttal to these challenging statements. Instead, he surveyed The Python calmly, as if expecting to hear more.
A change came over the leering figure. Though he did not change his posture, The Python subsided. The glimmer faded from his evil eyes; his lips, though twisted, were soft in their speech.
“You are The Shadow,” declared The Python, “and you claim to have no fear. Such a boast, however, came before you ever heard of me, The Python. So to you, I shall show certain indulgence. I shall allow you the right to live.
“Not through mercy. I have none of that peculiarly insane madness which fools consider a virtue. I shall offer you terms that include your prospect for a continued life. Like myself, you have men who aid you. They, like my own agents, have surely been watching for Louis Revoort.
“He is a watched man, Revoort. When he goes aboard the steamship Tropical, his doom will be sealed, at my order. Unless, by some misadventure, those who serve you are also capable. Because of that, I give you terms. Name those in your service who will be aboard the steamship.
“I shall hold you, alive, until your men have been eliminated. You will remain a prisoner thereafter, until my plans have reached a culmination. Then, when I need crime no longer, you will be released. For The Python’s work will have been accomplished. You will be a menace to me no longer.”
The Python paused, glaring through his slitted lids. The fierceness of his eyes had returned; his expression showed that he expected an answer.
Instead, a thin smile appeared upon the firm lips of The Shadow’s molded face. Through that expression, The Shadow evidenced his contempt, in spite of the masked guise which he wore.
“Your life for theirs!” snarled The Python. “Remember, the odds are hopelessly against them at the start. Your silence may not serve to save them.”
THE SHADOW’S lips straightened. His answer had been given. He was willing to face immediate death rather than to give an inkling toward the identity of his agents. Time and again, those faithful workers had preserved silence rather than to betray him.
“Hold no hope,” added The Python. “Word has been sent to the hospital where your chauffeur — or Cranston’s — was taken. He has been informed that you received first-aid treatment and have gone on your journey. None will know when or where you — as Cranston — actually disappeared to.
“Your one chance for life is to tell me what I wish to know. You have heard my terms. The time has come for your decision. Come! Let me hear you speak.”
THE SHADOW’S eyes were burning. Fierce through their masklike visage, they told The Python that The Shadow’s decision was made. Scowling, the disguised scoundrel arose from his chair.
“Perhaps you may still have the opportunity to live.” Again The Python cackled. “Remember it, when the urge comes to your lips. Our interview is ended.”
Crablike, The Python sidled to the hall. He gave a cackly call. Doc appeared in the gloom outside of the room. The Python, because of his disguise, apparently had no reluctance in holding conference with one of his Coilmasters.
Conversation buzzed; then ended in The Python’s evil gloat. The chief and his lieutenant separated. The Python went out by one direction; Doc went in the other. Soon the man who had captured The Shadow returned. This time, Doc strode into the room, followed by Chuck and Bevo.
The subordinates gagged The Shadow and hoisted his bound form between them. Still too weak to battle against his bonds, The Shadow was carried helpless from the room, through the darkness of the hall, into the outer cell. There Doc decided to give him another injection; one that would produce a short interval of oblivion.
The hypodermic used, Doc waited until The Shadow had sunk beneath the opiate’s spell. With a wave to his helpers, he led the way out; up through a stone-stepped passage, to a narrow, deserted street.
There The Shadow was pitched aboard the sedan. Chuck climbed in beside his motionless body. Bevo boarded the front seat with Doc.
The car rolled eastward. Aides of The Python were on their way to obey the mandates of their chief. They were prepared to deliver that torture which would end in death; that crushing violence that The Python had predicted would make the prisoner talk.