Maxwell Grant
The Red Blot
CHAPTER I
THE SHADOW’S QUEST
A swift, repeated ticking was audible amid a total darkness. But for that sound, intense silence would have pervaded the thickness of absolute gloom. It was not until a sharper noise occurred that any sign of a human presence was revealed.
A click came from a spot above the ticking. A blue light suddenly cast an eerie glow downward upon the surface of a polished table. There, beneath the rays of the strange, shaded lamp, appeared the ticking object.
It was a clock of curious construction. Set at an angle upon the table top, this timepiece showed no hands upon its large face. Instead, it had three circles, the innermost marked with twelve numbers; the outer circles divided with sixty.
From grooves on the outer edge of each circle extended rings, so designed that they surrounded only one number at a time. Just as the light came on, the rings of the outer circles moved. The extreme ring made another jump a second later; but the intermediate one still remained constant, like the one in the center.
A clock that moved with intermittent precision, this odd dial was designed to mark the passing seconds by its outer circle; the minutes by the second one; and the hours by the center circle. Although the mechanism was regular in sound, the indications came at definite intervals, with an unusual psychological result.
To the eyes that watched this clock, a single second seemed like a prolonged space of time, not as an idly moving series of moments. Each minute, formed of sixty such intervals, was episodic. An hour, as shown upon this clock, was a tremendous stretch of time that allowed for limitless accomplishment.
SUCH was the clock that rested in The Shadow’s sanctum. The weird blue light that glistened upon the circled dial existed only in that secret room. This was the abode where the master who fought with crime reviewed his plans and formed new strategy.
The appearance of the light marked the presence of The Shadow himself. He, alone, visited this mystic room, located in some unknown section of Manhattan. In the midst of strenuous campaigns, The Shadow could always seek the seclusion of this sanctuary, there to mock his enemies and devise new ways to end the schemes of malefactors.
To gangdom, The Shadow was known only as a powerful being whose unseen hand reached everywhere. There were mobsmen who claimed to have seen him — but only at a distance. Those who had met The Shadow face to face no longer lived to assert their claims.
Dying gangsters — toughened characters of the type who died grimly — had coughed out their lives through trembling lips, gasping the name of The Shadow. Time and again, sneering big shots had been struck down just as they were about to reap the profits of some heinous crime. Here, again, the hand of The Shadow had intervened.
None knew the identity of The Shadow. It was something that the underworld had long sought. All rats of crime were eager to eliminate The Shadow. His power had caused consternation in other cities than New York — both in America and abroad — yet none had ever balked his might.
It was known that The Shadow must be a master of detection, for he had uncovered the most ingenious of crimes. It was known also that he could travel swiftly and unseen, for he had frequently appeared in the heart of an enemy’s camp.
As for his indomitable purpose — that was understood. The Shadow showed no mercy to those who did not deserve it.
It was believed that The Shadow was a master of disguise. That, alone, could account for some of the amazing parts that he had played. It was also believed that he sometimes employed the aid of trained and skillful agents, for the magnitude of his activities had shown that capable men had been present when needed.
Yet The Shadow had always managed to protect his temporary identities unknown; and his agents remained within the cover of the shroud of mystery that constantly blanketed The Shadow from the eyes of his foemen.
Despite the efforts of those who sought to thwart him; despite the fact that he never invoked the aid of the police in his own behalf; The Shadow roamed at will in his untiring search for men of evil. None had ever managed to discover the location of his sanctum; in fact, the existence of such a spot was regarded as doubtful by those who discussed its possibility.
Thus The Shadow found complete seclusion in that corner of the black-walled room where blue light shone upon a table top and a strangely dialed clock marked each passing second with a long, gripping throb.
THE light and the clock were not the only tokens of The Shadow’s presence on this night. Into the circle of illumination crept two objects that seemed like living creatures detached from the body to which they belonged.
The hands of The Shadow!
Long and white, they showed a combination of velvety smoothness and great muscular power. These were the hands that had fought so well against crime; and one of them bore the token, which was the positive symbol of The Shadow.
This mark was a gleaming gem which shone from the third finger of the left hand. It was The Shadow’s girasol, a rare fire opal, unmatched in all the world. Its color was a mingling of hues; the glowing depths of the stone changed from brilliant blue to dull crimson, and all the shades between.
From the girasol came splashes of fiery light, like the glimmer of living sparks. A dying ember, ever emitting its final darts of minute flame — such was The Shadow’s girasol.
The hands moved in a fashion that portrayed ease of operation. An envelope came into view; from it a thin bundle of papers. The fingers unfolded a sheet; the hidden eyes behind the light made a brief perusal; then that paper was replaced by another.
Despite the ease of the hands, their speed and precision were amazing, when judged by the clock upon the table. An observer would not have believed that those indications on the outer circle of the dial were mere seconds. It seemed as though The Shadow, even when engaged upon the routine procedure of summarizing the reports from his agents, could hold back time in its passage.
The simple scene in the sanctum was an explanation of The Shadow’s uncanny ability to come out best in his wars with men of crime. He was a being who dealt in split seconds when he worked!
Another envelope — a third. Papers removed, read, and replaced. Clippings, also; and when The Shadow’s summary was complete, a few remainders were left for careful perusal. Report sheets and newspaper items — the white hands spread them upon the table top.
Every one of these papers dealt with a single subject. The right hand of The Shadow appeared with a pen. Upon a sheet of blank paper, it inscribed a phrase which summarized it in one title:
THE RED BLOT
The ink which The Shadow used was crimson. It shone in vivid contrast to the light above. Eyes from the dark viewed the words; then the poised hand gave the pen a shake.
A large blob of ink spattered upon the white paper. It spread irregularly until it formed a grotesquely shaped blotch of drying fluid that looked like a huge drop of blood.
No action could have been more significant. The words meant nothing now. There, beneath them, was the very sign which had been mentioned — a crimson mark that illustrated the title.
The Red Blot!
WHILE the ink still dried beneath the light, a low, sinister laugh came from the darkness. That tone — the mocking voice of The Shadow — was the feature of the master’s presence that had struck stark terror into many an evil gangster’s heart.
The laugh of The Shadow! It came as a challenge to all malefactors.
The pen was laid aside. The fingers lifted the report sheets and the clippings, one by one. Alike, these items told a story of unsolved crime. Here, in New York, subtle evil was in progress.