The missing man must be found.
That was to be The Shadow’s task!
CHAPTER III. THE DUNGEON OF DOOM
FREDERICK FROMAN’S house stood silent and forbidding in the night. To Harry Vincent, watching from the opposite side of the street, it was a place of silence and inactivity. The last light had been extinguished long ago. It seemed obvious that the occupants had retired.
But within that house, there was activity that could not be noticed from without. Frederick Froman was not asleep. Instead, he was seated, wide awake, in a dimly lighted room. The stone walls of the little room showed that it was located in the cellar of the old house. There was not a window in the room.
Froman was reclining comfortably in the one easy-chair. He was still attired in evening dress, as he puffed languidly at a panatella. His well-formed face was expressionless. He was waiting for something; yet he showed no signs of impatience.
The center of the floor began to rise. A solid square of cement came slowly upward, actuated by a force from below. Four metal rods, like the corners of a skeleton cabinet, appeared beneath the ascending slab.
Froman eyed this indifferently. He made no comment until the complete structure of an open-sided elevator had appeared and a short, stocky man had stepped from it.
“Well?”
Froman’s question was quietly addressed to the man who had emerged from the solid floor.
“He is ready to speak, sir.”
The stocky man’s reply was in a thickly accented voice. Froman smiled and spoke a few words in another language. The man answered in the same tongue.
Leisurely, Froman arose and stepped into the elevator. It descended into gloomy depths.
There, beneath the floor of the cellar, was a short passage illuminated by a single light. Striding to the end of this corridor, Froman stopped before a solid barrier that closed the way. He turned a knob that was located in the center of the blocking slab. The barrier slid upward, disappearing into the ceiling.
Three steps below lay a gloomy dungeon, a stone-walled room hewn in the depths beneath the cellar.
Two tough-faced men were there, standing with folded arms. They were looking at a huddled form straitjacketed against the wall.
Both watchers bowed as Froman entered. The light-haired man did not return the salutation. He advanced and looked coldly toward the prisoner. The huddled man turned a sweat-streaked visage toward the new inquisitor, hoping for relief.
Frederick Froman, captor, was face to face with Marcus Holtmann, captive!
THE anguish on Holtmann’s countenance showed that he had been undergoing some maddening torture.
There was no pity in Froman’s eye. His cold stare held a steely glint. He had the glance of a cruel eagle looking down upon its prey.
Neither man spoke. Holtmann, tight in the gripping pressure of the straitjacket, emitted a hopeless gasp.
That was the only sign that passed between the two.
Froman, however, turned to one of his formidable henchmen. He made a motion with his hands. The man leaned over Holtmann’s body, and adjusted the binding straps at the back of the jacket. Relieved, Holtmann sank back with a sigh.
Another sign from Froman. The three henchmen — for Froman’s conductor had entered with him — filed from the gloomy dungeon. The barrier dropped behind them. Froman was alone with his victim.
It was obvious from Holtmann’s wheedling stare that the prisoner had some inkling of why he had been brought here. Yet his pain-touched face showed a glimmer of defiance as he waited for Froman to speak.
The captor’s first expression was a contemptuous laugh. Froman seemed to enjoy Holtmann’s plight. At last, after a final survey of his prisoner, he spoke.
“You have been to Russia,” said Froman coldly. “You have learned much there. Surprising, is it not, to learn more of Russia outside of Russia?”
Holtmann’s lips moved. It was several moments before he could phrase a sentence. When he did speak, his tone was a mingling of bewilderment and indignation.
“Why am I here?” he gasped. “What have I done to you? Why do you want me? Who are you?”
Froman received each question with a smile of satisfaction. His eyes were gloating; his lips sneering. He folded his arms in a Napoleonic pose, and stopped the quizzing words with a hard, firm stare.
“I am of the old regime,” he said. “An American, by birth; a Russian by ancestry. My name is an adoption. These men whom you see here came to me after the Reds overswept Russia. They were the retainers of one of my relations — a man who perished in Russia. I have made Americans of them.
“That is enough concerning myself. I shall speak of you. You are a man with a mission that you believed was a secret. You went to Russia to study conditions there. You returned with new ideas. You have made it your appointed task to tour the United States creating interest in Russia — as it is now ruled.”
“Why not?” Holtmann’s question was challenging. “I have confidence in Russia of to-day. It is no crime for me to do as I have planned. I am not an agent of the Bolshevist government—”
“I have made no accusation” — Froman’s interruption was smooth-toned — “nor have I criticized your method. I have merely stated facts. You and your plans — they are nothing to me. But there is something else — a coincidence that has made you valuable to me.”
Holtmann’s gaze was blank. Froman smiled at his prisoner’s puzzled look. With arms still folded, the inquisitor spoke slowly and emphatically.
“WHEN you went to Russia,” he declared, “you were seeking opportunity. You found it. You received a proposal from a high official in Moscow.
“You were to come to America, to gain the confidence of men of industry; to persuade them to apply their methods and their wealth secretly in Russia, with hopes of great profits.
“Your gain would be commissions for your services. As an independent go between, an American convinced that the development of Russia’s resources would be profitable to foreign capitalists, your position was ideal. You have your own appointed purpose. Unfortunately, I have found it necessary to interfere.”
As Froman paused, Holtmann’s red-rimmed eyes stared warily. The prisoner was trying to divine the captor’s purpose. Thinking that he had discovered it, Holtmann blurted a protest.
“Why should you injure me?” he demanded. “My work is not illegal! There is no proof of the things you have said. You are the offender. In seizing me, you have committed a crime. You must let me go!”
Froman smiled coldly.
“Let me go!” Holtmann’s repetition was a maddened scream. “Let me go — I can pay you—”
Froman held up his hand for silence. Wild words died on Marcus Holtmann’s lips.
“You can pay me?” Froman’s tones were contemptuous. “Yes, you can pay me — but not with the paltry leavings you have intended to gain. You are trying to play a safe game. That is where we differ. You play safe — for trivial stakes. I seek danger — when I see tremendous gain.”
Froman’s eyes were sparkling as they stared at Holtmann. Those eyes were scarcely seeing. They were filled with the glow of the scheming brain behind them.
“Tonight I captured you” — Froman laughed — “with ridiculous ease. The taxicab you summoned from the station near Waddell’s — another man took it. The cab that came in its stead was the trap that you entered.
“My agents are few, Holtmann, but they work well. You have disappeared. Where? The police will never know.
“Let them investigate. The most that they can learn will be facts concerning your shady deals. They will gain that information if I consider it necessary. You will be branded as an ex-officio representative of the Moscow government. It will be believed that you betrayed those who offered you opportunity.”