The call ended. The telephone clattered to the floor. Doctor Sayre appeared promptly. His face showed alarm; then he noted that Cranston had merely made the gesture to summon him. The millionaire was lying comfortably, his gaze fixed on the wall ahead.
“Anything else?” questioned Sayre.
Cranston’s head shook.
“I am going out,” informed the physician. “I shall return shortly. Be careful in the meantime. You lack the strength for any effort. I doubt that you could walk a dozen yards.”
Sayre left. Cranston remained unmoving for a full five minutes. Then, with suddenness, he raised himself upright in bed, using his left arm as a prop. He gained his feet, wavered unsteadily and crossed the room.
His clothes were lying on the chair. Cranston, using his left hand, managed to slip garments over his pajamas. He staggered from the bedroom and caught himself as he arrived in the living room. Stooping, he reached beneath the couch and brought out the blackened garments that he had left there.
Once the black cloak had obscured Cranston’s form; when the black slouch hat had covered his features, Doctor Sayre’s emergency patient seemed imbued with a new life. He was The Shadow. His automatics slipped beneath his cloak. Steadily, though slowly, he stalked into the outer hall.
The tall form became obscure. It reached the street. A taxi was standing there. The Shadow flitted close beside it. The door opened; the tall figure entered unseen. The taxi driver became aware that he had a passenger only when a voice spoke from the rear seat to give a destination.
The cab rolled along. As it stopped near an avenue a mile or more from Sayre’s, a bank note floated down upon the driver’s lap. The taximan stared into the rear of the car and turned on the light. His mysterious passenger was gone!
A CLICK sounded later. The noise took place in a darkened room. It was The Shadow’s sanctum; the polished table showed itself as the bluish glare appeared above. Hands came into the light. The left, with its sparkling girasol, moved with flashing speed. The right lay practically motionless.
The left hand caught a set of earphones from the wall beyond the table. A tiny light gleamed to indicate a connection. The Shadow’s whisper spoke from the gloom. He was talking again to Burbank.
“Message to the Cobalt Club,” ordered The Shadow. “Say that you are speaking for Mr. Cranston. Stanley is to have the limousine in readiness.”
The earphones dropped back into place. The left hand disappeared; then, from somewhere, it brought a small bottle that contained a purplish liquid. The top of the bottle was a cup that the fingers removed.
Drops trickled into the inverted cap. The pungent odor of a strange elixir filled the sanctum. The left hand removed the little cup and carried it to unseen lips. When the hand returned, the cup was empty.
The Shadow’s laugh sounded softly in the gloom. The left hand took away the closed bottle. Even the right hand was capable of motion now.
A thin, flat box appeared upon the table. Its cover opened.
Articles of make-up lay within the box. These were the items that The Shadow used in effecting a disguise. Tonight, there was no reason why he might need his usual facial mask that enabled him to pass as Lamont Cranston, millionaire clubman.
The interior of the box had a mirrored surface that reflected the light above. Within were articles of make-up that would have amazed those who thought themselves expert in the art of facial disguise.
The light went out. The Shadow’s laugh again sounded, this time in the total darkness of the mysterious room. Uncanny reverberations died as ghoulish echoes. The sanctum was empty.
STANLEY, seated in the limousine outside the Cobalt Club, was surprised later on, to hear the voice of Lamont Cranston speaking from the darkness. The chauffeur had not heard his master enter the car.
“Through the Holland Tunnel, Stanley,” came Cranston’s order. “Then to the town of Houlton, New Jersey. You may take the car home from there. I have an appointment which I must keep.”
A soft laugh sounded as Stanley drove the car from the club. The Shadow was anticipating the events that were to come. Wounded and weakened, he had imbibed the reviving fluid of the elixir that he kept within his sanctum. With its aid, he was starting forth to reach the spot where danger stalked.
Yet the whispered mirth was hollow. In it lay a trace of weariness. Through dripping rain, the limousine was carrying a stalwart fighter who already was losing the inspired power for action that he had so recently regained!
CHAPTER XXI
THE CLUB OF DEATH
THIS night was one of intense gloom. Steady rain had been driving for three constant days. Shrouded in a blanket of rising mist, Eli Galban’s old mansion was more spectral than ever before.
Peering eyes were staring from a window. They were the eyes of Fawkes, the huge-headed servant. The front door opened; the blackened hall behind did not show the figure of this monstrous servitor.
Fawkes was beginning a patrol of the grounds. His footsteps carried him across the lawn toward the end house in the row — the building which seemed to encroach so noticeably on Eli Galban’s premises.
Fawkes returned. He moved into the house. The door shut behind him. Fawkes went to the second hall, where waxwork figures showed weirdly in the light. Mercher was waiting there. He had been on guard while Fawkes was gone.
Fawkes crossed the room and started toward the stairs. Mercher watched him. So did Harry Vincent, from above. As the fearful servant moved toward the steps, Harry quickly headed for the darkness of the second floor.
Mercher, however, stopped Fawkes as the man reached the landing. The secretary was alert. His doubled form seemed to spring forward as Mercher hurried after Fawkes. He put a low question to the man. Fawkes responded with a muffled growl.
Mercher signaled Fawkes to remain on guard. He hurried to the elevator and disappeared. It was several minutes before Fawkes again stumped down the steps. Evidently he had been on his way to the third floor to see Galban before Mercher had stopped him.
When Harry Vincent came back to the landing, he viewed both Fawkes and Mercher. The secretary was standing close to the waxwork figure of an Indian chief. He was eyeing Fawkes solemnly. The servant pointed toward a panel in the wall. Mercher nodded and moved in that direction. Fawkes sought to follow him. Mercher stopped the servant. He opened the panel and disappeared into deep darkness.
WHILE these events were taking place within the house, the splattering rain kept up a melody without. Yet amid those drippings there was more than mere darkness. A figure had entered the grounds about the house. At the rear of the old mansion stood The Shadow.
A spectral form, yet one which seemed to waver with every gust of wind, The Shadow was studying the walls. He could see gloomy windows; all were barred. His eyes turned downward. They saw the heavy grating of a cellar window.
A tiny flashlight gleamed. While The Shadow’s tired right hand held the little torch, his left worked on the barrier. It was a task to open the grating, yet it was no more difficult than the bars above. The Shadow, wearied, had chosen this spot instead of attempting a climb to the stories above.
The grating gave with a slight click. The window moved beyond. The Shadow’s tall form sank; it slid into the darkness of a deep cellar. The flashlight was out; The Shadow let himself below. In the darkness of the basement, he moved toward the other side of the building.
The Shadow stopped. Ahead, he saw a dim flight of stairs. Above it was a gloomy light. As he edged toward the wall, keeping constantly in darkness, The Shadow could spy the peering face of Lycurgus Mercher at the head of the stairs. The secretary was listening for sounds from below.