The Shadow - Foxhound Part 11

MADGE PAYNE was dressed and ready for the street. In a few minutes, Doctor Bruce Hanson was going to call for her, take her to a quiet spot where they could confer without interruption or the fear of eavesdroppers. Madge desperately wanted to talk with Bruce. His queer demeanor and queerer actions of the last few days had filled her with a growing sense of terror.

The smiling taunt of Alonzo Kelsea when she and Bruce had been at his house above the lake, remained in her mind. Was Bruce Hanson merely a cloak, a respectable mask for - Foxhound?

Madge turned and went into the bedroom to get her hand bag. She had been there scarcely a moment when the door of the apartment opened.

A woman glided in from the outside corridor. She had made her entrance with a duplicate key. She was blond, sinuous, very lovely except for the glitter of her eyes. They were a deep blue and as hard as agate.

The woman was Helene Carfax, secretary and companion of the wily David Stoner, who ran a fake detective agency for reasons best known to himself.

Helene walked into the bedroom with a sneering smile on her rather full crimson lips.

"Good evening, Miss Payne. So nice to see you again."

Madge gasped, took a frightened backward step.

"How dare you! How did you get in here?"

Helene's laughter was throaty, confident. She was taller, heavier, stronger than the slim girl who was facing her with every evidence of panic.

"I'll answer your questions in order, my dear. First, I dare do anything I.

choose. Second, I got in with a duplicate key. Now, that we -"

She was unprepared for the desperate courage of Madge. With a fierceforward rush, Madge flung herself at the blonde, wrapping her in an embrace that swept her from her feet and whirled her helplessly around.

Helene gave a m.u.f.fled shriek of rage.

But before she could do any damage, she was swept headlong across the room by the determined Madge and thrown into an open clothes closet.

The closet door slammed. Madge turned the key in the lock. Sobbing, she ran back to the living room. She stood there absolutely terrified, her slim fingers clenched hysterically at her sides. What should she do? Call the police - or wait for Bruce Hanson? He was late now; it was already ten minutes past the time he had set for his visit.

The ring of the apartment-bell sent a warm flood of relief coursing through her tense body. That would be Bruce; he would know what to do!

She opened the door - and stood quite still; gazing at the tall man on the threshold. It was David Stoner, a quizzical smile on his thin lips, the crescent scar on his chin like a dead-white birthmark.

"GOOD evening, Miss Payne. I trust that by this time you and Helene have completed -"

The smile faded from Stoner's jeering lips as he saw the expression on the girl's face, noted that there was no sign of Helene Carfax. He closed the door with a quick shove of his shoulder. A gun leaped into his hand and menaced Madge.

"Where is she, you smart little rat?"

"I - I don't know!"

"Oh, yes you do! I can see it in your eyes! Let's have a look around this dump."

He seized her arm, bending it upward behind her back until she bit her lips to restrain a cry of agony. He walked her, bent almost double, into the bedroom.

"The closet, eh?"

A denial on Madge's part would have been useless. In her haste to imprison Helene she had slammed the door on the blonde's dress. Part of the material showed through the crack. From behind the panel a furious pounding began.

Stoner unlocked and opened the door with a jerk of his left hand. The blonde came out like a plunging tigress, her blue eyes mad with rage. She flew at Madge and would have ripped the dress from her body, had not Stoner uttered a crisp command and shoved her back.

"Quit it, you fool!" Stoner growled.

"I'll tear her apart!"

"Cool off," Stoner said, shortly. "We've got business to do." He shook Madge until her head wabbled, then he released her. She faced him, trembling.

"What's Hanson's new address?" Stoner snapped. "We'd like to talk to him."

"I don't know where he is."

"She's lying," Helene cut in, savagely. "Hanson's coming here to meet her.

She was planning to go out with him. Look - there's her hat and coat on the sofa."

"Nice work, Helene," Stoner grinned. "We'll wait for him. Take charge of Madge. Keep her in the bedroom. And no rough stuff. I want the doctor to walk right in and get caught."

"I'll see that she keeps quiet, if that's what you mean," Helenemuttered.

She clutched Madge and dragged her out of sight.

Stoner went to the corridor door, pushed in the release mechanism that left the door unlocked. He moved to one side behind a heavy portiere and waited, his gun along his side.

Presently, the apartment bell rang. Nothing happened. Again the bell rang.

After three fruitless peals, the k.n.o.b was rattled by someone outside. The door opened suddenly and a man staggered on the threshold, his balance upset by the inward swing of a door he had supposed was locked.

Stoner's gun protruded from the portieres. "Close that door with your hip, doctor! Up with the hands! That's better! Get over to that sofa!"

Stoner's voice rose suddenly. "Helene! In with the girl, and let's have a sensible little talk."

DOCTOR BRUCE HANSON'S face was pale and set. It grew whiter when he saw the terror in Madge's eyes.

"You know better than to pull anything like this, Stoner," he said in a thick, barely recognizable voice. "Get that h.e.l.lcat's hand off Madge's wrist, do you hear?"

"Let go, Helene," Stoner said. He seemed worried by the doctor's complete disregard for the weapon he held.

Hanson had lowered his arms. He was staring at the private detective, and there was a look in his hard, brooding eyes that made Stoner quail slightly.

"What's all this nonsense about?" Hanson said.

"No nonsense. Either you or Madge have that Colette painting. Where is it?"

"Why don't you ask Dawson?"

"He's dead and you know it."

"Nevertheless, Dawson's the man who stole it and hid it."

"Where?" Stoner rasped. "Where is it now?"

"I don't know," Hanson said. He looked weary, defeated. But Stoner, watching him, thought he detected a gleam of satisfaction beneath the mask of defeat.

"Maybe you'll talk with a bit of persuasion," he said, huskily. "Give that girl's arm a twist, Helene."

Three things happened with appalling suddenness. Madge screamed, twisted from the blonde's clutch. Hanson dove straight at Stoner's gun. Stoner pulled the trigger.

The bullet went wide because of Madge's daring. By a quick leap that brought her courageous body straight in line with death, she had clutched the barrel of the weapon and shoved it aside. As she fell to the floor, tripping over Stoner, the doctor wrenched the gun from Stoner's hand. He leaped backward with a growl that was stiff with the menace of death.

"One move, Stoner, Helene, and I'll kill you both deader than Jimmy Dawson!"

Hanson meant it. There was no doubt of that. The blonde began to whimper faintly. Stoner's face was flushed a deep red, except for the circling scar on his chin. Suddenly, Hanson began to laugh at them, a brief, metallic sound without mirth.

"Could anyone outside hear that shot?" he asked Madge.

"I - I don't think so. These apartments are all soundproof."

"Good! In fact, excellent!" He glared at his two helpless captives. "Get out! Both of you."

"Huh?" Stoner's jaw dropped. Then his face became hard and wary like the doctor's. "I get it. Just a little mistake all around, eh?" "Yes. Just a little mistake. Out - and don't try to bluff the wrong man again. You might get killed, next time."

Madge stared. "But Bruce, what does this all mean? Are you going to let them -"

"Be quiet," he said. He nodded to the pair in front of him, and Helene and Stoner left the apartment without a word.

There was an elevator in the broad corridor outside, and a staircase that led to the street below and to the upper stories of the building. Stoner caught Helene's arm and whispered into her ear. The blonde nodded. Without another word, the pair turned to the stairs. In the dimness it was impossible to tell whether they had gone up or down.

INSIDE the apartment they had quitted, a low-toned discussion was taking place between Madge and Doctor Hanson. She was frightened, tense, suspicious.

He was cold, aloof, almost surly. He wanted her to wait alone in the apartment.

He had, he said, some immediate business that would take him away for not more than ten minutes.

In the end, his strange authority prevailed over her. He left the apartment, closing the door quietly behind him.

Madge sank on the sofa. The catch on the door was still unlocked, but Madge was unaware of that. She was unaware of anything except the terror in her heart. What was the strange bond between her lover and the ugly pair who had tried to kill him and her? Why had Bruce let them go without calling the police? Was there a criminal compact between them?

There was no sound in the room. Yet something in the silence sent a chill racing along Madge's bent body, forced her to glance up.

There was a man in the doorway. Or rather - a thing! A gray spectre that closed the door with a lithe gesture as repellent as the graceful motion of an animal.

Pearl-gray, he was, from head to foot. A gray mask covered his face. Gray gloves on the clenched hands. A long gray raincoat that covered his body.

Madge Payne's mouth flew soundlessly open. She was too paralyzed to move or to scream, and the ominous visitor knew it.

Behind the fluttering mask, a voice issued like the metallic tones of a phonograph record.

"You are going with me - obediently, and without a word. Do you understand? Or do I have to tell you that I am - Foxhound!"

Madge's power of utterance returned to her with a shrill shriek. "Bruce!"

she cried. "Oh, please - Bruce!"

It was impossible to tell whether it was a cry for help from her vanished lover, or whether it was an imploring appeal addressed to the kidnaper himself.

He sprang at her, clapped his gray-gloved hand across her mouth. She stiffened, a look of utter loathing on her face. Then she pitched forward in a dead faint.

Foxhound caught her up in his arms, strode soundlessly to the apartment door. It opened, and he peered quietly for a long interval. Then he and his limp burden vanished.

CHAPTER XVIII.

AN AIRPORT TRAGEDY.

THE SHADOW was in his sanctum. Not a muscle moved in his body. His facewas like a carving in granite.

Under the blue-shaded light, hanging from above, the desk was piled high with an orderly array of doc.u.ments. Typewritten sheets, photographs, specimens of handwriting signed by both men and women, clippings from newspapers and a small sheaf of filing cards from The Shadow's own secret cabinet.

Another pile consisted of certain objects gathered by The Shadow and retained for his own private scrutiny. A woman's hairnet; a pistol bullet taken from the body of a man; a lock of hair bleached white from exposure to chemicals.

These things and others engaged The Shadow's grim attention.

All the clues in this murderous riddle of Foxhound were now cla.s.sified and understood. The Shadow was almost ready to close his campaign.

The strong light above the desk went out suddenly. There was a faint sound of feet moving, the rumble of drawers opening and closing on oiled rollers; then The Shadow was back at the desk, now empty. Within the circle of illumination, The Shadow's hand rested. A pen was poised over a sheet of blank paper.

He wrote six names - four of them men and two, women. One by one, he drew a line through the names. They faded gradually until again the paper was blank.

This time, The Shadow wrote another name and below it an alias: Thomas Springer "Foxhound"

He stared until the letters slowly faded. Laughter came from his taut lips as though he were amused at a rather bitter joke. He knew who Foxhound was!

The alias itself had revealed to him the ident.i.ty of Thomas Springer.

Even without the facts he had uncovered, The Shadow would have guessed the secret of the murderous ex-president of the ruined and looted Investment Trust Co.

The strange murder of Jimmy Dawson had given The Shadow a final inkling of the truth. A quiet trip up the Hudson had located a small speed boat equipped with a Diesel engine. Innocent inquiries had revealed the fact that the craft was the only one so equipped for miles around.

It was owned by a man named Fox, who had property in the hills, miles back from the Hudson. That was all The Shadow had found, but it was enough.

Dawson had stolen the valuable Colette painting. Foxhound had failed to recover the painting, had killed his henchman. The superintelligence of The Shadow went a step further than Foxhound had been able to. He was now convinced that Dawson had hidden the Colette at, or near, the very spot where he had been drowned, in freshwater.