The Shadow - The Circle of Death Part 12

The mention of that name brought sudden haste to Felix Tressler. With a motion to Harton and Mungren, Tressler ordered the pair of villains to conduct Joe Cardona from the room. With gun muzzles against his back, Cardona marched down the hallway of the penthouse. He was forced in through an open doorway, where he stared in amazement at the big map which took up the entire wall.

FELIX TRESSLER arrived, bringing pieces of stout rope from the office. He seized Cardona's upheld arms and brought them down behind the detective's back. He bound Cardona's wrists; then tumbled the helpless detective to the floor and tied his ankles. All the while, Tressler was talking in a sarcastic tone: "Murder. Your business is to detect it. You failed. Why? Because murderers go to find the men they want - as a rule. My plan was different. I waited for my victims to come my way.

"All had business in New York. I knew that when they came here, there was a portion of Manhattan - with this penthouse as a center - through which they would surely pa.s.s.

"I am wealthy. I hold interests and leases throughout this section. Mungren is a crook whom the police have never flagged. With his aid, I arranged the most perfect death trap in all the world - a zone which looks innocent because it teems with pa.s.sing thousands - the last spot where any one could suspect or discover lurking death."

Raising Cardona, Tressler lifted the detective bodily and propped him against the wall opposite the huge map of central Manhattan. Standing erect, the glowering millionaire pointed to the chart with its lights and its red circle.

"All have died." Tressler's tone was fiendish. "All, I should say, but one. His turn has come. Watch withus, Detective Cardona, and enjoy yourself. You will never return to headquarters to report this case.

"Channing Rightwood is due within that circle. When he arrives there, he is marked for death. No power on earth can save him. Millions will be mine, and these companions in crime will share. Yet after that, the circle will still remain. I shall keep the agents - the thugs hired by Mungren - that I may still wield power in the future."

With this last statement, Felix Tressler wheeled. Disregarding the captured detective he stood watching the huge map. The hour of nine had pa.s.sed. Any moment would mark the beginning of the game which Felix Tressler relished.

Channing Rightwood, the last victim, was due within the circle of death!

CHAPTER XXII. THE SHADOW MOVES.

A FIGURE was standing by the window of Room 2016, in the Hotel Metrolite. The face of Channing Rightwood was staring out toward the blazing skyline of Manhattan. The eyes that watched were not the eyes of Channing Rightwood. They were the eyes of The Shadow.

Nor was the utterance that came from the lips beneath the false mustache a sound that Rightwood could have uttered. That burst of whispered mirth was the laugh of The Shadow!

The clock upon the Paramount Building was past the hour of nine. A huge electric sign with white corners and white borders seemed a glowing challenge. The circle of death was expectant, The Shadow would not keep it waiting longer.

The stoop-shouldered figure moved. The false Channing Rightwood stalked from the room and closed the door behind him. His footsteps faded as they headed toward the elevators.

Two minutes after The Shadow had left, the telephone began to ring. It remained unanswered. Burbank, relaying a report from Clyde Burke, was just too late to reach The Shadow with news of visitors at Felix Tressler's. Perhaps The Shadow had antic.i.p.ated that Logan Mungren and Perry Harton would be in the penthouse. He had certainly not gained an inkling that Joe Cardona would be with them.

The false Channing Rightwood pa.s.sed through the glittering lobby of the Hotel Metrolite. He reached the street and followed a course very close to the one that Logan Mungren had advised. He made a conspicuous figure - one that could be easily recognized by any persons who had been given a description of the real Channing Rightwood.

ONE thousand miles away, the Midnight Limited was pulling into Chicago. The real Channing Rightwood was rising from his seat. He could see lights through the window of the Pullman. He was rousing himself from a lethargy which had persisted ever since he left New York.

"My bags -" Rightwood was speaking to the porter.

"You have no bags, sah!"

"No bags? Who took them? Here we are, coming into New York -"

"Dis is Chicago, sah!"

"Chicago! I left there last night!"

"No, sah! You left New York." The real Channing Rightwood slumped, bewildered. All recollection of his arrival in New York, his meeting with The Shadow and his strange departure had faded like a forgotten dream. His confused mind could find nothing but a scattered medley of incidents.

The drugged liquid which he had quaffed at The Shadow's bidding had left no ill effects. It had simply put Channing Rightwood into a state of clouded bewilderment that would continue while he tried to recall the events of his meeting with The Shadow.

It was fortunate, perhaps, that Rightwood, in his hazy state, was not in New York. Had he been there, he might have seen the startling spectacle of his own self walking along Seventh Avenue.

The Shadow, impersonator who lived the parts he played, was the absolute double of Channing Rightwood. He had chosen this role for the definite purpose of entering the circle of death.

DANGER lured The Shadow. Ofttimes, he met it in his garb of black, appearing as a sinister creature of the night, to strike down hordes of evil. On this occasion, he was dealing with foemen of a new ilk.

Skulkers, watchers, fiends disguised - these were the enemies The Shadow must encounter. They did not expect The Shadow. One glimpse of the black-garbed warrior would warn them. They wanted Channing Rightwood. The Shadow had chosen that ident.i.ty that he might meet them.

Nine o'clock. Rightwood was expected at that hour, if not before. It was after nine now. The circle of death was tingling. Never before had the hidden minions of Felix Tressler been so expectant, so ready to loose their subtle snares of death.

The Shadow knew this. In the guise of Channing Rightwood, he was beginning the most startling adventure of his remarkable career. He was nearing a zone where he would be surrounded by camouflaged enemies. Any person among thousands might be one set to launch at him some design of death!

The Shadow had traversed the district that he was now entering. Here was a huge electric sign. Its corners were solid white. Its borders were unblinking.

There was the token against the sky - the signalboard that would aid minions of evil in their vicious fight against a lone victim. A soft whisper came from the lips of Channing Rightwood. That whisper was a laugh.

UP in the penthouse atop of Hotel Delavan, Felix Tressler's eyes were glued upon the big map of Manhattan. A frosted bulb, stationed on the red circle, glimmered with a single blink. A cry of elation came from Felix Tressler. Leaping to the map, the master fiend pressed a switch.

The trail had begun. Channing Rightwood was trudging to his doom. The first minion of murder had spotted him. The neon light began to move along one of the gla.s.s tubes that represented Manhattan streets.

Gloating faces peered over Tressler's shoulders. Perry Harton and Logan Mungren, lieutenants of the superfiend, were sharing in their master's glee. They knew the meaning of the blink; they knew the purpose of the neon light.

So did Detective Joe Cardona, staring from the corner where he lay in helpless plight. Like the others, he was sure that a living man was doomed. Like them, he knew that a new victim had entered the circle of death!

CHAPTER XXIII. THE SHADOW KNOWS

THE man behind the soft-drink counter at the corner of Seventh Avenue was the one who had spotted the arrival of Channing Rightwood. This villain had already received commendation for the murder of Bigelow Zorman. He was anxious to repeat his former triumph.

He had pressed the switch beneath the counter. A single signal had been given. This had taken place while the stoop-shouldered form of Channing Rightwood was visible across the street. As Rightwood neared the drink counter, the huge sign near Times Square suddenly changed its hue. Green corners replaced white. Then came the blinks of the borders that told the location where Rightwood had been spotted.

"Get your creamy Chromo!" The vender's cry was innocuous. "Step right up. Big drink for a nickel!"

The man saw Channing Rightwood approach. A nickel fell upon the counter. The Chromo seller reached beneath and produced a hidden gla.s.s. His hand covered the lower portion of the container.

Keen eyes were on that masking hand as the Chromo seller siphoned foaming fluid into the gla.s.s. The man behind the counter set the gla.s.s in front of Channing Rightwood. As he stooped beneath the counter to arrange other gla.s.ses, he antic.i.p.ated the result. He pressed the switch twice and a grin covered his face.

As the man bobbed up from behind the counter, he stared toward the sign that served as beacon.

Already his report had been received. The center light of each corner had turned to red. This was the token that a death thrust had been made.

The Chromo man turned toward Channing Rightwood. He stopped as he met the blaze of a pair of flashing eyes. The gla.s.s was gripped in Rightwood's right hand. It still contained the foamy, white-frosted drink.

The murderous drink render did not move as he saw those burning eyes before him. His startled brain realized that the game was known.

Before the man could make a decision, The Shadow acted. Playing the part of Channing Rightwood, he swung his right arm and sent the contents of the gla.s.s full in the face of the man behind the counter. Then, with a downward sweep, he crashed the gla.s.s upon the marble and shattered it into flying pieces.

With this gesture, The Shadow turned and moved toward the side street. The drink seller was clawing frantically. His face and lips were dripping with the poisoned liquid that he had intended for a victim. He grabbed a towel and mopped his mouth.

People were stopping to learn the cause of the commotion. Channing Rightwood was nowhere to be seen; but the balked murderer saw a policeman turning toward the corner where excitement reigned.

Ducking beneath the counter, he pressed the switch once; then scrambled for a door in the wall and made his get-away.

THE SHADOW, strolling along the side street, turned his eyes upward. He watched the sign and saw the red centers of the corners turn back to solid green. A soft laugh came from the lips beneath the false mustache. The first trap had failed. The fiend who controlled the circle of death had recalled his signal.

Well along the block, a panhandler approached the personage who looked like Channing Rightwood. He whined for a dime. The Shadow slowed his pace and reached into his pocket. They neared the corner while coins were jingling. The clerk in a cigar store saw Rightwood stop. He caught a motion of the panhandler's arm. Reaching into the cigar case behind the counter, the cigar clerk pressed a switch. This was the signal of location. A pause; the clerk pressed the switch twice; for he knew that murder was on the way.

Border lights blinked on the sign that neither The Shadow nor the panhandler were noticing. Then came red centered in corners of green. Channing Rightwood's hand had come from his pocket. It was stretched toward the panhandler. A quarter lay in the open palm.

As the panhandler reached to grip the coin with his left hand, his right came from the pocket of his grimy coat. A hypodermic syringe flashed in the man's fingers. His hand rested above The Shadow's shoulder, ready for the jab.

An ordinary pa.s.ser would not have noted the coming act. The Shadow, however, was waiting for some such gesture. The panhandler had used his left hand for taking the coin. The Shadow knew that the right must be acting also.

Quick as a flash, The Shadow's hand closed over the coin just before the murderer's fingers reached it.

The Shadow's arm swung upward with the power of a rifle-kick. The malletlike fist landed squarely on the panhandler's jaw.

The fellow was lifted clear from his feet. Landing flat on his back, he rolled unconscious as his head struck the solid paving. A laugh ripped from The Shadow's lips. Swinging, The Shadow headed straight for the cigar store.

The clerk saw purpose in this action. Frantically, he pressed the switch a single time to reverse the word that he had sent before. He ducked out through a side door. Still uttering his whispered laugh, The Shadow strode past the store.

Green corners with red centers - again they changed to solid green. The second delivery of death had failed. An unconscious panhandler lay on the paving; a cigar-store clerk was in flight.

THE SHADOW had reached another corner. The big sign was blinking a word. Pausing to play the part of Channing Rightwood, The Shadow waited at the crossing. Another pa.s.ser joined him; together, they began the crossing.

"Look out!"

A big truck was lumbering down upon the two figures that stood in its path. The man beside The Shadow threw out his arm as if to protect his chance companion. At the same instant he leaped forward.

Had the man's action succeeded, The Shadow would have remained within the truck's path - although a stranger would have gained credit for attempting to save him. But The Shadow was ready. His strong grip caught the leaping man's arm. With a forward motion on his own part, The Shadow sent the would-be murderer spinning backward, while he, himself, sprang for the curb ahead.

The truck driver jammed the airbrakes. He, too, was in the game. He had seen the wrong man swing into his path. His action, however, was too late. The minion of crime went hurtling as the fender of the truck propelled him. The huge vehicle shot toward the curb.

People scattered as the truck mashed against a wall. A deluge of falling bricks descended as the truck toppled over on its side and crashed into the street, its driver trapped within.

Blinking borders - corners with red centers - corners that turned green again. Once more the alert watchers within the circle of death had sent a false alarm. The Shadow had turned their own traps againstminions of doom!

The Shadow's course had changed. Boldly, this stranger who feared no danger was touring through the circle. In the middle of a block, a group of workmen shoved a barrier away from a grating. The foreman who had ordered them to do so was at the machine which controlled the electric drills.

He was watching the approach of Channing Rightwood. Eagerly, he had flashed his first signal. So sure was he of success, that he sent the second, just as the tall, stoop-shouldered walker reached the barrier that would force him to the grating.

As the foreman's hand gave the switch the second press, a long arm shot forth. The tall body of The Shadow doubled. Hands caught the would-be murderer. The foreman uttered a choked cry as he was lifted high above the barrier. With a powerful swing, The Shadow hurled the man flat upon the grating.

Dazed, the frustrated murderer clawed at the bars while workmen were dashing to his aid. His fingers encountered the bar at the end of the grating.

A surge of gas came upward. Gasping, the foreman rolled away. Dazed, he clutched the electric machine and pressed the switch. The workmen looked on stupefied as the foreman arose; then gasped and fell.

He had inhaled the noxious gas intended for the victim whom he had failed to snare.

Angry cries came from the workmen as they stared about for the man who had attacked their chief. The tall form of Channing Rightwood had ambled along the street. Another death trap, previously infallible, had been reversed when The Shadow had encountered it!

Excitement reigned within the circle of death. Minions of crime were in confusion. Men were obeying new blinks from the border lights. They were doubling their tracks, wondering as red centers changed back to green.

The doorman at the Hotel Zenith was watching the sign against the sky. So was the sandwich-board man who stood near by. Both wore ugly, puzzled faces as they realized that the quarry might soon be with them.

The Shadow, traps of death sprung uselessly behind him, was nearing the outer limit of the circle of death!

CHAPTER XXIV. THE FINAL ORDER.

FELIX TRESSLER was in a rage. Stamping across the map room in his penthouse, the fiend was voicing his fury in vile epithets while Perry Harton and Logan Mungren stood in glum silence.

Staring from his corner, Joe Cardona had recognized the reason for Tressler's fury. Joe knew that the circle of death was failing. Some amazing stranger had put it to the test which it could not stand.

Single lights had blinked; with them had come extensions of the neon line that marked The Shadow's progress through the zone of doom. Then had come double blinks; these had brought triumphant cries from Tressler's lips. Yet the neon line had kept moving onward. Lights that had blinked twice were followed by single blinks, as reversals of their previous claims.

Every signal that said death was delivered had changed to indicate only that the victim had pa.s.sed unscathed. Meanwhile, the neon light had turned corner after corner. Not content with pa.s.sing safely through the circle, the elusive quarry had picked new spots to conquer!

The neon tubes formed a blazing grille. The Shadow had played hob with Felix Tressler's circle of death.To add to the raging fiend's confusion, new tokens of dismay were coming.

Beneath the big map, red lights glimmered. These were evidently signs of emergency. They meant that trouble had come to minions of the circle. For a moment, Tressler stood with clenching fists while his big brows furrowed. Then, with fierce determination, he spat an order to his lieutenants.

"You, Mungren!" Tressler's command came with a further scowl. "Out to the service elevator. Be ready.

Men will be coming up! You, Harton! Get out on the roof. Look over the edge. Watch for any signs from below. Listen for sounds from the street!"

Fuming, Tressler watched the map. Lights were blinking that had shone before. They were coming with many flashes while red bulbs glimmered beneath. The telephone bell was ringing in Tressler's office. The bulky fiend gave it no attention.

Turning in rage, he happened to spy Joe Cardona. Digging his hand into his pocket, the millionaire yanked out a big revolver.

"You will die, you fool!" stormed Tressler. "You, at least are helpless, even though the circle of death has failed!"

He gestured threateningly with the gun. Then his own words stopped him. Felix Tressler had voiced the truth. The circle of death had failed!

FIERCELY grim, Tressler thrust the revolver back into his pocket. He faced the map. The neon line was creeping toward the rim of the red circle. A single light blinked. It was the one controlled by the doorman at the Hotel Zenith.