The Shadow - The Golden Dog Murders Part 5

"It's a fake!" he snarled.

"What?" Cranston's cry was one of utter surprise.

"That sapphire is a fake! I can't be fooled. Neither can the priests of the temple. You can have this stone, for all I care. Give it away! Throw it in the ash can!"

LAMONT CRANSTON studied Ortega sharply. The man's rage sounded real. Yet The Shadow was convinced that the sapphire the man had so viciously tossed to the floor was genuine. If it were a fake, who could possibly have made so exact an imitation? And why?

Cranston picked up the sapphire.

"Do you have any objection if I take this stone to a jewel expert for appraisal, Mr. Ortega?"

"Do anything you like with it!" Ortega cried.

Cranston glanced at Cardona. Joe nodded.

"Very well," Cranston said, mildly. "I'll return the sapphire later, as soon as I show it to someone whose judgment I know is infallible in matters of this kind. Good day, gentlemen."

The Shadow's goal was the celebrated Fifth Avenue shop of Julius Hankey, the most exclusive jeweler in New York.

As he drove toward Fifth Avenue, a change seemed to pa.s.s over Lamont Cranston's face. His glance had lifted to the rear-vision mirror of his car. A sibilant laugh sounded from his lips.

The Shadow was being trailed by another car!

He proved it by changing his route. The car in the rear hung on. It was a black sedan, but the car was too far back to tell much about the driver. Yetthe eyes of The Shadow were keen enough to make an interesting discovery.

The man trailing him was a foreigner. His dark, swarthy face, partly hidden by the visor of a low-drawn cap, proclaimed him to The Shadow as the same breed as Ortega. An Oriental!

His method of trailing The Shadow was peculiar. As soon as Cranston turned into Fifth Avenue, the pursuing sedan dropped farther and farther back. A press of traffic hid it. When The Shadow looked back again, the strange car was gone.

There was no sign of it when Lamont Cranston entered the ornate establishment of Julius Hankey.

CRANSTON was well known here. Clerks fawned on the smiling millionaire.

In a few moments, he was conducted to the luxurious private office of Hankey. The two were old friends. Cranston explained the confidential nature of his visit and Hankey nodded.

Calmly, he gave his word to keep Cranston's business a secret.

But Hankey's calmness fled when he saw the sapphire. His eyes glowed with the delight of a connoisseur. He held it lovingly to the light. His voice was a purring whisper.

"Genuine! No doubt of it."

Cranston frowned.

"That's queer. Another expert has p.r.o.nounced that gem to be a fake."

"Impossible!" Hankey cried. "There are no other jewels like it in the world. They come from a mine in India that is no longer in existence. No one could possibly manufacture a synthetic sapphire with that smear of blood in the heart of the stone. Chemists have tried vainly to do it for years."

His sigh was tremulous. He handed back the gem as if he hated to let go of it.

"YOU can a.s.sure Inspector Cardona that this gorgeous sapphire came from the Necklace of Purity in India. Whoever told you differently is a fool or a liar."

He glanced suddenly toward the closed door of his office. Fear came into his low-toned voice.

"If I were you, Mr. Cranston, I'd get rid of this in a hurry. I know too much about jewels to laugh at so-called pagan superst.i.tion. That sapphire is a deadly thing. It killed Peter Randolph. It will kill you, if you're not careful! Get rid of it to the police. And please don't tell anyone that you brought it here or that I handled it."

Cranston was amazed at the terror in Hankey's eyes. This civilized man of the world, sitting in his modern office in the heart of Manhattan, was afraid of the ghostly vengeance of a lifeless statue of gold in faraway India!

The eyes of The Shadow had a penetrating gleam as he stepped out into the sunshine of Fifth Avenue. He sensed impending peril - the chill odor of death!

CHAPTER VII.

DOUBLE DOOM.

THE SHADOW saw no trace of the dark-skinned Oriental who had attempted to trail him to the jewelry establishment of Julius Hankey. Nor was there anysign of the black sedan.

Satisfied, The Shadow climbed into Cranston's car. He had promised to return the blood sapphire to Joe Cardona as soon as possible. He drove down Fifth Avenue for the return trip to police headquarters.

The red glare of a traffic light halted Cranston's car. He waited at the intersection, his mind centered on the problem of the stone that had been found in Peter Randolph's dead hand, whether or not it was genuine.

Suddenly, Cranston's body became rigidly alert. His gaze focused on the blur of cross traffic. One of those speeding vehicles was veering peculiarly.

It was an armored truck. As it crossed the avenue, the driver spun his wheel. The truck's speed increased. It roared straight toward the light car in which The Shadow was seated!

But Cranston had received a lightning warning of danger in the scant second that had preceded the spin of the armored truck's wheel. He had seen the face of the driver. It was the same dark-skinned rogue who had trailed him to Hankey's jewelry store!

With a grinding crash that was audible for blocks, the heavy armored truck struck the light car with the force of a juggernaut.

Cranston's coupe was smashed between the armored truck and the metal electric-light pole on the corner. Its engine was driven backward, ripping the seat of the car to twisted chaos.

Quick thinking was all that saved The Shadow's life. He had wrenched open the far door and was poised above the running board when the armored truck struck. The crash hurled him headlong, like a projectile from a gun. He had landed on chest and stomach, sprawling on the gla.s.s-littered sidewalk with a force that drove the breath from his lungs.

As he rolled sideways, he saw the driver of the armored truck leap to the pavement and flee toward the curb of the side street. The dark-skinned killer had gambled on the heaviness of the armored truck to protect himself from serious injury. He had won his grim gamble.

But he was badly shaken by the concussion, for he limped as he ran.

A taxicab was waiting at the curb of the side street. It was evidently there by prearrangement. The dark-skinned man threw himself inside. The taxi driver stepped on his gas pedal and the cab raced up the street with a shriek of accelerating power.

The desperate getaway was made almost before the noise of the crash had ceased.

By the time Cranston had staggered to his feet, the cab was gone. A huge crowd gathered about Cranston's wrecked coupe; hands reached out to help him.

A policeman came running, his face a grim scowl. At sight of the dust-smeared victim, his face changed from a scowl to a respectful smile. He recognized this tall, aristocratic gentleman from the many times his picture had been in the papers.

"Mr. Cranston! Are you all right, sir? Are you hurt?"

"I think you had better have a look at that armored truck," Cranston murmured, evenly. "I have an idea that it was stolen."

The cop's eyes narrowed. He stared at the armored car's license plate, then he whipped a notebook from his pocket. He gasped as he scanned it.

"You're right! The truck was stolen a half hour ago. Did you get a look at the man who drove it?"

Cranston smiled. "No," he said.

He answered a few routine questions. When the policeman had finished, Cranston reached inside the crumpled wreck of his car and drew something outward through its shattered rear window. It was a small leather briefcase.

Holding it tightly, The Shadow pushed his way through the crowd. His calm eyes seemed to pay no attention to the staring faces. But one of them grimly interested him. He knew he was under observation by a criminal pal of the man who had tried to kill him! This second man had the same dark, swarthy features of the armored-truck driver.

Cranston hurried westward, walking at a quick stride, as though anxious to get away from the curious crowd. Not once did he look back. But as he turned the corner at Sixth Avenue, he made coolly certain that his precaution was justified. The dark-skinned loiterer was following him.

Cranston slowed his pace. A block southward, he turned again into a side street. His trailer didn't try to shorten the distance between them.

Evidently, the fellow was waiting for a favorable opportunity to attack Cranston.

The Shadow knew why. The baleful gem in his pocket was still exercising its evil charm. Julius Hankey's fear was justified. The blood sapphire was a strange magnet of death!

THE SHADOW uttered a sibilant laugh. Deliberately, he acted to make an attack seem easier for his foe. He headed toward a neighborhood of mean tenements.

As he approached a tenement doorway, he glanced purposely backward. Then he broke into a brisk trot. He wanted the man behind him to think that he was at last aware of pursuit. He also wanted the mysterious trailer to think that he was desperately frightened.

He succeeded in both purposes. As he sped for the tenement doorway, his pursuer began to run. Cranston darted out of sight into the old hallway.

Quickly, he zipped open the briefcase.

The face of the dark-skinned man glowed with triumph as he darted toward the tenement entrance. There were few people in the street. None had noticed the quick chase. A knife jerked from beneath the killer's coat, as he darted into the dimly lighted hallway.

One pantherish leap was all that he took. A cry came from his startled.

throat. He swayed backward on his heels in stark surprise.

He was facing a strange being in black. All he could see clearly was a long beaked nose, and eyes whose burn pierced through and through. A slouch hat dipped low over a broad forehead. A black cloak made the figure seem part of the darkness of the hallway.

Quiet laughter mocked the startled killer. Then, from his lips came a cry of recognition: "The Shadow!"

With a sudden bound, he leaped murderously forward. His knife plunged toward The Shadow's heart.

It did not reach its goal. The Shadow had profited by the killer's moment of hesitation; he was ready. A sinewy hand closed over the wrist that held the knife.

The killer gurgled an oath. He redoubled his efforts to plunge the blade into The Shadow's straining body. The Shadow forced hand and knife in a slow but steady arc behind the killer's back.

Suddenly, the killer screamed. The shriek was followed by a sharp crack.

His arm dropped uselessly. The Shadow had broken it.

Bending swiftly, The Shadow seized the knife while his opponent writhed in agony on the floor. He began to search the pockets of the dark-skinned thug.

But his search was cut suddenly short. The noise of the fight and the yell from the crook had brought attention to this tenement hallway. A woman was screaming from a window of the ground-floor apartment. A man's face peered into the entrance way. At sight of the robed figure of The Shadow, he whirled, yelled in terror.

"Help! Police! Murder!"

As The Shadow straightened above his sprawled opponent, he heard the running echo of heavy brogans. A cop was racing along the sidewalk; he turned into the tenement.

The Shadow whirled on catlike feet. His retreat was noiseless. In a moment, he had glided down the dim hallway and was slipping through a door at the rear. The Shadow leaped down a short flight of wooden steps to a paved courtyard.

He raced to a board fence and swung himself upward. As he did so, the blue-clad figure of the panting cop showed at the head of the wooden steps. A gun glittered in his hand. He fired at the dark figure atop the fence.

The bullet splintered a board under The Shadow's hand. The next instant, he was over the fence and racing through another cellar. He sped through a side door and into an alley. The alley led to a rear street.

Sixty seconds after The Shadow had reached the street, the cop came pounding into view. He saw no trace of a black-cloaked fugitive. Instead, he came face to face with a neatly dressed gentleman who looked as if he might be a prosperous lawyer. A leather briefcase was in his hand. Lamont Cranston's other hand rested casually on the door handle of a parked automobile. He gave an excellent imitation of surprise and bewilderment.

"What - what is wrong, officer? Who was that fellow in the black cloak?"

"Did you see him? Where did he go? Quick! He nearly killed a guy back there in a hallway!"

"He started to run from that alley," Lamont Cranston gasped. "Then he saw me. He ducked back. He disappeared into the cellar doorway on the left of the alley."

The breathless cop whirled. He dashed back the way he had come, dived out of sight through the doorway that Lamont Cranston had pointed out.

Cranston didn't linger to see more. He walked slowly away, increasing his pace gradually. Two blocks away, he hailed a taxicab. Halfway downtown, he left it and took another. He smiled grimly as his glance dropped toward the briefcase in his hand. For that flexible leather container held The Shadow's black cloak and slouch hat.

The Shadow was on his way to his sanctum.

DARKNESS filled the confines of an unknown room. Then a sibilant laugh echoed softly. A blue droplight glowed. It revealed a beaked nose and burning eyes above the sheen of a polished desk. Tapering fingers drew a sheet of paper across the desk. A curious, quill-tipped pen began to move over the blank sheet of paper.

The Shadow realized the sinister purpose behind those two swift attacks on the life of Lamont Cranston. Someone with a shrewd, criminal mind was aware that Lamont Cranston was carrying on his person a blood sapphire. A ruthless criminal had wanted that ill-fated stone to be found on Cranston's dead body. It would have convinced an already hysterical public that to possess a blood sapphire was to meet a horrible death.

Who was the unknown master criminal behind this fake supernaturalcampaign?

The Shadow's pen inscribed six names on the blank sheet of paper before him. They made a curious six-sided figure that looked oddly like a rough approximation of a cut sapphire.

Sam Baron - Cliff Marsland David Frick - Harry Vincent Ramon Ortega - Lamont Cranston The geometric meaning of this strange name pattern was clear to The Shadow. Marsland, planted in Sam Baron's gang, was covering one angle of the mystery. Harry Vincent had already had a desperate brush with the gray-faced scoundrel who called himself David Frick. Lamont Cranston had personal contact with the suave Senor Ortega.

Slowly, the inked names on the paper faded. It left the sheet as blank as though nothing had ever been written on it.

Again, the slender quill pen moved in the sure, steady fingers of The Shadow. He wrote two more names: Rodney Mason - Isabel Pyne These latter two were the unwitting victims of an unknown supercriminal.

Was it someone whose name was already inscribed in the geometric pattern that had faded from the paper?

The Shadow's grim laughter ceased as a tiny white dot of light glowed on the wall. Tapering fingers slid headphones over The Shadow's forehead. He listened to a calm, faraway voice on the wire.

"Burbank speaking."

"Report!"