The Red Menace s-4

by Maxwell Grant

  WHO was this man who had followed Stanley Berger? Would he return to the theater to take up the trail

  again?

  Harry could see the man's swarthy face—an ugly, frowning face. But he could not make out the features

  of the man's companion. The other individual had his back toward Harry.

  Looking about him, Harry studied the other persons in the room.

  The women who were with companions were talking loudly. They were evidently the associates of

  gangsters and racketeers.

  There was one woman who sat alone. She was on the opposite side of the room, at a small table.

  A bottle and a glass stood in front of her, but like Harry, she was not drinking. Her quietness of manner

  impressed Harry Vincent. Her head was slightly turned, so he could not well see her face, yet her general

  appearance was most attractive.

  She seemed young, and Harry wondered what had brought her to this notorious den.

  In studying the girl, Harry forgot all about the man whom he was following. Unconsciously he kept staring

  across the room, his eyes fixed upon the woman.

  She was well dressed; and blond, bobbed hair showed beneath the small black hat that she wore.

  As though suddenly conscious of Harry's gaze, the girl turned her face toward him. Harry could not

  repress a gasp of astonishment.

  The girl was indeed young, and her features possessed beauty and charm. Her complexion was light and

  even in the dimness, Harry could tell that her eyes were blue.

  The girl looked at Harry Vincent. Her eyes moved slightly as she appeared to study him with a keen

  glance. Harry was fascinated.

  He still continued to stare, wondering more than before why this amazing creature should have come,

  unattended, to such a place as the Pink Rat.

  Admiration must have expressed itself in Harry's glance, for the girl's eyes met his, and she smiled slightly.

  Harry was gripped by a strange emotion.

  Women had not interested him for many months. Before he had met The Shadow, Harry had been in

  love; but the girl whom he adored had married another man. Since then he had been woman-proof.

  But now—the quickened beating of his heart told him that he had found a new love.

  The girl's eyes interested Harry. They held an expression that encouraged him. Somehow, he knew that

  his interest was reciprocated.

  He felt that the girl was wondering why he was here—just as he had wondered why she had come to this

  place. They had something in common. Each seemed to know instinctively that the other was not a

  person of the underworld.

  The girl turned away suddenly. She opened a hand bag, and began to look for something. She did not

  appear to be embarrassed, but Harry realized that she had sought to escape his fixed gaze.

  He looked toward the corner of the room where the two men were engaged in conversation. But a

  moment later, he glanced back toward the girl, and smiled to himself. For he had detected her watching

  him from the corner of her eye.

  Harry was hesitating between duty and desire. He had a mission here - to watch the man who had

  followed Stanley Berger. But he felt an irrepressible longing to meet the blond girl; to talk with her; to

  learn her name.

  He kept his eyes fixed upon the men in the corner; but his thoughts were centered upon the young

  woman.

  HARRY regained his alertness with a sudden start. The man in the corner had risen. Apparently he was

  about to leave the Pink Rat.

  No; he was shaking hands with his companion. It was the other who was leaving.

  Harry caught a glimpse of the second man's face, as the fellow left the place. The man looked like a

  gangster—hardened features, shrewd eyes, and a firm, unflinching stare.

  The man whom Harry had followed now strolled across the room, and took a seat at a table directly in

  front of Harry. A man and a woman were at the table. They greeted the newcomer.

  "Hello, Volovick."

  Harry made a mental note of the name. He listened closely, hoping to catch some words of conversation.

  At first the talk was fairly audible, but of no consequence. Volovick spoke with a foreign accent.

  Then his words became low, and Harry could not understand them. He strained his ears intently.

  Just as he seemed about to catch a few remarks, Volovick's voice became a little louder, but now he was

  talking in some unknown language.

  Harry Vincent was no linguist. He could not even decide what tongue was being spoken. Suddenly

  Volovick's voice became low again; he drew a watch from his pocket, and leaning shrewdly forward,

  tapped his finger against the dial.

  Evidently he was setting some time for an appointment. Harry was not sure.

  Volovick leaned back in his chair. He replaced his watch in his pocket. Harry realized that he was

  displaying too much interest in the conversation. He relaxed also, and, inspired by a sudden recollection,

  glanced across the room toward the girl.

  She had one elbow upon the table. Her small, slender hand rested against her cheek.

  The girl caught Harry's glance. Her eyes were directly upon him. Her lips moved, forming a slow, distinct

  sentence. Harry did not catch the meaning. The girl repeated her silent words.

  "Look in back."

  The significance was fully evident now. A tense look appeared upon the girl's face. She seemed to

  express worry and alarm. Harry knew instinctively that danger threatened.

  With a quick swing, he gained his feet, turning toward the rear. He was just in time.

  Two men had been sitting behind him. One had risen and was coming toward Harry. The man's hand

  was moving from beneath his coat; Harry caught the gleam of a knife.

  At that instant the lights were extinguished.

  THE mind thinks rapidly in a moment of great danger. In the fraction of a second, the whole story was

  clear to Harry. While he had been watching Volovick, the man in back of him had prepared for the

  attack.

  Another person had been stationed at the light switch. Both had acted simultaneously. One quick

  stab—and Harry Vincent would have been the victim.

  This realization came to Harry while he swung into action. Fortunately, he had seen the man who was

  approaching him. He swung instinctively in the darkness.

  His blow was calculated to perfection. His fist encountered a face; there was a snarling gasp, and Harry

  heard the man crash to the floor.

  Harry moved toward the center of the room. The door of the Pink Rat was straight ahead; but he

  realized that flight would be folly. Doubtless some one was stationed outside.

  Harry stumbled against a bench, and held it with his hands.

  Loud shouts echoed through the room. One woman was screaming.

  Harry gripped the bench tensely, wondering what would happen next. He had only a moment to wait.

  A flashlight was turned on at the table where Volovick was sitting. Its glare was directed toward the spot

  where Harry had been. Then it swung out across the room, and stopped, focused directly upon Harry.

  Harry had turned toward the light; now he was staring straight into the blinding spot.

  "There he is! Get him!"

  The cry came from Volovick.

  Lifting the bench, Harry flung it directly at the flashlight. At the same instant, two shots rang out.

  As the bench left his grasp, Harry felt a stinging sensation in his left arm, above the elbow. He gripped the

  spot with his right hand.

&
nbsp; The bench which he had flung found its mark. Volovick must have raised an arm to ward it off; but it was

  coming with terrific force. Harry heard the crash, as a table was overturned. Glasses broke.

  The flashlight fell upon the floor, its gleam turned uselessly toward the rear wall.

  Harry swayed as he gripped his wounded arm. Then a light hand was pressed against his right shoulder.

  As he was about to swing away, a soft, feminine whisper stayed him.

  "Come with me. Quickly."

  HARRY extended his right hand, and his wrist was grasped by a soft hand. Following the one who

  conducted him, Harry was drawn directly toward the table where the girl had been seated.

  He could see nothing in the darkness; he caught himself as he stumbled against a bench. Then the hand

  left his wrist, and pressed against his shoulder.

  He was pushed against the wall, and to his surprise it yielded. Harry was forced into a small

  compartment. A portion of the wall had turned on a pivot!

  The girl was still with him. Her presence was soothing. Harry felt a solid wall beyond, and leaned there.

  "You are wounded?"

  The soft voice was genteel—no longer a whisper. It was quiet here in the secret room; the noise from the

  den outside seemed far away.

  "Yes," replied Harry.

  "Where?"

  "Left arm. Above the elbow."

  Harry's coat was gently eased from his shoulders. He twinged slightly as his left sleeve was slipped from

  his arm. Then his shirt sleeve was drawn back, and he felt the pressure of a handkerchief as it was bound

  about his muscle.

  The makeshift bandage seemed to ease the pain.

  "It's only a flesh wound," whispered Harry hoarsely. "I'll be all right. But tell me"—he seemed to forget

  that he was still in great danger—"who are you?"

  "Sh-h!" The girl's hand was placed upon his cheek, and a finger pressed against his lips, The touch

  seemed caressing. "Ask no questions, now. Later— perhaps."

  He could visualize the girl's lips, as they whispered, close to his ear.

  "I must go. Wait here. Make no noise. Do not leave until I return."

  The hand left his face. Harry stood motionless for a moment. Then he reached toward the girl. He

  wanted to hold her in his arms. He did not want her to leave.

  But his hands encountered nothingness. As he moved forward, Harry reached the section of moving wall

  through which they had come.

  It was solid now, some secret spring had locked it noiselessly. He was alone—a prisoner—in the

  pitch-dark compartment.

  The mysterious girl had gone!

  CHAPTER VIII. ANOTHER VISITOR

  STANLEY BERGER finished his laborious writing. Before him lay two sheets of paper, filled with

  carefully inscribed words. The young man's eyes did not see what he had written; they were upon the

  final word of his message.

  Then he looked at the blank space at the bottom of the second page. His fixed stare saw something

  there—a spot of deep crimson that seemed to hold limitless depths.

  It was the vision of The Shadow's fire opal, which still impressed Berger's dominated mind.

  The young man sighed in relief as he affixed his signature below the message. He folded the two sheets of

  paper, and placed them in the envelope which he had addressed.

  The envelope was stamped. Berger sealed it, and arose slowly from his chair.

  It was all like a dream to Stanley Berger. His mind had been feverish and excited from the remembrance

  of the crime which he had committed.

  The shock that had resulted from his meeting with the man in black; the soothing words that had been

  spoken to him; the mystic glow of the large fire opal—all these had caused his brain to yield. He had

  reached a hypnotic state, and was carrying out the suggestions that had been given to him.

  Berger walked slowly toward the door of his apartment. There was a mail chute in the hall. That was his

  destination. The letter seemed to burn his hand. Until it was safely on its way, he could feel no relief.

  He opened the door; then stood stock-still. His path was blocked by a dark-clad figure, a form which

  Stanley Berger scarcely saw, yet could not pass.

  The man who barred his way wore a red mask over his face. He extended two hands that were clad with

  thin red gloves. Slowly, but firmly, he pushed Stanley Berger back into the apartment.

  The young man spoke, as though dreaming. His voice was thoughtful, and mechanical.

  "I must mail this letter."

  The man with the red mask looked keenly toward him. A red-gloved hand took the envelope from

  Berger's grasp.

  "I shall mail the letter."

  The masked man placed the envelope in his pocket as he spoke. Then he touched Berger's forehead with

  the fingers of one crimson glove. The pressure of his hand turned the young man's head from side to side.

  "Wake up!"

  With these words, the masked man struck Berger's forehead with his knuckles. Berger shook his head,

  and blinked his eyes. He gazed about him, in bewilderment; then stared at the man who stood before

  him.

  "The Red Envoy!" he exclaimed.

  The masked man nodded, and pointed to the chair by the table.

  "Sit down," he commanded.

  THE Red Envoy stood before him, his gloved hands resting upon the edge of the table. He seemed to be

  awaiting a statement.

  "Why have you come to see me?" questioned Berger.

  "To learn your story," said the Red Envoy quietly. His voice was firm and deliberate. It carried no threat,

  yet Stanley Berger shuddered.

  "I killed Graham," said Berger moodily. "I killed him. I was afraid he would find out that I had taken his

  letters. I received the white card. I thought that my work was finished.

  "I did not expect you to come here. I—I thought that none of us could see the Red Envoy."

  "Your case is unusual," replied the masked man. "You acted effectively, but hastily. You are not

  suspected. But sometimes minds crack under imaginary strain."

  "I have been worried," admitted Berger.

  "I thought so," replied the Red Envoy. "I learned that you were going to the theater to-night. When a man

  seeks entertainment, alone, he is often trying to forget something. So I came here, to await your return.

  "Why did you leave the theater early?"

  "I was worried," said Berger. "I came away after the first act."

  "After the first act?" There was a sharpness in the Red Envoy's question. "Where have you been since?"

  "Here."

  "You came directly here?"

  "Yes."

  "How long have you been here, then?"

  "Only a few minutes."

  Glancing toward his visitor, Stanley Berger saw a thin, faint smile appear upon the lips beneath the mask.

  "What time do you think it is?"

  "Nearly ten o'clock," was Berger's reply to the question.

  "It is after eleven," said the Red Envoy quietly.

  Stanley Berger ran his hand through his hair.

  "Perhaps I have been dozing," he said doubtfully. "It seems as though I have been dreaming."

  "What have you dreamed?"

  "I can't remember." Berger closed his eyes thoughtfully. "Perhaps I imagined it—a man, all in black, who

  spoke to me. He seemed like— like a shadow. He came from there!"

  Opening his eyes, Stanley Berger pointed to the dark spot beside the bookcase.

  Moving across the room, the Red Envoy pressed the wall switch, to give more illumination than tha
t

  provided by the table lamp. Berger blinked in the brightness.

  "A man in black," he murmured.

  "What did he say to you?"

  "I can't remember. I was afraid of him, at first. Then his words seemed to quiet me.

  "I remember a spot of deep red light—like a strange glowing gem" - Berger closed his eyes—"I can see

  it now. It shines like the embers of a fire."

  "What did you do then?"

  Berger reopened his eyes.

  "It seems as though I wrote a letter," he said. "I don't remember what I wrote. I did it very slowly. It was

  important.

  "Then I went to mail it"—he rubbed his forehead doubtfully—"I think I mailed it. I must have done so.

  No! I gave it to some one to mail for me!"

  "To whom did you address the letter?"

  "I don't know."

  The Red Envoy drew the envelope from his pocket. He read the address aloud.

  "Harry Vincent, Metrolite Hotel," he repeated. "Was that the man to whom you sent the letter?"

  "Yes," exclaimed Berger. "I had forgotten. I remember now."

  "Who is Harry Vincent?"

  "I don't know."

  "You are sure?"

  "Positive. I never heard of him before. I don't know why I should have written him a letter."

  The Red Envoy opened the envelope. He scanned the two pages, while Berger sat at the table, thinking.

  "Is this your writing?"

  Berger took the letter in response to the question. He nodded in acknowledgment.

  "Read it," said the Red Envoy. "You wrote it. You signed it. Read it."

  BERGER'S eyes ran along the carefully written lines. Before he had reached the end of the first page, his

  hands were shaking and his lips were twitching.

  As he looked at the second page, and saw the signature at the bottom, he flung the letter to the floor,

  with a gasp of terror. Placing his hands to his forehead, he moaned in anguish.

  "You have told everything," said the Red Envoy quietly.

  "Why did I do it?" questioned Berger pleadingly. "Tell me why. I must be insane!"

  "Some one has worked upon your mind," replied the Red Envoy. "You have betrayed yourself. More

  than that: you have betrayed our cause."

  Stanley Berger became suddenly rigid; his eyes stared ahead. He clenched his fists.