The Red Menace s-4

by Maxwell Grant

was poised above.

  THE SHADOW was listening. His keen ears had caught a slight sound. His left hand moved beneath his

  cloak. Then it reappeared, and held a peculiar position, the fingers slightly apart. The right hand skillfully

  removed the watch from the chain, and laid it on the desk.

  The Shadow stepped back, his eyes still intent upon the professor. He turned toward the door, and as he

  did, the door swung inward noiselessly.

  A man stood there; a man whose face was obscured by a crimson mask. His hands wore red gloves; and

  one of them held a leveled automatic.

  "Hands up!" came the command from the door.

  The Shadow slowly raised his arms. He had apparently been caught unawares. The eyes beneath the

  mask were watching the figure in black; but they also seemed to look beyond; for they saw the opened

  molding of the bookcase.

  "Do you know me?" questioned the masked man, in a harsh, sarcastic voice.

  The Shadow did not reply.

  "I am the Red Envoy," said the man with the crimson mask. "You did not expect me."

  Still no reply.

  "So you are The Shadow?" The Red Envoy's tones carried bitter irony. "The Shadow—whose identity

  no one knows. I see that you have aided me.

  "One of my agents told me to-night that he suspected the bookcase as the hiding place of Professor

  Whitburn's papers; but he had not located the exact spot. I must thank you for your work."

  The masked man inclined his head in a short, quick bow. Still The Shadow was silent and unmoving, both

  his hands raised, slightly forward.

  "A key is needed," said the Red Envoy. "Where is it?" Receiving no reply, he added:

  "Come. You would not have it said that The Shadow failed in his last experiment in master detection,

  would you?

  "You have done half the work; finish the rest. For this"—the harsh voice spoke slowly and

  emphatically—"this is the last work you will ever do."

  The figure in the black cloak maintained its fixed position. It seemed to sway slightly, and the Red Envoy

  moved closer. His eyes were watching from beneath the crimson mask.

  He knew that The Shadow was noted for his ability to dodge away from gunfire. But the range was

  short, now; there could be no escape.

  "Ah!" The Red Envoy's tone was one of triumph. "I see I have underestimated your ability. The

  professor's watch is on the table. You placed it there. You have not yet opened it. Very well, I shall do

  that later.

  "I know where the key is, now: between the back of the watch and an inner surface! Excellent. That

  enables me to do my work more quickly. A thin, flat key, within the watch."

  The Red Envoy was now gazing directly at The Shadow. He spoke again, and there was a note of finality

  in his voice.

  "I do not know your purpose," he said, "but it conflicts with mine. Therefore I intend to kill you. After I

  do so, I may take the trouble to learn who you are. But I may mention that I already have a very good

  idea of your identity.

  "But before you die, let me inform you that I have detected the presence of your influence in many ways.

  I have looked forward to this meeting with you. I have also made excellent arrangements for just such a

  time.

  "I expected that you would be here. My agents prepared for it. I myself have found time to accomplish

  several things before you came here.

  "Your accomplice, Harry Vincent, was in the way. He interfered, and I deal quickly with those who seek

  to put themselves in my way.

  "Beneath the cellar of this building is a room known as the submarine chamber. It is barred by a steel

  door, that opens with a combination. The only man living who knows that combination is Professor

  Whitburn, who lies there unconscious.

  "Your friend—Harry Vincent—is in the submarine chamber. He has pleasant companionship in the

  person of a young lady who was formerly one of my agents, but who came here to warn him against me.

  I do not deal kindly with those who prove false to me.

  "No power alive can save them; for water is pouring in upon them. They will live thirty minutes longer,

  perhaps."

  THE Red Envoy stopped abruptly. He was close to The Shadow now— not more than four feet away.

  The man in the black cloak had slumped; he seemed shorter than before. His upraised arms were

  drooping. His fingers were slowly closing.

  "They will live thirty minutes longer," said the Red Envoy. His words became very slow and distinct. "But

  they will outlive The Shadow by just thirty min -"

  The left hand of The Shadow made a movement; the thumb and third finger snapped together. There was

  a flash of flame, and a sharp explosion, like a pistol shot, directly in front of the Red Envoy's eyes.

  The man staggered back, and threw his left arm across his face. Like Prokop, he had been momentarily

  stunned by the unexpected burst of flame.

  (Note: When he recounted this portion of his chronicle, The Shadow raised his hand, snapped his fingers,

  and produced the very effect that I have described.

  He informed me that it was an astonishing trick, known as "The Devil's Whisper," produced by the

  instantaneous action of two chemical compounds—one on the thumb; the other on the finger. The

  Shadow stated that he had improved the experiment, so that he was able to produce a most startling

  effect.

  I have access to the chemical formula that will cause this amazing result; but I have refrained from

  publishing it because of its danger.

  An inexperienced person runs great chance of serious injury when attempting this experiment.—Maxwell

  Grant.)

  The crimson mask served as a partial protection against the blinding flare. The Red Envoy caught himself,

  as he encountered the edge of the desk, and promptly fired two shots at the spot where The Shadow had

  been.

  But the man in black was no longer there. He had started toward the door as his opponent pressed the

  trigger.

  Wheeling, the Red Envoy discharged two more bullets in the direction of the departing Shadow. But his

  eyes blinked beneath the red mask and the shots went wild.

  The masked man closed the door of the study, and turned the key. Then he chuckled triumphantly. He

  knew where to find The Shadow, if he wanted him; and the man in black had gone to attempt the rescue

  of those who were in the submarine chamber.

  It would be a futile attempt; yet it gave the Red Envoy the very opportunity he required. He had come to

  find the plans; they were now within his reach.

  He had foiled The Shadow, even though that remarkable man had made a miraculous escape from

  certain death.

  Working quickly, the Red Envoy pried open the back of the professor's watch. He found the key, and

  unlocked the drawer. Reaching within, he seized a large envelope that lay there.

  One minute later, the only person in the study was Professor Whitburn. The old professor still reclined in

  his chair, with the semblance of death upon his features.

  CHAPTER XXIX. IN THE SUBMARINE CHAMBER

  THE water had risen in the submarine chamber. Arlette had dragged Harry from the floor, and had laid

  him against the steps that led up to the steel door.

  Harry Vincent opened his eyes, and gazed about him. His senses slowly came back; little by little he

  realized the danger of the situation.

  The water, already four feet deep, was still
rising. It had reached the base of the high-set machine which

  Professor Whitburn had designed as a torpedo tube.

  Arlette was momentarily elated at Harry's recovery. Then the hopelessness of the situation impressed

  itself upon her; and she broke down utterly.

  She collapsed, limp and helpless, upon the stone steps. The flashlight rolled toward the rising water.

  Harry caught it just in time.

  Harry watched the water pour in; he tried to estimate how long it would be before the room was entirely

  submerged. He had been half unconscious for several minutes. He had no way of judging the time.

  A sound came from above. Harry groped toward the door. He was sure that he heard some one tapping.

  He listened. Single taps came at intervals. Harry tapped in return.

  A quick, short message arrived in telegraphic code: "Hold out. Am working on lock."

  Harry replied: "The water is rising. Hurry."

  He did not know who his intended rescuer might be. It seemed improbable that Marquette could have

  returned. Possibly Professor Whitburn had discovered the situation.

  He waited, and heard slight clicks from the other side of the door. He looked toward Arlette. The girl lay

  exhausted, her eyes closed.

  Harry tapped: "Must save girl here with me."

  There was no reply. Then a sudden thought occurred to Harry. He tapped another message:

  "Water coming through open sluices. They were opened after door closed. Must be controlled outside of

  this room.

  The clicking sounds ended abruptly. Harry's last piece of information had evidently given the rescuer an

  idea.

  "Will seek sluice control," came the message. "You can save girl."

  THE final statement dumfounded Harry. How could he save Arlette? They were both prisoners here; if

  one could be rescued why not the other? He must discover what was meant. He quickly tapped back a

  single word:

  "How?"

  The response was immediate.

  "Through tube."

  The meaning dawned on Harry. This was the room from which Marquette had shot the torpedoes!

  Would it be possible to send a human being the same way?

  Harry remembered that there was an underground channel that led to the lake. It must be a hundred

  yards in length. Such a trip under water would be impossible.

  He turned his lamp toward the torpedo tube. He saw one of the torpedoes standing by the wall. Part of it

  still extended from the water.

  Harry descended the steps, and found that the water nearly reached his armpits. He walked to where the

  torpedo stood, and managed to hoist it into the carriage that stood in front of the tube.

  He unscrewed the metal end of the torpedo. It was hollow, and contained ample room for a person.

  There were no wing attachments to the shell; evidently those were put on when the experiments were

  made.

  How long could a person live, within that container? Not long, Harry thought. At the same time, one

  could not live long in this submerged chamber.

  Then he noted a peculiarity in the cap of the experimental torpedo. It had slots, which were backed with

  metal strips that could be moved away.

  Harry did not know the exact purpose of these; they probably had to do with some invention planned by

  Professor Whitburn; but they would solve the problem that was now involved.

  Harry seemed to have gained new strength. He lifted Arlette, resting her on his good arm, and carried her

  to the torpedo tube. She did not realize what he was about until he had slipped her into the shell. Then

  she gazed at him in bewilderment.

  "What—what are you doing?" she asked.

  Harry smiled reassuringly. He was shoulder-deep in water now. The high-set tube was just barely free of

  the rising flood.

  "Sending you to safety," he replied. He lifted the cap of the torpedo. "Do you see these movable metal

  pieces in the cap?"

  "Yes," replied Arlette.

  "Wait until the torpedo is floating steadily," said Harry. "Then open the one that is above you. It will let in

  air."

  "But Harry!" exclaimed Arlette, as she began to understand. "I can't leave you here -"

  Harry had expected to hear her say that. He smiled grimly, as he was about to lower the cap of the

  torpedo.

  "I'll be along later," he said.

  He closed the cap, and shoved the torpedo into the tube. During the past two days, he had been studying

  the projection of torpedoes from submarines, from textbooks which the professor had marked for him.

  He recognized the mechanism of this tube.

  Harry hung close to the wall and gripped the apparatus. He released the torpedo; it was discharged from

  the tube.

  Arlette was off on her journey!

  HARRY was forced to swim as he made his way back to the steps. By standing on the uppermost place,

  he could last a little longer.

  He watched the gaining flood, as it seemed to swirl upward. He was in the highest possible position; yet it

  was coming almost to his shoulders.

  He knew that he must meet death alone; but he was willing. He had saved Arlette.

  It was impossible for him to leave by the same route. He could not have entered a torpedo and also have

  discharged it. So he must die alone—here beneath the surface of Death Island—unless—unless—

  The water was up to his neck. He could see it swirl on the level with his eyes. It still continued to swirl,

  but it rose no more.

  There was a clicking behind him. Some one was again working at the steel door. Harry tried to tap a

  message, but his hands were numb, and his efforts were feeble.

  "Hold on -"

  The reply was encouraging, yet time seemed endless. Harry knew now that the water was no longer

  rising. His rescuer had found the hidden switch that controlled the sluices.

  It must have been a long, heart-rending search. Stokes had probably fixed that secret control

  somewhere—arranged it so that he could drown any who were trapped within this den of death.

  The steel door swung open. A flashlight gleamed into the dark chamber. A black form stooped quickly,

  and a powerful hand seized Harry Vincent as he was about to topple into the flood beneath.

  WHEN Harry opened his eyes, he found himself lying in the bed of his room on the second floor. Two

  persons were beside him. One was Vic Marquette; the other was Arlette DeLand.

  "Arlette," said Harry feebly. "Tell me -"

  "The torpedo floated to the shore," explained Arlette. "I managed to open the cap and get out. Then this

  man, Mr. -" she looked at Vic Marquette.

  "Crawford's my name," said Marquette calmly. "Those scoundrels rode me all over the lake, Vincent.

  Then they ditched the motor boat at Harvey's Wharf.

  "By that time I knew where I was; and I figured they knew that I was with them. I popped out on them,

  before they had a chance to plug me under the sacks. They were on the wharf; but they skipped before I

  had a chance to shoot at them."

  "Professor Whitburn," said Harry. "Is he—all right?"

  "He's groggy," replied Marquette. "Somebody must have doped him. He was half out when I found him.

  I've got to go back to him now."

  "But the man who -"

  "The fellow who trapped you and the girl downstairs? He's gone. Must have taken the little motor boat

  we keep under the dock. I've heard all about him. This young lady told me the story.

  "I saw the torpedo floating over to the sho
re, I went over to investigate, and found her. But what I'm

  trying to figure is who doped out that combination and opened the door to let you out of -"

  "There's only one man who could have done that," said Harry weakly. "Only one man -"

  "The Shadow!" exclaimed Marquette.

  Harry Vincent nodded.

  CHAPTER XXX. BEFORE THE MEETING

  FOUR days had passed since the eventful happenings at Death Island.

  Vic Marquette had revealed his identity to Professor Whitburn, as soon as the old man had recovered,

  the next morning.

  The loss of the plans had been discovered.

  Professor Whitburn had decided to rest from his labors. He had wired his sister to come and take care of

  his house, while he recuperated.

  Harry Vincent and Arlette DeLand had remained as his guests. Now that the enemy had left, the island

  was a safe place for Arlette, and the best spot for Harry Vincent to recover from his injuries.

  Marquette had taken charge of affairs long enough to arrange for one of the men from the village to take

  a job as handy man; and he had also obtained some other servants.

  The house was transformed from an experimental laboratory to a country home.

  But Marquette had left immediately afterward. He had received a message brought by Bruce Duncan.

  When he had read its contents, he had started immediately for New York, leaving Duncan to keep Harry

  Vincent company.

  No one but the secret-service man knew the contents of that note. It had come, indirectly, from The

  Shadow, and it had proposed certain plans that pleased Vic Marquette.

  The message had disclosed facts which the government man had not known; and he was raised from the

  depths of gloom. He had promised to cooperate by following the instructions which were given him.

  It was now the night set for the Red meeting. A man, alone in a dark room, was working at a table above

  which hung a shaded lamp. His hands were sorting papers of various sorts, in an effort to find the solution

  to pressing perplexities.

  Chief among these papers were reports from Vic Marquette. The secret-service agent had made every

  effort to trace the man who had vanished with the important plans of Professor Whitburn's inventions.

  Marquette had been informed that the man had probably left the country; but with all the power that he