The Red Blot
( Shadow - 31 )
Maxwell Grant
Lamont Cranston (one of The Shadow's identities—indeed, the best known — a "wealthy young man about town") first meets Commissioner Weston, setting up the friendship that would be featured in the famous series, and investigates a series of crimes orchestrated by a malevolent mastermind who leaves a bloody mark as his calling card.
THE RED BLOT
by Maxwell Grant
As originally published in “The Shadow Magazine,” June 1, 1933.
Baffling crime grows rampant - nothing can stop it. But the crooks learn the power of the Shadow in this thrilling epic, taken from The Shadow’s private annals.
CHAPTER I
THE SHADOW’S QUEST
A swift, repeated ticking was audible amid a total darkness. But for that sound, intense silence would have pervaded the thickness of absolute gloom. It was not until a sharper noise occurred that any sign of a human presence was revealed.
A click came from a spot above the ticking. A blue light suddenly cast an eerie glow downward upon the surface of a polished table. There, beneath the rays of the strange, shaded lamp, appeared the ticking object.
It was a clock of curious construction. Set at an angle upon the table top, this timepiece showed no hands upon its large face. Instead, it had three circles, the innermost marked with twelve numbers; the outer circles divided with sixty.
From grooves on the outer edge of each circle extended rings, so designed that they surrounded only one number at a time. Just as the light came on, the rings of the outer circles moved. The extreme ring made another jump a second later; but the intermediate one still remained constant, like the one in the center.
A clock that moved with intermittent precision, this odd dial was designed to mark the passing seconds by its outer circle; the minutes by the second one; and the hours by the center circle. Although the mechanism was regular in sound, the indications came at definite intervals, with an unusual psychological result.
To the eyes that watched this clock, a single second seemed like a prolonged space of time, not as an idly moving series of moments. Each minute, formed of sixty such intervals, was episodic. An hour, as shown upon this clock, was a tremendous stretch of time that allowed for limitless accomplishment.
SUCH was the clock that rested in The Shadow’s sanctum. The weird blue light that glistened upon the circled dial existed only in that secret room. This was the abode where the master who fought with crime reviewed his plans and formed new strategy.
The appearance of the light marked the presence of The Shadow himself. He, alone, visited this mystic room, located in some unknown section of Manhattan. In the midst of strenuous campaigns, The Shadow could always seek the seclusion of this sanctuary, there to mock his enemies and devise new ways to end the schemes of malefactors.
To gangdom, The Shadow was known only as a powerful being whose unseen hand reached everywhere. There were mobsmen who claimed to have seen him - but only at a distance. Those who had met The Shadow face to face no longer lived to assert their claims.
Dying gangsters - toughened characters of the type who died grimly - had coughed out their lives through trembling lips, gasping the name of The Shadow. Time and again, sneering big shots had been struck down just as they were about to reap the profits of some heinous crime. Here, again, the hand of The Shadow had intervened.
None knew the identity of The Shadow. It was something that the underworld had long sought. All rats of crime were eager to eliminate The Shadow. His power had caused consternation in other cities than New York - both in America and abroad - yet none had ever balked his might.
It was known that The Shadow must be a master of detection, for he had uncovered the most ingenious of crimes. It was known also that he could travel swiftly and unseen, for he had frequently appeared in the heart of an enemy’s camp.
As for his indomitable purpose - that was understood. The Shadow showed no mercy to those who did not deserve it.
It was believed that The Shadow was a master of disguise. That, alone, could account for some of the amazing parts that he had played. It was also believed that he sometimes employed the aid of trained and skillful agents, for the magnitude of his activities had shown that capable men had been present when needed.
Yet The Shadow had always managed to protect his temporary identities unknown; and his agents remained within the cover of the shroud of mystery that constantly blanketed The Shadow from the eyes of his foemen.
Despite the efforts of those who sought to thwart him; despite the fact that he never invoked the aid of the police in his own behalf; The Shadow roamed at will in his untiring search for men of evil. None had ever managed to discover the location of his sanctum; in fact, the existence of such a spot was regarded as doubtful by those who discussed its possibility.
Thus The Shadow found complete seclusion in that corner of the black-walled room where blue light shone upon a table top and a strangely dialed clock marked each passing second with a long, gripping throb.
THE light and the clock were not the only tokens of The Shadow’s presence on this night. Into the circle of illumination crept two objects that seemed like living creatures detached from the body to which they belonged.
The hands of The Shadow!
Long and white, they showed a combination of velvety smoothness and great muscular power. These were the hands that had fought so well against crime; and one of them bore the token, which was the positive symbol of The Shadow.
This mark was a gleaming gem which shone from the third finger of the left hand. It was The Shadow’s girasol, a rare fire opal, unmatched in all the world. Its color was a mingling of hues; the glowing depths of the stone changed from brilliant blue to dull crimson, and all the shades between.
From the girasol came splashes of fiery light, like the glimmer of living sparks. A dying ember, ever emitting its final darts of minute flame - such was The Shadow’s girasol.
The hands moved in a fashion that portrayed ease of operation. An envelope came into view; from it a thin bundle of papers. The fingers unfolded a sheet; the hidden eyes behind the light made a brief perusal; then that paper was replaced by another.
Despite the ease of the hands, their speed and precision were amazing, when judged by the clock upon the table. An observer would not have believed that those indications on the outer circle of the dial were mere seconds. It seemed as though The Shadow, even when engaged upon the routine procedure of summarizing the reports from his agents, could hold back time in its passage.
The simple scene in the sanctum was an explanation of The Shadow’s uncanny ability to come out best in his wars with men of crime. He was a being who dealt in split seconds when he worked!
Another envelope - a third. Papers removed, read, and replaced. Clippings, also; and when The Shadow’s summary was complete, a few remainders were left for careful perusal. Report sheets and newspaper items - the white hands spread them upon the table top.
Every one of these papers dealt with a single subject. The right hand of The Shadow appeared with a pen. Upon a sheet of blank paper, it inscribed a phrase which summarized it in one title:
THE RED BLOT
The ink which The Shadow used was crimson. It shone in vivid contrast to the light above. Eyes from the dark viewed the words; then the poised hand gave the pen a shake.
A large blob of ink spattered upon the white paper. It spread irregularly until it formed a grotesquely shaped blotch of drying fluid that looked like a huge drop of blood.
No action could have been more significant. The words meant nothing now. There, beneath them, was the very sign which had been mentioned - a crimson mark that illustrated the ti
tle.
The Red Blot!
WHILE the ink still dried beneath the light, a low, sinister laugh came from the darkness. That tone - the mocking voice of The Shadow - was the feature of the master’s presence that had struck stark terror into many an evil gangster’s heart.
The laugh of The Shadow! It came as a challenge to all malefactors.
The pen was laid aside. The fingers lifted the report sheets and the clippings, one by one. Alike, these items told a story of unsolved crime. Here, in New York, subtle evil was in progress.
A bank messenger shot down in open daylight. A chase of elusive assailants, who disappeared after a cordon of police had closed in upon them. A huge blot of crimson upon the sidewalk at the spot where the man had been slain.
The messenger’s blood? That had been the theory, until the second crime!
Three masked marauders had entered a club where gambling was in progress. They had extinguished the lights; with flashlights, they had covered the players and threatened them with guns. They had reaped a harvest of cash.
While they were robbing their victims, police had arrived. The crooks had fled and, despite the closeness of the chase, had made an escape so effective that they might have actually melted. Upon the green baize of the central card table in the club was discovered a huge dab of dulled crimson - again the red blot!
A third crime - the theft of a painting valued at many thousands - had been perpetrated at the home of a New York millionaire. Servants had arrived as the criminals were departing with the painting that they had cut from its immense frame. Two servants had been shot; one mortally wounded.
Again, the evil raiders had escaped. Behind them, in the empty frame, they had left their mark - a red blot!
THE RED BLOT!
In the underworld, it was believed that a master mind of crime had chosen that mark. The Red Blot was a name - not a sign. Some supercrook had assembled a squad of daring gangsters, who would stop at nothing.
The police had advanced the same theory. The newspapers had taken up the cry.
Then had come the fourth crime. A big-time fight promoter - supposed to carry a bankroll of more than a hundred grand upon his person - had been found strangled in his apartment. Upon the starched front of the victim’s dress shirt was that same dread sign of spattered crimson - the mark of The Red Blot!
Men of wealth - from legitimate commercial barons to those who dealt in hazardous enterprises - were in trepidation. The newspapers had called upon the police to apprehend this supercriminal. The police had not gathered a single clew.
Underworld and social swim alike - neither revealed the presence of a master mind to whom these crimes could be attributed. Police, with their stool pigeons at work, had covered all of gangdom’s daring workers; the ones who might be logically picked as henchmen of the supercrook. They had not brought in a single suspect.
The Shadow, too, had been seeking traces of The Red Blot. His agents had been at work. Their reports were barren. These crimes which had emanated from the underworld, and had struck in higher places, left no trail.
But The Shadow’s way was not to follow crime when it bore the mark of well-linked continuity. He had been seeking the forebodings of crime that he might anticipate the next stroke of The Red Blot.
The clock upon the table was more important than all these clippings and reports of frustrated efforts to line up the cause of past outrages. The Shadow, through his own investigations in the underworld, had been watching for an impending stroke.
Even whispered inklings had been lacking. Until tonight, each crime had given no preliminary sign. Often had The Shadow thwarted crooks by prying into their games before the lid had been raised.
Now, amid the quiet of the underworld, he had caught the words he wanted. Here, he was biding his time until the proper second for his calculated plan.
The ticking of the clock went on. A long second seemed to hover; then the indicators on all three dials moved at once, That final second marked the completion of a minute which, in turn, showed the end of an hour.
Before the second indicator moved again, The Shadow’s hand had swept up the scattered bits of paper. A click sounded from the lamp. The room was plunged in darkness. Something swished through the gloom.
Then came a peal of laughter. The Shadow’s mirth rang ghoulishly through the blackness. As his invisible form moved toward the secret door of the sanctum, the master of the night sent forth his mocking challenge in chilling tones that foretold disaster to evil brains of crime.
Blackened walls caught up the merriment. Weird reverberations sounded as cries from goblin throats. Corridors of space seemed to open with whispered answers to The Shadow’s taunt.
Those strange, terrifying sounds persisted long. When the last echo had faded into nothingness, only the smooth, quick ticking of the clock was audible.
The Shadow had departed upon his quest.
CHAPTER II
WITHIN THE SAFE
IT was exactly ten o’clock when The Shadow departed from his sanctum. A half hour later, a strange phenomenon occurred at the intersection of two obscure streets on the lower East Side.
A moving patch of blackness passed along the sidewalk beneath the glare of a street lamp. It was one of the many shadows that had crossed that spot during the evening. But in one respect, this moving splotch differed from all others. There was no sign of the person who cast it.
A long streak of darkness, which terminated in a perfect silhouette. This was the only mark that betrayed the presence of The Shadow. Somewhere in the darkness of the brick wall beside the sidewalk, the being whom the underworld so greatly feared, had passed unseen.
Some fifty feet from the corner stood a dilapidated brick building of three-story height. Beside it ran an obscure alleyway. This structure, apparently an old residence that had seen better days, was actually a most important adjunct to the decrepit neighborhood.
Three golden balls glimmered faintly above the dim front door. Blackened windows showed the outlines of heavy bars. This building housed the pawnshop of Timothy Baruch, one of the oddest characters on this section of the East Side.
Old Baruch’s place was known throughout the underworld. The man had been a pawnbroker for many years, and it was an adage among thieves and burglars that Baruch’s bids on stolen goods could be accepted as reliable.
Baruch was not the usual type of “fence,” who disposed of stolen articles. His place was termed a “hock shop,” even by those who had dealt with him under cover.
For Timothy Baruch was a canny individual who had ways of assuring police and detectives that his transactions were legitimate; and the great proportion of his business was in keeping with the policies of better-class pawnshops.
The old pawnbroker was unpretentious. He made no great show of worldliness. Nevertheless, it had been noised about that his safe contained pilfered jewels and other rarities of great value.
These rumors had never gotten back to Baruch’s ears, hence the old man dwelt in security. He was sure that his pretense of poverty would suffice to keep malefactors from his property. Moreover, he relied upon his connection with the underworld and the security of his safe as positive protection.
Underworld connections might fade; but the fame of Baruch’s safe would remain. The huge strong box was the one thing in which Baruch had invested heavily.
Various gangsters had viewed it; and they held to the opinion that there were but two safe crackers skilled enough to open it. One was “Tweezers” Darley, at present retired from active practice; the other was “Moocher” Gleetz, no longer in Manhattan.
Perhaps Timothy Baruch knew of the inactivity of these two safe crackers; at any rate, his safe remained inviolate, despite the fact that his barred doors and windows were not as formidable as they might have been.
THE SHADOW now stood in front of Baruch’s pawnshop. There, within the fringe of darkness cast by the old building, his tall form was invisible. No motion, no sound, betrayed The
Shadow’s presence as he glided into the entrance of the alleyway.
The invisible visitor did not continue to the rear of the building, the spot where access would have been most likely. Instead, he stopped beside the wall and began a strange upward ascent in the midst of almost total darkness.
A low, squidgy sound was the only token of The Shadow’s progress. It continued until the unseen figure reached the second floor.
Here, the windows were barred with gratings only. Working in the darkness, The Shadow easily removed the barrier from one window. His lithe figure entered a room on the second floor.
Silent inspection showed the room was empty. A tiny flashlight gleamed. Its luminous spot, no larger than a silver dollar, performed several functions.
First it glittered about the room to show a closed door that evidently led to a hallway. Then it gleamed upon four peculiar, cup-shaped objects of rubber that lay upon the floor. These disappeared into darkness as The Shadow with a black-gloved hand placed them beneath his cloak.
These were the devices which The Shadow had used to facilitate his precipitous climb - rubber suction cups capable of supporting considerable weight with safety.
Finally, the light twinkled upon the dial of a watch. The time was twenty minutes of eleven. A low whisper crept through the room and stirred up vague, mocking echoes. The Shadow was ahead of schedule.
The light went out. A few moments later, the room was empty. Only the occasional glimmer of the flash revealed The Shadow’s progress down a stairway to the ground floor. When the light finally reappeared, it shone upon the blackened front of Timothy Baruch’s safe, in a back room on the ground floor.
Seventeen minutes of eleven. Again that whispered laugh. The flashlight, set upon some hidden object, displayed a wider range of illumination as the gloves slipped from the hands of The Shadow.
Long, sensitive fingers began their work upon the dials of the safe. The burning girasol sent forth its amazing sparks while the hands were operating.
The Red Blot s-31 Page 1
