The Shadow's Shadow s-23

by Maxwell Grant

  The Shadow's Shadow

  ( Shadow - 23 )

  Maxwell Grant

  The Crime of Crimes! Gangdom's Out to Get The Shadow! Read this Thrilling Account from the Private Annals of The Shadow!

  THE SHADOW'S SHADOW

  by Maxwell Grant

  CHAPTER I. TO THE SHADOW

  "CHECKING out, Mr. Vincent?"

  Harry Vincent nodded in reply to the desk clerk's question. He indicated a time-table which he held in his hand.

  "Just a short trip to Michigan," informed Harry. "I'll be back here in a week or two. I try to get home every now and then. The folks are always glad to see me."

  Strolling across the spacious lobby of the Metrolite Hotel, Harry Vincent smiled quietly to himself. He reached the grillroom, ordered his usual breakfast in a methodical manner, and waited in reflective thought.

  It was not often that Harry Vincent could plan a trip to Michigan. He had said that he was going home. In the past few years, New York had come to be more of a home to Harry than the little town from which he hailed. As a resident guest at the Metrolite, he had long since acclimated himself to hotel life.

  The Metrolite had its advantages. In a large hotel in Manhattan, guests seldom spoke to one another.

  One saw hundreds of new faces every day. It was possible to live here in virtual obscurity, free from any interference. A man of quiet demeanor could isolate himself from those about him with little difficulty.

  Yet, despite the fact that the guests of the Metrolite Hotel moved like human automata, each indifferent to the presence of his fellows, there was more drama and mystery about their individual lives than one might find elsewhere. This was Harry's opinion; and it was well founded. For Harry Vincent, himself, was leading an amazing life beneath the guise of placid existence.

  No one knew the affairs of Harry Vincent. The natives of his home town classed him simply as a local man who had gone to the big city, and had made good there. They knew nothing about his occupation or his whereabouts. Here, at the Metrolite, Harry Vincent was merely another guest among several thousand.

  A handsome, well-built young man, about thirty years of age, Harry Vincent presented an excellent appearance. One would have classed him as prosperous— perhaps a successful salesman or a minor executive of a business house. None would have suspected his actual occupation: that he was an active and trusted agent of The Shadow!

  THE name of The Shadow was known everywhere. It was synonymous with mystery. Millions of people had heard the voice of The Shadow, over the radio, and had been spellbound by its awesome tones.

  But to one class of people—the riffraff of the underworld—the name of The Shadow meant more than a voice. These crime-steeped mobsters feared the very name of The Shadow; for to them, The Shadow was a living menace!

  The hand of The Shadow reached everywhere. It had risen to smash the well-plotted schemes of master crooks. It had struck down hordes of evil mobsters. It had reached across the ocean to pluck the ill-gotten gains of international criminals. Always, the man behind that hand had remained invisible.

  Shrouded in darkness, The Shadow moved like a phantom of the night; appearing in the most unexpected places; relentless enemy of evildoers. When The Shadow's laugh was heard, the fiercest of criminals quailed before its mockery. The presence of The Shadow was the knell of doom to all wrong-doers.

  Some had seen The Shadow; but they had never looked upon his face. Garbed in flowing cloak and broad-brimmed slouch hat—both garments of jet-black hue —The Shadow was master of darkness, a being who seemingly came from the outer corridors of boundless space.

  The Shadow held the ever-changing scales that weighed the struggle between justice and crime. When the balance turned against the forces of the law, it was The Shadow who thrust back gang leaders and their minions, that justice might prevail.

  Time and again, the master minds of gangdom had sought to wrest themselves clear of the menace of The Shadow. They had striven in vain. The true identity of this black-clad being had remained a mystery.

  On certain occasions, agents of The Shadow—Harry Vincent and others— had fallen into the clutches of the enemy. Always, The Shadow had rescued them, despite the fearful odds that had confronted him.

  The great strength of The Shadow's secrecy lay in the fact that not even his agents knew his identity. This fact came vividly to Harry Vincent's mind, as the young man breakfasted in the grillroom of the Metrolite Hotel. He recalled his own experiences with The Shadow. They seemed like a chain of fantastic dreams.

  Once—the event seemed long ago—Harry Vincent had attempted suicide. Poised upon the rail of a high bridge, he had prepared for a death plunge to the depths below.

  A hand had come from the blackness of a swirling night mist. Harry had been carried back to safety by a grip of steel. In the rear seat of a luxurious limousine, he had listened to a whispered voice from invisible lips.

  Since then, Harry had obeyed the mandates of The Shadow. As a trusted operative, he had done his appointed part in the unending war against crime. He had never lacked money, nor the comforts of life.

  In return for them, he had faithfully followed The Shadow's bidding. No task was too large, no danger was too great, to cow Harry Vincent. So long as he possessed the friendship of The Shadow, Harry was a man without fear.

  Excitement and adventures had followed Harry Vincent in every enterprise. His amazing experiences were facts that he had told to no one. To serve The Shadow meant to preserve secrecy. Harry had never yielded in this duty.

  THERE were times when Harry remained temporarily idle. Sometimes, readiness was all that was required. On other occasions, he was given complete leave of duty. When such spells arrived, Harry usually left New York for a short visit home, to return when a special summons commanded him.

  One of those periods was present now. Although Harry seldom let his mind speculate upon The Shadow's possible activities, he could not help but wonder what his chief might be doing at present.

  Perhaps there was a lull in super-crimes that attracted The Shadow's vigil. Perhaps The Shadow was engaged somewhere other than New York.

  Whatever the case might be, Harry would eventually receive orders from him —not directly, but through the agency of a placid gentleman named Rutledge Mann. This chap was an investment broker, who had recently occupied a new suite of offices on the twenty-first floor of the Grandville Building.

  Like Harry Vincent, Rutledge Mann was an agent of The Shadow; but the duties of the two differed widely. To Harry was given active work; whereas, Mann played a passive part. The investment broker seldom left his desk during the daytime; there, he serenely investigated and assembled facts that he obtained from various sources, to forward to The Shadow.

  Finishing his breakfast, Harry went back into the lobby and began to read the morning newspaper.

  Completing this perusal, he glanced at his watch, and summoned the porter. He asked for his key at the desk, and went to an elevator, with the porter at his heels.

  Harry's room was 1408, at the end of a long corridor on the fourteenth floor. Walking along the gloomy passage, Harry found his thoughts again turning to The Shadow.

  Curiously enough, he was wondering how long this vacation might last. It would probably end with a cryptic summons, sent through Rutledge Mann.

  Perhaps duty would arise within a month—within a week—even within a day! Such were The Shadow's manifold activities that his agents might expect a call almost at any minute!

  Harry Vincent was at the door of his room. He unlocked the door and entered. He stopped at the narrow entrance to the room, and motioned the porter to go ahead while he opened a closet door.

  The uniformed man shuffle
d into the room; then stopped with a startled cry that made Harry Vincent clutch the door, aghast.

  He could see the wizened, expressionless face of the porter. Only the eyes of that countenance reflected the emotion which the man had experienced. The eyes were staring with fixed gaze toward the other side of the room. The lips were trembling, but they were now mute with horror.

  Springing forward, Harry crowded the porter aside and looked into the center of the room. Then he, too, stood motionless!

  LYING on the floor, beside the bed, was the sprawled form of a roughly clad man. The crumpled bedspread showed that he had been lying there, but had tumbled to the floor, to spread crazily upon the carpet. The man's face was turned sidewise; its pasty profile showed the rigidity of death.

  Beside the man's body, close to a twisted elbow, lay a small pile of objects that had dropped from the fellow's pocket. A wallet, a few slips of paper, a cigar—these were evidences that the fall had been headlong. Harry's quick eye visualized the situation.

  The porter still gaped in terror as he viewed the hideous expression of the death-distorted face. It was Harry's rough shake that brought the attendant back to his senses. There was a firmness in Harry's tone as he gave the man terse instructions.

  "Call the desk"—Harry indicated the telephone beyond the bed— "and tell them what has happened.

  Hurry, while I look at this man."

  The porter stumbled toward the telephone, avoiding the body as he went. His quavering voice sounded weakly as he stammered the word that a dead body lay in Room 1408.

  Meanwhile, Harry, with the cold air of a man who has often witnessed death, bent carefully above the sprawled form to make sure that the man was really dead. It required but a few seconds for him to recognize the fact that life was gone.

  Harry did not touch the body, nor did he disturb the articles that lay beside the dead man's elbow. He knew that this would be unwise until the police arrived.

  But Harry used his eyes to good advantage. He quickly noted the features of the dead man's attire: the shoddy suit, the wrenched necktie, the unstained, stubby shoes.

  Then his studied gaze observed something that projected from beneath the under elbow. This was a manila envelope, that had evidently dropped ahead when the man had fallen.

  Harry's eyes were keen as they spotted a scrawl upon that envelope. As he read the inscription, Harry uttered a repressed gasp.

  He raised his head quickly, and looked across the bed. The porter had dropped, gasping, into a chair, his head buried in his hands. He was not watching Harry Vincent.

  Footsteps and muffled voices were sounding in the corridor. The response from the desk had been rapid.

  Without a moment's hesitation, Harry stooped again and deftly withdrew the envelope from beneath the unrestraining elbow. As he rose, Harry thrust the manila wrapper up beneath his vest.

  When two men hurried into the room a few moments later, they discovered Harry Vincent standing against the wall, surveying the body with a puzzled look. The porter was standing, having risen when he heard the men rush in.

  The newcomers paused. They, too, stared at the body. They saw the details.

  The dead form had not been moved. The articles from the pocket were still beside the elbow. The picture seemed complete. Only one thing was lacking—the envelope that Harry Vincent had secretly purloined.

  Only Harry knew of that envelope's existence. He had seized it instinctively, governed by an instantaneous thought that had resolved itself into prompt duty. For, to Harry's way of thinking, that envelope did not belong upon the floor. He had exercised a right when he had taken it.

  In one brief moment he had read the words upon the envelope. He was thinking of them now, despite his apparent calm. He was wondering about their significance. He was resolved that the very existence of that envelope should not be known to any investigators who might appear upon that scene.

  To keep that envelope was Harry's trust, for he felt that it belonged to the man whom he served. This belief was based upon the inscription which Harry had read—words which now seemed unbelievable with the envelope out of sight.

  With half-closed eyes, Harry Vincent received a visual impression of the scrawl which he had seen, and its blue-inked words remained in vivid import. With lips unmoving, Harry whispered the words which he had read upon the envelope:

  "To The Shadow."

  A message from an unknown source; a message dropped by a dying man; a message picked up by a secret agent, who alone could deliver it to its proper destination!

  Beneath his vest, Harry Vincent held a message to The Shadow!

  CHAPTER II. THE MESSAGE MOVES

  A SWARTHY, heavy-set man was in charge of Room 1408 in the Metrolite Hotel. Detective Joe Cardona, able investigator of the New York headquarters, was on the job a half hour after the report came in. He had finished his study of the dead form on the floor. Now he prepared to question living persons about him.

  "You say you left this room at nine o'clock?"

  Cardona's question was addressed to Harry Vincent. It met with a prompt response.

  "Nine o'clock," replied Harry. "I went directly to the lobby. As I left the room, the chambermaid entered to make the bed. I told her I was checking out."

  "Is that correct?" questioned Cardona, turning to a woman clad in uniform.

  "Yes, sir," replied the chambermaid, in a plaintive voice. "I seen him when he come out of the room, sir."

  "Did any one enter while you were here?"

  "No, sir. But after I had gone out -"

  "What happened then?"

  "Well, sir, a man was standing in the corridor. It's kinda dark there, sir. He says to me, that he wants to get back into the room. Says he has forgot his key. So I never thinks about it; I lets him in."

  "Was it this man?"

  Cardona indicated Vincent.

  "No, sir," responded the maid. "I wasn't thinkin' right, sir. I just opens the door and lets the man go in. It ain't always that I does that, but I kinda forget myself now and then. After he goes in, I begins thinkin'

  that I'd made a mistake. I was goin' back, sir, but then I figured all must be right."

  "Would you recognize the man who spoke to you in the corridor?" interrupted Cardona impatiently.

  "I couldn't say, sir," pleaded the maid. "It's so dark out there -"

  "Then how," questioned Cardona, "do you know that it was not this man?"

  "His voice was different," stated the maid. "He was kinda hunchedlike. I didn't see his face, but I heard him speak, and that's how I knowed when I thought that he was different."

  "Could it have been this man?"

  Cardona pointed abruptly toward the body on the floor. The maid stared with blinking eyes.

  "It was about like him, sir," she answered. "It could have been him. Yes, it could have been him, but not the gentleman who belongs in this room."

  "That will do."

  Cardona turned to quiz Harry. In response to the detective's questions, Harry replied with direct and firmly spoken words. Both his manner and his tone were convincing.

  Harry had been absent from his room more than an hour and a half. He had gone directly to the desk when he had reached the hotel lobby. From there, he had entered the grillroom, returned to the lobby and finally had summoned the porter.

  HARRY'S testimony was followed by amazing corroboration. Well known about the hotel, it seemed as though all his actions had been observed by witnesses.

  The elevator operator had remembered his descent to the ground floor. The clerk at the desk recalled the exact time that Harry had approached—three minutes after nine. The waiter in the grillroom had seen him eating there. The clerk and the man at the cigar counter had noticed him reading in the lobby. The elevator operator remembered bringing him upstairs with the porter.

  Coupled to this was the negative testimony of the second elevator operator. He knew Mr. Vincent well, he declared, and he was sure that Harry had not ridden in his car
. Every minute of Harry's absence from his room was covered by a perfect alibi, supported by disinterested witnesses.

  One by one, the testifiers filed from the room. Only three people remained: Joe Cardona, Harry Vincent, and the doctor, who was there to examine the body. While the physician was at work, Cardona turned to speak to Harry Vincent.

  "You were checking out to-day," remarked the detective.

  "Yes," replied Harry. "I intended to make a trip to Michigan. I can arrange to remain in New York, however. There was nothing urgent about my journey."

  Cardona studied Harry; then spoke frankly.

  "I am not anxious to inconvenience you," said the detective, "nevertheless, your presence here would be advisable. In a case like this, I should like to call on reliable witnesses if it becomes necessary."

  Harry nodded. Cardona's words were pleasing. They showed that the detective was considering Harry's release.

  "You will be here at the Metrolite?" asked Cardona.

  "In another room," responded Harry dryly.

  There was a pause.

  Harry was thoughtful. What would Cardona do if he suspected the existence of the mysterious envelope that Harry had appropriated? All the other articles beside the dead body had been taken by the detective. They had given no clew to the man's identity.

  The physician spoke to Cardona. He was very positive in his declaration concerning the death. The man on the floor was a victim of a slow but virulent poison. His end had evidently come with a sudden spasm of agony.

  Cardona noted the report. The physician left. The detective was alone with Harry Vincent. Cardona turned suddenly and asked an unexpected question.

  "Did you ever hear of Zipper Marsh?" he quizzed.

  "No," replied Harry, shaking his head.

  "I didn't think so," said Cardona. "You don't have the earmarks of a gangster."

  The detective stared at the body thoughtfully, then again addressed Harry.

  "There's no use holding you," declared Cardona. "The statements you and the others made shows you are O.K. Coming into a room like this is enough for a man to worry about, when he's a regular guest at a good hotel.