The international crook was thoughtful. His firm brow furrowed. At last, he voiced his opinion in a voice that carried careful decision.
"It is a good idea," he said approvingly, "but we must hold it until later on. It would be well, first, to learn all we can about The Shadow. There are ways of doing that—ways that we have not yet tried."
"What are they?" asked Carleton.
"I shall state them later," said Zubian. "I must give the matter careful thought. It is for your benefit, Gats"—he spoke reassuringly as he turned to the gang leader—"because it will put you in a position to ask pointed questions if Mann and Vincent come within your power.
"The Shadow is wily. We must meet him on his own ground. Strategy and secrecy. Those are our best weapons. Suppose"—Zubian turned to Carleton— "that I meet you at your club to-morrow night. Then I shall tell you more."
"At the Cobalt Club?" asked Carleton.
"That is the place," said Zubian. "I shall meet you there at half past ten, to-morrow."
FELIX ZUBIAN arose with the air of a man who had accomplished much. Gats Hackett stared sullenly.
Then his expression changed. In spite of himself, Gats was impressed by Zubian's manner. Still, he could not resist voicing an opinion.
"Find out who The Shadow is!" he sneered. "I'd like to see some one do it! Squint Freston is on the job.
He hasn't got anywhere yet. There's no one in New York who can touch Squint -"
"I must disagree with you," interrupted Zubian coldly. He faced Gats Hackett, and leaned heavily upon his ornamental cane. "We discussed that matter the other night, my friend. I told you then that I knew of one man who would prove superior to Squint Freston. I also informed you that the man of whom I spoke was in New York. He is the man upon whom we shall rely."
"Better than Squint, eh?" jeered Gats. "You think this gazebo can find The Shadow and learn who he is?
Why do you figure he can do it if Squint can't?"
"Squint Freston is a gangster," responded Zubian calmly. "The man whom I have in mind is a gentleman.
Where Squint is crude, this man is subtle. That constitutes a vast difference between the two."
"Yeah?" queried Gats. "Well, I'd like to see the guy! I'd like to know who he is! How about you"—he turned to Carleton—"you'd like to know who this smart bird is, wouldn't you?"
"Yes," admitted Carleton, "I should. When can I meet him, Zubian?"
"To-morrow night," returned Zubian, "at the Cobalt Club."
"Ah!" exclaimed Carleton. "He is a friend of yours?"
"The best friend that I possess."
"His name?"
The suave crook smiled. His manner showed great wisdom. Douglas Carleton was impressed. Gats Hackett stood at silent attention.
"His name?" Zubian turned on his cane and strode toward the door, where he paused to face the questioners. "His name? I shall tell you that now. I shall name the one man who not only can find The Shadow, but who will find him. I shall name the man who will become The Shadow's shadow!
"The Shadow's shadow—that interest you, eh? It will interest you more, when it has become a fact instead of a prediction. Ah—I forgot. You asked the name of this remarkable man. I shall keep you in suspense no longer. The Shadow's shadow will be Felix Zubian!"
With this pronouncement of his own name, Zubian smiled and bowed with suave serenity. He opened the door behind him and left the room, still bowing.
The door closed, while Douglas Carleton and Gats Hackett stared in open-mouthed dumfounderment.
CHAPTER X. THE SHADOW SHADOWED
SHORTLY after dusk the next evening, a new figure made its appearance opposite the old building on Twenty-third Street. Squint Freston and his watchers were on duty; yet they did not observe this stealthy person who clung close to the brick-fronted houses.
Unbeknown to the watching gangsters, a new observer had joined their forces. He was a man who sided with them; still, he did not care to let his presence be known.
Felix Zubian, the man who now styled himself The Shadow's shadow, was making his first investigation.
As he waited, a safe distance across the street, Zubian indulged in a medley of thoughts. He realized that he had spoken boastfully last night, and that it would now be up to him to prove the claims that he had advanced; namely, his ability to succeed where others had failed.
The upshot of his deliberations had brought him back to his starting point. He was convinced that the old building across the way would be the logical place to look for The Shadow.
At the same time, Zubian was subject to an annoying uncertainty. He was positive only that The Shadow must have come to this place on at least one occasion while Squint and the others had been watching.
Was that proof that The Shadow would come here again?
No; on the contrary, it might be a very good reason why The Shadow would choose to avoid this particular spot. If the mysterious master of the night knew that peering eyes were awaiting his arrival, he might readily stay away.
So Zubian felt that he was playing a long shot. If he should see The Shadow here, well and good. If not, he would have to use other measures to trace the man he wanted.
To-night, Zubian was to meet Douglas Carleton. That young man would be impatient, expecting some results. Zubian smiled to himself. He could handle Carleton; already he had mapped out a course of conversation that would be impressive to the clubman-crook. Nevertheless, Zubian still cherished his hope that this preliminary vigil would prove a starting point.
As time drifted by, Zubian's thoughts continued, but despite the reverie which engaged him, his keen, shrewd eyes did not relax one moment. They were watching that door across the street; watching it from an angle that was more favorable than the position which Squint Freston had chosen for his post.
Felix Zubian glanced at his watch. The luminous dial indicated nine o'clock. Zubian's eyes returned to the door across the street. They became suddenly alert. Something had attracted their attention.
Felix Zubian gained a distinct mental impression that he had seen a momentary ray of light flickering just below the top of the door. The dwindling shaft had been so temporary that it might well have been an optical illusion; nevertheless, upon that one impression Zubian based a new hope.
That ray might hold a meaning—it might indicate that some one had opened the door to enter the old building! Zubian marveled. He could scarcely credit his senses.
Had his opportunity come and gone? Perhaps—perhaps not. All he could do was wait.
MORE minutes passed. Then, again, Zubian caught that same impression. This time he was sure of himself. The door had opened to allow the passage of a form that was invisible from this spot.
Zubian's first observance of the trickling light had been a matter of chance; his second sight of it had been the result of shrewd, expectant watching. Thinking quickly, Zubian realized that the double phenomenon was a sure indication that some one had entered the building several minutes before and was now leaving it.
But where was the man who had opened the door? Zubian was perplexed. No human being was visible across the street. In fact, he had not glimpsed a living form.
Looking up and down the street, Zubian saw nothing. His inability vexed him. He gritted his teeth angrily as he focused his gaze upon a street lamp almost directly across the street.
The lamp cast an oval of light upon the sidewalk. It was there that Zubian watched, realizing that he had been balked. His only hope was that the unseen personage might have come in this direction; that through some chance that person would come within the sphere of light.
Again, luck favored Zubian. His eyes opened wide as they saw a patch of blackness cross the oval glare upon the sidewalk. For one short moment, Felix Zubian glimpsed the moving shadow of a living person!
He did not see the form beyond; he saw only the splotch of darkness. That was enough. To Zubian, the moving shade was sure proof of the presence of the one he was seeking. There, somewh
ere in the darkness, was The Shadow!
Silently, cautiously, Zubian pressed his way along the front of the house. He was staring forward, seeking the next street lamp, hoping for another glimpse of the flitting patch of black.
It came—once again, Zubian saw the object that he wanted. It was swerving now, turning, to cross the street!
Crouching in the darkness, Zubian waited; then took up the pursuit of this invisible being. Peering through the gloom, he sought a glimpse of some person, but he failed to gain it. The Shadow was totally invisible.
Nearing a corner, Zubian realized that his task was futile. How could he hope to trail a being who was part of the night itself?
The Shadow might be far ahead; he might be hiding somewhere, ready to spring upon the man who was following him. The situation seemed hopeless, yet Zubian never yielded. He still kept close to the dusky walls that lined the inner edge of the sidewalk. He stopped, a few scant yards from the corner.
Then, on the fringe of a light that came from the window of a corner store, he saw the same splotch of black. It was close to the corner; it was unmoving.
To Zubian, it was the sure indication of the presence of a human being, for that splotch formed the long, sinister shape of a living person.
Thin and gaunt, it terminated in what appeared to be the silhouette of a man. Topped by the shape of a broad-brimmed hat, the blotched blackness proved to Zubian that The Shadow—and no other—must be standing on the verge of the blackness beyond the illumination.
Fascinated, Zubian did not dare to move. He watched while the long shape slid gradually across the sidewalk and disappeared.
Like a pointing finger, it moved toward a taxicab that was standing at the curb. Zubian waited; a few moments later, the cab rolled down the avenue.
Hesitating no longer, Zubian sprang forward, passed the corner and reached the curb. He saw another cab approaching. He hailed it and leaped into the back seat.
"Follow that cab ahead," he growled to the driver. "See it—up by the red light at the next corner? Not too close—but don't lose it."
"Leave it to me, boss," returned the driver, with a gruff laugh. "I'll tail him."
THE course was a threading one. Leaning through the opening to the front seat, Zubian watched with the same alertness that the driver displayed.
The man at the wheel shrewdly kept a full block in the rear. At last came a long stretch between avenues.
The car ahead was gaining. It swerved the corner. When Zubian's cab reached the spot and turned, it came upon the other cab, stopped some fifty feet ahead.
Zubian's driver swung by and pulled up at a lighted entrance. It was a clever trick, as it allowed Zubian to alight as though he had reached a definite destination.
"Wait here," said Zubian in a low voice.
The cab driver nodded.
A doorman was opening the door of the taxi. Zubian stepped out and strolled back along the street.
The driver of the cab which he had followed was standing on the sidewalk. He was holding the rear door open, staring into his vehicle in wonderment. Hearing the sound of Zubian's footfalls, the man turned and spoke as one would speak to a casual passer.
"Say"—the man seemed bewildered—"am I loony? Here's a guy tells me to stop, and when I stop, he ain't in the cab no more!"
"Did he pay you?" questioned Zubian, with friendly interest.
"Sure," nodded the driver. "Gave me a bill and didn't ask for no change; but this beats me."
Zubian had seen the interior of the cab. It was empty. Swinging his heavy-headed cane, he went back toward his own car, fuming inwardly. That short lead gained by the first cab had enabled The Shadow to leave his car and slide away into the night.
Reaching his own cab, Zubian prepared to enter. He spoke to the driver from the sidewalk.
"Drive me to the Cobalt Club," he said.
"Beg pardon, sir" it was the voice of the doorman, interrupting— "but you're at the Cobalt Club now."
Zubian turned swiftly. For the first time, he realized where he was. Until now, he had been too interested in that other cab to notice his location. Here he was—at the very place where he had planned to meet Douglas Carleton!
"Thank you," said Zubian suavely. "You are right. I am a trifle absentminded, that is all."
He paid the driver and watched the cab roll away. Standing by the door of the Cobalt Club, Felix Zubian pondered. The Shadow must be a man of miracles, he thought, to bring him here. Had The Shadow learned of his plans? Had he suspected Zubian's purpose?
Zubian's brow furrowed. He tapped the point of his cane angrily upon the sidewalk. Then a sudden expression of enlightenment appeared upon his face. He felt convinced that The Shadow had not suspected his presence. With that conviction came a theory. If it were correct— that theory—to-night's operations might prove exceedingly fortunate.
With a smile, Felix Zubian glanced at his watch. It was after ten o'clock. Swinging his cane, The Shadow's shadow entered the Cobalt Club to keep his appointment with Douglas Carleton!
CHAPTER XI. FORTUNE FAVORS ZUBIAN
TWO men were seated at a small table in the grillroom of the exclusive Cobalt Club. Douglas Carleton and Felix Zubian were at their appointed meeting.
This new setting was a contrast to the hotel room where they had talked together the night before. Here, at the Cobalt Club, there was nothing stealthy in the meeting, and their discussion was free from interruption by Gats Hackett.
Whatever value Gats might be to the schemes of Douglas Carleton, it was obvious that the clubman considered Zubian to be of greater worth. Gats, despite his usefulness, was merely a gang leader, while Zubian possessed the personality that gave entree to the most exclusive circles.
Hence Carleton, this evening, was inclined to listen to Zubian's sage words. He realized that Zubian held Gats Hackett in great contempt, despite his tact in not revealing the opinion to Gats himself. In fact, Zubian's words subtly indicated displeasure with the methods of the boastful gang leader.
"Last night," remarked Zubian, "I heard Gats Hackett belittle The Shadow's agents. He spoke of their inability—of their comparative usefulness. Yet Gats failed to notice the obvious proof of the statements that he made."
"What did the statements prove?" queried Carleton.
"That the strength of The Shadow's organization is centralized in one man only," responded Zubian. "That man is The Shadow himself. His agents are merely tools in his capable hands; and no tool, no matter how useful, can be compared with the man who uses it."
Carleton nodded his head in agreement. He felt that this discussion with Zubian would prove fruitful.
"When you obtained my services for your contemplated enterprise," resumed Zubian quietly, "you gained the cooperation of a strategist. I do not speak boastfully—as Gats Hackett does—I merely cite a simple, self-evident fact.
"My past record, known only to myself, is one that should inspire confidence. Scores of gangsters have warred against this man they call The Shadow. All have failed through their own clumsiness.
"You learned of me, Carleton, when you were in Europe. You heard my name; yet you failed to find me, until the word was passed from agent to agent that you wished to see me. Then I arranged a meeting and accepted your terms. I came to America to aid affairs over here.
"Like The Shadow, I employ the services of capable tools. Like The Shadow, I can work alone. To ascertain the identity of such a man as The Shadow is the work for which I am suited. In a great many ways, his career parallels my own. In fact, I believe that on certain occasions—long ago—The Shadow crossed my path."
"You do?" exclaimed Carleton. "You think you know The Shadow?"
"No," responded Zubian thoughtfully, "I merely believe that I may know something of his past. My nationality"—Zubian smiled—"has always been a matter of policy. Once, originally, I was an American.
During the Great War, I found it more profitable to act in behalf of another government. I was excellen
tly fitted for espionage."
Carleton nodded. The admission of treachery that Zubian had made only served to increase his opinion of the man. For Carleton, like Zubian, was a rascal of the first water.
"DURING the War," continued Zubian, "I learned of the existence of a most remarkable person—one who was presumably an aviator in the air forces of the United States. I heard him called The Black Eagle, because of his penchant for flying at night.
"On one occasion, The Black Eagle was shot down. His role immediately changed; instead of an aviator, he became a secret agent within the enemy lines. His final coup came when he located and mapped an enemy air base, escaping at the last moment in a plane of the German air squadron, flying in safety back to the American lines.
"After the war, The Black Eagle was still alive. I have often wondered what became of him. Now, I believe I know. He, the victor of a hundred strange encounters on land and in the air, has taken on a new identity. He is known as The Shadow."
"This is amazing!" blurted Carleton. "If The Shadow -"
Zubian held up his hand for silence. Carleton listened breathlessly, as the self-admitted traitor expanded his remarkable theory.
"I have often thought of The Black Eagle," declared Zubian. "I have often wanted to meet him; to trace him in his devious ways; to wreak vengeance upon him because of the difficulties he afforded me in the past. I have given great consideration to the probable ways and methods that such a man would utilize.
Now, I feel convinced that The Shadow is the man whom I have sought."
"There is no way of tracing him?"
"I have traced him to-night."
Zubian's words came like a bomb-shell to Carleton. The young man stared in astonishment at this new revelation.
"I have traced him," resumed Zubian, "from the spot where Squint Freston has failed. I played a long shot, and I won. To-night, I was at the building which Squint has been watching on Twenty-third Street."
"And you saw The Shadow?"
"I saw a shadow. That was all. I lost it; I saw it again. I followed it. I lost it."
The Shadow's Shadow s-23 Page 7
