"Hardly," said Zubian. "He is letting us wonder; that is all. Nevertheless"—Zubian smiled shrewdly—"I learned more, perhaps, than The Shadow has suspected. I believe that I can pick up his trail again; and once more become The Shadow's shadow."
"But in the meantime -"
"In the meantime, we shall follow the advice of our good friend, Gats Hackett."
The gang leader looked at Felix Zubian in surprise. Zubian promptly began a series of questions that indicated his purpose.
"Where is Squint Freston?" asked Zubian.
"Keeping his eye on The Shadow's stools," responded Gats promptly. "He's watching Vincent and Mann, both."
"Excellent. You are prepared to capture them when you receive the word?"
"Sure thing. I figured on getting them both at once. After that— well, leave it to me. They'll squawk!"
"How do you intend to take Vincent?"
"Easy enough. Trail him when he leaves the Metrolite Hotel."
"And Mann?"
"At his office. He stays there until after six o'clock every afternoon."
"Six o'clock"—Zubian was thoughtful—"in his office. That is odd. Lamont Cranston had a habit of making a telephone call from the Cobalt Club at six. You intend to take Mann in his office?"
"That's it," explained Gats. "The office next to his is empty. Squint got in there; he's fixed the door that opens through. Give the word, and the boys will be there."
"That gives me an excellent idea," declared Zubian. He turned to Carleton. "You are willing that Gats should seize these agents of The Shadow?"
"Absolutely," responded Carleton.
"And that I," added Zubian, "make certain arrangements with Gats for what may follow?"
"Certainly," said Carleton.
"Here is the plan, then," announced Zubian, turning to Gats. "Put some competent men on Vincent. Have Squint and six others in the office next to Mann's. You and I will join them after five o'clock. Be ready to seize Mann."
Zubian turned to Carleton.
"So far as we are concerned," declared the international crook, "the treatment of Mann and Vincent depends entirely upon Gats. It is his idea; therefore, it should be his privilege. He can make them talk; he can dispose of them as he sees fit. You will be at Devaux's; I shall be at the Cobalt Club."
DESPITE Zubian's dictatorial tone, Douglas Carleton offered no objection. The clubman had come to rely upon Zubian's craft, and he was wise enough to refrain from petty interference. The knowledge that The Shadow was a formidable foe had broken down all bars of discord that might have existed within this triumvirate of plotters.
Thus it developed that at five o'clock the same afternoon, Felix Zubian and Gats Hackett entered the Grandville Building, and rode to the twenty-first floor. Arriving in the office that adjoined Rutledge Mann's suite, they found Squint Freston, with a crew of half a dozen picked thugs. The little, wolf-fanged gangster gave them a whispered greeting.
"The stenographer has left," he said. "Mann is in the office alone. Not many people here on the floor. We can slide in any time."
"Wait a little while," ordered Gats.
It was five fifteen when the attack was made. Squint, smooth and wiry, unlocked a door that led into the outer office of 2121. He entered, followed by two gangsters. The door of the inner office was closed.
Squint approached and opened it, inch by inch.
The widening space revealed the chubby-faced investment broker seated at his desk. Squint crept slowly forward. Mann, suddenly aware of a foe close by, turned to find himself facing two armed gunmen at the door.
With a startled expression, Mann raised his arms. He made no outcry; nor did he hold that opportunity long. Squint Freston was upon him, his arm around the victim's throat, ready to choke Mann, should he offer the slightest resistance.
Gats Hackett entered the room. He took immediate charge. Drawing a rag from his pocket, he saturated it from a bottle and applied it to Mann's face. The investment broker sagged toward the floor.
"Now to drag him out," declared Gats.
It was Felix Zubian who spoke now. He had entered the room, and was standing near the door.
"Just a minute, Gats," he said.
Leaving Mann's helpless form in Squint's charge, Gats approached Zubian. The two conversed in low tones. A sudden exclamation came from Gats.
"You mean The Shadow will come here?" he questioned, not loud enough for the others to hear.
"Of course," replied Zubian.
"Then we can get him!" exclaimed Gats.
"Not we ourselves," said Zubian. "That would be a mistake. You have your own job—with Vincent and Mann. It is not wise for me to join in a gang attack. Leave chosen men here with Squint, in the next room."
"I get you. Then when The Shadow comes to see why he hasn't heard from Mann -"
"He will walk into another trap."
"Great! I'll give the lay to Squint."
Gats took the little gangster into the adjoining office. In brief terms, he explained the situation.
Squint was elated. He, like Gats, was out to get The Shadow. Waiting here would be different from Twenty-third Street. At the close range between the offices, Squint could not fail to spot The Shadow.
"There'll be five men with you, Squint," explained Gats, in a low tone. "Don't tell them who you're laying for. Have them set and gang the guy when he blows in."
"Leave it to me, Gats," rejoined Squint, speaking from the corner of his mouth. "I ain't goin' to pass up no chanct to get The Shadow! Leave it to me, Gats!"
RETURNING to Mann's office, Gats threw one powerful arm under the investment man's shoulder and drew his form up. Another gangster grasped Mann from the other side.
The Shadow's agent was groggy, but capable of action. With expert precision, the three walked from the office, Gats placing Mann's hat on the investment broker's head as they went by the rack.
To all appearances, Rutledge Mann was leaving the Grandville Building, accompanied by two friends. He was awake enough to speak; but the muzzle of a revolver advised him to keep silence.
Felix Zubian followed shortly afterward. Squint Freston and five mobsters remained.
There was an ugly smirk on Zubian's face as he made his way to the Cobalt Club. Wherever The Shadow might be, he would soon discover that one of his trusted men was missing, and Zubian expected action on that!
Zubian had not questioned Gats Hackett regarding his plans. He considered the gang leader a capable inquisitor. If anything could be learned from The Shadow's agents, Gats would find it out.
Vincent and Mann were but pawns in the game; but pawns might prove useful. Zubian congratulated himself upon his cleverness in turning Gats Hackett's scheme into a new snare for The Shadow.
Arriving at the Cobalt Club, Zubian strolled through the spacious lounges, in hopes that he might spy the familiar figure of Lamont Cranston. His quest was not rewarded; the millionaire was nowhere to be seen.
Nevertheless, Zubian was satisfied. In his previous studies of Cranston's activities he had discovered one fact that might prove a useful clew—should it ever be required.
There was no use in considering the future now. Once again, the odds were against The Shadow. That he would appear at Rutledge Mann's office, Zubian accepted as an assured fact. This would be Squint Freston's opportunity to prove the faith that Gats Hackett had in him.
The big clock in the lobby of the Cobalt Club showed ten minutes after six when Felix Zubian passed it on the way to the grill. One last glance assured the crook that Lamont Cranston had not entered.
Shrugging his shoulders, Zubian lighted a cigarette and took his place at a table in the grillroom. He ordered dinner, and sat back in ease.
To-night, the next stroke would be given. Once again, the odds lay with The Shadow's enemies. Mann was captured; Vincent would soon be a prisoner also. Then would come the reckoning.
Once more, Felix Zubian smiled. Failure seemed impossible; yet even failure would not reflect
on him. So long as The Shadow was at large, Zubian felt that he could trail him. He was still The Shadow's shadow!
CHAPTER XVI. ENTER THE SHADOW
WHEN Felix Zubian had glanced about the lobby of the Cobalt Club, he had not seen Lamont Cranston; therefore, he had assumed that The Shadow was not on the premises. Therein Felix Zubian had been deceived.
Seated in a comfortable chair was a man whose visage possessed none of the characteristics of Cranston's physiognomy. To all appearances, this individual was at least three inches shorter than the millionaire.
Zubian, now familiar with the names of many Cobalt members, had recognized this man as Henry Arnaud. But he had not discerned the fact that Cranston and Arnaud were one and the same.
The Shadow, Zubian had heard, was a master of disguise. But he had never dreamed that this strange personage could so change his face that a keen observer could detect no similarity in the make-up. Thus Zubian, The Shadow's shadow, sat quietly at dinner while the very man he hoped to find was strolling the lobby less than a hundred feet away.
Henry Arnaud, like Felix Zubian, had noticed the clock. Ten minutes past the hour of six seemed to indicate something to him, for he arose from his chair and went to a telephone booth. There he called a number and listened while a quiet voice spoke over the wire.
"Burbank," said the voice.
Burbank was a unique agent of The Shadow. He was the contact man through whom special messages were relayed to The Shadow. Located at some unknown source, reached only by telephone, Burbank aided in activities where swiftness counted. His duties were manifold, his work unfailing.
"Report," said Henry Arnaud.
"No word from Mann," declared Burbank.
"Communicate with him," ordered Arnaud.
Leaving the booth, Arnaud returned to the lobby, resumed his chair, and waited five minutes. Then he reentered the booth and made another call to Burbank.
"No answer from Mann," informed the quiet voice.
"Communicate with Vincent," was Arnaud's order.
It was six thirty when Henry Arnaud again called Burbank. This time he received another barren report; the two men could not be reached.
"Vincent not at Metrolite," stated Burbank.
Henry Arnaud was thoughtful when he again resumed his chair. He waited for a few minutes, then quietly arose and obtained a package from the checkroom. He left the club and hailed a taxicab, giving the driver an address on Broadway.
Alighting from the cab, Arnaud entered the Grandville Building.
Early evening had arrived; the lobby was lighted, and only one elevator was in service. Henry Arnaud went up to the twenty-second floor.
Still carrying the package under his arm, Henry Arnaud disappeared in the gloom at the end of the corridor. Nor did Arnaud return; but another figure stepped forth in his place.
It was the form of a man clad entirely in black—a strange being who emerged with uncanny suddenness.
Garbed in flowing cloak, with face hidden beneath a broad-brimmed slouch hat, this personage stood several inches taller than the man whose place he had taken.
Henry Arnaud had become The Shadow! In that guise he intended to visit the office where Rutledge Mann had been captured. There was a stairway that led down to the twenty-first floor; and it was this route that The Shadow followed.
To the ordinary observer, the location of Rutledge Mann's office on the twenty-first floor would have indicated nothing. But when The Shadow approached it, the fact that the suite had been chosen with design became apparent.
The tall form in black moved stealthily onward, stopping when it reached a turn in the dimly lighted passage. The corridor toward Mann's office was totally dark. The Shadow became a thing of nothingness when he entered it.
His final approach to Mann's office was made with the utmost stealth. No human eye could have discerned his presence. An invisible hand inserted a key in the lock. The door opened softly inward.
Inch by inch, The Shadow moved forward. He seemed to sense the fact that a figure was crouching down the hall ahead—a figure of a man who had not seen The Shadow arrive. When he came into the outer office of the suite, The Shadow stood immovable. The sound of almost inaudible breathing reached his ears.
Some one was in that room!
The Shadow's course lay to the inner office. There he advanced step by step. He had a purpose in that action. Whatever might have happened to Rutledge Mann, it was possible that the investment broker had left some bit of evidence that would lead The Shadow on his trail.
The door of the inner office opened noiselessly. It closed again. The Shadow had reached his objective.
A window shade was drawn softly downward. A light glowed in Rutledge Mann's office.
A peculiarity of the last door through which The Shadow had passed was the fact that it allowed no crevice through which light might pass to the outer room of the suite. The Shadow was as undisturbed as if he had been miles away.
The tall figure, looming grotesquely in the dim light, was at work studying the spot where Rutledge Mann had been captured. He was studying every feature that might give him a clew to the investment broker's strange disappearance.
The faint odor of chloroform was present. The Shadow detected it. He noted the position of the chair beside the desk. He studied the floor, inch by inch, in search of any trace that might betray the identity of the captors.
It was during this inspection that The Shadow paused beside the door of the room. His keen ear listened.
The sound of low voices could be heard outside. An ordinary hearer could not have noted the sound, let alone distinguish the words; but to The Shadow, every syllable was a coherent utterance.
"He oughta been here by now," Squint Freston was saying. "You sure he ain't come in?"
"Say—who are we waitin' for, anyway?" came another gangster's reply. "The Shadow?"
Squint did not answer that question directly. He was evasive in his tone.
"We might be," he said.
"Well, you was watchin' with us," said his companion. "You oughta have seen anybody comin' in."
"Tell you what"—Squint's tone was emphatic—"I'm goin' to lay in that inner room. The rest of you guys hang out here—all except Prex in the hall an' Gorky in the next room. Slide back, now. I'm goin' in."
The Shadow's form rose from the door. It moved across the inner room with incredible swiftness. A gloved hand clicked out the light. The same hand raised the window shade and lifted the sash.
The last noiseless operation was scarcely completed before there was a sound of the door opening as Squint came into the room. The little gangster was crouching low. He threw the rays of a flashlight along the floor. He did not see the figure of The Shadow. It was merged with the blackness of the window.
The sash moved noiselessly downward. Squint did not see it. It had closed one second before his light was raised in that direction. The gangster extinguished the flashlight. He closed the door behind him, and laid close to the floor.
OUTSIDE the window, a figure was clinging twenty-one floors above the street. Gripping fingers clutched a projecting cornice as the batlike form moved inch by inch away from the safety of the window ledge. Like a human fly, The Shadow was passing from one window to the next. He completed his precarious journey, and reached the spot he sought.
There, his body resting on the ledge, his firm hands worked with the window sash. It was locked; but a thin wedge of pliable steel took care of the latch.
The black form moved invisibly inward as the sash went up. Then the window closed. The Shadow was in the room which was guarded by a single gangster—the one called Gorky.
Whatever purpose The Shadow may have had—whether he intended a surprise attack or a bold departure—the plan was interrupted by a chance occurrence.
Squint had left one man—Prex—in the corridor to watch. That gangster had become restless. The door of this office was ajar; he had entered to speak to Squint. In order to announce his pres
ence, he performed an action which was contrary to Squint's instructions. He turned on his flashlight.
The rays, which should have reflected from the windowpane, betrayed the presence of The Shadow.
There, in full view, crouched the black-clad figure of the man who had just entered.
Prex saw that sinister shape, which was half turned, ready to glide across the floor. His startled cry gave the alarm to Gorky. The other gangster looked toward the window.
The Shadow held no weapon. The delicate task which he had just performed was one that had required utmost stealth. Prex was carrying a revolver in his right hand; Gorky was similarly armed. Yet neither was ready to fire at a phantom shape coming from the last direction they had anticipated. That fact was The Shadow's opportunity.
The black hands swept to the cloak, and in a twinkling two automatics sprang in view. Gorky and Prex were leveling their guns. One revolver barked— the rod which Prex was carrying. The hasty shot missed its mark. Glass was shattered as the windowpane cracked when the bullet struck it.
Gorky never fired; nor did Prex shoot again. The Shadow's automatics barked simultaneously with the revolver shot. The echo of breaking glass came from where Prex stood as The Shadow's bullet extinguished the flashlight which the gangster held.
That was the only mark at which The Shadow could have fired, so far as Prex was concerned; but Gorky, in the range of light, was a perfect target.
Both gangsters toppled, Prex wounded, Gorky shot through the heart.
With these foemen eliminated, The Shadow sprang to further action. He knew where the next menace lay.
Like a flash, he was across the room to meet the three mobsmen who were springing in from Mann's outer office. A hand had pressed the light switch there; the gangsters piled into the gloomy room where The Shadow stood. They could see the forms of their fallen comrades, and they took no chances. With wild shots they raked the space ahead.
They did not know that The Shadow had anticipated such an attack. The man in black had not been so foolish as to leap into their oncoming path. Instead, he had sidled quickly to the wall beside the door.
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