The Shadow Unmasks s-131

by Maxwell Grant

  The Shadow Unmasks

  ( Shadow - 131 )

  Maxwell Grant

  In "The Shadow Unmasks", the real Lamont Cranston's whereabouts become front-page news, and the Dark Avenger is forced to resurrect his long-buried true identity of Kent Allard, missing aviator and former spy. Then, while investigating a Miami crime ring, Kent Allard is framed by "The Yellow Band" and must revert to his Lamont Cranston alter ego in order to clear his name.

  THE SHADOW UNMASKS

  Maxwell Grant

  CHAPTER I. CROOKS MOVE OUT

  "SHARK" MEGLO was staring coldly from his apartment window. His eyes carried a glint that matched the glitter of the silver coin that Shark was impatiently tossing with his right hand.

  Each click of Shark's thumb nail brought a ring from the half dollar. Spinning, the coin landed with a thwack in the waiting palm, only to be started on another twirl.

  Shark's hard, long-jawed face was known to the law. So was the fellow's coin-tossing habit. For months, the police had been looking for Shark Meglo as the murderer behind the most serious wave of jewel robberies that had ever startled New York.

  The coin's spin ended with a final plop. Shark's thick lips framed an ugly smile. A man had stepped in from the darkened street, to reach the lighted entry of the apartment house. Shark had recognized the fellow's face, four floors below. The arrival was "Hood" Bleeth, Shark's lieutenant.

  Soon, there was a rap on the apartment door. Shark admitted Hood and pointed to a small clock that stood on a table. It showed the time as quarter of eight. Hood's puffy, pock-marked face showed apology.

  "I know I'm late," admitted Hood. "Only it was no cinch getting word to all the crew. Anyway, the guys are all ready -"

  "Then we're set," interrupted Shark, in a hard-snapped tone. "The chink slipped me the message when he brought the wash. The job won't be until nine o'clock."

  Hood looked relieved. He settled into the best chair that the furnished apartment boasted. Shark began to spin the coin again. Hood looked anxious. He expected a further announcement. It came.

  "There'll be another rub-out," grated Shark. "We can wise the crew when we get there."

  Shark watched Hood coldly. He saw the lieutenant's worried air. After a few moments, Hood voiced a hoarse objection.

  "It's getting me jittery, Shark," declared Hood. "We've staged three jobs already - keeping 'em three or four weeks apart. That's smart stuff; but bumping the guys ain't! Whatta you want to croak those stuffed shirts for? It don't cover us. Instead of being a bunch of jewel snatchers, we're labeled as a gang of masked killers. If it was covering us -"

  Again, Shark's rasp interrupted.

  "There's one guy it does cover," stated Shark. "The bird that sells the sparklers to begin with. It wouldn't be much of a racket, if the bulls knew where those rocks were coming from."

  Amazement spread over Hood's puffy face. Shark was juggling the half dollar as he watched his lieutenant. The smirk that Shark displayed was one of evil relish.

  "Cripes!" gulped Hood. "You told me there was a big-shot in the racket. I remember you saying we didn't have to worry about fencing the sparklers after we grabbed 'em. Only -"

  "Only you never figured we cashed in before we started," inserted Shark. "The cops haven't figured it either; and that includes Joe Cardona, the wise bull that they call the ace police inspector. I've given you the straight dope, Hood. Keep it under your hat."

  HOOD nodded his intention of so doing. His knowledge of the game was complete at last. Some jewel merchant of high repute was behind the whole racket. That hidden big-shot sold high priced gems to dupes; then tipped off Shark Meglo where and when to get them.

  Shark grabbed the swag; it went back to the big-shot. Again the reputable jeweler, that master-crook, sold the same goods to a new victim.

  Murder was necessary; if a victim survived, he might name the man who had sold him gems valued at a quarter million. Those transactions were confidential ones. Death could keep them quiet later.

  "There's only one guy who could queer this racket," announced Shark. "That's The Shadow! It's on account of him that I've been dodging from one hide-out to another."

  Hood's pleased leer ended. Hood never liked to hear mention of The Shadow. Shark was right, The Shadow could finish any game that left crime in its wake. Particularly, when men of high social status were concerned.

  Crimeland knew The Shadow as a cloaked avenger who appeared from nowhere, to strike down murderous underworld denizens. Though The Shadow's identity was unknown, it was conceded that he was a personage of distinction, who would know people of wealth.

  That was why the murders of jewel-buying millionaires had carried more than usual risk. Hood knew that it was sheer luck that had so far enabled Shark to evade The Shadow.

  "Snap out of it, Hood," growled Shark. "Here, take this change the Chinaman gave me, and get me some cigarettes up at the corner store. I'll be packing while you're gone. Take a gander at the lookout in the lobby. Make sure he's on the job."

  Shark gave Hood the shiny half dollar. Leaving the apartment, Hood descended by the automatic elevator. In the lobby, he nodded to a long-limbed fellow who sat in a little office. Hood knew the fellow; his name was "Pinkey" Borton, a rowdy who could put up a presentable appearance.

  Whenever Shark took a new hideaway, he always posted Pinkey at lookout. Pinkey had wangled a clerk's job at this shoddy apartment house before Shark had become a tenant.

  The street was deserted, and that pleased Hood. The underling stopped outside the corner drug store and cast a suspicious eye at a streamlined taxi that was stopping there. The cab looked empty, so Hood went into the drug store. The cab driver alighted and entered while Hood was buying the cigarettes.

  Just as Hood stepped away, the cabby asked the druggist to change a dollar bill. The man behind the counter handed over Shark's half dollar along with some smaller change.

  Returning to his cab, the driver took a sly glance at Hood, who was on his way back to the apartment house. Once behind the wheel, the cabby reached to the connecting window. Holding the change that he had received, he gave the information:

  "It was Hood Bleeth!"

  A whispered voice responded. A black-gloved hand came through the window and took the change.

  Half a minute later, the cab rolled slowly along the narrow street that Hood had taken.

  As the taxi neared a darkened street outside the apartment house, the door opened noiselessly. An unseen passenger stepped from the moving cab into the blackness of the sidewalk.

  Hood had gone up in the automatic elevator. Pinkey was behind the office counter, eyeing the front door.

  He let his gaze shift toward the elevator. Pinkey indulged in a wan smile; a swish, close beside him, changed his expression to alarm.

  Pinkey swung face to face with a surging, black-cloaked invader who had sprung in from the entry. He saw burning eyes sheltered beneath the brim of a slouch hat. Long arms were stretching forward, driving gloved hands for the lookout's throat.

  Pinkey recognized The Shadow.

  WITH a snarl, the lookout tried to reach the inner end of the office, by the switchboard. He was pulling a revolver as he sprang away; Pinkey thought that he could gain a shot before The Shadow produced an automatic.

  The Shadow did not need a gun.

  With one long drive, the cloaked invader leaped the low counter. The Shadow's jabbing hands found their target, Pinkey's neck. The lookout flattened beneath his cloaked opponent. As Pinkey's eyes bulged upward, The Shadow's powerful fingers choked words from the lookout's lips.

  "Shark Meglo!" gasped Pinkey. "He - he's up on the fourth floor - 4 B! Hood - Hood Bleeth's with him!

  That's al
l - all I know -"

  A buzz from the switchboard was interrupting Pinkey's blurts. The Shadow's fingers pressed beneath Pinkey's chin, found the spot they wanted. The lookout slumped; his eyes shut as his body became limp.

  That skillful treatment settled him into temporary unconsciousness, as effectively as if he had received a knockout punch.

  The buzz from the switchboard ended before The Shadow could pick up the earphones and fake Pinkey's voice.

  Without delay, The Shadow cleared the counter and took to the stairway. He did not have to halt to pick up Pinkey's pass-keys. They were dangling from the senseless lookout's pocket. The Shadow carried them along as he went past.

  The stairs offered a more rapid route than the elevator, which The Shadow would have had to bring down from the fourth floor. When he reached 4 B, The Shadow unlocked the door and shoved it inward.

  He twisted back across the hall, aiming an automatic for the center of the lighted room.

  There was no sign of Shark and Hood. A stir of wind through an opened window showed the route that they had taken. They had called Pinkey to learn if the route was clear. Receiving no reply, the two had cleared through the window, to the roof of an adjoining building, then down a fire escape.

  When The Shadow reached the window, he heard the snort of a starting motor in an alleyway below. A high wall made it impossible to stop, in time, the get-away that Shark and Hood were making.

  They had taken most of Shark's luggage with them; but in their haste they had left a few items. There was an unopened package of laundry in the corner. The table drawer revealed odds and ends that Shark had not waited to junk.

  His gloves removed, The Shadow picked through an assortment of pencils, paperclips, paper and envelopes.

  With those items was a small microscope. The Shadow held the tiny magnifying glass beneath the light. It was powerful, despite its miniature size; the sort of glass that a watchmaker would use.

  The laundry package in the corner gave The Shadow a connecting clue. From his pocket The Shadow produced the change that the cab driver had brought him from the drug store.

  There was a whispered laugh from hidden lips as The Shadow's forefinger rubbed the surface of the new half dollar and detected a slight roughness. It was on the tail side of the coin just beneath the eagle's beak; a marking that to the eye was no more than a scratch.

  Using the powerful lens, The Shadow enlarged the view. The message appeared in letters that had been engraved beneath a microscope by an expert hand:

  SILSAM

  9 p. m.

  3-6-6-3-7

  PRESSING the wall switch, The Shadow extinguished the lights. A sibilant laugh whispered through the darkened apartment. The Shadow chose the window as his exit. He reached the fire escape of the adjacent building and descended by the route that crooks had taken.

  It was just eight o'clock. The Shadow had one hour in which to anticipate new crime. Shark Meglo would be due for a surprise when he attempted to deliver robbery and death. The Shadow no longer had need to seek Shark's trail. He could arrive ahead of Shark tonight.

  The Shadow had waited for an opportunity like this one. His plans were made; nothing, apparently, could interfere with them. The Shadow had made due allowance for the unexpected.

  So The Shadow believed. Yet, within the next half hour, freakish chance was to produce a dilemma of a sort that The Shadow had never before encountered.

  CHAPTER II. THE SHADOW VANISHES

  TEN minutes after his departure from Shark's apartment, The Shadow was riding in the same cab that had brought him to the killer's hide-out. That cab was The Shadow's own possession; its driver, Moe Shrevnitz, was an agent who served The Shadow.

  The Shadow was no longer an invisible passenger. His cloak and hat were packed away beneath the rear seat. The lights of an avenue showed a calm-faced rider who wore evening attire. The Shadow had taken on the character of a man named Lamont Cranston, a millionaire globe-trotter. He was on his way to the exclusive Cobalt Club.

  The Shadow had long guarded the fact that he used the identity of Cranston. It was not a fictitious personality; there was a real Lamont Cranston, for whom The Shadow doubled. Cranston spent most of his time abroad and kept his whereabouts unknown, so that The Shadow could appear in his stead.

  Posing as Cranston, The Shadow had access to many important places. That helped him immensely in his battles against crime. It kept The Shadow's real identity a complete mystery, even to his own associates.

  No one had ever guessed who The Shadow actually was.

  Tonight was to produce a chain of circumstances that would change all that. Though The Shadow did not foresee it, he would soon have to adopt his own identity to best continue his incessant warfare against crime.

  Riding to the Cobalt Club, The Shadow was thinking only of the message on Shark's half dollar. The Shadow had suspected that a big-shot lay behind Shark's crimes. Some one who visited wealthy gem owners and picked certain ones as victims. That big-shot, a man of supposed good standing, had given Shark orders for tonight.

  The victim was to be a millionaire named Silsam. There was only one possible choice: Hugo Silsam, the copper king. As Cranston, The Shadow had met Silsam; but had not known that the millionaire owned many valuable gems. That, however, had been the case with all of the recent gem robberies.

  The victims had been persons who had recently purchased rare jewels without making the fact public.

  Each robbery and its attendant murder had revealed that the dead men were collectors. If Silsam ran true to form, his gems must be worth at least a quarter million.

  Nine o'clock.

  The Shadow knew the reason for that hour. Silsam was entertaining friends tonight, at his old brownstone home on Madison Avenue. The affair was simply a dinner party; the guests would be gone by nine, thus giving crooks the chance to tackle Silsam alone.

  The figures that had accompanied the coin message obviously represented the combination of the safe at Silsam's home.

  THE cab reached the Cobalt Club. The uniformed doorman bowed as he recognized Lamont Cranston.

  The tall, leisurely club member frequently used taxis around town, and kept his big limousine across the street from the Cobalt Club. Cranston used the big car when he rode home to his New Jersey estate, late at night.

  While the doorman was pointing out a parking space for the cab, The Shadow strolled into the club. The attendant was busy at the desk and did not notice Cranston pass. With a slight smile on the lips of his masklike face, The Shadow entered a telephone booth. He called the home of Hugo Silsam, and asked to speak with the copper king.

  The name of Cranston worked like a charm. In a few minutes, Silsam was on the wire. In a quiet even tone, The Shadow asked if Silsam would be at home, later in the evening. Silsam's dryish cackle delivered a pleased affirmative. Cranston would be welcome at any time.

  A slight murmur over the wire informed The Shadow that Silsam's guests were still present. Hanging up the receiver, The Shadow left the telephone booth. Maintaining Cranston's unhurried style, he strolled out to the street noting the clock above the desk.

  Twenty-five minutes past eight. Plenty of time to reach Silsam's before nine o'clock and stay there until crooks arrived. The presence of one guest would not cause Shark Meglo to postpone his thrust. Crooks would never suppose that Cranston, the chance visitor, was The Shadow.

  The attendant was still busy at the desk, and The Shadow observed the fact. The fellow happened to look up, just as Cranston went through the door; but he caught only a fleeting glimpse of the tall stroller's head and shoulders.

  Before the doorman could learn whether Cranston wanted his limousine or a taxi, a big official car pulled up in front of the club. From it stepped a pompous man of military manner, whose broad features wore a shortclipped mustache.

  The arrival was Ralph Weston, New York's police commissioner.

  "HELLO, Cranston!"

  Weston ejaculated the brisk greeti
ng before The Shadow could move away. Showing Cranston's slight smile, The Shadow waited. A few minutes was all he needed to get rid of the police commissioner.

  The time would be well spent, since the friendship between Cranston and Weston was one upon which The Shadow frequently capitalized when he wanted information regarding the law's angle on recent crime.

  "Come into the club," invited Weston. "We can have dinner in the grillroom."

  "I have dined, thank you," smiled The Shadow. "I am on my way to keep an appointment. Suppose I meet you later, commissioner."

  "Very well." Weston showed a flicker of disappointment. "I wanted to talk to you about those jewel murders."

  "Has there been another?"

  Weston purpled as he heard the question; then realized that it carried no sarcasm. Seriously, the commissioner shook his head.

  "No new robbery," he declared. "But I am worried, Cranston. Those crimes have occurred at intervals of approximately three weeks. It is almost time that another might arrive."

  "That is why I asked my question, commissioner. Well, I hope to see you later -"

  A shout from the corner interrupted The Shadow's quiet statement. A newsboy came into view, flourishing early editions of the morning newspapers. Approaching, the newsie repeated his leather-lunged cry:

  "Read about th' big plane crash! T'ree Americans injured! Big Croydon plane wreck! T'ree Americans

  -"

  Weston interrupted by buying two newspapers. He passed one to The Shadow. Spreading his own newspaper, Weston read the huge headline that announced the wreck of an airliner leaving England for the Orient. A pilot had been killed; seven passengers injured. Among the latter were three Americans.

  Weston saw a heading over a row of photographs. It bore the words: "Americans hurt in Crash."

  Weston's eyes went to the pictures. It stopped on the central one.

  There, staring from the page was the face of Lamont Cranston; below it, the name of the very man for whom Weston had purchased a duplicate newspaper, only half a minute before!