The Black Master s-8

by Maxwell Grant

  "You can't help me, Arnaud," he said. "I'm through! That's all! I had a hunch it was coming. Everything stopped - all at once - the day before I met you in Child's office.

  "I don't know how or why I realized it; but that morning, I knew my end was due. It was set for me - up there - in that office. I realized it when I read the newspapers that afternoon.

  "It was just an accident that saved me - just an accident -"

  "You mean an accident that the bomb did not explode?"

  Warfield nodded. "You - you - caused it!"

  "Certainly. I knew the bomb was there. I found it before you came in."

  "Then you - you are - you are the man I am expecting now - the one who is to -"

  "The one who is to kill you? No!"

  Perry Warfield sat down in a daze. He rubbed his forehead. He stared at the calm face of Henry Arnaud.

  He seemed like a man awakened from a nightmare.

  "Tell me why you are to die," said Arnaud.

  "I cannot," gasped Warfield. "I am afraid - afraid - because of - because of one -"

  "Of whom," came Arnaud's undertone. His piercing eyes were staring into Warfield's. For a moment the hunted man's lips trembled as he began to speak; then he seized his head between his hands.

  "No!" he exclaimed. "No! I cannot tell! My only hope is silence!" A sudden, insane sparkle appeared in his eyes and he laughed silently but wildly. "It is a trap! You want me to speak. I know why! You are The Master!"

  He grinned as though demented, seeming to gain a feeble triumph in this hopeless accusation. Arnaud's response was totally unexpected.

  "I understand now," he said, nodding slowly. "You have told me. The man you fear is the one you call The Master!"

  Warfield trembled. Unwittingly he had betrayed his secret. Stark terror swept over his face; then he calmed suddenly. His voice was hoarse with restrained excitement.

  "If you are The Master," he said cunningly, "I have betrayed you now. You can do what you will. I have no hope. But if you are not The Master" - he hesitated, then smiled shrewdly - "I can tell you all, without fear. But my time is short. Look - there!"

  He pointed out the window, where the changing lights of an electric sign flickered above a building.

  "Do you see that line of lights - of yellow lights - with one that is blank? Count those that remain. There are only five! That means five minutes more to live! Watch them. The blank will move to the right - and one minute less will remain -"

  Arnaud turned like a flash. Warfield had risen from his chair and was springing upon him. With a quick movement of his left arm, Arnaud sent his antagonist sprawling. Warfield clambered from the floor and took a huddled position in his chair.

  "I thought perhaps you were The Master," he said sullenly. "I thought perhaps I could kill you! Before you killed me, you know. It was my only chance! My only chance, you know -" His voice was apologetic.

  "Warfield!" Arnaud's voice was low and firm. He drew an automatic from his coat. "You must speak all.

  If I am The Master of whom you speak, you may consider this a command. If I am not The Master, you need not fear me. I am here to protect you. Do you understand?"

  Warfield nodded, still trembling.

  "Who is The Master?" questioned Arnaud.

  "I do not know his name," replied Warfield. "I know him only as The Master - The Black Master. I have met him only at one place; then it has been dark - pitch-dark. I have only heard his voice, and I have obeyed!"

  "Why?"

  "Because he knew - he knew my secret! He threatened me by telephone first. Then he summoned me! I came to him. Since then I have done his bidding!"

  "And his commands concerned your friend Hubert Banks."

  "How did you know?" There was terror in Warfield's voice.

  "I, too, have been watching you," said Arnaud quietly. "I have been watching four men. Pennypacker, Houghton, Houston - and yourself. Three of them are dead -"

  "I know!" exclaimed Warfield. "That is how I found out what The Master meant to do with me! I was to die with them!

  "Not one of us knew the others were in The Master's power. Those men were friends of mine - but I never suspected them, until - until they died!"

  "And then -"

  "Then I tried to escape The Master! I wanted to hide; I thought New York would be the safest place.

  But last night I received the summons.

  "I left the hotel where I was staying. I came here. Tonight I received a phone call. A voice said: 'Watch the lights from your window. Each one is a minute' -"

  Instinctively the man looked beyond Henry Arnaud. His mouth opened as though he were about to cry in horror, but no sound resulted. He pointed wildly through the window.

  Arnaud threw a quick glance in that direction. The last light in the row was blank.

  Henry Arnaud looked calmly toward Perry Warfield. The man was cowering, trembling, between Arnaud and the door.

  Arnaud was a living statue. He stood silent, his keen eyes seeing not only Warfield, but the door beyond.

  He detected a slight motion. His watchfulness increased. In the door the key was turning, slowly, noiselessly. The handle of the door began to move. It stopped. The door swung silently inward.

  It was then that Henry Arnaud acted. As the door opened, Arnaud's arm came upward from his pocket, his eyes fixed upon the door.

  A stocky, hard-faced man stood with leveled automatic in the opening. Before the murderer could fire, Henry Arnaud's finger pressed the trigger of his revolver.

  But for the unexpected, the murderer would have fallen. Perry Warfield supplied the unexpected. The door had opened behind his back. Henry Arnaud had momentarily ignored the cringing man.

  In the upraising of Arnaud's automatic, only one explanation could come to Warfield's terrified mind. He thought that Arnaud meant to kill him. With a wild scream, he leaped forward and upward as Arnaud's finger touched the trigger.

  He struck the arm of the man who was about to save him. The bullets from Arnaud's automatic went wild as he resisted this mad attack. He stumbled as he flung Warfield from him.

  In falling, Perry Warfield saw the man at the door. He screamed in sudden recognition.

  Before Arnaud could bring his gun into play, the room was plunged into darkness as the man at the door pressed the switch. Then came the roar of the murderer's automatic.

  Warfield's screams were broken. The door slammed shut, just as Henry Arnaud fired his parting, futile shot.

  Arnaud snapped the switch on the table lamp. He bent over the form of the man upon the floor. Perry Warfield was still alive. He opened his eyes.

  He was dying, a victim of his own stupidity; yet in his last moments he had gained a bravery that was heroic.

  "It was - Killer Bryan!" he gasped. "I have seen - him - before! He kills - for The Master - for The Black Master! He will kill again. You must - stop him!"

  Warfield raised a clenched fist. He sought Arnaud's hand. He opened his fist and dropped a small black object of thin metal. Arnaud thrust it into his pocket.

  Footsteps and excited voices came from the corridor. Arnaud remained close beside the dying man.

  "He will kill," said Warfield feebly. "He will - kill -"

  "Hubert Banks?" came Arnaud's question.

  Warfield nodded.

  "Later," he said. "Before - before that he will - will kill -"

  Arnaud's arm was beneath Warfield's head. The light switched on; men were in the room, seizing Arnaud.

  He withstood their clutches for the moment. His gaze was focused upon Perry Warfield's lips. He saw them move as they tried to repeat a name. Slight though the motion was, Arnaud understood. He nodded.

  Warfield's head slipped from his arm. The man was dead. His body rolled upon the floor. Five men seized Henry Arnaud and overpowered him.

  CHAPTER IX. THE SECOND MURDER

  HENRY ARNAUD lay in a corner of the room, his hands cuffed behind him. In front of him stood two hotel attendants and the
house detective, keeping close watch, awaiting the arrival of the police.

  Soon a plainclothesman shoved his way into the room. He looked at Arnaud, then glanced questioningly at the house detective.

  "This the guy?" he asked.

  "Yes."

  "I'm Detective Blaine from headquarters," said the newcomer. "I'll take charge from now on!"

  He asked Arnaud's name. Then, "You killed this man?"

  "No!"

  The detective laughed.

  "The murderer," persisted Arnaud, "is a man called Killer Bryan. He has escaped. He intends to commit another murder. I can tell you the name -"

  "Lay off that stall!" exclaimed the headquarters man threateningly. "It won't do you any good to try to lay the blame somewhere else. Get me?"

  "The name of the man marked for murder is Matthew -"

  "Shut up!" ordered the detective. "Another peep and you won't be able to do any talking. Get me? You'll have plenty of chance to talk at headquarters."

  Henry Arnaud remained silent, but his eyes were intent, his face taut, as if he was engaged in physical effort. The headquarters detective leaned over the body of Perry Warfield. The others in the room concentrated on the action of the sleuth, as he made his careful inspection. It was then that the unexpected happened.

  Slowly, almost unnoticeably, Henry Arnaud raised his body. A man beside him detected a sound and turned. Before he could make an exclamation, Arnaud's freed right hand swung from behind his back.

  The handcuffs were still fastened to his right wrist. The solid mass of metal struck the watcher at the base of his neck. He collapsed.

  Arnaud was on his feet. As the headquarters man turned, automatic in hand, the shackled arm descend and knocked the pistol from the detective's grasp.

  The house detective and two other men made a leap for the prisoner; but Arnaud was too quick for them. His right arm swung in a wide arc.

  One man escaped the blow by dropping to the floor. Another fell as he received a staggering stroke. The third grappled with Arnaud for a brief moment; then the conflict ended as the steel manacles glanced against the man's head.

  The prisoner made a leap for the door, pulling the handcuff from his right wrist as he went. This amazing man, through some strange ability, could laugh at manacles.

  The path to freedom lay ahead, but Arnaud scented danger. He dropped suddenly toward the floor and turned just as the headquarters detective reclaimed his automatic and raised it toward the fleeing form.

  Arnaud's action required that the detective change his aim.

  Before the threatening finger could pull the trigger, the handcuffs whizzed through the air at terrific speed.

  The detective threw up a protecting arm. He was too late to save himself. The heavy steel cuffs struck the top of his head and he fell.

  Then Arnaud was gone, but from the corridor outside the room came a last reminder of his presence. It was a long, eerie laugh, a terrible laugh that seemed a laugh of triumph.

  It was the laugh of The Shadow!

  Despite the consternation in the room where the murdered man lay, the baffled captors of the supposed murderer acted quickly. Within one minute after Henry Arnaud's escape, the news had been phoned to the lobby below.

  Police had entered. A manhunt was under way. All available attendants in the hotel were pressed into service for the search.

  The principal search was instituted on the floor where Perry Warfield had been killed. It had hardly begun before a cry of alarm was sounded by an elevator man. His car was stopped at the seventh floor.

  He had looked up just in time to see a form speed rapidly to the head of the stairway!

  "There he goes! There he goes!"

  Uniformed police rushed from the corridors. Downward they went, in mad pursuit. And again, from the floor below came the sound of a mocking, bursting laugh.

  A man appeared in the lobby of the Goliath Hotel. No one saw him arrive until he walked up to the policeman standing by the door. He drew back his coat and showed a badge. The policeman nodded.

  "Headquarters," said the man nonchalantly. "Keep on the job, here! I'll be back with more men!"

  As the man passed through the revolving door, two policemen dashed down a stairway into the lobby.

  "There he goes!" cried one, pointing to the figure emerging beyond the revolving door. "That's the murderer! Get him!"

  The guarding policeman joined in the pursuit. But he had realized his mistake a few moments too late.

  When the bluecoats reached the street, their quarry had disappeared. He had vanished like a shadow!

  Passersby were quizzed, but to no avail.

  As the policemen were joined by others and the searchers scattered along the street, a form emerged from beneath the darkened windows of the dining room of the Goliath Hotel.

  Silently, swiftly, a strange being flitted through the night, keeping always in the protecting shadows. He did not seem human, until he had reached a spot a block away from the hotel. Then he suddenly revealed himself in the light. It was Henry Arnaud!

  The man stepped into a passing cab. He gave an uptown address - near the home of Matthew Stokes.

  The taxi driver did not recognize anything unusual.

  Matthew Stokes, despite his important position as the head of a detective agency, was a man who kept out of the public limelight. The importance of his investigations was known only to himself. He was a sleuth par excellence, who handled most vital cases for private individuals.

  The front of the Stokes house was dark when a taxicab stopped several doors away. Shortly after the cab had gone, a stealthy figure approached the house and made its way up the side wall of the building.

  Projecting cornices helped the task.

  Two hands came from the darkness and raised a window. A man entered. He moved invisibly. Then he stopped in the corner of the room and listened.

  There was no sound. Finally a slight click occurred. A small lamp turned on in the corner of the room.

  Beside it stood the visitor, scarcely more than a shadowy mass of black in the dim illumination. The Shadow was in the bedroom of Matthew Stokes!

  The room seemed silent and deserted. There was a bed in the opposite corner, with a high baseboard the foot. For a moment, the features of Henry Arnaud were visible as the shadowy investigator moved past the corner light. When he reached the bed, he appeared only as a fantastic, dark-clad form.

  He stopped beside the bed. Then there was silence again. The Shadow did not move. He was contemplating the figure that lay huddled beneath the covers of the bed.

  Although the night was warm, the man in bed was covered with blankets.

  A hand appeared from the darkness and drew back the top edges of the blankets. A face could be distinguished in the gloomy darkness. It was the face of Matthew Stokes.

  The eyes stared with the glassy stare of death. Matthew Stokes was dead! He had been shot in bed, the noise of the report muffled by the blankets!

  The Shadow had arrived too late! "Killer" Bryan had come and gone before him. The nefarious gunman had committed a second murder!

  CHAPTER X. KILLER BRYAN SPEAKS

  Henry Arnaud had escaped! But he had been recognized, and his identity admitted. The morning following the affair at the Goliath Hotel, his picture had been published in the newspapers.

  Then came the bombshell. A statement from Toronto declared the real Henry Arnaud was in that city. A man well known in the Middle West, and a frequent visitor in New York, he denied any connection with the case, and his ironclad alibi was a sensation.

  In the apartment of the German criminologist, Doctor Heinrich Zerndorff, Inspector Burke and Joe Cardona were discussing the murders of the night before.

  Zerndorff, eyebrows bristling, leaned forward in his chair.

  "I cannot understand it," he said. "Who is this man who looks like Henry Arnaud, yet is not Arnaud?"

  Cardona shrugged. He was thinking of The Shadow, but keeping those thoughts to h
imself. He remembered the phoned warning that had led to discovery of the bomb in the Financial Building.

  Could it be that the murders of Perry Warfield and Matthew Stokes were connected with the explosions that had terrified New York?

  "Well," said Inspector Burke, "we must get busy, Cardona. There's too little evidence in this Stokes case.

  "We figure the killer must have been waiting. Stokes was shot in bed, and the blankets were used to muffle the sound of the gun. We've got to locate this fake Henry Arnaud!"

  Darkness was gathering outside. Joe Cardona stared speculatively from the window. Somewhere in that gloom, two men were buried in the depths of Manhattan. It was his task to find them.

  The telephone rang. Doctor Zerndorff answered - and then turned the phone over to Joe Cardona. A low, whispered voice began to talk the moment that Cardona placed the receiver to his ear.

  "You are looking for me," said the voice. "I am the man who called himself Henry Arnaud.

  "I did not kill Perry Warfield. The murderer is Killer Bryan. He also murdered Matthew Stokes. I have located him. You can capture him tonight. But take him alive. You understand? Alive!

  "He is hiding out in a rooming house two doors west of the Pink Rat," the voice continued. "You know where the place is?"

  "Yes."

  "His room is the first to the left, at the head of the stairs. He will be in there at ten o'clock. He does not know that he is suspected of murder. Be there with your men tonight!"

  The receiver clicked. Cardona turned to the other men. He told them what he had heard.

  "Trace the phone call," ordered Inspector Burke.

  "It won't do any good," replied Cardona. "We'll try it though."

  "You will go there tonight, yes?" questioned Doctor Zerndorff.

  "You're right I will!" replied Cardona emphatically. "I've been tipped off before. We'll get that guy, if I'm not mistaken!"

  "I think I shall go with you," declared Doctor Zerndorff. "Perhaps I shall be of use."

  It was shortly before ten o'clock when a thickset, long-armed man entered the doorway of the second house from the Pink Rat. He climbed stealthily up the stairs to the second floor, stopping at the top to listen. He entered the room at the left of the stairway, and snapped on the light.