The Black Master s-8

by Maxwell Grant

  The hardened face of Killer Bryan was revealed. He looked about the empty room and laughed. Then he turned out the light and lay down on the creaking bed.

  Outside the room, there was a slight rustling sound. But Killer Bryan couldn't hear it. Someone was passing the doorway in the darkness. Someone was moving - a silent, invisible shape. Then came absolute silence.

  From below a door opened softly. Four men were on the stairway, creeping softly upward. Then they stopped.

  "You will go in alone, yes?" came the whispered voice of Doctor Zerndorff.

  "Yes," came the reply from Joe Cardona. "I'll nab him. Stay outside with the others, professor."

  The four men silently took positions in accordance with a rehearsed plan. Joe Cardona moved to the door of Killer Bryan's room. Doctor Zerndorff remained by the stairway, where he commanded a direct view of the door. The other men stood away from the door.

  Cardona advanced cautiously. He waited, listening.

  Then came action. His hand was on the knob. His men clicked their flashlights, focusing their powerful glare upon the doorway. That was the signal for Cardona to rush in upon Killer Bryan.

  But as the lights went on, the door opened inward, seemingly of its own accord. There stood Killer Bryan, his evil face leering in the glare, his automatic aimed directly at Cardona, his finger on the trigger.

  At that instant, another pistol spoke from the darkness, and a bullet from an unseen hand tore through Killer Bryan's fingers. With an oath he dropped his gun.

  Cardona, his life saved, whirled toward the doorway, a startled exclamation coming to his lips.

  But he had no time to think of the strange, black-clad figure he had glimpsed; a tall, imposing being whose smoking gun was already disappearing beneath the folds of a flowing cloak.

  For almost at the same instant he flung himself forward on Killer Bryan; heard the snarl of a cornered beast at bay, and then heard more shots from a new quarter. And even as Cardona seized his antagonist, the killer's body collapsed limply in his grasp.

  Doctor Zerndorff had fired, and the bullets from his Luger had found their mark in Killer Bryan's body.

  Together, the detective and Doctor Zerndorff bent over the form of Killer Bryan. Cardona gripped Zerndorff's hand.

  "You saved my life, professor," he said. "Those shots were in the nick of time. I wanted to get him alive -

  but we had to take him dead."

  They carried Bryan's inert form from the house to a patrol car outside. Cardona loaded the victim into the patrol and ordered a quick trip to the nearest hospital - a mere formality, he believed, for Killer Bryan was dead, to all appearances.

  Zerndorff remained on the street with the detectives.

  At the hospital, Cardona was struck with amazement. Laid out upon an operating table, Killer Bryan opened his eyes. The attending physician shook his head.

  "There's no hope for him," he said. "He'll only last a few minutes. Maybe you can make him talk."

  Cardona leaned over the dying man.

  "Did you kill Matthew Stokes?" he demanded.

  There was no response. Killer Bryan's eyes glared coldly. A hospital attendant entered. He walked up to the group gathered about the table. He pressed Cardona to one side.

  "Let me talk to him," he said.

  He held his hand in front of Killer Bryan's eyes. Cardona noted that the hand was holding an oddly shaped piece of black metal, which rested in the attendant's palm.

  A strange change came over Killer Bryan. His glassy eyes were centered upon that object. He seemed oblivious to everything else.

  "Speak!" said the attendant. "Tell everything!"

  Killer Bryan nodded feebly.

  "I killed Warfield," he said slowly. Cardona, the doctor and two nurses heard his words. "I killed him in the Goliath Hotel. I killed Stokes - the same night. I shot him in his bed."

  "Why did you kill them?" questioned Cardona.

  "Because - The - Mas -"

  The last word ended in a hoarse gasp. The physician bent over Bryan's body.

  "He is dead," he said.

  "We must make a record of his statement immediately," declared Cardona. "I have four witnesses, doctor. Yourself, the two nurses, and that attendant -"

  He looked about him. The man who had made Killer Bryan speak was gone. Cardona blinked.

  "Where - where is the attendant?"

  A nurse shook her head.

  "I don't know," she said. "I don't even know who he is. I never saw him here in the hospital before!"

  Fifteen minutes later, as Joe Cardona was leaving the hospital, he encountered Doctor Zerndorff, entering with the two detectives. They had followed in a cab.

  "Bryan was dead, of course," commented Doctor Zerndorff, in a matter-of-fact tone.

  "He is dead now," replied Cardona. "But before he died, he gave us this."

  He held up a typewritten copy of the Killer's statement, signed by himself, the physician and the nurses.

  "He confessed, yes?" exclaimed Doctor Zerndorff. "You made him tell what he had done?"

  "Not I," replied Cardona. "It was another man. We don't know who he was."

  "No?" questioned Doctor Zerndorff sharply.

  Cardona shook his head as he pocketed the typewritten statement.

  Killer Bryan was dead, his guilt admitted at the command of an unknown stranger. But despite his feigned ignorance, Cardona was positive of the identity of the man who had appeared so mysteriously.

  There was but one man who could have accomplished such a mission - and that man was The Shadow!

  CHAPTER XI. THE MAD MILLIONAIRE

  A BUTLER came down a short flight of thickly carpeted steps. He entered a huge, dimly lit room.

  Tapestried walls gave it a gloomy appearance, and the dark mahogany furniture added to the morbidness of the surroundings. The butler stopped at the foot of the steps and spoke:

  "A gentleman to see you, Mr. Banks."

  "Who is he?" inquired a rasping voice.

  "Mr. Gage."

  "Clifford Gage!" A man arose from the corner of the room where the voice had spoken. "Clifford Gage! I must see him at once!"

  The man called Banks stepped into the light. He was past middle age and was in evening dress.

  His features were haggard and showed traces of weariness. He moved as though each step was laborious. He stopped in the center of the room, apparently unwilling to advance farther. There he waited until his visitor appeared.

  A man came down the steps. He was wearing a tuxedo and formed a marked contrast to the stoop-shouldered man who awaited him. His walk had a youthful spring. His face was that of a man who looked much younger than his age. He advanced with outstretched hand.

  "Clifford!" exclaimed Banks. "My word, you're as young as ever! And I thought you were dead!"

  "I've been away a long time, Hubert," said Gage. "No wonder you thought I had joined the departed. It's good to see you again, old man -" He paused as though he had committed a blunder. Hubert Banks smiled sourly.

  "No harm meant," he said, "so no injury is felt on my part. I am an old man, Clifford. I feel it, and I look it!"

  "I'm only a few years younger than you," Gage reminded him.

  "Yes," returned Banks. "We looked the same age when I last saw you, fifteen years ago. But I've changed a lot, Clifford. Changed a lot! Mostly in the past months, too."

  He drew his visitor to a corner of the room. They sat down together. Banks rang for refreshments.

  "How long have you been back?" he questioned.

  "Only a few days," said Gage. "No one knows I am in town. No one is going to know. I'm going back to India very soon."

  "The last I heard of you," said Banks slowly, "was five years ago. You were supposed to have died during a snow storm in the Himalayas. I never heard a denial of that rumor."

  "There is lots of news that never comes out of India!" replied Clifford Gage. "Between the two of us, Hubert" - he glanced about him to make sure the butler
was not in the room - "the idea that I was an American explorer is incorrect. In reality, I am an Englishman -"

  "I knew that," interposed Banks, with a nod.

  "And," continued Gage, "I have been engaged in government investigation in India. My supposed death was reported with a definite purpose."

  Hubert Banks nodded again. He raised his finger warningly as the butler appeared with a tray. The men took their glasses. The servant left. Conversation was resumed.

  "So," said Gage, "I do not want it known that I am in New York. But I could not resist the temptation of calling to see you, just for the sake of old times. I have often wondered how you were."

  "I suppose you have seen many strange things during the past fifteen years," observed Banks.

  "I have," returned Gage.

  "Strange things," repeated Banks, in a low voice. He held his glass up to the light; then sipped the liquid.

  "Such as -"

  "Murders in the harem of a maharajah. Plots to massacre British troops near the Afghan border. Crimes so horrible that one cannot imagine how human brains concocted them."

  "Have you seen men driven mad?"

  "Yes! Frequently! Under the tropical conditions that exist in India -"

  Hubert Banks raised his hand in interruption.

  "You misunderstand me," he said. "Have you ever seen a man who has been victimized by unknown plotters whom he cannot see - whose family has deserted him, apparently without cause or reason -

  whose friends have shunned him, without realizing why - a man whose sanity has become a question in his own mind?"

  Clifford Gage shook his head.

  "Well," said Banks, again studying the liquid that remained in his glass, "you are looking at such a man right now!"

  He gulped down his drink and set the glass upon a table. He turned to view his visitor and noted an expression of amazement upon Gage's face.

  "What do you mean?" demanded Gage.

  "Just this." Banks spoke in a low, wearied tone. "For twelve months - even longer than that - I have sensed the actions of some enemy. At first I expressed my qualms, but found no one would believe me.

  "I seemed to be the victim of strange misfortunes. I became desperate and quarrelsome. My family left me - my wife and two daughters are living in France. My friends became fewer and fewer.

  "Drink had something to do with it, I know. I took to liquor and they blame it on that. But the real reason is something I have been unable to fathom!"

  He stared at Clifford Gage doubtfully. He sought a look of understanding in his friend's face. Gage's expression was serious.

  "There were few men I could trust," continued Banks. "I had one misfortune after another. I became so suspicious of everything and everyone that I made a fool of myself. So I kept absolute silence.

  "When investments went wrong, I sought an explanation, but could never find one. My country home burned down. I suspected an incendiary but never discovered any clue. At last, I saw a rift in the clouds about me. I found four men whom I could trust - or thought I could trust."

  "Who are they?"

  "They are dead now!" said Banks, bitterly. "Dead - through what would seem to be coincidence. Now that they have died, I believe that they, too, have betrayed me!"

  Banks reached forward and clutched Gage's arm. The man's voice sank lower; it carried a note of desperation.

  "You must believe me, Clifford," he said. "Your return here tonight has seemed miraculous. You are the only one upon whom I can depend. Do you understand?"

  Clifford Gage nodded.

  "There were four men," continued Banks. "Four men whom I could trust!

  "One was Dick Pennypacker. He was the only stock-broker who gave me sound advice.

  "Another was Glen Houghton, young enough to be my son. I knew his father well. I placed him with Whitmeyer Barton, my attorneys, four years ago. When I worried about my legal affairs, I knew that I could trust Glen.

  "Then there was Perry Warfield. I relied on him. He went West to Oklahoma for me and pulled through some oil deals in great style.

  "A month ago I gave him one hundred thousand dollars for a promotion scheme on the advice of my one best friend, George Houston - the only one of my old pals who stood by me and whom I had never suspected of complicity. Then" - he raised his hand and snapped his fingers - "like that, they were gone!"

  "How?" asked Gage incredulously.

  "You read of the explosions here in New York?"

  "Yes. Just before I left by air from San Francisco."

  "Dick Pennypacker was killed in Wall Street. Glen Houghton was killed in the Grand Central Station.

  George Houston died in the explosion at Columbus Circle subway."

  "Horrible!" exclaimed Gage. "What amazing coincidences!"

  "Coincidences?" Banks' voice was hoarse. "Coincidences? Plots, you mean!" He calmed himself suddenly. "As for Warfield - he was shot a few nights later. Murdered in the Goliath Hotel!"

  "Your only friends!"

  "My friends?" There was bitterness in the old man's tone. "My friends, as I thought then. But now, I know differently!

  "The investments which Pennypacker made for me were false. He lied to me! He had bought speculative securities with my money. Their value has fallen.

  "I have received telephone calls from my attorneys, asking me about important legal documents. I gave those papers to Houghton. He never placed them in the safe! They cannot be found!

  "As for the money that Warfield received - he never put it into the enterprise as he was supposed to have done. I have talked with officials of the company."

  "But Houston -"

  "The worst of the lot! Being in my confidence, I asked him to check on all these matters. He told me that he had done so. He was the most vicious traitor of them all!"

  Banks pushed the buzzer beside him and sat staring gloomily at the somber walls of the room. When the butler appeared, the millionaire called for two more drinks. The servant left.

  "Explain this to me," said Gage, in an undertone. "If -"

  "I can explain nothing!" interrupted Banks. "It is all unexplainable!"

  "Consider this, then. If those four men were plotters, why did they die? If their deaths were planned, the planner, at least, has done you a service!"

  Banks did not reply, for he saw the butler approaching. But when the servant had retired, the millionaire made answer.

  "The planner," he said, picking up his glass. "Ah! There is the unexplainable part!

  "All that I have suffered has been the work of a mind that is against me. That mind is seeking to destroy me.

  "Perhaps those four were taking advantage of my weakness. They may have crossed the plans of the one who has plotted against me. I cannot understand it!"

  Hubert Banks stared soberly; then, with a sudden impulse he threw back his head and uttered a loud, screaming laugh. He flung the glass that was in his hand; it crashed against a table.

  The millionaire's eyes were wild as he glared at Clifford Gage. The man from India made no move. He sat calm and unperturbed. The fit of madness seemed to pass away and Banks buried his head in his hands. The butler rushed into the room.

  "What's the matter, sir?" he asked. "Has Mr. Banks -"

  "Mr. Banks is all right," said Gage quietly. "Is his physician available? You may inform him that Mr.

  Banks has had a slight nervous attack, but has now recovered."

  "Mr. Banks has no physician, sir," said the butler. "He -"

  "One tried to poison me!" said Banks, raising his head and staring straight at Clifford Gage. "Slow poison! I found it out! I'll never trust another one!"

  "You may go," said Gage, addressing the butler. Then he turned to Hubert Banks.

  "Look here, Hubert," said Gage quietly, "I'm going to pull you through this trouble! You understand? I can't be here myself, but I'll send you a man that you can trust. He will be able to reach me at any time.

  I'll stay in New York a while."

  Bank
s reached over and gripped his friend's hand.

  "Perhaps," resumed Gage, "this thing started long before you suspected it. What about your past? Can you recall any enemies?"

  Banks steadied himself. He shook his head slowly.

  "What has my life been?" he questioned. "Luxury and easy living. That's all! My father had millions. He made me study, but I never liked it.

  "I'm a graduate of Oxford - and of Heidelberg. Spent most of my youth abroad - and what a youth it was! I married while I was abroad. I lived in Paris and the old man was going to disinherit me. But I came back after my wife died.

  "Then my father left me his fortune. I've been many places since, but I've always been an idler. Married again. Now my wife and daughters have left me.

  "But I've been cagy, Clifford! Always had plenty of money, and kept increasing it. Until now. I'm losing millions, right now. Driving me mad. Someone's driving me mad -"

  His voice trailed off. Hubert Banks sank down in his chair. He seemed too tired to talk. Clifford Gage watched him solemnly as the minutes moved by. Then he arose and silently left the room. He met the butler at the top of the steps.

  "Mr. Banks is asleep," Gage informed the servant.

  "Yes, sir," replied the butler.

  "What's your name?" inquired Gage.

  "Herbert, sir."

  "What other servants are in the house?"

  "Graham, Mr. Banks' valet. Chalmers, his chauffeur."

  "How long have you been here?"

  "Only a few months, sir."

  "And the others?"

  "The same, sir. Mr. Banks discharged all his servants since the first of the year. We are a new lot, sir."

  "All right, Herbert. Mr. Banks is expecting a new secretary, whom I have recommended. His name is Mr. Vincent. You will remind Mr. Banks of that fact, you understand?"

  "Yes, sir."

  Gage's eyes seemed piercing as they studied the butler's face. They glowed with a light that seemed uncanny to the servant. Satisfied, the visitor turned and walked to the door, picking up his hat and cane from the table where they lay.

  The butler stood petrified. He totally forgot his duty of ushering Clifford Gage from the house. His eyes were fascinated by the huge shadow that followed the visitor as he walked to the door. It seemed like a living form that moved of its own accord.