The Black Master s-8

by Maxwell Grant

  He had reported everything to The Shadow, in brief, terse notes. He had remembered the details.

  That was one of the many things that he had learned to do since he had become The Shadow's agent. He had been instructed in a simple system of mental notation that had enabled him to keep a methodical record in his mind.

  The adventure at the Goliath Hotel, when he had been overpowered and doped in his room, had been the first event in this new campaign.

  Late the next morning when he awoke, he had reported to The Shadow but had received no reply, so he had simply waited. Then he had read the news of Perry Warfield's murder and of the subsequent police fight with Killer Bryan.

  Harry had recognized Bryan's picture. It was the killer who had overpowered Harry in his hotel room.

  But what most concerned Harry Vincent right now were the events that had followed his sojourn with Hubert Banks. He had come to the millionaire's home in response to orders from The Shadow.

  As always, the orders had been written in code, and with chemical ink that vanished a few minutes after the envelope had been opened.

  Nominally, Harry was the millionaire's secretary. Actually, he was his companion. He was working for The Shadow - not for Hubert Banks.

  He had observed the millionaire's strange actions, had humored his whims and had been with him constantly.

  Banks talked frequently of a man named Clifford Gage, who was presumably Harry's sponsor. Harry had received information concerning Gage from The Shadow. Gage became a topic of frequent conversation.

  With the increase of friendship between Hubert Banks and Harry Vincent, the millionaire had lost his old mistrustfulness.

  At night, Harry wrote his report to The Shadow, using a pen loaded with the type of ink that The Shadow had invented.

  When he went to mail the report, together with the letters of Mr. Banks, Harry walked two blocks from the millionaire's uptown mansion and entered a drugstore before he put the letters in the box outside.

  There, Harry secretly passed the envelope which contained his report to a sober-faced clerk behind the counter.

  Harry suspected that the man who received the envelope was Burbank, an agent of The Shadow.

  Aside from short excursions of this type, Harry did not leave the millionaire's mansion.

  Three days ago, he had received a brief, coded message from The Shadow. It had surprised Harry when he opened it, for the color of the ink was a darker blue than usual. But the message had faded in its usual fashion after Harry had read it.

  The letter contained very brief instructions, advising Harry to cautiously engage Banks in conversation that would lead to a discussion of the millionaire's past life.

  One clever peculiarity marked The Shadow's messages. Each sheet of paper had roughened edges.

  The first note of a series would always have a slight tear on the top edge; the next would have a similar mark on the right edge; and so on, around the sheet, with each succeeding note. Then would come two tears on top, right, bottom, and left, respectively.

  These marks were scarcely noticeable. They formed a simple system of enumeration that went up to eight; then a new series would begin, on a paper of different texture.

  Thus, Harry could always check the notes in rotation, to see if he had failed to receive one. The note that he had received a few days ago had been number five in the present series.

  Acting upon The Shadow's instructions, Harry had talked with Hubert Banks, artfully turning the man's thoughts to old recollections. But he had succeeded only in obtaining scattered reminiscences.

  The millionaire had led an idler's life. Those events which he considered worth remembering were invariably of an unimportant nature.

  Tonight, Banks had gone to sleep while talking, and Harry was spending a very quiet evening, engrossed in his own affairs. The atmosphere of the room was quieting yet Harry could readily appreciate how the gloomy aspect could prey upon the thoughts of a morbid mind.

  He did not wonder that people had decided Hubert Banks was going crazy. These walls, with their somber tapestries, seemed made expressly for an insane mind. Harry had asked about the furnishings. He learned that they had been selected many months before by a friend of the millionaire, a man named George Houston.

  Banks had mentioned that Houston was now dead, and that he did not care to talk about him. The topic had ended with that remark.

  Harry Vincent's chain of thought was suddenly interrupted. Hubert Banks had awakened. The millionaire sat up on the couch, stretched his arms and grunted.

  "Been asleep, eh?" he said. "I feel dopey. What about another drink? Ring that buzzer for Herbert."

  Banks adjusted his coat.

  "I don't know why I wear this swallowtail," he said. "Force of habit, I guess. I'm going up and get my smoking jacket."

  "Wait a minute," suggested Harry. "I'll call Graham."

  "Forget it," returned Banks. "You wait here for Herbert and tell him we want a couple of drinks. I'll go up and get the jacket myself."

  The glasses were resting on the table when Hubert Banks returned. The millionaire came down the steps staring straight ahead. Without a word, he advanced and picked up a glass.

  He gulped down the drink; then opened his hand and let the tumbler fall upon the table. He did not seem to hear the breaking of the glass.

  "What's the matter?" inquired Harry.

  Banks stared at him with wide-opened eyes. The man's face was livid. He seemed to be gazing without seeing. Then he spoke harshly, in a hoarse, rasping voice.

  "When is June the first?" he demanded. "What day is it?"

  "Day after tomorrow," Harry answered.

  Hubert Banks thrust his hands in the pockets of his smoking jacket and sat down in an armchair. He stared steadily at the tapestries on the opposite wall.

  "Are you expecting anything then?" questioned Harry.

  Banks stared at him with glaring, suspicious eyes. Harry met the man's gaze. The men looked steadily at each other.

  Then the millionaire began to yield. His wild fury passed. He drew his left hand slowly from the pocket of his jacket and placed a crumpled sheet of paper in Harry's hand.

  Scrawled over the surface of the paper were the words, "June the first." The writing was in pencil.

  "Your handwriting," observed Harry.

  "Yes," said Banks, in a strange voice.

  "When did you write it?"

  "I don't remember!" Banks spoke slowly and painfully. "I don't remember! I talked on the telephone today - twice. Sometimes I write - when I talk. I do not remember doing that - today."

  "June the first," said Harry speculatively.

  "June the first!" exclaimed Banks in a hoarse whisper. "I never wrote those words! Am I going insane?

  That is the one day I have learned to forget! Now it is coming back - coming back to -"

  A sudden realization dawned upon Harry. Hubert Banks had always ignored all dates in connection with his correspondence. He had said that he could not be bothered with dates. And he had another peculiar habit. When he read the front page of a newspaper, Hubert Banks invariably turned back the top portion of the page.

  Generally he asked Harry, or Herbert the butler, to look through the newspaper for him and to pick out any items of interest. All this was now explained. For some unknown reason, Hubert Banks had chosen to remain in ignorance of the approach of the first of June!

  "Ten - twenty - thirty years!" the millionaire was saying. "Thirty years ago!" His eyes were closed as he spoke. He opened them and looked at Harry. The sight of his companion seemed to reassure him. He became suddenly confidential.

  "Thirty years ago," said Hubert Banks, in a low, hushed voice, "my first wife died - in Paris. I had met her a few years before - when I was a student at Heidelberg. She and I eloped together and were married.

  "Her family was angry. They had not planned for her to marry an American. The fact that I was wealthy meant nothing to them.

  "As for my fat
her - he wrote me and told me I could have no more money. We lived in poverty, Rachel and I.

  "I borrowed from friends. I wrote pleading letters home. I received no replies. I dug up a little money. I came back, one evening, to the place where we were living.

  "I had been gone two days, trying to get the money. I found Rachel -" His voice broke. With an effort, the millionaire recovered himself. "She was dying!

  "I can see her eyes now" - the man's gaze was glassy - "her eyes, accusing me! She died. I could not even raise enough to bury her. My father brought me back to New York. Since then, I have learned to forget."

  Hubert Banks buried his head in his hands. He sat in silence, seemingly unable to speak. At last he raised his head.

  "A year ago," he said hoarsely, "I came across letters that Rachel had written me. Then I found a clipping that told of her death.

  "At intervals, new reminders would appear. Each one presaged some misfortune. Only a few weeks ago"

  - he clenched his fists until the nails dug into his palms - "I found the death certificate!

  "She killed herself! Poison!

  "That terrible night has been haunting me. I was blamed for her death. I was accused by her relatives and by a man who once had loved her.

  "I have been dreading the anniversary of that night, thirty years ago. I have been trying to forget. And now -" His voice rose to a hoarse scream. He seized the paper that lay in Harry's hands. He tore it to shreds and flung the fragments in the air.

  "The first of June!" Banks stared wildly as he uttered the words. "The first of June! The night - the night -

  that - she died! I must forget it! I will forget it! But now I have written it - and I cannot remember when!"

  He arose and paced back and forth across the room, while Harry watched him in silence.

  "I have written it myself!" gasped Hubert Banks. "Written it, with my own hand! I cannot remember when. I found the paper on the telephone table. June the first, June the first, June -"

  Banks placed his hand against his forehead and staggered toward the steps. Harry Vincent watched the man as he stumbled and then regained his footing.

  Banks ascended the steps, crossed the hallway and ascended the stairs to the second floor.

  "June the first -" came his voice, followed by a peal of insane laughter. The sound was repeated farther away.

  Five minutes later, Harry arose and went to the second floor. He listened at the door of the millionaire's room. He tried the knob. The door was unlocked. He found Banks lying on his bed, in a stupor.

  Harry turned out the light and waited by the door. At last he heard a regular breathing. Exhausted, Banks had fallen asleep.

  Harry returned to the living room. At the writing desk in the corner, he wrote out a quick report and sealed it in an envelope. He picked up a small heap of letters that he was to mail for Hubert Banks. At the door, Harry encountered the butler.

  "Do not lock up, Herbert," he said. "I shall be back in a few minutes."

  Harry returned a quarter of an hour afterward. He stopped in front of the millionaire's room and satisfied himself that Banks was sleeping comfortably.

  Harry was thoughtful as he went to his own room. Tonight he had learned what troubled Hubert Banks -

  and now that information was on its way to The Shadow!

  CHAPTER XIV. THE UNSEEN HARD

  A MAN stepped from a taxicab on a quiet street. He paid the driver and walked slowly toward a nearby house, glancing cautiously over his shoulder as he went.

  When the cab had pulled away, the man stopped, looked up and down the street, and then sauntered away in the direction opposite that taken by the cab. Although the night was mild, the collar of the dark topcoat was turned up above his neck.

  He turned suddenly and walked through a narrow passage between two houses. He came to a side door of a house on the next street. He tapped lightly. The door opened automatically.

  Inside, he went up three steps, through a hallway to another door, which opened to his tapping. The man entered a room. The door closed behind him.

  The room in which the visitor stood was the visible creation of a gruesome mind. It contained no furniture. Its walls were formed by billowy, jet-black curtains. A ghastly blue light pervaded the apartment.

  There was a strangeness about this weird light that had a marked effect upon the man who had entered.

  He could not see his own features, yet he seemed to realize that they were indistinguishable in that eerie illumination.

  The curtains seemed to rustle uncertainly. The man was watchful. Then, at the end of the room, a black form seemed to emerge, from the bulging curtains; a human form, with face invisible, showing only as a white blur under the strange blue light.

  The man who had come from outside shifted his position. The action showed that he had noted the arrival of the master of the strange room. He awaited a command.

  "Speak!" said a quiet voice.

  "Howard Jennings," said the man in the center of the room, addressing the dim form that stood before the curtains. "Now operating under the name of Graham Jenkins. Serving as valet for Hubert Banks."

  "Report!"

  "The paper was placed. It worried Hubert Banks. He believes that he wrote it while telephoning. He destroyed the paper.

  "He talked about it to his secretary, Vincent. Conversation only partly overheard. Banks was talking about something that happened thirty years ago. A woman dying."

  "Report on Vincent!"

  "A third letter came for him this afternoon. He still does not suspect that I took the second - the one which you still have. I have brought the third letter."

  The man reached in a pocket of his coat. He produced an envelope. He advanced timidly, holding it at arm's length.

  A black-clad hand extended from the figure that emerged from the curtains. It grasped the letter. The man who had delivered it stepped back.

  "Wait here!" came the quiet, commanding voice.

  The curtains rustled. The black form disappeared. A deathly stillness settled over the room.

  While Howard Jennings, alias Graham Jenkins, was standing uneasily in the room with the gloomy black curtains, a silent man was at work in an adjoining room.

  This compartment was a long, narrow room, in total darkness except for spots where small but powerful lights were focused. On a table beneath one light lay an opened envelope and a blank sheet of paper.

  Two gloved hands appeared. Despite their black silk covering, the hands worked deftly. They held the letter which Jennings had delivered.

  They inserted a thin-bladed instrument beneath the flap of the envelope. Part of the flap moved upward; then a moistened brush was pressed into the opening. A few moments later, the flap lifted up smoothly.

  The hands brought out a folded sheet of paper. They carried it into darkness. It was fully two minutes before they reappeared.

  This time they held a board, which they placed before another lamp that threw its glare against the wall.

  On the board appeared the letter which had been removed from the envelope. The hands went away.

  An instant later, something clicked in the darkness. Shortly afterward, the writing began to fade from the sheet of paper beneath the light. It disappeared, word by word.

  There was swishing in the darkness - the sound familiar to all professional photographers. A plate was being treated in a developing bath.

  A few minutes went by. Then the hands arrived again beneath the table light. They held a photographic reproduction of the letter which had been placed upon the wall. The click had been caused by the operation of a camera!

  The duplicated message lay for a while on the table. At last there was a chuckle in the darkness. A low voice read off the message, which had been solved after a brief study of the simple code: Do not leave Banks tomorrow night. Stay with him every minute. Plot now understood since receiving your message. No danger while you are active. House will be watched. Signal if urgent.

&n
bsp; Now the hands produced a pad and a bottle of ink. Dipping a pen in the liquid, the right hand wrote a few words on the top sheet of the pad. The ink dried in a few moments. It remained in view for about one minute. Then it disappeared. There was a chuckle from the darkness.

  The hands took the blank folded letter - the one that had been lying on the table before the second was opened. Using the pen, the right hand wrote a short note in code, pausing now and then as though a reference were being made to the photographic reproduction.

  As soon as the ink had dried, the letter was folded and sealed in its proper envelope.

  The operation was repeated with the second letter. Both envelopes having been carefully sealed, the hands gathered them and disappeared from the light. Soft footsteps moved through the darkness.

  The curtain rustled in the outside room. Howard Jennings looked up to see the black form with its blurred white face standing before him in the pale blue light.

  An arm moved slowly toward Jennings. He saw two white objects. He grasped them and discovered that they were sealed envelopes.

  "Receive instructions," said a quiet voice from the curtain.

  "Ready," replied Jennings.

  "You will see that Vincent gets these letters immediately," said the voice, speaking in a mechanical monotone. "Express surprise if he asks about the old letter. State that you thought he had received it before.

  "Tomorrow night," continued the voice, "you will wait until Vincent has left the house. Then begin the final plan of operation. You understand?"

  "Instructions received."

  "Remember," said the voice, "you will follow those orders in every detail! Is everything in readiness?"

  "All is ready!"

  "Be sure that Banks has telephoned for Chalmers. There must be witnesses on hand. Remember, after Mr. Barton has arrived."

  "All is ready."

  "And remember" - the voice was low and threatening - "remember that your name is Graham Jenkins, not Howard Jennings! Remember that your only protection is The Black Master!"