Wizard Of Crime.txt

by Wizard of Crime (lit)

  the plant. How about having dinner with me this evening, here at the club? I'll

  introduce you to the police commissioner."

  With a wry expression, Bristow declined. He wasn't anxious to meet anyone

  connected with the law. Public opinion was in agreement with the sentiments

  expressed by George Thurver: namely, that Bristow's negligence was responsible

  for two tragedies and therefore was of a criminal sort.

  All the way to his New Jersey factory, Eugene Bristow felt worried.

  Reaching his tower office, he dismissed his secretaries and shut himself up

  alone, like a hiding fugitive. His lawyers had assured him that he was not

  criminally liable for anything that had occurred, but Bristow was in a most

  mistrustful mood.

  The Shadow had foreseen that Bristow would be in such a state; and there

  were reasons why it would prove to The Shadow's own advantage. But The Shadow

  also calculated that Bristow's conscious-stricken condition would not be

  observed by anyone connected with crime. That calculation missed

  A knock at Bristow's door startled the chemical-plant president. Popping

  up from his desk, Bristow gulped the words: "Come in." He was considerably

  shaken when he saw George Thurver step across the threshold.

  "I... I THOUGHT you had left!" exclaimed Bristow. "Is anything wrong,

  Thurver - anything else?"

  "Not at all," replied Thurver, in a serious tone. "I just wanted to

  apologize for some of the things I said, Mr. Bristow. That's why I waited."

  The two shook hands. Thurver could feel a tremble of Bristow's fingers.

  About to leave, the chemist said:

  "I meant to ask you about the old formula. Didn't you have an extra copy

  of it?"

  "Why... why, yes!" Bristow fumbled for his wallet; then, as if in

  recollection. "I destroyed it, Thurver. You can forget it. Have a good

  vacation; stay away as long as you want."

  Outside the office door, Thurver paused to listen. He could hear Bristow

  pacing the floor. When the footsteps stopped, he knew that Bristow was at the

  telephone. Working the door slightly open, Thurver heard Bristow calling his

  New York hotel apartment.

  In a worried tone, Bristow was reminding his servant to say nothing of the

  fact that Mr. Cranston had called the apartment a few nights before. he added:

  "Call the Cobalt Club, Roger. See if you can get Mr. Cranston there. Tell

  him I would like to join him at dinner with the police commissioner... Yes,

  Cranston will be able to reach me here at the office..."

  Thurver waited awhile, having pulled the door tight shut. He could still

  hear Bristow pacing up and down, but there was no ring of the telephone bell.

  Evidently Cranston was not at the Cobalt Club. With a shrewd smile, Thurver

  stole away and reached his laboratory.

  The place was empty except for Thurver's bags, which were packed and

  bulging. Making a phone call of his own, Thurver talked to his hidden chief,

  told him all that he had heard. His final remarks were emphatic.

  "It looks like Cranston is The Shadow!" said Thurver. "Maybe he has that

  copy of the formula... Yes, I'm all packed. I'll be on my way in five

  minutes... If you want to get at The Shadow, you'll find him at the Cobalt

  Club... Yes, he might head for the Dean office first..."

  THERE was a sequel to Thurver's call. It came one hour later, when Ralph

  Atgood heard a ring at the door of his apartment. A messenger was there, to

  deliver a square wooden box addressed to Ralph, but bearing no other words.

  Opening the box, Ralph found a cardboard container inside it. Tucked under

  the flap of the carton was an envelope. Opening it, Ralph read:

  Deliver this at once to Cyrus Shawnwood. State that it comes

  from Isaac Loman. Give it to anyone of Shawnwood's servants. No

  receipt will be necessary.

  R. G. DEAN.

  Finding Shawnwood's address in the telephone book, Ralph left the

  apartment carrying the small but heavy carton. He reached an old brownstone

  house on the West Side, and delivered the box to the servant who answered the

  door.

  Ralph practically forgot the box as soon as he delivered it, for he had a

  date that evening with Alicia Weylan. It was just another bit of routine duty,

  Ralph thought, in behalf of his benefactor, R. G. Dean. Certain phases of his

  present job had begun to worry Ralph; but the delivery of a package was so

  trifling, that his confidence was restored.

  Oddly, that package was destined for a career that would have horrified

  Ralph, had he guessed its purpose. But Ralph, as yet, had no idea of the

  purposes that lay behind the ways of R. G. Dean.

  Only The Shadow had found crime's links; he, alone, could forge them into

  a connected chain. But crooks, in their turn, had gained a link to The Shadow.

  When the master investigator moved, crime's chief would be prepared to meet him!

  CHAPTER VI

  THE BARREN TRAIL

  IN a windowless room where black walls glistened, The Shadow was testing

  the original formula used by the Chem-Lab Co. He was getting results identical

  with those obtained by Ray Parringer. Even under superheat, the mixture did not

  explode.

  This room, with its tiled walls, was The Shadow's own laboratory. It

  adjoined his sanctum, the hidden spot from which he contacted his loyal agents

  when they aided him in tracking down crime.

  From his experiments, The Shadow had proven the fact that he suspected:

  namely, that George Thurver had deliberately doctored the chemicals used at the

  Chem-Lab plant. No possible harm could have come to Ray Parringer with the

  latter using a copy of the formula as supplied by Eugene Bristow.

  For The Shadow was using one of Bristow's own copies - the last one in

  existence. On the laboratory bench lay the crumpled sheet of paper that The

  Shadow, as Cranston, had tossed into a wastebasket at the Cobalt Club. The

  Shadow had recovered the discarded document soon after Bristow had left for the

  factory.

  One experiment concluded, The Shadow began another. He wanted an answer to

  the riddle of tragedy at the Chem-Lab plant, as well as the matter of

  Parringer's death. It did not take him long to settle his problem.

  By slightly changing the quantities of certain solutions, The Shadow

  brewed a mixture that bubbled under heat, then emitted puffs of flame. Taking a

  very small amount, he added a few drops from a bottle marked "D" and put the

  mixture over a burner.

  Within a few seconds, there was a sharp explosion that shattered the test

  tube containing the mixture. The blast was strong enough to shake the

  laboratory bench, but other chemicals were too distant to be ignited.

  On a tiny scale, The Shadow had duplicated the explosion that wrecked

  Parringer's laboratory. Extinguishing the burner, he used a large black cloth

  to mop up the remains of the experiment.

  The flash of light, though small, had produced a blinding effect upon The

  Shadow's eyes, which proved that he had not entirely recuperated from the

  terrific experience at Parringer's. His left arm, too, seemed to ache, as he

  recalled the plunge that he had taken into the old garage.

>   Resting in a corner of the laboratory, The Shadow let his thoughts drift

  back to that horrendous night. He could remember everything perfectly, up until

  the roar that had shaken the building clear to its foundations. From then on,

  incidents were like snatches from a nightmare.

  Fire - water - voices - gunshots: all formed an imperfect progression. Of

  all those, The Shadow was most anxious to recall the voices; but there his

  recollection failed him. They were threads to crime, those voices; had The

  Shadow remembered them clearly, he could hope to someday identify their owners.

  But the threads were tangled too hopelessly to be of present use.

  Unfortunately, neither Harry Vincent nor Moe Shrevnitz had been able to

  spot the number of the fugitive sedan. They had noticed a car pull away from

  the scene of the explosion, had heard firemen speak of "a guy that was being

  taken to the hospital." Guessing that it was The Shadow who was on his way to

  the hospital, they had followed in time to aid their chief.

  They had taken The Shadow to a small private hospital managed by Dr.

  Rupert Sayre, who knew The Shadow as Lamont Cranston. After three delirious

  nights, The Shadow had recovered from a brain concussion and had talked things

  over with Sayre. The physician had provided one definite fact, to which both

  Harry and Moe could testify:

  The Shadow's captors could not possibly have identified him as Lamont

  Cranston. His face, smeared with blood, grime, and streaks of black from

  charred timbers, was such that no one could recognize it. Therefore, The Shadow

  had felt confident that his Cranston personality would remain unknown - unless

  Bristow supplied a clue.

  In talking with Bristow this afternoon, The Shadow had spiked that

  prospect. Thus he felt himself immune from any back-handed attacks by crooks

  who served the unknown Mr. Dean. Lacking knowledge of Thurver's snoopy tactics,

  The Shadow was therefore lulled into a faulty security that was to warp his

  future actions.

  MOVING into the sanctum, The Shadow pressed a switch upon the wall. A tiny

  light glowed; a voice came through earphones as The Shadow adjusted them:

  "Burbank speaking."

  To Burbank, his contact man, The Shadow gave instructions for various

  agents. They were to post themselves in the neighborhood of the Harmon Building

  while The Shadow investigated the Dean office.

  The Shadow was banking on the probability that his master foe would

  consider the Dean alias sufficient protection. Such a theory was plausible, as

  the Dean transactions were definitely legal. Even Bristow, who was handing over

  half a million dollars in sizable payments, did not have any intention of trying

  to brand the unknown Mr. Dean as a crook.

  Dusk was heavy when The Shadow, cloaked in a new outfit of black, glided

  toward the Harmon Building. He saw a young man sauntering along the street; a

  taxicab was parked a few yards away. Harry Vincent and Moe Shrevnitz were both

  on the job.

  Pausing near a corner of the building, The Shadow saw another man alight

  from an arriving cab, which promptly pulled away. The man was wearing a Tuxedo,

  and seemed in quite a hurry to reach some office in the building. Harry also saw

  him and started toward the building entrance.

  A tiny red sparkle came from a flashlight in The Shadow's hand. Harry

  spied the glimmer and stopped short. It was a signal, to halt him. The Shadow

  was closer to the building entrance, and intended to take up the trail.

  Harry failed to see The Shadow glide through the doorway. The lobby lights

  were dim and The Shadow had a remarkable ability to keep close to the shelter of

  gloomy side walls. But, as he entered, The Shadow flashed another signal. He had

  shifted the lens; this time, the blink was green, and The Shadow repeated it.

  Such a series of green flashes meant for Harry to keep on the move.

  Resuming his stroll, the agent walked toward the next corner. On the way, Harry

  reasoned out The Shadow's purpose.

  Since the Tuxedoed man had come by cab, he would probably take one when he

  left. Since Moe's cab was already parked near the Harmon Building, it would be

  eligible to receive the Tuxedoed passenger. The Shadow often had Moe carry

  suspicious-looking persons to their destinations.

  Inside the building, The Shadow glimpsed the face above the Tuxedo. He

  noted that the man was an earnest-looking fellow, light-haired and with a

  rather well-shaped profile. In age, he was probably well into his twenties.

  The Shadow was gaining his first view of Ralph Atgood, the sincere

  emissary who served R. G. Dean. His scrutiny, however, was brief, for The

  Shadow preferred to learn if this hasty visitor was going to the upstairs

  office.

  It was after six o'clock, and only one elevator was in operation. While

  Ralph waited for it, The Shadow ascended a stairway that stood closer to the

  building entrance. Finding the Dean office by the number that he had noted on

  the lobby board, The Shadow was watching from an extension of the hallway when

  Ralph arrived.

  The cloaked observer saw the young man unlock the mailbox outside the

  office door. Finding no letters in it, Ralph went his way, while The Shadow

  blinked a message from the hallway window. Flashing from the folds of his

  cloak, the tiny flashlight sparkled in ordinary white.

  Its muffled beam was noted by Moe, watching from the cab directly below

  the window. Moe read the brief coded message. He was ready when Ralph arrived

  on the street. The young man rode away, a passenger in The Shadow's cab.

  That trail proved shorter than either The Shadow or Moe expected. It was

  not only short, but blind. Under orders to make his visits to the Dean office

  inconspicuous, Ralph left the cab near a subway station. Moe was about to

  discard his taxi driver's cap and follow him, when another fare stepped into

  the cab.

  It happened to be Frederick Glenny, covering Ralph's trail without the

  latter's knowledge. Moe could not desert his cab while he had a passenger.

  Taking Glenny for a chance customer, the cabby never suspected that the fellow

  was in the game. He drove Glenny to Times Square, and there reported to

  Burbank, stating that he had lost track of his first passenger.

  WHILE Moe was muffling a second choice quite as good as the one that he

  had lost, The Shadow descended to the ground floor of the office building.

  Something about the locked office signified new danger. The best route of entry

  would be an unexpected one.

  In an area behind the building, the flashlight gave green blinks, then

  red. The Shadow was joined by a wizened man who crept stealthily from the

  darkness.

  This was Hawkeye, another of The Shadow's agents. Burbank had posted him

  behind the building, and Hawkeye reported that no hostile watchers were about.

  Leaving Hawkeye on guard, The Shadow began an outside trip to the locked Dean

  office.

  Scaling the brick wall, with its cornices and window ledges, was an easy

  matter for The Shadow. Hand over hand, he ascended the darkened surface,

  gaining toe holds as he went. Lost even from Hawkeye's sharp view,
The Shadow

  reached the window that he wanted. It was latched, but he worked a thin strip

  of metal between the portions of the sash, to release the catch.

  Inside the office, The Shadow probed the place with his thin-rayed

  flashlight. Empty filing cases and vacant desk drawers supplied no clues

  whatever. It was apparent that everything of any consequence had been removed;

  that the office was used as a mailing address only.

  In hope of some slight clue, The Shadow decided to examine the office more

  thoroughly. He lowered the window shades, then stabbed his flashlight through

  pitch-darkness. The ray focused on a squatty metal desk lamp that stood beside

  the telephone.

  The switch was at the bottom of the lamp. Extinguishing the flashlight,

  The Shadow reached out to light the lamp and thus illuminate the office

  completely. The instant that his fingers pressed the switch, he heard a muffled

  click from deep within the lamp base. The light came on, but at the same moment

  something sliced outward from a narrow slit just below the switch.

  The Shadow whipped his hand away as the thin object struck his gloved

  hand, close to the palm. For an instant, he thought that a knife had been

  ejected from the lamp, but as he clenched his fist and looked along the

  polished desk, he saw no sign of a blade.

  Something crinkled in The Shadow's palm. Opening his fist, he saw a white

  card. It was the thing from the lamp, and it had slithered squarely into The

  Shadow's quick-formed fist before he had been able to whisk his hand from the

  danger zone. As he eyed the card in the lamplight, The Shadow phrased a

  whispered laugh.

  There was no mockery in that tone. Rather, it carried a note of hidden

  understanding. The Shadow knew that he was dealing with a superfoe whose tricky

  ways were so numerous and varied that the crafty criminal could pass up

  opportunities for murder, to show his contempt for those who tried to balk him.

  The strip of pasteboard in The Shadow's hand was an engraved calling card

  that bore the name: R. G. DEAN.

  CHAPTER VII

  CRIME'S ULTIMATUM

  THERE was nothing trivial about the souvenir that The Shadow had so