he also obtained a complete set of photographs, including a distant picture of
Shawnwood's high-fronted mansion, and sent the duplicate material to an
investment and insurance broker named Rutledge Mann.
Both Clyde Burke and Mann were agents of The Shadow. Between them, they
were seeing to it that their chief received full details. At present, there was
only one person, other than Lamont Cranston, who might logically be considered
as listed for death. The man in question was Cyrus Shawnwood.
By his own admission, Shawnwood had ignored the demands of a master
criminal. True, he was under police protection, and his persecutor was supposed
to be a crazy inventor who could be handled easily, if he ever came from hiding.
But The Shadow's agents, like their chief, knew that the missing Isaac Loman
might be nothing more than a mere pawn in the game of supercrime.
Some mighty plotter, a man of chemical as well as criminal ability, was
seeking wealth and power. Even the name that he used - R. G. Dean - was one
that he could drop forever, if he encountered complications. The shakedown of
the Chem-Lab Co., the threat directed against Shawnwood, were merely
preliminary events in the evil campaign begun by this brain of crime.
Those very thoughts occurred to Ralph Atgood when he read the evening
newspaper in the living room of his little apartment. Ralph's notions were
somewhat hazy, for he still felt that he was indebted to R. G. Dean; but the
further he read, the more troubled he became.
Weighing many factors, Ralph decided that they did not balance. Things
that he had previously regarded as accidental, such as the fire at the Chem-Lab
plant, began to take on an ominous meaning when linked to last night's episode
at the Cobalt Club.
If the police wanted Isaac Loman, they would also want Ralph Atgood,
should they learn that he had delivered the package to Cyrus Shawnwood.
It suddenly struck Ralph that his story, frankly told, might get a
hearing. Ready and willing to confess his part to the police, he reached for
the telephone. He had the receiver off the hook and was dialing the operator,
when a hand clapped upon his shoulder.
Ralph turned about, to face Frederick Glenny.
"HELLO, Atgood!" purred the sleek man. "Go right ahead. Don't let me
interrupt you."
Ralph let the receiver drop back on the hook. He stammered the question:
"How... how did you get into this apartment?"
Glenny exhibited a key in the palm of his hand. Ralph recognized it as a
passkey that fitted all the apartments in the building.
"The janitor gave it to me," said Glenny. "He's a friend of mine. I have a
great many friends, Atgood. I'd like to keep you on the list."
"You mean you want me to be a crook, like the rest of the people you know?"
Seated in a large armchair, Glenny gave a sad smile, as though the
implication hurt him. Then:
"You're all wrong, Atgood," he said, solemnly. "But I don't feel angry.
You are honest, and that is what really counts. I know you're worried and I
want you to tell me why. Ask all the questions that you want, and I'll answer
them frankly."
The proposition was fair enough to suit Ralph. He asked first about the
trouble at the Chem-Lab Co.
"What did that fellow Thurver have to do with it?"
"Thurver?" Glenny seemed shocked. "Why, he's the finest fellow in the
world! You know that letter I gave you to mail to him?"
Ralph nodded.
"It contained a letter from Mr. Dean," glibbed Glenny, "telling him that
the Chem-Lab formula was dangerous, that it should not be used. Thurver did his
best to prevent what happened, but Bristow, the Chem-Lab president, overwhelmed
him!"
There was cunning logic to Glenny's explanation, considering the criticism
that Bristow had received from the newspapers. Half convinced that Glenny was
right Ralph shot another question:
"What about the package that I delivered to Ray Parringer? It came from
the Chem-Lab plant didn't it?"
"Of course!" returned Glenny. "Thurver sent it, at Mr. Dean's request. It
was an improved formula, not as dangerous as the other. Thurver wanted
Parringer to try it."
"Why didn't he tell Bristow?"
"Because Bristow was insisting that Parringer work with the original. He
didn't care what happened to Parringer; all he wanted to do was save money.
There was a note in the package that you delivered to Parringer, warning him
that the old formula was dangerous. But Parringer evidently did not heed it."
Again, Glenny had completely reversed the facts very smoothly and
logically. Ralph felt himself mistaken about the Chem-Lab situation. He came to
the Shawnwood matter.
"Yesterday," said Ralph, slowly, "I delivered a package to Cyrus
Shawnwood. It contained a death machine -"
"So it did," interposed Glenny soberly. "But you certainly cannot think
that Mr. Dean or I knew what the package held."
"It came from Mr. Dean -"
"It came originally from Isaac Loman," corrected Glenny. "You'd better
read those newspapers that I see on the table. Listen, Atgood: do you remember
what I told you the first time we met? How Mr. Dean is often annoyed by
half-crazed inventors?"
Ralph nodded.
"Isaac Loman is one of them," stated Glenny, "but we didn't know it. We
thought that the package contained a model of the machine that he designed for
his motor-fuel process; that he was sending it to Shawnwood for inspection."
Glenny's story sounded reasonable. Ralph decided to ask one question more.
He wanted to know why Mr. Dean was demanding such large sums from persons like
Bristow and Shawnwood. It happened that Ralph had deposited Bristow's hundred
thousand dollars in various banks, the sum having been sent in small checks, by
request of R. G. Dean.
"The Chem-Lab Co. needed that new formula," declared Glenny. "It was worth
what they paid for it. As for Shawnwood, he fleeced Loman, buying that fuel
process for twenty thousand dollars. That's why Loman became vengeful. The
thing preyed on his mind. As I told you before, Atgood, Mr. Dean has only one
purpose: to see that people get what should be coming to them."
Ralph didn't catch the double meaning to Glenny's final remark. His
conscience cleared. Ralph thrust forth his hand and Glenny received it in a
warm grip. Turning to the telephone, Ralph called Alicia Weylan and arranged to
take her to a night club that evening.
Behind Ralph's back, Frederick Glenny was indulging in a smile. He knew
that his visit had been timely and worth while. Though Ralph Atgood was behind
the scenes where he could see crime in the raw he was still a dupe.
Frederick Glenny could picture new uses for Ralph Atgood in the very near
future.
CHAPTER XI
CRIME'S NEW THREAT
THREE days later, The Shadow was back in New York. He had gone to Havana
from Miami, and had stayed there long enough to ship a nice assortment of
parrots and macaws to the Cobalt Club, as ornaments for the Tropical Grillroom.
Then, on the day when Lamont Cranston had ostensibl
y boarded a plane for
South America, The Shadow had dropped his usual personality, to leave Havana in
disguise, northward bound.
His stay in Cuba had been by no means uneventful. The Shadow had run into
several street brawls, and twice bombs had exploded in his hotel. The first
blast took place in the lobby, just after The Shadow had left it. The second
occurred in an elevator, as he was about to board it.
On the latter occasion, The Shadow had time to yank a sleepy-eyed elevator
operator to safety just before the car was wrecked. Both explosions were
attributed to the activities of some revolutionary faction, of which there were
many in Havana. No one, except The Shadow himself, blamed the incidents on the
fact that Lamont Cranston happened to be a guest at the hotel.
Evidently the elusive supercrook who called himself R. G. Dean, was
pulling the proper strings from New York. He was also spending a lump of his
ill-gotten funds, bribing the Cuban troublemakers to go after Cranston. But
such payments made very little dent on the coffers of R. G. Dean & Co., as The
Shadow learned after arriving in New York incognito.
During their chief's absence, The Shadow's agents had been busy and had
gotten good results. Three of them were showing heady team play, in accordance
with The Shadow's instructions.
One worker was Rutledge Mann. As an insurance and investment broker, he
was able to feel the pulse of many important chemical corporations. The second
was Clyde Burke; the reporter followed the leads that Mann gave him. The third
was Harry Vincent; properly tipped off by Clyde, he made the acquaintance of
the proper key men in those business concerns and learned further facts from
them in their off-guard moments, which usually came around three o'clock in the
morning, while they were at Manhattan night clubs.
It was quite apparent that R. G. Dean was twisting the Achilles heel of
the entire chemical industry. He was not loosing murder, as he had done in the
Chem-Lab case, but that was simply because he did not find it necessary.
New facts had eluded the law because the law did not interfere in
legitimate business transactions, the sort of thing in which the Dean
combination specialized. As instances, the master crook was shaking down a huge
dye corporation, a twenty-five-million-dollar outfit, by the simple expedient of
threatening to put a cheaper process on the market if they would not buy it.
He had tied up the business of a wax-products company, another big
concern, by cutting off their supply of a special chemical needed in the
manufacture of their product.
Again, R. G. Dean was the gentleman who advised the Sololight Corporation
that they would be wise to use a newly developed chemical compound in place of
phosphorous, because the latter was too dangerous a substance to sell to the
public.
It happened that Sololight was using a harmless brand of phosphorous;
nevertheless, the company had to listen to the argument. They knew that if a
whispering campaign began, denouncing their product as dangerous, they would
never be able to stop the spreading rumor.
ALL these companies were paying tribute in one way or another to R. G.
Dean, and could actually do nothing about it. He was selling them things that
they had good enough reason to buy.
The fact that Dean's prices were always multiplied by ten did not make his
deals illegal. Furthermore, they were unable to trace the clever crook who was
tormenting them.
The letters they received came from different cities, instructing them to
send checks promptly to other towns, as specified. All such checks went through
different banks, never the same one twice. In fact, R. G. Dean seemed to be
somewhat of a myth, except that he always cashed his checks. Finding him was
about as easy as gripping some solid substance in the midst of thin, clear air.
Behind all this lay hidden factors. Frederick Glenny was handling the Dean
correspondence, performing that duty while on the move. Instead of mailing
checks into the old office, he sent them directly to Ralph Atgood's apartment.
In his turn, Ralph, the dupe, was opening new bank accounts in the name of
R. G. Dean, and closing old ones, thanks to the supply of signed checks in his
possession.
It was a first-class arrangement, that kept the crooked game several jumps
ahead of anyone who might try to trace it, and the racket was bringing in
thousands of dollars daily. During the week that followed, new concerns were
drawn into the vortex, always too late for The Shadow to block the swindle.
Through other agents besides the three who were reporting on the financial
situation, The Shadow was checking on the underworld to see if R. G. Dean had a
strong-arm crew in readiness. The Shadow had not forgotten his hectic battle
with three armed fighters in a sedan, that night when he had crawled from the
wreckage of Parringer's lab.
But neither Cliff Marsland, the agent who buddied with big-shots in the
underworld, nor Hawkeye, the crafty spotter who could trail anything larger
than a flea, were able to supply The Shadow with an ounce of information. The
Dean-owned mobbies, whoever they were, had extremely fine talent at staying
under cover.
Meanwhile, police were still guarding Cyrus Shawnwood and hunting for
Isaac Loman. They were managing to protect Shawnwood well enough, but finding
Loman was another matter. It was almost as bad as looking for an invisible
needle in an imaginary haystack, according to the reports that reached The
Shadow.
IT was the last night of a disappointing week, when The Shadow got the
break that he had been positive would come. He was in his sanctum, going over
stacks of reports and clippings supplied by Rutledge Mann, when he struck upon
a fact that interested him.
Carter J. Weylan, manufacturer of a patent medicine called Renovo, had
postponed an expansion program which his company had announced only a few days
before. Patent medicines came under the general head of chemical products, and
while there was no indication that Weylan had been victimized, the case
indicated that he might have heard from R. G. Dean.
On The Shadow's table, apart from the data supplied by Rutledge Mann, lay
an engraved invitation that had been mailed to Lamont Cranston, requesting his
presence to a farewell party being given for Weylan's daughter, Alicia, who was
leaving on a Mediterranean cruise. The party was scheduled for tonight.
In fact, the party had already begun, but that did not matter. Checking on
a clipping from a society page that accompanied a report from Harry Vincent, The
Shadow noted that his most capable agent was a guest at the same affair.
In making the rounds of the night clubs, Harry had become acquainted with
members of the set that included Alicia Weylan. Rather than lose such contacts,
he had accepted the invitation to the Weylan party.
Specifically, The Shadow was interested in matters that concerned Carter
J. Weylan, rather than the farewell party. But the latter was a sure wedge by
which Weylan could be reached. Properly
pumped, by someone as important as
Lamont Cranston, the millionaire manufacturer might unfold a tale of woe
regarding R. G. Dean - if such a story existed.
This, of all nights, was the right one for Lamont Cranston to make a
surprise reappearance, explaining that he had called off his trip to the Amazon
country. The Shadow promptly decided upon such a course.
The only hitch was the fact that Weylan's house was quite a distance out
on Long Island, though within the limits of New York City. The minutes that The
Shadow would require in getting there might prove of vital importance. It was
fortunate, therefore that Harry Vincent was already at the Weylan home. He
could pinch-hit until The Shadow arrived.
Reaching for the earphones, The Shadow spoke to Burbank and instructed him
to contact Harry. A few moments later, The Shadow's fingers plucked a switch
that extinguished the bluish glow which filled the sanctum. From the thick
blackness that followed came the tone of a whispered laugh, sinister and
prophetic.
The Shadow's period of inactivity was ended. He was on the move again. The
situation was the sort that promised real results. The Shadow was seldom wrong
when he played a hunch like this. Tonight, The Shadow hoped for a solid trail
that would lead him to the supercrook who masqueraded under the title of R. G.
Dean.
One fact, perhaps, had been forgotten by The Shadow. To everyone, The
Shadow included, the manufactured name of R. G. Dean could still be translated
in terms of a single word:
Danger!
CHAPTER XII
THE PROPOSITION
UNTIL the telephone call came from Burbank, Harry Vincent was only
slightly interested in the evening party at the home of Carter J. Weylan.
Though it was quite a fashionable affair, Harry considered it to be a mere
waste of time that he could otherwise have spent with persons who might offer
chance clues to crime.
The word that Burbank relayed from The Shadow promptly changed the
situation. Immediately, Harry began to look for suspicious characters in the
Weylan homestead, hoping that he would spot some. But the scene proved very
placid.
There were some twenty guests at the place with men slightly in the
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