Gray Fist
( Shadow - 48 )
Maxwell Grant
GRAY FIST
Maxwell Grant
CHAPTER I. DANGER STALKS
"HELLO... Hello... Detective headquarters?"
A gray-haired man was asking the question as he spoke into the mouthpiece of a telephone. A look of relief appeared upon his strained lips as he received an affirmative answer.
"To whom am I speaking?" he inquired, in an even tone. "Ah! Detective Cardona... Very good; you are the man I wanted. My name is Varden... Yes, Worth Varden, the importer... Here, at my home."
The gray-haired man paused. His face became tense. His voice lowered as he again took up the conversation.
"It is important that I see you, Cardona," declared Varden. "Highly important... To-night... That is why I called again to learn if you had returned. I was afraid that you had not received my message this afternoon...
"I can't talk now—not until I see you... Yes, I shall be here. Come to the side door of my home. Bring men with you. There is danger... Myself? Certainly, I am in danger. I shall leave here with you, after you arrive..."
Varden's face seemed to pale beneath the light that came from a desk lamp beside him. For a moment, stark fear flickered over his features. Finally, anger mingled with terror.
"A hoax?" Varden's question was blurted into the mouthpiece. "This is no hoax! Can't you take my word that danger threatens me? Listen, Cardona"—Varden's voice was lowering tensely—"I can tell you one fact right now... Yes, regarding this danger... It involves Seth Cowry, the missing racketeer... No, I don't know where he is, but I can tell you who he's working for -"
An exclamation came across the wire. It was Cardona's statement that he would come to Varden's. The gray-haired man smiled wanly as he hung the receiver on the hook. Despite the strain which held him, Varden could not repress a smile at the quickness with which his statement had aroused Cardona's interest.
SEATED at a heavy desk, in the center of a well-furnished study, Worth Varden was in a setting that denoted wealth. His room was adorned with chairs of fine mahogany; the floor and walls were bedecked with Oriental rugs of apparent value. Yet the man, himself, despite the dignity of his appearance, seemed miserable. His eyes were glassy, his shoulders were bowed as though they bore the burden of an invisible weight.
At the side of the room, a door stood ajar. There was blackness beyond. The partly opened barrier indicated that Varden was apprehensive about what might occur from that direction. His furtive eyes looked toward the door; his ears were listening.
Tap—tap—tap—
The rhythmic beat made Varden start. Some one was knocking for entrance, at a spot beyond the partly opened door. The gray-haired importer arose and moved cautiously toward the door. He pushed it slightly; slipped through and closed the door behind him. He was in a short hallway, which was totally dark. The taps—they seemed as cautious as did Varden—were coming from another door at the end of the little corridor.
Varden advanced. Locks clicked as he unfastened them. His trembling hand turned the knob. As the door opened slightly under Varden's pull, a quiet voice spoke from outside.
"Ruggles Preston."
Varden opened the door quickly when he heard this announcement. A gust of chill air came from the little courtyard outside of the house. A man stepped in from the darkness. Varden closed the door and locked it.
Silently, the two men made their way to the study. When they had reached the lighted room, Varden, with a sigh of relief, closed the door to the hall. He turned to face his visitor.
Ruggles Preston eyed him quizzically.
Ruggles Preston was a younger man than Worth Varden. Although a trifle portly, he possessed a strong physique and a domineering gaze that was almost challenging. There was something in Preston's manner that betokened confidence, and Varden sensed it. He waved his visitor to a seat opposite the desk.
Varden paced about; then sat down suddenly.
"Preston," he said, "I want to talk to you."
"To me as an attorney?" questioned Preston, with a smile. "Or to me as a friend?"
"As both," returned Varden. "I don't need a lawyer's advice, Preston, because I have already taken care of affairs which might have involved me with the law. Nevertheless, as a lawyer, you will be interested in hearing what I have to say to you as a friend."
"Something is troubling you, Varden," decided Preston, in a sympathetic tone.
"You speak the truth, Preston," stated the gray-haired importer. "I had not expected you so soon, this evening. Had you arrived later, you would not have found me in such an apprehensive mood. However, my troubles, though not ended, have been eased. Until this moment, I have feared to talk."
"But now?"
"I feel free."
Ruggles Preston nodded. There was sympathy, as well as keenness in his action. It brought an instant response from his companion. Leaning forward on the desk, Worth Varden spoke in a serious tone.
"Preston," he said, "I have just freed myself from the power of a fiend."
"A fiend?"
"Yes. A fiend who would stop at nothing. A supercriminal whose schemes are but in the making. One whose terrible power I intend to thwart to-night."
THERE was tenseness. Ruggles Preston seemed startled by the statement. Had it not been for the determined look upon Varden's face, Preston could have taken the words as the utterance of a madman.
As it was, the lawyer simply nodded; with this encouragement, Varden continued.
"Months ago," he said, "I was visited by an agent of the fiend. My visitor introduced himself as Seth Cowry. He admitted that he had been a racketeer.
"Cowry began to talk about my business. He pointed out certain connections which I had made. He told me that my holdings in the San Salvador Importing Corporation made me liable to arrest, inasmuch as that company had been heavily engaged in many illegal practices.
"It was news to me, Preston. Nevertheless, I was forced to hear Cowry through. I expected him to demand money; instead, he proposed what seemed to be easier terms in return for his silence. He told me that all would be well if I would take orders from his master—a man whom he called Gray Fist."
"Gray Fist!" ejaculated Preston. "Who is he?"
"I do not know," answered Varden. "But from that time on, I found myself in the control of one whom I dreaded. There were no more calls from Cowry. Instead, I received messages like this."
Opening a drawer in his desk, Varden pulled out a sheet of gray paper, which he passed across to Preston. The lawyer examined it in a puzzled manner.
"It's blank," he said.
"Hold it to the light," suggested Varden.
Preston did so. A surprised exclamation escaped his lips. The sheet of paper was double. Between its surfaces was inscribed a coded message which showed plainly in black.
"What does this mean?" asked Preston.
"I received it to-day," returned Varden quietly. "It is an order for me to arrange the importation of a quantity of silk from China. The negotiations must be made with the Kow Tan Exporting Company in Shanghai. I never dealt with the concern before; but I can imagine its connections in China -"
"Dope?"
"Probably. This is the first order that I have received from Gray Fist. I can see that it is the forerunner of others on the same order."
Preston nodded. His fingers beat a rhythmical tattoo on the polished surface of the desk.
"I see the game," he said, in a meditative tone. "This man called Gray Fist is a spider in the center of the web. You are one of the flies whom he has snared."
"Exactly," declared Varden, in a tense tone, "and, like every fly in the spider's web, I have one penalty to fear."
"Death?"
/> "Death. The sentence hovers above me now—for in speaking to you, Preston, I have violated the first law imposed by Gray Fist. In preserving this coded message, I have also gone against his order."
ALARM flickered upon Ruggles Preston's face. The attorney seemed filled with anxiety regarding the safety of his friend. Worth Varden gave a steady smile in return.
"Do not worry, Preston," he stated. "I have freed myself from Gray Fist's snare. This, as I have mentioned, is the first order which has come from him. Should I follow it, there would be no escaping from the web. But I do not intend to follow it. I intend to take my freedom."
"But your holdings in the San Salvador Corporation -"
"No longer exist," interposed Varden. "I anticipated this menace. I disposed of my holdings. I no longer have any responsibilities in the affairs of that corporation. Hence I am free to expose Gray Fist."
"But you do not know his identity," reminded Preston.
"Agreed," answered Varden. "Nevertheless, I have proof of his game. I can tell the police all that I know.
I can name Seth Cowry—for whom the police have been searching, by the way—and thus give them an inkling to a game which they have never suspected."
"You are sure of your own safety?"
Another smile from Varden was the response to Preston's question. From the desk drawer, the importer lifted a stack of papers which were girdled with a rubber band.
"These documents," he remarked, "prove that I am out of the San Salvador Corporation. I intend to turn them over to the police along with the other evidence that I have gained. I have not been nonobservant, Preston. I do not know the identity of the Gray Fist, but I feel sure that I can point out traces of his work.
There are certain big business men who may also be beneath his sway. When the police arrive, Preston, you will learn all that I know."
"When the police arrive!"
"Yes. I have called detective headquarters. One of the best investigators is coming here this evening—Detective Joe Cardona. I shall place this case entirely in his hands."
Ruggles Preston said nothing, but Worth Varden's words had gained their effect. The lawyer realized that events of magnitude were brewing.
"I have told Cardona," added Varden, "that I can give him information regarding Seth Cowry. That impressed him the moment that he heard it over the telephone. He knows that the case is urgent. He will surely stop in here to-night."
"I am glad you told me this, Varden," said Preston thoughtfully. "It enables me to suggest a plan whereby I may be of aid."
"In the breaking of Gray Fist's game?"
"Yes. It is wise that you should be alone when Detective Cardona arrives."
"Why?"
"Because you should certainly tell him that you have revealed your facts to no one."
Varden nodded thoughtfully.
"Furthermore," continued Preston, "it is not wise that you should discuss matters here. You have told Cardona that danger threatens. You should insist that he leave this danger spot before you speak."
"But where would we go?"
"To the most logical place under the circumstances. To see an attorney whom you know. It would not be wise for me to come here; it would be preferable for you to bring the detective—and the documents - to my home."
"You're right, Preston!" exclaimed Varden. "I'm glad you arrived early. If you leave now, you will be home by the time that Cardona arrives. I can call you there."
"You can come there," returned Preston. "You can tell Cardona that you are sure I am at home. Forget that you have told me anything regarding Gray Fist. From what you say, the man must be a menacing fiend. Explain your story when you reach my home. Let me show the amazement that I would naturally feel."
Worth Varden was still nodding. He arose from his chair, walked about the desk, and gripped Ruggles Preston's hand. The lawyer received the clasp warmly.
"You give me confidence, Preston," declared Varden. "You must leave here at once—and be cautious when you go. Though I have no evidence of the fact, I fear that Gray Fist may have watchers spying on this house."
Walking back to his seat, Varden threw the documents and the gray paper into the desk drawer. He locked the drawer, then held up a warning hand as Preston arose to go.
"Let me look first," said the importer, in a cautious tone. "I can peer from the side door to make sure that all is clear. You can go as soon as I return."
Varden sidled from the room and closed the door behind him so that the light of the study would not invade the hall. Preston was standing by the chair at the desk. A bitter smile crept over his lips.
From his pocket, Ruggles Preston withdrew an opened envelope. Out of it, he took a folded sheet of paper. He spread it rapidly, and held it to the light. The paper was gray!
PRESTON read lines that lay between the double surface. His smile remained as his hands replaced the paper in his pocket; then, as the door was opening, the lawyer resumed his steady demeanor.
Worth Varden was beckoning from the door. In response to his host, Ruggles Preston went to the hall.
Together, the two men reached the outer portal. Varden opened the barrier and whispered words of caution.
"The way is clear," he said. "Be careful, however. There is danger, but I feel confident. Whatever his suspicions, I feel sure that Gray Fist has not as yet placed watchers close enough to harm me."
Preston stepped into the outer darkness. Varden closed the door. He returned through the corridor, and stood smiling in the light when he reached his study. The arrival and departure of Ruggles Preston had allayed his fears; the visit of the lawyer had been a comfortable interlude during the fateful period that was preceding the arrival of Detective Joe Cardona.
Gray Fist!
Worth Varden shuddered as he whispered the name. Gray Fist was powerful; Gray Fist had minions everywhere. Yet, with the police to aid him, Worth Varden was prepared to thwart Gray Fist.
The police were not all. Worth Varden had gained new confidence. He was sure that he could rely upon Ruggles Preston, the keen-eyed, fearless attorney who had come here as a friend.
Not for an instant did Worth Varden suspect that the man who had left this study was, like himself, within the toils of a superfiend!
Ruggles Preston, supposedly the best friend whom Varden knew, had secretly revealed himself as a minion of Gray Fist!
CHAPTER II. WORD TO THE SHADOW
DARKNESS had enshrouded the house where Worth Varden, self-freed minion of a superfiend, awaited the arrival of Joe Cardona, ace detective of the New York force. Between Varden's lighted study and the outer door lay a corridor of darkness.
Yet the gloom of that little hallway could not compare with the Stygian inkiness that existed in another spot located in Manhattan. Somewhere, lost amid the furore of the huge metropolis, lay a room where blackness and silence vied with one another for supremacy.
Solid, chunky darkness; such was the atmosphere in this mysterious room. Apart from the world, inclosed in secrecy, this unique chamber was a veritable vault that gave no token of a living presence.
Such was the strange abode which served as The Shadow's sanctum.
Time did not seem to exist within this darkness-shrouded room. Yet silence and gloom alike could cease when The Shadow made his presence known. The signal which marked their disappearance was a slight click that sounded amid blackness. The flickering rays of a bluish lamp were focused upon the polished surface of a table.
The Shadow's hands were busy. Into the light came an envelope. The long white fingers opened it. A sheet of paper was quickly spread; hidden eyes from the dark perused its written lines, which were inscribed in vivid blue.
The letter was in code. The Shadow read it rapidly, and as he finished, the inky lines began to disappear.
The paper became a total blank. Such was the procedure with all of the messages that passed between The Shadow and his agents. Prepared with a special chemical, the ink was designed to vanish after
its perusal.
A whispered laugh sounded in the gloom. It was The Shadow's token of keen interest in a matter which had attracted his attention. This message was from Cliff Marsland, one of The Shadow's active agents. It had come through Rutledge Mann, a contact man who posed as a conservative investment broker.
Cliff Marsland was quartered in the underworld. There, reputed to be a mobster of prowess, Cliff had the faculty of learning when crime impended. His messages to The Shadow frequently carried information that enabled the master fighter to spring from nowhere and attack dangerous crooks unaware.
To-night, however, Cliff had reported total failure. He was engaged upon a mission in The Shadow's behalf, and so far he had gained no results. The job to which Cliff had been deputed was that of learning the whereabouts of Seth Cowry, a missing racketeer.
THERE was a reason why The Shadow wanted to know what had become of Cowry. Until a few months ago, the man had been engaged in various enterprises that had branded him as a shady customer.
Yet no one had ever been able to pin the goods on Cowry. The police had been watching him. So had The Shadow. Now, for no apparent cause, the man had disappeared.
Had Seth Cowry been put on the spot?
Cliff Marsland suspected so. Nevertheless, Cliff's coded report had given no assurance. Cliff had learned simply that Cowry was missing. Any one of a dozen mob leaders might have arranged for him to get the works. At the same time, Cowry's underworld connections had all been in perfect order.
It was unusual for a racketeer of Cowry's water to leave New York. Cowry's record had been getting better and better. If he had been planning some clever scheme, Cowry should certainly not have departed from Manhattan. That action, in itself, would be sufficient to bring the police upon his trail.
To The Shadow, this was obvious. Seth Cowry, dead or alive, must certainly have been engaged in some peculiar enterprise. To trace it, The Shadow sought news regarding Seth Cowry. More than that, The Shadow knew that Detective Joe Cardona was interested in what might have become of the missing racketeer. That, too, was of significance.
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