Soyoto's intimation was that Prew had secretly engineered the theft of the Barracuda, using Sergon as his tool. He seemed honest in the inference, but there was something deep behind it. The Shadow called the turn.

"To find Prew," he remarked, "we must locate others who knew something about the Barracuda. By others I refer to persons a.s.sociated directly with Prew."

Each time he spoke it, The Shadow stressed the word "others," and that shot hit home. He knew that Soyoto wanted to learn something regarding Claudette Marchand. In turn, he guessed that there might be another party in the game, someone known to Soyoto. The conjecture proved correct.

"There are two others," agreed Soyoto. "A woman, Prew's secretary, who was at the pier.

Also a man, who provided funds to help Prew build his ship."

Cunningly, Soyoto avoided mention of names, pretending that he knew neither one. The Shadow seemed to take the bait.

"If I tell you one name," he suggested, "will you aid me in learning the other?"

"With much pleasure," agreed Soyoto, "as soon as my agents discover it."

The Shadow seemed to weigh the agreement; then, in Cranston's quiet tone, he declared: "The girl's name is Claudette Marchand."

Soyoto promptly made a note of it, his face very serious. That, to The Shadow, meant that Soyoto was smiling inwardly. It hadn't taken many minutes to a.n.a.lyze Soyoto's way.

Whatever his thoughts, the man's facial expression showed the opposite. "Claudette Marchand," repeated Soyoto. "I should like to know what became of her."

This time, he was smiling, as though merely curious. He was actually telling The Shadow that he was very anxious to acquire that information. Calmly, The Shadow gave it.

"She went aboard the Barracuda," he told Soyoto, "along with Sergon and the rest."

For once, Soyoto showed unfeigned elation.

"Ah, that explains it!" he exclaimed. "It was she who dealt with Sergon. It is most likely"-he was c.o.c.king his head as he spoke- "that she did so at Prew's order.

"My men"-he spread his hands depreciatingly-"are sometimes very inefficient. They saw the Marchand woman, but believed that she escaped ash.o.r.e in the confusion."

THE ticker beside the desk was clattering; Soyoto turned, pulled out a length of tape. He read it, shrugged as he folded it. The Shadow saw him tuck the strip beneath his sash.

"More conflicting reports from Washington," declared the j.a.panese. "All this is very bad.

We must wait, very patient, until we can learn more. I thank you, Mr. Cranston, for your visit.

This"-he wrote something on a little card -"is my telephone number. Call me whenever you wish."

The Shadow received the card. Soyoto came from behind the desk, stepped toward the outer door. Donning hat and gloves, The Shadow followed. Hand on the doork.n.o.b, Soyoto bowed.

"My servants," he said, "will conduct you downstairs. Good evening, Mr. Cranston."

Concealed by the lowered hat brim, The Shadow had noticed something by the door. It was a light switch with two b.u.t.tons-one pearl, the other black. The pearl b.u.t.ton was pressed inward, indicating that the light was on.

But Soyoto's desk lamp connected with a floor plug. There was no light that the wall switch controlled. Instantly, The Shadow sensed the real purpose of that switch.

It controlled an electric hookup that enabled the servants in the anteroom to hear all that happened to Soyoto's office. That was why Soyoto had been willing to interview The Shadow in private. All along, The Shadow had suspected a catch; he had at last found out what it was.

He was willing to deal with Soyoto on the man's own terms. But any departure from the actual agreement would have to end that policy. From something that he had noticed about Soyoto, The Shadow was convinced that the deal was already void. Soyoto, having learned what facts he wanted, had neglected to state others of his own.

"Good evening, Mr. Soyoto," returned The Shadow, still using his quiet tone. "But permit me to wait a few minutes, while I write out my own address, the one where you can always reach me."

The Shadow raised his left arm, as his hand pretended to reach for something beneath his cloak. With his elbow, he nudged the black b.u.t.ton of the wall switch, cutting off the current that controlled the hidden microphone. Soyoto saw the action, started a sudden cry.

The shout did not leave Soyoto's lips. The Shadow's hands were at his throat, clutching it tight. The pair reeled across the room, missing heavy chairs by inches, until they reached adarkened corner past the desk. There, the brief struggle ended. Soon afterward, a black-shrouded figure glided through the fringe of light and opened the door to the anteroom.

Soyoto's jujitsu crew awaited. One j.a.p looked into the office, saw his master in the swivel chair, which was turned toward the electric ticker. He closed the door, nodding for another to conduct The Shadow to the street. The route that they took was a direct one, through the closed shop below.

Returning, the guide found the others babbling in conference. They were wondering why Soyoto hadn't called them. They decided that the man from below should report that The Shadow had left the outer door.

At last, the man agreed to do so. He opened the door to Soyoto's office and peered in the direction of the desk. The j.a.p spoke, but Soyoto did not answer. Calling excitedly to the others, the fellow rushed in and reached the desk. He and the others found out why Soyoto had not answered.

Their bespectacled master was bound in his chair, his ankles strapped by a leather belt, his wrists girded with his golden sash and twisted through the slats of the chair back.

Soyoto was gagged with a black handkerchief that The Shadow had evidently provided. He had tucked it low behind Soyoto's collar, so that the knot had failed to show when the guards looked in from the anteroom. Turned with his face from view, the gagged j.a.panese had appeared to be watching the ticker in a natural pose.

The moment he was released, Ishi Soyoto began to give excited orders in his native tongue.

His servitors nodded their response and surged from the room. Soon they were rushing through the Chinese tea shop, to reach a car that was housed in an old garage across the rear street.

Unbluffed by Soyoto, The Shadow had outwitted the crafty master of the j.a.panese. To amend that defeat, Ishi Soyoto had dispatched his own crew of fighters along The Shadow's trail.

CHAPTER VIII. DEATH'S TRAIL.

A TAXICAB was wheeling madly through the hilly streets of San Francisco, away from heavy traffic. In it rode The Shadow; between his gloved fingers stretched a strip of ticker tape. It was the last message that had come to Ishi Soyoto. The Shadow had plucked it from the pocket beneath Soyoto's sash.

The light from a corner showed the typing on the strip. It was in j.a.panese characters; The Shadow had already translated it. The message referred to a man named Carl Methron. It stated that his servant had learned where Methron had gone. He was living at the Hillview Apartments; his apartment number there was 6B.

To The Shadow, Carl Methron could be no person other than the silent partner who had backed Commander Prew's construction of the Barracuda. In his a.n.a.lysis of Ishi Soyoto, The Shadow had cla.s.sed the j.a.panese as being truthful, but with a canny ability to reserve certain facts.

Soyoto's talk of a backer was genuine. Perhaps he had intended later to reveal the man's name, but it had been evident that he knew it all the while. One reason for Soyoto's reservation was his lack of knowledge concerning Methron's whereabouts. Ishi Soyoto had wanted to be the first to question Carl Methron. Afterward, he might have pa.s.sed facts along to The Shadow. In that policy, however, Soyoto had violated his own agreement. Perhaps he felt himself justified; if so, he could not object to The Shadow's own code of ethics.

By tying up Soyoto, The Shadow had simply turned the situation about. He- not Soyoto-would be the first to drop in on Methron. What Prew's backer would have to say, Soyoto could learn later-when The Shadow chose to inform him.

Though the Hillview was some distance from the center of the city, The Shadow knew of the place and had given the taxi driver the shortest route to reach it. At this speed, The Shadow was not worrying about Soyoto's henchmen, even should they follow. He was sure that he had gained a dozen minutes at the start, and that he was increasing that margin.

If Methron happened to be in his apartment, which was likely at this late hour, The Shadow could whisk him away before the j.a.ps arrived. If Methron wasn't there, The Shadow could watch the place. Soyoto's men had ways of bobbing up from nowhere, but they usually had to pick their setting. This time, if the need came, the advantage would be The Shadow's.

Twisting a final corner, the taxi screeched to a stop coming down a steep street. It halted near the side door of the Hillview, and The Shadow did a quick glide to a small parking lot.

From that darkness, he watched the taxi pull away.

As it went past the corner, a man stepped into sight and took a look toward the side door.

The man was wearing a doorman's uniform; seeing no pa.s.senger from the cab, he went back to his post at the front of the apartment house.

That left the path clear for The Shadow, but he maintained caution when he entered the side door. Within the lobby was a newsstand, a glum-faced man behind it. He was looking toward the side door, but he did not see The Shadow pa.s.s. No eyes could have spotted the cloaked shape that kept to the deep gloom of the lobby wall.

Straight ahead was a stairway; as usual with many apartments, its lower steps were barely visible from the main lobby. They were white, however, being made of imitation marble, so The Shadow paused before he reached them. He timed his next maneuver to a moment when the man at the newsstand turned away.

Long, silent strides took The Shadow six steps upward. Pausing, he peered back toward the newsstand. The man had looked in his direction, was s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g his eyes as if he had seen something. Then the fellow gave a shrug. He had noted nothing more than a disappearing streak of blackness.

ONE thought pleased The Shadow while he was moving up to the sixth floor. If the j.a.ps arrived, they couldn't risk using that inside stairway. They would have to take a slower route, up an old fire escape that The Shadow had noted at the back of the building.

Hence it would not be difficult either to intercept them or avoid them. The Shadow could choose whichever policy he wanted, when the time came.

The door of 6B was locked. It had a large, old-fashioned keyhole of the simple type that serves as encouragement to burglars. This floor was the top one, well away from observation. Unlocking that door would have required only a few seconds if The Shadow had not calculated that someone might be inside the apartment.

Therefore, he used his skeleton key as carefully as if he had been working on a difficult lock.When a slight sc.r.a.pe came from the keyhole, he paused to scratch a bit of wax from the key handle.

The key was hollow, filled with oil. Released, the fluid oozed into the lock. When The Shadow turned the key again not a sound resulted.

Bracing the door as he opened it, The Shadow prevented any creaks. He stood inside the living room of a simply furnished apartment, that was almost totally dark. After listening for sounds, The Shadow began operations with a tiny flashlight.

He came across a telephone unconnected with the downstairs lobby, for it bore an individual number. He saw a desk with a few papers lying on it, but none proved important. However, an open suitcase in the corner contained some empty envelopes tucked near the bottom.

One of these was addressed to J. H. Wiggin, Hillview Apartments, San Francisco. In a corner it bore the return address of Commander Rodney Prew, with a post-office box in Sausalito.

The envelope indicated that Carl Methron used the name of Wiggin whenever he occupied this apartment. That, in turn, could explain why Ishi Soyoto had encountered some trouble locating him.

Deciding to investigate the bedroom The Shadow went in that direction. He no longer required the flashlight, for the bedroom had windows on the front street and lights from below supplied a slight illumination.

In one corner, between the windows, was a bureau, its top drawer half open. Gliding there, The Shadow introduced one hand, his flashlight with it, to produce a gleam within the drawer. The m.u.f.fled light showed that the drawer was empty.

Snapping off the flashlight, The Shadow removed his hand and reached for the next drawer below. At that moment, his eyes saw a mirror that backed the bureau. The corner was too dark to reveal his face in the gla.s.s; but glimmering, distant in the mirror, was a sight that made The Shadow halt short.

That reflection came from a revolver muzzle aimed directly toward The Shadow's back from somewhere across the room!

THERE wasn't a sound as The Shadow eased low. Once beneath the level of an intervening bed, he turned his head to locate the gun's exact position. It projected from a closet door in another corner of the room. Chance light, striking the mirror, had reflected it.

Once spotted, the gun could be observed again, although The Shadow had failed to notice it when he first entered. The crack of the door was on the side away from the living room, which had been to The Shadow's advantage at the time when he arrived. But, despite his caution, there were ways in which he might have betrayed his presence.

If so, the man behind that gun was merely waiting for the intruder to come into the window light. Once there, The Shadow would be an absolute target for a capable marksman, with a range so short that one shot should be enough.

Flattened to the floor, The Shadow began a circuitous creep toward the closet. He was below the window level, but he could still see the gun, and the hole in its rounded end looked ominous. Any venturer less confident than The Shadow would have decided upon retreat; for, as the cloaked creeper advanced, the gun muzzle seemed to lower straight for his eyes. The Shadow recognized that as an optical illusion, one upon which he himself had often depended when dealing with a group of foemen. From the right perspective, a gun would always yawn at a man who faced it, even thought he managed to gain a slight angle of safety.

Nevertheless, it was increasingly difficult to believe that the gun was not on the move. The closer The Shadow came, the more certain it seemed that he was covered, until he was almost at the closet door. There, he waited, holding back even the slightest sound of his own breathing.

He was below the path of the gun. His nerve had served him. Counting that he would not be seen along the blackened floor; calculating that the silence of the gun meant that its owner had not guessed his position, The Shadow had reached a vantage spot.

From beneath his cloak, he drew an automatic. Inching upward, aiming the .45 as he came, he reached for the doork.n.o.b with his free hand.

Whether the man in the closet was Methron, alias Wiggin, or some invader here ahead of The Shadow, the only policy was to meet him with a silent attack. Gunshots would not help The Shadow's present investigation, and he had no desire to injure an opponent who might turn out to be a friend. But it would not do to parley with a man who was thrusting a gun muzzle from the edge of an open closet door.

Surprise was the only method. The Shadow provided it when he gave the door a sudden yank. Literally, he flung the door away from him as he came upward with a twist. He caught a flash of the revolver striking downward; as he grabbed for it, he took the full weight of a bulky adversary who came from the closet with a heavy lunge.

CATCHING that gun fist, The Shadow tried to shove it aside. He met with stiff-armed opposition, and with it, the revolver roared. A solid slug sizzled so close to The Shadow's ear that it left a tingle. Slinging his gun hand around the bulky man's neck, The Shadow rolled with him to the floor.

He had pinned the revolver beneath him, where it could do no harm. His own gun was turned full about, poking its cold-muzzle against the sprawled man's neck. The Shadow's whisper added further threat, unless the fellow released his grip on the revolver. But he still clung to it.

One knee on the man's arm, The Shadow gave a tug. Never had he met a grip like that. He couldn't budge the revolver from the fingers that clutched it. It was recollection of that sharp shot, only a few seconds before, that kept The Shadow at work. In a flash, the explanation reached him.

Withdrawing his own gun, The Shadow relaxed his grip on the revolver barrel. Springing to his feet, he found a floor lamp close beside the closet door. Pulling the cord, he turned to view the thing that lay on the floor.

The light disclosed a stiffened figure in pajamas; above the jacket, a contorted face with goggly eyes. That countenance was bloodless, except for a clotted brick-red patch above a baldish temple.

Whoever the man might prove to be, he was stone dead; had been so for many hours.

Murdered by a blow upon the head, he had been planted in the closet, a revolver in his fist.

Rigor mortis had set in upon the corpse, accounting for its stiffness and the grip with which the dead hand clutched the gun. The Shadow's own grab had pressed the man's trigger finger. The shot that had so nearly meant The Shadow's doom had come during a duel with a dead antagonist!

CHAPTER IX. THE OUTSIDE CALL.

FINISHED with his brief survey of the murder victim, The Shadow considered a subject that concerned himself. His plans for the immediate future depended upon whether or not the gunshot had been heard.

Turning off the light, he peered from the window. Below, he saw the doorman stalking back and forth in front of the apartment house. That was a good sign, for any sound of gunfire would probably have brought the man inside.

Perhaps the shot had been heard in some other sixth-floor apartment, but had not yet been reported. To learn if that had happened, The Shadow made a trip to the outside hall, only to find complete silence. So far, so good.

In the hallway, The Shadow found an exit to the fire escape. He listened there, but heard no sounds from below. The fire escape was not far from Methron's living room. When he returned there, The Shadow opened a window from which he could listen occasionally for any sounds of approaching j.a.panese.

Back in the bedroom, The Shadow restored the light and took a look into the closet.

Hanging there were the dead man's clothes. Search of the pockets produced evidence of the victim's ident.i.ty. The man was Carl Methron.

There was nothing to tell why Prew's backer had met his grisly finish, nor did superficial clues offer any trace to the murderer. There was a small address book in one pocket and it contained Prew's post-office address, but that simply substantiated something that The Shadow already knew; namely, that Carl Methron had conducted business with Commander Rodney Prew.

The address book, like the envelope in the suitcase, was an item that the authorities should find; so The Shadow replaced it in the pocket where he had found it.

He was moving out into the living room to listen at the window, when a buzzing sound began close by the wall. Almost instantly, The Shadow identified it. The sound was from the telephone bell, m.u.f.fled by Methron or his murderer, to prevent it from being heard outside the apartment.

That buzz produced a moot question.