FOXHOUND.

by Maxwell Grant.

CHAPTER I.

CRIME WITHOUT PUNISHMENT.

THERE was an electric hush in the courtroom as the black-robed judge leaned forward on the bench. The moment for summing up had arrived!

It was the climax to one of the strangest murder prosecutions in the history of the grim old Criminal Courts Building. A double murder - yet only one indictment. A defendant whose evil appearance, as well as his record as a habitual criminal, proclaimed him guilty - yet he was about to be acquitted.

It was evident in the crowd's hushed attention, in the angry spot of color in the prosecutor's worried face. Every one in the courtroom knew that the smirking Jimmy Dawson was guilty, but no one would have bet five cents on the chances of convicting him.

The whole dramatic upset in the trial had been brought about by one man.

Alonzo Kelsea. The highest-priced and shrewdest criminal lawyer in the city. A man whose cheapest retainer was fifty thousand dollars. Yet he was representing a petty gunman who apparently had neither friends, influence or money.

A sigh ran through the tense spectators. The judge checked it with a sharp rap of his gavel. His eyes were expressionless under knitted brows. For a second he stared at Dawson, the defendant; then his glance moved to the smiling lawyer.

"The court is ready to hear the final summation for the defense."

Kelsea rose, bowed. He turned toward the jury.

His words were slowly spoken, p.r.o.nounced very carefully.

"Let me remind you that my client has been indicted for the murder of Pat Malone, the detective who was shot to death on the pier of the America-Gaul Line. He has not been indicted for the death of Herbert Baker, who was killed five minutes earlier by persons unknown aboard the Loire, as she lay at her pier. There have been attempts by the prosecutor, all through this trial, to link the defendant, James Dawson, with both crimes; but no indictment was returned for the Baker murder - and with the permission of the learned judge, I.

will ask the jury to ignore that phase of the matter entirely in returning the verdict. Does your honor concur?"

The judge nodded. "The court directs the jury to confine its attention solely to the murder of Detective Pat Malone. There has been no proof established to link the defendant, James Dawson, with the death of Herbert Baker, killed so mysteriously in his cabin aboard the Loire. Proceed, Mr.

Kelsea."

"Thank you." His eyes moved to the jury. Every man in the box leaned forward, listening intently. They expected a sensation and they were not disappointed.

"I am going to speak only one sentence, gentlemen; but that one sentence will acquit an innocent man. I ask you to remember the testimony of Leland Payne! That is all." His gaze held the jurymen for a long instant, then he bowed gravely to the judge and sat down. It was the shortest and simplest speech ever made in a murder trial. Alonzo Kelsea had staked the life of his client on ten words!

ALTHOUGH an eyewitness had testified he had seen Dawson fire bullets into the body of the pier detective, Malone, Leland Payne had established an unshaken alibi for the accused man. He swore - and it was impossible to doubt the word of the aged philanthropist that at the exact moment of Pat Malone's death, James Dawson was talking with him in his mansion on Riverside Drive.

Cross-examination couldn't shake him. And the eyewitness - a longsh.o.r.eman, with an unsavory police record himself - had faltered in his identification under the suave attack of Kelsea.

The millionaire, on the contrary, stuck to his story, refusing to tell what the nature of his conference had been with Dawson, a.s.serting merely that it had been private, personal business.

Leland Payne was the city's most beloved citizen, honored many times for his countless charities and his upright life. No one in the courtroom believed for an instant that he would utter a deliberate lie. And the accusation of the sullen longsh.o.r.eman rested on one brief glimpse of a man with a smoking pistol, a splash in the river and a speeding motor boat.

Dawson had walked calmly into police headquarters, twenty-four hours after the double murder, protesting his innocence. Alonzo Kelsea had taken his case -.

for nothing. Could such a man be guilty?

The jury returned their verdict without leaving the box.

"We find the defendant, James Dawson, innocent!"

There was a murmur in the courtroom like the foaming topple of an enormous wave. People squirmed, started to rise from their seats. The sharp bark of the judge's voice halted them.

The judge was facing the jury, his voice vibrant with bitterness.

Gravely, he told the men in the jury box that under the rules of evidence, they had returned the only verdict possible for honest men. The testimony of Leland Payne, upright citizen, friend of the judge himself, was clearcut and unmistakable. But - His eyes swung past the grinning Dawson, toward the discomfited and angry prosecutor. In clear, biting words he hinted at a miscarriage of justice. He directed the prosecutor to use all legitimate efforts to get to the bottom of this strange double murder of a pa.s.senger aboard the Loire and the pier detective, Malone. He did not say so directly, but it was obvious to every one in earshot that he believed Leland Payne had been tricked, innocently, into giving a false alibi for a guilty criminal.

Alonzo Kelsea was on his feet instantly, protesting in a loud voice, but the judge shut him off grimly.

"There are forces shielding this defendant," he snapped, "that, I trust, will be brought ultimately into the open! Forces that I believe to be criminal and sinister. I hope Police Commissioner Weston will use every effort to solve this ugly double murder." His voice hardened. "No reflection is intended on counsel for the discharged defendant."

His gavel banged like a pistol shot.

"Court stands adjourned!"

A REPORTER, hurrying to the street, paused as he saw the aristocraticface of a man who stood with a companion in the rear of the courtroom. It was Police Commissioner Ralph Weston. The gentleman with him was known only vaguely by the reporter. His name was Lamont Cranston.

The newspaper reporter ignored Cranston. He was too busy to waste precious time on a man he considered a wealthy idler.

He confined all of his attention to Weston.

"The judge has hinted at a sensational background to this case. His remarks would seem to indicate police inefficiency. Do you care to make a statement, commissioner?"

"No statement," Weston rasped.

Unruffled by the rebuff, the reporter swerved, saw two other men and dashed across to intercept them. One of them was square-faced, muscular, obviously a police official in spite of his civilian clothes. This was Joe Cardona, acting inspector of police, reputed to be the best sleuth in New York.

His companion was Charles Malone, brother of the pier detective for whose murder Dawson had just been acquitted. As breezily as he had ignored Cranston, the reporter paid no attention to Charles Malone.

His glance darted inquisitively at Cardona. Cardona had been in complete charge of the police investigation of the case.

"You boys sure made a mess of things this time. Any comment?"

"Yeah," Cardona said, grimly. "Scram and don't bother me!"

"But -"

"Listen, son. You go back and tell your editor that Joe Cardona hasn't quit this case by a long shot! Outside of that, I have nothing to say."

His dark eyes flashed angrily as the reporter dashed off.

Malone said, bitterly: "Dawson is guilty as h.e.l.l. He shot my brother on that pier."

"Sure he did," Cardona grunted, in a low voice. "The trick is to prove it."

"I've traveled a long way to see justice done. I think the testimony of Leland Payne was honestly given; but, like the judge, I suspect he was tricked into that alibi."

There was grief in Malone's eyes, cold anger, a colder determination. A wealthy lumberman from the Middle West, he had hurried to New York at the first news of his brother's murder. Cardona had a.s.sured him that the case was open-and-shut. Now, to his stupefaction, Charles Malone saw a grinning gunman acquitted with the clever help of a high-priced lawyer who claimed he was working for nothing.

"I intend to hire a private detective," Malone whispered harshly at Cardona's ear. "You've done your best, but -"

Cardona said, "Wait!" He sprang forward suddenly.

TWO men were coming down the court aisle toward the door: Dawson and the suave Alonzo Kelsea. Cardona thrust out an imperious arm, blocked the exit of the acquitted prisoner.

"Can I ask you a question, Jimmy?"

"Sure," Dawson smirked. "What's on your mind, copper?"

"How much did you pay Kelsea to defend you?"

"Not a dime! Believe it or not."

"I believe you," Cardona growled. "You've made plenty at thievery - and you spend it as fast as you get it. But someone paid Kelsea a fat fee. And you know who! Don't you?"

Kelsea smilingly lifted the detective's hand from Dawson's arm. "Stopannoying him," he said softly, a gleam in his steadily smiling eyes. "He's been acquitted - or didn't you hear the news yet?"

Cardona faced the lawyer squarely.

"Why did you volunteer to defend Dawson?"

"Because I'm a public-spirited citizen. I hate to see an innocent man framed." His foxy grin widened maliciously. "Or if that explanation doesn't suit you, I did it for the wife and kiddies. Come on, Jimmy."

He swaggered out, followed by the leering Dawson.

"He did it for at least fifty thousand dollars," Cardona muttered in Charles Malone's ear. "He never turns a finger for less than that. I'm going to find out what's back of this, and who paid him to get that killer free!"

The two men walked grimly together to the street. Commissioner Weston, who was still standing, frowning, near the exit with Lamont Cranston, said impatiently: "Coming?"

Cranston shook his head vaguely. Weston hesitated, and then followed Cardona and Malone.

The millionaire sportsman, member of the exclusive Cobalt Club, remained in the empty courtroom as if he hated to leave. He was staring at the emblem of justice above the bench where the judge had sat. His piercing eyes flamed suddenly with an inner light. A low-toned laugh came from his tightly compressed lips; but there was no mirth in the sound. It was a menacing, confident laugh that no fellow member of Cranston's at the Cobalt Club had ever heard. Had Cardona heard it, he would have gasped with incredulous amazement.

The Shadow!

This person pa.s.sing himself as Lamont Cranston was The Shadow! His was the unguessed hand that had struck down scores of criminals who had proved themselves too cunning to be trapped and caught by ordinary police methods. A lone wolf of justice, striking always to uphold the law. That was why he had come to this courtroom in a guise that protected his real ident.i.ty from discovery.

Staring at the emblem of justice, he mentally asked himself four grim questions: Who was "Herbert Baker" and why was he murdered aboard the Loire five minutes before Jimmy Dawson shot and killed Detective Pat Malone on the pier? Who paid Alonzo Kelsea his undoubtedly huge fee? How was Leland Payne tricked into his alibi testimony? Who was the real criminal figure back of the cringing figure of Jimmy Dawson?

The Shadow possessed, as yet, no answers to these questions.

But as he walked slowly to the sidewalk and entered the sw.a.n.ky car registered and owned by Lamont Cranston, he knew instinctively that he was embarking upon one of the most dangerous and complicated cases of his entire career.

CHAPTER II.

FLIGHT OF A SURGEON.

THE darkness was black, intense - a sightless and soundless invisibility.

With eerie suddenness, a rasping laugh broke the stillness, proving that the darkness hid the shape of a room, and that a man was in that room.

The Shadow was in his sanctum.

A pale-blue light glowed as though by a will of its own. Under its cold rays the face of The Shadow became vaguely defined. Had an observer been staring intently at the spot, all he would have seen was the burning eyes, thestrong, beaked nose that denoted power and strength, the calmly resolute lips.

A tiny wall light glowed without warning across the invisible desk at which The Shadow sat. The black-cloaked form of The Shadow moved. White, tapering fingers were disclosed as he picked up the headset of a private telephone.

On one of his fingers gleamed a precious stone. It was a girasol, the rarest one of its kind in the world. It flamed crimson, yellow and then a deeply l.u.s.trous green as the headset was placed in position on The Shadow's head.

He listened calmly. A voice, trained by years of service in The Shadow's cause, said crisply: "Burbank speaking."

"Report."

"Clyde Burke ordered to trail Jimmy Dawson."

"Proceed."

"Harry Vincent ordered to watch Alonzo Kelsea."

"Stand by."

There were no further words. The Shadow replaced the headphones. The wall light winked out, leaving the sanctum bathed again in its mysterious blue radiance. The Shadow laughed softly. Burbank had received and transmitted swiftly the orders that would start Harry Vincent and Clyde Burke on the trail of an unknown master criminal. Like Burbank, these two agents of The Shadow were trained to obey his will implicitly.

IT was the evening of the same day that had witnessed the unexpected acquittal of Jimmy Dawson. The Shadow, too, had work to do. He was going to visit Leland Payne, the man whose testimony had ruined a case prepared so carefully by the usually competent Joe Cardona. As Lamont Cranston, The Shadow could visit Payne openly and without explanation of his real purpose.

The two were close friends of long standing. Cranston admired the aged millionaire, knew that his alibi testimony in court had been honestly given.

His task was to uncover a cunning swindle that had deceived an honorable and well-loved philanthropist into protecting a vicious gunman from the electric chair.

The hand of The Shadow drew a sheet of white paper across the top of his desk. On it he wrote two entries in black ink: Herbert Baker Pat Malone The inked names faded slowly into invisibility. Baker's name first, then Malone's. The paper was again spotlessly white. But the burning eyes of The Shadow continued to stare at that unmarked sheet, as thought he could read clear facts in it.

This "Herbert Baker" was the center of the whole enigma. His cabin on the Loire had been ripped to pieces by a hasty search. Yet, apparently, his murderer had found nothing. For Jimmy Dawson had been empty-handed when he had been stopped on the pier by Detective Pat Malone.

Why had he shot down Malone with such grim ferocity? Was the killer really Dawson? The Shadow was sure he was, in spite of the fact that an eyewitness had faltered in his identification under the snarling cross-examination of Alonzo Kelsea.