ABRUPTLY The Shadow's hand moved. The sanctum was plunged into complete darkness. He left the room with the same uncanny ease by which he had entered it. The darkness hid the method by which he made his swift entrance and exit.

A few minutes later, a tall, hawk-nosed man, dressed conservatively and carrying a briefcase, drove his car southward on Madison Avenue. He parked in the block where the building stood that housed the detective agency of DavidStoner. The hour was rather late.

The Shadow did not enter Stoner's building. He walked to the entrance of the building next door. The elevator operator was dozing on a chair in his opened car. The Shadow glided noiselessly past.

He climbed the stairs to the nineteenth floor and walked silently down a dim corridor to a locked door on which was printed in small black letters: "John Smith, Attorney."

The Shadow opened the door with a skeleton key. It was pitch-dark inside.

There was a faint rustling sound, then a tiny beam of light issued from a flashlight.

The figure of the dignified business man who had entered the office was now gone. In his place was a black-robed figure who carried an empty briefcase in black-gloved hands. The face hidden by the brim of a slouch hat was a vague glimmer, except for the bold, beaklike nose and the flaming intensity of deep-socketed eyes.

Pa.s.sing an empty information desk, The Shadow opened a small gate and moved down the same corridor along which Stoner had pa.s.sed on the day that Cardona and Charles Malone were almost killed at the Madison Avenue curb far below.

Again, a skeleton key opened a door for The Shadow. He crossed an empty office, pa.s.sed onward through others. The barrier that had been no hindrance to Stoner was none to The Shadow. He found the secret of the carving and the panel slid aside. His movements were infinitely more cautious now. He had pa.s.sed through the building wall and was coming close to Stoner's real headquarters.

Presently he saw it - through a keyhole in a ma.s.sive door. His watching eye surveyed the splendor of a richly furnished room. Beyond a table a man and woman sat, completely at ease.

The man was David Stoner. The woman was the blond Helene Carfax.

SWIFTLY, the ear of The Shadow took the place of his eye at the keyhole.

He heard the murmur of Stoner's voice break into something Helene had said.

"You're quite right. As you say, that's that! Finish your drink and let's get a move on."

His voice got casual.

"I'll see you as far as Times Square. I have a personal appointment to attend to, later."

"So have I," Helene said. She gave a loud and prolonged yawn. There was the faint thud of a closing door. The Shadow, through the keyhole, saw that the room was empty.

It took him a bit longer to open this door, but he was successful. He paused only to glance at the rich furnishings and the portrait of the foxhound on the wall; then he was through the other door and into a shabby, unkempt cubicle which he recognized instantly as the client's room of Stoner's detective agency.

Stoner and the blonde had already left the outer office. The Shadow observed the typewriter with a smile. It had probably never been used except for camouflage. The drawers of all the ma.s.sive filing cabinets were empty.

Hurrying outside to the dim corridor of the nineteenth floor, The Shadow observed the indicator arrow above the elevator shaft. The arrow rested motionless at the figure "1." There hadn't been time enough for the elevator to have risen and descended. Stoner and his blond confederate had gone down the stairs.

The Shadow hurried down the staircase after them. He wanted to trail one of them to the mysterious appointment they had referred to so casualty.

Although they were obviously planning to separate at Times Square, The Shadowwas convinced that both had the same goal in mind. Why, then, was it so necessary for them to separate beforehand? It was a question to which The Shadow had no reasonable answer.

He paused briefly on the fourth floor to press the elevator b.u.t.ton. He knew the operator would respond with sleepy reluctance, perhaps spend a minute or two in a fruitless wait for a nonexistent pa.s.senger. That would leave the main foyer empty.

THE SHADOW'S trick was successful. Emerging from the bottom of the staircase, he moved through a deserted corridor to the street. His only danger was the bright light burning above the entrance, but he dared not delay. It was necessary for him to cross the sidewalk and reach his parked car, if he was to follow Stoner and Helene.

He could see Stoner's back. The private detective was entering a car a few feet from the corner. The Shadow bent his head and flitted through the bright patch on the sidewalk.

Instantly, there was a shrill scream. Helene, watching from inside the car, had recognized the flitting figure in that momentary blaze of light.

Stoner whirled, and the blast of his gun shattered the silence with an ear-splitting report.

The Shadow pitched heavily to the pavement. Again and again, Stoner's gun roared. Slugs whistled above The Shadow's p.r.o.ne form. He had wriggled to a narrow s.p.a.ce between the curb and the dark overhang of an automobile's running board.

Unhurt, warned by Helene's impulsive scream, he was returning the fire of his foe, from the protected spot where his swift plunge had taken him. His bullet smashed one of Stoner's car's headlights; another whisked the hat from the detective's head.

Helene had already started the car, and Stoner sprang inside with a desperate leap as it got under way. It whirled around the corner and streaked west.

The Shadow ran toward his own car. But fate cheated him of his intent to follow the trail of the fugitive. A policeman was racing up Madison Avenue, blowing shrill blasts on his whistle. The Shadow, trapped, was forced to rely on his wits to save himself.

He huddled in a doorway, quickly tore off cloak and slouch hat and stuffed them in the briefcase. His car he would have to leave where it was. But the license plates would tell nothing; they were registered under a name that could never be traced to The Shadow.

UNNOTICED by the copper, The Shadow crossed the street and rapidly walked toward the subway. A local train let him out two stations to the north. He was about to enter a taxicab when the raucous cry of a newsboy halted him: "Extry! Murder! All about the big airplane murder!"

The Shadow bought a paper, glanced at the headlines. He entered the taxi, told the chauffeur to drive him to a certain street corner on the upper West Side. As he rode, his somber eyes devoured the headlines and the story: BACKUS MURDER CASE CLAIMS.

ANOTHER VICTIM.

Charles Malone, Brother of Slain Pier Detective, Killed at Newark Airport by Mystery Pilot. The story was lengthy, horrible. The Shadow's eyes skimmed it, selecting the facts. Charles Malone had been cut to pieces by the whirling propeller of an airplane that had darted deliberately toward him as he crossed the field in front of the pa.s.senger entrance. It was deliberate murder.

An instant later, the murder plane slanted upward into the black sky and vanished toward the northeast. No one could be found who had spoken to or seen the face of the murderous pilot. He had come and gone mysteriously. Malone, killed instantly, had been identified from papers in his pocket.

The Shadow's laugh sounded faintly inside the speeding taxicab. Of all the suspects whose names he had written in the privacy of his sanctum, only two could fit the sinister role of mystery pilot. Alonzo Kelsea had a license and was a competent flyer. Concerning the other man, The Shadow had no aviation information, as yet.

He stared grimly at the heavy black editorial enclosed in a box to the left of the murder account. It was headed: HOW ABOUT IT, INSPECTOR CARDONA?.

In biting, sarcastic phrases the editor referred to the scourge of murder that had been loosed on the city by the death of Herbert Backus. Inspector Cardona had seized this dangerous time to leave the city on his annual vacation. The editor demanded that Joe return forthwith and either solve the case or resign from the police department.

The Shadow was well aware that Joe had planned, weeks ahead, to go on vacation at this time. But he frowned as he read the editorial. He knew that Cardona, vacation or not, would never quit his duty in the middle of so important a case. Weston was trying to hide the real truth from the newspapers and the public.

Joe Cardona had been kidnapped. There was only one criminal with the temerity to pull so bold a stroke.

Foxhound!

CHAPTER XIX.

DOUBLE DOOM.

THE neighborhood where the brownstone house stood was very quiet.

Situated on a side street in the upper Eighties, the building looked very much like a respectable rooming house. The visitors, arriving one by one and letting themselves in with personal keys, would suggest the same thing.

But the manner of their arrival was odd. Each came on foot, although the hour was quite late. Each was m.u.f.fled, so that a chance pa.s.serby would have had difficulty in recognizing or remembering the face. And their arrivals were so neatly s.p.a.ced that exactly fifteen minutes elapsed between the closing of the ma.s.sive front door and the appearance of the next person.

Four men had entered that silent brownstone house - and one woman.

Their goal was a somber, high-ceilinged room on the top floor of the house. The whole appearance of the room was gray, from walls to decorations.

The only different color was the queer garments worn by the three strange figures who now waited silently in that room, staring occasionally at the door through which they had entered.

Black robes, corded at the waist, covered the trio in a shapeless disguise from the hems of which peeped black felt slippers. The faces were hooded and blank, except for slitted holes behind which eyeb.a.l.l.s gleamed. The height ofthe middle figure and the smallness of the slippers suggested that one of these visitors might be a woman. Otherwise, there was no hint of her s.e.x.

There were two doors to the chamber, both locked at present. A small platform stood directly in front of one. But it was toward the second door, at the far end of the chamber, that the slitted eyes kept watching. Through that door they had entered, one by one, from private robing rooms downstairs. They awaited another like themselves before the bell could be rung. The bell, a set of silver chimes, stood on the table.

Suddenly, the click of a key sounded in the lock of the end door. It opened to admit the fourth black-clad visitor. When it had seated itself at the table with the same silent movements of its predecessors, a hand reached out and sounded the silver chimes.

All eyes were now attentive on the door back of the platform. It opened as the last notes of the chimes sounded. A fifth figure entered the room and halted on the small platform.

UNLIKE those who had waited, the fifth figure was silver-gray, from head to toe. In the hand was a flat, silver tray that contained five sealed envelopes. His voice, metallic, filled the silent room with harsh authority.

"I shall be brief, because the time requires brevity. I shall be exact, because I want no mistakes made after you have left this house. I have but one purpose in summoning you here: The death of The Shadow!"

There was a brief flutter of breathing behind the watchful black masks, but no word was uttered. They waited for Foxhound to resume.

"You have done well and you have been well rewarded. The final pay-off will be large enough to make each of you independently wealthy. The deaths that have occurred so far have been five in number, each of them necessary to my safety. Backus, Pat Malone, Leland Payne, Jimmy Dawson - who made the mistake of trying to betray me - and now, Charles Malone, whom I killed myself this afternoon at Newark Airport.

"At the present, there are two more captured enemies, waiting to be drowned in my headquarters upstate. Joe Cardona is one; Madge Payne is the other. There remains only the problem of The Shadow - which I have solved, I can now a.s.sure you."

Foxhound took a deep, rasping breath.

"The Shadow has traced my speed boat to the spot up the Hudson where I keep it moored. I suspect he has already discovered the nature and the location of my underground headquarters in the hills to the east. Through one of his agents, a man named Harry Vincent, he has reserved a Pullman ticket for Albany on the Albany Express tomorrow evening.

"His destination, I am sure, is not Albany. The Shadow will leave that train at the little river town where my speed boat is moored - and from which the North Turnpike leads straight to my headquarters.

"Needless to say, The Shadow will be killed tomorrow night. There are

five.

sealed envelopes in this tray which I hold. Two of them contain sealed instructions. The rest are blank. Each of us, including myself, will take one of these envelopes. They will be opened later, in complete privacy. Those who draw blanks will proceed at once to the rendezvous upstate. The two selected by chance to act as executioners of The Shadow will obey the orders they receive.

That person may be myself or any of you. And now - choose your envelope!" THE silver figure of Foxhound advanced to the edge of the platform and held the tray in front of him. His four robed subordinates pa.s.sed in a silent file. Each selected an envelope. Foxhound took the last one himself.

"That is all," he said in his metallic murmur. "You will now leave for the robing rooms. Change quickly to street clothes and depart from the house. The usual procedure will be followed. No. 1, please!"

Without a word, a black-robed figure rose, unlocked the small door at the end of the room, pa.s.sed from sight, locked the barrier behind him. Fifteen minutes pa.s.sed in complete silence. Then the harsh voice of Foxhound rasped.

"No. 2."

Again a figure rose. In forty-five minutes the room was empty. Each of Foxhound's henchmen had departed, his ident.i.ty unknown, except to Foxhound himself. From the lips of the master criminal came a brief, complacent chuckle.

He turned, left the conference room by the same private door through which he had entered.

The Foxhound pack was loosed for death.

Somewhere in Manhattan, two potential murderers were reading typewritten slips of paper with grim, expressionless faces. Each was unknown to the other.

If one failed, the other was ready to succeed. The Shadow was doomed - doubly doomed!

CHAPTER XX.

THE CHAIR CAR.

ON the following evening a tall, white-haired old man approached a ticket window at Grand Central Station and asked in a gentle, rather high-pitched voice for the Pullman reservation that was being held for him. He took it and walked quickly away.

It was almost time for the Albany Express to leave. The old man hurried through the gate and descended to the platform. Just before he vanished he sent a quick glance over his shoulder.

His brief hesitation and the glance were not lost on a man who was standing in front of an empty telephone booth watching the old gentleman. The man who watched was not there by chance. He was well aware that the white-haired pa.s.senger for Albany was The Shadow.

The Shadow, however, was not in ignorance of the fact that his disguise was known and that he was being spied upon by a henchman of Foxhound. He had planned deliberately for this to happen. His purpose was to make things apparently easy for his criminal enemies.

He had sent Harry Vincent to reserve his parlor car ticket for him, knowing full well that Harry would be followed by agents of Foxhound and The Shadow's apparent blunder disclosed. He laughed faintly as he entered the train.

In a phone booth on the upper level, the furtive-eyed man was calling the 125th Street station, the train's only stop before it sped northward from Manhattan. He was calling the number of a particular booth.

Alonzo Kelsea was in the waiting room at 125th Street, sitting in that booth, awaiting the call. His eyes were worried, it was already time for the train to be leaving Grand Central.

Suddenly, there was a tinkle of the phone.

Kelsea s.n.a.t.c.hed it, said curtly: "Well?"

"Took the train," a voice reported with staccato speed. "Not sure if he sneaked off again before it started. Watch for fake conductor behind baggagecar. He's planted on board to make sure."

"Thanks," Kelsea grated.

He hung up, climbed the stairs to the elevated platform, where the train was due in nine minutes. No one who knew Kelsea would have recognized him. He was wearing dark gla.s.ses. A bandage over his left ear and cheek covered a good part of his face.

He hurried to the north end of the platform, and when the train thundered in he was at a spot just behind where the baggage car halted. A man in the uniform of a conductor swung down and whispered briefly.