were visible upon its back.

"Rensh.e.l.l's," declared Cardona. "He was shipped here in that box. This is where Mayland cremated the body. But why didn't he burn the box, too?"

The top of the box had just been ripped open. Inside lay the gory answer: the dismembered body of another man. Cardona saw a b.l.o.o.d.y wallet; opened it.

He read a name from an identification card.

"Sarmon," said Cardona, soberly. "Chopped up and stowed away, until Mayland could find time to dispose of him the same way. That might have been tonight, if the old man hadn't decided to take a whack at Bolingbroke."

WHEN Cardona left those premises, Morton Mayland went with him. The old man was piteous and huddled, his beady eyes staring, his lips muttering silently. Mayland couldn't seem to understand that he was charged with double murder of the most gruesome sort.

At the Cobalt Club, Police Commissioner Weston tried to forget the hideous sight that he had viewed in the subcellar pit. He thought that Cranston was shaken, too, for his friend was silent and smileless. Weston would have forgotten that impression, had he followed Cranston later. Leaving the Cobalt Club, the commissioner's friend stepped into his limousine. While the big car rolled eastward, Cranston donned garments of black.

It was the fleeting figure of The Shadow that finally approached a bas.e.m.e.nt entrance in a squalid alley. The Shadow signaled with a low-toned whisper. It was answered by Hawkeye. No one had come to or left this spot within the past hour. Hawkeye, on a relayed order from The Shadow, had been guarding this place.

Sending his agent off duty, The Shadow used a tiny flashlight, while he probed the lock of a rickety door. Entering a dingy room, he found a figure stretched on a thin straw mattress. The scrawny shape was that of the crippled dacoit The Shadow had trailed from Bolingbroke's.

The Serpent was dead. His final spasms had brought him to this rathole where he dwelt. No one connected with the Siva outfit knew of this killer's fate. The Shadow's whispered laugh toned through that dank abode.

Dead, the snakish dacoit could serve The Shadow's plans; better, perhaps, than if the Serpent had remained alive. For tonight, The Shadow had received a full report from Harry Vincent.

The serpent's hiss that Harry had heard close by the Siva statue was factor upon which The Shadow could base his future measures.

The Shadow had gained insight into the ways of those who followed the commands of Singhar Bund.

CHAPTER XIII.

THE OUTER CIRCLE.

Two men were seated at a battered table in a squalid room, where the flickery light of a gas jet showed a bottle and gla.s.ses placed between them.

The air was choked with cigarette smoke, for the windows were tightly shut.

Shades were drawn, also, although outside light trickled past the fringes.

Occasionally there came the m.u.f.fled rumble of an elevated train, as it roared above the Bowery, only a half block away.

The room was the hide-away used by Lucky Belther. The trigger-man was entertaining his rescuer, Cliff Marsland.

Lucky's eyes showed admiration between their slitted lids. The thrust of his tough jaw was another proof that he considered Cliff all right. His expression went with the approving words that he growled.

"You're a right guy, Cliff," spoke Lucky. "You yanked me out of a tight spot. There's not many birds could've done it."

Lucky poured himself a large drink; shoved the bottle across to Cliff. In his companion, Lucky saw a man as stolid as himself. Cliffs rugged countenance might have been chiseled from rock. His expression was pokerfaced.

Cliff wrapped his fingers around the gla.s.s, poured himself a drink. It wasn't more than a swallow, but Lucky didn't guess the fact. Cliff's fingers hid the amount. Raising the gla.s.s, Cliff took the contents in one gulp.

"What gets me" - Lucky was bringing up a point that Cliff expected - "is how you showed up when you did. We weren't figuring on having an old home week."

"The coppers were in on it, weren't they?" returned Cliff, coolly. He thumped the bottle in front of Lucky. "So what was screwy about me being there?"

"The bulls were supposed to barge into the picture. That was fixed."

Cliff grinned as though he had heard news. He had another question, that would end Lucky's doubts.

"What about The Shadow?" demanded Cliff. "Did you invite him, too?"

Lucky spat an oath. He rubbed the side of his head, where he had taken acrack against the cement of the courtyard.

"We didn't want The Shadow," he snarled. "How he got into it is something I can't figure. We thought we were ready for him, but -"

"But you weren't," supplied Cliff. "Only I was, until your gorillas queered it."

LUCKY stared; his eyes were blank at first; slowly, they lighted. There was a rumor in the underworld that one tough guy had guts enough to seek a feud with The Shadow. Cliff was said to be that man.

Like others, Lucky had always supposed the story to be hot air, and had dismissed it. But here was Cliff, coolly advancing the claim, and behind it was the fact that Cliff had actually been d.o.g.g.i.ng The Shadow's trail.

Lucky was thinking over events of a few hours ago. He didn't know all about them; and Cliff regarded that as fortunate. Lucky's partial knowledge was just enough to furnish a background for Cliff's bold bluff.

Lucky remembered his fall to the courtyard. He had waked up to find himself in a car driven by Cliff. His rescuer had asked him where to head.

Recognizing Cliff, Lucky had told him of this hide-out.

After that, Lucky had gone groggy again. When he felt better, he found himself in his own quarters, with Cliff standing by. There had been no sign of The Shadow during that interval. Another fact in Cliff's favor.

"I guess the fireworks did queer it," admitted Lucky. "But how'd you trail The Shadow, Cliff? I didn't know anybody could get away with it."

"The Shadow has stooges, hasn't he?"

Cliff's question brought a prompt nod from Lucky. It had long been conceded that The Shadow must have agents in the underworld, who tipped him off to crime. Lucky shot an eager question: "You know who the guys are?"

"I'd like to know," replied Cliff, sourly. "The best I could do, though, was mooch in on a phone call that came to a joint on Tenth Avenue. I'd heard The Shadow was over there; but he was gone when I showed up.

"I got the phone call instead. From some bird who said that Joe Cardona was heading for the Riverbank Apartments. I doped it that The Shadow must have got another tip-off, and was already on the way there. So I went."

Lucky was lighting a crumpled cigarette. His eyes had a glazed look, that wasn't entirely from the drinks that he had taken. He was gathering an idea.

After a few moments, he expressed it.

"You've done good for yourself tonight, Cliff," declared Lucky. "You've cut yourself in on a slice of big dough. You know what I was going to do?"

Lucky guffawed. "I was going to ask you to scram! Instead, I'm giving you a chance to get in on the racket."

Cliff considered; then shrugged.

"What's in it?" he asked. "A lot of slugs in the belly, like those gorillas of yours got tonight?"

"Not for a guy as smart as you are," replied Lucky. He pulled a watch from his pocket, glanced at it. "Stick around about ten minutes - if you want to be counted in."

Cliff was still dubious. Lucky produced a big bank roll, peeled off a thousand dollars in fifties.

"How's that for dough?" he questioned. "A grand - on the cuff - just for coming in with me."

Cliff took the wad, added it to a roll of his own. He remarked that Lucky was talking his own language. He could be counted in. THE ten minutes pa.s.sed. There was a scratchy sound at the door. Lucky motioned for silence; approaching the door, he growled: "Who is it?"

A voice answered; it came from the keyhole. It uttered two words, hoa.r.s.ely: "An Eye!"

Lucky stooped. His own lips came close to the keyhole as he rasped a low answer: "An Arm!"

The man who entered was a scrawny, pasty-faced fellow, known to Cliff. He was "Gummer" Gilben, an underworld sneak.

Gummer wasn't any too popular in sc.u.mland. Everybody knew him, with his baggy trousers, turtle-neck sweater, and checkered cap pulled over one ear.

Crooks were leery of Gummer, because they thought he was a stool pigeon.

Perhaps Gummer had acted as a stoolie. If so, it was a blind, to keep the police in ignorance of his real work. For the fact that Gummer was in cahoots with Lucky, was proof sufficient that the sneak was staging crime.

Gummer wasn't pleased when he saw Cliff. Darty eyes shot a questioning look at Lucky. The flattish-faced crook a.s.sured the visitor that Cliff was O.K.; to prove it, Lucky recounted the part that Cliff had played.

It wasn't until after he had poured himself a drink that Gummer made comment.

"What've you told Cliff?" he demanded.

"Not much," resumed Lucky, "but I'm set to spill the works. You know how we stand. You or me - either one - can take in any guy we want."

"I ain't needing n.o.body in my end of it."

"I wasn't neither, Gummer, until tonight. But my end's got more grief. I may need Cliff again."

Gummer swallowed his drink. He looked Cliff over, as if checking the story that he had heard. His objections faded. He decided that Lucky had the privilege of taking Cliff into it. Lucky lost no time.

"Here's the set-up," the trigger-man told Cliff. "There's a lot of guys called Eyes - only they don't know it - and Gummer, here, is the bozo who runs them. It's their job to spot certain b.o.o.bs and see just what they do.

"Then there's another outfit, the Arms. They're clucks, too, that do just what they're told. I run them, see? Only I don't tell them what it's all about.

None except you, Cliff."

Cliff gave a short laugh.

"It sounds screwy," was his comment. Then, remembering something: "Except for the dough you handed me. All right. I've followed it so far. The Eyes and the Arms. For what?"

"So the Serpents can croak the stuffed shirts," explained Lucky. "They're another outfit, the Serpents. They do their stuff smooth. The guys they knock off are big-money boys. They do it so neat, everybody thinks it's accidents."

THOUGH Lucky didn't guess it, he was giving Cliff a lot of information that even he, Lucky, did not possess. Cliff had gotten facts regarding the Siva cult from The Shadow. He saw clearly how the whole game copied the symbolism of the Siva statue.

Some genius of evil was using the Siva cult to insidious purpose. Those dacoits were the Serpents who murdered wealthy persons, that their heirs - already members of the cult - could contribute huge funds to Siva. But theSerpents, with all their ability as a.s.sa.s.sins, could do no more than commit the actual deeds of murdering victims.

Others had to inform when the stage was set, and be on hand to make sure that it stayed that way. They were the Eyes, controlled by Gummer. Still more were needed - strong-arm men who could cover up the flight of the Serpents and throw a false trail to the law. They were the Arms, who took their orders from Lucky.

Considering past deaths, Cliff saw clearly how the outside circle had worked. In the case of Welk, for instance, the Eyes had learned about the cabin cruiser; had seen that the right boxes were aboard. The Arms had shown up later, bringing a Serpent to contact the one who had hidden aboard the Wanderer.

Lucky was right, when he said the Arms had tougher going than the Eyes.

Gummer's squad of Eyes - fake taxi drivers and their ilk - were as strong as ever. But battles with The Shadow had thinned the ranks of Lucky's Arms.

Lucky not only needed new recruits; he wanted a capable lieutenant. Cliff was the right man, for he had apparently proven himself in battle with The Shadow. Thus he had come into the outside circle of Eyes and Arms, on an almost equal basis with Lucky.

With Cliff's part established, Lucky and Gummer discussed matters that The Shadow's agent found valuable. Each had a separate hide-out; there, they received orders, by telephone, from an unknown source, and made reports, in return. Gummer had already made his report, tonight.

"The Serpent got clear," he told Lucky. "One of the Eyes took him in a taxi. That's why you haven't had a call, asking you what happened to him. I sent the dope through."

When Cliff left, after arranging to return at an appointed hour, Lucky and Gummer were still in conference. They discussed Cliff as soon as he had gone.

"He's the guy I needed," commented Lucky. "He'll be worth his dough.

There's a lot of ways I can use him."

"Looks that way to me," agreed Gummer. "Particularly, with this business of him gunning for The Shadow."

"That's what I'm counting on," completed Lucky. "I got a hunch, Gummer, that it won't be long before Cliff meets up with The Shadow."

Lucky was a better prophet than he guessed. At that very moment, Cliff Marsland was on his way to keep an appointment with The Shadow.

CHAPTER XIV.

CRIME'S NEW NIGHT.

HARRY VINCENT was seated in the lobby of the Hotel Metrolite, glancing over an evening's newspaper. Days had pa.s.sed since the arrest of Morton Mayland, and Joe Cardona had been busy gathering loose threads in the case.

Like the public, the newspapers had gobbled the evidence that pointed to Mayland's conviction. Even though the old man had not yet come to trial, he was cla.s.sed as a fiendish murderer whose reign of horror was a monster's work.

Behind those headlines lay hidden, unknown facts; a tribute, if it could be called such, to the evil craft of Singhar Bund. Through subtle measures, the smooth-spoken Hindu had completely diverted suspicion from himself.

The Siva cult had never been a secret organization, although its existencehad been known only to a select few. Singhar Bund had always welcomed visitors; had been ready, at any time, to unveil his bra.s.s-walled temple to the law. He had chosen Cardona's visit as the proper time to do so.

Then, before Cardona had chance to inquire about the cult's membership, Singhar Bund had sent him scampering upon a gory trail that led to discovery of murder. A path strewn with deaths quite different from the supposed suicides in which the Serpents of Siva specialized.