The circle of death had struck. The Shadow, though he had not yet learned of the circle's existence, would soon be in that area where crime prevailed!

CHAPTER VI. THE FIRST OPTION.

DESPITE the blackness of The Shadow's sanctum, daylight still prevailed in Manhattan at the hour when the mysterious crime hunter had left his abode.

It was after five o'clock; and at the very moment of The Shadow's departure from his sanctum, a man was alighting from a taxicab in front of a huge building on Lexington Avenue.

This man was Maurice Bewkel, first option holder in Electro Oceanic Corporation. As soon as he had paid the driver, Bewkel turned and hurried into the building. He entered an elevator and rode to the thirty-sixth floor.

Alighting there, he walked a few doors to an office which bore the legend: ACME SECURITIES COMPANY.

LOGAN MUNGREN.

President Entering the door, Bewkel stopped in front of a little wicket which showed in the panel of an anteroom.

A girl looked inquiringly through the opening.

"Is Mr. Mungren still here?" inquired Bewkel.

"Yes," replied the girl. "Are you Mr. Bewkel?"

Bewkel nodded.

"Go right into his office," declared the girl, pressing a switch to open the door. "It is down the pa.s.sage to the left."

Maurice Bewkel entered. The inner offices were deserted, as it was after five o'clock. At the end of the corridor, however, Bewkel entered an opened door to discover a portly, baldheaded man seated behind a desk.

"Good afternoon," declared Bewkel. "Sorry that I could not arrive sooner, Mr. Mungren."

"Quite all right." Mungren was beaming as he arose to proffer his hand. "Quite all right, Mr. Bewkel. I can always wait to discuss business with customers such as yourself. Sit down. Let us talk about this Electro Oceanic business."

BEWKEL seated himself opposite Mungren. He waited while the securities man referred to a folding calendar. Then he made a remark: "The option is due tomorrow."

"So it is." Mungren had found the date. "Due tomorrow, or it will expire."

"So," declared Bewkel, "I shall deliver the funds that are required. I a.s.sume that you will demand a certified check for one hundred and fifty thousand dollars."

Mungren stared with mouth agape. He dropped the calendar upon the table.

"You mean," he blurted, "that you intend to exercise this option?"

"Certainly."

"With Electro Oceanic selling at ten dollars a share?"

"Not so long ago," reminded Bewkel, with a dry smile, "you were quite optimistic about Electro Oceanic, Mr. Mungren. You sold me fifty thousand dollars worth of stock in what I might term an eager fashion.

Now, when I offer three times that sum, you act as though I have lost my senses. Is that consistent?"

There was a touch of irony in Bewkel's tone. For a moment, Logan Mungren appeared half-angered, half-cornered. Then he regained his poise.

"Mr. Bewkel," he declared, "I sold you Electro Oceanic as a speculative investment. I knew that its par value might fall. I did not expect it to drop to one tenth of its original value.

"I regard you as a client. You have made other purchases - profitable ones - through me. I advise you, now, to drop Electro Oceanic. Why send good money after that which has proven bad?"

"Because I still have confidence in Electro Oceanic. Perhaps, Mr. Mungren, I still believe in the possibilities which you outlined when I purchased my first stock."

"The possibilities are there." Mungren nodded as though making an admission. "But the excessive cost of manufacturing the wave motors has rendered them impractical from a commercial standpoint.

"New stock will be issued in Electro Oceanic. I doubt, however, that it will find buyers. Unfortunately, Mr. Bewkel, wave motors are one of certain inventions which cannot be cla.s.sed as impracticable until they have been built and put in operation.

"Why spend money to produce new ones when those that have been manufactured have shown their ineffectiveness? Fortunately, Electro Oceanic has not yet failed. Your present stock can be sold at ten dollars a share. I advise you to dispose of it instead of exercising an option on the new issue."

"Which means," decided Bewkel, "that I should be content with five thousand dollars from my original fifty thousand?"

"Exactly."

"Not a bit of it. I prefer to invest one hundred and fifty thousand dollars more. That is my decision, Mr.

Mungren. I have come here to arrange for the issuance of the stock so that I may receive it in return for delivery of the option."

SETTLING back in his chair, Logan Mungren studied his visitor. He saw an expression of determination upon Maurice Bewkel's face. He realized that no amount of argument could cause the wealthy man to change his purpose. "Very well," declared Mungren, in a tone of resignation. "I have warned you, Mr.

Bewkel. I no longer consider Electro Oceanic to be a sound investment. The decision upon the optionrests with you, however. I profit through it, because I gain my commission on the sale. I do not, however, care to make money at the expense of my clients."

"You are merely the agent," returned Bewkel quietly. "I am making the purchase through you - not from you. I thank you for your advice; but I do not choose to follow it."

Mungren nodded.

"Do you have the option with you?" he questioned.

"No," replied Bewkel. "It is in a safe-deposit vault. I am prepared to deliver it here tomorrow morning.

What about the payment? How do you wish it?"

"A certified check will do," returned Mungren. "I suppose you can arrange that at the bank when you go there tomorrow for the option."

"That is what I intend to do."

"Very well. Nevertheless, I still feel that my advice should be heeded -"

Bewkel waved his hand in interruption as he arose from his chair.

"I went over that matter last night," he declared. "I was talking with" - he paused without mentioning a name - "with another person interested in Electro Oceanic. I have considered the same advice that you have given me. My answer is that I intend to utilize my option."

Bewkel looked at his watch. Mungren, watching him, began to chew his lips in nervous fashion. He steadied as Bewkel glanced in his direction.

"You will join me at dinner?" questioned Bewkel. "I am going to the Merrimac Club; after that, to my home."

"Thank you for the invitation," returned Mungren. "Unfortunately, I cannot accept it. I put in a long-distance call to Chicago, a short while ago. I may have to stay here an hour or more."

Bewkel was turning toward the door. Mungren followed him. The two walked through the pa.s.sage back to the anteroom. On the way, Mungren again became persistent.

"Suppose," he suggested, "that you give this further thought, Mr. Bewkel. Perhaps -"

"My decision is made," interrupted Bewkel, strongly. "I want no further discussion upon the matter. I shall be here tomorrow morning, with the option and the money. That is settled."

"Very well," agreed Mungren.

They were at the outer door. Bewkel continued on. Mungren watched him; then turned to the girl at the switchboard.

"You may go," he said. "Leave the connection to my office open. I may receive a late call."

Turning, Logan Mungren started back toward his office. On the way, he drew a large handkerchief from his hip pocket and mopped his bald brow. The securities promoter appeared nervous. His face was pale as he entered his s.p.a.cious office and resumed his place at his desk.

Then came a change. With an effort, Logan Mungren altered his expression. Determination replacedworry. An ugly smile appeared upon Mungren's thick lips. The securities man picked up a telephone and called a number.

"h.e.l.lo..." Mungren paused as he recognized the voice at the other end. "Yes, this is Mungren... Yes...

The sale is to be made... Positively. A final decision...

"He has left... The Merrimac Club... Yes... For dinner. Then home... Yes..."

Mungren replaced the telephone on the desk. His expression showed a gloating, as though mere conversation across the wire had given him new confidence.

His qualms were ended. To eliminate their return, Mungren drew bottle and gla.s.s from a desk drawer and poured himself a drink, which he drained with a quick swallow. His lips formed their twisted smile.

All signs of faltering were gone. Logan Mungren had revealed himself - while alone - as a man of evil.

For the telephone call which he had made was more than a mere pa.s.sing conversation of facts.

Through that call, Logan Mungren had played his part in crime. His announcement regarding the option was the forerunner of doom. Logan Mungren, by his act, had sent a death warrant for Maurice Bewkel!

CHAPTER VII. AGAIN THE CIRCLE.

MAURICE BEWKEL had finished dinner. Strolling through the s.p.a.cious lobby of the Merrimac Club, he paused at the cigar stand and purchased a perfecto. Lighting the cigar, he left the club by the main door.

Bewkel presented a dignified appearance as he strolled up Fifth Avenue. The gray-haired man carried his gold-headed cane in easy swinging fashion. His face wore a pleased expression. A man of big business affairs, Bewkel had confidence in his own decisions.

Turning a corner, Bewkel, as he started westward, decided to continue on his walk. Taxicabs were available, but he did not choose to hail one. The lights of the Times Square area formed a glow ahead as Bewkel strolled along the side street.

This was a one-way thoroughfare, with eastward traffic. A taxicab came hurtling along; a young man, staring from the window, caught sight of Maurice Bewkel striding past in the opposite direction. He called to the driver and the cab came to a stop.

The young man alighted. It was Wilton Byres. The secretary, though crafty of expression, appeared a trifle pale. He paid the driver and started along the sidewalk in the direction that Maurice Bewkel had taken. The gray-haired man was nearing the next corner. He was well ahead of Byres.

Crossing the avenue, Bewkel pa.s.sed a store located on the corner. A handful of people were looking in the window, watching a man who was demonstrating the merits of a new safety razor. Bewkel glanced toward the window, then kept on.

The demonstrator, looking from the window as he worked, caught a full view of Bewkel's face. He snapped open the razor, removed its blade for the benefit of the onlookers, and placed the blade in a box that was on a little stand.

Moving the stand a trifle, he pressed his finger against a small switch that was beneath it. Not a single onlooker caught the action. Maurice Bewkel, in particular, had pa.s.sed from view. Again looking from the window, the demonstrator gave occasional glances from a small angle which was at the side. Through this, he could catch a glimpse of a distant sign with white lights at its corners and along its borders. Wilton Byres pa.s.sed. The young man who worked as secretary for Felix Tressler was gaining as he followed Maurice Bewkel's footsteps. He did not notice the window demonstrator; nor did the man glance at him.

GREEN lights! They appeared as if by magic upon the corners of the huge electric sign. The window demonstrator saw them and a faint smile appeared upon his lips as he turned to pick out another blade for the safety razor.

Other eyes saw those lights. A Chinatown bus barker, stationed at a corner a few blocks away, was glancing upward as he chattered, his gaze upon the blazing corners that showed green. A pushcart peddler, wheeling his wares homeward along a side street, was turning sly glances backward toward the signal light.

Panhandlers, of indiscriminate appearance, were noting that token that blazed against the sky. At the Hotel Zenith, the ever-busy doorman was alert.

Taxi-driver - soft-drink seller - they were but others in the scattered group of watchers. While crowds moved by unnoticing, the minions of the circle of death were following the call that came to them.

Blink - blink - blink - a pause. Then three new blinks from the border lights. These were the flashes that the various watchers had awaited. They told the location where the quarry was located. Roving agents of the death circle began their shambling courses toward spots where they could head off the progress of Maurice Bewkel.

A quick blink; a rapid one. These were another signal. Bewkel had pa.s.sed a restaurant further along the block. The cashier by the window had sent a signal by pressing a b.u.t.ton beneath the cash register.

The uniformed doorman at the Hotel Zenith became alert. He knew the meaning of this signal. Maurice Bewkel had reached a corner. If he took one turn, his course would bring him in this direction. For a moment, the doorman forgot his job. He was staring from the center of the sidewalk as a tall man jostled against him.

"Pardon me, sir." The doorman was obsequious. "Do you want a taxi, sir?"

"Yes," growled the man. "What are you doing? Star gazing? I thought you worked for this hotel."

Pa.s.sers by laughed at the incident. The doorman ushered the guest into a cab. He turned back toward the hotel; as he reached the wall, he again gazed toward the sign. It blinked three times. The doorman smiled. The quarry had not taken the turn toward the Hotel Zenith.

A sandwich-board man changed his pace as he spied the blinking lights. He strolled away from the direction of the hotel. Like the doorman, he would not be needed. Yet both kept making occasional glimpses toward the huge electric sign.

The doorman glanced about him, to make sure that no one was observing his actions. Satisfied that such was the case, he kept on with his occasional stares. Like other members of this strange circle, he was interested in the outcome.

Maurice Bewkel, unaware that his course was under observation, was pursuing his way along a new side street. Wilton Byres had lost him temporarily at a corner; now the young man was again on Bewkel's trail.

They were not far from the center of the danger zone. Bewkel, totally unsuspecting of danger, was well occupied with his thoughts. He was approaching a spot where workmen had drilled a hole in thesidewalk. A night shift was at work, for in Manhattan such repairs were necessarily hurried.

A FOREMAN was giving orders to the workmen. He was standing by the electric motor attached to the drills. His eyes, which had been gazing upward, turned along the street. The foreman saw Maurice Bewkel approaching, his gold-headed cane under his arm.

The foreman rested one hand upon the motor. With the other, he pointed to a grating which was covered with loose boards. As he pressed his hand against a small switch on the side of the motor, he gave this order: "Move those boards over in here. Shove the barriers in further. There's plenty of s.p.a.ce there for people to get by."

The workmen obeyed. The foreman snapped them into more rapid action. He threw a quick glance upward. The lights along the border were blinking. The foreman's signal had been caught, telling that the prey was at this spot. The corner still glowed green.

A glance along the street. Maurice Bewkel was almost here. The barriers had been rearranged. The gray-haired man paused, thinking the way was blocked. Then he saw that he could pa.s.s across the grating. He took that path.