As Bewkel stepped upon the grating, the foreman saw his foot strike a broad metal bar at the nearer side. A slight click occurred. Even from where he stood, the foreman could feel the slight effects of a hot draft of air which came upward from beneath the grating.

Maurice Bewkel stepped hastily forward. He coughed in choking fashion as he headed on his way. The foreman pressed the switch twice. For a moment, his gaze lingered on Bewkel's tall form; then he called new orders to his men.

"That won't do!" were his words. "Move those boards back. Ease those barriers toward the curb. Get busy. I'm starting for the drills."

As the motor buzzed, the foreman gazed up toward the electric sign. The center light of each cl.u.s.ter had changed in hue. Single incandescents - one in each corner - registered red. The foreman looked along the street.

Maurice Bewkel was staggering. He was choking with odd gasps. He seemed to recover himself as he planted his cane against the sidewalk. Then he headed on toward the corner, a dozen yards away.

Wilton Byres had been coming along the other side of the street. The young man had avoided the grating.

He was starting to cross as though to overtake Maurice Bewkel, when he saw the gray-haired man stagger. Bewkel's cane slipped from his grasp. Faltering forward, the wealthy man sprawled as he reached the corner. Choking, gasping, he rolled over and pressed his hands to his chest.

Pa.s.sers-by rushed to the stricken man's aid. Wilton Byres stood stock-still. Then, as he observed a group a.s.sembling, he sidled away and turned the corner. Back at the electric machine, the nonchalant foreman pressed his switch three times.

Green lights turned to red. Solid cl.u.s.ters of crimson hue were the markers of the huge electric sign. Then came repeated blinks of the borders. Some other member of the death circle, stationed on the avenue, had seen Maurice Bewkel's collapse and had registered his location in addition to the one given by the watchful foreman.

CROWDS gather quickly in Manhattan. They come, however, from limited areas. The throng thatsurrounded Maurice Bewkel's prostrate body was a.s.sembled only from the corner. Other pa.s.sers went their way. The workmen, thirty yards down the side street, did not notice what had happened. The foreman did, only because he was an interested party.

Red lights of doom. They were Maurice Bewkel's parting knell. Policemen had arrived. One was ordering men to carry Bewkel's form while another was hailing a taxi. Three minutes later, the corner showed its usual pa.s.sing throng.

Aids of crime had relaxed. The doorman at the Hotel Zenith caught a last glimpse of red lights as they changed to white. So did the shambling sandwich-board man. So did others stationed within this death-infested zone.

Wilton Byres observed the changing lights as he hurried along a side street from an avenue. He had turned in the direction of the Hotel Zenith. Even though the lights had become white again, the young man kept glancing over his shoulder as he hastened.

He jostled into a tall man as he pa.s.sed. Startled, Byres stared at the stranger. He caught a burning gaze that worried him. The eyes that he saw were blazing like the lights upon the electric sign!

Such, at least, was the young man's quick impression. He quickened his pace as he turned the corner by the Hotel Zenith. The man who had watched him allowed a thin smile to appear upon thin lips.

Then, with a glance toward the doorman at the hotel, the stranger turned and strolled down the street. He pa.s.sed the sandwich-board man and kept onward. At the middle of the block, in one of those temporarily deserted spots that occur in the side streets of Manhattan, the tall man laughed.

His mirth was a strange, whispered tone. It was an echo of the laugh that had pervaded The Shadow's sanctum. It was a grim, foreboding laugh, that marked strange understanding, yet which was tempered with grim query.

The throngs of Times Square were proceeding on their devious ways. Maurice Bewkel's strange stroke had made no more impression than that of a pebble cast into a stormy lake. A man, collapsed upon a street corner, was but a scattered incident in this crowded section of the world's metropolis.

Minions of death had done their work undisturbed. Doorman, bus barker, cashier, soft-drink seller and all the others were at their accustomed tasks.

No more than a pa.s.sing ripple had marked their efforts. Throngs had failed to note the changing lights.

Those who had seen them had thought their odd behavior to be only a mechanical change.

Yet in the midst of the most crowded zone of Manhattan, the stroke of doom had been made again.

Within a circle where death could prevail, members of the death circle had performed their appointed work of evil!

CHAPTER VIII. REPORTS RECEIVED.

THE following afternoon found Inspector Timothy Klein seated in his office. With him was Detective Joe Cardona. The inspector was studying a report sheet.

"Hm-m," commenced Klein. "Accidental death."

"Like Cruett's," observed Cardona, grimly.

Klein looked up in surprise. "I mean it," a.s.serted the detective. "Dustin Cruett dropped dead three nights ago. Maurice Bewkel collapsed last night and died. There's no trace whatever of homicide. And yet -"

"Yet what?"

Cardona shrugged his shoulders.

"It beats me, inspector," he admitted. "At the hospital, the doctors say Bewkel showed effects of gas poisoning - almost like a chlorine victim. But where could it have hit him?"

"Where was he coming from?"

"The Merrimac Club. He had dinner there. On his way to Times Square, evidently; from there he was going home. He certainly couldn't have been ga.s.sed at the club. The time between there and the spot where he died wasn't sufficient for him to have entered any place."

"But still you think -"

"I don't know what to think. A man could be ga.s.sed in the open - but how? If someone had chucked a gas bomb, there'd be evidence. Bewkel wouldn't have been the only one to get it."

A shadow fell across the floor. Inspector Klein noticed it and looked toward the door. He smiled as he heard the clatter of a pail. Fritz, the janitor, appeared with his inevitable mop and bucket.

"Come on," suggested Klein, rising from his desk. "It's late, Joe. These two odd deaths are just coincidences. When you think of how many people there are around Times Square, it's a wonder there's not a half dozen dropping dead every night."

"This is different, inspector," insisted Cardona, in a serious tone, as he watched Klein thrust the report sheet in the drawer, "I'd think the same as you do - if it wasn't for this poison element."

"What have you gotten in the way of clews?"

"Nothing. All I can do is watch for something new to develop. But I'll tell you this, inspector. I'm going to stick around Times Square at nights. I don't care what kind of death hits there - I'll be suspicious of it."

"Not a bad plan, Joe."

"I've got a hunch, inspector." Cardona was accompanying Klein toward the door. "I figure we may be up against something new - something in crime that's way ahead of us. Picture it - a death zone in Manhattan -".

Cardona had pa.s.sed through the door while he was speaking. His voice had dwindled. Its tones could no longer be heard within the office. Fritz, his tall form almost doubled, kept on with his mopping for a few minutes. Then he stepped toward the desk and opened the drawer.

KEEN eyes surveyed Cardona's report sheet. As on the previous occasion, the dullness left Fritz's gaze.

His eyes were the eyes of The Shadow. The report sheet went back into the drawer. The false Fritz picked up mop and bucket and left the office.

Several minutes later, a vague form pa.s.sed along a dimly lighted street not far from headquarters. The Shadow, impersonating Fritz, had received his first report - from Detective Joe Cardona.

Some time afterward, a click sounded amid blackness. Bluish light was reflected by polished wood. The Shadow was in his sanctum. His long white fingers were opening envelopes while the girasol glimmeredwith its ever-changing hues.

The first reports were clippings. Statements had been gathered from newspapers regarding the death of Maurice Bewkel. The man was wealthy. His demise had commanded more s.p.a.ce than had the death of Dustin Cruett.

Then came further data from Clyde Burke and Rutledge Mann. Among these notations, The Shadow discovered a statement which Mann, the investment broker, had included.

Mann had heard that Maurice Bewkel was a purchaser of the original Electro Oceanic stock. He had learned this indirectly. To The Shadow, it was a pointed reference. Until now, the Electro Oceanic connection had been but a suspicion. Now it was a definite clew.

What was the riddle of these deaths? Would others follow? Those were the questions which must be answered. The cause, perhaps, was in South Sh.o.r.eview. The effect, however, lay in Manhattan.

A tiny light glimmered from the wall beyond the table. The Shadow's hands stretched forward and brought earphones into view. They placed the instruments upon the head that was shrouded in the darkness on the near side of the bluish light. The Shadow's whisper sounded in the gloom.

"Burbank speaking," came a reply.

The voice was a quiet one. Burbank was The Shadow's contact man. Stationed in a special location, he could be reached by the other agents. He, alone, had access to the wire that led to The Shadow's Sanctum. It was Burbank's duty to relay messages to The Shadow.

"Report," came The Shadow's whisper.

"Report from Mann," informed Burbank. "Telegram received just as he was closing office. Report from Vincent."

"Report."

"Vincent arrived in South Sh.o.r.eview. Electro Oceanic plant is closed except for skeleton force. No opportunity to investigate until tomorrow."

"Report received."

Ear phones clattered to the wall. The bluish light went out. A whispered laugh sounded in the sanctum.

Echoes followed. Silence pervaded.

TWO hours later, Detective Joe Cardona was standing near a corner of Seventh Avenue. Hopelessly, the sleuth was watching the pa.s.sing throng. A man in a soft-drink stand was shouting out the merits of a drink called "Chromo" with a monotony that set Cardona's nerves on edge.

A tall, calm-faced individual strolled by. Joe Cardona stared as he noticed a hawklike profile. He caught a sudden glint in a pair of eyes that turned in his direction. The calm-faced personage merged with the throng.

A sudden recollection struck Joe Cardona. In his many exploits, Cardona had more than once encountered a weird personage called The Shadow. In fact, Cardona could owe his life to The Shadow's prowess in emergencies.

A being garbed in black. Such was The Shadow as Cardona knew him. But though The Shadow's facehad been masked, Cardona could remember blazing eyes that had peered from beneath the down-turned brim of a slouch hat. Those eyes could not be forgotten - the eyes of The Shadow!

Cardona had seen them again, tonight. Here, in the thick throngs of Times Square, he had caught The Shadow's gaze! The black garb gone, he had viewed The Shadow as a chance pa.s.ser!

Recovered from his bewilderment, the detective set off through the throng. His thoughts were a confusion of ideas.

Why was The Shadow in this vicinity? Did he, too, suspect foul play in the deaths of Dustin Cruett and Maurice Bewkel?

Cardona jostled hurriedly along the block. He reached the next corner and continued, staring at every face he saw. Yet he failed to catch another glance of that steady, aquiline visage.

There was a reason. Cardona was just a few seconds too late. As he had reached the corner one square from the Chromo stand, the tall personage had turned into a side street, while Cardona had kept on.

For once, Joe Cardona had failed to follow a hunch. He had gained a sudden belief that The Shadow might be investigating the deaths that had occurred near Times Square. Had he followed it, he would have gone to trace the scene of the most recent death - that of Maurice Bewkel.

For it was in that direction that the tall personage had turned. While Joe Cardona was giving up the search, the owner of the hawklike countenance was pa.s.sing the spot where workmen were busy with their drills.

Foot by foot, The Shadow was retracing the route that Maurice Bewkel had followed from the Merrimac Club. It was not long before he arrived at the club itself. He entered there. The man within the door bowed.

"Good evening, Mr. Arnaud."

A short nod was the reply. The Shadow, in the character of Henry Arnaud, was a member of this club. A master of impersonation, he chose the faces that he wished. His visit here was a brief one.

WHEN Henry Arnaud left the Merrimac Club, he followed the exact route that he had taken before.

Back toward Times Square, along the course followed by Maurice Bewkel on his journey of death.

Keen eyes peered everywhere. Nothing escaped The Shadow's gaze. Glancing upward, he viewed the huge electric sign. Tonight, its incandescent corners were white, as were the borders. The circle of death was quiet.

Again, The Shadow pa.s.sed the spot where workmen were busy with their drills. His keen eyes noticed the loose boards piled over the grating. They saw a strip of iron at one side; another at the side opposite.

Again, The Shadow mingled with the throngs of Seventh Avenue. He pa.s.sed the corner where Joe Cardona had spied him. The man behind the soft-drink counter was still selling Chromo. The detective, however, had gone.

The Shadow's course took him to other streets. His keen eyes noted nooks and isolated spots. They turned to lighted windows. They observed the faces of many pa.s.sers. At last, in an obscure spot, The Shadow paused. A soft laugh came from the lips of Henry Arnaud.

Turning, this mysterious stroller continued past the Hotel Zenith, where the uniformed doorman was onhis nightly job. Again, the echo of a weird laugh.

The Shadow had traced a course through the zone where two deaths had occurred. Yet there he had found nothing but quiet. Not a ripple of crime was on the surface!

Shortly afterward, the light clicked in The Shadow's sanctum. White hands produced the map of Manhattan and placed it on the table. A white pin and a black; those marked the spots which referred to Dustin Cruett.

Two more pins - white and black. The Shadow set the white one on the Merrimac Club; the black upon the spot where Maurice Bewkel had died. Then, slowly, The Shadow brought the white pin closer to the black, almost to the spot where the window demonstrator had been the first to spy Maurice Bewkel.

With quick strokes of a pen, The Shadow jotted down coded words upon a sheet of paper. His hands folded the sheet and thrust it in an envelope which already contained a sheaf of papers.

Reports had been received. Unwittingly, Joe Cardona had supplied the first. Others had come from The Shadow's agents. Now the last was being filed. It was The Shadow's own report.

Tonight's journey through the side streets near Times Square had brought but inklings of what The Shadow wanted. Yet the task was narrowing. The Shadow, master of deduction, was seeking the riddle that surrounded the circle of death!

CHAPTER IX. THE SECOND WARNING.

IT was the next night. Manhattan was aglow. From the open roof adjoining Felix Tressler's magnificent penthouse, the lights of the metropolis cast their glittering reflection against a dull, cloudy sky.

The evening was mild. Tressler, seated in a heavy armchair, was contentedly smoking a cigar. The lighted tip of his panatella formed a glowing spot in the semidarkness.

Wilton Byres came from the penthouse. The secretary moved with a slinking stride as he pa.s.sed behind Tressler's chair. His furtive eyes looked beyond the parapet. They saw the distant electric sign, with its white corners and borders.

"Byres!"

The secretary approached as he heard Tressler's call. The millionaire had evidently noted his arrival on the roof.