Clicking the receiver, Tressler strode bulkily past the tinkling fountain. His heavy footfalls pounded through the corridor. His big hand fumbled with the lock of the map room. Throwing open the door, he stamped toward the opposite wall.

Leaning forward, Tressler seized a switch. He pressed it. His eyes were bulging furiously. His face wore the expression of a fiend, as his lips uttered fierce epithets. Yet despite his rage, Felix Tressler was acting with precision. Here in the room where the large map hung, Felix Tressler stood in his true character. No longer a friendly, complacent millionaire, he had revealed himself as a man of crime. His glare was murderous. His actions denoted determination. He was a fierce hunter, bent upon stalking down his prey. That quarry was the man who had so recently uncovered him. Wilton Byres was the victim that he sought.

High up in his penthouse atop the Hotel Delavan, Felix Tressler was the master who dealt doom. He was the hidden fiend who had sent three men to mysterious destruction. Felix Tressler was the ruler who controlled the dreaded circle of death!

CHAPTER XIV. THE MAN WHO FEARED.

CLYDE BURKE had arisen from his chair in the lobby of the Hotel Delavan. He had strolled to the outer door. He was standing in full view as he looked up and down the street. Across the way, an arm emerged from a parked coupe. Cliff Marsland was pointing the way that Wilton Byres had taken.

Clyde Burke strode in that direction. Cliff stepped from his car and crossed the street. He, in place of Burke, was the one who would now watch within the lobby. Cliff's first act after entering the hotel was to go to a telephone and put in a report call to Burbank.

Wilton Byres was nervous as he hurried along the street. Felix Tressler's secretary was hastening toward a drug store at a corner a block away. Clyde Burke spotted him as he entered. Following, The Shadow's agent saw Byres go into a telephone booth. Clyde paused a few moments, then stepped into the booth which adjoined the one which Byres had taken.

Neither Tressler's secretary nor The Shadow's agent were by a window which gave view to the huge electric sign which served as beacon for the circle of death. Hence they did not see the peculiar manifestations which occurred there.

Corner lights turned from yellow to green. Border lights flickered, then went out entirely. A short pause; next came a display that had not been seen before. Starting from each corner, border lights appeared one by one. Singly, they marked a number: one, two, three, four, five. A pause. Then the borders came on in their entirety.

Out went the border lights. Again, the count of five; on came the lights. Twice the numbered signal had been given - an order for all agents of crime to see.

The doorman at the Hotel Zenith reached into his pocket. He drew out two objects. One was a small pad of shiny paper. He thumbed to the fifth leaf; then handled the other object which he had produced - a tiny, circular box of tin.

The box snapped open. Its interior held a moistened sponge. Noting that no eyes were upon him, the doorman quickly rubbed the sponge across the fifth sheet of paper. A photograph developed.

It was the portrait of Wilton Byres.

This was the master method that Felix Tressler, ruler of the circle of death, employed in moments of emergency. Elsewhere in the district of doom, other men were copying the doorman's action. The man behind the Chromo drink counter - the carrier of the sandwich-board - the Chinatown bus barker - the demonstrator in the store window - the foreman of a gang of workmen - the driver of a taxicab - these and others were checking on the potential victim whom Felix Tressler had designated as number five.

WITHIN his telephone booth, Clyde Burke was catching words that Wilton Byres uttered. Peering through the gla.s.s part.i.tion, Clyde could see a clipping in the secretary's hand. Byres had marked a ringabout a name in a news report. The name was that of Detective Joe Cardona.

"h.e.l.lo..." Byres was speaking in a gasping tone. "Detective headquarters... I want to speak with Detective Cardona... Not there?... When do you expect him?... I see. He may be in at any time... No, no... No message... Yes! I have one... Tell him to wait when he comes in... Be sure... I am coming there to see him..."

Byres came from the telephone booth. He shuffled past Clyde Burke. His stride quickened as he reached the street.

Clyde arose and started on his trail. He saw Byres glance upward. Clyde stared as he saw the object which the secretary viewed. It was a huge electric sign.

Green corner lights had blinked to white. There was a reason for the change. Felix Tressler had put his murderers on the job. He had warned that a victim - Wilton Byres - was within the circle of death. It was up to his agents to locate the wanted man.

Byres showed relief as he saw the white lights. It was evident that the secretary had discovered some meaning to that big electric sign.

To Clyde Burke, however, it appeared that the man's glance had been a mere pa.s.sing gesture. For while Clyde watched the sign, no change occurred on it.

Clyde came suddenly to his wits as he saw Byres crossing the street. Intervening traffic stopped The Shadow's agent. It was half a minute before Clyde could take up the trail.

Byres, shuffling along the street, seemed in a hurry to leave this neighborhood. His eyes were straight ahead as Clyde again gave pursuit. A panhandler, slouching forward, shoved out a hand as he whined for a dime. Byres shook the man aside. The fellow slunk away toward a barber shop. He entered there and went to an obscure telephone.

Clyde Burke, intent on following Byres, did not notice where the panhandler had gone. Byres, hurrying forward; Clyde, closing the s.p.a.ce behind, were both intent. They did not see the phenomenon which occurred twenty seconds later.

On came green lights in the corners of the sign. The borders blinked their signal. Word to the members of the circle of death - a visible statement flashed from the switch in Felix Tressler's penthouse. The quarry had been located!

On Seventh Avenue, Joe Cardona was walking toward a subway entrance. The detective was on his way to headquarters. He had put in a few hours in the district near Times Square. He was giving it up as a bad job. He was tired out.

Not far behind Cardona was a tall personage whose visage was noticeable because of its hawklike nose.

This was one for whom Cardona had been searching, yet whom he had not discovered; the mysterious stranger who called himself Henry Arnaud.

GREEN lights in corners of a large electric sign. Blinking signals that flashed, then ended as the borders showed their lines of white.

Almost as though by coincidence, Henry Arnaud stepped into a restaurant and entered a telephone booth. His long finger was quick as it dialed a number.

"Burbank speaking," came a quiet voice. "Report." Arnaud's whisper was the tone of The Shadow.

"Report from Marsland," informed Burbank. "Wilton Byres left the Hotel Delavan. Course eastward.

Burke has followed."

"Report received."

There was a quickness to Henry Arnaud's stride as his tall figure left the restaurant. With the swift motion that characterized The Shadow, this calm-faced investigator turned into a side street to take an eastward path. By his calculations, The Shadow had a chance to intercept the course which Wilton Byres and Clyde Burke might have taken.

Blinking lights along the borders of the sign. Those flashes told a new tale of men of crime. They gave the next point of the journey which Wilton Byres was taking. Secret murderers were on the trail. Furtive fiends of evil were heading toward the common point which The Shadow was seeking to discover.

Wilton Byres had fared forth to tell the facts that he had learned concerning Felix Tressler. He was fleeing the might of a fiend. Already, his minutes of life were numbered.

His location given, Byres was within a trap that never yet had failed. He was caught by the insidious mesh of doom - the unseen circle of death!

CHAPTER XV. THE DOOM TRAIL.

WHILE secretive men were slinking along streets that const.i.tuted the area near Times Square, Felix Tressler was watching events upon the charted wall of his penthouse room.

High above the scenes below, this master who ruled the circle of death held another victim in his power.

Tressler was the spider; the streets within the red-marked circle were his web.

Like colored mercury, a red light was creeping along a neon tube. That extending glow showed the course that Wilton Byres was following in frenzied flight. A white bulb shone. The neon line reached it.

This was a new report. One of Tressler's minions had marked a new location. Tressler, seated in front of the big map, reached for a switch and pressed it.

This was his response. The pressure of that switch caused a methodical blinking of the electric sign that towered near Times Square. Border lights, controlled by Tressler's hand, were flashing their new announcement to skulkers who were on the trail of Wilton Byres.

This was the third locating light that had blinked once, then faded, upon Tressler's map. The neon line, however, kept on. It had turned a corner. It was in another block.

A white light blinked as the line reached it. Again, Tressler pressed a switch that controlled the borders of the big electric sign.

Wilton Byres had pa.s.sed four location spots. His course was leading him along the line of a secant, cutting toward the border of the huge red circle. He had other spots to pa.s.s. Felix Tressler chuckled. The victim was within the web. The final outcome was a.s.sured. The circle of death could not fail.

DOWN on a street near Times Square, Clyde Burke was still trailing Wilton Byres. The Shadow's agent was close behind Felix Tressler's secretary. Clyde was ready, at any instant, to give aid should danger threaten. Clyde saw Byres glance up. Looking in the same direction, Clyde noticed green corners of shining bulbs upon a distant electric sign. Those lights made no more than a pa.s.sing impression upon The Shadow's agent.

Clyde's concern was for Wilton Byres. He noticed the man leap forward, quickening his pace almost to a frantic run. Byres stopped suddenly at a corner. He turned to look about him. Clyde caught a glimpse of a hunted face.

"Taxi?"

The call came from a cab which swung up to the curb. Wilton Byres heard it. The driver had seen him at the corner; evidently he had thought that Byres was about to hail a cab. The taximan was opening the door. Byres nodded. He leaped into the cab.

Clyde arrived just as the door was slamming. This sudden action on the part of Byres had been unexpected.

Clyde's first thought was to hail another cab and follow on the trail. For the moment, however, he watched. Within six feet of the cab, he could see the pallid face of Wilton Byres as the man leaped forward to give his order to the driver.

"Detective headquarters!" gasped out Byres.

"Where?" Clyde could hear the driver's gruff question.

"Detective headquarters!"

As he repeated the frantic order, Byres leaned through the front window. His hands pressed against the ledge. Then came a frightened, agonized scream. Wilton Byres shot backward into the rear seat as the cab yanked away from the curb.

Clyde Burke had leaped toward the vehicle. He was too late. But he caught a flash of what happened next. The driver thrust a gloved hand to the ledge that Byres had pressed. He pulled away a long, flat piece of metal. Then the cab shot through traffic, too late for Clyde to intercept it.

An idler near the opposite corner saw the pa.s.sing cab. He caught a wave of the driver's hand. He slouched into a cigar store and flipped a quarter on the counter.

"Pack of Crown Cigarettes," he ordered. "Make 'em cork tips."

"They don't come with corked tips," returned the clerk.

"Make 'em plain then," said the purchaser. "They'll do."

As he spoke, the man spun the quarter on the counter. He knocked it flat with his hand and shoved it toward the clerk. The man behind the counter handed him the pack of cigarettes and took the coin. As he dropped it into the cash register, he noted that it was dated prior to 1900; that it was one of the old style quarters seldom seen today.

The clerk turned as he removed the change from the cash drawer. He moved a box of cigars within a wall case. His hand pressed a hidden switch. Swinging back to the counter, he tossed the change to the purchaser. The fellow slouched from the store.

Cab driver to idler to clerk - the relayed story had been carried in less than one minute. Actions andconversation had been brisk and pointed.

UP in his penthouse, Felix Tressler saw a bulb flicker twice upon the map. He pressed a special switch.

He chuckled as he noted the spot where the neon line had crept along the marked streets that indicated thoroughfares near Times Square.

Murderous action had been made. Some member of the killing ring had performed an appointed deed.

Tressler was awaiting new reports. He was sure that they would bring positive a.s.surance that doom had been delivered.

EYES from the streets were watching the huge electric sign. A score of secret observers saw the corners change. Green cl.u.s.ters became centered with red. The borders blinked a new location.

A tall figure had stopped not far from a corner. In the semidarkness of a side street, the observer who bore the countenance of Henry Arnaud was watching a sandwich-board man as the fellow paused in his slouching pace to stare upward. The man turned and shuffled in Arnaud's direction. The tall figure swung into a quickened stride.

A grim laugh. It came from steady lips. It was the whispered echo of The Shadow's mirth. Though his course kept onward, The Shadow divined that his plan to intercept Wilton Byres had been spoiled by some unexpected action on the part of the fugitive.

This a.s.sumption was correct. The cab which Byres had taken was swerving a corner toward Times Square. Its pa.s.senger went hurtling across the back seat as the cab took the turn. Wilton Byres was an inert form, incapable of effort.

The cab came to a stop. Back at the corner, a window demonstrator had seen it pa.s.s. He had sent a signal. The big sign that told its story to minions of evil was showing new flashes along its borders.

The cab driver stepped from his vehicle. He shot a glance into the rear of the taxi. He saw Wilton Byres half sprawled upon the floor. The driver grinned. He walked hastily away.

As he pa.s.sed the doorway of a garage, the driver drew off his gloves and slapped them against his left hand. He kept on in his hurried stride. A man, standing at the door of the garage, entered and pressed a switch behind the doorway.

AT his big map, Felix Tressler saw a bulb gleam with three short blinks. The neon line moved up to that point. With gleeful chuckle, the heavy-browed man placed a pudgy paw upon another switch and pressed it. He paused; then followed with another signal. Seated in his big chair, he waited while his face took on a fiendish leer.

Viewed from the street, the electric sign showed a new change. Its corners turned to solid crimson.

Blinks from the borders marked the last location. Strolling watchers changed their direction. Stationed minions went back to their appointed tasks. All were moving from the last location, that street where Wilton Byres lay huddled, dead, in the back seat of a taxicab.

A soft-drink server cried the merits of Chromo. The Chinatown bus barker approached new pa.s.sersby.

The doorman at the Hotel Zenith strode forward to meet an arriving automobile. The window demonstrator showed new enthusiasm as he pointed to a razor and its blade, for the benefit of gathered onlookers.

CLYDE BURKE, unable to hail a second cab in time, was vainly hurrying on foot to find the direction in which Wilton Byres had been carried. He took the wrong corner. His search was unavailing. He wa.s.sure that the cab must have gone from this vicinity.

A tall figure had turned back toward Seventh Avenue. The visage of Henry Arnaud appeared among the faces that pa.s.sed along the busy thoroughfare. Strolling past the stand where the Chromo drink was served, Arnaud appeared merely as another stroller among the throngs.

Like his agent, The Shadow had given up the search. But where Clyde Burke's change of tactics were brought about through ignorance, The Shadow's were the result of knowledge. The master sleuth knew that it was too late to save Wilton Byres, the foolhardy victim who had thrust himself into the zone of death.

The huge electric sign had resumed its normal state. Corners were no longer red. They had changed to white. The borders did not blink. Felix Tressler, stepping to the roof adjoining his penthouse, stood gazing at the sign.

In the mild glow that pervaded the roof, Tressler's heavy-browed, mustached face showed a bristling expression of malice. The master of doom was triumphant. Again, the circle of death had taken its toll!

CHAPTER XVI. A MAN FROM THE WEST.

ON the following evening, a tall, stoop-shouldered man appeared from a train gate in the Grand Central Terminal. A porter was behind him, carrying two heavy suitcases. The man ordered him to bring them to the taxicab entrance.

A tall, placid-faced watcher strolled from a waiting throng. He took up the trail of the arrival and the porter. He closed the gap between them. He was standing by when he heard the man with the bags order a cab driver to take him to the Hotel Metrolite.

The follower stepped in a second cab. He gave the same order. He thrust a bill through the window and told the driver to hurry. This order came from the steady lips of Henry Arnaud. There was a quiet command to the voice that brought a prompt nod from the taximan. The cab shot forth and pa.s.sed the one ahead.