It was raw ammonia!

The Shadow staggered. The smash of a fist broke his slipping hold. He was knocked backward toward the slant of the staircase. His head struck the sharp edge of a tread.

The unseen killer fled. Profiting by The Shadow's temporary blindness, he raced down the staircase tothe street door.

By the time the pursuing Shadow reached the head of the front stoop, the fugitive had found a haven.

The Shadow was amazed to see the familiar shape of Moe Shrevnitz's taxicab at the curb!

He had seen it leave earlier. Now it was back again, it's motor snarling as it raced away. Behind the wheel was a thug. Hidden on the rear seat was the vanishing figure of Seton Quinn's unknown murderer.

Shots blasted at The Shadow from the taxi as he tried for a dash down the front stoop. They came from the stubby barrel of an automatic rifle. They pumped roaring echoes of death.

It was death that missed The Shadow. Again he had vaulted a slanting bal.u.s.trade. This time it was the side railing of the front stoop.

He landed on hands and knees in the dark areaway in front of the brownstone house. Too late to halt the fleeing killer in the stolen taxicab, he whirled on hands and knees.

He had heard a moan. A figure in the areaway was crawling toward him. The Shadow saw an ugly drip of blood from the crawling victim.

It was Moe Shrevnitz.

Moe staggered dazedly to his feet, clutching at the supporting arm of The Shadow.

CHAPTER III. MR. JONAH MINTER.

FOR an instant, worry tugged at The Shadow's heart. The blood dripping from Moe suggested that he might have received a mortal hurt.

But the quick glance located the source of the blood. He saw the deep gash in Moe's palm. The hurt was painful, but not dangerous.

Danger was coming from a different quarter.

The rifle shots from the fleeing cab had made an ear-shattering roar. The noise had been heard by a policeman a block or two away. He was coming on the run, his gun out, his whistle shrilling.

The Shadow grabbed at the wavering figure of Shrevnitz. Moe was groggy. Loss of blood made him sway. But he was alert enough to realize the need for a quick retreat.

The cop was close, now. So close, in fact, that The Shadow and his wounded agent were cut off from any escape along the street.

They raced up the front stoop of the brownstone house.

When he had chased after the escaping killer of Seton Quinn, The Shadow had left the front door ajar.

That bit of precaution now stood him in good stead. The door slammed shut in the face of a hail of bullets from the cop. The cop had a glimpse of the black cloak and slouch hat of The Shadow. He saw blood dripping from the man in The Shadow's grasp.

To the cop's mind, it made a clear - and utterly wrong - picture. He a.s.sumed that The Shadow was a criminal. He figured The Shadow had made an attempt on Moe's life, had botched the kill, and was now trying to rush Moe into the house to finish the murder job. The cop had emptied his service gun in his overhasty try to cut down The Shadow. He reloaded and began to fire again, this time at the wood that surrounded the lock of the closed barrier.

Divining what was happening, The Shadow didn't delay. Once inside the temporary safety of the locked door, he darted to the wall of the hallway and snapped on a ceiling light.

It was done deliberately. The Shadow wanted plenty of light in that front hallway to guide the cop when he smashed inside.

Again Moe was hustled along in the grasp of The Shadow. This time it was down the stairway to the bas.e.m.e.nt level. Blood from Moe's gashed hand left an unmistakable trail along the hall and down the staircase. The flight continued through the bas.e.m.e.nt of the brownstone, to a rear door. This door opened onto a back yard.

A weedy expanse of turf was dimly visible in the darkness. Beyond the weeds was a high board fence that separated the yard from the property in the rear. The Shadow didn't dart out into the yard. His opening of the door was a piece of deception to tie in with the trail of blood. He left the back door wide open.

A moment later, The Shadow had vanished!

With him was Moe. A whisper at his ear warned Moe to remain motionless in the kitchen closet that shielded them from sight.

A crash from the upper hallway showed that the cop's bullets had smashed in the lock of the door. The crash was followed by the swift slap-slap of police brogans.

The cop saw the blood trail left by Moe on the floor. The lighted hallway made that easy. Down the stairway to the bas.e.m.e.nt raced the cop, his gun ready.

But he saw no sign of The Shadow or the bleeding "victim." He saw only an open kitchen door and the dark expanse of a back yard. The cop sprang swiftly outward.

The slam of the door told him he had made a bad blunder. The bolt slammed home on the inside before the cop could dart back into the house.

AGAIN The Shadow reversed his trail. Holding tightly to Moe, he fled through the house and out the front - this time through a door that opened into the areaway under the dark slant of the high stoop.

Blackness of the areaway gave him a chance for a quick survey of the street. Another cop was racing to the scene, but he was too far away to see clearly. The wail of a siren indicated that a squad car was speeding closer. But the squad car hadn't even rounded the corner where the onrushing policeman was dimly visible.

The Shadow's cloak shielded Moe. They darted across the street, a part of the darkness itself as far as vision of the distant cop was concerned.

Once more the pair vanished, this time down narrow cellar steps.

The Shadow headed through the cellar to a rear courtyard. He helped his groggy agent to the top of a fence. Then Moe was gently eased down to the other side and led through another cellar.

Outside the house, an empty sedan was parked. The key was in the ignition lock. This was not strange, since the sedan was owned by Lamont Cranston. It had been parked there by The Shadow for possible use later, when he had made his first approach to the unlighted house of Seton Quinn on the next block.

Doffing his robe and slouch hat, The Shadow resumed the appearance of Cranston. He drove off at an unhurried pace, heading for the private hospital maintained by his good friend, Dr. Rupert Sayre.

Cold anger glinted in The Shadow's eyes as he thought of Rutledge Mann, convalescing there from a gunshot wound. Now Moe Shrevnitz was to be added to the list of casualties!

Criminals were fighting viciously to keep The Shadow from learning too much about the affairs of the late Marcus Kilby. The Shadow's anger deepened as he heard Shrevvy's report.

He learned about the thug who had stabbed Moe and gotten away with the taxicab. The fact that the thug had returned so quickly, had parked again outside the brownstone, was a tip-off to The Shadow that his carefully laid plan to decoy Quinn away had been discovered immediately.

"Quinn must have been b.u.mped right after he received that fake phone call from Margo," Shrevvy muttered in bewilderment. "The killer must have realized immediately that Margo's call was a fake. But how? Margo's tone as Emma Gerber, in rehearsal, was a perfect piece of imitation. How did crooks get wise so quickly to the trick?"

It was a question that The Shadow could not answer. Like Moe, he was puzzled by the strange turn of events. The answer to Margo's failure would have to wait for additional investigation. But one ugly fact emerged clearly: Seton Quinn's lips had been closed forever. His private papers had been burned.

Investigation of Quinn had been forever blocked by murder and flame.

Balked by an unknown foe, The Shadow would have to start all over again to untangle the web of fraud that seemed to cling invisibly to the affairs of the elder Kilby.

IT was the next day before The Shadow found an answer to the failure of Margo's brilliant piece of deception over the telephone. He found it in the privacy of his sanctum.

In this sheltered spot, hidden somewhere in the heart of Manhattan, unguessed at by police, unknown to the underworld, The Shadow was turning the pages of a morning newspaper.

The front page was black with sensational headlines. Seton Quinn's death had made quite a story. The brutality of the crime, the sensational appearance of The Shadow, his subsequent escape with a bleeding captive - all this was manna to newspaper editors. They made the most of it.

There was no news, however, of the finding of an abandoned taxicab. The killers must have disposed of Moe's hack. If so, there would be nothing to connect Moe with the chain of events that surrounded the brutal throat-slitting of Seton Quinn.

The Shadow laughed.

He was staring at a smaller item on the inner page of the newspapers: another murder. It had been crowded off the front page because of the more sensational killing of Quinn.

The Shadow laughed, because this second news story provided him with the answer he had been seeking since the night before. He realized at last why Margo's clever deception over a telephone wire had been instantly known to a cagey criminal.

The second murder victim was Emma Gerber! She had been strangled to death in her apartment by aburglar.

At least, that was the easy and convenient police theory. The apartment had been ransacked. Jewelry, money and some clothes had been stolen. The girl had evidently fought desperately for her life, because her face and throat were a ma.s.s of bruises when the body was found.

Emma Gerber would do no more talking.

The police saw no sinister link between her death and that of her employer. They ascribed it to coincidence. A couple of plainclothes men had been a.s.signed to investigate the fatal "burglary."

But to The Shadow, a new fact was now crystal clear. Emma Gerber was dead when Margo had imitated her voice on the phone. She had been killed before Seton Quinn was murdered. That was how her murderer - and Quinn's - was able to detect Margo's fraud instantly.

The Shadow put aside the newspaper. The rasp of his laughter indicated that the time for deduction had pa.s.sed. The light over The Shadow's desk went out suddenly, plunging the sanctum into darkness.

In a moment, the sanctum was empty. The Shadow had gone!

Garbed in the well-dressed role of Lamont Cranston, he made a prompt visit to the home of Anthony Kilby.

There was reason for this move. There were certain odd things about the tangled affairs of the elder Kilby. The Shadow's suspicion of fraud in connection with certain hidden realty transaction had become more than mere suspicion.

Some sort of a link might exist between the shrewd, good-looking son of old Marcus Kilby, and the brutal murder of Seton Quinn.

OLIPHANT, Kilby's butler, greeted Cranston respectfully. He conducted him to the well-appointed office which the young psychoa.n.a.lyst used as a consulting room in a private wing of his home.

Kilby shook hands pleasantly, offered The Shadow a cigar. Smilingly, Cranston refused. He had a bland excuse for his presence.

"I've had something on my mind ever since the untimely death of your father," he murmured. "Marcus Kilby did a fine Christian work with his many charitable projects. Moreover, he was one of my best friends at the Cobalt Club. I'd like to honor his memory with a small tribute of my own."

Anthony Kilby nodded. "And that is?"

"I understand the city is going to buy some tenement land and convert it into a playground as a memorial to your father - provided, I believe, that you and your friends raise an equal sum to take care of the equipment to be used in the playground. My visit here today is to ask for the privilege of donating five thousand dollars toward your private fund."

Kilby's eyes blinked. He didn't say anything for a moment. His smile was cautious.

"That's splendid, Mr. Cranston," he murmured finally. "It is only what I might have expected from a loyal friend of my father. It so happens, however, that your generosity is not needed."

"You mean you have all the money you require?"

"Better than that: the city has changed its mind. The city intends to defray all the expenses of thememorial. The playground equipment will be taken care of, as well as the purchase of the land itself. Isn't that wonderful news?"

Lamont Cranston agreed that it was. He began to talk vaguely, as if in no hurry to depart. He pointed to the enormous portrait of the philanthropist on the wall of the consulting chamber.

"A grand old man! A pity that more people couldn't be like him."

"A pity," young Kilby nodded, "Well -" He rose impatiently to his feet. "I'm glad you dropped in, Mr.

Cranston. And I'm pleased that I had such good news to tell you about the memorial project. You might spread the good news to father's other old friends at the Cobalt Club."

He seemed nervous under the cover of his smiling mask of politeness. He was clearly eager to get rid of Lamont Cranston in a hurry.

The Shadow delayed his departure by alluding to another subject.

"I wonder if you'd object to making out a small check for me."

"A check? For what?"

Kilby's tone was sharp. His nostrils widened like an animal sniffing a trap.

"Nothing strange about it," The Shadow chuckled in the easy manner of Cranston. "As you know, I am one of the trustees a.s.signed to take care of some of the legal matters incidental to the death of your father. Acting as trustee, I found it necessary the other day to spend a trifling sum of my personal money to defray a small expense incurred by your father. It was an urgent matter for the poor devil to whom the money was owed, so I drew one of my own checks to pay him."

"I see." Kilby's eyebrows were a little less taut.

"The amount was for twenty-five dollars. Do you mind writing me a check, so that I can keep my personal records straight for the surrogate?"

Kilby's smile was easier now. His whole manner seemed to say: "No harm in that. Anything to get rid of this talkative fool who keeps hanging around!"

"Of course," Kilby replied aloud. "Glad to help you."

He turned to a side table and wrote out a check. While he was busy, Lamont Cranston drifted a step or two away. He stood with his back at the heavy curtains that draped a side window of Kilby's consulting room.

Unseen by Kilby, the deft hand of The Shadow moved out of sight through a c.h.i.n.k in the velvet drapes.

The hand was invisible only a short while. When it again dropped innocently into view, it had accomplished another of The Shadow's purposes in coming.

The catch of the darkly curtained window was no longer locked.

Unaware of what had happened, Kilby moved from the table and handed his check to Lamont Cranston.

"Thank you," Cranston said.

It was a favor that pleased The Shadow. In fact, it was the final reason that had drawn The Shadow tothis well-appointed home. Suspecting that there might be a financial link between young Kilby and the dead Seton Quinn, The Shadow desired to learn the name of the bank where Kilby customarily kept his account.

The answer was now in his possession, printed boldly on the check that Kilby had turned over to him.

This time, The Shadow allowed himself to be eased out by his impatient host. He walked to the front door with Oliphant and bowed a bland farewell.

A MOMENT later, however, The Shadow was almost bowled over by the headlong rush of another visitor to the house.