At the door, Lang complimented Cranston on being an excellent hypnotic subject, then said in parting: "I shall see you later, Cranston."

Once back in the cab, Cranston seemed to be going over an old routine. He had Shrevvy drive him past Bogardus studio and also past Fontaine's laboratory. Both places were dark. Then Cranston gave an address in the Eighties, a block from Central Park West. As they arrived there, Cranston reached through the front window with the comment: "Here are the hand straps, Shrevvy. I just picked them up from the floor."

Those weren't all that Cranston picked up. From beneath the seat he was taking his black garb. Cloaked and hatted as he stepped from the cab, Cranston merged immediately with the darkness. He had become The Shadow.

Cranston's switch to his other self could well be attributed to a hypnotic mood. Even Bogardus and Fontaine would have agreed on that point. The mental lapses produced through hypnosis were the sort that would often cause a subject to revert to habit. Now, as The Shadow, Cranston was still in what might be termed a haphazard mood. He was skirting through darkness, pausing, changing direction, behaving generally as though avoiding something that did not exist.

The Shadow's focal point seemed to be a graystone mansion set on the corner, separated from the next house by only a narrow pa.s.sage. Around the building was an iron railing so common in Manhattan, but it was set at different levels because the gray building was on a slope.

Under some trees across the avenue, The Shadow performed the unusual. He simply dropped his black garb, became Cranston again and walked across the street toward the large house. As he paused at a tiny side gate, Cranston suddenly became the target of bristling guns that all but surrounded him. Low voices told him to "Take it easy," and he was whisked through the gate, down some steps and into a small back entry. There, while his captors were displaying badges, Cranston found himself facing an old friend, Inspector Joe Cardona.

"I guess the commissioner didn't tell you quite enough," stated Cardona, with a slight smile. "He said he'd let you know that we were here at Drade's, but I guess he didn't mention how thoroughly we were covering the place. We even have men in the cellar and on the roof. Artemus Drade is a pretty worried guy."

Cranston nodded as though he suspected it.

"Sorry if I've intruded, inspector," said Cranston, "but at least it gave your men a work-out. I wanted particularly to see you in reference to that Hudson matter."

"Which reminds me," declared Cardona. "Your idea was all right. We've found three places where a man answering to his description is supposed to be missing, a fellow called Lucky Lake. Full name, Montgomery Lake."

"From near Philadelphia, I take it."

"That's right." Cardona went poker-faced. "How did you know that?"

"In suburban Philadelphia," replied Cranston, "Montgomery County is somewhat the equivalent of Westchester in Greater New York. The name Lake would suggest a body of water; in this case Hudson being the nearest. It would help the fellow remember to have a name like that."

"But how? If he has no memory?"

"Somebody suggested it to him. The closer the a.s.sociation with a hypnotic subject, the better the result.

One name would supersede the other. Just as one personality can wipe out a former, under hypnosis."

Cranston spoke as if from experience. Then: "Tell me more about Lake, alias Hudson."

"He's a cave man," declared Cardona, straight-faced. "That's why they're worried about him in some little Pennsylvania towns."

"He looked strong enough to be a flashback," observed Cranston, "but not clear to prehistoric times."

"Lake isn't that kind of cave man," said Cardona. "He's a speelunker."

Cardona didn't expect Cranston to recognize the term, but he did.

"A cave crawler," mused Cranston. "Tall, thin, but heavy of arms and shoulders. He must be a special type. Does he do more than merely explore caves?"

"A lot more, this Lake," a.s.sured Cardona. "He hoists rocks, away down under. Not big rocks; they blast those. The reason he lifts rocks is to get at snakes underneath. He grabs rattlers and copperheads."

"That must be why they need him in Pennsylvania," said Cranston, with a nod. "Those snakes are common in that area and there are many commercial caves. Lake would be useful in clearing out new corridors before they are opened to the public."

"He lives in caves," affirmed Cardona, "and that's why they were worried. When he just didn't show where he was expected, they began thinking he'd been buried in a cave. They call him Lucky becausehe's careless. Just the sort to go cave-crawling without saying where or when. But they'd been checking different cities for word about him. He liked to bust into town occasionally."

"So Lake likes to live in caves," remarked Cranston. "It wouldn't be that he's been saving hotel rent by hunting for caves in Central Park?"

"I'm one ahead there," returned Cardona. "There's been a fellow like Lake seen roving around the Park late at night or early in the morning and particularly near the snake house in the Park Zoo. He sounds like the man. The word is out now to find him."

Accepting the case as practically closed, Cranston decided to leave. He paused just long enough to ask casually: "How is Artemus Drade taking this situation?"

"You mean where is he waiting for a killer?" returned Cardona. "Up in the attic at the third floor back.

That's why we began worrying about the roof. Drade just wants to be as far out of it as he can get. If this happened to be the Empire State Building, he'd be roosting on the mooring mast."

With one of his slight smiles, Cranston left and went back across the street. The trees obscured him as he took his discarded regalia from one of the lower branches. Becoming The Shadow again, he skirted away to complete his tour.

Not a watcher anywhere around Drade's premises, New York detectives and FBI operatives alike, caught even a glimpse of the figure that roved so fleetingly through this guarded area. Gradually locating the positions of the guards, The Shadow worked his way between them; came up beside the smoke-grimed wall of the mansion itself.

This was near the rear of the pa.s.sage between Drade's house and the next. Here, The Shadow noticed peculiarities in the foundation structure that few persons would have observed, particularly at night. Those foundations were set like steps, blocky and oversized. But though the slope from the front of the house to the back was equal, there were less of the step-down blocks on the pa.s.sage side.

Translated in other terms, the foundation at the pa.s.sage gate was at least four feet higher than at the rear corner on the street side. It continued, moreover, along the back of the next two houses, that higher foundation, until blocked by an old building that looked like a stable converted into a garage.

Looking in through a tiny window in the garage door, The Shadow saw a repair pit over by the near wall.

Boards had been laid across it, so that a car could be parked above. Evidently the old pit was in disuse.

Instead of entering the garage The Shadow glided back to Drade's. He noticed two things, a lack of windows at the very back, and a peculiar arrangement of shutters in the attic. There all the shutters were closed, but those at the front were set within slabs of granite. The two side windows near the back had shutters but no surrounding granite.

Those closed shutters were dummies. The very rear of the attic, instead of being a continuation, probably consisted of two tiny rooms. There was no chimney at the back of the house; the chimneys were only at the sides.

A few minutes later, The Shadow was working his way up the side of the house, finding the rough stone with all its crannies to be a perfect grip for his probing fingers and digging toes, which worked through soft-tipped shoes. The human fly act was easy for The Shadow; his main problem was to keep camouflaged against the wall. This he did by constant changing of course, to gain benefit of darkenedstretches beneath the overhanging eaves.

At last, with a sidelong reach, The Shadow gained one of the actual windows toward the rear of the attic.

Working the shutter open, he filled its s.p.a.ce with his own cloaked form, prodded open a sash just within and pulled the shutter after him as he dropped through to what Cardona would have termed the back attic.

It was lighted, this room, and furnished with old chairs, bookcases and trunks. At the front it had a bolted door, above a clamped skylight. Otherwise, the room was unoccupied and most especially in terms of people or specifically one person.

As The Shadow had expected, Artemus Drade wasn't in the refuge where fear supposedly had hounded him.

CHAPTER XVIII. HOODED DEATH.

THE rear of the attic was a threefold part.i.tion of unfinished wood that looked too simple in construction to be tricked. That, however, was the tricky part of it. Noticing cross-braces as well as uprights, The Shadow soon recognized that the end sections of the part.i.tion were like the doors of sliding bookcases; that either one could be shoved behind the center.

Except for the hidden rollers, it was as cheap a job as an ordinary part.i.tion, which was unusual in the case of secret rooms. Obviously, there were two such rooms, hence Drade could be found in only one.

The next question was which, so The Shadow listened at each of the false walls that flanked the center.

He heard a slight scuffling sound behind the part.i.tion on the right; knew that Drade must be there.

While testing the edge of the slider, The Shadow heard a faint rumble over toward the center. Guessing what it was, he lost no time with the sliding part.i.tion. Working with his fingers, he started it in motion; squeezed his way through the gap and arrived with an automatic half drawn from beneath his cloak.

In a lighted room measuring about six by eight, The Shadow discovered Artemus Drade, a gray-haired man with a tawny face which wore, as much as The Shadow could see of it, a smile of very unpleasant greeting. Drade was turned partly away from The Shadow, looking toward the inner wall that marked the s.p.a.ce between the secret rooms. In his hand, Drade held a .38 revolver.

The wall that Drade faced began sliding down as the rumbling stopped. It disclosed a small elevator large enough for three people, but containing only one. The lone pa.s.senger was dressed in dark clothes like Drade, but he wore a hood over his head, its bottom folds tucked down beneath his collar. All that the hood showed of his face were two eyes glaring through a cut-out s.p.a.ce.

Whispering Eyes, they seemed.

Yet the whisper working up from beneath the hood, was more a vicious snarl than a triumphant declaration of arrival. The reason was that the eyes had sighted Drade's gun, aimed squarely between them.

Beckoning the hooded man into the room, Drade stepped back and his shoulders, blocking the light, completely obscured The Shadow. Arms folded, the hooded man entered, waiting for Drade to speak.

"You came here to drive a bargain," Drade began. "I've heard of the sort you drive from the police commissioner himself. I do not care to pattern my future on those of James Kelthorn and Maresca Lepavnu." A hooded whisper replied, "Perhaps you would like to avenge them."

"I?" ducked Drade. "They mean nothing to me. Why should I shoot you here and bring the Feds along with the police? The place is alive with them, by the way. They are even on the roof."

"I rather suspected so," spoke the hooded man. "But since you can't afford to bring them, what use is your gun?"

"I'll risk bringing them if I need them," retorted Drade. "Let me see the money that you brought."

"First, the portraits."

Drade gave a laugh.

"You're wondering if I have them here," he said. "Relieve your mind on that score. You'd be dead now if I didn't have them. I wouldn't mind being a hero in the eyes of the law."

Probing eyes from the hood scoured all corners of the room except The Shadow's; saw that the place was practically bare.

"Through to the other room," said Drade. "There's a sliding door on the far side of the elevator. You'll find it clamped at the top."

The hooded man went through the elevator, lowering the other door at Drade's gun point. The Shadow stole forward to the near side of the elevator; heard and saw all that followed in the other secret room.

The four portraits were stacked against the far wall. They represented staid old burghers of a few centuries ago.

"Clever, this route from the garage," Drade was telling the hooded man as he examined the paintings.

"They intended to complete this row with a central heating plant that was never installed. I bought the houses, converted them to my own use."

"Smuggling de luxe," sneered the hooded man. "All right, Drade, I'll take the portraits."

"For half the price again," argued Drade. "After all, you saved money on your last two deals."

"I'll tell you about those, Drade." The hooded man turned, arms folded. "Believe me, I would do anything I could for you. Anything in my power, you understand? You are my friend, anything in my power, I will do. You, my friend, in my power. You, my friend, are in my power. You-are-in-my-power -"

The hooded man was rising as he spoke, fixing his eyes upon Drade's, drawing them upward, like the gun point. But Drade, in straining to watch those eyes, was putting pressure on the back of his own neck.

Unwittingly, he was thus aiding in a more rapid process of hypnosis, which in a few seconds more would have held him completely paralyzed. Drade's eyes were still raised, but his gun was moving downward. A harsh, commanding laugh came from the hooded lips.

It was echoed, that laugh.

In through the elevator sprang a cloaked figure that twirled Drade aside before the hooded hypnotist could grab the victim's gun. The eyes that peered through the hood were confronted by The Shadow's automatic. Keen, burning, The Shadow's eyes had all their probing power. Their gaze differed from the more receptive sort that Cranston had displayed in his last meeting with the hooded man.

Yet this hooded foe was swift. He'd recognized what might be coming, from the instant when Drade wa.s.spun away.

Doubling like a jack-knife, hood face dropped below The Shadow's aiming gun and launched a pair of swift hands in an amazingly elongated reach for The Shadow's throat. Twisting under the grasp, The Shadow slugged his gun for the hooded head. It bobbed away, even beyond The Shadow's well-calculated aim. Now, the hooded man was reaching for the automatic, and there lay his mistake.

The Shadow delivered a side-cuff with the gun, as if striking down a hooded cobra. Dropping away, the man came up to hands and knees. Those eyes of his went frantic, pleading.

"Don't shoot," he whispered hoa.r.s.ely. "I'll pay-pay all I have with me," he whimpered as the gun muzzle nudged toward him, "twice what I offered for the paintings, if only to save my life. Two hundred thousand dollars-I'd gladly pay to anyone -"

To anyone!

That was The Shadow's cue. With a fling, he took a long sprawl of his own and none too soon. A gun roared, once, twice, thrice, its first bullet skimming The Shadow's shoulders, the next two whizzing inches above his fading, rolling form.

Treacherous shots from Drade's gun. The term "anyone" had a.s.sured Drade that he was included in the offer. Lawless to the core, Artemus Drade had willingly turned upon his original rescuer, The Shadow.

From the floor, The Shadow picked off the lone ceiling light with a single shot from his automatic. It was his only chance, for both Drade and the hooded man were pouncing for him now. Swinging guns found The Shadow's head, though he warded off their strokes in part. Dizzily, he stayed in the fray, keeping it at such close quarters that his enemies could not risk gunshots. But The Shadow could and the others knew it. They suddenly released him, took to hands and knees. Then the portraits were clattering toward him, flung from the wall. Above, however, stamping sounds came from roof, followed by a wrenching of the skylight into the attic proper. Drade shouted wildly as he sprang for The Shadow, the hooded man coming right behind him.

They locked in a heap, and The Shadow, swinging upward with his gun, encountered a hooded head. He twisted from the hands that gripped his throat, stabbed a shot for the spot where Drade should be. A quick volley of bullets came in answer, but The Shadow was rolling away, letting the hooded man come between. Choking hands failed in their next grip and the body that owned them slumped beside The Shadow, who fired again in hopes of hitting Drade.

Those bullets simply splintered the rising door of the elevator. The car was going down. Drade had counted on it for emergency escape; it was being used for that purpose now. Quickly, The Shadow yanked at the part.i.tion to the attic, squeezed through while the police and Feds were finding themselves blocked off in the other secret room, which they had discovered partly open. The Shadow gained his window, slithered through, and was hanging outside, as the invading men of the law came around the long way. Then they were dragging the body into sight, its head capped with the hood. They'd found a murderer at least, even though Drade had escaped, clattering the portraits into the elevator with him.

After all, once he had gained the elevator, why should Drade have cared who might receive his bullets, The Shadow or the hooded man? It was only through The Shadow's quick thinking that the hooded man had alone been deluged with that final volley. A real achievement for a treacherous crook like Drade, if he had managed it.

Drade hadn't.

When the men from the roof pulled away the hood, it disclosed the dead face of a man who had neverreally owned it, Artemus Drade. The actual purveyor of hooded murderer had scored again. He'd outsped Drade in the business of the double-cross, bagging Drade with the hood the moment that Drade had gained his last clutch on The Shadow, in the gloom.

For half an hour, The Shadow clung like a giant bat beneath the eaves, contemplating crime's coming problems. A murderer was still at large, with new gain from his latest foray. Below, flashlights were flickering everywhere except upward. Only now, word was coming back that the killer had got away by a secret tunnel through to the garage.

The irony of it was that Drade was being mourned. With the paintings gone, his story of innocence could be credited, even though he hadn't divulged the secret route to and from his house. Maybe Drade had resolved to fight down crime alone; how little they knew below, from the comments that The Shadow heard float upward!

Gradually, the landscape cleared. The Shadow came down from the eaves, took his own route through the night and finally contacted faithful Shrevvy and the cab. Shrevvy had the radio going, and The Shadow didn't bother to turn it off. A newscast was coming through and at the sharp word "Flash!" The Shadow thought for a moment that the news of Drade's death had already been reported.

Not yet, it hadn't, but The Shadow heard something quite as interesting. The one-thirty broadcast was being livened by a report of a cave dweller captured in Central Park. Identified as Lucky Lake, the man had tried hunting for a cave and had chosen other quarters to his liking in the reptile house at the zoo.

Disturbed there, he had fled. When finally trapped, at midnight, he was in a florist's shop on Central Park South, which stayed open late to catch the after-theater trade and supply the gardenia girls at night clubs.

He liked flowers, too, for he'd bought some and shipped them off by special messenger. Who his girl friend was, he wouldn't tell and the messenger had gone home, this being his last trip. In fact, Montgomery Lake-which was Lucky's full name-wouldn't admit that he was himself. He preferred to be known as W. Chester Hudson.

As the report concluded, a gong sounded and the time was announced as one forty-five. To Shrevvy, The Shadow said: "Miss Lane is probably home by now. Stop at her place, Shrevvy. I want to talk to her."

It was Cranston's voice that The Shadow used. His tone was calm, but an instant later a new thought struck him. Then Shrevvy heard Cranston add an order in as nearly an excited voice as Shrevvy had ever heard his boss employ: "Hurry it, Shrevvy! There's not an instant to lose! It's only a few blocks, but clip it!"

Cranston was right. Margo had arrived home and was petting Washington Mews as she looked at a long box that the doorman had mentioned. Flowers, of course, that Lamont had sent. He always remembered them, though often very late. The doorman had placed them on the low settee by the radiator, so Margo opened them right there.

For a moment, Margo mistook the hiss that issued from the box for noise from the radiator. Then she froze, unable even to scream, as she saw the horrible thing that reared from the box. Eyes, hypnotic eyes, glared beadily, along with a terrifying hood, and the whisper that it delivered was the lisp of death.