The creature was a cobra; livened by the warmth of the radiator it was weaving back and forth, following the trembles that now shook Margo, ready to deliver its fatal stroke. Instinctively, Margo recoiled, a sorry move indeed. The cobra head slanted forward. Its whip-lash speed would certainly have overtakenMargo, but for an intervention as timely as any The Shadow had ever supplied.

But it was white, not black, this challenger.

Up from the floor came Washington Mews, straight for the hooded menace. This time, the cat had gauged a target that it knew was within its reach. To Margo's amazement, the cat seemed to climb the cobra's reared body like a Hindu boy scrambling up a rope, but that was slightly an illusion.

Actually, Washington Mews was rearing, too, getting his front paws into play, boxer style. The cat cuffed the cobra back, as cleanly as The Shadow had delivered his first telling gun slash on the hooded man with the Whispering Eyes. The cobra weaved, only to be punched again. It tried to flip away, only to have the cat spring over and bite it, forcing the snake back to its striking pose again.

Then Washington Mews was alternately punching it like a big balloon and biting it back at every effort to escape. Gasping with astonishment, Margo sprang for the door, intending to shriek for aid to end this one-sided struggle that could only result in the cobra's victory, no matter how long it tantalized the unsophisticated cat. As the door came open, Cranston sprang through, halted, caught Margo in his arms.

"Quick!" pleaded Margo. "It's a cobra! Kill it before it can bite Washington Mews."

Cranston settled Margo in a chair, told her to look. She saw the cobra's head go down and flop listlessly over the edge of the box, settled finally by a last clawing slash from the right front paw of Washington Mews. The cat watched briefly, then jumped down and gave Cranston a welcoming cry, that it followed with a purr. Lamont Cranston smiled.

In a matter of delivering deserved death to a hooded killer, Washington Mews had done a better job than The Shadow.

CHAPTER XIX. APPOINTMENT AT MIDNIGHT.

THE next afternoon, crime's repercussion had traveled nation-wide. The fantastic story of Artemus Drade, dying disguised as the very killer who had tricked him with his own trap, was the sort that grew into front-page headlines of its own accord.

Equally exciting was the tale of an unthinking young man named Montgomery Lake and a cat called Washington Mews, who had been on the giving and receiving end of a cobra. Lake was nicknamed "Lucky" and the term held good. Had the cobra bitten Margo, Lake would have been arrested on a manslaughter charge. As it was, Lake was being held for observation only.

Commissioner Weston discussed that point with Lamont Cranston, during a conference at the Cobalt Club.

"We should have taken Lake into custody earlier," Weston decided. "The fellow showed peculiar symptoms every time we saw him. He always came to the platform when Professor Bogardus gave a show. He must have been in a dazed mood, to submit to all those tests."

"How about myself?" inquired Cranston. "I understand that the professor cracked a rock apart while I was under it. Should I be put under observation?"

"That was a special test," replied Weston. "Besides, Bogardus would have used Lake if he'd been around. He said so today."

Cranston showed immediate interest. "Bogardus recognized Lake by his photographs," continued Weston, "but he swears he had no idea as to the fellow's ident.i.ty, either as Lake or Hudson. Bogardus claims he never deals in personalities."

"Except," said Cranston with a smile, "where Dr. Fontaine is concerned."

At that, Weston nodded. He took some long sheets of paper from his pocket, spread them on the table.

Cranston saw that the sheets were a mailing list, some of its names checked in blue.

"Those blue marks," declared Weston, "represent a double mailing. That is, the names were used twice, each time by a different party. Could you guess who the parties were?"

"Bogardus and Fontaine."

"Right," nodded Weston. "Bogardus sent out circulars advertising his hypnotic college. Fontaine did the same to boost his psychological inst.i.tute. Both used the same list and it contained the names of James Kelthorn, Maresca Lepavnu and Artemus Drade."

"We found these at Drade's," declared Weston. "The killer who escaped without his hood did not have time to pick them up. He took care to do so, though, when he murdered Kelthorn and Maresca."

"Odd," said Cranston, "that he should have taken both."

"Not at all," returned Weston. "He knew that one list would lead to the other. Suppose, Cranston, that Bogardus is the hooded murderer. Would he have been smart to take only his own circulars and their envelopes?"

"Hardly," replied Cranston. "Their absence might have incriminated Bogardus."

"Of course," said Weston, "and the same would have applied to Fontaine, if only his circulars were gone.

Unless"-Weston smiled shrewdly-"the killer calculated that whichever was removed would put the blame upon the other."

"You appear to be a jump ahead, commissioner."

"So was the murderer. That's why he removed all the evidence. He was afraid that if he tried to incriminate the other man, it would boomerang upon himself. We are dealing with a very shrewd customer, Cranston."

"Bogardus or Fontaine?"

"I don't know which." Rising, Weston smacked his fist against his open palm. "I simply can't decide.

Neither man can provide an alibi for last night, but each has an excuse."

"For example?"

"Bogardus says he went over to Fontaine's. He wanted to walk in while Fontaine was doing a laboratory test. But Fontaine never showed up. I asked him why, and he said that he was watching outside Bogardus's place, intending to break in on the professor if he held a cla.s.s in hypnotism. It's the same old story; each man nullifies the other's testimony."

Weston was pacing now, around the grill room. He suddenly swung about, defensively, as Inspector Cardona strode into the room. Weston's mind was flashing back to the night when Cardona had entered here in a murderous mood, though his only weapon had been an imitation knife made of paper.

Cardona wasn't even that well equipped today. "We've been working on Lake," Joe said, glumly, "and all we can learn is that he came to New York for a good time, walked into one of Bogardus' shows because the professor was running a free night. After that, blotto. But Bogardus denies all responsibility. He claims that Fontaine was picking off some of his customers, giving them a treatment with a thing he calls the hypnograph. That was so he could shoot them back at Bogardus and make it look as though they were the professor's stooges."

"And what," asked Weston, "does Fontaine have to say about that?"

"He laughed when I told him," returned Cardona. "He told me that Bogardus actually hired stooges, such as Larry the Horse, which Bogardus had to admit. But Bogardus claims he used Larry just to keep the show moving along. He said he'd like to see Fontaine put on a hyp act cold."

Weston gave a hopeless shrug. Then: "What did Lake say about sending that cobra?"

"He doesn't remember it," replied Cardona. "It's something that just doesn't fit." He turned to Cranston and asked, "Where did Miss Lane go after the show last night?"

"To Lang's," replied Cranston. "I dropped her off there so she could join one of those crystal seances."

"That was safe enough," decided Cardona. "Lang is one man upon whom we can depend. He's been home at midnight, all the past three nights, holding those seances. I checked with people who were there.

They were all reliable people, too, like Donald Gregg, the banker. Here's the list of guests that Lang gave me"-taking out a sheet of paper, Cardona handed it to Weston-"and he suggested that you check it with those mailings that the company sent out for Bogardus and Fontaine."

While Weston was checking the list, Cranston asked, "How did Bogardus and Fontaine happen to use the same mailing list?"

"Somebody solicited them by telephone," replied Cardona. "The company was putting on a bargain rate and had a lot of operators buzzing the wires on a salary basis. I'd call it a coincidence, except that I figure someone was trying to pin something on somebody else."

A moment later, Weston gave a sharp exclamation. He had tallied some name on the list.

"Here you are!" expressed Weston. "Donald Gregg, the very man you just mentioned, inspector.

Suppose we call him right away."

They phoned Gregg, and talked to him in turns. Gregg remembered the circulars that Bogardus and Fontaine had sent him. He also recalled something else, that he so far hadn't connected with either of the two. He had received several anonymous phone calls from a man who spoke in a whisper, offering him some very choice security in return for a loan of a quarter of a million dollars. The caller hadn't specified what the security was, but had a.s.sured Gregg that it was an opportunity he should not miss.

"That's it!" exclaimed Weston, as he hung up the telephone. "The murderer is trying to liquidate the stuff he stole. We know now that he must have picked up those Hanover portraits at Drade's, or he wouldn't be asking such a figure."

"Suppose Gregg took up the offer," said Cranston. "How would he get in touch with the man who called him?"

"That was mentioned in the phone calls," returned Cardona. "Gregg gave me the details while I was talking to him right now. He's to put an ad in the early edition of the Cla.s.sic, saying he likes theproposition and telling the stranger where to meet him."

Cranston glanced at his watch; turned to Weston with a smile.

"With your influence, commissioner," said Cranston, "I think you could make the Cla.s.sic ad columns with that notice."

Weston nodded, much intrigued. "But the meeting?" he queried. "Where should it be held?"

"In Lang's penthouse," suggested Cranston, promptly. "Provided he is willing. You see"-Cranston spoke in a slow, calculating tone- "Bogardus and Fontaine are both friends of Lang. It wouldn't be unusual for either of them to call there, particularly at midnight, when he invited friends to gaze into the crystal."

"That would be perfect," agreed Cardona, "except we wouldn't want all those people around."

"Lang doesn't have to invite them," said Cranston. "Call him and see if he can fix things for tonight."

Weston and Cardona made another of their tandem calls, this time to Lang. They reported the result to Cranston.

"Lang will arrange it with Gregg," said Weston. "But he feels that he should have two other witnesses present."

"You, of course, commissioner," said, Cranston. Then, with a sweeping gesture, he added, "And Inspector Cardona."

"You're wrong twice," returned Cardona. "Lang said we'd ruin the set-up and he's right. He wants you to be there, Mr. Cranston, because you are one of Gregg's friends. He thinks you ought to bring Miss Lane along, because mixed company would make it look like an ordinary party."

Cranston nodded; then showed a slightly troubled gaze.

"It didn't work too well at Drade's," said Cranston, "your system of letting things take their course."

"We'll be around," a.s.sured Cardona.

"You were around last night," Cranston reminded, "but you only covered Drade's house, instead of watching its potential outlets. You wouldn't want to make that mistake again?"

"We won't," a.s.serted Cardona. "We'll move in from long range, so we won't be noticed. We have two advantages. First off, we are making the killer come where we want him; in the second place, he won't be buying tonight, he'll be selling."

"And besides," added Weston, "Gregg has a clean slate and, therefore, nothing to fear. Also, Lang did well in choosing you to be present as a witness. You have the confidence of both Bogardus and Fontaine. Good luck, Cranston."

By nine o'clock, the early edition of the Cla.s.sic appeared, carrying Gregg's advertis.e.m.e.nt in the business notices. Toward midnight, Lamont Cranston stopped by for Margo Lane and told her to bring Washington Mews along. As they rode in Shrevvy's cab, Margo said: "I'm afraid Washington Mews won't do. He isn't a black cat. Lang ought to have a few of those around, as part of his anti-superst.i.tion set-up." "Lang may not like cats," said Cranston. "I hadn't thought of that. We'll keep Washington Mews under wraps and let him go to sleep. By the way, Margo, how was the seance last night? Did you keep those notes I mentioned?"

"Yes" replied Margo, "but I must have dropped them from my purse. Lang picked them up and typed them for me. Those were the notes from the first session, between eleven thirty and twelve. We held another from twelve thirty to one. After that, Lang told me he'd found my first batch of notes, so he typed the second lot, too. He saw me writing them in my bag and offered to help."

"Anything unusual in your visions?"

"No. I'd like to try the crystal again, though. It's odd, how each time you gaze, you forget all that happened before."

They were nearing Lang's when Margo asked: "Why do you think Lake sent me the cobra?"

"Probably because you had been working with me," replied Cranston. "Lake's hooded master may have decided we were beginning to learn too much."

"But you had learned more than I."

"Yes and no. I learned a lot but I could have forgotten it. Last night, Margo, I proved to be an unusually good hypnotic subject."

"I'll say you did, the way they cracked that rock on you. That was something n.o.body could have faked."

"It typed me," admitted Cranston. "It put me in a cla.s.s with Larry the Horse and Lucky Lake. You'd better watch me tonight, Margo, and make sure that n.o.body hypnotizes me."

Margo laughed, then made a grab for a hand strap as they took the turn at Lang's corner. This time, a strap was handy.

"Good boy, Shrevvy," approved Margo. "He put in the new straps already."

"They're not new," corrected Cranston, "They're the old ones. I found them on the floor last night."

"But how did they get there?"

"That," replied Cranston, "is a deep, dark secret that has to do with the mystic ways of the East Indian masters, something that only a true yogi would understand. I'll tell you more about it later, Margo."

The cab had stopped at Lang's apartment house and the doorman was receiving the midnight guests.

Bundling Washington Mews in a black cloak with a slouch hat bracing it beneath, Lamont Cranston alighted with Margo Lane, hoping that the time had come for another meeting with the man of the Whispering Eyes.

CHAPTER XX. CRIME'S PAY OFF.

THE domed room of Lang's penthouse was hushed and solemn, though no one was gazing at the great crystal ball. Instead, the eyes of three visitors were roving about the room, keeping vigil in case of the unexpected.

Donald Gregg was trying to appear complacent, though the face beneath his white hair showed a nervousstrain. Across his knees, Gregg held a fat brief case which he was guarding with tightly pressed hands.

His manner of looking around the room was something of a routine, since he was quite familiar with the place. At moments, Gregg turned longing glances at the great crystal, then wrenched his gaze away.

This was a night for business, though of a strange sort. Gregg had to resist his yearning for the ecstasy that came from gazing into the crystal.

Margo Lane was very alert. Her experience with the cobra had left her with taut nerves and she was particularly on guard for any danger close by. At one moment, Margo thought she saw something stir on a chair a few feet away; then she wiped away her worry with a smile. Margo's coat was lying on that chair and with it were garments that Cranston had placed there. They were black and, therefore, almost obscured, but Margo caught a trifling patch of white and knew that it was what had moved.

As for Cranston, he was giving the entire room a survey. It was in Moorish motif, with thin, ornamental pillars all about the walls, several doors between them. The central room of the penthouse, it led everywhere.

That fact apparently worried Hanneford Lang, for he kept pacing from one door to another, pausing to listen at each. At last there came a buzzing sound and Lang crossed the room.