THE WHITE SKULLS.

by Maxwell Grant.

A dangerous gang of men terrorizing everyone they met - their weird skeleton garb prophesying their wake of destruction. Could The Shadow identify his unknown foes - or would it be complete obliteration?

CHAPTER I.

SARK'S picture glowered up from the desk and Jud Mayhew glowered down at it.

There was a difference, though, in those glowers, as Philo Brenz studied them from across the desk.

The photograph of Alban Sark wore a fixed expression. The face was dark and sinister, with a straight-lipped smile that had a creepy effect when closely scrutinized.

As for Jud Mayhew, he was going through the usual reactions that accompanied a survey of Sark's portrait. Finding the features difficult to distinguish, Jud had begun to frown, first in an annoyed fashion; then angrily.

Maybe Sark's looks had suffered from the enlargement of the photograph, which had originally been a small snapshot. The present background, a light gray, helped etch it. Sark's face belonged in shadows, had probably been lurking there when the camera had caught it. Maybe Sark had scowled because his picture was being taken, but at any rate his expression fitted him.

Chief of Sark's features were his bulging forehead; his hard, square chin.

Bad lighting couldn't distort them because they were fixed feature. A forward tilt of his head, habitual probably, would account for that bulging forehead.

An outward shove of the lower jaw, another customary mannerism, could explain the heavy chin.

What the camera had really caught were Sark's eyes, his teeth, and a patch of nose between. From his own knowledge of photography, Jud decided that a light must have been glowing down upon Sark's face when the picture was shot. The eyes were white and glisteny, their pupils no more than black dots. The nose, projecting into the light, had caught a whiteness too. The teeth gleamed from the widened lips that formed what could be called a cold smile.

In any event, Sark's face was the sort that would be remembered from this picture. Such was Jud's opinion. He looked up from the desk and stared at the wall beyond the chair from which Philo Brenz watched placidly.

Jud's long stare at the photograph bothered his eyes. He blinked, slowly at first, then rapidly, to finish with a wide, amazed gaze.

Philo Brenz spoke quietly.

"You see it?" he queried. "The White Skull?"

There was a nod from Jud. He gave it without moving his eyes.

"I noticed it myself," remarked Brenz. "It rather startled me. An optical illusion of course, but very appropriate."

Brenz's tone seemed distant to Jud, as remote as the submerged trafficnoises of the street, half a hundred stories below. Everything was subordinated by that image on the wall, the white shape of a death's head, projected in huge size as the after-image of Jud's long look at Sark's picture.

Forehead, chin and cheeks. All the darkish features of the picture now were white, while the eyes, nose and teeth had become blackened hollows, completing the leering physiognomy of an ugly skull.

Closing his eyes, Jud brushed away the illusion, brought himself back to reality by opening his eyes again and looking straight at Brenz.

"What about Sark?" inquired Jud. "Have you ever met him, Mr. Brenz?"

"Only formally," replied Brenz. "At luncheons, conventions, and affairs of that sort."

"He looks like his photograph?"

"Exactly, except that it accentuates features that would not be noticed normally. Poor though the picture is, the camera seems to have gotten something that the eye missed."

"You mean something accurate?"

"I would say very accurate. If my suspicions are correct, it probed to Sark's heart, if he has one."

Jud sat back in his chair to listen further. It was strange to be happening in America. Jud had been accustomed to hearing reports about insidious characters while he had been trekking through the heart of n.a.z.idom, helping to block off war criminals from flight to what they called their National Redoubt.

But right now, Jud wasn't gazing from a peak among the Bavarian mountains, where gorges and winding roads lay below. He was staring from a man-made alt.i.tude, the top floor of a New York skysc.r.a.per. In place of crags, he saw other buildings; instead of gorges, the canyons of downtown Manhattan, where there were paved streets in plenty, instead of a few dirt roads.

Yet Sark's picture, the after-image of the White Skull, were factors that brought back the past with sudden, stark realism.

"I have told you about the construction contracts," spoke Brenz. "The ones that our companies lost to lower bidders."

Still looking from the window, Jud nodded to show that he was listening.

He preferred to gaze out at the cloudy sky, rather than bothering his eyes with a repet.i.tion of that skull which still haunted the office wall, every time Jud looked at it.

"As you know," continued Brenz, "the construction of highways, factories, and the conversion of plants to wartime production was a staggering undertaking.

It took a firm like Brenz, Incorporated to handle such projects at low profit, along with the necessary financing."

"Of course," agreed Jud. "I wasn't surprised when I heard you'd absorbed my old company. Tristate Engineering was an efficient outfit, but small. I might say very small."

"And you might add very good," complimented Brenz. "The records of its technical men who joined the armed services were proof of that. I hope that more men like yourself will soon be back with us, as the real a.s.sets that we acquired from the Tristate Engineering Company. I only wish that you could havereturned to us sooner."

Brenz emphasized that final statement with a thud of his fist upon the desk top. Jud swung his gaze from the window to see that Brenz's broad face, usually mild, had become very grim. That fist of his was planted squarely on a sheaf of papers.

"There was something wrong with these," announced Brenz. "When a commission crowd like Universal Contractors, run by an old fossil like Townsend North, could underbid us all along the line, I simply don't understand it. How they managed it I don't know" - Brenz was leaning forward on the desk - "unless Alban Sark was the answer."

Jud's eyes opened again. He pushed Sark's picture further away, so it wouldn't start clouding him with another skull image.

"You mean Sark was in with North?"

"I don't know," returned Brenz, slowly. "It would be hard to prove, since North's jobs always went to subcontractors. With rush jobs on war plants, sudden shortages on essential materials that would allow the use of subst.i.tutes, a lot of very questionable deals could have been arranged."

Brenz's fingers were strumming the desk. His broad face was as serious as the distant stare that had come to the gray eyes which strikingly matched his hair. In a sense, the contrast was not great between Philo Brenz and Jud Mayhew, for the younger man showed an equally sober expression.

In Jud's features though, there was a drive that Brenz now lacked. Jud's youthful face was more than firm; it was rugged, weather-beaten. It should be, considering how he had accompanied airborne troops to accomplish engineering missions. In only a few such exciting months, Jud had gained experience that would cost another man years.

Centering on Jud, Brenz's eyes saw that fact. His ears could almost hear the unspoken word "Go" from Jud's motionless lips. Jud's steady, dark-eyed stare brought a steely flash from Brenz's gray gaze. The older man spoke with the authority that belonged to the president of Brenz, Incorporated, with the weight of millions of dollars behind it.

"It is your task, Mayhew," announced Brenz, solemnly. "As important to future progress as was the work you did abroad. Already" - Brenz gestured again to the papers - "we have received inquiries from Washington asking why our bids for post-war construction should be so high in proportion to prices established by Universal Contractors."

Jud nodded, showing he'd expected comment of that sort.

"It reflects on our integrity," added Brenz, "and if we demand an investigation of Universal, it will tip our hand to either North or Sark, more specifically the latter."

That made still more sense to Jud. He pictured Sark as a man who would be awaiting investigation and prepared for it. Folding his hands, Brenz rested his chin on them as he propped his elbows on the desk. Then: "Sark has an uncanny faculty for spotting private detectives," Brenz declared. "He disappears like an earthworm, the moment they begin to trackhim.

Here are some of their reports." Reaching to a desk drawer, Brenz pulled out a stack of papers bigger than the pile that lay in front of him. "Every man we have hired has failed.

"Besides, what if they did gain a look into Sark's business affairs? None of them have the technical knowledge needed to bring in a proper report.

That's why I want you to take over the case, Mayhew. If you can gain access to any of Sark's records - in the right way of course - so much the better."

The idea appealed to Jud. He asked: "Where can I find Sark now?"

"In the town of Stanwich," replied Brenz, referring to his notes.

"Fortunately we have just gained another lucky lead to him. As a stranger, decidedly not of the detective type, you are not likely to arouse his suspicions."

"Where is Sark stopping?"

"At the Stanwich Arms, the one good hotel in the town. Incidentally, Stanwich is a place where North's company handled quite a variety of contracts and may be planning to do more business. The sooner you get there, the better."

Jud Mayhew thought the same. Rising from the desk, he gave a short nod to Philo Brenz. Then, emphatically, Jud reached for Sark's photograph, took another steady look at it and tossed it back among Bren's papers. With that, Jud strode from the president's office.

Eyes glittering their approval, Philo Brenz watched the technical man's departure, then gathered the photo with the papers and put them back in their proper drawer. For the work that he wanted done, Brenz could not have picked a better confidential agent than Jud Mayhew.

One thing was certain: Jud would recognize Sark once he saw him. Such at least was Brenz's impression.

It was Jud's impression too, but in a reverse way. Riding down from the fiftieth floor, Jud was staring at the blank wall of the elevator and seeing things again.

Etched before Jud's eyes was the visual reflex that looked like the negative print of Sark's photograph, enlarged to more than human size. It was a sinister visage, that thing of imagination brought to realism, the White Skull that leered an ominous welcome to this man who was seeking Alban Sark!

CHAPTER II.

IT wasn't a long trip to Stanwich, but by the time Jud Mayhew arrived there, his plans were fully made. That was easy enough because the plans practically made themselves. When a stranger arrived in Stanwich, there was only one place where he would normally go and that was to the Stanwich Arms.

The question was whether he'd find a room at that hotel and the chances were about a hundred to one that he wouldn't. Nevertheless there was no harm in trying, and it fitted with Jud's role as a casual stranger in the town.

At least visitors were scarce this afternoon, as Jud learned when he took a cab from the station. There were only three cabs waiting there and this one alone had a driver; the others were shooting pool across from the depot, apparently just waiting in reserve.

The cab had a conspicuous local license bearing a facsimile picture of thedriver and giving his name as Leo Trobin. So Jud tossed a few queries to Leo as they rode to the Stanwich Arms.

"What's happened to Stanwich?" queried Jud. "Looks to me as though the town were dead."

"Yup," returned Leo from a chew of tobacco. "Looks that way, only 't'aint.

Stanwich is a live burg."

"You mean was."

"Don't fool yourself mister. It's only the holiday that makes things look asleep."

Jud couldn't remember that today was a holiday and said so. Leo obligingly supplied the information that the holiday ruled locally in Stanwich and nowhere else.

"They're dedicating the monument to Mayor Fitzler," explained Leo the cabby. "Did a lot for Stanwich, the old mayor did. Fine monument too, and it ain't costing the town a penny."

Jud asked why.

"Public subscriptions," Leo told him. "An outfit called Universal Contractors supplied the material and labor. They're planning to do a lot of post-war building here. Got to take care of housing when Stanwich converts to peace time industry."

Leo was darting quick looks across his shoulder to note the effect of this on Jud. The cabby's shifty eyes matched those of his picture and Jud could guess that the fellow knew a lot that was going on in Stanwich. After all, a man who hacked visitors to and from the station ought to learn a lot, and Leo Trobin was the garrulous sort.

Just to prove that he could turn his talkative ability to smart use, the cabby suddenly inquired: "What's your line, mister?"

"Manufacturer's representative," returned Jud promptly. "Looking for good factories that might be vacant. I heard there were some in Stanwich."

Leo chuckled.

"I'll show you just your ticket, mister. It's kind of out of the way, but we got to make a detour anyhow, considering that the main street is roped off on account of the parade."

The cab swung around through side streets that had once been pleasant but no longer were. All along these streets were old-fashioned houses that either should have been kept in their pristine state or torn down and replaced by modern homes. Instead, they had been turned into rooming houses and the owners, anxious to capitalize on the rental boom, hadn't wasted a cent on decorative improvements. Whatever paint jobs had been done were cheap, while all visible construction was in the form of wings or extensions that made the houses look grotesque.

"Used to be pretty, this neighborhood," commented Leo. "Guess maybe it will again when they get to fixing it. These streets feed right into the superhighway which will be getting a lot of traffic once there's a lot of new cars with enough gas to run them."

Swinging into the superhighway, Leo turned the cab across a broad concretebridge that excited Jud's immediate attention. The bridge was of pre-war mold and it crossed an underpa.s.s which must have been completed at the same time, for Jud could tell by the contour of the ground that the lower road had been built over a creek bed.

Further proof of the creek's existence was evidenced by an old brick building, its foundations reinforced with concrete, that jutted from a steep rise of ground close to the far end of the bridge.

"There she is," announced Leo, with a wave of his hand. "T'ain't a big factory, but it's a good one. Trucks can come in from either level and there's a railroad siding out to the back."

Jud's practiced eye was studying the structure, but more from the engineer's standpoint than that of a manufacturer's representative. However, he spoke in the latter terms.

"It hasn't been used as a factory."

"Not unless you count when it was an old paper mill," admitted Leo. "They rigged it for a war plant though, only it wasn't big enough. So it got used as a warehouse. Has a lot of confiscated enemy goods in it, they tell me, including j.a.p fireworks."

Jud was looking back to complete his appraisal of the brick building while he wondered if Universal had done the construction work. Then Leo was swinging the cab from the highway, down toward the lower road in order to avoid the main part of town. As they joined the other road, Jud saw where the creek emerged from a huge culvert, trickling through mushy ground that served as an automobile junkyard.

Those old graveyards had been rather depleted of late, but this one had a stock of fairly complete junkers. Probably the factory hands had run some of their old cars so ragged that they weren't good enough to repair. Then, swinging through a stretch of rocky, wooded land, the cab crossed a bridge below a bend where the creek formed a prettier stream, and pulled up at the Stanwich Arms.

Outside the hotel, Leo handed Jud a card, giving an appropriate smirk.

"If you're pulling out of town tonight, call the Apex Cab Service,"