Though anxious not to damage these sincere but misguided opponents, The Shadow introduced swift tactics. He came under a swing of Calden's gun and lifted the lawyer with a grip upon knee and shoulder, flinging him Bray's way.

Jolted, the doctor lost his cane, then drove forward into the blackness, thrusting both hands ahead of him, hoping to clutch The Shadow's throat. The thing that stopped Bray was his own cane, thrust between his ankles. He took a hard sprawl in the darkness; nevertheless, The Shadow had introduced a milder course, by tripping Bray with the cane. For The Shadow wasn't in Bray's path, and the doctor's lunge would have brought him headfirst against the vestibule door, which Bray saw dimly and thought must be The Shadow.

Bert was trying to drag Timothy from the parlor that they might a.s.sist Bray and Calden, who were certainly not enemies. For some reason, the canny butler was reluctant to rejoin the fray. With a show of surprising strength, Timothy hauled Bert to an inner corner of the parlor, where he spoke in a sharp undertone: "We must get out of here, Mr. Bert! Otherwise, we shall have to answer too many questions when the police arrive, which will be shortly!"

That Timothy was showing sound judgment was proven as he finished the statement. There was a bang from the front door, the loud tones of new voices, drowning out those of Calden and Bray.

Two policemen from a pa.s.sing patrol car had heard the commotion in the old house and were arriving to take a hand. They, better than Bert or Timothy, could settle matters with a mysterious marauder in black.

Well acquainted with the silent neighborhood, Timothy had foreseen the prompt arrival of the law. But that was not the limit of the butler's foresight. In the deep corner of the parlor, he grabbed at the shelf of a built-in bookcase, telling Bert to do the same.

Together, they tugged in the darkness; the bookcase came tumbling their way, scattering thudding volumes ahead of it. The dull crash was drowned by wild shots in the hallway, and a moment later Timothy was shoving Bert through the s.p.a.ce where the bookshelves had been.

For the first time, Bert realized that the bookcase had occupied a disused doorway. Behind it was a small storeroom, with a door that led into a rear hall. That door was bolted from the hallway side, so Timothy did not use it.

Instead, he ripped open a small window, wriggled through and dropped to the ground below, hoa.r.s.ely whispering for Bert to follow, which the young man did.

They were in a little pa.s.sageway between the house and the one next door, and it offered outlet to the rear street. So they went that direction, Timothy guiding the way, as though his eyes, like his stride, had catlike ability in the dark.

MEANWHILE, The Shadow was again struggling against doubled odds. In a sense, his situation was worse than before, because the two patrolmen had guns and were using them smartly.

Their system was to shoot up in the air, showing that they weren't hesitant with their triggers; then, with each recoil, they bashed their guns downward, trying to find their opponent's skull.

Their trouble was that they knew neither the ident.i.ty of their antagonist nor his whereabouts. As near as the cops could make out, they were endeavoring to maul a miniature tornado that kept whirling about the vestibule. Inasmuch as the s.p.a.ce was a complete blackout, which thoroughly shrouded The Shadow, the officers weren't having success.

They kept blundering into Calden and Bray, who recognized that the newcomers were police and were shouting for them to help against someone they couldn't see. So the cops were pulling their swings, rather than knock out friends instead of a foeman. Such restraint was definitely necessary, because Calden andBray were always in the way.

The reason was The Shadow.

The human typhoon was still playing tag with Calden and Bray, who couldn't get their bearings, at all. The finish of that whirlwind fray came when the lawyer and physician exchanged triumphant shouts, each claiming that he had captured the fighter they both sought.

The Shadow hadn't transformed himself into twins, as the shouts implied. The patrolmen understood what had happened, and with good reason. One cop was being clutched by Calden, the other by Bray.

Breaking loose, the officers shoved the bewildered men away. Still blundering, Calden and Bray encountered each other and began a new grapple, each thinking that he had regained a clutch on The Shadow.

By then, the patrolmen, recognizing the truth, were out of the house and dashing down the front steps.

They gave quick looks for The Shadow, but failed to see the elusive figure that merged with the pa.s.sageway between the houses, like a dispelling puff of blackish smoke.

Through that pa.s.sage, The Shadow could hear the rumble of a wheezy old motor as a car pulled away from the rear street. He knew that the car must be Timothy's; that the butler was taking Bert along. There wasn't a chance for The Shadow to overtake them; that job belonged to the officers in the patrol car, who were starting around the block.

The cops saw the old car as they swung the comer, but were sure that The Shadow couldn't be in it. So they continued their trip around the block, still hunting for a black-clad fugitive-and The Shadow, coming through the pa.s.sage, saw the patrol car pa.s.s. As its lights twinkled around the next corner, The Shadow glided across the rear street and vanished into farther darkness.

Half an hour later, The Shadow returned to the Glendon mansion.

He came in another guise, that of Lamont Cranston, and he arrived under the best of auspices. As Cranston, The Shadow stepped from the official car belonging to his friend, Police Commissioner Ralph Weston. He had met Weston outside their favorite meeting place, the Cobalt Club, and had agreed to accompany him to a scene where there had been some mysterious trouble.

In the Glendon parlor, they found Inspector Joe Cardona, ace of the Manhattan force. Cardona was reconstructing the case according to the visible evidence, plus the statements made by Calden and Bray.

Since the pair spoke of a mysterious intruder, Cardona took it for granted that the person in question had broken in through the storeroom window and smashed the bookcase leading to the parlor.

Bray and Calden could talk only of a vague fighter in black. They hadn't seen Bert or Timothy at all.

Hence, it was a.s.sumed that those two had left the house earlier; that a would-be robber had waited until the place was empty, in order to break in through the storeroom.

This theory was fully established by a phone call which came shortly. Bert was on the wire; he said that he was at the airport, about to take a plane for Cincinnati. He seemed much surprised to learn what had happened at the house, but decided that the whole matter could be left in Calden's hands.

Shortly afterward, Timothy phoned. The butler, too, was surprised. He was starting upstate to visit some relatives, and wanted to talk to Mr. Bert, in case the latter had returned.

Timothy was much worried when he learned of the attempted burglary, but when he learned that Berthad phoned, intrusting everything to Calden, Timothy felt free to continue his upstate trip. Abruptly he ended the call.

ONLY one person understood the real meaning of those two phone calls. He was Lamont Cranston, otherwise The Shadow. He knew that neither Bert nor Timothy was leaving town. Instead, they would drop from sight-together.

They had a mission, those two. They planned to settle scores with five false friends of Lionel Glendon.

However worthy it might be, such a scheme of retribution could bring crime in its wake, perhaps with disaster to the very men who engineered it. Curing evil with evil was a course that sometimes turned sincere men into fiends.

The Shadow regretted, therefore, that Bert and Timothy had embarked upon their mission. It would be his part to find them, and prevent their ways of vengeance from becoming those of villainy.

It might prove futile, however, to keep seeking a swift-moving trail that promised to stay always a few jumps ahead. It would be better for The Shadow to make his own trail, and have it cross the mutual path of Bert Glendon and his partner, Timothy.

Strolling from the Glendon house, Lamont Cranston indulged in a softly whispered laugh, heard only by himself. It was a grim tone, an echo of The Shadow's famous mirth. It meant that The Shadow, too, intended to investigate the affairs of Lionel Glendon and learn the names of the five false friends who had brought ruin and death to an honest old gentleman.

From five, The Shadow would choose one. The same one, he hoped, who would be the initial target sought by Bert and Timothy, those amateur dabblers in a form of justice that more rightfully belonged to the master hand of The Shadow!

CHAPTER V. SMOOTH RETRIBUTION.

IN the quiet of the Cobalt Club, Lamont Cranston was discussing investments with his broker, Rutledge Mann. Usually, their conferences took place in Mann's office, but this one was being held in the Cobalt Club because it was nearer to the residence of a man named Horace Trelger. It happened that Trelger's investments-not Cranston's-were under discussion.

Cranston and Mann formed an interesting contrast. To all appearances, Cranston was bored. His face, thoroughly impa.s.sive, gave that impression, except for his eyes. Their gleam, when it appeared, showed the real interest that lay in the keen brain behind them.

As for Mann, he was a chap with a roundish face, earnest expression, and methodical manner, who seemed interested only in stocks and bonds; but he had a deeper purpose, too, though it was inspired entirely by Cranston.

As The Shadow, Cranston considered Mann as one of his most capable secret agents, especially in certain forms of research. During the past few days, Mann had proven his worth. The facts and figures that he had compiled spoke for themselves.

Turning from Mann's data to study a typewritten sheet of names, Cranston gave an approving nod.

"You are quite right, Mann," he declared. "Horace Trelger is the most obvious of the five. We are certain of him as one of the swindlers."

"He certainly cleaned up on that Aldebaran Mine deal," a.s.sured Mann. "He controlled the majority of thestock, and he sold it right down the river-to himself. The Borealis Mining Corp., that bought the property, is entirely Trelger's by proxy."

"So Trelger and old Lionel lost a hundred thousand each," nodded Cranston, "and Trelger was the gainer in both cases. His own money back, and Lionel's to boot."

"Some of the others may have helped him," reminded Mann, "which makes me think-"

"Think what, Mann?"

Cranston's query brought Mann from his reflective pause.

"Trelger may not be the first man that Bert and Timothy will go after," declared Mann.

"He will be the first," returned Cranston, in a positive tone, "because he is the easiest to reach. Not only by Bert and Timothy"-Cranston's lips showed the trace of a smile-"but by myself. Give me those utility shares of mine, Mann. I'm going to call on Mr. Trelger, while you trace more facts that may inform us who will come next."

RIDING by limousine from the Cobalt Club, Cranston arrived at Trelger's house, which was a brownstone of the same vintage as the Glendon mansion. Indoors, however, the contrast was marked.

Trelger's house had been remodeled.

Its downstairs parlor had the appearance of a modern office, where Horace Trelger sat behind a gla.s.s-topped desk and received visitors with a dry-lipped smile that was calculated to disarm them.

Trelger's smooth face had a pursed effect that indicated an innate shrewdness, though he constantly tried to cover it. Though nearly as old as Lionel Glendon, Trelger seemed much younger than his deceased friend. He was spry, quick of manner, though at intervals he put on a show of being weary.

Whenever he bargained with people, Trelger emphasized old age as a factor. He used this trick as soon as he learned that Cranston's visit involved a sale of stocks.

"I'm an old man," declared Trelger, accenting a natural wheeze that helped his act. "A very old man. I must harbor my resources, Mr. Cranston. Speculations are not for me. Hard cash is my motto."

"An excellent one, Mr. Trelger," confirmed Cranston. "That is why I came to you. These utility shares could be readily converted into cash. That is why I want to sell them. I happen to be a young man. I am still interested in speculative investments."

Trelger put on a pair of tortoise-sh.e.l.l gla.s.ses to survey his visitor more closely. The thick rims of the gla.s.ses hid the wise lift that he gave to his narrow eyebrows.

"We might arrange a quick trade," suggested Trelger. "I have just remembered that I have a hundred shares in Centralba Oil, a stock of great promise!" He leaned forward and his wheeze became ardent.

"Great promise for a young man like yourself, Mr. Cranston. Given ten years... maybe only five-"

Trelger paused. He might have chopped the years down to one, even to six months. For Cranston knew that Trelger was using the same come-on that he had worked with Lionel Glendon. Unquestionably, Trelger owned all of Centralba Oil. Having sold forty-nine percent, he would knock the bottom out of it and dispose of the property for almost nothing to another company of his control. By retaining fifty-one percent, Trelger could do just that, and would, after he found enough suckers like Cranston to join the forty-nine percent. Trelger's eyes, narrow-slitted and cold, watched Cranston closely and decided that he was impressed.

The slitted gaze was gluttonish when it turned to the utility shares that Cranston was picking up. The smack from Trelger's lips was audible. Raising his head, he wheezed to his secretary: "My hat and coat. I have several calls to make on the way to my downtown office." He turned to Cranston. "I shall meet you there at half past two. Meanwhile, see your own broker, whoever he is. I am sure, Mr. Cranston, that he will advise you to exchange your utility shares for Centralba Oil."

It wasn't necessary for Cranston to see Mann again, so he returned to the Cobalt Club instead. There, Cranston kept close check on the time and left the club at two fifteen, calculating that he could reach Trelger's downtown office in a quarter hour.

That quarter hour was to produce a strange surprise.

TWO fifteen.

A clumsy, old-fashioned automobile was stopping in front of an equally antiquated building, where drab-eyed clerks gazed from barred ground-floor windows. This downtown office was where Trelger herded his lesser slaves-clerks, accountants, secretaries who kept the ledgers and other records pertaining to Trelger's various investments.

The building was old, but strong, for the ground floor had once housed a bank. Trelger seldom entered the front door; he preferred his own private entry at the side of the building. In fact, he was bent to the speaking tube, telling the chauffeur to pull farther on.

Clerks recognized their employer's car. It was an old landaulet, with open front and a back that could be opened or closed. There were probably a dozen other relics like it in Manhattan, but this was the only one that still rolled the streets. Its stoop-shouldered pa.s.senger was always Horace Trelger; he didn't have to show his face to prove his ident.i.ty.

In front sat a uniformed chauffeur, who interested the clerks more than did Trelger. The chauffeur was a new man, the third in two months, which wasn't unusual, since Trelger fired any chauffeur who even dented one of the old car's precious fenders.

When the car moved ahead, it stopped just past the ground-floor windows. Clerks were just able to view the chauffeur's back when he opened the rear door. That in itself was proof that Trelger had alighted, so the clerks went rapidly to work.

Once Trelger reached his private office at the rear of the big counting room, he'd be apt to use spying tactics to make sure that all his help was busy. That was one reason why Trelger liked to pop in by the side door.

There were two other private offices besides the one that Trelger used. One was occupied by a secretary named Joldon, the other by an accountant, Sears. Both offices adjoined Trelger's, but the two men never entered Trelger's sacred preserves unless summoned. Trelger always called them by interoffice phone when he wanted them.

Today, Joldon was the first to hear from Trelger. Over the phone came the harsh, wheezy voice, ordering Joldon to see if the clerks were hard at work, then to report personally in Trelger's office.

Joldon went out to have a look. He saw the clerks busier than bees and knew that they must have spied Trelger's car when it arrived.

Meanwhile, Sears was hearing from Trelger. The harsh, brisk voice was telling Sears to open the vault, towhich he had the combination, and wait for Joldon to arrive with the key to an inner deposit vault. Trelger specified that Sears was to let Joldon remove all the contents of that inner vault.

Starting out to the vault, Sears saw Joldon returning to Trelger's office, apparently in answer to a special summons. So Sears continued on to the vault room and waited there for Joldon. Meanwhile Joldon, arriving in Trelger's office, was surprised to find it empty. His surprise ended when he heard Trelger's voice across the interoffice phone. Trelger was speaking from Sears' office.

"I have just sent Sears to the vault room," came Trelger's tone. "He is waiting for you, Joldon. In my desk drawer you will find a key to the inner deposit box. Open it, bring the contents to my office and return to your own."

Joldon was used to brusque orders that contained few added details. Opening the desk drawer, Joldon found the key and was thrilled that Trelger had intrusted to him so important a duty. Never before had anyone except Trelger himself been known to open that special deposit box that was a fixture in the big, old-fashioned vault.

Like a human automaton, Joldon went to the vault and found Sears waiting beside the open door.

Solemnly, Joldon unlocked the deposit box and took out a sheaf of stocks and bonds that must have totaled a quarter million dollars in value. Momentarily, Joldon and Sears gaped at each other; then, in due form, they performed their respective duties.

Joldon took the securities to Trelger's office and laid them on the desk, with the key topping them, right beside Trelger's familiar brief case. Obediently, Joldon returned to his own office, closing the door behind him.

A few minutes later, Sears returned to his proper office, after closing the vault. Trelger was no longer in that other office; he had stepped into his own.

OUT front, a wise-eyed clerk gave the high-sign to the others. This fellow, near a corner of the barred window, could see Trelger's landaulet pulling away. The clerks began to relax, only to hear someone whistle a warning.

From the window they saw Trelger's car returning from a remarkably swift trip around the block. This time it went out of sight beyond the window, as though Trelger had simply come back in order to train his new chauffeur.

A few minutes later, the office clock showed exactly half past two. Cranston's limousine arrived in back of Trelger's parked landaulet. Entering by the front way, Cranston announced himself. His arrival was reported to Trelger's office and Cranston was conducted there, to find Trelger behind his desk. Already, Trelger was summoning Joldon and Sears from their respective offices.

What Trelger wanted was very simple. Sears was to open the vault, Joldon to bring the lists of Centralba Oil stocks. While Trelger and Cranston were following Sears to the vault, Trelger brought a key from his vest pocket. He was unlocking the built-in deposit box when Sears arrived with the lists.

Then the storm broke.

When Trelger opened the box and saw it empty, his wheeze rose to the shrill pitch of a whistle.

"I've been robbed!" he shrieked. "This box is empty! Who has been in it... how-"

Joldon and Sears were speaking both at once. Each was telling his own story with facts that supported the others. When Trelger practically howled that he'd only just arrived, both men argued that he'd talkedto them earlier. Viciously, Trelger began to accuse the pair of theft, and at that, they lost their meek att.i.tude.

They'd stood too much from Trelger to have this happen. If Trelger hadn't come and gone beforehand, how could the deposit-box key have been in his desk? Maybe this was his idea of testing a couple of faithful and long-abiding employees, but it smacked more of an effort to pin some undeserved charge upon them.

One reason the two worms turned on Trelger was because they caught glitters of encouragement from Cranston's eyes. So stoutly did Joldon and Sears defend themselves, that the clerks kicked over the traces, too. They came from their desks, waving their fists at Trelger, stating that they'd seen his first arrival as well as his return trip.

The upshot was bewilderment for Trelger. He retired to his office, and even opened his brief case when Joldon and Sears caustically suggested that he do so. The brief case proved empty, and Trelger denied that he'd used it to carry away his own funds.

His voice reduced to a whimper while accusing eyes were searching him, for his denials sounded like a flimsy pretext for the deed of stealing his own funds in a manner whereby he could hold his employees responsible.

Of all the listeners, the silent Mr. Cranston was the only one who believed Horace Trelger.