The Shadow - Gray Fist Part 7

The mob grabbed me after I left the place."

Cliff was sober. He wanted to talk, yet he knew the wisdom of keeping silent. Harry understood. Both men had a question which neither asked. Each wanted to know if the other had made a telephone call to Burbank.

Cliff Marsland was piecing bits of evidence. He knew that he had uncovered the gang leader who was responsible for whatever might have happened to Seth Cowry, the missing racketeer. Harry Vincent, too, was thinking. He realized that he had discovered the person who had been in back of Worth Varden's disappearance.

Ruff Shefflin was the man whom Cliff had spotted. Ruggles Preston was the one whom Harry Vincent had uncovered. Cliff, in his naming of Snakes Blakey, had announced the ident.i.ty of a crook who was concerned with both Ruff and Preston. Harry-like Cliff-now knew that Snakes Blakey was the go-between.

A peculiar sense of dizziness began to weaken Cliff. Hunching upward along the cot, Cliff managed to prop himself against the wall. Harry Vincent began to experience the same reaction-a hangover from the dope. He copied Cliff's example. Drearily, the captured agents of The Shadow rested, while minutes glided by in dull monotony.

THE lock of the door clicked. Neither Cliff nor Harry became aware of the sound until the door began to open. The dull light of the room seemed hazy as a man entered and closed the door behind him. An evil chuckle caused both Cliff and Harry to stare weakly toward the entrant.

The visitor was dressed entirely in gray. To the men who looked at him, his form was a blurred outline. A long gray overcoat hung from his shoulders. A gray hat adorned his head. A thick gray m.u.f.fler was wrapped about his neck and chin. His face, like his form, was blurred to those who saw it.

The chuckle continued. To Cliff and Harry, the sound was threatening. They knew that this must be the man who had ordered their capture. They realized that they were in the presence of a superfiend.

The man came closer, yet his form still retained its blurred appearance. He began to speak, and the watchers could see the gleam of teeth behind the moving lips. The words that the visitor uttered were harsh, discordant tones.

"I am Gray Fist!" was his announcement. With the statement, the man raised his right arm. He thrust a clenched and threatening hand toward the faces of his prisoners. The hand was wearing a large gray glove. It seemed to loom larger than the man behind it, like a photograph out of perspective. The men on the cots stared at that outstretched hand.

They saw the fingers open, then close into the clutching form of a fist.

"This," declared Gray Fist, in his discordant tone, "is the hand with which I grip my enemies. Those who have felt the clutch of Gray Fist have never known it to loose!"

Cliff Marsland was studying the features of the speaker. In the dim light, Gray Fist seemed grotesque.

The harder Cliff stared, the more he found himself blinking. A sense of dizzied weariness made him give up the effort. With a tired, sidelong glance, Cliff observed that Harry Vincent was leaning back against the wall at the end of his cot. Harry's eyes were closed; yet despite his fatigue, he too, was listening.

Cliff copied the action. He saw a purpose in it. He feared that Gray Fist would become demanding; that this fiendish captor would want to know the ident.i.ty of the master whom his prisoners served. By feigning grogginess, Cliff realized that he might be able to escape a cross-examination at the hands of Gray Fist.

A chuckle came from Gray Fist. It broke into a harsh strain of chortling laughter. The captor had evidently divined the thoughts that his victims held.

"Rest yourselves," ordered Gray Fist, in an ironical tone. "You need not worry that I shall inquire into your affairs. I know the parts that you have played. You are servants of that ridiculous masquerader who calls himself The Shadow.

"I have proven my superiority to The Shadow. My henchmen are stronger than you. The ease with which they captured you is proof of that fact. But they did more than capture you. They learned the crude method by which you communicated with The Shadow.

"You-the pair of you-were mere tools in the hands of a so-called master who was no more than an apprentice. Those who serve me are crafty as well as capable. Last night, one of you telephoned a message to an agent of The Shadow."

Cliff Marsland opened his eyes instinctively. Gray Fist, his arms now folded, was more blurred than before. The fiend chuckled as he saw Cliff's surprise.

"My men traced that call," continued Gray Fist harshly. "They found the place where The Shadow's agent was in hiding. From there they traced another line-to The Shadow's own abode."

GRAY FIST'S words ended with a tantalizing chuckle. Cliff closed his eyes and set his jaw. He realized now where his mistake had been. That telephone booth, beside the window! Snakes Blakey must have been watching from the outside, and noted the dial numbers when Cliff had rung up Burbank.

"There were two men whom The Shadow sought," remarked Gray Fist, in a scornful voice. "One was Seth Cowry. He is dead. He has been dead- ever since he thought himself too important because he knew Gray Fist.

"The other was Worth Varden. He was my prisoner. Since The Shadow wanted Worth Varden, I sent Worth Varden to The Shadow. The Shadow's wish was Varden's death warrant. Varden's corpse was placed at my order within The Shadow's secret room."

Cliff and Harry heard these words with consternation. They gave no sign of their emotions. They listened while Gray Fist chortled on.

"I sent a message to The Shadow," resumed the supercrook. "I gave him my ultimatum. He must leaveNew York-or else you two would die. Such was my injunction-that he should depart under my surveillance- and he, the fool, accepted it.

"The cards were set for him to die, once he had committed that absurd folly. His death would have meant yours. Luck, however, favored your dull-witted chief. He saw the trap that I had set. He managed to escape it by sheer good fortune.

"That is why the pair of you are still alive. You are my hostages. You shall remain such so long as The Shadow lives. When he dies, however, you shall die also. That will be the sign of my final victory."

Cliff Marsland felt a dazed exultation. Despite the mistake of his agent, The Shadow had escaped Gray Fist's snare! A smile appeared upon Cliff's face. His eyes opened again. He saw the receding form of the man in gray. He heard a fierce chuckle from the doorway.

"Do not exult!" warned the fiend. "The Shadow's freedom will be short-lived. He is a hunted wretch, hiding in the midst of enemies. He has no refuge other than a temporary shelter. He can not return to his old haunts. Your safety will exist only during the short time that it will take to hunt him down.

"The Shadow's power has been ended. The myth has been exploded. Those who feared The Shadow are now the keenest to take up his trail. Death to The Shadow! That is the cry upon the lips of every mobster in the underworld. Soon it will be more than a shout. It will become a cold reality."

Cliff was rising from the wall. He thought that he could see Gray Fist's features; then the long arm raised again, and the face was hidden by the open, gray-gloved hand that the master crook extended.

"The Shadow!" Gloating venom sounded in Gray Fist's voice. "The Shadow cannot escape my clutch.

My gray fist is closing about him. It will squeeze him in a grasp from which no one can escape. The Shadow is doomed. Doomed by Gray Fist!"

As he spat these words, the man in gray clenched his hand with significant gesture. The gray fist looked to Cliff like a hand of burnished steel. The forward thrust that Gray Fist gave caused the tightened hand to loom with evil threat.

A wild, hilarious cry came from the man in gray. Gray Fist was a monster conjured from the realms of nightmare, an evil creature whose fiendish threats seemed real. Cliff could not repress the convulsive shudder that came over him.

The door was opening. Gray Fist had thrust his left hand behind him to turn the k.n.o.b. The m.u.f.fled fiend was backing out of sight. His shaking fist still projected into the room. Its clutch tightened; then, with a sweeping gesture, the clenched hand followed its owner through the doorway.

The door closed. Locks clanked. Cliff Marsland and Harry Vincent remained as prisoners. To The Shadow's agents, this visit from their captor had been a fantastic dream. It fitted into the daze which held them, but its spell persisted to the point where they knew that it could not have been unreality.

Gray Fist had come to tell The Shadow's agents of their plight. Gray Fist had departed, leaving the echoes of his spoken threat. Where Gray Fist had gone, neither Cliff nor Harry could conjecture.

The fiend's purpose, however, was a certainty. While The Shadow lived, Gray Fist could have but one plan. He-the superfiend-had fared forth to loose new minions on a common quest.

Death to The Shadow! Merciless death to the only being who could block his plans for crime!

That was the purpose of Gray Fist!

CHAPTER XIII. THE SHADOW'S CALL

EVENING had arrived again. Darkness had settled over Manhattan; with it, an invisible change was taking place throughout the bad lands.

All day, hordes of gangsters had been patrolling the district where they knew The Shadow must be hiding. They had moved in packs, these wolves of the underworld. To all appearances, they were loiterers or strolling groups. Actually, they were armed men ready to flash their weapons at an instant's notice.

Faces had been scanned. No unknown mobster could have pa.s.sed these roving watchers. The vigil by day had continued without interruption. There was no display of intended violence; indeed, the sc.u.mland of Manhattan had seemed more peaceful than it had for many weeks. This was because all feuds had been forgotten. One purpose dominated all men of crime.

"Get The Shadow!"

That was the ceaseless message from the big shots. Many had cause to fear The Shadow; others had reason to believe that some day his hand would spoil their projects. Gangdom had needed nothing more than a hand to touch the fuse and explode the pent-up desire to end the career of mobland's greatest enemy. Snakes Blakey, apparently, had supplied that touch. Actually, Gray Fist, a supercrook who did not inhabit the underworld, was the one who had applied the match.

Dives had been scoured. Hop joints had been searched. The quest for The Shadow's hide-out had continued. Now that dusk was falling, the vigil would increase. Skulking gangsters were finding new spots which they could approach without attracting the attention of the police who controlled this district.

All the while, the search had been a whispered campaign. Stool pigeons who would ordinarily have carried news to the police were automatically joined with the common cause. This was gang land's own secret. None dared betray it.

Every man who had ever dealt in crime knew well that The Shadow was a menace. He, the lone avenger, had never offered protection to any one concerned with crime. Squealers, like close-mouthed crooks, dreaded the name of The Shadow.

More heady gangsters held the view that nightfall would be the time when The Shadow would reappear.

Hence the vigil was doubling after dark. A bitter fight might lay ahead; one as desperate as the night before. Yet all were determined that this time The Shadow would not escape.

Snakes Blakey had disappeared during the day. Dusk, however, found him at the Black s.h.i.+p, in conference with Ruff Shefflin. Snakes had been to see Gray Fist. The results of his conference with the supercrook were apparent in the consultation. Snakes had a mission for to-night. He was ready in case The Shadow should attempt the unexpected - a counterstroke.

WHERE was The Shadow hiding? None knew; yet all were out to find the hide-out. The blasting of The Shadow's stronghold had been one step toward limiting The Shadow's power. The finding of his hide-out would cap the deal. For if The Shadow again fled through the bad lands, but this time with no spot to which he could return, the hordes of evil would have the opportunity they wanted to deal death to The Shadow!

Not far from the Black s.h.i.+p was a short row of antiquated buildings. Tramping gangsters had marched through empty rooms and hallways in this house. Groups of them were constantly on the street in front of the row. At intervals throughout the day, occasionally now that night had fallen, they were under thesurveillance of unseen eyes.

From a tiny corner on the third floor of the end house in the row, The Shadow was watching through loopholes chiseled in the bricks. This was the spot that he had chosen for his hide-out. The place was suited to his method of concealment.

The room where The Shadow lay was a narrow rectangle, no more than eight feet in length. Its width was half of that. Searchers had prowled through this house. They had followed a corridor to an empty room at the front. But they had not discovered the opening in the wall of a four-foot closet. The Shadow's hide-out was the extension of that compartment.

A tiny electric light was gleaming in The Shadow's hiding place. Its beams were focused downward by a shade. Here, in narrow confinement, The Shadow was a specter that stirred mysteriously in the gloom.

The few furnis.h.i.+ngs of his room were all that he required for a prolonged stay.

One object that seemed unusual was an odd receiving set that rested in the corner. This and the loopholes at the front of the hide-out seemed to occupy The Shadow's sole attention. While he watched, The Shadow neglected the ear phones of the wireless. While he listened at the set, he forgot the look-out spot.

How long The Shadow could retain this hide-out depended entirely upon chance. It was doubtful that any prowling mobster would suspect the secret of the closet. At the same time, the thorough search was not slackening. Luck might favor some prowling squad.

Automatics lay upon the receiving set. There were four-all loaded. When the emergency demanded, The Shadow could shoot his way from this hide-out. If he did, he would still be in the center of the underworld, in a perfect maelstrom of furious villains who would fight en ma.s.se to bring him to his doom.

Night had come. The Shadow waited. His delaying action indicated that he intended to remain in hiding.

On the contrary, there was one factor that seemed to indicate a possible change of The Shadow's plan.

That factor was the wireless receiving set in the corner of the windowless room.

One hour after dark, The Shadow went to the ear phones. Hidden in the complete blackness of the corner, he listened. The faint call of a wireless sending station clicked through the receivers. A black-gloved hand reached from the gloom and brought the shaded lamp to the spot where The Shadow crouched. The lamp, placed upon the wireless set, rested among the automatics.

An ungloved hand appeared. The sound of a faint laugh whispered itself from The Shadow's lips. The hand began to inscribe the code that was coming through the air!

The Shadow's burning eyes deciphered the swift message that his hand was writing. Brief statements, these, but ones for which The Shadow had been waiting.

"Escape. Unfollowed. Marsland report. Shefflin. Blakey. Possible murderers of Cowry. Vincent report.

Ruggles Preston. Lawyer. Visit regarding Varden."

A pause; then came the final word, a signature which The Shadow uncoded. It was the name of The Shadow's contact man. The Shadow inscribed it: "Burbank."

TO The Shadow, this message told all that he desired to know. The word "escape" meant that Burbank, though surprised at his relay place in Manhattan, had managed to elude invaders who had tried to capture him; The Shadow had expected that. Wherever posted, Burbank was ready for emergencies. The second word, "unfollowed," meant that Burbank had acted in accordance with a prearranged plan.

The contact man had hurried from Manhattan. He had reached a place that he had used before-a secluded cottage on the far end of Long Island, where a special sending station had long since been installed.

To-night, at an appointed time, Burbank had flashed his terse message. His mention of Marsland's report gave The Shadow the names of the gangsters whom Cliff had been following. His statement of Vincent's report told where Harry had been when Burbank had last heard of him.

Unless either Cliff or Harry had managed to send word to Rutledge Mann, by letter, this call from Burbank represented the last report from either of them. The Shadow knew, from Gray Fist's note, that at least two prisoners must be in the power of the fiend. Only Cliff and Harry could be the captives, now that Burbank had sent through his call.

Cliff Marsland's word was almost useless now. Last night, it would have indicated two gangsters whom The Shadow could have sought as definite enemies. To-night, however, all the underworld was ready for The Shadow! The names of Ruff Shefflin and Snakes Blakey were ones that The Shadow could only reserve for a time when the cry for his life had been given up as hopeless.

The report from Harry Vincent, however, was one which meant much to The Shadow. Harry had been dispatched to look into the affairs of men who had known Worth Varden. Harry had found one-a lawyer named Ruggles Preston-and had visited the man. It was probable that Harry's capture had followed shortly after the time of the visit.

Hence Ruggles Preston represented the possible beginning of a trail. Either the lawyer was a henchman of Gray Fist, or else a man whom Gray Fist was watching. The Shadow saw these possibilities plainly.

The light clicked out within the little room. The swish of a cloak sounded softly as The Shadow headed toward the loopholes. Back through the darkness, The Shadow reached the wireless set. The automatics clattered slightly as his gloved hands inserted them beneath the crimson lining of the black-hued cloak.

There was a m.u.f.fled sound as The Shadow pressed the end wall of the room. The barrier opened. The Shadow stepped into the closet. From there, his phantom shape sidled to the door that led into the darkened front room of the house.

The Shadow stopped short. He sensed that ears were listening. His hand glided beneath his cloak. It came forth as The Shadow crept through darkness. Some one was at the door of the darkened room.

That man had heard the click from the closet. As The Shadow edged forward, a flashlight switched on. A glare of brilliant light revealed The Shadow's spectral form.

THE SHADOW was in motion as the flashlight clicked. His tall form was a rising, plunging shape that came in an amazing leap. A long black arm was swinging toward the man who had reached the door of the room. A sharp cry blurted from a mobster's lips. It ended as an automatic cracked against a human skull.

A moaning man lay at The Shadow's feet. His flashlight had dropped from his grasp. The Shadow picked it up and turned the glare downward upon a bloated face. This fellow had come to make a new search of these premises. He had paid for his rashness in seeking The Shadow without others of his ilk behind him.

The flashlight clicked out as The Shadow laid it on the floor. Swiftly the black-clad victor hurried into the hallway. He paused there in total darkness, ready to return and hide the body of his victim. It was then that The Shadow heard calls from below. Other mobsters were shouting to the one who had gone above. The Shadow knew what this would mean. Whether or not the other men found their companion missing, they would give a swift alarm. In fact, the discovery of the body on the floor would do more to delay them than would the absence of their friend.

Moments were precious to The Shadow. He was starting on a quest, outside the realm of gang land.

There was no time to lose. The Shadow's tall form reached upward. Long fingers clutched the sides of a trap-door opening in the ceiling.

Wedging the trap-door upward, The Shadow gained a powerful hold. His head and shoulders pushed the trapdoor free. Twisting sidewise as he emerged, The Shadow lay flat upon the roof. Rising, he crouched and replaced the barricade.

At the edge of the roof, The Shadow quickly removed flat, pliable objects from beneath his cloak. He pressed two concave disks to his feet; he gripped two others with his gloved hands.

The tall shape flattened itself against the parapet. Over the side it went; a squdgy sound announced the application of the rubber suction cups to the brick wall at the side of the building. Down a blackened surface descended The Shadow. Like a mammoth fly, he moved with consummate ease.

Each twist of hand or foot released a suction cup. Each heavy direct pressure made a new attachment.

With rhythmically timed motion, The Shadow moved downward toward the shelter of an open s.p.a.ce between two blackened buildings.

Cries were coming from the front street as The Shadow reached the ground. Gangsters had found the man whom The Shadow had struck down. They were summoning all evil-doers who might be within hearing range.

The Shadow had left his hide-out. Whether or not its actual location would be discovered, the house itself would surely resound to the tramp of mobsters. The last place of security in the underworld was lost to The Shadow.

Yet in his own ability to merge with night, The Shadow had a present safety that sufficed. He was a block away before the mobsters in the neighborhood had answered to the cry. Hosts were converging toward the building where The Shadow had been. Scattered gangsters were forming a living network toward that one definite spot.

Meanwhile, The Shadow had reached the outer portions of the mesh. Swift enough to pa.s.s the inner section before it tightened, he was speeding through wider portions of the web. Seeking alleyways and bypaths; dropping into convenient niches against crumpling walls, The Shadow was letting frantic mobsters pa.s.s him by.