THE BLACK CIRCLE......................................................................................................................................1

Maxwell Grant.........................................................................................................................................1

CHAPTER I. THE COFFEE POT ...........................................................................................................1

CHAPTER II. AMONG THE SHADOWS .............................................................................................5

CHAPTER III. ONE MAN MISSING....................................................................................................9

CHAPTER IV. THE SHADOW'S THEORY ........................................................................................13

CHAPTER V. PAWNS IN THE GAME ...............................................................................................17

CHAPTER VI. TRAILS ABOUT TOWN............................................................................................22

CHAPTER VII. THE DIAMOND TIARA...........................................................................................26

CHAPTER VIII. THE CIRCLE MOVES.............................................................................................31

CHAPTER IX. BETWEEN TWO FIRES .............................................................................................35

CHAPTER X. CRIME IN THE DARK................................................................................................40

CHAPTER XI. THE BROKEN TRAIL................................................................................................43

CHAPTER XII. A JOB FOR THE SHADOW ......................................................................................48

CHAPTER XIII. TRAILS CROSS AGAIN ..........................................................................................52

CHAPTER XIV. THE TRAP CLOSES................................................................................................56

CHAPTER XV. THE SHADOW'S PRISONER ...................................................................................59

CHAPTER XVI. THE HIDDEN CLUE ................................................................................................63

CHAPTER XVII. THE WRONG VENUS ............................................................................................68

CHAPTER XVIII. CRIME ON THE BOARD.....................................................................................73

CHAPTER XIX. FORTUNA SPEAKS AGAIN ...................................................................................77

CHAPTER XX. THE CIRCLE'S END.................................................................................................81

IF FRED BLANDING hadn't lost himself in Greenwich Village that rainy night, it would be hard to guess

how far The Shadow would have gotten in his efforts to crack the riddle of the Black Circle. Until the

evening when it all began, Fred had never even heard of The Shadow or the Black Circle and Greenwich

Nor had Fred ever dreamed that such peculiar byways and culdesacs as Gay Street, Milligan Place and

MacDougall Alley existed in the maze of that socalled Village. Certainly, he would never have believed that

he would find himself at the corner of Fourth Street and Tenth Street, at least not in an area so well regulated

as Manhattan. But Fred unknowingly visited all those spots and others, during the meanderings that

Most of all, Fred Blanding would have liked to forget that he was ever in Jim's Coffee pot. This should have

been easy because it didn't exist, but somehow it only made it harder to forget.

It all began when Fred left the Parkview Hotel in the vicinity of Washington Square and started out to find

the Seventh Avenue Subway. As Fred wanted to go to Radio City, he would have done better to take the

Sixth Avenue Line, but since it ran beneath the Avenue of the Americas, Fred didn't know where he was

when he saw the street sign, the last sign he remembered noticing. Confused by this misnomer, Fred crossed

the avenue and found himself going along streets that angled into one another. He discovered a diagonal

avenue which he thought was Seventh but was actually Greenwich, decided he was wrong and eventually

Fred didn't mind the drizzle. He was used to a lot of it in San Francisco, where he came from. It was rather

exciting trying to find his way back into New York from the very midst of it. But Fred wanted to get to Times

Square, among other places, and he knew that the Seventh Avenue Subway would take him there. So the only

Greenwich Village, around midnight, can prove to be quiet and almost desolate, once anyone is out of sight

of its main drag, which is Eighth Street. In his tour of the alley, Fred found himself banked by old houses

which had been converted into apartments, where the lights were dim. There was not a sign of any public

place until Fred turned a corner and spied the sign of Jim's Coffee Pot. The place had a basement entry under

a set of stone steps which looked about like all the other stone steps that Fred had been tripping over while he

So Fred entered the Coffee Pot, intending to spare himself a dime for a cup of coffee and add a tip of the

The tiny lunch room had four tables and a short counter that was set slightly at an angle. At one of the tables

sat two men in tuxedos who were arguing with a girl across from them. Fred couldn't see the men's faces for

they were turned away from him but he saw the girl's quite plainly. She was goodlooking and quite drunk.

She was on the brunette side and her features were cute and perky. She had languid, dark eyes, which she

Behind the counter, his elbows propped between the cash register and the telephone, was Jim, a bland

character with a round face that had a flat, fish look, as though it had met too many punches. This was

explainable as he appeared to be of the inquisitive type, too inquisitive from Fred's viewpoint, judging by the

sharp, unfriendly glance that Jim threw his way. It certainly wasn't the sort of expression that the welltrained

"Sorry, mister," was Jim's greeting. "The place is closing up. No more service tonight."

Before Fred could say that he only wanted directions to Seventh Avenue, one of the men spoke from the

"More coffee, Jim," the man said. "We've got to give her another cup if we expect to get her out of here."

"Better make it two cups," chimed in the other man. "Two cups for the girl, I mean."

Pouring two cups from a large coffee pot, Jim threw a surly glance at Fred. Then, deciding he'd set a

precedent, Jim turned to another pot and poured a cup for Fred, too. Jim shifted as he served Fred's coffee,

hence Fred didn't get a look at the man from the table, as he came over to pick up the girl's two cups from the

counter. Fred had good ears though and he caught the conversation that followed, though the men spoke in

"Let's quit arguing, Kay," said one man. "You say you've quit, so all right. You've quit. Give us your marker."

"Can't give you the marker." Kay's voice carried a tired tone. "Told you I threw it away."

"We thought you were kidding," put in the other man. "Quit the stall, if you are. We've got to have that

"You should have kept it," declared the first man. "You know what may happen, don't you, because you got

"What happens?" the girl asked. "What happens that wouldn't happen anyway?" She paused to gulp half a

cup of coffee, then added, "Only nothing's going to happen not to me. I'm not talking, not to anybody."

Eyes shut, the girl tilted back her head, swallowed the rest of the coffee. A moment later, she let herself tilt

forward and would have struck the table if the men hadn't caught her. Together, they lifted Kay up, gave her

the other cup of coffee, which she took in short, quick swallows. Then, limply, the girl settled in their arms

Though a much interested observer, Fred tried to appear otherwise. The men were bringing the girl past the

end of the counter, practically carrying her. She wasn't helping them at all. In fact, she kept slumping down

between the men who gripped her. From appearances, she might have weighed about one hundred and

twenty, but from the way she dragged, Fred decided she must be heavier. Jim noticed the trouble the men

were having and came around from behind the counter, giving a nervous glance at an old clock which hung

from a partitioned wall at the back of the room. Then, Jim was lending a helping hand to get the girl outside

and as he raised her, Kay's hands flipped forward, dropping a purse and a pair of black gloves from her limp

Fred stooped and picked the things up from beneath the feet of the men. He handed the purse and the gloves

to Jim, who gave a blunt nod and moved the procession onward. Then, they were out the door and practically

dragging their burden up the steps to the sidewalk, while Fred, alone in the Coffee Pot, found himself mulling

That business about a "marker" puzzled Fred. The word had a sinister tang, the way the men had spoken it.

Fred wondered how well Jim knew the pair; and if he knew the girl at all. Getting information from the

flatfaced proprietor would be an unlikely thing, though Fred wasn't too sure on that score. Maybe the fellow

would prove garrulous when he returned, now that the annoying customers had left. Perhaps his talk of

Thinking in terms of closing time, Fred glanced at the clock, noted that it registered five minutes of twelve.

Checking by his watch, Fred saw that the clock was slow, for his watch, which he had set when he arrived in

Penn Station, pointed to exactly twelve o'clock. Maybe midnight was Jim's closing hour, so Fred decided to

leave some money for the coffee, mind his own business and continue trying to find Seventh Avenue on his

own. With that thought, Fred pulled some change from his vest pocket. A nickel slipped from his fingers,

Stooping to reclaim the coin, Fred halted, his hand at the very spot where the girl had dropped her gloves.

There on the floor lay Fred's nickel; beside it another coin of the same size, except that it wasn't a coin at all.

It was a brass token, with a shiny center and rim. Between those circles was another, a jetblack circle of

Pocketing his nickel, Fred picked up the strange token and examined it in the light. It was the same on both

sides and the black circle was slightly raised. The token gave a peculiarly dull plunk when Fred tested it on

the counter. Then, spinning the token with thumb and finger, Fred struck upon a sudden thought. He felt

certain that the brass token had fallen from the girl's gloves when she dropped them. Therefore Fred felt

It certainly meant something to Kay and the men who had been with her. What it might mean to Jim was now

the question. The less Fred asked Jim on that subject, the better; thinking in such terms, Fred dropped the

brass token in his vest pocket. But Fred still wanted the answer and while he was wondering how he might

On a sudden hunch, Fred lifted the receiver and gave a "Hello" at the same time watching the door to make

More peculiar than anything that had so far occurred, was the voice that spoke over the wire to Fred

"It is midnight," said the voice, in a slow, precise tone that emphasized each syllable. "Time is up. You must

Fred grunted, "I know," in a style that could have been mistaken for Jim's, or anybody else's.

"If any strangers are present," continued the voice, "check on them thoroughly and report in full tomorrow.

"State facts about the girl," spoke the voice, each word stressed in that slow style. "Was all O.K?"

Repeating those two letters, which the voice had said as though spelling a word and with no note of query in

its tone, Fred hung up, rather than get involved beyond his depth. Then, halfaloud, Fred said:

"Oh, Kay! That's a funny one. Oh, Kay is right. I wonder though" Fred's fingers sought the brass token in

He was realizing now that he might be mixed up in something which might prove not too healthy for him.

The sooner he got clear of it, the better, and the same might apply to the girl Kay. Undoubtedly, the phone

call had been meant for Jim, whose clock had now crept almost to the midnight mark, the time he'd be getting

back if he'd intended to receive the call. Fred promptly decided that his own time shouldn't be wasted.

Without further hesitation, Fred left the Coffee Pot. He took rapid steps up to the street and looked around to

make sure Jim wasn't in sight. Crossing the street through the increasing drizzle, he reached a doorway that

showed dimly and paused there for a look back. Good judgment and bad had been tilting in the balance, for

as Fred turned, he saw Jim come from a passageway between two buildings on the opposite side of the street.

If Jim had arrived a few moments sooner, he would have seen Fred sliding for cover; in which case, Fred's

However, since he now rated as smart, Fred decided to play another hunch. He waited in his doorway until

Jim had gone down into the Coffee Pot; then let a full minute tick by. During that minute, Fred heard a car

pull away from what might have been a back street behind the Coffee Pot, but it was difficult to judge the

Fred guessed, though, that the two tuxedoed men were taking Kay away in their car, unless they'd managed to

hail a taxi, which was unlikely, since he himself hadn't even seen one during his foot tour. Then, at the

The lights in the Coffee Pot blanked out; then they flashed on again, gave a few blinks, as though Jim

couldn't make up his mind whether to close the place or not. Before Fred could add this up, the lights

repeated their blinking process and Fred had gained the sum total, without the aid of arithmetic.

They repeated again, the flashes, as Fred left his doorway and dodged rapidly along his side of the street,

intending to turn the first corner that he found. Back over his shoulder, he was sure that he saw a dark figure

move from a doorway of its own and copy his darting tactics. A corner was in sight now and caticornered

across the street beyond it, Fred saw a strolling man turn and move back out of sight. That man too could

Fred Blanding had summed those flashed signals in terms of himself. Jim must have seen the clock,

discovered that it was wrong and realized that his one last customer might have intercepted the peculiar,

monotoned phone call. The voice's reference to strangers and urgent measures regarding them, was

something that Jim could be putting into practice on his own accord, with Fred as the case in point.

Turning into the next street, Fred glanced across his shoulder and was sure he caught a flashlight's blink from

a drizzleswept doorway. Looking ahead, he glimpsed what could have been an answering flash from beyond

some house steps up ahead. From that Fred Blanding gained the positive conviction that he was being stalked

in this odd neighborhood where he had never been before and now wished that he had never come!

LIGHTS like bobbing fireflies kept flecking the misty rain as Fred continued his zigzag course. How many

there were, Fred couldn't estimate, but he was willing to concede that there were less than he would ordinarily

suppose. The reason was that Fred was turning every corner that he reached and the corners were numerous.

Unquestionably he was doubling back toward the Coffee Pot, hence the lights were probably repeaters, whose

Nevertheless, Fred preferred these doubling tactics. They were the only device that might throw followers off

his trail. Fred had used such measures when prowling through Japinfested jungles during the War, and being

hunted wasn't new to him. But Fred was tense because the circumstances were strange; more so, indeed, than

What the consequences would be if these hunters caught up with him; how he should combat them if they did

these were puzzling factors to Fred Blanding. Of one thing alone Fred was certain; from the very nature of

the hunt, the relay method the men were using, they would use swift silent attack, when they caught up with

him. Therefore, Fred was avoiding doorways and steps where watchers might be concealed, for it was from

such places that attack would come. The hunters weren't attempting to guard the flashes of their lights; by

that they could be goading Fred to seek, as refuge, the very type of place where their pals might be waiting in

As he rounded a corner, Fred saw a light truck swing into another street and he wished fervently that it had

continued in his own direction. In that case, he could have flagged it down, jumped in and urged the driver to

speed ahead. Reaching the corner where the truck had turned, Fred saw no sign of its taillights along the

street and therefore knew it must have swung into a side alley, but he couldn't risk boxing himself by trying

to locate the truck. Instead, he kept along his own street, made a sudden turn at a corner he encountered

It was there that luck came squarely Fred's way, such luck that he gave a light laugh at the expense of the

Coming along a street much like the one where Fred had stumbled into Jim's Coffee Pot, was a patrolman,

going his rounds, checking doorways in a habitual manner. Changing his gait to an easy stroll, Fred crossed

the street openly, intending to meet the policeman when he turned from a doorway and make some inquiries

Fred timed it neatly, too neatly. He picked an innocent looking doorway, one that appeared to be the deep

entry of a small apartment building, up two steps. Fred had reached the curb when the patrolman came

turning from that doorway, stumbled for some unknown reason and pitched headlong toward the sidewalk,

where Fred, with a long dive, was able to partially break his fall. Rolling down the steps behind him came the

officer's hat. A moment later, Fred heard the clatter of metal, saw a shiny revolver bounce down the steps.

Then, came the slam of a door that Fred couldn't see in the darkness as he looked up from beside the

Instinctively, Fred grabbed up the revolver, wheeled about with it. The gun wasn't the cop's; his was in his

holster. Somebody had slugged the patrolman; that was apparent from the fact that he was hatless when he

pitched down the steps. That same somebody had also tossed the revolver along and Fred, with the gun in his

fist, was realizing that he was playing right into the trap. Standing above the prone form in blue, anybody

Just then, with almost perfect timing, the lights of a car swung down the street, catching Fred in their glare as

they came from the corner. If Fred tried to stop that car, it would probably run him down, for the evidence

was all against him. It would look bad too, if he ducked for cover somewhere, but that was about the only

course open to him. At least he would keep his identity unknown and with the gun, he would have a chance to

shoot it out with those other unknowns who were hunting for him. The thought occurred to Fred that he might

Then, as Fred took a quick glance for a direction in which to dart, he was confronted by a figure cloaked in

black that seemed for all the world to have materialized from the very shadows that were so thick along this

Odd that the name should have sprung to Fred's lips, even though he did not utter it. For that was the dread

title by which this amazing personage was known to the very class of murderous gentry who had been trying

to close a cordon around Fred. Above the cloak that flowed from the limber, swiftmoving form, was a

slouch hat with downturned brim that concealed The Shadow's features except for his burning eyes. Backing

the sharpness of that challenging gaze were the blunt noses of two .45 automatics, bulging from The

He was whirling in Fred's direction, The Shadow was, and his sweeping shoulder would have jolted Fred

headlong to the sidewalk, but for Fred's unlucky turn. Seeing The Shadow, Fred didn't realize the cloaked

fighter's purpose. Though appearances were all against Fred; The Shadow based his judgment more on a

man's actions. Anticipating immediate combat, it was The Shadow's plan to put Fred out of it briefly, then

appraise him later. But Fred didn't see it that way. Taking The Shadow for one of his enemies, perhaps the

Fred's clout never reached The Shadow's head. A gloved fist found Fred's jaw with a backhand uppercut.

With the added weight of an automatic, the blow lifted Fred clear across the prostrate patrolman, landing him

beside the steps. Then, with the same whirl, The Shadow jabbed shots at the car as its driver gave it a sudden,

lurching spurt. Delayed by Fred's interference, The Shadow's shots were too late to clip either the driver or a

man beside him; but in their turn, they were unable to find The Shadow when they returned his fire. Spinning

away, The Shadow delivered a weird, taunting laugh that he accompanied with echoing gunshots as the car

Now, men with guns were springing from doorways, the same men who had been hounding Fred Blanding,

so shortly before. On his feet again, Fred didn't even see them, nor think about them. They were flashing

revolvers, aiming them for The Shadow, whose big guns again spoke first. But The Shadow was also the

object of Fred's mad attack and he was determined to slug down the menace in black.

Not only did Fred ruin The Shadow's aim; he gave their mutual enemies a double target. Even worse, Fred

branded himself as one of The Shadow's foemen and was treated accordingly, though without severe result.

The Shadow didn't bother to waste bullets on a grappler. He performed a doublejointed twist, caught Fred's

gun hand with a crossstroke as it was swinging past him, and drove Fred's weapon as well as his own back

down upon Fred's head. With a long stagger, Fred brought up against an iron gate that gave as he encountered

Wild shots barked from along the street while The Shadow was settling Fred, but none found a mark. The

Shadow's reverse spin, Fred's sudden reel, saved them from becoming targets. What was more, those hasty

gunners were something in the nature of apprentices, a fact which The Shadow certified with a sinister,

derisive laugh, as he swung to deal with them anew. Their amateur status was the thing that saved them, for

they didn't wait to blast it out with The Shadow. Satisfied that their bullets couldn't reach him, they had fled

for the corner after their first volley and were turning it when The Shadow took up pursuit.

Only one man dared to defy The Shadow; that was Fred Blanding. His fall broken by the gate, Fred was up

again. Though groggy and with black spots swimming before his eyes, Fred had enough of what he thought

was presence of mind to aim at the largest of those floating patches. Even though his shots would probably be

wild, Fred tugged at the gun trigger. The only result was a series of clicks. The man who had framed him by

Coming out through the gate, Fred found himself alone in the street. From somewhere in the distance came

the bark of guns, the shriek of car brakes, the roar of starting motors. The Shadow was evidently clearing the

vicinity of troublemakers, but that didn't occur to Fred. Out of his jolted thoughts was coming one

recollection, that of a doorway from which a slugged patrolman had stumbled. Fred recognized the door by

the blot of blue that was sprawled in front of it. Stumbling there, he climbed the steps, tried the door he found

The door gave. Fred shoved through and was promptly slugged by a hard blow on the head. A burly man

gathered him up, dragged him out through a back door into an alley that ended in a wall. There, two men had

just finished loading a truck with an odd assortment of crates. Giving a hand to the man who had brought

Fred along, they tossed their unconscious prisoner into the back of the truck and climbed in with him while

The Shadow heard the rumble of that departing truck as he returned to the street where the patrolman lay. He

listened intently to the sound, traced it to the next corner, then heard it grow fainter, proving that it had turned

the other way. There was something reflective in The Shadow's whispered laugh as he cloaked the brace of

guns that he was holding in his fists. Evidently his prime purpose here had been to find that mystery truck.

Now, with the quest ended, The Shadow brought the stunned patrolman to his feet, worked him into a

condition in which he could walk along, though groggily, and steered him a few blocks to the corner of an

avenue. There, The Shadow literally evaporated into darkness, along with a fleeting laugh that attracted the

attention of the driver of a prowl car. Stopping, the police car disgorged two officers from its green body.

They found the patrolman in a dazed condition sitting on the steps of an antique shop and took him along

Meanwhile, Fred Blanding, whose own mistaken notions had caused him to be forgotten by The Shadow,

was experiencing a rougher ride in the truck as it reached the broad street that followed the Hudson River

waterfront. It wasn't bothering Fred at all, for he was still unconscious from the doorway wallop. The two

From their faces, that pair looked keen rather than tough and they weren't too well acquainted with this

territory. They were leaving the next move to the husky slugger who drove the truck. Pulling up beside a

deserted pier, the truck driver came from his seat, pushed his way through past a crate and studied Fred's face

"Still out," said the driver. "That makes it easier. Load him with some of that junk metal and we'll dump him.

Make it fast though, before the mob that works this part of the waterfront finds out we're pinning something

The flashlight showed the faces of the other two men. Any nervousness they betrayed was on their own

account, not Fred's. They were something like the pair who had escorted the girl named Kay from Jim's

Coffee Pot. Their chief difference was that although they were welldressed, they weren't wearing tuxedoes.

"There's only one thing," one man said. "You're sure this is the chap Jim said to get?"

"Who else could he be?" returned the truck driver. "He was coming over to talk to the copper that I slugged."

"You are probably right," decided the other member of the welldressed pair. "Anyway, it won't matter too

much if you are wrong. This fellow may know more than is good for him and us. Take whatever is in his

In the light, they went through Fred's pockets and one man came up with something that caused him to give a

low, short whistle. In his palm, as he extended it, the fellow showed the disk with the black circle that Fred

"What a mistake we might have made!" the man said. "Check through his wallet and find out who he is and

where he belongs. Maybe we can deliver him there. We'll report the full story through to the Voice."

They not only learned Fred's name from the cards in his wallet; among other things in his pocket, they found

the key to his room at the Parkview Hotel. The truck headed in that direction while the two men in back were

replacing all the items in Fred's pockets including the peculiar black disk which marked him as one of their

The tides of fortune, good and bad, had toyed with Fred Blanding this night, eventually bringing him back to

his own port instead of sinking him at the bottom of the Hudson. One twist of circumstance had lost Fred the

aid which he should rightfully have gained from The Shadow; another had brought him assistance from the

very group that intended to destroy him, the men who mistook him for a member of their own band, the

FRED BLANDING awakened in the morning with a threeway headache. The worst of his triple pangs came

when he pressed his hand against his jaw. The mere stroke of his fingers sent anguished messages clear up to

his temples, and he kept gritting his teeth while he shaved his chin. Fred didn't find it difficult to recall how

Somebody that Fred still vaguely termed The Shadow had met Fred chin first with a heavy fist. It must have

been a solid blow rather than a sharp jolt, otherwise it might have broken Fred's jaw. Fred remembered that

the blow had made his head feel like a mass of rivets, jarring loose. Something certainly had gone loose,

The stupid part was his second attack on The Shadow. His recollection of that event came from an incessant

throb located about three inches above his right eye. From the way that The Shadow had ripped gunfire at

their enemies along the street, Fred should have realized that he had been treated rather tenderly by the fighter

in the black cloak. In coming back for more, Fred had gotten what he deserved, but he was willing to concede

that the clout that had sent him through the gate, was enough to make him groggy. Trying to shoot The

Shadow with an empty gun was another mark of stupidity and Fred was now very glad that the gun had been

The pinnacle of Fred's folly was his invasion of the darkened doorway. Right now, he couldn't remember a

thing that happened after that, but the third ache, in the back of his head, was proof enough that something

had happened. As for any doubts that Fred might now be holding as to The Shadow's sincerity, that last

experience abolished them. The Shadow had gone before Fred entered the doorway, so he couldn't have

Fred next began to wonder who had brought him back to the hotel and how. Looking at his watch he saw that

it was nine o'clock, so he decided to go down to breakfast and inquire on the way. At the desk, Fred nodded

"Funny thing, last night. Guess I was celebrating too heavily after my trip into New York. I don't remember

"The night man would have reported it if you had," the clerk said. "Probably some of your friends brought

Buying a newspaper, Fred went into breakfast, trying to picture what it would have been like if The Shadow

had shown up and brought him back to the hotel. That certainly would been something for the night man to

The newspaper hadn't a word to say about any shootings in Greenwich Village. It didn't occur to Fred that the

news wouldn't have made the columns of a morning newspaper unless it had been sensational enough to

prove stoppress stuff. So Fred finished his ham and eggs with the notion that since this was a nice morning,

some fresh air would do him good, particularly in the general area where he had been the night before. A

It didn't take long for Fred to find the spot where he had first ventured into the maze of darkened streets.

Threading his way through the same area, he now noticed the street signs and was intrigued by the way they

confused the issue. At places one street seemed to run into another while others turned corners in a most

curious fashion. Fred was studying the streets too, and though by day they looked somewhat different, their

There were half a dozen basement stores that resembled Jim's Coffee Pot, but none of them were lunch

rooms. They were tailor shops, laundries or the like. As for iron fences with pintsized yards behind them,

there were too many for Fred even to guess which gate he had jarred loose. The same applied to apartment

In this daylight tour, Fred kept coming out at Sheridan Square, which wasn't surprising because more than

half a dozen streets converged there. It was very close to the corner of Fourth and Tenth Streets, so Fred

couldn't quite calculate the exact position of the Square. The other streets had names instead of numbers and

Fred discovered that although the Seventh Avenue Subway had a station at Sheridan Square, it answered to

the name of Christopher Street, while the avenue above the subway was called Seventh Avenue South. This

having nothing to do with what he was after, Fred went into a drug store and looked in the telephone Red

There were some cabs parked near the subway station. Fred got into one and told the driver that he wanted to

find Jim's Coffee Pot. They rode around through all the streets that Fred had paced on foot, but neither Fred

nor the driver could spot Jim's place. They finally stopped to inquire of a passing letter carrier. The mail man

Fred dipped his thumb and finger into his vest pocket to bring out the brass disk with the black circle. He had

carefully put it in that pocket so it wouldn't get mixed with his change. The pocket proved empty, even when

Fred turned it inside out. So that settled the question. The whole thing was just a crazy dream. Fred didn't

doubt that he'd cracked his head against something, while walking around in the dark, but it was odd that it

"If you want," the cabby was suggesting, "we can ask a cop if he's ever heard of this Coffee Pot. Those places

"A long while ago," replied Fred. "Longer than I thought, I suppose. Don't bother looking any more. Drive

At the hotel, Fred saw that the meter was close to the two dollar mark, so he decided to add some change to a

couple of bills. Bringing coins from his change pocket, he began to sort them, then stopped abruptly. Among

the nickels that he was about to give the cab driver was a brass token with a black circle as its central band.

Clutching the token tightly in his hand, Fred went into the hotel, his thoughts in an utter whirl. That token of

the Black Circle couldn't possibly have gotten in with his money, unless some person had transferred it there.

Thrusting the token away, Fred pulled out his wallet, began looking through his cards. Always, Fred kept

those cards in regular order; now they were disarranged. It was dawning on Fred that somebody had been

Only one thing could account for such courtesy. That was the disk with the black circle. The men in the

vanished Coffee Pot had spoken of Kay's "marker" as important. The watchers who had spotted Fred at Jim's

signal must have been in league with the tuxedoed pair. Kay had admitted that she was quitting something

and the marker was connected with it. Therefore it struck home to Fred that the brass token must be the

That very name was logical and appropriate, considering Fred's adventures. Now, through a simple piecing

together of the facts, Fred Blanding could understand the matter of his safe return to the hotel. Members of

the Black Circle had found the token on him; had mistaken him for one of their own. Luck had come Fred's

Warily, Fred glanced about the hotel lobby, wondering if a secret cordon had again begun to form about him.

A man was delivering a stack of evening newspapers and Fred gave the fellow a careful survey, wondering if

he might be a spy. For Fred hadn't forgotten the peculiarly mechanical words of the voice that he had heard

"If any strangers are present," the Voice had said, "check on them thoroughly and report in full tomorrow."

This was tomorrow and by now the reports would all be in. Dawdling near the newsstand, Fred watched the

delivery man leave, then glanced at the papers as an excuse for staying where he was. Then, Fred was

electrified by a picture on the front page of the evening sheet that seemed to loom right out of the columns

Above the picture was a heading: "Death Believed Suicide." Below was a caption bearing the name: "Kay

Kelmore." Tossing a nickel on the stand, Fred thrust the newspaper under his arm, gave a worried glance

about and hurried up to his room. There he ran through the details of the girl's death.

It was the usual sort of story. Kay Kelmore had been despondent according to her friends. This morning she

had been found dead in her apartment with a halfempty bottle of sleeping tablets beside her. Well known in

society circles, Kay had played an active part in swanky parties and her death was quoted as a "shock" to all

It was a shock to Fred, too. It established as fact all of last night's adventures along with the menace that lay

behind them. Now the thought that was throbbing through Fred's headaches was the manner of Kay's

departure from the Coffee Pot. The way she had sagged between the two men had reminded Fred of dead

weight. No wonder the girl had gone heavy. She was dead when they dragged her out!

Those last two cups of coffee had done the work too soon. Fred remembered now how Jim had served him

from another pot. Naturally Jim hadn't wanted a stranger to go to sleep on the premises. He'd given Fred

ordinary coffee, rather than furnish a clue to the fact that Kay's cups were doped. True, the Black Circle had

tried to dispose of Fred more forcibly, later on; but that was after he had left the Coffee Pot, the place that had

Thumbing through the newspaper, Fred tried to find something that would link with Kay's death. He

discovered that the police were still investigating the thefts of valuable bonds, prized antiques and even some

rare postage stamps, all from the homes of wealthy people. But that was too usual to interest Fred; such

things were always in the news. It was when he came back to the front page that Fred discovered what he

Under the head "Police Hunt GunToting Sluggers," Fred discovered that some typical waterfront quarrels

had slopped inward as far as Greenwich Village. Apparently some hunted member of a dock mob had been

pursued from his usual haunts until friends intervened in his behalf. Early in the fray, a patrolman had been

slugged and had been found later by a police car that was investigating the running gunfire. All of the

Two front page stories and both were wrong. Kay Kelmore wasn't a suicide; she had been murdered. Those

weren't dock fighters who had staged the battle; they were friends of a very respectable looking pair of men

who wore tuxedoes and a fake lunch room owner who called himself Jim. All were under orders from a

Voice who spoke as though giving English lessons to foreigners. Kay's death linked with the other story and

the link was in the form of a brass disk with a black ring that stood for a Black Circle which the Voice

All this revolved around Fred Blanding and the sooner he became the missing factor in the case, the better.

Tossing the newspaper in his suitcase, Fred began to pack, listening as he did. He thought that he heard

sounds outside his door; stealing there, he opened the door suddenly, took a quick look down the hall. Fred

was sure that he saw another door shut across the way. Finding that his own door closed slowly, because of a

Almost immediately, Fred overheard guarded footsteps in the hall. He finished his packing, picked up the bag

and strode to the door, opening it with a sudden clatter. Again, Fred spotted the shutting door across the way

and this time, he played smart. Holding his own door wide, Fred released it. A big spring began to swing it

shut, but slowly, because of the retarder. Keeping to the hallway carpet, Fred gained a turn in the corridor by

the time his door had slammed, then stole down the tower stairway to the floor below. Taking an elevator, he

told the operator to send his bag out to the door; that he was stopping in the balcony writing room. Coming

down to the lobby a few minutes later, Fred checked out and paid his bill without attracting much attention,

Riding uptown in a cab, Fred was confident that he had stolen a march on the Black Circle, though it

probably wouldn't be long before they discovered that they were watching an empty room. But when Fred

considered informing the police, his thoughts were very brief on that score. Any story that Fred might have to

tell would evaporate like Jim's Coffee Pot. Fred couldn't expect anyone to believe that he had seen Kay

Kelmore in a place that didn't exist. That was the vicious part of the scheme that had been maneuvered by the

equally vicious Black Circle. Any suspicion that Kay's death was murder, could not be traced back to the

place where it happened. As for the token in Fred's pocket and the Voice that he had heard across the

telephone, they too would mean nothing without the Coffee Pot to prove their story.

Fred's only plan now was to class himself among the missing, which he was sure the Black Circle had

intended him to be until they had mistaken him for a member of their clan. To be missing in New York, the

best idea would be to use another name and stay where the most people were always coming and going. That

would also enable Fred to learn what he could regarding murder and be ready to tell his story when he knew

For his new residence, Fred took the largest hotel that he could find in the vicinity of Times Square. There, he

looked like any of a hundred other guests: a young man in his twenties, of slightly handsome appearance,

stocky in build and selfpossessed in manner. As such, Fred felt that he could carry the burden of being the

only person in New York who even suspected the existence of the Black Circle and might therefore be able to

On that point, Fred Blanding flattered himself. He might be the only outsider who carried one of the

mysterious brass tokens, but he hadn't probed into the ways of the Black Circle itself, except by accident.

There was someone else who had progressed further and might well outrace Fred in his quest, even to

That person was actually in Fred's mind, but only as an unknown factor in the case. At least Fred was

promising himself that should they meet again, he would make sure that they were on the same side.

WHEN The Shadow traveled by day, he usually preferred the identity of Lamont Cranston, a complete

contrast to his nocturnal self. As Cranston, he was anything but the swift, phantomesque shape that glided in

and out of murderous affairs, striking down those who would do traffic in such. For Lamont Cranston,

wealthy New York club man, was a gentleman who made an art of leisure, claiming that the only reason his

family crest lacked the motto "DoNothing" was because he was too lazy to have it inscribed there.

There were times when Cranston could be prodded into activity, provided he did not consider it work, and his

chief prodder was Police Commissioner Ralph Weston. For years, Weston had been a member of the

exclusive Cobalt Club, whose members reminded him of a lot of dried mummies rattling around in an

oversized sarcophagus, purely because Cranston belonged there, preferring it as a place where nobody ever

bothered him. Hence Weston, whenever puzzled by a peculiarly noncrackable case, could always find

Cranston at the Cobalt Club and whet his curiosity into suggesting some solution to crime's current riddle.

Not that Weston credited Cranston with being a master of deduction; far from it. The commissioner simply

termed his friend a man with an uncluttered mind, which enabled him to give a casual and often valuable

This noon, Weston was harping upon what had lately become his favorite theme, a series of startling

robberies that had been engineered with lightning speed, leaving thunderous rumbles from the victims;

nothing more. At each meeting with Cranston, Weston had another of these outrages to report, but Cranston

had shrugged them off in his idle fashion. Weston had gathered though, that what Cranston wanted was

tangible evidence, so today the commissioner was summing the cases to make them impressive.

"In every instance," Weston was saying, "the criminals moved straight to their objective. They stole the

portraits that Royal Croft was sending to the Municipal Gallery, the very day he was to ship them, though

he'd only bought them at auction a week before. They walked right into the offices of Pettigrew, Montague

and Tremont, the day the vicepresident of the Independent Shipping Lines was delivering a hundred

thousand dollars worth of negotiable bonds that he had taken from the vault that very morning.

"The criminals were wearing masks on that occasion and they disguised themselves in the same fashion when

they raided the North Island Beach Club and made the guests give up their jewels. The big haul there was the

collection of rubies and sapphires brought over by the Rajah of Balapore. They were being displayed to raise

funds to help his independent state fight for freedom against United India. But they didn't need masks, the

time they stole the murals from the new Video Building, the day before it opened."

"I know all about the murals, commissioner," he said. "They were supposed to be removed because they were

controversial. Juan de Vegas, who painted them, gave them the title of 'One World' but made the mistake of

putting Moscow in the center and painting the names of all the countries in red. Only they weren't supposed

to go out until the next morning. The crooks came early and posed as the moving men. But those murals were

atrocious from an artistic standpoint, anyway. That annoyed me more than their imaginary symbolism."

"They were valued at better than a hundred thousand dollars," declared Weston, "and that is what matters

most. We also have another unsolved crime on our books. I refer to the theft of the postage stamps that

Audrey Cartwright bought up at auction. They were the finest collection of inverted centers in existence and

they were stolen from his penthouse the very day he was to show them to the committee from the Philatelic

Pausing, Weston watched for Cranston's reaction. Upon the straight lips that fitted Cranston's masklike

features, the commissioner saw the slight waver of a smile. Whether it expressed Cranston's disregard for

postage stamps, or some secret pleasure at the commissioner's dilemma, Weston didn't know. Hoping that at

"It's probably beyond your thinking faculties, Cranston. I have heard you claim that deductive measures are

superior to the hit and miss methods of the law. Here is your chance to prove your point, before we prove

ours. Put on your thinking cap for a while. I have some business with Inspector Cardona."

Weston was referring to a stocky, swarthy man who had just entered the grill room of the Cobalt Club.

Inspector Cardona gave Cranston a pokerfaced glance, accompanying it with a nod; then sat down to chat

with the commissioner. Comparing Joe Cardona with Ralph Weston, Cranston continued to smile, as he

They were an utter contrast, those two. Cardona, with his halflowered eyelids and constant dead pan, gave

the impression that he was watching all that happened and weighing it along with secret knowledge that he

already possessed. Weston, firmjawed, pompous, brusque to the tips of his shortclipped mustache, always

acted as though bluster could accomplish things. Both could get results in their own way, but anyone who

tried to copy their tactics would swing like a pendulum, arriving nowhere. Cranston felt that it would be

"Let's have it, inspector," opened Weston. "Which of those robberies have you cracked and how does it link

"I'm on another case," returned Cardona, bluntly. "You'll have to call headquarters for reports on those others.

"It was kind of unusual," persisted Cardona. "For one thing, the girl didn't leave any note."

"She was the sort who should have," Joe declared. "I've been talking to six people who all say they were her

best friend. They base their claims on the letters she sent them. Kay Kelmore was always dashing off letters

to suit every mood. She never could make up her mind whether she was literary or dramatic."

"She wouldn't have let her last chance ride," replied Cardona. "I know the type. But all she left was this."

Cardona plunked a small round bottle on the table. It was filled half way with sleeping tablets that formed a

"So she became tired of life," decided Weston, "and tried a way out to see if it would work. She wasn't

"She wrote those letters," said Cardona, "whenever she felt despondent and particularly when she couldn't

sleep. She said so in them; even called them her cure. None of those best friends know of anything that would

"What was the medical examiner's report?" he queried. "Did he attribute death to an overdose of these?"

"Then, that settles it," was Weston's decision. "You'd better get back on those robberies, inspector. I don't

care much for your hunches, but you're welcome to play them there, since nobody else has any theories not

As he spoke, Weston laid the bottle aside. Cranston picked it up, glanced casually at the label. Then:

"This is a new brand, commissioner," Cranston said. "I understood they would soon be on the market.

"A medical society recommendation," stated Cranston. "It was too easy to take an overdose. Two or three

pills wouldn't produce a quick enough effect, so somebody would swallow a couple more and have a hard

"Kay Kelmore must have taken a dozen," decided Weston, gauging the halffilled bottle. "That ought to be

"No doubt," said Cranston, calmly. Then, turning to Cardona: "Do you have the examiner's report,

"Give his office a call," suggested Cranston. "See if you can get an estimate as to the total dosage of the

Cardona returned in a few minutes, bringing a slip of paper on which he had noted the figures. He handed it

"That settles it," affirmed Cranston. "There aren't enough pills in this entire bottle to account for the total of

Cardona grabbed for the bottle as though he expected to find the murderer's signature on the label. Then, Joe

"That is my opinion," replied Cranston. "I've had my suspicions on these sleeping tablet deaths for a long

time. It would be all too easy to feed a person an overdose of opiate found in them, then plant a halfempty

bottle to mark the case as suicide. This time the mark wasn't overshot by far. They gave Kay Kelmore about

the amount of dope found in a dozen oldstyle pills. Only they bought the wrong sort of bottle to go with

"Why not?" returned Weston. "The more people who know it, the less chance that anyone will try this style

of murder. Killers don't like to frame a suicide scene that may be questioned. Maybe some of Kay Kelmore's

friends will do a quick scramble out of town when the news strikes. Then, you'll have your suspects,

"And besides," added Weston, with a knowing smile, "it will spread a lot of print on the front pages, all

giving the law due credit. That will allow Cranston a while longer to ponder over the mysterious robberies

"I'm through pondering, commissioner," put in Cranston. "I believe I already have the key."

"Quite remarkable, Cranston," returned Weston, "considering that you were analyzing an entirely different

"That murder," said Cranston significantly, "happens to be the exact key I mean."

"The key may fit," agreed Joe. "The thing that was bothering me about the suicide angle was the girl's own

motive. People who take out their moods in letters, don't take things out on themselves. Besides, Kay

Cranston's eyes were steady as he made that calm reply. Puzzled, Cardona tried to cover his quandary by

"Kay was getting a good time out of life," Cardona said. "Her friends are all agreed on that. She was in with

the right people, always getting invitations to house parties, yacht cruises, dinner dances, and other fancy

"You might check on those," suggested Cranston, "and find out, specifically, if Kay Kelmore happened to be

at some of those places where the robberies occurred. Before the robberies were pulled off, I mean."

Cardona's eyes narrowed in their receptive style. From their look, Joe was really absorbing what Cranston

"You have something, Cranston!" the commissioner exclaimed. "I take it that you believe Kay Kelmore could

"They must have had somebody on the inside," replied Cranston. "Such people sometimes begin to know too

much, or refuse to play along with the dangerous game in which they are too deeply involved. That's when

Pausing, Cranston arose, gave a leisurely sweep of his arm, as though dismissing the subject and leaving it in

"There's only one thing more, Cranston," called Weston. "Suppose Kay Kelmore was mixed up in the

"You'll find that out," Cranston called back, "after you find the person who stole them. Kay Kelmore's death

Commissioner Weston spent the next half hour in conference with Inspector Cardona. As they were leaving

through the foyer of the Cobalt Club, Weston glanced into the library and saw Cranston there, sitting across a

chessboard from an owlfaced man who answered to the name of Rutledge Mann. In business life, Mann was

an investment broker, who handled Cranston's Wall Street dealings. Why Cranston should be wasting time

playing such a silly game as chess with such a stodgy chap, was beyond Weston's comprehension.

What Weston didn't know or guess was that Mann served as Cranston's contact with a group of very

capable men who acted as agents for a mysterious personage known as The Shadow. The conference that

Weston had held with Cardona, was being outmatched by an undertoned conversation that was passing across

Lamont Cranston was elaborating his theory to Rutledge Mann, so that it could be sent along to others who

could follow through with the essential detail work that would either prove the case or cause it to be

abandoned. The weight of past experience was strongly in its favor. For the theory that Cranston had voiced,

PINNING crime on the right people was difficult in Manhattan, because often the right people were very

wrong. That rule applied in particular to Speed Devlin and his closest group of friends. Many people knew

Speed Devlin, but few knew him well. Those who did were wrong guys, like Speed himself.

Speed Devlin lived in a very modern apartment a few steps from Park Avenue. He had acquired the

apartment by flashing a big bank roll at the proper time, but had proven rather stingy when it came to peeling

money from that roll. However, Speed's supply of cabbage was never limited. He always had ways of

replenishing it, such as selling phoney tickets to the Irish Sweepstakes, or taking over outoftowners by

Such measures, however, were rather painful to Speed Devlin. He preferred direct methods with quick

results. Speed's mind ran to primitive devices like stickups and bank robberies, but he preferred to give them

a touch of elegance. There was nothing crude about Speed Devlin, ever. Show him how to cover up a crime

and he would go through with it. Speed was always on the lookout for such assignments and lately he had

Nevertheless, Speed Devlin didn't look happy. His sharp featured face showed the wrong sort of a smile, the

kind that curled his upper lip too much and gave his teeth the look of hungry fangs. For another thing, Speed's

face looked too sallow, but that might have been blamed on daylight, to which he was but little accustomed.

Noon was too early an hour for Speed to rise, which was probably why his marcelled hair appeared unkempt,

Attired in a purple dressing gown, Speed was pacing the living room of his apartment between sips of a

Whiskey Sour. Meanwhile he was pouring out his anger and the principal recipient of it was Stick Stickney.

He was a bluntfaced gentleman who looked several degrees tougher than the other visitors who were draped

"A whole string of perfect crimes," snarled Speed, "and what do we have to show for it? Nothing, except

what we got from the odd lot of sparklers that we grabbed when we were after the big stuff at the North

Island Beach Club. Those rubies and sapphires that the rajah sent there might just as well have been a bag of

Speed's eyes were displaying something of a glassy stare as he fixed them on Stick, who gave a shrug of his

"Don't blame it on me," said Stick. "I didn't say to go after those rocks. The Voice did."

"You were supposed to fence them," stated Speed. "Maybe that's the trouble. Probably you're dealing with a

"Ask some of the boys." Stick winked. "They'll tell you I went to the right places."

Mutters of confirmation came from the group that surrounded Stick. Thus encouraged, Stick added:

"You were handling rather unusual goods," reminded Speed. "You may have picked good places, but maybe

"Yeah?" gruffed Stick. "Take those portraits, to start with." Stick tapped a blunt thumb with his other

forefinger. "I can get rid of all you get me, provided they ain't phoney but this lot was. As for the bonds"

"Negotiable," corrected Speed. "Yes, I'll admit the securities were counterfeit."

"Good," said Stick, moving along to another finger. "The same goes for the rubies. I peddled the other

sparklers that you snatched with them, didn't I? That proves the fence knows real rocks when he sees them.

Those muriels" disdainfully, Stick flipped his third finger "they were copies too and lousy at that. Any

kid could have faked them. But the postage stamps" Stick came to his final finger "they were neat."

"They were supposed to be printed wrong," explained Stick. "One color around the outside, the border, they

call it; in the middle, a picture of an airplane in a different color, but printed upside down by accident. I took

them to a stamp dealer who got in wrong once for handling fake stuff, so I thought he'd be glad to peddle the

"You know what he did? He put those stamps up against an ultraviolet light, the way the Feds do with

evidence. It showed they were phoney; I saw it for myself. Somebody had cut the centers out of ordinary

stamps and pasted them back upside down. It's the kind of work that has to be done under a microscope

because they make the cut at a slant and they use white of egg for the pasteup. It won't show, unless you use

Convinced by Stick's summary, Speed stepped over to the radio, which was delivering classical music, and

twisted the dial angrily. He tuned in on a newscast which was discussing boxing bouts of the night before. As

his companions listened attentively, Speed interrupted the radio with a slightly pleasant snarl.

"One thing we can give ourselves credit for," declared Speed. "We were all at the fights last night, slumming

around with a lot of headquarters flycops and some precinct lieutenants. So they won't be including us in any

roundup over that shooting down in the Village. That will leave us free to operate as usual."

"Yeah," put in Stick. "If we've got anything to operate for. But I suppose if anything does come along, it will

"Maybe they're not so bum," snapped Speed. "You've got to admit the jobs are easy. The Voice, whoever he

is, sure gets the dope on where and how to make the hauls. These bad breaks can't last forever. Besides "

"Flash!" The word came sharply from the news commentator and Speed swung toward the radio. "The police

have uncovered a mystery in the death of society girl Kay Kelmore! Latest report has it that she was a murder

victim; not a suicide. Sleeping pills were planted to cover up the crime. Where was Kay Kelmore before she

was brought home to her apartment last night? What could she have told that would disclose the reason

Noting that his companions were quite agog, Speed reached over and snapped off the radio. Then:

"Our alibis still stand," announced Speed. "Right now they're better than ever. I'm beginning to guess why the

Voice said we'd like the fights last night and told me to make sure that plenty of people saw us there."

"Yes, it was on account of the Voice that we went," continued Speed. "When I read about that gun stuff in the

Village, I figured it was the reason why. The Voice had something he wanted settled and told his

undercover boys to handle it. Meanwhile he wanted us to be safely out of the way."

"Operatives would be a better term," returned Speed. "He must have them, or how would we find the route

cleared for every job we pull? It's been like clockwork so far, which means that the Voice must have some

deluxe gents working on his side. Maybe a few glamour girls, too, like this Kay Kelmore. It's kind of a

coincidence that she should get written off right after that shooting last night. Or am I wrong?"

Stick replied with a nod which the other men copied. Then, Stick voiced an opinion in his blunt style.

"I get it," said Stick. "The Kelmore dame was trying to quit. But she couldn't have blabbed to the coppers, or

they'd have known it was murder in the first place. Maybe there's somebody else mixed up in the deal."

A telephone jangled an interruption and the whole group became tense. Three rings of the phone bell; then a

brief pause, after which the ringing began again. As Speed stepped over to the telephone, his companions

Over the wire came a precise tone, so clearly enunciated that Speed's companions, gathering close, could

"Congratulations," spoke the Voice. "I said to keep in the clear and I am pleased that my instructions were

"You won't get any," retorted Speed, "so you can take back those congratulations. Those postage stamps were

"That is too bad," came the mechanical tone. "I shall investigate the situation."

"You'd better do more than investigate," argued Speed. "We're not sticking our necks out much longer."

"That would also be too bad," spoke the Voice. "It would be unwise to cease the work that we have begun.

We have both invested too much time and trouble to quit this enterprise before we show an actual profit."

"That's what you think," challenged Speed, "but suppose we think different? What would happen then?"

"I would not know," was the Voice's reply. "Why not ask the police what they would do about it."

The monotone sounded more like an assertion than a question. Taking it as a veiled threat, Speed made a

savage gesture as if to dash the telephone on its cradle and end the conversation. Thinking better of it, he

"You wouldn't gain anything by letting us take a rap," declared Speed. "You need us, or you wouldn't have

tipped me off about staging the alibi stuff last night. I take it that something special was going on."

"There is a man to watch for. If he can be found, hold him until I decide what shall be done with him. I shall

There was a pause, so long that Speed thought the Voice had left the other end of the wire. Then, came the

Freezing at the telephone, Speed saw petrified looks register on the faces of his crew. Slowly, Speed's hand

was drifting downward; the telephone was at the level of his shoulder when the Voice finished.

"Remember, we are partners," the Voice declared. "If one should forget; the other would have right to any

sort of redress he might choose." There was a pause, allowing those words to sink home. Then: "Another

enterprise is in readiness," the Voice added. "Full details will be given by tomorrow."

There was the click of a receiver, proving that the Voice had finished the call. Dropping the telephone, Speed

"Well, that explains it," declared Speed. "The Shadow has been mooching in on these deals, planting phoney

"And maybe we'll get stuck worse," put in Stick, "if The Shadow ever catches up with us."

That brought mutters of agreement from the rest of the group, to which Speed gave a silencing snarl.

"The Shadow hasn't caught up with the Voice," argued Speed. "What's more, it's a safe bet he's worrying

about the Voice not us. The Shadow knows these jobs are fixed so they move like clockwork and he

wants to know what makes them tick. How do we count?" Speed gave a reasonably convincing shrug. "We're

only the fall guys who are getting away with the junk The Shadow has unloaded on us."

Speed Devlin could be a persuasive speaker when he warmed to a theme and he was warming to one right

now. Stick Stickney and the rest were still too upset to see through the coating of bravado that spurred

Speed's arguments. Working on the rule of selling himself to sell others, Speed added point to point without

analyzing his own theory; hence by the time he was finished, it would stand as fact in his own mind.

"This Kelmore girl knew what was going on," stated Speed. "She belonged to the Voice's smart set. She was

letting it out to somebody and the Voice finally tagged her. Now he knows who the link was: this fellow

named Fred Blanding. So he tells us to watch for the guy and that's fair enough.

"Meanwhile, without the Kelmore girl being around to spot the next deal, the Voice is giving us quick

service, so we can beat The Shadow to the haul. That means real dough for a change, so why should you guys

worry? If it's on account of The Shadow, forget it. We've got the Voice on our side as long as we stay on

In substance, Speed was practically repeating the same threat that the Voice had uttered, where the subject of

partners was concerned. Coming from Speed, the listeners took it with approving nods. Particularly Stick,

"Speed is right," nodded Stick. "One thousand percent. The Voice is always a couple of jumps ahead. The

way he always spells out names shows how careful he is to get things straight. So let's scram and leave it to

Speed's followers filed out, leaving him gazing from the window, the sunlight glistening on his gorgeous

dressing gown. Speed could afford to let his lips betray a scoffing smile, for high noon was not the time when

Perhaps that smile would have widened, had Speed Devlin realized that The Shadow, far from having

intercepted the genuine treasures, as yet knew nothing regarding the bogus goods that had replaced them.

Speed might have relished the humor of The Shadow being on a trail so false that it was practically no trail at

Contrarily, such knowledge might have sobered Speed Devlin, for it would have proven his own ignorance.

The truth stood that Speed was a very small pawn in the game developing between The Shadow and the

LAMONT CRANSTON and Rutledge Mann were in conference again, but not over a chessboard. This was

another gettogether, held in Mann's office, the day after their meeting at the Cobalt Club. Ostensibly here to

go over investments, Cranston was actually going over stacks of disconnected facts regarding recent crimes.

"It all adds up to the same thing, Mann," Cranston declared. "These crimes are being staged as smoothly as if

they had been rehearsed, so swiftly that the crooks are gone without a trace. That points to a thorough

"Any of a dozen fastworking mobs could be involved," continued Cranston. "Should one be bagged, another

would replace it. Therefore I am interested in the game behind the game or, more properly, the game that

Going through some papers, Mann began to pick out those which were relevant to the case in point.

"Until yesterday," stated Cranston, "we were working on one chance clue. Before the robbery at the North

Island Beach Club, somebody reported some trifling trouble at a lunch room a block away from the club. The

"However, in making a checkup of our own, we learned from the proprietor of a service station that a truck

had been loading in back of an empty building in that block. From his description, we traced the truck to

Manhattan. It showed up in Greenwich Village two nights ago, but later managed to get away before it could

Though it was Cranston speaking, he was reciting from the experience of The Shadow at the time when Jim's

"Kay Kelmore was at the Beach Club before the robbery," added Cranston, "and according to police reports,

she was seen in Greenwich Village the evening before she died. Kay links up with a society crowd that has

access to all the other places and functions where robberies occurred, but the chain ends there."

Mann brought out the report sheet that he wanted and handing it to Cranston, he asked:

"A good choice," replied Cranston, "as a man who might link up with that chain. He caters to society like an

octopus, arranging everything from charity affairs to the handling of a special employment agency. Langley

"Now as to the disappearance of the stolen articles," said Cranston, "which includes everything from postage

stamps to murals. There appear to be discrepancies in the descriptions of these objects. They should be

"Here is the person for that," stated Mann, drawing a sheet of paper from another pile. "Milton Grayle,

curator of the Cleghorn Private Museum. One of his tasks is to keep a running catalog of all collector's items,

which should even include rubies, sapphires and postage stamps. Such items if above a specified value

Picking up a sheaf of papers, Cranston ran through them, making brief notes of their contents.

"The victims," said Cranston, with a slight smile. "I shall check on them myself and even call on a few this

afternoon. The police have questioned them already, but may have missed some essential details. I don't think

"It just might be," explained Cranston, "that certain victims helped set the stage themselves, under threat. It

would be easier to lose a few portraits or some precious gems, than to have damaging facts made public. The

"You mean Insurance Investigators Incorporated," nodded Cranston. "That's a good lead, Mann. Have you

"Yes. Their special representative came around this morning. His name is Terry Trent, and he's on all these

cases. He came to see me, because one of the robberies concerned bonds. The ThreeEye gets opinions from

all sources and I gathered, from the way Trent spoke, that he is checking on all the clients of member

"So Terry Trent might be ahead of the game," remarked Cranston, rising and pocketing his notes. "Push that

contact, Mann. Tell Trent you're worried about a careless client of yours named Lamont Cranston, who might

let anything get stolen. Keep calling Trent and if he goes on an important job, tip off Burke and notify me."

From the conference between Cranston, and Mann, it was obvious that trails about town were the order of the

day. The man who learned that very promptly was Clyde Burke, star reporter of the New York Classic. A

cocky chap of wiry build, Clyde had the air that suited his profession. Though youthful in appearance, he was

enough of a veteran to command the respect of a hardboiled city editor. Hence when Clyde received

instructions from his real boss, The Shadow, by way of Rutledge Mann, he was able to translate them in

"I've got a good tiein on the Kelmore case," Clyde told the city editor. "High society is wondering what to

expect next: murder, robbery, or both. You know, these robberies that were in the news. They're due for

"Two people to start with," replied Clyde. "Quentin Langley, who throws all the society brawls. He was

pretty close to all the people concerned. Then, there's Milton Grayle, up at the Cleghorn Museum. He can

In a Fortysecond Street office, Clyde found Quentin Langley doing a sincere imitation of a stuffed shirt. As

solid as the mahogany desk behind which he sat, Langley looked nearly as tawny, due to what he described as

a Florida suntan, which Clyde decided was another name for a sunlamp that Langley had probably

installed in his favorite bar and grill. Preliminary cordialities over, Langley let the smile fade from his broad,

"May I ask," demanded Langley, in a booming basso, "who sent you here on this outrageous errand?"

"It won't matter," retorted Langley. "You'll find a new man on the job when you get back. I'll have that fool

"You'll be fired too, when you get back, young man. If you want to know about Kay Kelmore, consult your

own society editor. Miss Kelmore was listed in the Social Register and any events that she may have attended

recently were covered by your newspaper, probably with due mention of her name."

"I intend to throw one party right out of this office," announced Langley, rising to a towering sixfoot six.

"My, my, what builtup shoes you are wearing!" returned Clyde, heading for the door. "So you won't talk?"

"I'll talk and plenty!" threatened Langley, across the desk. "And don't go referring to me as a professional

playboy or a social sunbeam as you have in the past. I run legitimate businesses, several of them, for clients

Clyde took a look from the outside and was reasonably impressed. Langley was listed, among other things, as

a publisher, editor, travel agent, educator, business counsellor and advertising advisor, which all added up to

promoter, in Clyde's language. Downstairs, Clyde put in a routine call to Mann, then headed for his next

The Cleghorn Private Museum stood on a quiet avenue that seemed tumultuous in contrast to the silence

within the museum itself. Attendants in the livery of Old English flunkies bowed to Clyde as he entered and

ushered him into an office where a thin, quizzical face studied Clyde from above a wingtip collar that was

strung with a shoelace necktie. All that Milton Grayle needed to complete that outfit was a frock coat and a

pair of striped trousers. When he rose from behind his desk, Clyde saw that he was wearing them.

Grayle's handshake, though bony, carried more pressure than Langley's bigfisted grasp. In a quiet, but

slightly crackly voice, Grayle announced that he was indeed privileged to meet a representative of the press,

to which Clyde replied that he was equally delighted at meeting the curator of the Cleghorn Private Museum.

"Thank you, Mr. Burke," responded Grayle, with a bow. "We shall not be hearing that much longer."

"Myself and the museum both," replied Grayle. "It becomes the Cleghorn Public Museum next month."

"Yes. Beyond the limits of the endowment fund. However, it will be a good thing for both of us. I shall retire

to a country estate on a pension larger than my salary, since the specifications of the endowment will be

altered. The museum will receive a great many valuable gifts which otherwise it would not acquire."

"I'd like to see your famous catalog," he told Grayle. "Particularly, I am interested in descriptions of items

"If you mean the objects recently stolen," he said, "you can learn all about them here. I have color

photographs of everything, portraits, murals, gems, and even specimens of some of the stamps that are in Mr.

"We have varieties of those, too," replied Grayle, lifting his smile another notch. "They are not cataloged,

This portion of Clyde's assignment proved a project in itself. The catalog was fascinating, a veritable

storehouse of information regarding articles valuable and even priceless. Not only did Clyde gain mental

impressions of all the stolen trophies; he came across a multitude of others that he realized might prove game

for future robberies, should opportunity present itself. What was more, old Grayle proved a storehouse of

"An educator," laughed Grayle, when Clyde mentioned that phase of Langley's claims. "Langley probably

thinks of himself as one, because of his Vocal Dictionary. He tried to raise money from Mr. Cleghorn to

"A great clumsy contrivance," described Grayle, "that housed hundreds of phonograph records. The idea was

to find a word, press a button, and the word itself would be spoken. I witnessed a demonstration of it once

and it was terribly artificial. Langley had hired a lot of old Shakespearean actors to enunciate words that

sounded like a teacher reading Robinson Crusoe in words of one syllable, with the longer words divided."

"What becomes of any of Langley's promotions? The backers lose out and everything is sold off cheaply. For

a while, Langley was encouraging people to back Broadway shows. I understand that some of them broke all

Clyde recalled that he had not heard of that phase of Langley's career. It had slipped him because the term

"producer" had not appeared on Langley's door. It was evidently one thing that Langley had decided to forget.

"So much for Langley," declared Grayle, as he closed the heavily bound catalogs that now strewed his desk.

"I doubt that he would have even a passing interest in art objects or collector's items; not even enough to

distinguish the genuine from imitations. Money is Langley's aim and he is always looking for quick ways to

get it. He is such a fraud that I am really sorry for him and all his bluster is simply a device to hide his

"If you want facts on art objects or rare jewelry, go to the owners of such treasures, but always be sure to

come back to me, so that I can check with your findings. In cases where such items are lost, strayed or stolen,

I shall be very anxious to hear your reports and can even pay you for your trouble. These catalogs" he

gestured to the big books "must be kept accurate, otherwise false items may creep into the market,

supplanting genuine. I intend to supervise the catalog work, even after I have retired."

Courteous flunkies bowed Clyde from the museum and he found himself back in the bustling world. Hours

having passed, Clyde hurried to a telephone and called Rutledge Mann. He was just in time to receive another

"I had about given you up, Burke," said Mann, "but you still may have a chance. Go over to the store of

Martingale and Company, the jewelers. Terry Trent has gone there, so it must be something important.

"Instructions received," returned Clyde. "Will report on museum interview later."

"Very good," said Mann, "and if you see Margo Lane at Martingale's, work with her as far as possible. I

His pocket stuffed with notes, Clyde hailed a cab to speed him on his new assignment, hopeful that he would

gather more facts from Terry Trent. These trails about town were almost becoming more than he could

handle. As a reporter, Clyde always kept three words in mind as the fundamentals of a story. Those words

Who was behind these robberies, was something that Quentin Langley might be able to tell, despite his anger

at mention of the subject. What might be stolen, could be found in the catalog that Milton Grayle had

displayed. Where crime would strike next was the final question and to it, Terry Trent might provide the

Perhaps the notes in Clyde's pocket would provide important clues by the time these trails had reached their

IT was dusk when Clyde reached Martingale's, but he had no trouble finding the place, even though the name

Martingale Co. appeared in letters of small and conservative size, beside the door. In contrast was the glitter

from the windows, a half a million dollar's worth of sparkle, given off by Martingale's merchandise, jewelry

The store was getting ready to close, but there were still a few customers inside and among them Clyde saw

Margo Lane, a striking brunette, attired in a smartly tailored sheerwool dress with brown accessories and a

cocoa ermine cape, the very type of shopping garb to impress the clerks at Martingale's. Margo was wearing

pearls with this outfit, but she preferred other gems for evening wear, hence she was looking over the

Clyde gave Margo a grin as he went past; then nudged toward the door, with a quizzical lift of his eyebrows.

"Just try and crash it," undertoned Margo. "I couldn't, so I'll tell you who's in there with Hubert Martingale

"What she's buying, I don't know," continued Margo, "but she's one of the patronesses of the Charity Ball

"That sounds like one of Langley's deals," remarked Clyde. "Stand by while I find out all about it."

Rapping the private door, Clyde was admitted to an ante room where he was blocked by a frockcoated

"Sorry, sir," the secretary said. "I can't admit you to Mr. Martingale's office without a note from him."

Opening the note which Clyde handed him, the secretary discovered that it was a request for an overdue

payment from Clyde's tailor shop. By that time, the reporter had gone through an inner door to Martingale's

office. There, Clyde was introducing himself to Hubert Martingale, Terry Trent, and a lady of dowager

Hubert Martingale, short but pompous, with a fiveinch part in the middle of his carefully combed hair, gave

Clyde the angry eye through a pair of goldchained spectacles. Terry Trent, a man with a heavy chin, stubby

nose and deepset eyes looked equally annoyed by this intrusion of the press. Mrs. Worthingham was all

aflutter, but not sure which way to light. Apparently she loved publicity, but wasn't quite sure that this was

There was a very good reason why visitors were being barred from Martingale's office. The reason rested on

a velvet slab, surmounting a glasstopped table in the center of the room. The object that Clyde viewed there

was a magnificent tiara, encrusted with gleaming diamonds interspersed by other precious gems.

"It was approximately that," stated Martingale, in a dignified tone. "This tiara a term we use for a lesser

crown was once the property of the Empress Josephine. Now that you have interrupted our business, I must

"That won't be necessary," put in Trent. "I think it is to our interest that Mr. Burke should remain."

Martingale's face became either troubled or nervous; Clyde couldn't decide just which.

"There have been so many claims on stolen jewelry lately," Trent explained, "that insurance companies have

begun to question the value of the stolen goods and in some cases have questioned the authenticity of the

claims themselves. There even seems to be a public feeling that certain robberies have been faked, which

casts discredit on everyone concerned. Therefore, I feel that Mr. Burke should be present at this transaction,

"And I can tell him the history of the Josephine tiara!" exclaimed Mrs. Worthingham. "Perhaps you can

"I'll arrange an interview and picture later," said Clyde. "Go on, Mr. Trent. What's the story?"

"The Josephine tiara has been appraised at fifty thousand dollars," said Martingale. "We have expected to

obtain that price by placing the piece at auction. However, it seemed unworthy to allow such a treasure to

pass into the hands of any indiscriminate buyer" he picked up the tiara, handled it fondly, as he turned it in

the light "so we decided to sacrifice it at a mere forty thousand, should we find an immediate customer.

Mrs. Worthingham had seen the tiara and admired it, so we informed her of the offer. She came here at once."

"And with a certified check," added Mrs. Worthingham, waving the slip of paper. "Look at those diamonds in

all their brilliance. How they sparkle when the light moves about them! Poor me, I shall be wearing it, so I

"You can still buy mirrors," reminded Clyde. "Are you taking the tiara with you, Mrs. Worthingham?"

"Of course," replied Mrs. Worthingham. "I intend to wear it at the Charity Ball tonight."

"I shall accompany Mrs. Worthingham to her home," stated Trent. "The house will be guarded from the

moment she arrives. Also, she will be strongly escorted to and from the ball. We want to be positive that

"No one could have been," avowed Martingale, haughtily. "We regard sales of this sort as strictly

Bowing apologies with his acknowledgment, Trent showed Clyde a batch of notarized appraisals, along with

descriptions of secret marks identifying the Josephine tiara. He let Clyde examine the marks themselves with

a jeweler's glass that Martingale handed him. Having thus established the tiara as genuine, Clyde made notes

to that effect and bowed himself to the door. There, Mrs. Worthingham overtook him.

"As soon as I can scare up a photographer," promised Clyde. "I'll be at your house soon after you get there.

The Classic always likes exclusive pictures. One of Mrs. Worthingham leaving for the ball, or even better,

trying on her new tiara, might make the front page of the bulldog edition." Clyde turned to Trent and added,

"It won't hit the street until after Mrs. Worthingham is at the ball. By then, plenty of people will know about

Margo had left when Clyde strolled from Martingale's office and out through the pretentious jewelry store.

Clyde's plan from now on was simple: A report to Mann, a call to a photographer, and Clyde would follow

the trail of the tiara on to Mrs. Worthingham's home. Not only would he be ahead of crime, should it be due

to strike; this time, Clyde would be ahead of all the other agents of The Shadow on this particular quest.

In that surmise, Clyde had reckoned without Margo Lane. More than slightly piqued by the way that Clyde

had bowled through ahead of her, the enterprising brunette had taken a course of her own. Doubting that

either Trent or Martingale would tell their business to Clyde, Margo had resolved to question the third party

That couldn't be done at Martingale's. Whatever Mrs. Worthingham might buy, she would probably take

home. Happening to know the location of the Worthingham town house only a short distance from Gramercy

The house was a remodeled brownstone between two newer buildings, which were apartments. It had three

stories, not counting the groundfloor basement, which interested Margo most. The street looked practically

deserted in the dusk, so Margo stepped down from the sidewalk, tried the basement entrance and found it

unlocked. Soon she was wandering through the gloom of an elaborate rumpus room to a stairway leading up

The kitchen and pantry were at the rear of the basement, but Margo heard no sounds from that quarter. On the

first floor, she saw parlor, dining room and library, but still no servants in sight, so she decided to try another

flight up. Servants were evidently about, for the house was fairly well lighted, but Margo decided that they

must all be on the third floor. That supposition would help out as an alibi, should anyone confront Margo.

After all, she had met Mrs. Worthingham at enough occasional parties to call her Elsa. Margo would just say

she was stopping by, had failed to get a response when she rang the bell, and had found the front door ajar.

As a friend, she'd entered intending to find Elsa and report this oversight. That should make the servants

Meanwhile, whatever Margo might find out regarding Elsa's jewelry purchase would prove very helpful to

the cause. So when Margo wandered into a fluffy, softlylighted room that was evidently Mrs.

Worthingham's boudoir, it seemed just the place to look around. The room was at the back of the house; one

of its windows was raised along with the blind. So Margo stayed away from that corner of the room while she

Among papers on the dressing table, Margo saw none that bore the name of Martingale, nor was the jeweler's

number listed on the memo pad beside the telephone. Some rather valuable things were scattered about, proof

enough that no petty thieves had taken advantage of the unlocked door ahead of Margo. Having drawn a

blank, Margo decided that her best course would be to slide outdoors again and drop in as soon as Mrs.

Worthingham returned. With this in mind, she was starting for the hall, when the telephone bell began to ring

Listening from the doorway, Margo noted that the ring was not duplicated elsewhere. Hence the boudoir

phone was probably an unlisted number, intended for Elsa's personal calls. Nor did Margo hear remote

footsteps in the house, indicating that any servants had heard the ringing of this phone bell. If it kept on, they

might, and would then come here. So it was with a mingling of caution and daring that Margo went to the

That took care of the servant question. Now the problem was to handle the telephone caller, who might prove

easy to bluff. A precise tone spoke "hello" and Margo answered with the same word. Then, the voice said:

The tone came in single syllables, the name "Celeste" sounding like two words, "sell" and "lest." It sounded

like the name of a French maid and Margo took it for granted that Elsa Worthingham had one. Faking a

"Leave at once," came the carefully enunciated order. "Tell the servants that it is urgent. Try not to be there at

Strangely mechanical, that Voice. So much so, that in Margo's mind it had no personality of its own. It was

just a Voice; that would be the only way to describe it. All its words were clearly uttered, with one exception;

"Yes," said Margo, suddenly. Then, correcting herself: "Ah, oui, I understand. But should Mrs. Worthingham

Smart girl, Margo Lane. Playing the game as a true agent of The Shadow should. Figuring that the unknown

Voice was behind some coming crime, Celeste must be his inside worker here. Thus, in pretending to be

"In case Mrs. Worthingham should return" again the Voice slurred the second syllable of the name "be

careful not to be alone with her, particularly if she is carrying the jewels which she just purchased. Arrange to

leave and tell her so. Then, learn the future" there was a short pause "from Fortuna."

"From Fortuna," repeated Margo. The Voice had pronounced it "fortuneah" and Margo wanted to be sure

of the name. Then, remembering that she was supposed to be Celeste, Margo broke into her best French: "Ah,

Time indeed was short. Even as the Voice ended the call abruptly, Margo could hear footsteps coming

upstairs; then voices. Mrs. Worthingham was back from Martingale's and Margo didn't want dear Elsa to find

her here of all places. Downstairs would be all right, but there wasn't time to get there now. Besides, it would

be better not to be found at all, as Margo now held ambitions to check further on the maid named Celeste.

In the mirror of the dressing table, Margo saw a closet door, slightly ajar. It looked like a deep closet, judging

from the shape of the room, so it should prove an excellent hiding place. Taking quick steps there, Margo

opened the door, found that the closet was not only deep, but plentifully filled with Elsa's wardrobe, including

fluffy dressing gowns and elegant fur wraps. Closing the door, Margo burrowed through to find ample space

There, Margo turned; as she did, she brushed something solid that seemed to shift slightly at her touch.

Worried, Margo probed the darkness further, trying not to be alarmed. What she gripped felt like a coat, but it

didn't seem to be hanging from a hook; nor did the hands, which crept in from the darkness, finding Margo's

They were real, those hands, but Margo realized it too late. Before she could gather her stampeded wits and

try to escape from the closet, the hands were around her neck, choking Margo's horrified gasps with a strong,

tightening grip. Writhing, clawing, Margo managed to force one hand loose, but the other only choked her

harder. Then, the first hand was back again, clapping a cloth drenched with chloroform across Margo's face.

That ended the struggle. Total darkness swallowed Margo and her frantic thoughts as she sank to the closet

DURING the muffled struggle in the closet, Mrs. Worthingham had entered the boudoir, accompanied by her

maid Celeste, who had met her when she came into the house. Portly Elsa couldn't possibly have heard any

sounds of Margo's brief struggle, for she was too busy gushing about the marvelous tiara that she had bought

"Isn't it just gorgeous, Celeste?" Mrs. Worthingham was asking, as she brought the tiara from the velvet box

in which it had been packed. "See! How the diamonds sparkle in the light. This way that way "

Elsa was placing the tiara on her head, tilting it from left to right; but she wasn't admiring the scintillation of

the gems alone. She was following Clyde's suggestion getting a good look at her own face beneath the tiara,

"Quelle belles bijoux!" exclaimed Elsa. "That is how you would say 'what beautiful jewels' in French,

"Oui, madame." Celeste wasn't noticing the tiara. She was watching the telephone. "Now for this evening,

Mrs. Worthingham couldn't make up her mind, which worried Celeste all the more. The telephone began to

ring and the maid pounced on it hurriedly, only to turn it over to Elsa with the statement:

While Elsa was talking on the telephone, Celeste's face showed relief, since her own call couldn't be coming

through. She was cute, rather than pretty, this maid, particularly in the fluffy maid's dress she was wearing.

The style was definitely French, in fact it was an exaggeration of a Parisian maid's attire. This fact explained

itself when Celeste turned her face into the bright lights that fronted the mirror. The glare showed that her

makeup was exaggerated, too. Celeste's eyebrows, lashes, were strongly blackened; her hair, plastered

beneath her maid's cap and knotted in the back, was done that way to give it a brunette appearance and, hide

A keen observer would have recognized that the maid wasn't French at all and would therefore have

concluded that her name was probably not Celeste. But Mrs. Worthingham, twittering across the telephone to

Mr. Martingale, wasn't looking in the maid's direction and therefore failed to discover the imposture which

"Of course I am safely home!" exclaimed Elsa. "So thoughtful of you, Mr. Martingale, to call... Yes. Mr.

Trent took good care of me... He's downstairs now, posting his men... It makes me feel so precious! But of

course it's all on account of the tiara... Indeed it is magnificent. I realized it all the more after I tried it on...

You should see it now" across the telephone, Elsa began bobbing her head and watching the effect in the

mirror "and you would really believe that it had been designed for little me and not the great Empress

Stepping back from the light, the maid now studied the tiara with more than envious eyes. Her smile raised

itself to the pattern of her cleverly painted lips. However, this girl who called herself Celeste, showed her

"I shall let you choose my gown, Celeste," decided Elsa, rising from the dressing table. "This call from Mr.

Martingale reminded me that I am to have an interview with the press. I am expecting a reporter and a

photographer at any minute, so I must go downstairs to receive them. I shall take the tiara with me and put it

Wearing the tiara, Mrs. Worthingham strode imperiously from the room and the maid gave her shoulders a

shrug of relief. Going to the closet, she began to pick out gowns, very rapidly, so that she would not be too

far from the telephone if it rang. The maid was turning to make her third trip, when she stopped, a startled

A young man was stepping from the closet, one hand raised in silent warning. He had the powerful build of

an athlete; his face, though definitely handsome, showed a dissipated expression which he probably regarded

as the true mark of a sophisticate. For the man's manner, at least, was one of complete selfassurance.

"Surprised to see me, Babs?" asked Randy, with an indulgent smile. "You shouldn't be more surprised than I

am, to find Babs Marland masquerading as a French maid and answering to the name of Celeste. I thought

"I am, between times," Babs replied, in an accent quite different from her pretended French. "I happen to be

From a pocket in her tiny maid's apron, Babs was bringing a brass disk with a black circle, to match an

"I knew somebody was working the inside," said Randy, with a nod, "or the back door wouldn't have been

"I left the front door open, too," returned Babs. "They're locked now, though. I saw to that as soon as the time

"That won't be necessary. I've picked my route already." Randy gestured to the window. "You're the one who

has the real problem. You shouldn't have come upstairs with Mrs. Worthingham; in fact, right now, you

From beneath one arm, Randy brought a box which he opened and showed its contents to Babs, whose eyes

widened in amazement. The box contained a remarkable replica of the Josephine tiara, studded with polished

rhinestones that glistened almost as brilliantly as the genuine diamonds. Even in that light, Babs couldn't have

told the false tiara from the real, for she was slowly shaking her head, as she studied the imitation with

"I'd hoped to make the switch right here," explained Randy, "but now I'll have to work it after Mrs.

Worthingham puts the tiara in the wallsafe. I have the combination, so I suppose you're the person who

"Don't worry about your call," said Randy. "You missed it. Step over here and I'll show you why."

Beckoning Babs to the closet, Randy shoved aside a wealth of fur pieces and gestured toward Margo Lane

who was bound and gagged with various of Mrs. Worthingham's sundries. Propped against a back corner of

the closet, Margo was seated at a slant, her eyes closed. Babs sniffed; caught the strong odor of chloroform

"No, she isn't dead," assured Randy. "I wouldn't have bound and gagged her if she was. She'll still be asleep

by the time I call to take Mrs. Worthingham to the ball. By then, I'll have sent word through. The Voice will

see to it that she's removed, probably by the same chaps who handled Kay Kelmore, and I suspect with the

"What's the difference?" laughed Randy. "You don't have to be a member to be eliminated if you intend to

talk about certain things you happen to know. The difference is that Kay was supposed to know about certain

"Her name is Margo Lane. I remembered her face after I looked over some cards in her bag. I'm leaving

everything as it was. Maybe she'll be lucky; the Voice might want to question her, instead of disposing of her.

As he spoke, Randy threw a sharp, hard glance toward Babs to note the effect. In that one look, Randy was

quite sure that Babs would never share the fate of Kay Kelmore. The dark eyes that wore the wellfaked

lashes were merciless as they gazed toward Margo Lane. In addition, Randy could see Babs Marland fix her

"You'd better make your excuses to Mrs. Worthingham," Randy told Babs. "That's what I gathered from the

call the Lane girl answered, pretending she was someone named Celeste. Say you got a cable from Bordeaux

"That's all been arranged," replied Babs, "but I didn't expect it to happen so soon. I've already primed Mrs.

"Don't worry. I'll send the details to the Voice. Fortuna will have my next orders ready."

"I heard Margo Lane mention Fortuna," he said. "So maybe your orders will be different after the Voice

learns that his call was intercepted. Anyway, good luck, and maybe I'll be seeing you." Randy gave Babs an

Turning, Babs went from the room on tiptoe; then beckoned that the way was clear. As Randy followed, the

maid turned toward the stairs leading to the third floor, while Randy took the steps going down.

In the reception hall below, Clyde Burke had already arrived and was interviewing Mrs. Worthingham while

a photographer readied his camera to get a good shot of the lady with the tiara. Terry Trent was standing by,

his chunky face expressing indifference, while a private detective watched the proceedings from the front

Looking up suddenly from his notes, Clyde gestured to the camera man and gave a nod.

"That's all for the interview," said Clyde. "Now the picture, Mrs. Worthingham."

Clyde was looking beyond Elsa Worthingham as he spoke, and the reporter's keen eye caught a trail of

blackness that weaved upon the stairway landing. There, the steps divided, one short flight leading down into

What Clyde saw was a blackish shadow that might have shaped itself into a silhouette had it paused upon the

landings. Instead, the black streak faded, indicating that its owner had gone the other way, down the short

flight that was hidden from the hallway. As the patch dwindled, Clyde pulled in a smile.

He'd seen such shadows before, Clyde had, but not often. Rarely did even The Shadow's agents sight such a

token as an indication that their chief might be around. However, Clyde had half been expecting it, for it was

after dusk when he had reported the doings at Martingale's to Rutledge Mann. Assuming that by then The

Shadow had completed his own rounds, Clyde's chief could easily have reached the Worthingham home

"And now, Mrs. Worthingham," the ThreeEye man suggested, "I think you can put the tiara away in your

Removing the tiara, Mrs. Worthingham started toward the rear of the hall and Clyde told the photographer to

come along. They followed Elsa and Trent into the library and stood at a respectful distance while Mrs.

Worthingham worked the combination of her wallsafe. Then, when the safe was opened and she was putting

Large brass screens flanked the corners of the library, on each side of a big fireplace. Looking toward one

screen, Clyde saw a stretch of blackness again, coming from the screen edge. Another token of The Shadow,

for it formed a silhouette, but before Clyde had a chance to study the profile, the photographer's bulb flashed

with blinding effect and from then on, Clyde was seeing black spots everywhere. Mrs. Worthingham locked

It was just at the time of Clyde's departure that a minor aftermath occurred. A girl came down the stairway,

carrying a suitcase and wearing a hat with a large brim. From her coy manner, the winsome expression of her

face, Clyde had a notion that the girl was French, but he didn't get a good look at her, for she turned so that

her features were hidden by the brim of the tilted hat. Clyde caught the girl's words, but only in part. She was

telling Mrs. Worthingham that she was leaving and she was sprinkling that statement with French.

"Ah, poor Celeste!" Mrs. Worthingham replied. "The bad news has come at last. But bad news is not always

bad. Maybe your return home may bring you some good. Bon voyage, Celeste, and remember me to Paree.

Ah, la belle France! Soon you will be seeing her shores again. That should make you happy!"

The girl went out the back way, hence Clyde did not see her face again, though he felt sure he would

remember her. It wasn't until after Clyde had left and Mrs. Worthingham had gone into the parlor with Terry

Again, blackness streaked the stairs, but this time it paused. Randy Royce eased into sight, carrying the box

that he had shown Babs, but handling it much more carefully. Smiling as he viewed the empty reception hall,

Randy continued upstairs and took the route through Mrs. Worthingham's boudoir. Taking a look in the closet

"This is the real article, sweetiepie," undertoned Randy, referring to a tiara that glittered from the box.

Even in the halfgloom of the closet, the tiara was resplendent, proving that Randy had made the switch, for

the rhinestone imitation glittered only in full light. Closing the box, Randy turned off the lights in the boudoir

and eased from the window, finding his footing on an outside ledge. Resting the box on the sill, he made a

long stretch; caught the rail of a balcony next door. Reaching back, Randy gathered up the box and half

swung to the balcony, planting the box there. Then, in the darkness, Randy cleared the rail and entered a

Guards posted in front of the Worthingham house weren't particularly noticing people who came from an

apartment doorway down the street and Randy's departure passed unobserved. Later, the handsome man with

the slightly weathered look stepped from a taxicab near Times Square and sauntered along an avenue,

Merging with a crowd, Randy paused at the entrance of a penny arcade, then sauntered inside as though he

were just a passing stroller with a lot of time but very little money to spend. But his lips wore the

After all, Randy Royce had maneuvered the theft of the famous Josephine tiara so neatly that no one as yet

IN his oldfashioned office in the Cleghorn Private Museum, Martin Grayle was receiving visitors. There

were three of them, Commissioner Ralph Weston, his friend Lamont Cranston, and Inspector Joe Cardona.

Their subject of discussion was a story slated to appear in the nine p.m. edition of the New York Classic,

Upon Grayle's desk lay the ponderous volumes that constituted the Cleghorn catalog of current art and

collections, which Grayle had gladly and proudly brought out for his visitors to view. It was to those volumes

"I wouldn't have believed this, Cranston, if I hadn't seen it! I don't wonder that the managing editor of the

Classic phoned me after he received Burke's story. Why, this fund of information would be invaluable to

"And equally valuable to anyone tracking down articles already stolen," was Cranston's rejoinder. "Mr.

Inspector Cardona confirmed that statement with a nod that Commissioner Weston caught.

"The sooner the better," replied Cranston. "You made the Kelmore murder public. Why not make every man

his own art expert, so that half the city will be trying to spot stolen goods for you?"

"We'll do just that," decided Weston. "Suppose we go over to the club, Cranston, and have some dinner

before we attend the ball at the Metrolite. That chap Quentin Langley is going to be there and he's mixed in

They went to the Cobalt Club where Lamont Cranston was promptly flagged down by Rutledge Mann.

"It's not chess this evening, commissioner," said Cranston. "Mann wants to talk about investments. Sorry. I'll

In a secluded corner, Mann produced reports from Clyde Burke; not the public sort intended for the columns

of the Classic, but those meant for The Shadow alone. In such reports, Clyde never let a detail slip him and

That detail was a reference to the "shadow" that Clyde had twice seen; first on the landing and then in the

Worthingham library. Cranston tallied it promptly with another minor mention, that of Mrs. Worthingham

"Something may not be right at Worthingham's," Cranston told Mann. "Where is Margo's report, Mann?"

"Martingale wouldn't have talked to her," mused Cranston. "Neither would Terry Trent. There's only one

"Not with mysterious prowlers and disappearing French maids," declared Cranston. "Instruct agents to cover

Outside the Worthingham mansion, Clyde Burke was waiting with the photographer to get another shot of

Elsa leaving for the ball. They saw a cab pull up; from it stepped Randy Royce, immaculately attired in

evening clothes. Randy rang the door bell and was admitted by Terry Trent. Soon, Randy reappeared,

escorting Elsa, with Terry bringing up the rear. The photographer shoved forward, took a picture of Mrs.

Worthingham and her escort. Conspicuous in the camera's eye was the tiara on Elsa's head. While Clyde was

learning Randy's name, to print it with the photograph, a limousine pulled up with a private detective seated

beside the Worthingham chauffeur. Elsa entered the car with Randy and Terry and the limousine drove away.

All this was quite intriguing to two men stationed in a doorway a convenient distance down the street. One

spoke and his voice was the habitual growl that went with Stick Stickney, chief lieutenant of Speed Devlin,

"Off to the ball," gruffed Stick, "and what they're sticking their necks into, will be plenty, after Speed gets

into action. The Voice gave Speed the whole setup. That old jane will lose that crown so fast, that probably

"If it's that easy," put in Stick's companion, "what are we hanging around here for?"

"It's Speed's idea," replied Stick. "You should've been listening closer, Marty. He wanted to know for sure

that Mrs. Worthingham was wearing that headload of rocks. There'd be no use trying a stickup if she

"Wait!" Speed told him. "We've got to watch until all the private dicks have left. They're leaving now the

bunch that was on the front. We'll slide around and have a look in back of the house."

A car pulled away, carrying a reserve supply of private detectives, all bound for the Hotel Metrolite. Stick

guided Marty around to a back alley and soon they were sneaking toward the rear of the Worthingham

"Guess it was nothing." Stick undertoned an unpleasant laugh. "Thought I saw somebody moving up ahead."

"Nah. We're just doing what the coppers call routine, Marty. On account of all that junk we've been grabbing,

Speed figured we ought to look around for snoopers. If The Shadow is in this, he'd be over at the Metrolite by

Marty didn't sense the bravado in Stick's statement. Actually, Stick had seen a gliding shape that he had

momentarily thought might be The Shadow, until it melted too swiftly to be real. It happened though that

Stick's first guess was right. The back door guards had departed from the alley and The Shadow, probing with

a pick, had unlocked the back door of the Worthingham house just as Stick and Marty approached.

Now, within the house, The Shadow was retracing a trail that Clyde Burke had mistaken for The Shadow's

own. Moving into the first floor library, he studied the wall safe in the glow of a few lighted floor lamps; then

inspected the screen that Clyde had mentioned. Moving behind the screen, The Shadow studied the way in

which his own silhouette cast itself into the light. Finally he looked toward the wallsafe.

No intruder could have spotted Elsa's handling of the combination from this range. A softly whispered laugh

told that The Shadow had tied in the French maid with any scheme that might have involved the combination.

Most of the second floor was dark, but a small lamp was burning in the corner of Elsa's boudoir. In that fluffy

room, The Shadow became a weirdly wavering figure, like something produced by flickering firelight.

Moving here and there, he was checking for clues but finding none, until he opened the closet door. There,

the sickening traces of chloroform greeted him and using a tiny but powerful flashlight to probe the closet's

The girl had awakened but she was feeble and her eyes blinked wearily as they met the flashlight's glow.

Ripping away the bonds and gag, The Shadow brought Margo to her feet, steadied her out into the room and

over by the open window, where the influx of cool night air revived her. Weakly, Margo tried to stammer her

"Let's get out of here first," The Shadow whispered. "Steady now and we'll start toward the door."

They were practically there when Margo, fumbling in her bag, failed to find her gloves. She didn't know that

Randy had buried them deeper than usual when he went through the bag. What worried Margo was that her

visit here might be discovered, but instead of telling that to The Shadow, she acted on her own.

With that, Margo broke away and with a surge of returning strength, had dashed to the closet before The

Shadow could stop her. There, Margo wavered, caught herself and turned around, clutching the closet

doorway. From the door of the room The Shadow watched the scene indulgently until he heard a gasp from

Margo's lips. The girl was staring toward the window, visible only from where she stood, but The Shadow

Margo saw two masked men launching in from the window. One was clear of the sill, the other crossing it.

They were well dressed, but masked, probably against the chance that they might be spotted by a servant. For

these were men of the sort that had met up with Kay Kelmore possibly even the same pair members of

that inner group known as the Black Circle. They were here to carry out what Randy Royce had told Babs

Without a word, the pair headed for Margo, guessing correctly who she was. They were pulling revolvers

hoping to cower her into silence, when an avalanche of blackness roared their way. Accompanied by a

fiercely whispered laugh, The Shadow was purposely drawing the attack his way; swinging a brace of

automatics, he intended to sledge down the masked men before they could stab a single shot.

That was The Shadow's specialty, luring the opposition into a false position, making them think that they held

an edge. It would have worked in this case, except that Margo, frantically seeking The Shadow's protection,

came stumbling across his path. Without an instant's hesitation, The Shadow cued his drive to solve that

problem. Whirling, he caught Margo with one sweeping arm, sent her headlong through the doorway to the

hall. Continuing his spin, The Shadow came about in full stride to combat the masked men.

The time lost in that spinner was just enough to give The Shadow's foemen the edge they thought was theirs.

That fact, however, was in The Shadow's own calculations. Instead of spinning full, he changed the direction

of his drive, then cut in at an angle to flank his enemies. In swinging to counter the attack, they blundered

Guns clashed as all three met in a lunge. The masked men reeled back as The Shadow wheeled away. From

the doorway, he jabbed shots that caused the pair to dive instead of aiming. Then, overtaking Margo in the

hallway, The Shadow literally swept her down the stairs to the floor below. Those masked men would follow

him, for now they had no other course. Not only was The Shadow carrying away the girl they had been

ordered to bring in, but the shots from his gun were enough to bring out the neighbors. This would make it

tough going for the masked men, if they tried to swing back from the window ledge to the next door balcony.

In the downstairs reception hall, The Shadow dropped Margo in a big cushioned chair and faded away to

receive the masked customers when they arrived. He picked a lighted spot near a rear doorway, because it

was practically out of sight from the stairs. But hardly had The Shadow wheeled there before Margo was on

her feet again, pointing as she gave a cry of alarm. Turning, The Shadow was just in time to meet another pair

These were tough customers, who preferred to shoot first and slug afterward, on the theory that crippled

enemies were easier to beat down. The Shadow recognized this before they tugged their triggers. He was

laughing as he whirled away, his strident taunt sounding amid the futile blasts of two revolvers. Then, not

forgetting the men from upstairs, The Shadow jabbed quick shots as they came down but they were alert

enough to dive apart, each taking a separate pair of steps down from the landing.

About again, The Shadow met Stick and Marty, as they bobbed up from the shelter of a big couch that they

had chosen as a barricade. They ducked, overturning the couch ahead of them, as The Shadow blazed shots

their way. Luck was with The Shadow's opposition in that they had so far escaped his usually scathing fire.

Small luck was turning into greater, for now they had The Shadow trapped between them, should they be

They were smart, all four. To a man, they were ready to hazard their own safety on the chance of clinching

victory over The Shadow. They surged, shoving their guns ahead of them, to fire closerange and point

blank. The Shadow would have to drive one way or the other, they thought but they were wrong. Wheeling,

The Shadow turned his eccentric spin into a headlong dive from the very midst of his attackers, each of

whom thought himself the man who was to receive the brunt of The Shadow's drive. All four pulled up as

they fired, only to find The Shadow gone. They heard the whine of their own bullets whizzing past their ears

and were forced to halt their shooting, rather than chop themselves down with their own crossfire.

There was only one direction that The Shadow could have dived and that was toward the front of the hallway.

Though they had caught but a fleeting glimpse of him, all four gunners swung in that direction. By then, The

Shadow could have reversed his spin and given them a solid dose of bullets, but again Margo had become the

problem. Rather than have the girl clipped by stray shots, The Shadow scooped her from the chair and carried

her clear into the front vestibule, in a continuation of his long, amazing dive. There, while Margo was

fumbling at the locks of the front door, The Shadow turned and blazed shots from his improvised pillbox.

Neither the two Black Circlers nor Speed's pair of gunners could curve bullets around the corner of the

vestibule. They hadn't time to reach the center of the hall, where by direct aim they could have trapped The

Shadow in his own stronghold and blasted him there. The Shadow's bullets were whizzing a leaden barrage

right through the hallway, a path that would have meant doom for anyone who tried to cross it.

Again, both pairs of foemen gained the same idea. The masked Circlers took to the stairs that led down into

the basement. Stick and Marty cut back through the library to seek exit by rear windows. Just as they had

joined forces, so were they glad to separate. To each pair, the mocking laugh that followed them meant that

Both factions were wrong. Pursuit was the last thing The Shadow intended, for he knew that he had thwarted

these enemies in the purposes that had brought them here. Their fight was a delaying action where The

Shadow was concerned, for knowing now that crime was on the loose tonight, his business was to be at the

main event. In all probability, that would be the Charity Ball at the Hotel Metrolite, where Mrs.

Worthingham's tiara whether real or false would have sufficient glitter to encourage crooks to seek it.

With Margo in tow, The Shadow had reached the front street before his recent rivals gained the back alley.

Out front, a cab wheeled up as if by magic, piloted by a canny, sharpeyed hackie who answered to the name

of Shrevvy. Thrusting Margo into the cab, The Shadow followed and Shrevvy was off before the door

A whispered laugh, strange echo of the mirth that had quivered amid the gunfire in the Worthingham

reception hall, announced the departure of The Shadow upon a new and more pressing errand.

The foyer outside the Gold Room at the Hotel Metrolite was teeming with society folk. Dominating the scene

was Quentin Langley, by sheer height, if nothing else. He was full of importance, though very much

harassed. People were all about him, wanting tickets which were impossible to get, because the Gold Room's

What worried Langley most was that right now he was supposed to be at the committee dinner, held in the

smaller Silver Room beyond the Gold Room. At least that appeared to be Langley's greatest worry, but

Inspector Cardona wasn't so sure. Swarthyfaced Joe, a complimentary ticket in his pocket, was studying the

foyer for faces that belonged to Rogue's Gallery portraits and he was particularly careful to scrutinize every

Among those present, Cardona noticed Randy Royce. He knew Randy's name because he had asked it of

Terry Trent, after Randy had appeared with Mrs. Worthingham. Not rating an invitation to the committee

dinner, Randy was simply lounging around, looking bored. He had a ticket to the ball, for Cardona had seen

him show one. All Joe wished was that people like Randy would move out of the way and give him a better

There was another young man whose face Cardona practically bypassed. He acted as though he had a ticket,

but he didn't have. His name was Fred Blanding and he was wearing a wellfitted tuxedo which he had

bought on the assumption that he would be attending events like this quite frequently. For Fred intended to

crack the mystery of Kay Kelmore on his own and he felt that the best field of operations would be among the

Although Fred had no reason to suspect Quentin Langley of being the Voice, he kept wondering about the

fellow. All the while he was refusing people tickets, Langley kept looking around with an air of seeking other

persons he couldn't seem to find. He had a bunch of tickets in his hand, but wasn't giving them out. At last,

Langley went into a phone booth and began making calls. Apparently, he was trying to learn if certain people

Randy, too, was watching Langley even after he entered the phone booth. It was Randy who heard the ring of

a bell in another booth and spotted a hotel attendant who answered it. As the attendant came from the booth,

"He'll do," the attendant replied, "if I can't find Mrs. Worthingham. The call is from her home. They want

The attendant wasn't even looking at Randy as he spoke. He was gazing around for a lady with a diamond

tiara, since everyone saw her grand entrance. So while the attendant went his way, Randy stepped over to the

phone booth and gave a quiet "Hello." An excited voice answered. Randy recognized it as belonging to one

of the Worthingham servants. In his third floor quarters, the fellow had been alarmed by gunfire which he

described as running through the whole house. He kept saying that Mrs. Worthingham must be informed at

Stepping from the booth, Randy resolved upon a prompt procedure. From one pocket, he produced a small

blue card which he read carefully. From another, he brought out a ticket and a badge with a red ribbon

marked "Judge." Putting the two in an envelope, Randy went over to the hatcheck booth and gave the girl a

check for his hat and coat. As he was turning away, he passed the girl the envelope, saying:

Strolling back Randy saw the attendant knocking at the booth where Langley was making his calls. Langley

came out, went to the other booth and answered the Worthingham call. By then the line was dead, so Langley

came out somewhat ruffled, to be surrounded immediately by people who wanted tickets. Apparently they

could now get some since Langley had learned that certain invited guests did not intend to come.

Among those seeking tickets was Fred Blanding. He was eager, yet polite, hence wasn't shoving his way

through. Appraising Fred at a glance, Randy picked him as the perfect candidate. Stopping the same attendant

"Tell that chap his envelope is waiting at the check room," said Randy. "The committee wants him to report

It was neat, the way Randy spoke in the attendant's ear while directing his attention elsewhere. Randy was

gone by the time the attendant carried the message to Fred. By then, Langley had also given out what spare

tickets he could and had returned to a phone booth to make more calls. So Fred was more than surprised

After opening the envelope, Fred knew it was obviously a mistake, but it was the very sort of break he

wanted. Pinning on the badge, he went to the entrance of the Gold Room, handed in his ticket and asked

where he would find the committee. He was pointed across to the Silver Room at the far end of the Gold.

Randy Royce meanwhile was establishing an ironclad alibi against things to come. He'd waited long enough

at the head of a grand stairway, to see Fred take the bait. Now, Randy was going out to the street, chuckling

to himself, never realizing that he'd chosen for his dupe a man much closer to the Black Circle and its affairs

than anyone suspected. On the sidewalk, Randy looked at his watch, told the doorman that he would have to

have a cab at once, since he had just ten minutes to catch a train at Penn Station. The cab came and Randy

irritably repeated the fact to the driver. When Randy acted that way, people seldom forgot him. He was

It was nearly time for the ball to start and Inspector Cardona was becoming impatient. Deciding to hunt up

Terry Trent, Cardona worked his way through roundabout passages to the serving quarters behind the Silver

Room. There he met two of Terry's men along with a couple of his own from headquarters. The rest, Joe

knew, were sprinkled through the Gold Room. Asking for Terry, Cardona learned that the ThreeEye man

Meanwhile, waiters were parading through from the kitchen. They had been thoroughly checked as specials

hired for this occasion. There was something curious about waiters, something which Joe Cardona himself

knew. They were the last persons that anyone would notice when they were on the job. Cardona himself had

often tabbed on known crooks by posing as a waiter and serving them while they ate.

Ordinarily, Cardona remembered such rules and applied them both straight and in reverse, but he wasn't

thinking about waiters any longer. He wanted to find Trent and ask why Langley was fussing around so much

Things were happening in the kitchen. There, a waiter had paused to answer a call on a telephone. Hanging

up, he went his way, pausing briefly to speak to another waiter as he passed. Again, the telephone rang; a

waiter answered it and received the same word to pass along. This was repeated later, obviously so the word

could be spread fast. With three or more waiters picking up the instructions hardly a motion was lost among

It was peculiar, however, the way the waiters spoke to one another. Each held a cupped hand ready and

unless another waiter responded in kind, he didn't get the word. For in those hands, each waiter displayed a

brass disk with a black band. Among the servers who were going in and out of the Silver Room, a fair

Now, one by one, the waiters thus informed began halting to set down trays beside a fire exit just inside the

kitchen. From there, they continued through and out another door, while in from the fire tower came men to

replace them. They were a harder lot but that was true in looks only, as they didn't rate membership in the

Black Circle. This new batch of waiters were Speed Devlin's crew who had met with him in his apartment.

In the Silver Room, Fred Blanding hadn't observed the shift among the waiters. He was waiting for the

committee to finish dinner, as were several other judges who formed a little group. About the only odd thing

that Fred noticed was that the other judges wore badges with blue ribbons, while his was red. If that made

A waiter had stopped to arrange chairs for the judges. Fred was taking a chair when the waiter grasped his

elbow and steered him to another in a corner. Then, as Fred sat down, the waiter fidgeted with a halfcupped

hand studying Fred's face along with his red badge. In the waiter's hand, Fred caught the shine of brass,

Apparently, the waiter didn't require Fred to flash a token in return, for the waiter was looking away noting

that all other badges were blue. But Fred wasn't going to miss this opportunity, not while he too had a token

in his pocket. Fishing it out, Fred let the waiter see it, studying the man's face closely. Then, the waiter went

Except that the waiter didn't return. He'd made his changeover, the last of the lot, as soon as he went through

to the kitchen. And Fred, expecting other waiters to flash tokens, was completely disappointed. Speed's outfit

All this had happened in a very short while from the time when Fred had been lounging hopelessly around the

foyer. Now came the longest wait of all, though it couldn't have been more than several minutes, just enough

for the last of the Black Circlers to clear the hotel and establish his presence elsewhere. The dinner was over

and when the waiters had finished cleaning up, Mrs. Worthingham and the other committee members would

give instructions to the meek judges. They would award the costume prizes later on.

One waiter upset a glass of water near Mrs. Worthingham. As she drew back with a slight exclamation,

another waiter just behind her plucked the tiara from her head and passed it to a third who was going by. If

the tiara had been a little lighter, Elsa would not have missed it, and none of the surrounding guests saw the

quick grab. But as she raised her head in alarm, Mrs. Worthingham saw herself in a mirror across the room at

the very moment her hands were rising to her head. Her scream became a howl when she realized she was

Fred Blanding, comparatively close by in his corner, instantly guessed what had happened. While committee

men and judges were gaping about in confusion, Fred caught a flash of the tiara in a waiter's hands over by a

serving table and raised a shout of his own. At the same time, Fred sprang from his chair and as he did so, he

Randy Royce couldn't have faked the action better than Fred Blanding's legitimate performance.

The click came from a trick light switch. Instantly the Silver Room was plunged into blackness, broken only

by a kaleidoscopic effect produced by blinks of light from the door to the serving room as the last waiter

scudded through. During those blinks, Fred tripped headlong, as did other guests, for the fake waiters were

seeing to that as they ran. As Fred found his feet and reached the door, it proved to be jammed from the other

Near the kitchen Joe Cardona was talking with Terry Trent, who had finally returned. Hearing loud thumps,

they swung about to see a door come crashing through pouring a flock of tuxedoed men with it. Fred

Blanding among them. With the last of the lot came Quentin Langley, who had just arrived in the Silver

The men in tuxedoes were grabbing waiters right and left and the waiters were very much astonished, for they

were the original ones. All of Speed's men had stacked their trays and slipped out through the fire exit, with

one exception. This was a waiter who had purposely let himself be cornered there. He was carrying a tray

Fred saw the waiter lower that tray, ease it toward the door. Instantly eager hands came through; one pair

lifted the cover, another plucked the tasty dish that was beneath it. That tasty dish was Mrs. Worthingham's

Cardona saw the thing happen as Fred shouted. The fake waiter flung the tray Joe's way and dived through

the doorway after his companions. Then, Cardona swung about to stop the nearest men who wanted to start

Revolvers blazed from the fire tower. Speed's men were throwing a leaden curtain to discourage the chase.

With the volley, Cardona flattened and rolled aside, everyone else copying his example and wisely. How long

the gunfire would last and whether it would be repeated were questions that left everyone powerless, with one

Amid the volley, a blackcloaked figure sprang through the doorway from the Silver Room. With a

challenging laugh, this blackclad master drowned and defied the bark of the revolvers. As if at his

command, the fire ceased, for the crooks behind those guns knew who that challenger must be: The Shadow!

Never pausing in his drive, The Shadow cleared the prone forms of Cardona and the others in his path. He

appeared to reach the fire exit at the very instant the volley ended, but the echoes were deceiving; the

shooting had stopped sooner. Then, The Shadow's strident laugh brought echoes of its own, for he too had

The Shadow's example was enough. Coming to his feet, Joe Cardona followed the cloaked battler to the

If the architect who designed the Hotel Metrolite hadn't earned a bonus by squeezing in an extra tier of

rooms, The Shadow would have broken crime's trail this night. The rooms had been added at the expense of

the fire tower, which, though it met the requirements of the building laws, was just about as narrow as these

The tower stairs reversed themselves at every turn and to make everything all the more compact, each series

of steps was short, making the turns frequent. Though the last members of Speed's fleeing tribe had a start of

only a dozen seconds, it was enough to keep them a turn ahead of The Shadow, all the way down to the street.

There the crooks scattered between parked cars and cruising taxicabs. They had waiting cars of their own,

around convenient corners, and they fled to those cars, efficiently, despite their helterskelter tactics. Speed

Devlin was a leader who lived up to his name and expected his followers to do the same.

Nevertheless, the chase was by no means ended. Inspector Cardona had ordered a supply of squad cars to be

in this vicinity and they were on the job. Rapidly, Cardona threw a loose cordon around the area, while plain

clothes men, also present in large numbers, began stopping and inspecting all cars. It wasn't long before they

flushed the cars containing the fake waiters from the Metrolite and a new chase began in earnest.

Meanwhile, The Shadow had disappeared. This was Cardona's party and Joe could have it. Contacting

Shrevvy's cab, The Shadow put his black regalia in a secret compartment beneath the rear seat and as Lamont

Cranston, strolled into the hotel as a late comer. He found Commissioner Weston also just arriving on the

scene. There, Terry Trent had taken temporary charge and was shrugging off the indignant criticisms that

Quentin Langley heaped upon him because he had failed to prevent the theft of Mrs. Worthingham's new

One man decided not to go back into the Hotel Metrolite. That man was Fred Blanding. Thrusting his

redribboned badge deep in an inside pocket, Fred tried to look innocent as well as respectable as he headed

back to his own hotel. For though he had only a vague idea of all the details, Fred felt that his own part would

Apparently some member of the Black Circle had been assigned to wear the red judge's badge and thereby be

seated in the chair connected with the special light switch. A neat coverup for the man in question, because

the mere act of springing to Mrs. Worthingham's aid was the thing that had blacked out the lights. At present,

Fred didn't connect Randy Royce with the scheme, for he had merely seen Randy and didn't even know him

by name. But whoever it was, the man had decided to alibi himself completely by picking Fred as a stooge.

True, Fred had luckily been able to identify himself as a member of the Black Circle to an inquisitive waiter.

But that particular waiter himself had disappeared, along with others of the Circle clan. Fred had been too

earnest in his followup; hence the second batch of fake waiters would remember him. All this was bad, so

bad that Fred was very anxious to switch from his tuxedo into some attire that wouldn't identify him to the

Compared to Fred's plight, however, Speed Devlin and his men were having double trouble. In one of three

pickup cars that had gathered in his band, Speed was letting his sharp eyes ferret out pursuing headlights,

while his lips, very tight for once, showed nothing of the fangish leer that marked him as the leader of a

human wolfpack. Yet Speed, as sharp in thought as he was of eye, wasn't criticizing himself for having been

Speed Devlin was getting ideas, chance ideas that had come from reading an early edition of tomorrow's

Classic while he had been waiting in a restaurant near the Hotel Metrolite. Spotting the section of town to

Mutters came from the rear seat as the driver obeyed. Nevertheless, Speed's word was law. Not only did his

driver obey, three trailing cars copied the maneuver. Rounding a block, it seemed at first that the gang was

going into the jaws of a trap. Then, as police cars were shaken from the trail, Speed's men began to voice

At that, Speed grinned in his natural style. They wouldn't be happy long, nor were they. Wailing sirens began

to sound from neighboring blocks. The ruse had been discovered; soon Speed and his men would be hemmed

in for keeps. Heads and gun hands began to poke through windows, ready for a suicidal stand. Then, as the

Cars halted, men sprang to the street bewildered, taking clumsily to doorways when Speed waved them there.

A nudge of Speed's hand and the cars were off, separating as rapidly as possible. One man began to mutter at

"It's no use, Speed," the thug complained. "The cops won't give those empties a clean bill until they've made

sure we weren't dumped along the line. They'll keep closing in until they find us."

"Not where we're going, they won't," declared Speed. "Come along and make it fast."

As Speed led his men out into the open, they felt sure this was their finish. He passed along the order:

"Masks!" and they obeyed it by pulling bandanna handkerchiefs across their faces. But the very act seemed

stupid, something that would mark them even more when the police arrived. Then, as sirens was shrieking

lustily from around the nearest comer, Speed waved his men up the marble steps of an old brick building that

occupied a quarter of the block. Next they were going through big grilled gates that looked ready to clang

Two startled men in livery met the masked invaders. Speed brandished a revolver and gestured toward the

"It's near enough to closing time," he snarled. "Get those gates shut and the doors too."

As the liveried men obeyed, Speed pulled the early Classic from his pocket and opened it to the third page.

"Know where we are?" he asked his crew. "I'll tell you. In the Cleghorn Private Museum. I was reading all

about it in this early sheet. It gave me an idea when I saw we were in the neighborhood. A guy named Burke

wrote it up and he even mentioned the hours it was open. We were just in time before it closed and the cops

With the story was a picture of a seriousfaced man with wise eyes and a big forehead, who wore a

"That's Milton Grayle," explained Speed. "He bosses the joint. They call him the curator, in case you don't

know. We don't want to scare him, so we'll have those flunkies introduce us nicely."

The attendants had closed the doors under the threat of guns, so Speed urged them toward a door that bore the

word: CURATOR. Sending the attendants ahead, Speed let them announce that visitors were present and

then, adjusting his mask, Speed entered with his gun. From behind his desk, Grayle stared quizzically at

Speed and the masked men who followed him. Slowly, his face became startled; then, on the verge of fear, it

stiffened. Importantly, Grayle rose behind his desk and smoothed his oldfashioned waistcoat.

"So you're old man Grayle," snorted Speed, through his mask. "You've shrunk a lot since this picture was

taken." Speed slapped the newspaper on the desk. "Here, read all about yourself."

Steadying his shaky hands, Grayle adjusted a pair of pincenez glasses and glanced at the Classic story. He

"Yes, it is an old photograph, but it was the only one I could find. Apparently my fame has spread quite

rapidly" Grayle forced a dry chuckle "but you have exaggerated my importance. If you are seeking

valuable art treasures, they are stowed deep in our vaults. I do not even have the keys; the directors keep

"We wouldn't be robbing this nice museum," bantered Speed. "When it comes to valuable stuff, we bring our

own. Wait there" Speed shoved forward with his gun "bring up those mitts! That's hands to you, Mr.

Grayle's hands came up from the edge of a desk drawer where Speed had seen him fumble. Coming around

the desk, Speed pulled the drawer wide, found an oldfashioned revolver buried among some papers.

"Not even loaded," said Speed. "Here" he flung the revolver at one of the attendants, who missed it and

went scrambling to pick it up "put that out in a glass case with the rest of the antiques. As for you, Grayle,

no more funny stuff, or we'll plant you in a case too and it won't be a glass one."

"I wasn't even thinking of opening the drawer," he pleaded. "Now if you gentlemen will sit down and remove

"Cut it," snorted Speed. "We're here to talk about a thing called the Josephine tiara. Ever hear of it?"

"It's listed in the third volume, fifth section." Grayle pointed to a shelf. "That's the top book of the current

One of the attendants obeyed. While Grayle was thumbing through the catalog pages, Speed quizzed:

"You'll see it now," promised Speed. He beckoned to a masked man who stepped forward and laid a rough

paper bundle on the desk. Opening the paper, Speed revealed the tiara. "What do you think of it?"

Eagerly, Grayle picked up the tiara, held it into the light, then began bobbing his wizened face toward the

Speed nodded. Grayle brought out a large microscope and an object that looked like an oversized flashlight,

with a cord attached. Speaking to the other attendant, he said: "Connect it, Baldwin." Then, after examining

"You're stalling!" stormed Speed. "What do you think we're going to do? Leave the thing here with you?"

"Sure." Speed thrust his left hand forward and displayed a finger ring with a large sparkling stone. "Why?"

"Observe it in the ultra violet light." Grayle turned on the oversized flashlight, which promptly gave out

purplish rays. "Hmm" Grayle shook his head as he studied the diamond's changing glitter. "How much did

"Half a grand," returned Speed. "That's five hundred bucks, your language. If you tell me it's phoney, I know

"It's genuine," stated Grayle, "but it has a bad flaw. The price was about right, if you can tolerate imperfect

"It's enough of a headlight to suit me," argued Speed, "only it don't touch those rocks in the tiara. I'm saying

He sprayed the ultraviolet on the tiara and Speed saw the difference instantly. Under the rays, the gems in

Speed dialled, recognized the voice that replied. Grayle was leaning close to the desk, his hands on the edge

"Keep out of this, Grayle," ordered Speed. "I'm naming nobody and I don't want you to hear my name from

the other end." Then, into the phone, Speed said: "You know who this is. Find anything?"

It was good that Speed's bandanna mask was draped across his mouth. The cloth served to filter the

"I'd say so," replied Stick. "The wall safe looked pretty tough, but maybe it wasn't much more than a toy for

"He had a dame with him, a looker too. And there were a couple of guys after him, with masks on."

"Not a chance. They wanted to clip him as much as we did. If it hadn't been for them, The Shadow would

Dropping the phone on its cradle, Speed handed the false tiara to one of his men.

"We're taking it," Speed told Grayle, "just in case that light of yours is phoney. Unless you want to keep it."

"All right," chuckled Speed. "Call us replicas then. In other words, show us out of here, the back way."

Grayle led the masked men from the office, the attendants coming along, when Speed waved his gun. Faintly,

the sound of sirens could be heard and Speed calculated that they were in the surrounding block. Calmly,

Grayle led the way to the rear of the big floor, then unlocked a door leading to a pair of stairs. The procession

moved down to a deep basement, where Speed saw the doors of the vaults that Grayle had mentioned. Using

a flashlight, Grayle conducted the masked men through a long passage that finally ended at a pile of crates.

Gesturing for his attendants to remove the crates, Grayle opened a door beyond and bowed the visitors

"You'll find steps at the end and a door above," promised Grayle. "Now, gentlemen, we shall leave you."

"Not yet," argued Speed. "You'll stay right here until we're out. It's going to be tough for you if this is a

Speed and his men used their own flashlights from then on, some retreating, keeping their lights back on the

passage entrance where Grayle and the attendants dwindled to pygmy size. At the end, Speed found the steps,

with the door above. He and his men came out through a basement door on a side street. As they listened,

"They're out front of the museum," decided Speed. "This is our chance. If we get through that alley" he

pointed across the narrow street "we'll be still another block on our way. It's a cinch to shake the coppers

The darkness of the opposite alley swallowed Speed and his companions as they carried along the imitation

tiara to add to the collection of fake treasures that Speed Devlin now regarded as a continuous contribution

It was nearly midnight and a group of men were seated in Grayle's office, where the museum curator had

summoned them. Along with Cranston, Weston and Cardona, the group included Quentin Langley and Terry

"And that is the story," stated Grayle, "as Hector and Baldwin will testify. Now would you like to hear the

Nods were the reply. Reaching to the edge of his desk drawer, Grayle smiled thinly and said:

It came, a bit crackly, for the automatic recorder in Grayle's desk was something of a museum piece in its

own right. Word for word, detail for detail, the listeners heard the conversation that Grayle had held with his

masked visitors. Speed's voice, sullen, boastful, according to his moods, would be difficult to identify from

this record, but the listeners hoped that somewhere a revealing statement would slip in.

None came. The nearest to a slip was when Speed had dialed the number at which Stick answered. There, the

record dwindled to a mere scratch, until Speed's voice came very sharply: "Keep out of this, Grayle!" From

then on, the words were clearer than before and even Grayle's tone was more distinct.

"We were getting acquainted," said Grayle, during a lull in the recording. He shook his head with a smile of

recollection. "I was hoping that I could trick my masked friend into some betrayal of his identity. Of course, I

had won his confidence, more or less, by telling him that the tiara was only a replica."

"Which was a mistake," declared Commissioner Weston. "It will be hard to guess what they will do with it

"But it actually was an imitation!" exclaimed Grayle. "Hector and Baldwin both saw me test it with the

"It couldn't have been phoney," put in Terry Trent, bluntly. "I stayed with the real tiara from the time it left

"Perhaps the criminals themselves exchanged it." This came from Quentin Langley. "They might have come

"You seem to have a lot of ideas," snapped Trent. "Maybe you should have, considering that all these

"I manage many functions," retorted Langley, haughtily, "and I have a wide range of acquaintances. It is my

business to promote charity functions and provide entertainment. I was attending to my business tonight.

Trent couldn't answer that one. It was Cranston's turn to provide a few opinions.

"Mr. Grayle was in a dilemma," declared Cranston, "and a statement of fact was his best way out. The same

should apply where the public is concerned." Looking toward Weston, Cranston added: "Crooks may be

"Exactly," agreed Langley. "Why there must be a dozen bands of such rascals running rampant. It will put me

out of business, if this keeps on. People like Mrs. Worthingham will refuse even to attend the functions I

"And that will hit you in a number of ways," remarked Trent. "Perhaps with the employment agency you run

as a sideline. You provided the waiters for that committee dinner in the Silver Room, didn't you?"

He halted abruptly, his long, haughty face purpling. Then, rearing to full height, Langley thrust his hands

toward Trent's throat, which was below Langley's own shoulder level. Brushing the thrust aside with an arm

"I just wanted to know," said Trent, "or I should say, I made it my business to find out. After all, I've got to

"You don't seem to be minding your business, Trent," said Langley. "When Mr. Grayle here told you that the

stolen tiara was an imitation, you still argued that it was genuine to start. What are you trying to do make

"I've talked to Mrs. Worthingham. I asked her where she hired her own help. It seems that she got a French

maid named Celeste Rochelle through that agency of yours. The maid quit this afternoon, right after Mrs.

"You can't hold me responsible," blustered Langley. "My employment agency is managed as well as any in

From the corner of his eye, Terry Trent observed that Joe Cardona was taking notes. The police inspector was

finding the insurance investigator a very helpful source of information. To help their mutual cause, Trent

"Make a note of this one," suggested Terry. "There was a gun fight at the Worthingham house about half an

"I know all about it," gruffed Cardona. "I'm not taking notes" Cardona bluffed with a pokerfaced stare

"Check this then," offered Terry. "One of the servants an honest one phoned the hotel to tell Mrs.

Worthingham about the battle. He said he'd talk to Mr. Langley if she wasn't available. When Langley came

to the phone, the servant told him about the shooting. Only Langley didn't report it, at least not to me. Did he

"I didn't get any such call!" Langley argued. "I was busy on the telephone, yes, talking to people about

"Except for one call you answered," reminded Cardona. "I saw you come out of one booth and go into

"So I did," admitted Langley, "but the line was dead. I guess that was it." He swung to Trent. "Where were

"Making some phone calls of my own," replied Terry, with a sideglance toward Cardona. "After all, my

men were posted and the police were in charge. I was checking on some other cases that I'd neglected on

Langley decided to switch the subject; he needed a logical excuse, and found one.

"Speaking of phone calls," said Langley, "it's too bad, Grayle, that your recorder wasn't good enough to pick

up the sound of your own phone dial. A modern Sherlock like our friend Trent here, could figure out what

"I should have a better recorder," admitted Grayle, in an abject tone. "Perhaps" the curator's dry face

brightened "perhaps you could supply me with one, Mr. Langley. Don't you have some very fine equipment

"That was a typical Langley project," said Terry. "Another flopperdoo. I've been checking on the way you

handle the sucker trade, Langley. A lot of people put money into that dictionary job, but you never got

"We got clear through the letter W," returned Langley, "before we ran out of funds. Since the company was

bankrupt, everything was sold off for what little it would bring. That's the way business goes, nowadays."

All this talk was getting them nowhere, in the opinion of Commissioner Weston. Becoming more and more

irked, Weston wasn't watching Cranston, as he so often did. Otherwise he would have seen that his friend

with the "uncluttered mind" was absorbing all this chitchat with the same keen interest that he displayed

across a chessboard. From trivialities as well as the more serious topics in which these speakers indulged,

Today's events, beginning with the preliminaries at Martingale's store, running through the episodes at the

Worthingham home to the robbery at the Hotel Metrolite and finally, the stopoff that masked criminals had

made here at the museum all these represented nothing more than a new round of crime.

The theft of the Croft portraits, the shipping company's bonds, the jewel robbery at the Beach Club, the

disappearance of the Juan de Vegas murals and the Cartwright stamp collection, constituted the earlier rounds

in which crime had had the edge. The fact that none of the stolen goods had come to light, proved that there

were wheels within wheels. The problem was to find the inner cogs and from them, the mainspring.

Quentin Langley, with his society connections, was a key to the victims. Milton Grayle, through his catalog

activities, could provide data on every stolen item. Terry Trent, who specialized in the investigation of such

cases, was a man most apt to pick up loose and forgotten links. Important leads might be gained from any of

Hence Cranston wasn't missing a point in any of their conflicting opinions. To Weston, however, all this was

superficial. It was certain that the stolen tiara was an imitation. The same could therefore apply to the results

"The criminals have been duped all along," the commissioner decided. "They found it out tonight,

immediately after the robbery they committed. From accounts of their flight from the Hotel Metrolite, we

know that The Shadow was close upon their trail. Whatever the mystery of the genuine items that were

stolen, it is evident that The Shadow has the answer. He has apparently deprived criminals of the fruits of

their crimes, by intercepting the genuine items and letting them have the false."

"What if The Shadow is a crook himself?" demanded Langley. "Maybe you'd better start checking on him."

"Whoever The Shadow is," argued Grayle, "he must be well acquainted with the victims, in order to get in

"He'd have to be keeping close tabs on the crooks too," asserted Trent, "or he wouldn't know what they'd be

Whatever the implications of these varying opinions, Weston brushed them off as unimportant.

"The Shadow is waiting until the criminals are trapped," the commissioner decided. "His own efforts tonight,

prove that point. Once they are caught, The Shadow will produce the genuine items that he now holds. That

Lamont Cranston wasn't smiling as he left the Cleghorn Museum with the other visitors. He was thinking

over what Commissioner Weston had said. A tall order even for The Shadow, to produce half a million

dollar's worth of rare trophies that he had never even seen, except for a brief glimpse of the Josephine tiara!

A blue light was glowing in a strange, blackwalled room where silence lay absolute. That glow was

reflected on the surface of a polished table, where long, thin hands moved in from the surrounding blackness,

like detached creatures operating on their own. From the third finger of the lefthand gleamed a jewel that

fluctuated in the light, its rays running the gamut of the spectrum, from deep maroon to vivid purple, with all

That gem was The Shadow's girasol, a rare fireopal that betokened his own mysterious ways. It always

displayed its fiery sparkle when The Shadow was working in the blue light of his sanctum.

On the table lay reports which The Shadow consulted while his hand made notations in blue ink, which faded

mysteriously, soon after the ink had dried. That was the way with The Shadow's thoughts; he expressed them

as tangible things, then absorbed them, as needed. They then remained in The Shadow's memory alone.

The Shadow's hand inscribed two blueinked words: The Voice. It wasn't the first time that he had written

that title; he frequently kept coming back to it. Through Margo Lane, The Shadow had gained his knowledge

of a mysterious, mechanical Voice that ruled over crime. Around the name, The Shadow inscribed a blue

circle. It should have been in black for it represented the Black Circle, the inner group that served the Voice.

As yet, however, The Shadow had never seen the blackbanded token that gave the group its name.

Beside the circle, The Shadow inscribed names. The first was Kay Kelmore and through it, The Shadow drew

a line. Next he wrote Celeste Rochelle, beneath it, the name Fortuna. Important names, though they offered

no trail. One represented Mrs. Worthingham's vanished maid, the other was a name that the Voice had spoken

to Margo Lane. Briefly, The Shadow delved among reports upon the table; then, to the list of names he added

Here was a strike, indeed. Randy had accompanied Mrs. Worthingham to the ball but he had left suddenly,

even though slated as one of the judges who were to award the costume prizes. Exactly when Randy had left,

The Shadow wasn't certain, but it was probably coincident with the phone call from the Worthingham home,

the one that Quentin Langley claimed he hadn't answered. According to society news, Randy Royce had gone

to Florida, to join a yachting cruise to the Caribbean, but there was no proof that he had done so.

As the other names faded, The Shadow underscored Randy's with a series of lines. Those stood for other

members of the inner circle that the Voice controlled. The problem now was to uncover more like Randy,

such as the men who had roamed the Village and battled The Shadow there, or the pair who had come to

carry Margo away from Mrs. Worthingham's. The same would apply to the original waiters who had

mooched into the dinner party at the Hotel Metrolite, but The Shadow as yet knew nothing of those Black

Circlers who had worked the changeover with Speed's crew. The names of waiters supplied by Langley's

Three days had passed since the theft of the tiara, and this was as far as The Shadow's trail had led. As the

paper went blank, The Shadow wrote new names: Croft Cartwright Worthingham then he let those

names fade. All victims who knew nothing. Their stories had tallied when told to Cranston, Cardona and

Trent. Yet somehow, they like other victims had acted on what seemed a schedule made to crime's order.

Something lay behind this, some power or threat belonging to that master criminal operating as the Voice.

Yet The Shadow was positive that the Voice had not forced the victims themselves to set the stages for crime.

Now The Shadow's hand drew a much larger circle and in it, he wrote more than a dozen names. They

represented either known criminals or characters on the shady side, and the name of Speed Devlin was among

them. As those names faded The Shadow's whispered laugh stirred the sanctum, absorbing itself among the

It scarcely mattered which name counted. Whichever mob was working for the Voice, would simply lead

along a blind trail. Even if somebody like Speed Devlin had direct contact with the Voice, it would be

completely covered. Naturally, the Voice wouldn't let his own dupe find him out. Nevertheless, The Shadow

wanted to trace the dupe in question. Wheels within wheels meant that cogs must meet at times. But The

That point brought The Shadow back to his original starting point. He reached across the table, took a pair of

earphones from the wall, and a tiny signal light glowed. A voice came over the wire:

"Truck last seen at Ninetyninth Street garage," came Burbank's reply. "Now carrying Jersey license plates."

Burbank gave them and The Shadow wrote them down, etching them in his mind before they faded. As he

did so, The Shadow said: "Report received," and that ended the call from Burbank, who served as The

That truck was still important, the truck that had been in back of an imaginary lunch room near the North

Island Beach Club and which had later led The Shadow into a running fight with the Black Circle, when he

trailed the truck to Greenwich Village, the night Kay Kelmore died. If The Shadow could force some issue

that would bring the truck into the scene again, he might crack the riddle of the inner circle and from it reach

The Shadow began to sketch a face, partly from a brief recollection of his own, partly from descriptions given

by people who had been in the Silver Room when Mrs. Worthingham lost the imitation tiara. The Shadow

remembered that face from the fracas in the village; he had glimpsed it again, when he had chased the fake

waiters down the Metrolite fire tower. It tallied with that of a young man whom witnesses said had been the

first to go after the jewel snatchers, just before the Silver Room was plunged in darkness. The Shadow's

recollection was dim and the descriptions vague. Nevertheless, the features that he drew bore a marked

Around the sketch, The Shadow drew a question mark. Here was a man whose actions didn't quite fit the

requirements of the Black Circle, even though he seemingly belonged to that group which The Shadow knew

only as the Voice's special workers. This was a man The Shadow hoped to find. As the sketch faded, the blue

light clicked off and the sanctum was plunged in absolute darkness. All that remained was the fading shivers

Finding Fred Blanding would be quite a problem, considering that there were probably a few thousand young

men in Manhattan who looked enough like The Shadow's sketch to pass for it. Searching for a face was not

on The Shadow's schedule, since he felt that sooner or later, circumstance might bring that face his way. But

Fred Blanding didn't hold to that opinion. He also wanted to find a face and he was looking for it.

Not the face of Randy Royce. Fred had recognized that handsome countenance the moment he saw it in the

Classic, smiling in blase style beside Mrs. Worthingham and her wonderful tiara, on the way to the Grand

Ball. The face Fred wanted was one he'd seen in the Silver Room, the face of a waiter who had met him eye

It was a sharp face, with a pointed nose and cleft chin; straight black eyebrows below a vertical forehead.

Fred remembered the eyes too, the way they had peered up beneath the brows. He recalled that the man's hair

was black, smooth like patent leather. The fellow had a look like a fox terrier, shifty in reverse. His eyes were

So Fred, each evening as he moved among the Times Square crowds, kept noting faces and bearing that one

in mind. He wanted a lead to the Black Circle and the man might provide it, but that wasn't the only reason

for Fred's quest. He felt that if any member of the Black Circle was around looking for him, it would be the

blackhaired man with the quick eyes. They must know by now that Fred had nearly ruined the raid the

crooks had made later in the Silver Room. At least, Fred credited them with knowing that much, though it

didn't necessarily follow because the Circle members had moved out before Speed's crew took over.

The business of the red badge, too, made Fred uncomfortable. He didn't know that Randy had chosen him by

chance. Fred thought he had been spotted even then. And if the Black Circle suspected that he was staying

around Times Square, the presence of multitudes wouldn't necessarily hide him. Fred saw many people

meeting each other along Broadway and his feeling of selfpreservation behooved him to look for enemies

Still, it might be only one chance in a thousand that Fred would meet the quickeyed man who could

recognize him, perhaps one in a million. It was a different sort of coincidence that paved Fred's meeting to

the man in question, a very simple one. Turning a corner off Broadway, Fred saw a small blue card lying on

the sidewalk. He remembered immediately having seen such a card before. Randy Royce had been reading

Turning the corner, Fred saw another blue card; further on, a green one of the same size. Perplexed, he kept

watching the sidewalk until he saw another blue, lying beside a red. Stooping, Fred picked up the blue card

and upon reading it, he laughed. The card was titled: "Your Fortune For Today" and in small print, it

delivered advice pertaining to love, money, business matters, and a nickel's worth of other subjects.

There was plenty of light to read the card by, because Fred was standing in the entrance of a Penny Arcade

which also specialized in higherpriced amusements costing as much as a nickel or a dime. The strains of

juke box music reached Fred, along with the clatter of slotmachines, the tattattat of imitation antiaircraft

Over the front of the Arcade was a big sign that said: GAMELAND. The term was apt, as Fred discovered

when he entered. There were change booths where small coins were supplied; spreading off into alcoves were

the machines in which such money could be used. There were basketball games, football, baseball, even

tennis, all with mechanical men operated by handles. There were rows of penny movingpicture devices,

shooting games, and even automatic photograph booths and miniature recording studios, with a sign saying:

Wandering about the place, Fred tried a few games and decided to forget his troubles. Maybe by now the

Black Circle had forgotten him, and perhaps its affairs weren't any of his business. Such was the mood that

She was parked in a large glass case, the mechanical figure that bore the name "FORTUNA" in large gilt

letters on an arch above her head. The figure was lifesize and of waxwork, representing a gypsy, seated

Fortuna was wearing a yellow hat, a plaid dress of brown and green. Her left hand rested beside a crystal ball

and had a pearl bracelet wound around its wrist, while her right rested on the counter, with one finger

extended. The figure's loosefitting blouse was held together by a large brooch with a dull green ornament of

It was worth a nickel, so Fred tried it. The figure came to life, heaved its bosom mechanically, and the

pointing hand began to move back and forth across the line of cards, very slowly. The head moved too, and

Fred studied the waxwork face. It was interesting, though not beautiful, the features more of a classical sort.

Evidently, though, it had been modeled by someone suited to the part. The expression was natural, the dark

eyes followed the cards with downward gaze. The lips beneath the wellangled nose were cryptic.

Finally, the hand stopped, pointing to a faceup playing card. A printed card, orange in color, poked out from

a slit in front of the machine. Fortuna's hand moved back to its original position and rested there.

Reading the card, Fred found it much like the one that he had picked up on the sidewalk. It told him to

beware of chance meetings with strangers, which was good advice, and added that though he could expect

disappointment in love, good news would be coming his way in a letter. Thrusting the card in his pocket,

Fred rambled about the Arcade, playing a few of the games, but all the while, his mind reverted to the

Maybe Fred had merely mistaken Randy's card for one of the sort that Fortuna dealt out. He couldn't

understand why a chap like Randy would take such stuff seriously. The thought kept Fred looking back

toward the mechanical fortuneteller from time to time, to see what sort of customers patronized the device.

Several people tried it, mostly young couples. The colors of the cards were haphazard, as Fred noticed them

from a distance. Fred was strolling over to see what kind of card he would get if he made another try, when a

man in coveralls came into the Arcade, carrying a small satchel. Stopping beside the Fortuna machine, the

man unlocked it, poured a lot of nickels into a sack which he took from the satchel. Waiting for the collector

to finish, Fred was standing by, rather interested in the size of the take, when he saw the man look up from

Fortunately, the collector's eyes paused on other faces before they reached Fred's. That was why Fred

recognized him first. Frozen for a moment, Fred recovered his wits, wheeled about and fumbled for a nickel

to drop into a baseball game. Fred's trail to the Fortune Lady had brought him to the meeting he was seeking

The man who was collecting cash from the machine was the fake waiter who had shown Fred the brass token

The next few minutes were tense for Fred Blanding. As he cracked away at the baseball game, he expected

the man with the terrier expression to come pouncing his way any moment. However, that worry soon faded,

and when Fred risked a look over his left shoulder, he saw that the fellow had gone.

Strolling over to the change booth, Fred spoke to the tiredfaced woman in charge.

"I meant to speak to the fellow over there at the fortune machine," said Fred. "I think the thing is out of order.

"His name's Jerry Stolle," the woman said. "He's probably still around, if you want to find him."

Fred didn't want to find him, but couldn't say so. Muttering his thanks, he moved away, looking for a good

spot from which to make observations. Fred was going to enter one of the miniature recording studios, which

were somewhat larger than telephone booths, when he decided that he'd only be boxing himself.

Nevertheless, he was glancing toward them, when one of the doors opened and Fred promptly stepped back

He'd recognized another face, Fred had, that of the man who had just come from the recording booth. It was

Fred's past, not his future, that was beginning to pay dividends of a dangerous kind. The man coming from

the booth was the fellow who had started him on his present road of misfortune. He was Jim, the flatfaced

Moving farther away, Fred paused to watch two men who were clattering away at a big football game in

which two teams of eleven mechanical players kicked soccer with a steel ball. One of the men scored a goal

and the other said: "We've time to try it once more." Fred watched the fellow pull a coin out of his pocket and

In went the slide, out it came again, bringing the brass disk with it. Despite the return of the token, the game

went into operation and the players began to kick away again. Looking at the two men, Fred recognized them

Fred hadn't seen their faces closely that night, but he recognized their mannerisms. Stepping away, Fred saw

other customers playing nickel machines and wondered how many of them might be members of the Black

Circle. Those special disks must have some magnetic quality that caused them to return, but they couldn't

have been designed just for the purpose of playing amusements for free. Puzzled, Fred looked toward the

Jim had gone over to the fortuneteller and was buying himself a lucky card. From his action, Fred noticed

that Jim's coin was returned; therefore it must have been one of the brass disks. Jim was reading the card as

he left the Arcade and a new notion gripped Fred. The Fortuna machine was probably double action. When

the disks were used, it delivered special cards, with which Jerry had just loaded it. That was why these

Playing his hunch, Fred went over and dropped his own disk in the slot. Fortuna went through her mechanical

motions and a green card came out. Stepping off to a corner, Fred read the card. He found that his hunch was

"Tomorrow at 5:30... Be in the lounge of the Tour Des Artes... Watch for any strangers who might be police

or special investigators... Remain until 6 o'clock unless such persons appear... In that case, go outside and talk

Fred pocketed the card and went over by the recording booths, which he now felt were the safest place, since

Jim had left there. He didn't even watch the fortune machine at present, which was a mistake. The two men

who had finished their football game had gone over to pay their respects to Fortuna with brass tokens and one

"Say!" The fellow turned to his companion. "I'm supposed to get a green. What's your color?"

"Red," said the other. "Looks like you received my card. But you're one number ahead of me."

"Correct, and I follow Jim. Didn't some fellow come over here right after Jim left?"

Hurrying over to the recording booths, the man went right past Fred and entered one. Fred stepped away; as

he did, the man who had stayed at the fortune machine saw him, and gave a gesture. The man in the booth

Meanwhile Fred was strolling to remote parts of Gameland, hoping not to run into Jerry, should the collector

still be around. He suddenly spotted the man, taking money from the backs of the recording booths. Fred

noticed that along with the cash, Jerry brought out some records as well. It occurred to him that those might

be special records, carrying reports for the Voice. Fred's idea was correct, but he didn't realize that the latest

of those reports concerned himself and the green fortune card that he had intercepted.

Outside of Gameland, passersby were meeting on the street, showing each other brass tokens with black

bands, gesturing toward the Arcade. Newcomers were being told to watch for a young man answering to

Fred's description and to keep tabs on him. Fred, meanwhile, decided to stay in the Arcade and watch for any

Things were moving quite speedily. Usually, Black Circle members were delayed in their reports, which were

dependent upon Jim's collections. But this evening, one had gone through at the last minute, hence it reached

its destination quickly. About half an hour after Fred had grabbed off somebody else's green card, Speed

"Go to Gameland," the Voice ordered. "Look for the man we want. FRED BLANDING. Hold

him until further orders. Do not question him. To identify this man, put nickels in the machine called

Fortuna" the Voice gave the name a precise syllabic pronunciation "and watch the man who seems

Hanging up, Speed Devlin turned to Stick Stickney, who was in the apartment with him.

"For another bum steer?" demanded Stick. "If you want my advice, I'd say to grab old Grayle and bring him

along on the job. Then, he can tell you whether the stuff is phoney or not, before you haul it away."

"This is different," informed Speed. "The Voice has got a line on that Blanding guy. If it's Blanding who

loused up those jobs for us, our troubles are over. The Voice says to bring him in."

"Not a chance. The Voice wants this handled with gloves. For The Shadow, it would be the works, and fast.

But The Shadow has been getting his tipoffs from somebody and it sounds like Blanding. So let's go."

Fred was still hanging around Gameland when Speed and his boys arrived there. It was Speed who went over

and played the fortune machine, while Stick tried his hand at basketball, missing all the baskets he tried to

flip, because he was watching elsewhere. Stick spotted Fred moving from one machine to another, pretending

All Stick did was give a nudge that Speed's men saw. Others observed it too, a few tarrying members of the

Black Circle, who promptly disappeared from the Arcade. They'd stayed to make sure the job was under way;

now, the work belonged to Speed Devlin and his deluded crew. Never did the Black Circlers show their hand

Finding the game that suited him, Fred discovered that he had an audience. A couple of rather tough but

friendly customers admired Fred's style of play and suggested that he join them in skeeball. A trifle

suspicious, Fred decided to seem willing, then slip them later. He learned his mistake too late. They were

passing the shooting gallery when guns nudged Fred's ribs through the coat pockets of the men who now

"Keep right on walking," one man said, "or you'll get jolted both ways with a lot of slugs."

"Yeah," added the other, "and don't think we won't. With all those rifles talking, nobody is going to hear a

There was plenty of clatter from the shooting gallery because Stick and the rest of the boys were trying their

marksmanship there. The pair who escorted Fred brought him up in front of an electric machine and pointed

As Fred did, the other man dropped a coin in the slot. Fred received the full supply of juice that was supposed

to come gradually. Glued to the handles, he was writhing madly when Speed Devlin, stepping up behind him,

supplied a short backhand flip with a blackjack. Taking the blow above the neck, Fred subsided. The two

men moved him out between them, while Speed spoke to a couple of attendants who came hurrying up.

"A fine joker, that machine," snarled Speed. "Our pal Frankie tried it to help his weak heart and it gave him

Following his helpers out to the street, Speed had them put Fred into a cab. Later, he was transferred to a car,

which eventually took him to Speed's apartment. When Fred awoke there, he found himself nicely trussed

and gagged, with several men eying him, none at all friendly. Out of hazy faces, Fred gradually began to

recognize a few of the waiters who had been handling the business in the Silver Room at the time when the

"If the Voice does any spelling," said Speed, "take it down carefully. You don't always remember it right."

"The biggest word he spelled was Jim," stated Stick. "He's some guy that runs a joint called the Coffee Pot,

up near West End Avenue. I'll steer you to the dump, because it's where we're to take this Blanding guy."

Fred's hopes sank when he heard the news. Having seen what could happen in Jim's Coffee Pot at its last

location, Fred felt that his adventures were due to end where they began and end permanently. Then, dimly,

Two men who looked like mechanics were loafing in front of the Ninetyninth Street Garage, when a truck

with a New Jersey license arrived there. Flagging the truck, they gestured it down the street, then joined the

"You're late," said one, "and we've got a quick job waiting. After this, we aren't using the Ninetyninth

"Probably. The more you hop around, the better the Voice likes it. But right now, you drive us down to West

"Last time it was a tailor shop. What's the matter with an empty, like we used out on Long Island?"

"It may be a giveaway, if somebody looks for it afterward. It's better they should find some other kind of

business where they thought the lunch room was. It helps, too, when there's a jerk proprietor who doesn't

As the truck rumbled toward its destination, a taxicab picked up the trail. It did a neat job, that cab, taking

corners one behind the truck, but swinging in again to resume the chase. That was a trick of Shrevvy's taught

him by The Shadow, who was awaiting a call, as soon as the trail ended. Shrevvy's present passengers were a

couple of The Shadow's agents who had been watching the Ninetyninth Street Garage in anticipation of the

Pulling into an alley off West End Avenue, the truck stopped, and its occupants were met by three men,

including Jim. Rapidly they unloaded the truck's portable properties: a lightweight counter, stools, tables,

chairs, griddle, table utensils, cash register and finally a clock. These were taken through a back door where

the fixings of a shoeshine parlor had all been moved away from the front. The last items to come from the

truck were a partition that worked on extension bars, to hide the equipment of the shoeshine parlor, and a

sign which bore the name of Jim's Coffee Pot. Then, the place was open for business.

The business came promptly. Scarcely had the other members of the Black Circle moved out, leaving Jim

alone, before a car pulled up and three men entered, bringing a prisoner with them. The leader of the group

was Speed Devlin; the prisoner, Fred Blanding. The car, piloted by Stick Stickney, pulled around the corner,

while another car, containing three of Speed's reserves, remained on the front street.

Shoving Fred in a chair at a table, Speed suggested that he try some coffee, which Jim promptly poured and

Fred refused. At that Jim shrugged and then, as if acting a part, he gruffed to Speed:

Jim's use of the plural "we" satisfied Speed. He motioned for his men to come along, which they did. In the

outside darkness, they encountered two men, muffled in overcoats, who were coming into the Coffee Pot.

"Wait a couple of minutes," suggested Speed. "Just in case. Then, we'll go around and pick up Stick."

The two men who had entered the Coffee Pot went directly to Fred's table, hauled him to his feet. Fred didn't

"We're taking you out," the man undertoned. "Act like you don't want to go along. We'll have to hurry before

These men weren't members of the Black Circle; of that, Fred was suddenly sure. At least he hadn't anything

to lose, by doing as they said. The other, his back turned to the counter, was speaking gruffly to Jim.

"We'll take care of this fellow," the second man said. "Hang on to your skillet, Jim, and watch the cash

At that, Fred put up a protest, which brought him some rough handling, neatly faked, from his two unknown

friends. Seeing that Jim was going to take a hand in it, Fred relaxed, letting himself be hauled through the

door. But they had hardly reached the short steps up to the street, when another pair of men loomed suddenly

from above. Jim saw the newcomers over the shoulders of the departing group and shouted:

The shout was meant for the two new arrivals. Jim was suddenly realizing that the men whose faces he hadn't

seen were spiriting Fred away. He was quite right, because they were The Shadow's agents, the pair that had

trailed the truck in Shrevvy's cab. Taking the initiative, they drove forward, up the steps, catching the

That left Fred the opportunity he wanted. Wheeling about, Fred drove back into the Coffee Pot and met Jim

with a fly of fists that bounced him against the counter before he could pull a revolver. As Jim dived away,

fumbling for the gun, Fred grabbed up a chair and hurled it after him. Fred's next missile was a table; he was

Speed and his crew were opening fire on The Shadow's men, who were returning the compliment.

Unfortunately, that left two others free for action; the pair that Jim expected. Diving for the shelter of the

Coffee Pot, the two came right on through, pulling guns to slug down Fred before he could settle Jim.

It was then that the fake partition flattened forward, carrying the clock with it. Clearing the dummy wall came

The Shadow, big automatics bulging from his gloved fists, a mocking laugh rising from his hidden lips, as he

hurdled to Fred's aid. As the Voice's men turned with their guns, Jim grabbed the table that Fred was

swinging and flung it for the single hanging light. There was a crash of glass, with it, blackness.

Darkness was The Shadow's choice. He proved it with the blaze of his guns. Here, there, everywhere The

Shadow was nowhere, when revolvers barked replies. Jim and his companions were diving for whatever

cover they could find. As they cowered, The Shadow found Fred in the darkness, hustled him through the

front door and up to the street. The Shadow wanted Fred out of the fray; then he'd return to ruin Jim's Coffee

On the sidewalk, The Shadow found himself in the thick of another fray. His own men had bargained for too

much, for Speed's reserves had come into the fray, putting them under fire from two directions. The Shadow

settled that in rapid style. With his usual whirl, he supplied a twoway fire that scattered Speed and his crew.

They recognized the mighty laugh that came with The Shadow's gunfire. Arriving in the midst of the fight, it

proclaimed him master of the fray, because it stood for the unexpected. But The Shadow knew quite well that

Speed's crew were the sort of rats who could find cover anywhere in alleys, passages, behind steps, even up

fire escapes or down through manholes. His policy was to keep such enemies on the run, rather than give

Hence the fray poured off between buildings, the scattered gunfire fading into another block, always with the

staccato sounds of The Shadow's automatics coming instantly after a flurry of enemy gunshots, proving that

he was picking human targets by the flashes of their own revolvers. Meanwhile, The Shadow's agents had

bounded from their own shelter across the street and had driven hard at Speed's reserves, who were coming

Already halted by shots that The Shadow had aimed their way, the reserves couldn't meet the test. They were

retreating the other way, and rapidly, hoping to regain their car, which they did. Backing it madly to the

avenue, they swung the car about and sped away while The Shadow's agents zipped bullets after them,

hoping to puncture the gas tank or explode a tire. Time was too brief to accomplish this and the car got clear.

In the Coffee Pot, Jim and his companions were madly hustling their portable properties out back to the truck.

Huddled in a doorway along the street, Fred wondered why they weren't coming after him. He didn't quite

realize that the Black Circle didn't mix with the outer ring that served the Voice, hence the two groups

couldn't very well combine, even to fight The Shadow. Just the same, Fred felt he was still the major issue

and that when the battle had carried well away, Jim and the Coffee Potters would come rushing out to grab

him. To forestall that, Fred moved rapidly but warily along the block, in the direction opposite that which

This brought Fred around the corner where Stick's car waited. Pausing there, in the open, Fred listened. A few

revolver shots sounded, from far away, and also distant from each other. It sounded as though Speed's men

were shooting at imaginary shadows. With a laugh, Fred turned; then found he had nothing to laugh about.

A blocky man with a blunt face had stepped up to plant a gun muzzle between Fred's shoulder blades. Fred

didn't see the face, but the rough voice sounded familiar, as belonging to one of the men who had brought

"Over to the car, lug," ordered Stick. "Don't get happy about Speed being on the run. He'll meet up with the

other boys and get away all right. I figured you might be on the loose. So climb in the car and we'll take a

Fred knew what the formula would be. Once he got into the front seat, Stick would slug him down. Fred

foresaw that as he opened the door at Stick's order. This was the only chance to act, and the last. Half into the

car, Fred came around, made a savage grab for Stick. Already the fellow had whipped his gun upward and

was starting the swing that would crash it down to Fred's skull. Fred was simply asking for a clout on the top

Then, the glittering gun seemed to jolt in midair and Stick did a backward heave with it. Before Fred could

even grab Stick, the fellow had spun around. A low, fierce laugh stirred the darkness; Fred heard the thud of a

gun against a head. The gun wasn't Stick's but the head was. His revolver dropping from his limp hand, Stick

Against dim lights from across the street, Fred saw the silhouetted head and shoulders of The Shadow. He

caught the glint of burning eyes as unseen lips spoke a low, even tone, telling Fred to take the wheel while

The Shadow himself rolled Stick into the car. This time, at last, Fred was on The Shadow's side. He liked it.

Circling through neighboring blocks, Fred picked up The Shadow's agents, who reported that the Voice's

truck had just pulled away from behind the shop where the Coffee Pot had been set up. One of the agents

took the wheel, the other occupied the front seat beside him. That put Fred in back with The Shadow, the

In response to probing questions from The Shadow, Fred told his story from the start: How he had seen Kay

Kelmore taken from the Coffee Pot when it was in the Village and had found the disk with the black band. He

detailed the part that he had played at the Hotel Metrolite and named the clues that had taken him to

Gameland, where he discovered the secret of Fortuna and ultimately was captured for his pains. As evidence,

Fred gave The Shadow the brass disk with the black circle, the red judge's badge, and finally his two fortune

cards one ordinary, the other a special intended for some member of the Black Circle.

Examining these with a tiny flashlight, The Shadow toned a whispered laugh. The car pulled up in the

neighborhood of Twentythird Street and there, The Shadow's agents removed Stick who by now was half

awake and muttering. When Fred turned to speak to The Shadow, his cloaked companion was gone. Fred saw

fleeting blackness at the door which the agents had entered; then, the agents themselves returned. They

introduced themselves to Fred. One was named Harry Vincent, the other Cliff Marsland. They told Fred to

In a room that looked like an old and littleused office, The Shadow was shaking Stick Stickney out of his

halfdazed state. The burning eyes that Stick saw in the light, the whispered voice that ordered him to talk,

brought terror to Stick's tough face in contrast to the confidence they had induced in Fred.

The Shadow recognized Stick, knew him as Speed's lieutenant. From statements that The Shadow made,

Stick thought his cloaked inquisitor was familiar with the entire game as Stick himself knew it and

probably more. Sweat streaked Stick's unsightly face as The Shadow continued his probe. Soon, Stick was

spilling his entire story. Next, The Shadow was thrusting a telephone into Stick's hand.

"Call Speed Devlin," The Shadow ordered in a cold, even tone that gave Stick shivers. "Listen carefully to

Stick listened, then fumbled with the dial, finally managing to get Speed's number. Speed's voice answered.

"Listen, Speed," began Stick. "This is Stick and I've got to talk fast... Yeah, I caught up with Blanding. He

was a tough guy to take alone... Had to give him some lead poisoning and I gave him too much..."

Pausing, Stick felt the chill of The Shadow's gun muzzle pressing his neck. Perhaps Stick would be getting

some lead poisoning himself, if he didn't play along with the instructions. Speed was asking what Stick had

"I dumped the guy," declared Stick. "Into the river, loaded with those old chains I had in back of the car...

Yeah, I found some things on him... Identification cards that I tore up, along with a couple of little cards that

said something about fortunes... He was carrying a leather wallet with about a hundred bucks. I took the

dough, because I'll be needing it... Wait, there was one thing else" Stick was describing the object now, and

properly, because The Shadow's gloved hand was in the light, showing it in his palm "a round thing, like a

coin, about the size of a nickel, with a black band on it... No, I guess it didn't mean much, but I chucked it

into the river anyway... Yeah, you're right, Speed. I'd better lam out of town until after the bulls find the body

Stick slumped as he finished. A moment later, he was coming to his feet again, prodded by The Shadow's

gun. Next, Stick was being marched out to the car again, bound he didn't know where, except that Stick could

guess that The Shadow would keep him nicely on ice, until the time came to turn him over to the law. That

would be after The Shadow had rounded up Speed Devlin and his tribe, along with cracking the riddle of the

When Speed received his next call from the Voice, he would inform his unknown boss that Stick had settled

the little matter of Fred Blanding, and whatever evidence went with it. Crime would move again, on schedule,

Quentin Langley wasn't in his pretentious office when Lamont Cranston called there the next day. Instead,

Cranston found Inspector Joe Cardona and a group of bookish looking men who turned out to be accountants

working for headquarters. Langley had made no objections to this procedure; rather he had welcomed it, as

something that might clear his name from any connection with the society robberies. While the police worked

on the books, Langley was going about town, bolstering his social contacts against the rumors which had

"We're going through all of Langley's stuff," Cardona told Cranston, "and what a mess it's in. For a fellow as

"A good theory," commended Cranston. "Perhaps by being careless, Langley felt he wouldn't be connected

"Maybe," returned Cardona, "but I wouldn't go that far not yet. Langley counted himself in for a cut of

everything: employment commissions, florist supplies, decorations, entertainment" gesturing to a dozen

stacks of papers, Joe added "well, count them for yourself and look them over. Langley was even in on the

"Naturally, since they supplied Mrs. Worthingham with a French maid and hired the waiters for the dinner in

the Silver Room. Checking back, we've found that Langley supplied hired help to Croft, Cartwright, and even

"No," answered Cardona. "Their cards are either phoney or missing. But as I said, the business was run

slipshod by a couple of clerks that Langley called managers. What we're doing now is checking on other

hired help that people got through Langley. It's a long task ahead, like finding the subscribers to the Social

Cranston nodded. He knew of the Social Bulletin, a weekly pamphlet that Langley printed and called a

"It was Langley's sucker list," described Cardona. "The list of subscribers, I mean. But there were a lot of

extras that went out like a free list and Langley can't find it, so he says. The jerk he calls an editor doesn't

"That's right. A highhat bunch that claimed to be society folk, who were peddling the Social Bulletin on a

commission basis. They walked in everywhere, filled out the blanks, turned them in with the money. They

just came and went and probably a lot of them were phonies, looking places over with robbery in mind."

This was an important point. It could account for sparetime activities of Kay Kelmore, Randy Royce and a

host of others, perhaps including a girl who once had posed as a French maid called Celeste Rochelle.

"You are quite right, inspector," approved Cranston. "It leaves Langley in the balance. He's either the head of

some secret ring, covering himself by pretended carelessness, or someone is using him as a champion dupe.

"That, I'd like to know," declared Cardona. "He's just gone. Either he's framing something very big and

crooked, or he's gotten small enough to crawl into some hole. Anyway, he's called off a big event tonight, or

"Yes. It's been postponed. What was more, they intended to install the Golden Venus that a sculptor named

Eric Van Lorden has just finished. Van Lorden was asking a hundred thousand dollars for the statue, but now

they don't want any part of it, not even a couple of loose arms. Nobody big wants to buy anything that

Quentin Langley has promoted; not now. They've found out that he grabs too much profit for himself."

Having no further lead on Langley, Cranston decided to check on the Golden Venus, though he already knew

some facts regarding the statue and its sculptor, Van Lorden, both having been in the news. Considerable had

been printed about Van Lorden, the craftsman, who lived in a tall apartment hotel which bore the name of the

Tour Des Artes. But Cranston didn't go to see Van Lorden. Instead, he dropped in at the Cleghorn Private

There, Cranston found Milton Grayle in one of his most receptive moods. The dryfaced curator was smiling

over a bowl of milk toast, which he seemed to regard as a most delicious lunch. He called for Baldwin and

"I never go out to eat," declared Grayle. "I keep myself practically a prisoner here, I have so much work to

"Work and sleep," continued Grayle. "I alternate them. I apply myself to the catalog; when I tire, I catch

myself a catnap on that couch in the corner. That's my routine, both day and night."

"Only to the front door. Then, I come back and work until I need a nap. I'll be taking one soon, so I shall have

to ask you to leave. I always lock myself away, here in the office, when I sleep."

"I'll be leaving soon," promised Cranston. "You haven't been visited by masked men since the other night?"

"I've forgotten them." He picked up a newspaper. "This interests me more. Have you read about the Golden

"It would be a great prize for this museum," declared Grayle, "since the Gotham Club does not intend to take

it. The Board of Directors contacted Van Lorden, but he doesn't seem to want to sell."

"A question of price. Sixty thousand dollars was the limit we could offer. Van Lorden claims that the metal

itself is worth that much. The statue is solid gold, you know. Ah, well, sculptors must live, like other artists.

"Of course." Grayle smiled. "But don't harbor the notion that those masked criminals will try to steal it. The

statue is nearly eight feet high and weighs more than four hundred pounds, Troy. I've been trying to calculate

the quality of the gold, in karats. I fancy it is approximately ten. Van Lorden has promised to send me the

"Yes. But he said there would be no need to bother, when he learned how heavy and cumbersome the statue

was. I mean cumbersome in terms of size since the statue is most graceful in appearance."

"Dozens of them. He spent hours going through the catalog, listing things he thought criminals might try to

With that, Cranston did not quite agree. Considering how thoroughly the Black Circle crimes had been

arranged, with their preliminary phase of substituting false objects for the genuine, and arranging things for

Speed Devlin to stage a useless robbery later, new opportunities might prove very few. In Cranston's opinion,

In fact, a supercolossal job, considering that Eric Van Lorden lived at the Tour Des Artes, the very place

named on the Fortuna card that Fred Blanding had intercepted. Thinking along those lines, Cranston went to

look up Terry Trent; found him in the office of the I.I.I., going over large bundles of his own reports.

Trent was very much preoccupied and talked only in brief terms on the subject of Langley. He nodded that he

"We've been bothering too much with the past," declared Terry, in his blunt style, "and guessing too much

about the future. What interests me is the present. Who are those crooks who grabbed the phoney tiara and

barged into the museum wearing masks? If we knew who they are, we could find out where they are."

"If you knew where they came from," suggested Cranston, "and where they intend to be next, you might find

"That's Cardona's job. He has to dig up old evidence and be waiting for crooks when they show up. I'm

interested in the insurance angle. If I find the fake stuff, maybe The Shadow will produce the real. He'll have

A moot point that, one with which Cranston concurred as The Shadow. It explained why he was letting Speed

Devlin remain at large. However, Cranston wasn't taking Trent's statements at the face value which Terry was

Terry Trent held a unique position. Tracking down crime did not belong in his department. It was his

business to prove whether or not insured articles had been stolen; if they had, it then became his business to

recover them. Terry might not be above a deal with crooks themselves, provided it accomplished either of his

aims. Whatever his present mood, Terry was trying to cover his real activities. Therefore, Cranston

The past and future concerned Terry more than the present on which he harped; of that, Cranston was certain.

The acid test of the case was this: The files of the ThreeEye doubtless contained confidential reports

regarding Quentin Langley and such characters as Speed Devlin, compiled long before the present wave of

Possibly Terry was guessing at Cranston's thoughts. Giving his visitor the straight eye, Terry noticed that

Cranston had glanced over to the corner, where a large, ultramodern recording machine stood. Terry gave a

"I use it for interviews," remarked Terry. "It saves time. By the way" he went over to the machine and

picked up some records "you might be interested in these. Old Grayle let me use his machine when I was at

the museum, the old plugger he has in his desk. I read off a lot of the catalog items. Listen to some of them if

Terry arranged the records on a table that was covered with a cloth, shifting a lamp as he did so. Picking up a

batch of report sheets, he went into an inner office, leaving Cranston alone. Cranston began to play the

There was more on those records than just catalog readings. Grayle's voice interrupted, asking Terry if he'd

like some milk toast. They spoke about the Golden Venus and Terry laughed when Grayle mentioned its

weight. At one point, Terry asked if he could call his office and Grayle said: "Yes."

Then, came a sound which represented the dialing of a phone number. Cranston played it three times,

checking it thoroughly. He compared his estimate with the number of the phone on Terry's desk. The two

tallied; obviously it had been an office call. The conversation that followed on the record Terry's end of it

There were half a dozen of the records, but Cranston only played back one. Then, he set the stack aside,

probed the cloth that covered the table and found exactly what he had expected. Terry had turned his back

when he stacked those records, but he had dawdled just a bit too long. In the course of things, he had shoved

a record beneath the cloth, setting the lamp upon it. Reclaiming the record, Cranston noticed that its center

Putting the record on the machine, Cranston moved to the inner door; listened a moment, then returned. He

started the record and it began to speak words in a very precise tone: "Abacus abbatoir " Between the

words was a click, caused by a notch in the grooving. Cranston lifted the needle, moving it from notch to

"Absolute acme adrenalin after agree" Cranston let this continue and the voice said "agreed

agreeing agrees" then, picking it up further on, Cranston heard the voice name a city: "Akron." Moving

There, Cranston stopped the record. He knew what it represented. Somewhere, Trent had uncovered this

sample record belonging to Langley's defunct Vocal Dictionary. The notches fitted with some mechanical

overlay that would switch the record to the right word. With an elaborate enough device, such words could be

composed into sentences automatically. Thus a conversation could be held in that strange monotone.

Remembering Margo's description of her conversation with the Voice, Cranston now had the real answer.

Margo had remembered that talk in detail: How the Voice had pronounced Celeste as "selllest,"

Worthingham as "worthinham" and Fortuna as "fortuneah." It would have to be that way, with names

that were not on the disks. They were made up by using other words as syllables. If that could not be handled,

Fred Blanding, too, had reported a conversation with the Voice. Both he and Margo remembered one peculiar

thing. At no time had the Voice used such words as "Yes" or "You," though in both conversations there had

been occasion to employ them. That fitted with a statement made by Langley himself, regarding his Vocal

Dictionary. Langley had said that it had been completed through the letter W. This explained why the Voice

never used a word beginning with a Y. The mysterious Voice was a recorded job, operated with a set of disks

Stowing Trent's sample beneath the cloth where he had found it, Cranston turned expectantly to the inner

door, confident that by this time, Terry would want to interrupt proceedings, thinking that Cranston wouldn't

yet have discovered the record hidden beneath the cloth. Cranston had placed the lamp properly too, by the

It wasn't Trent who appeared; instead, Cranston faced a girl who worked as a secretary in the office of the

"Mr. Trent was called away," the girl said. "He was sorry and hopes you will see him some other time."

The girl opened the outer door; taking the hint, Cranston left. As he reached the elevators, his lips whispered

a low laugh that was singularly like The Shadow's. What Terry Trent would be up to next, Cranston didn't

particularly care, either as himself or The Shadow. The afternoon was getting late and there was work ahead,

including a job for Margo Lane who had been getting impatient lately, since The Shadow had insisted that

she stay out of sight rather than encounter members of the Black Circle. A job was waiting for Clyde Burke,

too, and this time The Shadow intended that Clyde and Margo should form a better team.

Their stop would be at the Tour Des Artes, to view the Golden Venus and the man who had sculptured it:

In the duplex living room of his studio apartment, Eric Van Lorden was making a final comparison of the

Golden Venus with the model who had posed for it. The statue was indeed a magnificent sculpture, standing

on a pedestal that raised it higher than the ceiling of an ordinary room. Sleek, smooth, golden, the statue

could only be described as a curvaceous rhythm, gracefully poised, and counterbalanced by the bend of its

uplifted arms, with longfingered hands that seemed about to clasp behind the flow of sculptured hair that

The same description suited the model, except the term "golden", which applied only to her hair as it caught

the setting sunlight from the southwest window. The girl was accustomed to her pose, for she stood as

motionless as the statue and quite as indifferent to the sculptor's comparing eye. There was a certain

challenge to the girl's uplifted chin that formed a contrast to the distant, dreamy expression of her eyes. Van

A magnificent work, the Golden Venus. The greatest in the career of Eric Van Lorden, whose gray beard and

stooped shoulders which seemed weighted even by an artist's smock, marked him as a veteran in his trade.

Van Lorden was a man with a long and checkered career, who had begun life as an artist, become a soldier of

fortune, mixed himself in many doubtful enterprises, and finally had taken up sculpture as the delight of his

fading years. There were many rumors about Van Lorden's past, but they had died out as the world paid

A buzzer sounded at the apartment door and Van Lorden recognized its short, quick sound.

"It's the letter they are sending up," Van Lorden told the model. "Hold your pose. I shall be only a few

Going out to a little ante room, Van Lorden opened the door and received the letter. Coming back, he noticed

that it bore a special delivery stamp, and becoming curious, he opened it. The model remained motionless,

except for her eyes, which turned to watch Van Lorden keenly. Then, her lips changed from an innocent

expression to a straight, knowing smile. There was a surprise for Van Lorden in that letter and there was a

Before Van Lorden could begin to read the letter, the door buzzed again, but differently. The model's gloat

switched to annoyance, then quickly resumed the soulful Venus gaze as Van Lorden looked up.

The model draped herself in a dressing gown, lighted a cigarette, and was lounging on a window seat when

Van Lorden entered with a visitor. The newcomer was a smartly dressed brunette, who was showing Van

Lorden an article in an art magazine. Stroking his beard, the sculptor studied the brunette and nodded.

"Why, yes, Miss Lane," he said. "I did want models some time ago, when that article appeared. But that is an

old magazine. Still" stepping back, Van Lorden eyed Margo from a distance "I might need another model

The girl from the window seat eyed Margo closely, masking her interest with a cloud of cigarette smoke.

Babs Marland had seen Margo Lane before, but not too clearly, for much of Margo's face had been hidden

when Randy Royce gagged her in Mrs. Worthingham's boudoir closet. As for Margo, she hadn't seen Babs at

Van Lorden was taking time out to read the letter and Babs clenched both fists, including the one that held the

cigarette. She hadn't wanted anyone else to witness Van Lorden's surprise. The reason became apparent as the

sculptor neared the end of the letter. His thin face turned as gray as his beard; his shoulders seemed to slump

another three inches. Staggering forward, Van Lorden caught himself; slumped back into a chair.

Babs nearly stubbed a toe as she bounded over to the sculptor, in order to reach him ahead of Margo. Turning

"It can't be more than a mild attack. Get him some water from the kitchenette. It's the last door on the right."

"Thank you, Miss Marland," he said. "It's nothing. Just a dizzy spell from here" he clapped a hand to the

back of his neck "and it probably came from looking upward too much while I was studying the statue."

Receiving the water that Margo brought, Van Lorden arose from his chair, turned slightly to finish reading

the letter. Then, his lips grim, the sculptor crumpled the letter hastily and flung it toward a wastebasket.

Striking the rim of the basket, the letter bounced part way beneath a radiator. Van Lorden didn't see it land,

for he had turned to deliver a sickly smile which his beard somewhat tempered. Nor did Babs witness the

letter's fall; she was watching Margo. There was a knowing look in Margo's eyes that Babs did not like, but it

faded as Van Lorden began to speak in a happy tone which only Babs recognized as forced.

"I meant to tell you about the statue, Miss Marland," said Van Lorden, as though referring to the past. "You

knew of course that the Gotham Club did not decide to take it. I was glad very glad because I wanted to

"That must have been the call that came yesterday," returned Babs, quickly. "I remember you said something

More buzzes were coming from the door. Again firm of step, Van Lorden went to answer it. Babs turned

about, strolled back to the window seat and turned again. Caught off guard, her eyes went wide.

Unlike Margo, Clyde had seen Babs when she was passing under the name of Celeste, and Babs knew that

many reporters had a photographic eye. He was looking her way now and it took Babs a few moments to turn

her face away. She did it by brushing back her hair, at the same time settling on the window seat and gazing

outdoors. Indifferent in her attitude, Babs overheard Clyde's interview with Van Lorden.

The reporter was talking about the Golden Venus, wanting to know where Van Lorden intended to place it.

Van Lorden promptly supplied the good news regarding what he termed his "gift" to the Cleghorn Museum.

"Of course they will meet my price," stated Van Lorden, as though that were all settled. "Naturally, though, I

Behind Van Lorden's back, Margo was gesturing to Clyde. He caught the direction she meant and walked

over toward the statue, Van Lorden following. Margo saw Babs give the pair a sideward glance and that was

Margo's opportunity. With a quick stoop, Margo plucked the crumpled letter from beneath the radiator and

stuffed it into her bag. Nobody caught the action, because Van Lorden was introducing Clyde to Babs, who

was quickly lighting a fresh cigarette to hide her face as she looked up and nodded that she was the model for

"And now, Mr. Burke," said Van Lorden, "I must end the interview. As for you, Miss Lane, it would be better

if I saw you tomorrow. The appraisers are due and I must call the museum and arrange to ship the statue there

Downstairs, Clyde and Margo found a corner in the lounge and Margo brought out the crumpled note. They

looked first to make sure no members of the Black Circle were about. They saw no one who might answer

that description and assumed that the Voice had made a precautionary shift in plans, despite the fact that Fred

Blanding had presumably been put out of circulation, permanently. Then, they spread the note and read it.

Addressed to Van Lorden, the note was typed with a varityper, which made it look like printing. Its ink was

"The Cleghorn Private Museum will accept your Golden Venus and thereby bestow upon you permanent

credit and honor. Unless you deliver it there immediately, you can expect discredit and dishonor. A certain

man in Samoa will learn what happened to the funds that disappeared while you were there. The third Mrs.

Van Lorden will learn that the first Mrs. Van Lorden is still alive and that you were never divorced. The

scandal that you escaped in Buenos Aires will catch up with you. We shall expect the removal of the statue

Instead of a signature, the letter bore a large, black circle that looked as though it had been printed on the

"Why, it's blackmail!" exclaimed Margo. "That means Mrs. Worthingham and the others must have received

"That isn't the answer," said Clyde. "They were all crossexamined and their testimony didn't have a flaw.

"It is blackmail, Margo, but it goes back earlier in every case. Van Lorden is getting paid for his statue isn't

"So was Martingale when he sold the tiara to Mrs. Worthingham. Those other robberies will stack up the

same. The people who were blackmailed were the original owners; not the persons who bought the art objects

and became the robbery victims. The same thing is due again, but in this case, the victim will be the Cleghorn

Out in the foyer, men who looked like the appraisers were taking the elevator up to Van Lorden's. Telling

Margo to stay where she was, Clyde went out to telephone Mann and thus forward word to The Shadow.

Through the outer door, Clyde looked for a passing girl with a Scottie dog. There was none in sight. More

Margo, meanwhile, was taking the situation quite calmly. Assuming that Clyde had sized the case correctly,

crime couldn't work as usual in the case of the Golden Venus. Switching tiaras on Mrs. Worthingham was

almost as easy as with the Cartwright postage stamps. Even portraits and murals had been understandable,

because though they were large, they were comparatively light. But with a Golden Venus weighing close to a

Babs Marland, dressed in street clothes was coming down in an elevator from Van Lorden's floor, the sixth.

There were four elevators in the Tour Des Artes and only two were supposed to be operating at this hour.

This was one that wasn't supposed to be in service and the operator was Jim, of the Coffee Pot. It stopped half

way between the third floor and the second, Jim gauging the spot by a chalk mark on the shaft wall. Using a

tiny key, Jim unlocked the back of the elevator, slid a panel open and Babs stepped through an opening into a

wide passage. There was a door beyond; Babs rapped and was admitted into an apartment with shuttered

windows. This wasn't part of the Tour Des Artes; it was a converted store room above a squatty garage in

It was Randy Royce who admitted Babs and he gave a light laugh at her disheveled appearance.

"What did you do, dress and run for the doctor after Van Lorden read his letter?" asked Randy. Then, his tone

"He'll go through with it," said Babs, "but we can't waste any time. Two people just dropped in to see Van

"I don't think so," replied Babs. "I'd slipped on a dressing gown before he arrived, so naturally I looked a lot

"And your makeup was different, too," nodded Randy. "How long ago did Burke leave?"

"About fifteen minutes ago. Then, Van Lorden tried to act as though nothing had happened. He insisted that I

pose again, for a final checkup of the statue. It was getting dark outdoors, and I was expecting The Shadow

to come barging in at any moment. When somebody rattled the door, I nearly went out the window."

"The appraisers. Van Lorden was expecting them. He told me I could go, so I dressed in a hurry and came

right down here. Jim answered my signal with the special car. By now, Van Lorden has probably phoned for

Randy opened a door and he and Babs went down a stairway from their snug hideaway into the garage below.

There they went through to the basement of the Tour Des Artes. Randy tapped on the door of the elevator

In the elevator, which like all in this building, was purposely of tall design, stood a perfect imitation of the

Golden Venus. At the helm of the elevator stood Jerry, grinning at the surprise Babs showed.

"Yes, it's you all over," Randy said to Babs. "But it's the wrong Venus unless you prefer that title for

"We got the molds used for the original," added Jerry. "This baby is all brass, with a gold wash. We put her

together in the garage. When Jim starts down with the Golden Venus, I go up with the Brazen Lady. He

comes clear down here, I stop at the ground floor and unload. They always use one of these elevators for a

freight job. Nobody will notice the switch, because the same people won't be upstairs and down."

"About right." Babs threw a Golden Venus pose. "You can judge for yourself, like Van Lorden did, except

While Randy was giving an approving nod, a rumble from the next shaft told that Jim was on the way up.

"The truck in the garage will take the real one when it comes down. We'll follow it out in another car. We'll

From the corner of the upstairs lounge, Clyde and Margo watched when a crew of men brought a huge statue

from an elevator, a sculptured masterpiece which looked exactly like the Golden Venus that they had seen in

"You can't mean the Golden Venus," remarked Margo. "She isn't wearing anything."

"I mean the model. She had on a dressing gown upstairs. I saw her in some other costume; but I can't place

when or where. Van Lorden called her Miss Marland; but that name doesn't strike a note."

Strolling out to the sidewalk, Clyde and Margo joined a crowd that was watching the loading of the Golden

Venus into an armored van. Clyde was still studying the statue's face when the door was locked shut. Then,

It was later when a truck rumbled from the garage on the street behind the Tour Des Artes. Its headlights

produced a curious but fleeting illusion against a house wall opposite. The passing image was that of a

silhouetted shape, which was promptly absorbed by the darkness that flanked it. In that same darkness, the

shape became solid substance that swiftly intercepted a passing taxicab that slackened speed because of the

Both were away, truck and cab, when two cars pulled from the same garage. In one of those cars were Randy

Royce and Babs Marland, enjoying a laugh over the simple way in which the real Golden Venus had been

spirited out of circulation. That laugh was at the expense of Milton Grayle, who by now was admiring a

Theirs was a laugh that came too soon. If the cab ahead kept to the trail of the truck containing the real

BLACKNESS reigned in The Shadow's sanctum, except for the blue circle from the hanging lamp. Under the

glow lay a map of Manhattan, upon which The Shadow's hand traced routes through the city's streets.

One such route began in back of the Tour Des Artes and took a devious, backtracking course that finally

terminated at a spot marked X. It showed the trip taken by the truck that carried away the real Golden Venus

and the route was therefore the trail that The Shadow had followed in Shrevvy's cab.

Another trail began at the Penny Arcade called Gameland. It was less devious and it ended in a second X,

only a few blocks away from the first. Only one man could have provided such a trail. He was Jerry Stolle,

who collected the TalkaPhone records upon which members of the Black Circle reported their doings for

Apparently, Jerry had gone along with the truck last night and later The Shadow had picked up his individual

trail. This meant that The Shadow was probing deep into the affairs of the Black Circle, now that he had

established its existence and discovered a portion of its identity. But there was something else upon The

Beside the crumpled letter that Margo had brought from Van Lorden's studio and given to Clyde Burke for

forwarding to The Shadow, lay the leftovers of a stack of form letters which The Shadow himself had

prepared. Each glistened with black ink, done on a varityper and all had a duplicate of the Black Circle for

THE Shadow himself had sent those letters to various people, patterning them on the Black Circle sample

that Van Lorden had received. The term "This is final" stood in more ways than one. More than a threat that

would worry people who had given way to blackmail, it was The Shadow's thrust to the very heart of the

Extinguishing the blue light, The Shadow whispered a departing laugh. Soon afterward, The Shadow

appeared upon the street as Lamont Cranston, in the broad daylight of noon. He went directly to the Cobalt

It was a curious game, this. Neither Cranston nor Mann played in orthodox fashion; instead, they shifted

pieces here and there, referring to them by such names as Burke, Vincent, and Blanding, while one

fastjumping knight was designated Shrevvy. Two slowmoving castles stood for Weston and Cardona, a

couple of galloping knights represented Langley and Trent, while a king that remained in fixed position stood

for Grayle, who revelled in the fact that his present life was limited to the confines of the Cleghorn Museum.

The chess proceedings were interrupted when Commissioner Weston strode into the club in person and flung

a batch of papers upon the board, upsetting all the chess men. One squatty castle rolled to the floor; Cranston

"A useful piece, the castle," observed Cranston. "Slow to get into action, but very powerful once it begins to

move." Sweeping his hand toward the papers, Cranston turned to Weston and asked: "What is the move,

Weston didn't realize that Cranston was referring to both the castle and himself, since one represented the

"Look over those letters!" exclaimed Weston. "They were all mailed by an organization called the Black

Circle that deals in blackmail. The people who received them have been coming to my office all morning!"

"The auctioneer who sold the portraits to Royal Croft. The New York representative for the Rajah of

Balapore. The collector who sold his postage stamps to Audrey Cartwright. I don't want to give names, but I

suppose that in one case I may as well. That's Hubert Martingale, the jeweler. He was blackmailed, too."

"Don't you get it, Cranston?" demanded Weston. "The people from whom things were stolen Croft,

Cartwright, Mrs. Worthingham they weren't the victims; therefore they knew nothing. It goes back to the

former owners; that's what fooled us. The Black Circle set the stage for every crime, then made their dupes

"An ingenious system," commented Cranston, "but if these people like Martingale kept silent so long, why

"Because the Black Circle got too smart," explained Weston, "Its latest demand left the victims no

alternative. Here, read for yourself" Weston pulled out a sample of the Black Circle form letter which The

Shadow himself had sent "and you will understand. Each victim figured that if he had to come to the police

and claim responsibility for crimes he hadn't committed, it would be easier to state the true facts about his

past, and be done with it. In fact, none of them know enough about the Black Circle setup to tell us anything

"Odd that the Black Circle should send out such letters. I suppose the victims brought you all those that they

"All that they had kept." Weston gestured to the stack. "My opinion is that the Black Circle doesn't care,

Weston hit the truth that time, but didn't realize that it was his friend Cranston, as The Shadow, who had

precipitated the breakup. What The Shadow wanted now, was fast action, and he knew it would be coming.

"Here's one case that doesn't sound plausible," declared Weston, weeding through some notes. "Eric Van

Lorden, the sculptor, claims he was a blackmail victim, but he threw away all the letters he received. He

thinks the Black Circle intends to steal the Golden Venus that he delivered yesterday to Grayle's museum. It

would be impossible; the statue weighs too much. Anyway, we'll go over there now and talk to Grayle."

"Certainly," replied Weston, "but without mentioning any victims. I'm simply stating that the police have

exposed a notorious blackmail ring called the Black Circle. The newscasters are spreading the story already.

By the way, we'll be meeting Langley and Trent at the museum. I've sent word for both to be there."

"Perhaps one or the other can give you a lead to the head of the Black Circle, commissioner."

"Langley won't for one," he said. "He has been professing ignorance of everything. He claims that the

muddled state of his various enterprises proves he has been victimized by somebody who took advantage of

his carelessness. Maybe when we straighten all those things out there will be nobody left to blame but

"He said his business is to track down stolen goods," replied Weston. "In all these cases the goods couldn't

have been stolen by the people who were blackmailed. So Trent apparently has not bothered to check on

Both were there when Weston and Cranston arrived. Each was ignoring the other, but both were talking to

Grayle, who stood in front of the Golden Venus, which towered in the center of the museum's main hall.

They'd heard the news regarding blackmail, but Langley, selfimportant as ever, couldn't see how it

concerned him, while Trent, more noncommittal than usual, dismissed blackmail as having little to do with

"You'd better keep that statue under lock and key," Weston told Grayle, referring to the Golden Venus.

"It's one art treasure that certainly must be genuine," he declared, "because it was brought directly here after it

"Its real value," put in Trent, with a look at Langley. "Not one hundred thousand."

Langley's long face winced. He was thinking of the cut he would have gotten from Van Lorden, if he'd swung

"I have no interest in this matter, commissioner," Langley told Weston. "If you need me later, you can always

Langley left and Trent followed shortly afterward, stating that he too could be reached if required. By then,

Grayle was assuring Weston that the Golden Venus would be safe, but that he would appreciate any

"We are installing new vaults downstairs," stated Grayle, "and the work will be completed today. That means

that in no case will anything of value be left about at night with the exception of this statue. Yet I must

admit that enough men could remove it, and it could even be melted down for the value of its gold. I would

say that until this run of crime is finished" Grayle tilted his head inquiringly "it would be advisable to

"Inspector Cardona has arranged that," declared Weston. "Both the front of the building and the back will be

watched. If any crooks try the in and out tactics that they did the other night" he glanced from the big front

door of the museum to a small one, at the rear of the main floor "they will be due for a surprise both ways."

That pleased Grayle, who retired to his office to rest, while Weston left for the Cobalt Club with Cranston,

who resumed his chess with Mann, as soon as he arrived. Mann was puzzled over the moves of two knights,

representing Langley and Trent. Smiling, Cranston began moving them about the board in their peculiar

"Don't worry about them," Cranston told Mann. "Knights can't travel far and sooner or later, they can be

Mann promptly thought in terms of an imaginary piece called The Shadow, whose moves were unlimited; but

he was beginning to wonder which knight would be picked off. But Cranston was concerned with even lesser

"I'll find out what's happening with Speed Devlin," Cranston told Mann, "and then contact you later.

To find out what was happening with Speed, Cranston became The Shadow. Garbed in hat and cloak, he

entered a basement room where Stick Stickney was living under guard, until the time arrived to turn him over

to the law. At sight of The Shadow, Stick cringed; then nodded eagerly when The Shadow instructed him to

"Hello, Speed," said Stick, over the wire. "Yeah, this is Stick... I ducked back into town, but I'm sliding out

again... Tonight? Sure, I can join up when you get to Jersey... I see, the last job and a big one..."

The call ended abruptly and Stick became frantic. He started to dial Speed's number again, but The Shadow's

"This is sufficient," spoke The Shadow, in a sibilant tone. "I take it that Speed Devlin has received his last

"Yeah," rejoined Stick. "He got the call about noon. Says there won't be any more. Tonight's the big payoff,

The tone of The Shadow's laugh left Stick speechless. It seemed to declare that The Shadow already knew all

and could predict the rest. With a swirl, the cloaked visitor disappeared through the door, leaving Stick with

the impression that it would not be long before he would be looking through prison bars.

It was dusk by this time, and the lights of Gameland were flinging their brilliance to attract passersby. The

Arcade's business always livened after dark, hence certain customers who had been cautious earlier, began to

These customers were The Shadow's agents, among them Clyde Burke, who had so far been keeping in the

background, ready only to identify any persons that the other agents might suspect as being members of the

Black Circle. For The Shadow, in precipitating a climax, had foreseen where an important preliminary would

occur. The Black Circle had played its game to the limit; tonight was when it would disband. In disbanding,

the various members would be coming to consult Fortuna for their final instructions.

Also present in the more remote background was Fred Blanding, here for the same reason as Clyde Burke.

But now, as the crowd thickened, it was safe for them to mingle with the Gameland patrons. So far no

members of the Black Circle had appeared, unless they had slipped into the Arcade unnoticed. Certainly they

One factor had increased the Times Square crowd tonight. According to a news item, a group of Hollywood

celebrities intended to visit Broadway this evening. While the story was as yet unconfirmed, it was bringing

out curiosity seekers. As a result, the police had stationed an oversupply of plainclothes men in the area.

All this was just another instance of The Shadow's careful planning in such matters.

Hitherto, the Black Circle had always set the stage. Tonight, it had become The Shadow's turn.

Elbow to elbow, patrons were playing the machines in Gameland, occasionally wrangling for the next turn.

Strange elbows rubbed from time to time, those of The Shadow's agents and members of the Black Circle.

Now and then, a Circler declared himself without knowing it. None of them could resist the habit of playing

the games for free, by using those blackbanded disks of brass that always were returned.

Clyde and Fred had found themselves a soccer game where the glass front caught the light and produced a

mirror reflection. By means of this, they were giving the nod to men like Vincent and Marsland, helping to

identify the Circlers who had already shown up. Jim wasn't here yet, nor Randy; but Fred had spotted the pair

who had first taken Kay Kelmore from the Coffee Pot and had later tried to do the same with Fred himself.

All the while, the Fortuna figure gazed in its waxwork style upon the row of cards that held the future.

Customers had been few so far, and none of them were Circle members. But at last the time for results was at

hand. Fred gave Clyde a nudge as a man in coveralls appeared from the back of the Arcade and went to the

"It should," agreed Clyde, with a quick glance over his shoulder. "There's Randy Royce, at last, starting to

play that skeeball game. He's the sort who would wait until the last minute. How many tokens would you

"Probably. Lend me that token of yours, Fred. I have an idea. Randy's the only one of the bunch who could

really recognize me on sight. I'm going to move ahead, before he finishes his skee game."

"You mean you want to grab off a fortune card one of the specials? That will knock the whole rotation."

"Which is just what we want," decided Clyde. "As soon as they're fuddled, we go after them."

It was to be as simple as all that. A nearriot in Gameland would bring a flock of plainclothes men. The

Shadow's agents could then afford to quit the fray, but the Circle members couldn't. A neat system, luring

these wanted men into serious trouble. Anyone belonging to the Black Circle could have spotted headquarters

Fred's token in hand, Clyde went over to the Fortuna case and covered the brass disk as he inserted it in the

slot. Trivial, this, Clyde thought, compared to the bigger job that concerned The Shadow. Watching the gypsy

waxwork, Clyde saw its dark eyes glisten toward the playing cards as the figure in plaid moved its pointing

finger slowly along the line. He was impressed, as Fred had been, by the lifelike way in which the figure

Still, The Shadow's job was bigger. So big that it involved the fate of a great statue called the Golden Venus.

As Clyde's fortune card came out through the front of the machine, he reached for it mechanically, for his

eyes were halfclosed, visualizing the face of the statue as he had last seen it.

Suddenly, Clyde pictured the entire statue. In a series of spontaneous mental flashes, it came to life. Hardly

an instant did it remain a sleek, primordial creature in Clyde's mind's eye. The gestures of the arms clothed it

in the garb of a French maid, with the face of Celeste Rochelle. That costume became a dressing gown,

enveloping the sleek figure of a flaunting model named Babs Marland, whose face was almost the same as

Celeste's. Then, in a thrice, Clyde was picturing a gypsy queen, whose sway was the same, a sighing effect

Looking up, Clyde met that very face, eye to eye. The glare that he received was the sort no waxwork could

supply. Lips were parted, but not in the innocent way that went with a faraway statue. In spite and hatred,

those lips matched the glare of the eyes above them and it was the very venom of the mood that made Clyde

remember the pointing finger, which was the symbol of his fortune. It was no longer in sight, for the realfife

Fortuna had thrust her hand beneath the counter. Before the hand could whip into sight again, Clyde spun

about and made a long dive for the shelter of the game machines that stood opposite.

Savagely, Babs flung the crystal ball with her left hand, crashing the glass that framed the front of the case.

By then, her right hand was up from the counter, bringing a revolver with it. The wild, quick stabs that came

Fred Blanding helped the cause by springing toward the Fortuna machine to grab the gun away from Babs.

Dropping the weapon on the counter, Babs sprang out through a door behind her, leaving Fred's fate in the

hands of the Black Circle. Recognizing Fred, a dozen men were converging upon him, Randy and Jerry

among them, all drawing guns as they came. But the attack melted as The Shadow's agents flanked that

Revolvers clattered to the floor. A few shots were fired in the melee, but all were high and wide. They simply

served to complete the debacle which had fallen upon the Black Circle. As they broke for the door, Randy

and his companions were confronted by headquarters men, shoving through the Broadway crowd to find the

source of gunfire. Turning, the men of the Black Circle dashed back into the Arcade, while The Shadow's

agents again drove in from the flanks, slugging down the Circlers with their own guns.

The running fray carried to the deepest part of the Arcade, where the Voice's men staged a sudden and

surprising rally. Snatching the rifles from the shooting gallery, they turned to open fire, while Jerry Stolle,

coming from another corner, pointed to a rear door through which they could retreat. Babs Marland had

reached that door; she yanked it inward as the rifles began their crackle. The way lay open to escape through

Then, from the outer darkness of that yawning door came a strange, sardonic laugh that blotted out the burst

of guns. With it, darkness seemed to launch a portion of itself, in the shape of a cloaked figure that surged

upon the men who turned to meet it. Actually, the rifle fire had halted, because the men behind it knew the

author of that laugh: The Shadow. He was the foe with whom they must deal if they hoped to escape. They

That brief halt was enough. Encountering Babs as he came through the doorway, The Shadow sent her in a

headlong fling among the aiming riflemen. Then, with a spinning side twist, he cleared the counter of the

shooting gallery, whirled about and opened fire with a pair of automatics. The men with the rifles dropped

back, firing wildly, in this most singular of scenes. The Shadow was jabbing shots from the darkness below

the targets and it looked as though the shooting gallery had begun to backfire on its customers. Rifle shots,

aimed high, were knocking ducks from racks and ringing metal bells, but none found The Shadow. His laugh,

rising above the discordant chorus, invited wilder fire. Then, the mad fray ended as rapidly as it had begun.

Rifles were snatched from the men who fired them by a squad of detectives who took them from the rear.

The Shadow's agents had done their part, slugging down a sizeable percentage of the Black Circle crowd.

Now their job was simply to gather up the strays, which they did. Randy Royce was punched into the arms of

the law as he started an artful dart toward the front street. Babs Marland was caught before she could dash

through the alley door. Most important was the capture of Jerry Stolle, who tried to slip away unnoticed, but

was overhauled by Clyde and Fred. He was the one member of the Black Circle who knew the way to the

Out from behind the counter, The Shadow merged with the darkness beyond the alley door. Reaching the

street, he contacted Shrevvy's cab and began a rapid trip along the route that Jerry usually followed, the trail

which The Shadow had picked up from Jerry himself, the night before. Crossing an avenue where traffic was

light, the cab stopped on a secluded street. There, The Shadow alighted and glided into a little court, where he

Probing the door with a skeleton key, The Shadow opened it, worked his way through stacks of crated goods

to the door of a back room. There, The Shadow paused, noting a light through the crack of the door. Inching

the back door open, The Shadow looked into what should have been a store room, but wasn't. The front of the

Set around the room was a halfcircle of machines that looked like phonographs. In the center was a table; at

it, sat a man who was testing a device that looked like a cross between a switchboard and a huge typewriter,

or linotype machine. From that machine were connecting wires leading to the phonographic devices. Above

was a traveling microphone, operating on an extension rod. As the man pressed different keys on the big

board, the mike swung from one phonograph to another. Facing the board, the man's back was toward The

Shadow; apparently his test was completed, for he pressed a switch beside the board and a low hum began.

Turning to his right, the man worked a telephone dial that was at the side of the board. It was then that The

Promptly, there was an answer to the phone call. A voice that Cranston recognized as that of a clerk at the

Cobalt Club, spoke from an amplifier with a dignified: "Hello." Trent immediately busied himself with the

keys on the mammoth board. As he punched them, the traveling mike jockeyed swiftly from one phonograph

to another, catching the words that each machine spoke between slight clicks which were not audible enough

"Hello. I would like to speak to Commissioner Weston." The mechanical voice pronounced the name

"It is not necessary to say, as he expects this important call." Terry punched that neatly on the keys. "I must

Terry sat back to wait. He didn't hear the slight creak that came from an opening door. Not The Shadow's

door; his methods were too careful. The creak came from another door, at the back of the room. The Shadow

heard it for his ears were trained to catch the slightest sound. Looking across the room, he saw a stooped

figure enter; that of a muffled man, whose right hand was beneath his coat. Moving toward the light, the

"This is the Black Circle," keyed Terry. "I am speaking for the head of that organization, though he does not

Before he could complete the address, Terry was cut off. The stooped man shot a long arm past him, clicking

off the switch that controlled the mechanical voice. Straightening, the intruder swung about, looming above

Despite the sudden surprise, Terry reacted in swift style. Kicking back his chair, he not only came to his feet,

crouching against the switchboard; he was as quick on the draw as the taller man. Shifting, they confronted

The Shadow hadn't been idle all this while. He seemed to pour through his door like liquid blackness, arriving

at the very fringe of the lighted area just as Trent and Langley were meeting with their guns.

"So you are speaking for the head of the Black Circle," spoke Langley, in a biting tone. "You wouldn't be

Langley eased back, toying with his gun. Keeping his own revolver aimed, with his hand close to his hip,

"You said this Vocal Dictionary of yours had been junked," declared Trent. "It's still in mighty nice shape for

junk. I'd been wondering, Langley, about those companies of yours that went bust. I began looking into the

question and found that you had a cute way of buying up the leftovers from projects you had ruined."

"You probably refer to some of my theatrical enterprises," returned Langley, coldly. "There were times, yes,

when I promoted new shows, and gave the backers an opportunity to buy up scenery and costumes that came

from others. But I wasn't responsible for the shows that failed. All Broadway shows can't be hits."

"None can, if they're Langley productions," scoffed Trent. "But this Vocal Dictionary was a different

proposition. You didn't junk it exactly; you sold it off piecemeal. I began looking up the pieces."

"You might say picking them up," corrected Langley. "How long ago did you start?"

"Right after the chain of robberies began; the chain in which you were so conveniently acquainted with all the

"Just another bluff on your part," argued Trent. "Anyway, I tracked the sections of your Vocal Dictionary

from buyer to buyer, even picking up a few spare records and odd parts on the way. Then, I began to find

where various parts had been delivered. Oddly enough, it proved to be this very address. I found my way in

"You're here now," conceded Langley, "and you were probably here long ago, and often. Unless you came

"Let's settle this right now, Langley. You're the mainspring in this racket, so I'd like the police to find you

"If it has to be dead," interrupted Langley. "They may as well find the real crook, Trent, and that happens to

Guns thrust forward as though mutually magnetized, but before either could blaze, the men who held those

weapons were frozen by a low, strange laugh, close by their very ears. As they turned their startled faces, they

met the burning gaze of The Shadow, along with the threat it represented. From each of The Shadow's gloved

The other two men let their own hands open. Two revolvers clattered almost simultaneously to the floor.

Gesturing both men back and away from each other, The Shadow took the seat at the big board, kicking the

revolvers under the table as he did. Cloaking one automatic, The Shadow laid the other handy, whispering a

laugh as he did. Understanding grew on the faces of both Trent and Langley. They couldn't both be the

Voice; therefore The Shadow was depending on one of them to side with him, which meant there would be

Dialing the Cobalt Club, The Shadow heard Weston's voice come over the wire. The commissioner had been

frantically trying to regain connection all this while. As The Shadow pressed the keys that formed the word

"To the Cleghorn Private Museum," The Shadow keyed. He used the words 'clay' and 'horn' for the name, and

they sounded close enough. "Come alone, commissioner, in order to meet the head of the Black Circle. I shall

Clicking the switch, The Shadow laughed as he turned from the switchboard and both Trent and Langley

played pokerfaced as they saw what each regarded as accusation in The Shadow's coldly burning stare. With

a swooping stoop, The Shadow regained the two revolvers from the floor, buried them in his cloak and

picked up the automatic that was lying by. Wangling it from one man to the other, The Shadow started

It wasn't far from the Voice's headquarters to the Cleghorn Museum, not by the route The Shadow chose. In

the course of several blocks, he scarcely brought his two prisoners if one could be called such into any

A full block from the museum, The Shadow made a zigzag back and forth across the street, to avoid the dim

lights of an old truck that was parked in a blind alley. Bringing Trent and Langley around a corner, The

Here were two streets and an avenue that were under constant patrol, so with a whisper, The Shadow halted

his two charges by a wall. Then, with expressive gun nudges, he sidled them along, timing his approach

A police car came along the street, engaged in a continuous circuit of the block. It was playing a spotlight in

all directions and it seemed a certainty that it would pick out the men who accompanied The Shadow, even if

he eluded it. The Shadow eliminated that certainty by the simplest of expedients. As the prowl car rolled past,

The Shadow was marching Trent and Langley right up the marble steps into the gloomy light of the musty

old museum. That entrance was the one spot where the searchlight did not swing. The patrol car was looking

None of the museum attendants were in sight when the trio entered. Distant footsteps, echoing from deep

stairways, indicated that they were putting things away in the new vaults, this being nearly the closing hour.

Moving Trent and Langley past the great brass statue that was supposed to be the Golden Venus, The Shadow

planted them in chairs behind exhibit cases. They watched The Shadow blend with deeper darkness and from

then on, both Trent and Langley became wary. Calculating that The Shadow might have moved from the

scene entirely, each man was keeping close watch on the other. This could well be The Shadow's test: to see

Attendants now appeared from below. Without observing the planted visitors, the attendants began to close

the big gate and the front door. They halted as an official car stopped out front; then Commissioner Weston

came striding into the museum, followed by a pair of plainclothes men. Finding all in perfect order, he

Weston then asked for Milton Grayle; learned that the curator was resting. Regretfully, Weston insisted that

"I was going to get up later," Grayle told Weston. "I work well in the early morning hours and I thought it

would be wise to have someone on constant duty. Perhaps you would be willing to take a turn, too?"

"I hope not," replied Weston. "I came here because I received a telephone call from the Voice."

"The head of the Black Circle. We've learned that he uses a peculiar monotone, composed of single syllables.

People like Martingale and Van Lorden said he had talked to them. They were pretty well scared by the

"Because it's a man's voice," explained Weston, "but it sounds artificial. Whoever used that voice tonight

didn't claim to be the head of the Black Circle; in fact, he intimated otherwise. That, however, might be all

"Too bad you didn't have a recorder working," said Grayle, with a headshake. "However, suppose we go into

They went into the office, where they chatted between the commissioner's calls, mostly on the subject of

stolen articles that had never been recovered. The chat was broken off by an incoming call which proved to

"We've rounded up the Black Circle!" exclaimed Weston. "Apparently we've captured the whole ring to a

man and woman. One of the prisoners was the model who posed for Van Lorden's Golden Venus, the

"I wish it were my museum," said Grayle, with a weary smile, "but I shall have to be content with the few

treasures that are really my own. I keep them in a special vault, downstairs. I intend to take them with me,

"Exactly. I was afraid that when I came to move them, criminals would learn about it. The night the masked

They both went to the door of the office. The sounds were like the falling of bricks.

"Probably the attendants," said Grayle. "They are helping finish the new vaults. I suppose they are whiling

Grayle had closed the door of his office. Within that room, something unusual was in progress while Weston

and Grayle discussed the peculiar sounds of the cellar bricks. The Shadow had appeared mysteriously in

Grayle's office. At the desk, he was making a playback of a record in the curator's top drawer.

Apparently, The Shadow had been here earlier, while Grayle was meeting Weston at the main door. He had

started the recording then, because the playback was a replica of Weston's recent conversation with Grayle,

including the commissioner's interpolated phone calls. They were registered very clearly, including the clicks

of the dial, from which The Shadow could calculate every number that Weston had called.

As the playback reached its conclusion, The Shadow stopped the machine. Stepping to the outer door, he

peered into the main exhibit hall. Weston and Grayle were still intent upon the sounds from below.

"That's not rats!" Weston referred to a sudden crash of bricks. "Come Grayle, we must investigate!"

In true police style, the commissioner descended the stairs with drawn gun, Grayle close behind him. By then,

The Shadow was back in the office, putting in a quick phone call of his own. Scarcely had the sound of the

descending footsteps subsided, before The Shadow emerged from Grayle's office. Crossing the main floor, he

made a double beckon from the Golden Venus; both Trent and Langley popped from the places where The

Calmly, The Shadow handed each man his own revolver. Then, in significantly whispered tone, he said:

"I can still trust each of you to watch the other, until the final facts are known. Go down those stairs and

Side by side, the two mistrustful men descended. After they had made a turn in the stairs, The Shadow moved

Downstairs, Trent and Langley came upon a startling sight, as they halted at the final turn. His gun lying at

his feet, Commissioner Weston was standing with upraised arms, while Grayle was copying that pose.

Confronting the pair was a squad of masked men. Anyone who knew Speed Devlin's voice might have

Behind the masked men was a gaping hole in a brick wall, with debris lying about it. Beyond that was a

"Thought you could keep us out this time, didn't you, Grayle?" Speed was saying. "You even brought his nibs

around, to show him how nice everything was fixed. Well, you can guess what we've come after, the little

eightfoot lady that's worth her weight in gold. I hope we can get her down those stairs."

Speed glanced toward the stairs as he spoke and both Trent and Langley shifted back, unnoticed. Trent gave a

"If you mean Weston and Grayle, you're right," retorted Langley. "I hope you remembered to bring your

"The Golden Venus will not come down the stairs," declared Grayle. "You will have to take it out the front

"And hand it over to Cardona and his flatties?" retorted Speed. "Don't try to kid us. The Voice knew they'd be

"Keep it confidential," said Speed in a low whisper. "The Voice is a certain guy you've often heard of. He's

That brought laughter, somewhat on the raucous side, from the masked men behind Speed.

"That's not the right laugh," Speed told them. "Give the one the Voice taught us. His own laugh The

Catching the spirit of the game, Speed's crew delivered. What with the muffling masks, the echoes from the

walls, their imitation carried a strong flavor of the weird. Its echoes seemed to persist and rise again, after it

The laugh rose strident, a onetone laugh. As its echoes quivered higher, Speed wheeled to find the offender.

As the laugh shivered to an eerie finish, a voice spoke. It was the sibilant tone of The Shadow.

"Since you have appointed me as the Voice," declared The Shadow, "I shall do better than your former

At mention of his name, Speed pivoted with his gun, hoping to spot The Shadow in the fringing gloom. It

"Tell Milton Grayle to give you the keys he carries," continued The Shadow. "Unlock the vault you see

Though fearful of The Shadow, Speed was willing to play that game, since it would at least be a show of

bravado. Moreover, while he couldn't believe that The Shadow would pose as the Voice, he was playing a

hunch that the Voice might be pretending to be The Shadow. But as Speed approached Grayle, the curator

"Careful, Grayle!" admonished The Shadow. "No guns. We want keys. Remember, I am the Voice as well as

Choking with anger at the mockery in the tone, Grayle brought out a ring of keys and said to Speed:

Open the vault, Grayle did, and as the door came wide, a light shone automatically within. It was a huge

vault, and high; within it, in all their glory, Grayle's treasures were revealed.

There, in all its sleek, shiny glory, stood the genuine Golden Venus, flanked by the true Croft portraits,

backed by the famous De Vegas murals. At the feet of the statue rested a velvet box, which undoubtedly

contained the Independent Shipping bonds and the Cartwright postage stamps, because there wasn't room in it

for the Josephine tiara. That magnificent prize was resting on top of the velvet box. Beside the tiara, in two

neat clusters, shone the rubies and sapphires that had once belonged to the Rajah of Balapore.

"I am a doublecrosser," announced Grayle, proudly, totally disregarding the snarls of Speed's followers.

"That is why I allowed the Black Circle to be trapped tonight. They were cheap spies and informers,

doublecrossers themselves. Only by letting them think I trusted them, could I continue to use their services.

"Meanwhile, I put your skill to the test. You and your men proved loyal, despite adversity. Your thefts were

daring and carried the trail from the actual crimes which I prearranged. I showed my trust in you when I gave

you safe conduct from this very museum, the first night you came here. I brought you and your men here

tonight to share in the spoils that you deserve. You shall help me remove these treasures" Grayle gestured

to the open vault, while Speed drank in the lies that Grayle had just spoken "but first, we must eliminate

With those stirring words, he grabbed Weston with his left arm, to serve him as a shield. Whipping back,

carrying the struggling commissioner with him, Grayle used the open door of the vault to protect him on the

right, while he pulled a gun and pumped shots off into the darkness, hoping his bullets would find The

A crazed notion, Grayle's, but it brought the response he wanted. As The Shadow laughed anew, still in that

unlocatable style, Speed and his crew whipped away their masks and began flaying the walls with their own

guns. There was scarcely a quarter they did not cover with that opening volley, except the front of the vault,

It was from the stairs however, that an answering salvo came. Trent and Langley, mutually exonerated, were

trying to outdo each other. They did well, for they had Speed's massed crew as one big target. Speed's men

were spilling over each other, sagging right and left, before they began to direct their fire toward the stairs.

By then, The Shadow's big guns were pumping the shots that spelled crime's finish. The diversion from the

stairs was all he needed to gain the necessary edge. Not a bullet had reached The Shadow and for a very

simple reason. The vantage spot to which he had earlier worked himself, was directly beside Grayle's private

vault, close to the hinges of the door. When Grayle had opened that door, he had furnished The Shadow with

Until shots had been wasted, however, The Shadow could not give away his ruse, because of Weston's

jeopardy. But now that Grayle himself had emptied his gun, The Shadow found new opportunity. Hurling the

vault door shut, The Shadow sent Grayle and Weston flying along with it, Grayle taking the full force of the

blow as he landed in the vault with the commissioner. Then, The Shadow was surging lonehanded upon

Speed's much thinned ranks, slugging down a few defiant foemen who foolishly clicked away at him with

The rest, Speed with them, had darted out through their tunnel, only to be greeted by new gunfire, which

produced their immediate surrender. In his phone call from Grayle's office, The Shadow had sent a tipoff to

Cardona, telling him where he could find the tunnel entrance in a blind alley, a block beyond the street behind

the museum. Cardona's men went upstairs to round up the museum attendants who had been in league with

There, Commissioner Weston was sitting on the pedestal of the Golden Venus, with Milton Grayle slumped

beside him. Weston had gained his innings after The Shadow jolted Grayle with the big door. But when

Weston looked for The Shadow, to thank him, all he heard was the dwindling farewell of a departing laugh.

When Lamont Cranston appeared later at the museum, he heard Commissioner Weston piece the details of

"It was one of three suspects," defined Weston. "Langley, who knew the robbery victims; Grayle, who knew

the objects to steal and had ways or means to produce imitations; Trent, who had an inside knowledge in

certain of the cases. As I look at it now, we should have picked Grayle, the moment that we realized that so

many false treasures had been substituted, but only The Shadow looked at it in wholesale terms."

Turning to Grayle's desk, Weston ran the playback of the recording that The Shadow had taken without

"This was The Shadow's test," affirmed Weston. "Note how clearly it recorded, even to the clicks of the dial

phone. But the record that Grayle made the night Speed visited him was purposely muddled by Grayle

himself. He didn't want Speed's voice to give itself away and particularly he didn't want us to trace the

number that Speed dialed. But he wanted us to hear the playback, to make his own stock rate high. Still, he

couldn't afford to lose Speed, though he was really doublecrossing him. Grayle intended to let Speed take

the false Venus away tonight. From what he's confessed, he really intended to take the genuine articles with

him in retirement and gloat over his possessions while we still tried to trace the fakes."

"You played a recording in your office," reminded Cranston. "One that you took here in the museum on

Grayle's machine, when you were going through the catalog. Didn't it include the dialing of a telephone?"

"Too bad neither of us thought of it then," remarked Cranston. "We could have helped the commissioner trap

"I was too busy checking on Langley," admitted Trent. "He was Suspect AOne in my book. And all the

while" Trent grinned across the room at Langley, who returned the compliment "Langley was tailing

Over in the corner, Weston was opening a closet door, to show a spiral staircase that led down from Grayle's

"Grayle used this to go up and down," explained the commissioner, "when he claimed to be resting. Then, he

used the tunnel to go in and out, so he could do the Voice act, over at the old antique shop. The Shadow must

have spotted these after he began checking on Grayle. Of course, by yesterday, Grayle had walled the tunnel.

He was through with the Voice act and expected it to be pinned on Langley or Trent. He also wanted Speed

to crack through a wall to make it look as though the tunnel was Speed's job too."

"We should have thought about that tunnel," decided Cranston. "Grayle couldn't have let Speed out the back

door upstairs, the night Speed barged in on him. Too many of your police were circling around the museum,

"Maybe that gave The Shadow an idea," remarked Weston, as they walked out from Grayle's office. "It would

"I have one right now," said Cranston, gesturing to the Venus statue. "This fake statue can probably be

Cranston was flipping a coin as he went down the museum steps; at least Weston thought it was a coin, as he

watched his friend's departure. But Cranston was still thinking in terms of brass; this time in the shape of a

little disk, the object that he flipped. After all, Cranston was entitled to some minor token, to add to The

Shadow's trophies. Cranston had found this one lying on the floor beneath Grayle's desk, neglected and

A brass disk with a black band that represented something else that would soon be forgotten: