CITY OF CRIME...............................................................................................................................................1

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

CHAPTER I. CROOKS IN AMBUSH...................................................................................................1

CHAPTER II. SCATTERED HORDES.................................................................................................5

CHAPTER III. BEHIND THE SCENES .................................................................................................8

CHAPTER IV. INTO THE SNARE ......................................................................................................12

CHAPTER V. DEATH DELIVERED..................................................................................................15

CHAPTER VI. CROOKS CONNIVE ...................................................................................................20

CHAPTER VII. THE FINGER POINTS ...............................................................................................23

CHAPTER VIII. THE TRAP REVERSED ...........................................................................................26

CHAPTER IX. THE LAW INVADES ..................................................................................................29

CHAPTER X. THE LOST TRAIL ........................................................................................................33

CHAPTER XI. WITHIN THE LAIR....................................................................................................35

CHAPTER XII. THE SHADOW'S CLUE............................................................................................39

CHAPTER XIII. DEATH'S FALSE TALE..........................................................................................42

CHAPTER XIV. ON THE SCENE OF CRIME...................................................................................45

CHAPTER XV. FOILED HOUNDS .....................................................................................................48

CHAPTER XVI. NEW REFUGE ..........................................................................................................52

CHAPTER XVII. THE BOMBSHELL .................................................................................................57

CHAPTER XVIII. LANCE FINDS THE ANSWER ............................................................................60

CHAPTER XIX. THE NEW GAME .....................................................................................................64

CHAPTER XX. THE LAW'S TURN ....................................................................................................69

CHAPTER XXI. THE SHADOW'S EXIT ............................................................................................72

CHAPTER XXII. ESTELLE'S DISCOVERY......................................................................................77

CHAPTER XXIII. AMENDED STRATEGY .......................................................................................80

CHAPTER XXIV. DOUBLE BATTLE ................................................................................................83

CHAPTER XXV. WITHIN THE DEN .................................................................................................86

IT was gala night in the city of Westford. Streets were strung with brilliant lines of colored electric lights.

Store fronts were illuminated, throwing their brightness upon festooned posts and displaying the elaborate

decorations of their own windows. Tourists, driving through the main streets, gained the impressions that this

As the boosters phrased it, Westford was a "live town" that was definitely "on the map"; the city attracted

visitors from every town within a hundred miles. Business was booming in Westford; it was predicted that

good times were here to remain. Thanks for the prosperity belonged to Westford's "live wire mayor", Elvin

Marclot. His administration was hailed as the greatest in the history of the city.

There was one man who viewed all this dourly, as he sat in a small groundfloor office that gave him a

slanted view of the main street. He was a husky, squarejawed individual, with weatherbeaten face and

shortclipped hair that was well streaked with gray. He was attired in a blue uniform, that stretched tight as

Nearly everyone in Westford knew James Maclare. A veteran police officer, he had gained a reputation for

honest and efficient service. His record was one of blunt, painstaking toil, rather than that of brilliant exploit;

Though slow to decision, Maclare invariably formed the right opinion. When matters perplexed him, he

thought them over and waited until he had the answer. During that process he kept silence; when the time was

There was one man in whom Lieutenant Maclare placed confidence. That man was another officer, as

straightforward as Maclare himself. He was Sergeant Cassley, Maclare's chief subordinate. Together, they

had charge of the first precinct; and, of necessity, Maclare frequently told Cassley the trend of his

halfformed plans. Cassley was Maclare's man Friday; never did he pass along a single word that he had

TONIGHT, Cassley was sitting across the desk from Maclare, watching the lieutenant as he stared from the

window of the precinct office. Though slow of thought, Cassley was positive that opinions were due. He was

"This whole thing is the bunk!" announced Maclare suddenly, emphasizing his gruff statement with a

ponderous punch upon the desk. "Look at those lights; all that tinsel! What do they mean to Westford?

Cassley looked puzzled. He was a bulky man; his wrinkled uniform made a contrast to Maclare's smooth blue

coat. His beefy, flatfeatured face displayed its bewilderment. The sergeant needed more statements, in order

to grasp the full import of Maclare's objections. The lieutenant noted the fact and formed a wry smile.

"I know what you're thinking, Cassley," he told the sergeant. "You've fallen for the talk of business coming

into town. Sure! Westford is prosperous. But what's come on with all this excitement? I'll tell you a lot of

riffraff who think that Westford is the right spot for any crooked game they can cook up!"

Cassley nodded slowly. He was tabulating a list of recent crimes. Maclare was right; there were crooks in

Westford, plenty of them. But when Cassley thought further, his nod ended. He could not see just where the

"What about the Flying Squadron?" queried the sergeant. "It's been moving fast, lieutenant, ever since

Director Borman organized it. They were on the job quick, those fellows, after that last bank robbery."

"I'm blaming Kirk Borman for nothing," returned Maclare, leaning across the desk. "You know what I think

of Kirk Borman. I say that he's the best police director this town ever had. Elvin Marclot, as mayor, made the

"But Borman hasn't stopped the rackets. He can't, even though he's got full charge of that Flying Squadron.

The job rests with precincts, like ours here. We've got to raid the places where the crooks hang out. Clean

Sergeant Cassley sat silent. Lieutenant Maclare began to strum his desk; then spoke in rueful tone.

"We've drawn a blank every time we've tackled the Club Adair," he admitted. "We know that Lance Gillick

runs it as a gambling joint; but when we blow in, it's always an innocentlooking night club. We're going

there again, though, Cassley. Only, first, I'm planning to hand Lance Gillick a jolt that he won't forget."

MACLARE smiled at Cassley's question. Picking up a pencil, he indicated an inkwell that rested on his desk;

"That's Lance Gillick," stated Maclare. "Working inside his circle, the Club Adair. We know what his racket

"All right." Maclare began to tap all around the desk with his pencil. "Here's a lot of stores, pool rooms,

flophouses all through the city. They've got slot machines, punchboards; they're running the numbers

racket on the q.t. The State has legalized a lot of that stuff; neither Mayor Marclot nor Director Borman can

"Agreed," added Maclare. "Therefore, it's a sure bet that Lance Gillick is behind it. He's the bigshot in this

"It wouldn't do a bit of good," interposed Maclare. "But I tell you what we can do. Since the rackets belong to

Lance, all those fellows who collect on the machines and numbers must be working for him."

"That's sure enough," agreed Cassley. "They stick together, too. They all hang out down at the old

Mississippi Hotel, near the railroad terminal. That hotel is running wide open, even though it's got no

"That's just it," chuckled Maclare. "So we're going to raid it, tonight. We'll make a roundup and bring in that

whole bunch of hoodlums. The only fellow who could spring them will be Lance Gillick; and he won't dare

"Get the squad ready," ordered Maclare, briskly. "Have the wagons come along with us. We'll go out the back

way, keeping off the main streets. No one will know where we're bound until we get there."

As Cassley turned toward the door, Maclare picked up the telephone. He made a brief remark, before he lifted

"It's a straight precinct job," asserted Maclare; "but we mustn't forget standing orders. I'm calling Director

Borman, to let him know that we're starting out. He wants it that way, so he can have the Flying Squadron

SERGEANT CASSLEY went out into the patrol room, closing the lieutenant's door behind him. He snapped

orders to a group of bluecoats; paraded them and sent word to bring out the patrol wagons. Lieutenant

Maclare arrived from his office; surveyed the dozen men who were standing at attention.

"We're raiding the Mississippi Hotel," announced Maclare. "Sergeant Cassley will enter from the front, with a

detail of four men. We'll let them think it's a minor raid; whoever comes out by the back doors will find our

"We'll have the wagons with us, to gather up the lot of them when they reach the back street. I'll be in charge

of the main squad. Further orders when we're on the ground. All right, men. Ready for inspection."

Soon the entire squad was marching from the station house; Maclare, at the head, was leading the advance

through dingy, poorly lighted alleys that had been neglected in Westford's campaign of bigger and brighter

lights. As they reached a corner, Maclare gave the command to halt. Sergeant Cassley told of his fourman

"Don't get far inside the front door, Cassley," Maclare advised. "We want them to come through the back.

Director Borman is sending the Flying Squadron. They'll show up about ten minutes after we strike. The

Flying Squadron will roll up on the front street. After that, you can let anybody go out through the front door.

Remember: put up a big show. We've got a right to arrest anyone who comes out the back while you're inside.

Cassley and his men marched away. Maclare moved the remainder through an alleyway; then along an

illpaved street that was flanked on the right by coal yards, with the railway tracks beyond. As he and his

men stationed themselves in back of the decrepit Mississippi Hotel, two darkened patrol wagons coasted into

view. Officers opened the doors of the black Marias; stood beside them, ready for the surge that was to come.

Tense minutes passed. A police whistle shrilled from the front street. Commotion began within the old hotel.

Until that moment, it had been a quietlooking frame structure, its dim windows silent except for the jerky

music of an overloud player piano. But the whistle blast that marked the beginning of raid was like a spark

Shouts burst from the hotel. Tables clattered; lights blinked on and off. Gunfire sounded; heavy footsteps

pounded. Doors ripped open at the back of the building; the vanguard of a horde of hoodlums appeared. As

three men leaped from rickety steps. Lieutenant Maclare snapped a command to his main squad:

"Take them as they hit the street!" The bluecoats spread, fanwise. With Maclare in the center, they closed

upon the back doors of the hotel. The first fugitives dropped against the steps, raising their arms in surrender.

Footsteps told that more were coming; Maclare and his men were ready to bag them the instant that they

Then came the unexpected. From the lowroofed buildings of the coal yards, searchlights poured a sudden

glare that made the street like day. Huge beams of light showed the entire squad of police, flatfooted on the

Snarled oaths sounded from fences and roofs, delivered by thugs who were out of sight behind the

searchlights. A harsh voice barked an order. Revolvers crackled from the darkness. There was a sharp rattle;

the opening outburst of a machine gun. It ended almost instantly, for the trigger man had started it too soon.

That warning sound told how hopelessly the police were trapped. Crooks had surprised the raiders. Hidden in

ambush, men of crime were equipped to wipe out Lieutenant Maclare and his entire squad at an instant's

THE menace of the situation was but partially grasped by Lieutenant James Maclare. He and his men had

faced about; they were blinking at the blinding searchlights. None had been hit by the first revolver fire; the

It occurred to Maclare that ambushed crooks had intended no more than a warning; that they were afraid to

deliver heavy fire because their own men were coming from the hotel. Looking about, Maclare saw that a

dozen fugitives had arrived; but they were no longer in flight. They were a leering, contemptuous throng,

Like the thugs behind the searchlights, these crooks had the police covered. The inference seemed plain to

Maclare. If the police stood by and let the crooks from the hotel make their getaway, there would be no

Maclare was partly right in this conclusion. He was to learn later just how far he was wrong. Sizing the

situation, the lieutenant realized that he could not count on aid from Sergeant Cassley; he knew also that the

Flying Squadron would not arrive for ten minutes. Much though he hated to see crooks gain their way,

Maclare could not forget the welfare of his men. He saw no use in allowing the slaughter of his squad.

Scowling, the lieutenant lowered his revolver and stepped out into the middle of the street. His move was an

order for his men to spread away and let the armed men from the hotel make a calm departure.

It was not until he had detached himself from his squad, that Maclare realized another purpose behind the

ambush. Hardly was the lieutenant standing entirely alone before a rasped voice called from a low roof top:

One man alone was marked to die; that was Maclare himself. Crooks wanted the raiding lieutenant dead; they

were contemptuous of the policemen who formed the squad. Maclare, by his own action, had placed himself

Bluecoats, like crooks, heard the death order. The cry electrified them. They responded more quickly than the

gloating thugs. They were loyal to Maclare; the danger that threatened him was to be theirs. Almost as one,

the policemen raised their guns. Some aimed blindly for the coal yards, along with Maclare; others wheeled

about, to fire at men whom they could see. Their targets were the massed thugs on the steps.

The scene was set for massacre. The street looked like the stage of a theater, beneath the glare of a spotlight.

All eyes were focused upon Maclare, with the bluecoats clustering about him. The patrol wagons, standing

deserted on either side, were like the wings of the stage. All was dim beyond those vehicles.

DURING these tense moments, an event had occurred offstage. Unseen, a figure had come up to the far side

of a patrol wagon, almost beneath the shelter of a coal yard fence. Like an actor expecting his cue, this silent

arrival had risen on the running board of a black Maria. His head and shoulders projected above the wagon

That head was topped by a slouch hat. The shoulders were shrouded by a black cloak. Two blackgloved fists

projected from the cloak; each gripped the heavy handle of a .45 automatic. Those guns were leveled at the

As policemen leaped to Maclare's side, ready to die with their leader, that strange marksman loosed the fire of

one gun from atop the black Maria. His target was a large one; he picked the glass front of a blazing

searchlight. As his trigger finger tugged, a bullet ripped to its mark. The searchlight vanished with a clatter of

Crooks gazed toward the patrol wagon. They saw no one, for the marksman had picked the nearer searchlight

and was no longer in the edge of the glare. But mobsters saw the next token that came from the blotted wagon

Another crash marked the finish of the second searchlight. The street looked black; feeble lamplights and

illumination from the hotel were pitiful at best. They were completely inadequate as an aftermath to the glare

From the sheltering patrol wagon came a sudden sound that belonged with darkness. It was the strident burst

of a sinister, mocking laugh, that brought alarm to every thug who was straining his eyes to offset the gloom.

Blackclad master who battled evil, The Shadow was here in Westford, covering the very spot where

slaughter had been ordered. His first coup had been to deprive crooks of their most important weapons: those

searchlights on the coal yard roofs. With two strategic shots, The Shadow had equalized the battleground.

True, crooks outnumbered Maclare and his squad; they also had machine guns in readiness. But the law had

gained an ally whose strength could offset a score of foemen. The Shadow was on hand, prepared for instant

Again, the automatics spoke. From his vantage point, The Shadow fired along the fence top. Lieutenant

Maclare shouted an order. Policemen dived everywhere, firing as they took to cover. Revolvers spat from the

coal yard; machine guns began a hasty rattle. Thugs at the doorways of the Mississippi Hotel came leaping

Those mobsters in ambush fired for the area where Maclare and his men had clustered. They fired uselessly,

for the police had spread. Those coming from the hotel sizzled futile shots in the direction of the patrol

wagon. They, too, were late. The Shadow had sprung to the fence; come up to the top and slugged down a

All that carried menace were the machine guns, for they began to spray their fire. There were two of them,

clicking like typewriters from a roof top midway along the fence. One rattling weapon ceased, as The

Shadow blasted a fusillade at the gunners behind it. He had picked them by the spurting fire.

CROOKS fired for The Shadow; but their shots were wide. He had come up to a roof top; there, he ripped

another barrage, that settled the men who handled the second machine gun. Both weapons were silenced;

everywhere, crooks were springing to the ground, to avoid the enfolding fire that The Shadow had begun.

By outflanking the foe, The Shadow had routed all but a few; they were the ones upon the very roof top

Three in number, those crooks leaped forward with swinging revolvers, hoping to beat down the fighter

whose shape was vague before their eyes. An automatic thudded against a skull; the other .45 spat its

singeing flame between the eyes of an attacker. The third crook dived for the ground as his companions

Meanwhile, Maclare and his squad had done gallant duty. Flattened in the street, some had aimed for the

fence and roof tops, while others had delivered quick fire toward the open doors of the hotel. This choice had

been a smart one; the officers who took it gained massed targets. Thugs who had wasted opening shots at the

patrol wagon were caught against the framed light of doorways. Four sagged in quick succession.

Scattering crooks had paused to aim for the low roof where The Shadow had handled three foemen. They

blazed for that darkened spot, again to no avail. The Shadow had dropped from the back of the roof; he was

crossing the tracks of the railroad yard. His quick shots clipped two marksmen who were firing at the roof.

A hoarse voice shouted from between two buildings. It was the same leader who had issued the command to

get Maclare. His new order was a command for flight. All thugs who were able, dashed for the street, crossed

it and made off through alleys toward the front. Others sprang back into the hotel.

Lieutenant Maclare shouted for pursuit. Two of his eight men had fallen in the fight; leaving a pair to care for

Inside, thugs were making for the front; Cassley and his detail let them go through. Loudwhining sirens

Crooks should have found a new trap; but when Lieutenant Maclare reached the front door of the hotel, he

witnessed a wild getaway. The Flying Squadron, a score of men in pursuit cars and on motorcycles were

coming in from the left. Scattered crooks had converged to the right; there they were boarding an assortment

As the Flying Squadron pulled up, Maclare bellowed the news and pointed past the brewery. Promptly, the

The brief delay had served the crooks. Cutting through to another street, a dozen of them made a getaway,

in three cars that contained four men each. The three automobiles took different routes within the next few

blocks, to split the pursuing squadron. Maclare, fuming at the door of the raided hotel, heard the sirens fade in

THERE was a fourth car that had fled; it had taken a route of its own. Rounding the brewery, this machine

had followed a street that led across the railroad tracks, a block away from the Mississippi Hotel. Swinging

past a freight siding, the crooks three in number were greeted by shots from the shelter of a steel freight

Wildly, they fired in return. Their bullets flattened on the steel wall of the freight car. The driver, clipped by a

slug from darkness, lost control and swung from the crossing. His sedan jolted down a low embankment,

There was no stir within the car, when it halted. Distant policemen heard the crash. Footsteps racing upon

sidewalks told that they were coming to witness the result. One carload of fugitives had been bagged, even

Blackness moved from beside the freight car. The purple light of a switch signal glowed upward to show a

shrouded form, tall in its guise of black. Gloved hands dipped mammoth automatics beneath the front of a

flowing cloak. Unseen lips voiced a grim laugh from the muffling front of an upturned collar.

Weird, chilling tones betokened the final stroke of the night's victory. The sardonic mirth faded, as the

cloaked figure passed from the purplish glow. The battle was ended; The Shadow had left the field to the law.

OUT of darkness, The Shadow had arrived to deal with crime in Westford. Into gloom, he had returned

after his efforts had saved the life of Lieutenant Maclare and a squad of officers. Yet the chill of his eerie

laugh seemed to hover; for that spectral tone had carried a touch that seemed to concern the future.

Like Lieutenant Maclare, The Shadow had recognized the significance of tonight's episode. Fierce though the

fray had been, it scarcely scratched the surface of the evil that lurked deep within this prosperous city.

Crime and death would be due again in Westford. Here, evil was organized far beyond the extent that

Lieutenant Maclare had guessed. There would be need for more and greater effort before crime and

The Shadow knew those facts. His appearance in tonight's battle was but proof that he had long been present

HALF an hour after the raid on the Mississippi Hotel, Lieutenant James Maclare arrived back at the first

precinct station. Muffled oaths and dull clatter greeted Maclare when he crossed the patrol room. The sounds

came from the cell room, where policemen had housed an assortment of hoodlums unloaded from the patrol

There had been many captures following the raid. Cornered riffraff had thrown away their guns, to surrender,

denying that they had carried weapons. Practically all of these were men who had been inside the hotel at the

Lieutenant Maclare felt pleased as he took a seat at his desk and began to prepare a report. Armed resistance

had made the case against the prisoners a stronger one. Maclare could see jail terms awaiting many of the

participants. Maclare's pleasure increased, when Sergeant Cassley knocked at the door to announce a visitor.

Maclare was on his feet when Borman entered. Tall, heavy of build, the police director was as much a fighter

as Maclare. Borman's face was sharpfeatured; his lips showed a broad smile between his hooked nose and

his pointed chin. Advancing to Maclare's desk, Borman thrust a congratulating hand across the top, to grip

"Fine work, Jim," commended Borman, in a shortclipped tone. "You cleaned out a nest of bad eggs. Carry

"You mean the Club Adair?" queried Maclare. "That's one place I'd like to get, Kirk. Lance Gillick has a

"Go after it, tomorrow night," ordered Borman. "Telephone me first, though. I have two headquarters men

watching things over there. I'm going to drop in there this evening and look the place over for myself."

"Lance Gillick will probably see you," remarked Maclare. "If he does, he'll pass you a lot of smooth talk."

"All the better," decided Borman. "If he thinks I'm the man he has to deal with, he won't be expecting you

Kirk Borman clapped his hand upon Lieutenant Maclare's shoulder; then turned about and strode from the

office. Policemen saluted, as the director passed through the patrol room. Outside the station house, Borman

stepped aboard an official limousine and told the chauffeur to take him to the Club Adair.

LOCATED just within the limits of the first precinct, the Club Adair fronted on one of Westford's main

Alighting from his car, Kirk Borman entered a pretentious doorway and ascended a broad flight of

thickcarpeted stairs. At the top, he left his hat and coat at a check room. Attired in tuxedo, the police

director entered a glittering night club, where tobacco smoke clouded a thick throng of dancers who occupied

An orchestra was producing strident music. Buzzed conversation, bursts of laughter sounded everywhere.

The place was doing capacity business; a bowing head waiter was apologetic when he ushered the police

director to an obscure table, behind a pillar. It was one of the few tables that remained vacant.

A heavyjowled man spied Borman immediately and came over to the director's table. He was one of the

"They've been going through that door over there, a lot of em. Looks like the gambling joint's on the other

Borman whispered an interruption. The headquarters man silenced as the head waiter approached the table.

Directly behind the head waiter came a man in full evening clothes. The arrival was Lance Gillick.

The night club proprietor was tall and longlimbed. His manner was polished; his speech was suave. His

features were handsome, despite their sallowness. His wavy black hair, his pointed mustache gave him a

"Good evening, Director Borman," greeted Gillick, with a bow. "It is not often that I have the pleasure of

meeting you here. I somewhat expected your arrival tonight" Lance smiled, as he looked in the direction of

the headquarters man "because I saw two of your advance agents. This gentleman and the other, over by the

"Go over there, Thompson," he ordered, "and bring Rhine here. I want both of you to come along with me."

Lance Gillick arched his clipped eyebrows, as he heard Borman give the order. When the two headquarters

LANCE led the way to the door in question. He rapped a signal; the door opened. Borman and his men

followed through into a large room, where some twenty people were seated at tables, laughing as they chatted

and drank. All were well attired; the men in evening clothes, the women in evening gowns.

The room, itself, was magnificent. Its walls were adorned with huge oil paintings; the windows were covered

by expensive velvet draperies. Lance conducted Borman and the others to a far door; he opened it, to show a

"My private office," explained Lance. "The large room through which we came is simply an exclusive dining

"It passes muster," decided Borman. Then, eyeing the office: "I suppose you are very careful in your

Thompson and Rhine departed, out through the door by which they had entered. Lance Gillick ushered Kirk

Borman into the oakpaneled office. Closing the door, the night club proprietor grinned. He pressed a wall

"Step in there, Kirk," chuckled Lance. "Take a look through the back of the big painting on the far wall."

Smiling, Borman followed directions. Looking through a peek hole, the director saw a quick transformation

Waiters were lifting the top of a huge buffet; as they rolled the bulky object forward, its sides fell away and it

became a roulette table. Small tables were pushed in line; their covers whipped away. They produced the

Other waiters were bringing boxes loaded with playing chips, serving them to guests in return for credit slips.

The chips began to click; a waiter took charge of the wheel and it began its spin. Director Borman stepped

"They think it's hot," laughed Lance. "As soon as you're ready to go out, they'll see the lights blink. It will just

KIRK BORMAN nodded. Lance caught a troubled look on the director's face. Quickly, Lance questioned:

"Maclare made a cleanup," answered Borman. "He and his squad bumped off more than half dozen of the

mob. About the same number went to the hospital. Maclare hauled in pretty near twenty of the bunch that

Lance glared sourly. "I can't figure why that outfit didn't get Maclare. As soon as you gave me the tipoff,

Kirk, I phoned Beezer Dorsch and told him to be on the job. Beezer should have gotten Maclare."

"Smart work, using Beezer," commended Borman. "He's the one real mobster in town who's supposed to be

"Sure!" Lance laughed as he spoke. "That covers me perfect, in case Beezer gets recognized! Say, have you

"I told him to blow in here tomorrow night," informed the director. "When he and his squad find nothing,

they'll owe you an apology, Lance. Only, be ready to duck the roulette layout so deep that they'll never find

"I won't run the gambling joint tomorrow," stated Lance. "I'll tell the customers to stay away, on account of

you being here tonight. Maclare and his crew of flatfeet won't even find a gambling chip. All the stuff will be

Lance sat down at his desk, brought out a box of expensive cigars. Borman helped himself to one of the

"Let's forget Maclare," decided Borman. "There's something bigger to think about. We've got to worry about

Prescott Dunson. If he runs for district attorney, we'll have a tough guy to deal with."

"Then it's up to Stephen Ruthley," decided Lance. "As the big reform champion of Westford, he can find fault

with Dunson. No one has even guessed that you and I are working together; that Mayor Marclot is also with

us. So how can they ever figure that Stephen Ruthley, the big philanthropist and reformer, is the man we all

"A lot of reformers like Prescott Dunson," he said. "Therefore, Ruthley can't move against him. Ruthley has

to put up a bigger front than the rest of us. There's only one thing to do, Lance. Bump Dunson!"

"My specialty" laughed Lance. "Tip me off to where Dunson is. I'll do the rest. Say, though" he stroked his

"A bird who was here to see me last night. He's a oneman arsenal, that guy. Packs a couple of gats and

knows how to use them. I let Trig go back to New York. I'll get hold of him again, though, before next

"We won't have to rub out Dunson before then. It will take a while to find him, too. You're right, though,

Kirk. We've got to put Dunson on the spot. With him out, there'll be no opposition to Louis Wilderton

Borman chuckled at Lance's reference to Wilderton, the man who was, at present, district attorney.

"Wilderton is a babe in the woods," laughed the police director. "Any smart lawyer can tangle him into knots.

"It also makes it easy for us," concluded Borman. "Wilderton is under Ruthley's thumb. Comes running to

him for an opinion on everything. Like a kid visiting a department store Santa Claus, around Christmas time."

With this comment, Borman arose, as indication that he was ready to leave. Lance reached beneath his desk

and pressed a hidden button, to blink the lights in the gaming room. Rising, he walked to the door with

"Wait until they've had time to cover the wheel," reminded Lance. "Then put on your act when we go through

the room. Don't forget about Prescott Dunson. Tip me off when you've located him."

"I'll have every copper in town on the lookout," returned Borman. "When I give the order, I'll state that it's for

IN his office, the bigshot gambler grinned, as he took a long puff from his perfecto. Leagued with Mayor

Elvin Marclot and Police Director Borman, Lance had little to fear from the law. Moreover, he knew that he

could rely upon a leader more powerful than either of those two; namely, Stephen Ruthley, Westford's

The future looked rosy to Lance Gillick, despite the fact that crooks had failed tonight in their effort to slay

Lance Gillick had not yet learned that The Shadow's hand had been responsible for crime's failure.

TWENTYFOUR hours had passed since Westford had been stirred by the law's combat with crime.

Lieutenant James Maclare had been heroized for his raid on the Mississippi Hotel. Westford's chief

newspaper, the Daily Banner, had been loud in its acclaim. A great quiet had settled upon the city, as an

The newspaper headlines were of huge interest to a man in shirt sleeves, who sat in an easy chair, surrounded

by the quiet of a modest parlor. The house which contained this room was a small suburban home in one of

Westford's residential districts; but the man, himself, looked out of place in such an ordinary room.

His bulky frame; his huge, bulging forehead, denoted him as a man of action. His bushy eyebrows, with

flashing eyes beneath, showed that he was tired of seclusion. This man was Prescott Dunson, long known as a

Across from Dunson sat a wearyfaced, middleaged woman, busy with her knitting. She looked up as she

heard Dunson grumble aloud. She shook her head and sighed. Dunson mopped his huge forehead and smiled

"It's too bad, Martha," he declared, in a booming tone, "that you had to marry a man who went in for politics;

particularly in this rotten town. But I am determined to go through with what I started. I intend to be the next

"Yes! Westford is in the hands of rogues!" boomed Dunson. "Mayor Marclot is a smug pretender! Director

Borman is a traitor, in league with criminals! I can prove those facts, Martha! And I have a suspicion there's a

"As for Louis Wilderton," added Dunson, "he is a knownothing. A puppet, acting as district attorney. What

"I can't believe all that, Prescott," protested Mrs. Dunson. "It sounds incredible! If I won't believe it, how can

others? They will say that you are a fanatic; they will laugh at your assertions."

Dunson thrust a big hand into his coat pocket; drew out a folded letter and held it aloft in his right band.

"This came from a man who knows the truth," he announced. "A man whom I have never met; but who told

me enough in his previous letters. He signs himself Theo D. Shaw; he has not only promised me more facts,

he has offered to take me to a place of absolute security. With his aid, I can lift the lid. I can not only tell the

STOOPING, Dunson picked up the newspaper that he had dropped. He opened it to the editorial page;

"Look, Martha," he said. "Already, they state that they expect to hear from Prescott Dunson; that I have

promised to throw light on hidden corruption; to name men who have bled this city. When I officially and

publicly announce myself as candidate for district attorney, I shall wither the rogues whose names I mention.

Dunson broke off. A telephone bell was ringing in the hall. With a nod to his wife, Dunson lowered his tone

The woman laid aside her knitting; she went to the telephone, held a brief conversation. She came back into

Dunson bounded across the room. In the hall, he seized up the telephone, began a quick conversation.

"Yes, yes..." Mrs. Dunson heard all that her husband said. "Of course, Mr. Shaw... I knew that you would

learn where I was living... Yes, I have my car here... The garage..? Right in back of the house... Certainly. I

"Twenty minutes..." Dunson nodded as he spoke. "Yes, I can make it in that time... Parking lot beside the

Majestic Hotel... Up through the fire tower... Room 304... Very well, Mr. Shaw. I shall be there within a half

Hanging up the receiver, Dunson came into the parlor. He told his wife the import of the call.

"Shaw wants me to meet him at the Majestic Hotel. I'm going straight up to his room. Pack my bag at once,

"Absolutely! I am to park my car by the side of the hotel, in that parking space that we've used so often. I'll

go in by the side door; up the fire tower to Shaw's room. I'll call you, after I have talked with him."

Donning coat and vest, Dunson clapped a battered hat upon his head. He went out through the kitchen, while

Five minutes later, Mrs. Dunson arrived downstairs, carrying a light bag. She heard the kitchen door slam;

Dunson arrived, fuming incoherently. Taking the bag, he explained the reason for his annoyance.

Kissing his wife goodby, Dunson stepped toward the door. He paused long enough to add a last assurance.

"The trolley stop is only one block from the Majestic Hotel," reminded Dunson. "That block is a quiet one. I

can walk along the left side of the street, in front of Judge Benbrook's old house. Then I get past there, I can

LEAVING, the house, Dunson took to a secluded sidewalk. The suburban street was deserted; Dunson felt

secure as he paced in the direction of the car line. He reached the car stop; stood under the darkened shelter of

a large tree. In a few minutes, a jouncy trolley car came along the street. Dunson stepped into the glow of its

There were only five passengers on the trolley car. None noted Dunson particularly. Setting his bag on the

seat beside him, Dunson shoved his hat back from his bulgy forehead and stared from the window as the car

After a few blocks, the car halted. A policeman stepped aboard the back platform, grunted a "hello" to the

conductor. The car started on; the officer remained on the rear platform. The trolley had traveled another

"Say!" exclaimed the bluecoat, to the conductor. "Isn't that Prescott Dunson, the fellow that's going to run for

"Guess it is," rejoined the conductor, peering through the door. "Looks like the pictures I've seen of him."

"We got orders tonight to watch for him," he informed. "On account of that battle last night, the police

director's taking no chances. Guess he figures there'll be crooks looking for Dunson. Ring for a stop at the

"Naw! I'll take the next one. I wasn't told to go along with Dunson. Orders were to report if I saw him."

The conductor signaled the motorman. The trolley stopped long enough for the policeman to drop off; then

resumed its jerky course. Coming into the heart of the city, it was halted frequently by traffic lights; but took

After ten minutes, the trolley neared the corner where Dunson intended to get off. The conductor, staring

toward the street, noted that a touring car was loitering along beside the trolley; but he quickly forgot the fact.

The trolley swung into a oneway street; Dunson arose and pressed a button. When the car stopped, the big

DUNSON'S first move was to cross the street. This brought him to the left side of a short block. To his left

was the looming bulk of an oldfashioned mansion, the residence of Judge Martin Benbrook, who was long

retired from the bench. There were two gates in the iron picket fence that ran in front of the old house. One

offered access to the front door; the other led to a side passage that ran to the rear of the house.

Just past Judge Benbrook's home, the remaining half of the block was composed of buildings with lighted

fronts. Across from them was the Majestic Hotel, on the right side of the street. Nestled against the hotel were

Dunson strolled along at leisurely gait; he saw that he could easily cross the street unnoticed, after he had

It was when Dunson neared the second gate, that the first token of danger came. A touring car had swung the

corner which the trolley had left. Its lights flashed suddenly from dim to bright. Dunson's walking figure was

outlined in their glare. For an instant, the big man paused, hoping, the lights would swing away. They did, but

Prescott Dunson was caught in full view, turned half toward the side gate in the picket fence. He was

clutching his suitcase, blinking into the brilliance that had so plainly revealed him. To his startled ears came

The suitcase dropped from Dunson's shaky hands. In that tense instant, the doomed man realized that he was

OTHER eyes than Dunson's had seen the sudden glare of the revealing spotlight. They were eyes that were

not blinded by the unexpected brilliance. Across the street, but beyond the spot where Dunson stood, a

lurking figure was watching from the shelter of cars stationed in the parking lot.

To that observer, the spotlight told its story. He saw the helpless man caught in the path of light. With a quick

spring, this watcher came from his place of security. Street lights showed him as a shrouded shape. The

Before thugs could obey the command of their leader, The Shadow's fists came up. With quick fingers, he

pulled the triggers of automatics; dispatched whining bullets straight for the death car that lay almost between

him and Prescott Dunson. Cries came from the slowly moving touring car. The Shadow had scored hits upon

Those shots saved Dunson for the moment. They gave the doomed man a needed opportunity. Close beside

Dunson was the gate to the side passage that led beyond Judge Benbrook's house. Had Dunson dropped his

suitcase and pressed through the gate, he could have gained the shelter that would save him.

Instead, Dunson stood rooted. He seemed hypnotized by the light that blinded him. The death car veered, to

escape The Shadow's bombardment. While the automatics still tongued, a clatter began from within the

touring car. One crouching machine gunner had lain below The Shadow's fire, was pushing the muzzle of the

death gun through the opening of a halfopened door, on Dunson's side of the street. That killer profited by

The touring car sped forward, while bullets still streamed from its side. The driver was low behind the wheel;

the machine gunner was crouched on the rear floor. Others were hanging from the side of the car while it ran

the gantlet of The Shadow's fire. One in the front seat, the other in the rear, two thugs had stopped the bullets

The Shadow boomed last shots at the driver. They failed to get him; for the rolling form of an intervening

thug shielded the man at the wheel. As the touring car wheeled leftward to the main street, The Shadow put a

bullet through the gasoline tank; but the automobile kept onward and disappeared from view.

THE SHADOW started across the street, to the darkness where Dunson's body lay. Before he arrived, he

heard light, quick footsteps. As he came up in the darkness, he found a girl bending over the bulletriddled

man. The Shadow saw a white face in the darkness, as the girl listened to Dunson s last words.

Bravely, the girl raised the man's head; felt it drop back from her grasp. At that instant, she sensed that

someone was beside her. Looking up, the girl viewed a blackened figure almost at her elbow. She saw the

An approaching car had swung the corner. The Shadow saw it across the girl's shoulder. He knew that it was

bringing a second crew of gunmen. Shoving one gun beneath his cloak, he seized the girl about the shoulders.

Hurling his full weight against the gate, he rammed it open; then launched the struggling girl along the

The Shadow performed this action with a complete spin that brought him again facing the street, a ready gun

in hand. He had whirled the girl more than a dozen feet away; she was in a spot of safety. New battle was

due; the click of an automobile spotlight foretold it. Standing at the gate, The Shadow was fully revealed by a

Though spotted as Dunson had been, The Shadow was prepared. His laugh sounded its fierce challenge.

Standing above the body of the murdered man, The Shadow loosed quick bullets from his single .45; though

His first bullet was straight for the rear door of the car. That door, like the previous one, was partly opened.

The Shadow dropped the man who was behind it. His second bullet stabbed the spotlight, finishing its glare.

As the driver gave the car the gas, The Shadow ripped a final bullet for the steering wheel. A cry told that he

The car zigzagged wildly. An unwounded thug managed to control it and yank it into the parking lot, where it

The Shadow whipped forth the gun that he had stowed away; but he did not aim toward the car that had fled.

COMING from the main street, the sedan was plain against the lighted front of the Majestic Hotel. The

Shadow saw a gun muzzle thrust from a rear window; he blasted away before the driver was ready to turn on

a spotlight. Bullets that spat from darkness were too much for this crew. The driver wheeled the sedan to the

left; took the route that the second car had followed, through the parking space.

Before The Shadow could make another move, he heard the whine of sirens. They came from both directions.

The Flying Squadron was coming to the scene of battle. To others, that arrival signified the law. To The

The Shadow knew the extent of crime in Westford; he knew that the Flying Squadron was a bluff. Crooks

would make their getaway amid wild pursuit; the squadron would gain credit for prompt action. That was

The Shadow knew more. He had guessed the personnel of the picked men who formed the Flying Squadron.

He knew that they were as dangerous as crooks; otherwise, they would not be party to the fake pursuit that

Because of that, The Shadow saw danger in his own position. His guns were empty; he would have no chance

to battle uniformed men who merely pretended to uphold the law. They, however, would be pleased at the

Already, cars and motorcycles were swinging into view, converging toward the very spot where The Shadow

stood; a fact that signified that they knew where to find Dunson's body. The Shadow had one lone path to

safety. That was the passage past Judge Benbrook's house, the route along which he had sent the girl.

Turning, The Shadow swiftly entered the passage, swinging the gate shut behind him. Hardly had he started

through the darkened space before he heard a siren stopping on the rear street. One of the Flying Squadron's

Quickly, The Shadow swung into the shelter of an alcove at the side of the house. He stumbled a short flight

of steps; as he caught himself against the wall, he heard a whispered voice just above his head. The voice

It was the girl who spoke. She had taken this shelter ahead of The Shadow. She had guessed that the person

stumbling in darkness was the one who had saved her from death. The Shadow gave quiet response.

Almost instantly, The Shadow blinked a tiny flashlight. By the glow, he saw the key that the girl was holding;

her hand was shaking as she tried to fit it into a door. Quickly, The Shadow plucked the key with gloved

Following, The Shadow closed the door behind him, inserted the key from the inside and turned the lock.

LOOKING about, The Shadow found himself in an entry that led to a dimly lighted hall. The girl had gone

through; she was staring back, trying to discern the man who had so promptly aided her with the door.

The Shadow stepped forward into the light. The girl gasped, as she saw his weird, cloaked figure. She

silenced, as The Shadow gave a whisper. Fascinated, the girl met the gleam of The Shadow's burning eyes.

Though more amazed than ever, Estelle Benbrook found her voice. She thanked her rescuer.

The Shadow waited for the girl to continue. Estelle finally expressed her thoughts.

"But the police are now outside!" blurted the girl. "Why did we need to avoid them?"

"They are as dangerous as the others," replied The Shadow, calmly. "Criminals were ready to eliminate all

Estelle Benbrook continued to watch The Shadow's eyes. When the girl spoke, her tone was, one of

"I believe you," she declared, firmly. "I recognized Prescott Dunson, when I saw his body. My father has said

that matters were wrong in Westford; but I have never repeated his statements. He is an old man; his mind

"I have never spoken this before; not even to Louis Wilderton. He would not believe me. He thinks that all is

"He will learn," interposed The Shadow, quietly, "when the right time arrives. Until then, you must remain

"I promise," declared Estelle. "I shall say nothing of what I saw tonight. Terrible though it was, it has given

The Shadow stepped back into the passage. He listened at the side door; he heard the shuffle of departing

feet. The members of the Flying Squadron had completed their search in the passage beside the house. They

The Shadow turned the key in the lock: Estelle saw the motion of his hand as she joined him in the passage.

The Shadow's response was a whispered laugh; mirthless, it was scarcely audible in the darkness. It

Estelle, as witness of The Shadow's mighty battle, understood the grim significance. As The Shadow drew

the door inward, Estelle reached forward; she found the key and plucked it from the lock.

"Take this key," pleaded the girl "I have another. Sometime, you may wish to return. Perhaps perhaps there

Gloved fingers grasped the key. Estelle released it. She sensed that The Shadow had moved outward; but she

expected him to speak again. It was not until half a minute later that she realized that The Shadow had

departed. Silently, he had closed the door behind him. Estelle Benbrook stood alone.

SLOWLY, the girl went through the lighted hall. She reached a front room and turned on a desk lamp. The

glow showed her wellformed face, attractive despite the paleness which dominated it. The darkness of her

hair made her pallor seem more evident; for Estelle Benbrook was a pronounced brunette.

The girl had steadied since her ordeal. Her hand had no tremble, as it found another key in the desk. Steadily,

Estelle returned to the side door and inserted the key. She found the door locked. The Shadow had silently

attended to that detail from outside. Estelle managed a slight laugh, as she went into the hall and placed the

A puzzled frown appeared upon her forehead. She would have liked to have learned more concerning this

mysterious stranger from the night. She recalled rumors that she had heard this very day, concerning the raid

made last night, by Lieutenant Maclare. There was talk of persons unknown, who had sided with the law.

Estelle believed that rumor; but she was convinced that one fighter, not a group, had been responsible for the

aid that Maclare had received. Estelle could form that opinion from her own observation. She was still

As she closed the hand bag, Estelle smiled. After all, The Shadow had taken the key that she had offered.

That seemed more than courtesy. Sometime soon, she hoped the blackclad stranger might return.

In her thoughts, Estelle pictured this house as a real haven in the heart of Westford, should The Shadow need

the refuge that it could afford. Such need seemed likely to Estelle, when she considered the odds that this lone

fighter faced. Circumstances could arise to make The Shadow's return imperative.

Though Estelle Benbrook did not guess it, such circumstances were already in the making.

NOT far from the center of Westford stood a large apartment house that fronted on a boulevard. This new and

pretentious edifice had supplanted part of a row of old brick houses. The remnants of the row began at the

side of the apartment house and continued to a corner. Deserted and dilapidated, they were ready for

The front windows on the second floor of the apartment house were heavily curtained, all in the same style.

They gave the impression that they belonged to one apartment, which they did. That apartment was the

Ruthley called the apartment his town home; and he considered an entire floor necessary for comfort,

although his family seldom occupied the apartment with him. They preferred a country house, some miles

from Westford. They lived there during the short intervals when they came home from Newport, Florida, or

Hence, Stephen Ruthley lived alone, except for a retinue of servants; and he liked this second floor apartment

Recognized as the city's most prominent citizen, Ruthley enjoyed his prestige. He gained acclaim for his

philanthropies and his constant stand for reform. His real pleasure, however, lay in the fact that never a

whisper had passed concerning his actual capacity. None but his most trusted lieutenants knew that Stephen

Beginning with half a million dollars gained from honest enterprise, Ruthley had increased his fortune to ten

times that amount by backing graft and crime. He had covered this procedure by expanding his legitimate

businesses and making them look prosperous, though they cost him more than he gained. Ruthley considered

this essential. As overlord of Westford, he maintained his security by keeping his real activities unknown.

There were two reasons why none of Ruthley's associates had ever dared to expose his game. First, because

no one would have believed them; second because they were in too deep. Ruthley took care of his tools; saw

to it that they gained their share of the spoils. That kept them satisfied, and maintained their loyalty to their

ON this night, soon after The Shadow had rescued Estelle Benbrook, Stephen Ruthley had a visitor. The

caller was a stuffedshirt henchman, who was at present Ruthley's most useful figurehead. He was Elvin

Marclot, mayor of Westford, whom Ruthley had carried into office on a sweeping wave of socalled reform.

The pair were seated in Ruthley's den, a room that had windows only at the front, for it was the side of the

Ruthley's den was a cross between an office and a clubroom. It had a desk in the corner, along with a filing

cabinet. Except for those articles of office equipment, it was furnished with deepcushioned chairs and

The side wall showed a pair of large bookcases, set apart; between them was a huge, lifesized painting that

depicted Aramis, of the "Three Musketeers." The bottom of the fulllength picture was less than two feet

Ruthley was seated in an armchair, smoking an expensive cigar. Marclot was opposite him, watching him. In

Stephen Ruthley was elderly, yet active. His face was calm, pleasant, almost fatherly. His eyes, though

searching, carried a twinkle; his gray hair added to his genial look. All this was a mask that Ruthley had worn

for years; he seldom dropped it, even when he had no need for pretense. In fact, Ruthley prided himself upon

the fact that when his temper rose, he could play his friendly, reassuring part to real perfection.

Elvin Marclot was portly, pompous and roundfaced; serious of expression, he was ever ready to draw

himself up and blubber in righteous indignation. He used that method to cover his crooked nature; it worked

well in public, but it was useless in Ruthley's presence. The boss always had the mayor at a disadvantage; for

Tonight, if Ruthley chanced to be nervous, he did not show it. Marclot, however, was jittery, and could not

cover the fact. He had already reported important news; all that he could do was repeat it.

"They've finished Dunson by this time, Steve," insisted Marclot, in a tone that was almost a whine. "Kirk

Borman called me, like I told you. I thought I'd better be here when the news came "

THE telephone bell rang. Marclot trembled as he reached for the telephone, which was on a mahogany table

Marclot sank back in his chair, A Japanese houseman entered, picked up the telephone and spoke in

mechanical fashion. He turned about and held the instrument toward Marclot, with the statement:

Marclot took the telephone shakily; gulped as he spoke. Ruthley listened intently to the conversation.

"Yes..." Marclot, always a faker, pretended to be astonished. "What is that, director? A murder?... Not our

friend Prescott Dunson?... This is terrible! Terrible!... Yes. It would be wise for you to come here at once..."

Haija took the telephone as soon as Marclot hung up. The Japanese replaced the instrument on the table and

Ruthley and Marclot dropped their conversation. Just as Ruthley flicked another length of ashes from his

cigar, Haija entered to announce that the police director had arrived. Kirk Borman was ushered into the den.

"They chopped down Dunson in front of Judge Benbrook's house," stated Borman. "But there was a lot of

fireworks afterward. Some sharpshooter began to pick off the men in Lance's cars; just like last night."

"Interesting," remarked Ruthley. He puffed at his cigar; then reached for a box and offered a smoke to

"They arrived too late to get him," returned Borman, in a rueful tone. "They had to fake a chase after the

thugs; and it was tough to bluff it, for they were crippled pretty bad, the thugs were. I thought the whole game

was going to be a cinch when Dunson was reported in that trolley; but it wasn't.

"Anyway, Dunson is done for. The Flying Squadron took his body over to the morgue. I saw him laid out

there; and I found out something that's worth knowing. Wait until I show you the letter that was on Dunson's

"This will make trouble," insisted the mayor. "Maybe not for us; but suppose that public indignation seeks

"But how can we laugh off Dunson's charges?" continued Marclot. "He claimed that he could prove

"I shall handle the matter," returned Ruthley, still smiling. "Quite easily, Marclot."

Borman had found the letter. The police director was opening it. The paper was reddened at one corner; that

stain had come from Prescott Dunson's blood. The fact did not annoy Borman; he was too anxious to divulge

"This was from a man named Shaw," he began. "Evidently the fellow had written to Dunson before "

STEPHEN Ruthley had heard a slight sound that came from behind the panting on the wall. He arose; went to

the picture and pressed a hidden catch in the side of the frame. He swung the picture inward, in doorlike

The foremost was Lance Gillick, sleek in his evening attire. The bigshot gambler indulged in one of his

suave smiles. He stepped aside to let his companion enter. The other man was short and squatty; his leering

face showed crossed scars on its left cheek. The man looked like a murderer; and he was.

Lance's companion was "Beezer" Dorsch, the mobleader who was supposed to be at odds with the sleek

gambler. As Lance had mentioned to Borman the night before, the two were actually in league. Because of

The ring of crimemakers was complete. Stephen Ruthley, king of villainy, sat smiling as he viewed the

faces of his four lieutenants. With Elvin Marclot to play the part of a pompous mayor; with Kirk Borman to

This other pair were quite as essential to his schemes. Lance Gillick served as hidden lieutenant who

commanded henchmen from the underworld, while Beezer Dorsch took charge of action in the field. In a

sense, Lance and Beezer corresponded to Marclot and Borman. One pair represented the law; the other pair,

The second duo of aces gave Stephen Ruthley the full hand that he wanted. All were his, to take his

commands. Tonight's action had been the murder of Prescott Dunson. The kill had been made. Ruthley was

ELVIN MARCLOT and Kirk Borman were not at all annoyed by the arrival of Lance Gillick and Beezer

Dorsch. The mayor and the police director had long since come to recognize those two as companions in

arms. There was, in fact, a reason why both Marclot and Borman felt pleased when they learned that Ruthley

had summoned his representatives in the underworld. Until tonight, neither Marclot nor Borman had made

Nearly all contact between these pairs of lieutenants had been when Kirk Borman had visited Lance Gillick,

on pretense that he was looking into the gambler's affairs. Marclot and Borman paid their own visits to

Stephen Ruthley; but they always entered by the front door. When Ruthley needed to see Lance or Beezer, he

The picture that served as a door covered a passage through the deserted house at the end of the row. Lance

and Beezer reached it by entering the old house from a narrow, blind alley, well hidden from the lights of the

Tonight, it was apparent that Lance and Beezer had brought news. Therefore, Kirk Borman postponed his

own report. He pocketed the letter that he had found on Dunson's body and settled back in his chair to listen.

Lance Gillick picked out one of Ruthley's cigars, while Beezer Dorsch produced a cigarette and lighted it.

"I was going to tell you about last night," he began. "Only I got more dope to spring, the way things has

happened. We muffed that Maclare job, on account of a guy who queered our setup. I was wise to who he

For an instant, Stephen Ruthley's eyes showed a hard glint. The boss had heard of The Shadow; for he had

"Too bad your Flying Squadron was slow," purred the boss. "They could handle this troublemaker, if they

"They'll have orders to bag The Shadow," returned Borman, grimly. "When I tell them to look for The

LANCE and Beezer smiled hopefully. Ruthley settled back in his chair to ponder over the facts that he had

"We can't forget Dunson," pleaded Marclot. "Something has to be brought to light, to cover the stir he has

Ruthley smiled blandly. He arose and went to the filing cabinet in the corner. Opening a drawer, he produced

a folder filled with papers. He brought them back to his chair; laid them upon a table. Motioning for silence,

"Prescott Dunson is dead," announced Ruthley. "He was murdered because he threatened to make important

revelations concerning graft and crime. The public will want facts; therefore, the public shall have facts.

Smiling, Ruthley opened the folder and brought out the papers. As he spread them on the table, he spoke

"First," he declared, "some killer must be blamed for the crime. Very well; we shall name the man who is

actually responsible. There he is" Ruthley pointed to Beezer "all ready to take the blame."

"Sure," snorted Beezer, "I'll be the fall guy. Great stuff, boss! Me and Lance is supposed to be on the outs.

"I already have an alibi," he remarked. "The best in the city. Just at the time when Beezer was rubbing out

Dunson, who do you think dropped in to see me? I'll tell you. It was Lieutenant James Maclare. He wanted to

see if I had any roulette wheels up my sleeve, so I showed him all around the joint. He drew a blank; wouldn't

even take a cigar when I offered it to him. Maclare knows where I was when Dunson was chopped down.

Smiles of approval were exchanged throughout the group. Chuckles stilled as Ruthley resumed.

"Beezer will disappear," explained the boss. "The city will be scoured for him. A nationwide search will

"All the while, Beezer will be comfortably located in the one place where no one not even Lieutenant

LANCE nodded his approval. The others joined with nods. They knew the location of Lance's apartment; off

the passage that led from his private office. Since Maclare had raided the Club Adair and found no gambling

"The matter of a murderer is settled," he declared. "We must, however, consider the subject of corruption.

Marclot" he eyed the mayor steadily "do you remember those contracts you signed for the proposed

"Certainly," nodded Marclot. "Adam Woodstock gained the contracts. He has already received a million

"That was a swell kickback," put in Lance, in an admiring tone. "I'll bet, though, that it doesn't show on

"Of course not," declared Marclot. "Woodstock was careful to cover the entire transaction."

"These papers," stated Ruthley, picking some from his stack, "give a comparison of the actual estimates and

the false ones. Suppose that they were found in Woodstock's safe, along with other incriminating documents,

Elvin Marclot could not contain himself. Forgetting his pompous pose, the mayor exclaimed:

"People would think that Woodstock was the man higher up! The one who ordered Beezer to murder

"I could cancel them," returned Marclot, "on claim of fraud perpetrated by Woodstock. His corporation

"Precisely," smiled Ruthley. "A million dollars would be returned to the city treasury; and half of it would be

Woodstock's own money. You would then be able, Marclot, to let new contracts to another bidder quite as

The perfection of Ruthley's scheme suited the bevy of plotters. They saw another half million already in the

"Woodstock will squawk," phrased the police director. "How will you handle that, Steve?"

"I shall attend to Woodstock," purred Ruthley. "He will never find an opportunity to raise objection. There is

only one detail that must still be considered. That concerns Beezer. We must see to it that he is actually

"I can fix that," returned Borman. "I'll have some of the boys in the Flying Squadron swear to it that they saw

"That will help," mused Ruthley, "but it would be better if some disinterested witnesses could testify to

Beezer's ability as a killer. Charges made by police are sometimes disregarded."

KIRK BORMAN stroked his chin. He was thinking hard; suddenly, he found an answer. Reaching into his

"I have it!" exclaimed Borman. "This letter shows that Dunson was working with an investigator named

"Therefore," pronounced Ruthley, "Shaw must be eliminated. Let me see that letter, Kirk."

Taking the letter, Ruthley noted that it was brief. Scrawled in a clumsy hand, it simply promised new

revelations that would be as startling as those previously given. It reminded Dunson to destroy all

correspondence that he had received to date. Ruthley pondered over the scrawled signature.

"Probably at the Majestic Hotel," returned Borman, promptly. "That's where we think Dunson was headed

"Get Shaw," he purred. "Take good men with you. Let yourself be seen. As for you, Kirk" Ruthley swung

to the police director "have your men close on Beezer's heels. Afterward, produce this letter as proof that

"That will pin it on me right," grunted Beezer. He seemed pleased by the prospect. "When I dive out, they'll

STEPHEN RUTHLEY arose; his action signified that the conference was ended. Marclot and Borman

prepared to leave by the front door; Lance and Beezer were ready for secret departure. It was Lance who

"What about The Shadow, boss?" he queried. "Beezer is sure that he was the guy who mixed in the last two

"We can attend to The Shadow later," decided Ruthley, "after we have disposed of this informant, Shaw."

The decision showed that Stephen Ruthley was confident that new murder could be accomplished without

The Shadow's interference. The overlord of crime felt sure that the lone fighter had been too hard pressed to

rally for new effort; that The Shadow would not expect another murderous attempt so soon after Dunson's

Ruthley's four aces shared their chief's belief. Though they knew The Shadow's prowess, they could not

credit him with the ability to be everywhere at once. Not even Beezer Dorsch would grant The Shadow that

much, though Beezer himself had been the one to face the cloaked fighter in actual combat.

Beezer's leering face showed that he did not expect to meet The Shadow again tonight. The murderer

anticipated no opposition when he went to handle the investigator, Shaw. Nor did Ruthley and the others;

Had Stephen Ruthley and his lieutenants given more careful consideration to facts that they held in hand, they

THERE had been excitement in the Majestic Hotel following the murder of Prescott Dunson, for the noise of

gunfire, plus the arrival of the Flying Squadron, had been sufficient to create high alarm. Later, the lobby had

quieted; but all about were little groups of men who discussed the new crime that had occurred in Westford.

The consensus of opinion showed approval for the police. It was known that crooks had eluded the Flying

Squadron; but fully a dozen persons were prepared to testify that the law had reached the spot within five

minutes after Dunson's death. Speedy flight by the murderers explained the getaway; no one could find

One guest at the Majestic Hotel remained apart from the chatting groups. He was a tall, haggardfaced

individual, whose eyes were restless, and who frequently took on a listening attitude as he roamed about the

gaudy lobby. The clerk at the desk recognized him as a man named Shaw. He looked like one of the many

After a while, Shaw started for the coffee shop that adjoined the lobby. He stopped at the door, hesitated, then

headed for the elevators. The clerk did not see Shaw go upstairs; but he remembered that the man had been in

the lobby. He proved this later, when a stranger stopped at the desk and inquired gruffly:

"He was here in the lobby, a short while ago," replied the clerk, while he sorted letters. Then, realizing the

toughness of the questioner's tone, the clerk asked: "Why do you wish to see Mr. Shaw?"

As he asked the question, the clerk looked at the man who had approached the desk. He saw an ugly, scarred

face that one who observed was not likely to forget. The clerk was looking at Beezer Dorsch.

"I'll tell Shaw what I want to see him about," informed Beezer. "Is he still here in the lobby?"

The clerk looked about and shook his head. Turning toward Beezer, he noted that the scarred man was

accompanied by a pair of rowdies who matched him for toughness. One of them voiced a growl:

"A good idea," decided Beezer. "Say, you" he glowered at the clerk "where'll I find this guy Shaw?"

The girl at the switchboard offered an interruption. She had heard the mention of Shaw's name; but had

turned around to see Beezer and the others. She did not know that the clerk was trying to stall.

"Mr. Shaw just put in a call," stated the girl. "He ordered supper served in his room."

"That means he's up there," grunted Beezer. "All right. I'll go up and see him."

Followed by his pals, Beezer strode toward the elevator. Hardly had the door closed before a house detective

"Then he's Beezer Dorsch, all right!" decided the dick. "We just got a call from police headquarters to flag

DURING this interim, Beezer and his two companions had reached the third floor. They found Room 304

near the inner end of a short corridor. Beezer tried the door cautiously, to discover that it was locked. He

"We got to figure some way of getting at the guy," decided Beezer. "Maybe there's a way of reaching a

"Pssst!" One of the thugs interrupted. "Scram, Beezer! There's an elevator door opening up!"

Beezer urged his companions into an alcove. They saw a waiter step from the elevator, bearing a tray. The

attendant went to the door of 304 and knocked. Beezer saw the door open; he spied a haggard face inside the

"I spotted Shaw, all right," whispered Beezer. "He's a sappylooking guy. He'll be soft. Wait'll the waiter

Soon the waiter reappeared; he stopped in the hallway to nod, as he listened to a complaining voice from the

"I told you to bring lemon for my tea," Shaw was objecting. "Not cream. Do you understand?"

"Very well. Return at once and bring the lemon. The door will be unlocked. Knock, however, before you

The door closed; the waiter returned to the elevator. Beezer grinned and pulled a revolver from his hip

"Stick close," he told them. "Stay outside the door. I'll handle this mug alone; if I want you, I'll call you. Keep

Creeping forward, Beezer reached the door of 304; waited until his followers were beside him. Imitating the

"The waiter," replied Beezer, in a tone less gruff than usual. "Bringing the lemon you wanted."

Beezer grinned as he gestured with his revolver, for the benefit of his pals. He was bringing a lemon, all right;

"Come in," called the voice within the room. "Don't stand out there in the hall."

Beezer turned the knob with his left hand. He shouldered through the doorway, to find himself in a short

passage that led to the main portion of the room. Shaw's table was out of sight beyond the corner; Beezer

could hear the clatter of dishes. Carefully, he closed the door; then edged forward.

As Shaw's query came again, Beezer bounded forward. He passed the projecting corner, swung straight for

the spot where he believed that the victim would be seated. Stopping short as he gripped his leveled gun,

Beezer stared at a table by the wall. He saw the dishes and the food upon them; but the chair behind the table

QUICKLY, Beezer looked toward the deeper corner at his left; it was toward the front of the room, a spot

that he had passed as he hurried into Shaw's field of vision. As he turned, Beezer was quicker with his eyes

than with his gun. As a consequence, he was forced to halt before he had a chance to aim.

Beezer Dorsch was staring squarely into the rounded mouth of an automatic a massive weapon that he was

viewing at closer range than ever before. That .45 was a living threat; for Beezer had heard it speak often

Above the huge weapon were burning eyes, the only features that Beezer could see beneath the shading brim

of a slouch hat. Below was blackness that formed a shrouded shape. Beezer saw cloaked shoulders; a

Beezer's revolver slipped from his numbed fingers. It thudded the floor beside the dishladen table. Slowly,

his hands came up, while he stared at those eyes that seemed to paralyze him with their hypnotic spell.

There was no man named Shaw. Nor was there need to wonder why the person who used that name had

learned so much of crime in Westford. Stephen Ruthley and his lieutenants had overlooked the obvious;

they had failed to connect the supposed investigator, Shaw, with the one person whose presence they had

The supposed Shaw was The Shadow. The cloaked avenger was the being who faced Beezer Dorsch. The

Shadow had awaited Prescott Dunson outside the hotel; that was why he had been on hand, to protect the man

The Shadow had not forgotten the letter that Dunson held. He had foreseen that Dunson's killer might try to

The trap was reversed. The Shadow, archenemy of crime, had taken Beezer Dorsch into his toils!

THE SHADOW had arranged his trap with consummate skill. Beezer recognized the fact, as he stared

helpless. Between the table and the corner, The Shadow had placed a floor lamp; he had tilted the shade

In a sense, The Shadow had employed the device which Beezer had used on two successive nights. The lamp

had the effect of a spotlight; the corner behind it, darkened in comparison, was The Shadow's lurking spot.

The position of the lamp explained why Beezer had overlooked the corner when he passed it. The crook had

The lamp's glare outlined Beezer's face; and the sight was not pretty. It showed the mobleader's ugly profile;

his scarred cheek and the knobby, illshaped nose that had won him his nickname. Beezer's features were

yellowish in the glow; the snarl that came from his gritted teeth would have befitted a rat.

The Shadow had stepped close enough for Beezer to see him distinctly; that move had been essential to The

Shadow's plan. His position enabled him to scrutinize Beezer closely; to form his own opinion of the ugly

captive that he had snared. A few brief seconds convinced The Shadow that he held the actual murderer who

Beezer's face showed it. So did his manner; for his attempt at bravado was a weak one. The yellowish tinge

upon Beezer's face represented the closest that the murderer could come to actual paleness.

Perhaps The Shadow already knew of Beezer's part. The murderer could not tell; but he learned promptly that

The Shadow had gained information concerning persons more important than this prisoner. That became

apparent when The Shadow spoke; his tone was an uncanny whisper that produced a shudder in Beezer's

"State who sent you here!" ordered The Shadow. "Name all concerned in your present move!"

It was a command, not a question. Beezer realized the full significance of The Shadow's words. Chances were

that The Shadow knew who had sent the killer here; Beezer could see trouble for himself if he lied. The crook

tried to snarl an answer; his voice was incoherent. Quailing, he resorted to a whine.

"I didn't put the finger on you," he protested. "Honest, I wasn't sent to make no trouble! It was on account of

BEEZER stopped, knowing his whine to be useless. An interruption rescued him; the sound was a cautious

rap at the door of the room. Beezer glanced nervously toward The Shadow. Hidden lips issued a command.

"Answer it!" ordered The Shadow, his whispered tone low. "Tell your pals to join you!"

Beezer obeyed while the door was opening. He saw The Shadow step back behind the focused lamp.

"Did you croak him, Beezer?" There was no reply from Beezer. The thugs stopped as they saw their leader,

against the wall, his hands above his head. They swung about, looking for an enemy; their hands tightened on

Beezer's pals had heard a sinister whisper. They stared toward the corner; like Beezer, they saw The Shadow.

He had stepped into the light; both his fists were equipped with automatics. One .45 held Beezer motionless;

the other covered the two thugs. They acted as Beezer had. Two revolvers thudded the carpet together.

Pointing with his guns, The Shadow huddled the three mobsters together at the end of the room. His unseen

lips formed a mirthful whisper, as ominous as the strident laugh that crooks had heard earlier upon this night.

The meaning broke suddenly upon Beezer Dorsch, as he saw The Shadow put away one gun. A telephone

was in easy reach of The Shadow's free hand; his single automatic was sufficient to hold the clustered trio at

"He's going to give us to Maclare!" gulped Beezer. "The guy we tried to croak last night! We're in Maclare's

As he gave this news, Beezer started forward. He halted at the threat of The Shadow's gun muzzle. Neither of

Beezer's pals had nerve enough to back him in a break for safety. Beezer saw The Shadow reach for the

Another knock was sounding at the door. It became a violent pounding. The Shadow knew that it was not the

waiter; so did Beezer. The murderer strained forward, itching to make a spring. A loud voice sounded from

ONE part of Stephen Ruthley's game had, as yet, escaped The Shadow. That was the bigshot's plan to make

Beezer Dorsch a fugitive from justice. Hearing the voice from the corridor; noting the ugly triumph that

He knew that the man who had shouted for entry was not an officer from Lieutenant Maclare's precinct.

Outside were members of Kirk Borman's Flying Squadron, here to see that murder went through; prepared to

Instantly, The Shadow whipped out his second automatic. Turning his shoulder toward Beezer and the pair of

thugs, The Shadow covered them with one gun, while he jabbed the other toward the door. Between two

groups of enemies, he intended to hold unarmed men at bay, while he drove back invaders who would come

As the door shoved inward, Beezer took a chance. He snarled a command to his pals; this time, they obeyed.

Thinking that Beezer was with them, the two thugs made a desperate dive for The Shadow. Surging with full

The Shadow had only one course. Fading toward the door, he fired as he dropped. His bullets winged the

thugs, sprawled them to the floor. Beezer dropped with them; but his fall was a foxy one. His pals had

That was scarcely necessary. The Shadow had no more time to deal with Beezer. Spinning toward the door,

he whirled straight into a trio of policemen, who were clad in khaki, the distinguishing uniform of the Flying

Squadron. Had there been a bluecoat in their midst, The Shadow would have let that man dive away. All,

however, were khakiclad. Director Borman had chosen those uniforms, that crooks might know their

His long arms were lashing; his heavy guns clipped heads beneath visored caps and sent the trio sagging. In

the corridor, The Shadow ripped quick shots at three more members of the Flying Squadron; winged one and

sent the others diving for cover. As The Shadow sprang past an elevator, the door clanged open; four

members of the squadron saw him and charged. They swung their revolvers; this time, The Shadow was in

BACK in The Shadow's room, a shot was fired. One of Beezer's wounded pals had taken a pot shot at Beezer

himself. It was in payment for his cowardice, in letting his pals bear the brunt of The Shadow's quick defense.

That shot went wide; it was Beezer who fired the next ones. Savagely, the killer drilled both of his pals,

sprawling them dead upon the floor, to leave no witnesses who might proclaim his treachery throughout the

Springing to the hall, Beezer arrived to see The Shadow wheeling away from four foemen. Beezer dived for a

stairway; The Shadow paused to deliver halting shots. A khakiclad foeman pounced upon him; knocked

down his gun arm. The Shadow whirled away to avoid a clinch. Shaking off another attacker, he reached the

All along the hall were members of the Flying Squadron, coming to hands and knees, groggy from strokes

that they had received. There were others who had dodged The Shadow's attack. They opened fire from

corners of corridors. The Shadow saw the fire tower as a vantage point. He took it, slamming the door behind

Sirens were screeching from below. The entire squadron was out, surrounding the hotel. The Shadow knew

what prolonged battle with these disguised thugs would produce. It would bring out the full police force;

Lieutenant Maclare first, with the men who patrolled this precinct. They would side with the Flying

To avoid that inevitable result, The Shadow hurried down the fire tower. He reached the bottom just in time

to see Beezer Dorsch dash from a side door of the hotel. The Shadow had no time to aim for the murderer;

Beezer was ducking behind an automobile, pointing to the fire tower as he dived for cover. Two squadron

The Shadow swung out upon them. As their guns came up, his came down in two long swings. One man took

a blow upon the head; the other dodged, but received a glancing stroke that made him stumble. Hearing

shouts from men who had rounded the front corner of the hotel, The Shadow sprang off between parked cars.

Another car had pulled away from the other side of the parking lot. The Shadow heard the whine of its gear

and knew that Beezer had made his getaway. That flight was by arrangement with the law. The Shadow had

no such pleasant prospect. Trouble began anew, as he sped his car toward the street.

A SQUADRON car shot in to block The Shadow's coupe. The Shadow tongued a quick blast from his

automatic; to avoid the fire, the driver of the squadron car veered. The Shadow wheeled away from bright

lights; as his coupe roared past Judge Benbrook's house, three khakiclad men on motorcycles took up the

The Shadow veered left at the trolley tracks; rounded the block, sped his car through an alleyway. A patrol

car sighted him; it followed. Another block, two policemen in blue uniform saw the chase and commandeered

Again, The Shadow turned his course, headed back toward the city's center. Finding a side street, he took it,

As The Shadow whizzed past a corner, he went by an automobile that had pulled up to the curb. The man

behind the wheel of that car sat watching, as police cars and motorcycles sped by. When the wild parade had

faded in the distance, that watcher slid from his car and shuffled toward an alleyway that offered direct access

A street lamp gave a momentary glimpse of the shuffler's ugly face. The man was Beezer Dorsch, grinning

from ear to ear. He had expected a pursuit before he could head back to Lance's perfect hideout. With so

many dumb cops in Westford, there was always a chance of trouble, as Beezer viewed it.

Circumstances had turned out well for Beezer Dorsch. He could forget the fact that he had failed to murder

Shaw. After all, Shaw was The Shadow; and others could take the job of bagging him. As Beezer recalled it,

Mayor Marclot and Police Director Borman had agreed to handle that particular task.

They had made a good beginning. The pursuit that Beezer had witnessed was a real one. The Shadow had put

himself in wrong with the law. He had made Beezer's fake flight an easy one; and had given the Flying

Beezer Dorsch was hopeful that the Flying Squadron would show its real ability tonight.

THE chase that Beezer had witnessed was actually a hot one. The Shadow realized it as he sped toward the

city limits, picking a course through the winding streets of one of Westford's suburbs. Pursuers had spread

out, picking parallel streets. At every corner, The Shadow heard sirens that told of foemen on both sides.

Horns were honking from a hundred yards behind. They represented commandeered cars. More of the regular

police had joined in the hunt. Like the members of the Flying Squadron, they would give The Shadow plenty,

if they gained the opportunity. Questions and explanations would come afterward.

The Shadow's coupe was no speedier than the cars of the pursuers; but he knew this section of Westford. He

had chosen it on that account. At intervals, The Shadow chose shortcuts, where angled streets afforded

quick routes to other thoroughfares. These shifts put him farther ahead of the cars upon his trail.

Making a quick turn at a corner, The Shadow threaded through a maze of streets and gained a highway that

led from the town. Speeding toward the open road, he saw the glare of two sets of headlights, coming straight

toward him, side by side. Instantly, The Shadow knew that a radio call had been given. Patrol cars on the

Quickly, The Shadow chose the first side road that offered itself. The coupe jolted over bumpy paving; then

came a muddy lane where a pair of ruts offered the only progress. Taking it at rapid speed, The Shadow saw

the end of the road. He stopped the coupe on the very fringe of a small pond. Dropping to the ground, he

looked back along the lane. He saw headlights bouncing as cars took the ruts. Half a dozen automobiles had

neared this finish of the chase. One minute more would bring them to the spot where The Shadow stood.

High above, off to the right, The Shadow saw a glow of light. It came from the top of a huge water tower, its

rounded bottom forming a bowl upon long, spindly struts. With long strides across scraggly ground, The

Shadow covered the distance. He reached the bottom of the tower just as the police cars pulled up beside his

The glow from the tower came from lights beneath a projecting flange around the top. There, lights were

concentrated to display a sign painted on the tower, stating that it belonged to the Westford Electric Co. A

platform at the base of the tank itself cut off the light, so that all beneath was darkened.

Stopping by the first steel leg, The Shadow found that the support was equipped with a ladder. Without a

FORTY feet up, the ladder ended. In its place, The Shadow discovered a catwalk that led to the center of the

tank, ending directly underneath it. Probing farther in the darkness, he discovered a side ladder that went to

the top of the tank; but he chose the catwalk instead. His choice was a good one. Some of the pursuers had

Reaching the end of the catwalk, The Shadow felt the bottom of the tank. He discovered supporting girders,

shaped to the tank itself. Gripping the edges of a girder with his hands, The Shadow swung his feet upward

and gained a toehold. Crawling face upward, he followed the outside of the huge bowl, until he was halfway

to the platform that girded it. There, The Shadow paused; bracing his arms, he clung motionless.

Pursuers were coming up the ladder. Some reached the catwalk; followed its downward curve to the center of

the tank. Others went around the platform. A few ascended the second ladder and flashed lights on the

smooth surface of the conical top. The search took several minutes; it covered everywhere, except the under

curve of the water tank, on The Shadow's side. No one suspected that a person could hide on that precarious

Clangs from the ladder told that the police were making their descent. Slowly, The Shadow reversed his

course along the girder. His arms and legs were tired, but the course was downward and required less effort

From his high lookout, The Shadow watched the search along the ground. At least twenty men were beating

the brush, as they circled the shores of the pond. Flashlights bobbed in the direction of a house, two hundred

yards away. Lights appeared in the house itself. The Shadow knew that the police had roused the occupants,

It was nearly an hour before the hunt ended. Even then, the terrain did not clear entirely; a few watchers were

posted along the ground. None was near the tower; The Shadow moved along the catwalk and descended

silently by the ladder. There, he waited in darkness, watching the blink of flashlights. Soon a pair came in his

Sidling away from the tower, The Shadow listened while two men went up the ladder. They were choosing

the very lookout that The Shadow had occupied, so that they could keep in contact with the men below.

A clouded sky had rendered the darkness almost complete. That suited The Shadow. Silently, he made his

way toward the house. He paused close beside the building while muffled feet tramped past him. A flashlight

blinked, but did not turn in his direction. When the guard had passed, The Shadow crept to the wall of the

THE building was a frame structure; a trellis showed vaguely in the darkness. The Shadow used it as a ladder

and made a quiet climb to a kitchen roof. He found a darkened window above; used it to reach a ledge. He

was outside a thirdstory window; the shape of the roof indicated that this story of the house was an attic.

The window was a round one, on a pivot. The Shadow swung it to a horizontal position, using his cloak to

muffle any sound. Head first, he wriggled through the half opening; came to the rough, unfinished floor of the

attic. Using a tiny flashlight in guarded fashion, The Shadow studied the room, foot by foot.

The attic had been searched by the police. Pieces of old furniture had been shoved about; trunks had been

pulled away from the wall. The Shadow reached a flight of steps; crept downward, to a door that was locked

from the other side. This discovery pleased him. As long as that door remained locked, neither the

houseowners nor the law would bother with another search. This attic could be The Shadow's refuge as long

Eventually, he would have the choice of two exits: the window by which he had entered; or the door at the

foot of the stairs. Though the door was locked, The Shadow could easily open it. His picks, lockopening

instruments expertly handled, had overcome barriers that were far more formidable than that lower door.

Back in the attic, The Shadow made himself comfortable. He found an old couch that was thickcushioned,

despite its shabbiness. Opening a trunk, he discovered blankets. Rolling one as a pillow, he used the other for

From where he lay, The Shadow could see through the window. He watched the motion of flashlights through

the darkness. They would continue until dawn; then there would be a search by day. That hunt would cover

many places; but it would not reach this attic, except by some freak of chance. If the search came here, The

For The Shadow expected no more trouble in Westford until tomorrow night. His present policy was to let

matters cool there. Word would go around that Beezer Dorsch had fled the city; the same would be said about

The Shadow. Crooks would be bluffing when they spoke of Beezer; they would think that they told the truth,

Thus the stage would be set as The Shadow wanted it, when he returned. Again, he could thrust from

darkness; meet crooks and stagger them. To date, The Shadow had steadily progressed. He had saved

Lieutenant Maclare; only Prescott Dunson's own mistakes had spoiled The Shadow's efforts toward a second

Likewise, chance had favored Beezer Dorsch, when The Shadow had trapped the murderer. The same chance

had driven The Shadow to this place of refuge; but he had not lost ground in his battle against crime. Every

fight had crippled more foemen; always, The Shadow had come through unscathed, departing into darkness.

Tomorrow night, The Shadow's plans called for a greater thrust; a move to the very place where crime was

fostered. His investigations in the city of Westford had given him close knowledge of all who were concerned

Unfortunately, The Shadow had not been present at that conference between Stephen Ruthley and his four

associates. The Shadow's absence from that meeting had caused him trouble when he trapped Beezer Dorsch.

It was due to provide him with more difficulties when he again went into Westford.

HAD The Shadow gained an inkling of the next move that Stephen Ruthley intended, he would not have

considered it wise to remain in this secluded attic. His policy would have been to slip the cordon of watchers

As yet, The Shadow had dealt only with those lieutenants who served the overlord of crime. He had not

encountered Stephen Ruthley in action; nor did he expect to meet the master villain on the move. Ruthley, as

The Shadow sized him, was a cunning brain who could sit back and let others follow his command. Past

events had backed The Shadow's opinion. The future, however, could tell another story.

Stephen Ruthley, at this very moment, was completing a plan of crime that would give The Shadow new and

EARLY the next evening, an automobile stopped in front of Stephen Ruthley's big apartment house. The man

who parked the car appeared to be a privileged person, for the curb where he pulled up bore the sign: "NO

Entering the apartment house, this visitor walked up a broad flight of stairs to the second floor. He rang a

bell, at the imposing door that formed the entrance to Ruthley's apartment. Haija answered the ring; the Jap

"Good evening, Honorable Mr. District Attorney," said Haija. "Honorable Master expect you."

The district attorney followed the houseman to Ruthley's den. Ruthley received him with outstretched hand;

"Good evening, Wilderton!" greeted Ruthley. "Sit down; have a cigar. Make yourself right at home."

Louis Wilderton took a chair opposite the portrait of Aramis. The glow of a floor lamp showed the prosecutor

to be a man in his thirties; a serious chap who tried to appear older than he was. Wilderton was frail of build;

lighthaired and peaked of face. His pointed nose supported a pair of large spectacles that gave him an

"Trouble, Wilderton?" Ruthley purred the question in a fatherly tone. Wilderton nodded.

"Don't worry about Dunson's death," remarked Ruthley. He picked up a copy of the Daily Banner and pointed

to the headlines. "It's up to the police to arrest this killer, Dorsch. When they once find him, you will have no

"I know that," vouchsafed Wilderton. "It's something else that bothers me, Mr. Ruthley. Prescott Dunson

intended to run against me, for district attorney. People haven't forgotten that."

"He would not have gained the support of the reform party," remarked Ruthley. "You have proven yourself

"Thank you, Mr. Ruthley. Just the same, Dunson had many supporters, chiefly those who expected him to

"To disclose the facts that Dunson promised to reveal. I must find the man higher up; the one whom Dunson

Stephen Ruthley nodded in commending fashion. Approaching Wilderton's chair, he clapped the district

"You have a great head, Louis," approved Ruthley. "I admire your foresight. Yes, you must make every effort

LOUIS WILDERTON produced a sheet of paper and handed it to Ruthley. It bore a list of names, written in

"This is confidential," stated Wilderton, in a strained tone. "I have written down the names of a dozen men,

any one of whom might have had reason to fear Dunson. I would like your opinion on it, Mr. Ruthley."

Ruthley studied the list solemnly. As he expected, his own name was absent; so were those of Elvin Marclot

and Kirk Borman. Even Lance Gillick's name was missing; for, today, Lieutenant Maclare had openly

testified that he had raided the Club Adair prior to Dunson's murder and that Gillick was there at the time the

The names on the list were those of smallfry politicians; also a few local contractors. Ruthley suppressed a

"Understand, Mr. Ruthley," remarked Wilderton, "I have no evidence whatever against any of these men. I

"I understand." Ruthley placed the paper on his desk. "Wilderton, I think that the best course is to wait. This

"If one of those men is responsible," returned Ruthley, indicating the list, "he will soon lose his nerve.

Dunson's murder has raised a huge cry. The fact that the police so promptly identified Dorsch as the killer

will make the man behind the murder feel uneasy. He will do something that will prove his part in crime.

"I feel confident that I am right. Be tranquil, Louis. Sit tight let us say for the next two days and if

Wilderton arose. He smiled wanly; pleased by Ruthley's reassurance. Glancing at his watch, the prosecutor

AS soon as Wilderton was gone, Ruthley returned to his desk. He picked up the list; chuckled as he read it.

The names were written on a sheet of paper that bore Wilderton's name, printed in the upper left corner.

Ruthley turned the paper downward. He picked up the telephone; stroked his chin as he tried to remember a

number. He put the telephone back on its table, picked up the directory instead.

Turning to the "W's," Ruthley found Woodstock's number. He repeated it aloud: "Marvin 6384." He was

about to reach for the telephone when he heard a ring of the doorbell; Haija's prompt footsteps followed.

Ruthley stepped to the desk, and made a notation on the back of Wilderton's paper.

Haija appeared, to announce Kirk Borman. The police director entered. Ruthley leaned against the desk, to

"Just gave another interview to the Daily Banner," said the police director. "Stated that we are looking for

Theo D. Shaw, as an accomplice of Beezer Dorsch. Our theory is that Shaw lured Dunson to the Majestic

"Finding Shaw's note on Dunson," continued Borman, "the police went to question the man. Found that

Beezer Dorsch was there ahead. Surprised Beezer and Shaw in conference. Both made a getaway; but we

"Fine!" chuckled Ruthley. "Beezer was wise to get rid of those fellows. Go on, Kirk."

"Still searching for Shaw out by the water tower. The Flying Squadron is watching for him, as well as for

Beezer. They know that he is The Shadow; but they're keeping that to themselves."

"Yes. Lance Gillick brought in a new bunch today. We gave them the phony examination, to qualify them. It

Another chuckle from Ruthley. One of the smartest moves in the master crook's game had been the formation

of the Flying Squadron. To a man, that outfit was recruited from thugs whom Lance Gillick had called to

Westford. All gave false addresses, pretending that they came from this locality.

Director Borman, in his call for "picked men," invariably gave these camouflaged thugs a high mark when he

"They'll chop down The Shadow, if they see him," declared Borman. "Too bad we didn't guess that he was

"We should have," purred Ruthley, his eyes showing a glint. "Look at this, Kirk."

STEPPING to his desk, Ruthley picked up a pencil. Beneath Woodstock's telephone, he printed the name:

"Theo D. Shaw." Crossing out letters in irregular fashion, he spelled the name: "The Shadow."

"I get it!" exclaimed the police director. "He faked that name for Dunson's benefit. So that if Dunson began to

study it closely, he would catch on to the idea. No wonder Dunson trusted Shaw. He must have guessed that

"Just as we should have guessed it," returned Ruthley. He glanced at the paper. "Wait a minute, Kirk, while I

Noting the telephone number again, Ruthley made the call. He completed a brief conversation; crumpled the

"Woodstock is waiting to see me," Ruthley told Borman. "I called him this afternoon; told him to stay at

"I went to the Club Adair right after dinner," he stated. "My pretext was to make a final check on Lance's

alibi. I gave him a clean bill of health. I saw Beezer, in Lance's office, while we were alone. He had the notes

"You go out the front way, Kirk," he told Borman. "I intend to use the secret passage. I have a car parked in

"Good luck to you, Steve. I'll be at my office in city hall, ready for any phone calls."

Kirk Borman departed, out through the front door. He descended the stairs and reached the street. He stepped

THE front of the big apartment house was recessed and, therefore, dark, except at the door, where two lights

glowed. Kirk Borman had glanced casually along the front wall, as his car rolled away; but he had noted

nothing unusual. It was after the director's car had gone that the unusual occurred.

Blackness moved from the darkened building front. At a moment when no cars were passing on the

boulevard, a shrouded figure stepped in front of the lights by the door. For one second only, a complete shape

With quick glide, The Shadow entered the lower hallway of the apartment house. No attendant was on duty;

even had one been present, he could easily have failed to spy the intruder. Though the large hall was lighted,

its walls were darkpaneled and therefore dim. The Shadow's silent course was along the wall. He seemed no

Reaching the second floor, The Shadow stopped by the door of Ruthley's apartment. He set to work with a

pick; he performed his task with nicety, although it required several minutes to properly probe the lock. At

last the door yielded; The Shadow stepped into the apartment and closed the barrier behind him.

Beyond a dim hallway, he saw the halfopened door of a lighted room. Advancing noiselessly, The Shadow

reached that goal; he drew an automatic from beneath his cloak as he peered into Ruthley's lighted den. After

The room was empty. The Shadow had reached Stephen Ruthley's lair, only to find that the master crook was

THOUGH The Shadow had anticipated a meeting with Stephen Ruthley, he was not disturbed to find the

master villain gone. It merely meant that the meeting would be postponed; to a degree, that would prove to

Through various forms of investigation, The Shadow had labeled Ruthley as the master of crime in Westford.

Until tonight, he had considered it good policy to wear down the forces at Ruthley's command; to weaken

The death of Prescott Dunson had partly altered The Shadow's decision. He knew that other victims might be

slated for the spot; therefore, it was no longer wise to hold back a final stroke. Moreover, The Shadow's own

position had become precarious last night. Hunted by the law, he had needed his most stealthy tactics to leave

Coming into Westford on foot, The Shadow had seen many signs of the increased Flying Squadron that was

covering all portions of the city. He knew that the number of his enemies had been increased. Hence he had

ventured onward, to strike directly at Ruthley, knowing that if he boxed the master of crime, the whole evil

Since Ruthley was absent, The Shadow intended to remain until he returned. Meanwhile, he had an excellent

opportunity to gain new facts regarding Ruthley, through an examination of the latter's papers. The desk and

the filing cabinet offered possibilities, if searched. Stepping past an armchair, The Shadow reached the desk,

As he placed his hand upon the handle of an upper drawer, The Shadow saw the wastebasket beside the desk.

Conspicuous within the basket was a crumpled sheet of paper. Stooping, The Shadow picked out the paper

The paper was stationery from the office of Louis Wilderton; The Shadow recognized the district attorney's

precise handwriting, for he had seen it on official documents. Studying the list of names, The Shadow

understood their significance. These were persons whom Wilderton wanted to investigate. The prosecutor had

Turning the paper over, The Shadow saw the penciled notations on the back. Again he recognized a

handwriting that he had seen before: Stephen Ruthley's. The Shadow read the notation: "Woodstock. Marvin

6384." Below it, he saw the name, "Theo D. Shaw," with the letters crossed by lines. The Shadow's lips

phrased an almost inaudible laugh. He had supposed that by this time Ruthley would have guessed the

Most important was Ruthley's notation of Woodstock's name and telephone number. Knowing that graft was

rampant in Westford, The Shadow had held suspicions of all persons who had undertaken city contracts.

The Shadow had seen no reason to investigate the contractor, in preference to others. This notation, however,

showed clearly that Ruthley intended contact with Woodstock. Since Ruthley was absent, it followed that he

HAVING seen Kirk Borman leave the apartment house after a definite visit, The Shadow knew that Ruthley

must have been at home while the police director was here. Therefore, Ruthley must have chosen another

For the moment, The Shadow did not consider the large painting on the wall; for it seemed likely that Ruthley

could have gone out by a back door of the apartment itself. The Shadow decided to look for such an exit.

Before he did so, he went to the telephone, lifted the receiver and dialed Woodstock's number.

The only response was a busy signal. It meant either that Woodstock was talking over the telephone or that

the contractor had taken his receiver from the hook. Hanging up, The Shadow went out through the hallway

The Shadow had not proceeded far before he found reason to abandon his search. As he turned the corner of a

hallway, he heard the creep of footsteps. Gliding through the doorway of a darkened room, The Shadow

found another opening and reached the hall near Ruthley's den. Again, he heard a guarded creep.

Someone had heard the click of the telephone dial when The Shadow had used it. That person had visited the

den following The Shadow's departure. His presence known, The Shadow had need of strategy. His best

course was to return to the den, since the vigilant guard had already been there. The Shadow crossed the

hallway. His tall form threw a long silhouette upon the floor, almost to a corner beyond the door of the den.

Gliding into the lighted room, The Shadow neared the desk, intending to pass beyond it. A sound made him

It was Haija. Almost as stealthy and as observant as The Shadow, the keen Japanese had spotted the

silhouette upon the hallway floor. Coming from beyond the corner, he had reached the doorway of the den.

Seeing The Shadow, Haija was leaping to prompt attack. The fact that The Shadow swung to meet him did

With nimble hands, Haija caught The Shadow's right arm, as it swung toward the front of the black cloak.

Haija thought that The Shadow was reaching for a gun. His guess was wrong. The Shadow had recognized a

As Haija performed a backspin, expecting to speed The Shadow over his shoulders, a gloved left hand

hooked crossarm, to clutch the Jap's neck. Haija jolted short. The Shadow whipped backward; his long arms

were like tremendous levers, as they hoisted Haija from the floor. Releasing his grip, The Shadow let Haija

hurtle over an armchair; shoulder foremost, the Japanese bashed against the side of the heavy framed painting

that adorned the wall. The canvas quivered from the thud; instantly, The Shadow recognized that it served as

HAIJA lay motionless on the floor, stunned by a bump his head had taken when he sprawled. The Shadow

stepped to the telephone; again, he dialed Woodstock's number, to get another busy signal. Hardly had he

finished with the dialing when he heard sounds from elsewhere in the apartment. Ruthley had servants beside

Haija. They had heard the crash of the Jap's fall; they were coming to learn its cause.

For a moment The Shadow paused, ready to begin new fray. His gloved fingers, dipping beneath the cloak,

The Shadow changed his plan. Stepping over toward Haija's prone body, he tried the edge of the picture

frame. He found the catch; shoved Haija aside with one foot as he drew the portrait toward himself.

Listening, The Shadow noted that there were no approaching steps. Probably the servants were conferring

Leaving the big portrait ajar, The Shadow hurried from the den. He reached the hallway; gained the outer

door and opened it, making a clatter as he did so. Giving the door a slam. The Shadow wheeled back toward

the den. As he passed the unconscious form of Haija, he heard the pound of footsteps.

Servants knew at last that there was an intruder in the apartment. They thought that the unknown visitor had

fled by the front door. With courage gained, they were making a pursuit. Calmly, The Shadow stepped

through the opening behind the portrait; closed the doorlike painting and heard the catch click automatically.

Stephen Ruthley, when he returned, would never guess that The Shadow had found the secret exit. Haija

would testify to a battle in the den; the other servants would swear that an invader had fled through the front

door. As for the crumpled paper that he had gained, The Shadow doubted that Ruthley would even remember

THE SHADOW however, regarded the paper as valuable. He pocketed it securely, as he picked his way by

flashlight through the interior of the vacant house. That paper was evidence of a sort that could be used, when

the proper time arrived. There was a chance, though, that it might never prove necessary.

For The Shadow was taking a shortcut to reach Stephen Ruthley. He was convinced that the master crook had

gone to the residence of Adam Woodstock. Knowing Ruthley's ways. The Shadow was positive that he would

find the rogue engaged in secret parley with the contractor. If the two were hatching a new scheme of graft, it

Reaching the blind alley in back of the row of houses, The Shadow followed devious turns until he reached

an obscure garage that was well away from brightly lighted streets. An attendant was dozing in the office; he

did not awaken when The Shadow entered a small roadster and coasted the car to the street.

This was a reserve automobile, that The Shadow had purchased from a "usedcar" lot in Westford. He was

employing it to reach Adam Woodstock's home, on the other side of town. The Shadow knew the location of

All that disturbed The Shadow was the fact that it had taken him a dozen minutes to reach the garage where

he had placed the old car. That interval had delayed his start to Woodstock's. There was a chance that the

Had The Shadow learned the real purpose of Stephen Ruthley's visit to Adam Woodstock, he would have

realized that the odds were badly against him. Though he was to profit by his present mission, The Shadow

was faring into new and greater hazards than those that he had previously faced in Westford.

EVEN before The Shadow's combat with Haija, Stephen Ruthley had reached the home of Adam Woodstock.

Admitted by the contractor himself, Ruthley had gone to a room on the second floor, there to confer with the

Adam Woodstock was a drearyfaced individual; his bloodless countenance was almost as gray as the thin

fringe of hair that surrounded his bald head. Seated at a desk in the room that he called his study, Woodstock

assumed a listening attitude while Stephen Ruthley spoke. Woodstock had an odd habit of tilting his head to

Across the desk from Woodstock, Ruthley was purring a persuasive story. It concerned the contract on which

Woodstock had already paid back the half million dollars that had been required of him.

"There are several of us in this deal," confided Ruthley. "Marclot and I are not alone. That is why I have

Spreading the documents that he had brought from his own files, Ruthley chose one and passed it across the

"This is the most important one," declared Ruthley. "It contains an itemized statement that you gave to

Marclot. The bottom line lists five hundred thousand dollars under the head of excess profit."

"Quite right," returned Woodstock, in a drawly tone. "I listed my own profit as one hundred thousand; ten per

cent of a million. The five hundred thousand represents the amount that I turned over to Marclot."

"We know that," nodded Ruthley, "but some of my associates have doubted the authenticity of the figures."

"True. Nevertheless, we have only his word for it that your figures are correct."

"Do you mean to say that someone has suggested that Marclot and I might have worked a side deal of our

"Just that," replied Ruthley. "Of course, it sounds ridiculous. I said so myself. But the others did not think so.

Woodstock delivered a short laugh. Head still tilted, he reached for a pen that lay beside his desk telephone.

Ruthley noted that the telephone was off its stand. He had suggested that Woodstock leave it so, in order not

"I typed this statement myself," asserted Woodstock. "I have no objections to signing it."

Woodstock flourished the pen; he hesitated before applying his signature. His drawly tone was troubled as he

"This may be a mistake after all. I can't sign this statement, Ruthley. It would become an incriminating

"The statement does not say so. It indicates that I could have retained the funds myself."

Ruthley reached for the statement. He studied it; nodded his agreement with Woodstock's opinion. Observing

the contractor's typewriter on a table, Ruthley inserted the statement in the machine. At the bottom of the

Here." Ruthley spoke briskly, as he laid the paper on the table. "Let me have your pen, Woodstock. I shall

He took the pen; it slipped slightly between his fingers. Ruthley tightened his grip; signed his name on the

lower line. He handed the pen to Woodstock, who placed a muchused blotter upon the signature; then

In order to sign the lower line, Ruthley had come over beside the contractor. He stood there, one hand upon

Ruthley was on Woodstock's right. He thrust his hand into his right coat pocket as Woodstock was reaching

for the blotter. His head still tilted to the right, Woodstock did not spy Ruthley's move. The contractor simply

There was a glimmer as Ruthley's hand moved upward. Coming from cover was a .32 revolver. Taking

advantage of Woodstock's tilted head, Ruthley jabbed the gun muzzle squarely against the contractor's temple

and pulled the trigger. He stepped away as he felt the slight recoil of the weapon.

For a full second; Adam Woodstock's body remained rigid; blood seemed to hold back from the gaping

wound that the bullet had blasted in his temple. Then the tilt of Woodstock's head began to overbalance him;

he sagged in Ruthley's direction. Stone dead, Woodstock would have sprawled to the floor, had Ruthley not

WITH his left hand, Ruthley thrust Woodstock's right shoulder in a forward direction, so that the dead man

slumped upon the desk. As Ruthley expected, Woodstock's right hand shoved out ahead of him. Ruthley

waited until the motion had ended. In deliberate fashion, he placed the revolver in Woodstock's hand,

Ruthley was not disturbed by the noise that the gun shot had made. Woodstock's house was isolated; the

windows of this room were closed. Nor did Ruthley bother about wiping the handle of the revolver to remove

This was explained when Ruthley held his hands palms upward in the light of the desk lamp, to give them

Ruthley chuckled. Before beginning this expedition, he had taken the precaution to dip his fingers in

collodion. That liquid had dried, leaving a smooth, gelatine surface upon the fingers. The presence of

collodion explained why the pen had slipped slightly from Ruthley's grip. With larger objects, especially the

Stepping to the far side of the desk, Ruthley reached across and whisked away the statement that he and

Woodstock had signed. The paper slid easily from beneath Woodstock's left hand; but the blotter could not be

Ruthley observed the projecting blotter edge; decided not to disturb it. The blotter was an old one, its upper

Coming around beside Woodstock's body, Ruthley opened a desk drawer on the dead contractor's right. There

he found objects that he wanted. The first was a long pair of scissors, that served as paper shears. Ruthley

used these on the signed statement; he carefully clipped off the lower portion of the paper, just beneath the

line that bore Woodstock's signature. Ruthley's own signature was removed with the clippedoff portion.

From the desk drawer, Ruthley took a ring of keys. He walked across the room and stopped in front of a

metal strongbox, where he knew that Woodstock kept important papers. Unlocking the box with the proper

key, Ruthley found a suitable pigeonhole into which he tucked the signed statement.

Returning to the desk; Ruthley gathered other papers that he had brought with him. He pocketed some;

carried others to the strongbox and placed them there. From another pocket, Ruthley drew a small wad of

letters. Checking them over, he smiled as he noted Beezer Dorsch's signature. Choosing another pigeonhole,

Ruthley planted the fake letters. He closed the door of the strongbox and locked it.

THE murderer's task was almost finished. Ruthley went back to the desk, replaced the scissors and the keys.

Ruthley looked around the room; smiled in pleased manner as he observed the drawn window shades. He

made a last survey of Woodstock's position at the desk; in precise fashion, Ruthley shifted the dead man

The setup was perfect. Adam Woodstock looked as if he had braced himself for an ordeal; then pressed a

revolver against his right temple. Assuming that Woodstock had been leaning forward, a bullet from his own

hand would have produced the present result. It looked like a positive case of suicide.

Two details more; Ruthley attended to them. One was the matter of the pen, which had dropped from

Woodstock's hand. Ruthley replaced it on the rack. The other was the drawer, that Ruthley had closed.

Carefully, the murderer opened it again. From his pocket, he brought out a small box of cartridges, to match

Ruthley left the drawer open, to create the impression that Woodstock had reached into it for the gun. No

other details were necessary. The suicide picture was complete; an examination of Woodstock's strongbox

would fully support it. The signed statement; the letters from Beezer Dorsch would be as good as a written

After a long, cold glance toward Woodstock's crumpled body, Ruthley turned and left the study. In a

darkened hallway, he chose a flight of stairs that led to the back of the ground floor.

The master crook was deliberate, even in his departure. In fact, he had almost decided to linger a while longer

upon the scene of his crime; for he was confident that no intruders would arrive until he wished them.

Though Stephen Ruthley did not guess it, luck favored him immensely when he made his chance decision to

depart. Had he stayed two minutes longer, his false tale of death would have been rendered useless.

For Stephen Ruthley had unwittingly left a trail that led to this very house. The Shadow, master of

ADAM Woodstock's large house fronted upon a broad, but littletraveled, avenue. It stood well back from

the street, and was almost surrounded by trees. Access to the house was gained through a broad driveway that

A small roadster had halted across from the entrance to the driveway. Keen eyes saw an empty lot, directly

opposite Woodstock's house. Relaxing the clutch pedal slowly, the driver of the roadster urged his car

All this was done in darkness, with the roadster's lights extinguished. As the arrival from the roadster crossed

the avenue, he was silent and invisible. His feet did not even crunch the gravel when he entered Woodstock's

The Shadow had staged a perfect arrival at this house where crime had struck. Advancing on foot, he

intended to make a stealthy entry; he was choosing the front door because it was nearest. It was not until he

He had heard the sound of a motor, throbbing on the other side of the house. It was followed by the muffled

whine of a highpitched second gear, a sound that faded almost instantly. For a moment, The Shadow

expected to see an automobile come around the corner of the house; then he detected that the car had driven

Swiftly, The Shadow skirted the house. He glimmered a tiny flashlight upon the gravel of the driveway. The

light showed that the driveway formed a circle; it was one that afforded two exits. In addition to the drive that

came up from the avenue, there was another that led to a rear street. It was in that direction that the car had

Noting a side door, The Shadow entered the house. There were no lights on the ground floor; but faint rays

from a stairway indicated illumination on the second story. The Shadow ascended; arrived at the halfclosed

door of Woodstock's study. Peering inward, he saw the dead contractor slumped across the desk.

The Shadow entered, to examine the grim result of Ruthley's conference with Woodstock. Even to The

Shadow, this outcome was something of a surprise; but its purpose dawned upon him the moment that he saw

the scene of crime. The Shadow had foreseen that Stephen Ruthley would take measures to cover his own

In fact, The Shadow had supposed that Ruthley had come here to ask Woodstock's aid in the important matter

of quelling public sentiment regarding the death of Prescott Dunson. In a sense, Ruthley had done just that;

but he had made Woodstock give aid without request. It did not take The Shadow long to recognize that

Woodstock had become the scapegoat, upon whom would be placed the blame for Dunson's death.

CLOSE beside the desk, The Shadow studied the setup of Ruthley's perfect crime. It looked like suicide; it

would pass as such. The opened desk drawer was an excellent touch. Any ordinary investigator would have

Keys shone from within the drawer. The Shadow plucked them up, examined them. He saw the strongbox;

went to it and unlocked it. Stooped before the metal container, he began a search for planted evidence. He

found it. The very items upon which Ruthley banked so heavily were the ones that won The Shadow's

The letters from Beezer Dorsch were pointed. They referred, in crudely veiled words, to a "job" that would be

done as ordered. That meant the death of Dunson. One note spoke of "D," declaring that he would be no

Woodstock's signed statement explained still more. It gave The Shadow immediate knowledge of Ruthley's

doubleedged plan. The public would fall for the idea that the half million "excess profit" represented

Woodstock's own harvest; but The Shadow knew its exact significance. That money was graft, paid back to

Woodstock's corporation would have to disgorge the sum from its own funds. There would be a new contract;

new graft, managed by Mayor Elvin Marclot who would raise his hands in amazed horror when he learned

One detail of the statement caught The Shadow's eye. The paper was slightly shorter than a usual typewriter

page. Holding the paper to the light, The Shadow examined its texture; he saw its odd, wavylined

watermark: the letter "W." It was a special bond paper, that Woodstock had evidently ordered direct from the

Approaching the desk, The Shadow found other paper in the drawer. It was of the same bond; but the sheets

were of normal length. Placing one blank sheet in Woodstock's typewriter, The Shadow tapped a few keys to

observe the peculiarities of type and ribbon color. He saw at once that Woodstock's statement had been typed

Comparing the big shears with the statement, The Shadow saw how its lower edge had been clipped. He

noted that the space was very slight below the line that bore Woodstock's signature. The Shadow laughed

softly; he had gained an inkling of how Ruthley had induced Woodstock to sign the statement.

THE SHADOW replaced the statement in the strongbox; he locked the heavy door. He kept the sheet of

paper that he had typed; placed it beneath his cloak. He dropped the paper shears into the desk drawer, along

with the keys. Looking over the flattened shoulders of Woodstock's huddled body, The Shadow saw the

Inch by inch, The Shadow worked the blotter free. He saw at once why Ruthley had left it on the desk. The

blobby surface of the blotter could afford no clue. When The Shadow turned the blotter over, however, he

The blotter was double surfaced. Woodstock, until tonight, had used the upper side. Tonight, he had begun

with the blank side of the blotter. Its fresh surface showed only two marks. One was Woodstock's own

signature, reversed; quite plain, for the contractor had pressed heavily with his pen. The other was lighter; but

The Shadow recognized it. The second mark bore a distinct resemblance to Stephen Ruthley's signature.

The master crook had overlooked one small item in his arrangement of the suicide scene. Just as he had left

evidence at his own apartment, indicating that he had gone to visit Woodstock, so had he left a clue which

proved that he had actually come to the contractor's home. This blotter could nullify the evidence that

Ordinarily, The Shadow would have left the blotter on the desk. Circumstances caused him to do otherwise

tonight. The Shadow had gauged Stephen Ruthley too well, to believe that the murderer would leave anything

to chance. Though Ruthley thought his crime was perfect, he would certainly count upon the opinion of a

This crime would be discovered. Police would arrive; with them, Police Director Borman. Knowing Ruthley

to be the perpetrator of crime. Kirk Borman would be on the lookout for every minor detail. If Borman found

the blotter, he would promptly dispose of it. As evidence, the blotter would never serve, if left upon the scene

of crime. Therefore, The Shadow kept the blotter; he placed it beneath his cloak, along with other items that

The Shadow was ready for a return visit to Stephen Ruthley's apartment. He knew that he could enter there,

through the secret passage, to surprise Ruthley in the latter's own den. Almost ready for departure, The

Shadow paused on the far side of the desk, to lean across and make a last inspection of Woodstock's body. It

was while The Shadow stood in this position that he heard a sound from somewhere in the house.

BOARDS were creaking, as though invaders were creeping up the front stairs. Wheeling from the desk, The

Shadow crossed the room. He gained the hall and reached the top of the back stairs, to listen for sounds from

"Maybe it was a crank call," came one comment. "The guy that phoned headquarters may have just thought

"We can't take any chances, though," was the response. "Director Borman said to move in, softlike, and

The approaching men were detectives from headquarters. A call had been made there, reporting a gunshot

heard within Woodstock's house. Probably, Ruthley had made that call, soon after his departure. Kirk

Borman had been at his office, expecting it. Since Borman was outside, it was likely that members of the

The Shadow decided upon stealthy departure, in order to head for Ruthley's without trouble on the way.

The two detectives went past. As they neared the door of Woodstock's study, The Shadow began his descent

of the back stairs. He was only halfway down when a shout came from above. The dicks had discovered

Instantly, there was a response from below. Footsteps clattered near the bottom of the back stairs. There was

a click; a flashlight gleamed upward; the light was furnished by another detective, who happened to be near

The dick below had made a discovery of his own. Straight in the path of his upward glare, he saw The

More footsteps below, as new arrivals hurried to join the detective who held the light. Shouts from above, as

the two who had found Woodstock's body reached the back stairs to see The Shadow against the brilliant

The Shadow's chance of stealthy departure was ended. Trapped between two forces, he was faced by a

ONE factor favored The Shadow. Though trapped, he had been found by men who were not of a criminal

sort. Director Borman, knowing that Adam Woodstock's body was to be discovered, had used smart policy.

He had sent ordinary detectives into the contractor's house; men who had long been on the Westford force.

He had decided that their preliminary reports would be better than those of the outsiders who formed the

As yet, The Shadow had not clashed directly with any of the city's loyal police. Bluecoats had joined the

khakiclad squadron men in last night's chase; but The Shadow had been speeding away when the regular

police took up the chase. Hence, he was an unknown factor to the real supporters of the law in Westford.

These headquarters men were like the police of Lieutenant Maclare's precinct. They were capable, but

slowwitted. Director Borman preferred such officers. The Shadow knew that fact; he took advantage of it.

As usual, The Shadow did the unexpected. His natural course lay downward; but he spurned that route. His

prompt decision was based on the fact that men were better prepared below; moreover, there was no way to

guess instantly their number. Above were but two men; they were in the throes of a second surprise, for they

had just found Woodstock's body. They did not expect The Shadow to come in their direction.

That direction, however, was the one that The Shadow chose; and he took his course with amazing speed.

Wheeling on the stairway, he came upward with long bounds, swinging his arms high; each hand held an

automatic. The detectives were drawing guns; but they ducked as The Shadow came upon them. Sweeping

He was clear of the light from below. The startled dicks were sprawled; despite the fact that The Shadow

avoided damage with his sweeping blows. One headquarters man took the back of a gloved fist upon the chin.

The other detective swung at The Shadow, missed him in the darkness and fired two wild shots at

nothingness. A swinging forearm staggered him to the top of the back stairs, where he did a downward dive,

The Shadow sped down the front stairway, turning the landing just as the flashlight stabbed in his direction.

A detective fired two useless rounds. The Shadow was gone before the fellow tugged the trigger.

THE SHADOW had made a perfect start; but he knew that it was but preliminary to the struggle that was to

come. Revolver shots had been heard outside; shock troops were prepared to answer the alarm.

As The Shadow hurled the front door open, a spotlight glared full upon him. The shouts that went up were

Nearly a third of that outfit was on hand. Those sharpshooting thugs were dangerous with their guns.

Knowing it, The Shadow did not pause to fire at the focused light; instead, he sprang off toward a front

The light swung about; it did not show The Shadow. He had cut in back of thick, intervening shrubbery.

Guns began to bark; bullets whistled through foliage, thudded the house walls. A challenging laugh sounded

from off beside the house. Raucousvoiced crooks shouted harsh epithets, as they heard The Shadow's weird

mockery. They fired toward spots whence they thought the sinister mirth had issued. Their bullets were wide

No one could place The Shadow's laugh in blackness. Those who tried, merely rendered their gunfire useless,

as The Shadow wanted it. The real tokens of The Shadow's position came when automatics tongued streaks

of flame, straight for men who had revealed themselves by the spurts from their own revolvers. Groans, not

The Shadow was on his way again, circling off through darkness while his enemies fired blindly. A loud

command was issued; it was in Kirk Borman's voice. The police director recognized the futility of the tactics

Khakiclad thugs spread away, toward the hedges that formed the boundaries of Woodstock's property. There

were patrol cars in the avenue and on other streets. Each automobile served as a base; men with flashlights

Borman joined the detectives inside the house; he put men on guard at each door. A few of the Flying

Squadron lugged in the pair of wounded men whom The Shadow had clipped; after that, they hurried to carry

out Borman's latest orders. Those were instructions for the cordon to close inward.

SOMEWHERE in the darkness was The Shadow. He had paused, expecting the move that came. It suited

him; for his intention was to find an opening and depart while his enemies made futile search. That was

Two minutes passed, while surrounding men crept closer; searchlights began to sweep from patrol cars, like a

Wisely, the men in the cars kept the lights high, hoping to disclose The Shadow without revealing the

positions of the men who closed in upon the cloaked fighter. The Shadow saw his opportunity and took it;

close to the ground, he moved rapidly outward, just before a flood of light came in his direction. He escaped

The cordon could not function fully until it tightened; the creeping men were expecting The Shadow to lurk

until he neared them. One lone fighter, sought by many, would ordinarily have let the circle close about him.

The Shadow's tactics were different. He was actually on a line with the closing men; beneath the gleaming

The Shadow, however, was moving in an outward direction. Moreover, he had chosen the simplest path as

the one that would be least guarded. He was creeping along the driveway to the avenue.

The Shadow was almost to the gate before he was discovered; even then, he was noted by accident.

Reinforcements had come up; among them, men on motorcycles. One of these was ordered to ride through to

the house; to form new contact with the police director. Obeying instructions, the man on the motorcycle

chugged for the driveway. As he took the curve, his headlamp threw a glare inward from the gate.

Squarely ahead, the rider saw The Shadow rising in his path. The man gave a shout; whipped a revolver from

his holster as he applied the brake. He gained no chance to fire. The Shadow was launching forward; as the

The Shadow's left arm clamped the man's shoulder; as the fellow spilled to the gravel, The Shadow came

with him. The Shadow's right hand clutched a .45; it was poised for a swing, if the foeman made trouble. No

blow was needed; the rider struck on the back of his head and rolled over, just away from his toppling cycle.

The Shadow sprang to his feet; he was just in time. The cry had been heard; searchlights were flooding

toward the driveway. Men on the lawn heard shouts, as those in the cars spied The Shadow. All wheeled

about to begin a barrage. Through sheer speed, The Shadow escaped them. He was leaping through the gate

Guns barked from the patrol cars; but the bullets were scattered. The men in the cars had the double task of

keeping The Shadow spotted with light and continuing the fire until their companions arrived. They were not

equal to the twofold effort. The Shadow was across the avenue before guns ripped away in earnest.

BOUNDING into his old roadster, The Shadow pressed the starter. The motor roared as he sped the car off

between two houses. His lights blinked into view; the men from the cordon saw the roadster careen to another

street, headed away to flight. Shouting, the khakiclad thugs boarded their patrol cars and started in pursuit.

The Shadow reversed last night's procedure. Though pressed by swift cars and motorcycles, he headed into

the city instead of making for the limits. The roadster lacked speed, but it was ideal for the tricky course that

The Shadow took. He whizzed the small car around the sharpest corners; shot it through driveways, past

houses, out through hedges. Three times he cut back upon his course, like a hare outrunning the hounds.

Shots ripped every time pursuers spied him; and The Shadow answered with bullets of his own. He crippled

the driver of the closest patrol car and put that machine out of the chase. He picked another foeman from a

motorcycle, just as the pursuer sped in from another street to block The Shadow's turn.

The Shadow knew that if he could outrun these foemen, he could reach the goal that he sought. If he arrived

at Ruthley's to confront the master rogue, The Shadow could force the bigshot to call off his hounds, under

As the pursuit continued, The Shadow gained more distance; but new factors intervened to offset his purpose.

By heading toward the heart of Westford, The Shadow was running into new details of the Flying Squadron.

Radio calls were humming through the ether. New units came in view at nearly every block. Sheer nerve was

all that saved The Shadow from disaster; twice he ran the gantlet of cars and motorcycles that sought to head

him off, relying each time on quick stabs from his own guns to make the opposing marksmen falter.

Each time it worked; for the thugs who served as members of the Flying Squadron knew the identity of their

dread foe. Drivers instinctively changed course when The Shadow's big guns tongued. Crooks could not fire

At last, a double circuit brought The Shadow to the railroad tracks. He sped the roadster across, planning a

Then came the trouble that The Shadow had hoped to avoid. Shots flashed from a side street; to elude them,

The Shadow drove into an alleyway. New guns barked from straight ahead. All came from men on foot. The

Shadow had entered Maclare's precinct. The lieutenant and his bluecoats were answering the alarm that they

THE SHADOW jammed the roadster against the curb. He dropped from it; darted back into the street that he

had just left. He saw an alleyway opposite; he took to it just as a burly man in uniform opened fire from

beneath a street light. It was Lieutenant Maclare; The Shadow could easily have dropped him where he stood.

Maclare bawled an order to his men. Though he did not realize it, the lieutenant was shouting for the death of

Bluecoats responded; they chased along the alley that The Shadow had taken. The Shadow had outrun them,

but two police cars spotted him in the next street. Recognizing these as belonging to the Flying Squadron,

He halted the first car with welldirected bullets; but he could not stop the second. Bullets hailed from its

windows; The Shadow gave a last volley, put away his emptied guns and dived for a space between two

buildings. A bullet clipped him as he sprang. The thugs in the police car saw him falter. They leaped to the

More of the Flying Squadron arrived; so did the regular police. Khaki uniforms mingled with blue; flashlights

lighted space to show a blind alley that terminated in a high board fence, topped with barbed wire. There

were boxes and packing cases stacked all about; any of them might conceal The Shadow.

Lieutenant Maclare arrived to shout an order for men to advance and rout out the fugitive. Before the order

was obeyed, it was countermanded by a higher authority. Director Borman had arrived; in harsh tones, he

While bluecoats hesitated at the murderous order, Borman's khakiclad henchmen opened fire. Guns echoed

between walls; bullets sprayed through boxes toppled stacks of them from in front of the fence.

With Maclare following, Borman strode forward. He knew that The Shadow had been wounded; he expected

to find the cloaked fugitive dead. Nearing the fence, the director grabbed up the lowermost boxes and hurled

them aside. He stared, as Maclare's flashlight showed a jagged hole in the corner of the fence.

The Shadow had dived beyond those boxes; with one good arm, he had bashed the decayed boards at the

lower left corner of the fence. He had sledged those blows with an automatic; a few powerful strokes had

done the necessary work. The Shadow had shouldered through, while his pursuers had massed at the entrance

Blobs of blood stained the cement at the bottom of the fence. Those marks were new proof that The Shadow

had been crippled. Kirk Borman restrained a snarl as he turned to his men; in booming tones, he gave an

Eyeing the bloodstains once again, Kirk Borman indulged in a sharp smile of triumph. He was certain that

The Shadow could not have traveled far; he knew also that the crippled fighter would not be able to put up a

Kirk Borman was sure that he would have good news for Stephen Ruthley tonight. News that the menace of

MORE than an hour after The Shadow's disappearance, the first show ended at the Criterion Theater, one of

Westford's most elaborate motion picture houses. Among the throng that filed from the theater were Louis

Wilderton and Estelle Benbrook. The district attorney was speaking apologetically, when they reached the

"I'm so sorry that we couldn't stay to the beginning of the feature picture," stated Wilderton, "but I am terribly

rushed with work at the office, really, I shouldn't have come to the theater at all tonight."

"I understand," said Estelle. "I do not mind, Louis. Come; let us walk over to the house. You can leave me

"Your work is your most important duty, Louis. It will continue to be, until you have brought the murderer of

"You spoke like your father, Estelle," be remarked. "Do you know, people often speak of the fact that you so

"What is your father's real opinion of me? Does he favor my reelection? Or was he partial to Dunson's

"Father expressed no preference," replied Estelle, soberly. "He said, however, that Westford needs a man of

courage in the office. A man who can do more than wish for results; one who can gain them."

Wilderton winced. The words were a criticism of his own ability, or lack of it, but he was aware that the

"I could step aside for the right man," he declared. "I could not have dropped from the contest on Dunson's

"Yes, Estelle, a candidate of your father's caliber would help Westford. I would not run for reelection, if he

"Unfortunately, father cannot return to public life," remarked Estelle, ruefully. "He seems wearied; it takes a

physician's care to preserve what strength he still has. I appreciate what you have said, Louis; so will father,

"Your father was always a champion of reform," reminded Wilderton. "The name of Judge Martin Benbrook

would sway the public. Such ardent reformers as Stephen Ruthley; such men as Mayor Marclot, Director

Borman, and others of this fine administration all would support Judge Benbrook's candidacy. I repeat

again, Estelle; your father is one man for whom I would gladly postpone my ambition to remain as district

WILDERTON paused. They were at the corner opposite the Majestic Hotel. People were halting at the

sounds of sirens. A police car whizzed by; two motorcycles whirred and chugged as they swung the corner.

"It looks like a man hunt!" exclaimed Wilderton. "Possibly they have caught the trail of that murderer,

Two bluecoated policemen were searching doorways. Wilderton approached them; they recognized the

district attorney and saluted. After a brief parley, Wilderton returned to where Estelle stood. He explained the

"Trouble at the home of Adam Woodstock," said Wilderton. "He was found dead, Woodstock was,

apparently a suicide. The coroner is out there. When the police arrived however, they found someone in the

"No," returned Wilderton. "They say the fellow was rigged up in some kind of attire that helped him hide. He

dashed away from Woodstock's. They pursued him into town; trapped him in a blind alley."

Wilderton looked puzzled as he heard Estelle's strained tone. Nodding, he replied:

"Yes, of course, he was in black. That was why he managed to escape. They riddled the blind alley with

"Why not, Estelle? That was the way Dunson was slain. He never had a chance for life, poor chap."

Estelle tightened her lips, resolved to say no more. Wilderton concluded with the final information that he

"Somehow, the fugitive managed to slip from the trap," declared Wilderton. "He was wounded, though; here

and there, they found bloodstains on the sidewalk. The fellow must have been shrewd enough to stanch his

wounds, at least temporarily. The trail of blood was lost. So they are making a general search."

Wilderton and Estelle had reached the girl's house. The young prosecutor started to accompany the judge's

daughter through the side gate. Estelle stopped him; pointed to Wilderton's car, parked in front of the house.

"You have work to do, Louis," she reminded. "These new events may push you even more. You must hurry

to the office. I have my key; I can enter the door without trouble. Good night, Louis."

As Wilderton headed for his car, Estelle hurried along the passage to the door. Her hand trembling, she tried

to insert the key in the lock. It slipped from her fingers and clanked to the bottom of the steps.

With a gasp, Estelle tugged a handkerchief from her hand bag; placed it upon the cement and pressed it to

absorb the stain that she felt sure was blood. She found the key during the process. Hurriedly, she put it in the

Estelle opened it, stepped into the entry. She saw the dim light of the hall and was ready to start for it. Then

That done, Estelle moved toward the hall. She stumbled across something on the floor; caught herself as she

tripped forward. There was a candlestick on a hall table, with a few matches beside it. Shakily, she lighted the

The long, wavering flame showed the sight that Estelle had dreaded. Huddled face downward on the floor

was a blackcloaked figure, as silent as if dead. The rescuer of the other night had returned. Hunted by

hordes who sought his life, he had found this last haven. Here, his strength had failed him.

For the moment, the girl feared the worst. Then, bravely, she determined to learn. Estelle Benbrook was

resourceful; she had proven that in the past, by caring for her invalid father without the aid of servants.

Estelle lifted The Shadow's head; his slouch hat fell away, to reveal a hawkish visage, pale despite its

masklike contour. The Shadow's face was wellformed, distinguished in appearance. Yet Estelle scarcely

Her hands had found the bloodsoaked shoulder of The Shadow's cloak. Easing away the black cloth folds.

Estelle discovered the nature of the wound. A police bullet had winged The Shadow's left shoulder; but not

badly enough to halt him. Loss of blood had overcome the wounded fighter, after he had gained this refuge.

A wadded handkerchief showed that The Shadow had managed to stanch the flow; but only in temporary

THE SHADOW stirred as Estelle tried to lift him. His eyes opened wearily; he sensed his surroundings. With

the girl's aid, he managed to come to his feet. Estelle supported him as he wavered, through the hallway, into

Estelle went out; she returned with scissors, bandages and a basin of water. Placing chair and table beside the

The task was a painful one, although The Shadow gave no indication of the pangs that he suffered. When

Estelle had finished the work, The Shadow's left shoulder formed a whitebandaged expanse. The girl had

drawn away his cloak; she had cut apart the cloth beneath, in order to apply the bandage.

She noted that The Shadow's eyes were looking beyond her; that his thin, straight lips were about to move, as

if to ask a question. Before The Shadow could speak, Estelle heard a footfall. She turned about, uttered a

Judge Martin Benbrook was a man of seventy. He stood squareshouldered and erect, despite the fact that he

leaned his weight upon a heavy cane. His face was rugged; his features, though overlarge, were distinctive,

for they were as firm as if chiseled by a sculptor. Flowing gray hair added to the judge's fine appearance.

He was dressed in attire that suited him well. An oldfashioned frock coat matched his cuffless trousers; his

shirt was stifffronted, set off with a lowcut waistcoat. A large fourinhand tie accompanied the

The judge's eyes were brilliant as they stared toward The Shadow. A responsive glint came from The

Shadow's eyes. Those were flashes of mutual recognition; each was a fighter who could tell another of his

kind. Estelle saw the exchange of silent greetings. A glad smile wreathed her face. Rising, she approached the

"Father," said the girl, "this is the stranger whom I spoke about. The one who rescued me from death "

"He is no stranger." Judge Benbrook pronounced the words as solemnly as he had given verdicts from the

With slow but steady stride, the judge approached The Shadow. In his same solemn tone, he added:

"I have read beyond the headlines in these reports of crime. I have known that someone, here in Westford,

stood for justice against overwhelming odds! You are wounded; but in whatever battle you fought, yours was

AS HE finished this pronouncement, Judge Benbrook began to sway. Estelle hurried to him; helped her father

to the chair beside the couch. The judge smiled; gave a slight nod to indicate that the spell had passed.

"You have seen the reason for my inactivity," he declared. "Each day, my strength seems to return. At

evening, it fades. My malady perplexes me; I cannot understand it. Nevertheless, it prevents me from waging

Pausing, the judge eyed The Shadow closely. He saw the pallor of the wounded fighter's face.

"Your pain is great," declared the judge. "You must rest. Sleep will aid you, until I summon my own

Estelle had returned in time to hear her father's words. She interrupted with a cry of alarm that halted Judge

Benbrook's statements. The girl shook her head as she placed a bottle of pills upon the table, along with a

"No father!" she exclaimed. "We cannot trust Doctor Lunden to preserve silence. I have often asked you to

choose another physician. Your own condition has not improved under Doctor Lunden's treatments."

Judge Benbrook motioned for silence. The Shadow's lips had moved. In low, but steady tone the wounded

The Shadow paused, closing his eyes; but both Estelle and her father nodded. They understood that Sayre

The Shadow's eyes opened; they met Judge Benbrook's gaze. At close range, The Shadow noted a largeness

Estelle was tipping three capsules from the medicine bottle. The Shadow reached forward with his right hand.

Estelle looked puzzled; but she followed the request. The Shadow swallowed each pill in turn, following with

gulps of water from the glass which Estelle handed him. His head performed a slight nod, to indicate that he

"These pills contain an opiate," declared The Shadow, looking toward Judge Benbrook. "As such, they will

"You mean that I have been doped?" claimed Judge Benbrook. "That the increased dosages, given to me by

"Take only one," he repeated. "Ask Sayre about them when he comes tomorrow. He will reduce the dosage.

JUDGE BENBROOK took a single pill and swallowed it. Watching The Shadow, he saw proof of the latter's

statement. The Shadow's eyes had dulled; his eyelids closed. A relieved smile showed upon the thin lips.

"He will sleep!" exclaimed the judge. "Soon, he will be well. Meanwhile, my malady will end; for this true

friend has discovered its real cause. We shall handle Lunden wisely, Estelle. We shall keep him ignorant of

Proudly, the old judge walked to the door of the room; turned to survey The Shadow, who was deep in a

"Together," he predicted, "we shall win this struggle! Truth shall prevail in Westford! When it does, crime

Those prophetic words must have reached The Shadow, just as he was sinking into a comfortable lethargy.

FIVE days had passed since the tempestuous night when The Shadow had found refuge in Judge Martin

Doctor Rupert Sayre had come from New York. During a brief visit, he had put two patients on the road to

recovery. He had attended The Shadow's wound. He had reduced the opiate dosage that Judge Benbrook had

unwittingly been taking. This, Sayre accomplished through a prescription of his own.

Outside of the judge's house, other matters had reached a settlement. The coroner had declared the death of

Adam Woodstock to be suicide. His verdict had been based on definite evidence; the papers found in

Woodstock's strongbox stood as clear proof that Woodstock had been the man "higher up" who hired

The coroner was an honest official, though an unimportant one. He did not belong to Stephen Ruthley's ring;

Prescott Dunson had promised to reveal truth concerning corruption linked with crime. Apparently, all could

be laid upon Woodstock. The dead contractor's own statement proved that he had swindled the city of

The young district attorney had stated that he would force Woodstock's company to disgorge its half million

of excess profit. The corporation was wealthy; it had promptly paid up without argument. Thus Mayor Elvin

Marclot had received the fund in question; it was back in the city treasury. Money that did not belong there;

but which would not stay long. Marclot was already looking for another fat corporation, headed by another of

Woodstock's ilk; a man who would "play ball" and kick back the required graft in return for the contract.

One thing had caused trouble. The Shadow's presence at Woodstock's had made the coroner hesitate in his

verdict of suicide. Director Borman had handled that; he had talked headquarters detectives into swearing that

The Shadow had been entering the house when they trapped him. Hence, he could not be blamed for

Woodstock's death. The crooks would have relished a decision that classed The Shadow as a murderer; but

None of the headquarters men had gained a good look at The Shadow; nor had Lieutenant Maclare or his

bluecoats. Only the fake cops who formed the Flying Squadron knew who it was that they had fought. They

testified that the intruder had been the mysterious man called Shaw. Thus it was decided that Shaw had

Like Beezer, Shaw was wanted; and neither had reappeared. Ruthley and his fellow crooks decided that The

Shadow had gained his fill of Westford. Nevertheless, Lance Gillick expressed the view that The Shadow

might some day return. Ruthley decided to take no chances. Through Borman, the master crook had arranged

Ruthley did not know that The Shadow had found the secret entrance through the adjacent house;

nevertheless, he wanted absolute security. The Shadow's path to Ruthley's was blocked, even if he should

Beezer Dorsch was hiding out in comfortable fashion at Lance Gillick's apartment. Popular belief had it that

WHAT most concerned the quieted city on this particular day was a meeting of the Civic Club, the chief

reform organization in Westford. That meeting was scheduled for late afternoon, in the club's own

headquarters. When the hour arrived, the place was thronged. The chairman was Stephen Ruthley himself.

Standing on the rostrum, Ruthley beamed at the audience. In dulcet tones, he commended the city officials

for their successful war against crime and graft. There were plaudits from the crowd; bows from Mayor

Marclot and Director Borman, who were seated on the platform behind Ruthley. Finally, Ruthley's tone

"We must not forget one man who stood for a cause," droned Ruthley. "That man was Prescott Dunson!

Though he had not fully gained our support, we were prepared to give it, in return for his promise to end

corruption. I believe that our present district attorney" Ruthley turned to Wilderton, who was seated near by

"would have stepped aside for Prescott Dunson. As it is, Dunson's work has been completed. He was a

"Fearing Dunson, the man who was behind corruption overstepped his bounds. I refer to Adam Woodstock,

who hired murderers to do his evil bidding. Woodstock himself weakened under the strain. His suicide was

"We can carry on as we have in the past, our courage strengthened by the noble example that Prescott Dunson

set for us. Someone must hold the office that Dunson sought. I can think of no one better than Louis

Stephen Ruthley halted, disturbed by a commotion at the rear of the auditorium. His words were drowned.

Men were rising to cheer an unexpected arrival, a man whose entry came as a bombshell to Stephen Ruthley.

Striding down the center aisle, step firm and carriage erect, came a man with keen face and flowing hair. Like

a crusader from the past, his very appearance awoke thunderous applause. Wildly, the reformers were

As the judge reached the platform, Ruthley stepped aside, bowing and smiling; for he knew that he must side

with enthusiasm. As the judge stepped forward, a hush fell upon the audience. In brief words, the elderly

"I have come," he declared firmly, "to announce my return to public life. I intend to be a candidate for the

The crowd went wild again. Judge Benbrook waited for the enthusiasm to end. Stephen Ruthley retained his

forced smile. Mayor Marclot and Director Borman restrained their nervousness. As the hubbub ended, the

"I hold high regard for the present district attorney." He turned toward Wilderton as he spoke. "Yet I feel that

he has been handicapped through adverse conditions. My experience on the bench will enable me to carry

through thoroughly the functions of the office. As my foremost assistant, I shall need Louis Wilderton."

Roars of approval. Wilderton was on his feet; shaking away from Ruthley, the young county prosecutor

sprang forward and clutched Judge Benbrook's hand. The pact was sealed; Ruthley's hopes were spiked. As

When new silence came, Judge Benbrook began a speech. His statements were mild at first; gradually, they

"The death of Prescott Dunson was the cause of my decision," the judge told the reformers. "He promised to

reveal the truth of crime and corruption. He promised to drive them forever from Westford. Have we proof

that Dunson's hopes have been fully accomplished? No! You would like to hear the reason; therefore, I shall

"There is laxity in our city government." The judge paused to let his words carry home. "If it had functioned

to its full, crime and corruption would never have gained a foothold. Where were our police, when they

allowed murderers to infest this city? What happened with our higher officials, when they permitted such

The words were indictments of Mayor Marclot and Director Borman. The two officials winced; looked

uneasy as they shifted in their chairs. Judge Benbrook drove home a final statement.

"As district attorney," he announced, "I shall make a full inquiry into every department of our administration!

I know that our honest officials will welcome such investigation. They were elected on a reform ticket. I trust

that they have stood by their pledges and done their utmost to further good government."

Cleverly, the old judge had softened his impeachment. His words gave Marclot and Borman a chance to

regain their tottering favor. Both were too jittery to see the opportunity; but Ruthley was quick to grasp it.

Smiling in his best fashion, the master crook started a new round of applause, lifting his hands to bring the

audience to its feet. He managed a nod to Borman, who nudged Mayor Marclot. The two came up, joined

OFF in the judge's own home, The Shadow was seated in the parlor, listening to a radio hookup that brought

Judge Benbrook's voice to his ears. The meeting of the Civic Club was being broadcast throughout Westford.

The tumults of applause told their own story of the reception that the judge had gained.

The Shadow turned off the radio; ascended the stairs to the second floor. Judge Benbrook had followed a

course as outlined by The Shadow. It had brought results. Through the judge's cooperation, The Shadow had

THE meeting had ended at the Civic Club. Mayor Marclot and Director Borman were the first to shake Judge

Benbrook's hand, hoping thereby to prove that they were foremost of the honest officials whom he had

mentioned. Stephen Ruthley pressed forward; commended the speech in flowery tones. As members of the

audience thronged the platform, Marclot and Borman made an inconspicuous departure.

They headed for Ruthley's apartment. They were there when the boss arrived, to announce that he had left

Judge Benbrook still surrounded by enthusiastic admirers. Ruthley stopped their questions with impatient

"I called Lance on the way back," he told them. "I asked him where the slipup was. Doc Lunden was

Marclot and Borman nodded, worried. "Something went sour," purred Ruthley, maintaining the pose that he

could keep best when angered. "We'll have to find a way to amend the new situation."

"Before the old judge talks too much," put in Borman. "He nearly spilled the beans today, Steve."

"He knows more than he told," asserted Marclot, fearfully. "He is holding back real information; though how

"We can handle this," announced Ruthley, "through Lance Gillick. He provided the way by which we reached

Doctor Lunden. That kept Judge Benbrook on the shelf for a long while. Lunden has failed us; but that was

"Remember, we have kept Lance in the clear. He had a clean bill of health; we have strengthened him by our

policy of pinning crime on Beezer Dorsch. Lance will be here within an hour. I shall confer with him, alone.

Stephen Ruthley waved his hand in dismissal. Marclot and Borman steadied themselves, made their departure

with new confidence. Ruthley had reassured them; they were positive that the bigshot had picked the right

Possibly, the master crook's smile would have vanished had he known that The Shadow was the motivating

force behind Judge Benbrook's appearance from retirement. Ruthley would have been troubled further had he

guessed that The Shadow had also foreseen that Lance Gillick was the one man upon whom the bigshot

SOON after Stephen Ruthley had broken the bad news to Mayor Marclot and Director Borman, a package

was delivered at the home of Judge Martin Benbrook. Estelle received it; she knew that it was intended for

The Shadow. The girl carried the package upstairs; she knocked at the door of a front room. A quiet voice

Dusk had fallen; the room was almost dark; but against the window, Estelle saw a cloaked figure. As the girl

entered, The Shadow turned; he stepped toward Estelle and took the package. He laid it upon a chair and

The Shadow drew two envelopes from his cloak. He gave them to Estelle; then told the girl, in whispered

"These are for your father. He is to open the smaller envelope and read its contents. It will explain the nature

Estelle nodded; took the envelopes and hurried downstairs to meet her father. The judge was shaking hands

on the front steps; he waved goodby to the reformers and entered the house with Estelle. The girl gave him

the envelopes; entering the parlor, the judge opened the smaller one and read its contents.

His eyes lighted. He crumpled The Shadow's note and tossed it into a fire that was burning in the fireplace.

Looking about, he chose a music cabinet as a place to keep the larger envelope. He unlocked the cabinet, put

"It will be safe there," the judge told his daughter. "Later, I shall turn it over to Louis Wilderton and explain

its contents. Perhaps" the judge looked toward the stairway "yes, I believe that I should confer with our

friend upstairs, even though he explained matters quite completely in his message."

Before the judge could follow his plan to visit The Shadow, there was a ring at the front door. Thinking that

members of the reform club had returned, the judge waited while Estelle answered the door. A moonfaced

man entered, removing his hat to display a baldish head. He saw the judge and bobbed forward with an

"Ah, Judge Benbrook!" ejaculated the arrival. "You have again gone contrary to my advice. I must insist that,

"Come, come," snorted Judge Benbrook. "You forget yourself, Doctor Lunden. I have paid you to make me a

"Has proven beneficial. Let me see, doctor; I recall that you once told me that my improvement would be

remarkable. You stated that when my weary spells ended, I would be free to exert myself again."

"Provided that you kept on with the medicine," added Estelle, nodding toward her father. "That was what

"Very well," he decided. "But I warn you, judge, if you experience another turn of illness, I cannot be held

UPSTAIRS, The Shadow was busy before a mirror. He had donned a new suit from the package that Estelle

had brought him; the attire was garish, but it did not conflict with The Shadow's countenance. He had taken

another object from the package: a small, flat makeup box. With deft hands, he had already altered his face.

The Shadow's new visage was long, bluntnosed and coarse. He had filled his eyebrows so that they hung

heavy, and gave him a permanent glower. The window was open; The Shadow heard a slam of the front door.

He peered out into the dusk, to see Doctor Lunden making his departure. The Shadow's thick lips moved, as

Placing a brace of automatics in holsters under his arms, The Shadow donned hat and cloak. He picked up a

Judge Benbrook and his daughter had returned into the parlor. The Shadow heard Estelle laugh, as she

congratulated her father on the way he had managed Lunden. The Shadow passed the doorway and made a

silent exit. His course led out into the darkness, through the side door to which he had a key.

Doctor Lunden had walked away from the house. Had he glanced behind him, the physician might have

suspected that someone was on his trail. That is, if Lunden had been keen enough to note a strangely flitting

streak of blackness that occasionally glided beneath a lamp light. Few persons, however, had the keenness to

detect such a silent token of a follower; and Lunden, at present, was too intent with his own thoughts even to

The physician reached the Club Adair. He entered, went to a table near the far door. He signaled to the head

Lunden was ushered through to the gaming room, which was doing business. The baldish physician eyed the

roulette wheel eagerly; then curbed himself and went to the door of Lance Gillick's office. He knocked

LANCE smiled sourly when he saw his visitor. The sallowfaced gambler beckoned Lunden into the office;

"No? All right, sawbones. That means you're through. No chance of any dough for you."

"That's written off. I got orders tonight from well, never mind who gave them. Anyway, your gambling

"You'd better. You've bluffed the medico fake too long. If it hadn't been for me fixing things, they'd have

Lunden seemed relieved to know that he was getting out of his uncomfortable situation. He stepped toward

"Just a minute," said Lance. "You've given me the real lowdown on that dope gag, haven't you?"

"I swear it, Lance!" returned Lunden. "Three tablets were the absolute maximum. More would be fatal; if

"That seems the only answer. He is still taking his prescription. With a man of his age, the drug habit is not

easily formed. The effects of a drug that is regularly administered may be lost. Nevertheless, I could not risk

"You won't be blamed for it. Anyway, you'll be on the lam. Better start tonight."

AS soon as Lunden had gone, Lance returned to a task on which he had been working. That was the wording

of a telegram, addressed to a man named Roger Callister, otherwise "Trig" Callister. Lance had mentioned

that individual to Police Director Borman. Tonight, in conference with Stephen Ruthley, Lance had again

In fact, Lance had just returned from Ruthley's, with instructions to bring Trig Callister back to Westford.

Trig had been around a lot, just before crime's heaviest outbreak. He had left Westford prior to the night of

Lieutenant Maclare's raid on the Mississippi Hotel. Lance had intended to bring him into town again; but had

Right now, Trig would prove most useful, chiefly because he had been absent from Westford during the

recent episodes. That meant that Trig would have a clean slate when he returned.

Just as he was finding the right words for the telegram, Lance heard a knock at the door. He thrust the

telegram into a drawer, called for the person to come in. The door opened and closed; Lance turned about in

his swivel chair. His sallow lips emitted a pleased ejaculation. The man who had entered was Trig Callister

Trig was longfaced and bluntnosed. His eyes had an habitual glower; yet his manner had a certain

smoothness that offset those characteristics. Though he bore a reputation as a killer, Trig was recognized

chiefly as a smooth swindler a confidence man who could handle the most wary dupes.

Apparently, Trig had just arrived in Westford. He was carrying a hand bag that he planked on the desk. Lance

"How did you guess I wanted you here, Trig?" queried Lance. "I thought you were going to wait until you

"I didn't have to be a mind reader," returned Trig, in an eventoned voice. "I read the newspapers, Lance. I

saw that things were hot in Westford. Later on, I learned that they had cooled."

"When I heard that Beezer Dorsch was on the lam," explained Trig. "He was your best torpedo, Lance. I

"Beezer's still good," chuckled Lance, "but he has to lay low. I'm hiding him out, here in my apartment.

"WE have to handle an old judge named Benbrook," explained Lance. "We thought he was a hasbeen, but

he has started to kick up some trouble. We can't croak him; we can't snatch him. We have to coax him away

"We'll fix him, if he does. Once he's lost his strangle hold on these club reformers, they won't care so much

about what happens to him. Here's the idea, Trig: You're to go and see Judge Benbrook; to talk him into

"Easy enough," decided Trig, promptly. "I know one dodge that will work. These old gazebos always fall for

a request to come to Washington and give expert testimony before a congressional committee."

"Try it with Benbrook," decided Lance. "Only you won't have to take him to Washington. We'll have a place

Trig considered; then shook his head. "That won't work, Lance," he objected. "That is, not unless you let me

"Keep your bunch out of the picture. Let me bring in some workers of my own. They're smooth; they look

"All the better," chortled Lance. "This will be a perfect setup! We can stage the stunt tomorrow. Duck out of

town tonight, Trig; stay somewhere under a phony name. Call in your outfit; stop back to see me tomorrow.

Soon afterward, Trig Callister made his exit, carrying his hand bag. Lance Gillick did not remain long in his

office. He left the Club Adair, to pay another visit to Stephen Ruthley; to tell the boss of Trig Callister's

Lance regarded Trig as a "con man" deluxe. A good estimate, since Trig had duped Lance himself. Not for an

Actually, there was no such person as Trig Callister. The Shadow had assumed that character some time ago,

in order to contact Lance Gillick and gain preliminary facts concerning crookedness in Westford. Knowing

that Lance might consider Trig useful at present, The Shadow had wisely assumed the role again.

Lance Gillick thought that he had gained an answer to a pressing problem. He was sure that his plan of

handling Judge Benbrook, through Trig Callister, would appeal to Stephen Ruthley. The real answer behind

Trig Callister's visit had eluded Lance; therefore, it would escape Ruthley also.

Tonight, Ruthley and Lance would discuss the final details of the game which they intended, making due

allowance for Trig Callister's suggestions. Crooks were playing squarely into the hands of The Shadow.

EARLY the next evening, Lance Gillick again received Trig Callister in his office. Still oblivious to The

Shadow's disguise, Lance came immediately to business. He spread a road map on the desk; pointed out a

"The house lies right here," stated Lance. "It's an old mansion, but a swell one, that's just been fixed up great.

"You've got to bluff the judge into thinking it's your place," remarked Lance. "How will you pull that, Trig?"

"Easy," returned The Shadow, in a boastful tone that suited the part of Trig. "I'm a special government

representative; at least, that's what I'll tell the judge. I've come from Washington to investigate conditions in

Westford. I want the judge to go down there with me; to make a preliminary report."

"We start out in my car, the judge and I. Then I suggest stopping at the house that I've rented near Westford.

When we get there, I decide that we ought to prepare a long report. One of my outfit is a secretary, who can

"A couple of days, at least. I'll be making fake longdistance calls to Washington, getting requests for more

and more details in the reports. I can follow that by getting phony word that the committee meeting has been

"Good enough. How long will it take to move your outfit into the house? The place is empty, waiting for

The Shadow picked up Lance's telephone. He put in a call to a neighboring town. When he gained the

connection, he gave terse instructions in Trig's style, naming the location of the house where he intended to

take Judge Benbrook. Finished with the call, The Shadow reported tersely to Lance.

"They'll be there inside a half hour," stated The Shadow. "It will only take them a little while to get settled."

"Fine," declared Lance. "I'll order all the gorillas in town to get out there an hour later."

"You'll queer the dodge, Lance, if you shove in a crowd of toughlooking eggs. They won't fit with my

"They won't go to the house," explained Lance. "They'll stay in a couple of cottages near there. They ought to

be out of Westford anyway; and they'll keep a circle around the house, to look out for your bunch. You know

THE SHADOW knew what was behind Lance's suave explanation. The gambler was acting under

instructions from Stephen Ruthley. Though the boss had liked the idea of using Trig Callister, he was taking

The Shadow was not surprised by this turn of events; in fact, he had expected something of the sort.

"They'll pass you through, Trig," argued Lance. "What's more, they won't bother your inside crew. It's for

your own good; and it leaves us ready to grab the judge, if we have to get him later on. Just give me the

license number of your car; it won't even be stopped when it comes along the road."

He wrote the license number on a sheet of paper, and handed it to Lance. The gambler picked up a copy of

"See this?" he queried, pointing to a headline. "It says that the Civic Club will hold another meeting a

special one. The date hasn't been mentioned yet. The fellow who is going to set it is Steve Ruthley, the

"I guess I told you before that Ruthley is playing a dodge with that reform racket. He's the bigshot in this

whole game. You'll probably meet him later, Trig. Anyway, as soon as you have stowed away Judge

"So the judge won't be there," remarked The Shadow, with a smile. "Good stuff, Lance! Only one trouble,

though. Suppose the judge wants to see a copy of the day's newspaper, to know when the meeting is coming

"That will be handled," returned Lance. "Ruthley can fix it to get hold of a fake copy of the newspaper; just

like the regular edition, except that it will carry a phony story about the Civic Club meeting."

"That's it. We'll deliver a fake copy of the paper, out at the house where you're staying with the judge."

"All right. Any way you want it, Trig. Anyhow, that will satisfy the judge. He'll stay out there with you; and

he'll never get to the meeting. With the judge out, Ruthley can swing that mob of reformers to suit himself."

The Shadow arose; he glanced at his watch and decided upon a visit to Judge Benbrook. Before starting, he

"Ask for Vincent," explained The Shadow. "Tell him who you are. He'll fix it so you can see me blow in with

TEN minutes later, The Shadow rang the doorbell of Judge Benbrook's house. Estelle answered; she stared at

the unfamiliar face of Trig Callister. Adopting a smooth pose, The Shadow asked to see Judge Benbrook.

"Come right in, sir," invited Benbrook. "My door is always open. I am Judge Martin Benbrook. Your name,

"Callister," replied The Shadow. "Roger Callister. I drove here from Washington, judge, especially to see

The judge ushered The Shadow into the parlor and closed the door. Estelle remained in the hallway, troubled.

She was suspicious of this visitor, whose smooth manner so contrasted with his hardened features. She

Unfortunately, The Shadow was not in his room. Estelle had knocked at the door a short while before, only to

Twenty minutes passed. The door of the parlor opened. Judge Benbrook came out; his face wore a beaming

"I am leaving for Washington, Estelle!" he exclaimed. "Mr. Callister wants me to address a congressional

committee, on the subject of civic reform. My return to activity seems to have caused national comment."

The judge started for the stairs, adding that he would pack his bag at once. Unable to stop him, Estelle turned

"My father cannot leave here, Mr. Callister," protested the girl. "He has to speak at an important meeting that

"The judge told me that," responded The Shadow, in Trig's tone. "I assured him that he will be back for the

meeting, whenever it is held. It is only a few hours drive here from Washington."

"He will have a good rest at a Washington hotel; and will be ready to meet the congressional committee in the

While Estelle was thinking of other possible objections, Judge Benbrook arrived from the second floor. He

had packed a suitcase in rapid time; he was carrying the bag with him. The Shadow took the suitcase, bowed

to Estelle, and conducted the judge out to the street. Estelle watched the two enter a large sedan and drive

LESS than a half hour later, the same sedan reached a dirt road in the country. After a few hundred yards, it

turned between two gates and stopped in front of an old, but wellpreserved, mansion. A coupe was parked

beyond the house; it was Lance Gillick's car. The Shadow and the judge alighted; they entered the house and

There, a cleancut young man met them. The Shadow introduced him as Mr. Vincent, added that the man

was his private secretary. Vincent ushered them into a comfortablelooking study, where a portable

"This should suit you admirably, judge," remarked The Shadow, in Trig's tone. "Tomorrow, you can dictate

full statements to Vincent. I shall call Washington, to tell them that you will meet the committee on a later

"A good plan. Mr. Callister," agreed the judge. "I can work better here than at home. I shall send a letter to

"I can mail it for you, judge. Don't worry about the Civic Club. We are close enough to Westford to get in

Leaving Benbrook with Vincent, The Shadow went from the study and closed the door behind him.

Immediately, another door opened; Lance Gillick appeared and joined The Shadow with a grin. The two went

"Vincent stowed me in the next room," he told The Shadow. "I heard you hand the hokum to the judge. He

fell for it just the way we wanted. Say this fellow Vincent looks great! If the rest of your crew is as good as

"They all know their business," remarked The Shadow. "I've used them on plenty of smooth jobs before this,

The Shadow's statement was correct, though not in the sense that Lance took it. The men whom The Shadow

had brought to this house were his own agents, who had aided him often in his battles against crime. Beside

Vincent, The Shadow had brought into the house three whom Lance had not seen: Marsland, Burke and

A huge African servant appeared to unlock the door for The Shadow and Lance. The man's size brought a

smile of approval from Lance; he would have liked to have the African as a bouncer in one of his tough

"His name is Jericho," said The Shadow. "He makes a good servant; and he comes in handy if a brawl starts."

Another man appeared outside the house; he was small, stoopshouldered and wizenfaced. This fellow

watched The Shadow walk along with Lance to the coupe; then the wizenedfaced man sidled to the front

door and knocked for Jericho to admit him. Both he and Jericho were aids of The Shadow also.

"That was Hawkeye," remarked The Shadow. "I told Vincent to keep him outside. He looks too much like a

"What a setup," chuckled Lance, as he boarded the coupe. "This outfit of yours would be a good one to have

"If he comes here," replied The Shadow, in Trig's harsh fashion, "my crew will know it soon enough."

Lance drove away. The Shadow returned to his sedan and followed into Westford. The outside cordon was

set; The Shadow saw signs of lurking men along the dirt road. They let both cars go through; for Lance had

told them that Trig Callister was not to be stopped. He had given them the license number of the sedan that

LATER that same evening, Estelle Benbrook again knocked at the door on the second floor. She had not

heard The Shadow come into the house; but she felt sure that he must have returned.

The door opened; The Shadow stepped out into the hall. He was wearing his black cloak and slouch hat.

Estelle could not distinguish his face, except for the burning glow of his eyes.

In troubled tone, Estelle reported the details of her father's departure. She described Trig Callister as a man

whose sincerity she doubted. The Shadow reassured the girl with quiet, lowtoned speech. He told her not to

worry until the next day. He added that he would see to it that no harm came to her father.

Back in his room, The Shadow indulged in a whispered laugh that was scarcely audible. He had not told

Estelle the facts concerning her father; because, although he knew the judge was safe, The Shadow did not

believe that Estelle would think so. It was better that she should learn the details after The Shadow's present

The Shadow was correct in that opinion. He had chosen the course that offered the least difficulty, so far as

Estelle was concerned. Nevertheless, there was a chance that the girl's ignorance of the situation might prove

The Shadow was to encounter real evidence of that fact, before this episode was ended.

AT dusk, the next day, Lance Gillick was seated at his desk, drumming nervously. In front of him was a copy

of the Daily Banner, effectively faked with a false paragraph that announced postponement of the Civic Club

meeting. Actually, the meeting had been called for this very night, by Stephen Ruthley.

What troubled Lance was the fact that Trig Callister had not yet arrived. To Lance, that meant that something

might be wrong at the country mansion. Lance stopped his drumming, to pick up the telephone. He intended

to chance a call to Stephen Ruthley, though as a rule the boss objected to such mode of contact.

Before Lance could dial the number, the door of the office opened. Lance grinned as he saw Trig Callister.

"Wondered where you were, Trig," voiced the gambler. He picked up the faked newspaper. "Here's the news

"Just the way we want it," replied The Shadow. "The judge is getting jittery, though. I'll have to hurry the

The Shadow paused, as he folded the newspaper and pocketed it. Lance noticed that Trig had his hand bag

with him. He supposed that Trig had forgotten to take it to the country, the night before.

"There were some cops out front when I came in," stated The Shadow. "They looked me over pretty closely,

"Some of Maclare's bunch," snorted Lance. "He always keeps a flatfoot near here. Sometimes two or three.

He's still sore because he never pinned anything on me. He had to give me an alibi once; I guess he's never

"Maybe you'd better steer me out by the back way," suggested The Shadow. "The cops may be suspicious at

seeing me come out so soon. I don't want to be slowed up by an argument with a couple of dumb harness

Lance nodded agreement. He opened the panel in the wall; urged The Shadow into the passage beyond it.

They followed along the passage to its end. At the left was a large door that served as the only entrance to

Lance's secret apartment, in an adjoining building. At the right was a stairway. Lance led The Shadow

There they found a small entry, with a steel door beyond it. The entry was dim; it was guarded by a huge

bruiser who was almost the size of Jericho. In fact, Lance had compared the huge African with this particular

"So long, Lance," remarked The Shadow. "Don't bother to wait. I'd better come in this way, though, when I

With this information The Shadow was quite willing that Lance should wait around. The gambler, however,

followed The Shadow's suggestion and went upstairs. That made it even better. While Boscul was still

drawing back a series of big bolts, The Shadow laid his hand bag on the floor. Tightening in a crouch, he

THE lookout must have caught some sign of the attack that was to come. He spun suddenly from the door;

his dull face lighted in a glare. Boscul gave a snarl just as The Shadow sprang forward. With hamlike hands,

Boscul thought that he was dealing with Trig Callister. That, perhaps, gave him more courage than he would

have shown against a cloaked attacker. Boscul beat back The Shadow's thrust before long fingers could gain

the clutch they wanted. With a fierce cry, he hurled the limber attacker across the entry.

Fortunately, Lance Gillick was too far away to hear that shout. The Shadow had enough to do, handling

Boscul. He managed to ward off a punch that the big lookout swung in his direction. He followed with a

quick jab that bobbed Boscul's head backward, even though it failed to stagger the huge fighter.

The two locked. Boscul's arms tightened like the grip of a python. He hoisted The Shadow from the floor,

intent upon crushing the supposed Trig Callister into submission. Swinging one wrist free, The Shadow

squeezed choking fingers about Boscul's throat. The fellow gurgled; relaxed his fierce grip.

From then on, it was The Shadow's fight. Gaining a footing, he beat off Boscul's clutch; drove the lookout

across the floor with a series of slashing blows. Again, they grappled; this time, The Shadow clutched Boscul

The husky's bulk was greater than that of the Japanese; but it did not save him from disaster. Like a

mongoose overpowering a cobra, The Shadow whipped his giant antagonist headlong toward the steel door.

Opening his hand bag, The Shadow brought out his black garb. He donned cloak and hat, eyed Boscul while

he added gloves to his attire. The husky was groggily trying to rise. The Shadow spilled him to one side and

opened the door that Boscul had already unbolted. The door came inward; its outer surface showed only

Viewed from the outside alley, that door excited no suspicion. Its steelsheeted interior, however, made it

The alleyway was darkened. The Shadow was invisible as he edged into its space. Producing an automatic

from its holster, he pointed the .45 upward, fired two quick shots in the air. Immediately afterward, he swung

There was commotion in the alley. Pounding from the darkness came half a dozen men; with them was

Lieutenant James Maclare. The raiders were blueuniformed police. Their presence was explained by

"Keep going, men!" ordered the lieutenant. "I thought this tipoff was on the level! Those shots were the

signal we were told to wait for! We'll have the goods on Lance Gillick this time!"

Opposition came, as the police surged into the doorway; but it was not longlived. Boscul had found his feet;

he tried to grapple with the foremost bluecoat. Another officer swung a nightstick; he clubbed the groggy

lookout into insensibility. Maclare and his men dashed up the stairs, never stopping to look behind the

They found the passage to Lance's office; reaching the end of it, they saw a glimmer of light through the back

of the painting. Maclare took one look through the peep hole; then ripped through the canvas, followed by his

SHRIEKS arose from the gaming room, where play had started for the night. Croupiers were trapped at the

roulette wheel; money and chips scattered everywhere as the police rounded up snarling waiters and

The door of the office opened; Lance Gillick peered at the scene. He bobbed from sight, slamming the door.

Maclare leaped for it, ordered officers to slash the barrier with axes. One of the bluecoats gave a sudden

The gambler had opened the office panel, to reach the passage. The policeman had spied him through the

ruined painting. Maclare sprang away from the office door, led the chase with a pair of bluecoats following.

Lance reached the door of his apartment, yanked it open. Peering from the entry below, The Shadow saw

It was Beezer Dorsch. Lance had feared that the killer would be trapped. The police had passed the apartment

door in order to raid the gambling joint, but their return was imminent. Lance's pressing thought was to make

The pair dashed down the stairway, just as revolvers blasted along the passage above. The Shadow dropped

behind the door. He let the fugitives get past, then bobbed out to follow them. He could easily have halted the

Dashing along the alleyway, Lance and Beezer ducked through an opening in time to avoid policemen

coming from the front street. The Shadow was close behind the crooks; but the clatter of their own footsteps

drowned the slight sounds of his pursuit. Lance and Beezer reached a garage; they rushed in and boarded a

By the time the coupe swung into sight, The Shadow was in a small roadster, much like the car that he had

used in his last flight from the Flying Squadron. He took up the chase; within two blocks Lance and Beezer

Recognizing that by the burst of speed that the coupe showed, The Shadow unlimbered an automatic and

dispatched two quick shots after the coupe. Bullets whistled close enough for the crooks to guess who was on

"The Shadow!" snarled Lance, as he gripped the wheel of the coupe. "Lucky he didn't bag Trig Callister. He

"Yeah," growled Beezer, "and he tipped off Maclare to raid your joint. We gotta shake him, Lance."

Again, Lance Gillick was playing into The Shadow's hands. In this pursuit, The Shadow could have

overtaken the crooks as easily as he could have dropped them on the stairway. His plan, however, called for

their getaway. He wanted them to be at Ruthley's later; for The Shadow intended an end to crime tonight.

WITHIN the next few blocks, The Shadow was prepared to slow his pursuit; to give Lance the very chance

that the gambler wanted. Once in the clear, Lance would head for Ruthley's apartment house; duck from his

Oddly, luck was to trick The Shadow. Had he ended his pursuit a few blocks sooner, all would have gone

well. However, during the last stretch, Lance Gillick became jittery. He started to express his worriment to

"Yeah!" he agreed. "It's the joint the boss told us about, in case we needed to use it. Head in there, Lance."

Lance spun the wheel, jerked the coupe suddenly from the street, straight into the open doorway of the

garage. He shouted as he applied the brakes; a waiting garage man caught his words and yanked a lever. A

The Shadow reached the front; jamming the brakes of the roadster, he saw the thoroughfare. In that instant,

he thought that the far door had been open when Lance entered the garage; for the coupe was speeding

through it. To give a last zest to his pursuit, The Shadow swung his roadster into the garage, intending to

The rear door slid shut before The Shadow could reach it. Jamming the brakes, The Shadow shoved the

gearshift lever into reverse. Again, he was too late. The front door slithered shut before The Shadow could

Lights showed the garage devoid of cars. A stonewalled room some sixty feet square, it formed a sealed

snare, once the doors had closed; for they were of metal. More ominous still were two small, boxlike rooms

at each side of empty garage. They were sheeted with metal; their closed doors were fronted with loopholes.

The tiny rooms were pillboxes safe spots from which hidden sharpshooters could riddle anyone who

occupied the center of the garage floor. Once the barrage began, it would spell instant doom for The Shadow.

IN a single instant, The Shadow sized his situation. Big doors had clanged; to leap from the roadster and

attempt to open them would be the worst move possible. The Shadow knew that machine gunners were

sequestered in the pillboxes, ready to begin their fire the moment that he bobbed into view.

Even the roadster offered but temporary safety. Bullets would spray it soon. Yet, for some reason, the

opening hail had been delayed. Quick to note that fact, The Shadow looked for the answer; and found it. A

glance from the side of the roadster enabled him to see a scudding man in overalls, making across the stone

It was the attendant who had pulled the levers to close the garage doors. The fellow was still inside the

garage; the men in the pillbox were giving him time to join them. The door of the pillbox was moving

The Shadow had an automatic handy. He could have dropped the rowdy as he ran. Such a move would have

been futile. If their pal fell, the men in the pillboxes would have no further need to delay their machine gun

Nor would The Shadow gain by blazing bullets into the doorway of the pillbox when it opened. Unless he

clipped every occupant, the door would slam again. Even if he did wound that crew of sharpshooters, the men

in the second pillbox would make up for it. Not for an instant did The Shadow forget that he lay between

Without reaching for the .45 that lay on the seat beside him, The Shadow staged a prompt surprise. His move

was totally unexpected; for that reason, it left his enemies momentarily bewildered. The thug who was

dashing for the pillbox had thirty feet to go. The Shadow resolved to block him off; to keep him in a spot of

With his left hand, The Shadow jerked the roadster's wheel. He rammed the gear shift into low, with his right.

His foot thrust the accelerator to the floor. The roadster leaped as if alive, skewed to the left and roared like a

thunderbolt straight for the pillbox, just as the door of that tiny stronghold slid wide.

The Shadow passed the running thug in a splitsecond. Jamming the brakes, he again yanked the wheel to the

left. The roadster halted with a screech, squarely between the startled thug and the opened door of the

Again, The Shadow pulled a surprise. As the man in overalls heeled about and dashed in the other direction,

The Shadow let him go. Diving to the right, The Shadow banged the roadster's door outward, with his left

hand; while his rightmost grabbed the automatic from the seat. In one continuous leap, he hurtled onward,

Two startled hoodlums, crouched in darkness, saw the cloaked avalanche whirl in upon them. Dropping their

machine gun, they sprang to meet The Shadow. His right arm swished downward; the automatic smashed a

thug's skull. As the fellow sprawled, The Shadow swung a side blow, clipped the second gunner and rolled

The first thug partly blocked the door. Stopping, The Shadow seized his shoulders and pitched his senseless

body out beside the dazed man who had floundered on the step of the roadster. That done, The Shadow

grabbed the handle of the door and clanged the barrier shut. Safe in the pillbox, he peered through the tiny

The Shadow had completely tricked the gunners in the far pillbox. His car had blocked their view of his

rapid action. They learned what had happened too late to defeat it. Their knowledge came when the thug on

the roadster's step suddenly grabbed his unconscious pal and dragged him out in front of the halted car.

It was stalemate: a trio of crooks in one pillbox; The Shadow in the other. The abandoned roadster made a

barrier in between; but it meant nothing. The Shadow, like the crooks, had a machine gun and could fire

through the open sides of the small car. Volleys would prove useless, however, for both The Shadow and his

True, there were three men somewhere on the garage floor; two of them were now dragging a third toward

the front door. The Shadow could have picked out those crooks and finished them; but they were

unimportant. He needed some way to break this stalemate; to leave the pillbox and be on his way to other

Had crooks recognized the situation, they would have let matters remain as they were. They, however,

disliked the condition for reasons of their own. They knew the identity of their foeman. They were incensed

Hoarse shouts came from the far pillbox. The words were incoherent to The Shadow, due to the echoes from

the barren walls. To the men who were in the open, the cries were understandable. One dropped the senseless

man whom he was lugging, leaped for a wall and pulled a light switch. The garage was plunged into

ON the face of it, this move seemed merely a protection for the men who were still at large. Crooks naturally

expected The Shadow to stay where he was. Instead, The Shadow found the handle of the pillbox door. He

The thug by the outer door had found another switch. He pulled it. The result was sensed immediately by The

Shadow. His pillbox began a descent into the floor, lowering like an elevator. The smooth action was

Had The Shadow still been behind a closed door, he could not have left the descending pillbox; for it went

down into the floor so steadily that the delay of opening the door would have been fatal. However, The

Shadow had already attended to the detail of opening the door. His quick brain caught the need for immediate

With both hands, he grabbed the edge of outside floor when it was just waisthigh. With a long, forward leap

from the floor of the descending pillbox, he shot headforemost through the closing space; performed a quick

roll that brought his legs clear, just before the top of the pillbox doorway could trap them.

The pillbox stopped its descent with a sharp click. Reaching along the garage floor in the darkness, The

Shadow found that the roof of the pillbox was coated with cement; that formed a perfect level with the floor.

He knew that the other pillbox must operate in the same fashion; and the reason was obvious. With the

pillboxes lowered into their pits, the garage floor would appear quite ordinary; and would therefore excite

Some crook had seen a smart way to render The Shadow's capture of the pillbox worse than useless. The

pull of the wall switch had turned the stronghold into a prison, as closewalled as a tomb. Harsh, gleeful cries

amid the darkness told that men of crime were sure that their ruse had worked. A raucous voice called for

Quickly, The Shadow rolled beneath the roadster. He lay there, face downward, clasping an automatic in each

fist. The lights came on; crooks piled from their pillbox to join the others on the floor. Together, they surged

to the wall beside the roadster; they tramped roughly on the leveled roof; they bent to shout jeers that they

While thugs made merry, The Shadow prepared to end their revelry. The far side of the roadster was deserted,

except for the one thug who lay unconscious. Three from the pillbox; two from the floor, had all assembled

above the tightsealed prison where they believed The Shadow trapped. Edging outward, The Shadow was

Someone was pounding at the front door of the garage. For beyond that heavy barrier came the shouted order:

THE SHADOW abandoned his plan to surprise the clustered, crooks who stood flatfooted by the wall. He

had recognized the shouting voice. The tone was that of Lieutenant James Maclare. Half to his feet, The

Shadow dropped low again; he edged beneath the roadster as crooks scurried from the wall.

He saw one man reach the door and yank a switch that controlled the far pillbox. It descended; the thug at

the switchboard pulled a lever to open the rear door of the garage. Two crooks picked up the unconscious

thug; the lights went out to cover their departure by the opened rear door. Only two remained, to pass as

garage attendants when they admitted Maclare and his bluecoats to the innocentlooking garage.

The Shadow had new opportunity in the darkness. He took it. Rolling from beneath the roadster, he moved

swiftly to the rear door. Crooks were away before he reached it; The Shadow slid through just as the door was

The rear alley was darkened; groping, The Shadow found a passage that led through to the front street,

between the garage and an empty store. He took this route; stopped just before he reached the front. Peering

Lights were on again in the garage; the front door had been opened to admit Maclare. The lieutenant had

made a brief inspection; he had called the thuggish attendants out front, to give them a brief quiz.

"Nobody came in here tonight?" demanded the police officer. "You're sure of it?"

"Nobody, lieutenant," replied one of the thugs. "This garage is closed for repairs. We're storin' no cars, here,

"All right," decided Maclare. "The men we're after were reported riding in a coupe. Last place we spotted

A siren sounded as Maclare finished. Two motorcycles chugged up; then a police car. Members of the Flying

Squadron stepped to the street. An official car arrived. Director Kirk Borman alighted. He talked with

"I'll take charge here," decided Borman. "Good work, lieutenant! I heard about your surprise raid."

"I meant to notify you, director," stated Maclare, "only we weren't sure of the tipoff "

"I understand," put in Borman, brusquely. "Results are what count, lieutenant. You gained them. That's all

that matters. Better get back to your precinct. The Flying Squadron will find Lance Gillick."

MACLARE saluted; he departed with his bluecoats. The honest lieutenant was grim. For once, he had kept

back facts that he might have given to the police director. The tipoff that Maclare had received had specified

that no one, not even Director Borman, be informed beforehand. Rather than miss his opportunity to catch

Lance Gillick redhanded, Maclare had agreed to the terms. He had trusted the mysterious voice that had

Director Borman went into the garage, while members of the Flying Squadron spread out to fake a search of

the area. The Shadow saw chance of new encounter, which he wanted to avoid. In darkness, he whipped off

his cloak and hat and folded them under his arm. Choosing a moment when no khakiuniformed men were

near, he walked out from his hidingplace and approached Director Borman's car. He opened the door, tossed

The chauffeur turned about; saw only the features of Trig Callister. The Shadow whispered gruffly, stating

that he wanted to see Director Borman. The chauffeur was one of Borman's trusted aids. He knew that the

director had dealings with characters of Trig's sort. He motioned The Shadow into the car.

Kirk Borman returned soon afterward, a pleased smirk on his sharpfeatured face. As he entered the car, The

"He's where we want him," chuckled Borman. "Buried alive! We'll leave him there until he croaks! That

The Shadow's disguised face was visible by the glow of a street lamp. To Borman, those features answered

"I hopped on the back of Lance's coupe," returned The Shadow with a sight guffaw. "I was in a bad spot

when that raid hit. A worse one, when The Shadow tagged Lance. I had to drop off to keep from getting hit

when he busted loose with those gats of his. I was too busy to yank a rod of my own. It's tough holding on to

The story clicked. Borman told the chauffeur to drive along. He was not suspicious when The Shadow

"They did," acknowledged the police director. "That's where we are going at present."

"You'll have to drop me on the way," objected The Shadow. "When we get to the place where I parked my

sedan. I've got to get out in the country and keep the old judge bluffed. Tell Lance I made my getaway.

BORMAN nodded. Events had worked out better than he hoped. With Lance and Beezer in a safe hideout

and Trig at large, all was well with men of crime. Maclare's surprise raid had made trouble. Borman was sure

that it had been instigated by The Shadow. The Shadow's return had brought recompense, however; it had

spelled the finish of the blackcloaked warrior, according to Borman's positive belief.

The Shadow spoke as they neared his parked sedan. Borman ordered the chauffeur to stop; he chuckled

goodby to Trig Callister. He saw his companion alight; but he did not notice the small bundle beneath Trig's

arm. The Shadow was careful to keep his wadded cloak and hat away from the police director's view.

The Shadow whispered a prophetic laugh as he boarded his sedan. His plans had worked tonight. He had

slipped the trap without losing too much time; and with that exploit, he had left crooks confident that they

That, in particular, was to The Shadow's liking. The greater the confidence among men of crime, the greater

would be their consternation when The Shadow delivered the final stroke of his campaign.

DESPITE his quick departure from the toils of crooks, The Shadow had lost many valuable minutes. He had

purposely clipped the time element to a minimum, that he might complete his campaign while his enemies

were retarded. The episode at the garage trap had therefore been damaging to The Shadow's schedule.

One vital phase of The Shadow's game was a trip to the country mansion there to meet Judge Benbrook and

bring him back to town. That would be easy; as Trig Callister, The Shadow could pass the outer cordon of

thugs without question. But it was necessary to have Judge Benbrook in Westford well before the time at

If all went well, The Shadow would have another bombshell waiting for Stephen Ruthley when the pretended

reformer arrived at the meeting. All could still go well; but time was short. A speedy ride to the country and a

Delay, however, had already caused one difficulty. Just when The Shadow was embarking on a free, swift

course, trouble began without his knowledge. The place where it occurred was the one spot where it was least

to be expected: in Judge Benbrook's own home. The person who provided the chance element was Estelle

The Shadow had foreseen that Estelle would be worried over her father's absence. The night before, he had

mailed her a letter, written by the judge himself. Estelle had received the letter this morning; it had partly

Later, though, Estelle had read the true item in the Daily Banner, stating that the Civic Club would meet

tonight. She had prepared dinner for herself and her father, thinking surely that the judge would return.

Judge Benbrook had not returned. Ending a lone repast. Estelle experienced a great increase of alarm. There

was only one person in whom she could confide her fears. That person was The Shadow. On the faint hope

that The Shadow had entered the house while she was eating dinner, Estelle went upstairs to rap at the door

There was no response. Estelle's spirits sank. She felt hopeless and confused; for once, her usual

selfconfidence was gone. The girl pounded wildly upon The Shadow's door. At last, in desperation, she

Hopeful that she might find some message from The Shadow, Estelle looked about the room. She saw a

bureau drawer that was slightly open. Peering into the drawer, Estelle glimpsed a flat box that she mistook for

a writing case. Thinking that it might contain a notebook or some written memoranda, Estelle nervously drew

THE box was a makeup kitone that showed signs of recent use. It explained to Estelle why The Shadow's

face had seemed so masklike. The girl remembered that The Shadow could not have carried this makeup kit

when he first came to the house. She realized that it must have come in the package that had been delivered

Hastily, Estelle looked in the closet; there she saw a dark suit, with torn coat sleeve.

It struck Estelle that The Shadow must have received new clothes; certainly the package had been large

enough and sufficiently heavy to contain a suit. But why had The Shadow needed the makeup outfit?

Estelle was intuitive; moreover, her mind was concerned with her father's disappearance. For the first time,

she felt a sudden doubt of The Shadow, for she remembered that, last night, he had expressed but little

concern over her father's disappearance. Her mind was strained to the point where she could connect only a

few definite thoughts; in that state, Estelle pictured two persons: The Shadow and the man named Callister,

A horrified gasp came from Estelle's lips. Through a chance thought, inspired by her discovery of the

Reasoning from a false assumption, Estelle concocted a theory that she promptly accepted as fact. She

thought of The Shadow as a man of crime; one with a lone game, who had run into trouble the night that

Prescott Dunson was slain. True, The Shadow had saved the girl's own life; but there were many crooks who

Perhaps The Shadow had foreseen how useful that rescue would prove. It had enabled him to avoid the law,

by entering the house with Estelle. It had won Estelle's confidence; later, The Shadow had found sanctuary in

this house. As Estelle saw it, he had pretended friendliness in order to gain her father's confidence, as well as

Ready for some crooked game, The Shadow had come here as Callister. He had taken her father as a hostage.

He had some reason to keep Judge Benbrook from Westford. It all seemed a scheme of double dealing, even

Firmly, Estelle resolved upon some move. While she tried to find some possible way of counteracting

purposes which she thought were evil, the girl heard the doorbell ring. For a moment, her worries vanished;

she almost dropped the theory that she had built up against The Shadow. Estelle was hopeful that her father

"Lieutenant Maclare has raided the Club Adair. This time, he found a gambling room in operation. He has

Estelle fairly shrieked the questions. Wilderton's eves popped. He stammered: "Your your father isn't

"No! It was last night! But it began before that. I have to tell you the whole story, Louis. There was a man

"The night that Adam Woodstock committed suicide. That was the second time I saw him. That was the night

"You took him in here?" demanded Wilderton. "The man who was wanted as an accomplice of the murderer,

"This man talked to father," explained. "He convinced father that he was not engaged in crime. He persuaded

"He dropped his masquerade. He came here as another person, a man named Callister. He persuaded father to

leave with him for Washington. He wanted to keep father away from here tonight."

"You have told me enough," he said. "The man has two aliases. He calls himself Shaw; also Callister. He has

"After I have talked with Director Borman. The local police should act first. Borman will send out the Flying

Estelle started an objection. Again, Wilderton halted her. The girl tried to blurt out a fact that she had just

remembered: the envelope that The Shadow had given her father. Her words were confused.

"This man left an envelope with father," exclaimed Estelle. "One that contained some sort of evidence "

"Evidence of what?" demanded Wilderton, hoarsely. "No crook would leave a trail behind him. We can come

"No. I shall see him personally, and come back here later. I know where he is at present; both Director

DASHING down the steps, Wilderton jumped aboard his car and drove away. Estelle stood wearily at the

door; then went back into the house. She decided to find the envelope herself. To obtain it, she needed a key

There were keys in a table drawer near the music cabinet. As she rummaged among them, finding none that

she wanted, Estelle discovered a .32 revolver. It was a loaded weapon that her father had long ago put away

and forgotten. Nervously, Estelle gripped the gun; she glanced toward the hallway.

The tension had given her unusual alertness. A sound reached Estelle's ears; it was a key, turning in the lock

of the side door. Acting upon sudden inspiration, the girl hurried upstairs; there, she stepped into a side room

and waited. Soon, her ears again caught a slight sound. It was the opening of the door to the upstairs front

room the chamber The Shadow had occupied where Estelle had forgotten to turn out the lights.

The girl sprang from her hidingplace; she saw the door wide open and reached the threshold. She saw a

He was turned away from Estelle; he was removing his slouch hat and dropping the folds of his cloak. He

spun about as Estelle delivered a sharp cry. Face revealed, The Shadow stared into the muzzle of the revolver

Estelle's cry ended; her grip on the .32 became firm. She was ready to pull the trigger if The Shadow made a

move. Estelle Benbrook had gained proof of the treachery that she believed had been The Shadow's.

THE instant that he saw the leveled revolver, The Shadow recognized a situation as crucial as any that he had

met in Westford. He had encountered dangers that seemed far greater; but this one carried the worst possible

Estelle showed by action that she knew how to manage a revolver; she had aimed the weapon straight for The

Shadow's heart. The girl's frenzied expression showed that she had lost control of her wits. She was prepared

The Shadow realized the futility of explanations. With her acceptance of fallacies, instead of facts, Estelle

might interpret any statement incorrectly. Mere mention of her father's name might drive her to the wild

belief that The Shadow had killed the judge. One chance thought would be enough. Estelle would fire to kill.

For one full second, The Shadow met the girl's vengeful gaze. He realized that each succeeding second would

increase the risk; that any moment might be his last. It was a time for astounding action; some deed as

outlandish as Estelle's imaginary beliefs. Knowing it, The Shadow acted in accord.

His cloak was half from his shoulders, retained by his left hand. He was holding the slouch hat with his right.

For a moment, The Shadow seemed to cower; as he shrank away, his body huddled lower.

The move lessened Estelle's vigilance for an instant; then, suspecting trickery, the girl became more frenzied.

She stepped forward, thrusting the revolver ahead. Her finger tightened on the trigger.

Huddled, The Shadow spun about; he started a sidelong lunge for a corner of the room. Estelle sped the gun

muzzle in the same direction; as the cloaked form faded floorward, she pressed the trigger and stabbed quick

The cloak crumpled; the slouch hat bounced on the floor. As Estelle fired again, a lithe shape seemed to

The Shadow had caught cloak collar and hat brim with both hands; he had shoved them away toward the

corner, releasing them as Estelle fired. Reversing his spin, he was swinging back, free from the cloak before

It was the skillful move of the matador, who whisks free from his cloak at the moment of the bull's onrush.

The Shadow's twist was far more speedy and better timed than that of any bullfighter. He had to be away

before bullets zimmed in his direction. He was away; and his long, returning lunge was below the line of

The girl did not have time to fire again. Sighting The Shadow, she tried to aim; his quick clutch caught her

wrist and held it numbed. Estelle struggled, still managing to clutch the revolver. As she went backward

toward the door, she heard a cry behind her. Arms other than The Shadow's clutched the girl's.

The Shadow plucked away the revolver as Estelle subsided. Looking up, the girl saw the person who had

seized her. A happy gasp told her relief, as she viewed the whitened face of her father.

Estelle began to sob. Judge Benbrook gazed anxiously toward The Shadow; he saw a smile upon the false lips

of Trig Callister. The uncloaked fighter was unhurt. Satisfied on that point, the judge spoke to his daughter.

"You were mistaken, Estelle" he told the girl. "The Shadow is our friend. How you guessed that he came here

"Your guess was wrong, my dear." Estelle turned about, to see The Shadow regaining his cloak and hat. He

donned the garments; his quiet whisper silenced Estelle as she tried to express her regrets for her mistaken

"You were going to see Stephen Ruthley as Trig Callister!" he exclaimed. "Have you changed the plan?"

"Yes," replied The Shadow. "I believe that Estelle has already disclosed my double identity."

"I have," admitted the girl. "Louis Wilderton was here. I told him my suspicions. He has gone to Ruthley's

"Our hopes are ruined," groaned Judge Benbrook. "Estelle, this was arranged when The Shadow gave me that

"No. It was better not. Had we returned in time tonight, all would have been well. Tell me, Estelle" the

judge's tone was more anxious than ever "did Wilderton take the envelope with him?"

Estelle shook her head. The Shadow delivered a whispered laugh that brought immediate encouragement to

"We need new strategy," declared The Shadow. "Come downstairs. We must first obtain the envelope; then

The judge and Estelle followed The Shadow downstairs. He had the key to the music cabinet; he unlocked it

and tendered the sealed envelope to Judge Benbrook. Noting the clock on the mantel, The Shadow made

"We are leaving here at once," he stated. "You will both remain in a place of safety until you hear from me."

Judge Benbrook was puzzled. He could think of no safe spot in Westford. Nevertheless, he beckoned to

Estelle; they followed The Shadow through the side door; thence to the rear street, where they entered The

"Borman will come to the house," declared The Shadow, as he started the car. "To your house, judge. Not

finding you there, he will hurry to the country. My work lies there; since my part has become known."

"But you spoke of a place where Estelle would be safe," reminded Judge Benbrook. "One where you wanted

The Shadow stopped the car in front of the first precinct station. A light was showing from Lieutenant

Maclare's office. Judge Benbrook gained sudden understanding of The Shadow's plan. He stepped from the

"As much as is necessary," replied The Shadow. "He has already gained an inkling of matters in Westford.

With that, The Shadow sped away, leaving Judge Benbrook and Estelle to treat with the one man in Westford

AT the time of The Shadow's departure, events were shaping elsewhere exactly as he predicted. Louis

Wilderton had reached Stephen Ruthley's. There, the district attorney had just finished pouring out his news.

"We owe you much, Wilderton," affirmed the pretended reformer. "I speak for Mayor Marclot and Director

Borman, as well as for myself. Come, Borman!" he turned to the police director, who was sitting rigid, in a

"So I must!" exclaimed Borman, coming suddenly to life. "We'll scour the countryside with the Flying

Rising, Borman strode from the den. Mayor Marclot, also a stunned listener, came to his feet and followed.

Ruthley purred a smooth comment to Wilderton, who had sunk into a chair, too strained to notice the alarm

"No need for Marclot to go also," declared Ruthley. "He should stay with us, to discuss matters. I shall call

Leaving Wilderton, Ruthley overtook Marclot and Borman at the door of the apartment. The three went into a

"Get over to the garage," he told Borman, tersely. "If that pillbox is empty, we'll know that Wilderton is

right. If he is, head for Judge Benbrook's, to make sure they haven't rolled in there. The Shadow will be

"Yes. Lance has already ducked out to call the cottage. He heard Wilderton's blab from behind the picture.

Borman hurried from the apartment. Ruthley purred calming words to Marclot. The mayor steadied.

"Keep Wilderton bluffed," reminded Ruthley. "He will prove useful to us. Remember, we have Lance and

Beezer covering up. Borman will be back before it's time to go to the meeting at the Civic Club."

Marclot nodded, as they walked back through the hall. He made whispered comment:

"It's all in the file cabinet, with the papers. Forget it, Elvin. We've had the best break in the world! The

Shadow slipped us; he thinks he got away with it. That puts him right into our hands this time to stay!"

Mayor Marclot managed to smile in pompous style, as he came back into Ruthley's den to resume the talk

with Louis Wilderton. That smile was forced; but the one that wreathed Stephen Ruthley's lips was not. The

Often before, Stephen Ruthley had seen his hunches come through. He was confident that another such result

CREEPING men were closing inward through the darkness. They were the thugs whom Lance Gillick had

sent from Westford, to keep a circled watch about the old mansion that had been Judge Benbrook's lodging

Word passed along concerning Lance's call to the cottage. The cordon was to tighten; then drive in hard upon

the smaller crew within the house. Crooks knew the identity of the men whom they were to attack. They were

Some were keeping lookout for The Shadow himself. He had come and gone as Trig Callister; they had let

the sedan ride through. None knew if Judge Benbrook had gone out on that last trip; there was a chance that

he was still within the house. If so, The Shadow would be back. He would fare badly when he came.

First the agents; then The Shadow. As for Judge Benbrook, the finger had pointed toward him also. This was

to be a massacre; beginning with a surprise attack upon the mansion that stood so silent within the very center

of the creeping horde. The house, itself, was open to attack. Every window would offer entry for invading

The tightening process ceased. Evil fighters were ready for command. They were under the leadership of two

whom Lance had deputed to such duty. Those two commanded more than a score of gorillas; the dregs of the

scum who had so long been rampant in Westford. Some of the crew, in fact, had been members of the horde

that had gunned for Lieutenant James Maclare. Brave through power of numbers, they had boasted their wish

It was the moment when a command seemed imminent. Thugs waited for rasped orders. Suddenly, the

stillness broke; but not with the expected commands. From somewhere, like a ghostly taunt, came a strident,

THE cloaked fighter had arrived. He had left his car a safe distance away; he had slipped through a net of

enemies set to watch for him. He was in the circle itself; and hard upon his mockery came the proofs of his

Automatics tongued from blackness; stabbed flame picked out crouching hoodlums. As snarling fighters spun

about, they heard yells from their crippled companions. The Shadow had first located thugs amid the

As a mobleader roared the command, thugs sought to obey. Twenty against one, they had their opportunity;

they would spot The Shadow if he fired again. They did not realize the purpose of The Shadow's opening

shots; they did not guess that he had withdrawn for the moment. Those shots had been a signal.

An instant later, floodlights glared from the beleaguered mansion. Crooks were bathed in the brilliance that

came from upper windows. The Shadow had applied the very method that crooks had found so useful in the

past. His agents had set up searchlights, ready to use them when the signal came.

Crooks were as bewildered as Maclare's bluecoats had been, that night at the Mississippi Hotel. Wildly, they

turned toward the house. Remembering The Shadow's marksmanship, they fired for the floodlights. The

brilliant orbs remained unshattered. These searchlights were equipped with bulletproof glass.

Rifles crackled from below the brilliance. The Shadow's agents were at the ground floor windows, clipping

the savage hoodlums who fired back in vain. Like wild tribesmen, thugs started for the house, thinking to

dislodge The Shadow's agents with wideaimed bullets and curdling yells. The rifles crackled on, at close

Crooks sprawled; as they kicked up the earth, others broke. They dashed for the limits of the lighted ground,

followed by steady shots. Reserves, the ones posted to watch for The Shadow, came up with encouraging

shouts; for they were blanketed by night. They were met by another fire: The Shadow's own.

The attack was ended. Those thugs who could, went scattering into the night. The Shadow's strident laugh

resounded; it added impetus to the speed of the survivors. It was a signal also; at the sound of the weird call,

Pursuers might be anywhere, everywhere. Each thug who fled fancied himself the only one who had escaped;

for more than half the horde had sprawled upon the turf. The same had happened with the cluster of reserves;

The Shadow had driven bullets into their very midst. Some thugs found cars; they sped away from beyond

the cottages, heading away from the direction of Westford. The others took to the brush, making the best time

The Shadow had classed these toughs as mass fighters only. They had behaved in typical fashion, once their

attack had become a rout. New silence dominated the mansion; then, from a space in front, came a hoarse

The cloaked chief answered. He gave Hawkeye new instructions. Hawkeye slid back to the house. Soon men

came stealing outward through the darkness. They were The Shadow's agents, ready for new battle. The first

Choosing the banks along the dirt road, The Shadow's agents waited. Their chief had gone somewhere ahead;

again they listened for his signal. Lights appeared; police cars and motorcycles came in caravans all manned

The Shadow waited until the last car was abreast of his position. Again, his strident laugh rang forth.

Cars halted at the startling cry. Automatics tongued an opening message. Fake cops wheeled about, aimed for

the spot whence the shots had issued. Again, The Shadow was gone; but his agents took their cue. From the

sheltering embankment, they ripped away with automatics, raking the whole line of the halted squadron.

Bullets winged tires, windshields. They found the occupants of cars. Khakiclad men dived from their

machines; left their motorcycles and scattered on foot. This time, floodlights were unneeded. The cars and

From the rear, The Shadow pummeled shots along the road. Uniformed crooks ran ahead, hoping to join the

thugs who had once formed a vanished cordon. The Shadow's aids pursued; keeping along the banks, they

Those scattered men would not soon return. When they did, they would find their cars useless. Again, The

Shadow and his half dozen agents had routed more than a score. The Shadow's agents held together; their

task accomplished, they were returning to the house; to hold it in case enough enemies rallied to attempt

THERE was one car that had remained unscathed throughout the fray, for the simple reason that it had been

left alone. This automobile had come up behind the others. It had stopped at the command of a man in back.

Fuming, Kirk Borman recognized all that had happened. The pick of his Flying Squadron had been

ambushed. He wanted to get back to town again; to summon other details, particularly the group that he had

left idle at Judge Benbrook's house. With a growl, Borman told the chauffeur to swing the car about.

The chauffeur obeyed; as he swung the big car past the verge of a ditch, blackness rose from the fringe of the

headlights. The chauffeur alone saw it; he yanked a revolver and jabbed it from the window.

A slugging fist came through, swinging an automatic. The chauffeur's cap was bashed down over his head;

Kirk Borman made a leap for the front seat. A blackcloaked avalanche came in from space. Springing past

the steering wheel, The Shadow met the fighting police director; gloved fingers found their hold on Borman's

The Shadow picked handcuffs from a pocket in a rear door. They were useful items in a police director's car;

The Shadow had noted them when he had ridden with Borman, in the guise of Trig Callister. He put the

bracelets on the director's wrists. Borman offered no struggle; he was still gasping for air.

Leaving Borman sprawled in back, The Shadow dropped behind the wheel. He stepped on the gas; shot the

big car back toward town. The tires jounced along the bumpy road, while Borman bounced helplessly about

in back, striking his head against the seat and the doors, experiencing new grogginess every time he started to

One laugh of triumph from The Shadow's hidden lips; then the cloaked victor maintained silence. Sooner or

later, he would meet roving units of the Flying Squadron. They would let him pass, recognizing the police

director's car. The Shadow was traveling far ahead of any reports that would come from the battle ground

In effecting his capture of Kirk Borman, The Shadow had topped off a wellplanned campaign. He had

known that his presence would bring the police director to the scene outside of Westford. The Shadow had

Each strategic move had succeeded. Massed hordes vanquished, The Shadow was ready to meet Stephen

Ruthley and his remaining lieutenants; to deal with them as effectively as he had with Kirk Borman.

HALF an hour had passed since The Shadow's victory on the road. Stephen Ruthley was standing in the

center of his luxurious den, eyeing Elvin Marclot and Louis Wilderton. The mayor and the district attorney

"Kirk Borman ought to be back soon," purred Ruthley, staring from a front window to study the lighted

"For the same reason that we should have had men at Judge Benbrook's," returned Ruthley. "Any honest man

is in danger, living here in Westford. I requested guards; Borman gave them to me."

"He offered to guard Judge Benbrook's house," put in Marclot, taking Ruthley's cue. "But the judge wanted

"Director Borman should have insisted upon it," asserted Wilderton. "In spite of Judge Benbrook's protest."

"Do not blame the police for laxity," retorted Marclot. "If criminals were convicted in this town, we would

Wilderton winced at the reference to the inefficiency of the district attorney's office. Ruthley clapped the

young prosecutor on the back, and smoothed his feelings with honeyed commendation.

"You have done well, Louis," asserted Ruthley. "Which reminds me. We must soon start to the meeting. If

Judge Benbrook fails to arrive, we must do our utmost to preserve the fine spirit that he aroused.

Unfortunately, his absence will bring adverse comment. He will no longer be acceptable as a candidate for

"Too bad," remarked Marclot. "It cannot be helped, though. Many persons doubted that Judge Benbrook

"We still have you, Louis," resumed Ruthley, addressing the district attorney. "You are the right man. Your

support of Judge Benbrook won you many friends. We shall return to our original plan; your reelection."

Wilderton tried to look pleased, but he was too worried about the references to Judge Benbrook's absence. At

last he decided that Ruthley was right. It would be impossible to depend upon the judge. Seeing Wilderton's

"Kirk is back!" he exclaimed. "I see his car outside. He must have returned while we were talking. I suppose

The appearance of bluecoats disturbed neither Ruthley nor Marclot. The apartment house was not in

Lieutenant Maclare's precinct. As Ruthley stepped back from the window, the doorbell rang. Ruthley heard

Suddenly, Ruthley glowered; his glinting eyes denoted perplexity. Mayor Marclot looked in the same

Kirk Borman had entered, soberfaced and glum. With the police director was a man whom none expected.

ERECT and firm of step. Judge Benbrook strode to the center of the room. While Ruthley and Marclot

looked to Borman for an explanation, the judge drew a large envelope from his pocket. From it, he drew

"These are for you, Louis," stated the judge, to Wilderton. "You will recognize this, perhaps. It is a list of

Wilderton took the crumpled sheet of paper, turned it over and saw Woodstock's name and telephone number.

A look of understanding dawned on Wilderton's owlish face. He blinked through his spectacles.

"What does this mean?" he exclaimed. "You called Woodstock, after I was here, Mr. Ruthley?"

"I do not recall that I ever called Adam Woodstock," he began. "In fact, I scarcely knew the man by sight."

"Yet you visited him that same night," remarked Judge Benbrook, coldly, "and left your signature upon the

From the envelope, the judge took the telltale blotter. He gave it to Wilderton, who recognized both

"Why should I have signed my name in Woodstock's presence?" he questioned. "On what sort of document

"At the bottom of Woodstock's statement," accused Judge Benbrook, in tone of firm denunciation. "The sheet

from which you clipped your signature later; after you had bluffed Woodstock into signing the statement

himself. Take this paper, Wilderton!" The judge unfolded a sheet and gave it to the district attorney. "It is

Wilderton's own stationery; but this sheet is of proper length. Compare it with the clipped statement that you

Stephen Ruthley interrupted with a harsh challenge. He had no more need for smooth procedure. Judge

Benbrook was an enemy who had to be eliminated; so was Louis Wilderton, now that the prosecutor's eyes

had been opened. Ruthley shot his hand to his hip; he carried a gun there and he intended murder, expecting

The mayor was too dumfounded to make a move; but Borman shot his hand to his own pocket, whipped out a

"THE game is up, Steve," croaked Borman, sourly. "You're wanted for the murder of Adam Woodstock.

Marclot and I will have to tell all we know. Don't blame me for it. I'm not acting on my own."

Kirk Borman's words were suddenly explained. A burly man stepped into view from the hallway; he was in

blue uniform; he carried a police revolver. The man was James Maclare; the grizzled police lieutenant wore a

triumphant expression upon his weatherbeaten face. He spoke to Borman; the police director lowered his

Behind Maclare came three policemen from his own precinct. He had brought them with him, and had left a

squad outside. In that instant, Stephen Ruthley guessed the answer. The hand of The Shadow was behind this

showdown. Ruthley needed no news of the battles that had finished thugs and mowed down the Flying

"The graft money is in the filing cabinet, Maclare," informed Borman through gritted teeth. "Millions of it!

Ruthley bundled it all, in case we had to make a break from town. With the papers, too "

"You doublecrosser!" snarled Ruthley, "saving your own hide by squealing on the rest of us! I suppose The

Borman caught a glint in Ruthley's eye; one that he understood. The police director's hard lips formed a

The picture on the wall ripped inward. Men from beyond cracked the fastening loose as they hit the frame

with full force. Headlong into the room came Lance Gillick and Beezer Dorsch. With them, they brought full

Though other evidence stood as circumstantial, the presence of Beezer Dorsch, known murderer, in Ruthley's

own apartment was a fact that would stand in any court. It showed Ruthley's complicity in every crime that

had happened in Westford. It marked him as the bigshot of the crime ring, beyond all denial.

IN that startling moment, however, no one thought of that important detail. Lance and Beezer were

straightening, leveling revolvers that they knew how to use. Maclare and the three officers were wheeling

The bigshot whipped out his revolver; at the same moment, Kirk Borman rallied with him. Honesty did not

appeal to the police director. Ruthley had guessed that fact; was counting upon Borman to side with him,

using the gun that Maclare had allowed Borman to bring along on promise that he would side with the law.

The Shadow had arranged all this; through Judge Benbrook, he had approved of Borman's cooperation. The

judge, dropping helplessly toward the wall, gained sudden fear that The Shadow's strategy had failed. Lance

and Beezer, breaking past the picture of Aramis, had equaled the odds of crime against the law.

Then came the finish. Police guns ripped. Lance and Beezer never had a chance against them. Maclare and

his bluecoats beat the two crooks to the shot; sprawled them with a deluge of bullets before they could

Judge Benbrook cried a warning. Ruthley and Borman were coming to a counterthrust. The advantage that

the police had gained was lost. Borman was aiming for Maclare; the director had gained the bulge on the

Death for Maclare and the others, for Ruthley was a close second with his gun. Such was the intent of

crooks; but their purpose never carried. Before a single gun could bark within the room, an automatic spoke

There stood The Shadow. He had entered by the passage, to watch Lance and Beezer. He had let them crash

through; but he was close behind them. He had spared the two, so that the law could have them. His battle

The Shadow's first shot was aimed for Borman; a spurt of flame delivered a bullet that found the crook's

Stephen Ruthley performed the move that The Shadow expected. He forgot Maclare; swung to deal with his

Two guns spoke at once. The Shadow, as he fired, wheeled away, beyond the edge of the doorway. He was

on the move as he snapped the trigger. Ruthley's quick bullet shot inches wide. The master of crime never

For Ruthley had made no feint. Standing his ground, hoping to beat The Shadow's shot, he received what he

had sought to deal. A withering bullet pierced the master crook's chest. Forward, with a long sprawl, Stephen

THE handcuffs were on Mayor Elvin Marclot. His pompous pose gone, the last ace of the crime ring shivered

Lance Gillick, his evening clothes smeared with blood, lay sagged across the roughclad form of Beezer

Dorsch. Kirk Borman's face was rigid in death, scowling its last expression of treachery. Amid them lay

Stephen Ruthley, his profile glaring along the tufted surface of an oriental rug.

Weakling of the lot, Elvin Marclot had survived, to do the task that The Shadow had offered Kirk Borman: to

gain some leniency through a complete confession of all the crookedness in which he and others had aided

While Lieutenant Maclare and his loyal men stood stern and motionless, Judge Benbrook turned to Louis

Wilderton. Calmly, the grayhaired jurist reminded the district attorney that the meeting hour had arrived. It

was time for them to depart this scene and carry the news of real reform to honest men who had been Stephen

The space in the wall was blank. The Shadow had not returned to it. From somewhere off in the depths of the

adjoining vacant house came a weird, mirthless laugh that might have echoed from another sphere of space.

It marked the end of another liferisking battle against crime, and at the same time it presaged greater

difficulties ahead. The Shadow, who escaped death a million times, was to face a new kind of death, and a

new kind of crime, in Death by Proxy, matching his wits against the wits of a master villain, and stacking his

two guns against the arms of dozens of hirelings. A strange menace hung over an ancient family home; death

struck with uncanny regularity. Into this scene of fear and danger The Shadow must enter; here he must fight

anew that justice would not be misled; that criminals get their deserved punishment death, real death, not