LEGACY OF DEATH ........................................................................................................................................1

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

CHAPTER I. WEALTH TO COME.......................................................................................................1

CHAPTER II. THE FRIEND FROM THE DARK .................................................................................5

CHAPTER III. PATHS BY NIGHT ........................................................................................................8

CHAPTER IV. THE CLAN GATHERS ...............................................................................................12

CHAPTER V. DEATH TAKES ONE ...................................................................................................15

CHAPTER VI. QUEST FOR A KILLER.............................................................................................20

CHAPTER VII. THE VANISHED SUSPECT.....................................................................................23

CHAPTER VIII. THE FINAL VERDICT .............................................................................................27

CHAPTER IX. DINNER FOR EIGHT.................................................................................................31

CHAPTER X. THE CHANCE SURPRISE..........................................................................................35

CHAPTER XI. THE SHADOW'S TRAP ..............................................................................................38

CHAPTER XII. THE MISSING SHADOW .........................................................................................41

CHAPTER XIII. THE LAST STAGGER.............................................................................................45

CHAPTER XIV. THE SHADOW WAITS...........................................................................................48

CHAPTER XV. HAND AGAINST DEATH ........................................................................................52

CHAPTER XVI. DOOM'S PRELUDE .................................................................................................56

CHAPTER XVII. CRIME MADE KNOWN........................................................................................59

CHAPTER XVIII. DOUBLE TROUBLE .............................................................................................63

CHAPTER XIX. CRIME ADMITTED .................................................................................................67

CHAPTER XX. POSTMORTEM FACTS.........................................................................................70

CHAPTER XXI. CROSSED CRIME...................................................................................................73

CHAPTER XXII. CALL OF THE PAST ..............................................................................................76

OLD Elmer Trope bowed profoundly and gestured his thin hand toward the diningroom table. As dryly as

though the occasion called for nothing more than mere formality, Trope inquired:

Alan Haverdale meant it. Who wouldn't have meant it, after learning that he was heir to half a million dollars!

For such was the announcement that Elmer Trope had made on this, his first meeting with young Alan

The sherry was in a decanter on the table. As Alan reached for it, Trope stopped him. Taking the glass

stopper from an antique container, Trope lifted the decanter and filled Alan's glass; then did the same with his

own. Watching the sherry pour across the thick decanter lip, Alan was impressed by the rich color of the

"This was Mr. Framingham's best," spoke the old man. "Often, I poured it for him; but never did I taste it

until after his death. Perhaps that is why Mr. Framingham willed the full supply to me, with the ample

For a moment, Trope's eyes were lighted with recollection; then he dwindled into his withered self. Though

he raised his glass along with Alan, the spark was gone. Even the rich, nutflavored taste of the very special

"I am a simple man," declared Trope, in an almost plaintive tone. "A very simple man. I was a faithful

servant to Landis Framingham, and I shall not forget him, for I have lived among the benefits that he

There was sincerity in Trope's tone; too much of it to suit Alan. But he didn't blame Trope for it. Rather, Alan

felt a surge against the iron tyranny of Landis Framingham, whose dominating will had humbled all who

came beneath his sway. If anyone wanted proof of that, they could see it in the attitude of Trope, who for

And Trope, of all things, felt himself honored by the fact that his master had saddled him with the

Those thoughts passed, however, as Alan felt the warming tingle of the sherry. An exuberance swept the

young man as he recalled Trope's recent words with their promise of immediate wealth.

"It is a very simple matter," repeated Trope, "this distribution of the fortune that Mr. Framingham left. It is to

"The whole estate would go to charities founded by Mr. Framingham," Trope replied. "Such a possibility,

however, is too remote to consider. For I expect to have the fortune divided among the half a dozen heirs

Alan's forehead raised furrows beneath the sleek black hair that topped it. His broad, smooth features showed

a trace of anxiety that Trope's keen eyes detected. The old man waited until Alan's dark eyes were turned his

"I can answer your question," stated Trope, "You are wondering if, as Mr. Framingham's stepson, you are

entitled to a share of the estate. The answer is positively yes, for it was so stated in the will. None of the other

TROPE'S lifting hand was the sign for Alan to rise. Finished with their sherry, they laid the glasses on the

table. Almost immediately, a softfooted servant entered from the kitchen to clear the table. Before he could

Alan watched Tifton leave. The servant was a small edition of Trope himself, even to his plain black suit, his

wingtipped collar, and the shoestring necktie which adorned it. Long trained in the Framingham service, old

Trope had learned his lessons well. The obedience which Trope had shown Framingham was being exacted

"You are finding New York interesting, no doubt," said Trope, in his dry, polite way. "So I assume that you

will remain here until the estate is settled. Meanwhile, should you require any funds "

"None needed, thank you," interposed Alan, with a smile. "I'm well fixed for the present, Mr. Trope. I'm

going on a tour of the bright spots this evening, particularly the famous Fortyone Club, where I hear they

Trope's eyebrows raised, as if in mild reproval. Those brows were lowering, when the eyes went narrow, a

thing which Alan couldn't quite fathom, until he realized that Trope was looking beyond him, toward the

There in the doorway stood a girl whose expression, at first glance, struck Alan as demure. She was a blonde

with clear blue eyes that momentarily sparked an apology for her intrusion. Old Trope bowed, spoke his dry

"Allow me, Miss Framingham, to present Mr. Haverdale. He is another of the heirs."

Instantly, the girl's manner changed. She drew the collar of her mink coat close about her throat and eyed

Alan with a cold hauteur that made him wince. Quite rapidly, he formed his conclusions regarding the girl's

She, at least, bore the Farmingham name and could snub claimants of Alan's sort. No matter how distant her

relationship to Landis Framingham, she was an aristocrat; Alan, a member of an upstart tribe. Drawing back

as though she could not tolerate such a meeting, the girl ignored Alan and spoke to Trope, in a tone that rang

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Trope. I did not know you had a guest." Even the girl's apology was stiffly spoken, as

was the request that followed: "Might I use your telephone for an important call?"

Trope finished with his most obsequious bow, and Alan watched the allimportant Miss Framingham turn

proudly away while the old man fawned. Such arrogance enraged Alan, but he managed to stifle his temper.

"If she's a genuine Framingham," said Alan bluntly, "I'm not anxious to meet the rest of them."

"Miss Catherine Framingham," mused Trope. "She has the family name, but she is really a very distant

"She's very distant, all right," agreed Alan, "and the farther I keep away from such snobs, the better I like it!"

Trope gave him a very humble bow, as though his own opinion could matter little, compared with Alan's.

"I felt it good policy not to have the heirs meet until I talked with them separately. Of course, there are certain

exceptions, in the cases of those who have already met, and are friendly. But in this instance "

"I understand," put in Alan. "I and this furbearing Framingham female just wouldn't mix. No need to

There was another bow from Trope, as he gestured to the sideboard, where he had replaced the decanter.

"Have another glass of sherry, Mr. Haverdale," suggested Trope, "while I go to see what Miss Framingham

ALAN uncorked the decanter and poured himself another dash of the rare wine. Pacing the modest dining

room, he scowled, grumbled to himself, particularly when he pictured old Trope kowtowing to the

Framingham girl. Recalling that his own interview was ended, Alan wished that Trope would return, because

At last, an opportunity for departure came. Tifton entered, bowed to Alan and told him that Mr. Trope was

still occupied and would be for some time. So Alan told the servant to pay his respects to Mr. Trope; and

Tifton brought Alan's hat and coat. The young man strode out through the front hall, glowering at the closed

The fresh outside air wasn't soothing when Alan reached it. The warmth of the sherry kept his anger high.

Looking at the drab house and the decayed neighborhood about it, Alan agreed that Elmer Trope was, indeed,

a man of simple wants. What a contrast to the Framingham relations, who were splitting an estate into half a

Then, remembering that he was coming into just such a portion for himself, Alan shrugged, as though that

ended it. Looking for a cab, he saw one near the corner. He hoped that it had brought the Framingham girl,

because in that case, he'd bribe the driver not to wait, thus making her go to the trouble of calling another cab.

But there were others in the cab, who said more. Two of them, both sharpmannered gentlemen with very

pressing ways. One managed to squeeze into the near corner of the cab, so that Alan stepped past him. Next

thing, Alan was wedged between the pair staring from one muffled face to the other.

"Sit tight, fellow," grunted one. "Nothing's going to happen, if you listen first and talk when we say so."

"We're going for a little ride," informed the other. "If you want a return ticket, it's up to you!"

Alan's eyes went downward, to view the pressure that the two were giving him. That pressure came from

guns, stubby revolvers that were flanking Alan's ribs. So far, what these chaps said, they meant, and there

Alan let his hands come up, while his head gave a slow nod. One of his captors gruffed at the driver:

The cab started, and with its forward roll Alan felt an obliteration of the past. Old Trope, his servant Tifton,

the haughty Framingham girl, all seemed like people belonging to another world. There was one thing,

That sum, in Alan's opinion, was the cause of his predicament. He'd come into money and these ruffians had

guessed it. They were but the vanguard, these ruffians, of a whole horde of leeches and vultures who would

be seeking a share of Alan's wealth. Being wealthy, Alan would have to adjust himself to this sort of thing.

So Alan Haverdale settled back to face this odd adventure, little guessing the real causes behind it, and

lacking all conception of the startling consequences that his enforced journey would produce!

THOUGH they had promised to talk, the two men didn't; at least, not for quite a while. Unless Alan could

count their rather frequent admonitions to "keep looking straight ahead" as something in the way of

conversation. Apparently, they didn't want him to get a close look at their faces, which might have been

At that, Alan's captors weren't taking much chance of recognition. The cab was threading itself through a

maze of side streets, and speeding rapidly whenever it was forced to cover a stretch along an avenue. And

Alan, a stranger in New York, was completely lost, even wondering if they were still on Manhattan Island.

One solace: the cab driver wasn't in league with Alan's captors. Occasional growls directed his way were

proof that the fellow was acting under enforced instructions. Should there be a chance to break from the cab,

Then, issuing from a side street, the cab crossed an avenue and dipped into a driveway that Alan first

supposed must be the feed line into the East River tunnel. It happened that the cab was going west, which

Alan didn't know, but at least he was soon disillusioned on the tunnel question.

The cab wasn't dipping under the river; it was simply entering Central Park, and there, as it rolled along the

"Come into a lot of dough, haven't you, bud?" began the man on Alan's left. "Some of the cash that old man

"I'm coming into money, yes," replied Alan casually. "But I haven't gotten it yet."

"You mean that guy Trope won't hand it over?" demanded the fellow on the right. "Holding out on you?"

It sounded as though the pair were suddenly taking Alan's side against an injustice. But Alan was quick to see

a deeper point. Remembering that his captors had said they would talk first, he let them, and their speech

"Because he don't know how," put in the other. "Now, if he had fellows like us with him, working on

"If you want money," he said, "you're welcome to what I have on me. Quite welcome, if it would terminate

this ride, which is rather boring, considering that I prefer to see Central Park by day, rather than by night.

"But if you are trying to dupe me into betraying my good friend Mr. Trope, you are wasting your efforts. I am

quite sure that he will deliver my share of the Framingham money, at the proper time. Meanwhile, I doubt

that he is foolish enough to have any of those funds at his house. In turn, I am not so foolish to introduce

"Particularly" in the darkness, Alan let his eyes rove from side to side "when those strangers are the sort

who seem inclined to help themselves to anything on which they can lay their bands!"

THOUGH he spoke boldly, Alan was relying on sheer bluff. These men were armed, and held him helpless.

Therein, they held a most potent weapon in the matter of obtaining funds from Trope. The weapon was Alan

Technically, the pair had already kidnaped Alan, and if they were through with it, they could certainly

demand ransom money from the Framingham estate. So Alan was hoping to keep their minds from that idea.

Silence followed, and with it, tension increased. The cab was digging deeper into the park, and from the

curves it took, Alan decided that the driver was under orders to keep circling indefinitely. Then, as if by

"Don't get us wrong, fellow," spoke one. "This isn't any snatch. We just brought you along for your own

"Yeah," added the other. "There was somebody watching the house. We figured you'd need a couple of

"And we can give you references. From right guys, who will tell you that our rates are reasonable."

Alan could see but one reason for the change of tune. These toughs figured that a holdup wouldn't prove

As for going through with a kidnap, they either lacked the nerve, or weren't equipped for such an enterprise.

All they seemed to want was Alan's assurance that he wouldn't prosecute them for their actions up to the

"All right, gentlemen," decided Alan. "Suppose you drop me at the Fortyone Club. I'll pay the cab fare, and

pay you each a deposit on your services as bodyguards. You're right; I shall probably need your services after

Immediately the pair began to haggle. They'd risked too much, they argued, to be put off so lightly. Dropping

Alan so promptly, and at a place so conspicuous as the Fortyone Club, wasn't to their liking. They'd paid the

cab fare already, and it was hired for another hour. So they preferred to keep riding through Central Park,

There wasn't any reason to do otherwise. If they were really going to abduct him, they'd be foolish to waste

time. Perhaps their changed tune would become more convincing if they rode a while longer.

Alan could see but one answer. It would keep him from the Fortyone Club just that long. Which, in turn,

would make Alan miss the floor show that was the big attraction at the Fortyone. While Alan was piecing

"There was a cab tailed us from Trope's house," put in one. "We ought to make sure we've shook it."

"That's right," chimed the other. "Take a gander from the back window for yourself, boss. See if you can spot

Alan grinned as he turned around, particularly when the others did the same, as if to press home their silly

The cab had just swung into a littletraveled drive. In back was a curving thoroughfare where traffic was

heavier, and from it the sweep of passing headlights threw flashing paths along the little byway. One of those

sweeps came at an illtimed moment. It gave a kaleidoscopic glint of something just behind the cab in which

A cab without lights, guiding by the taillight twinkles of the vehicle in which Alan was still a prisoner. A

ghostly cab swallowed instantly in the returning darkness. More lights swathed past, but they no longer

revealed the ghostly trailer, for Alan's cab and the ghostly thing behind it had rolled far enough ahead to

IMMEDIATELY, Alan's captors took over, and not as prospective bodyguards should. They were their old

selves, vicious and threatening. One jabbed a gun against Alan; the other reached through the front seat and

wagged his revolver at the cabby, ordering him to swing into a bridle path and park, when told.

Brakes screeched; the cab bumped hard as it struck the thick dirt of a bridle path, the headlights lighting up a

sign that said for horseback riders, only. Thumping down a deep hill, the cabby cut the wheel hard to cross a

It wasn't necessary to tell the cabby to stop. He did anyway, with his front wheels nearly over the side of the

bridge. But the men with the guns were quite satisfied. One tapped the cabby with his gun, slumping the

fellow behind the wheel. The other prodded Alan right out of the cab, hooking his arm before he could jump

Beside the little bridge, both faced back along the bridle path, Alan between them.

There wasn't a sign of the other cab. It wouldn't be coming down the bridle path blind, for it no longer had

taillights to guide by. If people had alighted from it atop the little hill, they couldn't get here in a hurry

Maybe the ghostly cab was an imaginary figment, an illusion created by sweeping lights. But the thugs

They had time in which to act, and they intended to use it, where Alan was concerned. Shoving him up beside

They might have meant a bullet, but Alan took it that he was to receive a gun butt on the head, the way the

cabby had. Wanting neither, Alan tried to avoid both, and therewith proved that his conjecture was correct.

Wrenching hard from his captors, Alan stumbled away, flinging an arm to ward off a gun swing that came his

way. Twisting, he was going right into the arms of the other thug, whose gun was lifted to strike him down,

It arrived with a blaze of head lights from straight ahead. The ghost cab was on the scene again, but it hadn't

come from the direction that crooks expected. Instead, it had overrun the bridle path, found the other end of

the dirt road that zigzagged across the driveway, and it was arriving from the far side of the bridge.

No longer relying on darkness, the cab was using its bright lights, and they framed the whole scene on the

bridge, where Alan was striving against the attack of two muffled thugs who had him trapped between

As the lights revealed them, the two crooks snarled, darted quick looks across their shoulders into the brilliant

lights. But they wouldn't have desisted in their effort to sledge Alan, if it hadn't been for something else.

From behind the halting glare came the peal of a challenging laugh a tone of mirth so sinister, that Alan

could feel its deadly chill. As for the men who were about to slug him, it froze them utterly, for the mockery

Who that friend was, Alan learned from the lips of the very ruffians who were about to beat him senseless. In

HAD Alan Haverdale known of The Shadow's prowess, he would have aided his new friend, not hindered

him. But Alan wasn't acquainted with the facts concerning a most amazing fighter, cloaked in black, who had

To Alan, the startling laugh was merely a respite, for he didn't know that it presaged titanic action. He

thought that the two thugs would suddenly turn his way again and slug him, as they planned. Alan's ignorance

It happened that they were rooted, so chilled by the echoes of The Shadow's weird mirth that they were

unable to do the thing they wanted; namely, to flee in the darkness. For they remembered that darkness was

The Shadow's habitat; that this fighter who might be everywhere, was likely to trap them.

Even if they'd had reserves behind them, Alan's captors would have hesitated, hoping to locate The Shadow's

So Alan, expecting more trouble from the pair, acted upon his own, and thereby broke The Shadow's spell.

Flinging himself upon one man, Alan tried to wrench the fellow's gun away. The thug swung with a frenzy,

his blows hopelessly wild. The other gunner sprang over to join the melee, not to have a crack at Alan but to

Again, The Shadow's laugh from darkness. With it, the burst of guns, the whine of bullets that sizzled close to

his two foemen. But for Alan's untimely intervention, The Shadow would have clipped that pair. However, by

the time he fired, the group was too closely clustered for even The Shadow to risk a telling shot that might

And now, reeling Alan with them, the thugs were getting away from the lightbathed bridge, toward darkness

where The Shadow couldn't distinguish them from the prisoner who was becoming their human shield.

They were gripping Alan, but not slugging at him, for their guns were busy otherwise. They were aiming for

the spots where they had viewed the flash of The Shadow's automatics, hoping to clip him by the very system

Whatever poison The Shadow delivered in the form of gunfire, he always had the antidote for himself. He

didn't stay flatfooted when he fired. He was always on the move; his gun as it were the pivot by which he

guided. Even the recoil of an automatic could shunt The Shadow off in an unexpected direction, so well

Alan's kidnapers fired at blackness, nothing more, and received evasive laughs in return. Having finally

reached darkness, they flung their prisoner aside and turned to take flight, not even willing to risk more shots

He grabbed one assailant with a fury that the fellow could not well ignore. A gun swung savagely at Alan's

head and landed a glancing stroke that staggered him. With that blow, Alan saw blackness, hard upon a

starburst, but he lunged blindly and blundered upon his second antagonist as the first man fled.

With a fury that only his scattered wits would allow, Alan wheeled this foeman into the light, though he

scarcely noticed it, the way his head was swimming. A foolhardy thing, doubly to Alan's disadvantage. He

was forcing his foe to violence, and making himself a perfect target for the fellow's sledging revolver.

Down came the glittering gun with an unsparing force. Whatever crooks had hoped to do with Alan through

treating him lightly, all thought of it was gone. The smash that came Alan's way was the sort that would have

cracked the thickest of skulls, had it landed home. The fact it didn't wasn't due to Alan's efforts. Clutching his

opponent below the arms, he wasn't doing a thing to ward off the murderous crash.

What saved the staggered young man was a hand that swept in from the dark, a gloved hand, bearing a gun of

its own. It gave a cross slash of tremendous proportions, thanks to an arm that seemingly extended itself to

Like a bolt from nowhere, a heavy automatic clashed the downcoming revolver, inches above Alan's head,

With that, blackness really engulfed Alan Haverdale. Living blackness, that laughed as another arm whirled

him full away, so that even if the other stroke had landed, it couldn't have rocked Alan into oblivion.

Alan's rescuer, The Shadow, was never content with half measures. He was seeing this through to the full.

Having snatched the victim from the verge of death, The Shadow carried him clear away, and thereby

received thanks in reverse. Still dazed by the first glancing stroke, Alan lacked the wits to use properly the

strength that he possessed. He was fighting blackness in order to get at enemies amid it, and he confused The

Furiously, Alan clutched The Shadow and drove headfirst against him. The ground here sloped down toward

the brook, and The Shadow couldn't get the needed footing to divert Alan's blinding thrust. So the cloaked

It was well that The Shadow did. He tumbled, carrying Alan with him, and as they rolled, a revolver jabbed

rapid shots from the darkness above. The first of Alan's excaptors had paused to fire, and the second man,

snatching his gun from the darkness where The Shadow's slash had sent it, added a few more shots. Their

aim, of course, was high, thanks to The Shadow's rolling tactics. All that the bullets found was the woodwork

Then, in response, came the stabs from the lower darkness, sizzling shots that nearly nicked the heels of the

panicstricken thugs as they dashed off madly. Despite Alan's persistent clawing at his gun, The Shadow

managed to dispatch those timely messages. Unfortunately, Alan disturbed the marksmanship just enough to

Shrill sounds rose above the babble of the brook; sounds that even drowned the crackle of the underbrush

through which two fugitives were madly seeking safety from the vengeance of The Shadow. Those blasts

marked the arrival of the Central Park police patrol, attracted by the bark of guns.

Dashing down the bridle path, the police were coming right to the focal spot, the bridge beneath whose

The Shadow's amazing treatment of that situation was totally lost on Alan's muddled mind. No longer

concerned with the fugitives, The Shadow gave full attention to Alan, making him a veritable prisoner in a

With a sweep of his cloak, The Shadow half smothered Alan in its folds; twisting the muffling garment about

Alan's arms, this remarkable rescuer shoved his charge to his feet, thrust him through the shallow brook and

At the same time, bright headlights cut off. The Shadow's cab was back in blackness, leaving only the

dimmer glow from the light of the stalled cab that was mired beside the bridge. Arriving police saw those

lights alone and hurried to investigate them, which gave The Shadow just the time he needed.

Into his own cab, The Shadow shoved Alan, and hissed a quick command to the driver. The cab shot into

reverse, back up the path that it had descended. A clever maneuver, performed by Moe Shrevnitz, who

At clever feats of hack driving, Shrevvy was unequaled, and he proved it by this stunt. He hadn't any lights to

guide by. Instead, he used the very tracks that his cab wheels had dug in the dirt when it came down the

By the time the police threw flashlights upon the receding cab, it was actually atop the slope. Then, as police

revolvers barked, the cab was speeding off along the solid driveway. Its lights flicked on among the trees, as

taunting as the laugh that The Shadow flung back. Both were invitations for gunfire, if the police were foolish

As members of the park patrol, they knew about The Shadow, for he'd roved this area before, trailing men of

crime. Rookie cops in certain precincts often fired at The Shadow by mistake; but here it didn't happen. The

Shadow's laugh, given in the trailing fashion that betokened his departure, was an unmistakable

identification, particularly after the police had found evidence of what seemed to be an unfinished holdup by

SOON after The Shadow's laugh faded, Shrevvy's cab was sliding into the traffic of a larger drive, losing

itself along with other cabs. All that was lost upon Alan, whose brain was still in a whirl. Clear of the

enveloping cloak folds, Alan was slumped beside The Shadow, blinking at the lights that passed and

Out of incoherent words, The Shadow picked what seemed to be Alan's slogan, so he passed it along to Moe:

Alan heard the words, and nodded as he rubbed his head, almost thinking that he had uttered them to the

cabby himself. Then, from beside Alan came a lowtoned, whispered laugh that struck him as a vague echo

Alan stared, bewildered, but saw only blackness. He rubbed his eyes and squinted, hoping that the glow from

Just then, the cab stopped because of a red traffic light. It was short of the avenue and therefore still in gloom.

Moreover, it was near a neighborhood that Alan might have recognized, but didn't: the district where Trope's

A door opened on the far side of the cab, so softly that Alan neither saw nor heard it. Through the narrow

space slid a dark form that was invisible against the outside gloom; a figure that paused and gave a few added

Then the cab was on its way again, crossing the avenue, with Alan staring stupefied as the glowing

thoroughfare showed only an empty seat beside him. To the dazed young man, his imagination was more at

work than ever. So much so, that he didn't believe the sound that did come from somewhere in the darkened

A whispery, trailing laugh, voiced by Alan's mysterious friend, The Shadow, wishing the rescued man good

IN dropping off for a return trip to Trope's, The Shadow was seeking an explanation of his own for the

unexpected ride on which Alan Haverdale had been taken. The Shadow had been there, in the first place,

The cab that took Alan away hadn't brought the girl in the mink coat. Her cab had departed after she paid its

driver in imperious fashion. The cab with the thugs had shown up just before Alan came out, and the time had

Naturally, The Shadow hoped that nothing else had happened at Trope's during his absence. The scene looked

quiet enough as he approached, but it changed immediately, though not in troublesome fashion. All that

occurred was the arrival of an expensivelooking fourpassenger coupe, that pulled up at the curb just as The

Two men alighted, and were promptly admitted to the house. In going up the steps and ringing the doorbell,

they allowed The Shadow time to glide up close behind them. He was almost looking over their shoulders

On the chance that Tifton merely intended to shut the door, without locking it, The Shadow receded from the

As the two men entered the house, The Shadow recognized them. Both were members of Manhattan cafe

society, and likewise heirs to the Framingham estate: Richard Menlo and Mark Robling.

In the antiquated dining room, old Elmer Trope received these guests with a rather relieved smile. They'd

been here together before, and it was pleasing to see two Framingham heirs on such good terms. With his

humble bow, Trope brought the cutglass decanter from the sideboard and went through the ceremony of

They were rather a dissipated pair, Menlo and Robling, though they seemed in good spirits. Menlo, fat and

inclined to baldness, relished his sherry highly. He not only tasted it, he sniffed it, and looked pleased.

"Got rid of that chronic cold of mine," drawled Menlo. "Inoculations did it. Should have tried them before,

"I'd prefer a trip South," returned Robling, as he finished his glass of sherry. "But then, you know, I'm never

Ruddyfaced, Robling was of healthy appearance, despite his bleary eyes. His manner, too, was brisk,

aggressive, in contrast to Menlo's drawly style. As the two chatted, Trope finished his own wine, then

"Two other heirs were here this evening," stated Trope. "Alan Haverdale and Miss Catherine Framingham."

Menlo and Robling took Alan's visit for granted, but they were intrigued by mention of Miss Framingham.

"I'm anxious to meet that girl," spoke Menlo. "She sounds so important, bearing the Framingham name and

"No more important than we are," reminded Robling. "Mr. Trope will tell you that she is one cousin further

Trope nodded. Dismissing the subject of relationships, he brought out a stack of papers dealing with the

estate itself. Seeing that Trope was going into business matters, Menlo reached for the decanter and poured

"Ah, yes, gentlemen," he said. "We must not forget the sherry. You, too, Mr. Robling."

Reaching for the decanter, Trope personally filled Robling's glass; then poured his own. He replaced the

stopper in the bottle, however, as a reminder that he preferred to offer the sherry before people took it. At

UNOBSERVED by anyone in the room, darkness was clouding in from the hallway door. Darkness that took

From his vantage point, the unseen witness heard Trope drone off figures relating to the estate, while Menlo

and Robling, both quite bored, were discussing plans for the remainder of the evening.

It wasn't surprising that they should mention the Fortyone Club as their first stopping place. In fact, it would

have been surprising if they hadn't, for the Fortyone was the rendezvous for persons of their type. What

would be more surprising, would be if they went anywhere else after they once began to sample the wares at

Anticipation of the drinks to come caused Menlo to give a drab smile at the decanter on Trope's table. No

need of sampling any more sherry, provided this conference didn't last much longer. Menlo, and Robling, too,

From their conversation, the two were going to the Fortyone Club in Robling's car, which was the fancy

vehicle out front. By the time Trope finished with his facts and figures, Moe would be back with the cab, so

The Shadow foresaw that by retiring ahead of Menlo and Robling, he could readily follow them to their

It would also give The Shadow a further chance to check on Alan, who by this time was safely at the same

AT this precise time, Moe's cab was unloading its lone passenger at the fancy Fortyone Club, and things

were taking a turn that called for proper action. For Alan Haverdale was by no means recovered from his

daze, and the appearance of his muddied Tuxedo didn't quite befit a customer of the Fortyone Club.

Hardly was Alan out of the cab, before a brawny, bigfaced doorman tried to shove him in again, whereupon

Moe hopped out to take Alan's part. As Alan wrenched away, helped by Moe's aid, the doorman bawled

loudly for assistance and two hardfaced fellows in Tuxedos stepped from within the club doorway.

To Alan, they were very much the counterparts of the pair who had taken him on the interrupted cab ride. So

his fighting spirit returned and he let loose a few punches that might have brought him trouble, if a timely

Moe being busy with a doorman twice his size, a wiry young man stepped briskly from the doorway and

The fray was shortlived. Not only did the wiry chap stop the bouncers with telling elbow jolts; he also

pushed Alan back. By that time, Moe had kicked the big doorman's legs from under him, and sight of the

Alan suddenly found himself gripped by Moe and the wiry chap, with the latter doing all the talking, to the

"All right, Mr. Burke," said one. "If you think he's fit to go inside, we'll take your word for it."

Behind Alan's neck, Moe was whispering words to the young man called Burke, who promptly turned and

shook hands with Alan, adding that he was sure he'd seen him somewhere before. Alan doubted it, but didn't

Alan had read a column in the New York Classic that bore the name of Clyde Burke, and was pleased to

It happened that Clyde Burke was more than a newspaper reporter and columnist. He was also a secret agent

of The Shadow, and his chief had known that he would be at the Fortyone Club. So when Clyde dismissed

Moe's cab and ushered Alan into the club, he was doing far more than he appeared to be. He was seeing to it

Alan felt better after he'd washed up and had his suit brushed. He was pleased when he and Clyde were

shown to a ringside table. Clyde was known at the Fortyone Club, and the courtesy was therefore extended

to Alan, who became profuse in his thanks. In return, Clyde gave a knowing smile and said:

"You can give me a story, Haverdale. I knew you weren't drunk, the moment I saw you. I like to hear what

At first, Alan hesitated; then, feeling that he owed a debt to Clyde, he told his story briefly. All the while, he

"Afraid I can't use it, Haverdale," said Clyde. "No one would believe it. Those fellows who grabbed you

didn't act as crooks should. Not even if somebody put them up to the job. And besides who would have put

"Miss Framingham probably heard me say that I was coming here," he stated. "Right afterward, she made a

"You're really imagining things," he told Alan. "I think we can take it for granted, though, that you don't like

"I don't," asserted Alan. "You wouldn't, either, Burke. Why, just take this place for example" Alan gestured

at the extravagant setting around them "and you'll see what I mean. That Framingham girl would think she

"If she did come here," continued Alan, "she'd give everyone the haughty stare. The one that says: 'I am a

Framingham, and too good for you even to look at!' Airs like that annoy me, Burke."

"Here's your chance to look a bit," he told Alan. "The floor show is just starting, and if you want an eyeful

that will make you forget the very name of Framingham, just watch the leading lady, Kay Lorley. Here she

WITH a blare of music, Kay Lorley appeared, outlined in the glow of a spotlight. Alan had heard of Kay

Lorley, the main attraction at the ultra Fortyone Club, and one glance showed that she deserved her

reputation. Dancing across the floor, she paused to take a bow, and Alan marveled at her rhythmic grace.

Catching the beat of the music, Kay Lorley carried it right up from the floor. Her shapely figure quivered

from her ankles to her fingertips; the undulation brought brief, passing shimmers from the narrow, jeweled

bands that formed her trifling costume. Tossing her blond head back, she poised, only to begin another

With each repeat, the fascinating blonde circled to another table, stopping with extended arms to give the

patrons a smile they would remember. In that journey, she arrived at Alan's table.

Captivated by Kay's charm, Alan's eyes were rising, until they met the girl's gaze. When Kay saw Alan's face,

For their stare was one of mutual recognition. Startled though Kay Lorley was, her expression couldn't equal

the amazement displayed by Alan Haverdale. He couldn't forget that face, with its blueeyed gaze.

That face was all that Alan had seen of the aristocratic Miss Framingham, who had stared at him so haughtily

IT was so incongruous, meeting Catherine Framingham in the person of a nightclub dancer, that Alan

Haverdale wasn't ready to believe it. He'd have decided that Kay Lorley was merely the Framingham girl's

double, or, at most, her twin sister, but for the fact that she recognized him, too.

By that recognition, Kay Lorley gave her twofold role away. Missing the next measure of the music, she was

unable to continue her routine until it ended; hence her embarrassment was complete. All the people at tables

around the nightclub floor were stretching forward, wondering what had stopped Kay Lorley. Naturally, they

He'd relaxed back in his chair, taking the situation very calmly, since he didn't have to go on with a dance. All

She'd forgotten the night club, the orchestra, as it tried to shake her from her trance with louder rolls of the

Turning toward another table as she resumed her quivering dance, Kay hurried the routine, and tripped

awkwardly over one of her jeweled dancing slippers. Landing almost in the laps of laughing patrons, the girl

grabbed for the table and found the cloth instead, pulling it away with a great clatter of glassware.

She might have turned her routine into comedy, but she was too flustered. With one rebuking look at Alan,

Kay flung a slender arm across her face, pivoted on one heel, and ran from the floor through a line of waiting

Looking across the table, Alan saw Clyde gazing his way, an inquiring lift upon the reporter's eyebrows.

"Believe it or not," informed Alan, "that was Miss Catherine Framingham. I'd expected to see her again,

probably peering from a fur wrap through the window of a limousine. But I never dreamed she'd appear

"I believe you," returned Clyde. "I saw how she was overwhelmed. But brace yourself, because here comes

Alan looked toward the floor and saw the chorus. Some of the girls, who sympathized with Kay, were giving

him very outraged glances. Others, jealous of the leading lady, rewarded Alan with very friendly smirks. But

Clyde wasn't referring to the chorus when he spoke of coming trouble. The storm arrived at the table, close

Turning, Alan saw a man in a Tuxedo, whose blunt face had a nose that looked as if someone had once

pushed it flat and left it that way. Having seen the face along with ads relating to the Fortyone Club, Alan

recognized it as belonging to the proprietor of the place, a gentleman named Herble.

"This is Mr. Herble," introduced Clyde. "We call him Cue Herble, for two reasons. He used to be a billiard

expert, and after that, he began tipping people to the best night spots, until he started one of his own."

"Cut it, Burke!" snapped Cue, as he regarded Alan coldly. "Is this the bum that started all the trouble on the

Alan resented the term "bum," and showed it by rising from his chair. His clenched fists also indicated that he

regarded the outside fracas as a mere preliminary to the one he was willing to start inside the Fortyone Club.

"Easy, Alan," warned Clyde. Then, to Cue, the reporter added: "If you're looking for a bum, go find your own

doorman. You did right, putting him in a monkey suit. He's a gorilla, if ever there was one! He started the

"It don't sound right to me," snapped Cue, still watching Alan through hardened eyes.

"It would look all right in print," observed Clyde, "in a column signed by an eyewitness named Clyde Burke.

We give the night clubs a lot of breaks, Cue, but there's such a thing as going too far."

"I'll fire the doorman," gruffed Cue, "so that winds up your gripe, Burke. Now, about this fellow" Cue

thumbed at Alan "that you say isn't a bum. I'll form my own opinion, after you tell me what he said to

"Haverdale said absolutely nothing," he declared. "He simply looked at Kay Lorley, and that, I understand, is

"Considering your outrageous cover charge of five dollars," argued Clyde, "a customer is entitled to a long

look at Kay. However, we are missing the main point. The trouble came when Miss Lorley looked at Mr.

AN idea dawned on Cue Herble. The flatfaced nightclub owner faced Alan with an expression that was

very hard to analyze. It was partly puzzled, partly defiant, and deep behind it Alan sensed a strong dash of

"A very long while ago, it seems," replied Alan slowly. "Maybe that was because the place was so different.

She wasn't the same person then and perhaps that explains it all. She recognized me as if I were someone

from a forgotten world. Unfortunately, I didn't realize that I was rising like a specter from the past. Otherwise

"Never mind the rest," snapped Cue. Rising, he turned to Clyde: "I'm going out to fire the doorman, Burke."

"You stopped Cue with those metaphors," he said to Alan. "Such talk isn't in his line. It dazes him! But don't

think you've squared yourself. He doesn't like people who know Kay Lorley too well. He'll have you tagged,

"With some of those tough gents who work here," returned Clyde. "You remember the pair who helped the

doorman. They work as bouncers, in shifts, and Cue always knows where he can get more of them. If there's

Clyde stopped suddenly. He was stating the facts already in Alan's mind: namely, that the two thugs who had

taken Alan for the Central Park excursion could have been in the employ of Cue Herble. That, in turn, linked

"Not if she is really a Framingham," returned Clyde. "But there may be a game behind this. Cue might be

Clyde glanced around as he spoke, to make sure that Cue hadn't returned. With a quick gesture to Alan, Clyde

"Those two chaps might know." Clyde was indicating two new arrivals. "They're bona fide heirs to the

Framingham millions, like you, Haverdale. One is Dick Menlo; the other, Mark Robling. But no" Clyde

"Because they come here every night, so they've seen Kay Lorley often. That makes it a sure bet that they

Neither Menlo nor Robling showed interest in the acrobatic team that had taken over the floor show. Nor, for

that matter, did Clyde or Alan. So Clyde suggested that Alan stroll over to the bar and find out what subject

Alan agreed, and that gave Clyde a chance to get to the telephone, where he called Burbank, The Shadow's

contact man. From Burbank, Clyde learned that his chief had already convoyed Menlo and Robling to the

The Shadow would appear not as his cloaked self, but as a gentleman of society named Lamont Cranston. In

order to make a more formal entrance, Cranston would be accompanied by a young lady named Margo Lane,

who was something of a darling among cafe society, and therefore very useful on occasions such as this, for

Since it wouldn't take long for Cranston to meet Margo and return to the Fortyone Club, Clyde reserved his

report, particularly because an attendant was rapping at the door of the phone booth, to give him a note. One

AT the bar, Alan had ordered a drink that he wasn't imbibing, so that he could listen to the conversation

between Menlo and Robling. Menlo had finished a Scotch and soda, and was calling for another, while

"A fine drink, Scotch," commended Menlo in a drawly style. "Never gives a hangover, you know. Never!"

"You don't drink enough of the stuff," argued Robling. "I've watched you, Dickie. Suppose we try drink for

"Bother the notion!" said Menlo. "I'd have you on my hands, with a headache from the awful stuff you

"A headache?" Robling laughed. "It wouldn't trouble me! I end one every morning with a special

pickmeup that I've used for years! Alkavita, they call it. Wonderful, but quite harmless."

Alan was ready to give the opinion that Menlo's empty skull was the reason for his lack of headaches, but the

statement wouldn't account for Robling's case, which most certainly should be included. So Alan listened,

hoping to hear something more important. "Here's to old Trope," said Menlo, finishing his Scotch. "Drink to

"Good enough, Dickie," rejoined Robling. "And we'll have another, as a toast to Miss Framingham, the lady

A hand plucked Alan's elbow. He turned quickly, thinking it might be Cue Herble. Instead, the arrival was

Clyde. As he drew Alan away, the latter started to whisper what he'd heard Robling say about the

"Never mind," rejoined Clyde, in a quick undertone. "I just received a note from Kay Lorley. She wants to

see both of us. Hurry, and we'll make the exit to the dressing rooms ahead of those acrobats, which means

The bartender, finishing his job of mixing drinks for Menlo and Robling, turned to look for Alan. All that he

saw was the untouched drink that Alan had first ordered. Glancing elsewhere, the barkeep spotted a man's

back, disappearing through the exit that Clyde had mentioned. it was Alan's back, for Clyde, leading the way,

Odd business, this, in the bartender's opinion a man ordering a drink and then ducking out. The barkeep

began a shrug; then stopped his shoulders at the height of their lift. For his eyes, staring straight ahead, were

Glass in hand, Richard Menlo was coming straight up from his stool, while Mark Robling wagged his own

"Good boy, Dickie!" Robling was saying. "You're doing better than the acrobats! Jolly neat, I call it!"

The bartender didn't think it jolly neat. He saw the pained, distorted look on Menlo's fat face and the inhuman

bulge that the man's eyes displayed. He reached for Menlo's arm, but wasn't even in time to save the glass, as

it dropped from the pudgy hand, to strike the bar and spread its contents as it smashed; for Menlo was

As for Robling, he, too, was belated in his grab for Menlo. Perched on a stool, and already half drunk,

Robling's own arm sweep nearly overbalanced him, and made him clutch the bar instead.

Over backward sprawled Menlo, striking shoulder first upon the floor. His head took a sharp rap, but not

enough to hurt him, for it struck upon a thick rug. Light or heavy, the blow did not matter, for Menlo never

felt it. The grotesque condition of his face told too well that death had overwhelmed him, even while he fell.

Death of a swift, invisible sort! Such was the doom that had plucked one Framingham heir from the ranks of

the living. The disaster from which The Shadow had saved Alan Haverdale seemed trifling compared to this

To those who saw Menlo transformed from a living creature into a lifeless corpse, in no more time than a

finger snap would require, the thing had every look of an insidious murder, dealt by design.

Whether such, one person alone could have defined it, and he had not arrived in time to view the sudden

CHAOS began immediately at the bar of the Fortyone Club. Patrons who turned to look down at Menlo's

face, saw in it the realization of horrible visions that overindulgence in the wares of the bars could cause.

It was no wonder that tumult followed, a tumult punctuated by shrieks. Such sounds, of course, brought some

of the thickset troubleshooters who formed part of the club's personnel, and in their wake came Cue Herble,

In keeping with his nickname, Cue gave signals that confined the commotion to the corner where it had

begun. He signaled the waiters to stay at their tables, the orchestra to burst into louder music. Menlo's sudden

death had rocked the Fortyone Club, but Cue Herble was setting things straight again, at least outside the

Nevertheless, the confined excitement did not escape the keeneyed observation of a calmfaced gentleman

who at that moment was entering the Fortyone Club. The man in question was The Shadow's other self,

Lamont Cranston. Tall, leisurely of manner, he was the perfect man about town. With him was a beautiful

Cafe society regarded Cranston and Margo as a perfect pair. Certainly, they could show teamwork in

situations such as this. Idly, Cranston glanced at the attractive brunette whom he escorted, and caught a slight

tilt of Margo's finely curved eyebrows. Her brown eyes, too, flashed full understanding, and with that, they

In a most unconcerned fashion, Margo continued on beyond the floor show, until she reached the area where

trouble was rife. There, very helpfully, Margo began to quiet the shrieking ladies who were pointing at

As for Cranston, he had stepped back to the cab that had brought himself and Margo here. It was Shrevvy's

cab, and under the rear seat was a secret drawer that Cranston opened with a single swoop. From it, he

plucked hat and cloak of black, flung the latter across his shoulders and settled the hat on his head, as he went

The cab pulled away, leaving a patch of blackness that remained momentarily motionless, then stirred,

unnoticed by any bystanders. Swift in his glide, The Shadow was making for the rear door of the Fortyone

Club, knowing it to be the exit that trouble makers would use if the going became too hot.

That murder had been done, The Shadow was sure. He knew the symptoms that announced sudden and

unexplainable death. Should a murderer at large be seeking a way out, he would find one and The Shadow

All this occurred to Margo as she played her part, over by the bar. She saw Cue Herble, his flat face very

grim as he stared at Menlo's body, then at Robling, the dead man's companion. Thumbing across his shoulder,

Right then, the barkeeper reached over and plucked at Cue's sleeve. The barkeeper's name was Tom, and he

was as trustworthy as they came. But he was buzzing something that seemed very important, close to Cue's

"There was a guy did a sneak backstage. Find him, wherever he is, and bring him here."

Margo heard the order, but didn't connect it with Alan, a portion of whose history she had heard from

Cranston. It wasn't logical that Alan should have put himself into further trouble, considering that he had

If Tom, the barkeep, had mentioned two men seeking the backstage exit, Margo might have suspected. But

when she looked for Clyde and didn't see him, she decided that they must have left by the usual frontdoor

If anyone else had gone backstage, Margo couldn't see how it would matter. By the time the polite bouncers

could circumnavigate the floor show and do a sneak of their own that wouldn't alarm the customers, the man

Of course, Margo's guess was wrong, though she could not be blamed for the error, since she knew nothing of

the connection between the minkwrapped Miss Framingham and the muchlessencumbered Kay Lorley.

AT that moment, Clyde Burke was knocking at a door that bore a golden star, and Alan Haverdale, the

wanted man, was standing right beside him. The door opened to reveal a dressing room, and with it, Kay

The star was wearing a dressing gown adorned with butterflies, so closely wrapped that it reminded Alan of

Without a word, Kay gestured the visitors to chairs. She left the door open, but glanced anxiously toward the

corridor, to make sure that no one was within earshot. Then, standing with her back against the dressing table,

Alan smiled, particularly when he noted Kay's eyes follow his glance toward a halfopen closet where a

"That's just it," the girl declared. "I don't want to be known as Miss Framingham not just yet. I treated you

very snobbishly this evening, Mr. Haverdale, and I hope you will accept my full apology."

Alan agreed that he would. Actually, he felt that Kay had already made more than an apology when she lost

her composure and ruined the floor show. He felt a real sympathy toward her, that abolished his brief

recollections of Miss Framingham, who was rapidly becoming a nonexistent person in Alan's mind.

"What else could I have done?" pleaded Kay reverting to the case in question. "Don't you see the spot I'm in?

I'm under contract to appear here, with only a short while longer to go. After that, I'll no longer be Kay

"The change won't do you justice," observed Alan. "I'd like you better as Kay Lorley."

"Call me Kay Framingham, then," the girl said. "I won't be the snob I was tonight. It was only because Mr.

Trope introduced you as one of the other heirs, that I acted the way I did. I took you for one of the crowd who

thought they were too good for anybody else, so I thought I'd have to pretend the same."

Kay's plea was so ardent that Alan felt convinced that it was real. It was obvious that she wanted to lead a

normal happy life, wherein people would neither point to her as the chief feature of a nightclub show, nor as

She'd played one extreme against the other only in the hope that it would help her reach the middle route.

And now, her eyes, dimming with tears that she could no longer restrain, were asking Alan to preserve the

"Don't worry, Kay," said Alan. "I won't breathe a word about it. You're right about the rest of the crowd. I

just saw two samples, named Menlo and Robling. I'd like it if you'd play the snob act when you meet them,

Kay's prompt smile indicated that the laugh would be forthcoming on the occasion mentioned. Thereupon,

"I'd like to, Kay," returned Clyde, staring hard at Alan, "but getting stories is my job, and this is a very good

The accent on the word "very" drove home to Alan. As Kay turned his way, about to plead with him to use

"Why did you call Cue Herble from Trope's? Were you trying to clinch things, so I couldn't see you here at

"I did call Cue," admitted Kay, "but it was only to tell him not to be worried if I arrived a trifle late," She

paused, and her eyes blazed suddenly: "How did you know that I called Cue? Were you listening?"

"I'm asking the questions," insisted Alan. "I want to know about the strongarm twins that Cue sent to grab

"Why... why " Kay stammered, then caught herself. "You couldn't have listened to my phone call, after all.

If you had, you'd know that I didn't mention your name. I didn't even dream that you'd be coming to the

"But I don't know either of them," claimed Kay. "Really, I don't! I never meet any of the patrons; that's one of

Cue's rules. Why, I wouldn't think of getting you into any trouble, Mr. Haverdale!"

BEFORE, Alan could acknowledge the sincerely spoken statement, he heard the pound of footsteps in the

corridor. Coming to his feet, he sprang to the door, glimpsed the approach of Cue's strongarm crew. When

they saw Clyde, they shouted, but before they could take a good look at the young man, Clyde shouldered

Alan aside and slammed the door, turning the key as he did. Alan turned, to find Kay reaching past him.

"It's all a mistake," the girl began. "Cue never sent those rowdies here before. Let me talk to them "

"You've done enough talking," Alan interrupted. Throwing an arm around Kay, he swept her across the

dressing room. "I'll put you where you can stay a while. Burke and I will handle this."

Completely off her feet, Kay couldn't struggle against Alan's sweeping tactics, until he paused to swing open

the closet door. Then she clawed savagely, but Alan ended the brief attack by dumping her in the middle of

the closet, where she landed hard and looked up angrily, drawing her breath to raise a scream. Alan stopped

the scream by pulling the mink coat from the hook and using it to blanket the blonde.

It was very funny, the way the fur began to twist around, like a big bear who had finished hibernating for the

winter, particularly as Kay's muffled gasps were much like a bear's grumble. But Alan hadn't time for

He slapped the closet door shut and turned the key, leaving it in the lock so that Kay could be released later.

Then, bounding back across the dressing room, Alan rejoined Clyde, who promptly clicked off the lights and

Men were banging hard against the door, with blunt instruments that sounded much like gun butts. Clyde

helped them to their destination by turning the key and bringing the door suddenly inward.

Two attackers pitched through headlong; grabbing Alan, Clyde started past them, into the dim corridor.

It would have been a good ruse, had there been only two attackers. But there were four more, crowding the

corridor. They pitched on Clyde and Alan, swinging guns in the sincere fashion that the thugs had shown in

Before Clyde and Alan could do more than ward off blows, the first pair of huskies were on their feet again

The thugs were going through with Cue's orders to the limit, which meant that they intended to bring in two

Ducking, both Clyde and Alan could feel the hammering strokes of guns against their lifted arms, and knew

Better than mercy was the thing that came. It was a challenge that made the strong forget the weak and turn to

SWIFT was the swath The Shadow cut in that backstage corridor of the Fortyone Club. First sounds of the

fracas had brought him in from the rear exit that he secretly guarded, and he came like a living thunderbolt of

The Shadow didn't even look for the victims who were so sorely beset. Instead, he used the simpler and more

Flung right and left by the blackclad hurricane, Cue's men thumped the walls so hard that they saw stars on

all the doors, not just Kay's. Last of all, The Shadow reached the pair who had taken Clyde and Alan from the

rear. The guns of those huskies were already swinging when The Shadow came on them, so he acted with

Headlong, The Shadow pitched himself in a long, hard dive, straight across Clyde and Alan, who were

crouched on the floor. His outstretched arms were the brakes that stopped him, by hooking the bodies of the

gunsledging foemen. Their hammering strokes couldn't land, because they were flying backward, guns and

Hard were the punches that The Shadow drove to handy jaws, as he came to his feet. Clyde and Alan were

up, wondering whether to aid The Shadow or start a drive out through the corridor. They did neither, for The

Shadow decided against both plans. The drive with which he struck his friends was harder than the one his

Literally, The Shadow hurled Clyde and Alan so flat that they were prone when he turned his same drive into

a long leap that totally cleared them and brought him right into the midst of the rallying bouncers who had

Four in all, these huskies still had their guns, and they weren't thinking of using them as clubs. Crooks at

heart, despite the respectable level to which Cue had raised them, they recognized The Shadow as their

natural foe. Theirs was the chance to achieve what crimedom had always failed to do. Under present

auspices, defending the ground where they belonged, they could slaughter The Shadow and still beat a

If ever The Shadow had faced dangerous foemen, these four qualified. They were going to give bullets

without stint, and risk their individual chances of survival for the ugly glory that the underworld would

bestow upon them. Throwbacks, these four were, to the old tribe of gorillas who had roved Manhattan in the

They just didn't know the ways of The Shadow. If they had, they'd have realized that numbers didn't faze

Four gunners could be a problem, if they had room in which to operate. Even two, the pair in Central Park,

had been something of a menace to The Shadow. But the tighter that space became, the bigger the mob, the

USING his own gun as a club, The Shadow took a tremendous whirl into the very midst of his attackers. Not

one of them had time to give a pointblank shot. Dodging the sweep of The Shadow's automatic, they

dropped back to get a little more range. The walls stopped them, and before they could twist about and find

One man, jolted by The Shadow's swift stroke, sagged, with an unfired gun sliding from his hand. Another,

taking a jab from The Shadow's opposite elbow, went flying backward, his shots furrowing the ceiling.

Meanwhile, The Shadow was disposing of the last two, both at once. He tripped a tough who lunged, and the

fellow's shot went wide; not only that, in his sprawl he met the final man, and shoved the latter's gun hand as

The last shooter snarled as his bullet missed The Shadow and ricocheted from the wall. Whipping about to try

another shot, the fourth thug received a downswing of The Shadow's gun, because the cloaked fighter had

As he sank, the fourth man toppled on the third, spoiling the latter's aim. Still snarling, the third foeman

rolled to a new angle and tilted his gun upward, only to make it a target for a straight, swift kick that The

Shadow aimed at the glittering object. The flying revolver didn't stop that forceful footstroke. A jaw above

it did. There was a groan as a propping elbow gave, and The Shadow's four adversaries were as quiet as the

All during that rapid fray, Clyde had been clutching Alan to the floor, to keep him from the path of any stray

bullets. The Shadow's whispered laugh, eerie in the confines of the corridor, was a signal that Clyde

understood. It meant that the danger was ended, so Clyde pushed Alan to his feet, giving him the words:

Alan was groggy. He'd taken a few more glancing blows upon an already tender head. He could hardly hear

the whispered instructions that The Shadow spoke to Clyde. The next thing Alan knew, he was in the custody

of the cloaked fighter who had triumphed over six attackers without firing a single shot. And The Shadow, as

before, was hustling Alan away from a scene of battle, to a waiting cab. For Moe Shrevnitz, in due form, had

This time, Alan thought he could keep track of The Shadow; but he didn't. It was only a short trip to Alan's

hotel, and when they arrived there the lights beneath the marquee showed the rear seat empty, except for Alan

Moe was helping the passenger out and steering him into the hands of a friendly doorman, while Alan blinked

back at the empty cab, not realizing that the door on the other side was closing slowly.

As soon as Alan entered the hotel, that door opened again and The Shadow was in the cab when Moe closed

the near door. At the wheel, Moe heard The Shadow's whispered order to return to the Fortyone Club.

MATTERS had straightened somewhat, at the Fortyone. Police had arrived to begin their investigation, and

Since there was no lethal weapon to account for the death of Richard Menlo, Cardona was working on the

theory that the victim had been poisoned a fair enough supposition, considering the gargoyle expression

Witnesses claimed that Menlo's fall was partly responsible for the fright that seized him, but that didn't

change Cardona's theory. Learning that Menlo had dropped a glass of Scotch and soda when he fell, Cardona

salvaged some of the liquid that still spread the polished surface of the bar, and decided that it would be

A police surgeon was examining the body when Lamont Cranston arrived. Though Cardona had ordered that

people be kept away, Cranston was allowed to approach, inasmuch as he was a friend of the police

commissioner. Seeing Cranston when the latter joined Margo, Cardona, decided it was time for dramatic

"We're treating this as a poison case," declared Cardona. "On that account, I'm holding anyone who might be

Staggered by Cardona's accusation, Mark Robling could only gawk. If blankness was a proof of innocence,

the expression on his beefy face should have cleared him of guilt. But faces meant nothing to Inspector

"That's crazy!" stormed Cue. "Why, Robling was Menlo's best friend! One of my best customers, too. What's

more, he couldn't have dropped anything in Menlo's glass! Tom mixed the drinks."

"Listen, flatfoot," Cue sneered, "Tom is my best barkeep, and an honest guy! He wouldn't do a thing without

Cardona's face retained its deadpan expression, one that seldom left his swarthy features.

"That puts you on the suspect list, Cue," announced Cardona. "Can you suggest any more?"

Under the stress which he had brought upon himself, Cue's thoughts shot back to Alan Haverdale.

"I'll say there's another," Cue exclaimed. "The real murderer, that's who! See that glass over there? He left it,

"Over past the dressing rooms," returned Cue. "Come along, and I'll show you. I sent some fellows to bring

Cue was leading the way across the floor as he talked. Through the doorway, they reached the turn in the

corridor, and there Cue stopped, amazed. Spread all about was the cream of his strongarm crop, all six, still

CARDONA told an accompanying detective to gather up the guns and take the owners into custody for

having carried them. Looking beyond sprawling thugs, he saw another man, leaning against a doorway

The extra, man was Clyde Burke; recognizing Cardona, the reporter gave a weak grin.

"Hello, Joe!" said Clyde. "Thought you'd be along. This bunch gave me a lot of trouble. Left me kind of

Cue gave Clyde a cold stare, and expressed his doubts that the reporter could have handled six gunners all

"Guess you're right, Cue," agreed Clyde. "As I remember it, they took to slugging each other while they were

"You mean the bum?" queried Clyde. "No, he didn't handle them. He's gone. Left a good while ago."

Clyde changed his grin to a look of apprehension, as he beckoned the others into the dressing room.

"Almost forgot about Kay," he said. "When I heard trouble coming, I shoved her into the closet so she'd be

Clyde unlocked the closet door and Kay crawled out, very ruffled and quite angry. Before she had time to say

"I heard you sent somebody a note," put in Cue. "Was it to that smartAleck who threw you off your stride

"Here's the note, Cue." Clyde brought it from his pocket, waved it, and put it away again. "It was sent to me.

Kay didn't want me to kid her in my column. So I came back, and was telling her that I wouldn't even

Kay gave Clyde a very grateful look, one that wasn't missed by Cranston, who, by that time, had arrived and

was looking in from the door. Though The Shadow hadn't as yet received Clyde's report, nor put any

questions to Alan during the ride to the hotel, he analyzed the case so promptly that it gave him the direct

"We're investigating a murder," Joe reminded, "and these people were out of that case. Come along, Cue,

Clyde, the last to leave the dressing room, gave a parting wave to Kay, who still looked for gratitude. When

the door closed, Clyde found himself in the corridor alone with Cranston, whose one word came in a

LATER, after leaving Margo at her apartment, Lamont Cranston became his other self, The Shadow. Not that

his appearance changed; outwardly, he remained quite the same, maintaining his pose of the idlemannered

He became The Shadow only by the laugh he gave strange, repressed mirth that was heard only by himself

With all his faults, Cue Herble was right on one point; that Alan, the vanished stranger, should be definitely

regarded as a suspect in the death of Menlo. But The Shadow held the solid opinion that Alan had played no

Until the cause of Menlo's death was fully decided, The Shadow intended to reserve opinion. After that, he

IT was afternoon, and Lamont Cranston was in the office of his friend, Police Commissioner Ralph Weston,

hearing the final verdict in the Menlo case. Inspector Cardona was also present, listening to experts, who

There were three experts on the job, all renowned toxicologists. Their spokesman spread a chart on Weston's

"The autopsy proved this," declared the toxicologist. "If Menlo died from poison, it could only have been a

species found in this group, A3. I refer to the category of acid poisons, that leave no traces in the stomach

"They vary," explained the expert. "This class contains a considerable number, all quite deadly. But never"

he wagged an important forefinger "never do they fail to leave their trace in the blood stream. In studying

specimens of Menlo's blood, we found no acid content. His death was not by poison."

Weston swiveled in his chair and picked up the telephone. He'd promised to give Clyde Burke a prompt

report on the verdict of the experts. While the experts were rolling up their charts, Cardona turned glumly to

"That makes it what the doctor said it might be," decided Cardona: "an attack of acute indigestion. It gets a

fellow's heart like that" Cardona, doubled his fist to illustrate "and people who eat and drink the way

Weston had finished calling Clyde, so Cardona took the telephone and told the reporter that there would be a

While waiting to view the lineup, the calmmannered Mr. Cranston reflected on the verdict of the

toxicologists. Those poison experts knew their business, and Cranston, who, as The Shadow, had frequently

What stayed uppermost in The Shadow's mind, however, was the existence of a murder motive in the case.

The death of Richard Menlo meant one less person to claim a share of the huge Framingham estate. Alan

Haverdale, Kay Lorley, Mark Robling, along with others who had not yet entered the scene, were all gainers

Prior to the lineup, Commissioner Weston ordered the release of the suspects in the Menlo case. Mark

Robling went home, and Tom, the barkeep, returned to the Fortyone Club, where patrons were thirsting for

Cue Herble, however, appeared at the lineup in person, in the interests of his employees, who were already

UNDER the glare of powerful lights, Cue's six henchmen paraded sheepishly while detectives looked them

over. The police were trying to pin past offenses on them, for even minor charges would increase their crime

In the black background away from the lights, Cranston contacted Clyde Burke, who was on hand to testify

Clyde hadn't come alone. He'd brought Alan Haverdale with him, for with the news that Menlo's death was

natural, Alan, like the known suspects, was no longer wanted in connection with the case.

In the darkness, Clyde introduced Alan to his friend Cranston, stating that his advice would prove of value in

"Look them over, Haverdale, suggested Clyde. "Tell us if you recognize any of them as the pair who took

Though Alan had seen his former captors but imperfectly, the glare of the big lights brought out such details,

that recognition of last night's faces should have been quite possible had they been in the lineup. But the

longer Alan looked, the more he was sure that his former captors were not present.

All that while, The Shadow's keen eyes were busy, too, and though he had less to go on than did Alan, he

concurred with the young man's opinion. It added up to a very definite possibility: that Cue Herble was smart

enough not to mix his inside crew with those who might be working for him outside.

Further proof came when the detectives, among them visitors from other cities, admitted that there wasn't a

known criminal among the entire group. So Clyde slid out with Alan, while Weston was dimming the lights.

"What are you going to do about it, commissioner?" demanded Cue. "If you hold these boys of mine, I'll be

shorthanded at the club. After all, they were only doing their duty, and they had permits for those guns."

"Permits belonging to other people," remarked Weston, "and most of them had run out. But I'll reserve

decision, Herble. Since none of your men have past records, or, I should say, known records, I'll release them

Cue Herble congratulated his men, shaking hands with them and clapping them on the back, as he

Meanwhile, Commissioner Weston retained a pleased smile, which he explained in an undertone to Cranston.

"It means that guns will be taboo at the Fortyone Club," stated the commissioner. "Furthermore, it gives us

something on Cue Herble. He'll be responsible, if any of that crowd misbehave. I've wanted to have a hold on

After leaving headquarters, Clyde and Alan made a stop at a little restaurant, where they met Kay Lorley. She

was very much herself, this afternoon, so demure and friendly that Alan really understood what she meant

Neither a nightclub star, nor an aristocratic miss, Kay was simply a very attractive girl, whose charm

All doubts on the Framingham question were settled. Kay belonged to a distant branch of the family that

lived in the Middle West. After her father's death, she'd studied dramatics, and finally had gotten a bit in a

"So I tried the night clubs," completed Kay, "and I landed." She shook her head ruefully. "And how I landed!

Oh, well, when I wind up at the Fortyone, that whirl will be over and I'll feel human again."

AFTER they left Kay, Clyde took Alan directly to the Fortyone Club, much to Alan's surprise.

A new doorman was on the job, a huge African twice the size of the fellow that Cue had fired, but his

gleaming smile put Alan quite at ease, particularly when Clyde introduced the newcomer.

"This is Jericho Druke," said Clyde. "I had him waiting here for Cue to get back... So Cue hired you, did he,

"He sure did!" laughed Jericho. "And I'm going to do a right job here, Mr. Burke. A real right job!"

Those words meant much, had Clyde explained them. Like Clyde, Jericho was working for The Shadow.

When the new doorman specified a "real right job," it meant specifically that the front route into the

Fortyone Club would be covered as effectively as The Shadow had managed the back way, the night before.

Unacquainted with Broadway blandishments, Alan was further surprised when Clyde introduced him

formally to Cue Herble, in the latter's ornate office, which occupied a rear corner of the Fortyone Club.

"Glad to know you, Haverdale," greeted Cue. "No hard feelings because of last night. We just didn't have the

situation straight, that's all. Anyway, we both got blamed for something that was nobody's fault, and that's a

"So we'll have a drink on the house, but don't name your poison, because Tom doesn't serve any! The cops

They went out to the bar, and Cue told Tom to mix himself a drink, as one of the party. It was early, and there

He gave another wave of greeting, when two more patrons entered, and Alan found himself being introduced

To make it all complete, Kay Lorley arrived, and Cue showed how bighearted he was by inviting his star to

join the clientele. That was when Alan received a warning nudge from Clyde, and recognized that Cue was

springing one of his crafty tricks, under cover of his friendly pose. Cue wanted to see the sort of greeting that

Knowing Cue's ways, Kay was quite casual when she spoke to Alan. In his turn, Alan, thanks to Clyde,

behaved the same. A curious thought struck home to him, however; one that rather amazed him. Cue

supposed that Alan had a yen for Kay, and the odd part was that Cue was right. He hadn't been right the night

Knowing the real Kay, Alan more than liked her, and something in her manner told him he was winning her

During a brief interval when Cue had gone to instruct the new doorman on his duties, Kay undertoned a

"I think you'll find a message from him, if you call your hotel," added Kay, "because he phoned me a short

"I can't," the girl replied. "Mark Robling might recognize me. You know my sentiments, Alan. I don't want

any of that crowd to think they're better than I am. You happen to be different."

"You're right," agreed Alan. "It's better that the party should be one guest shy."

Another listener heard those words: the quiet Mr. Cranston, who seemed so unconcerned that no one ever

noticed when he happened to be within earshot. Had he so chosen, Cranston could have amended Alan's final

The dinner that Trope was giving the Framingham heirs would be attended by its full quota. Though Kay

Lorley certainly would not be present, a substitute would fill her place. A substitute who, uninvited, would

WHEN Cue Herble finished his chat with Jericho, he went directly to his office. He closed the door but didn't

throw its heavy bolt, as he usually did, for it was still too early to worry about intruders who might try to

Seated at his big mahogany desk, Cue drummed nervously with his fingers, a variety of scowls registering

upon his flattish face. At last, he arose suddenly and turned to the corner of the room, where a big filing

cabinet stood. Timed to Cue's movement, the door of the office opened gradually and keen eyes peered

With the hour growing late, the mysterious investigator had resumed his blackcloaked attire and was

looking in on Cue Herble before starting on the trip that Alan soon would make to Trope's.

Oblivious to observation, Cue was running his hand down the sliding drawers of the big filing cabinet, which

was almost his own height. Having tapped the required gadgets, Cue pulled a handle and the whole front of

About to step through, Cue suddenly changed his mind. Slamming the front of the cabinet, he came back to

By then, blackness had receded, and Cue failed to catch the glint of the burning eyes that had observed him.

But The Shadow was still listening from the door crack when Cue picked up the telephone.

"Listen, Gaffey," he told someone at the other end, "I want you and Wingo over here in a hurry... Yes, it's the

Haverdale guy. You're to tag him wherever he goes... You know all about it, so the rest is up to you... Report

Silently closing Cue's door, The Shadow moved along the rim wall of the night club. He didn't contact Clyde,

to give him this new information. Clyde had present duties; his job was to see that Kay and Margo became

The fact that The Shadow had learned of an outside pair who might prove to be the thugs who abducted Alan,

It was Jericho who heard The Shadow's whispered signal from just inside the nightclub entrance. When all

was clear, Jericho made a gesture that brought Moe's cab from across the street and simultaneously notified

Gliding swiftly from the entrance, The Shadow boarded the cab as it stopped, and it pulled across the street

They showed up in an obsolete coupe, their faces well muffled, as Alan was coming from the Fortyone

Club. Jericho called a cab, and it pulled away with Alan in it, the old coupe trailing it. Moe's cab followed,

There, trails diverged. Alan went into the house; Gaffey and Wingo swung around the corner; while The

Shadow stayed in Moe's cab, parked across the street. More guests arrived at Trope's, including Mark

Finally satisfied that all were present, The Shadow crossed the street and entered the house by the unlocked

THE group around the diningroom table included Elmer Trope, Alan Haverdale, Mark Robling and two

One was James Suttern, a portly, middleaged man from Chicago, who made friends quickly with the other

heirs. The other was Walter Creff, a thin, closelipped person, who was quite well known in financial circles.

Creff wrote articles for financial journals predicting business trends, and from all accounts, was seldom seen

"This dinner, gentlemen, was to have been for seven," he said. "We five, and two others."

Trope was wrong. It should have been dinner for eight, counting the unseen guest, The Shadow. But the

"Miss Framingham has sent her regrets," continued Trope. "As for our other guest, we must express our own

The quick, birdlike glances that Trope gave the group could have been taken as a challenge. He, alone, of all

those present, could not possibly have profited by Menlo's untimely death. Apparently, Trope was watching

for any smug smiles on the faces around him. No smiles forthcoming, Trope summoned Tifton, who brought

Personally, Trope poured a glass for everyone. First to raise his own, be voiced:

The toast was drunk, and the dinner was served. Always thrifty, Trope supplied a very meager meal of only a

few courses. Conversation made up a large part of it, and Robling was the leader for a while.

"A jolly good chap, Dick Menlo," observed Robling. "Sorry to have him go. Fancy it, their thinking that I

could have had a hand in it, when it turned out to be nothing more than too much Scotch and soda!"

"A Tom Collins is a lighter drink," said Robling. "Better for you. Much better. All physicians agree,

Laughing at his own idea of a jest, Robling looked about the circle. A nod came from James Suttern.

"I'll take a Tom Collins any day," he said. "It goes well after a dish of curry. My weakness, curry. I like the

"You've spoken to the right man," declared Walter Creff, with a slow smile. "While you're in town, Suttern,

I'll take you to dinner at a little restaurant where I sometimes eat. There, you will have beef curry, of a very

special brand. I can't say how many ingredients go into their curry powder, but they use far more than the

As Suttern acknowledged the invitation, Creff sank back as though he had spoken his entire quota for the

"Dash it, I still prefer a Tom Collins," he declared. "Whoever said to eat, drink and be merry, said too much.

You don't have to eat to be merry. Listen, Suttern" Robling wagged a finger "this evening, you'll come

along with me, and I'll introduce you to the finest Tom Collins that was ever mixed!"

Such talk waned until dinner was nearly finished. Then Robling whose mind was very short on subjects,

brought up the matter of drinks again. The thing that made him recall the former conversation was the coffee

"Saw my doctor today," laughed Robling. "Guess I told you that already. Asked him about this old pump,

here" he tapped his chest in the general neighborhood of his heart "and he said go easy with it. Maybe

Laughing louder, Robling looked around the group, and finally saw that they didn't understand. Centering on

"No coffee. Hear that, Elmer? As if I ever drank coffee! Fancy it, my doctor saying not to drink coffee, when

I abhor the beastly stuff! No criticism of your tastes, gentlemen; just a personal foible of my own. I don't

drink coffee, and my physician told me to stop. Which proves that there are certain things one's own doctor

The rest finished their coffee and accepted second cups. They were rising, finally, when Trope announced:

"No business this evening, gentlemen. I intended this purely as a family gettogether. I may call you later,

though, after I go over some accounts, so I should like to know where you will be."

ROBLING stated that he was taking Suttern to the Fortyone Club. Creff announced that he was going back

to his apartment. So Alan simplified matters, by saying that he intended to go directly to his hotel. If he did

go to the Fortyone, which he planned, he didn't want Robling and Suttern to know that he would be there.

The Shadow had completely disappeared when Alan left the house. From Moe's cab, across the way, he was

Two cabs were near, and both were quite empty, for The Shadow had glided close and given them an

inspection at short range. So far, however, Gaffey and Wingo had not returned in their old car.

Alan took the first cab, and The Shadow noted that he, too, studied its interior. In fact, Alan waited until

others came from the house, before he stepped into the cab. The next two were Robling and Suttern, and both

Robling was reminding Suttern that they were going out together, but Suttern was beginning to shake his

"There's a cab here," he said. "I may as well take it to my hotel. Some other night, Robling."

Suttern didn't reach the cab he indicated. At that moment, two muffled men appeared from around the corner,

hurried to the cab and crowded in ahead of the man who sought it. Alan's cab had just started, and the second

Immediately, Moe's cab whipped to action, becoming the third in the cavalcade. Knowing that the muffled

men could be Gaffey and Wingo, taking a cab instead of their old car, The Shadow leaned forward to help

His automatic was already in his fist, poking from the window. If that second cab tried to overhaul Alan's,

At the end of three blocks, an odd thing happened. Alan's cab wheeled left, and The Shadow shifted, to get a

new bead on the second cab when it swerved. But it didn't follow Alan's; instead, it swung to the right and

sped off in the opposite direction. By then, Moe's cab, trailing without lights, was too close to the corner to

Moe interpreted The Shadow's laugh correctly. It called for a quick halt, while he thought this one over. It

wasn't sensible that crooks should have changed their plan so soon, dropping Alan's trail before they had real

Something else was in the wind; something different, and rather unexplainable, in the light of previous

With Alan safely off, there was another trail that he could take; one which, by The Shadow's calculations,

Calmly, The Shadow ordered Moe to turn the block and circle back to Trope's. The beginning of one quest

BACK at Trope's, Suttern, the portly man, had nothing else to do but accept Robling's invitation to ride in his

They were getting into the gaudy ear, when Robling looked back and saw Creff coming down the steps. He

waved an invitation to the drabfaced man, and Creff, at first about to decline, finally accepted for the same

So all three were starting off in Robling's car, when Moe's cab nosed itself warily around the corner. The

Shadow saw the departing taillights and gave the word. This being a simple trail, Moe turned on his own

At first, the course was toward the Fortyone Club; then, unexpectedly, it changed. The Shadow finally

guessed the reason. Creff was in the car, and wanted to be dropped off at his apartment. This proved correct,

When the fancy coupe stopped in front of Creff's apartment hotel, it remained there after he went inside. So

The Shadow left Moe's cab and went to learn what was keeping Robling and Suttern.

The apartment hotel was an oldtimer, only a dozen stories or so in height. Lights appeared in a corner room

Those lights, like others in the building, looked quite bright in contrast to the street below them. For this was

a quiet section of Manhattan, even more forgotten than Trope's neighborhood, though the buildings still

It was definitely a street to The Shadow's liking. Pitchblack smoke amid a blackout couldn't have traveled

By the dashlight, Robling and Suttern were easily seen, because even that feeble glare was conspicuous

against the surrounding gloom. They were chatting quite casually, those two, and it became evident that

Further conversation proved that the persuasion hadn't all been Robling's. Evidently Creff had joined the

discussion during the ride from Trope's, and had received an invitation, too. Won over by Robling, Creff's

willingness to make it a party was all that Suttern needed. So Robling and Suttern, already wearing Tuxedos,

The lights on the higher floors didn't go out until Creff appeared. Maybe he'd forgotten them, or didn't bother

to put them out. Whatever the case, The Shadow was still beside the coupe when Creff arrived hurriedly from

Lacking time to return to Moe's cab, The Shadow signaled it instead, by means of a tiny flashlight that

The taillights of the coupe seemed mammoth when they pulled away, compared to the tiny flash that The

Shadow changed from green to red when Moe neared the spot where his cloaked chief waited. Then, with

only a minimum of delay, The Shadow was in the cab again, ready to follow the coupe to the Fortyone Club

Robling's car was already around the corner, but that was all the better. The Shadow preferred to allow some

All that had a bearing on the thing that suddenly happened a thing that The Shadow would have spotted had

he been in the cab when Moe spurted it forward. Too intent upon watching The Shadow's light, Moe hadn't

It was another cab, the very one that tagged Alan from Trope's, only to drop his trail. Because it hadn't been

The cab had done the same as Moe's. It had circled back to Trope's. Maybe it originally intended to follow

Robling's coupe, but it had found something better: the cab in which The Shadow rode. Or, perhaps, the men

in that cab could have known that Robling was going to stop at Creff's, and therefore taken a shortcut to the

Whatever the case, they were taking a shortcut now, right out of an alley and hard across the street, with the

fury of a juggernaut. A monstrous menace that Moe didn't see, for his back was turned and the other cab was

using his own trick of driving without lights. If he heard the roar, Moe mistook it for something back on the

Moe, usually alert, was basking right in the path of destruction without knowing it!

THERE wasn't even time for The Shadow to act against the hurtling menace that threatened to crush him with

his cab. He was closing the door, and if he'd held a drawn gun, there still wouldn't have been a chance to

divert the lurching juggernaut with bullets. His automatic was coming from his cloak, as it always did when

If Moe could only yank his cab from that oncrushing path! But this was once when orders could be futile. The

mere words: "Get started" wouldn't fill Moe with the notion of a menace almost at its goal. Only The Shadow

could have supplied a substitute for words in that crucial instant. He gave one automatically.

The point of an automatic laid against the back of Moe's neck the most astonishing thing that the cabby had

ever experienced. The cold touch of silent death that a gun could speak, coming at a time when Moe was

The electric shock that riveted Moe sent its effect right through him and imbued the cab. No rabbit could

have given so alarmed a bound as did that vehicle. The cab was in gear, and Moe stepped on the accelerator

as though he intended to climb right through the windshield. Maybe he would have, if the cab had not

Impelled by Moe's foot on the gas pedal, the cab literally scooped him back into the seat. Slanted toward the

curb, its front wheels climbed over, hopped the sidewalk and leaped the steps into the old hotel as though it

were bound through the revolving door. The side of the steps slanted it, and the cab floundered like a

It happened so fast that it looked like a noiseless collision in which one smashing cab bumped the other, but

there was actually no contact. That was proven by the way the inrushing cab behaved. It took the curb, too,

If Moe's cab hadn't overturned, The Shadow would have turned the tables on his adversaries. As it was, he

fared well enough. The door on the high side of Moe's cab flapped open, only to close again, disgorging

blackness during the brief interim. Traveling in reverse rotation, The Shadow went right across the running

His gun fired first. The Shadow wanted crooks to locate him, rather than have them clip Moe within the

inverted cab. He knew that their driver was probably a hapless chap forced into his predicament, so The

Shadow aimed for the rear half of the cab. Crooks, however, had gone flinging through the far door and were

Their bullets were deflected by a pair of excellent shields: the spinning spokes of the wheels that flanked The

Shadow. His laugh came as an echo to his gunfire, a threat more potent than the juggernaut that had been

Men of the dark fled off through the dark itself, and The Shadow, rolling from his perch, took after them.

These were unquestionably the pair who had battled The Shadow in Central Park. Their technique showed

improvement acquired from experience. It was as if the other fray were picking up where it left off, and The

Shadow, always a jump ahead of such fighters, was able to guess their shifty moves. Instead of bridle paths

and shrubs, foemen were dealing in alleys and ash cans without wasting time about it.

They were taking turns at harrying The Shadow, their alternating shots calculated to throw him off his stride.

It was their way of duplicating The Shadow's dodging tactics, with the hope that they would spill him with

their shots. A very dangerous game; so dangerous, that had this been the former setting, The Shadow would

But the ash cans, hidden in the dark, stopped enough of The Shadow's shots to give gunmen the depths of the

alley beyond. Locating an ash can by his recollection of a plunk a bullet had given it, The Shadow used it for

his own entrenchment, ready then to mow down his foemen as they fled for the next street.

However, this alley, right next to Creff's apartment hotel, ended in a low wall with a very thick gate. Crooks

found the gate unlocked and were through it, slamming it, when The Shadow delivered a new hail.

The cloaked fighter lost very little time. The sound of smacking bullets informed him of the wall. He reached

it, scaled it from an ash can that the fugitives had overlooked. On the other side, he found a courtyard that

offered various outlets, including those through houses, or back through the hotel itself. Taking an openair

route to the adjacent avenue, The Shadow learned promptly that crooks must have gone another way.

He sped to the corner, where he could get a look at the front of the hotel; there he saw Moe crawling from his

cab to help the driver of the other vehicle. People were coming from the hotel building, but they acted as if

Moe and the other cabby were getting help; they would be able to tell their stories unmolested. The thing to

do was cut off the fugitive crooks. Dodging in and out of courtyards wasn't much of a policy.

The Shadow preferred something better, and found it in the shape of a cab that was stopping at the avenue

ENTERING that pausing cab in his silent style, The Shadow threw a quick chill into the driver by means of a

whispered laugh. The cabby didn't argue; he went where The Shadow said. Nor did The Shadow worry about

the tale that this newcomer might later tell. The police would figure well enough that The Shadow had again

What The Shadow wanted to do was outrun them, so he gave his new cabby an address close to the

Fortyone Club. In taking this cab, The Shadow did more than furnish himself with transportation; he

As he rode along, The Shadow laughed again, this time restraining his whisper rather than worry a cabby who

The Shadow hadn't forgotten Cue Herble's last admonition to two gunners named Gaffey and Wingo, the pair

who had tracked Alan to Trope's. They were to report back to Cue, in by the private route, as soon as they

finished their assignment. Having personally finished the assignment of the two crooks who tried to crash

Moe's cab with theirs, The Shadow intended to keep a date with Cue; one that the nightclub owner didn't

There'd be a surprise in store for Gaffey and Wingo, if they showed up feeling tough. A surprise in the person

CLYDE and Margo were watching the floor show at the Fortyone Club when Robling, Suttern and Creff

arrived. More correctly, Margo was watching it, for she was fascinated by the rumba as rendered by Kay

Lorley. That tabletotable routine had become automatic with Kay, for Margo could tell that the blond

Kay was looking for Alan, to see if he'd arrived from Trope's. Alan hadn't, and Kay appeared relieved. Margo

understood, for she'd made real friends with Kay this evening. The other girl had confided how anxious she

was to end her present career. Thinking of Alan in future terms, Kay was therefore anxious to disconnect him

with her performances at the Fortyone Club, which she was trying to regard as something of the past.

As for Clyde, it wasn't that he had watched Kay dance so often that he could ignore her turn. Contrarily, he

He probably would have missed seeing Robling, if the fellow had entered the night club alone, because

Robling always headed straight for the bar, dancers or no dancers. But portly James Suttern, and even casual

Walter Creff, couldn't help stopping to look at Kay Lorley. They stayed right where they were until her dance

By then, Clyde had come to the conclusion that these two must be others of the Framingham heirs. He

recognized Creff, but hadn't supposed that the financial writer was one of the privileged few who were to

split the huge estate. The point not only intrigued Clyde; it gave him a chance to look into matters.

"I'm going over to the bar," Clyde told Margo. "If Alan shows up, keep him here. He's probably waiting at his

hotel until after the floor show, because he doesn't want to throw Kay off her stride or have another runin

Both points sounded logical to Margo, particularly the latter, for she saw Cue on the other side of the floor

looking around at the tables and noting customers. It could be that Cue had Alan very much in mind.

Outside the Fortyone Club, Lamont Cranston was stopping to speak to the new doorman. Jericho shook his

head when Cranston inquired if Miss Lane happened to be in the night club. He hadn't been here long enough

Of course, that was just a coverup for the benefit of persons who were lounging near. Cranston knew well

enough that Margo was inside. He just wanted a pretext to inquire for Cue Herble. Again Jericho shook his

"Mr. Herble isn't in his office," stated Jericho. "I'm sure of that, sir, because he hasn't rung for me." The big

African nudged toward an indicator box inside the door. "Mr. Herble sure likes to keep me hopping with that

bell! Guess it's on account of I'm new here. So he can't be in his office. Guess he's out looking at the floor

"Cue always likes to watch Kay Lorley," he recalled. "But she ought to be off the floor by this time."

"Looking over a new act, too, Mr. Herble is," informed Jericho. "Number three spot on the bill. Maybe you'll

Jericho started to open the door, but Cranston decided not to enter. Instead, he undertoned:

At that moment, Jericho bowed to arriving customers and gestured them toward the door. His hamsized

hand spread its immense fingers twice, announcing that Cranston would have at least ten minutes for the

STROLLING along the street, Cranston paused at a convenient spot to light a cigarette. He was bothered by

Things happened to that coat, as Cranston adjusted it. The thing transformed into a cloak, and from its folds

came a slouch hat. Black garments actually swallowed Cranston, and they in turn were engulfed, their wearer

Going past the stage door, The Shadow caught a glimpse of Kay Lorley in her spangled twopiece costume

as she turned the corner to her dressing room. Continuing farther, he reached a darkened basement entry that

From then on, The Shadow did not hurry. Very deliberately, he probed a large locker in the basement, found

the secret catch that opened its back, and stepped through to a little spiral stairway that led up to Cue's office.

The Shadow was quite sure that the opening of the hidden door must have buzzed a signal to Cue's office, but

Using his tiny flashlight, The Shadow threw a white beam on the steps and noiselessly ascended them. At the

end of a short passage he came to the narrow barrier that could only be the rear of Cue's trick filing cabinet.

So far, The Shadow had spent comparatively few moments. He merely hoped that Gaffey and Wingo

wouldn't be long in getting here. The Shadow wanted to be a committee of one to receive them, but he

couldn't wait beyond the tenminute limit. In that case, he'd have to let Cue become the oneman reception

Much could happen, though, within ten minutes, particularly when The Shadow prepared a surprise. It would

be the easiest thing in the world for The Shadow to turn Cue's office into a trap that would snag such gentry

Stepping into Cue's office, The Shadow found it lighted as Cue usually left it. All he needed was a hiding

place. He saw one around the corner of a filing cabinet. There was another opposite it, behind a screen that

hid a washstand. Both were very close at hand, on the near side of Cue's desk, which was why The Shadow

There was darkness, plenty of it, over by the office door. There, amid the music that floated in from the night

club, The Shadow could lurk and watch for Gaffey and Wingo while he listened for any sounds of Cue's

To reach the door, The Shadow had to pass Cue's desk. He took just three steps in that direction, steps that

carried him openly into the light. Three paces were enough for things to happen behind his back. Things that

A pair of huskies hurled themselves from hiding. Thugs who operated in Central Park or city alleys would

naturally prefer cover, but in a place like Cue's office it was different. Particularly to types like Gaffey and

They were here ahead of The Shadow, those two, and they'd taken the very hiding places that he passed by.

Gaffey lunged from the space beyond the filing cabinet; Wingo overturned the screen in the drive that he

launched. But neither lost a moment in attacking The Shadow, whose arrival had proclaimed itself by the

LIKE a meteor hurling in from outer space, The Shadow spun about. He was whipping out a gun, making one

of those famous, long crosssweeps that would have hammered an aiming revolver from any hand that

But Gaffey and Wingo weren't aiming to shoot. Their gun hands were driving downward hard.

Even The Shadow's dodge couldn't stay those blows. Two men weren't enough to snare him, but his

opponents had a silent partner in the shape of Cue's desk. It stopped The Shadow's fadeaway, and he didn't

The cloaked fighter reeled under the force of harddealt blows. He managed to parry with one hand while he

clutched the desk edge with the other, but his opponents pressed him fiercely. The Shadow glimpsed two

He made a quick turn that almost took him clear, but in his swirl he tangled with the desk chair. Blows rained

Gripping the desk edge, The Shadow's hand slid along it, as he fought to even the unequal struggle. Almost

on the verge of turning the tide, he squeezed a tighter grip against the desk. Then, with blows smashing

His gun thumped the floor, dropping from the fist that held it. The hand that clutched the desk edge lost its

hold. Doubled into an inert mass, The Shadow, world's most formidable fighter, was motionless at the feet of

So complete was his collapse, that Gaffey and Wingo found themselves slugging empty air. Stumbling over

the blackness that blotted the floor between them, they recognized that it must be The Shadow. Pouncing

hard, they clutched their prey, only to stay their hands when The Shadow failed to move.

Those two toughened fighters who served Cue Herble as an outside crew, looked at each other and grinned.

OUTSIDE Cue's office, music was wafting softly through the Fortyone Club, barely drowning the clink of

glasses, chatter of conversation, and flurries of applause. The acrobats were finishing their number, to the

Over by the far wall, Cue was wishing that the act would get off the floor. He was anxious to view the next

Always with an eye to the future, Cue wanted an attraction to rival Kay Lorley, on the mistaken assumption

that she would renew her contract under such pressure. If he'd known how long the acrobats were going to

linger for the applause, he'd have gone back to his office for the unsigned contract form and taken it to Kay's

But Cue hadn't gone to his office, hence he was quite ignorant of what had just happened there; how his

sluggers, Gaffey and Wingo, had overcome that most formidable of foes, The Shadow.

Over at the bar, Mark Robling and James Suttern were clinking glasses to mark the beginning of their Tom

Walter Creff wasn't drinking with them. He was standing at Robling's elbow, scrawling a brief note on a slip

of paper that he had taken from his pocket. Folding the note, Creff gave it to an attendant and told him where

Clyde Burke watched that process. He saw the attendant sidle past the floor and go toward the dressing

rooms. When Clyde looked back at Creff, he noticed the gleam in the fellow's wise eye, his tightlipped

Robling placed his empty glass on the bar, used his elbow to nudge Creff while calling for another drink,

which Tom the barkeeper promptly supplied. Suttern wanted another drink, too; like Robling, he was arguing

that Creff ought to join them. But Creff didn't even look at Robling's face, nor at Suttern's.

"Perhaps later, gentlemen," said Creff. His hands were toying with his fountain pen as he closed it. "Have

your drinks" he pushed Robling's glass toward its owner "so you will be a few up on me. You chaps are

Clyde was working back to Margo's table, to tell her his definite suspicion that Creff was seeking an

interview with Kay, thus adding another factor to the situation involving the Framingham heirs.

Clyde saw that Margo was watching Cue Herble; thus the circle was complete. Everyone in any way involved

THAT secluded room was now the scene of a dramatic climax. Crouched above the huddled form of The

Shadow, two men were staring at each other in the fashion of prospectors who had happened on a gold strike

"Maybe we ought to croak the guy," suggested Gaffey. "That would settle it for once and all."

"Settle what?" demanded Wingo. "The Shadow croaked would be just another stiff. We'd be in for a rap, with

"Yeah, but we need to hear their offers first. I'd say to lug the guy out of here and keep him somewhere on

"We'll do enough of a favor for Cue by getting The Shadow out of here," Wingo retorted. "So let's hop to it.

But we're doing two thing's first. We're making sure he isn't waking up, and we're finding out who he really

The two things went together, though Wingo had stated them in reverse. It was better to find out who The

Shadow was, first, because that meant removing his hat, which would lay his head bare for a neat tap from a

These captors were smart; they hadn't overlooked the fact that The Shadow might have recuperated

But they didn't realize how far The Shadow's revival had progressed; nor that Wingo's trifling flaw in the way

of handling the prisoner would provide the vital seconds that The Shadow still required.

Gun in left hand, Wingo was actually starting to slug The Shadow, when Gaffey stopped him. Halting

Wingo's wrist with one hand, Gaffey reached toward The Shadow with the other. Chuckling, he announced:

Up from the huddled blackness on the floor came two gloved hands that clamped with viselike power. Two

hands that gripped three. With one fist, The Shadow gripped Gaffey's free hand; he planted the other on

There lay the allimportant situation to keep Wingo's gun out of it, something which The Shadow did.

Three hands writhed altogether, and The Shadow's showed skill as well as power. Like a blacksnake twisting

a rodent in its coils, the gloved fist massaged those hands and wrists in a style that twisted them together.

Gaffey, thinking he had clutched The Shadow in turn, put pressure on Wingo's hand instead. Endeavoring to

get the gun muzzle around so he could blast The Shadow, Wingo received a twofold wrist wrench that made

All the while, The Shadow was yanking at Gaffey's other arm, hauling him across in front of Wingo, who

therefore couldn't get his free hand into action from behind Gaffey's shoulder. With the gun gone, crooks

were cognizant of their increasing plight. Only one hand remained to them Wingo's left and while it

couldn't act, The Shadow was showing a further return of strength. Indeed, from his hidden lips those lips

of a face that his foemen had failed even to see came a whispered laugh, presaging a triumph wherein The

IT was Gaffey who was struck by inspiration, while he and Wingo writhed in the deadly clutches of The

Shadow. Gaffey could feel Wingo's left hand poking at his elbow, trying to work through, though it would

still be useless if it did. Useless empty, but not if it held a gun. And a gun was very handy.

"In my right pocket, Wingo!" panted Gaffey. "Get the gun there... blast The Shadow "

Wingo's hand, starting to that task, stopped as jerkily as Gaffey's voice. The Shadow was a jump ahead of

them; no matter what the risk, he had to keep Wingo from getting Gaffey's gun. Shoving with his shoulders,

A moment later, all three were rocking like a seesaw, The Shadow pitting his weight against the combined

To and fro they swayed, hands wrenching free at last, only to be clamped again in a wild, slaphappy melee.

The Shadow gave a final heave that should have thrown his opponents back, but the desk stopped them and

they took a rebound. Their return drive flattened The Shadow, and in their elation, crooks forgot their guns to

So did The Shadow's. He laid one hand to Gaffey's neck, the other to Wingo's. Madly, each raised a hand to

wrench away The Shadow's clutch, but couldn't. However, they were throttling him, too, and their grip went

double. Added to that, their free hands were managing at least to relieve their own torture.

Gargles came from halfchoked throats. But there were no sounds whatever from The Shadow's. His breath

was cut off fully. Thugs had only to maintain this status and they'd soon wear down their foe.

Knowing it, The Shadow unleashed a final effort. He became a mongoose attacking two cobras at once. His

fingers dug into those necks above him, swinging heads from side to side. He was trying to drive one head

Glaring faces were working downward toward The Shadow, to meet him eye to eye, at the same time

One forearm, then the other. The Shadow was working them like pistons, but each push was weaker than the

one before, Under clamping hands, The Shadow's own head went back suddenly and thumped the floor. His

arms gave; then stiffened for a last weak shove that could only be likened to a dying gasp.

The Shadow's fists went so tight that they seemed to encircle the necks they held. His arms drove upward as

though great springs had hurled them from the floor. He was coming, like a mass from a volcano, lifting two

foemen completely off their feet as he reached his own. Then, in tune with that titanic thrust, The Shadow

His hands went apart, then slapped together. Two wagging heads cracked squarely as they flapped. Hands left

The Shadow's throat and fell, their owners with them. Right to The Shadow's feet went Gaffey and Wingo.

Most incredible of all, The Shadow began to follow them, and his hands slipped from their throats. The

cloaked fighter was coiling as though there wasn't an ounce of strength left in him.

There hadn't been, from the time when he began his upward spring. His feeble shove was indeed the last

Other hands had supplied the added effort, about ninetynine percent of the total. Big hands like hams, that

now caught The Shadow and kept him on his feet. The hands of Jericho, the giant doorman!

"Right glad I could help you, chief," spoke Jericho, with a grin. "You had right hold of 'em. All you needed

was to tighten up and bang those heads together. So I just took hold, too, from right behind 'em, with that

Turning his head, Jericho rolled his eyes toward the desk and saw the corner that The Shadow had been

clutching when he relaxed so crooks could no longer slug him. There, Jericho saw a button under the desk

"Right smart, chief," the doorman added, "giving the buzz for old Jericho. I was helping folks out from a cab

or I'd have looked at the box sooner. When I saw it, I knew it couldn't be Mr. Cue that was calling, so I came

No longer supporting The Shadow, Jericho expected to hear his chief's whispered laugh of approval, but no

mirth came. Turning, Jericho blinked at blackness. He thought The Shadow had made a disappearance,

leaving him the task of removing Gaffey and Wingo. So Jericho looked to the floor, to stare again at huddled

Then, for the first time, did Jericho realize that his chief had been completely out. It was Jericho's own might

that had brought The Shadow driving up from the floor, hauled by the clutches of Gaffey and Wingo. But

Very smart, to have installed his giant agent, Jericho, as the new doorman at the Fortyone Club!

THE mournful contralto of the blue's singer was penetrating to Cue's office, and its saddened note was not

lost upon Jericho. Beneath the upward tilt of the visor of his cap, Jericho's forehead showed a glisten. His

handling of Gaffey and Wingo hadn't caused him to perspire. Jericho's nerves he had them! were working

heavily. The giant feared that he hadn't brought rescue soon enough to save The Shadow.

He was glad, Jericho was, to learn that he was wrong. As he stopped and lifted the crumpled blackcloaked

form, Jericho heard the whisper that had failed to sound before. Very faint, it was, yet audible.

There was a nod in answer to Jericho's ardent query, so the big doorman put other questions.

The Shadow was slumping slightly. As Jericho took him in a firmer grip, The Shadow shook his head. Rather

"What'll I do with 'em? Leave em lay where they are, for Mr. Cue to find and worry about?"

Those questions settled, the rest was easy for Jericho. He started The Shadow toward the door leading to the

nightclub proper. He noticed how his chief's steps dragged, so Jericho provided some helpful lifts, not

The cloaked warrior had recuperated only long enough to whisper his recognition of Jericho; then his senses

Naturally, The Shadow nodded, for his head was dropping every time Jericho tried to steady him. When he'd

slumped, The Shadow tilted slightly; hence his head had wagged in answer to one query, only to nod again

Of course, Jericho took it that his chief was all right again, but probably not talking because his throat hurt

him. So they continued their odd parade, Jericho and The Shadow, after they left Cue's office.

The blues singer was taking her bows to a great round of applause; hence she held the entire spotlight. Cue

Herble, hoping that the blues would be transferred to Kay when she heard that ovation in her dressing room,

was too occupied to see the blue of Jericho's uniform as it emerged from the office and followed the side wall

Even the waiters didn't notice Jericho; but if they had, it wouldn't have mattered, as he had various reasons

for going to and from Cue's office. The only thing that might have mattered would have been someone seeing

Jericho was keeping him toward the wall, and the cloaked figure was totally obscured in the darkness cast by

Jericho's own bulk. Near the street door, however, Jericho paused, remembering something else he thought

Steadying The Shadow with one hand, Jericho used the other to pluck away the hat and cloak. Rolling those

garments into a bundle, he poked them beneath the ample front of his blue uniform.

During the lull in the applause, Jericho heard The Shadow's whisper. New handclapping drowned it, as the

singer came back for an encore; hence Jericho didn't notice the weakness of The Shadow's mirth.

A few steps toward the door and Jericho made an aboutface. He spoke to two waiters and tilted The Shadow

into their supporting grasp, a thing that didn't surprise them, since The Shadow was no longer his cloaked

self. He was Lamont Cranston, in the evening attire that made guests welcome at the Fortyone Club.

True, the waiters thought that Cranston was drunk, but the doorman was giving him a ticket through, and

rules had been relaxed after the episode involving Alan. When Jericho pointed out Margo's table, the waiters

took Cranston there. He was out of their grasp when he arrived, but he was stumbling badly.

His hands encountering a chair back, Cranston grasped it. Then, with a last stagger, he settled into the chair

itself. That last stagger, the slump that followed it, were not noticed by Clyde and Margo. Facing the floor,

they were looking at the singer, but at the same time they were engrossed in something else. They were

BACKSTAGE, Kay wasn't green with envy at the blues. Instead, her color had reddened because of Creff's

Couched in witty terms, the brief note suggested that Kay meet Creff because they were two who had much

in common. Between those lines, Kay read the fact that Creff had guessed her secret and knew she was a

Since he was coming in for half a million, Creff wouldn't demand cash for silence. That point actually

worried Kay, because she'd heard of Creff by reputation and knew he'd been a real wolf in his time. If he

happened to be putting himself back in circulation, Kay wished he'd go somewhere else. Then the thought

One death among six heirs had increased the proportion due to all. If others were in some way eliminated,

remaining shares would continue to rise. Maybe Creff hoped to talk Kay out of her share by hook or crook.

The very term made Kay think of murder. Maybe crooks had meant to kill Alan the other night. Possibly

Creff was behind it; perhaps, through some fantastic system, he intended to eliminate all other heirs one by

So incredible was the idea, that Kay suddenly laughed. Next, she had an idea that would settle Creff.

Stepping to the door, Kay spoke through to the attendant who had brought the note:

As soon as the message was on its way, Kay stepped from her dressing room to an open door across the

corridor, where she greeted a pair of chorus girls with a smile. Though the girls liked Kay, they were really

amazed that she wasn't showing what they considered justifiable jealousy at the success of the new singer. So

"The Wolf of Wall Street is paying a call," informed Kay. "He knows so much about finance, that it would be

a shame to have him forget it. So watch for him, and speed him along before he knocks at my door."

"Tell him Cue just stepped in to talk about my contract," suggested Kay. "Say you'll be very glad to let us

know he's here. Make it sound as though you'd love to see what happens next. When he decides that he'd

Returning to the dressing room, Kay locked the door. Discarding gown and costume, she began to dress

hurriedly. She wasn't worrying any longer about Creff. What did bother her was the thought that Cue might

come back to talk about the contract, and if he did, it would delay Kay's meeting with Alan somewhere else.

Cue Herble was on his way to his office to pick up the contract. Passing a table, he nodded toward Clyde and

Margo, who noticed it and wondered, until they turned. For the first time, they saw Cranston, who was

turning his head after Cue as the latter waved back. But Cue failed to notice what Clyde and Margo observed.

Cranston was slumping sideways in his chair, which was why his head turned around. Clyde caught him and

pushed him back to Margo, who exclaimed: "Lamont!" The name brought a flicker from Cranston's eyes and

produced a slight smile on his lips. Margo picked up a glass of water and gave him a drink of it. Raising one

"Keep working on him, Margo," spoke Clyde. "This looks like Alan's case all over again only worse! I'm

LOOKING toward the bar, Clyde noticed for the first time that Creff had left. With a quick glance over the

room, he saw the man in question, spotting him as he went through the doorway that led backstage. Clyde

sidetoned to Margo that Creff had evidently received an answer to the note that he sent Kay; that, at least,

Clyde was leaving that up to Margo, as soon as she found that Cranston was better. Deciding that his own job

The two Tom Collins fiends were lifting their glasses anew as Clyde neared them. Again there was a clink,

What happened next was like a figment from a dream. The trifling nudge of Suttern's glass produced a

powerful effect on Robling. Astonishment registering on his beefy face, he recoiled as though a

batteringram had struck him. He grabbed at the bar, caught its edge as he twirled from his chair. His glass

was wavering in his hand, and it finally dropped, smashing the way Menlo's had on another such occasion.

Horror replaced astonishment as Robling staggered. That stagger was his last. With a long lurch, Robling

came Clyde's way, but landed before the reporter could spring to catch him. As he struck the floor, Robling

writhed, and the contortion carried him over on his back, where he lay with features quite as frozen as

Mark Robling was dead, struck down by the same unseen hand that had earlier plucked a victim from the

IT was death despite The Shadow! Whether or not the cloaked investigator could, or should, have prevented

it, was still a riddle. Maybe Robling had died a "natural" death, like Menlo. Maybe this was just coincidence,

Of course, there was a certain thing known as the "power of suggestion," that might have had a hand in it. But

The Shadow wasn't in a mood to think about such things. He wasn't in a mood to think about much of

Lamont Cranston, erstwhile The Shadow, still wasn't over the effects of his recent battle. He was nodding

intelligently enough when Margo Lane kept shaking him, but talk of people staggering and landing on the

Cranston kept wondering why Margo was so constantly referring to his own recent experience, and he was

actually puzzled because she knew about it. Not once did he look the direction that Margo pointed, over

This was one of those times when The Shadow's agents had to take over for their chief. Clyde was handling

matters at the bar. Jericho was on the door, and that left Margo free for something else a thing that riveted

It was the matter of Walter Creff and Kay Lorley. If Robling's death was murder, Creff might be the killer!

With a second heir eliminated, Creff might even now be disposing of a third: namely, Kay!

Tossing the rest of the water in Cranston's face, on the chance that it would really bring him back to himself,

or, better still, The Shadow, Margo sprang from the table, raced across the floor to the doorway leading

Her dash went unnoticed because all attention was toward the bar. History was repeating itself, as on the

night when Menlo died, except that the personnel of the Fortyone Club was handling itself more capably,

now that they were used to having patrons drop dead at the finish of the floor show.

Backstage, Margo pounded at Kay's door. Maybe her punches had the feminine touch, for Kay promptly

opened the door, and stared with surprise at the excitement with which Margo entered.

Kay had classed Margo as a very unexcitable person; still, the Fortyone Club was enough to drive anyone

berserk. So Kay merely went on fastening the bellsleeves of her dress, meanwhile turning around and asking

For answer, Margo grabbed the mink coat from the closet, flung it over Kay's shoulders, and rushed the

They were passing another dressing room before Kay could even catch her breath. Coming from that room

they heard the dreary contralto voice of the blues lady, telling a group of chorines how her songs had

"knocked them dead" out front. Margo caught that gag line and commented on it as she sped Kay out through

"Maybe she did knock somebody dead," voiced Margo. "That's as good an explanation as any. It's the same

"A death like Menlo's. But this time, it's Robling! He just dropped dead the way Menlo did."

"Right at the bar!" completed Margo. "This time with Suttern looking on. But I don't think that Suttern did it,

Margo was looking for a cab, hoping that Moe's would be around; but it wasn't. Nor would it be for some

time, considering the bashing that it had recently undergone. But a cab was coming into sight, so Margo

flagged it while Kay was exclaiming how Creff had come backstage, only to be sent along his way by the

Then Margo and Kay were in the cab, off to Alan Haverdale's hotel to tell him the news of Robling's death.

ANOTHER gentleman still lacked that news: Cue Herble. In his office, Cue was finding plenty to keep him

occupied without looking for Kay's contract. Having found Gaffey and Wingo sprawled all over the floor,

Cue was encountering more trouble reviving them than Margo had with Cranston, even though Cue was

He was pouring some of his best brandy down their throats, forgetting the cost of the stuff in his anxiety to

learn why his two strongarm operatives had wound up like a pair of Kilkenny cats.

Gaffey was the first to wake up, but he was so slow in finding his voice, that Wingo revived and overtook

Cue looked to Gaffey for corroboration. Gaffey gulped, too, but not in words. He took the brandy bottle from

"It was him, all right," declared Gaffey. "The Shadow! In here! We konked him, Wingo and me, but it didn't

do no good. He took us right by the throats, heaved us half way up to the ceiling and banged our domes

"Yeah," agreed Wingo. "Ever see a bowling ball go rolling back down the return track and bump another?

Deciding suddenly that Gaffey and Wingo were trying to cover a quarrel between themselves, Cue turned

scoffingly, only to stop short. On the floor, where it had lain hidden under one of the sprawled thugs, was the

evidence that backed their yarn a .45 automatic, the sort of weapon that The Shadow carried.

Cue knew that Gaffey and Wingo preferred revolvers of .38 caliber. Picking up The Shadow's gun, Cue

juggled it while he studied his woozy henchmen. Before Cue could express a new opinion there was a

banging at the door, accompanied by loud, excited voices of the toughs who worked within the night club.

"Something's gone haywire around here!" asserted Cue savagely. "I don't want you mugs to be in it. So scram

out by the usual route. And say" he added the afterthought while the pair were wabbling toward the filing

Seeing Gaffey and Wingo through the secret exit, Cue started toward the door, carrying The Shadow's gun.

Remembering that trouble might bring the police, and that they'd objected to guns on their previous visit, Cue

Opening the door, Cue asked what the trouble was about. When he heard, his jaw dropped. He glanced

askance at the worried faces of the bouncers, as though they might have had a hand in Robling's death. Then,

"Keep your lips stiff," Cue told them. "I'll handle this. I know the right gent to talk to first. He's still here, I

The "right" gentleman was present at the very table where Cue had seen him last. Lamont Cranston looked

quite himself when Cue Herble approached, though he was actually trying to shake off the cobwebs that still

seemed to press his face, even after he had mopped away the water with which Margo had spattered him.

"Hello, Mr. Cranston," spoke Cue politely. "Listen: remember how you saw me going to my office a little

Cranston nodded to the first query, shook his head in response to the second. He didn't remember seeing Cue,

nor was he sure that nothing had happened at that time. But he could tell that Cue was very earnest, so he

"All right, then," Cue declared. "I'd like you to do me a favor, Mr. Cranston. Come with me and take a look at

the dead guy over by the bar. When Inspector Cardona, gets here, you'll be able to square me with the law."

As Cranston found his feet, his mind cleared. He walked unsteadily, but Cue didn't notice it because they

were working their way among the tables and Cranston found plenty of opportunities to keep himself from

When they reached the spot where Robling lay, Cranston gripped Clyde and drew him aside, thus steadying

himself further, and at the same time getting Clyde's full version of how another death had happened.

ABOUT that time, Alan Haverdale was meeting two very tense girls in the lobby of his hotel. He gestured

them to chairs in a secluded corner, and suggested they tell him what had happened.

When Margo told of Robling's death, Alan's face assumed an expression that Kay mistook for a scowl. She

attributed it to the mink coat, and let the fur garment slide back from her shoulders. Probably Alan so hated

anything that reminded him of a certain Miss Framingham, that he'd believe her responsible even for murder.

But that wasn't it. Alan's expression was merely one of concentration, and his forehead was still furrowed

"At least, I'm not the mystery man tonight," asserted Alan. "I didn't go to the Fortyone Club." He paused,

"You did right in getting out," continued Alan, speaking to Kay. "Since Margo was with you in the dressing

"It's all right, Alan," put in Margo, not guessing why Kay paused. "There was a mystery man, who may be in

a fix. Unless they were as puzzled as they were in your case. While Robling and Suttern were still having

Margo halted as suddenly as she had begun. In biting her words off, she did the worst thing possible. Alan

linked the answer instantly and swung to Kay. Only for a moment did Kay hesitate. Then:

"Creff sent me a note," she declared steadily. "It is still on the dressing table, under my makeup kit. He

wanted to see me, and I thought the best way to get rid of him was to ask him back."

There was a bit of defiance in Kay's tone, but Alan didn't sense it. He was very calm, displaying a patience

that Margo admired, but she reserved decision until she should hear what he had to say. For the present, Alan

"But I didn't see Creff," Kay added. "I asked the girls to tell him that I was busy signing Cue's new contract,

though I was really alone at the time. They must have told him, because he didn't even knock at my door, so,

Kay's last sentence broke because Alan had turned to pick up his hat and coat. But it wasn't because he

doubted Kay's story. His next action proved his trust in Kay, and fulfilled Margo's expectations of his merit.

"I'm going out to find a rat named Creff!" asserted Alan. "After I've tracked him to the hole where he

Those words brought a happy gasp from Kay, but they had a different ring to Margo's ears. Though they were

much to Alan's credit, they promised complications of a very serious sort. This wasn't any time for further

feuds between the Framingham heirs, but before Margo could shout that fact at Alan, he was gone. So it was

"We'll have to stop him, Kay!" expressed Margo. "Maybe you don't realize it, but he'll kill Creff if he finds

"On your account, stupid!" returned Margo. "He's crazy mad in love with you! If I can only find a telephone,

I'll see to it that you won't be paying visits to Sing Sing the rest of your life, blowing kisses once a week

through a bulletproof pane of glass, and saying, 'I love you' over a microphone! There's one person who can

snap your boyfriend out of his berserk mood. Someone that I'll have to talk to in a hurry!"

By that one person, Margo Lane meant her own friend Lamont Cranston, better known as The Shadow!

IT was well that Lamont Cranston had waited at the Fortyone Club, because that was the place where

Margo Lane expected to reach him. Offsetting that fact was another: namely, that there was no one in Cue's

Margo should have called Burbank, the contact man who was so ingenious in getting word through to The

Shadow, but she kept on calling the Fortyone Club because she felt sure that someone would soon answer.

Besides, Kay was crowding into the phone booth with Margo, and it wasn't wise to let Kay overhear a chat

At the Fortyone, Cranston, along with Cue, was receiving visiting delegates under the leadership of

It was odd, how differently Joe was treating the case tonight. He wanted to cry "Poison!" the moment he

looked at Robling's distorted face, but after his experience with the toxicologists, Cardona thought it would

There had been no poison traces in the remnants of Scotch and soda from Menlo's glass; nevertheless,

Cardona gathered what he could of Robling's last Tom Collins. As a matter of course, he had his detectives

Cranston saw Cue's smile and had a hunch what it was all about. Quite back to normal, Cranston was missing

"These natural deaths are getting kind of frequent," announced Cardona, at last. "Since I can't arrest any

suspects" Joe's tone carried a touch of sarcasm "I'll deal in material witnesses instead." He looked at

Suttern. "You first, because you were here with the vic " Cardona caught himself "with your friend

Suttern nodded, rather weakly. Joe didn't ask if anyone else had come with Robling or Suttern, so he didn't

get a reply along that score. Not even from Tom, the barkeep, who was keeping a tightlybuttoned lip,

knowing he would be the second "witness," a fact on which Cardona immediately informed him.

Remembering the scoffs that his mention of Alan had produced, Tom wasn't talking about tonight's mystery

All this was taking time. So much time, that Alan Haverdale was getting to the Fortyone Club faster than

Margo could phone the place. Arriving first at the stage door, Alan was told to move along by cops stationed

there, which prevented him from getting into Kay's dressing room to pick up Creff's note.

But Alan still was determined to enter the Fortyone Club. He had a hunch that in just such an upholstered

Around at the front entrance, Alan ran into a detective, who didn't want to pass him through. Alan appealed to

Jericho. He said the doorman knew him as a steady patron, which was flattery to Jericho, considering the

Jericho merely grinned and nodded, but offered no further help. However, when Alan added that he wanted to

Somewhat impressed, the detective asked if Alan happened to be working for the Classic, too. This time,

"Guess you can go in," the detective decided, after taking a close look at Alan. "I'll remember you."

Getting backstage proved impossible after Alan entered the night club, for suspiciouseyed waiters were

stationed all over the floor. Keeping out of sight, Alan suddenly found himself at the door of Cue's office.

Remembering what Kay had said about a contract, Alan decided to have a few words with Cue Herble. Those

So Alan stepped into the office, only to find Cue absent. The telephone was ringing steadily, and for a

moment Alan hesitated at the open door; then entered farther and closed it. Not finding Cue, he thought he

might find the contract itself. Stepping to the desk, he yanked the top drawer open.

Something better than a contract greeted him: The Shadow's big automatic. Without a moment's hesitation,

Alan snatched the weapon, shoved it into his hip pocket and left the office. He paused at the door only long

enough to make sure that no one had noticed him. Sauntering out, hands in trousers pockets, Alan kept his

"Burke's busy," he told the detective outside. "I'll see him later. Tell him I was here." He turned to Jericho.

BACK in the night club, an intervening corner had prevented Cranston from viewing Alan's entrance and

departure. That corner, however, couldn't cut off the ringing of the telephone bell, which The Shadow noted

No one else caught the sound; not even Cue. So Cranston slapped the nightclub owner on the back, told him

Cranston's first stop was at Cue's office. Inside, he picked up the telephone, spoke a calm hello, which

Then came a change. Margo's tone showed disappointment. There was someone else she had to call; someone

that Cranston did not know. She meant The Shadow, of course, and her bluff simply proved that somebody

In fact, Cranston could overhear Kay's impatient tone telling Margo to get through with that call and make

the important one; that Margo was wasting a lot of time expressing some of the troubles involving Alan to

Cranston, who couldn't possibly help. So when she had told enough, Margo quit abruptly.

The competent Mr. Cranston did three things at once. He replaced the telephone with one hand, whipped

open the desk drawer with the other, and used his knee to press the button at the corner of the desk.

Outside, Jericho saw the indicator box and told the detective that it was a summons from Cue Herble.

Rather amazed, Jericho nodded. Cranston kneed the desk drawer shut and gestured for hat and cloak. Jericho

As The Shadow, he made his exit through the filing cabinet without asking where Alan had gone something

that Jericho would have stated, had he known. The fact that Jericho didn't know, meant that Alan had cagily

At the corner of the rear street, The Shadow saw a cab and stepped into it. He gave the driver an electrifying

whisper, that produced a prompt start plus increasing speed. Still lacking Moe's cab, The Shadow had to use a

Calm talk couldn't produce the rapid service that The Shadow's weird whisper did. The unstated threat behind

that sinister tone made cabbies hurry to get rid of their ghostly passenger, in a fashion that wouldn't rouse his

wrath. Such fashion lay in taking him where he wanted to go at recordbreaking speed.

STILL on the hunt for Walter Creff; Alan Haverdale was retracing his own route of the evening. He was back

at Trope's, trying the front door. It was locked because the hour was late, and Alan hesitated at ringing the

bell. Instead, he hurried around back, tried the kitchen door, and found it open. Coming through the dim

kitchen, Alan heard the sound of voices. Pausing, he looked through into the dining room.

There sat old Elmer Trope, wrapped in an old flannel dressing gown and a nightcap on his head. He looked

very out of sorts, because he had come from his bed to receive an unwanted visitor. Tifton was standing by,

As for the visitor, he was just the man that Alan had hoped to find: Walter Creff.

"Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Trope," Creff was saying, blandly. "I thought you would be working late on the

"Since you're here, I shall talk to you," interposed Trope. He shivered slightly because the room was chilly;

Tifton brought the decanter first, and laid down the wine goblets while Trope was removing the glass stopper.

The old man's hands were shaking from the cold and the stopper dropped to the table. Trope was relieved

"Mr. Framingham prized this decanter," stated Trope. "Almost as much as the sherry, I would say. Ah! I

forgot, Mr. Creff. You say you went with Robling and Suttern. If you have been drinking their concoctions "

"I haven't," interrupted Creff. "I've taken nothing that wouldn't mix with sherry."

Obligingly, Trope poured a glass of wine for Creff and another for himself. As they raised their glasses,

Accepting the toast, Creff took a long drink of sherry. Laying down his glass, he asked deliberately:

"Speaking of Framinghams, why wasn't a certain Miss Framingham here this evening?"

Alan saw Trope's lips tighten. Evidently the old man knew of Kay's double identity and was one person who

could faithfully preserve the secret. The commendation that Alan felt toward Trope only increased his

bitterness toward Creff. Deep in his pocket, Alan felt the handle of The Shadow's gun, and gripped it.

"I am not at liberty to state," replied Trope. "Kindly do not question me further on that subject."

"Anything like she was in an old photo I once saw?" persisted Creff. "Where old Framingham had some of

"I do not like the term 'old' applied to Mr. Framingham," returned Trope crisply. "Moreover, I never saw the

"You lie," stormed Creff, coming to his feet. He raised a hand and sent Tifton back into a corner, as the

servant pushed toward him. "You know exactly who the Framingham girl is! So do I, and I'm here to say that

she won't shelve me! I saw a lot of her this evening, and she was nice to look at. Too nice to think she's too

IT didn't occur to Alan that Creff's case might be his own in reverse. Alan hadn't been quite fair to the stiff

Miss Framingham, and maybe it was Creff's privilege to hold a grudge against the pliant Kay Lorley. All

Alan wanted was to take a shot at Creff, and an ounce more provocation was all he needed.

Provocation arrived, though not on Kay's account. Trope was firmly on his feet, meeting Creff's ugly glare.

No longer did Trope's hand tremble; his whole pose had stiffened. His hand went to the decanter only to save

it from damage, for his only act was that of thrusting the glass stopper into the neck of the wine bottle.

Creff misunderstood. He thought Trope was taking the decanter as a bludgeon, so he beat the old man to the

Up came the decanter in Creff's fist. Trope made a quick side step from the table, while Tifton sprang to grab

Creff from behind. At the kitchen doorway, Alan leveled the automatic toward Creff, giving the gun a

A deluge of blackness overwhelmed Alan. He was spun like a human windmill in a long rear somersault, the

gun flying high from his hand. The same hands that sent Alan on that spin continued their action, one

grabbing the doorway to end its owner's lunge, while the other plucked the falling automatic from the air.

Over his cloaked shoulder, The Shadow viewed the diningroom scene. Creff was hardly visible, for both

Trope and Tifton had already shoved in front of him. As The Shadow had gripped his reclaimed automatic, so

was Trope catching the precious decanter, its crystal stopper still in place, while Tifton was persuading Creff

Creff's face bobbed into sight, somewhat abashed, when he saw that old Trope was merely turning to replace

Across the kitchen, The Shadow brought Alan to his feet and started him out through the back door. His own

anger cooled, Alan recognized his cloaked friend and moved toward the waiting cab to which The Shadow

pointed. Silently closing the back door of Trope's house, The Shadow turned against its darkness.

He saw two men sneaking forward in the gloom, almost at Alan's side. The Shadow gave a low, shuddery

They turned, but not in The Shadow's direction. They were yards away, in mad flight, before they jabbed a

couple of wild shots back at the house. The Shadow's return fire must have sizzled right between them, for

By then, The Shadow was shoving Alan into the cab and telling its scared driver to get started. He wasn't

concerned with chasing Gaffey and Wingo. He'd find them again soon enough whenever he wished. Again,

There was satisfaction in The Shadow's laugh. His hand had acted against death, and had won. Huddled in his

corner, Alan felt ill at ease because of his foolhardy mission. If The Shadow hadn't stopped him, he'd

probably have let fly, hit or miss, with all the bullets in the borrowed automatic.

Oddly, it was The Shadow who should have felt regret. In stopping Alan's hand, the cloaked fighter had

THE New York Classic was a very scurvy sheet, that printed a lot of news it shouldn't. Clyde Burke regretted

his connection with the journal, but felt that the whole thing balanced. By working for the Classic, he could

serve The Shadow more efficiently. Hence Clyde was willing to write the news his editor wanted.

This time, the Classic scored a scoop in a very ingenious way. The idea came from the city editor, though

With Robling's death, Inspector Cardona hadn't raised the cry of poison, as he had in the Menlo case.

Nevertheless, the toxicologists were on the job again, making laboratory tests in connection with the autopsy.

The story itself was artful, as Clyde's usually were. It started by pitching the burden right on the police, who

had classed Menlo's death a poison case at the time of its occurrence. The medical examiner's verdict of acute

indigestion wasn't necessarily final. Any mystery concerning a poison might apply to the poison used.

Though lightning seldom struck in the same place twice, poison could. So the mere holding of an autopsy in

the Robling case was sufficient for the Classic to cut loose with its theory, that used the very words uttered by

A virulent poison of a certain acid group was the logical answer to Robling's death, according to the Classic.

Not that the Classic would even think of suggesting the names of poisons in that category. That wouldn't be

When Clyde stopped at the laboratory where the toxicologists were making their final tests, he expected to

find himself unwanted. On the contrary, he was admitted by Inspector Cardona himself, and he even received

a nod from Commissioner Weston. The only person who looked at all grieved was Lamont Cranston.

"Regarding Robling's death last night," Cardona told Clyde, "we want to show you just how wrong you are.

"Maybe these will help." Cardona supplied two sheets. One was an analysis of Robling's drink; the other

pertained to the blood test. "No poison of the acid group, A3. The blood doesn't show any acid traces, and

"There's the telephone, news hound! Call your office and let's hear what they say about it!"

Clyde made the call. When he had finished, he shook his head and turned to Cardona.

"What are they going to do," demanded the inspector, happily. "Print a retraction?"

"The story the Classic is going to run," Clyde explained. "They were holding the presses for it. It says your

experts are still baffled by the untraceable poison responsible for two deaths. Somebody has found the perfect

Fortunately, Cranston was there to prevent another murder, or something close to it, for Cardona went after

Clyde in homicidal fashion. The commissioner's presence didn't matter, for Cardona was quicker than

Weston, who lunged at Clyde with the same idea. Overtaking both, Cranston managed to restrain them until

OTHER newspapers called it "coincidental death," and took the verdict of heart failure in Robling's case. To

help the cause, Commissioner Weston ordered Inspector Cardona to dig up all the past facts he could about

Menlo and Robling. Matters of recent illness, overindulgence in drink all those would count.

So Cardona found himself in the rather unique position of trying to prove that there couldn't be a murderer

behind two deaths so sudden, so coincidental, and so involved with the question of wealth, that ordinarily the

Late that same afternoon, Cranston chatted with Weston in the latter's office. Even more than Cardona,

"Here are the facts on the Framingham estate," asserted Weston. "Elmer Trope, the executor, has absolutely

no interest in the wealth itself. His task is to divide it into equal portions. Six heirs to begin with; now, only

four. Should there be no heirs, Trope would still have nothing. The money would go to charity."

Cranston inquired if Weston had talked with the attorneys. The commissioner had, because it was they who

had provided the full information. Trope, as executor, was literally hemmed in by a cordon of lawyers who

"About the heirs " continued Weston. "Menlo and Robling were friends. Anyway, they're both friends, so

that let them out. Don't misunderstand me, Cranston" Weston's tone was testy "I'm in no way recognizing

that absurd story that the Classic printed. I'm merely analyzing the facts, just as the toxicologists did with the

"Suttern, the man who accompanied Robling last night," declared Weston, "went to the Fortyone Club at

Robling's persistent invitation. We have learned that Creff was with them for a while you've heard of

"I talked with Suttern and Creff, and it's so doubtful that either of them could have had a hand in Menlo's

death, that they couldn't logically fit into the Robling case. Both are very trustful of each other. Having dinner

"A young chap named Alan Haverdale" explained Weston, "and a girl, Catherine Framingham. I know very

Smiling over Weston's final sentence, Cranston left to meet the two heirs in question. He found them with

Clyde and Margo, and all four were awaiting Cranston's advice on an important question. They wanted to

"I RAN into something tough last night," declared Alan. "Some shooting out in back of Trope's. Somebody is

after me with something stronger than any imaginary poison! And Kay isn't finding it easy. Her contract at

"As for Creff, we figure he's going to put some of his half million into a new night club and make Kay star

"Why worry about people knowing who you are, Kay? My mother was an actress, before her first marriage.

"She was an actress," returned Kay sweetly. "That's just it: I'm not! I seem to belong to the demimonde."

"That's what they used to call cafe society," Margo explained to Alan. "In the days before straight laces gave

"And speaking of one's past," continued Kay, "you mentioned your father, Alan. After he died, your mother

married Landis Framingham. Did she tell him she'd been an actress before her first marriage?"

"No, she never mentioned it," he admitted. "I guess she'd forgotten her stage name, which was Marie

"Which is where mine belongs," assured Kay. "I'm going to forget it and take a new one Alan."

Margo knew the new name that Kay meant. It was going to be "Haverdale." Alan should have thought of that

himself, but he wasn't looking beyond the present evening. Turning abruptly to Cranston, Alan asked:

"Why don't you team along with Burke?" asked Cranston. "Trouble usually seems to be over, when he finds

"Margo will visit in her dressing room and look out for her. Cue won't talk contracts while Margo is around.

As for Creff, it happens that I'll be seeing him myself. I'm going to sample the curry at the restaurant where

With that verdict, as good as any that The Shadow could have supplied, Cranston left to keep his anonymous

appointment with Suttern and Creff. He found them at the Orient Cafe, an obscure but cozy little restaurant

Suttern and Creff were already eating when Cranston sat down at another table and gave the same order as

theirs. The only difference was that Cranston received his curry in a smaller chafing dish.

A good curry, it was, with a sauce of a dozen piquant spices. A trifling taste of chafing dish was noticeable

when one scraped the sides too closely, so Cranston didn't play the glutton, though Suttern and Creff did. He

was through dinner as soon as they were; as was usual at the Orient Cafe, Cranston remained to relax a while

Conversation was starting between Suttern and Creff; their opinions might prove helpful, particularly Creff's.

At least one thing was very helpful: the Orient Cafe, unlike the Fortyone Club, had none of the hectic

A strange thing, murder. Its roots were deep, its tendrils could stretch far. Even the keen brain of The Shadow

OVER his cigar, Walter Creff was chatting with James Suttern, who was having a Tom Collins rather than an

afterdinner smoke. Blowing a cloud of smoke toward the oak wall beside him, Creff looked around and

"Once in a while, he brought Trope with him," laughed Creff. "A real treat for Trope, but I guess his simple

soul didn't relish it. If he liked curries, he'd come here himself, now that he's on his own. But he prefers that

Reference to Trope's dinner brought a slight smile from Suttern. He ordered another Tom Collins.

"There used to be a picture here," continued Creff, gesturing his cigar toward the wall. "It showed some of

the Framingham family, including the very distant relatives. One person in the photograph was the Miss

"A goodlooking girl, as I remember. Reminded me a bit of that dancer we saw at the Fortyone Club. Yes, a

remarkable resemblance, considering that the child in the picture had pigtails and wore gingham, whereas the

"I don't remember," he said feebly. "I didn't even see her. I was ordering a drink with Robling."

Suttern's expression was becoming very flabby. Creff noticed it and asked what was the matter. He argued

that it couldn't be the curry; he'd eaten as much as Suttern. As for the Tom Collins, the drink was Suttern's

"I'm worried!" expressed Suttern suddenly. "Worried about this poison talk! You didn't have a man drop dead

right beside you, Creff. Suppose there is a mysterious untraceable poison of that acid group they talk about."

Suttern's hand clamped tightly on his glass. "What if somebody was killing us for our money?"

"Easy, Suttern!" spoke Creff, trying to restrain the contempt that showed in his tone. "I'm as likely a victim as

"Any man who would risk losing a half million would be a fool!" exclaimed Creff. "I don't feel any richer

than I did before Menlo and Robling died. It would mean risking something sure, to work for a larger cut by

A waiter came over to tell Creff that he was wanted on the telephone. Oddly, another waiter brought the same

news to Cranston. They went into adjoining phone booths to answer their respective calls.

Cranston's call was from Margo. She had a lot to say, so he took it in snatches while he listened to what Creff

"Who do you suppose was waiting in the dressing room when we arrived?" began Margo. "Old Tifton,

Trope's servant. He said that Mr. Trope was asking all the heirs to come to the house this evening. Tifton was

very sweet about Kay. He knew she might not want to meet the rest of them just yet.

"It worried Mr. Trope, of course, so Tifton suggested that Kay could come in through the kitchen and hear

everything that was said. Afterward, she could decide if she wanted to join the group. Of course, Creff will be

Cranston doubted it. He could hear Creff talking on the other phone to Trope. Creff was saying that he had an

article to finish. He was going to his apartment, but should his presence be absolutely needed, he would come

"The police commissioner?" finished Creff. "At your house already? All the more reason why I'd like to stay

"Alan just called," Margo was continuing in Cranston's other ear. "He's heard from Trope and is going up

there soon. So I guess that's about all, except that Shrevvy has his new cab out front. I'll have Kay use it, if

Creff had left his booth by the time Cranston's call had ended. Cranston promptly dialed his favorite habitat,

the Cobalt Club, and asked if there were any messages for him. There was one from Commissioner Weston,

an invitation for Cranston to meet him at Trope's. So Cranston sauntered idly from the phone booth. He

Still as Cranston, The Shadow started for Trope's in his limousine, which was waiting out front. Its rear seat

hid a similar cloak and hat to those in Moe's cab, but Cranston didn't reach for them. This routine call at

Trope's was one that he preferred to make in his present guise, since he had been invited there by his friend

A lulling excursion, this one. Lulling even to The Shadow. It was to prove a fateful trip, for tragedy was

riding ahead. Death's prelude, undetected by The Shadow, was to have a sudden climax at the end of this

THE tragic stroke began while Elmer Trope and his first visitor, Commissioner Weston, were finishing a

glass of the favorite sherry. Both heard the shriek of brakes out front and saw Tifton make a hurried dash to

Immediately afterward, an unseemly figure staggered through the hallway and into the dining room.

His bluff face totally distraught, the portly man was clawing at his collar, only to double over and clutch at

his stomach. His eyes were rolling, as he groaned, and it took the combined weight of Weston and Trope to

The cabby who had brought Suttern here was telling Tifton how the man had been stricken in the cab. But the

"In here, sir!" Tipton indicated the front parlor. "We can put Mr. Suttern on the couch."

Tipton was helping, so was the cabby. Another aid arrived, Inspector Cardona, who had just reached the

house when the excitement began. When Joe gruffed "What's wrong?" Suttern answered him.

"I've been poisoned!" gasped the stricken man. "Poisoned... at dinner with Creff... the same symptoms the

newspaper mentioned. Help me, quick!" He pulled a copy of the Classic from his pocket and waved the

Shouting for Cardona to phone for a physician, Weston was grabbing among some books in the parlor,

hoping to find anything, from an almanac to a medical volume, that might tell how to give Suttern first aid. It

was Trope who heeded Suttern's suggestion to refer to the Classic. In the tabloid, Trope found a particular

"'Antidote for acid poisons of the 3A group,'" informed Trope. "'Beat whites of eggs and add to quantities of

milk. This will bring relief except with the most virulent poisons in this class. Olive oil is also a remedy, but

on no account give the victim an emetic. These are corrosive poisons and any sudden disturbance to the

"Hurry!" Trope ordered the servant. "Prepare the antidote milk and whites of eggs. Some olive oil, if we have

As Tifton hastened away, Trope read further in the article and learned that these particular poisons could

Swallowing hard, Suttern panted that he did have something of a burning sensation.

"It was the drink," he added between gasps. "It tasted... different! Creff must have dropped poison in it... at

Weston pushed Trope aside to hear what else Suttern had to say. Rolling his eyes, the portly man gazed

"Creff was writing a note," added Suttern. "Just before... before Robling died!" Memory suddenly made

Suttern wince. His next words were groaned. "A note... with a fountain pen that could have had acid in it "

Suttern's voice gave out. He clutched his throat, whispering that it seemed to burn. Between snatches of

Cardona's phone talk to the doctor, the rattle of Tifton's eggbeater could be heard from the kitchen. The

sound ended and Tifton arrived on the run, carrying a glassful of diluted milk mixed with fluffy white of

They propped up Suttern and gave him the antidote. His face kept changing its expression as he swallowed.

Each gulp was soothing, but the burning was recurrent. He looked better, though, when he had finished

Trope sent Tifton back to the kitchen with the glass to prepare another round of milk and egg. Weston began

to question Suttern further, and the man suddenly started to repudiate his previous statements.

"I guess I was wrong about Creff," conceded Suttern. "Why would a man risk a half million in sure money by

killing people off for more? It's just the curry that made me burn inside. Very hot stuff, that curry."

"Out of the same chafing dish," replied Suttern, with a nod. "As much of it as I ate maybe more. But he's

SUTTERN broke off with a moan. His hands went from his throat to the pit of his stomach. Dropping back

Weston sprang to support him, gesturing for Cardona to do the same. Trope shouted for Tifton in a voice that

This time, Tifton halted on arrival dead short beside Trope, who was turning toward the couch. A horrifying

Suttern was swaying in the grip of the two supporting men, and the pressure he gave his stomach seemed the

force that made his eyes bulge. As Trope grasped Tifton's arms and hurried the servant toward the couch,

The combined efforts of Weston and Cardona couldn't hold the stricken man. His dead weight swept them

back from the couch, as his spasm ended in a sideward heave. Rolling over as he left the couch, Suttern

struck the floor so heavily that he shook it. A turn carried him on his back; his face, staring upward, showed

the same hideous glare that had characterized two other victims, Menlo and Robling.

Long, streaky blackness stretched in from the hallway door, casting its umbra across the deathstiffened

features of the latest victim. When Trope and Tifton stooped to press the new supply of antidote to Suttern's

lips, the streaky blackness was cut off. It shifted against the wall as its owner sidestepped into the room to

Odd, how that etched blackness resembled a cloaked form, with the silhouette of a hawkish profile above it!

For the man who cast that shadow was clad in evening clothes, and his features were calm, quite masklike.

He was Lamont Cranston, the man who had left the Orient Cafe only a few minutes after James Suttern,

Gripped by the horror of poison, Suttern had sped his trip to Trope's, outracing Cranston by several minutes.

It seemed that those minutes couldn't have made a difference. Everything possible to save Suttern had been

done by others. Even The Shadow could not have prepared the antidote more speedily than Tifton had, at

Grim, strange was the laugh that came from Cranston's motionless lips, a tone so repressed that it reached no

other ears. That mirth was The Shadow's. It told that crime's unexpected turn would produce new efforts from

PROBABLY the most disturbed person in Trope's parlor was Inspector Joe Cardona. His poker face didn't

show it, but Joe was beset with a pronounced emotion. To him, that glassy stare of Suttern's was an

If Joe hadn't broached the poison theory at the time of Menlo's death, but had saved it for Robling's case

The law, not a scandal sheet like the Classic, would have been working on the poison business. Doing it

quietly, so that no one like Creff would have caught the idea, and tried it out on Suttern.

Such, at least, was Cardona's opinion, for he still sided with the toxicologists on their findings in the previous

The first thing to do was find Creff. When Cardona broached that subject, Weston agreed. Trope, in his

simple, innocent style, started for the telephone to call Creff's apartment. When Cardona waved him back,

"But Suttern exonerated Creff!" Trope exclaimed. "The last words he uttered were a repudiation of his earlier

"That was before death hit him," reminded Cardona grimly. "If he could talk now, Suttern would go back to

"I can't picture Creff a murderer," he declared. "Why, last night when he came here, he hadn't even heard

about Robling's death. True, Creff lost his temper over a trifling matter, but Tifton and I quieted him quite

During Joe's speech the front door opened. Only Cranston noticed it; from the doorway, he observed the man

who entered: Alan Haverdale. Alan's face was strained, though not in the fashion of Suttern's when the victim

"Somebody followed us here. Burke kept on in the cab to draw them away, but they're sticking around. In an

Cranston thumbed Alan right through the hall and the young man, hearing voices, didn't even glance toward

Seeing that Alan had gone by unnoticed, Cranston strolled after him and overtook him in the dining room,

where he gestured him on to the kitchen. There they saw the open refrigerator, two bottles of milk that had

"What's this?" queried Alan. "Has old Trope run out of sherry? He must be serving eggnogs to his guests."

Cranston explained that the exhibits represented the antidote for a poison that had added Suttern to the list of

"Stay here," Cranston advised. "You're out of the case, anyway. They're blaming Creff and will probably be

"Not after what you admitted about last night," said Cranston. "You'd better be careful about seeing Creff.

Leave him to the law, for the present. If they're starting soon, I'll ship you out the back way, so you can shake

With that, Cranston strolled to the front parlor to listen in on further conversation. His trip wasn't going to

take him more than a few minutes, but even that time period was too much. For just as Cranston was leaving

"I managed to get away early," the blonde whispered. Then, hesitating at Alan's glum stare: "I thought maybe

I'd have to introduce myself as Catherine Framingham; that's why I'm wearing the mink. But I'm not going

"Creff isn't here," said Alan. "Only Suttern, and he's dead. They think Creff killed him."

Kay's blue eyes went very wide. Beyond the girl's halffrightened face, Alan saw the dim lights of a parked

"You're leaving at once, Kay," announced Alan, "and I'm going with you. Cranston suggested that I go out by

VERY fortunate it was that Cranston happened back just after the rear door closed. The doctor had just

arrived, and soon Weston and Cardona would be starting for Creff's, so Cranston had told them that he would

Not only did Cranston guess that Alan had used the back door but he included Kay too, for he already knew

that she was coming by that route. Knowing that the two couldn't have reached Moe's waiting cab, Cranston

Alan was just putting Kay in the cab, when from the corner swung the very car that he had mentioned

previously to Cranston. Cranston recognized it, too, along with its occupants, Gaffey and Wingo.

Gaffey was sticking to the wheel, with Wingo jumping out to get at Alan, who saw that the fellow had a

revolver. Maybe Wingo only intended to threaten with the weapon, but he changed his mind when Alan came

As Kay screamed, human dynamite struck Wingo. It came in the form of Cranston, surging from the kitchen

door. He hurled Wingo clear across the curb; turned and spun Alan into the shelter of the cab, along with

Kay. Then, full about Cranston was diving to the street under the spurting fire that broke from Gaffey's gun.

To Kay, it seemed a certainty that Gaffey's fire in behalf of Wingo had flattened Alan's rescuer, but

Cranston's dive was ahead of Gaffey's shots and under the lowest angle at which Gaffey could aim while at

Up came Cranston with Wingo's glittering revolver, and Gaffey, seeing the weapon, didn't stick around. He

sped his old car forward, and Wingo, despite his daze, managed to catch hold and ride along.

Cranston fired two shots at the rear tires but failed to clip them, because Gaffey jerked in front of Moe's cab

Springing to the cab, Cranston thrust Kay and Alan in ahead of him. He knew why Gaffey and Wingo were

around. They were checking on Alan for Cue, and the reason they'd gone tough was because they recognized

Kay. This was the thing that Cue had wanted to prevent a clandestine meeting between Alan and Kay, so

In his turn, The Shadow could go the limit to overtake them as Cranston. A nice feather for the

commissioner's friend, to deprive one gunman of his revolver and use it to bring in the fellow along with his

Rather helpful to Alan and Kay, too, if Cranston so acted in their behalf. It would put them in the light of

victims rescued from crime, thus dispelling the slight clouds of mystery that still enveloped them.

But the trail was too much for Cranston. The fugitives were making for Central Park, and their old car was

doing well. Moe's new cab wasn't out of its breakingin stage and he couldn't overtake the car ahead. When

Gaffey finally swung into a steep byway, Cranston told Moe to park and turn off the lights.

Getting out at Cranston's request, Alan and Kay wondered why he didn't follow, if his intent was to look for

He'd put the others out in order to get at the space beneath the rear seat, there collecting his hat and cloak.

And now Moe, having heard sibilant instructions when his chief went past, was suggesting that Alan and Kay

get in again. Doing so, they were quite surprised to find that Cranston wasn't there.

Probing the dark byway for the missing car, The Shadow turned and looked back, to see lights creeping up

behind Moe's cab. How Gaffey had found an outlet and come around to investigate, was something of a

mystery, though the reason for the lights was not. Most certainly, crooks were trying to stage a rear attack, so

Whipping out an automatic in preference to Wingo's revolver, he voiced a fierce, shivering laugh and blasted

a shot across the front of the sneaking car. Guns answered instantly, their fire far wide of The Shadow.

Moe spurted away carrying Alan and Kay off to safety. Such were The Shadow's emergency instructions, and

ACTUALLY, The Shadow was very close to final disaster. The curious fact that saved him was this: Two

guns, not merely one, had stabbed from the attacking vehicle. Doubting that Wingo had a reserve revolver,

That car from which gunners delivered a longrange fire didn't belong to Gaffey and Wingo. Its occupants

couldn't have clipped The Shadow at such distance, but there was a chance that a closer enemy could. A

perfect hunch on The Shadow's part, for as he dived, a stream of bullets ripped from a spot not twenty feet

They were aimed for the very place where The Shadow's gun had opened fireshots triggered by Gaffey, who

was parked with Wingo only a dozen paces behind the limit of The Shadow's search. Gaffey must certainly

have supposed that his rapid spray of bullets had amended the defeat of a previous night, for he roared his old

As for the other car, it proved to be a cab, when The Shadow, prone on the ground, saw it scoot off, taking a

different road than the one where Moe had swerved. Whoever its occupants, they had probably judged

Alone in the darkness, The Shadow laughed; his tone was low but highly significant. This business of rival

gunners was a factor that fitted with other things that he had pieced. Things that but for a freak of

Freakish matters were not yet ended. Far out in Central Park, The Shadow would require considerable time to

return to his investigation. Had he realized how costly his delay would prove, the blackcloaked master

STANDING in shirt sleeves, a green visor over his forehead, Walter Creff was receiving visitors with a smile

half regretful, half contemptuous. His visitors were three: Weston, Cardona and Trope. Creff was sorry to

"If you think I had a hand in it, you are very wrong!" snapped Creff. "By Mr. Trope's own statements, Suttern

"I told you what Suttern stated first," put in Weston crisply. "He claimed that you poisoned Robling, at the

Creff's laugh was sharp. He turned, beckoning the trio from his small living room into an even smaller room,

that served him as a study. On a desk stood Creff's typewriter, beside it some finished pages, along with

another stack of blank sheets. On a small memo pad that bore a few notations lay a fountain pen.

"Examine the pen," suggested Creff. "Tell me how in the world I could have dropped a blob from it into

Robling's glass. Here" he handed the pen to Cardona and picked up a drinking glass from a corner table

It looked so impossible, that Cardona didn't try. Another thing interrupted him, a tap from the door that

connected with the living room. The group turned, and saw Tifton. He'd come to tell Trope that neither Mr.

Haverdale nor Miss Framingham had arrived. He'd tried to reach them both by telephone, but had been

A somewhat demoniac smile spread upon Creff's lips, unnoticed by the other persons present. Tifton's words

had given Creff a neat inspiration, but he intended to reserve it until occasion required. Pouring himself a

drink of water from a pitcher in the corner, Creff wagged his glass and suggested:

There wasn't much to look at except the fountain pen, which Creff obligingly said Cardona could keep. He

used it mainly for signing checks, and ordinary pen and ink would do for that purpose. Almost all of Creff's

writing was done on the typewriter, except when he dictated. The few penciled notes on the memo pad were

Needing them no longer, Creff pulled the sheet from the pad, crumpled it and tossed it into a wastebasket.

Strolling out to the living room, Creff sat down and pushed back his eyeshade. Weston went with him, and

Cardona soon followed bringing Trope, while Tifton remained in the study, using the telephone in a new

"I'm going to hold you, Creff," returned Joe, "on suspicion of murdering Suttern."

Creff tilted his head so far back, that the eyeshade fell from it. Still laughing as he reached to pick up the

"Hear that, commissioner? Your ace is still a deuce, which counts for nothing! Unless he thinks that deuces

Weston surveyed Creff steadily, as though inclined to support Cardona's decision.

"Take me along, then," sneered Creff. "But remember: you'll be putting your necks out for false arrest! You

held Robling after Menlo died. But you didn't hang on to Suttern in Robling's case. Such inconsistency can

"That article I'm writing" Creff nodded toward the study "will be worth a lot of money if I finish it before

my deadline, which happens to be midnight. I can finish it, unless you stop me by your absurd tactics!"

WESTON began to drum the arm of his chair in a way that Cardona didn't like. Seeing that the commissioner

"You still don't know that Suttern was poisoned," he argued. "His case was like the others: too much to eat

and drink. Besides, he was worried more. He even had me shaky when he talked about that poison story in

That mention brought a glare from Weston. It wasn't meant for Creff but for the Classic and everyone

"Maybe you gave Suttern an antidote too late," he remarked, "or possibly not enough of it. But it could be

that he didn't need an antidote at all, because his death was due to something else. You're going to hold an

autopsy on Suttern's body, like you did with the others. I'd say you ought to wait to see what it proves, before

Weston was very nearly won over. Cardona, too, was getting a bit doubtful. The thing that Creff suggested

was exactly what the law had already agreed: to class deaths as poison cases only after they had been proven

He paused, letting that inference sink in. It might have been a clincher in itself, but Creff still had another.

The door of the study opened and Tifton came out shaking his head, muttering something about Miss

"If you think these deaths are murder," he said, "you ought to look for more than a money motive, which, as I

expressed to Suttern, is not a sensible answer. A certain Miss Framingham has a real motive. She doesn't

want people to know who she really is, particularly the other heirs like myself."

"No, no!" protested Trope. "It really doesn't matter to Miss Framingham if people know "

"That she is Kay Lorley," added Creff, cutting Trope off short. "Star at the Fortyone Club, where two deaths

have already happened. She could easily have met Suttern after he left the cafe tonight. You see, I nearly met

A mean statement and one that had telling force, since Creff acted as though he could prove it. Something

that old Trope couldn't dispute, though his dreary face looked pained. If Alan had popped in that moment,

there would have been another death, with Creff the victim. For Creff had gone beyond the subtle talk that he

"We won't be holding you, Creff," declared Cardona abruptly. Joe didn't even wait for a wave from Weston.

"However, I'll stay around here a while, if you don't mind. I'll find Kay Lorley and question her after the

Creff seemed quite satisfied with Cardona's compromise. He arose and went into the study, where he sat

Cardona picked up the telephone, then laid it down beside the blank memo pad. He turned to Weston, who

"You could handle this better," said Joe. "If you stop by to see Cue Herble, commissioner, he won't suspect

Weston rubbed his chin. Maybe he wasn't averse to meeting Kay; most everyone else seemed to favor it. So

Weston nodded, turned about and went out through the living room, taking Trope and Tifton with him. As the

Cardona shook his head. Creff placed the glass beside the typewriter and thrust a blank sheet into the

machine. Cardona took the hint and went out to the living room, closing the door behind him. He heard the

For several minutes, Cardona heard the machine intermittently, and was just getting used to it when he heard

a thump at the door of the apartment. Answering it, Cardona met Cranston, whose eyes roved the room idly,

though there was speed behind their gaze. The clattering typewriter had already stopped, which was why

As Cardona gestured toward the closed door of the study, there was the crash of a breaking glass beyond it.

Cranston sprang to the door, but it wouldn't open, for it was latched automatically on the inside.

While Cranston still rattled at the knob, another sound came that of a body falling from a chair.

WASTING no more time in useless ceremony, Cranston and Cardona broke the door down.

In the study, they found Creff lying quite as dead as three previous victims, his face registering a combination

As with Menlo and Robling though not Suttern Creff had been drinking when he fell, though his

beverage was merely water. The glass falling from his hand had struck the typewriter, spreading its liquid on

Soaked with water was the memo pad, but it was drying under the strong heat of Creff's desk lamp. Blank

when Cardona had left the study, the pad now bore a note. The writing was plain, for the ink hadn't blurred

It was a confession signed by Creff's initials, "W. C.", and Cardona recognized the handwriting.

"'Menlo and Robling died from natural causes,'" Cardona read aloud. "'So rare a coincidence was too much to

restrain my hand further. I had actually hoped to murder them both, so I couldn't resist with Suttern.

"'Two others were to come, dependent upon the verdict in the Suttern case. But my purpose was guessed,

even before Suttern died. I argued my innocence tonight, but I know that the autopsy tomorrow will prove my

"'Death was swift with Suttern. I prefer the same, rather than the slow torture of awaiting the electric chair

That was all, and it was quite enough for Inspector Cardona. Only Creff could have written the note, for he'd

been alone in the room, with Cardona stationed outside. Joe had been the last to leave, and he'd laid the blank

All that Cardona wondered was if Creff had dosed the pitcher with the deadly acid before pouring the glass of

water. If he had, he'd probably have been hoping to see its effects on Cardona first. Perhaps Joe owed his life

to his refusal of the innocentlooking drink. In any event, a matter of murder was closed.

So thought Inspector Cardona, but the eyes of Lamont Cranston still held a distant, reflective stare. Strange

THIS time, there were two autopsies instead of one. The toxicologists had a field day with their tests. All

came out as was to be expected: blood samples from the bodies of Suttern and Creff showed the acid traces

belonging to Classification 3A. It was a poison as deadly as a cobra, slow to strike, but insidious in its

This acid also fitted the description given by the experts, in that its rapid absorption left no traces in the

stomach. Only in the blood stream and though a small dose could prove fatal, the effects were sure to be

discovered. So said the experts, which left it a draw between the Classic and Commissioner Weston.

Even more than before, the deaths of Menlo and Robling were classed as natural, whereas those of Suttern

and Creff were mentioned as poison cases in the suicide note, which every other newspaper published before

One interesting point: The unnamed poison had certain properties found in citric acid, a substance extractable

from lemon juice. The main difference was that citric acid was harmless; this other acid very deadly. But the

two mixed well; so well, that the lemon covered the taste of the poison without in any way offsetting it. Just

Creff's suicide dose contained a dash of lemon juice and was found only in the glass. But that didn't prove

that he hadn't wanted to kill Cardona. The mixture could have been in the bottom of the glass when he poured

In his own laboratory The Shadow made some interesting tests with the powerful poison in question. Tests

But when Cranston chatted with Weston, a few days later, he didn't discuss the poison at all. Cranston was

more interested in the reports that proved the natural deaths of Menlo and Robling.

Menlo's ill health, in the form of chronic colds, was considered a factor in his death, even though he'd been

practically cured by inoculations. As for Robling, he'd been drinking much too much, as witness his need for

Reverting later to Cranston, he dined again at the Orient Cafe. Not only did he order curry, he sipped a Tom

Collins with dessert, and talked of the Framingham family with the genial proprietor, who brought out the old

Cranston didn't put Margo through the ordeal of a curry dinner. He met her later, with Alan and Kay. They all

went to Trope's, and Clyde Burke arrived there, too, hoping that his friendship with Alan would put him in

line for a Classic story. That, at least, was Clyde's excuse for crashing the informal party.

It was while they were drinking some of the tasty sherry that Trope poured them, that Cranston brought a

small package from his pocket and started to open it as they left the dining room. He stopped to make a phone

call in the hallway, and when he joined the group in the parlor, he had changed his mind about the package.

Tying its cord again, he handed it to Margo, telling her that it was a present which she wasn't to open until he

Margo smiled at the gift as she put it in her handbag. The package was about four inches long, large enough

to contain a brooch, which would be a welcome gift indeed. Its weight rather surprised her, for the package

was really heavy for its size. However, Margo felt that it would only add to the coming surprise.

THIS was Kay's last night at the Fortyone Club, and she prolonged her sojourn at Trope's to the limit. There

were things that Kay wanted to talk about. One was the note that Creff had sent her that night at the

She'd turned it over to the police so they could compare it with Creff's suicide note, which it matched

perfectly, one feature being the initials "W. C." which Creff had attached to Kay's note, too.

Trope nodded when Kay spoke about the note. He'd likewise supplied a few samples of Creff's handwriting

from some documents that Creff had given him weeks ago. The police had also picked up the penciled

Those combined items were about the only existing specimens of Creff's scrawling penmanship, for the

One thing pleased Kay: the police had not disclosed her dual identity, and Clyde was obligingly keeping it

from the newspapers. Hearing how old Trope had tried his utmost to prevent Creff from stating the fact, Kay

expressed her heartfelt thanks. In his simple style, Trope acknowledged the girl's gratitude with a bow. From

the doorway, Tifton copied his master's gesture. They were all for Kay, those two, and they seemed much

It was Cranston who reminded Kay that it was time for her to leave for the Fortyone Club. He said he'd take

her in his limousine, and Margo accompanied them, leaving Alan and Clyde with Trope.

During the ride, Cranston chatted about the theater and some of the famous names associated with its past,

She switched the subject back to Trope and Tifton, remarking how faithfully the servant had been trained to

WITNESSING the floor show, Cranston saw Kay at her very best. Her dance brought huge rounds of

Across the table, Margo noted Cranston's slight smile and understood. Kay was putting everything into the

"Get backstage," he told her. "Stay with Kay until I join you. It's more important than ever before!"

Strolling from the table, Cranston stopped at the street door and spoke to Jericho. Whatever Cranston wanted,

the big doorman seemed unable to oblige him. Jericho was going off duty for a short while, but he did at least

It was while he opened the door that Jericho dropped something into Cranston's hand. Turning back into the

night club, Jericho went to take off his uniform; Cranston, meanwhile, was putting one on.

It was The Shadow who emerged from the far door as the limousine wheeled away. No one saw his gliding

shape against the darkness of the street. At a moment when the sidewalk was temporarily deserted, the

cloaked figure stalked across it and merged with the gloom of the unattended entrance. The Shadow was

In her dressing room, Kay Lorley was adding her own finale to the act she had just finished. As she slammed

the door, she kicked her dancing slippers into a corner and flung her costume after them. She was Kay Lorley

Then, before Kay could do more than give a relaxing sigh, she saw the mink coat in the closet. Snatching it

out, Kay bundled the coat about her shoulders and surveyed herself in a mirror. She didn't like Catherine

Kay wanted to be a new self entirely. They could call her Kay until she added another name, which would

happen very shortly. Alan had made it very definite that the name was to be Haverdale.

So Kay Haverdaletobe sank into a chair, tossed back her blond head and drifted into a delightful reverie,

which would have lasted indefinitely if Margo hadn't pounded at the door and asked what was keeping her.

"Just a few minutes, Margo," called Kay. "I'll get into my clothes in a jiffy, and join you."

"Don't forget that Alan is waiting," reminded Margo sweetly. "He's probably getting bored with Trope's dry

"I'll have to see Cue first," said Kay. "This is when I collect my final pay and sign off."

Margo had forgotten about Cue Herble. She began to realize why Cranston had said to stay with Kay. Though

Kay wasn't long in getting dressed, Margo became more and more impatient every moment. She was really

tense when Kay emerged smiling from the dressing room, wearing another coat other than the mink.

"Front office next," announced Kay. "Don't worry, Margo. I won't need any moral support. I've made it plain

The door to Cue's office proved Margo's obstacle. Opening it when Kay knocked, Cue gave a flatfaced

smile and bowed Kay into the office. With a finishing sweep of his arm, he politely pushed Margo back and

impolitely slammed the door in her face. Hard on the slam came the click of the automatic door lock.

Margo wasn't just taken aback. She actually quivered with alarm. She'd missed on the most important duty to

which Lamont had assigned her. What to do next completely flabbergasted her, especially when she looked

Then, from the darkened corner past the doorway, almost at Margo's very elbow, came a reassuring whisper.

A gloved hand drew Margo to the corner; unclenching that same fist revealed the glitter of a duplicate key,

Fascinated, Margo watched The Shadow turn the lock of Cue's office and silently edge the door inward.

For a climax, Margo saw the snout of an automatic swing from The Shadow's cloak and poke through the

narrow crack. True were all of Margo's apprehensions. Death still was scheduled to thin the ranks of the

But this time death was due for opposition from a rival who dealt in life, a power arriving in advance upon

the scene where doom was planned. Kay's safety was assured by the vigilance of The Shadow!

ACROSS his desk, Cue Herble scowled as he wrote Kay's final salary check. Seated across from him, Kay

"There's an old saying in this business, Kay. You've heard it: 'The show must go on.'"

"It can go on," returned Kay, "but I don't go with it. I'll thank you for my contract, Cue the old one."

"There was an advance on this," he reminded. "It carries a forfeiture clause if you don't renew."

"Hock my mink!" laughed Kay. "Its yours, Cue. You'll find it in my dressing room. Shake it first, because my

Cue didn't appreciate Kay's humor. He brought out the new contract and shoved it across the desk, with a pen.

Kay shook her head and arose; Cue promptly followed her. They were both moving toward the darkness of

the door without noticing that it was open slightly, with blackness thick beyond it. Nor did they come close

enough even to suspect The Shadow's presence. Even though he thought the door was locked, Cue decided to

"Contract or no contract," stormed Cue, "you're giving up that Haverdale guy! Understand?"

"I think I do," replied Kay coolly, as she moved back toward the desk. "You've made some pretty broad

Cue's scowl spread. He didn't want to admit his employment of Gaffey and Wingo. His scowl turned to a leer

"I sent the doorman off" sneered Cue, "but since you're asking for a showdown, I'll give you one!"

He caught Kay in a powerful clutch; gripping her arms behind her, he stifled any screams. But Kay didn't try

to scream. Determinedly, she wrenched to free herself, unheeding Cue's repeated threats regarding Alan.

Back and forth across the office, Kay fought hard, but to no avail. Cue was hurting her, but not too badly.

Otherwise, there might have been an interruption from the door. For The Shadow's automatic, shifting ever so

slightly, was keeping its aim on the path that Cue crossed every time Kay's struggles sent him in a new

The Shadow was watching for a deadlier menace in the form of a gun. At last metal flashed, but not in either

of Cues very busy hands. The weapon that threatened death thrust suddenly from a corner directly opposite

The Shadow. It came from the crack of Cue's private exit, the front of the filing cabinet!

Only The Shadow's combined swiftness of brain and hand could have prevented coming murder. Another

protector might have tried to gauge whether the glittering muzzle was meant for Cue or Kay, and therefore

waited until the proper victim was swinging into the revolver's path. But The Shadow, archenemy of

Incredible though it sounded, either Cue or Kay could die as the accomplishment of a killer's design! Either

THE hand that held the revolver was already beginning its trigger squeeze when The Shadow blasted at the

tightening finger. The Shadow's shot was timed, but under stress, for he let blast just as Kay shoved Cue

The bullet from the .45 sizzled right between them and found its target in the hand that held the revolver!

The hand flipped from sight, dropping its gun. The revolver fell within the office, where the wouldbe killer

had intended to toss it anyway, though it didn't carry as far as his unwounded hand would have sent it. The

Evidence that Cue half understood when he saw it. Whoever had been the victim, himself or Kay, the other

would have been adjudged the killer. Thus it couldn't have been Alan; Cue realized that instantly. He was

Releasing Kay, Cue started to the corner; then wheeled about. By that time, The Shadow was swooping

toward the desk. Cue dived wildly at sight of the cloaked avenger. Taking Kay, The Shadow spun her about

and started her toward the door, where Margo caught her and continued the trip out through the night club.

By then, Cue was grabbing for the dropped revolver. He might have followed a natural inclination to let rip at

The Shadow, rescuer or no rescuer. But The Shadow frustrated that one by wheeling full about. His laugh

Dodging around his desk, Cue fled through the door and turned toward the nightclub floor, the best angle to

A sinister laugh pursued him; a tone that trailed, even as Cue shot a frantic glance back across his shoulder.

What he saw only sped Cue's flight. He saw nothing! With the fade of his laugh, The Shadow had totally

Patrons of the Fortyone Club were treated to something they mistook for comedy, when Cue cut across the

floor, waving a gun and upsetting a troupe of acrobats who were halfway through a balancing act, Cue kept

on backstage and out to the rear street, where he spotted two men near the basement entry that marked the

Thinking they were Gaffey and Wingo, Cue waved his arms and shouted, for he didn't believe that pair to be

With bullets nicking the sidewalk at his feet, Cut hadn't time to fire back. He dived away, stumbled on the

curb, and brought up against a parked cab, where he made the very target that his attackers wanted.

Whether he deserved it or not, Cue's life was saved by what appeared to be a vast upheaval from the entry. A

giant bulk not only rose; it plucked the two gunners and hurled them hard. Somersaulting, they bounced the

sidewalk with their heads and rolled on toward Cue, who was staring at the great fist that had flung them.

Then Cue was suddenly trying to return the favor. A thin, rapidmoving figure was darting from the entry

that Jericho had left. One hand hanging, it used the other to grab one of the revolvers that a flattened thug had

This was the thwarted killer, out from Cue's office! He wanted that gun to take a shot at Jericho, who was the

Cue fired, but wildly. He saw Jericho lunge at the savage man who was turning with the gun. Again, it

required a sure, swift hand to offset a killer's efforts, for Jericho made a massive target, good enough for a

crippled gunner. The needed hand appeared, loosing a shot from the very entry that the foiled killer had just

Again, The Shadow! His timely shot spilled the scrawny unknown. A swirl in the darkness and he was gone,

while Cue, moving forward, was looking at the faces of the senseless pair who had met misfortune at the

hands of Jericho. They were thugs, all right, but they weren't Gaffey and Wingo. Nor did Cue recognize them

While police sirens whined from the corner, Jericho plucked up the twicewounded marksman who had on

two occasions been halted cold by The Shadow's splitsecond gunfire. In the headlights of an approaching

police car, Cue Herble viewed a drab but glowering face that he'd never seen before.

Puzzling, this: crime tossed Cue's way by an unknown enemy, who had a pair of thuggish companions even

tougher than Gaffey and Wingo. Cue couldn't understand it, and wondered if anybody did until he heard the

Weird, parting mirth that carried a brief touch of triumph amid its foreboding note. The Shadow knew the

answer; having solved the half of crime, he was leaving to reveal the whole. Death's rule was through.

IT was The Shadow, not Cranston, who arrived at Trope's, but the cloaked fighter promptly became his other

self. He retained his black garb to glide past the parlor, where Alan and Clyde were speculating how soon

Kay and Margo would return. Stopping at a hatrack, The Shadow divested himself of cloak and hat, hanging

them on the rack. His swift glide changing into Cranston's stroll, he entered the dining room.

Old Elmer Trope was there. The man of simple life looked up, rather surprised to see Cranston enter alone.

Then, in his polite fashion, Trope brought the decanter from the sideboard and poured a glass of sherry for his

"A singular thing, Trope," observed Cranston. "I've been looking into those cases of Menlo and Robling. I'm

"Only a few drops were needed. Once they would get into the system, death would come like that!"

"The poison acid still would show in the blood," he argued. "Always, the toxicologists said."

"Because they were speaking of normal blood," declared Cranston. "But suppose the blood stream itself had

already been supplied with a special alkali content. My assumption is that the poisonacid traces would be

neutralized; that the blood would show a salt. And a salt is so common in the blood stream that the poison

"Absolutely!" replied Cranston. "Menlo had taken inoculations for his colds. The preparation recommended

to him had a strong percentage of alkali, which naturally was absorbed by the blood stream. The poison acid

that killed him acted on his stomach, but was rapidly gathered by the blood stream and promptly neutralized

"Robling's case was quite similar. He'd been taking regular doses of Alkavita, a bromide heavy with alkali.

Quite harmless stuff, but from it, Robling's blood became saturated with alkali, after a period. As with Menlo,

the poison acid that killed Robling was neutralized by the alkali, after it reached the blood stream, the only

Nodding slowly as he heard Cranston's conclusive theory, Trope started to put the decanter on the sideboard;

It took Cranston a few moments to uncork the tight glass stopper that Trope had replaced in the decanter.

Pouring himself a glass of wine, Cranston offered to do the same for Trope, but with a headshake the old man

"A toast, Mr. Cranston," he proposed. "To the future happiness of Alan and Kay "

They drank the toast. Still holding his wine glass, Cranston reverted to his former theme.

"An alkali will always neutralize all acid," declared Cranston. "But with Menlo and Robling, the acid acted

first. It killed them before it reached the blood stream, where the alkali awaited "

Cranston's discourse ended quite abruptly. His face strained, and while Trope stared as if puzzled by the

grimaces, the masklike countenance twisted hideously. Head tilted back, Cranston swayed. His hand relaxed,

dropping the wine glass to the table. As the glass smashed, Cranston's body tilted heavily to the floor and

SMILING craftily, Trope poked his head across the table and took a satisfied look at Cranston's face. Tilting

his ear, Trope caught sounds from the kitchen. Rising, he stepped to the hallway door, made sure that Alan

It wasn't Tifton who pushed into the dining room. It was Joe Cardona, a gun clenched in his fist. He pressed

"We've got Tifton! He tried to murder Cue Herble or Kay Lorley, we haven't found out which. He had a

Cardona's voice cut short. Across Trope's shoulder, he was viewing the thing that the old man couldn't hide,

the body of Cranston stretched on the floor in a manner Cardona had already seen too many victims

Before Joe could recover from his surprise, Trope was at his throat. The old man fought with fury, but

Cardona was the stronger. They reeled from table to sideboard and back again, the only question being

It was settled when Clyde and Alan dashed in from the parlor, brought by the sounds of the scuffle. They

helped Cardona suppress Trope. Thereupon, Joe waved his gun toward the floor beyond the table.

The others turned and stared, quite puzzled. But their astonishment could not equal Cardona's when he saw

what they saw. The floor was vacant. Cranston's body had vanished of its own accord!

From the hallway came a lowtoned laugh, its quiver presaging much to come. Into the dining room stepped

The Shadow, fully garbed in black. His whispered tone repeated the things that Cranston had told Trope. At

"Cranston proved something, Trope," assured The Shadow. "He stated facts when he said that someone

prepared the way for perfect crime by first arranging for the victims to saturate their blood systems with an

alkali. You arranged that, Trope, and your next step was to give them the deadly acid poison, which the blood

Taking a salt shaker, The Shadow spilled a few grains upon the flat lip of the wine decanter, carefully

"These represent grains of colorless acid," explained The Shadow "a lurking death that led men to their

own disaster. You could always pour some harmless wine, Trope, because you did it this way."

To demonstrate, The Shadow lifted the decanter and poured a glass, tilting the decanter to the left. Naturally,

the grains were undisturbed, for they were clinging to the right side of the lip. Setting down the decanter, The

"When you wanted a victim, Trope," continued The Shadow, "you let him pour his own, and with the wine

The Shadow gestured to Clyde. From the other side of the table, Clyde lifted the decanter and tilted it to his

left. Being opposite The Shadow, Clyde was tipping the decanter the other way. As the wine poured into the

So simple, yet so certain! Witnesses stared in silence that held a tinge of horror.

"Two victims died thus, Trope! Menlo first; then Robling. You sought a third tonight. Cranston was to die,

The Shadow picked up the stopper of the decanter and held it to the light. Old Trope gave a stare when he

saw the stopper was hollow. At the top was a tiny air hole that still bore traces of wax.

"Cranston substituted this stopper for yours, Trope," declared The Shadow. "It was filled with a colorless

alkali. By merely pulling away the tiny wax slug, he let the alkali trickle into the wine. When he poured his

glass the way you wanted, Trope the wine gathered the grains of deadly acid. But that same wine already

contained the necessary alkali. The poison was neutralized before Cranston drank the wine!"

As simple as Trope's own system, but better! Cranston had begun proceedings with the chemical reaction. He

hadn't waited for a postmortem reaction confined to the blood stream. He'd turned Trope's method of perfect

crime into a perfect snare, wherein his fakery of death was just the final touch!

Another pause, while all watched Trope, whose glare was vicious, yet helpless. The Shadow spoke again; this

"I was watching matters here," he declared, "but you changed your technique, Trope. Suttern wasn't poisoned

the night he arrived here very sick. He'd tasted metal from the chafing dish at the Orient Cafe. On top of that,

the lemon juice in his drink was all he needed to feel pains. It combined to produce a metallic citrate, giving

"He thought he was poisoned, so you gave him an antidote. And in that antidote Tifton put a dose of deadly

acid so sufficient, that the milk and egg couldn't begin to counteract it. The next thing was to blame it on

Creff. Tifton aided in producing Creff's fake suicide by putting poison acid in his water glass at Creff's own

One thought was in every mind: Creff's suicide note. The Shadow explained its mystery.

"Possessing the properties of citric acid," he declared, "the poison develops invisible ink, for lemon juice is

used for secret writing. Tifton wrote that note in some substance that picked up the poison spilled from

"A special formula, no doubt, but based on a known one. As for Tifton's writing, it was a very easy forgery.

He stole the note that Creff sent to Kay, then he went to see her and replaced it with a forgery of his own.

Those memos in Creff's wastebasket were substitutes put there by Tifton. Your letters from Creff were other

Almost as The Shadow finished, Trope snarled. His words were proof that he no longer hoped to hide his

"You've guessed it, Shadow!" Trope admitted. "Tifton was a forger. I caught him at it once; that's why he did

all I told him, even to hiring thugs" he nudged to Alan "to keep him away from the Fortyone Club."

Alan was puzzled at Trope's anxiety to keep him away from murder scenes. He realized, though, as The

Shadow had before, that there had been two pairs of gunners. The mystery men of the first night, who had

stalled so much, were quite different from Gaffey and Wingo, who were merely acting in behalf of Cue's

From The Shadow's burning gaze, fixed so constantly on Trope, Alan knew that some startling yet simple

"Your mother was my daughter," he told Alan abruptly. "She never told even you her maiden name, before

she took her stage name of Marie Trevylan. As for old Landis Framingham" for the first time, Trope spoke

the name with a spiteful snarl "she never let him know she'd been an actress at all! I hate all Framinghams!

So much, Alan, that I wanted you one heir who was not a Framingham to have the entire fortune!"

Trope's sympathy toward Kay was explained; likewise, his later effort to dispose of her. He liked her as an

actress, despised her as a Framingham! If Tifton had killed her tonight, well enough.

If Cue had been slain, Kay would have been blamed, and therefore been deprived of her share in the estate,

because of a clause enabling Trope, as executor, to cut off any heirs who had turned criminal.

Staring at his grandfather, Alan saw Trope's teeth gnash suddenly. The old man followed that grimace with a

choking swallow. Only The Shadow understood, but as he sprang forward, Trope gestured him back. The old

Trope's struggle with Cardona had not been without avail. During it, Trope had managed to get a capsule to

his mouth. He'd bitten it and down his throat had gone a strong dose of his own poison. Elmer Trope was

Even The Shadow couldn't have forced Trope to drink some of the alkalisaturated sherry in time to overtake

the poison, for it acted quickly in the quantity that Trope had taken. But the old man gestured for a drink

The Shadow poured a glass. Solemnly, Trope raised it. He was slowly sipping his muchprized sherry, when

he stiffened and rolled dead, with the spattering glass cracking beside his body.

The Shadow's laugh carried the tone of a mirthless knell. When it ended, witnesses stared, not at Trope's body

but at the spot where The Shadow no longer stood. Only the quivers of his parting laugh returned from the

Later, when Margo and Kay arrived, they found Cranston in his limousine out front. Alan joined them, to

declare the strange facts behind the crimes of Elmer Trope. As they rode away in the big car, Alan brought a

"My mother's," he told Kay. "She would have liked you to have it. There is one thing, though" Alan

"And I'm a Framingham," returned Kay, "which is just as bad, or worse. Let's say that you're a Haverdale,

As the ring slid on Kay's finger, Margo remembered her own gift from Cranston. Without asking Lamont's

permission, she brought the box from her handbag and opened it. Inside she found the original glass stopper,

the solid one that Cranston had taken from Trope's deadly decanter to replace with one of his own.

Fortunately, Margo Lane had a sense of humor. She didn't mind when she saw Lamont Cranston smile.