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

CHAPTER I .............................................................................................................................................1

CHAPTER II ............................................................................................................................................4

CHAPTER III..........................................................................................................................................8

CHAPTER IV........................................................................................................................................11

CHAPTER V.........................................................................................................................................14

CHAPTER VI........................................................................................................................................16

CHAPTER VII .......................................................................................................................................20

CHAPTER VIII.....................................................................................................................................24

CHAPTER IX........................................................................................................................................27

CHAPTER X.........................................................................................................................................30

CHAPTER XI........................................................................................................................................34

CHAPTER XII .......................................................................................................................................37

CHAPTER XIII.....................................................................................................................................40

CHAPTER XIV.....................................................................................................................................43

CHAPTER XV......................................................................................................................................46

CHAPTER XVI.....................................................................................................................................50

CHAPTER XVII ....................................................................................................................................53

CHAPTER XVIII ...................................................................................................................................56

CHAPTER XIX.....................................................................................................................................58

CHAPTER XX......................................................................................................................................61

IT was Mardi Gras night and New Orleans was lush with light, mellow with music, bizarre with costumery.

Reluctantly Ken was forced to admit that he wasn't entirely sad. Mardi Gras Day presented the last and

Tomorrow or specifically at midnight tonight Carnival would be over and quiet would again be in order.

Wingless Victory was the statue that Ken was molding in his upstairs studio in the patio off Dumaine Street,

if anybody cared to know. The trouble was that the people who cared didn't know. As a result, Ken was four

months behind on his rent, which was bad business in the French Quarter where everybody else was only

three. But this was Carnival time and Ken's landlord, whoever he was, had probably gone amasking with the

Revelry was drifting up through the arched entry to the patio and filtering its way into the room that Ken

called a studio. Into that medley shrilled a familiar sound that Ken recognized, the ring of the telephone bell

Usually Ken paused breathless at that sound, hoping that some patron was summoning him to accept a

fabulous offer for Wingless Victory when completed. Those phone calls always proved to be for someone

Ken hurried out through the door and scurried down the outdoor steps to the courtyard which he crossed at a

speed the neighborhood rats would have envied. Breathless, Ken unhooked the telephone.

"This is Langdon." Ken couldn't believe that it had happened. "What can I do for you?"

Ken tried to answer but couldn't find words. The toil of six months was heavy on his hands and this insult

was too much. What Ken might have said would have been plenty if the voice hadn't intervened:

It was foolish, but so was Mardi Gras with its weeks of revelry, pageantry and idiocy. Ken gulped aloud that

he would listen and the voice proceeded, its phrases still thick but disjointed.

How Ken would wear a costume that didn't exist was something of a question, but he didn't argue it. He just

"Follow the schedule," the voice continued. "You will find it with the box. You understand?"

"Half payment in advance," the thick voice promised, "and the remainder later. If you agree, dial this

The voice gave a number, the receiver clicked and the call was over, leaving Ken wondering if it were all a

The number didn't answer in the three times Ken tried it, so he decided to go back up to the studio and lay

The usual lights in the courtyard were missing. But between the glow from the little office and Ken's upstairs

As he started back Ken could have sworn that there was something in that archway, a solid something that

slid away hastily as he approached. By the time Ken reached the arch and looked through, there was nothing

to see except Dumaine Street and the passing show of masqueraders who were turning Frenchtown into

Still wondering who had sneaked out through the arch, Ken reached his studio and climbed the ladder that

brought him on a line with Wingless Victory's chin. On the top step of the ladder was a package neatly tied

and thoroughly delivered just as somebody on the telephone had promised it would be.

It was hard to swallow Mardi Gras, tough to admit that the Carnival could breed artistic merit. But Ken's eye

The costume proper was a mass of crimson sheen, a cape as gorgeous in texture as it was ample in

proportions. The black ruffle around the neck was obviously intended for a contrast and Ken saw why when

he studied the remaining contents. Out from the box peered a devil's head so realistic in its ruddy features that

From the costume fluttered an envelope which Ken plucked promptly from the floor. Within it was a sheet of

paper with a typewritten schedule telling the places where he was to be at given times. And that wasn't all;

the envelope also contained fifty percent of Ken's wages in the form of a hundred dollar bill torn in half.

The sponsor had certainly invested his whole hundred, but Ken would be an equal loser unless he followed

the trail to its completion, an equal loser both of the trail and the hundred dollar bill.

Ken caped himself in the crimson robe, picked up the Mephisto head and set it down over his own. Peering

down through the ample nostrils of the nose, he read the time sheet and found that he was due to be parading

along Canal Street in exactly ten minutes. He set forth, wearing what the welldressed Satan should wear.

Frenchtown struck Ken as a strange world on this last night of Carnival. The narrow streets with their

overhanging balconies and lattice ironwork were the same, but the people looked different. True, they were in

costume, but that hardly accounted for their odd behavior, for the way they stopped and stared.

If His Mephistophelean Majesty had popped up in person from the antiquated paving of the French Quarter,

Somewhere along Royal Street, the answer filtered through. It wasn't the horror of his costume that impressed

Whoever had squandered too much on this Satanic outfit had done it well. Never had a more resplendent

Mephistopheles stalked the byways of New Orleans during Mardi Gras. As the murmurs of appreciation

reached Ken, he began to feel a pride, even though the costume wasn't his own idea.

Ken found himself liking Mardi Gras until he reached Iberville Street. There something happened that wasn't

listed on his schedule sheet. The admiring eyes that trailed the magnificent Mephisto opened wider as they

Cloaked in black, his features lost beneath the downturned brim of a slouch hat, the masquerader who

confronted Ken immediately stole the show. Until a moment before, this blackclad personage had been

inconspicuous in the general parade, but in contrast to the flaming crimson of Mephisto's regalia, The

It was as if some impossible challenger had risen to meet an equally fabulous foe, and the prominence that

The Shadow gained so suddenly gave a startling realism to the Mephisto who confronted him.

Then, as the eager crowd jostled forward to witness what seemed an actual crisis, the masqueraders were

separated by the swirl. Through design more than chance, The Shadow blotted himself into the patchy

darkness where the street lights were few, while Mephisto, with all his gorgeous shimmer, was forgotten by

And Ken Langdon, swirled along toward Canal Street, was looking back, wondering what had become of the

cloaked Nemesis who had disturbed the triumphal parade. Again, however, Ken's majestic trappings were

attracting attention from new observers who hadn't seen The Shadow's brief eclipse of the brilliant Satanic

This singular encounter was a mere incident amid the masked revelers who were celebrating the end of

Carnival's reign, but it had all the semblance of an omen, The Shadow's crossing of Mephisto's path!

AROUND a corner where no one would have expected him to reappear, the masker who wore the black cloak

and hat stepped suddenly from a doorway. With a few short strides he reached a masked girl who was

wearing a shortskirted Columbine costume and literally plucked her from the crowd.

Next they were sweeping through the door of a little cafe where a sleepy waiter was eyeing a stretch of empty

tables. Taking a table in a subdued corner, the man in black removed his hat and dropped back his cloak,

The man's query had an even tone that went with his calm face. Both were habits with Lamont Cranston.

Being used to them, Margo Lane suspected that Cranston knew exactly what was in her mind, but she didn't

"You can't put on a black coat and hat and expect people not to notice it," Margo declared. "That is not if you

"Then why talk in negatives?" queried Cranston with a slight smile. "That's all you've been using, Margo, and

all that backs your argument was my chance meeting with that chap in the Mephisto outfit."

Margo had to admit that Cranston was right. Among all the quaint characters represented by the

merrymakers, The Shadow had been the least noticed until the Red Devil had popped up to meet him. Still,

Margo was wondering why Cranston had chosen his Shadow costume and that brought up the question of

"I was perfectly happy at Miami Beach," sighed Margo, ruefully, "until I received your wire telling me to fly

to New Orleans for Mardi Gras Day. I suppose you've been here all along, enjoying the preliminary features

"Just to see the parades?" queried Margo. "Well, I suppose they're worth it. The Rex parade was wonderful

A flash of indignation sparked Margo's dark eyes; then smiling it away, the girl treated the subject as a jest.

"So I won't see Miss Muffet and her tuffet," declared Margo, "Jack and his beanstalk, or the rest of them.

The floats are all supposed to represent Mother Goose stories, you know. I just delight in Mother Goose."

"You'd better read up on it then. You won't find Jack's beanstalk in among those yarns."

There was something so steady in Cranston's tone that Margo knew he meant it. In reply to Margo's

questioning eyes, Cranston passed a small, thinpaper certificate across the table. The official look of the

"A winning ticket, Margo. Worth a hundred thousand if it draws the grand and only prize."

"So was horse racing," reminded Cranston, "and recently. Certain ways had to be designed for people to stake

money, and the Louisiana Lottery was one of them. It always had a solid reputation in gaming circles.

"It is," stated Cranston, "but the Knights of Hades are strictly secret and do not parade. They hold a Ball of

"Because New Orleans is full of them, all fighting to get invitations from the dozen or more organizations

"By lot." Cranston emphasized the words. "Names are picked from hotel registers or other sources and the

"Some curious ceremony with a Wheel of Fate in which the winner is called the loser and is banished from

the Realm Below, with some slight gift so he won't feel too unhappy. Only this year, the gift may be

Reading the card Margo saw that it was an invitation to the Grand Ball of Death, to be held in the Devil's

Den, otherwise known as the Hoodoo House, under auspices of the Scribe, the Seneschal and the Messenger,

"Nor on the lottery ticket," reminded Cranston. "One simply went to the holder of the other."

"I bought the ticket for a thousand dollars. It cost a dollar originally but it turned out to be one of the lucky

fifty that qualify for the grand drawing of one hundred thousand dollars. It has a potential value of two

Really startling, this offer which explained in part why Cranston had summoned Margo to New Orleans; yet

"But it might if someone else did," interposed Cranston, "and the chances are fifty to one that someone else

"Then you can have it, Margo. I want to see what happens to the prizewinner when he leaves the Devil's

"There are rumors, Margo," said Cranston, with a smile, "that somebody does intend to acquire that bundle of

cash. Also it has been stated, in fact stipulated, that the sponsors of the lottery will guarantee complete

"On the contrary I am sure. I intend to see that the winner does not become a victim and that the prize money

does not disappear. Whatever personal effort may be required should prove worth it."

Knowing Cranston's penchant for adventure, Margo could quite understand. Too, it was now plain why he

had chosen the panoply of The Shadow instead of some gayer costume for the particular part that he was to

Time was evidently short, for Cranston immediately suggested that they start from the cafe and as they

reached the streets where lights seemed brighter than ever in the muchthickened dusk, Margo realized that it

must be almost seven o'clock, the hour when the grand parade of Comus started and the hour also, that the

Knights of Hades, disdainful of the parade that was regarded as the big event of Mardi Gras, had set for their

"The Masked Mephisto!" she exclaimed. "The man in the gorgeous costume that everybody noticed until you

"He probably was," returned Cranston. "As head of the Knights of Hades, King Satan makes the rounds of

other functions to pay his respects or disrespects. Since it wasn't time to meet him officially, it was better to

Those were the last words that Margo heard from Cranston, for he had become his other self, The Shadow.

On the gloomy street that they had reached it seemed that slender Columbine was walking all alone, for the

Yet despite The Shadow's presence, Margo Lane shuddered. Somehow her recollection of the crimsonclad

Mephisto with his leering, insidious mask, was a fearful thing that boded further ill!

AT an alleyway a few blocks deeper in the French Quarter, Margo Lane paused suddenly as a gloved hand

clutched her arm. At that moment Margo was forgetful of her qualms for she was interested in what little of

Down the street was a float mounted on a flat car some twenty feet by eight, with four bedecked mules

hitched patiently in front of it. The float had a crew of several men, all in fancy costumes, but Margo was

more interested in the grotesque decorations that topped the cart. The theme was Humpty Dumpty,

represented by an enormous egg supporting a squatty dummy figure, the combination rising to a height of

Then, as the gloved hand turned her toward the alley, Margo heard The Shadow's whispered parting:

Wishing she'd never come to New Orleans, Margo tripped along the cobbled paving of the alley, hoping only

that The Shadow's eyes were watching her venture into what seemed oblivion. As she reached the door of the

grim stone house that blocked the alley, it opened, gushing a mass of welcome light. Handing her invitation

Other guests were coming to that same alley. The Shadow saw them as he glided further along the street, to

the darker vantage of a deep doorway. Satisfied that all was proceeding normally where the Ball of Death was

What interested The Shadow was the single float which by now should be on its way to join the Comus

parade which was forming at St. Charles Avenue and Calliope Street. Just why Humpty Dumpty should be so

The same applied to the two slinking figures that were working their way along the front of an opposite

building. They were men in dark clothes, barely visible in the last vestiges of twilight. Sensing their menace,

The Shadow drew a brace of automatics from beneath his cloak and began to glide across the narrow street.

The skulkers acted before The Shadow reached them. Switching from their sneaky tactics, they bore with one

accord upon the mummers who were standing around the float. To a man, the entire float crew found

As docile as the harnessed mules, the costumed men allowed themselves to be marched across the street and

The Shadow followed, ready to intervene in case the situation showed violence, but the gaudy prisoners were

thoroughly subdued. They allowed themselves to be bound in a room where their captors locked them, while

The Shadow watched from the darkness of the outer doorway. Then the captors stripped off their baggy

outergarments and emerged in trappings quite as fancy as those worn by the prisoners.

One crew was simply replacing the other and The Shadow could well understand why. His whispered laugh

denoted that understanding as he moved out to the street, there to await the next developments.

Those developments were under way in the Devil's Den, where Margo Lane was finding that the Knights of

The Den consisted of a large, square room, with a platform accommodating an orchestra beneath a quaint old

stairway that turned at a landing and angled its way to the floor above. The orchestra was playing an old and

merry tune called "The Devil's Ball" while the presiding officials greeted the numerous guests.

These officials wore badges which identified them. One was the Scribe, who had a set of whiskers that would

have suited Father Time. Another was the Messenger, clad in a skeleton outfit with a skull painted on its

hood. The third was the Seneschal who wore a military uniform of the zouave type with red trousers and blue

Attending the masked Seneschal were four guards attired in similar but less imposing uniforms, their whole

regalia being a simple blue. They were busy serving drinks in mugs that were fashioned like miniature skulls.

Since none of the other guests had qualms, Margo accepted one of the mugs and looked around at her

Nearly all the delegates were men and through their various masks they were admiring Margo's Columbine

costume with its short skirt and sleeveless jacket. The costume was the sort that would have made Margo's

legs appear too long if they hadn't been so shapely, and they were commanding generous attention until the

Then came a sonorous announcement from the bearded Scribe that brought all eyes about.

"I, Scribe, salute you!" With folded arms the speaker surveyed the group. "I cannot say that I welcome you,

because soon one of our members will be gone, back to the drab life that dwells outside this Nether Region."

Unfolding his arms, the Scribe gestured to the Seneschal who in turn commanded the guards to unveil a

bulky object that was standing in the corner. Its covering lifted, the object proved to be a lottery wheel which

"It is your turn, Messenger." The Scribe bowed to the man who wore the skeleton costume. "Your sad duty

The Messenger took over while the guests waited breathless. They watched his skeleton hand sift the wadded

papers that rested within the lower rim of the broad wheel. The situation grew more tense when the Seneschal

approached, bringing a scaled box that looked like a jewel case. Imperiously, the Scribe demanded:

"A gift from the fortunate dead," returned the Seneschal, "that our unfortunate friend may carry when he

A thick, oblong case, shaped like an oversized wallet, real meat for hungry eyes!

The utter silence told that all were acquainted with the true contents of that packet: one hundred thousand

dollars to be delivered by the famous Louisiana Lottery, famous because in all its history it had never

defaulted. This clandestine delivery was being managed under the mummery of the Knights of Hades, whose

"A mere token," spoke the Scribe, "but it would please His Mephistophelean Majesty, who believes that all

The Seneschal handed over the oblong box and retired with a profound bow. Then the Scribe ordered:

"Come, Messenger! Whirl the Wheel of Fate and let us be rid of the fool who will not share our torments! He

The silence was broken by the clatter of the wheel with the tight pellets jouncing within it. Running his hand

into the flow, the Messenger brought out the winning wad and opened it. The hushed guests were clutching

the numbered envelopes that contained the similarly numbered invitations and the lottery tickets that they

A happy cry stabbed the disappointed murmur and a frail man in a Harlequin costume pressed forward

waving the winning envelope and all that went with it. He was nervous this winner, until his numbers were

checked; when the box was placed in his hands, he began to gulp thanks that the Messenger promptly

"Begone!" The Messenger pointed a skeleton hand toward the door. "The Seneschal will show you to your

Looking around, Margo saw the uniformed Seneschal standing at the outer door. It dawned on her that the

carriage could only be the Humpty Dumpty float that was waiting in the street. Then with a regretful sigh that

marked the passing of a hundred thousand dollars, Margo decided to enjoy what fun, if any, the coming

Much was to happen, though not under the head of fun. The first person to realize that was the winning

Anxious to reach the waiting float, the frail man took a few quick paces, only to stop warily and look back

toward a little side gate that flanked the doorway of Hoodoo House. The Harlequin fancied that he had heard

Imagination, probably, but it quickened his pace and that in turn made him stumble. Then, from the blackness

came part of it that lived, unseen hands that clutched the faltering Harlequin, stifled his startled cry and

whirled him into the doorway of a deserted house, a side door, just within the mouth of the blind alley.

Dazed by his spin, the Harlequin was bound and gagged by frills ripped from his own costume. They weren't

the sort of bonds that would survive a healthy struggle, but they would last long enough for the unseen

personage to travel far with the box that he had plucked from Harlequin's failing grasp.

All that the captive Harlequin heard next was the closing of a door, but there were others who were treated to

some of The Shadow's rapid tactics. In the big room where the mummers from the float were sitting bound

and gagged, The Shadow paused long enough in the darkness to loosen one prisoner's bonds.

Neat, this, to start the release of those prisoners while he dealt with the men who had trapped them, but The

Shadow's mode of dealing with the imposters on the float was rather unusual too.

Doubling around through the alley, The Shadow arrived openly in the glare of torches that had been lighted

by the phony float crew. His appearance started consternation that threatened violence, judging by the way

Only The Shadow himself was gunless. All he carried was an oblong box that he waved quite joyously and

the gang that had taken over the float remembered that this was Mardi Gras where anybody might

Quite a coincidence that the lottery winner should have chosen such a costume, but that merely added to the

irony of it. They were smirking beneath their masks, these thuggish imposters, as they politely opened the

The egg clanked shut with the sound of steel, not the dull thud of papier mache, the usual material used in

Carnival float construction. Then the false mummers were on board and the mules were lumbering ahead,

From within the hollow egg came an unheard laugh, the sardonic mirth of The Shadow, foretelling that this

The Shadow intended to take a personal hand in that frustration, although he had planned it so his services

would not be too badly needed. Indeed, The Shadow wouldn't have come along if he'd known of something

Which proved that The Shadow's present calculations didn't include an analysis of what was going on behind

THE gloom that followed the departure of the lottery winner was not dispelled when the Seneschal returned

into the Devil's Den, clicked his heels and saluted first the Scribe and then the Messenger.

Even Margo shared the general envy of the lucky Harlequin whose luck already was undergoing a rapid

change that none of them knew about, although that change was to prove for the better. Glumly, the guests

accepted skull mugs that the guards passed around, while the Seneschal remained at the outer door and the

Scribe stood with folded arms. It was the Messenger who furnished the index to the next event.

The man with the skull hood was staring toward the stairs as though expecting someone who had so far

One thought was general: The Krewe of the Knights of Hades would have to furnish something startling in

the way of entertainment if they hoped to enliven these guests, whose interest at least had gone very, very

The silence gripped even the orchestra, which remained idle on its platform, and through the hush came the

muffled beat of mule hoofs that faded from the front street. A dozen seconds later, the watchful eye of the

Messenger detected a stir from the stairs and he raised a skeleton hand in signal.

A cymbal crashed from the orchestra platform. A drum began a rattle that ended in an even louder smash and

with it, a descending huddle of crimson spread suddenly upon the landing in the shape of the awaited master

Though Margo had seen such resplendence earlier, she felt the same chill as the other guests. It was highly

dramatic, this entry of Mephistopheles into his own Devil's Den. The lights were arranged to accentuate the

crimson of the costume that shimmered from the landing and the man who wore the Mask of Mephisto was

Even to the trousers that showed below his kneelength cape, King Satan was complete in ruddy dye, as

though he had gathered the flames from his favorite firepit and used them to permanently tint his costume.

King Satan was wearing gauntlets, long red ones, of some material that had the same sheen as his spreading

cape, and with each forward step that he took down from the landing, the fingers of those hands writhed, as

Instinctively, the guests drew back and away, forming an awed semicircle, while the Scribe, as if in their

behalf, stepped cautiously forward with a cringing bow. The Scribe's voice came plaintive:

Interrupting with a majestic sweep of his shimmering arm, Mephistopheles pressed the Scribe aside.

"But these guests are of the dead." The Scribe tapped a record sheet to prove it. "We have found the lone

King Satan turned to the Messenger as though demanding that he prove it. The living skeleton bowed and

"His number was called and he was unchosen." The Messenger reared back his skullface and spread his

painted arms. "Oh, Ruler of these Nether Regions, you may strike me living if I speak not true."

The lines that the Messenger recited were so stilted that Margo decided it would be a favor to strike him dead

Without a word, the impersonator of King Satan drew a revolver from his carmine cape and fired three shots

People stared as though they expected a rattle of bones when the Messenger struck the floor. What he did was

It was somewhat ludicrous the way the Messenger sprawled. What proved it wasn't all in fun was the way the

whitepainted bones on his costume began to take on splotches of color that were too much like the sheen of

It was the bearded Scribe who started the hue and cry. Wildly, he pointed to the doorway toward which the

murderer had started only to be blocked by the uniformed Seneschal. He was raising his smoking gun, this

Satan who was living the part, when he saw that the Seneschal wasn't to be cowed. Turning, the man with the

Mephisto Mask dashed for the stairs, took them with long strides and was around the turn of the landing by

The bearded Scribe led the rush in that direction, while the bold Seneschal, seeing the route was crowded,

dashed across the floor and beckoned the guests to a rear stairway that offered a chance to cut off Mephisto's

Completely lost in the rush, Margo didn't have time to philosophize how brave people could become after

someone else showed them how. Practically everybody had chased upstairs, by one route or the other, and the

Seneschal, back at the outer door, was waving to bring back the few who had fled in that direction. Who

those few were, Margo didn't know, because so many had preferred to pursue the Satanic murderer.

It was something of Margo's business to check on facts, since Cranston wasn't here. Besides, she wasn't

The stairs were long and by the time Margo reached the top, results had been gained. The Scribe's crowd

were smashing at a door which gave suddenly to pitch them into a room where a door on the other side was

This room was scarcely more than a hall where the front and back stairs joined; it had a window through

which the murderer might have pushed the Mephisto head, but certainly couldn't have squeezed himself after

it. The Seneschal was quick to recognize that fact, for he was doing more than beckon now. He was shouting

There, the only handy window opened above the alley, but there was a sheer drop of thirty feet and nothing in

the way of a hanging rope or other device by which the murderous Mephisto could have made it. There was a

ladder leading to a cupola atop the house, while bolted doors offered access to windows that led out to the

side roofs of adjoining buildings. His fugitive Majesty could have taken any of those routes after barring the

way behind him, so people began to climb the ladder and bang down doors in order to overtake him.

By then, Margo was on her way downstairs. From the second floor she could hear the sound of a car pulling

away along a rear street but she was sure the murderer couldn't have reached the ground that soon. In fact it

was all so puzzling that Margo felt there was only one person who could crack the riddle, if he happened to

Margo went out through the front alley to hunt for the cloaked figure that she should have realized could not

be found in darkness, when she ran into an old friend or enemy, providing how you felt about somebody

Margo felt friendly enough when she saw the fellow's plight. He was the Harlequin who had won and lost.

His costume was tattered and his mask was gone, revealing a drawn, longjawed face that suited his frail

"I've been robbed!" he panted. "I've been robbed and it's terrible! I wouldn't think it could have happened!"

"Look in there." Margo steered the Harlequin into the Hoodoo House, straight toward the Messenger's body.

"You'll see somebody who's been murdered and that's even more terrible. He didn't think it could happen

Rushing out to the street, Margo heard shouts from roof tops, delivered by searchers who thought she was

Mephisto in full flight. Heedless of those calls Margo looked for the muledrawn float, but wasn't surprised

to find it was gone. There still was a chance that The Shadow might have followed it.

The streets were clear now, for all the maskers had gone to Canal Street and other points from which they

could view the Comus procession, which Margo was going to see after all. Yet all she hoped was that she

It was a long chance, longer than the odds against winning the Louisiana Lottery, this hope of finding The

Shadow out of all the costumed spectators who were watching the big event of Mardi Gras. Still, there was an

If you saw trouble, you could probe into the thick of it and generally find The Shadow. Such trouble was due

THERE were twentyone floats in the Comus parade instead of the advertised twenty, but comparatively few

of the spectators checked that difference. The first float in the parade was the title car, listing the names of the

eighteen that were following the king's car, and by the time the last float passed, most people had forgotten

The squatty Humpty Dumpty, perched upon his mammoth egg, was so in keeping with the theme of Mother

Goose that it brought huge rounds of applause. Indeed, the only fault with this topic was that it was too good,

and the fake maskers who had taken over the spurious float were quite aware of it.

"It's time we were mooching out of this," one masker said. "Like we mooched into it. When we get to the

"Only we ain't going past the review stand," returned another. "We're keeping right ahead the next time this

"Nothing. There's always a chance that a float is going to fall out of line. That's why a repair truck rides along

"Yeah, only when it gets back, nobody's going to find us. Listen, we ain't any phonier than the phonies we

This float had joined the parade simply to lose itself, or rather cover its own trail. The revivers of the

Louisiana Lottery had planned it as a special service for the winner of their illicit game, something which

they could well afford, since they had sold more than double the number of tickets needed to pay off the

By easing into the parade, then out again, the fake float was supposed to reach some unknown destination

where the occupant of the boilerplate egg could depart in peace and security with his precious box of funds.

Such was the original plan and in forestalling it, the present occupants of the float were simply adapting it to

They too intended to ride to some unstated place with their charge, but when or if they sent him on his way,

he would go without the money. The fact that the prize winner was masquerading as The Shadow had jarred

this faction only briefly; indeed they were possibly less worried than their predecessors might have been. The

There didn't seem much that The Shadow could do to remedy his present situation, considering that he was

clamped in a metal container and if he tried to pry his way out, he would give his identity away. These

maskers who had taken over weren't going to give The Shadow a chance to start anything.

So they thought, not realizing that The Shadow had already started all that was needed.

Just as the parade was turning a corner, about the time when the middle of the procession had made the

A group of maskers who looked like fugitives from a Comus float came hustling through the crowd that

thronged the corner. They were using the old New Orleans system which the younger set thought was sport;

they were coming as a human chain, hands locked as they whiplashed through the crowd.

Once such a string got under way, its own momentum carried it. If the head of the chain struck too tight a

cluster of people, the backwash cleared it. This sort of horseplay was annoying and quite unseemly during

The crowd suddenly parted and the lined maskers plunged through, practically into the parade itself. Torch

bearers scattered, the horses of the Comus Knights reared madly and the general confusion might have ruined

the parade if the roisterers hadn't veered away and gone barging back to the rear of the cartwheeled flotilla.

There these madcaps turned into a veritable pirate crew that swarmed on board the egg exhibit with intent to

capture it. So far, maskers on the other floats had repelled these troublemakers with fistfuls of thrown

They drew guns, as did the attackers and in a trice the whole float was a riot of slugging and shooting. One

tough crew was seeking revenge on the other. They were canceling each other out, due to The Shadow's

Somebody lashed the mules and away they went, past the last float that was clearing the corner. Things were

jammed long enough for the crowd to open a path so the mules could rocket straight ahead, taking the float

battle out of circulation. Quite a spectacle in itself, the fugitive float drew a mad rush of spectators after it and

Muffled shots went unheard within the pillbox that was shaped like an egg, but the smoke from a gun

muzzle curled out through the cracks. The Shadow had broken the lock with those shots; now, a human

instrument of double vengeance, he was springing out to settle the balance of the battle to the misfortune of

The trailing populace saw this cloaked avenger clout down fighters impartially until the float was strewn with

dazed maskers; then, seizing the discarded reins, The Shadow lashed the mules and fired a few shots past the

pair on the right. The stampeded steeds veered left, around a narrow corner. The float couldn't make its turn

and Humpty Dumpty took his great fall, egg, float, and all, flinging the battleweary maskers to the

All the crowd had to do was pick them up and turn them over to the police, a task that The Shadow seemed to

indicate by a parting, sweeping gesture, as he sprang lightly from the crashing float and disappeared along the

Only one person followed The Shadow. She was a Columbine whose trim legs were built for speed as well as

looks. Hearing shooting, Margo Lane had gone to look for The Shadow and found him.

Suddenly blocking the Columbine's path, he halted her with a whispered laugh and again was piloting Margo

Margo was too breathless to talk until she found herself in an upstairs cafe on Exchange Place, that single

block where the night spots were so popular that they were forced to doubledeck themselves. There, his

slouch hat removed, his black cloak thrown back, Lamont Cranston was again his complacent self.

"It did, but that wasn't all." About to go into the news of murder, Margo halted abruptly. "But how did you

From the draped cloak, Cranston brought the sealed box that Margo had last seen in the hands of the

prizewinning Harlequin. For the moment, Margo was too astounded to think of anything else, so Cranston

took a tableknife, cut open the heavy seals and lifted the lid of the compact treasure chest.

Margo gave a grateful sigh, since one thing at least seemed settled, but that sigh turned to a gasp,

Mystery was only beginning in New Orleans. Instead of containing a bundle of tightpacked currency, the

oblong box was empty, lacking even a trifling souvenir from the Krewe of the Knights of Hades!

POLICE CAPTAIN SELBERT listened in stolid style to the excited testimony that he was hearing in the

midst of Hoodoo House. Jim Selbert missed seeing the Comus parade, but he'd been expecting something to

Something always happened in the Vieux Carre on Mardi Gras Night and Selbert couldn't have looked

forward to a more bizarre setting than this old Hoodoo House which had once been the temporary residence

of the famous Dominique You, a lieutenant of that oncerenowned pirate, Jean Lafitte.

And right now, Jim Selbert was getting the inside story on the Krewe of the Knights of Hades, whose ways

The Scribe, deprived of his Druid gown and whiskers, was none other than Tourville Talbot who pronounced

his name with a round "O" and an absence of the final "T." Older than he looked, Talbot was known to

everyone as Tourville because he'd refused to grow up. Selbert wasn't surprised to find Tourville as Scribe of

the Knights of Hades. The old boy simply couldn't wait for Mardi Gras to come around each year and he'd

grown jaded attending the functions put on by Comus, Rex, Aparomest, Mithras, Oberon, and all the rest of

The Seneschal in real life was Hubert Aldion, a rugged but rather handsome young chap who had probably

done much to finance the Hades Krewe, since like Tourville, Aldion had inherited some money but hadn't

found time to sink it in sucker investments. In contrast to Tourville, who was shaky and distressed, Aldion

was grim and determined. Tourville could only talk about the murderer's flight, while Aldion was chiding

In death, the Messenger proved to be Louis Chardelle, a middleaged gentleman of very checkered history.

Some people had said that Chardelle had his upsanddowns; others termed them his insandouts. It was

all one and the same, because definitely Chardelle was now down and out, to stay that way.

The skull hood, peeled back, disclosed Chardelle's dead face as a wan one, its eyes still carrying the look of a

schemer in their glassy bulge, the lips opened wide in a grimace of surprise which Chardelle had evidently

felt when he saw King Satan bring out the gun that delivered those fatal blasts.

The uniformed guards were unimportant in the opinion of Jim Selbert, but he intended to check them just the

same. He knew their names when he heard them; they belonged to some of the older families of New

Orleans, by marriage at least, and they were just the sort of young chaps who would join up with an outfit like

the Krewe of Hades on the chance that it would some day develop into an outstanding Carnival society.

As for the guests, Selbert had simply blocked them in the corner of the room where he intended to question

them later. Right now, Jim wanted to know who King Satan was, so he put the question bluntly.

The guards looked at Aldion, who looked at Tourville, and the elderly Scribe decided that his Oath of Hades

"You've heard of Frederick Ferrand," said Tourville. "He was supposed to play King Satan."

Selbert turned to Aldion, who nodded, as did the guards. Then in hard tone, Selbert demanded:

"It was Ferrand's office," explained Tourville. "He was the head of the Krewe of Hades. But I couldn't swear

"Why not?" snapped Selbert. "Granted that he was masked, didn't he go through the proper mummery?"

"More or less," conceded Aldion, "but I can't understand why he would have murdered Chardelle. I didn't see

the actual shooting" Aldion thumbed across the room "because I was over by the outer door, and there

"Perhaps not," grunted Selbert. "Any of you might have murdered Chardelle on account of the Lottery."

Bluntly, Selbert gestured toward the wheel and Aldion's face, furrowing in new surprise, gradually relaxed

"Why that was just part of the flubdubbery," declared Aldion. "We always banish one of our guests with

some souvenir. This year we were giving a pen and pencil set, weren't we, Scribe?"

With his question, Aldion turned to Tourville, who nodded. As for Selbert, he wouldn't have credited

Aldion's ignorance if Tourville hadn't corroborated it. Even yet, Selbert doubted.

"You mean you don't know what was happening here tonight?" demanded the police captain. "You didn't

Checking the faces of the guards, Selbert found them as puzzled as those of Tourville and Aldion. Swinging

to the unmasked guests, Selbert demanded why they had come here and a chorus answered that they had

To emphasize that feature, Selbert brought forward a dapper man in tattered harlequin attire who answered to

"I wanted to win the big money," declared Shorke plaintively, "and I did. Only somebody took it away from

"We'll get to that," interrupted Selbert. "Meanwhile" he swung back to the group that represented the

As Scribe, old Tourville was looking over the list of guests and he couldn't find Shorke's name on it. When

Tourville said so, Selbert took the list and called off the other names. None of them tallied with the persons

"I did," replied Tourville, "and I gave it to the Messenger so he could deliver the invitations."

"So it was your racket, Chardelle," mused Selbert as though speaking to someone who could still hear. "I

might have known it, considering some of the deals you were mixed in. But it still doesn't add up."

"Chardelle was dealing with some really big shots," asserted Selbert. "He couldn't have risked letting them

down and he must have known it. His only way to be safe was to cut you fellows in on the deal!"

"Except that we wouldn't have listened," expressed Aldion, indignantly. "As Seneschal, I'd have voted against

"As Seneschal, you would have no vote," reminded old Tourville, "nor would I as Scribe." Producing a scroll,

Tourville passed it to Selbert. "Read bylaw 5A, Captain, and you will see that King Satan has complete say

"But this would be different," argued Aldion. "It doesn't come under the head of policy "

"All lotteries are policy," interrupted Selbert, "and without intending to be funny, I'd say that Scribe Tourville

is right. All that Chardelle had to do was take it up with King Satan, which meant Ferrand. You fellows didn't

"We haven't seen Ferrand for some time. He's been moping, you know, over girl trouble."

"Ferrand was going down to the bayou country, the last we heard," added Tourville. "I instructed Chardelle to

find out if Ferrand would be back in time, and Chardelle assured me that he would."

"As Scribe of the Krewe of the Knights of Hades," returned Tourville, with dignity, "I am special deputy to

His Majesty, King Satan. It is my prerogative to assign certain tasks to the Seneschal, and lesser details to the

"We'll take over your duties," asserted Seibert, a trifle sarcastically, "and it would please us, Scribe, if you

would tell us where His Murderous Majesty might happen to have gone at present?"

"King Satan is answerable to no one but himself." Tourville was still taking his mummery seriously. "But it is

his wont on Mardi Gras night to appear but briefly at the functions of the other Krewes."

"Good," decided Seibert, "we'll start a manhunt or a devilhunt, just in case he's showing nerve enough to

Turning to instruct the few police who were present with him, Seibert was pleased when the door opened and

more arrived, including a few plain clothes men who were dressed as masqueraders since Carnival costumes

These arrivals were bringing news of massed battle on a Humpty Dumpty float, and by questioning survivors

they had learned that it traced back to the Hoodoo House that operated as the Devil's Den. Paramount was the

account of a cloaked masker who had cracked loose from within a steel egg and gone his way into the night.

Before the informing detective could go further, the man named Shorke made an excited interruption.

"He must be the one who took the prize money!" Shorke's plea was addressed to Seibert. "I couldn't see him

"He was seen earlier," informed a detective, "when he ran into a man with a Mephisto Mask up toward Canal

"And there was a girl with him," added the detective. "She was wearing a Columbine costume. Short skirts

"She's the one who was here!" broke in Shorke. "When I told her I'd been robbed, she didn't wait around!"

"Any further reports?" queried Selbert, briskly. "I mean on the Devil, The Shadow, or Miss Columbine?"

"Then what are we waiting for?" demanded Selbert. Turning to his own squad, he waved for them to take

The hunt had started and which it produced first, The Shadow or King Satan, Jim Selbert didn't seem to care!

ITEM by item, Lamont Cranston had connected the details that Margo Lane remembered from her grueling

experience in the Devil's Den. On the tablecloth, Cranston had drawn a complete plan of the neighborhood

around Hoodoo House as well as the interior of the building itself, the latter copied from Margo's

Carefully, Cranston was marking crosses and dotted lines to represent various participants and their courses,

when the sound of a police siren reached him. They just couldn't seem to get along without sirens, even in

So rapidly that Margo wondered what it was all about, Cranston came up from his chair and whisked her

"Stay there," he warned, "until after they all come through. Then go out the front way, because they'll have

forgotten all about it. Here" Cranston whipped away the tablecloth with its penciled evidence "throw

this over your head and shoulders and masquerade as a ghost until you get back to your hotel. Then get out of

Footsteps were pounding up the stairs while Margo was enveloping herself in the white drape and Cranston

similarly was robing himself in black as he resumed the costume of The Shadow. Instead of looking for some

place of concealment, he started for the door, showed himself in full light, and wheeled in the opposite

Shouts from arriving police were drowned by the crash of a window. Next, the officers were storming

through the deserted cafe on the trail of someone who was making as remarkable a flight as the one that

No one had caught a glimpse of the crimsonclad Devil who had flown from Hoodoo House, but there were

The Shadow intended to draw pursuers after him. He was spotted when he dropped from a low roof to the

street; seen again when he cut diagonally to another sidewalk. Through a narrow alley which had once been a

rendezvous for fencing masters, The Shadow showed a suitable technique by parrying the police clubs that

Once through the alley, The Shadow evaporated. He had drawn the whole manhunt, including Captain

Selbert, along his own course, leaving nobody to witness the departure of an improvised ghost from the

The manhunt then switched to terms of King Satan, though the man who wore the Mephisto Mask didn't

realize it. Ken Langdon, bedecked in flowing crimson, was completing the tour as indicated on the

He'd paid his respects or disrespects to Comus, Rex, the Druids and the Zulus, though it was hardly more

than a token courtesy or discourtesy considering that the evening parties thrown by those Carnival

At least people could testify that he'd been there and now, to give the Devil his real due, Ken was making his

final stop at the Borneau Mansion where the Greater Carnival Association was holding a reception.

This was a new group whose aim was to encourage a bigger and better Mardi Gras in keeping with

educational standards. New Orleans already boasted a school children's parade which went under the title of

the Krewe of Nor, and the Greater Carnival Association felt that this should be the standard for future adult

Krewes. Obviously the Association was diametrically opposed to any secret and unsavory groups like the

Which was probably why King Satan was to include the Borneau Mansion on his calling list, and knowing

nothing about any of it, Ken Langdon stalked right into the sacred preserves of the city's most stodgy

The Association members were in costume, but unmasked, since they were strictly interpreting the rule that

all masks should be off by sunset, an ordinance which the populace had been ignoring of late years. So the

entry of a fullfledged Mephisto, clad capapie in crimson, devil's head and all, was something that should

There was a girl who foresaw this, a vivacious blonde who was wearing a Dutch costume. She clattered

forward in her wooden shoes, clutched Ken's shimmering sleeve and stopped his Mephistophelean stalk with

Tilting back his head, Ken looked down the Mephisto nose and turned to resume his stride. Then, something

that even his obstructed vision had observed caused him to pause and reconsider the girl's plea.

She was really worried, this girl was, and the flash in her violet eyes carried something soulful that Ken

"It isn't right, Fred!" The girl's protest was heartfelt. "You know how these people are trying to improve the

Mardi Gras. They didn't send the police to raid that secret Krewe of yours, so why should you impose upon

Apparently the girl didn't know that the police had taken over the Krewe of Hades with all its Mystic Knights,

but neither did Ken, so that made it mutual. Ken muttered something that might have passed as Fred's voice

in the hollow depths of the Mephisto Mask, but it only complicated the situation.

"I'll call Rolfe," the girl said. "He'll see that you get home all right. He won't tell anybody who you are and

I'm sure he'll be reasonable when he finds out that you're connected with the Krewe of Hades. You know that

Ken interrupted with a mutter consigning Rolfe, whoever he was, to the particular realm belonging to the

character that Ken was impersonating instead of Fred. Meeting a girl like this was something Ken didn't want

spoiled by anybody named Rolfe and since Fred was being blamed for staging the Mephisto act, Ken didn't

What Ken chiefly wanted was to conclude this imposture within an imposture and collect for services as

rendered. He turned away and strode in Mephistophelean majesty straight through the middle of the

Such behavior was just too much for the blonde. Turning away, she started fleeing, only to run into a young

"It's Fred," the girl choked. "You must stop him, Rolfe, before he unmasks. If they ever find out who he is "

"Why, he's Fred Ferrand," returned the Colonial gentleman, "and I'm Rolfe Trenhue, his best friend. Or didn't

"But I do understand. Why shouldn't Fred Ferrand come to a reception to meet Joan Marcy? Everyone knows

"But Fred was sent here by the Krewe of Hades as an insult. He's wearing a Mephisto Mask and he's probably

"Calm yourself, Joan." Rolfe Trenhue steadied the girl and helped her out through the door to a garden bench.

"It can't be Fred. He's gone down to my hunting cabin among the bayous. He told me he intended to stay

"Of course Fred wouldn't tell you," returned Joan, "knowing you don't approve of secret clubs. Go find Fred

and ask him. Get him away before he makes fools of us as well as himself. You'll find him in the Devil's own

The girl buried her face in her hands and Trenhue, disturbed by her sobs, decided to go and learn what the

Meanwhile, the menace had disposed of itself. Ken hadn't unmasked because his time sheet didn't call for it.

He strode out through a far door and found the most convenient street for the finish of his tour.

It was very simple from now on. The last stop was to be Moubillard's, back in the French Quarter and about a

dozen blocks from the Borneau Mansion. At Moubillard's, Ken would leave the costume and go on his way.

Everybody knew Moubillard's, including Ken, although he'd never patronized the place. Henri Moubillard

specialized in all sorts of fancy costumes and his business was big during Mardi Gras so big that

Moubillard always celebrated Mardi Gras Night himself. By then all his costumes were out and there was no

Always, too, Moubillard left his shop wide open on this night of nights. He boasted that he did this to prove

that he had rented all his costumes; that if anyone entered the shop they'd find nothing to steal. But rumor had

it that Moubillard left the door open because he wouldn't be able to unlock it even if he didn't lose his key,

which he was likely to do, considering how thoroughly he celebrated on this annual splurge.

Ken knew therefore that Moubillard's would be open and he was glad of it. As he strode along the streets,

Ken could hear the wail of police sirens and if there was trouble in the neighborhood, he didn't want any part

of it. If any maskers had become too riotous, the police were likely to blame the first they found, so Ken gave

The shop was deep beneath an ancient balcony and true to custom the door was wide open. As usual there

wasn't anything to be stolen, the show window so generally filled with the peering faces of grotesque masks,

Nevertheless it wouldn't do to just fling the Mephisto costume and forget it. Since Moubillard was keeping

open house, even when absent, it would be better form for Ken to leave the costume in the office where the

proprietor would surely find it. Besides, there was a chance that this might be the place where Ken was to

Taking off the big Mephisto head, Ken Langdon saw his way through the gloom and reached the office.

There he set the mask on a chair beside the desk and started to remove the gaudy crimson cape. Even in the

faint light, the material had an intriguing shimmer, but Ken no longer cared about fancy costumes.

Striking a match, Ken looked around the desk to see if the halfbill had been left there. Then, as the match

flame neared his finger tips, Ken extinguished it with a shake. It might be all right to be here in Moubillard's

The thing that caused Ken to consider the latter prospect was the sound of footsteps entering the shop.

Whoever the arrival was, Ken didn't want to meet him. What Ken wanted was a way out and a quick one.

If Ken Langdon had guessed all that was coming, he'd have wanted an exit that was double quick!

IT was strange, the sense of menace that moment of silence could produce when they served as prelude to

Ken Langdon felt this as he waited in Moubillard's tiny pitchblack office, wishing he was back in his own

studio on the other side of the Vieux Carre which was the natives' name for French Quarter.

Small wonder that Ken should be thinking in fancy terms considering the aura of phantasy that he had spread

around New Orleans while stalking majestically as King Satan. Maybe some of the Devil's own faults were

The sounds that came were creeping footsteps, yet so irregular, so uncertain that Ken could not define them.

Somehow, they seemed like echoes of Ken's own footfalls that had brought him through the shop to this

Maybe this was a trap, planned as a conclusion to the bizarre but senseless mission which Ken had so

If Ken Langdon had known of the Krewe of Hades and what had happened in the Devil's Den, he would have

realized that the web was tighter, more purposeful than anything he could imagine. Yet though his

impressions were vague, Ken was almost sensing the truth behind it, as he crouched there in the tiny office,

Footsteps here, footsteps there occasionally quick, then hesitant, or blundering. Ken's own footsteps

creaked as he worked toward the door, hoping better to define the sounds from the shop proper. It struck him

then that the sounds might represent two people, one baiting the other. Perhaps the place was haunted by the

spirits of the grotesque masks that Moubillard had rented out a thing which Ken was almost ready to

At moments Ken thought he could trace fleeting forms against the dim window or the black shape of the

door. Then suddenly he realized that footsteps were very close, almost creaking the floor boards on which he

himself stood. And from outdoors came sounds that so far Ken had only taken as a background; the whines of

They were very close, too. Across his turning shoulder, Ken thought he could see the outer doorway

Then Ken was at the desk, reaching for the Mephisto Mask, hoping to add it to the cape which he had half

removed from his shoulders. If people were playing a game called "Scare Me" as a variant of hideandseek,

Flooded instantly with light, the room revealed a crouched man with a quick eye and wizened face, old Henri

Moubillard. He'd come back earlier than expected and he hadn't celebrated too heavily, otherwise he wouldn't

With his first glance, Moubillard proved that he didn't rate Ken as an ordinary thief, nor even as some

prankster who was literally interpreting the policy of the open door. Suspicion, understanding, and finally

denunciation registered themselves in almost instantaneous procession across Moubillard's crafty crabapple

Moubillard saw the Mask of Mephisto and recognized it, along with the cape of crimson sheen. He also saw

Ken and didn't recognize him, which to Moubillard meant something more. Moubillard himself was

costumed in an old Spanish garb with ruffled collar and to Ken, the wizened man seemed to represent some

If he'd trapped an actual King Satan, Moubillard couldn't have been happier, and now he was conniving some

way to hold his prisoner. While Ken stood rooted, Moubillard moved backward, intending to hop through the

Before that could happen, Ken saw a red gauntlet snake through the doorway from the darkness beyond. With

it came a mass of flowing crimson that might have been the reflection of Ken's own costume. Red fingers

In the darkness, Ken heard Moubillard's excited snarl as the old costumer wheeled. Ken too was on the lunge,

realizing that here was a new menace that might convert Moubillard into an ally instead of an enemy. Ken's

Muffled shots greeted Ken's arrival in the doorway. Until he reached there, Ken didn't know that the stabs had

Tripping over the costumer's sagging body, Ken locked grips with someone who for all he knew, might really

be the Devil, here to wreak vengeance on those who had collaborated in his impersonation. Then, as they

grappled, Ken found that his opponent wasn't so formidable, for in snatching at the gun, Ken gained it.

Jogging Ken's gun arm upward, his foe took him by the throat and began to choke him. Writhing, Ken heard

a laugh, fierce, challenging, but low, which he thought came from the man who harried him.

The challenge was voiced by an invisible arrival who wasn't even hazily outlined in the blackness of the

costume shop. The Shadow was here to settle this case impartially and his laugh was set to an obbligato of

police whistles that were converging upon Moubillard's, attracted there by the shots.

Ken's present antagonist was speedy and lucky in meeting The Shadow's challenge.

The fists that choked Ken flung him with a twist and with the departure of those gripping gauntlets, Ken was

whirled squarely against The Shadow, stopping the cloaked combatant's drive. Thinking that both adversaries

were one and the same, Ken slugged valiantly with the captured gun and after landing a glancing blow, tried

That error was anticipated by The Shadow. His sweeping arm sent Ken's gunhand upward; the bullets

merely nicked some of Moubillard's empty shelves. A jab from The Shadow's other elbow clipped Ken's chin

It was too late though for The Shadow to go after the missing Mephisto. Outside Moubillard's, police saw a

man in red mask and cape dash out, then double back through a narrow alley that led to the rear of the

costume shop, clanging an iron gate as he went by. Others spied him from the rear street and saw the crimson

figure dart back through the alley. Coming through from both directions, those from the front pried open the

All this aided The Shadow. He had stepped into the office and closed the door behind him. Turning on the

light, he bolted the door and studied Moubillard's body, with Ken Langdon sitting dazed beyond it.

The Mask of Mephisto was resting on the desk. The shimmering cape had dropped from Ken's shoulders. The

red gauntlets included in his costume was drooping from his hands and beside the right lay the empty gun

with which a murderer had finished Moubillard and with which Ken had failed to shoot The Shadow.

Footsteps were pounding from the shop. Looking upward, The Shadow saw a heavily clamped trap door in

the ceiling of the office. Seizing the desk, he turned it on end, dumping the Mephisto Mask. The heavy jounce

of the desk was echoed by a hammering at the office door, along with a shouted command that had something

The gauntlets dropped from Ken's hands as The Shadow brought him to his feet and started him climbing a

chair to the elevated desk end. Realizing that a friend had found him, Ken cooperated groggily. The Shadow

clicked off the light and followed Ken to the desk perch; there, restraining Ken's sway with one hand, The

Shadow used an automatic with the other, to blast the clamps from the trap door.

The ripping creak of the lifting trap was drowned by the batteringram smashes that drove through the panel

of the office door. A dozen seconds later, the door itself was smashed, but at that moment the ceiling trap was

No longer costumed, Ken Langdon was feeling somewhat himself again, as the sweep of night air revived

him. The Shadow was steering him across a roof top to reach an adjacent balcony. From there, they worked

through an empty house, down to an alley, and finally to a corner where Ken read the name Dauphine Street.

There, Ken heard a parting laugh from a cloaked friend who seemed to fade with the remnants of the breeze

and with the tone, he could have sworn that it called him by name, gave his address, and told him to go back

That was the last seen of The Shadow on this Night of Mardi Gras. Having nowhere else to go as his cloaked

self, he skirted Moubillard's neighborhood with its deluge of police, and headed for a place where costumes

This was the reception at the Borneau Mansion, conducted by people who advocated a tamer Mardi Gras as a

better Mardi Gras. Arriving there as Cranston, The Shadow found the setting so delightfully conservative,

that he decided to call Margo Lane and have her come there in an evening gown instead of her Columbine

During his phone call, Cranston missed an incident that had some bearing on the case in hand.

A seriousfaced young man in Colonial costume was meeting a Dutch blonde who was coming into the

mansion from the garden door. The anxiety on the face of Rolfe Trenhue brought a similar reflection from the

"I couldn't find Fred anywhere," reported Trenhue, "so he must have gone out while I was looking around.

"Positive. I asked people who the Devil was and nobody knew." Trenhue relaxed with a smile. "Most of them

"He may be doing just that," said Joan, uneasily. "I haven't been able to understand Fred lately, Rolfe."

"I went out to my car intending to drive around and look for him, but the police seemed to be stopping

Rolfe Trenhue gave a heartfelt laugh that banished the girl's qualms. After all, Joan had to agree that

whatever the faults of Frederick Ferrand, he wasn't the sort to run afoul of the law.

Maybe The Shadow would have held a different opinion, had he heard of a young man named Frederick

IT was the day after Mardi Gras and New Orleans had taken on a millstream quiet. In fact, somebody once

said that the reason the Crescent City lay deep below the level of the diked Mississippi was because it settled

Certainly the crowds had done enough tramping to wear down the city somewhat and the existing calm was

like a sober regret for too much merriment. And this was one time when merriment wasn't all to be regretted.

For one thing, the police were getting right to the bottom of the Louisiana Lottery.

Too many things had happened on too many beats patrolled by too many individual cops. Such wasn't right in

New Orleans, where, to some degree, police officers were like little lords in their own domain instead of

The individual police had been tolerant of Lottery gossip until now; therefore they were able to gather a lot of

facts. Brought to the higherup officials, this had led to the summoning of a bulky gentleman of political

ambitions named Elfreth Queed, along with a suave, sallow character of the waterfront known as Kip

Captain Jim Selbert was present at the hearing, as were members of the Greater Carnival Association. Along

with the latter came a man named Lamont Cranston, who was in a position to supply some information.

Big Queed, as he was known to his smalltime faction, sat sullen while the municipal authorities reviewed

"Sure I was behind the Lottery," asserted Queed, "and why not? Everybody in New Orleans wants it and

always did. Why in the old days some of the biggest men in the city took the Annual Policy and the state took

its share of the receipts. I brought it back and I intended to run it on the square, the way it always was."

"That's why I talked to Louis Chardelle," Queed declared. "I knew he was tied up with the Krewe of Hades

and that they had the right sort of people in their group. Chardelle told me he'd take it up with them, and later

"Five grand," replied Queed. "That was for his whole crowd. I thought it was enough for one night's work."

Selbert's comment was sound, as one witness could have testified. The calmfaced Mr. Cranston studied the

police captain with wellconcealed approval. That empty box which The Shadow had so kindly borrowed to

relieve Howard Shorke from responsibilities, fitted perfectly with a theory that was growing in Selbert's

"You mean Chardelle was a doublecrosser?" Big Queed came heavily to his big feet. "Say if I thought he

"Just what would you have done?" queried Selbert, as Queed paused, fuming. "Gone in for murder?"

That question deflated Queed. He sank back so hard his chair creaked; then shook his head.

"Yeah?" snarled Tarlan, without waiting to be prompted. "What gives you that idea, Fat Guy? You hired a lot

of lugs to fake a carnival float and come around to take away the winner, only when you found you could get

"The first guys squawked to me and I figured they were right. The job was theirs, so I told them to take it.

Maybe we would have asked this fellow Shorke for a nice hunk of his winnings, but why not? The way you'd

From then on, Queed and Tarlan took the floor together and the committee let them have it. Queed had

played the big shot and Tarlan was the muscler who had tried to nick the racket, so the more they argued, the

more the facts. It developed that both were right, in that neither had wanted to go in for violence.

Tarlan's gang had managed Queed's hirelings quietly, but when the latter had been released, they were in a

mood for revenge, not discretion. That accounted for the battle on the Humpty Dumpty float, though Queed

tried to condone the behavior of his men by saying that they had been hired as private bodyguards and were

This cleared the local angles where the Lottery ring was concerned, but it meant that Queed and Tarlan would

be turned over to the Federal authorities. Along with them went an affidavit signed by Lamont Cranston, who

had checked on the sale of lottery tickets in New York and who had come to New Orleans to learn if the

Being so well acquainted with the lottery situation, Cranston automatically was invited to a discussion of the

murder case which Captain Selbert was investigating. They went to Selbert's office, where along with several

On Selbert's desk were diagrams as exact as those which Cranston had drawn on a tablecloth that had later

vanished along with a Columbine costume. As witnesses, Selbert had Shorke present, along with some of the

"Big Queed is a rat," was Selbert's preamble, "but when a rat squeals, you can take his word. We know that

Queed only talked to Chardelle. If Chardelle had wanted to grab the prize money, he wouldn't have stayed in

"How do you know there was any doublecross?" put in Shorke, plaintively. "They gave me the box with the

"And that somebody was The Shadow," interrupted Selbert. "You've heard of him, haven't you?"

"Maybe it was just somebody masquerading as The Shadow. Have you thought of that, Captain?"

"I have," returned Selbert, "and I'm telling you right now that nobody but The Shadow could have staged

what he did. And from all I've heard of The Shadow, if the cash was in that box, he'd have shipped it right

Selbert looked straight at Cranston, feeling he'd get a corroboration from this gentleman whose intelligence

had already been acknowledged. Cranston didn't nod, but his calm reception of the statement seemed to

"Anyway, Chardelle was the link," continued Selbert, emphatically. "If that money turned up missing, he'd

have to answer for it. Only Chardelle is dead, so he can't talk and we all know he was murdered by someone

"That brings us to another murder, done by the same killer. Henri Moubillard was slain probably because he

knew who was wearing that costume. We saw the murderer double back toward the shop and we found the

costume in the office. The killer cracked a trap door and went out by the roof."

It was so good a summary that Cranston didn't raise the objections that he could have. The fact that Ken

Langdon, and not the murderer, had discarded the costume which the police found in Moubillard's office, was

something for future consideration. Ken's costume was at present hanging in a corner of Selbert's own office,

"And the man who wore that costume," announced Selbert, "was Frederick Ferrand, the King Satan of the

The door was flinging open as Selbert voiced that denunciation, and on the threshold stood a man in hunting

costume whose glaring eyes were wilder than his unshaved face was woolly. With a bellow loud enough to be

THEY were much alike, Fred Ferrand and Jim Selbert, although they differed on a question of murder.

Specifically they differed on who had murdered whom, not who might want to murder whom.

For Ferrand was exhibiting the very inclinations that Selbert had attributed to him. Back from the bayou

country, Ferrand had brought his shotgun with him and in rough and ready style, he was shoving the double

muzzles in Selbert's direction, with possible intent to let him have both barrels.

As for Selbert, he was drawing a police revolver, indicating that he meant to settle with a murderer and

consider the evidence later. The police captain came up from the desk, faster than Ferrand could follow him

Shaking only a trifle of his complacence, Cranston intervened by blocking Selbert's aim and gesturing the

revolver aside. Before Jim could start an angry protest, he saw Cranston's reason. Already two friends had

One was Rolfe Trenhue, the other Joan Marcy. Trenhue had been at the previous hearing and had evidently

met Joan afterward to bring her here. Their arrival in Ferrand's wake was therefore quite timely.

Ferrand could have flung off a pair of men like Trenhue, for the latter, though wiry, was mild of brawn

compared to the big boy of the bayous. However, Joan was supplying more than the needed share because

Ferrand was reluctant to become too rough with her. The net result was a clatter of the shotgun and Ferrand,

sullen rather than enraged, was letting his arms stay gripped as he still glared at Selbert.

With a nod of thanks to Cranston and the others, Selbert put his revolver away. Then:

"I don't have a story," gruffed Ferrand. "I just didn't get back to town for Mardi Gras, that's all."

"I tried to reach them," returned Ferrand. "Only they were all out when I phoned."

"Let's keep it to New Orleans then," decided Selbert. "Our records show" Jim was referring to a little book

"that you ordered a special costume with a Mask of Mephisto, from Moubillard's Costume Shop."

"Suppose I did?" queried Ferrand. "I wasn't here to wear it. Besides, why couldn't somebody else have gotten

"Because you were the only person who could have known about the Louisiana Lottery money. Chardelle

"As long as I reigned as King Satan, yes," conceded Ferrand, "but when I wasn't around and I wasn't the

Shaking his head, Selbert brought a scroll from the desk drawer and unrolled it.

"Evidently you don't know your own bylaws," Selbert told Ferrand. "It says here that in the absence of King

Satan, or during his inability to rule, the majority vote of the other officers shall be needed to appoint a

By the other officers, Selbert specifically meant Tourville, Aldion, and the defunct Chardelle, who as Scribe,

Seneschal and Messenger were recognized officials of the Krewe. Not having Chardelle's body handy to

The police captain pressed a buzzer; a door opened and both Tourville and Aldion were ushered in from

another room where they had been kept in temporary custody. But if Selbert expected this surprise to produce

results, he was guessing very badly. Tourville and Aldion nodded amiably but warily to Ferrand who returned

"Only that they knew nothing about Chardelle's deal with the Lottery," returned Selbert. He paused, to add

"Because Tourville and Aldion were accounted for at the time of Chardelle's death," declared Selbert. He

tapped a diagram with his pencil. "Tourville was here beside the orchestra platform and Aldion was at the

Ferrand stared at a big letter "M" which marked the beginning of a curved line that trickled into a row of dots.

"It might," said Selbert drily, "and we'd know for sure if you traced the rest of the line for us. We're sure you

must have gone as far as the third floor, but where you went after that, we don't know."

"Both," retorted Ferrand, "since you want to be obstinate about it. You seem to think that I was lurking

upstairs in the Mephisto costume, that I came down, shot Chardelle, fled upstairs again, jumped on a

"You couldn't have dropped to the front alley," Selbert decided, "but you might have doubled around through

there after coming down from a side roof. There's a passage around Hoodoo House, leading through a gate

"You doubled back through Moubillard's shop" Selbert's eyes lifted and fixed steadily on Ferrand

"although you could have taken a side alley to another street. There's a gate alongside of Moubillard's too.

Of the many eyes that were on Ferrand, the steadiest were Cranston's. He wanted to get the bearded man's

reactions and with good reason. Cranston knew that Selbert was playing a wrong hunch in talking about

doubling back. That trail at Moubillard's hadn't been reversed by the man who murdered the old costumer.

Whatever Ferrand knew, he didn't betray it. Instead, he seemed inclined to keep Selbert guessing and did so.

There were other eyes that gazed questioningly at Ferrand, a violet pair belonging to Joan Marcy. Then,

rather than stare too long, the girl let her gaze drift, and she noted how closely Cranston was watching

Joan's chance observation stirred a curious recollection that was to produce immediate results.

"Don't tell us you couldn't have gone to Moubillard's," Selbert was saying to Ferrand. "You were seen at the

Borneau Mansion earlier and we checked the time. It gave you just the right number of minutes to get over to

"I was seen at the Borneau Mansion?" interrupted Ferrand. "Why, I wasn't within miles of the place. Who

Ferrand wheeled so savagely toward Joan that she stepped back quickly past Trenhue's protecting arm.

"Tell us, Miss Marcy," said Selbert. "Didn't you see somebody in a Mephisto Mask at the Mansion?"

"I don't know." Joan frowned, then brightened suddenly. "Yes, frankly I think the voice was disguised. In fact

The last words were lost, drowned by the ugly snarl that Ferrand hurled Joan's way. Fred was calling the girl

a doublecrosser, but he spent a while getting to the term, due to a supply of preliminary adjectives. This

Coming around from his desk, Selbert caught Ferrand off guard and by the shoulders, spinning him with a

twisty shove that landed Ferrand in a chair that broke and deposited him in its wreckage. Facing Joan, Selbert

Joan's reply was to Selbert, but her eyes were elsewhere. The girl was looking straight at Cranston when she

Old Tourville and young Aldion were helping Ferrand to his feet, promising him their moral support as well

as physical, but Ferrand wanted none of it. Delivering a contemptuous snarl in Joan's direction, Ferrand faced

"Since I need an alibi," declared Ferrand, "I'll give you one. Come down to the bayous with me and talk to the

people there. We'll find somebody who will remember seeing me some time last night."

"I'll make the arrangements," agreed Selbert, tactfully. "Meanwhile everyone else is free to leave. Only I'd

By "you two" Selbert meant Tourville and Aldion, as he indicated. A pair of detectives took custody of

Ferrand while the rest of the group filed out, Cranston included. There were two persons, however, who

Cranston noted them: Joan Marcy and Rolfe Trenhue. But it wouldn't have been good policy to have stayed

Besides, Cranston had a good idea what it was all about and the accuracy of his surmise was to prove itself

quite soon. His whispered laugh, unheard as he departed, was more than vaguely reminiscent of The

OYSTERS ROCKEFELLER formed a tasty dish that delighted Margo Lane, particularly the kind that were

served in a certain French restaurant just within the borders of the Vieux Carre. At present however, Margo

"Don't look now," undertoned Margo, "but there's an old friend of mine who doesn't know me when he sees

me. He must think he's going to collect some prize money that he didn't get or he wouldn't be so interested in

Such a revelation would have put Margo in a fighting mood, if it hadn't occurred to her who the blonde in

question was. Margo recalled her as a girl in Dutch costume that had made her look considerably different.

"The police called it murder, Margo, and they've put the blame on Ferrand. Joan probably wants to clear

"And why? I understood they weren't clubby any more, and from the way you said Ferrand acted "

"Ferrand's actions are Joan's main reason," interposed Cranston. "She wants to clear the book. Trenhue stayed

at headquarters, probably just to tell Ferrand that Joan was doing all she could for him."

"I think so." His tone extremely confidential, Cranston explained why. "Joan has listed her own candidate for

Since she was looking right at Cranston, Margo continued to stare, her eyes wide with disbelief.

"It was rather odd that I should show up at the Borneau Mansion," reminded Cranston. "If Mr. Mephisto had

time to get from there to Moubillard's and toss off a murder, I for one had time to get back to the Mansion.

"That's a mere side issue, Margo. I think I'll go the rounds and maybe run into Tourville or Aldion, to hear

their opinions. When you're clear, you might phone young Langdon and tell him that it would be advisable

With that, Cranston passed Margo an envelope which had dropped from Ken's pocket during last night's trip

across Moubillard's roof. It bore Ken's name and address to which Cranston had thoughtfully added a

From the corner of her eye, Margo watched Joan follow Lamont's departure. If she hadn't learned the truth,

Margo would have classed the blonde's gaze as a designing one. But then Margo was oversuspicious of

blondes, just as she underestimated the intelligence of such milktoast gentry as Howard Shorke.

While Margo was watching Joan, Shorke was watching Margo. Turned slightly from the table, Margo was

resting one knee upon the other and Shorke, who had an eye for mirrors too, was catching the reflection of

When Shorke leaned over to say something to Joan, Margo supposed it referred to Lamont instead of herself.

She finished the last of the fancy oysters and sauntered from the restaurant, planning to do a little shopping

Right then, a phone call wouldn't have found Ken Langdon at home. Behind his outward manner, Ken was a

much more jittery person than even The Shadow supposed. With afternoon waning, Ken had decided on a

How far Ken had taken matters into his own hands, he didn't fully realize. Certainly The Shadow wouldn't

have approved this notion, and Ken himself would have later cause to rue it. Nevertheless, Ken's folly in

Not wanting to be disturbed, Selbert had left word to send up the names of any visitors before admitting them

That was as far as the detective got. Answering a phone call with his other ear, Selbert wheeled to Trenhue,

"It's about Ferrand!" Selbert stormed. "He's pulled a fast one! He's slipped the officers who went along with

"Get out!" retorted Selbert. "We'll have more work finding him if he stays in! Why a man could hide for

weeks among the marshes. There's one chance, though" appeal strengthened Selbert's tone "and that's if

"You wouldn't be going back on a friend," argued Selbert. "Anyway, Ferrand went back on you, mixing in

"I'm not so sure," debated Trenhue. "Every man has a right to his own opinion, and should guide his actions

"Suppose Ferrand is innocent," suggested Selbert. "It will be all the worse if he is hounded and hunted. He'd

need a friend to assure him that we'll give him a fair trial. You're coming with me, Trenhue."

"All right," decided Trenhue, "but I'll have to call my house, so they'll know where I've gone. Maybe if we

"Yes, old ones that particularly interested Ferrand. I thought once he was going to buy up property down

there; that's why I was really surprised when I learned he had sunk money in the Krewe of Hades "

"Forget the Krewe of Hades," broke in Selbert. "Do your phoning while I'm arranging for a car."

Trenhue had made his phone call by the time Selbert returned. The car was ready, but Jim took time out to

see that the office was in order, something that he always did. He noted that the Mephisto costume was

hanging in its proper corner, with the grotesque Mask above it. Then Selbert and Trenhue were on their way,

Just outside the office door, Selbert ran into a rather haggard young man who had the look of an artist.

"We'll be back late. Better come around tomorrow. If it's too important to wait, tell it to somebody else."

Good advice if there had been any one else to hear the story. But Selbert's men were going along with him, so

Ken Langdon was stranded in the vacant corridor outside the office door that Selbert hadn't locked. Dusk was

filling police headquarters which meant that it was getting late, and Ken had a fairly long trip ahead to the

So long that Margo Lane reached Ken's studio ahead of him. The reason she went there was because the

telephone didn't answer. When she called information to check on Ken's number, she found he didn't have

any. Of course Margo had been calling the number in the little renting office across the patio from Ken's

Thus Margo found herself looking into a tall but not too sizeable studio that contained an imposing statue,

towering almost to the ceiling. It was a strange statue, representing a curious, forceful creature with

bedraggled hair and tattered robe, tilting forward and staring straight ahead with determination written all

Wondering what the subject of the statue was, Margo became more intrigued by the problem of how it could

be gotten out of the studio. Looking from door to statue and back again, she tried to compare the dimension.

It wasn't a question whether the statue could be safely removed from the studio. It was a question whether

BLUECOLD was the revolver muzzle that covered Margo and the violet eyes behind it had acquired

something of the same hard cobalt glint. The gun wasn't very big, but it was just the right size for Joan

In miniature, Joan's expression resembled that of the bulky statue. It spelled determination plus.

The door was swinging shut from a flip of Joan's free hand. As it slammed, the blonde stepped forward,

warily keeping enough range to hold Margo entirely helpless. Then, in a calm, decisive contralto, Joan spoke

"Coincidences just don't happen twice," declared Joan. "That goes for a certain Mr. Cranston and yourself. Or

The answer seemed to hang in Margo's mind. It wasn't the difference between truth and falsehood, because

such didn't matter when somebody demanded one or the other and used a gun to back the request. The

Presuming that whatever Margo said would be used against her, the thing to say was whatever would hurt

Cranston hadn't played the part of King Satan; therefore it would complicate matters to say that he had.

Whereas if Margo admitted she had been Columbine, she would only be revealing something that might be

To Joan's credit she accepted it very nicely which briefly changed Margo's opinion regarding blondes. Being

"Now I understand," declared Joan, sagely. "You were working with Kenneth Langdon, the man who has this

In fitting a half truth, Joan had struck upon a whole one, so far as the masquerade was concerned, but she was

very far from accurate on a question of murder. However the proposition had now reached a state where

A buzzer sounded, postponing an answer. Someone had pressed a button on the board down in the archway,

Now there was no door down in the archway and therefore no reason why anyone should ring for admittance.

Probably the proper response was simply to step out to the railed balcony and call down to the courtyard. Not

knowing the New Orleans custom, Margo was quite at loss, but there was still Joan's gun to be considered.

Margo compromised by stepping to the studio door and turning the knob very gingerly, just so Joan would

see she didn't intend to make a sudden dash. It couldn't be Ken Langdon, ringing to inform someone that he

was coming back to his own studio, more logically it would be Lamont Cranston, letting Margo know that he

There was also a chance that it might be The Shadow, for darkness had settled by this time and it would be

like Lamont to switch to his black garb. Margo hoped so, at least, because she wanted to surprise Joan. So it

wasn't until she felt the knob turning from the other side that Margo let the door come open.

It was indeed a surprise for Joan and Margo shared it. In through the doorway stepped a crimsonclad

Out of the hideous hush that followed, the silent night itself seemed to deliver the horrendous cry:

It could mean nothing else, this new manifestation of the masked Mephistopheles. Mardi Gras was over and

to stalk the New Orleans street in costume was the most conspicuous act possible. Of course this intruder

could have put on his costume in the secluded archway, but why should he risk such a course at all?

Of all possible maskers who might still be celebrating Carnival, anyone who wore the Mask of Mephisto

If Margo had known that Fred Ferrand had slipped the guards who had taken him on the bayou trip, she might

have understood this foolery, since Ferrand was wanted anyway. Her only other conclusion was that Ken

Langdon had deceived The Shadow as well as others, and was really the King Satan who dealt in murder.

Whichever the case, Margo wasn't on the spot, at least not yet. The crazy tilt of the Mephisto Mask was an

index to the gaze of the eyes behind it. The man in red was here to find Joan Marcy and to prove it, he

whipped out a gun and sidled it past Margo in order to aim at the startled blonde who was back by the big

Whether Margo took the right course or the wrong one was a question, but it proved to her advantage. By

right, she should have tried to dodge past the man in the Mephisto Mask and let him blaze away at Joan, but

that wouldn't have been sporting. Besides, it didn't seem good sense to take chances with a gun behind you,

The best way was to take sides with Joan against Mephisto, so Margo did, hoping to win the blonde's

Grabbing at Mephisto's gun, Margo was rewarded with a swing that flung her half across the studio, but the

man in red didn't fire. All he did was snarl, or its equivalent, the hollow head making the tone sound like a

bellow. That gave Joan a chance to fire a few shots, but they were wide despite the cramped surroundings.

The reason was that Joan was trying to dodge behind the statue while she used her gun, and the two plans

Angered by the shots, the masked man spurted a few in return but the only toll they took was plaster from the

statue. By then, Margo was on her feet, grabbing for the man's gun, shouting for Joan to rally to the cause.

Maybe that was where Margo was really wrong, for she was inviting Joan out into the open, but it no longer

As suddenly as he had entered, the man in red wheeled and sprang out through the doorway to the balcony.

People were peering from other doorways and they saw him dash down the stairs to the archway. Just to

discourage Joan's fire, Mephisto wheeled from the stairs to send a few shots back, and by then Margo was in

Right in where she shouldn't be, in a line with the murder's aim! And the venom that this killer had shown

toward Joan was something that he was now quite willing to transfer to a meddler named Margo.

Halting too late at the top of the steps, Margo tripped forward straight toward the looming gun muzzle, only

to see blackness rise en masse and lift a clump of crimson regalia into a somersault, mask and all.

Maybe other witnesses thought that Mephisto merely tripped, but not Margo. Nobody could trip with a bound

that carried them six feet upward. Looking down the steps, Margo saw exactly what happened, and knew

why. That blackness was The Shadow, coming up just in time to meet Mephisto on the way down.

As the crimson menace landed by the arch, The Shadow was busy halting Margo's sprawl. By rights,

Mephisto should have been there when The Shadow turned to aim at him, but the Devil's own luck was still

with the impersonator. He had landed like a cat and he was away like one, out through the arch.

Clutching the curved rail by the steps, Margo thought her eyes were fooling her. She saw blackness streak

along Mephisto's trail, but peculiarly gunshots sounded from beneath the darkened arch before its blackness

swallowed The Shadow's form. Either there were two Shadows, or the only one was gone before Margo saw

Then, jogged along by Joan who was coming down the stairs, Margo reached the archway and saw two

figures there, one helping the other to his feet. There was enough light from the street to recognize them:

Since one was The Shadow, the other would have to be Mephisto, but the latter didn't hold.

Grabbing Cranston's arm, Ken gestured to the street and urged this friend to come along.

"I nearly stopped him!" Ken voiced hoarsely. "Anyway, he didn't clip me with those shots of his! Come on,

There wasn't time. King Satan had made good his escape. What with alleys, overhanging balconies, deserted

houses and other peculiarities of this narrow street in the Vieux Carre, there wasn't a sign of Mephisto, hide

ONE mind at least was still fraught with suspicion and that mind belonged to Joan Marcy. Joan's ways were

firm when it came to making up that mind of hers, but to her credit she could also change it.

Being a friend of Margo, who had already taken Joan's part, Cranston no longer rated as a possible Mephisto.

Never having met him, at least not to her knowledge, Joan could only regard him as another victim of

Furthermore, since neither of these men had a sign of a Mephisto costume between them, both were cleared.

Certainly one would not have been so tolerant of the other, if either had been doubtful.

There was a costume that Joan didn't notice, a black cloak and hat that were bundled on a narrow ornamental

ledge inside the arch. Cranston had perched them there when he assumed his present personality. Too late to

overtake the fugitive Mephisto, Cranston had dropped The Shadow role in order to help Ken, who had arrived

Cranston's real help was a sort that Ken didn't quite yet recognize. He was really giving Ken an alibi; that

point came out after Ken had chatted a bit with his neighbors and heard their version of the gunfire and

Mephisto's flight. That done, Ken went with Cranston and the girls to one of Frenchtown's quiet restaurants

"It was lucky I came along when I did." Ken felt quite proud about it. "If I hadn't, nobody would have

believed anything you people told them. Since they took you for friends of mine, everything was squared. But

Ken stared narrowly at this complacent friend of his. There was something of anger in that look, emphasized

"You did just that," recalled Ken. Then, deciding that Cranston must have had a reason, Ken let his feeling

"Somebody was trying to frame you again," explained Cranston. "You were lucky during Mardi Gras, getting

rid of that Mephisto Mask before the police found you in it. They might have caught up with you at the

There was a slight gasp from Joan as she leaned forward to study Ken's face, which was rather laughable

since all she'd seen of him was the Mephisto Mask. Looking into Joan's eyes, Ken saw appeal in their violet

"Yes, I was a fall guy," admitted Ken. Then to Joan, he said: "I met you at the reception when I was rigged

out as the Devil, but I hope you'll believe me when I say I'm not the man the police are after. I'd never heard

of the Krewe of Hades and as for the Louisiana Lottery, I was working for a lot less than it paid off."

Tossing the torn half of a hundred dollar bill on the table, Ken added the typewritten schedule and leaned

"There's what I got," he said, "and there's what I did. I'm still wondering who has the other half of that bank

"Your neighbors heard the shooting in your studio," replied Cranston. "They saw somebody dash out in that

"Why, that I hadn't been around. In fact, I might have shown up while people were still looking for me.

Maybe a few of them would have been foolish enough to think I was the man in costume "

"I couldn't have told them I'd played Mephisto," mused Ken, "because they wouldn't take my version of it, the

"This evening," reminded Cranston, "you have an alibi. You came in too soon after Mephisto went out. You

"But if I'd chased Mephisto," acknowledged Ken, "none of my neighbors would have known that I was back.

By this time, Joan's interest was more than roused. She was remembering a score of her own.

"Maybe I know too much," affirmed Joan, "or maybe I've talked too much. Anyway, Mephisto was trying to

add another murder to his list, and I was the intended victim. There's only one man vindictive enough to feel

There was a defiant sparkle in Joan's eyes; it softened, only to regain its fire, and the girl's next words

"I once thought Fred cared for me," Joan said, "until I learned that my money was my main attraction where

he was concerned. Fred let it slip; then he tried to reconcile the two: love and money. He said we'd have to

"It didn't matter," she declared. "It was just the way Fred put it. Finally he said he'd find a way to make his

own fortune and that I could go to the devil for all he cared." Joan's eyes suddenly became startled. "Odd,

"I don't suppose Ferrand will lose himself," remarked Cranston. "Not with a pair of deputies handcuffed to

"Of course!" he exclaimed. "You couldn't have heard! Ferrand slipped those deps somewhere along the way

to Bayou Yscloskey. Selbert and Trenhue were starting out to hunt for him when I was over at headquarters."

Startled exclamations resulted from Joan and Margo who began exchanging glances that had a mutual

thought behind them; namely, that Ferrand might have been the Masked Mephisto who had invaded Ken's

"Why, yes." Ken became apologetic. "You see, I was getting jittery there in the studio. I couldn't take an

Calculating where he had been during Ken's journey of perhaps a quarter hour, Cranston tallied a few facts.

"I stopped in to see Hubert Aldion," stated Cranston. "At his office, just off Canal Street. That must have

been just about the time you were leaving headquarters, Langdon. It's only five minutes' walk from Aldion's

to your studio, but I went around past the Talleyrand Club, to see if Tourville Talbot was there. He was, but I

On a pad, Cranston drew a long line, representing Ken's trip back from police headquarters to the Vieux

Carre. Near the end that represented Ken's studio, Cranston tagged another pair of x's to represent Aldion's

"Very good," decided Cranston. "But was there anyone in his office after he left?"

"Then you wouldn't have seen what was hanging there, even if nobody had borrowed it."

"A very fancy red costume," announced Cranston, "complete to the Mask of Mephisto."

Leaving Ken gaping, Cranston went to the telephone and called headquarters. Returning, Cranston stated:

"Selbert and Trenhue are two," tallied Ken, "so I take it they caught Ferrand, since he must be the third."

"Not Ferrand," declared Cranston cryptically. "By the third, I mean the Mask of Mephisto!"

NEW ORLEANS was noted for its men of mystery and now the long and timemellowed list was boasting a

new member. His name was Frederick Ferrand and whether he was in town or not, he belonged to New

In fact, most men of Ferrand's present classification had been famous because they were away from the city

when anybody wanted them. For Ferrand now rated with the celebrated pirate Jean Lafitte and others of the

The hunt had been on for nearly a week and was still getting nowhere. Jim Selbert had about reached the state

of waiting for the murderer to return to the scene of his crime, for Jim was seen quite often in the vicinity of

the Hoodoo House. On this particular night, Selbert was just coming from the alley when he ran into a visitor

Jim Selbert was rather glad to see Lamont Cranston. The police captain suggested a stroll in the direction of

"None," was Selbert's verdict. "I've been through that Hoodoo House from top to bottom, so often that I

probably know it better than Dominique You ever did, if he lived there long enough to count."

They were passing a large and antiquated house to which Selbert gestured by way of contrast.

"That place, for instance," Jim stated. "It was actually owned by Rene Beluche, captain of a smuggling ship

called The Spy. And around the corner here are a couple of other places, the Cafe des Refugees and the Hotel

Selbert pointed out the buildings as they passed; then returned to the theme of the Hoodoo House.

"No trap doors," he muttered, "no panels, not even any secret fireplaces. I've done everything except roll up

"Not me," coincided Selbert. "It's easy enough to figure how Ferrand got in there in the first place, without

benefit of hidden passages. Being the bigwig of the Hades Krewe he might have been there waiting. He said

"That upstairs hall is the stickler," Jim confided. "Ferrand bolted both doors and that gave him a little time.

"It doesn't specially matter," returned Selbert. "Aldion was quick to go after Ferrand, which made me a bit

suspicious of old Tourville Talbot. He's the guy who likes his first name better than his last, like Dominique

Smiling slightly at this historical digression, Cranston decided not to interrupt.

"Only Tourville is an old guy," granted Selbert, "so he couldn't get upstairs as fast as Aldion. Anyway,

Tourville wasn't able to either stop or help Ferrand in that murder of Chardelle, so that's that. Particularly

The pause was when Selbert glanced at Cranston. Jim had been about to mention The Shadow, in

complimentary terms, but decided not to confuse the issue. If at Moubillaid's, The Shadow had certainly done

What Selbert wasn't sure about was why he didn't want to talk to Cranston about The Shadow. Maybe it was

because the two were much alike in that they were so completely different. Cranston was a man of advice,

The Shadow a person of action. You could always find Cranston when you needed him; The Shadow always

Those were just a few of the points that made the two personalities as opposite as the poles. What Selbert

didn't consider was that since Cranston and The Shadow were so far removed, nobody ever expected to meet

"What gets me," resumed Selbert, back on his major theme, "was the nerve Ferrand showed in doubling back

to headquarters after I left there with Trenhue. Taking the costume was plenty; bringing it back, even more."

"Positive. I came back to the office just after Trenhue finished calling his house. I saw the costume hanging

there and Trenhue went out ahead of me. By the way, we ought to be seeing Trenhue around here."

They had reached the old French Market, with its long array of sheds and stalls. At one end, trucks were

unloading shrimp and people were watching from the tables beside one of the famous coffee stands. Trenhue

was there and with him Aldion; seeing Cranston and Selbert, Trenhue invited them to sit down.

"Wasteful, isn't it?" Trenhue referred to the way the truckers were tramping over loose shrimp, as they

shoveled big masses into baskets. "Shoveling shrimp like coal makes men become careless. Let's see "

Trenhue tilted his head to calculate "at the restaurant figure of five cents a shrimp, those chaps have

mangled at least twenty dollars worth. That would be one hundred dollars on a five day week "

Trenhue paused to laugh lightly, with a nudge at Aldion, whose face was very sunk. Then, sobering his own

"Aldion here put up half the money for it," explained Trenhue, "and Ferrand posted the rest. Only Fred didn't

"Past due," replied Trenhue, "and for the first time I'm learning why Fred borrowed the money."

"It was a rum trick for Ferrand to play," conceded Aldion, "but I assure you, Trenhue, I didn't know you were

so opposed to secret organizations like the Krewe of Hades. Fred never even mentioned it."

"Fred wouldn't," said Trenhue, bluntly, "but we didn't know his true colors or lack of them until now."

"Imagine it!" Aldion was protesting glumly to Cranston. "Ferrand using Trenhue to finance the Devil's Den!

And now well, I'm stuck for all of it. I deserve it; the question is, can I pay it."

"That won't be necessary," decided Trenhue, generously. "Since the Krewe of Hades is no more, I am willing

to take half ownership of Hoodoo House. But you know, if Ferrand had told me he intended to buy the place,

"Because he was interested in anything that concerned the onetime pirate Dominique. That's why Fred

"Some more Dominique data, Captain," stated Trenhue. "Stuff that Ferrand collected. If you piece enough of

Finishing his coffee, Trenhue shook hands all around and waved away the effusive thanks that Aldion

repeated over Trenhue's kindness in taking the half share in the Hoodoo House. The two walked a short way

together and as they parted at a corner, Cranston, watching from the coffee stand, commented:

"Nice if he can afford it," returned Selbert. "Only Trenhue is no better fixed than Aldion."

"What do you think? Hoodoo will mean hoodoo around the Hoodoo House after that murder that took place

Selbert's final sentence brought a reflective gaze from Cranston, something that Jim didn't notice over his

"This was really nice of Trenhue." Selbert tapped the bundle of papers. "I've about given up on Ferrand

coming back to town; soon it's going to be a question of going after him, and the more data that shows how

Lamont Cranston looked as though he hadn't heard a word that Jim Selbert said in reference to Trenhue's

documents. To Cranston, the most potent of all Selbert's phrases was one that the police captain had voiced in

MARGO LANE was getting tired of reading up on a man named Dominique whose name was short for

Dominique You. In her opinion, Dominique was the least picturesque of all the Baratarians, those

swashbucklers headed by Lafitte and who were termed pirates or smugglers, according to the point of view.

Those bullies of the bayous dated back more than a century. They had reformed long enough to help win the

Battle of New Orleans; then they had gone back to their questionable ways. All except Dominique; he'd

"You don't know our ward politicians," rejoined Joan, sweetly. "If you're really thinking of tame endings,

consider those who left New Orleans and wound up among the bayous." Joan's sweet tone had grown bitter,

Margo looked across the courtyard. She and Joan were doing the Dominique research in an empty studio just

off Ken's patio. From where they were, they could see Ken working on Wingless Victory, whose bullet

Following Margo's gaze and noting that it contained no envy, Joan queried softly:

"Ken is a realist," considered Joan. "Take his Wingless Victory. He decided that Victory needed a head more

"If you mean because he bayed around the bayous, I suppose he was. But let's forget Fred."

"If you must bring up comparisons, Margo, I suppose I'll have to analyze them for you. Let's take the Krewe

of Hades as the balance point. Can you think of anything sillier than sponsoring a thing like that?"

"Well, I can," retorted Joan. "Starting such stupid organizations is bad enough; trying to stop them is worse.

"Tell me, Joan," queried Margo. "What do you think of a man who spends his time looking at old coins but

"If you mean Lamont," returned Joan, "I'd say he's just trying to avoid something worse, like doing research

"I'm not so sure," said Margo. "Old coins are getting scarcer and therefore worth more."

"He isn't and that's the funny part about it. Maybe the business is only booming locally. Still, old coins ought

Remembering something, Joan went through a batch of clippings and found the ones she wanted.

"Speaking of investments," she said, "Dominique was a bad hand at them. He was practically broke when he

"I'll tell Lamont," decided Margo. "He likes mystery, though I can't say he's been working at it lately."

Right then, Cranston was really working at it. In a secluded courtyard behind the old Hoodoo House, he was

helping Jim Selbert reconstruct a crime, though the police captain didn't know it. In Selbert's opinion, they

Cranston was standing directly below the tiny window of that little second floor hallway where pursuers had

barged in from two directions to find that Mephisto had continued along his way, which could only have been

In the window itself, Selbert's head and shoulders were framed with little space to spare.

"Here's a question," called down Selbert. "Ever hear of a midget who was a contortionist too?"

"Because nobody else could have squeezed through this window," Jim decided. "Well, it proves one thing.

The murderer must have gone up to the cupola or the roof. Come around to the front door and I'll meet you

Coming around to the front door was easy. Cranston simply went around the side of the house, through an

adjacent passage, and opened the unlocked iron gate that brought him to the front door of the old stone house.

He was there before Selbert had time to come downstairs and since the door was open, Cranston entered.

Men were at work hacking the cement floor of the Devil's Den with pickaxes. When Selbert came down the

"What are you doing? Hunting for Ferrand? I thought you said that he wasn't hiding here."

"Not my idea." Selbert shrugged in the direction of the workmen. "Improvements, that's all."

"Trenhue or Aldion; maybe both. They've got to liquidate this architectural horror in order to get back their

"No, indeed." Selbert seemed outraged by the suggestion. "That's no longer being done in New Orleans, now

that historical landmarks are running out. They'll just remodel the place and rent it out as studios or

After watching the workmen hack away a while, Selbert decided to go outdoors. From the front alley, he

"If it had been The Shadow," Selbert said to Cranston, "I could understand it. The disappearing stuff is his

specialty. But I can't see how Ferrand dropped out of sight so fast, if he did drop."

With the final comment, Selbert looked up to the roof to make sure that it was as high above the alley as it

always was. Satisfied that the mad escape of the Masked Mephisto still rated as a superhuman achievement,

"There's something I want to ask Miss Marcy," Selbert told Cranston. "Let's go over to the studio and see

Questions from Selbert had become part of Joan's daily dozen, so she wasn't surprised when the police

captain arrived in the recently formed bureau of research that was devoting itself to data concerning

Nor was Margo surprised when she saw Lamont. He'd said he would stop around to learn how the work had

progressed. Nevertheless, Margo was interested in what Selbert was asking Joan, but it turned out to be the

usual routine. Selbert wanted to know where Joan had been at every odd minute on Mardi Gras Night and all

the persons she had seen. He was still trying to get some trifling fact that would lead to Ferrand.

"I've told you I expected to meet Fred," she declared. "Rolfe was looking for him, too. Only I couldn't tell

Rolfe that Fred was going to the Hades meeting. Rolfe wouldn't have believed that there was such a thing as

"That was just when the guests were coming into the Hoodoo House," tallied Selbert. "Since Ferrand was

already there, Trenhue couldn't possibly have found him. Nobody could enter the Devil's Den without an

"Well, I couldn't find Fred either," stated Joan. "I was supposed to meet Rolfe at seven fifteen, at the coffee

"The one on the side toward the Cabildo, but I went to the other one first, by mistake. You see, I was walking

"But why were you walking through the Quarter?" broke in Selbert. "Be specific, please."

"Because Fred was so often around there," explained Joan, patiently. "He had a favorite drinking place in

"Yes, but no Fred. Anyway, at about seven thirty, Rolfe found me. He'd parked his car at the other end of the

Market and had been waiting for me there. Only he had sense enough to decide that I'd gone to the wrong

Deciding that he'd heard all that was needed, Selbert went his way and Joan resumed her filing of the

Dominique data. It was Cranston who put the next questions and his were addressed to Margo Lane.

"Speaking of time elements," said Cranston, "how soon did you get out in front of Hoodoo House after that

"Soon enough," replied Margo. "If Friend Fiend had come that way, I'd have seen him."

"Yes, and to the cupola. You know, Lamont" Margo's expression became quite wise "if the murderer

could have squeezed through that tiny second floor window, he might have gotten away."

"Only he couldn't make the squeeze," modified Cranston, "but what makes you think he'd have gotten away if

"Because a car drove away from out back. Now if Ferrand had dropped out that window "

"He'd have done it in pieces," Cranston interposed, "which he didn't. He was very much together when we

"Neither did Jim Selbert. Find one and you'll have a murder suspect. Only he would have to be twins to fill

Dusk was closing in, the time when Lamont Cranston could become The Shadow and do some expert

searching on his own. That was exactly what he planned, for his low laugh, heard only in the archway as he

As Cranston, The Shadow had learned much; far more than anyone else supposed. Selbert's questions to Joan,

plus those Cranston had asked Margo, were fitting some important pieces in murder's jigsaw.

Frederick Ferrand was still the man to find and perhaps The Shadow could accomplish it here in New Orleans

THE chronicles of crime teem with instances of murderers who have returned to the scene of their deed, but

the purpose behind that folly has been attributed to reasons more foolish than the thing itself.

Some analysts have attributed it to a killer's conscience, as if murderers were commonly burdened with such

a handicap. Others claim that some horrible fascination is the cause, bringing the killer back to mope or gloat,

Such theories, of course, belong to fiction, something in which The Shadow had never dealt.

To The Shadow, criminals were men whose game was to outwit the law. The best police officers were those

who could outwit criminals at their own game. Therefore the test of a good police officer was how well his

mind could duplicate the thoughts of the man he hunted. Hence in this case, Selbert's impressions were an

Now it was neither conscience nor fascination that had caused Selbert to haunt Hoodoo House with the

tenacity of a pet ghost. It was just that something didn't quite add up around the place and Selbert wanted to

find out why not. Should Ferrand be apprehended and Selbert find himself confronting the alleged killer in a

The same applied to Ferrand. He would have to prove Selbert's figures wrong. Maybe Ferrand had calculated

everything beforehand, but that was prior to Selbert's connection with the case.

An exhaustive search of criminal records will produce few, if any, instances of a murderer returning to a

scene of crime until after the police have been there. That was the nib in Ferrand's case. Guilty or innocent,

he was prey, and like the forest deer, Ferrand would sniff the campfire smoke and from the darkness try to

This evening, Hoodoo House was comparable to a campfire. From its windows came a wavery glow, while

muffled sounds could be heard within, as though a horde of ghoulish goblins were hard at work.

The night crew that was hacking up the cement floor looked like goblins, too, for they were knee deep in

rubble and therefore appeared of dwarfish stature. Taller were the two men who watched the work: Hubert

They were equally glum. Both were making the best of a bad thing, for Aldion owed no special thanks to

Trenhue for having taken up Ferrand's share in this questionable piece of real estate. Aldion couldn't have

made good on Ferrand's note and Trenhue knew it, so the deal was purely automatic.

From the open front door, through which the stone dust drifted, The Shadow viewed the hazy interior. His

ears were alert for he recognized the advantage of the smoke screen that the dust cloud formed. It would be

an excellent lure for Ferrand, should the latter be about. Jim Selbert was missing his best opportunity tonight.

Those footfalls came from the mouth of the alley, working their way along the friendly side wall. As dust

swirled, the approaching sounds halted, then resumed as the cloud gradually thinned.

The Shadow had timed it nicely and managed it neatly. His twist from the enveloping dusk was responsible

The iron gate neither groaned nor clanged as The Shadow manipulated it. The dim light from the

dustshrouded doorway showed the bars and braces of that gate against a solid background that to all

appearances represented a vacant passage. The Shadow had the qualities of a chameleon when it came to

Into the dimness came a pale, gaunt face, with hardglaring eyes. It was Ferrand's face, now shaven, and

therefore unrecognizable by his latest pictures, all of which were hunting snapshots. Instead of the hunter's

costume, Ferrand was wearing the garb of the New Orleans waterfront, dungarees with a dark blue cap to

What Ferrand saw through the dust encouraged him. Aldion and Trenhue had once been friends of his and

still might be, with reasonable reservations. Selbert wasn't around, which eliminated the chief hazard. As for

the workmen, Ferrand might have been one of them, judged by his attire, and that gave him confidence.

From his vantage spot, Cranston watched Ferrand's face undergo the evolution that transformed the hunted

into the hunter. As the gaunt lips formed a taut smile, Ferrand's hand clutched the one thing necessary to

Simultaneously The Shadow weighed an automatic, urging its muzzle deftly between the gate bars. One false

move from Ferrand and The Shadow's gun would clang the gate. Such a touch would bring the gaunt man full

Fortunately for Ferrand, he made no false move. Instead, he was merely careless.

Men were coming toward the door and like Ferrand, The Shadow could hear their footsteps and their voices.

The gate's slight clang occurred when Ferrand pressed his back against it, only an inch from The Shadow's

withdrawn gun muzzle. As for Ferrand's revolver, The Shadow could have acquired it from the fellow's hip

pocket, for Ferrand spread his arms against the gate to flatten himself further in the darkness.

Two men stepped from the house: Aldion and Trenhue. They stood outside the front door to hold a

"They'll be done tomorrow midnight," calculated Aldion, "if we keep them working steady. We'd better stay

"What about those letters?" asked Aldion anxiously. "You didn't give them to Selbert, did you?"

"He wasn't interested," replied Trenhue, "any more than Fred was. Somehow they both have bayous on their

"In a way, yes," decided Trenhue, "except that Fred went in for anything that had to do with old pirate

tradition. Anyway, I took the letters back to Moubillard's. They belonged to him, you know."

"At least I saw that they were kept in their proper envelopes," said Trenhue, with a note of finality. "They'll

The two men went back into the house, disappearing through the inexhaustible dust that the stone hackers

were producing. As Ferrand turned to the gate and opened it to go through, The Shadow swung back with it.

From then on, it wasn't necessary to trail Ferrand closely, for The Shadow knew exactly where the man

The famous old costume shop was locked and temporarily forgotten, until the appraisers would find time to

come around and take stock, which could be almost any time between now and next year's Mardi Gras. But

there was still a way into the place which Ferrand had heard about, even though he wasn't the person who had

That way was the trap door through the roof, squarely into Moubillard's office, the place where the now

Reaching the neighborhood in due course, The Shadow was in time to witness Ferrand's return from

Moubillard's preserves. All The Shadow did was pick an observation spot from across the street, one which

gave him a view of the space between Moubillard's roof and the hugely ornate balcony next door.

There, The Shadow glimpsed Ferrand's crouchy figure coming back to the balcony, but Ferrand wasn't

merely carrying the mail. Or if he was, he was playing parcel postman, for with him he was bringing a light

Letting Ferrand continue his departure unmolested, The Shadow turned and went the opposite direction, his

whispered laugh blending like his cloaked figure into the thickness of the night.

THE dust in Hoodoo House was thicker but finer and it was becoming so troublesome that the workmen were

wearing bandanna handkerchiefs around their faces so they could stand it. They weren't complaining,

however, because their employers were paying overtime rates in order to get this annoying job finished.

It was most annoying, too, because Aldion and Trenhue were forced to stay up on the third floor to keep

away from the dust. That was where Cranston and Selbert found them late the next afternoon, working over

"We have been," said Trenhue in his dry style. "At least at intervals. When we want fresh air we go up there

Selbert decided not. However, the cupola trip appealed to Cranston, so he climbed the ladder into the

windowwalled box above the room that formed the present quarters of Messrs. Aldion and Trenhue.

Here and there came spots of light, not with the jeweled magnificence that characterized the greater city on

the far side of Canal Street, but in a furtive style. The light was mostly a reflected glow, since this cupola by

no means predominated the scene. There were buildings though that peeked at it, through spaces among

Definitely, Cranston was sighting toward a certain sector of the Quarter and he seemed pleased because his

view of it was restricted. In brief, if Cranston had looked that direction from a higher elevation, he would

Even better, his view was restricted to just the top floor of that building which he recognized as an ancient

apartment house. And the top story was itself restricted, for it was undersized, as if the builders had grown

weary and clamped the roof down a little too soon. Just a few pitiable windows, peering out from under

Jim Selbert was making most of it. He'd been comparing the data belonging to Ferrand with the much greater

mass gathered by the research laboratory to which Cranston had assigned Margo and Joan.

"Take this fellow Dominique," Selbert was saying. "He spent half his lifetime around New Orleans and you'd

spend half of yours trying to keep up with You. I don't mean yourself, I mean You "

"I guess You had a hard time of it," laughed Selbert, "and I mean Dominique. But let's switch to the bayou

"Maybe Ferrand isn't either," put in Aldion. "Anyway, he's probably having a hard time of it."

Selbert wanted to hear and so did Cranston, though his arrival from the ladder at that moment simply

"Tell me this," said Trenhue to Selbert. "Why did Ferrand spend so much time down in the bayou country?"

"Simple enough," returned Selbert. "He thinks Dominique stashed a load of treasure down there somewhere,

"Plenty. Take Vincent Gambi for instance. He played pirate too long. He was asleep on a pile of gold when

his playmates busted him apart with a broadaxe. That's all told about in the data I've been reading.

"Maybe you've got something," said Jim. "If you're right, Ferrand may have been wasting his time around a

"What Rolfe means," put in Aldion, "is that you haven't found the cash that went with the Louisiana Lottery."

"It would be a good way to bury loot," Cranston decided. "Right on the site of a forgotten treasure trove." He

"I think Dominique did," returned Trenhue, frankly. "I am confident he buried his share right here in New

"Because Dominique stayed here," Trenhue replied. "He made a point of it. Why, when he died in 1830 he

"I read about it," nodded Selbert. "In that French newspaper, L'Abeille." He turned to Cranston. "It was in the

Cranston gave a tired nod. He needed more fresh air so he climbed up into the cupola to get it.

"Getting back to date," said Trenhue to Selbert, "Ferrand may have returned from his bayou trip."

"You mean he's put the Lottery cash where we won't find it?" queried Selbert. "That he figures now he can

"That's what we both think," blurted Aldion. Then, as Trenhue gestured for him to tone down, he added in a

Interested, Selbert wanted to hear more. It was Trenhue who glanced up to the cupola, gave a hushhush

"That's only one reason. The other is, we think we may come across Dominique's treasure."

"It's all right, Hubert." Trenhue's undertone was calm. "We got our break and Jim is entitled to his." Turning

to Selbert, Trenhue explained. "Remember those Dominique letters that were in Moubillard's envelope?"

"I did," confided Trenhue. "There was one addressed to the editor of L'Abeille when Dominique rigged out

"Napoleon died before Dominique could start," continued Trenhue, "so he never sent the letter. But it

happened Dominique thought he was the one who might be dead soon, so the letter was written something

"There were some flowery phrases in it," recalled Trenhue. "One about New Orleans being a land of treasure

"And a man's real treasure," quoted Aldion, as Trenhue paused, "being in his home. That was when

Eyebrows raised, Selbert gestured downward with his thumb, meaning the sound of pickaxes that kept

"Just that," undertoned Trenhue. "Come around after the workmen leave at midnight, in case we find some

"Fiftyfifty," agreed Selbert grimly. "You can have the treasure. I'll take Ferrand."

The looks that Aldion exchanged with Trenhue were accompanied by nods, indicating that they were both

right in their estimate of Selbert as a man who believed in duty first, last, and all the time.

The acoustics of the cupola were perfect, at least from Cranston's standpoint. It picked up everything that had

been said, like a big mechanical ear; hence Cranston had heard all. But that wasn't exactly why Cranston

What Lamont Cranston had heard, he had already anticipated. What he had just seen was more important.

THE window slid sideward and The Shadow squeezed through. Windows in this room couldn't go upward, or

they would raise the roof. This was the tiny, forgotten apartment that The Shadow had spotted from the

It went back to Joan's statement to Selbert; when she had told the police captain how she had looked for

Ferrand in some of his hangouts in the French Quarter. When a man habituated several places in the same

If Joan had known that Ferrand had some hideaway, she would have said so. There were others who might

know without stating it. The Shadow had played that chance. Of all the places in the limited area where

Ferrand's hideaway might be, this was the only one that could be seen from the cupola, so The Shadow had

Lights out meant that Ferrand had left, provided these were really his quarters.

The Mask of Mephisto said so without words as it stared from a heap of cloth that represented a crimson

cape. This was the bundle that Ferrand had brought from Moubillard's shop, following a clandestine visit

there. But it wasn't all that showed under the concentrated beam of The Shadow's probing headlight.

Of a stack of letters resting on a battered table, one was open. Its ink was dim, its writing oldfashioned, this

letter that bore the signature of Dominique You. Dated May first, 1821, it was addressed to the editor of

L'Abeille and was couched in the very phrases described by Rolfe Trenhue, the language, of course, being

His brief inspection of Ferrand's hideout ended, The Shadow left by the conventional stairway route and

soon appeared in his more prosaic guise of Lamont Cranston. The evening being young, Cranston still had

time to call at some of the old coin shops that were staying open evenings because trade was so good.

Margo Lane was spared that ordeal. She had gone to a show with Joan and Ken. They were to meet Cranston

later at the coffee stand and on Joan's account, he'd carefully specified which one. Cranston didn't want to

stay waiting at the other end of the French Market, the way Trenhue had before he met Joan on Mardi Gras

Cranston bought some old coins this evening. The dealers were quite surprised because previously he'd been

selling items of this sort. He was a meticulous collector, Cranston, making very careful records of every

Tonight, Cranston was still in the last coin shop when it closed and finding that he had time to spare, he rode

over to police headquarters to chat with Captain Selbert. In the midst of writing comprehensive reports,

Selbert looked up with a smile of greeting, then switched to a disappointed frown.

"Sorry, Cranston." Selbert spoke in the manner of a man who suddenly remembered something. "I'm very

busy. Suppose we have lunch tomorrow so we can talk over new developments. I know you're as interested in

Spreading his arms to indicate a deskload of papers, Selbert promptly burrowed into them. This was Jim's

way to let a visitor see for himself that there was plenty of work to do. Cranston evidently took the hint, for

when Selbert looked up, his caller was gone. Selbert himself left shortly afterward, locking the office behind

A satisfied smile accompanied Jim's turn of the key. He hadn't bothered to look in the corner behind the door

where the Mephisto costume hung, but he knew it would still be there, now that he had locked the door.

Coming from the theater, Joan Marcy lost her gaiety as she and her companions neared the Hoodoo House.

Somehow the mere proximity of the place filled Joan with a sense of horror and she said so. Ken Langdon

and Margo Lane agreed they didn't have to pass it on their route, so they took a detour to the old French

Though the weather was warm, his face was muffled as he came from a cafe that Joan remembered.

Adjusting his coat collar, he inadvertently let his gaunt face show. Joan remembered that face and too well.

"You'd better go ahead," Ken told Margo. "I can't imagine what happened to Joan." Uneasily, Ken looked

along the building fronts and noted the most likely doorway. "I'll find her, though, and soon."

At the coffee stand, Cranston was waiting when Margo arrived there. Finding that she was worried about Ken

as well as Joan, Cranston volunteered to find them both. His departure left Margo wondering, considering

Joan was the first to learn it when she cautiously put her hand upon the doorknob of a top floor apartment

where she was sure Fred Ferrand had gone. All the way up the stairs, Joan had been hearing footsteps creak

ahead of her. Right now, she wanted another glimpse of the gaunt man to make certain he was Fred.

Opening suddenly from the other side the door revealed the redcaped figure of King Satan, the mystery

Joan couldn't cry out. Two red gauntlets grasped her neck in a relentless grip that didn't relax until she sagged

weakly to the floor. When Joan opened her eyes, she was bound and gagged in a corner and the triumphant

Only the great Mephistopheles wasn't so devilishly clever as he thought. Beyond him, about to deliver a hard,

vengeful lunge, was Ken Langdon. Joan made a funny face, which would have been a smile if she hadn't been

A doorful of blackness took Ken so suddenly and silently that he disappeared as though he had fallen through

a trapdoor in space. Completely baffled, Joan could only stare at the vacancy behind the Devil Man whose

costume hid Fred Ferrand. When King Satan turned and stalked from the room, Ken was still missing.

It took another mystery to explain the first. At the end of a few minutes that seemed twice that many hours,

the door opened and Ken came rolling in as tightly bound and gagged as Joan. When it came to taking

meddlers out of circulation, King Satan and The Shadow were both efficient, but the score was in The

This blackness that lived had staged Ken's capture behind the very back of a crimson clad impostor who

Their official meeting was coming later. The Shadow in his guise of black, could travel directly and rapidly

That goal was to be the scene where first the Mask of Mephisto had served to cover murder. The stage was

set in the Devil's own Den, where a quest for treasure was a bait to lure men to their doom!

THE last of the workmen had gone from the Hoodoo House, but one it seemed, had reason to return. He was

carrying a pick over his shoulder as a bit of realism that didn't fit. First, the pick was rusty, proving it hadn't

been used; again, the men who had left the house hadn't brought their tools with them.

Nevertheless, Jim Selbert's disguise of cap and dungarees was good enough to pass muster. What really

bothered him was the delay after he knocked at the door. Aldion and Trenhue must have gone upstairs for it

Recognizing the returned workman, both nodded approval. Leaving the door ajar, they beckoned Jim to the

center of the floor, and suggested that he lend a hand. Emerging from the earth was the end of an old coffer

that came up heavily under their combined pull. Borrowing Selbert's pick, Trenhue cracked it open.

As the box tilted, from its interior came a shower of gold and silver coins that rattled across the broken

paving. Dropping to hands and knees, Aldion began scooping the wealth like the truckers shoveled shrimp,

"Dominique's treasure!" shrilled Aldion. "The money he left for us to find! It's ours, Rolfe ours "

Gesturing for Aldion to calm himself, Trenhue was none too soon. Above the clatter of the coins came the

groan of the front door as it swung inward and with it listeners heard a grated laugh that lost nothing by its

The scene was much like that strange occasion when these premises had teemed with halfawed

merrymakers who had been accepting this Satanic masquerade as travesty until it had proved tragedy.

Tonight, however, the situation was in strict reverse; if the man in the Mephisto Mask had begun with

shooting and on a wholesale basis, it might well have been in keeping with the circumstances.

Instead, he simply kept people covered, with special attention to Selbert, whose presence was something of a

surprise to the man in red. Toward Aldion and Trenhue, King Satan was somewhat disdainful, for they

Only His Satanic Majesty was taking no long chances. He preferred to reveal his hand. With a sweep of his

free gauntlet, he removed the huge disguising head and let his own come into sight.

Revealed, the face of Frederick Ferrand was as hardset as the chunks of stone that lay in heaps about the

broken floor. His eyes showed a glint that rivaled the ancient coins which were spilled from the treasure

"I am glad you are here, Selbert," announced Ferrand, with a side flash of his eyes. "Perhaps this evidence of

a doublecross will convince you of my innocence. Or perhaps" the eyes turned on Aldion and Trenhue

From somewhere in his cape, Ferrand whipped out a sheet of paper and flipped it toward Selbert. It fell at the

"Pick it up," ordered Ferrand. "Read it. You will find that is a Dominique letter written to the editor of

L'Abeille in the year 1821, but never sent. It covers the matter of this treasure which these friends of mine"

Ferrand's gun gestured toward Aldion and Trenhue "coveted enough to deal in murder."

Appealing glances from Aldion and Trenhue were directed toward Selbert, who boldly took up their defence.

"Nobody had to murder Chardelle to get this treasure," declared Selbert. "The same applied to Moubillard. He

didn't even know what was in this Dominique letter and he didn't even have it because it was with the stuff

"Chardelle let you in on the Lottery deal," analyzed Selbert, "so you knocked him off and then went after

"No more than anyone else did," put in Ferrand. "I was scheduled to play King Satan, but I told Chardelle not

"Because Chardelle was the Messenger," returned Ferrand, "and it was his business to inform Tourville, who

served as scribe. Only I don't think Chardelle did; he was too crooked. Somebody mooched into this game,

somebody who played Mephisto in my place, and I'd suggest you talk to a chap named Kenneth Langdon."

Now Selbert had been thinking somewhat along those very lines, but in a trifling way. Knowing how trifles

"Maybe Langdon was just a front," conceded Ferrand, "but he's interested in more things than sculpture, Joan

Marcy for one. Understand, I'm not blaming Joan. She and I were quits and most of the fault was mine. But

getting back to my own case; after I found this costume at Moubillard's, last night "

"At Moubillard's!" broke in Selbert, "And last night! Why it was in my office only this evening. The only

reason I wasn't surprised to see you walk in wearing it, was because you were smart enough to borrow it from

From Ferrand's cold stare it seemed he didn't believe any of this. It took the quick wits of Aldion and Trenhue

"Langdon was fronting all right!" exclaimed Aldion. "He was fronting for Ferrand!"

"Maybe he was trying to toss the crime on Langdon. Now we're getting the right answer!"

That theory clicked with Selbert, particularly because it awoke Ferrand's rage. Of course anger was a

common thing with Ferrand, but he was a rough man when his temper ruled him. And now, glaring

unmasked from the crimson collar of his Mephisto cape, Ferrand's face was demoniac in the lantern light. His

rage showed all the venom of a murderer's as he wheeled toward Aldion and Ferrand.

They weren't to be taken by surprise, the way Chardelle had been. They'd provided for this very emergency

by dint of their successful treasure hunt. They dropped, not just behind the money coffer, but down into the

pit they'd dug it from. Drawing guns, they were set to wither Ferrand from their improvised foxhole.

With Ferrand's wheel, Selbert lunged. Not wasting time to draw his own gun, Jim was going after Ferrand as

the most efficient way to prevent new massacre and at the same time gain a needed weapon.

Before either Aldion or Trenhue could aim at Ferrand, the grappling had begun. Two brawny men were

stumbling about the upheaved floor, with Selbert doing right well by himself. So well in fact, that Selbert

There was one point, though, that Selbert overlooked. Aldion and Trenhue, half up from their foxhole were

waiting only until Ferrand twisted in their direction, before letting their guns rip. Then the interruption came.

It was a hollow laugh, almost a replica of the Satanic mirth that Ferrand had himself delivered, but it came

from the high stairway echoing from the very landing where a crimson murderer had made his first entrance

Hearing such defiance, Aldion and Trenhue turned. There stood the living proof of the double Devil game,

another King Satan clad in crimson, his features hidden within the ample scope of a duplicate Mask of

Arms folded, crime's new candidate seemed to regard himself the real master of this show, but Aldion and

Trenhue were no respecters of persons or demons. Anyone who wore the crimson garb of murder was

entitled to quick death. As guns swung up toward the stairway, the crimson menace seemed to realize it, for

Guns blasted the hurtling Satan and amid the hail of bullets, His Hellish Highness disappeared completely in

It seemed that he had plucked aside a curtain in space and let it swallow him. Not only were Aldion and

Trenhue nonplussed; Selbert and Ferrand forgot their struggle and froze like a posed movie still.

Out of somewhere came an echoed laugh, no longer hollow. It rose to a chilling taunt and with it, there

appeared another figure from the semigloom of the stairs. He was cloaked in black, visible when he reached

the spot where the flying Satan had evaporated. By then, his guns were visible too, and they were big ones,

The Shadow was holding the whole scene static with those looming muzzles. When he reached the bottom of

the steps, he kicked something that had wedged from sight between two upturned chunks of cement.

Now for the first time, Jim Selbert was realizing the chief feature of such a costume. The great head was

attached to the cape collar, the long gauntlets hooked to the flowing cuffs. The lining of the cape was black,

A matter of economy, such a lining, but it served another purpose when required.

An upward peel of the cape and the whole thing not only turned inside out, but could gather the Mask of

Mephisto within its folds! There was the evidence on the floor, where The Shadow had kicked the bundle

More potent still was the thought that drilled through Selbert's mind, as though The Shadow's laugh, as well

Because of its ample head and sizable cape, the Devil's costume allowed the wearing of another masquerade

beneath! The Shadow had demonstrated it, though his attire was not strictly a masquerade. He'd come down

the stairs layered as Mephisto; his whipfling of the crimson costume had left him as himself. The hurl had

No wonder the Devil had disappeared amid the flay of bullets! No eyes had followed the downward fall of

the black bundle, any more than they had looked up to probe the higher gloom wherein The Shadow had

But The Shadow's laugh told more. Catching the inference, Jim Selbert relaxed as he stared at the halfspread

"So that's how the Devil went!" exclaimed Jim. "Out through the little window on the second floor! All that

Wondering who else, Selbert decided to ask the only person who had been here at the time of Chardelle's

" I wouldn't know," stammered Aldion. "I was the Seneschal, you know. I was wearing a blue uniform and I

The person in question was Margo Lane. Tired of hunting everywhere else for the friends who had deserted

"Yes, the Seneschal was standing over here," acknowledged Margo, slowly, "but his costume wasn't entirely

The Shadow's low laugh showed that he appreciated that fuller description. So did Jim Selbert.

"Red to match the Devil's costume!" Releasing Ferrand who stood by with lowered gun, Selbert approached

Aldion tried to answer, but hesitancy gripped him. The Shadow's laugh, supplying its same low tone,

"You won't say which," Selbert told Aldion, "because you know the witnesses will disagree when I get

around to asking them. They all remember you opening one door, so they think you crashed the other."

Looking toward The Shadow, Selbert caught the glint of burning eyes beneath the hat brim. Realizing he was

right, Jim drove home the final point. "What you did was peel the Devil's costume and chuck it through that

window; then you yanked both doors open. You were the killer in the Mephisto Mask!"

Almost wilting under the accusation, Aldion finally rallied and gestured feebly to Margo.

"She'll tell you I was by the outer door. I was standing there when Chardelle was murdered."

"Somebody was standing there," conceded Margo. "Somebody costumed as the Seneschal. Only I don't know

"Yes," replied Margo. "Then next, I saw him upstairs. The Seneschal, I mean, or someone in such a costume.

The Shadow wasn't wondering. His laugh supplied the difference and Selbert grasped it.

"Wondering if there were two Seneschal costumes," declared Jim. "Why not? There were two Masks of

Mephisto. You've clinched it, Miss Lane. Aldion must have gone upstairs while everybody was watching the

"And later went around through the little gate!" Margo exclaimed. "Why it could have been his car that I

Looking straight at The Shadow as she spoke, Margo was recalling Cranston's earlier interest in the matter of

"That car was parked under the little window," decided Jim. "The costume and the Mask landed right in it.

There was a pause, as Selbert's chain of thought continued. This time it was The Shadow who supplied the

" And wore it when he murdered Henri Moubillard, who unfortunately saw Ken Langdon come in with the

"I get it now! They were using this Langdon chap to put the frame on me! But they were playing it two ways.

If my bayou alibi held, they could switch the works on Langdon. Since there were two of them, why not have

Pausing with his repetition, Ferrand heard the approving laugh of The Shadow. The term "two of them" held,

because Aldion hadn't been at large to murder Moubillard as a followup to Chardelle's death.

All eyes were on Trenhue as The Shadow spoke the accusation that had grown in every mind.

"You were late in meeting Joan Marcy," stated The Shadow, "because you were needed here, Trenhue, to

double as Seneschal. From the Borneau Mansion you drove to the costume shop, murdered Moubillard, and

Trenhue hadn't and he knew it. He was afraid to argue the point, because he saw mistrust in Aldion's gaze.

These partners in murder could each expose the other and both knew it. The best Trenhue could do was voice

"How could we have known about the Lottery money?" demanded Trenhue. "Let's hear someone answer

"Chardelle told Aldion," returned The Shadow. "That gave them the majority vote over Tourville, since

Ferrand was too busy hunting treasure to play the Devil for the Krewe of Hades. Then Aldion told you,

"I would have been a fool!" broke in Aldion. "What would have made me doublecross Chardelle?"

"One hundred thousand dollars," announced The Shadow. "You took the prize money from the box before

you sealed it. You needed a partner to stage what you thought would be a perfect murder. Chardelle's death

was necessary to keep the Lottery ring from learning that he took you into his confidence."

Jim Selbert was stepping forward with Ferrand's gun. His feet were clinking loose coins from the treasure

The Shadow's low laugh joined the jangle of the coins that were answering for Aldion and Trenhue.

"Old coins," spoke The Shadow. "Collectors' coins. Check them at the local shops and many of them will be

identified, Selbert. Of course the dates are long enough ago. Aldion and Trenhue wouldn't have overlooked

that when they liquidated the Lottery money to turn it into treasure that Dominique never buried.

"Dominique's letter is better evidence, Selbert. It won't take an expert to prove it a clever forgery. Dominique

couldn't have addressed it to the editor of the famous L'Abeille, because the newspaper was not founded until

So impressive were The Shadow's words that Selbert reached for the letter. To get it from his pocket he

placed the gun beneath his arm, since his other hand was full of coins. Up from their pit came Aldion and

Despite its warning, The Shadow's fierce laugh spurred the fugitives instead of halting them. His gun would

have spoken next; he was waiting only until the murderers bottlenecked each other at the door. But at that

moment, Ken Langdon made a most untimely arrival, with Joan Marcy right behind him.

Seeing guns muzzlefirst, Ken flung Joan away from them. Turning to block the fugitives, Ken was grabbed

by Aldion, who flung him in Trenhue's path. Unobstructed, Aldion sprang through the door as Trenhue

sprawled across the threshold. There, Trenhue heard the taunt of The Shadow's approaching laugh,

Coming to his feet Trenhue lunged through the doorway, blasting shots ahead. He'd stop Aldion, the man

who had left him to his plight, rather than turn and face The Shadow. Stop Aldion Trenhue did, and a few

From the cobbles where Trenhue's bullets had dropped him, Aldion raised himself on one elbow and gave the

final say in this game of each man for himself. Aldion said it with bullets too and his dying grip did not

destroy his aim. As Trenhue telescoped across the curb beyond the alley, Aldion sagged and lay equally still.

They were murderers to the finish, those two Mephistos, even when they were no longer wearers of the Mask.

As they had canceled each other, so did they write off themselves, with The Shadow's laugh their

The next day, Jim Selbert had a problem for Lamont Cranston when the latter stopped at his office to say

"It left me woozy," expressed Jim, "the way that Shadow guy disappeared. He must have taken the Devil's

costume that was here in the office and right from under our noses, too. Because we know that Ferrand was

wearing the duplicate that Aldion and Trenhue planted in Moubillard's shop, hoping Ferrand would wear it

"But here's the problem. Who took the costume that was hanging here, the day the Masked Mephisto popped

into Langdon's studio and tried to murder Joan Marcy? It couldn't have been Trenhue; he went along with me.

Aldion wouldn't have had time to get out here from his office and back to Langdon's studio."

"It was Aldion," he decided. "Wearing the duplicate costume, he had plenty of time to work it that way."

"I thought you'd say that," he nodded. "But how did Aldion know that Ferrand had slipped the deputies and

that Langdon had made a dumb trip out here? Unless he knew, he wouldn't have tried another of those double

"Remember the phone call Trenhue made to his house?" queried Cranston. "Before you started out to look for

"He called Aldion instead!" exclaimed Jim. "The duplicate costume must have been in Aldion's office, so

Jim Selbert had none. He and Lamont Cranston just shook hands and said goodbye. Grinning from two

corners of the office were two great empty faces that seemed to enjoy this parting scene.