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

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

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

CHAPTER III..........................................................................................................................................7

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

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

CHAPTER VI........................................................................................................................................18

CHAPTER VII .......................................................................................................................................21

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

CHAPTER IX........................................................................................................................................28

CHAPTER X.........................................................................................................................................31

CHAPTER XI........................................................................................................................................35

CHAPTER XII .......................................................................................................................................38

CHAPTER XIII.....................................................................................................................................41

CHAPTER XIV.....................................................................................................................................45

CHAPTER XV......................................................................................................................................48

CHAPTER XVI.....................................................................................................................................51

CHAPTER XVII ....................................................................................................................................55

CHAPTER XVIII ...................................................................................................................................58

CHAPTER XIX.....................................................................................................................................62

CHAPTER XX......................................................................................................................................66

HIGH above Manhattan's narrow streets, the lights of the penthouse twinkled like the beacons on a

Below the penthouse gulped a manmade canyon; on the other side, across another crevice, loomed the

mightier mass of a silent office building, towering like a protecting summit shielding the refuge from harm.

Yet there was terror in that isolated penthouse that hung balanced between black depths and bulking

whiteness. Stark terror that dominated every action of the haggard, hunted man who dwelt there.

Like a trapped beast, the man was roving the rooms of his luxurious retreat, flicking off lights, turning them

on again in obedience to everchanging whims. He wanted light as a protection against his fear, but he felt

Pacing through a modernistic bedroom, the man paused in stoopshouldered style, to study his own wan

features in a mirror set between two lighted wall brackets. His face, long and gaunt, was white to the crest of

His lips were twitching too, more nervously than Rufus Debley had ever seen them act before. He tried to

tighten his chattering teeth, but his lips still quivered. Then his hands, clawing the glass surface of the table

Instinctively those hands groped to a drawer; fumbling they drew it open. A sharp hiss sighing through his

gritted teeth, Debley clutched the feathered thing that lay in the drawer. His eyes lowered to view the curious

effigy with the scarlet feathers and woodcarved human face and with that glance, Debley regained at least a

"The Quetzal!" Glancing upward, Debley stared at his reflected face. "I still have it. Why should I fear its

In answer, Debley's reflection hardened. The years that he had mentioned seemed to wipe themselves from

his face, lines and all. With a leer of contempt, Debley flung the Quetzal image into the drawer and shoved

the latter shut. Hands no longer trembling, he reached to the wall brackets and turned them off. Shoulders

At the doorway, new fright gripped him and in a trice, Debley had become his cringing self again. Hands

raised pleadingly, he was backing into the darkened bedroom, gasping for mercy as though he did not expect

it. Stumbling against a chair, Debley flattened and lay moaning until nothing happened.

The sound from the living room, the thing that had so disturbed the fearridden man, was nothing more than

the flapflap of a window shade propelled by the slight opening above the sash. As this fact dawned on

Debley, it allayed his panic; coming to his feet, he strode through the living room and delivered a confident

Again, Debley's countenance grinned back at him. No longer haggard, it seemed to announce that no danger

could lurk outside, since this window, like the rest in the penthouse, overlooked sheer space through which

There was just one false note in the laugh that Debley forced between his teeth.

The reflection showed because of the penthouse lights. By the same token, Debley's gaze was unable to

penetrate the outside darkness. He wanted to assure himself that such blackness was empty; hence with a

return of his old fervor, Debley sprang about the living room, extinguishing lights everywhere.

When only one light remained, Debley was gripped by his old alarm. Darkness with its encroaching gloom,

carried a menace all its own. Here was the spectacle of a fearmaddened man, shrinking from the very

darkness which he hoped would shield him, seeking refuge in the only corner of the room where a light still

From that vantage point if it could be called such Rufus Debley darted his wild eyes to every cranny as

though expecting some specter of the past to rise and devour him. His frenzy, ever on the increase, drew

beads of sweat from his high forehead, while his lips, parched by the same fear, demanded moisture which

Singular how the gloom created noises of its own, more horrendous than the visual phantasms which Debley

From somewhere in the darkened penthouse came a sharp clickclack that might have been anything from

the opening of a window to the door of the elevator. It might even have been the door of the fire tower, for

Debley, forgetting his terror for the moment, was nudging himself toward the hallway to stare at a red light

Then, startled by a rattle from another direction, the fearstricken man was plunging back to the lighted

corner which he had personally turned into an oasis amid this desert of thickened gloom. His hand, plucking

The rattling sound was a trifle, apparently nothing more than the joggle of a metal ashstand, disturbed by

Debley's hurried footsteps across the floor. Nevertheless, the man was glad that he could still establish

communication with someone outside the penthouse, for he lifted the telephone and began to dial a number.

After a few fumbles, Debley completed the operation and was rewarded by a voice across the wire, even

"Hello... Tolland?" Debley was hoarse with anxiety. "No, you won't do! I must talk to Tolland... Yes, I mean

The pause that followed was not to Debley's liking. His next words were savage, so fierce that seemingly they

"It's life or death I tell you! Only the Colonel would understand... He'll talk to me if you let him know it's

Debley on the wire... I don't care if he's sending someone... I must talk to Colonel Tolland..."

The call ended with the abrupt click of the receiver from the other end. Cut off from the outside world,

Debley became frantic, His attempts to dial another number failed three times before he managed it; this time

"Inspector Cardona? Yes, this is Rufus Debley... That's right, the commissioner told me I could call you... It's

here, inspector, the thing that means death... No, not just the Quetzal image. I mean death itself...

"Listen!" Debley cupped his hand around the mouthpiece, hoping it would pick up sounds like a microphone;

"You can hear it creeping... Yes, creeping through the darkness... Lights? Why should I turn on lights? So

"It isn't human, the thing that seeks me... It may have been human once, but now..." Debley's pause included

a deep gulp. "But now, well maybe it's a ghost... A killer's ghost, that drives me to destruction... Listen!

Real though his terror was, it did not totally suppress Debley's ingenuity. He was hoping that Cardona would

hear something, the flapping of that window shade that had scared Debley personally with its uncanny

flapping. But the shade was no longer obliging; its sound no longer came. Over the phone, Cardona's gruff

voice admonished Debley to "hold tight" and with that there was another receiver click.

Letting the phone slip back to its stand, Debley raised his head and stiffened. He'd worked up his imagination

to the pitch of stark realism, for now he fancied that he could hear those creeps that he had mentioned. If the

recipients of Debley's phone calls doubted Debley's sanity, they were not alone in the opinion. Debley now

Twitching fingers kept time to those creeping sounds that Debley thought he heard, until the slowing of his

hands indicated that the illusion had diminished. Then, coming to his feet, Debley crossed the room and

reached the darkened window, glancing back across his stooped shoulder as though expecting a creeping

At the window, Debley forced a laugh and looked out into the dark. He could see the lights of other buildings

through a drizzly mist and no longer was he troubled by sight of his own reflection, since it was not there.

What bothered him was the shade, for Debley couldn't understand its silence until he raised it; then his eyes

No longer was the window lowered those few inches from the top. It was tightly shut and its catch was

Debley's senses, like his sanity, were now in doubt unless the fault belonged to his memory. He hadn't any

recollection of having closed that window; in fact, it had been open those few inches only because the sash

was stuck and Debley lacked the strength to force it shut. To have managed this unconsciously strained even

Debley's exaggerated imagination, yet the mere suggestion aroused another and more potent doubt.

Turning suddenly from the window, Debley crossed the darkened living room with the groping stride of a

blind man. Finding the door of the bedroom he entered and stumbled his way to the table by the wall. There

without reaching for the lights, he gripped the table drawer and dragged it open; his hands made a quick

Out came those same hands, palms up, their fingers twitching into fists. A spasm quivered Debley's shoulders

as his lips delivered a truly terrorized cry. For months Debley had preserved a token which stood for

impending doom, yet somehow its possession had given him the belief that he could thwart its menace.

Tonight, Debley's courage had broken. To regain it he wanted to clutch the effigy that threatened death but

had not killed. One grip of that feathered doll would have sustained Rufus Debley until friends arrived, but

LONG and fearful were the moments that held Debley in their rigid spell. Through the man's frantic brain

teemed sounds that he knew were very real. Real elsewhere, but not here, unless they were being carried

Those sounds that grew in Debley's mind were the thrumming beats of Aztec drums; maddening, ceaseless

tattoos that belonged to the peaks and canyons of the Mexican mountains, not among the fissured towers of

As they had hounded others, so were they seeking Debley, whose brain was now too distraught to tell the real

from the false. Debley knew only that the impossible had happened twice: first, the closing of the jammed

window; again, the disappearance of the Quetzal doll. Two events that could not be, yet were; both occurring

in a place that could only be reached by Debley's one trusted friend, Colonel Tolland, who was too ill to visit

No wonder that Debley thought he heard those drums from the past, dread symbols of the immediate future.

Only a hand of fate could have invaded here; and the clutch of its murderous fingers was meant for one man

Then came the clang that by its reality broke the hammering of the mythical drum beats. Debley recognized

the sound of the elevator door, proving that a friend was here. One man alone had a duplicate of the intricate

key that Debley used to bring the car to the penthouse level. Colonel Tolland must have changed his mind

Taking a deep breath, Debley pressed a hand across his forehead as he turned toward the living room door.

But it wasn't sweat that his palm found there. Mystified, Debley stood momentarily rigid; then swung about,

In the bedroom was another window, not far from the table from which the Quetzal doll has disappeared. The

bedroom window, as Debley recalled it, had been tightly locked, but it was no longer. Wide open, it was

letting in the drizzle, and Debley, frantic over the disappearance of the Quetzal, had been oblivious to the

No longer oblivious, Debley gave a cry as he stumbled toward the living room. He heard creaking footsteps

from the hall, louder than the creeping sounds that he had fancied earlier, and a low, cautious call came from

the same direction. Debley voiced a cry of welcome that stopped as suddenly as it began.

Something long and slender, slicking with the speed of a whip lash, wrapped itself around Debley's neck and

ended his vocal effort. That same coil hauled the frantic man from his feet and tumbled him back toward the

window, producing the clatter of an overturning chair along with the thump of Debley's body.

Strong arms in the darkness were hoisting Debley up from the floor, literally somersaulting him toward the

window as he tugged at the ropy strand that twined his neck. Only as he struck the sill did Debley realize that

he was aimed for a quicker death than strangulation. The rope was already releasing itself when Debley

The rescuer, who came charging through from the living room, caught only a muddled glimpse of Debley's

tumble across the drizzledrenched sill. The darkness was almost impenetrable, certainly too thick to reveal

the murderer who had made the death toss, Debley was visible only because his dressing gown, flinging

across his head, disclosed the white shirt beneath it. But there was no mistaking the fact that the plunging

Reaching the window, the man from the living room stopped short the moment that his hands touched the

slippery sill. Perhaps he erroneously supposed that Debley's plunge had been the result of an accidental skid,

or it might have been instinctive precaution that halted him, when he felt the cold dampness of the

Certainly, instinct had much to do with his sudden turnabout and the way he sidestepped to a corner of the

room. There, crouching in the blackness, the arrival drew a gun and listened. However taut his nerves, they

weren't disturbed by the imaginary beats of Aztec drums. What this listener heard was very real, though it

The sound was a slow creeping noise moving through the only exit, the doorway leading to the living room.

Following it was a slithery sound, like that of a snake working its way along a floor.

Roused to sudden action the man from the corner became a lunging figure of vengeance. Gun ahead of him,

he drove out from the bedroom and through the living room toward the hall. One glance across the lighted

That left the hallway as the only choice. The door of the elevator was closed, and the only light in the hallway

Out of that blackness surged a figure that wasn't waiting to be challenged. Nor was there any hesitation from

the doorway of the living room. There, a fighter followed the line of his own aiming gun, lunging before he

fired. The close range would have favored him, if it hadn't been for the speed of the man he sought to

Gun shots, when they came, were diverted upward. Bullets pounded the steel ceiling and ricocheted along the

hall. Amid the fiery spurts, two figures twirled in a fantastic tussle under the weird glow of the unblinking red

bulb. It was as if the mad imagination of Debley's halfdemented mind had given birth to eerie creatures that

survived him, judging by the way the grapplers faded and reappeared in the halflight.

One fighter was responsible for the double illusion. He was cloaked in black, his head topped by a slouch hat

that totally concealed his features in the gloom. The other man was of more than average build and wiry in

action; striving to clutch his adversary, he became partly wrapped in the latter's cloak.

It was grimly reminiscent of Debley's fate, this struggle. Once enveloped in the folds of his own dressing

gown, Debley had been lost, an easy prey to a murderer's final stroke. The man who had been too late with

rescue realized this and was fighting against becoming the victim of a similar climax. All the more ominous

was the fact that the fray was carrying both men along the hall toward a window that opened on the far side

That window was a square of blackness and through it swirled the drizzle. This window gave promise of aid

Such was the thought of the belated rescuer who had failed to save Debley's life. Straining to the full, he tried

to fling his opponent through the opening, but the twist of their grapple veered them. They reeled away, then

back again with a most surprising result. As they reached the window, the drizzle no longer greeted them.

Instead of encountering space, sideward lunging shoulders glanced against a solid pane!

How or why the window had closed itself concerned the battlers only so far as it had been eliminated as a

factor in the struggle. Zigzagging along the hall they bounced from wall to wall until they neared the doorway

It was the cloaked member of the pair who dived into the living room, coming suddenly about with a drawn

gun to answer any shots that his opponent might provide. But the other man did not recover from amazement

in time to resume the fray. Across the hall, he was still grabbing for a vanished foe when his hand clutched

By the time a streak of living blackness launched from the living room, the elevator was rumbling downward.

Instead of halting, the cloaked figure kept on to the door of the fire tower, beneath the red light. There,

briefly, this mystery fighter was tangibly revealed, enough so to identify himself by the title which had made

He was The Shadow, master crimehunter, whose enigmatical ways were a terror to men of evil. Yet tonight,

despite his uncanny prowess, The Shadow had encountered complications as puzzling as those that he

To anyone other than The Shadow, this would have marked the end of a trail; but as his cloaked form merged

with the darkness of the fire tower, a strange, whispered laugh filtered back through the selfclosing door.

That tone told that where this adventure was concerned, the episode in Debley's penthouse marked the

THE old brownstone mansion stood silent, almost lonely, as though huddling against the drizzle that swept

the obscure side street. It wasn't the only building in the block, but it gave that impression when compared to

It looked like the patriarch of the block, this house, but it was actually the youngest of the row. It had been

built by someone who wanted to improve the neighborhood, but nobody else had followed the example. So

there it stood, a brownstone scarecrow of the nineties, supported by brick relics of the eighties, all forgotten

There were a few lights in the brownstone mansion, all dim and deep within their windows, but the man from

the drizzle scanned them closely before approaching the steps. Then, as an added precaution, he looked

across his shoulders to make sure that no one was watching him from the street. Satisfied that he was

At the door, the man had trouble with his keys. He carried them loose in his pocket and one key in particular

bothered him. It was the size of a door key, but thinner, and the muffled man finally solved the problem by

putting this key in his vest pocket; then, from among the others, he found the one that unlocked the front

Coming into a large and gloomy vestibule, the muffled man removed his hat and raincoat, hanging them on a

large oldfashioned hatrack. Opening an inner door he stepped into a large hallway, darting quick glances

from left to right. Seeing no one, he began stealing toward a stairway, only to halt and turn suddenly as solid

The man from the night finished his quick turnabout at a table where some mail was lying stacked. His tone

As he spoke, the nonchalant man found a letter that was addressed to Gregg Tolland. He kept his face turned

as he opened the letter, but the mirror beyond the table showed his features. In this mild light, Gregg Tolland

might have been termed handsome, but the illumination was much in his favor. There were sharp lines in his

face that gave it a bitter expression. Still, the expression could have been attributed to strain, for Gregg was

In comparison, the man called Sarge was as stonyfaced as a Mayan idol and equally blunt in speech. He put

"I went there, but I didn't see him. There was some excitement around the place."

Sarge had stepped close. His blunt face showed plainly in the light, a blunt, faithful countenance that fitted

his husky build. He was the sort of man who either spoke his thoughts directly or said nothing. This was a

At Sarge's statement Gregg wheeled from the table, clutching the letter in his hand. His tone was sharp and

"I told you there was excitement at Debley's. Do you want to alarm my uncle? You know how he has been

For a moment, Sarge's deep eyes glared with wakening anger. Then with what seemed a reserve cultivated

"You are right, Mr. Gregg," said the stolid man. "Still, the colonel will ask why you did not talk to Debley."

"Tell him I forgot the key," returned Gregg. From his trouser's pocket he produced the loose group. "Look for

"Of course he did, and I forgot. After all, who would remember a key to an elevator door? Of all the absurd

notions! When I realized I didn't have the key, I knew I couldn't go up to Debley's penthouse, so I came

"But the letter said the key was very important," he reminded. "I can't see how you forgot it, Mr. Gregg."

There were footsteps coming down the stairs, but Gregg gave them no attention. Less nervous than before, he

was facing Sarge in the light, and the thrust of Gregg's chin gave his features a strength that appeared as a

"The letter came to my uncle," announced Gregg firmly. "It may have been important to him, but not to me.

After all, I receive important mail of my own" he brandished the letter in his hand "this letter, for

Sarge nodded his head as though he intended to bow out. Meanwhile, the footsteps were reaching the bottom

"And may I ask you a question, Sarge?" demanded Gregg, sharply. "Have you been looking after my uncle

The footsteps had stopped. Accompanying them was a man younger than Gregg Tolland, but firmer of face

and in a sense more mature. He had the square features of the Tollands, but his manner was casual, his poise

unruffled. He didn't need to thrust his chin to add emphasis to his words. More on the handsome side than

"Hello, Cousin Gregg," he said coolly. "So you didn't see Debley after all. Too bad, with Sarge and myself

"I'll thank you to keep out of this, Dave," returned Gregg. "If you heard what I said to Sarge, it stands."

"Of course." Dave gave an indifferent nod. "I just didn't want you to forget that I'm part of the Tolland

"You can remind Uncle Jeremy of that," asserted Gregg. "I'm going upstairs to see him now."

Before Gregg could reach the stairs, Sarge's heavy hand was clamping on his arm.

Savagely, Gregg flung the opened letter back on the table as though he wanted his hands free to deal with

Sarge. Looking beyond the stolid man, Gregg saw Dave, standing with folded arms, smiling from the foot of

"Since there are two of you, I'll forget it. I'll give the key back to Uncle Jeremy in the morning; that is, if I can

Before Dave could supply some appropriate bit of sarcasm, the impending altercation was forgotten. The

threecornered discussion became trivial compared with events upstairs. From somewhere on the second

floor, a door banged open, and with it came an unearthly shriek that carried murder in its cry.

Rooted, the three men could only stare dumbly upward as they heard the sound of rapid, scuffling footsteps

approaching the head of the stairs. Again, the shriek horrified them and with it, a grayhaired man came

It was Colonel Tolland, the man who had insisted upon having his sleep. He was wearing slippers and his

dressing gown served instead of coat and vest; otherwise he was completely dressed. But the wild look in his

gray, glazed eyes gave the impression that he was viewing a horde of devils somewhere on a level with his

"Another nightmare!" Starting up the stairs, the brawny man added a warning: "Look out, Colonel! You'll be

Already on the brink; the grayhaired colonel caught the banister and stopped his tumble. Clinging there he

shook his head in dazed fashion, finally relaxing and spilling sideward into Sarge's arms by the time the

servant had arrived. Absorbing the colonel's fall, Sarge retreated down the stairs, steadying old Tolland as he

came. By the time they were at the bottom, Colonel Tolland was shaking his head and recognizing the other

It was Dave, not Gregg who supplied the next response. Stepping quickly across the hall, the younger nephew

"I'm all right." There was a slight crack in the colonel's tone. "Just another dream only another dream "

Sarge was guiding old Tolland to the living room. There, the colonel settled in a chair and fumbled in his

Taking the keys, Sarge crossed the hall and unlocked another door, turning on lights beyond it. By then, old

Jeremy Tolland was staring from one nephew to the other, finally centering his gaze on Gregg.

"But you couldn't have seen Debley! I was dreaming about him! I saw him falling, falling off from a high

Sarge was coming with the brandy and his interruption was timely where Gregg was concerned. Trying to

"But I've got to know about Debley!" insisted Jeremy, pressing the brandy aside. "It was another of those

dreams" he was turning his head around the group "those dreams that never fail. Tell me, Gregg "

Again there was an interruption, this time from the telephone bell. It was Sarge who answered the call and

conducted a short, blunt conversation while the rest listened tense. Then, hanging up, Sarge stated simply,

"You were right, Colonel. Debley is dead. He fell from his penthouse window half an hour ago."

His head lowered in resignation old Jeremy Tolland started slowly toward the stairs, and this time it was his

favored nephew Gregg who supported him. Stolid as ever, Sarge watched the pair until they reached the

second floor; meanwhile Dave, in that casual way of his, was stepping over to the table by the mirror.

"Look Sarge." Dave's low tone broke the silence. "This is what Gregg called an important letter."

Dave handed the opened envelope to Sarge. In it, the latter found an advertising sheet offering shirts and

neckties at bargain prices. Raising his deepset eyes, Sarge met Dave's keen gaze and gave a slow,

"Better turn out the lights," suggested Dave, coolly. "We can talk about this tomorrow after we know

Lights blinked off in the old mansion, darkening the living room and the study opposite. Viewed from the

street they were like vanishing beacons telling that this house alone had been subjected to some unusual

Across the street, a figure watched the old mansion blacken through the drizzle; then that same form turned

and blended with the darkness. Gloved hands drew the folds of a dampened cloak more tightly as unseen lips

POLICE COMMISSIONER WESTON regarded suicide a nuisance and did not hesitate to say so. He felt that

Seated in the grill room of the Cobalt Club, his favorite stopping place after office hours, Weston felt free to

One was Weston's friend Lamont Cranston, a calmfaced gentleman who made a good listener; the other was

"Debley was scared by his own imagination," defined Weston. "Scared to the point where he was ready to do

anything that would bring escape from his fear. So he found his refuge, a few dozen stories down, right in the

Cranston's expression remained unchanged, which made Weston wonder whether or not his friend was

"You were here, Cranston, the first time Debley called," reminded Weston. "That was two nights ago.

"I could have gone directly to Debley's," conceded Weston, "but the man talked like a fanatic. In fact, he

didn't even ask me to come there; he just wanted me to stand by in case he had trouble from some image

"An effigy of an Aztec god," confirmed Cranston. "Debley probably brought it back from Mexico. Am I

"Yes, Debley had been in Mexico," affirmed Jeremy. "That was where I first met him, some years ago."

"Then what became of it? Inspector Cardona searched the premises and couldn't find it. Do you think that

Slowly, Jeremy shook his head and the action prompted Weston to another question:

"Because if it did mean death," replied Jeremy, "Debley could not have kept it long. The curse of the Quetzal

It was Cranston who recognized how equivocal Jeremy's statement was, but Weston took it as support of his

"Consider the absurd precautions that Debley took. He began by harboring himself in the most isolated

penthouse that he could find, perched among office buildings rather than apartment houses."

As evidence, Weston introduced a photograph of the penthouse and its building, studded with a dotted line

which began with the window from which Debley had plunged and curved down to his landing spot.

To Cranston, the picture was more graphic than Weston supposed. The commissioner's friend was studying it

from other angles. He was noting the much taller building that towered across the street from Debley's on the

That higher structure was a Gothic skyscraper, a gingerbread product of the premodernistic period. It rose

almost straight and its infrequent ledges were very narrow, ornamented with quaint posts that bulged from the

low stone parapets. It was an archaic type of decoration that some oldfashioned architect had included with

Cranston's eyes moved slightly, slowly, as though visualizing a pendulum swing from one of those stone

geegaws. Next he noted that the ledge surrounding Debley's penthouse was similarly embellished with a

Perhaps it was purely a coincidental thought that brought a dry, morose chuckle from Colonel Jeremy.

"Poor Debley," commented Jeremy. "Maybe when he came home he looked up at his penthouse and saw one

"Debley never left the penthouse," put in Weston. "That was another of his eccentricities."

"Could he have been leaning out to stare at a gargoyle's face?" queried Jeremy, absently. "That might have

"If he didn't know about the gargoyles," argued Weston, "he wouldn't have tried to look at them."

"The subconscious is the greatest factor in our lives," continued the colonel. "Only those who have not

experienced its influence deride it, and they speak through ignorance. Now I for one can testify "

Impatiently Weston rapped an interruption with his knuckles and gestured to the photograph.

"See for yourself, Colonel. There is no gargoyle outside the window where Debley jumped."

The commissioner was right, but he overlooked something which was intriguing his friend Cranston. There

was a stone gargoyle directly outside the window that was at the end of the penthouse hall; that very window

which had so mysteriously lowered itself during The Shadow's grapple with the man who had fled in the

Again, Cranston was picturing a pendulum, its hanging point that gargoyle. Across another street from the

penthouse was the side roof of an office building, an extension several stories high. Then Cranston suddenly

"Debley's mind was governed by the subconscious," the colonel was telling the commissioner. "Not merely

receptively, which would have accounted for his creation of the Quetzal delusion, but in an active way. I can

Reverting to one of his brusque moods, Weston was thinking that he could trap Jeremy into some sort of an

admission, however minor it might be. What Jeremy delivered was something even more fantastic.

"At the moment of his plunge," assured Jeremy solemnly, "Rufus Debley became a human radio station. He

flashed a message of terror through the ether, hoping that some sensitive mind would pick up that signal of

distress. One mind did." Stopping abruptly, Jeremy looked from man to man and nodded. "That mind was my

"No. His thoughts were drowned by their own static." Jeremy's head gave a regretful shake. "Being in a

subconscious state, I received an impression of Debley's fall. I was enjoying one of those halfsleeps that are

a compensation of advancing years, except when some horrified mindcry interrupts them."

"Yes, Commissioner, of Debley and of mountains. Of Mexican Sierras where I first met him years ago."

"Not from the past, Commissioner. My dream was of the present. Debley's fall proved it."

"I see." Weston nodded as though humoring the old colonel. "Tell me, do you have many of these present

"The subconscious mind is free in time as well as space," explained Jeremy. "When I take my halfnaps I

While Weston sat wondering how he could deal with the crackpot colonel, Cranston took over the situation

"Quite often," replied Jeremy. "Understand, I do not trust my own memory of them. I usually check them

Jeremy's eyes were gaining a faraway stare; his lips were forming into a smile that denoted anticipation.

Then, as though tearing himself from the future that he had envisioned, the colonel shook himself and became

erect in his chair. His gray eyes were firm as they centered on Weston; smiling lips reverted to their

"You were speaking of Debley's precautions," reminded Jeremy. "Perhaps they were absurd; we all acquire

curious notions as we grow older. Why not proceed with the discussion, Commissioner? Possibly we may be

Glad of the suggestion, Weston nodded and turned to his notes, hoping that he could keep the subject on

Debley's eccentricities rather than Jeremy's. But Cranston, though he offered no objection to the switch,

Whatever might be said regarding Rufus Debley would be interpreted in terms of Jeremy Tolland, so far as

Lamont Cranston was concerned. For Cranston's eyes, watching the old colonel mildly, carried a deeper

NOTES weren't the only data that Weston had gathered concerning Debley; he had actual exhibits. The first

that he tossed on the table was a thin steel key. With it, Weston furnished the comment:

"It was an automatic elevator," explained Weston, "but it hadn't any button for the penthouse floor. You had

"On Debley," replied Weston. "That's how we managed to get up there. Of course there was another way, the

fire tower, but it had a door with an automatic lock at the top. Nobody could have used that route either."

"No, Colonel, it couldn't have," emphasized Weston, "but there might have been an attempt upon his life.

The things that Weston termed "these" were bullets, a few badly bashed, that he tossed upon the table. Still

"That's right," acknowledged Weston. "Caliber nine millimeters, an odd size that would run a little larger than

a .35 if there happened to be such a gun. The identification experts say they were from a reconditioned

"Never, Commissioner. Debley phoned and wanted me to come there the other night, but the weather was too

By now, Weston was convinced that Jeremy could hardly have influenced Debley's suicide. The colonel's

comments were neither avowals nor denials of a connection with Debley, and they were varied enough to

"Tell me more about the hallway," suggested Jeremy. "How was it located? If I knew, I might give an

From his notes, Weston brought a carefully drawn floor plan of the penthouse. Studying the diagram, Jeremy

"Very simple, Commissioner. Debley must have imagined he saw things in the hall. It would be the natural

place from which any menace would arrive. Since he was bothered with hallucinations, it is quite probable

"Nor did you find the Quetzal. Debley may have disposed of both, perhaps a week ago, or a month."

The possibility made a definite impression upon Weston and Cranston was equally intrigued, but from

another standpoint. There wasn't any reason why Jeremy should brush aside the matter of the gunfire unless

he specifically wanted to cover up the fact of a certain visitor to Debley's at the time of the scared man's

This to Cranston was quite as interesting as the thing that Weston didn't recognize at all; namely, that

Debley's penthouse wasn't quite as inaccessible as the police supposed. It wasn't that Cranston was just

thinking of how he had personally entered the place as The Shadow by working on the fire tower door. His

Again, Jeremy seemed to pick up Cranston's thoughts. Quite blandly the old colonel suggested:

"Of course, Commissioner, someone might have managed to reach the penthouse from outside. When I was

"This isn't Mexico," interrupted Weston, testily. "New York doesn't have mountain goats, or burros, or

whatever else they have in Mexico. But since you knew Debley when you were there, tell me something

"What is there to tell? We were both there to make our fortunes and we did. Of course we made enemies too."

"Enemies who tried to swindle us or promote schemes to put us out of business. But we made our own way,

"Never. Our paths crossed occasionally, that was all. We conducted similar transactions, largely in

transportation, but I made my fortune in mining whereas Debley's came from oil."

"Then you know nothing of this Quetzal threat that drove Debley to his own destruction?"

"I have heard of it. A Quetzal image is considered dangerous if it comes from the wrong person."

"No more than I did." From a position to which he had gradually slumped, Jeremy drew himself erect. "I can

assure you of this, commissioner: any menace that Debley may have imagined could be directed quite as

Jeremy was rising as he made that statement; reaching for a cane, he was preparing to hobble from the grill

"As much as Debley was," affirmed Jeremy, "and perhaps more so. Only I am not asking for protection."

"Because I am not governed by my imagination," chuckled Jeremy. "Or let us say" he paused, giving

Weston a canny, sidelong glance "let us say that I have faith in my visions. Some of my dreams have been

Cranston was leaving along with Jeremy. Up the stairs from the grill room and out through the foyer,

Cranston observed that the old colonel's cane was more an ornament than a necessity. Jeremy's hobble

seemed scarcely more than a mode of stretching his legs; once under way, his gait began to show agility until

Then, slowing wearily, Jeremy placed one hand against Cranston's arm, to steady himself for the few steps

"You can't be spry at my age, Cranston. Just a trifle too much energy and the old crick catches you in the

back. One thoughtless step from a curb and my leg might double under me. Poor Debley, he was too young

for his years. Why, I wouldn't have the strength to open a window, let alone pitch myself out!"

As he spoke, old Jeremy was glancing across the street, looking for his car. His words were hardly uttered

before he belied them in a most singular way. At sight of Colonel Jeremy, the chauffeur of an oldfashioned

limousine began to pull the big car from the curb beyond a cross street, giving it a quick start to beat a

On the other side of the street, a girl saw the light go green and started to cross. A moment later she was

squarely in the path of the lunging car and realized it. With a shriek, she flung herself ahead of the limousine,

Before the girl had completely sprawled, old Jeremy was springing from the curb, leaving the alert Mr.

Cranston rooted beside the equally frozen door man. Tossing his cane as he went, the colonel made a diving

scoop that rolled the tumbling girl right into his arms. With a brawny heave, he brought himself full about,

inches from the bumper of the screeching car and actually outraced it in his scramble for the curb, carrying

The chauffeur managed a swerve that aided Jeremy's swift rescue and brought the car to a sudden stop.

Flushed with pride at his own prowess, the colonel didn't realize that his feat was out of character until

Cranston reached him. Then, abruptly, Jeremy let the girl change from a featherweight into a burden too

heavy to be handled alone. Panting heavily, he let her weight sag into Cranston's arms.

Yet there was still something of triumph in the old man's manner. Unable to restrain his enthusiasm, he

"I dreamed this, Cranston! I dreamed it last night and it has happened! Go tell the commissioner that you

Lamont Cranston didn't go and tell the commissioner. He couldn't very well invade the Cobalt Club carrying

a girl. The stuff of Jeremy's dreams had fainted, and something had to be done about it.

The girl's face was turned upward from Cranston's shoulder and since her eyes were closed he had a chance

to study her features without being impolite. It was a nice face, winning in its oval shape, with a slightly dark

complexion that harmonized with the brown hair beneath the dangling, blue hat. An attractive face that would

be even prettier with soulful eyes, particularly if brown; factors which were still in doubt.

By now, the chauffeur was out of the car, disputing matters with the colonel, but they soon came to one mind.

Both were shaky, Jeremy because of heroic exercise, the chauffeur from the shock of having the girl spring

"It was my fault, Colonel," the chauffeur was conceding. "You'd better rest a bit, sir. I'll find your cane."

The door man had already picked up the cane. He handed it to the colonel, who thanked him. Then:

"You couldn't help it, Sarge," said Jeremy with a warm clap on the chauffeur's shoulder. "After all, we've

"The dream I had last night. About an accident with a girl in blue. Remember, I said I heard her scream and I

"I remember you waking up," he recalled. "You were sitting in bed shouting something, but you didn't say

"I must have been watching the toast, Colonel. You always burn it if I don't. If you spoke about a dream, I

The girl was stirring from Cranston's shoulder, so he took a look at her eyes. They were thankful if not

actually soulful and their proper color, brown. The girl seemed quite comfortable and rather pleased that she

was still alive, for she gave Cranston a very grateful smile and murmured her appreciation of the rescue.

"Thank Colonel Tolland," suggested Cranston, as he steadied the girl to her feet. "I suppose he does deserve

thanks, although it was his own car that nearly ran you down. But what about your name, so that I can

"I'm Shirley Malcolm," replied the girl. Then, a trifle puzzled: "Did you say Colonel Tolland?"

"I've heard my father mention him," the girl recalled. "The colonel has something to do with mining, hasn't

"I think he has," smiled Cranston. "We can ask him when he finishes his argument."

The dispute was just about over, with Sarge bowing out. The colonel had added that unfinished dreams were

always of special significance, invariably bearing a good omen. He was even insisting that all his trust in

Sarge was based on dreams and having made that point, the colonel turned to greet the young lady who had

Cranston supplied the introduction and Jeremy returned Shirley's smile with a bow. When the girl mentioned

her father, giving his full name as Roland Malcolm, the colonel responded with a prompt nod.

"Tuttut! Never look for a job," philosophized Jeremy. "Let jobs look for you. There are too many good jobs

and too few good people. No, no" impatiently Jeremy waved his cane, before the girl could interrupt

"don't ask me the same old question: What are you to do while waiting for a job? I'll answer that for you.

"You're coming with me, Miss Malcolm, so you can write your father, wherever he is, and tell him you've

fallen into good hands." His face broadening, Jeremy chuckled. "You really fell into my hands, didn't you?

Well, we can forgive Sarge since everything ended happily. Here's the car, so get right into it." Taking

Shirley's arm, Jeremy guided her toward the car, then turned and asked suddenly: "Coming our way,

Cranston wasn't but he said he was. He asked for time out to get a briefcase that he had left in the Cobalt

Club, and Jeremy granted the request. When Cranston joined the others in the car he found that Shirley had

also gained the privilege of a stopoff at her hotel in order to pick up a suitcase. So the car went first to the

It was a very dilapidated hotel which could better have been termed a rundown boarding house, a fact which

caused Jeremy to "tuttut" as soon as Shirley had gone inside. The interior of the limousine was very gloomy

in the darkness of this side street and old Jeremy's voice carried a hush as he spoke to Cranston.

"I talked to the girl while you were getting your briefcase," said Jeremy. "She didn't want to come to my

"Well, I've heard of him," replied Jeremy. Then, his tone critical, he added: "But how could I make many

"Of course I couldn't. Some of my best friends are people I've never met. Let's say Malcolm is one of them."

"Because of my dream," the colonel admitted. "Thoughts carry, Cranston, not only from the past but far into

"There's nowhere stranger than Mexico," continued Jeremy, "not when those Aztec drums begin to throb.

Often I've heard them in the mountains and they bring strange thoughts to you. Your past comes back and

spreads itself into future vistas. I know, because every night, I seem to hear those drums."

"Unquestionably, but they drove him frantic. It wouldn't have done any good for me to go and see him."

There was sharp whiteness in the gloom as Jeremy's eyes turned hard upon Cranston. For a moment,

Cranston could sense that the colonel was growing tense. Then, very calmly, the old man spoke.

"I might have sent my nephew," he mused. "That is, my nephew Gregg, who is more reliable than Dave. I

want you to meet them some day, Cranston. But speaking of meetings, it was most fortunate that I met Miss

"Because she tells me she was already packed and planning to go home this evening. All last night she was

"It flashed everywhere, Cranston. All it needed was for someone to receive it, as I did."

Pondering briefly upon Jeremy's statement, Cranston decided to probe the old colonel's theory.

"Tell me, Colonel," questioned Cranston. "Do you find thought reception a common occurrence in this dream

"Very common," rejoined Jeremy, "but I have waited a long while for a welldefined fulfillment of a chance

event like tonight's meeting with Miss Malcolm. I have always wanted to learn what would follow in such a

"Only to Sarge, though he probably wouldn't remember. My dreams don't impress him." Jeremy paused and

strained his eyes from the car window. "Suppose we discuss this some other time, Cranston. Here comes

The limousine dropped Cranston and his briefcase a few blocks from the Tolland mansion so that he could

hail a cab and continue his own journey. But Cranston, it seemed, was also of the opinion that paths once

Instead of stopping a cab, he stepped to a darkened doorway and performed manipulations with his briefcase.

In a few moments The Shadow glided forth fully garbed in black. Then, with a swift, easy stride, this master

of the night moved, discernible only by the blackness that floated across lighted patches of sidewalk only to

Five minutes after he had left the limousine, The Shadow, formerly Lamont Cranston, was making a silent,

invisible patrol of the street in front of the brownstone house, watching for new developments.

Set above a side passage by the old house was a second story window, dim with light, which The Shadow

decided must be the guest chamber to which Shirley had been assigned. Very suddenly that light blinked off.

Half a minute passed; then sharp, tiny glimmers came from the side window, the blinks of a flashlight

sending a code. From the pauses, The Shadow recognized that there must be an answer, so he shifted into the

deeper darkness to gain a better angle. From there, The Shadow saw the responding blinks.

They came from the second floor of an old dilapidated house further down the street and on the other side. As

they paused, The Shadow glided from the passage and headed straight for the other house.

However accidental the meeting between Jeremy Tolland and Shirley Malcolm, these signals did not belong

in the realm of chance. To The Shadow they were another marker in the trail of the missing Quetzal and all it

The man in the vacant house gave his flashlight a sweep as he extinguished it, and the passing glow was

enough to show his face. It was a youthful face, a trifle on the sallow side, and reasonably handsome.

Perhaps those features demanded a better light to show them at their best, for the smile that was forming as

the fleeting light passed it carried the leer of the professional schemer. Or it could have been that the sallow

Whatever his true appearance, the man was certainly crafty in manner. Working his way across the empty

room, he was careful to use his flashlight only in the spots most needed as he probed out through the doorway

into a long hall. His stride alone was careless, for he made no effort to deaden the creaks of the floor beneath

However, sound could matter little in an empty house. Light was something that could be seen; hence, it was

more important to conceal. Except for those necessary signal blinks, the sallow chap was handling his

In the hallway, the intruder was guided by an open window, dimly visible at the rear. Half way along, he

paused to listen without using his flashlight. It wasn't that he had heard sounds; he merely wanted to make

sure that none arrived, because he planned a side trip. Satisfied that the house was undisturbed, the

He found what he wanted, a telephone. Lifting the receiver, he heard the dialtone and chuckled. Then,

without the benefit of flashlight, he dialed in the darkness. A voice answered and the young man gave a

Instantly the voice at the other end showed sharp suspicion. Its tone came in a quick, vicious stab.

Though confident so far, the man with the flashlight became suddenly hesitant. Then:

"Victor Brett." The sallow prowler suddenly became defiant. "Maybe I've got the wrong number so what?"

Starting to slam the receiver, Brett heard a change of tone. Its suavity was familiar, so he resumed the

"So it's you after all." Brett laughed as he brought the receiver to his ear. "Say I thought I'd hit the wrong

"Sorry, Vic." The tone was oily. "I didn't expect to hear from you so soon. Where are you?"

"In the empty house. The phone was connected and I dialed in the dark; that's why I thought I'd slipped. What

"All the better." The suave tone showed full satisfaction. "All right, Vic, I'll stop by tomorrow."

Ending his call, Brett gave the flashlight a brief gleam to locate the door. With long, creaky strides he reached

the hallway, made the turn toward the rear and stopped dead still. In one brief space between his footfalls,

More tense than ever, the prowler waited. Nothing occurred until he took a few steps of his own; then, again

he caught an echo, this time placing it on the stairs. From the way Brett's fist tightened on the flashlight, it

was his only weapon, but his sharp drawn breath proved that he wouldn't hesitate to use it as a bludgeon if a

Brett didn't use the light again. His eyes were becoming accustomed to the darkness. He could see the outline

of the window plainly, for the reflected glow of the city gave it the appearance of a square panel etched with

twilight. His work here done, Brett preferred a sneak to the window rather than standing this untenable

It was too much for Brett. Though more than half way to the window, he turned about and made a few steps

the other way, to draw those creaks closer. They came, but Brett wasn't listening; governed by a sudden

No longer a panel of twilight, the window had become a frame for a living silhouette consisting of cloaked

Brett had glimpsed it once; now he was glimpsing it again. Instantly, the image vanished, producing the

The Shadow had raised his shoulders, blocking off what light remained. By now he was through the window

Savagely, Brett shoved the flashlight toward the window, pressing the switch to throw the glare into the

invader's eyes. Stopped within a dozen feet, the flashlight's beam began to shorten as though gobbled by

blackness. The Shadow was on the way. Dropping back, Brett whipped the flashlight up above his shoulder

It was the man from the stairs, the creeper who had profited by Brett's problem with The Shadow. In

snatching the flashlight, the man from the stairway made a crosshand grab and the glow lashed across his

face. As briefly as Brett's face had shown earlier, the square features of Gregg Tolland were revealed. It was

unmistakably Gregg, to anyone who might have recognized him, for his chin had the forward thrust that he

Hurling the flashlight away, he jabbed one hand to Brett's throat and used the other to swing a gun at the head

of the man he neither knew nor saw. Only by freak strategy did Brett offset that thrust. Remembering The

Shadow, Brett gave a mad whirl carrying Gregg with him. A lunging shape crashed into the grapple that was

Far better than he expected was Brett's strategy of turning a simple tussle into a free for all.

The Shadow too was swinging a gun, but his first stroke was of a warding sort. There was a clash of steel, a

fly of sparks as The Shadow's weapon met Gregg's, above Brett's ducking head. The threefold tangle surged

under the force of The Shadow's drive, carrying the whole group forward along the hall. Gregg was twisting

now, whipping his own gun wildly, glancing blows that The Shadow was starting to deliver. In the middle,

Futility more than craft was inspiring Gregg Tolland. Wanting more scope to avoid The Shadow's swings,

Gregg dropped toward the stairs just as the group reached them. Vic Brett knew those stairs, even though he

hadn't used them and he made a smart grab for the newel post at the top end of the banister.

Gregg's dive was purposeful, and deep. Never expecting the fellow to go below floor level, The Shadow

overlunged. He was pitching headlong down the stairs, clutching for Gregg and carrying him along, while

Brett, entirely clear, sprang to his feet, raced through the hall and vaulted through the window, taking a

Meanwhile, The Shadow and Gregg were doublesomersaulting down the stairs. Heaving clear, Gregg made

a long leap across the thudding figure that he heard but couldn't see and reached the front door. Grabbing the

knob, he yanked the door open, and, in his mad desire to forestall pursuit, Gregg turned and fired a few wild

Instead of echoes, Gregg heard a laugh, a weird burst of mockery that a ghost would have envied. Whether it

meant that his foe still lived, or had bounced back from another world to haunt him, Gregg didn't stop to

reason. Out through the door, Gregg was loping diagonally across the street, to reach his home preserves.

Ghostly in style but human in frame, The Shadow renewed the pursuit with a quick sweep up from the floor

where he had purposely sprawled to avoid Gregg's frantic shots. As he reached the street, he saw that Gregg

was choosing the side alley in preference to the front door of the brownstone mansion, so The Shadow took

Here was a chase wholly in The Shadow's favor with scarcely a chance for his prey to turn and fight at bay.

Unique events had produced it and it was scarcely in the cards that a similar sequel should occur.

IT was Shirley Malcolm who first heard the clatter of feet in the side alley. From the moment that she had

entered the room, the girl hadn't left the window, though she had told Colonel Tolland that she was going

To Shirley, the signals had seemed more important and she was still standing by in case Vic Brett decided to

send a return message. Then the sounds of muffled gunfire had startled her, followed by the clatter of the

Though Shirley hadn't seen Gregg enter, she saw him come out posthaste. He wasn't recognizable as the

nephew to whom the colonel had briefly introduced her downstairs, for Gregg was muffled, huddled as he

ran. Lost to view as he neared the house, Shirley saw him again when she leaned from the window, in

Stooping low beside the wall, Gregg wrenched at a cellar grating as though he knew the trick that would open

it. He had almost succeeded, when a singular sort of blackness enveloped him and Shirley heard a muffled

There was a swirl of figures so fantastic that Shirley couldn't believe her amazed eyes. The girl was viewing a

replica of the kaleidoscopic struggle that had occurred in the hallway of Debley's penthouse, two nights

before. A strange fray, this, apparently a oneman struggle in which the solitary fighter vanished and

reappeared at intervals. It could only mean that another combatant was present, a battler so singular that he

The Shadow was literally eclipsing Gregg Tolland and the struggle would have been shortlived if a third

man hadn't entered it. Who he was, Shirley hadn't an idea, but she spotted where he came from. He was a

long, lean man in a dark suit who had been lurking in a corner of the alley, huddled in darkness away from

Even now this newcomer wouldn't have been in it, except that The Shadow and Gregg had reeled in his

direction and plucked him from obscurity. Once in the deal, the third man's savagery was terrific. He was

slashing with something that glimmered like a knife and Shirley saw a chunk of blackness cleave itself as it

The knife had taken a huge slash from The Shadow's cloak and only his spinning dive had saved him from

the blade. Again, Gregg Tolland was in the clear, thanks to the intervention of another unknown, and Gregg

was making the most of it. With a sprawling roll he went through the open grating and after him dived the

Shirley didn't wait to see The Shadow follow. Already she could hear Sarge's hoarse voice bellowing from

the front hall while the husky chauffeur pounded the door of the colonel's study to notify his master that there

was trouble. Suddenly frantic, Shirley realized that she couldn't afford to be connected with this.

Reaching her suitcase on the chair where Sarge had parked it, Shirley tugged it open in the dark and began

pawing with one hand for the night things while she peeled her dress with her other hand and kicked off her

Things were happening even faster in the cellar. As Gregg ducked in one direction, the other man tried a short

cut. The Shadow landed through the grating just in time to catch a glimpse of both and chose the route that

The man with the knife didn't travel far. Turning a corner he encountered the blackness of a halfempty coal

bin and before he could halt himself, he was crashing head on into the upper half of a partition. It was an odd

sort of a partition, for instead of being fixed at the sides, it dangled as if hinged. The thing flapped as the man

struck it, and he plunged face forward into the coal pile as the hinged partition swung back.

The Shadow heard a clatter but didn't see what happened. He still had a score to settle with his original

Out from an unexpected corner, Gregg dashed for a flight of stairs and reached the top as The Shadow arrived

at the bottom. This time Gregg didn't turn to fire shots while wresting a door open. He slammed the door

behind him, giving its key a twist. In the dimly lighted kitchen, he took a quick look about, then sidled into

Sarge was still pounding on the study door which lay across the hall from the living room. This had happened

occasionally before, the old colonel falling into one of his socalled light sleeps from which nothing short of

Gabriel's horn could rouse him. Probably the pounding was merely mingling into one of Jeremy's dreams, so

Up in her room, Shirley heard the hammering end just as she was sliding into nightgown and bed in a single

action. Thinking that Sarge had finally roused old Jeremy and that they'd be shouting for her next, Shirley

slipped into her dressing gown and grabbed her slippers; opening the door she took a few steps along the hall

Sarge was turning from the study door, rubbing one hand with the other. Instead of coming upstairs, the

Shirley stole to the top of the stairs and paused to put on her slippers. Stooping, she saw Gregg Tolland come

through the door from the living room. With a worried glance at the study door, Gregg sneaked into the

Working back along the upstairs hall, Shirley waited until she heard Gregg return. He stopped at the study

"Uncle Jeremy! Are you there? What's happened? Where's Sarge?" Gregg knew where Sarge was, all right.

Receiving no response from the study, he turned toward the kitchen. By then Shirley was thoroughly alarmed.

It was bad enough to have invaders brawling into the place, let alone discovering that a member of the

household was one of them. Gregg's business with the hat and coat was a complete giveaway, but it did give

Having been smart enough not to be caught with her clothes on, Shirley decided to establish the fact that

she'd gone to bed by making an appearance in her present attire of dressing gown and slippers. She was

worried about Sarge, now that Gregg had gone to join him in the kitchen, since Sarge couldn't know that the

As for old Colonel Jeremy, his prolonged silence was another matter for concern, considering the kindness he

had shown Shirley. So as she reached the bottom of the stairs, the girl halted, wondering if she ought to repeat

As she raised her hand to knock, Shirley heard a sound from the vestibule; clutching her dressing gown, she

recoiled as a young man stepped into sight. As startled as the girl, the man stepped back, bowing an apology

"My mistake," he said, a trifle thickly. "Wrong house, I guess. No" he stared at an object in his hand "it

"That's right," the young man acknowledged, "but who are you? A missing cousin that Uncle Jeremy never

"I'm Shirley Malcolm. I'll explain that later. Meanwhile we'd better find your uncle."

"If he is, something has happened to him," declared Shirley, seriously. "Sarge pounded the door but couldn't

"That's the way with uncle's light sleeps. Sarge ought to know better than to keep on hammering. But what

"Then Sarge has probably traced it by this time. Let's go to the kitchen and find out."

They reached the kitchen to find Sarge looking for the cellar key, with Gregg standing by, quite baffled. The

door was locked, but the key wasn't in it, and Sarge, clutching Jeremy's big cane in one hand, was becoming

more and more impatient over his inability to reach the cellar and start looking for troublemakers down

Leaning against a door that opened into the hallway, Dave gave a light laugh. The excitement had sobered

"Better get some more weapons," decided Dave. "I know just what we want, the poker and tongs from the

The door of the parlor was behind the stairs, for the room was directly in back of the study. Dave was

opening it as he spoke, for the door was almost in reach of the kitchen entrance. Dropping back as he heard a

clatter, Dave thought his drinks were catching up on him, until he saw his uncle stepping from beside the

"Here you are, Dave," announced old Jeremy, crisply. "Now let's hear about the trouble."

Sarge had stopped looking for the cellar key and was staring at Jeremy when he stepped from the parlor.

"How long were you in the parlor, Colonel?" inquired Sarge. "I was sure you were still in the study."

"But I knocked too," put in Gregg; he darted a sharp glance at Dave, then added: "I knocked right after I came

"I heard you," rejoined Jeremy drily. "I was still drowsy, but awake enough to leave the study. I thought of

It was all so very logical to everyone except Shirley, who had been watching from upstairs while both Sarge

and Gregg had been at the study door. From then on, Shirley had taken over, so she couldn't quite believe her

senses. From the way everyone spoke, there was no connecting route between the study and the parlor, and

there certainly hadn't been time for the colonel to come around by the hall after Dave arrived home.

As for Shirley's eyes, they were wide open now and she wasn't believing them. Everyone had come from the

kitchen to the hallway and only Shirley was looking through the door. From a corner, she saw blackness

This was just too much for Shirley's strained imagination. With a gasp, she put her hand to her forehead and

tried to shake off her sudden dizzy spell. Poker and tongs clattered to the floor, while old Jeremy was

outracing his nephew in the man's job of catching a fainting young lady before she fell.

"I'm all right," said Shirley, giving her head a shake. "I just saw I mean I thought I saw well, there at

It was Sarge who turned, gave an amazed stare, and pounced into the kitchen. What he was pouncing for

wasn't the figure that Shirley had seen, for it was gone. What Sarge saw was the door key, glimmering in the

Down in the cellar, The Shadow was pausing at the coal bin, on his way to the open grating that formed a

convenient outlet. That bin was black and empty, as The Shadow made certain when he stepped straight

Whoever the extra marauder, he had gone. The same applied to The Shadow, a few moments later. He was

gone, with a whispered laugh, as he created darkness by extinguishing his flashlight.

Tonight The Shadow had found too many trials, but he had learned facts that he was confident would unravel

JEREMY TOLLAND really liked friends that he had never met. Not that he was disinclined to meet them,

should occasion allow; in fact, he rather preferred it. Many of the colonel's acquaintanceships had been

The correspondence with Twambley dated just a few years back, shortly before Jeremy's return from Mexico,

so the colonel hadn't an idea whether this friend was young or old. When Twambley proved to be older than

Jeremy himself, the colonel's enthusiasm was unbounded particularly when he saw that Twambley really

Whitehaired, beaming of eye, cackly of tone, old Twambley made himself at home from the moment he

stepped into the hallway. Immediately Jeremy began to link this visitor with his favorite theme of prophetic

"I'm not sure, colonel," returned Sarge. "You spoke rather vaguely at breakfast."

"No, colonel. I was paying strict attention. I'm sure Miss Malcolm will tell you the same. You dreamed about

"You see?" Triumphantly Jeremy gestured to Twambley. "Here is a man from the past who has arrived in the

future." Turning to Twambley, the colonel added earnestly: "What made you decide on this visit, Twambley?

Eccentric in his own right, Twambley accepted Jeremy's dream talk as something commonplace.

"I came to talk about a mutual friend," cackled Twambley, obligingly. "I refer to Rufus Debley."

"Ah! A link with that other dream of mine." Jeremy nodded satisfied. Then, drawing a large key from his

With interested eyes, old Twambley watched the colonel unlock the door. Then, swiveling his clasped hands

on the cane head, the visitor swung about and lifted his head painfully from his stooped shoulders to look at

the stairway. Light footsteps were descending and when Twambley saw what they represented, his eyes ogled

Shirley was coming downstairs and trying to appear quite casual about it. She was wearing her blue dress and

carrying her hat and bag as though she hadn't quite made up her mind about going out this evening. Meeting

Twambley's glance and considering the old gentleman harmless, Shirley smiled as a matter of policy.

For a moment the colonel looked annoyed; then clapping Twambley on the shoulder, he returned:

"This is Shirley Malcolm, the daughter of an old friend of mine. When I say old friend I mean in years of

Twambley gave a nod as though acknowledging Jeremy's claim. Since Shirley was the basis of discussion,

Jeremy looked her way and noted the hat which she purposely dangled. He inquired, a bit surprised:

"Not just yet." Shirley hesitated. "I wanted to speak to you first, Colonel, but since you're busy, I can wait."

"Indeed not!" It was old Twambley who furnished the indignant cackle. "Come right along, Miss Malcolm."

He gestured toward Jeremy's study as though he owned it. Then: "Of course I can wait here in the hallway."

"No, no," protested Shirley. "In fact, since you are an old friend of the colonel's you might be interested in

Shirley entered the study and looked around while the two men followed. It was the first time that she had

seen the room and since it was likewise Twambley's initial visit, Jeremy let them admire the place before

The furniture was of rich walnut and looked two centuries old. There was a large secretary, combining desk

and bookcase; antique chairs and couch to match. Old footstools added a comfortable touch and finest of all

Of course the clock won full attention, which pleased Colonel Jeremy, since he was proud of this family

"It keeps perfect time," announced Jeremy. "It always has, and it never misses on the dates of the month. It's

Facing the clock, Jeremy stared as though enraptured by the steady, unhurried swing of the glass pendulum

"Most clocks tick seconds into hours," added Jeremy. "This one builds days into centuries. A monument to

The clock obliged with a soft and musical chiming of the threequarter hour. It was the first time that Shirley

had heard it, and now she realized that the melodious sound could not carry through the stout door of the

study. The floor was covered with thick carpeting that pressed right to the bottom of the door that Jeremy had

Remembering something else, Shirley turned around. The gray carpet not only formed a complete coverall, it

ran beneath a pair of double doors at the rear of the room. Not only were those thick doors closed, they were

Eyes half closed, Shirley pictured the rear parlor, which she had inspected this very day. Its floor was covered

with a continuation of that same gray carpet, which formed an unbroken floorpiece. Similarly, there were

You couldn't think about a thing too long without having Colonel Jeremy guess it.

Startled by the hand that suddenly pressed her shoulder, Shirley heard the colonel give one of his nicest

"You're wondering about those doors, my dear?" Jeremy's tone carried an indulgent query. "They have been

Shirley was noting riveted braces at the sides of the doors and remembered similar ones in the parlor. She

knew that the two doors couldn't be slid as one, because she had tried it. What bothered her most was the

wide crack underneath the double doors. A mouse might have crawled under it, but certainly nothing so

substantial as the colonel could have managed the maneuver. But the crack proved something that Shirley had

There wasn't the slightest trace of even a seam in the great gray rug. That fact banished Shirley's last

speculation, now that she saw the door was properly riveted from the study side. What Shirley was trying to

explain was how the colonel had so mysteriously arrived in the rear parlor, the night before.

This concerned Shirley only, because only she could have testified that Jeremy hadn't left the study by the

regulation door that led into the hall. Now Shirley was willing to charge it off to bad memory or good

imagination, for she felt herself afflicted with both, after having seen a mass of living blackness navigating

Jeremy was telling Twambley why the parlor was walled off by those sealed doors, so Shirley snapped from

"A haunted place, that parlor," declared Jeremy, as though he meant it. "The man who built this house died

there, the week after he moved in. There were other tragedies among later residents and the parlor became a

"I couldn't stand it the first month I lived here. When the doors were open, my subconscious was disturbed by

whispers. When they were shut, they used to rattle. I needed a strong room, so I had the doors riveted shut; at

The bars were on the windows, and Jeremy indicated them with a gesture. Outside were steel shutters, open

in the day time, but closed at present, an operation which Sarge probably handled by reaching through the

"None belonging to the house," replied Jeremy, calmly. "Those who enter my dreams are not particular in

which room I happen to be asleep. For instance, I was upstairs when I dreamed about poor Debley."

Interest showed in Twambley's lifted face and Jeremy caught the gleam in the visitor's eyes.

"You didn't hear about my dream?" queried Jeremy. "Well, Twambley, it was more than a dream. Literally, I

saw Rufus Debley plunge to his death. Only I didn't picture it in terms of a penthouse" Jeremy narrowed his

brow in recollection "No, my impression was that of Debley tumbling from a mountain cliff."

The question was electric and Shirley could feel its tingling shock, even though she'd never heard of a man

called Clavier. As for Jeremy, he drew rigid, swayed upon a balanced point, and then relaxed.

"Sit down, Twambley," suggested Jeremy. His tone was tense, though he tried not to show it. "Tell me what

He paused, as though hesitant regarding a necessary addendum; then decided to give it.

THAT one word "Quetzal" snapped Shirley to immediate alertness. She had heard some talk of the feathered

image and its mysterious disappearance from Debley's penthouse. But the name Clavier was a new one and

Arms folded, Colonel Jeremy stood erect, his sharp eyes fixed upon the tottery figure of Isaac Twambley.

There was a snort of contempt from Jeremy. Evidently he recognized this name, but regarded it as

unimportant. Then, deciding that Twambley knew enough to be told more, Jeremy spread his hands for

silence and began his story, quite unconcerned by the fact that Shirley was a listener.

"Carl Wyler was a shrewd promoter," stated Jeremy. "He made a specialty of selling silver mines, and good

"Because they were inaccessible," inserted Twambley. "The ore rated high when it was assayed, but it cost

"Exactly," agreed Jeremy, "and whenever a mine failed, Wyler bought it up and sold it again to another crop

of suckers. He never thought that any of those mines could be turned into profit until I showed him how."

Twambley nodded, as though interested in hearing more, and Shirley's expression showed that she was

"Lee Clavier was the opposite of Carl Wyler. Where Wyler kept within the law, Clavier ignored it altogether.

Smooth, slick deals were Wyler's methods, while Clavier used torture and murder, even fomenting

"At the time Wyler was selling the old Cortez Mine," chuckled Jeremy, "Clavier was holding up the

TransMexican Railway for a price on a rightofway that he had stolen from an old ranchero. When he

"I bought out Clavier and sold to TransMexican at a loss, but I stipulated that my rightofway become part

of their main line. That brought them a hundred miles through the mountains directly past the Cortez Mine.

Smiling broadly, Jeremy looked from Twambley to Shirley. Realizing that she belonged in the conversation,

"They didn't," chortled the colonel. "It made them both unhappy and it gave ideas to other people."

"He told a lot of people," added Jeremy. "Debley guessed what was happening and made a smart deal of his

own. He bought some oil wells from Wyler and sold them to the railway to fuel their oilburning

"Only the wells were capped," reminded Twambley. "They had filled during the years they were forgotten."

"The years when Clavier had been stirring up trouble in that area," added Jeremy, "so naturally Clavier

thought the profit should be his. The railway barely paid off its investment and Wyler went to jail."

"Why Wyler?" asked Shirley in surprise. "It was Debley who made the final sale."

"But the deal dated back to Wyler," explained Jeremy, "and he was found responsible. He couldn't blame

Debley, who had acted in good faith. It was Clavier who promised trouble, to both Debley and myself."

"To several others," replied Jeremy. Shifting in his chair, he glanced nervously toward the shuttered

windows. Then, rubbing his hands as though they controlled his own fate, the colonel became more cheery,

"Clavier is dead," he added, "so why should anyone worry? Some government troops caught up with him and

his guerrillas in the mountains. That was when Clavier tested the depths of a fivethousandfoot canyon,

"Clavier made a mistake, sending that Quetzal image to the presidente of the town where the troops were

At mention of the Quetzal, Jeremy's hands strained tightly upon the arms of his chair. The sudden chiming of

the grandfather's clock relieved him and he relaxed. Then, cool as ever, Jeremy stated:

"Yes, Clavier used the Quetzal image once too often. It was his form of threat, you know, a personal billet

doux that meant doom to the person who received it. I've often wondered what I would have done, had I

"That was one way out," retorted Jeremy, "though they never talked about it. Of course Debley was lucky."

"I think he did, about the time of Clavier's death. That effigy must have burdened his mind, long after he

Without so stating, Jeremy Tolland was offering a theory regarding the suicide of Rufus Debley. He was

intimating that Debley's frantic talk of a Quetzal referred not to an image he still owned, but to a token

received years before, which for some reason had solidified itself in his fearcrazed imagination.

"Debley had reason to remember those days in Mexico," mused Jeremy. "A recent reason, I mean. Carl Wyler

finished his prison term about a month ago, a broken man, I understand. Poor Wyler" there was a touch of

disdain in Jeremy's chuckle "I might buy a few more mines from him if I could find a way to make them

It was Shirley who blurted the statement, quite to the surprise of the two men. Then, after a moment of

"There's a friend of mine," Shirley explained rapidly, "a friend of my father's, I mean, who has invented an

electromagnetic finder for locating precious metals in workedout mines. Really, it's not a silly invention,

Colonel Jeremy was more than willing; he was eager. Eyes sparkling, he was leaning forward in his chair as

though already viewing the glitter of heaped payore. His interruption was rapid.

"A man named Victor Brett," returned Shirley. "I'm going to see that is, I can see about reaching him,

maybe a few days from now. If you're really interested, Colonel, it would mean a great deal to well, to both

It should have been obvious that Shirley meant herself and Brett, but Jeremy didn't take it that way. Rising,

he clapped his hand on Shirley's shoulder and beamed with the delight of a partner in a new enterprise.

"To both of us, of course," declared Jeremy. "I knew our meeting would lead to something, Shirley. Once the

first stage of a prophetic dream comes true" hand raised, Jeremy wagged a forefinger, wisely "more luck

is sure to follow. So run along and enjoy yourself this evening" he was escorting Shirley out to the hall

Shirley was smiling into Gregg's favorite mirror as she fixed her blue hat at a trick angle on her head. Jeremy

was summoning Sarge to lock the front door after the girl went out, a precaution that he always took. Sarge

arrived and gave the front door a dubious look, as though wondering what good a lock was in a house where

Sarge hadn't forgotten last night's episode in the kitchen where he had found the key to the cellar door in the

Outside the brownstone mansion, Shirley walked briskly to the corner, but not without a few quick looks over

her shoulder, as though fearful that she might be followed. The fact that she saw no one merely proved that

she looked in the wrong direction, for the figure that suddenly trailed the girl was not invisible like The

It was a furtive figure, small and hunched that came from the doorway of the vacant house to which Shirley

had flashed those signals to the man she had just mentioned to old Jeremy Tolland Victor Brett!

Ten minutes after Shirley had left this neighborhood with the hunchy man holding the trail, but keeping well

from sight, old Isaac Twambley appeared upon the front steps of the Tolland house, saying goodnight to

"You must come again, Twambley," invited the colonel. "I should like you to meet my nephews."

"Two," replied Jeremy. "The elder, Gregg, is highly reliable, but I must confess that Dave is utterly

"They called them such in our time, Twambley. Nowadays I understand they term them stinkers."

With that parting comment, Jeremy stepped back into the house and let Sarge shut and lock the door. Finding

the bottom step with his cane, old Twambley turned and began a painful, stoopish hobble along the street.

Only when he knew he was out of earshot did this human relic voice his opinion of his visit to Tolland's.

From the leathery lips of Isaac Twambley crept the whispered laugh of The Shadow!

THE smooth, steady hum of a motor came from beyond the old door where Shirley Malcolm knocked.

Tapping a prearranged signal, the girl gained quick results. The motor was turned off, but in an odd way. Its

hum increased in loudness instead of diminishing, then ended with a choppy clatter. After that, the door

"Hello, Vic." Shirley smiled as she saw Brett peer sharply along the hall. "Don't worry. Nobody followed me,

Shirley hadn't made as sure as she supposed. Brett had opened the door just too late to see a hunched figure

bob from sight, below the level of some stairs. Shortly the figure reappeared outside this small, dilapidated

A man came from the cab and met the hunched trailer. They formed a sharp contrast in the light: the

newcomer was handsome, youthful in appearance, despite the experienced expression that marked him a

veteran in this sort of work; while the little man with the tightdrawn shoulders had a wizened face with

sharp, darty eyes. Of course, they didn't bother to identify themselves as Harry Vincent, ace of The Shadow's

With that they parted, Harry going up to take over watch outside of Brett's. It was easy enough, for there was

a turn in the hallway by the end door and Harry was skilled at stepping out of sight in such surroundings.

Upon arrival, however, he preferred to benefit by the open transom and hear what was said inside the office

"So you told the colonel all about me," Brett was saying in an easy tone. "Good."

"Not all about you," corrected Shirley. "I said I hoped I would be able to reach you."

"On account of the accident," explained Shirley. "It seemed so silly using that method to meet the colonel.

"Of course the colonel ties everything in with his dreams," admitted Shirley. "Maybe they are just a form of

mental aberration or something else technical. Only he didn't dream what happened after you gave those

"Well," recalled Shirley, "a man dashed into the side alley and rolled through a grating, with one or maybe

"I think the first man was Gregg, the older nephew. He sneaked around through the dining room and parked

his hat and coat. He must have locked the door down to the cellar" Shirley paused, puzzled "but still that

"Wait now. I'm beginning to get it. Somebody followed Gregg up the cellar stairs and pushed the key out

through the lock. He'd have to do that to use a skeleton key, wouldn't he, Vic?"

"Then the man in black must have kept the regular key and put it back when he went down into the cellar

"I didn't really see him," admitted Shirley. "All I saw was something like a living shadow."

"Look, Shirley," Brett's tone went so low that Harry could hardly hear it through the transom. "You've got to

"I I think so. But how will I hear from you? The flashlight code isn't very safe."

"Tell the Colonel you wired me. I'll show up in due time, bringing the machine. You want me to sell it to

"Of course, since my commission is to pay father's debts. But if it won't work, Vic "

"It will work all right," Brett interrupted, sharply. "But keep on impressing the Colonel. We may have trouble

"If you think he can help us, get him on our side. That ought to be easy. Dave won't mind the old man

Footsteps toward the door caused Harry to sidle into the other passage. When Shirley had gone by and

downstairs, Harry left her trail to Hawkeye and resumed his wait outside the office door. It was good policy,

for shortly Harry heard the slight clatter of an inner door, then a suave tone that wasn't Brett's.

"A good job, Vic," announced the oily voice. "The girl doesn't suspect a thing."

"Why should she?" queried Brett. "I didn't tell her that we knew about the Colonel's dream. All we have to do

"Provided they are good ones," said the other man. "If they aren't, we can play a few of our own."

The name Wyler brought Harry to sharp attention outside the door. This was a luckier stroke than he

expected. The business of weaving Colonel Jeremy's dreamstuff into an actual fabric had impressed The

Shadow as a buildup for a confidence game and that theory was now a certainty, since Carl Wyler, past

If only Wyler would say more, in that smooth purr of his! As the hope stirred Harry, Wyler became obliging

"I was lucky finding you, Brett," came Wyler's compliment. "Finding you, along with your treasure finder."

"Just say finding me," rejoined Brett, with a short laugh. "Whatever cash this apparatus finds won't be

"But it won't stand a real test. You should know that, Wyler, and it won't take old Tolland long to learn the

"Long enough." There was something smoothly insidious in Wyler's easy purr. "Before we're through we'll

"Never mind," Wyler's interruption was as swift as it was smooth. "I'll make sure of that part."

Voices went muffled as though drawing away into another room. After a few minutes, Harry moved to a

stairway which he hoped would give him a view through the transom. It did, but he didn't find a proper angle

Though this was the end room of the hallway, there was a door in the far wall, which meant it must be a

connection into another building. That in turn told Harry that Wyler and Brett had walked right out on him,

Going out by the front way, Harry Vincent reached the cab across the street and gave the driver an address.

"Good and bad, Shrevvy," rejoined Harry. "Mostly good, though. There'll be plenty for the chief to work on,

Harry spoke with certainty, for he was sure that Carl Wyler, master hand from Mexico, wouldn't be planning

further moves tonight. Harry's only task would be to turn in his report to The Shadow.

How wrongly Harry had guessed about the ways of Wyler was something that he was personally to learn

COLONEL JEREMY TOLLAND recognized the abrupt knocking at the study door, shook himself in his

easy chair, and glanced at the grandfather's clock. Always he had a habit of checking the time and in this

case, approximately an hour had passed since the departure of his visitor, Isaac Twambley.

The knock was Gregg's so Jeremy had no qualms about opening the door. Still a bit drowsy, he forgot that he

had bolted it on the inside, so he had to fumble there a few minutes. When he did open the door, he found

Gregg waiting impatiently, his eyes excited and his chin thrust out in its provoking style.

Not used to seeing his favorite nephew in such a mood, Jeremy tilted his head inquiringly.

"Listen, uncle." Gregg threw a suspicious glance along the hallway. "Who do you depend upon to manage

"I rather thought I could manage them myself," returned Jeremy, dryly. Then, with a kindly touch, "Come

"I prefer to stay here, just in case anybody tries to snoop. Look, uncle, you've been badly worried lately."

"About Debley, for instance, and that Quetzal business. If you weren't, you wouldn't have suggested that I go

Whether or not Gregg had been to the penthouse that fateful night, he had certainly gathered and retained

some of Debley's hunted mood. Gregg was fitful in the glances that he sent along the hall first toward the

kitchen, then the front door. Jeremy's head was moving back and forth, his eyes following Gregg's face.

Gregg couldn't, because his back was toward that doorway. Jeremy's eyes, moving constantly, didn't fix long

enough to study the darkness opposite. It was strange darkness, so solid that its depths could well have

shrouded a human figure; or, in a sense, the darkness could itself have been a blackcloaked form merged

"You exaggerate matters, Gregg," spoke Jeremy, indulgently. "It was only the weather that prevented me

Though challenging, Jeremy's query was as musically dispassionate as the chime from the old clock that at

that moment wafted through the halfopen door of the study. It was striking the hour and Jeremy, always

proud of his precious clock, looked to another timepiece hanging on the hallway wall and saw that as usual,

"You're right, Uncle Jeremy," declared Gregg, apologetically. "If I'd thought Debley really important, I

wouldn't have forgotten to take along the key. By the way, did you mention the key to the police?"

"They might have misunderstood," declared the Colonel. "After all, Debley mailed me the key of his own

"Of course. You are my representative, Gregg, as much as if you were my own son, but I am not responsible

Those words though spoken in Jeremy's most indulgent tones, were open to several interpretations. Before

Gregg could raise that point, there was a clicking sound from the front door lock and Gregg said hastily:

"It may be Dave. Mind if I step into the study, Uncle? Dave has been acting jealously every time we talk

Jeremy was already gesturing Gregg into the study. Its door was closing when Dave arrived through the

"Hello, Uncle." Dave was in another of his convivial moods. "Shirley and I just happened to arrive at the

"Thought if he was, we'd better get out the poker and tongs. Everything seems to happen around here when

"That's what I said, Uncle." Dave tossed his hat to the rack and closed the vestibule door behind him. "Like at

Shirley expected an angry flash from Jeremy's eyes in response to Dave's slur of Gregg. But Jeremy remained

quite calm; either he preferred to remain impartial in feuds between the nephews or he was giving weight to

At any rate, Dave was smart enough to let the statement sink. Jovially he continued along the hallway,

"See you later, if you're still up," said Dave. "I'm going in the kitchen to mix a few nightcaps. Want one,

The girl shook her head and started upstairs. Turning on his heel, Jeremy went back into the study and the

hallway settled into silence. The darkness of the living room didn't stir, for The Shadow expected an

Fuming, fists tightclenched, Gregg stepped from the study, pushing aside Jeremy's hand when it tried to

hold him back. His glare was toward the kitchen, where Dave had closed the door, and it was plain that Gregg

"The stinker! I ought to make him eat that talk. Still" Gregg suddenly relaxed of his own accord "it

"Of course not," expressed Jeremy, blandly, "Judgment is one thing; challenge is another."

"But my brothers didn't. Your father was the conservative of the family, Dave's father the real adventurer. I

"Through luck, my boy. I made a fortune but I might as easily have lost one. You understand, don't you?"

Gregg nodded, slowly. His face, less hardened, gained a more handsome expression than was present when

"Since I have wealth," summed Jeremy, "I favor you, Gregg, because I know you would make proper use of

it. If I needed to gain more or to fight to hold what I have I would prefer Dave."

Accepting the impartial verdict, Gregg went upstairs. Watching from the door of the study, Jeremy waited

until Gregg had reached the second floor, then glanced across the hall. It was chance or some slight illusion

of the light that made him think he saw darkness stir. Reaching for his cane, Jeremy moved slowly but boldly

Darkness had stirred, but only in departure. The Shadow was gone through the dining room to the door of the

kitchen. There, he was listening to a chat between Dave and Sarge, who were over by the ice box.

"It was your uncle who said it," replied Sarge. "I thought you ought to know, Mr. Dave."

"Uncle probably picked up the term from Gregg. Some day, Sarge, when my dear cousin pokes his chin out,

"Right enough, sir. I wish the Colonel could see your viewpoint. You're really his own sort, Mr. Dave."

"I'm what he used to be," corrected Dave, "but I suppose we all grow old. Maybe he'll begin to see my side of

"Yes, if uncle realizes that Gregg is a stinker in his own right, I'll become the whitehaired boy. He's been

showing himself up badly lately, Gregg has. For one thing, he's been suspicious of Shirley, which is a

The voices had drawn to a rear kitchen, along with the clank of soda bottles that Sarge was carrying, but the

interruption came from the dining room. There, The Shadow heard the clatter of someone tripping over a

chair, followed by angry words in Jeremy's tone. Without an instant's hesitation, The Shadow whipped into

the kitchen, made a quick turn around the nearest corner, which was at an angle that Dave and Sarge could

By the time those two came dashing through the kitchen to reach the dining room and learn the cause of the

hubbub, another door was closing upon a vanishing blotch of black. It was a door with a single step below it,

Again, The Shadow was gone, his presence in the mansion still a shrouded mystery!

THE sounds of Jeremy's tumble hadn't been heard upstairs, otherwise Gregg would have gone down to learn

what happened. As it was, Gregg was busy listening outside Shirley's door when The Shadow arrived in the

Apparently Gregg was thinking in terms of flashlight signals from Shirley's window, for when he heard

nothing, he tiptoed along the hall to stare from a window at the front. This gave The Shadow an easy

Gregg's coat and vest were hanging on a chair and from the pocket of the coat, The Shadow saw the buttend

of a gun. Lifting the weapon with gloved fingers, The Shadow promptly identified it as a reconditioned

Luger, of eight millimeter size. Replacing the automatic in the coat pocket, The Shadow found a box of

By then, Gregg was returning. The Shadow stepped aside and let him enter, the room being dark except for

the glow from the hall. Leaving the door ajar, Gregg removed the Luger from his coat and put it in a bureau

It was Shirley's turn again. She must have heard Gregg outside her door, for she had just finished a glance in

that direction when The Shadow emerged, unseen. Wearing a fluffy dark blue negligee, Shirley was carrying

slippers that matched it. Tonight she waited until she was nearly at the bottom of the stairs before she sat

down and put on the slippers. This precaution of course was to nullify Gregg's snooping tactics.

Throwing a glance upstairs, Shirley didn't see The Shadow watching from the background of dim light.

Noting that the study door was open, Shirley dipped her hands into the deep sash of the negligee and strolled

in through the door as though expecting to find Colonel Jeremy. By then, The Shadow was coming

downstairs again and with a prompt glide he crossed the hallway to his favorite darkness of the living room,

This door was the one leading directly from kitchen to the front hall and from it came Jeremy, Dave and

Sarge in a group. Reaching the stairs, Dave and Sarge went up, after reminding the Colonel to be more

careful when he made side trips around through the dining room. In his habitual style, Jeremy watched the

pair reach the stairtop, his forehead furrowing speculatively, almost cunningly.

Before that forehead had time to unfurrow, Jeremy had cause to keep it as it was.

Turning to the door of his own study, the Colonel bumped right into Shirley, coming out. Before the

grayhaired man could say a word, the girl in blue gestured for silence. Whatever her game, Shirley was

"I thought you were in here," undertoned Shirley. "There was something I wanted to tell you, Colonel."

"Yes." Shirley gave a simple nod. "I found out where to reach him, so I sent him a telegram."

"It won't be more than a few days at most," the girl said apologetically. "I hate to take advantage of your

hospitality, Colonel, but since Victor Brett is really a friend of my father's, I "

Old Jeremy interrupted by flattening Shirley's fluffy shoulder pleats with a warmly encircling arm.

"You'll stay right here, little girl," he assured. "Now don't dispute me. I wouldn't have you going back to that

His hand shifting back to Shirley's near shoulder, the Colonel planted his other paw on the far one; thrusting

his fluffy prize at arm's length, he tilted his head so the light reached Shirley's face. After a pause, the Colonel

During the placement process, Shirley had begun a starryeyed stare which was meant to show surprise, but

now she presumed that the Colonel was expecting her to weep with gratitude because of the extended

invitation. Maybe that was the method used by the belles of the Colonel's palmy days when they didn't want

to be told to undarken a door and go out into the cruel world, stormy night or otherwise.

But before Shirley could manage to shape up a few tears, she found that the Colonel's comment wasn't a

"My nephew Gregg!" exclaimed Jeremy. "What ails the young fool that he ignores a charmer like you? Why,

"Dave is different," the Colonel admitted. "He certainly hasn't ignored you, though I can't say that he has

played the gallant." Jeremy paused, remembering that Dave had come in with Shirley that very evening. "Or

"Your nephews are both all right." Crossing her arms, Shirley neatly managed to reach the Colonel's hands

and apply a few soft pats. "So are you, Colonel. Gregg is just too occupied, I suppose, while Dave "

"Dave still has other engagements," interposed Jeremy. Gently, he moved Shirley aside from the doorway.

"But he'll come around in time, only beware when he does! He's a heart crusher, that young rake, like I was!

Now wait right here while I close the hotair register. I don't like the study too stuffy in the morning."

Going into the study, Jeremy rattled the chain of the register, then came out and locked the door. He bowed

toward the stairs and Shirley started up, while The Shadow circled toward the kitchen, through the darkness

of the dining room. The kitchen now was dark, too, but as The Shadow reached it, he heard footsteps coming

Then, as The Shadow listened, there was a sudden pound from the back stairs. A door was flung open and

There was a scuffle, the fling of a chair and a snarl. Then, to the tune of other heavy footsteps, The Shadow,

half way across the kitchen and bound for the cellar door, was caught in the beam of a strong flashlight,

Only The Shadow wasn't going for the cellar. He was playing his trick of blanking light with blackness.

Meeting Sarge and his flashlight, The Shadow precipitated the big chauffeur squarely into the struggle

The Shadow of course was carried in the whirl that bashed open the door to the lower hall, where Jeremy had

just turned off the lights. As the strugglers broke apart, under the swings of each other's fists, Dave's voice

Where Dave had come from was one question; whom he had grabbed was another. At least The Shadow

wasn't the person, for he managed to work free during the next two minutes of the general melee that raged

back and forth along the hall. At last, lights came on, and there stood old Jeremy by the switch at the foot of

The fighters who had managed to snare each other were Gregg and Dave, with Sarge standing by as a

bewildered umpire. Before the two nephews could begin to blame each other, Jeremy waved his cane toward

Sarge entered the parlor and pressed a switch that illuminated a crystal chandelier. In the dim light, the parlor

showed entirely empty. Not only did Sarge say so, but the nephews agreed as they crowded the doorway and

looked over Sarge's shoulders. So Sarge turned off the lights, gruffing that it had all been a big mistake.

Those oldfashioned bulbs among the crystal pendants weren't too strong with light.

From a corner at the back of the parlor, The Shadow emerged, having picked the one deep spot in the room.

The searchers had looked right past him while the lights were on. Now, completely unobserved, The Shadow

was crossing the rear hall to the kitchen, while Jeremy and Sarge were hearing arguments between Gregg and

Shirley had been in bed when the new tumult began, and she suddenly realized that she was now clad in filmy

nightie instead of fluffy negligee. Quickly scampering up the stairs and into her room, Shirley closed the door

Should there be an intruder in the house, Shirley was sure that his mode of exit would be through the loose

grating in the cellar. At first, she couldn't see the grating, but the darkness cleared, more rapidly than the girl

It didn't strike Shirley that what she had seen was an actual figure emerging from the cellar opening. In

shifting from deep gloom, The Shadow, if seen at all, could be best compared with a clearing cloud of black

smoke. Moving through the passage, his gliding figure escaped Shirley's eyes entirely.

Voices were coming upstairs; from their laughter it sounded as though the mad hunt had all been a mistake.

So Shirley went back to bed and tried to forget the excitement. Other recollections drifted to mind; she was

picturing old Jeremy, smiling as he stooped to turn off the register in the study. She could almost hear his

One of those imaginary noises bothered Shirley a few minutes later, jarring her wide awake. She thought she

heard a muffled clang, the cellar grating in operation. Hearing nothing more, Shirley didn't bother about

Thereby Shirley missed the sequel to the recent commotion. A lanky man was sneaking out from beside the

mansion, keeping his footsteps silent and huddling well in darkness. But he couldn't escape the keen eyes of

the blackclad watcher across the street. As the lanky man kept on toward the corner, blackness stirred. With

the grotesque manner of a mansized bat, it took up the trail of the long, lean party who had just emerged

After a full block, the lanky man felt no more urge from caution. Halting near a street lamp he glanced at his

watch and his thin, tanned face showed plainly in the glow. Narrow lips, narrow eyes, above them an

Those features were viewed by The Shadow who had reached the shelter of a projecting wall, less than a

dozen feet from where the lean man stood. In one look The Shadow no longer needed the report that he had

The Shadow knew that thin, narrow face from photographs among his files. It belonged to Carl Wyler,

Such was a terse description of the room The Shadow called his sanctum, except when its owner was in it.

Then the room was illuminated, but never by sunshine. The glow came from a bluish light which cast its

artificial rays upon the surface of a polished table. Beyond was a switchboard, where a tiny bulb occasionally

gleamed, announcing a call from Burbank, the contact man who kept in touch with agents like Harry,

Long, thinfingered hands, velvet in their touch but steely in their grip. Occasionally their hidden sinews

revealed a small idea of the power with which they could clutch. The hands of The Shadow, stretching from

The table was strewn with typewritten reports, photographs, shares of old mining stock, yellowed newspaper

clippings, and other items belonging to this case. Of special importance were pictures of bullets taken through

These included photos of the Luger slugs that the police had found at Debley's, others of bullets that The

Shadow had personally picked up in the vacant house across from Tolland's, and finally, the cartridge that

All tallied, proving that if Gregg hadn't been at Debley's as well as the old house, his gun certainly had. But if

anyone had borrowed that gun for the earlier mission, Gregg Tolland wouldn't have used it later.

Another photograph served as a lucky find. It was a nightclub shot, taken by one of those professional

photographers who made it their business to go around snapping people and selling them the result. From one

of The Shadow's numerous sources, this group picture listed the names of several people who had been at the

One was Dave Tolland, quite recognizable, along with his name. Near him was a darkish but rather handsome

chap listed as Victor Brett. How well they knew each other, if at all, was something quite unspecified, but the

picture went a good way to prove that Brett's process of moving into Tolland territory included some contact

It happened, however, that Dave was not so irresponsible as might be supposed. The Shadow had acquired

data on the younger nephew, covering his activities outside the homestead, and judged by modern standards,

Dave was reasonably sober and reliable. In fact, but for Colonel Jeremy's antiquated notions and Gregg's

persistent efforts to hold the old man's favor, Dave could have rated very high.

Indeed, Dave Tolland was nobody's dupe. If Victor Brett had found him such, Brett wouldn't be needing

From The Shadow's table leered a bigtoothed face, representing the best of his collection of Wyler pictures.

One thing: Wyler wasn't photogenic. Usually, he had managed to face a camera so his profile entered matters;

seen full face, he was particularly unhandsome. Yet there was a sharpness of eye, a wisdom of expression that

With Wyler behind whatever swindle or crime that might be committed against Colonel Tolland, the present

whereabouts of the crooked promoter were most important. The Shadow had personally supplied that data by

trailing Wyler to his hotel. The excon from Mexico was living at the Hotel Revelon, a middleclass but

highpriced establishment. Despite the current room shortage in Manhattan, Harry Vincent had acquired a

The switchboard bulb gleamed as The Shadow took a pair of earphones from the wall. A methodical voice

The order was in the whispered tone of The Shadow and from then on, Burbank was busy listing the future

moves of agents. Those given, the bluish light went off. Black walls echoed with a departing laugh as The

Not long afterward, Lamont Cranston found himself blinking into morning sunlight. It wasn't often that

Cranston rode about town in the morning, except when he'd been up all the night before, but today he had an

appointment. His limousine, wheeling through side streets, brought the club man in front of an old mansion

It was Sarge who answered the door and ushered Cranston through the living room into the dining room

where the colonel was having breakfast alone. Propping his elbows on the table, Cranston shook his head

when a pair of boiled eggs were offered but nodded at mention of a cup of coffee.

"Why, yes, Cranston," nodded Jeremy. "Here" he gestured to Sarge, who was bringing in the coffee

"About my dream and who was in it. Cranston would like to know, just to check on what may happen."

"You'll remember this one when I remind you, Sarge. It was about a man who wanted too much, who

probably will always want too much, and never is satisfied with what he gets, no matter how heartfelt. Now

Smoke was coming from the toaster and in handling it, Sarge spilled the electric gadget to the floor, burning

himself in the process. Clutching one hand clumsily with the other, Sarge started out to the kitchen, muttering

"We'll talk about my dream later," the colonel told Cranston. "At least it links to something that was on my

"Perhaps." The colonel smiled wisely. "I've heard about a treasurefinder that could be used as a machine for

"Isaac Twambley?" Cranston's smile broadened. "If the machine locates fossils as well as metals, it will start

"The old codger is a bore, that's all, but otherwise there's nothing wrong with him. I'd appreciate it, though, if

Jeremy's nod meant that Twambley was off the list. Rising from the table, Jeremy laid aside his napkin and

suggested that the study would be more comfortable. They crossed the hall and while the colonel was

unlocking the door, Shirley appeared on the stairs, wearing a light house frock. Recognizing Cranston, she

"The treasure finder was Shirley's find," explained Jeremy. "At least she was the one who told me about its

inventor. Now getting back to that dream of mine, it concerns somebody you have heard about. I may be able

The colonel was opening the secretary desk. He was so occupied that he didn't notice that the grandfather's

clock was about to chime. Nor did he hear that music when it began, for Jeremy was fixing himself for quite a

shock. Pawing through papers in the open desk, Jeremy felt something among them and brought it out, only

The object that Colonel Jeremy had flung so hastily was the feathered image of a woodcarved Aztec god, a

Dave Tolland planted a straight stare in the middle of Shirley Malcolm's lovely brown eyes and demanded:

About to return an indignant denial, Shirley found herself sliding from the cab seat as they swung a corner

sharply. By the time Dave had brought her back to level, the girl decided that a calm response would be

"I never even saw a Quetzal before," avowed Shirley. "Take it or leave it, Dave. It's still the truth."

"Then it was Gregg who put it there," Dave decided. "He was the only other person who could have been in

"Sarge? Impossible. He knows too well what it might do to Uncle Jeremy's nerves."

"So does Gregg," reminded Shirley, "and considering that he's to be your uncle's heir "

Shirley's monetary pause was all that Dave wanted. With a knowing nod, Dave asserted:

Driven home, the significance of that statement startled Shirley. It meant in just so many words that Gregg

could speed his heritage by hastening his uncle's death. Such things might happen; in fact, they probably had

"If Uncle Jeremy finds out how yellow Gregg really is," added Dave, contemptuously, "he won't have any

"If your uncle did find out," expressed Shirley, "he'd transfer the legacy to you, Dave "

"Of course," interposed Dave, "and the longer Gregg waits, the more risk he takes. Particularly" Dave

"Yes. Don't you remember how he sent Gregg to see Debley? No, that was before you met us, wasn't it?

Anyway, Gregg welshed and didn't go. Debley might not have committed suicide if Gregg had been there to

The cab was swinging a corner and slowing to a halt, but Shirley didn't notice it.

"The colonel may be planning another test tonight," stated Shirley, slowly. "He had another dream, but he

"He probably told Sarge," observed Dave, "but Sarge never tells anyone else. Is this the place where we are

Looking out, Shirley saw Brett's office building. Dave paid the cabby, who happened to be Shrevvy and the

cab rolled around the corner. Going upstairs, Shirley knocked at Brett's office and the door was promptly

opened, Dave was immediately intrigued by Brett's machine, which had the appearance of a fairsized

dynamo, teeming with wires and oddlooking aerials. Next, Dave was turning to see the inventor himself.

"So you're Brett!" exclaimed Dave. "I've seen you around some of the night spots!"

"That's right," nodded Brett, "but I didn't have the nerve to start talking my machine to Colonel Tolland's

"You'd have picked the wrong nephew if you had," returned Dave, wryly. "Cousin Gregg is the one who

influences our uncle's deals, though I must say Shirley is winning him around. Say, though this contrivance

Shirley volunteered to go downstairs and make the call from a paybooth while Dave and Brett were packing

the machine. When she came back, the job was nearly done, with the two men chatting like old friends. Then,

Brett became a bit stuffy when he suggested that both Dave and Shirley step outside.

"Sorry," said Brett, "I'll have to add a few special gadgets to the crate. The invention would no longer be

Stepping out to the hall, Shirley resumed the earlier conversation to mollify Dave, who seemed a trifle irked

"Can't Sarge influence your uncle?" Shirley asked. "I mean by boosting your stock in comparison to

"He does," affirmed Dave. "Sarge tells me so, every day. He talked that way this morning. Said I should have

clipped Gregg's jaw last night, so uncle could have seen him wilt. Now I wish I'd thought about it then."

"He does, but not on more subtle subjects. If it comes to life and death, though, Sarge's word will count. He's

saved Uncle Jeremy's life at least three times, so he's one man who wouldn't be party to a murder plot."

"It was a bad mistake then, for Gregg to leave the Quetzal. Unless" Shirley paused, her tone a bit horrified

"He'll probably try," argued Dave, sourly. "I wonder though, where he got the thing in the first place. Say "

Stopping short, Dave let his own eyes duplicate one of Shirley's speculative stares. Then:

"You can't mean that Gregg really went to Debley's?" queried Shirley. "Why, then he couldn't be so yellow!"

"He could be worse," rejoined Dave. "He might be a murderer. Maybe Debley had some claim on Uncle

"It would mean a claim on Gregg, when he came into the money. Besides, it would be smart for Gregg to

"You mean it would then look like someone else, when when " The word was a hard one for Shirley to get

"Smart girl," acknowledged Dave. "That's just what I did mean. But let's talk about this later. We don't want

At that moment, Brett was saying a few things that he didn't want overheard. He had stepped to the office in

the other building and was speaking to a man who was waiting in the darkness of a little windowless ante

"Six o'clock, Wyler," announced Brett. "That's when Gregg is due to see Lloyd Jaggert."

"Absolutely," replied Brett. "The clock was striking six in the colonel's dream. Besides, dinner is to be at six

Beyond the door of the ante room, the hunched figure of Hawkeye did a quick sneak down the hallway to the

stairs then out to a side street. Though he hadn't yet seen Wyler, Hawkeye had recognized the man's smooth

tone, and he knew what the crooked promoter looked like, from pictures that The Shadow had sent via

It was about lunch hour and soon numerous people would be coming from the building, which was all the

better in Hawkeye's opinion. The first to arrive was a stocky man with a blunt face, who certainly couldn't be

Wyler; then came a pair of elderly men who were equally distant from the proper description.

After that, there was a thin parade, and Wyler definitely wasn't in it. Sliding around the corner. Hawkeye saw

the Tolland limousine pulling away with Dave, Shirley and Brett as passengers among the boxes that held the

machine. Sarge was at the wheel and Wyler certainly couldn't be in the car, So Hawkeye sneaked up the

regular stairs, poked his head into Brett's office, which was now unlocked, and saw it empty. Going through

Down the stairs in the other building, Hawkeye came out and contacted Shrevvy. He found that the cabby had

been watching, but hadn't seen Wyler. So there was nothing else to do but ride to the Hotel Revelon and

When Hawkeye met Harry in the latter's room at the Revelon, it was Harry's turn to show surprise.

"A smart apple, Wyler," defined Harry. "I was positive he hadn't left his room. Sneak over there and find out

"Back all right," declared Hawkeye. "Pretending to be asleep on his bed. Maybe he came in and out by the

"I should have spotted him," said Harry. "This means the chief will need us to do double watch. Anyway, you

"Yes. He's another promoter, but not as shady as Wyler. Operated in Mexico, too, which is probably why the

colonel wants to contact him. We'll find him if we keep track of Wyler, unless the chief locates him first."

The phone was buzzing, for Harry had muffled it so the bell wouldn't ring. It was another call from Burbank,

"I'm due at Tolland's at five," stated Harry. "Going there instead of Cranston, who has some other

There was more to that order than met the ear. The fact that Lamont Cranston couldn't be at Tolland's meant

what Harry had suggested earlier, that The Shadow would be acting on his own in the quest for Lloyd

Jaggert, the new personality who had bobbed up in one of Colonel Tolland's strangely prophetic dreams.

THE grandfather's clock was chiming five when Colonel Jeremy swung impatiently from his desk and flung

the Quetzal image in the wastebasket. As if timed, a knock sounded at the door and Jeremy opened it to

"Go to the Marland Building," ordered Jeremy. "Use the back door which is still open after five thirty. Take

"Yes, Lloyd Jaggert," laughed Jeremy. "The man who knows as much about the Quetzal business as anybody

"What about the girl?" snapped Gregg. "She may know about the Quetzal, too. She's the only person who

"Unless you put it there yourself," retorted Gregg. Then, becoming his more reserved self: "But if you did, it's

"Good boy, Gregg." The old man clapped his hand upon his nephew's back. "That's what I like about you.

Spirit when you need it, and obedience when demanded. Those are the marks of honesty, the thing that counts

Opening the door, Jeremy came out with Gregg and motioned his nephew to the living room. There, a group

was busy putting together the intricate parts of Brett's machine. Harry Vincent had just arrived as Cranston's

proxy and had removed his coat and vest to lend a hand with Brett and Dave. Contempt of the whole process

showed in Gregg's demeanor but he smothered the look, when Shirley came away. Then, with a flash of the

spirit that his uncle had recently commended, Gregg halted the girl in the hallway, near the stairs.

Startled by Gregg's sudden show of interest, Shirley didn't know what to make of it, so she simply stared.

"My uncle just named the thing that counts most," declared Gregg. "He said I had it: honesty, That's why I'm

"Yes. I haven't talked before, because you knocked words right out of me, the first time I saw you."

"Maybe not. I'm not the type. Besides, it's my business to suspect every stranger who walks into this house."

"Yes. Uncle Jeremy is growing old. Occasionally he loses his sense of values. If it wasn't for my advice, he'd

"Your friend Brett might be one," returned Gregg, frankly, "and still you might not know it. Look, Shirley.

There are certain people to be trusted at their word. I'm one and I take it you're another. Let's discard

appearances and suspicions. Whatever I've done or intend to do, my reasons are honest. Can you say the

Shirley's eyes were very close to Gregg's, looking right up into them. Simply the girl said:

Gregg's hands had a different technique. Coming upwards, they took Shirley's chin before she knew they

were there. Adding the proper pressure, they set Shirley's lips just right for the kiss that Gregg promptly

planted on them. By the time the girl opened her eyes and turned around, Gregg was waving back as he

gathered his hat and coat from the vestibule rack. His wave meant: "See you later."

A bit dazed, Shirley wandered back into the living room to find everyone perfectly oblivious to her brief but

palpitating experience. When it came to inserting sentiments between a feud with a cousin and a mission for

Brett's machine was beginning its loud buzz while he stretched its antennas like the tentacles of an octopus.

He took Harry's coat and vest out into the hall, so he could plant a gadget on the living room chair. Dave

carried another long wire out to the kitchen and told Sarge to peel his potatoes in the back room. Another

wire went straight up to the second floor and was parked in the upper hallway. Colonel Jeremy consented to

running one into the study, since the wire was so thin that it could go under the door from the hall, allowing

Coming down from the second floor, Dave handed Shirley her wrist watch and a finger ring, having found

them on a table just inside her room. He advised her to lay them on the mantel, so they wouldn't interfere

with the coming test. Brett had already explained that a special detector, in the heart of the machine, would

Coins, bracelets, candlesticks, even the silverware in the dining room, all produced varying responses in these

preliminary tests. Even Colonel Jeremy was having enough fun to forget about Gregg and the mission on

As Cranston, The Shadow was trailing Gregg in Shrevvy's cab. What this trip would bring was speculative

as much so as Brett's treasure hunting contraption because Hawkeye had reported that no call had been

The day was heavily clouded, which increased the gathering dusk, putting matters in The Shadow's favor.

After half an hour of Shrevvy's artful trailing, which consisted in almost losing Gregg's cab time after time,

Among the vast skyscrapers of this area, night had practically set in. Most of the buildings had closed at half

past five, but The Shadow saw Gregg go in the back of the Marland Building and promptly followed.

There was a large, front lobby with a watchman sitting by the only elevator that was operating, requesting

people to sign a register before going up to offices. But the rule didn't apply to an obscure stairway, leading to

Too late to trail Gregg along that route, The Shadow waited in the lower darkness. After a short while, he saw

Gregg come out, with a large envelope in his pocket. Knowing that Gregg was going home, The Shadow

It probably would be long before Jaggert appeared and when he did, The Shadow intended to take up his trail.

A man of very crafty methods, Lloyd Jaggert. Mentally, The Shadow was reviewing Colonel Jeremy's

"A man who wanted too much, who probably will always want too much, and never is satisfied with what he

As a foil for Wyler, Jaggert would be perfect, provided the colonel knew that Wyler was in the game. How

the Quetzal figured was still a question, considering that it had been the fetish used by a defunct murderer

This was what The Shadow hoped to learn by trailing Jaggert, now that the promoter's brief conference with

Gregg was over. Only one person promised interference with The Shadow's plans, namely Wyler. But The

Shadow was set in case Wyler moved. Cliff and Hawkeye were really covering Wyler's hotel room and they

had an open line to Burbank. Outside the Marland Building, Shrevvy was parked in a lunch room, ready for a

ring from a phone booth. Any word from Wyler's quarter would be relayed promptly to The Shadow.

Minutes dragged after Gregg's departure. Before ten of them were gone, The Shadow had moved up the

mezzanine stairs and was gliding toward Jaggert's door. Listening there, he heard the faint ringing of a

Trying the door, The Shadow found it locked and went to work with a special pick. The door yielded and in a

darkened office, The Shadow saw an inner door beyond. No sounds were coming from the inner office, so

Jaggert had probably finished the phone call, if it happened to be his. The sounds of bell and voice could have

Twenty minutes now, by The Shadow's calculation. A phone bell rang again; this time definitely from the

inner office, but no one answered it. Instead, there was a sudden clatter, followed by a crash, as a phone

tumbled from the desk. Springing to the door, The Shadow turned the knob; the door opened, for it wasn't

Sprawled on the floor beside a large desk, was a man in shirt sleeves. His face was staring straight up, its

pointed features strained with gasping lips and bulging eyes. The man was recognizable as Lloyd Jaggert, for

Probably Jaggert had wanted too much; he was certainly not satisfied with what he had received, though it

Heartfelt in the form of a long knifeblade of which a few remaining inches glistened in the light from the

Stooping beside the dying man, The Shadow saw one of Jaggert's hands clutch the air like the claw of a

helpless bird. What produced the bird simile in The Shadow's mind was the thing that Jaggert held in his

That object was another of the fateful feathered Quetzals, symbol of doom for those who could not pay!

Death was closing in on Jaggert. Perhaps the blackness of The Shadow's blocking form hastened his

realization of it. With a spasmodic effort, Jaggert tried to prop himself upon his elbows; at the same time he

It was too much. Jaggert floundered, dead, at the finish of the cry. In the tiny office, the death shriek echoed,

as though hurled back from some strange sphere of space. But those echoes weren't enough to cover the other

Hearing the thud of halting footsteps finishing a sudden run, The Shadow twisted about and looked up from

Jaggert's body. It wasn't a very nice spot for The Shadow, considering who had arrived.

No tighter spot could be imagined, if judged by ordinary standards, which weren't The Shadow's mode of

judgment. Cooped in a tiny office beside a dead body; blocked off from the door, with the only outlet an open

window that made a perfect background for police target practice, The Shadow seemed badly off.

It looked as though he would have to do the longexpected; that of declaring his identity and trying to

explain things. Simple enough, if anyone would believe him, which probably they wouldn't.

The great secret of The Shadow's success in smashing crime was his amazing personality. Never if he could

help it would he spoil a setting that offered a chance at proper crime detection. False or true, the scene should

In a sense, The Shadow on this occasion was one of the existing flaws, a fact which allowed him certain

Either The Shadow had the instinct of a chameleon where darkness was concerned, or he had profited heavily

from his sojourns in Tibet, where he had studied deeply into the metaphysical philosophy which declares that

invisibility is basically a mental state on the part of the person who desires it.

In brief: if you think you are seen, you will be. If you think you aren't, you won't be.

The rule worked under certain conditions, of which darkness was the best. If The Shadow had taken it for

granted that Cardona saw him, he would have spoiled everything. Thinking the opposite, The Shadow used

Literally drifting away from Jaggert's body, The Shadow carried himself around the corner of the big desk

without coming from his crouched position. All this he did in slowmotion style that showed no variance in

its painful pace. He was dream stuff, The Shadow, and he didn't belong in a wideawake mind like

Cardona didn't see that receding, swerving blackness. just as The Shadow's first attention had been focused

on Jaggert's face, so was Cardona's. Moreover, the inspector had been riveted by Jaggert's death scream, and

the victim's backtilted face, with its wide mouth and eyes, was something that could really glue an observer.

Forward came Cardona, step by step. Around the desk went The Shadow, now completely blocked from

view. His speed was geared to Cardona's, like the rim of a wheel to a hub. As Joe was bending over the body,

The Shadow was circling past the front of the desk. When the inspector turned to look around, The Shadow

moved ahead of him, but not fast enough to betray a sound that would cause Cardona to speed his glance.

The blackness that filled the doorway was gone when Cardona's eyes reached it. The Shadow had simply

Men were coming up the stairway to the mezzanine, members of a squad that Cardona had expected to find

on arrival. So The Shadow found an upward stairway, went a few floors higher, and summoned an elevator.

By the time the car arrived, The Shadow was Cranston, his cloak and hat parked over his arm like ordinary

Reaching the street floor, the casual Mr. Cranston scrawled something on the register and walked out, while

the watchman, more interested in the mezzanine activity, never noticed that a double signature had been

They'd have a lot of trouble figuring out that name tomorrow if ever. About the nearest thing it looked like

Outside the Marland Building, The Shadow, in Cranston's casual style, unriddled a little problem. He studied

what looked like Jaggert's side street window and noted that it was above a deep downgrade. Dropping to the

sidewalk would have been conspicuous, and the only way to avoid it would be to scale a sheer wall a distance

Remembering those dying words of Jaggert's: "Gregg Tolland!" Cranston went to find Shrevvy and put the

Everybody was still having fun at Tolland's except old Jeremy. He'd gone upstairs to nap, leaving word to call

him when dinner was ready. Playing parlor games with Brett's buzzing apparatus didn't interest the colonel.

Convinced that the device would work within certain limitations, Jeremy preferred to try the great outdoors,

particularly in a mining section, to find out just how great the limitations were.

That was definitely a call to dinner, which should have been ready at six thirty. The group went into the

dining room, and Dave informed Sarge of his oversight. Dinner was practically ready, but Sarge had been

spending time in the living room, watching the treasure finder at work. Before joining the others, Victor Brett

Shirley called Jeremy and the colonel arrived grumbling because he should have been summoned a half hour

ago and showing annoyance because Gregg hadn't returned. Sarge was serving the soup when the front door

opened and the missing nephew put in his appearance. Taking his place at the table, Gregg nodded to his

"No longer than going there," returned Gregg, drolly. "About a half hour each way."

The colonel glared at the mention of Jaggert as though the name should be kept secret, but Gregg didn't care.

He was looking across the table at Shirley, who returned his gaze. Neither smiled; their glances were enough.

"All right, then, you went to see Jaggert," announced Jeremy. "He probably gave you a history of the Quetzal

outrages that formed the chief career of one Lee Clavier, the blackest blackguard below the border. I'll tell

Jeremy's harangue carried right through soup, fish, and salad. He was still mouthing stories of torture,

extortion, mayhem and murder through the crust of the very special apple pie that Sarge had cooked because

It wasn't the best of table talk, but everybody took it, coming from the colonel.

As guests with other matters on their mind, Harry Vincent and Victor Brett managed to put up with it, though

twice when the colonel became too gory, Brett excused himself saying he had to make a phone call. The

second time, he fussed around the living room with his treasure finder, but finally came back to share the

Gregg and Shirley just didn't pay attention to the colonel. They were talking without words, wondering with

glances where each had been during all the other's life. As for Dave, his attention was divided between the

pair of newly discovered love birds and Sarge, whenever the brawny master of all trades loomed in from the

It simply amazed Dave to see his cousin Gregg in a new mood and Sarge was sharing the bewilderment.

Gregg's interest in Shirley was confounding enough, but to have him bypass his Uncle Jeremy was truly

Finishing his pie with an appropriate snort, the colonel leaned back in his chair and said indulgently:

"I hope my talk has been instructive. If you'd listened, Gregg, you would agree. I suppose I've been lecturing

Pulling a big oldfashioned watch from his pocket, the colonel snapped it open and gave a shrug.

"No, only a half hour. We made up for starting late by eating fast. Well, since it's only half past seven, we

The front door bell was ringing as the group reached the living room. Sarge answered and a stocky, swarthy

man pressed past him, flashing a badge in progress. Heading right into the living room, Inspector Cardona

"Why" Gregg fumbled at his pocket, then remembered that his watch was being repaired "why I guess I

Gregg didn't know, but the others did. They said seven o'clock. Cannily, old Jeremy cocked his head and

remarked that the clock might have been a bit fast. Brett reminded him that others had checked the time by

Every timepiece said seven thirty, or close to it, and seventhirty was the right time. Harry's watch was

right, so was Shirley's, when she took it from the mantel and looked at it. The living room clock, like the one

in the kitchen tallied at half past seven. Dave was suggesting that they look at the clocks up stairs, when

"To headquarters to answer for the murder of Lloyd Jaggert. He was stabbed to death at exactly quarter past

Gregg's denials were useless. He'd committed himself to what the time element proved. Six thirty to seven

would have brought him from the Marland Building to the Tolland mansion, perhaps with a few extra

So fast that Shirley hadn't a chance to gasp goodbye, Gregg was marched from the house in Cardona's

custody, still carrying the envelope that might incriminate him further. When Shirley ran to the door to call

Sight of Isaac Twambley didn't pacify Shirley Malcolm. With one unhappy wail, she broke into tears and

dashed upstairs. Colonel Jeremy watched her to the top, then took his keys from his pocket and unlocked the

study door. Inviting Twambley into the room, the colonel picked up a gadget that looked like a microphone

Closing the door, Jeremy bolted it and gestured Twambley to a chair. Then, one hand raised, the colonel said:

The colonel was right. His grandfather's clock was striking the hour. The two men listened to its music and

sat silent during the eight melodious strokes that followed. Then, turning to Twambley, Jeremy inquired:

Only he hadn't cracked entirely as Commissioner Weston wanted. Gregg still argued that he wasn't a

What Gregg admitted was that he'd been to Debley's penthouse, the night of the crazed man's alleged suicide.

The bullets that had hopped all around the penthouse hallway came from Gregg's gun. Since the police had

But according to Gregg, if Debley had been murdered, somebody else deserved the blame. Gregg hadn't fired

his gun at Debley. He'd fought it out with an intruder who answered the specifications of a ghost, having

As for Jaggert, Gregg had simply paid him an honest visit, picked up some Quetzal data and had gone his

If Debley had gone mad and jumped out of a penthouse window, maybe Jaggert, lacking the proper altitude,

That was the theory propounded by Shirley Malcolm who personally felt just about insane enough to consider

it rational. In fact, Shirley would have turned the Tolland mansion into a one woman madhouse, if two kindly

It was evening, but Shirley couldn't realize it. How many days, how many nights had passed since Gregg was

dragged away, she couldn't remember. Shirley must have been in bed all this afternoon, except for those

times she'd been racing through the hall, with a trained nurse grabbing her when she wanted to jump out

penthouse windows. But now she was wearing her fluffy negligee and sitting very calmly in this calmest of

When Jeremy nodded, Shirley was sure that both were crazy, which made her feel much better. As further

evidence that they belonged in the madtime league, both these venerable gentlemen were admiring a

Quetzal image that had been redeemed from the study wastebasket and given a place of honor atop the

"I really dreamed about Debley," declared Jeremy, seriously. "I do believe in such things, Twambley."

"And I dreamed about Shirley," added Jeremy. "I saw a girl in blue, being run down by a car."

"Blue is most becoming," cackled Twambley. "Particularly with brown eyes, though the combination is

"I shouldn't have done it," wept Shirley, "but Vic Brett said it was the only way to meet you, Colonel Tolland.

I thought your dreams were silly, but you believed in them and that one dream in particular came in very

"Because you were handy, my dear," agreed Jeremy with a nod. "Well, Twambley, you cracked one phase of

it." The colonel added a chuckle. "And Cranston said you were nothing but an old bore."

"You mean Brett tricked me into it, Colonel? So he could sell you that treasure finder?"

"So Gregg could be charged with murder," put in Twambley, his cackle absent. "Don't worry, he'll be out

"Sarge will help," agreed Jeremy. "Faithful Sarge! He didn't realize what my dreams could do, if he

"By faking that dream about Jaggert," agreed Twambley. "The trouble was, you tried to test Gregg, too."

"A bad mistake," acknowledged Jeremy. "But tell me, where does Wyler fit into this?"

"Wyler was covered when Jaggert was murdered," declared Twambley, "and that's the odd part about it. Only

"He has. He may even be on his way here. Therefore I suggest that you have Shirley call Brett and tell him

"Not if the word comes from Shirley, if she can maintain her worried mood. I think she can."

Shirley knew she could. Why this was needed, she didn't understand, but having cleared the one fact which

impaired her honesty, she wanted to prove that she hadn't realized how serious it was. If this could lead to

clearing Gregg, Shirley would be willing to tell a thousand lies to establish the one truth that counted.

Unbolting the door, Jeremy ushered Shirley to the telephone. She made the call and did it beautifully. The

Shirley was glad for the polite dismissal. Somehow she felt she could sleep without worrying about Gregg. A

guilty conscience was bad enough, but when it had to be uprooted to learn what made it tick, it was like an

As soon as Shirley had reached the stairtop, Jeremy turned to Twambley and asked:

"You know everything," he declared. "Everything, Twambley, except one thing: how I was handed that

"Perhaps The Shadow told me," chortled Twambley, "and maybe I read a book about Houdini."

"Now that we both know everything, colonel." Twambley's chuckle was very dry. "Suppose you become

Bowing his consent, Jeremy turned toward the kitchen, calling for Sarge. He was informing the chauffeur that

he was going upstairs to take a nap, but wished to be awakened if any visitors arrived. Meanwhile, while

Jeremy's back was turned, Twambley was getting some wearing apparel from the vestibule.

The slight laugh that came from Twambley's lips wasn't The Shadow's. It was more like Cranston's. This was

the sort of thing that Cranston would have liked, but old Isaac Twambley could manage it quite as well.

Black garments over his arm, Isaac Twambley wobbled toward the study door. Hand on the knob, he listened

and gave a happy smile when he heard a sound he recognized. Waiting a full minute, Twambley finally

The burden from the old man's arm dropped unnoticed to the floor as Twambley closed his eyes and nodded

An odd room, Jeremy's study. It had nooks between bookcases and other antiques to say nothing of the spaces

beside the grandfather's clock. It would have been a perfect lurking spot for The Shadow; but Isaac

Sounds couldn't reach the study because of the heavy door to the hallway, where the gray carpet clogged the

space beneath so closely that there had been trouble running Brett's wiring under the door.

Of course the space below the double doors to the rear parlor was different. It was wide enough to admit a

Sarge was admitting arrivals to the mansion. Victor Brett was bringing his treasure finder, still packed, and

Dave Tolland was helping him. Brett had called Dave at the latter's favorite beer hall after hearing from

It was Dave who suggested that they leave the front door unlocked, since one cab hadn't been enough to bring

all of Brett's gadgets and more were expected. The treasure finder was being set up in the dining room again

and old Jeremy, his nap broken at his own order, was just sleepy enough to insist that Dave take full control.

"I was dreaming," declared Jeremy, moodily. "Dreaming about Gregg when Sarge disturbed me. A bad

dream" he gave his head a disdainful shake "but I hope to pick it up again. And by the way, Dave "

"It can wait until tomorrow," decided Jeremy, in a tired tone. "I have disinherited Gregg, that's all. The new

will is drawn up, and I left it on the secretary in the study. There are a few clauses we should discuss, but they

The colonel was fumbling in his pocket for the keys, as though intending to lock the study door.

"Wait, Uncle Jeremy," suggested Dave. "We may want to run a wire into the study again, It's unlocked, isn't

"Wake me later, Dave," suggested the colonel, starting slowly for the stairs. "Ask me about my dream. It's the

"Much better," affirmed Jeremy. "She seems reconciled to the fact that Gregg is a proven criminal. That was

As soon as Jeremy had gone upstairs, Dave and Brett put Sarge to work on assembling the machine. In the

midst of such paraphernalia with other parts clattering as they were passed his way, Sarge couldn't possibly

The man who entered was blocky and bluntfaced. He paused just past the vestibule and received a double

signal from the living room. As he waited, he saw fingers spell out letters behind Sarge's back. With an

understanding nod, the bluntfaced man stole to the study door, opened it, and stepped inside.

As he closed the door, this new visitor saw Twambley. Momentarily he mistook the old gentleman for the

colonel, and there was a short snarl from the thick lips that did anything but adorn the blunt face. Hand to his

pocket, the blocky man let a gun slide back; then moved in the direction of the big desk.

Despite his heavy build, this unknown intruder was smooth of action. Hawkeye would have recognized him

instantly as someone who had come from a building where Hawkeye expected Wyler to appear.

Maybe the blocky man's wide ugly smile included thoughts of Wyler. If so, they were premature.

From between the bookcase and the big desk stepped a lean man, whose thin face glared above his crouched

"Again" Wyler grinned behind the revolver that poked from his thin fist "again, why not?"

The blocky man was retreating toward the door, with Wyler making gun prods at a distance.

"Tolland is my game," Wyler sneered. "Find some other victim for yourself. If you don't, I may let the world

This time the blocky man didn't sneer. His face became momentarily pale, then reddened angrily.

"It won't help you, Wyler!" he argued. "Anyway, you're right. You can have Tolland, if you let me go my

This blocky man who admitted himself to be Lee Clavier was fumbling for the door knob. With a toothy

Instead of clutching the door knob, Clavier whipped an automatic from his coat pocket and brought it up as

fast as Wyler's revolver. Then, in a tone that was a mockery of Wyler's, so closely did it resemble the latter's

Gun point to gun point, the pair faced each other, unwilling to allow an inch of leeway. The stalemate was

Two faces turned to see Isaac Twambley awakened from his imitation drowse, his keen eyes gazing up from

"Why not?" sneered Wyler, overlooking the point of Twambley's remark. "Why shouldn't I cash in on a few

millions that I might have gotten? I figured old Tolland would get shaky if I shipped him a Quetzal, so I

"Doing it neatly was the problem. I wanted him to think that Clavier was still alive. The first night I sneaked

around here, I was lucky to find the best way into this room. A way Jeremy Tolland had reserved for himself

"So you came again," he chuckled, "and left the Quetzal image. Very nice indeed. Jeremy would either regard

it as a mystery or know that somebody had guessed that this was a twoway room. Of course he would credit

"And if he didn't," retorted Wyler, "I was going to bring him to terms tonight. After his nephew got into

trouble with the Quetzal business, Jeremy was ripe. I think I could have convinced him that I might help hold

"Of course Clavier couldn't," declared Twambley. "No more than you could operate openly, Wyler, with a

Wyler's ugly eyes went puzzled, but Clavier's hard stare showed that he understood. Nevertheless, Twambley

"You had to be somebody else," Twambley told Clavier, "and who could be better than Wyler? So you found

Victor Brett and told him how you could make his machine pay and pay. Of course you told him you were

A sharp snarl interrupted. It came from the real Carl Wyler who for the first time was understanding what

Twambley had meant when he used the term 'real' a short while before. Again, Wyler was glaring at Clavier

Even Twambley's wisdom hadn't yet given away the fact that he was The Shadow. As Cranston he might

have been suspected, but the senile gentleman in the chair was too crotchety a type to be identified with the

"Certainly I passed as you, Wyler," declared Clavier, keeping his tone smooth to prove it. "How else could I

"Particularly when one man knew you were alive." This was from Twambley, his tone wavery, but his eyes

"I should have known!" broke in Wyler. "So you did murder Debley! One of your old raids, Clavier, all over

"A looped rope was all you needed," agreed Twambley with a nod. "A pendulum swing from the ends and

there you were. Then you hauled one end and brought in the other. The rope was ready once again."

The glare from Clavier's eyes was fixed on Twambley and served in place of the gun muzzle that he still felt

"Like Debley," nodded Twambley. "But didn't you run into a little trouble there, Clavier?"

"You mean with The Shadow?" returned Clavier. "None at all. I was sliding the hallway window shut and

looping my rope over a gargoyle while The Shadow was battling it out with Tolland's nephew. I mean the

"Loyalty and stupidity are much alike," agreed The Shadow, in Twambley's cracked tone. "Gregg should

have told his uncle all that happened. Unfortunately he said he never went to Debley's."

"Which was all the better," said Clavier, suavely. "I don't know why I'm telling you all this, whoever you are,

except that you won't be alive long enough to repeat it. Anyway, it gave me a great idea."

"Of course," came Twambley's agreement. "Instead of merely swindling Colonel Jeremy with the assistance

of his nephew Dave, you decided to throw the whole fortune into Dave's lap and take your slice of it."

"By framing Gregg," agreed Clavier, warming to his theme. "He showed the way at Debley's. All we needed

was another victim. When the colonel was fool enough to bring in Jaggert, just because he wanted to make

"You murdered Jaggert," picked up The Shadow, still in Twambley's style, "and did a rope climb from the

Wyler was totally out of the discussion. His lean face was wagging back and forth between Clavier and the

disguised Shadow, as he learned to his amazement how deep one man's schemes could go, only to have

"A nice analysis," complimented Clavier. "Only it wouldn't stand in court, Mr. "

"It wouldn't stand in court, Twambley," continued Clavier, "because Gregg has no alibi."

The chuckle that came from Twambley's ancient lips carried all the significance of The Shadow's laugh,

though in no wise did one resemble the other. Clavier must have realized that a knockout blow was coming,

"You only think Gregg Tolland lacks an alibi," announced The Shadow, holding carefully to a Twambley

chortle. "Look at the grandfather's clock, Clavier. It is still a half an hour fast!"

More mystified than ever, Carl Wyler wondered at the sweeping changes that came over Lee Clavier. At first

the notorious murderer trembled, then stiffening, he almost gave way to complete rage. Finally he steadied,

and with one hand behind him, threw the big bolt of the door, at the same time shifting his gun from Wyler to

"Not necessarily." The reply was highpitched but calm. "Colonel Tolland hasn't signed his new will yet."

Though he was speaking to Clavier, The Shadow's eyes were fixed on Wyler, reminding him that he too had

a cause, even though it was a wrong one. Not that The Shadow needed Wyler's cooperation; he merely

Unwillingly, Wyler was finding himself reduced to the status of Debley who stood as an example of what

Then, as suddenly as he had changed it, The Shadow switched the subject back to the clock.

"A useful machine, Brett's treasure finder," came Twambley's voice. "All that Brett and Dave had to do

between them was set all clocks and watches half an hour ahead. Thus it was seven o'clock in this house

when Gregg arrived home, proving conclusively that he had been in Jaggert's office as late as six fifteen.

"Dinner actually began at six thirty," continued The Shadow, Twambley style. "At that time seven by the

clocks and watches Brett set his machine at full speed. Its electromagnetic force was supposed to stop all

Keeping up the part of Twambley, The Shadow gave a clawlike gesture toward Jeremy's favorite clock.

"While time was catching up to the others," he chuckled, "this clock kept right ahead. There's no magnetic

metal in it, Clavier. These old grandfather's clocks have wooden cogs, sprockets and wheels throughout,

"Of course there are weights in the clock but they are made of lead. The pendulum is metal, only you can

see that it is brass. They aren't magnetic, but even if they were, they weren't the sort of smaller parts that

"Two persons," was Twambley's reply. "Colonel Jeremy and myself. Of course Wyler knows now. And your

two helpers, Dave and Brett, know about it. Maybe they will tell when they learn that you aren't Wyler."

"They'll never know." Forgetting Wyler, Clavier was moving toward The Shadow, gun first. "I'll show you

Clavier meant the gun. His finger was tightening on its trigger and it gave him ugly joy to see that

Twambley's hands were simultaneously loosening on the cane. A brute by nature, Clavier couldn't murder a

victim without providing preliminary mental torture as he had demonstrated both with Debley and Jaggert.

An old fool like Twambley was the sort that Clavier preferred. They'd lived long enough to regret more, and

it was viciously humorous to watch their frantic efforts to stave off sure death. Old Twambley was wobbling

Like the whip of a snake, that cane slithered forward between Clavier's ankles and lashed with all the power

that a mighty hand could give it. Those sinews that had shown under the blue light in the sanctum proved

their speed along with their force. Like a huge whirligig, the cane spun Clavier right off his feet, as his gun

spurted a message that wasn't helpful to Jeremy's antiques, but certainly did no damage to The Shadow.

That terrific thrust told everything, to Wyler as well as Clavier. The part of Twambley was disproven as

thoroughly as the myth of Clavier's death. Since there was no further need for pretence, The Shadow added to

the surprise he had created by delivering a laugh that befitted his more active self.

Above the chance chimes of the telltale clock came a peal of strident mockery that spelled disaster for all

men of crime and two in particular. It was meant for Lee Clavier, murderer, but Carl Wyler, swindler, took it

as a personal issue, too. That didn't matter to The Shadow. It only varied the climax.

With Clavier trying to aim from a floundering pose, Wyler charged The Shadow only to receive the big end

of Twambley's cane right in his equally bulgy teeth. Wyler managed two upward shots that took their toll in

ceiling plaster; then lunged from that position, hoping to clout The Shadow with a downswing of the

Only The Shadow wasn't right where Wyler wanted. He was spinning in a style that was utterly fantastic for a

man of Twambley's appearance. His cane, twirling like a baton, came up from a sideangle to jar Wyler's gun

hand and at the same time, The Shadow gripped Wyler's shoulder to fling him bodily at Clavier.

The shots from Clavier's gun were faster than The Shadow anticipated, but still too late to effect their desired

purpose. The man they clipped was Wyler. As the swindler toppled, Twambley's cane came flipping over his

Sprawling senseless, Clavier lost his gun as Wyler's dropped beside him. Recoiling, Wyler rolled over and

gasped wheezily as he looked for Twambley. Only there wasn't any Twambley any longer. The rejuvenated

fighter had reached for his other garb, black cloak and slouch hat, and was putting on his more appropriate

Hands clamped to his chest, Wyler watched The Shadow pick up the guns and unload them; then toss them

back beside the figures on the floor. There was a heavy pounding at the door from the hallway, accompanied

The voice belonged to Inspector Joe Cardona, called here for a conference by Jeremy Tolland at the advice of

Carrying Twambley's cane, The Shadow stopped at the hotair register in the side wall of the study and

calmly knocked its chain loose. Wyler's dying eyes glowed with momentary hope, then changed to a

Moving to the double doors at the rear of the study, The Shadow did a singular thing. Dropping flat, he rolled

along the floor. Instead of being stopped by the doors, his figure dipped and went beneath them.

The rug, all of a single piece, simply sagged enough to allow the cloaked form to squirm through. The

Shadow was right when he said that Jeremy had borrowed this trick from the annals of Houdini. It was the

There was a broad trap door underneath the rug. Houdini's stage had a trap door too, with a huge rug covering

it. What good would be a trap door covered by a rug? None, apparently, at least not for a total vanish, but it

In this case, the brick wall was represented by a pair of solid doors. Having gone under them, The Shadow

came up the other side, in the rear parlor. There, he hauled the chain in another register and the trap door

The Shadow's knowledge of illusionary methods had enabled him to detect the secret of Jeremy's emergency

exit that was planned to leave enemies baffled. Wyler had struck upon it by accident and struck upon it was

On his first trip into the cellar of this mansion Wyler had crashed into what looked like the top half of a coal

bin except that it was hinged. Actually, he had run into Jeremy's trap door, lowered for emergency use.

Recuperating in the coal bin, Wyler had seen the carpet sag when Jeremy had made a hurried trip to the safety

Piecing the rest of the secret, Wyler had used it for himself in order to place the Quetzal image in Jeremy's

desk. That had happened on another night, the time of the melee beginning in the kitchen and ending in the

hall. Wyler had been in that mixup but had been the first to break free after being spotted by Gregg. Into the

parlor, Wyler had let down the trap and squirmed through to the study. Later, he had reversed the route at

Wyler was remembering it now and gloating over his knowledge. Clavier had recovered but not in time to

witness The Shadow's remarkable departure. The door from the hallway was bashing under heavy strokes;

frantically, Clavier gripped Wyler's throat and howled that he wanted to know the other way out.

Why should he? Wyler was gaining a quicker death from Clavier's clutch, at a time when vengeance was a

bonus. Shaken like the rat that he was, Wyler kept his broken teeth clamped shut and coughed his last breath

through them. He was sagging through sheer, dead weight when Clavier suddenly let him fall and snatched a

Aiming at the crashing door, Lee Clavier, the master hand in this game of crisscrossed crime, was beaten to

the shot by Inspector Joe Cardona. Guns unloaded, thanks to The Shadow's foresight, Clavier hadn't a chance

Old Jeremy Tolland was standing in the hall and now, with a wave toward the clock, he swung about to tell

the story that it stood for. At the first words regarding that reclaimed half hour, two men made a break toward

the kitchen. Dave Tolland, the faithless nephew; Victor Brett, accomplice in murder both were partners in a

They never reached the kitchen. Two guns stopped them, big automatics gripped in the gloved hands of a

cloaked challenger who stepped from the parlor. The Shadow didn't have to open fire on this pair; they fell

back pleading for mercy. Then Sarge overtook them and caught each man with a huge hand that went

Loyal to Colonel Jeremy was Sarge, but he had been duped by Dave in the latter's secret campaign against his

cousin Gregg. Sarge had passed along Jeremy's dreams and helped to fulfill the one regarding Shirley, but he

had done it only because he though that Gregg was unfairly holding the Colonel's favor.

Blackness vanished from the rear hall, dwindling into the kitchen. Silently, The Shadow took the cellar route

from the mansion leaving the case to the capable hands of Joe Cardona. With The Shadow vanished Isaac

Twambley, his cane, cracked in the recent conflict, landing in the coal bin as a souvenir, like the trap door

Out front, The Shadow glided off through darkness, but not in the direction of Shrevvy's cab. It had been on

hand, that cab, but it was no longer waiting. Instead, it was speeding off with a single passenger, a girl

Shirley Malcolm wanted to be the first to tell Gregg Tolland of his vindication and she was on her way to

From somewhere, out of the night's own heart it seemed, came the parting laugh of The Shadow, wishing the