Walter B. Gibson.....................................................................................................................................1

The Shadow............................................................................................................................................1

ONE.........................................................................................................................................................2

TWO........................................................................................................................................................5

THREE .....................................................................................................................................................9

FOUR .....................................................................................................................................................14

FIVE .......................................................................................................................................................19

SIX.........................................................................................................................................................23

SEVEN ...................................................................................................................................................28

EIGHT ....................................................................................................................................................34

NINE ......................................................................................................................................................40

TEN ........................................................................................................................................................45

ELEVEN ................................................................................................................................................51

TWELVE...............................................................................................................................................58

THIRTEEN ............................................................................................................................................63

FOURTEEN ...........................................................................................................................................68

FIFTEEN...............................................................................................................................................73

SIXTEEN ...............................................................................................................................................77

SEVENTEEN........................................................................................................................................81

In a blackwalled room where a bluish light shone down upon the surface of a polished table, two

longfingered hands were moving in and out of the glow like detached creatures, operating of their own

accord. These were the hands of The Shadow and this room was his hidden sanctum, where he received

On the third finger of The Shadow's left hand there shone a large, strange gem, resplendent with a fiery

sparkle that was everchanging in the bluish light. That stone was The Shadow's token, a rare, unmatched

fireopal, called a girasol that reflected the hypnotic glow of its owner's burning eyes.

A tiny tight glimmered in the dark beyond the bluish ray. The Shadow pressed a hidden switch and a quiet

FROM the little knoll above the cloverleaf, Harry Vincent studied the upper Hudson River as it wound

through the massive highlands. Far below, the blue sheen of the vast waterway made a striking contrast to the

verdant foliage of early springtime and the darker patches of evergreens upon the steep, gray granite slopes.

Beyond the cloverleaf, the river was spanned by the Twin Peaks Bridge, so named because of the rugged

pointed mountains that bulked at each end, dwarfing the toylike towers of the suspension bridge.

But Harry was not interested in scenery as he scanned the Hudson with a pair of powerful binoculars. His job

was to check on odd activities along the river and report them to his chief, a mysterious crime fighter known

as The Shadow. Harry had chosen this vantage spot on the west side of the river as the best observation place

available. He had also picked an off hour on an off day during the off season as a time when any unusual

Harry Vincent lowered his binoculars and glanced toward the cloverleaf just below. There, a bright red

convertible was swinging idly around the circle. The car had a wheelbase longer than an average limousine;

and Harry's opentopped car, parked at the foot of the knoll, looked puny in contrast as the elegant red job

rolled past it. Even more eyecatching than the red car itself was the blonde who drove it. Her windswept

hair was silvery in the sunlight; her chin had a saucy upturn as she looked toward Harry through a pair of

In the car with the blonde lovely was a stolid, squarefaced man of perhaps forty, whose expression was

slightly quizzical as he followed the girl's upward gaze. Then, apparently indifferent to a touring sightseer

like Harry, the stolid man looked ahead and gave a sweeping gesture to the turn the girl was to take. A few

moments later, the blonde swung the car into a road leading to the Twin Peaks Inn, about a halfmile to the

south. With a sudden spurt, the convertible became a red streak that was swallowed by the green clumps of

So that was that and rather nice at that, from Harry's brief glimpse; but immediately following the rapid

departure of the blonde in the red car, Harry was conscious of a new and closer approach from an opposite

direction. He swung about, binoculars still in hand, to face a man who had all but stolen up behind him, from

a pathway forming part of the Appalachian Trail, which came past the ski jump not far from the Twin Peaks

The man was tall, lanky and probably in his early thirties. His face, though thin and decidedly longjawed,

was rather handsome, due to his affable smile. He was wearing khaki shorts, a shortsleeved khaki shirt and

he carried a khaki knapsack. His face, like his bare arms and legs, was decidedly tanned, evidently from a

sojourn in more southern climes, for the season here was too early for either tan or hikers.

"The A.T.?" Harry gave a wellfeigned frown as though totally unfamiliar with the term.

"The Appalachian Trail," defined the hiker. "The footpath that follows the mountain ridges. I happen to be

"I wouldn't know," rejoined Harry, "but they might tell you down at the Twin Peaks Inn." He gestured to his

The hiker accepted. During the few minutes' drive, Harry maneuvered a casual sideglance, noting that the

hiker had a blunt profile and that his shocky hair showed reddish in the sunlight. But Harry avoided further

conversation. There wasn't much reason to be sightseeing up here this early in the season and still less for a

hiker to be on the trail, particularly alone. In that mood, Harry decided that the less said, the better.

They pulled in at the Twin Peaks Inn, which stood on an artificial plateau surrounded by acres of parking lots,

all utterly empty and deserted. A few cars were parked beside the huge sprawling inn, which was heavily

patronized over weekends in the summer and during the winter ski season; but not at this time. Among the

cars was the big red convertible, so Harry parked in back of it and strolled into the inn with the hiker. A lone

clerk was behind a desk and souvenir counter in the corner of a vast community room where rustic chairs and

benches were grouped about a gigantic fireplace; but there was no sign of the blonde, her companion, nor

The clerk gave the hiker a map showing local trails. The hiker bought some picture postcards, addressed them

"I don't think so," replied the clerk. "I believe they made the last pickup. You'd better check the time on the

The hiker went over to the corner and Harry, who was looking over the rack of postcards, had a chance to

notice those that the hiker had written and left lying on the desk. They were overlapping and the upper card

was addressed to Miss Mildred Joslyn, Henniker, New York. Its message simply stated: "Hope this reaches

you before you leave. I am hiking up to Herb's place, so a letter will reach me there... Don."

Evidently Don's full name was Donald G. Morland, for Harry could see that signature on the portion of the

lower card that poked from beneath the upper. But Harry didn't risk moving it. Instead, he chose some cards

of his own and was buying them from the clerk when Don Morland returned and told the man behind the

"You were right, the last mail has gone out." Don picked up his two cards. "Would they go out from Colonial

"They should," responded the clerk. "That's over on the Northern Turnpike and the mail trucks come down by

"Good enough," Don decided. "It can't be much more than an hour's hike, so I should make it easily before

With that, Don shouldered his pack and started off, without giving Harry a chance to offer him a lift back to

the cloverleaf. That was just as well, for Harry knew that hikers could be an independent lot, particularly the

lone type like Don Morland, if that really was his name. Don might even have hoped that Harry would

express some interest in hiking, so that in his turn Don could inquire what Harry was doing in these parts.

So Harry simply watched the lanky hiker disappear along a path that formed a shortcut to the Twin Peaks

Bridge. By then, an expensive gray sedan was wheeling up to the inn. It parked behind Harry's car and a

short, selfimportant man stepped out. Something in the upthrust of the man's jaw was familiar to Harry, as

The man gave a contemptuous look at the fancy red convertible as he passed it. Next, he gave Harry a passing

appraisal as he stalked importantly into the inn. His face was much younger than his manner indicated; and

oddly, that made it seem all the more familiar to Harry. That was explained when the newcomer stopped at

"Yes, sir," returned the clerk, with a quick bow. "Mr. Winstead said to tell you that they are waiting for you

No wonder Harry Vincent had recognized that upthrust, sharpeyed face. It belonged to Craig Shallick, a

younger member of a family with large financial holdings and political ambitions. Other Shallicks were

wealthier than Craig, but he had been getting frontpage newspaper stories and TV interviews which had

greatly increased his popularity and made his face familiar to many, including Harry Vincent.

Lately, though, Craig Shallick had suffered something of a setback. His wife, Irene, who was the vivacious,

partyloving type, didn't go along with Craig's political aspirations. Her excursions into cafe society had

caused newspaper columnists to more than hint that the present separation of Craig and Irene Shallick would

Craig Shallick stalked through a side door that bore the sign COCKTAIL LOUNGE and Harry Vincent

followed. There, at a table, sat the blonde of the red convertible, with her stolid male companion, who rose to

shake hands with Shallick. Harry, taking one of the many empty window tables, heard their exchange of

"Hello, Pete. What is this supposed to be, some sort of an attempted reconciliation between Irene and

From that, Harry gathered that the stolid man's full name was Peter Winstead and that the blonde with him

must be Craig's estranged wife, Irene. The contemptuous glance that Craig had given his wife's gaudy

convertible was outmatched by the look that Irene had reserved for her husband in person. Without her

sunglasses, as she was now, Irene would have been very sweet indeed, except for the spiteful, almost vicious

pout of her lips and the glare of her halfclosed eyes. Even to the upthrust of her chin, Irene seemed to copy

her husband's pompous manner, perhaps as a form of defense that she had unknowingly cultivated during

"It might be called a reconciliation," returned Winstead, in a calm tone, "but I'd rather class it as business. Sit

Craig Shallick obliged. Harry Vincent ordered a drink at his own table and while he waited for a sleepy

waitress to bring it, he caught snatches of conversation from the neighboring table. From it, he gathered that

Irene's uncle, Gregg Austin, was annoyed at the divorce talk and was threatening to cut off Irene's share of

her father's estate, if Irene finally broke with Craig Shallick. Peter Winstead, who handled various financial

"We're going over to see Gregg Austin now," explained Winstead, "and then off to a dinner party with the

usual crowd. It would help if you stopped by to say hello to Uncle Gregg and then went along with us. Make

Before Craig could voice an objection, Irene added in a tone that was truly bittersweet:

"If you don't play along, darling, you will be a long, long time getting that divorce; perhaps never. I don't

want your money beyond a reasonable settlement, but I'm not going to lose out on what's rightfully coming to

"Go on over to Austin's," he said. "I'll join you there and do my bit. The sooner we get over all this nonsense,

"Good enough," decided Winstead. "I'll phone and make a dinner reservation for one more. We wouldn't

Winstead and Irene left the cocktail lounge and Harry nursed his drink, waiting for Craig to follow. From the

window, Harry saw the red car swing up the road toward the bridge. Craig probably noted it, too, for he left

the lounge soon after and possibly made some phone calls, because another long interval passed before Harry

By then, the sun was disappearing over West Peak and it was time for Harry Vincent to be on his way. He

drove up to the bridge, paid his toll and continued across, turning right to follow the Thunder Cliff Highway

south to the town of Vanderkill. When he reached the overlook, Harry swung into a broad parking space that

was well protected by a high stone wall. There, Harry alighted and took a last look through the binoculars.

The highway itself was dark when Harry climbed back into his car, so he turned on the headlights and

continued his winding journey along the curves that clung to the cliff edge. Twenty miles an hour was a high

speed for the horseshoe bends that swung in and out of the folding hills, but Harry cut down to fifteen or less

when he hooked around a hairpin turn. He came to one where the guardrail showed against a fringe of tree

boughs, indicating that the ground sloped precipitously just beyond, forming one of the barren granite cliffs

There, Harry blared a warning with his horn, confident that it would bring an answering blast from anyone

coming the other way. Instead, he was met by a terrific roar accompanied by a blinding glare that drowned

the gleam of his own headlights as a huge truck shot from a parking space at the inside of the turn, launching

Caught squarely in the path of that surging tonnage, Harry Vincent and his car seemed doomed for a plunge

IN THAT FRANTIC instant, Harry Vincent took the longest and wildest of chances. Instead of trying to stop

or even veer away from the onrushing truck, he gunned his car full speed straight ahead, intending to hit the

guardrail at an angle. That, at least, would carry him past the truck, which was swinging in upon him.

The guardrail consisted of two stout horizontal cables, held by steel uprights imbedded deep in the rock,

strong enough to buffer the impact of Harry's light car. But there was more to consider than just the car;

Harry himself, for one thing. In a quick flash, Harry recalled that he hadn't fastened his seatbelt for the simple

This was the last sort of emergency that Harry could have anticipated. It also threatened to be the last that he

would ever encounter. There wasn't much sense in taking a bounce off the guardrail only to get mashed

behind the steering wheel. But Harry, thinking with splitsecond precision, saw a way to counteract that.

The car's lurch carried it clear of the truck, and Harry offset his lack of a seatbelt by bracing his hands hard

against the wheel and driving the brake pedal to the floor just as his hurtling car hit the rail. That double

stiffening of legs and forearms shoved his body deep into the seat, ready to withstand the shock. But there

Instead of a harsh twang from the cables and the terrible jolt that Harry expected, the car sailed into space.

The whole guardrail had given, literally flattening beneath the impact. For a moment, the headlights pointed

straight outward, hanging in midair. Then, they dipped downward, gleaming between the trees and showing

Then, amid the crash of saplings the car hit nose first upon the cliff brow. It twisted crazily toward the left,

threatening to pin Harry beneath it as he tried to shove open the door beside him. There wasn't a chance for

him to extricate himself; and somewhat mercifully, his head glanced one of the tree boughs, blacking out

Harry's senses as the car teetered above him, sparing him the sight of the new horror that was due.

On the road, the truck had halted half around the hairpin turn. Two men, springing to the ground, reached the

flattened rail in time to see the wheels of Harry's car spinning almost straight up in the air, as the doomed

vehicle made its sideways somersault. Then, wheels first, its metal bulk vanished against the sunsetreddened

sky beyond the brow. Brief seconds later, the listening pair heard a muffled crash from a hundred feet or

Below, a hundredcar freight train was racing southward along the outer track that flanked the river bank and

it seemed that the twisted mass of Harry's car was going to land squarely among a lot of shiny, brandnew

models that were being carried piggyback on railway flat cars. Instead, it struck another bulge of rock that

jounced it clear over the speeding train and out into the river, where the jumbled wreckage sank, leaving no

On the highway, hundreds of feet above, the two truckmen were already swiftly obliterating all traces of

their murderous handiwork. From the back of the truck, they had brought a big hook and had thrown it over

the flattened guardrail. Now, they were using a motorized winch to haul the rail back up into place, posts,

cables and all, so that the embankment looked exactly as it had before Harry's car crashed through.

It was the whine of the winch that brought Harry Vincent back to consciousness. He was lying on what he

thought must be the river bank, for he last recalled being trapped in the car just as it careened for its plunge

from the cliff. Now, he realized that he was still where all that had started, on the brow of the cliff itself,

Then, before Harry could begin to wonder how he had landed where he was, he heard the answer. It came in

Looking up, Harry saw the familiar figure of his chief, a cloaked shape with a slouch hat above, silhouetted

against the crimson sky above the distant mountains. That was The Shadow's favorite attire when he set out

on special forays. It enabled him to blend with blackness when stalking or eluding enemies. Right now, the

formula was working both ways. The truckmen, looking down at a sharp angle, had failed to see The

Shadow crouched in the slight gully just short of the cliff brow. Now, in his turn, The Shadow was ready to

trail them unseen; or at least he could be doing so, without Harry as a handicap.

Harry had been expecting to meet The Shadow but not under such startling circumstances as these. Knowing

the ways of his chief, Harry realized that The Shadow, driving north along the Thunder Cliff Highway, must

have seen the lurking truck and suspected some vicious purpose. Once past the turn, The Shadow must have

parked his own car somewhere; then doubled back on foot to investigate the truck. While working his way

outside the guardrail, The Shadow had been analyzing the setup just as Harry had come along and driven

Those frantic moments were now straightening themselves in Harry's mind. Too late to stop the truck's

murderous assault, The Shadow had dropped away as Harry's car crashed the rail. Harry could remember

getting the door open and trying to twist free from behind the wheel; now, he realized that The Shadow must

have reached him and yanked him clear just as the car jounced over the brink. From here, The Shadow had

rolled Harry to the safety of the gully; and right now, as The Shadow's hand moved upward, Harry could see

the outline of an automatic in his chief's gloved fist, ready for a pot shot if one of the truckmen showed

But the pair didn't linger up above. They were anxious to get away before other cars came along. They had

covered the secret of the tampered guardrail and were confident that their victim couldn't have lived to tell it.

They had already released the hook and had drawn it up on the winch; now the roar of the truck's motor told

That was a cue for The Shadow's next move. He hauled Harry to his feet, guided him up the embankment and

along the outside of the rail, steadying him when he stumbled. The truck, by then, was well around the

hairpin turn and heading north. As The Shadow pushed Harry up to the roadway, its lights appeared

suddenly, deep in the horseshoe bend ahead. The range, however, was too long for The Shadow to blast a tire

with a shot from an automatic; and there was too much likelihood that a bullet would be deflected by a rock

With the way things were working out, Harry realized that The Shadow was playing the smarter policy of not

letting the truckers guess that their game was known, or even that anyone was on their trail. Alone, The

Shadow might have closed that trail rapidly, but with Harry still faltering along, valuable time was lost. A

hundred yards past the hairpin turn, The Shadow finally guided Harry into an opening among the trees at the

inner side of the road. It was a little clearing that had once housed a work shack; there, The Shadow's dark,

With Harry in the seat beside him, The Shadow was soon in pursuit of the mysterious truck, but with the start

that it had gained, the chance of overtaking it was slim. Still, The Shadow was doing his utmost to lessen the

margin, from the skilled way he handled the car around the bends. Now, they were meeting cars coming in

the other direction and Harry, still not over his recent shock, shied instinctively each time the glare of

But none of these cars were trying murderous tricks and the whole thing became quite fantastic to Harry

when he recalled how a short time before he had been driving south along this very highway in a car that was

now at the bottom of the Hudson River. Now he was making a return trip, with, of all things, his binoculars

still dangling from the strap around his neck. Harry still couldn't fathom what had led up to all this and

whether or not he was in any way responsible. But The Shadow, in his thorough, calculating way, was

Report, Harry did. He told how in three days of driving around this area, he hadn't spotted anything unusual

until late this afternoon. Even then, the incidents had seemed slight, almost inconsequential. But they were

the sort of data that The Shadow wanted. Harry could tell that by the way his chief accepted them in silence,

as Harry told of his observations from the cloverleaf; the arrival of the red convertible; the brief meeting with

the trail hiker, Don Morland; the eavesdropping that Harry had done when Craig Shallick joined his wife

Irene and their mutual friend, Peter Winstead, at the table in the cocktail lounge.

By the time Harry had finished, the sky was totally dark and as they passed the overlook, twinkling lights

were visible from across the river. The Twin Peaks Bridge, too, was illuminated, and suddenly flashed into

sight; but the river lights were too far down to be glimpsed, except at intervals. As the car passed the end of

the brightly glowing bridge, Harry looked to his left and saw that his companion was no longer guised as The

Along the way, he had dropped his slouch hat in the back seat and had let the black cloak slip down from his

shoulders. Now, he was his other self, Lamont Cranston, a man whose immobile features were strangely

hawklike and whose eyes showed a steady, impassive gaze that contrasted with the glint of The Shadow's. It

"Our purpose is to find a lead to the strange occurrences in this area," stated Cranston in a calm, methodical

tone. "Certain key men in international affairs have been acting oddly enough to indicate that they are under

undue pressure or that impostors have taken their places. The only clue is that in each case, the person

"Any attempt to trace the actions of such people," continued Cranston, "would only excite suspicion on the

part of those who are covering up. It is smarter to force the opposition to show its hand; to find out if a cabal

or criminal mechanism is at work, capable of accomplishing its aims through threat, imposture, or even

"Do you mean that the persons who disappeared were brushed off the road like I was, so that substitutes

"Possibly, but I doubt it. There is no evidence of missing cars in their cases; also, any abducted persons may

be needed for some purpose later. You happened to be an outsider who moved into the situation; therefore,

"Hardly. While coming north, I passed both of the cars you mentioned the red convertible and the dark

sedan before I saw the parked truck. In any case, you have given us a very valuable lead. Apparently

someone thought you had found out something, which may be better than if you actually had."

They were now a few miles north of the bridgehead, where the terrain was still rugged, but the highway less

precarious as it cut more into the folds of the hills than along the river edge. Harry noted that Cranston's keen

eyes were ferreting every possible side road, in case the truck had taken one. So far, there had been none,

other than slight turnouts which Cranston ignored. But about four and a half miles north of the bridge they

struck the first really good prospect. Off to the right away from the river an arrow pointed with the

The Shadow took the road, which wound up among the lower hills. He was checking driveways and turnouts

now; and Harry realized that his chief's purpose, rather than trying to overtake the truck, was to look for

places where it could have gone, or even better, where it might have come from, before starting its murderous

There were houses at intervals along the road, but mostly of the summer type and therefore not yet occupied.

The road itself was dirt, but in good repair, until in less than a mile they came to a barrier reading: ROAD

The car halted at a slight angle and as Harry was staring at the sign, a figure, shaped like an enormous bat,

edged into the headlights' glare. Startled, Harry glanced beside him and saw that Cranston was gone. He had

switched to his cloaked garb of The Shadow, to be ready for any eventuality while he examined the

roadblock. Then, he was back at the wheel again, backing the car around and starting down the road to the

"That barricade hasn't been moved for at least a week. The truck couldn't have gone in or out of there today,"

On the highway again, another mile and a half north brought them to a driveway leading to the left, marked

HUDSON VIEW TAVERN. Cranston swung in there, looped around the big brick mansion past parking

spaces where cars were already congregated for the dinner hour, then swung out again. No chance of a hiding

Another eight miles of winding road continued northward, precarious in spots and twisty enough to keep their

speed down around twenty miles. That suited Cranston, as it enabled him to check more side roads, all of

which proved to be just short deadends. But when he reached the little village of Rockwood, at the end of the

There, roads diverged. One went down to Rockwood Landing and backtracked southward. Another continued

north along the river, past Castle Point. A third veered northeast among the hills to meet the Northern

Turnpike at Hickory Corners, ten miles away. That was the route The Shadow chose and it proved fairly

twisty, for it followed one of the many brooks that tumbled from the highlands down into the Hudson.

So it took about twenty minutes to reach the Corners, which consisted of an old country store closed for the

night, a church with an ancient graveyard, a beatendown old barn and a few hickory trees, descendants of a

onceproud grove. There, Cranston paused in the glare of a blinker light and studied a road map.

"It's sixteen miles south to Colonial Town," he stated. "We can stop there and check on that hiker, Don

Morland. We can also look up Gregg Austin in the phone book, because ten miles more will bring us to the

junction of the Northern Turnpike and Thunder Cliff Highway, just north of Vanderkill. I know that Gregg

Austin lives somewhere near there, because he and I happen to have some mutual friends." Cranston supplied

a dry chuckle; then added: "So we can top off our eventful evening by dropping in to see him."

Cranston swung on to the turnpike and soon was crowding the fortyfive mile an hour speed limit as he

headed south. It was good, though, that he had spoken as Cranston and not as The Shadow; otherwise The

Lamont Cranston and Harry Vincent weren't going to top off their evening by dropping in on Gregg Austin.

WHILE THE SHADOW was taking up the roundabout trail of the vanished truck, Gregg Austin was

receiving visitors at his pretentious home on Pleasant Valley Road, a mile east of the Northern Turnpike. It

wasn't unusual for people to drop in on him at odd hours because Gregg Austin combined business with

The house was the old Austin mansion and Gregg had taken it along with most of the land in Pleasant Valley

as his share of the family wealth, letting his brother Lawrence Irene's father control their industrial

holdings. Gregg Austin, owning so much real estate, had gone into the business, not just as an agent, but as a

buyer, seller, landlord, developer and specialist in foreclosures. So it was difficult to tell the sheep from the

goats among the visitors, or to distinguish Gregg's straw men from his more solid customers.

The Austin house was a combination of stone and clapboard set back a hundred feet from a slight bend in the

treelined road, with a sloping woodland another hundred feet behind it. In the dusk, the deepset windows

made the house look like a huddled monster with glowing eyes; but inside, all was different. To the right of

the front door, a broad double doorway opened into a large living room where paneled walls, oldfashioned

easy chairs and a fireplace with a crackling fire created a truly homelike effect.

Behind that, reached by doors from both the living room and the hallway, was a smaller room that Austin

used as his office. It was furnished with heavy, widebuilt chairs and a big, flattopped desk, the only

modern touch being the filing cabinets that Austin had added to take care of his constantly increasing records.

The office had a third door opening out onto a porch overlooking a wide side yard, where a row of cedar trees

To the left of the front door was a dining room; in back of that, a pantry and a kitchen with a back door.

Straight ahead was a stairway to the second and third floors, which were occupied by Gregg Austin, and an

There were also guest rooms, chiefly for the accommodation of Austin relatives who seldom cared to accept

the begrudging hospitality of their cousin Gregg, whom they heartily despised. The one exception was

Gregg's niece, Irene, who came and went as she wanted, figuring this was as much her home as her Uncle

Gregg's. Since her breakoff with her husband, Craig Shallick, Irene stayed at a hotel when in New York, but

she had come to prefer the country around Vanderkill, because she was fond of horses and a boyfriend named

Those two passions were furthered by the fact that Irene had met Rick at the Palomino Dude Ranch a few

miles up the Pleasant Valley from the Austin homestead. Rick, a personable local boy, had really made good,

so far as Irene was concerned, though Uncle Gregg didn't go along with that opinion. Indeed, Rick's injection

into Irene's life was largely responsible for Austin's ultimatum regarding Irene's reconciliation with Shallick.

Right now, Austin was expressing that sentiment to his last business caller of the day, who happened to be

They were a striking contrast, Austin and Wade, as they sat at the big desk in the office. Both were men in

their midfifties, but no one ever would have guessed it. Austin looked much older as he sat behind his desk,

a dryish, withery figure, lost like a rattly peanut in a shell represented by his big chair. Austin was,

nevertheless, a dynamo of nervous energy and he liked to punctuate his sharp remarks with a shake of his

Wade, youthful in manner, was burly of build and broad of both face and beam. He fully occupied a chair the

same size as the one that to Austin was overcommodious. Wade's face wore an unchanging smile that

featured a goldtoothed gleam; he also wore an oversized Stetson, which at present occupied a front corner of

Austin's desk, and he sported a shoestring necktie, a ruffled shirt and goldbraided Mexican jacket which

gave him enough of a look of the Old West to brand him as the proprietor of an Eastern dude ranch.

At present, Gregg Austin and Mark Wade were much in accord as they vociferated on a subject which both

"That whippersnapper?" defined Austin. "Tell me, Wade, why did you tolerate young Langdon around the

"For the same reason other people did," returned Wade. "He runs around with the country club set and he

talked as though he could bring some business to the ranch. After all, Rick comes from a good family "

"Comes from!" interposed Austin with a snort that reminded Wade of one of his horses. "You've put it aptly,

Wade. But coming from a good family won't give him the privilege of joining my family and ruining what's

Wade accepted that tirade with his fixed smile. About all that remained of the Austin family was Irene, and in

Wade's opinion, she had been pretty well ruined already, but he didn't say that to her Uncle Gregg.

"Anyway, you have a point," continued Austin, sourly. "Langdon gets a job selling cars that's how Irene

bought that big red bathtub of hers and then he switched to stocks, then insurance, and so on. Then he

wanted me to let him sell real estate. Now, we're back to our own point, Wade. Real estate."

"If you mean the ranch," returned Wade, "I'm sure that a loan of ten thousand would fix things nicely. Fifteen

"You always say that, Wade." Austin took some papers from the desk and began sorting them, mumbling,

"Deeds agreements leases. Ah, yes, notes." Then, "First you bought the ranch, but you couldn't make a go

until you bought more horses. Then you had to hire more men. Next you needed more pasture land, then you

"Well, yes." Austin's tone was reluctant as he thumbed through a small sheaf of papers. "But tell me, Wade,

As Wade brought the contract from his pocket, Austin, whose hearing was as acute as his eyes were sharp,

gave a quick glance to the doorway from the living room, which had been ajar. Wade, following Austin's

gaze, saw that the door had opened wider and that a figure was framed there. Both recognized the smiling

young man in sports attire, who was leaning his right shoulder against the doorway to allow space to extend

"You are getting a bit previous, Langdon," snapped Austin. "I am not your uncle yet nor do I expect to be,

"It won't be very long now," returned Rick. "You're looking pretty good, Unk. You ought to last until then.

"Why, no." Langdon's face darkened in a type of angry mood he displayed too often. When the cloud passed,

"Ask Irene when she gets here," returned Austin, with one of his rare smiles. "Now, if you don't mind waiting

in the living room, Mr. Wade and I can finish our business. And close the door when you go."

"No, no," put in Wade, rising from his chair and gesturing toward the desk. "We can discuss things later, Mr.

Austin took Wade's cue and nodded his agreement. But Rick Langdon, despite his boyish banter, was quick

to catch on. He saw Gregg Austin quickly lay what appeared to be a batch of notes behind the rancher's hat

that Mark Wade purposely left lying on the desk. Then, while Austin was putting other papers in the drawer,

Rick began strolling forward, only to be met halfway by Wade, who came up quickly from his chair and

By then, Rick had drawn a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and was flipping it toward Wade as he

Never lessening his smile, Wade accepted the cigarette. He clapped Rick on the back, turning him toward the

living room as they lighted their cigarettes. Gregg Austin followed them in his stooped fashion and stood in

the living room warming his hands at the fireplace and chuckling to himself. Rick put a query to Wade:

"Where is Mrs. Wade? Aren't the two of you coming over to the dinner at the Hudson View Tavern?"

"Martha went ahead with the Dietrichs," replied Wade. "I'm driving over in my ranch wagon."

"I saw it out front," nodded Rick. "When you go out, take a look at my new compact. I'm selling those jobs

now. If Irene wants to try it out, we can drive over in it. But she will probably prefer her convertible, so I'll go

A deeper chuckle came from the fireplace. Rick threw a surly glance at Austin, whose chuckle was answered

by the roar of a motor coming into the front drive, a sound that was chopped off abruptly. Rick knew both the

car and its impetuous driver. He turned with an expectant look as Irene stalked in the front door, followed by

Pete Winstead. When Rick saw that Irene's companion was simply the family attorney, he gave a short laugh,

but it proved shortlived when Rick noted Irene's mood. She didn't even glance in Rick's direction; instead,

she screamed for Chester, who showed up promptly, carrying a large tray complete with cocktail glasses and

"At least you've got some sense, Chester," stormed Irene, "having the drinks ready."

Austin chuckled and again there was the sound of a motor in the large front drive, but this time the process

was reversed. The throb of the car's quiet engine came first; then Austin's croaky laugh. Irene finished her

second double and snapped at Chester, "I want another drink!" Rick, about to protest as a proper boyfriend

In stepped Craig Shallick, with his customary allimportant, selfsufficient air, just as though he had

returned from a successful press conference. The millionaire politico gave a nod to Austin and quietly

Following that pleasant response, Gregg Austin introduced Craig Shallick all around. There were no

handshakes, as everyone was holding a cigarette and a martini glass; but when Austin suggested that Chester

"No thanks, Uncle Gregg," he said with a glance at Rick Langdon, who was beginning to match Irene's

drinks. "I'll be driving Irene back over the Thunder Cliff Highway in my car. It wouldn't be smart to take a

"I've just started my drink," stated Winstead, laying his glass aside. "So I'll drive ahead in Irene's car. The

keys are still in it. You had better bring Irene along right away, Craig. There will be drinks waiting for all of

Practically between them, Winstead and Shallick took Irene out through the front door. Chester obligingly

turned on a big light that revealed a front driveway as wide as a young parking lot. In its blaze, the others saw

Winstead and Shallick tumble Irene, helpless but argumentative, into the front seat of Craig's sleek sedan.

Winstead climbed into the fancy red convertible, hit the starter and shot out into the road, where he turned

left, heading for the Thunder Cliff Highway. A minute or so later, Shallick managed to quiet Irene. With no

Chester turned off the outside light and began cleaning up. He looked into the office, saw Wade's big hat on

the desk, so he brought it out to the front hall and laid it on a table near the door. Next, he took some cocktail

glasses into the pantry and came back for more. Mark Wade, very smiling and very knowing, laid his

"I'd better get started, too. As Shallick says, that's a very twisty road. I might stop back to see you later, Mr.

Austin; if I see a light in your office window, I'll drop in. Otherwise, it will be tomorrow."

"I'll be going along, too." Rick slapped his oversized glass on Chester's tray, breaking the stem as he thumped

it. He was deft enough, though, to hold it without spilling the little that remained of his double drink, which

Wade overheard that as he was going out the front door, but he simply continued on to his ranch wagon,

which he had parked close to the front of the house to allow room for later arrivals. Rick stalked out a few

moments later and went around to the side of the house where he had left his new compact, thinking he

Inside, Chester had taken his last trayload to the pantry and Gregg Austin, now entirely alone, went into his

rear office and closed the door behind him. There, he opened a desk drawer and thumbed through a bundle of

cash that he kept there, something that he always did first. Next, he started looking through the papers on his

desk. When alone, Austin quickly absorbed himself so completely in his affairs that it was difficult to rouse

him. Only when visitors were present was he alert to the slightest interruption; for then he was always in a

So in the brief minutes that followed, Austin was still clucking his satisfaction so repeatedly that he failed to

hear a slight click that marked the opening of a door and the stealthy footfalls that followed. Not until a figure

loomed over the desk in front of him did Austin look up; then he froze in horror. Glaring at him was a face

that already registered a vicious triumph, as well it might, for the hand below it was leveling a .38 revolver

between Austin's eyes. His withery face frantic, Austin came to his feet, pawing the air ahead of him as he

Those words were his death warrant. Now, the gun was aiming, not at Austin's head, but at his heart. The

assassin's hand thrust forward; the gun coughed once twice then again. The shots were muffled by their

proximity to the victim's body and they took immediate effect. Gregg Austin jolted backward into his chair;

then sprawled forward, motionless, across the desk, where the blood from his shirt front began to stain the

But the slayer did not wait to view that sight. Hands that were quick and efficient plucked money from the

drawer and some papers from the desk without touching any of the others. Next, the killer was opening and

closing a door, as softly as before, leaving no trace of this murderous visit except for the three slugs that were

Lamont Cranston let it ring a dozen times; then hung up. That was the number listed for Gregg Austin on

Pleasant Valley Road and Cranston was calling from Putnam's Retreat, a roadside restaurant that formed the

one bright spot in Colonial Town, just ten miles above Vanderkill on the Northern Turnpike.

So while Cranston was phoning from a booth in the dining room, Harry Vincent was putting some questions

to the barkeep. Cranston, strolling by on his way outside, overheard the barkeep echo Harry's query:

"You know how eager the boys are to hit the A.T.," returned Harry. "This fellow Don is that way. He wears

"I know the type, but to see one now well, I'd be less surprised if Smokey the Bear walked in here in

"So why should he stop in here for that? The post office is right by the trail. He could have mailed his cards

The bartender turned to attend to the dozenodd customers, none of whom seemed to notice Harry. They

were more interested in watching a game between two players at a moneyintheslot pool table that

occupied the center of the room. So Harry went outside and joined Cranston in the car, where his chief told

him to take the wheel. They rolled past the post office, which was closed, but showed lights in the window,

indicating that mail was still to be picked up and sorted from the big box that stood out front. That was when

"But they were all on their way there!" exclaimed Harry. "Shallick, his wife Irene and that lawyer, Winstead.

They talked about a dinner date, though, so they could have left by now. Maybe Gregg Austin went with

"I doubt it. Austin definitely intended to be at home this evening. I phoned him to tell him I would be

"I never even met him," returned Cranston, blandly, "but Police Commissioner Weston is coming from New

York to talk with Austin about those odd disappearances. The commissioner wanted me to sit in on the

That cleared some of the mystery for Harry Vincent, enough to deepen the rest. Harry felt that, like The

Shadow, he was becoming a key figure in something very big. While Harry drove, Cranston studied the long,

sweeping curves of the turnpike, where the headlights revealed everchanging landmarks. Occasionally,

Cranston told Harry to reduce speed; and his longest glance was toward a side road to the right, which was

That was the eastern end of the blockedoff road that they had explored over on the Thunder Cliff Highway.

Cranston noted the mileage as just five miles south of Colonial Town. Another five miles brought them to the

edge of Vanderkill, where Cranston told Harry to turn off just beyond an overpass. Harry did so, descending a

"This is Pleasant Valley Road," defined Cranston. "Watch for the first large house. It may be Austin's."

Within a mile, the road curved right, passing a quarry where gray walls rose like gaunt ghosts from the

gaping blackness below. Next, a row of trees cut straight in from the road; after that, there was a large house

with ample grounds. At Cranston's order, Harry braked the car and used the backup lights to reverse into the

quarry. There, he turned off all the lights and the car was completely shrouded by the row of cedar trees when

Lamont Cranston had assumed the cloaked guise of The Shadow. Out of the car, he skirted the trees and

glided unseen to the house, which had regained its ominous look after Chester had switched off the outside

lights. The Shadow chose the side porch as the best mode of entry; he eased open the door and glanced into

the lighted office. Moments later, he was inside, closing the door behind him. Then, The Shadow, master

crime investigator, was studying the dead form of Gregg Austin, sprawled on the desk in a grotesque pose

The Shadow moved from one spot to another, as though planning to photograph the body, which he could

have done if he had brought Harry's camera. But The Shadow's memory was photographic in itself. Not a

detail escaped the keen eyes that peered from beneath the brim of the black slouch hat. From directly opposite

the body, The Shadow reenacted the death scene as perfectly as if he had witnessed it, gauging everything

Checking his watch, The Shadow tabbed it as exactly half an hour since he had made the unanswered phone

call from Colonial Town. So Austin had been dead at least that long, unless the killer had been holding him at

While pondering on that, The Shadow had a chance to analyze it in actuality. As he stood in the murderer's

position, the phone bell began to ring again. Calmly, The Shadow waited it out. It stopped after about a dozen

jangles, as The Shadow's own call had; but after a brief pause, it began anew. That pause was about long

enough for someone to hang up and dial again, to make sure he had the right number. Possibly it was

Commissioner Weston calling Gregg Austin to confirm their appointment. In any case, The Shadow did not

answer it. He would have let it ring itself out again, but for another interruption.

The Shadow's keen ear caught a click above the jangle. It came from the hallway door and with one swift

sweep, The Shadow was around the desk and at the door to the porch, this time taking the short way, just as

Chester stepped in from the front hallway and halted aghast at the sight of Austin's body. For the moment,

Chester did not see The Shadow, who had a brief opportunity to study the servant's face and note the full

horror registered there. Chester, thinking the ringing phone might have to do with his master's death, snatched

it up and hoarsed a "Hello!" into the mouthpiece. Someone hung up at the other end, for all Chester heard

was the dial tone. Puzzled, Chester raised his head and stared straight at the porch door. It was closing of its

own accord and through the opening he saw what he mistook for the outdoor darkness.

What Chester actually saw was the cloaked form of The Shadow, blending with the blackness of night.

Chester felt sure, though, that someone had gone out and on quick impulse, he dropped the phone and hurried

to the front hall where he clicked on the outside lights that turned the whole yard into a brilliant yellow blaze.

The Shadow was caught in the full glare, but not unprepared. Already, he was speeding across the side yard

and the sudden light spurred his pace. His cloaked figure reached the screen of cedars and became part of

their shadowy substance by the time Chester returned to the porch door to look vainly for the vanished

Then, Chester was at the phone, wildly calling the police, while The Shadow, finding a handy opening among

the tree trunks, slipped through and rejoined Harry in the car. The thick cedar hedge cut off practically all the

glare, so Harry's first knowledge of The Shadow's return was when a whispered voice spoke from beside him,

telling him to get the car started. But oddly, The Shadow ordered Harry to turn to the right, past Austin's

However, that strategy proved its worth a few miles further on, when The Shadow pointed out a narrow lane

that he must have noted and remembered from a detailed road map. Harry took it and soon they were

zigzagging up a wooded slope, while sounds of sirens from the valley told that police cars were converging

One hour later, County Detective Fred Frisbee stood in the Austin living room, summing up the known facts

in the murder of Gregg Austin. Frisbee had gained a lucky break in this case, for he had been on his way to

Vanderkill on a routine job when word of the slaying was phoned to his car by short wave, so he had reached

the scene within minutes after Chester's call, arriving almost as soon as the nearest township police.

Now, with Frisbee in charge, a dozen assorted police cars filled the still brightlylighted yard. Inside the

house, state police technicians and other investigators were still combing the death room for clues.

Everything from the telephone to desk drawers and doorknobs had been dusted for fingerprints. Photographs

had been shot from every angle, including closeups of Austin's shirt front, showing the proximity of the gun

that had caused his death. The medical examiner had completed his preliminary report and the wheels of

A bluntspoken man, booming of tone and big of build, Frisbee had something of a dramatic flare and right

now, he had a good audience. One of the official cars out front belonged to Police Commissioner Ralph

Weston of New York City, who had arrived in the early stages of the investigation, expecting to find Gregg

Austin alive. Soon afterward, another car had been admitted through the cordon. It was driven by Lamont

Cranston, a friend whom Weston had expected to meet here. With him, Cranston had a companion named

Despite his confident air, Frisbee was inwardly worried, for his investigation so far hinged solely upon the

testimony of Chester, the servant who had found the body. Frisbee, having no suspects, was practically

"According to your statement," Frisbee told Chester, "there were five persons here with Gregg Austin when

he was last seen alive. All left for a dinner party at the Hudson View Tavern, going by way of the Thunder

"That I couldn't say, sir," returned Chester, in a strained tone. "I've seldom been over there, but I suppose that

"It is the only way they would go," asserted Frisbee, "and because of all the sharp turns, no one could pass

another on the road, unless one car pulled out purposely to let the next by. Therefore, Chester, it is important

"Mr. Winstead was the first to leave," Chester told Frisbee. "He took the red car, the one belonging to Miss

"Because I was watching the time at Mr. Austin's order. He said he wanted everyone to start leaving by seven

o'clock and I was just about to announce it, when Mr. Winstead decided to go. Then, Miss Irene that is,

"Positively. I turned on the big front light to help them on their way. Then, Mr. Wade, the ranch owner,

started out, saying he might be back later, or possibly tomorrow. Young Rick Langdon said he would be

"Mr. Wade, though I can't say he drove away first, because I had turned off the front light. His big rancher's

hat was on the table by the door, where I had placed it, and I'm quite sure it was still there when Mr. Langdon

went out. But it was gone when I came back from the pantry, so Mr. Wade must have come back to get it.

"So both Wade and Langdon were gone by when?" Frisbee paused, while Chester hesitated. "Come,

"I gathered up the rest of the glasses and took them to the pantry. Mr. Austin had gone into his office by then.

Only five minutes later, I was going upstairs, when I heard the phone bell ringing in the office. Then it

That gave Detective Frisbee the very chance he wanted. He had worked the old trick of building up a

witness's confidence in order to deflate him. Frisbee turned to his audience, which included state troopers,

township police and of course both Commissioner Weston and his friend Lamont Cranston. Then, with a

"What a false front this witness has been putting up! He wants us to think he is a human clock, a man with a

perfect sense of time. So he says 'just about' sevenfifteen. If he happens to be so good, why didn't he say

Frisbee did a doubletake. Coming from Cranston, who until now had seemed more skeptical even than

"I happen to know the exact time," continued Cranston, "because I made that call. I was on my way out from

New York to meet Commissioner Weston here and I wanted to confirm it with Mr. Austin. When he didn't

answer, I looked at my watch and saw that it was only sevenfifteen. So I supposed that he had gone out to

To Harry Vincent, the only observer present who was fully in the know, Cranston had scored a ten strike.

Besides confirming Chester's statement, he had squared himself with an alibi for later on, as Frisbee, never

asking Cranston from where he had made the call, assumed that it must have been from near New York City,

a full hour's drive away. Frisbee was not only mollified, he was overwhelmed by this new evidence. Weston

was happy because his friend Cranston in what the commissioner thought was a purely amateurish way

"When the phone rang later," stated Chester, "I ignored it as usual. But when it stopped and started again, I

thought Mr. Austin might have left the office. I went in and found the body, but when I answered the phone,

"So you called us," approved Frisbee. "Your call came in at sevenfortyfive, so we can add that to the time

"Only that I thought I saw the porch door close. But when I turned on the outside lights, there was no one in

"Three. A lot of teenagers in one. A farmer and his family in another. The third was a doctor returning to

Frisbee shook his head. None of those fitted. He decided to go over to the Hudson View Tavern and quiz the

other persons who had been at Austin's earlier. Weston invited Frisbee to go in his limousine and the county

detective accepted, so the big car started at the head of a caravan, with Cranston and Harry as added

passengers. As they were pulling from the driveway, Frisbee looked back at the Austin house in all its

"According to the medical report," mused Frisbee, "Austin could have been dead a half hour before Chester

found the body. Still, a killer might have stayed around or even returned to the scene of his crime. If there

was somebody there, though, it's too bad Chester couldn't grab him. I only wish I had him close enough for

Somebody 'had' been around when Chester found the body; and though it wasn't the killer, Frisbee could have

fulfilled his wish right there, in Weston's limousine. However, Lamont Cranston did not intend to tell him so.

With investigators like Fred Frisbee, it was better to let them find out things for themselves; and often, the

AS AN INVESTIGATOR, Fred Frisbee had a mind that was strictly onetracked, which was ideal for the job

immediately ahead. As they rode along Pleasant Valley Road, Frisbee pointed out a center line that allowed

no passing, emphasizing that the people who left Austin's must have stayed in single file.

The Limousine went beneath the underpass of Northern Turnpike, which Frisbee said marked the city limit of

Vanderkill. After another tenth of a mile, it passed a service station where the Pleasant Valley Road ran into

the Thunder Cliff Highway, which stemmed off from Northern Turnpike. The service station, closed during

the winter, had not yet reopened for the coming season, but its wide driveway was kept open so that motorists

could use the outdoor telephone booth or the automatic milk vending machine that stood beyond the gasoline

On Thunder Cliff Highway, Weston's big car made nearly forty miles an hour as it followed the sweeping

curves that took it across Pleasant Creek and northward along the Hudson, but it was still only a twolane

highway and Frisbee kept pointing out the double line that allowed no passing. Then the car was climbing,

taking sharp turns and corkscrew bends where twenty miles an hour was top speed, with Frisbee stressing all

"Tell me, Frisbee," came Cranston's quiet query, "do they allow trucks on this highway?"

"With due restrictions, yes," returned Frisbee. "All public trucks, and private trucks as well, up to a specified

size, or weight, can use Thunder Cliff Highway if they are engaged in hauling material for construction jobs

"No, indeed. Much of this land is privately owned, especially above Twin Peaks Bridge, so this highway is

the only way for some people to get in and out. So the Highway Commission is very liberal in granting

Cranston could have debated that point, but didn't. The car passed the high overlook and zigzagged down

toward the twinkling lights of Twin Peaks Bridge. As they passed the end of the bridge, Frisbee, who was

"We have made twelve miles in thirty minutes. A good average for this part of the highway. We should do

This they did, almost on the button, pulling up beside the Hudson View Tavern approximately forty minutes

after leaving the Austin house. It was now late in the evening and the dinner trade had thinned, in fact almost

all the cars that Cranston and Harry had seen there earlier were gone by now. But the place did quite a bit of

late business and the proprietor, Leo Sumner, appeared at the doorway to give the new arrivals an enthusiastic

greeting, until he saw that most of them were in police cars. Sumner was relieved, though, when he

recognized Frisbee and learned that this was not a raid, but a mere murder investigation.

Immediately, the proprietor became cooperative, as did the hired help. Upon learning who the suspects were,

Sumner stated that the party was just finishing dinner on the northwest veranda, which was enclosed as a

private dining room. Frisbee decided not to disturb them until they were through; and that brought a grateful

"I'm not considerate," snapped Frisbee. "I'm efficient. I'd roust them out of there in two shakes if it would

help the investigation. But I'd rather get your end first to be that much ahead. So come through fast, Sumner,

"Mr. Winstead drove up first," declared Sumner, "in that big red convertible" he indicated Irene's car across

"You mean Winstead arrived at sevenforty?" interposed Frisbee, poising a pencil above a notebook.

"That's right," continued Sumner, "and I specially checked the time because he said the rest would be along

"Well, just about. The Shallicks arrived at seven fortyfive." Sumner paused while Frisbee made a note of

that. "I went inside with them, but I began to worry when it was almost eight o'clock and there were still two

more to come. So I went out front again, just as Mark Wade pulled in and parked his ranch wagon."

"Definitely, yes. I was asking Wade how business was and he was asking me the same, when Rick's new

compact came scooting in like a jack rabbit. They can really get around, those jobs."

Frisbee marked down sevenfiftyeight as the time of Wade's arrival and put down eighttwo for Rick. He

quizzed the man at the parking lot, who confirmed the order in which the cars arrived, but was hazy as to the

exact time. The cashier and cloak room girl confirmed Sumner, however. They had been watching the clock,

The enclosed veranda extended beyond a littleused alcove at the rear of the main dining room. Sumner

seated the investigators at window tables there and was careful not to turn on the table lamps. So the

investigators had the benefit of what was practically a oneway glass, through which they could view the

Harry pointed out certain people for Cranston. There was Winstead, seated at one end of the long table and

keeping up most of the conversation while the party lingered over dessert and cordials. Craig Shallick and his

wife Irene were putting on the loveydovey act that Gregg Austin had demanded, though Shallick was

obviously bored and Irene was melancholy. Rick Langdon was easy to identify by the moody glower on his

face as he tried unsuccessfully to catch Irene's gaze. Mark Wade was conspicuous in his fancy Mexican

jacket, but his fixed smile was false, for Wade was obviously worried over something.

The rest of the party included Wade's wife, a heavyset, talkative woman, her friends the Dietrichs and two

other couples whose names Sumner knew and mentioned. Frisbee, his bluff face wearing the confident air of

"Get the tab settled, Sumner. Then we can move in and separate the sheep from the goats."

Sumner went to the veranda to collect the dinner checks, while Frisbee and the rest waited inside the door. At

that slightly crucial moment, an elderly man came stalking from the dining room, a vague smile upon his

quivering lips, a gleam of recognition in his restless, blinking eyes as he exclaimed:

"Commissioner Weston, of all people! Fancy you this far up the Hudson! Don't tell me your city intends to

The man's loud chortle threatened to reach the veranda, where mere mention of the commissioner's name

could upset the complacency of the dinner party and Frisbee's calculated plans as well. Cranston, however,

provided a timely interruption. The man's back was toward him, so Cranston laid a friendly hand across his

"The commissioner is busy for the moment. Suppose we step over here, while I introduce myself "

The elderly man was turning and for the first time, Cranston gained a full look at his oddly beaming,

somewhat senile face. Harry expected to see his chief quiet this garrulous character in no time, but the effect

was just the opposite. The man's vacant stare lighted, his eyes blinked happily.

"Lamont Cranston?" he exclaimed. "What are you doing in the Hudson highlands? Why, you should be

among the snowclad Himalayas in faraway Tibet. We should be dining in state in the palace of the Grand

Lama, you and I, not meeting in some woebegone tavern that has known better days, like ourselves."

Cranston didn't go along with the final statement, for he was doing quite well nowadays. But for once he was

in a state that Harry Vincent had never before noted. Lamont Cranston was utterly nonplussed. Otherwise, he

wouldn't have listened to all that verbal outpouring without interrupting it. His interruption came now:

"Of course I'm alive," cackled Palford. "Who said I was dead? I've been intending to look you up at the

Cobalt Club in New York. You and the commissioner still belong there, don't you?"

"Of course. But it has been years since we first saw you, when you were starting a trip to climb Mount

"I know." Palford's gaze steadied and his lips tightened. "So I arrived in Tibet at the wrong time. The land has

changed since you and I were there together. But I am back again, glad to be with you and our good friend,

Palford's voice was rising again as he turned, expecting to see Weston beside them. For the fist time, Palford

realized that during the course of handshakes and congratulations, Cranston had maneuvered him well out

through the main dining room almost to the front door, so far away from the veranda that Palford's

"You must come and see me, Cranston. I own Folly Castle, down on the bank of the Hudson, and I am living

With that, Palford bowed out to a car that was waiting for him. By then, Frisbee had burst in upon the dinner

party with the grim announcement that Gregg Austin had been murdered. Already he was separating the

sheep from the goats as he said he would. He told all those who had arrived early that they were sheep and

could go home quietly and unmolested; but those who had come from Austin's were goats and would have to

Frisbee implied, however, that such persons as Winstead, Shallick and Irene were merely relevant witnesses,

while Mark Wade and Rick Langdon rated as outright suspects. Cranston did not approve of Frisbee's blunt

action. In fact, Cranston said as much to Harry Vincent as they stood out front, waiting for Weston's

"Sheep from the goats!" There was sarcasm in Cranston's tone. "There are two that Frisbee should have

"Right. They are simply pawns in this game. But the others, like Wade's wife and the couples who came

early, might know about plans that were made beforehand, or they could have heard certain comments made

during dinner, or any of a dozen other things. They are the persons that Frisbee should have quizzed first, but

"I wanted to watch those faces on the veranda when Frisbee sprang the news that Gregg Austin had been

murdered. If Frisbee had been smart, he would have shot a flashbulb picture of the group, right then. I

supposed at least that he would build up to it, but instead he broke it wide open with a grand hurrah. Too bad

"It could have. But I am always meeting old friends in the oddest of places" Cranston's tone went

whimsical "such as the palace of the Grand Lama in Lhassa or an old tavern overlooking the Hudson River.

But this case has many angles, Vincent, and therefore many hands must be involved, as we already know. If it

is linked with something bigger such as the disappearance of key persons and the substitution of imposters

there are that many more elements to be considered. The right way to crack it is to work from the fringes to

The arrival of Weston's car put an end to Cranston's dissertation. But all during the ride back along Thunder

Cliff Highway, Harry Vincent kept weighing what his chief had said. Of one thing Harry was certain.

However far Fred Frisbee might get with his investigation of the Austin murder, the county detective would

be paving the way for Lamont Cranston otherwise The Shadow to go him not just one point better, but a

AT AUSTIN'S, Frisbee staged a neat show for the audience he had brought back there. He had old Chester

put on a oneman act, from the ringing of the phone bell through the finding of the body and his call to the

police. As Austin's body had been removed to the morgue, the victim was represented by a local patrolman

who was sprawled across the desk when Chester opened the door dramatically and looked into the office.

That brought a horrified shriek from Irene, but the men in the group were unimpressed. At the time the body

was found, they had all been over at the Hudson View Tavern, or just about arriving there. But Frisbee had

allowed for that. He invited the group into the living room; there, working from facts given him by Chester,

"I was," returned Winstead, "but the Shallicks both came out with me. I drove over the Thunder Cliff

"Within a few minutes," returned Shallick. "He was driving Irene's car and he was out of sight by the time we

"What I really think," snapped Shallick, "is that you are putting me in a position which can damage me

"You are not a suspect, Mr. Shallick. I am only trying to piece together this story "

"And my husband has been telling you," put in Irene, "and I can back him up. Craig drove carefully, as he

always does, so naturally Pete Winstead reached the Hudson View ahead of us. Is there anything more you

"Then we'll be going, my husband and I," decided Irene. Turning to Winstead, she added, "Keep my car until

Apparently, Irene didn't intend to lose her grip on the Shallick millions until she found out just how the

Austin fortune really stood. She left, without even a parting glance at Rick Langdon, who became Frisbee's

"You two were the last to leave, so that classes you as suspects. Before I question you further, let me warn

"What you should say, Mr. Frisbee," declared Rick, "is that whatever I say will be used against Mark Wade."

"Why, you " Wade was about to add some choice expletives, then thought better of it. "Why, you

whippersnapper! That's what Austin called you, just before you came barging into his office as if you owned

"You mean when I looked in," corrected Rick, "and heard Mr. Austin ask when you were going to pay off all

"Those were canceled notes that I had already paid off. I still owe money, yes, on back rent and other

"Deny it? Why should I? Naturally, I wanted to borrow more money from Austin. You heard me mention a

contract, didn't you? Here it is." Wade brought a folded paper from his pocket and handed it to Frisbee. "A

contract to put on a weekly rodeo in Vanderkill during the coming season. The profits will pay off all that I

Wade's smile was a gleam of triumph now. He turned to Rick and demanded bluntly:

"Why should I want anything to happen to Gregg Austin? I needed him, but you didn't. You were through

here, boy, when your girl walked out on you, and what's more, you knew it. Why, the last thing you told poor

"That wasn't it," retorted Rick. "You're putting words into my mouth. I said I didn't know when I'd be seeing

him again if ever. Maybe that gave you some ideas that you thought you could blame on me."

Wade started to reply, then tightened his smile and remained silent. Rick clammed, too, for both were

suddenly aware that they were falling into Frisbee's trap. Bluntly, Frisbee took over with the query:

"Wade was," spoke up Rick, quickly. "He went out the door ahead of me, but I saw him go back into the

house to get his hat. I was just starting my car out from the side yard, so I don't know how long he took."

"I took about a quarter minute," returned Wade, "and I'm sure I left here before you did. If I didn't, how did I

get to the Hudson View Tavern ahead of you? I was chatting with Sumner when you came bouncing in.

Rick remembered and gave a wince, but instead of replying to Wade, he turned directly to Frisbee and stated:

"I stopped to make a phone call outside that closed service station where the Valley Road runs into Thunder

"A girl named Nancy Harkness. I figured if Irene wanted to go to the dinner with some other man, I could

take along another girl. I talked to Nancy ten minutes or more, but I couldn't argue her into it. I guess that's

Rick gave it and Frisbee delegated a local officer to phone the number, which he did, but received no answer.

"Apparently, your substitute girl friend had another date," Frisbee commented bluntly.

"I know she had," returned Rick. "She was going over to the Brookside Drivein to see a double monster

program. She would have ducked that date quick enough, but she claimed she just wouldn't have time to get

Frisbee didn't answer Rick's somewhat surly question. Instead, the bluntspoken county detective called a

recess in the investigation. He turned back and forth from Wade to Rick as he told them:

"Fortunately for both of you, there was a time lapse after you left, making it possible that some unknown

person could have entered this house. So I regard you as simply material witnesses, to be on call for further

Rather amazed, the two suspects walked out as the Shallicks had. There was a slight formality, to which

Shallick and Irene had submitted also; hence neither Wade nor Rick objected. A state police investigator

wanted their fingerprints, in order to eliminate them from any strange prints that might show up around the

Austin premises. After that, Chester turned on the outside lights and everybody watched the two men drive

Neat business on Frisbee's part. It was, in a way, a reenactment of the earlier departure which both suspects

had disputed. Wade's clumsy, outmoded ranch wagon clattered out of the Austin driveway and went

lumbering up Pleasant Valley Road, practically shouting its need for new shock absorbers. Rick's brandnew,

yellowgreen compact made a quick dart in the opposite direction and streaked from sight past the end of the

cedar row that hid the unsightly quarry, as if Rick still hoped to reach the drivein theater and pick up where

"There go the last of our material witnesses." He smiled grimly, as he faced Peter Winstead. "What do you

"I think," said Winstead, "that we had better wait until tomorrow. That will give me time to go over Austin's

"Very possibly. Gregg Austin was both shrewd and secretive, as a good businessman should be. I learned that

from the times he called me in for advice on certain deals. But usually Gregg handled things his own way."

Actually, Winstead was suggesting the very process that Cranston had mentioned to Harry, that of working

from the outside in. Frisbee, quite impressed with the idea, turned to Weston with the query:

"I agree with Winstead," returned Weston. "I came here hoping to talk to Gregg Austin about some odd

disappearances that have been traced to this area. Whether that links to the murder, I do not know, but I am

sure that only Austin could have given me the facts. So I am going back to New York, but I'm hoping that

"I have no other choice," put in Cranston, calmly. "Frisbee may need me to testify regarding that phone call I

"Very well," decided Weston. "If anything should turn up regarding those disappearances, I would appreciate

it, Frisbee, if you would let Cranston sit in on the discussion and report back to me."

Frisbee agreed to that willingly. Further investigation was deferred to the next day. After Weston left in his

limousine, Cranston called the motel where Harry was stopping and reserved another room for himself.

By noon the next day, the investigation had shown good progress. Autopsy reports, as well as ballistic tests,

indicated that Gregg Austin had been slain by two bullets fired at close range from a .38 revolver and that

death had been almost instantaneous. Fingerprints found in the hallway, living room and office had been

checked against those of persons present the previous evening and no strange prints had been discovered.

Photographs had been taken of the tires on every car that had been at Austin's and those had been compared

Winstead, in going over Austin's records, had found nothing to show against Mark Wade except that he had

been paying double for rights to bridle paths and pasture land which Austin either owned or rented. Hence,

Austin had profited on those deals as well as others where he had talked Wade into buying property and had

later bought it over for himself, at cost or less. That brought the comment from Frisbee:

"Better call him a hay man," corrected Winstead. "His trouble was feeding the horses on the dude ranch.

"Nobody, lately," returned Winstead, "because property value has been going up and an owner can hang on to

Frisbee spread a county map on the dining room table and called a conference around it, specially including

Lamont Cranston and Harry Vincent, as they had been with him during the trip over Thunder Cliff Highway

in Weston's car. Frisbee handed each person a typewritten copy of a time chart he had made.

"Note first," said Frisbee, "that Winstead took from seven o'clock to sevenforty to get from Austin's to the

Hudson View, which was exactly our own running time. Craig and Irene Shallick took only a few minutes

longer. But now comes the discrepancy. Mark Wade, who claims he left at ten minutes past seven, did not get

"That wagon of his is old" reminded Cranston, "and badly suited to that highway. If he pushed it too fast, he

"But if he did manage it," argued Frisbee, "we could set his starting time as late as seventwenty, which is

"We must allow for his phone call," replied Frisbee. "I have talked with Nancy Harkness and she says that

Rick did phone her around quarter past seven. His dime ran out and he had to put in a couple of nickels for

overtime. If he stayed at Austin's until after sevenfifteen and talked to Nancy on the phone until after

seventhirty, he would have had to make the trip in half an hour flat. Could he have done it?"

"In that new compact, yes," decided Cranston. "It is built to take hairpin turns. It is also overpowered, which

"In either case," put in Winstead, "whether it is Wade or Rick, I would say that you are cutting the time

Winstead was studying the big map as he spoke; now, he began to trace it with his forefinger. Harry, sidling a

glance at Cranston, saw a gleam in his chief's closewatching eye. Harry knew then that Winstead was

bringing up a factor that Cranston must have already considered, but preferred to have someone else

"Look at this shortcut!" Winstead exclaimed. "Why, it's only five miles straight up the Northern Turnpike to

Ragged Gap Road. From there it is only four miles over through the Gap to Thunder Cliff Highway, with

another mile or so to the Hudson View Tavern, just a little more than ten miles in all."

"Seven minutes on the turnpike," Winstead calculated, "and eight to ten more over Ragged Gap Road. Add

another two minutes to that and you are still under twenty, which is only half the time it takes around by the

"Why, yes," nodded Winstead. "Sometimes I went with Gregg Austin to see the Norvel brothers, Lou and

Hank. Austin wanted to buy their farm, which is a mile and a half up the road. One day we drove on through

the Gap and out the other end. It's a dirt road, but a good one, with no bad turns. You could average thirty

"I thought so. Do you remember how the road crosses Ragged Creek over the deep gorge?"

"For your benefit, Winstead, that bridge went out with the big spring freshet over a month ago. You can't

Winstead stared, then looked at the map and blinked, realizing that his pet notion had struck a snag. But

"We do not intend to miss a single detail in this investigation," declared Frisbee. "You have brought up a

point, Winstead, that might raise a question later. We might find it difficult to prove that the bridge was

actually out at the time of the Austin murder. The sooner we establish that fact, the better."

With Frisbee, that meant starting over to Ragged Gap Road immediately, taking all available witnesses along.

So they were on their way again, with Harry, as usual, going along with Cranston in his car. As they were

"You heard what Frisbee said, 'The sooner, the better.' He may be more right than he knows, Vincent. This

RAGGED GAP ROAD came up to Winstead's claims. It made one sharp turn after it left Northern Turnpike,

then worked up among the folds of the hills toward an opening in the mountain ridge ahead. The road was

dirt, but firm except for a few slightly muddy spots; and the trio of cars Frisbee's, Cranston's and a police

A few minutes brought them to a side road leading to a farmhouse with the name Norvel on the mailbox, but

Frisbee's car kept straight ahead. It swung a slight bend and pulled up in a cloud of dust that fairly swallowed

Cranston's car as he braked to a halt, followed by the shrieking stop of the police car, just behind.

Frisbee was all apologies as they alighted and joined him at a barrier which bore the sign: Road Closed

The barrier was lightly constructed and set at a slight angle, with deep scrapes in the road indicating that it

had been recently moved. Frisbee started to move it now, only to be interrupted by two rangy men in work

clothes, who came loping from a field. They were shouting angrily until they recognized Winstead, who

"Glad to meet you, Mr. Frisbee," declared Lou, the older of the pair. "We heard you are investigating the

"Why, yes," returned Frisbee. "We thought one of the murder suspects might have driven over this road

"If he tried it," asserted Lou, "he's at the bottom of the gorge with his car, like you'd be if we hadn't warned

you. Only my brother and I are allowed to move that barrier, so trucks can bring in materials for the dairy

Lou pointed to a huge, halfcompleted steel framework close to a fringe of trees that crossed the road and ran

"Drive up to the line of trees," Lou advised, "but get out there and walk the rest of the way. It's a real

They followed instructions and found that the term "dropoff" was apt indeed. The road ended abruptly on a

stone ledge between two iron posts halfhidden in the brush. From far beneath came a continuous, muffled

roar; then, as the group approached cautiously, they looked down at the churning white of the furious creek,

The gorge was scarcely more than thirty feet wide at this point, so the water foamed through like a mill race.

On the jagged rocks were chunks of timbers and twisted iron rods and rails, all that remained of the bridge

that had spanned the narrow cleft. Beyond the abutment on the opposite side, the road climbed up through the

Upstream and down, the gorge widened, its rocky walls giving way to steep banks with scrubby trees, while

the creek zigzagged in a series of cascades so far below that it would be a few hours' work to go down one

side and up the other. It was Winstead who spoke above the surging roar as he turned to Lou Norvel:

"Why, that bridge was as solid as the rock it was built on when I drove across it with Gregg Austin. What

"The timbers went rotten and the irons loosened. In the summer we'd have noticed it in time. But in winter,

with the road closed, it went and gave under the weight of all the snow that piled on top."

A police photographer took pictures of the abutments and the wreckage in the gorge. Next, Frisbee had him

take pictures of the group, to establish the exact date. Cranston borrowed Harry's camera and took some

pictures along the gorge. Then, coming out of the woods, he stopped to shoot some pictures of the Norvel's

new dairy shed, which was a modified quonset. In addition to the lightweight metal girders that formed the

skeleton frame, there were others stacked on the ground. Cranston was photographing those when the

"What do you want pictures of this for? Out there in the road is where you should take pictures, over by

"You are talking to the wrong man," returned Cranston. "Tell all that to Mr. Frisbee, who is standing right

Just to prove he was the man in charge, Frisbee reacted as Cranston anticipated. He not only okayed

Cranston's pictures, he ordered the police photographer to take some official shots. While that was being

"What about the truckers who brought these materials here? They knew the bridge was out, so their testimony

"That's right," agreed Frisbee. He turned to Hank. "How often did the supply truck come up here?"

"Whenever there was stuff to deliver," replied Hank. "Maybe a couple of times a week."

"I wouldn't know. Different guys came at different times. They work for the Vanderkill Hauling Company

While Frisbee was making notes of that, Cranston returned the camera to Harry and undertoned:

"Follow the ruts back across the field and get some closeup shots of the tire tracks left by that truck."

While Harry was strolling away, the rest of the group went down to the farmhouse, which was a rambling old

structure with sheds and outbuildings that had been added through the years. Inside, however, it was neat and

tidy. There, Lou Norvel dug into an old desk and brought out title deeds, agreements and correspondence that

"These may help us," Winstead told Frisbee. "Lou and Hank bought this farm piece by piece from Austin,

who made his profit by grabbing up little farms and squeezing out small landholders all around. Some of the

"That's right," agreed Lou, "because now that we own the property, they are just as mad at us, even if Austin

did make the big profit. That's why we keep those shotguns handy" he gestured to a corner "to chase off

Outside the house, Harry joined Cranston in his car; and during the ride back to Austin's, Harry reported that

he had taken some good pictures of the truck tracks. At Austin's, Frisbee made a call to the Vanderkill

Hauling Company and found out that they rented trucks to local companies and individuals who made

deliveries in the area. They stated that they would send Frisbee a list of all rentals during the past two months

Winstead, meanwhile, was busy checking the data that the Norvels had given him, comparing names with

those in Austin's files. Frisbee's secretary was helping him; and now Winstead came from the office with a

"We just found a memo pad among the papers in Austin's desk." Winstead handed the pad to Frisbee. "It

looks as though somebody tore off the top sheet, because you can still see the impression of the writing on

Frisbee studied the pad and agreed. He handed the pad to the fingerprint specialist, who applied powdered

graphite to fill in the indentations. The writing soon became legible, like a carbon copy; and when compared

"I saw Austin at threethirty," confirmed Winstead. "That's when I called Craig Shallick and told him that

Irene and I would meet him at the Twin Peaks Inn. That four o'clock call to Mutual was probably about

"Quite right, sir," put in Chester, who was standing by. "I heard Mr. Austin make it. He took a nap from

"And we know that Mark Wade came at sixthirty," added Frisbee, "and that Commissioner Weston arrived

"Not quite," put in the technician, who was applying a brush farther down the memo sheet. "Take a look at

By "these" he meant fingerprints, which had been scarcely noticeable until the pad was dusted, but which

"Whoever tore off the top sheet must have been pressing down on the pad with his other hand. Check those

The technician did as ordered, but none of the prints tallied. The fingerprints of Winstead, Shallick, Irene,

Wade, Rick even Chester's all differed from those on the pad, thus eliminating all persons known to have

"Some outsider's fingerprints," declared Frisbee. "He must have torn off Austin's memo and taken it with

From his speculative tone, Frisbee could have been covering his own temporary confusion, but he promptly

"Send copies of those prints to Washington right away," Frisbee told the technician. "Let's see what the FBI

files have to show." He swung to Winstead. "What else is missing besides the top sheet of this memo pad?"

"It's hard to say," returned Winstead, "except that we found no money in Austin's desk, though I am quite

"And the killer would have taken it," nodded Frisbee, "if only to make the motive look like robbery. Still, a

few dollars wouldn't matter." He turned to Chester. "How much petty cash did Mr. Austin keep in his desk?"

"I never could say exactly," replied Chester, "but almost invariably, he had upward of five thousand dollars

"Five thousand dollars!" broke in Frisbee. "Why, that would be enough to make robbery the whole motive."

He spoke to his secretary. "List the names of all persons who dealt with Gregg Austin. Have them ready

That ended the investigation for the day, but Frisbee stressed that he would like to have everyone available

for a few days more, so Cranston agreed to stay over. His manner, though, was reluctant, which Harry knew

was a pose on his chief's part to create the impression that his interest in the case was slight. The afternoon

was fairly well along when they left Austin's and Harry expected Cranston to drive into Vanderkill. Instead,

he headed straight for Thunder Cliff Highway. Noting Harry's surprise, Cranston gave a slight smile.

"I know what you have in mind, Vincent, and I agree. I would like to check on those trucks, but it would be

too obvious right now. Let Frisbee get his reports first. We'll have a chance to look them over and plan

They reached the sharp curves and were hitting them fast as the highway climbed, but with each spurt,

"You can't cut the time much," Cranston decided, "no matter how you try or what kind of car you have; and

at night it is still harder. Right now, though, we are sure no car is close behind us. So have your camera

Harry followed instructions without realizing why until Cranston made a quick stop at the very space where

the murder truck had lurked the night before. There, Cranston nudged Harry to the ground, saying:

"Look for any tire tracks that the truck left. Shoot some closeups of them, like you did over at the Norvels."

The parking space itself was gravelly, but a patch of dirt on the shoulder of the highway showed the marks

that Harry wanted. He shot his pictures and clambered back in the car so quickly that they were on their way

again before any other cars appeared from either direction. The sky was darkening as they passed Twin Peaks

Bridge, for heavy, ominous clouds were gathering beyond the mountains across the river.

Cranston drove on to the arrow that marked this end of Ragged Gap Road. There, he turned eastward and

continued up the road to the barrier, where he had stopped the night before. Now, in what was still good

daylight, Cranston stepped out as himself not The Shadow and beckoned Harry along. Cranston pointed

to the legs of the barrier. Harry noticed deep indentations and scruff marks in the road beside them.

"Somebody has moved this since we stopped here before," declared Cranston. "But that was early in the

evening, so early that people were still arriving at Austin's; not leaving there."

With that, Cranston swung the barrier aside and turned toward the car, telling Harry over his shoulder:

Harry complied and rejoined Cranston in the car. The dirt road became steeper during the next mile and the

wooded slopes narrowed on each side, with low but jagged crags that gave Ragged Gap its name. Then, as

the road reached a hump and leveled for a brief stretch, Cranston stopped the car at what Harry thought at

first was a narrow, littleused crossroad, until he saw instead that it was actually a wide, wellworn footpath.

This was the Appalachian Trail, which followed the ridge and dipped down to cross Ragged Gap Road and

continue up the other side. No hikers were in sight for the same two reasons that should have applied with

Don Morland: the season was early and the hour was late. It was growing dark beneath the trees as Cranston

and Harry sat there in a silence broken only by the evening songs of the birds and the chirp of crickets. As

Cranston spoke amid these hushed surroundings his words had something of The Shadow's tone.

"An odd thing, Vincent," observed Cranston, "with all the mileage required to skirt these mountain ranges,

here we are at the junction of two shortcuts. When that bridge was open, you could drive over through the

Gap in ten minutes, or less, as Winstead said. Even now, a hiker could make it from the Twin Peaks Bridge to

Colonial Town in an hour, along the Trail. It would take nearly that long to drive around."

Harry, his eyes halfclosed, was visualizing all that. How the road map showed Thunder Cliff Highway

wangling twentysix miles up the river to Rockwood with another ten across to Hickory Corners, which was

"You would think that they would improve this road," remarked Harry, "considering all the mileage it would

"Previous generations thought in terms of shortcuts," commented Cranston. "Ours deals in devious ways.

Today, crosstrails are likely to produce cross purposes, with certain people using them to their own

With that, Cranston started the motor, but instead of turning the car about as Harry expected, he continued on

beyond the Bump, down the stretch toward Ragged Creek gorge, a real dead end. It was darker now, beneath

the thickening canopy of trees, with the sky behind them growing blacker; and Cranston had to turn on the

headlights to pick out the road. Harry, remembering the drop off at the gorge, found his nerves becoming

"Frankly, yes," Harry acknowledged. "Coming the other way, you have a fringe of trees to warn you. This

"And when daylight shows through," reminded Cranston, "the trees will be thinning out and will tell us when

As Cranston spoke, patches of sky became visible through the higher boughs ahead. Cranston slowed down

and found a spot just wide enough to turn the car around, which he did in short stints, to avoid the side

ditches. With each swing, the headlights cut a swath at a new angle; and once the lights produced a crackle

from the brush, as a deer went springing away, only to halt and stare, as if hypnotized by the beam. Then the

light swung away, the deer was off again, and Cranston had the car fully turned around.

Yet, by some oddity, the swath of light still seemed to sweep beneath the trees, like a delayed reflection.

Puzzled, Harry turned around to look down the road toward the gorge, which was now only about a hundred

"I see you noticed that sweeping light, Vincent," came Cranston's tone. "Keep watching and see what

Cranston turned off the car lights and through the trees beyond the gorge Harry again saw what appeared to

be a reflected glare. A moment later, it blanked out, just as the car's headlights had.

"Our friends the Norvels?" interposed Cranston. "Definitely, yes. They are allergic to prowlers, remember?

They saw our lights and turned on one of their own; but now they have turned it off, hoping we won't see it.

Odd that they should be so skittish when prowlers are on the other side of the gorge, as we are, where no

crossing is possible. So wait here, Vincent" Cranston's tone was changing now, as was his appearance

Cranston, his arms and shoulders already cloaked, was drawing the slouch hat down over his eyes as he

sidled from the driver's seat and eased the car door shut. Harry, emerging from his own side of the car, caught

what he thought was a cloaked figure as it merged with the lower darkness of the road. Then, there was no

tracing The Shadow's course, though Harry knew instinctively that his chief's objective was the edge of the

This was it, again. Harry could recall many times when The Shadow had left him to venture on some

dangerous foray. Compared to this, Harry's adventure on Thunder Cliff Highway had been mild. There, his

judgment had been bolstered by The Shadow's, who always came through in the pinch. Now, The Shadow

was operating on his own, with Harry in reserve. That was easier, yes, in ninetynine cases out of a hundred,

when Harry did not have to come through at all. But the hundredth case could make the difference. When it

Harry didn't realize how long he had debated that question until he saw a quick, repeated blink of a tiny light

down by the brink of the gorge. It couldn't be a firefly's gleam, for it came in three long glimmers; then a

long, a short, a long; finally three shorts and a long one. It was The Shadow's flashlight, spelling, "O.K.V.,"

All was right with Harry, for he could see The Shadow's light. But Harry could see other blinks beyond the

gorge, due to his higher altitude; and he was certain that The Shadow could not spot them down below,

because of the fringing trees. Those lights meant the Norvel brothers; they had spotted Cranston's car, as he

had said. Now, they were moving up to their side of the gorge, where The Shadow, even now, was probing

That was something The Shadow needed to know. On impulse, Harry started down the road, picking his way

by the fading light that came through the tree tops, hoping to warn his chief. But Harry was too late for that.

He was less than halfway down the slanting stretch when a powerful searchlight blazed from beyond the

gorge. It was mounted on the body of a truck that Harry could see outlined against the darkening sky; and

flanking the beam, just visible in its fringes, were the Norvel brothers, one on either side, each armed with a

The searchlight was focused slightly downward toward the gorge, so Harry was above the level of its beam.

But caught squarely in the glare, like a moth against a flame, was the cloaked figure of The Shadow, hovering

In response, Harry heard The Shadow's challenging laugh, taunting, fading, like the cloaked figure that

weaved away from the glare, then twisted forward and veered along the very edge of the gorge, to trick the

man behind the searchlight into turning it the other way. A few moments more and The Shadow would have

blended with the blackness of the tree trunks beside the road, but the brazen brothers did not allow that

Up came their shotguns, delivering simultaneous spurts, each booming from halfway between hip and

shoulder. All in that same split second, Harry saw The Shadow's cloaked form fold and vanish over the brink,

FOR A LONG, endless moment, the whole scene was as frozen as Harry's own gaze. From his high angle,

the cleft of the gorge was plainly discernible and he realized too well that The Shadow could not have made a

last moment dart to cover at either side of the road. Harry had seen his cloaked chief use those fadeaway

tactics so often that he was one man who was seldom fooled by them; in fact, The Shadow had trained him to

Now, that training was wasted. Harry had been too late in the pinch and The Shadow had gone beyond

Harry's ability to rescue him. All Harry could possibly do now would be to deliver vengeance for The

Shadow. There had been times when The Shadow himself had dealt in vengeance, though never cruelly,

never even coldly. But Harry wasn't limiting himself on those counts, not where the Norvels were concerned.

Caution was Harry's policy as he drew a .45 automatic and moved down closer to the fringe of the

searchlight's beam. Once in the glare, he would be outnumbered twotoone by those shotgun specialists, the

Norvels. He would have to rush them, then stop in his tracks before they could get out of theirs, so he could

Harry was calculating this as nicely as if he had only target practice in mind, not the bigger task of

vengeance. Harry's cause was helped when one of the Norvels it looked like Lou swung about and waved

both arms into the searchlight's blaze. A nice target he would have been right then, except that the range was

still too long. But when the other brother also turned, it gave Harry his chance to dash forward, which he did.

Momentarily, he was in the full light, only to halt, still unnoticed as the searchlight blinked off.

Now, against the dulling sky, Harry saw the full outline of the truck and its bulk reminded him of the one that

had juggernauted at him over on Thunder Cliff Highway. This time, it suddenly took off in the other

direction, heading down the eastern slope of Ragged Gap Road, its driver eager to reach the turnpike and be

As for the Norvel brothers, they were moving closer toward the gorge, picking their way with flashlights.

That was to Harry's advantage, for he crept down the road on his side without showing a light at all. When

Lou and Hank reached the gorge they pointed their flashlights straight down and studied the depths, while

Harry, gauging his approach by the increasing roar from the creek, stopped on the opposite brink.

There, Harry could hear the voices of the murderous pair above the tumult; but they were crouched too low

for him to risk a pot shot. Instead, Harry worked his left hand to the very edge of the stone abutment,

identified it and hunched his body forward to the limit, so that his gun hand, and his head and shoulder above

"That's him down there," Hank's voice was saying, nervously. "See his body on those rocks? What if they

"They'll find a chunk of timber from the bridge," snapped Lou. "That's all you see down there, Hank, so stop

imagining things. Whoever the guy was, he's been swept downstream" Lou swung his flashlight in that

"For taking a couple of shots at some prowler in the dark? How are they going to prove we did it? Get hold

Lou flicked off his light and Hank did the same. They both raised up, forming perfect silhouettes against the

still lighted sky. With a forward thrust of his gun, Harry was ready to topple them like the figures on a

shooting gallery rack, for they were at just about that range, when something halted his trigger squeeze.

If the foaming cataract had lashed up from two hundred feet below and splashed Harry squarely in the face,

he couldn't have been more amazed. The voice, however, came from only a few feet below, yet in the solid

blackness beneath the brink, Harry, looking down, could not trace The Shadow's outline.

Good advice, that. Harry was in the brush by the time Lou Norvel gave his powerful flashlight a wide sweep

across the gorge and up the slope of the roadway, hoping perhaps to spot a parked car somewhere toward the

Gap. When the light showed nothing, Lou turned it off, without lowering it below the level of the old stone

abutment. Hence, he failed to spy The Shadow in his precarious perch, which was fortunate for both Lou and

his brother Hank, as his automatic would have withered them if he had been detected.

The brothers headed off toward their farmhouse, using their flashlights sparingly. Harry emerged from the

brush as The Shadow pulled himself up over the brink from a ledge five feet below. When the departing

lights faded, The Shadow focused his flashlight on the jutting step where he had taken refuge. Harry saw that

it extended three feet out from the abutment, forming part of it. The ledge had deep indentations at the sides.

"Those are where the iron rods were fixed," stated The Shadow, "so it should be simple to rebuild the bridge

by fitting new supports in place. I noticed this ledge earlier today while looking across from the other side."

To emphasize that, The Shadow turned his light across the gorge, showing the opposite abutment from which

the Norvels had looked down. It was identical, with a jutting threefoot shelf; but unless a person leaned far

over, it was difficult to realize how far those stone steps did project. But The Shadow had been aware of it.

When the searchlight caught him, he had dropped to the handy perch a splitsecond before the shotguns

blasted, knowing that he would be below their path of fire as well as the searchlight's gleam.

Looking up, Harry saw enough light above the trees to realize that The Shadow, halfreclining unseen on the

ledge, had easily spotted the Norvels and Harry as well, all outlined against the sky. His position had been

perfect. With automatic ready, he would have settled the murderous brothers instantly, if they had spotted

Now, The Shadow had a new purpose, for he was urging Harry up the road toward the car. Once they were in

it, The Shadow started the motor, clicked on the lights and gunned the car up to the hump and over it, without

even a side glance as they whizzed across the Trail. It was dark ahead, now, except for the glare of the

headlights and The Shadow clipped along at forty miles an hour, a faster speed than Winstead's best estimate.

In mere minutes, they were down at the road barrier. Harry hopped out, swung the block wide and closed it as

The Shadow drove through. Then Harry was back in the car and they made a short, swift run of a mile down

to Thunder Cliff Highway and a mile and half north along it, all in three minutes, which The Shadow capped

by swinging in to the Hudson View Tavern and parking along with the cars that had already arrived there for

The Shadow was Cranston again as he and Harry left the car and entered the tavern. There was no sunset, for

the whole sky was blackened by thunder clouds and occasional lightning streaks showed the black river far

below. When they were inside, at a corner table in the lounge where they ordered drinks, Cranston quietly

"I thought as much." Cranston gave a reflective smile, "and now you are thinking that we should be out trying

"Well, not exactly," returned Harry. "There are so many ways it could have gone, like down through

Vanderkill or up past Hickory Corners. Unless it doubled around this way, we would never have a chance of

"And if we were looking for it right now, Vincent, somebody would be spotting us. In fact, all cars on

Thunder Cliff Highway and those crossing Twin Peaks Bridge are probably being spotted on the chance that

ours is one of them. This whole area is combed with pitfalls and alive with spies who have been ordered to

"We can, and the master mind behind the thing is hoping that we try that plan. For what can we bag? Some

truckmen, who will play dumb and say they didn't see a car go through a rail; or a couple of farmers who

will admit they fired shotguns to protect their property, but that nobody was there."

"Small parts, yes. So small that they are merely tiny cogs that can be detached and left spinning on their own.

But if we reveal ourselves, they will send the word along. Already, they have alerted the entire ring, which is

"Yes, so it could lead us on a wild chase. Meanwhile, we would be tagged by others as we went along. This

time both of us would probably wind up in some nice cool, refreshing place like the bottom of the Hudson

River or a twohundredfoot gorge." Cranston paused and his smile was whimsical. "This time we would

"We have one thing in common, Vincent. We are both dead so we can't possibly be ourselves. That is, the

man who snooped around Twin Mountain Inn has presumably been liquidated. The same applies to the

prowler who was down at Ragged Creek gorge tonight. Of course, you and I are still around, Vincent, so that

"But some of those spies, as you term them, should certainly provide a lead to someone higher and so on up

"Quite right, Vincent, and that calls for counterespionage, so I intend to provide it. The Austin case is getting

big enough to bring Burke out here to cover it. Marsland is a good horseman and would enjoy a stay at

Wade's dude ranch. A golfer like Crofton would be a welcome guest at the country clubs where young Rick

Langdon hangs out. Mann is the very sort who would fit in with Shallick's ultra social set. I shall call

While Cranston was making the call, Harry ran over the list of names mentally and in more detail. All were

The Shadow's agents, Harry's own companions in arms. Clyde Burke, police reporter for the New York

Classic, was often assigned to cases like the Austin murder. Cliff Marsland was both rugged and capable; the

same applied to Miles Crofton. Together, they formed a real sock'em and rock'em duo. Rutledge Mann,

mild, rotund and unobtrusive, had a way of frequenting the most exclusive places and absorbing all that

As for Burbank, he was The Shadow's contact man, who had all these agents and more on constant tap. Harry

seldom saw Burbank, but it was easy to picture him, a steadytoned man seated at a switchboard, with a short

wave at one hand and reams of files at the other, relaying instructions from The Shadow, furnishing agents

with prompt information, filling in coolly by remote control in some of the most drastic situations, when The

Shadow was too heavily engaged to call the shots himself. Not only that, Burbank, like all his equipment, was

mobile. When needed, he might be anywhere. So this was the compact, selfoperating, and above all, secret

organization that The Shadow intended to move in to counter a criminal group that apparently straddled the

Hudson highlands like an unseen octopus. As Harry pictured it, the opposing faction might be ten times as

large as The Shadow's chosen agents, but it was probably not onetenth as efficient. Harry, as The Shadow's

oldest agent in point of service, well knew the capabilities of the entire crew. A few more guests were

entering the cocktail lounge when Cranston returned from his phone call, but the place was still only sparsely

occupied. A waiter was bringing drinks to Cranston's table and when he had gone, Harry put the query to

Cranston interrupted with a gesture so slight that only Harry could have caught it. Without moving his lips,

By "they" Cranston referred to two men and a woman who had entered singly, but were now greeting one

"I'm sure Sylvia should be here by now. She was leaving the house when I phoned her and I had to drive a lot

"Suppose I phone her again," said one of the men. "You and Jack take a table and order some drinks. Make

The girl started toward a table, then chose another near where Cranston and Harry were seated. Jack then

suggested taking a table close by the door, so they could see Sylvia if she showed up. That way, they covered

enough of the room to get a close look at everybody or to catch snatches of their conversation. Cranston,

apparently, did not notice them as he was flagging the waiter for another drink. But when Jack and the girl

"They would look better in a beer parlor than a cocktail lounge. They will be making the rounds of those,

Cranston's opinion was based on their attire as much as their manner. The girl was wearing slacks and her

friend Jack had on heavy boots along with his sport clothes, hardly the customary garb for a somewhat

conventional place like the Hudson View. The other man was back now, telling his two friends:

"They'll forget all about Sylvia," Cranston told Harry, "and they will all go away in the same car together

While the group was still stalling, another man entered and Cranston recognized his old friend, Rufus Palford.

Instead of greeting him, Cranston looked the other way, leaving it to Palford to make the opening overtures,

which Palford did, just as the waiter was serving the second round of drinks at Cranston's table. Palford came

over, shakily but eagerly, and during the greetings, he invited Cranston and Harry to have dinner with him.

"You must have dinner with us, Palford. We've been waiting for a table for the last half hour, so it should be

Cranston spoke rather loudly and his mention of "the last half hour" carried to the group by the door.

Apparently, they'd given clearance to all other persons present and that clinched it for Cranston and Harry as

well. The group paid for their drinks and left without waiting for Sylvia, exactly as Cranston had said they

would. Through the side window of the lounge Harry saw Jack climb behind the wheel of a beaten looking

car, where his two companions joined him, also as Cranston had predicted. All that talk of "Sylvia" had been

During dinner, Palford sparkled in what must have been his old familiar style, judging from Cranston's

pleased reaction. Palford's voice was crackly, though, and his face wore a somewhat forced smile while he

tilted his head to one side and looked up with quick, birdlike blinks. Occasionally his voice saddened, as

when Cranston mentioned that Commissioner Weston had come out here to see Gregg Austin.

"Too bad about Austin," said Palford, with an emphatic shake of his tilted head. "He was a very fine chap.

"Of course. Quite well, in a way. I bought Folly Castle from him, along with all sorts of antique weapons and

other oddities that went with the place. I wanted those most of all, so I could add my own collections to

"With little land grabbers, yes, because they tried to beat him at his own game. But Folly Castle was a white

elephant and we both knew it, so we came to sensible terms. Austin and I were good friends from then on."

Instantly, Palford's lips tightened as they had before; but at the close view of the dinner table, the reason was

more evident. Palford was not just trying to repress his habitual smile; he was holding back a quiver that

threatened to turn his face into a drooping drool. His eyes were darting, in hunted fashion, until he managed

to control them with his quick blinks. He was able, then, to declaim, as though rehearsed:

Palford was looking straight at Cranston and Harry was amazed by the glow that came to Palford's gaze, until

he suddenly realized that it was a reflection of Cranston's own glint. More precisely, Cranston had turned on

the hypnotic power of The Shadow's burning eyes to give his old friend Palford a quota of new confidence.

But Cranston's gaze had become merely casual when Harry looked his way, for by then, Palford was more

himself again, his eyes blinking only slightly, his lips wearing their friendly smile as he tilted his head and

"Let's talk about Folly Castle. Or, better still, let's go there right now. There is much there to remind you of

places where we both have been" Palford's lips tightened only momentarily "that is, places outside of

Tibet. You will like Folly Castle, Cranston, indeed you will. You will want to stay there a long time a very

"Because of the storm. I wouldn't want to get caught in the middle of it." Cranston arose, gave Palford a light

clap on the back, "You had better get back to Folly Castle, while Vincent and I go our own way. We can visit

During dinner, the lightning flashes had been getting more vivid and now a terrific crackle emphasized

Cranston's claim that the storm was close. The burst of thunder that followed seemed to roll up from the

Hudson and jar the walls of the old tavern. The proprietor, Sumner, was at the door of the dining room,

anxiously beckoning to the departing guests and saying, "The rain will come at any moment now! At any

"Call Mr. Palford's car," Cranston told Sumner. "Ours is just across the lot." He turned and clasped Palford's

Sumner waved and a limousine rolled forward with a chauffeur at the wheel, to pick up the owner of Folly

Castle. By then, Cranston and Harry were in their car, but Cranston let Palford's car pull from the driveway

Go south they did, as the storm broke with full fury. The rain pelleted hard enough to make the driving

difficult, until the lightning etched the road ahead as plainly as in daylight. That, to Harry, was too plainly,

for it made Thunder Cliff Highway live up to its name. Above were towering crags, topped by swaying trees.

Each brilliant glare showed bulging rocks that threatened to topple and hurl destruction upon the car below.

Jagged chains of lightning were splitting trees along the slope and at any moment one of those might tumble

Then, worse than such threats, came sheets of rain that turned the whole highway into a tributary of the

Hudson, cutting the visibility so close to zero that Cranston was actually guided by those guardrails that had

But through it all, lightning, rain and flood, Cranston drove calmly, steadily, as he chuckled in a tone that had

"At least we are on the road alone tonight, Vincent, and headed the way we want to go. Our only real problem

THE NEXT MORNING, Cranston had Harry's pictures developed and enlarged, Cranston held a negative to

"Which they should," returned Harry, "since one is the negative and the other the positive."

"Except that the negative is a shot of the tire tracks at the Norvel farm, while the positive is that picture you

Harry did a doubletake when he heard that; then he saw that Cranston was right. By a simple matching test,

Cranston had proved that the murder truck had come from the Norvel farm earlier, where, according to the

two brothers, it had been delivering girders and other materials for their halfconstructed dairy shed. But

considering the way that the Norvels had later shown their hand, it was doubtful that their word could be

"That truck last night wasn't delivering building materials," said Harry. "Do you think the Norvels had it

"Hardly," returned Cranston. "There are plenty of good hiding spots among those old farm buildings and their

cellars, but none big enough for a truck. It is more likely that the truck came around to pick up something late

"And one thing we won't be able to pick up today is more tire tracks; not after all that rain last night."

"That works in our favor, too, Vincent. Nobody will be able to trace the tire tracks that our car left, coming

As he spoke, Cranston was studying the prints of the pictures that he personally had taken of the construction

work and stacks of extra girders that the Norvels were using for their dairy shed. Evidently, he was pleased

with them, for Cranston took them along when he and Harry drove north on the turnpike to the county

courthouse at Kingsburg, where they found Frisbee in his office. Cranston showed Frisbee the shed pictures

and the county detective promptly produced those that his own photographer had taken, telling Cranston that

Cranston helped himself to a full set, including photos showing the tire treads of all the cars that had been at

Austin's, remarking that he would show them to Commissioner Weston in New York. That pleased Frisbee,

who was anxious to impress everyone with his ability as an investigator. In fact, Frisbee swelled with special

"The Austin murder is now big news. Only this morning, the New York Classic phoned to say that they were

sending their star reporter, Clyde Burke, to cover the case. What do you think of that, Cranston?"

"What about those truckers who hauled the girders up to the Norvel farm. Any word on them?"

"Oh, yes." Frisbee dealt through a stack of reports. "I've talked to six different men who made deliveries up

there at one time or another. They all saw that the bridge was out, so I am getting affidavits from them, with

"No, because nobody knows who was on that truck. Its winch was out of order, so it was left at the repair

shop instead of being returned to the regular garage where it was rented. But I have enough witnesses where

Cranston differed with that opinion, though he didn't say so. Frisbee's phone began ringing and while he was

answering it, Cranston gave Harry a nod, meaning that they would visit the repair shop on their own, later.

Frisbee never did get back to the subject of the truck, because just as he finished the phone call, Winstead

"This is final," announced Winstead, in his stolid way, "and I must say this about Austin. He was consistent.

Winstead's squarish face lost its stolid looks as he tilted his head, spread his lips in a senile smile and raised

"You mean the chap who looks like this and talks this way?" He blinked his eyes in perfect imitation of

"One and the same," clucked Winstead, in Palford's style. "Call it either, it was still a bargain, a real white

elephant." Then, ending his comedy, Winstead added in his own serious style: "Yes, Folly Castle was an

"The first time," explained Winstead, "it cost so much to repair, that Austin simply had to unload it or go

broke. The man who bought it couldn't keep up the payments, so Austin took it back, thinking he could build

something new there. But the wreckers wanted too much to tear down the castle, so Austin tried to unload its

furnishings on Palford, along with a lot of antique weapons in the place. But Palford wouldn't buy until the

"Since that is the case," put in Frisbee, "we won't put Palford on the list. In fact, we won't bother with the list

at all, until we get that fingerprint report from Washington. It is due at any time now."

An impatient quarter hour followed; then Frisbee's teletype began to click. The message that came through

was a surprise indeed to Harry Vincent, though Lamont Cranston didn't take it that way.

"Those prints belong to a man named Donald C. Morland," announced Frisbee, "better known as Don

Morland. He is a mining engineer, at present unemployed, but with experience in Peru, Mexico and Canada.

Frisbee was reaching for the phone to call that organization, when the teletype resumed its rattle. Apparently,

Morland's background made him something of a security risk, for Washington had already checked on his

more recent activities and was sending on a detailed report, which Frisbee called off as it came through.

Between jobs, Morland went on hiking trips which he combined with field excursions in search of minerals.

These were conducted under the auspices of various colleges and Morland had been planning a series of

lectures and field trips at Sheffield Junior College in Sheffield, Connecticut, just over the line from New York

State. He could be reached there through Professor Herbert Okum, head of the Geological Department.

No more data came through, so Frisbee made a long distance call to Sheffield and talked to Professor Okum,

stating that International Mineralogists were anxious to contact Don Morland right away. As Frisbee talked,

he jotted down notes that he punctuated with occasional questions. The call finished, Frisbee turned to the

"Okum received a postcard from Don this morning, saying that he was hiking up to Sheffield along the

Appalachian Trail. The card showed a picture of the big community room in Twin Peaks Inn. It had a

"The evening Gregg Austin was murdered," declared Winstead, in a solemn tone. "If Don Morland had

mailed that card at Twin Peaks Inn, it would have gone out from a post office on the other side of the river.

"Okum said that Don has a girl friend named Mildred Joslyn, who lives in Henniker, New York," stated

Soon, Frisbee had Mildred on long distance and was giving her the same routine about International

Mineralogists. After a brief conversation, Frisbee hung up with a satisfied smile.

"She got a postcard, too," he said, "only it showed the outside of Twin Peaks Inn. Same postmark, Vanderkill,

same time, ten o'clock, night before last. Let's see: There are two pickups, one at three o'clock, another at

nine. So Don must have mailed those cards some time after three o'clock. How long after, is the next

Harry Vincent could have given a fairly good answer to that question, but he played strictly dumb, in

response to a knowing glance that Cranston gave him. It was Winstead who came through with a suggestion:

"That would depend on when Morland left Twin Peaks Inn. Why don't you call the desk over there and find

out if the clerk remembers a hiker buying postcards. There can't be many on the Trail this early in the

Frisbee made the call with prompt results. His voice became more eager as he talked, his hand more rapid as

"The clerk remembers him all right," announced Frisbee. "He says Morland bought the cards and intended to

mail them in Colonial Town, so they would go out that night. It was about an hour before sunset, time enough

for Don to have hiked there before dark." He paused, rubbed his heavy jaw and boomed in a demanding tone:

"But in that case the cards should have a Colonial Town postmark. He must have come into Vanderkill

instead." He paused, questioning his logic. "Twelve miles along the Thunder Cliff Highway, with its traffic

"Not for a Trail hiker, but all right for a hitch hiker," Winstead answered. "Morland probably hitched a ride as

soon as he crossed Twin Peaks Bridge. Most anybody would pick up a man in a regular hiking outfit. I know

"But you didn't see any hikers when you drove in from Twin Peaks Inn with Irene?"

"No," replied Winstead, "but it was beginning to get dark by then. From what the clerk just told you, Morland

must have hitched a ride pretty well ahead of us. We certainly didn't see any hiker on the highway."

"So Don Morland must have ridden in as far as Vanderkill," mused Frisbee. "Now, let's see, just where would

"There's a mailbox alongside the walk in that underpass beneath Northern Turnpike," informed Winstead.

"You know, where Pleasant Valley Road goes through. I've often dropped mail there after leaving Austin's

"That fits perfectly!" enthused Frisbee. "All Don Morland had to do was walk on to Austin's and stay out of

sight until all the cars had come and gone. Then he could move in quickly to rob Austin of his money and

murder him, knowing it would be blamed on someone who had been in the house. Then he was heading along

the Valley road again, to get back to the Appalachian Trail, giving himself a perfect alibi except for

Frisbee was on his feet, strutting about as though he had personally analyzed the Don Morland angle from

start to finish, from alpha to omega, without even an iota of credit for Winstead, who took it all quite stolidly.

"The newspapers will have their big story before today is over," assured Frisbee. "But not a word is to go out

He spread a big map on his desk, one that showed the lower portion of New York State in great detail. With a

red crayon pencil, Frisbee traced the zigzag of the Appalachian Trail from the Hudson River to the

Connecticut line, a distance of some sixty miles, over more than slightly rugged terrain.

"Professor Okum figures that Don Morland will take three days or possibly four to cover that whole stretch,"

stated Frisbee. "It depends on how long Don stops to look at old abandoned mines along the way, which is a

habit of his, as might be expected with a mining engineer. Yesterday was Don's first full hiking day; today is

the second, so by noon, he will be only halfway along, if that far. And by then" Frisbee's strong features

Frisbee was using a blue pencil now, to checkmark every spot where a road or highway crossed the

Appalachian Trail, as well as the lesser trails that fed into it and the side paths that branched from it.

"We'll alert the police of every township, as well as all state police patrols and even every game warden along

the way," continued Frisbee, "so they can move in and blanket every sector, all at once. They will pick up

every hiker that they find and Don Morland will be one of them. If he has Austin's money on him, he will be

selfincriminated. If he doesn't have it, we'll find where he hid it, unless he can explain away those

With that, Frisbee began to wave the visitors from his office, so that he and his staff could put the dragnet

"If we are really closing in by the time Burke and those other reporters get here," declared Frisbee, "I'll let

them go along with us." He turned to Cranston. "Meanwhile, you may as well go back to New York, unless

"I'll stay long enough to drop in on Rufus Palford," interposed Cranston. "He was very insistent that Vincent

Upon leaving the courthouse, Cranston drove back to the motel, where he and Harry checked out. Next, they

went into Vanderkill, where Cranston stopped to have his brakes checked at an automobile repair shop,

saying that the motel had recommended that he go there. Harry strolled about while Cranston was watching

the checkup. During that interim, Harry found a chance to shoot some nice closeup pictures of a truck that

was parked out back with its winch dismantled. Harry was particularly interested in some close shots of the

From there, Cranston and Harry drove north along the Hudson, which today was a placid blue against the soft

green of the rising hills, a striking contrast to the stormy blackness of the night before. They crossed the

bridge and had a late lunch at Twin Peaks Inn, where Cranston reviewed Harry's early adventures and

"You crossed somebody's path, Vincent, and you stepped on their toes when you did. I have an idea how

matters stand, but there are pieces still to be fitted in the jigsaw. First, I must call Burbank and relay some

Cranston was on the phone for several minutes; then he returned and gave Harry the nod. They left the inn,

drove back across the bridge, turned north and sped past the Hudson View Tavern on to the town of

Rockwood. There, Cranston took the road that continued north along the river, working steadily down toward

Harry realized now that they were accepting Palford's invitation to visit Folly Castle, whatever the result

might be. This was one of those rare times when Harry Vincent wondered if even The Shadow knew!

THE EVERCHANGING Hudson presented another of its varied aspects, when viewed from this lower

altitude, where the River Road followed the contour of a gradual slope that shelved inward toward the

receding hills. Here, grassy mounds and open knolls vied with wooded domes and craggy cliffs, while

occasional roads ascended to houses that sparsely studded the higher reaches. Across the river, however, the

scene was more mountainous than ever. Towering green summits blackened the water with their shadows, so

The railroad ran between the highway and the river, cutting through low hillocks or slight rises, which the

highway surmounted. At one such rise, an arrow pointed to a bridge that crossed the track, with a sign saying

Castle Point. Cranston swung onto the bridge, which was strong and well built, though its wooden planking

clattered as the car crossed it. Then, the side road dipped gradually toward a narrow neck of land which

formed a causeway, leading straight into the looming bastion of Folly Castle itself.

That one entrance was through a huge, irongrilled portcullis, a faithful replica of the great sliding gates that

safeguarded the baronial strongholds of the Middle Ages. The castellated walls were also imposing, as were

the square turrets at the corners. But the visitors gained only a brief glimpse of those, for now the portcullis

was grinding straight upward and they were driving in beneath its yawning iron teeth. As Cranston braked the

car in a courtyard, the portcullis clanged down behind them, a grim reminder that they were now within its

Seen from the courtyard, the battlements were forbidding in their bulk, rising in irregular steps and terraces.

But when Cranston and Harry walked through an inner gateway, where Palford was beckoning in his sidling

fashion, the whole effect changed. They were in a great hall, its stone walls carved with bas reliefs of ancient

From there, Palford conducted them through lesser halls and up short stairs to various rooms and apartments,

none of which seemed to be on the same level. It was plain to see why the castle and its furnishings had to be

sold as a unit. In a large dining hall, the massive center table had great blocky legs that were fixed in the

floor. Casement windows were set in the stone walls themselves. Instead of chairs, there were builtin

Each short flight of steps had its permanently carved railing, while the Library had three decks of builtin

book shelves, each with its own balcony. Metal light brackets were part of the grillwork that decorated the

"By the time you removed or dismantled all this, it would be a salvage operation. Anything taken out of here

There were many tapestries on the walls, but those had been brought here by Palford himself. Still more

important was his collection of armor, which not only included the conventional sort worn by Crusaders and

European menatarms, but more ancient types and many examples of Oriental equipage that had been in

"Some of these came with the castle," stated Palford, "but it looked like a Medieval junkyard until I added the

fine Oriental stuff. Now let me show you my real prize, my collection of rare and antique weapons."

Palford led the way in that shambly, sidelong fashion, occasionally giving his head the habitual lift that

Winstead had so cleverly imitated. In the dim light from the tall but narrow windows, all that could be seen of

his face was its widecurved smile and those quickblinking eyes. The group went down a short, wide

stairway and through a double doorway into a huge room which was at about ground level. There, Cranston

and Harry were truly amazed by the vast array of weapons that literally teemed from the walls.

There were broadswords, battleaxes, maces, halberds and other trophies of the days when knighthood

flowered, as well as glaives, halfpikes, poleaxes and other antiquated implements that Palford named as he

indicated them. As with the older armor, these had come with the castle; and again, Palford was prouder of

Those were Filipino bolos, Malayan barongs, a wavybladed kris from Sumatra, curved Gurkha kukris in

assorted sizes, Cuban machetes, Burmese thrusting daggers, Chinese beheading swords and even Scottish

claymores. Australian boomerangs, Sudanese throwing knives, Fiji war lances, Congo war clubs, Zulu spears

and Indian javelins were also part of the collection. There were many varieties of these weapons, along with

"There's just about every weapon that you ever heard of," boasted Palford. "Any that you can think of, just

"What about those long, thinbladed Mongolian swords?" inquired Cranston. "The Sungmas, who called

themselves miracle men, used to bend the blades of those swords into spirals, claiming they had the power of

demons. You certainly should have brought back some of those as souvenirs from Tibet "

Cranston halted before Palford could express himself. Then, clapping Palford's shoulder, Cranston

"Sorry, Palford," he said. "I didn't mean to worry you. What's it like outside the castle? How about showing

Palford's lips were twitching and his eyes again had a hunted look, but thanks to Cranston's sympathy, he

"There is not much to see outside of the castle," said Palford, "but what there is, I'll be glad to show you."

He led the way back up the stairs and out on a high, railed balcony, where they overlooked the river. Cranston

noted that a low wall followed the shore of the Point, clear to the river and that all the space within its bounds

"What is that?" Cranston asked. "An extension of the foundation, so the castle can be built to cover the entire

"Heaven forbid!" cackled Palford. "It's too big already. That's simply the top of the old storage vaults, where

the ammunition was kept. This place used to be a government arsenal, you know. After it was abandoned and

sold, the vaults were closed off permanently. That roof is very strongly constructed, so some day I may make

While they were still looking across the rather extensive enclosure, a powerful cabin cruiser came ploughing

up through the river, passing very close to the Point. It was surprising to see how the sizable boat rolled, for

the Hudson seemed comparatively calm, as though the white plumes that flecked it were nothing more than

wavelets. That, however, was an illusion, due no doubt to the great height of the massive mountains opposite,

Actually, the water was very rough and it took a strong boat to buck it. Yet the master of the wallowing craft

was sitting unperturbed on the rear deck, his rotund body deep in the seat, his arms folded over his ample

stomach and a yachting cap pulled down slantwise over the side if his head. He gave a bored look at the

castle and didn't even bother to raise a hand in response to Palford's friendly wave.

"Another of those snoots," sneered Palford. "They come cruising up the river pretending to be yachtsmen and

acting like a lot of landlubbers. They haven't the first idea of the courtesies that rule the high seas."

Cranston was studying the cruiser through the binoculars and now he handed them to Harry for a look. As the

power boat veered into the trough of the waves, Harry gained a closeup of the indifferent skipper who was

leaving the navigation of the craft to some apprentice. Harry recognized him as The Shadow's agent,

Rutledge Mann, and realized that his very indifference was a tipoff that the coast was clear, the coast in this

"It's getting late, Palford," decided Cranston, "and we must leave you to your arms and armor. We have

greatly enjoyed our visit, so take us inside the castle and find the way out for us."

Palford complied, though he kept asking them to stay for dinner and spend the night, saying that he had

plenty of room and enough servants to take care of everything. That was true enough for during the tour of

the bizarre premises, Cranston and Harry had counted as many as half a dozen stocky but rather mousy men,

who moved about like museum attendants, which in a sense they were, considering that they took care of

One of the drab servitors opened the door to the inner courtyard, while another went to hoist the portcullis. A

few minutes later Cranston was driving up to the bridge across the tracks while Harry was looking back at

Folly Castle, which seemed more grim and gray than ever under the lengthening shadows that were

enshrouding it. The few hours that they had spent there had gone rapidly, even pleasantly, but once outside,

Five minutes more and they were approaching the town of Rockwood, where Cranston purposely slowed

down at a crossing to allow a traffic light to turn red against them. As he did, he gestured to a high slope of

rolling land, where a flag was flying above a squatty clubhouse and widely scattered pennants marked the

"That's the new Highland Country Club," stated Cranston. "Very sporty, they say, because they've used the

old Revolutionary earthworks for bunkers and some of the greens are on emplacements where cannon were

mounted to keep British ships from coming up the Hudson. There's a pair of golfers holding out on a green

"Why, yes. It's Miles Crofton. He's checking back over his scorecard, as though he can't get it right. Knowing

"He is stalling," interposed Cranston, as the traffic light went green and he spurted the car ahead. "That's his

In Rockwood, as with most river towns, they came to one main street that slanted toward the Hudson, with

several side streets, turnoffs and parking spaces where cars might be waiting unnoticed, their drivers even

watching from elsewhere. Outside an old store, half a dozen riding horses were hitched to an old rail and a

squarefaced man in light tan riding jeans and jacket was shortening a stirrup on a saddle.

Harry recognized another agent, Cliff Marsland, as he turned away and strolled into the country store.

Obviously, Cliff had already checked in at Wade's dude ranch and had ridden over to Rockwood with a party

from there. He, too, was giving the "all clear" sign. So Cranston swung the car into a side road that followed a

roundabout course to a bridge across the railroad and came back along the river to Rockwood Landing, where

The latest arrival was the cabin cruiser that had sped up past Castle Point. It had been making a wide turn

across the river when Cranston and Harry had gone back into the castle with Palford. By the time they had

made their polite departure and had driven back up to Rockwood and then down here, the cruiser had easily

There was no sign of the rotund Mr. Mann, who must have gone into the marina restaurant, so Cranston went

on board the cruiser as if he owned it. It turned out that he actually did, for the twoman crew was expecting

him and took the orders he gave. Soon the speedy craft was cleaving its way southward on the choppy bosom

of the broad Hudson with Cranston and Harry on the stern deck. Dead ahead, Twin Peaks Bridge formed an

"Chances are that Mann is meeting the Shallicks at the marina," commented Cranston. "Anyway, I've left him

So far, three of The Shadow's agents were functioning quite smoothly: Rutledge Mann, Miles Crofton and

"What about Clyde Burke? Do you think that he has landed his big story? Has Frisbee cracked the Austin

"I suppose you mean, has Frisbee's dragnet closed in by now and gathered up Don Morland, somewhere

"Because you are the one person except for the clerk at the inn who talked to Don Morland, the only

witness who had any contact with him. You have met up with many criminals, Vincent, and some very hardy

"Well, no. I took him to be just what he said he was, a hiker who wanted to pick up the Appalachian Trail."

"And those postcards that he wrote, did he leave them purposely on the desk, just so that you could read

"If he did," decided Harry, "he was pretty dumb to mail them down in Vanderkill, after saying that he was

"That's the crux of the whole thing," analyzed Cranston. "Vanderkill. Let's assume that Morland really

wanted to go to Vanderkill and that he either wanted to murder Austin, or that he was and is a killer at

heart, with robbery the motive that triggered his action. What would be his first step?"

"Why, just what Frisbee said or was it Winstead?" Harry pondered. "It doesn't matter who said it. Don's big

"Again, Vincent, you are the man who should know. Why didn't he ask if you were going to Vanderkill? You

had already given him a lift from the cloverleaf to the inn. If he wanted a hitch, you were his first choice."

"Much as you did, Vincent. He found out something or people thought he did and he became a victim of

Harry looked up. On the left, he saw Hudson View Tavern, the sunlight still bathing the high eminence where

it stood. Twin Peaks Bridge now loomed just ahead, between the brooding brows that flanked it. Cranston

"Morland walked across that bridge," stated Cranston, "and continued on the Trail up to the top of the ridge

and inland along it." Cranston ran his finger eastward, indicating the course. "Somehow, somewhere,

something happened. Don Morland just disappeared, by acting normally, though he may have made some

"I follow you," nodded Harry. "What's more, I followed Morland, across the bridge, at least."

"And there you turned south along Thunder Cliff Highway." The cruiser was under the bridge now and

speeding fast enough for Cranston to point out the spots as they passed. "You stopped there on the overlook

and used the binoculars. That may have been your big mistake. You were already under suspicion and you

By "there" Cranston referred to the lurking spot of the murder truck, toward which he now pointed. Though it

was beyond the hairpin turn, which they were now passing, it commanded a view of the overlook, which

jutted out much farther than the turn and at a different angle. From down below, the whole setup was quite

"Very probably, because you have vanished too, Vincent, though you keep forgetting it. If we had cut in close

to shore, we might have wrecked this cruiser on a submerged automobile that nobody else even knows

A big freighter was coming up the river, as it had that evening when Harry had scanned the Hudson from the

overlook. The cruiser veered wide of it and they saw seamen leaning idly along the rail. The sailors gave a

wave, which the crew of the cruiser returned; then, they were rolling in the wash from the freighter, which

"Of course," commented Cranston, "my theory regarding Morland has already been put to the test. If

"No, Frisbee would have kept it off the air, particularly because Morland might be carrying a portable radio. I

doubt that even the evening television reports will carry it. We'll read about it in the early edition of the

Relax they did, studying the new scenes that the Hudson offered. They passed the widespread walls of Sing

Sing Prison, with the guards on duty in the watchtowers, a huge stronghold that made Folly Castle seem

dwarfish in comparison. Next, they were passing under the big bridge at Tarrytown, where the New York

Throughway crossed the wide expanse of river known as the Tappan Zee. It was dark when the bright lights

of the George Washington Bridge came into sight, with lines of headlights twinkling across its twolevel

roadways. They passed numerous small craft, tugboats with and without barges, and big ships moored in the

Finally, they docked and took a cab into the heart of Manhattan, with Cranston remarking as they rode along:

"I'll drop you off at the Hotel Metrolite, Vincent. You can get in touch with me at the Cobalt Club, but it

probably won't be any use. If Frisbee has gotten anywhere, Weston will be hopping around the club, hoping

to find me and ask my advice. Otherwise, we can call it a night. I'll reach you later through Burbank."

In the lobby of the Metrolite, Harry bought an early edition of the Classic. Clyde Burke had gotten his story,

even though Frisbee had not gotten his man. The headlines screamed: NEW RIDDLE IN AUSTIN

The story was told in Burke's best style. Harry could picture Clyde beating it out on the typewriter, as he had

often written stories in Harry's room here at the Hotel Metrolite. Harry was able to discount any

exaggerations, though they were comparatively few. The account related how hundreds of enforcement men

had moved in secretly and simultaneously blanketed the Appalachian Trail from key points only a few miles

They had bagged a few dozen hikers along the sixtymile stretch, but Don Morland was not one, nor did any

of them recall seeing another hiker answering his description. The prime suspect in the Austin murder had

disappeared; now Frisbee was ordering an allout manhunt elsewhere and expressing confidence that it

Harry wondered. What if the hunt should be for Harry Vincent, instead of Donald Morland, with the only

clue a car that Frisbee didn't even know was at the bottom of the Hudson. That would be tough enough for

One was Police Commissioner Ralph Weston, brisk of manner, his squarejawed face firm and decisive.

Another was Lamont Cranston, whose hawkish expression was one of complete complacency, as he masked

The third was a special visitor named Eric Delka. He was a man with sharp features and ruddy complexion,

whose somewhat wiry build made him appear younger than his actual years. A crime investigator of long

experience, Delka had been a member of the famous C.I.D. Ghost Squad at Scotland Yard until the British

Weston had formally introduced Cranston to Delka, only to learn that they already knew each other. They had

met in England when Delka was tracking down international criminals for Scotland Yard. Weston was quite

pleased to learn of their former acquaintance, for the international phase was bulging big in the unsolved

Austin murder, even though the public knew nothing of that completely hidden angle.

Eric Delka, just in by plane from London, was briefing himself right now on all that the public did know.

Three days had passed since the quickie manhunt for Don Morland had drawn a blank and his disappearance

was more of a mystery than ever. All Eastern states had been alerted to watch for the hiker and police flyers

had gone out with Don's picture and fingerprints, carrying the statement: Wanted for Murder.

That had produced more news stories, particularly under the byline of Clyde Burke. Weston was showing

clips of these to Delka, who was studying the newspaper maps of the area north of Vanderkill, with X's

marking all the key spots. Photographs supplemented these and Delka dropped his noncommittal air to

express admiration for the thorough coverage that New York newsmen had given the case. But when Weston

"This chap Frisbee has it down too pat, as you poker players would say. Look at this map, with its dotted line,

showing how Morland hitchhiked, as you term it, down the highway to the side road, where he walked the

rest of the way to Austin's. From there, it keeps on up Pleasant Valley Road a little way and then it ends in a

"Because Morland couldn't have gone any farther," returned Weston, "or he would have gotten back on the

"So why didn't Frisbee start searching around Austin's in the first place?" demanded Delka, "I'll tell you why.

He was sure he would find Morland on that Trail. When he didn't, he'd gone back to a spot where Morland

may never even have been. That makes Frisbee doubly wrong. Why doesn't he drop this business of Don

"He can't accuse anyone else," put in Cranston. "He hasn't enough against Mark Wade or Rick Langdon. It is

fortunate, in a way, that Morland walked into the thing. Since Wade and Rick are merely witnesses, at least

so far, they have been talking rather freely to reporters, which has let out most of the known facts in the

"I see what you mean," nodded Delka. "They wouldn't be so chipper, those two chaps, if they were classed as

actual suspects." He gave his listener a direct stare; then added: "But that is how I would list them both, in my

"Gladly. We'll go by what the newspaper calls the 'Murder Time Table.' Winstead left at seven o'clock and

joined the dinner party at sevenfortyfive. That clears him and the Shallicks, too; they were so close behind

him. But either Wade or Langdon, by their own admissions, could have stalled around, as you would put it,

"So that if one or the other told a false story about the time he left," declared Weston, "you have only to find

"And why not?" parried Weston. "If both are right, both must be innocent. If one is the killer, they can't both

"What but what just how" Weston managed to curb his stammer "oh, I see what you mean. They

could have been working together! Yet, they practically accused each other, Wade and Langdon, when

"An old trick, so neither could be pinned down. Just a case of passing the ball back and forth until the blame

was finally shifted on to this hiker chap, Don Morland. Where were those two blighters prior to the murder?"

"Wade was talking to Austin," recalled Weston, "when Langdon broke in on them. Where Rick was before

"Perhaps he knows what happened to Morland. Anyway, when the pair left, Wade might have watched the

road out front, while Langdon was inside murdering Austin; or vice versa, as you would put it,

Commissioner." Delka turned abruptly to Cranston and asked, "What do you think?"

"I think your theory is far better than Frisbee's," replied Cranston, "but I can't picture Wade and Rick as a

team. They were pitching accusations back and forth too hard for that, each trying to get the other in too deep

to crawl out. But either one is a stronger murder suspect than Morland. What I like about your theory, Delka,

is that Morland's disappearance fits with those that have already occurred up in the highlands."

"Except for one thing," put in Weston. "Every important person who has presumably disappeared has been

supplanted by a supposed impostor who is operating in his place. With Don Morland, the disappearance has

"And for two good reasons," expressed Cranston. "First, Morland is not important; second, it has made him

the top suspect in the Austin murder, which has so confused the case that nobody is getting to the bigger facts

"You are right, Cranston," agreed Weston, grimly. "Gregg Austin contacted me because he knew something

"And the disappearance of Don Morland," picked up Cranston, "proves that the machinery exists to drop

someone out of sight at a moment's notice. So let's have some more data on these cases that you've

Weston unzipped a portfolio and brought out a sheaf of papers. Among them was a sheet that listed all the

"All these cases," he declared, "involve individuals holding responsible positions with delegations to the

United Nations. Some of them are comparatively small, while others are quite important, but in many

instances, they are from certain countries where tensions exist and the government may be overthrown; in

short, nations where subversive influences could be furthered by anyone in a key position.

"So for both security reasons and international policy, these cases are referred to by code letters only, with the

names of the countries disguised, if used at all. Only a few have been proved, so it would be highly

embarrassing" Weston referred to the list "if Mr. J X X of Paragonia should turn out to be the real Mr. J

"And the evidence," queried Cranston, "is strictly a matter of individual behavior in every case?"

"Except for the proven few. The impostors who were actually discovered were smallfry who managed to get

away and find asylum in dictatorrun countries. The men whose places they took have not been found. That

was what started the Interpol investigation. They began checking with other delegations for questionable

"They came up with quite a few. Some showed signs of amnesia, others failed to recognize certain people, or

displayed peculiarities in speech or action. Still more" Weston was checking the list again "simply voted

wrong in committee sessions or were careless in handling confidential data. In checking all these, Interpol

reports showed that in every instance, these behavior changes occurred after each individual had made a trip

to the Hudson highlands, indicating that the switch had been made in that area."

"Are you sure it was always a switch?" put in Delka. "Couldn't some of them have been brainwash cases?"

"Hardly in America," returned Weston, "though I am beginning to think that anything can happen here." His

lips went grim beneath his mustache, then relaxed. "What I mean, specifically, is that none of these U.N.

people were missing long enough for anyone to do a real good brainwash on them." He turned to Cranston.

"You are familiar with hypnotism, yoga exercises and the ways of Oriental mystics. How long would it take

"If you are thinking of our mutual friend Rufus Palford," returned Cranston, "I would say it may have taken a

"Rufus Palford?" echoed Weston. "He was a member of this club once. When did we see him last, Cranston?"

"Only a few nights ago, but now he looks and talks like this." Cranston tilted his head, opened his lips in a

widecurving smile and delivered birdlike blinks in a style more realistic than even Winstead's clever

imitation. His voice was perfectly Palford's as he cackled, "Commissioner Weston, of all people! Fancy you

"That pest!" broke in Weston, with a halfbellow that shook the sanctimonious silence of the Cobalt Club. "I

remember, now. Why, he almost broke up the surprise that we were springing on that dinner party at Hudson

View Tavern. So that was Old Pal Palford, as we used to call him. Wasn't he lost on some expedition in the

"He was," nodded Cranston. "Possibly it was the altitude of Mount Everest that changed him, rather than the

solitude of Tibet. But let's get back to these U.N. cases, Commissioner. We'll consider them as straight

Weston thumbed through some of the notes, to check them with his list. Eric Delka, meanwhile, studied

Lamont Cranston with new, but unexpressed admiration. He recalled, now, that Cranston had specialized in

such quickchanges as the one he had just demonstrated. He also remembered that Cranston had the sort of

intuition that Delka regarded as more essential to efficient crime detection than a milehigh stack of certified

Reports were what Weston was reading now. So while Delka listened closely, he watched Cranston quite as

"Case histories of ZRZ and ZWZ, both from Tyrolia. Mutual interest, ski jumping. They went to the winter

carnival at Twin Peaks, the big event of the season, attended by thousands of ski fans. They became separated

from the rest of the party and each returned a few hours later, claiming he had been looking for the other.

"Case history of V2X, from a new but unspecified African republic. He was invited on a fishing trip, with

special permits for fishing in state reservoirs. Took shelter in a nearby lodge during a thunderstorm that

knocked out electric lights and telephone connections, which were not restored until the next day. Acted

strangely for the next few weeks. This was attributed to the excitement of the storm.

"Another lesser member of a newly arrived African delegation. Took a special trip to top of Uncas Mountain

on the cable railway the week after it opened for the new season. He came back with a glowing report of the

view of the Hudson Valley. But a checkup with the railway company showed that service had been

Weston then cited four instances of U.N. personnel who had been invited to play golf at courses in the

Hudson region. In each instance, this had been a few days or so before their behavior had begun to puzzle the

fellow members of their delegations. The reports named the country clubs in question and Cranston made a

mental note to check their membership lists and see if Rick Langdon belonged to any of them.

Other U.N. delegates, some from longestablished countries, had gone in for horseback riding. Weston read

off half a dozen of those, stressing that they, too, had visited the highland area, where horses were obtainable

at various places. Again, the reports did not specify the Palomino Dude Ranch, owned and operated by Mark

In such cases, Weston added, odd behavior by the U.N. delegates had been attributed to falls from horses.

Cranston did not go along with that. All were good horsemen and the dude ranch steeds were too docile and

"Five delegates from various Indonesian nations," continued Weston, "took a camping trip with three

members of a newly formed Caribbean country in Green Hills Park, west of Twin Peaks. All made friends

with other campers and became separated. They returned to New York together in their two cars, but five of

Weston laid the list aside, remarking that there were twice as many more, but that all followed the pattern that

he had cited and that some were highly doubtful. He looked toward Cranston for comment which Cranston

"About the only thing this U.N. crowd didn't do," he said, "was to go hiking along the Appalachian Trail.

Maybe it was booby trapped for the next crop of visiting delegates, when Don Morland stumbled into it

Weston gave a slow, approving nod, but Delka caught a knowing glance from Cranston that told the irony

behind it. Unquestionably, this was an international scheme of mass kidnaping, with subtle substitution of

individuals as its mask. Whoever the master mind was, the Appalachian Trail probably had not figured in his

plans. But when Don Morland came along, the mesh was ready for him, which showed how extensive these

From his portfolio, Weston brought out sets of photographs bearing code names ZRZ, ZWZ, V2X and a

dozen more of individuals whose cases he had detailed. Each set contained two or more photos marked

"before" and "after" so that they could be compared to see how much the faces had changed. Not only was

While Weston was commenting on that fact, Eric Delka had his moment of triumph. From a portfolio much

bulkier than Weston's, he brought out coded files and photographs, each bearing the added letter "a" or "b" as

"We have been tracing your leads in the countries where these missing persons come from. We have checked

the early careers of all who are now connected with the U.N. as well as the backgrounds of others who could

have supplanted them. Take this example: Cases W7VA and W7VB, from the buffer state of Nagoba. The

One old photo showed a class at a mission school, with circles around the heads of two boys. Blowups of

those pictures were marked "A" and "B," showing that they closely resembled each other. From his file,

Delka brought later pictures in which A's face grew harder, while B's became smug. Then came one showing

"That," stated Delka, checking the caption of the picture, "was when W7VA was jailed for fighting for the

"In a sense, yes," replied Delka, "although at that time, the Nagobans were free of everybody except

themselves. I meant the Right as opposed to the Left. W7VA led an uprising of the Rightists, while his

Delka showed a picture of W7VB in full dress uniform, his fat face a study in arrogance. But later photos

changed all that. As A's party staged successful coups, his face became fuller and stronger, while B's turned

"By that time," stated Delka, "W7VA had become Assistant Finance Minister of Nagoba, while W7VB

Delka reached to Weston's files and took out two pictures, both marked W7V. After studying their captions,

"Here is W7V when he came to New York two years ago on special assignment to the United Nations. The

other picture shows him after he came back from a hunting trip up the Hudson several months ago. These

belong in different files. The earlier picture is W7VA and the later one is in W7VB."

"We never guessed that such a clever switch was being made!" exclaimed Weston. "Why, this 'B' was

"Not at all," returned Delka, bluntly. "It's commonplace, the usual thing in this instance. For every coded

name in your file, Commissioner, I can supply an 'A' and 'B' from mine, with their case histories from

"Such records have been lost, destroyed, misplaced, or faked outright. In short, they have been switched like

the persons themselves. No move is made until that is done. Hence fingerprints and such are the worst things

"Do you see, Commissioner, how this ties in with the Austin murder? It fits with my claim that Don Morland

has been framed. Having his fingerprints show up on a memo pad in Austin's office, where he may never

have been, could not be difficult for anyone who has planted wrong sets in the U.N. files."

"But if this crowd is so clever at ringing in impostors," argued Weston, "how do you explain all those

"For one thing," analyzed Cranston, "they couldn't do a perfect job. Delka's files show that to be true. After

each abduction, they would have to let the impostor act a little oddly, while he was getting adjusted to his

"Definitely," rejoined Cranston. "Delka's investigation shows that this international cabal is playing for the

future. When these impostors return to their own countries, they will be key figures in the very governments

"Wouldn't that be too risky?" objected Weston. "Some of these impostors would certainly be recognized by

"That has all been planned for," assured Cranston. "Such cases can be handled by switching the genuine

persons back where they belong. Instead of 'B' for 'A,' it would be 'A' for 'B' which is much easier."

"But wouldn't these abducted people give the game away?" demanded Weston. "After they were safely back

"Not if they have been brainwashed in the meantime," declared Cranston, "to such degree that they would

forget what had happened to them and could also be kept under continued control, possibly through

posthypnosis. But for a while, they would act queerly, as they had when they were abducted. This time,

however, no amount of investigation could prove them to be anyone but themselves."

"You've hit it, Cranston!" enthused Delka. "We've wondered what happened to the Agroup who were

abducted and we've been hoping they might be too valuable to be liquidated. Now, you've given us the

answers one, two, three like a bowler pulling the hat trick in a cricket match. So there's a real chance that

"Until we crack the Austin case," the commissioner reminded, "there is nothing we can do except sit back

"I wouldn't say that," observed Cranston. "Now that we know how the game is being played, we can

"We can't be. But time is short for the abduction ring. If the Austin case is cracked, they will have to lay low

for awhile. So if they want to snatch more key personnel, they will have to snap up any chance they can."

"Yes. Here is a schedule of functions sponsored by the U.N." Cranston handed a printed list to Weston. "You

will note that Kart Barka, Director of ULDA, is to be the commencement speaker at Birchwood College, two

"Yes, the Universal Language Development Agency," defined Cranston. "It is not part of the United Nations

organization, but it may be eventually, which is all the more reason for totalitarian groups to take it over as

soon as they can. They could do that by switching in an impostor for Kart Barka, right now."

"And Birchwood is not too far from Vanderkill," recalled Weston, "so it would be the usual setup. It would

be excellent if we could keep him under surveillance from the time he leaves New York City until he returns

"Then we'll give you the official go ahead," decided Weston, with a look at Delka who nodded his approval.

"You arrange the contact and handle it your own way, keeping it as hushhush as possible, rather than show

Lamont Cranston wore a calm smile as he left the Cobalt Club and his immobile lips phrased a softly

whispered laugh that was lost amid the louder sound of passing traffic. As The Shadow, he was sure that he

had already caught up with the crime ring operating in the highlands. Now, he was one step ahead.

KART BARKA reached across his desk, took the envelope marked "Confidential" and ripped it open with a

quick thrust of his long forefinger. He brought out the note from the envelope, read it, crumpled it and thrust

it deep in his coat pocket. Barka studied the cleancut, frankfaced man on the other side of the desk; then

Harry Vincent proceeded. He stated that as a friend of Lamont Cranston, he had been delegated as bearer of

Commissioner Weston's official note, because Cranston himself might be marked by spies in the ULDA

office. Pointedly, Harry recited facts that Cranston had given him that morning, covering the machinations of

the international abduction ring and the substitutions that they had perpetrated.

While Harry talked, he had a good chance to study Barka, who sat back with folded arms and listened

intently. In appearance, Barka was both distinguished and dynamic. His bronze face had a long jaw and

rugged chin; and his heavy brow projected above his eyes, which looked dark chiefly because they were

deepset. His high forehead and wide temples marked him as a keen thinker, as well as a man of action.

When Barka raised one longfingered hand and waved an interruption, Harry thought he was going to ask a

question. Instead, Barka sat back and waited in silence while a demure, darkhaired girl in a simple dark blue

office dress entered and laid some papers on the desk. Barka signed them with a flourish, talked pleasantly to

the girl in a language that Harry recognized as Italian; then dismissed her with another wave.

That was only one of a dozen such interruptions. Soon, Harry was able to detect the faint note of a buzzer,

which was on Barka's side of the desk, for always, Barka waved just before a girl entered. Always, too, he

spoke in a different language, for the girls were all of different nationalities. Harry recognized a few, like

Spanish and French by the languages themselves; others he guessed from the appearance of the girls as

Japanese, Hindustani, Indonesian while a few baffled him. Always, Harry came back to his own theme, in

Often, in his varied career, Harry had sold a bill of goods to a reluctant customer, or had won an argument

with someone who didn't want to be convinced; but never had he met with such a stonyfaced reception as

this. Barka's reactions were as difficult to guess as his nationality, which had Harry puzzled. The

interruptions weren't to blame; if anything, they eased Harry's tension, giving him breathers between the

"That's about it, Mr. Barka. All these abductions have been listed by Commissioner Weston and certified by

Inspector Delka. There are many other cases, but these have the strongest evidence to support them."

"What you term evidence," spoke Barka, his gaze as cold as his tone, "is sheer guesswork, hearsay and

speculation, the synthetic ingredients from which mercenary crime investigators concoct the false solutions

which they use as a panacea to soothe the deluded public. Are you aware of that?"

"Quite," acknowledged Harry, who had been warned that Barka would be a hard man to convince. "But it is a

definite fact that all the persons under investigation did act oddly and show traces of amnesia after those

"And why not?" demanded Barka, his tone still icy. "Anyone involved in the maelstrom of the United

Nations is subject to tensions and frustrations that are unmatched elsewhere. A brief respite from that

whirlpool of conflicting interests leaves a person in such a mental daze that he naturally finds it difficult to

adapt himself to its churning madness when he is precipitated back into its seething undercurrents. A

departure of his behavior patterns from the accepted norm is the logical consequence."

Barka rose from his chair, lifting his hand for Harry to do the same, as Harry did. His cold tone showing

"In the American vernacular, Mr. Vincent, anyone mixed up in such a mess would be an oddball to begin

with, so these creeps have simply shown themselves up for the goofy characters that they really are." He

finished with a wave toward the door. "So my only intelligent answer to your idiotic outpouring would be to

Harry turned to go, only to receive a friendly clap on the back from Barka, who was smiling genuinely at

"Instead, I want you to stay." Barka's purr was sincere. "Because of one factor that outweighs all else. That is

our common trust in the keen intuition and uncanny foresight of our mutual friend, Lamont Cranston."

"Cranston is right," asserted Barka. "I am a logical target for any totalitarian cabal, because they prefer to

keep nations disunited, in order to play one against another. What is more, I could easily be impersonated by

any clever imitator, as I have a receptive nature; otherwise, I would not be able to absorb so many languages

and their moods. Also, spies could be common in this office as the hundred or more persons working here

"I can understand that," nodded Harry, "after seeing you switch from one language to another with each

"Out of that vast babel," continued Barka, "I am trying to formulate the basic elements of a universal

language; not an artificial type like Volapuk, Esperanto, Ro and others, but a truly natural tongue. Many of

my assistants speak three, four or five languages fluently; when they reach six, I put them to work on Unival,

the universal language, which is already far beyond the formative state. Soon, it will be introduced in

educational institutions and I am going to make that the excuse for your visit here. Then you can look about

Barka called in a solemnfaced Turkish secretary named Kemal, who was one of his most trusted aides.

Barka told Kemal that Mr. Vincent was a member of an educational board in a Western state, who was here

to look into the coordinated method of language study recommended by ULDA. So Kemal took Harry into a

big outer office and introduced him to several different girls, all attired in dark blue dresses like those whom

Each explained how words of different languages could be interchanged, combined or compared for

similarity and finally pinpointed into a common form of verbal expression. After hearing them reel off

examples, Harry was taken to workers higher up, who sat in little cubicles and compiled coordinated charts.

He finally reached some department heads, who answered whatever questions he had listed as he went along.

All the personnel were strong for Kart Barka, as was evident from the way they quoted him at every

opportunity, so when Barka came to the outer office to see how he was making out, Harry remarked:

"I have all the needed information, Mr. Barka, so far as the coordination method is concerned, but I feel that I

should know something of your personal experience and background, to tell the state board."

"Why, of course." Barka turned to Kemal. "Show Mr. Vincent my personal files in full. I shall see you later,

Kemal brought the files to a corner desk, where Harry made notes from news reports, magazine accounts and

circulars put out by ULDA. As Harry hoped, the file contained an envelope marked "Private Records" and he

particularly ignored it until a buzzer sounded, summoning Kemal to Barka's own office. That was Harry's cue

to slide the envelope beneath some papers and draw its contents from it. Not for an instant did he look about

to see if eyes were watching from any of the fortyodd desks where the blueclad girls had Harry in plain

Among the private data was an identification card with the name Kart Barka and bearing impressions of his

fingerprints. Harry studied it while pretending to read a magazine article and the notes he made referred to the

prints. Harry was familiar enough with various types of loops, whorls and arches to give them a fairly

detailed classification. Harry also found a full sheet of Barka's handwriting and gave it a brief analysis, even

Barka's buzzer sounded elsewhere and Harry hurried the sheets into the envelope. When Kemal returned,

Harry was finishing his runup of the ordinary biographical articles. On the way to Barka's office, Harry noted

three girls whom he was sure had been watching him, for they were now too deeply buried in their work. One

exception was a Chinese girl near the back of the row. Apparently she had been checking the girls who had

Cranston had timed this visit for late afternoon so that Barka would have an excuse to leave with Harry,

which he did, telling Kemal that they were going to dinner together to discuss the prospects of Unival in a

school curriculum. In the elevator, Barka suggested several restaurants and Harry chose the Headliner Cafe,

where he had often gone with Cranston. They arrived there early enough to obtain a choice, secluded booth,

"I'm sure this booth isn't bugged and nobody can look in on us. So give me some samples of your fingerprints

" Harry brought out a pad for the purpose "and half a dozen lines of your handwriting."

"You mean they have been switched already?" Barka's deep eyes showed a sharp glint as he raised his heavy

brows. Then, as Harry nodded, Barka added, "So they will be coming for me next. Have you any instructions

"Only that I am supposed to keep you in constant sight as much as possible until Commissioner Weston can

It was drizzling slightly as they left the Headliner, but a cab popped into sight before the door man could even

"So I'll stay tonight and tomorrow, the commissioner will take you to Birchwood "

"But since they've already switched your identification card," exclaimed Harry, "and those samples of your

"Forget it, Vincent!" Though forceful, Barka's interrupting tone retained its purr. "Let's discuss something

They switched to the weather and when they alighted at the imposing Midvale Towers, where Barka lived,

"I didn't want that cab driver to overhear what you were saying, Vincent. Fortunately, you didn't say enough

Fortunately, Harry had said enough. The cabby happened to be Moe Shrevnitz, known as "Shrevvy" to his

friends, who included all of The Shadow's agents, since Shrevvy himself was one of them. If Shrevvy simply

Barka's apartment proved safe indeed. It was at the penthouse level, the only top floor apartment served by

the elevator, which had an operator, instead of being the automatic type. As they reached the penthouse,

"No one is to go up or down from this floor without my permission. When you go off duty, tell that to the

The operator nodded that he understood and from his manner, Harry could tell that Barka's orders were

usually followed. Once in the penthouse Barka gave the same instructions to his valet, Maddox, who looked

capable and reliable, as Barka had said. They went into a small, secluded library, where Barka was about to

turn on the television, when he gestured to a chess board, which was fully set up on a table and asked:

Harry nodded that he did, so Barka turned off the TV and they began a chess game, to find themselves well

matched. Maddox served them drinks for a while, but about midnight, when the score stood two games to

"I've let Maddox turn in, but if the phone rings, he will answer it, as it's right outside his door. By the way, if

postage stamps interest you, here is a new issue that just came from the United Nations."

Barka started to rip open an envelope with his right forefinger, as he had at the office but this time, he gave a

"A paper cut," he said, nursing his finger. "Slight, but rather mean." He tossed Harry the envelope. "You can

Harry studied the new U.N. set and Barka rummaged in a medicine cabinet, where he found an iodine bottle

and dabbed his finger thoroughly. He put away the bottle and sat down at the table, as he said:

The game progressed nicely to a point where Barka had the choice of castling with his king's rook or

threatening one of Harry's knights with his queen. As Barka pondered over his choice, he lifted his head and

Barka kept listening, unable to concentrate on the board, so he finally went out into the hallway. Harry

became absorbed in planning his own next move; then looked up to see Barka coming back in the doorway.

"Just my imagination," purred Barka. "There wasn't anybody there. Let's see now, Vincent, have you made

"My last move, yes," reminded Harry. "I took a pawn with my knight." He indicated the move that he had

Harry didn't watch out. He merely watched. He saw Barka's right hand move the queen, with fingers well

Between dinner, drinks, chess and postage stamps, Harry might have been a bit befuddled, but not that much.

He was slow, though, as he looked up and slower still as he came to his feet and thrust his hands forward too

Two hands caught Harry's throat; their fingers found the spots they wanted and they pressed hard and deep.

This man who wasn't Barka but who looked like him was skilled in the nerve pressure trick. Harry's senses

went numb and he blacked out entirely as his attacker let him slump to the floor.

The false Barka went out through the hallway, stepping across another senseless body, which happened to be

Barka's. The door of Maddox's room was closed and the impostor listened there a moment; then picked up the

"All evening I have been expecting two men to come and pack some books that I am sending to my office. If

Half an hour later, two large, squarish boxes were carried out the service entrance of the Midvale Towers.

They were packed in the back of a small truck, with nobody in sight to see it go. That departure was noticed,

though, by someone who was out of sight. A furtive figure darted from an opposite doorway and scooted to a

darkened alley where a cab was parked, the driver dozing at the wheel. The furtive man pounded the cabby's

Shrevvy wakened and shot the cab out to the street where he turned right, the direction indicated by a one

The truck was two blocks away by then, but it was the only one on the street at this hour. It led them to a

North River pier, where Shrevvy waited while Hawkeye stole forward and watched the truckers lower two

square boxes into a waiting tugboat, which started out toward the vague hulk of a ship that loomed gigantic in

As the tug swung alongside, the gathering fog enshrouded all. A whistle blared from the river's blackness and

THERE WAS suppressed excitement at the ULDA office when the personnel watched Kart Barka stroll in as

usual the next morning. The quick glance that he gave toward the rows of desks indicated that he sensed

something in the air. Once in his private office, he saw the reason why. His desk was decked with flowers and

This was the gala day when Barka was to speak at Birchwood College, one of the outstanding educational

institutions of the East. Everyone was wishing him well, so Kart Barka the false Barka, of course stepped

from his office and bowed to a round of enthusiastic applause. Then he addressed them briefly in Unival, the

That was the smartest thing the impostor could have done. Unival was so precise, so uniform, that speaking

in that language was like reciting a lesson from an oldfashioned copy book. So the pretender was able to

The impostor followed up that initial triumph with the usual routine of signing papers and speaking to the

girls in their own languages. Time being short, he was brief, saying so little that no one doubted that he was

"Commissioner Weston of the New York Police is due at any moment," announced Kemal. "He is taking you

"Because another escort was arranged to meet you out there," explained Kemal, "so they invited the Police

The fake Barka repressed a smile. In his pocket he had Weston's crumpled letter explaining all this. Now,

there was a last interruption as a Chinese girl entered with papers for Barka to sign; the same Chinese girl that

Harry had noted watching the other girls in the office, the day before. About to leave, she placed a printed

The fake Barka studied the card and nodded. He knew enough Chinese to talk briefly to the girl, but he could

not read the language. Impressed with the probable importance of the message, he purred to Kemal:

Kemal phoned for a Chinese interpreter, who arrived within ten minutes. When Barka showed him the card

"A Chinese 'Get Well' card," he stated. "It says something that goes like, 'Since you are sick sick sick,

It wasn't funny to the fake Barka. He dismissed the interpreter, turned to Kemal and demanded: "What is that

It was too late for that. Ming Dwan had left her desk and had gone into a rest room, where she peeled off her

drab dark blue dress, turning it inside out so that it became a bright red shirtmaker consisting of combination

skirt and blouse. Ming Dwan then covered her face with a special cold cream, which she rubbed away with a

The transformation was remarkable. Ming Dwan's Oriental makeup was carried away completely, her eyes

losing their almond shape and becoming fully rounded. She quickly backcombed her hair, giving it a fluffy

appearance and slipped into her red attire. As an American girl, completely different from Ming Dwan, she

Unsuppressed excitement reigned there now. Girls were being told to stay at their desks until cleared, while

the few visitors were hurriedly ushered out, rather than create more commotion. Among them was an

American girl in red, who was waved through by the security guards because they were looking for a Chinese

When the girl in the red dress reached the lobby, she went into a phone booth and dialed a number. A quiet

The supposed Ming Dwan, now Myra Reldon, was an agent of The Shadow, giving the inside version of how

the false Kart Barka had tricked himself. At the finish of Myra's account, Burbank spoke methodically:

Up in the ULDA office, the pretended Kart Barka was receiving word that the commissioner's car had

arrived, enabling him to shift things on to Kemal and duck from under the chaos he had precipitated. Soon he

was riding up the F.D.R. Highway with Commissioner Weston and two other men; Inspector Joe Cardona of

the New York Police, whom Weston had brought along as a liaison man; and Eric Delka, on special

assignment to Interpol, as chief investigator of the international abduction ring.

As the official limousine crossed the Triborough Bridge and swung on to the Major Deegan Expressway,

leading to the New York Throughway, Weston outlined the day's schedule. It called for them to deliver Kart

Barka at Birchwood College and pick him up later for dinner at the Hudson View Tavern, where Barka's old

"This man Vincent, who contacted you yesterday," remarked Weston. "Didn't he intend to stay with you

"Definitely," acknowledged the false Barka, "But we learned that they were holding a celebration in my

honor at the office, so Vincent felt that he would be too conspicuous there. He said he would get in touch

That settled it where Weston was concerned; but the reaction to Harry's absence was quite different,

In a blackwalled room lighted only with a dim bluish glow, The Shadow was waiting to receive reports

from his agents. It was here, in this hidden sanctum, that he planned his campaigns against crime.

On the third finger of The Shadow's left hand shone a large, strange gem, resplendent with a fiery sparkle that

was everchanging in the bluish light. That stone was The Shadow's token, a rare, unmatched fireopal

A tiny light glimmered from the dark beyond the bluish ray. The Shadow pressed a hidden switch and a quiet

"Report from Myra Reldon. Suspected substitution of false Kart Barka fully confirmed. Details follow "

The Shadow's fingers were sorting typed reports under the dim light as he listened to the details of how Myra

Reldon, alias Ming Dwan, had tricked the fake Barka. Burbank's recital brought a whispered laugh from The

Shadow, but its tone was grim and mirthless. This confirmed the disappearance of Harry Vincent, as

These were copies of reports that Burbank had received the previous evening from both Myra and Shrevvy.

There had been none from Harry, which was logical, as he had known that the situation was wellcovered

and had actually relayed his own report through Shrevvy. But a later report from Shrevvy, regarding two

boxes that had been ferried by tugboat to a ship in the North River, was ominous indeed.

It was possible that the false Barka had already been in control when Harry visited the ULDA office; that the

fingerprints and handwriting sample found by Harry were those of the real Barka, left there just to make a

meddler like Harry think it was the other way about. In that case, the two boxes spotted by Hawkeye could

have contained the bodies of Harry Vincent and some other unfortunate interloper whom the false Barka had

been anxious to be rid of. If so, those bodies by now were far out to sea and probably a few miles deep.

So instructions had been given Myra to put the impostor to the test. The real Kart Barka had been reading all

the Chinese documents that Ming Dwan brought to his desk during the daily routine. He would have smiled

at the "gag" card which she handed him as "something important" and it wouldn't have been out of line on a

day when the office was having fun. Of course, the fake Barka might have read it and laughed, too, which

But the faker had missed out and thereby had given away the fact that the switch had taken place in Barka's

penthouse. So The Shadow was now quite sure that both Barka and Harry had been shipped to that unhappy

haven where earlier victims were being kept prisoner. Bad though that might be, it meant life and with it

hope. The abduction ring would probably regard it as good policy to keep Harry handy, so he could be put

The cabal was speeding up its tempo, so The Shadow planned to do the same. He had outwaited the unwieldy

outfit to make it show more of its facets and its followers, giving its coils that many more points of

vulnerability; but now was the time to strike the sinuous organization in the quickest way possible.

The Shadow had already jumped the gun in Barka's case. He had long figured Kart Barka to be a key target

for abduction; and he had also known of the longscheduled commencement speech at Birchwood College.

That was why The Shadow had slipped Shanghaiborn Myra Reldon into the ULDA office as Ming Dwan, a

part that she had often played. The foe had countered by snatching Barka before he went to Birchwood; and

had switched in his double for that excursion. That bold, unexpected move was a challenge that The Shadow

Deft hands brought more reports into the light, the girasol scintillating in vivid, varied hues each time The

Shadow perused needed data. Though he had only the benefit of a few days instead of the week or more he

wanted, the interim had produced substantial gains, enough to bring a soft laugh from unseen lips.

A report from Cliff Marsland covered Mark Wade like one of the ranch owner's horse blankets spread over a

bronco. Cliff had kept what amounted to a daybook on the eversmiling Wade. The season had been getting

underway when Cliff arrived at the Palomino Dude Ranch and from that moment on Wade had been so

peppered with problems, decisions and appointments that it hadn't been possible for him to go anywhere

Wade's last night off had been when he visited Gregg Austin and continued on to the dinner at the Hudson

View. That was enough to maintain his status as a fullfledged suspect in the Austin murder case. But it did

not allow for any followup activities on Wade's part. Cliff was watching for any such break in the routine,

but had so far seen none. He had even listed Wade's coming commitments to show how full his schedule was.

Tonight, Wade was to preside over a gala barbecue featuring a hillbilly orchestra singing cowboy ballads.

Wade personally was to call the square dances and give out prizes to the winners. This was one affair where

"Confirm Marsland's report on Wade's activities tonight. Instruct Marsland to stand by for later contact and to

Next, The Shadow studied a report from Miles Crofton, which covered Rick Langdon. That checkup had

been strictly intermittent, for the report sheets showed that Rick was so much on the go, so wayward in his

ways, that it would have taken a full crew of The Shadow's agents to keep up with him.

However, Miles had found it easy to backtrack on Rick, whose whole life was a whirl of social activity. Rick

was constantly at beach parties, golf tournaments, tennis matches, country club dances and bridge parties,

flinging his light weight so fancily that nobody could forget him or overlook him. Where girl friends were

concerned, Rick was playing the field, if only to rouse Irene's jealousy, should word get back to her. Such

flagrant selfadvertising on Rick's part was highly helpful in keeping tabs on him.

Tonight, by a happy chance, Rick was really tied up at a meeting of the membership committee of the

Barchester Country Club. Rick had proposed two new members and with all the buzz about the Austin case,

they were apt to be blackballed if Rick did not show up. Miles was to play golf with Rick during the

afternoon, but they would be through early, as Rick was having dinner with the committee.

"Confirm Crofton's report on Langdon's meeting tonight. Instruct Crofton to stand by for later contact and to

There was also a routine report from Rutledge Mann, saying that the Shallicks had invited him to a dinner

party at the Hudson View and asking if he should accept. The Shadow decided in the affirmative and gave

added instructions for Mann to invite Myra Reldon to the party. He also told Burbank to relay instructions to

The final report was from Clyde Burke, saying that Frisbee and Winstead were meeting Commissioner

Weston at the Hudson View. Clyde was to be there in his capacity of a newspaper reporter, though whether

he was to sit in on any discussion was still doubtful. The Shadow already knew about all that, so no

instructions were needed for Clyde. The bluish light clicked off, a whispered laugh stirred the blackened

Afternoon was waning as Lamont Cranston sped northward in a sleek, dark blue sports car that he had bought

to replace the old one lost in the river. He hoped to turn the new car over to Harry Vincent, but how soon was

a question. Near Vanderkill, Cranston stopped to make the phone calls that Cliff Marsland and Miles Crofton

The overcast sky had darkened heavily when the sleek car swung from Northern Turnpike and hit the dirt

road of Ragged Gap Road, where it climbed the grade until it neared the Norvel farm. There, the car nosed

into a turnout beneath an embankment, where it was partly concealed by the overhanging brush.

The figure that emerged was The Shadow's. In the uncertain dusk, he followed an elusive, circling route to

the farmhouse that was almost lost against the blackness of the high ridge beyond the gorge. That, however,

was all the more helpful to The Shadow's approach, for the lights in the ground floor windows served him as

a beacon. A rising wind swept down from the hillside, wavering The Shadow's cloak, as he crossed the last

stretch to the house; then, his vague figure merged with the gloom of the house front.

The Shadow opened the door enough to look in. One of the Norvel brothers was at the desk on the far side of

the room, going over what were probably account books. A gust of wind came suddenly as The Shadow

twisted through the door and quickly closed it behind him. The man at the desk felt the sudden breeze,

became alert and caught the click of the closing latch, just before The Shadow faded to the one darkened

The man turned about, shifting so that the light from the desk shone directly on the door, but that only

increased the contrasting darkness of the corner. The Shadow, motionless, remained totally unseen, but the

man's own face was plainly shown. It was that of the younger Norvel brother, Hank. In a gruff, anxious tone,

There was no response. Hank reached for a shotgun that stood beside the desk. The outside wind, coming in

new gusts, rattled the door latch slightly. Hank laughed nervously, laid the gun aside and turned back to the

desk. Simultaneously, a cloaked figure emerged from the corner by the door and moved steadily toward the

desk. Encroaching blackness enveloped Hank's stooped figure as he began adding figures in an account book.

That was when Hank saw it, moments too late. The Shadow's action was doubly purposeful. He had drawn an

automatic from his cloak and was pointing the weapon straight toward Hank, the darkness cast by the swing

of The Shadow's hand announcing its approach. Now, as Hank swung about, he stared straight into a pair of

burning eyes that glared from beneath the brim of a slouch hat. The intruder's other features were hidden by

the upturned collar of a black cloak and a gloved hand that thrust the .45 forward.

Hank's own right hand, starting for the shotgun, halted and raised slowly upward like his left, as his hoarse

"A ghost," responded The Shadow in a sepulchral tone, "a ghost from the bottom of the gorge, here to haunt

TO HANK NORVEL, this was a flashback to the night when he and his brother Lou had blasted too freely

with their shotguns, only to have murder on their hands. Hank had been brooding over that ever since, for he

still thought that he had seen a body crumpled on the rocks of Ragged Creek, despite Lou's argument to the

He halted, realizing that this was no ghost. The cold steel of the automatic muzzle was very real; and the eyes

"So you're still alive," gulped Hank. "That means we didn't kill you, Lou and I didn't." His tone turned bolder.

"I'm here to ask you about another murder, Hank," declared The Shadow, in a steady tone. "Where were you

"Always with Lou." The Shadow's tone was mocking, now. "How far do you think you can alibi each other,

you and your brother? What would you say if I told you that you were seen in Vanderkill, the night of the

It was a shot in the dark, though The Shadow had good reason for it; and he scored a direct hit. As before,

"Until after Austin was murdered?" put in The Shadow. "Or until after his body was found?" Then, as Hank

still winced from the gun muzzle, The Shadow queried: "Or until after you finished the job you did up here?"

Hank was really troubled, the way this cloaked inquisitor was catching him on one point after another. Then

"Yes, you and your brother will lie to save each other; but there are others who will lie to save their own

Hank had slumped to the desk and was leaning across the account book. The Shadow pushed him back in his

chair and slapped the book shut, as though closing Hank's account. His right hand still threatening with its

gun, The Shadow brought out some photographs with his left hand and spread them on the desk. He prodded

"Look at those photos, Hank. The truck with the big winch the closeup of its tires their tread marks in

the dirt of your back road" The Shadow was pointing to each picture as he spoke "and here's a car you

will recognize now, this closeup of its tires and here are the girders the truck brought for that new shed

you're building and here are more tire marks, you'll recognize the treads if you look closely."

Look closely Hank did, with eyes that were now hopeless. As The Shadow relaxed the pressure of his gun

muzzle, Hank twisted his neck around and turned a fearfraught face up toward those burning eyes.

"Somebody has talked," Hank admitted. "You've got us, that's for sure. But we weren't out to hurt nobody,

"Then do as I tell you now," ordered The Shadow. "For your own good and Lou's." He thrust a pad and

pencil in front of Hank. "Just put down everything as you remember it. If you need help, tell me. We'll work

The Shadow watched as Hank wrote; and his whispered tone was encouraging when Hank faltered or looked

up as though asking what next. Occasionally, the rising wind rattled the door as before, until just when Hank

had finished signing his name to what was virtually a confession, the clatter stopped short and a harsh voice

"Up with them, bo! I mean you in the black hat and coat. Turn around and drop that gun on the way. I've got

The Shadow knew the voice: Lou Norvel's. So, of course, did Hank. The Shadow came about as ordered, to

see Lou framed in the doorway, his shotgun leveled, while at the same time, Hank made a dive for his own

shotgun. The Shadow's hands came up fast, as Lou wanted; and his right hand let the automatic drop, as

ordered, while his left hand performed the trickiest of all The Shadow's practiced moves. On the "up" it

Right then, the Norvel brothers should have gotten it. Even The Shadow couldn't have risked facing shotgun

blasts at such close range. His only "out" was to drop Lou with one wellplaced shot; then wheel and clip

From outside the door, two men pounced on Lou and hauled him backward, his shotgun blasting a few eaves

from the roof. With that, The Shadow swung on Hank in time to crack the younger brother's wrist with his

automatic, before Hank could bring his shotgun into play. Those outsiders were Cliff Marsland and Miles

With that word to his twoman team, The Shadow was on his way, leaving the Norvel brothers under full

control. Cliff Marsland who had sped here in his riding clothes, looked like a Western lawman as he kept the

brothers covered with one of their own shotguns. Miles Crofton, still in his golfing togs, read the misspelled

"It's lucky the chief didn't crack Hank's wrist until after he signed this," declared Miles, "because it just about

Back in his new car, The Shadow had become Lamont Cranston and was testing the blue streak on the twists

and curves of Thunder Cliff Highway. The overcast had completely cleared in the extreme west, dispelling

the premature dusk that The Shadow had encountered at the Norvel farm, much to his satisfaction. Now, in a

last bright burst of daylight, the billowy clouds far to the east were perfecting the golden glory of the sunset

Far below, the Hudson was catching the sky's crimson hues and transmuting them to purple through the

blending of its own deep blue. From a dock on the opposite shore, a dayliner was starting down the river to

New York City, its deck loaded with homewardbound excursionists. Far upstream, a freighter was plodding

northward beyond Castle Point, a hazy blotch in the wispy remnants of the fog that had been gradually lifting

Cranston's destination was the Hudson View Tavern, which lived up to its name on this gorgeous evening,

but since Cranston had already seen the view, he went inside. There, he found Weston's party in one of the

smaller and more exclusive dining rooms and he joined them for dinner. With the group were Fred Frisbee

and Peter Winstead. Off through a doorway, Cranston saw Clyde Burke sitting at a table in a larger room,

That wasn't surprising. About the only story of the day was the splendid commencement address that Kart

Barka had delivered to the Birchwood students, using nine different languages, including Unival and

answering questions in as many as fifteen. The faker, whatever his real name, deserved credit; but Cranston

soon pegged him for what he was, an oldtime vaudeville showman from the European stage who probably

specialized in a rapid memory act. Such performers could acquire a sufficient smattering of many subjects,

Due to the presence of Frisbee and Winstead, the discussion chiefly centered on the Austin murder. Both

glumly admitted that the investigation was getting nowhere. Frisbee, of course, blamed it on the total

disappearance of Don Morland, whom he classed as the only real suspect as yet uncovered; while Winstead

added that the immense amount of detail in Austin's private affairs and the extent of his varied interests made

it difficult to garner data there. Winstead made his point when he gestured to a dinner party in another inner

room that opened from this one. There, he indicated Irene Austin chatting happily with her husband, Craig

"I arranged that reconciliation," stated Winstead drily, "and it is holding up, simply because Irene still doesn't

Later, Craig Shallick happened to stop by and Winstead introduced him to the group. Eager to aid an

investigation which apparently had an international aspect because of Delka's status with Interpol, Shallick

"Austin had some big plans," assured Shallick. "He talked to me about getting members of my family to

invest in foreign holdings, particularly in countries where most money men were afraid to go, because the

governments were too shaky. But Austin insisted that he could fix that. He acted as though there was a big

conspiracy that could be broken up just like that" Shallick gave a finger snap "but instead, Gregg Austin

"If Austin was so sure of all he said," commented Commissioner Weston, narrowly, "why didn't he put his

"He intended to," replied Shallick. "Irene says he was gouging people for every last dollar to put it all in some

pet scheme. He wanted to borrow all that my relatives would lend him, at high interest in return for letting

"No, that was his big secret," returned Shallick. "With half the world all mixed up, you couldn't guess which

"Austin always talked about buying foreign countries, but only where everything was solid and

"Probably his coverup," decided Delka. "He was going to put it in the shaky countries instead, the ones

where the abduction ring has planted its substitutes." The Interpol investigator tapped the fat portfolio he

carried. "The whole crowd whose names, photographs and records I have right here."

Delka looked to others for comment and received it from Inspector Joe Cardona, a swarthy, stocky man who

"Once Austin put money in those shaky countries," stated Cardona, "he could have blown the whistle on that

bunch of phonies. If they were grabbed, the countries would be shaky no longer, for the right guys would be

"If you mean the Rights," put in Cranston, drily, "you are right. Anyway, we are now sure that Austin was

mixed in this scheme of international imposture or knew enough to doublecross it. So they disposed of

"And that," reminded Frisbee, dourly, "leaves us just where we have been all along, still looking for the man

An odd touch followed, though few of those present appreciated it. Rutledge Mann came by with Myra

Reldon, his date of the evening, and Lamont Cranston introduced them to the supposed Kart Barka. The

imposter never recognized Myra as the elusive Ming Dwan, the Chinese girl who had so mysteriously slipped

Rufus Palford came along about then and stopped to shake hands with Commissioner Weston. With tilted

head and wide, moonman smile, Palford went into a somewhat maudlin hurrah over the good old days at the

Mann did that, in a placid yet persuasive way. He coaxed Palford into joining the Shallick party, so they went

into the other dining room together, with Myra. By then dinner was about over and Frisbee abruptly

That threatened an immediate plan that The Shadow had in mind, but he countered it by going to the phone

booth beyond the cocktail lounge. There, though still in Cranston's guise, he used The Shadow's whispered

The first was to Frisbee's office, where Burbank was to give an anonymous tip for Frisbee to go to the Norvel

farm. He then was to call the farm itself, telling Cliff and Miles to leave the brothers bound and gagged with

Frisbee was outside and starting for his car, when Cranston flagged him on the porch. In a convincing tone,

Cranston congratulated Frisbee on his remarkable handling of the Austin case. He added that he preferred to

voice this commendation privately, rather than have persons think it was mere flattery. Nor did he care to

rouse the jealousy of his good friend Commissioner Weston by extolling another crime investigator in his

To Frisbee, that softsoap had the taste of honey and he could have swallowed it all night; but Cranston didn't

keep him that long. When Sumner, the proprietor, came hurrying out to tell Frisbee that his office was calling

him, Cranston wound up the eulogy. But in adding a few glowing compliments, Cranston continued on

indoors with Frisbee, as far as the telephone booth. Then easing to a corner table, he awaited results.

Frisbee must have argued back and forth with the office help, for he took a long while to assure himself that

this was no hoax. Then, things happened as Cranston had anticipated. Frisbee practically sprang from the

booth and dashed out to his car, off on a hot tip that he hoped would make him famous, which was exactly

All that had taken time and by then Weston's party was leaving its table. Winstead happened to remark that

he was going to Austin's house to pick up some more papers; and overhearing that, the false Barka turned to

"Why don't you go along with Winstead and see if any of Austin's records tally with yours?"

The fake Barka steered Delka through a passage behind a stairway and even opened the door for him, because

Delka was burdened with his heavy portfolio. With a gesture that began as a parting wave, the skilled

impostor shot both hands to Delka's neck and gave him the swift nerve pressure treatment. Caught totally off

guard, Delka sagged to the ground outdoors. Two men who looked like extra parking attendants immediately

pounced forward, gathered him up, portfolio and all, and packed him in a light panel truck that bore the name

The fake Barka, meanwhile, was returning through the passage. He reached the front porch and was looking

"He said something about going along with Winstead," was the reply. "Down to Austin's to go over some

Winstead's car was pulling out of the driveway at that moment, so Cardona took the statement at face value.

He went back to report to Weston. The fake Barka watched until the pastry truck swung around from the back

parking lot and continued to the highway; then he turned and followed Cardona indoors.

Inside, Cranston had gone into the dining room and was chatting casually with Clyde Burke at the latter's

table. The crowd had thinned so Cranston's low tone could not be heard as he asked:

"Shallick invited them to join his crowd," replied Clyde, "so that's where most of them went, though I

couldn't see them all. I know that Frisbee went out and I think Winstead did also."

Cranston rose and as he did, he slipped Clyde a sealed envelope with the admonition:

"Stay close and see that Commissioner Weston gets this and reads it before he leaves. It has to do with Barka,

who is an impostor. Mann already knows, but he may not have a chance to tell Weston. Be ready for further

With that, Lamont Cranston was gone, though where, Clyde could not guess. Clyde had finished his dinner,

so he strolled out to the porch for fresh air. While he was there, old Rufus Palford came shambling from the

tavern in his doddering style, smiling in his stilted way to Sumner, as the proprietor called for his car.

Evidently Palford had remembered that it was getting past his bedtime. He sank back in the rear seat as the

Things seemed very quiet along the Hudson after that. Yet Cranston had told Clyde that a break was due; and

HARRY VINCENT came slowly from his daze as hands shook him heavily. He finally opened his eyes and

looked about to find himself in the oddest room he could have imagined. It was like a cell, yet with fairly

ample proportions, with square walls and a low, domed ceiling that looked oddly like two curved arches

The two men who shook him looked familiar, but Harry couldn't remember when or where he had last seen

them. That wasn't surprising, for Harry had come through an ordeal that might have lasted only hours, yet

could have persisted for days or even weeks, as far as he knew. It had begun during a chess game in Barka's

penthouse; that much Harry could recall. Barka had been about to make a move when everything had gone

The fact that he couldn't remember what took place just before was not unusual. Such things happened when

a person got slugged or suffered some form of sudden shock. Harry had undergone such experiences before.

Hence, though he didn't know it, all remembrance of the false Barka had been blotted from his mind. Harry's

neck hurt, though, and his knowledge of jujitsu tactics made him realize that he must have been hit by a nerve

On wakening, Harry had found himself on a boat and a big one. He knew that from the bunk in which he

had been lying and the sound of the fog horns outside. The boat had been moored for some time, it seemed,

then it had slowly gotten underway and Harry could remember a slow plodding trip; but only at intervals. A

man dressed like a ship's steward had given him some milk to drink, telling him it would make him feel

better, which it did, because it had doped him. Later, Harry had run into the same result with a bowl of soup.

Then he had been awakened and helped groggily to a hatchway, where he had been taken from the ship's side

onto a dock and down some steps, all in the midst of a vague gray light and the wash of waves that again

seemed familiar. Now, after what could be a few hours rest or a few days he was being revived again in

From the cell, Harry was conducted into a narrow passageway, with a cell much like his own across the way.

From it, another pair of familiarlooking captors brought Kart Barka, who appeared much the worse for

wear. Indeed, judging by Barka's blearyeyed appearance and the sympathetic look the linguist gave him,

Harry decided that he must be just about as beaten down himself. Going along the passage they passed still

Unlike most jails, which had long corridors, this one was a great crisscross of many passages, all narrow, like

a huge griddle. The cells, though airy, were windowless, many of them being an interior type. As they turned

one corner, a babble of voices reached them. Harry couldn't understand a word he heard, but Barka seemed to

recognize all of it, for as they began passing cells, he paused before each one and spoke words of

In every instance, the occupant came rushing to the cell door and poured an excited story into Barka's ear,

always in a different language. The guards were indulgent; apparently, they had been told to treat Barka and

Harry decently; nor did they have anything against the prisoners. From that, Harry's mind, though still dulled,

These must be the men connected with U.N. delegations who had been kidnaped so summarily and secretly

by the international ring, only to be supplanted by welltrained substitutes. Cranston had shown Harry photos

of these supposed victims before he had gone to the ULDA office and Harry had studied them closely at the

All were men with rugged and adventurous backgrounds, who had engaged in guerilla warfare or worked

with the underground when their countries had been threatened by totalitarian invasion. From their photos,

Harry had expected them to be the sort that could stand up under any strain. Yet they seemed nervous, almost

hysterical and the hands that rattled at the cell doors were thin, while the faces behind them were gaunt.

Though Barka had not seen the photos, he recognized the pitiable condition of the prisoners and was quick to

learn the reason; for he gained it from the men themselves. As he passed between each cell he managed to

"They are mentally starved," Barka told Harry. "They have wanted to talk to someone in their own language.

They have been purposely separated so that it was impossible. They all say that I am the first person they

Harry suggested that Barka ask them if they had talked to anyone at all. He did and came back with the same

answer on every case: yes, they have, but always with someone who tries to dominate them, forcing them to

repeat things they do not like. They keep hearing voices, some of them say, whenever they wake up at night.

"They are being brainwashed," rejoined Harry, "exactly as we were afraid would happen. We'd better prepare

ourselves for the worst. This is worse than solitary confinement, being put with people who try to talk to you,

"That won't apply in my case," reminded Barka, "because there is not a language that I cannot speak to some

degree and I think that with my knowledge of linguistics I could begin to understand any dialect I heard. But

they will probably find some other way to soften me for the brainwash treatment."

By now, the guards were moving Harry and Barka along. The babble faded as they turned another corner and

came to a cell where Harry recognized the man inside, both from his face and his costume. Harry exclaimed:

The hiker didn't recognize Harry, which wasn't surprising, for they had met only briefly, while Harry had

seen pictures of Don later. But Don was glad to hear his own name and he was eager, too, to get out of his

cell. But the guards left him there, moving Barka and Harry on until they reached a fanshaped stairway that

took them up from this strange grillwork of underground passages, which Harry felt sure must cover an acre

or more of ground. They reached a doorway, which opened into a paneled reception hall, where the guards

closed the door behind them. Harry had seen that place by daylight; now by the glow from its glittering,

"Yes, up the Hudson above Vanderkill. This used to be an old government arsenal and those must be the old

storage vaults where the ammunition was once kept. Rufus Palford, who owns the castle now, told us they

"Wait until you see Palford," Harry told Barka grimly. "He's a real brainwash job. If you mention Tibet he

starts to fall all apart, because that's where they gave it to him. Otherwise, he's just a drooling old droop who

just about knows his way around. These are his servants" Harry gestured to the guards "that's why I half

recognized them. But you can bet right now they are answering to someone lots bigger and smarter than

That was immediately evident when they were conducted into the room beyond, where a man was seated at a

table busily writing as he heard them coming. At a wave of his hands, the guards told Harry and Barka to sit

down. The man at the desk arose and turned toward them. Barka studied him blankly and again it was Harry

The master plotter gave a bow of acknowledgment. Kart Barka, who had read about the Austin murder,

recognized Winstead's name. Barka showed surprise, too, for the one man apparently clear of all suspicion in

the case was Winstead. From his chuckle, Winstead was apparently pleased at the reaction he had produced,

"You two are fortunate," declared Winstead. "More so than you realize. You, Barka, are a man we can really

use. We need someone to talk to the prisoners, one after another, to study their comparative reactions. Your

knowledge of languages will be helpful. Hitherto, we have had to use too many different persons.

"As for you, Vincent, we are sure you can answer some questions that have bothered us regarding the

investigations into the abductions; and you may be valuable as a hostage. I am only sorry that we did not

detain you the other day, when you were here with your friend Cranston. At that time we were more anxious

Well could Harry realize that. He knew now why Cranston had avoided Palford's early invitations. Only

when he had stationed his outside agents to watch Castle Island had he gone there. He must have gotten the

"all clear" before he entered; and they were waiting outside afterward to make sure he was not followed.

Harry's reflections ended as Palford came through the doorway that led in from the courtyard. Back from

dinner at the Hudson View, the proxy master of Folly Castle was shambling along in his usual style. He gave

Winstead his customary moonfaced smile. Then, seeing Harry, Palford really went into his cackly act.

"One chicken come home to roost," he gloated. "Good work, Winstead. When will you bring home another?"

"If you mean Cranston," returned Winstead, "any time he meddles in our business we will be ready for him.

But we already have another chicken and a fat one." He waved to the guards. "Bring him in."

The guards returned with Eric Delka. They slumped the Interpol investigator into a chair, where his chin sank

forward. Winstead, confident that he was in full control, dismissed the guards with another wave. Then,

"This is Eric Delka. He received the same treatment you did and from the same man, because we wanted

By "this" Winstead meant Delka's portfolio which he lifted from the floor beside him and planted on the

"You made a trifling mistake last night, Barka," continued Winstead. "You left instructions that only you

were to go up or down in the elevator. When the night man came on duty, he didn't know whether you were

down or up. Neither did your servant, Maddox, who had gone to sleep early as you usually allow him to.

"So your double, a very clever impersonator named Varno, simply entered the lobby, phoned Maddox and

told him in your voice that he was coming up. The elevator operator took Varno up and Maddox let him in.

"So that's why I heard the house phone," groaned Barka, "and stupidly, I stayed at the chess board. When I

"And I should have been ready for him," added Harry, "if I hadn't been thinking out my next move."

"Just one 'if' after another," laughed Winstead, in his gloating way. "But you must admit that Varno is

"And you are clever too, Winstead," put in Palford, with a chuckle. "Why don't you tell them how you fooled

"Right now is when you should tell them" Palford's head was tilting and his smile was widening "because

"And this is the time and the place!" Palford's cackle had reached its highest pitch. "Why, you're a good

impersonator yourself, Winstead. I've heard you have even imitated me like this "

Palford was on his feet now, sidling crablike to the table, as he grinned up at Winstead in his moonish way.

Palford's right hand was against the front of his open jacket; now, with a flip of his wrist, he brought it

upward with an automatic in his fist. As the muzzle pointed straight between Winstead's eyes, Palford's body

"Right up until now." With that firm tone, Palford shed all traces of his doddering self. "Or perhaps I should

tell them, Winstead." Now the figure was erect, the voice calm, impressive in its steadiness. "Because I

Harry Vincent didn't doubt that. Now the transformation was complete. Of all the impersonations so far

staged, this was the best. Winstead had been fooled by a man who could imitate Palford far better than

IF EVER the tables had been turned upon a master plotter in the very center of his web and under

circumstances which he thought were foolproof, that man was Peter Winstead. The stolid expression faded

from his squarejawed face and his eyes, usually sharp and calculating, showed flashes of alarm that became

Winstead's hands, resting on the table top, were an even better index to the reactions that he was unable to

conceal. At first, they started nervous moves, seeking to press a buzzer or bring a gun from a drawer; but

Cranston's own gun stopped those gestures short. Then, Winstead's fists went tight, as though he hoped to

Such was Winstead's pose as Cranston began a cool analysis that unraveled the tangled threads of crime.

"Gregg Austin was murdered for one sufficient reason," stated Cranston. "He knew too much about the

international abduction ring, which wisely or unwisely confined its operations to the Hudson highlands."

Usually, men who classed themselves as master criminals were either challenging or utterly subdued when

confronted with evidence of their guilt. Winstead was different. He was critical and in a sneering way. His

"Wisely, because it was efficient," defined Cranston, "utilizing the same setting, the same mechanism, the

same crew. Unwisely, because it involved too many factors, within too limited a sphere."

"Too bad we didn't meet you earlier, Cranston," observed Winstead. "We could have used you on our team."

"Austin knew this territory so well," Cranston continued, "that he must have seen the links between Folly

Castle, the Norvel Farm, the Vanderkill Hauling Company and many other local enterprises. So it was

obvious that his murder was well planned. The very circumstances indicated that someone present at his

"Only two persons were almost certainly in the clear: Craig Shallick and his wife Irene, because they had

been separated too long to have plotted it together on such short notice. That left three real suspects; you,

Winstead, selfadmittedly the mastermind of the abduction ring, now had little reason to deny the murder

charge, but he scoffed it down, probably as a point of pride. Sarcastically he asked:

"And how could I have been the last to leave Austin's and the first to reach the Hudson View?"

"By taking that short cut over Ragged Gap Road. You left at seven o'clock, as you said. But as soon as you

were past the row of cedars separating Austin's side yard from the quarry, you backed in beyond them, turned

Cranston's words rang home to Harry Vincent, who remembered how he and his chief had parked in that very

spot when The Shadow had gone in to have a look at Austin's. But Winstead simply sat back, his fists still

"You saw the Shallicks go by," accused Cranston. "You clocked the minutes until ten had passed. Then you

saw Langdon's car go by, followed a minute or so later by Mr. Wade's. You still had ten minutes leeway until

"You cut through a handy opening in the cedar hedge, into Austin's office by the side, where you circled the

desk like this." On his feet, Cranston was copying the killer's exact moves. "You came around in front,

Cranston was dramatic, playing Winstead's own part as the killer; but Winstead, trapped into filling Austin's

role as victim, stole the show despite himself. He quailed, letting his hands come up before his frantic face as

Cranston didn't shoot. That wave of fear displayed by Winstead was so perfect a reenactment of the death

scene that Cranston had visualized, that it stood as the equivalent of a confession. Still keeping Winstead

"The big flaw in your tooperfect crime was the way you played it absolutely safe. If the others had lingered,

leaving you too little time, you would have allowed Austin to live for a while at least. But with everyone

gone within the limits of your tight schedule, you murdered Austin, dodged back through the hedge and were

"With everyone else ahead of me," broke in Winstead, regaining his false front, "yet I got there first."

"On your way," continued Cranston, unperturbed, "up the turnpike and across Ragged Gap Road, which by

your own calculation was less than a twentyminute run, so you were easily the first person to reach Hudson

"Except that the bridge across the gorge was out," argued Winstead, a challenge in his tone. "You saw that

yourself the next day, Cranston and Frisbee has witnesses who will swear that it had gone out weeks

"The regular bridge, yes, but not the special temporary structure that your friends the Norvels had ready for

"A good, welltested bridge composed of lightweight girders placed on the old stone abutments. The sort of

bridge that could be dismantled, part by part, so that its sections could be put where they belonged, in the

dairy shed that the Norvels were constructing. Look at these photographs, Winstead."

Cranston named them as he drew them from his pocket and laid them on display, just as he had done earlier

"There is the car you were driving, Winstead," reminded Cranston. "Irene's red convertible. Here are

closeups of its tires; and here are the tread marks, official shots taken by Frisbee's photographer. And here"

Cranston was driving home his words "are photographs that I took of the girders the Norvels were using

for their quonset job. Look closely Winstead. On them you will see those same tread marks very faint, but

visible proving that your car was driven across. They should have washed those off, but they didn't,

"The fools!" Winstead came upright, bringing his fists down to the desktop with a terrific pound. "Why, they

"Frisbee has their confessions by now," interposed Cranston, "because he was going over to the Norvel farm

when he left the Hudson View. Setting up that bridge was quite a job. The Norvels needed two men and a

truck with a special winch to help them. It left early and went around by Thunder Cliff Highway, where it

waited for a car and practically knocked it into the river. Would you know anything about that, Winstead?"

There was a brief pause, while Winstead, his composure regained, began drumming the table top with his

"I certainly would know," Winstead declared brazenly, "because I phoned for the truck from Twin Peaks Inn

and told it to be ready. There was a man snooping around the cloverleaf with a pair of binoculars; and I

wanted him watched. The men on the truck saw him stop at the overlook, where he studied the river "

"And saw a freighter traveling north, intending to stop here at Folly Island after dusk, in order to deliver

"That's right," acknowledged Winstead, in a tone of genuine admiration. "You're even smarter than I thought,

Cranston. We could still use you, if you want to make a deal. I'll even give your friends here a nice break."

Winstead's fingers stopped their drumming, but they did not tighten into fists. Steadily, he asked:

"He was your big mistake, Winstead," Cranston declared. "You had two perfect foils: Mark Wade and Rick

Langdon. Each had only a slight reason to murder Gregg Austin, but those reasons sounded bigger by the

time they had accused each other. But you couldn't resist it when Morland came along."

"With pleasure." Cranston's tone was biting now. "Don Morland was a legitimate Trail hiker. He had no

reason to hitchhike down to Vanderkill. He was following the Trail on to Colonial Town, like he planned,

"Don figured that road would take him down to the turnpike, where he could mail his cards. Also, it was

getting dark sooner than he expected. So he walked down that road and found the Norvel brothers sitting

beside their nice, shiny temporary bridge, waiting for you to came along and use it, Winstead."

"So they grabbed Don," declared Cranston, "because it was the only thing they could do. They slugged him,

went through his pockets and found those postcards. You came along and wasted one of your precious

minutes nosing Irene's car across that very safe but rather nervewracking bridge. So you had another minute

"And so you told the Norvels to take the bridge apart," replied Cranston, "and also to get down to Vanderkill

and mail those postcards before the last pickup. You thought that it would be smart, coming up with a new

and unusual suspect, but it weakened those you already had framed: Mark Wade and Rick Langdon."

"So the Norvel boys stuck Don Morland in a cellar" continued Cranston, "and kept him there while you were

showing us around the premises the next day, convincing everybody or nearly everybody that Ragged

"Meanwhile, you decided that Don would make a good suspect, so while he was doped or unconscious, you

had Lou Norvel impress his fingerprints on a memo pad that you took from Austin's office. Later, you planted

that pad back there; one of those little foibles, Winstead, that marked you as the murderer because you alone

"That night, you had the truck come around again to pick up Don Morland. There's only one place where you

could have taken him and that is right here. He must be down in one of those old ammunition vaults where

you are keeping all the U.N. personnel you kidnaped. So here is my ultimatum: Deliver them."

Instead of adding the words "or else," Cranston thrust his gun hand forward. At that threat, Winstead wilted.

He spread his hands hopelessly toward Kart Barka and Harry Vincent and said, pleadingly:

"You two know where they are. The cell doors are simply barred from the outside. So release them all and

Even though they both still felt shaky, Harry and Barka eagerly accepted that assignment. They hurried over

to the door that led below, continued down and pulled the outside bars, releasing all the prisoners, Don

Morland included. At the head of the babbling throng, they returned upstairs. Yet on the way, Harry Vincent

Peter Winstead, selfadmitted murderer, could never have hoped to make a deal with a crime hunter like

Whatever Winstead's mistakes and Cranston had really called the turn on them there was one he would

not make. That was to give up without a struggle in the realm where he was still master.

That was proven as the reception hall became filled with the freed prisoners, all crowding one another

happily, all trying to talk to Kart Barka at once. Harry Vincent was holding back as many as he could, but

they were far too few. Winstead had pulled the smartest of all tricks; he had released a human tide that could

One man who realized it was Eric Delka. Recovered from his daze, the Interpol investigator was even more

amazed to see a mass of swarming faces that matched the stacks of photographs in his portfolio. Delka

realized that these were the men he had come so far to seek, but that he had found too many of them all at

Cranston and Winstead were both being swept back by the pawing, frantic crowd of haggard humans who

were going completely berserk in their urge to be free. Cranston was still covering Winstead with the

automatic, but only intermittently; for although they were still sidebyside, they were becoming separated.

There were moments and all too frequent when the surging figures of unleashed prisoners formed a

human barrier between. But Winstead did not try to take advantage of such a shield. Instead of diving away,

"You asked for it, Cranston and you're getting it. So give up make a deal I'm giving you one more

Cranston knew the kind of deal that Winstead meant. It would be one in which Cranston would be dealt out;

and permanently. Winstead had figured on all that, when he had cannily paved the way to releasing this flood

of halfmad humans. Winstead had known that there would be no way to stem the tide.

"You can't hold them back," Winstead was arguing. "They've turned primitive on you, Cranston. Let them go,

Cranston saw what Winstead meant by "talk." The surge from the vaults had formed cover for Winstead's

men to come in from the doorways on the flanks; the wild medley of voices had been their cue that they were

needed. Smart, indeed, Winstead's play! If he had grabbed for a gun or made a single false move when

Cranston had him helpless, that would have been the end of Winstead; for Cranston otherwise The Shadow

would have given the murderer no quarter. But now, Winstead had things as he wanted them.

Swirling away in the living whirlpool, Winstead was at last beyond the coverage of Cranston's automatic. All

he had to do was reach his own crew on the outskirts and give the order for an allout attack.

So was Cranston, but in the opposite direction. From the moment Winstead was free of the gun point,

Cranston knew what the result would be unless countermeasures could be taken. The only move of that sort

was to stop all this futile milling and lead the mad horde to some refuge where they could make a stand. With

that in mind, Cranston broke through and began beckoning from beyond, shouting about the tumult for all to

Follow him, the crazed throng did, for their thoughts were rudimentary and their instinctive urge was to

accept the first leadership that was offered. Cranston led them on through the hall where the suits of armor

were displayed, down the steps into the place where this human stampede could spread itself, the big room

By this time, however, Winstead had reached his followers, who numbered nearly a dozen, all armed with

rifles and revolvers. They were hard on the heels of the thirtyodd prisoners, who had become more frenzied

"Keep after them!" bawled Winstead. "When they get into the weapon room, they may grab a few rusty

swords and maybe some empty guns so, what? Herd them if you can and if they still act foolish, shoot them

down. And be sure to blast one man the moment you get a bead on him: that tall guy, Cranston!"

At that moment, Cranston was playing an even more dramatic bit. The human swarm had reached the weapon

room and was spreading in a high pitch of excitement, with each frenzied face desirous of something, yet too

dazed to go beyond the primitive stage. That, Cranston knew when he swung about in the center of the room,

For moments the tumult persisted, because only a few understood and their reaction was not enough to sway

the rest. But fortunately Barka had come along with the wave of wild humanity and he shouted the order in

The careers of all these men had been studded with situations wherein selfpreservation had become their fist

and only law. In their earlier days, they had been persecuted, driven like beasts, forced to seek refuge in caves

and jungles, with only one form of retaliation possible. That was through guerilla tactics, which often

depended upon using whatever crude and outmoded weapons their respective countries had to offer.

To these men, a call to arms was just as varied as the languages in which it was voiced. It prompted them to

an instinctive urge, in which they reverted to whatever was most familiar, if they could find it. And never had

Here, in this one room, was every native weapon known to these now fanatical fighters who were thirsting

individually for vengeance. For weeks, for months, their minds had been starved until they longed for the

sight of anything familiar. Now, they were finding it, each unto each. As their eyes followed Cranston's

sweeping arm, each man singled out the very weapon that he wanted. They sprang to the walls, snatched the

Winstead's crew couldn't even begin to herd these transformed madmen. Fighters armed with bolos and

machetes were slashing their long blades at gun hands, as though cutting sugar cane or jungle vines. One of

the riflemen stared as though hypnotized by the snakish thrust of a wavybladed kris that drove deep into his

One freed prisoner grabbed a Malay barong, its long blade sheathed in a scabbard formed by two slabs of

wood, with strips of leather holding it together. He swung the weapon wildly, scabbard and all, at one of

Winstead's followers, who laughed as he raised a rifle to ward off the stroke, thinking that a sheathed blade

Instead, he learned how a barong is really used. The combined weight of blade and scabbard knocked the gun

back and the sheathed sword hit the gunner's shoulder. With it, the blade automatically cut the thongs, so the

slabs dropped away and the bared edge gashed the victim's flesh clear to the bone. A barong, it seems, is

Except perhaps for the huge African spear that one exprisoner hurled at an aiming rifleman. The spear

missed by inches and buried itself in the paneled wall, while the gunner darted across the room and swung

about to take new aim at the thwarted spearman who was bounding over to reclaim his weapon. As he

wrested it free, he hurled it again, all in the same motion, impaling the aiming gunner.

That spear had two heads, one on each end, giving it what amounted to a double action. There were other

weapons, too, that came whizzing in unexpectedly to the further misery of Winstead's rapidly evaporating

crew. While one man was using a rifle to fend off a Fiji war lance, a Sudanese throwing knife caught the

An Indian javelin felled another rifleman, while an Australian boomerang scaled in from an angle and caught

a man who was aiming a revolver at an attacker who swung a hugeheaded Congo war club. When two of

Winstead's men ganged up on one fighter and wrested away his big, curved Gurkha knife, he whipped out

two smaller ones from hidden pockets in the leather scabbard and went to work with those.

Now, Winstead's followers were so thinned out that those who remained were fleeing for their lives, with the

assorted fighters pouncing after them. They were a real underground, this international group of gaunt,

nervous men, who had been confined in the ammunition vaults for varying periods. Winstead had himself to

blame for letting them loose, but it was Cranston who had turned them into the guerilla fighters that they now

The pursuit continued out through the halls of the castle, with Winstead's men still dropping as the relentless

fighters overtook them. The place was becoming a shambles, but not the sort that Winstead had planned.

Instead of bullets mowing down helpless victims, the gunners themselves had been literally chopped down.

They were shooting to the last shot and dropping to the last drop of their blood.

Once the chase began to spread out through the castle, Cranston sped straight on through, telling Barka,

Harry and Delka to grab up revolvers that Winstead's men had lost. When Cranston reached the door to the

courtyard, he stopped to pick up what looked like a coat that he had laid over the back of a chair, when he had

come in pretending to be Rufus Palford. The coat proved to be The Shadow's black cloak, with the slouch hat

Quickly, Cranston slid his arms into the cloak sleeves and clamped the slouch hat on his head. As The

Shadow, he moved out into the semidarkness of the courtyard. He needed his black garb because he

suspected a trap; and the courtyard was definitely such. Winstead, about to drive out in a car, had stationed

Only the gliding figure of The Shadow could have eluded the two marksmen who aimed from darkened

niches, ready to go triggerhappy at sight of anything even a shadow. But the only watcher who might have

spotted the blackcloaked figure was a third man in a boxlike turret above. He was ready with a rifle, but he

had another job, the handling of the portcullis. He laid his gun aside to raise the big gate; then, as Winstead's

car shot through, he let it fall. At that moment, The Shadow's glide became a dart.

The Shadow dived beneath the massive iron teeth as they came champing down. He was spotted then, but the

clang of the great gate was echoed by slighter clanks as rifle bullets hit the broad strips and framework of the

metal grille. The portcullis itself had become The Shadow's shield against the pursuing rifle fire.

Outside, The Shadow dashed across the narrow neck where Winstead's car had already sped. The only chance

to stop it was when it climbed to the old bridge with the wooden planking that crossed the railroad tracks.

The Shadow could have used a rifle now, but he had no time to find one and bring it along. His only chance

of stopping Winstead was to puncture a tire or punch a hole in the gas tank of the fugitive car with a

The Shadow had a .45 in each hand and was pumping them alternately, but Winstead's car kept on. Then, as

its headlights swung onto the bridge, they seemed to reflect others that loomed from the other side. Not just

one pair of approaching lights, but two sets, practically in tandem. Instantly, The Shadow recognized what

Those were cars driven by Cliff Marsland and Miles Crofton, who left the Norvel farm before Frisbee arrived

there, and were now following Burbank's instructions to head to Folly Castle and serve as reserves, should

The Shadow need their aid. Now, they were cutting off Winstead's flight at the only bottleneck where he

There was one problem: Did this car carry friend or foe? Were they perhaps stopping The Shadow on his way

to some new goal? It took quick thinking to decide. One car shot on to the bridge and stopped abruptly,

leaving just enough space for the car from Folly Castle to skim by. The other car stopped before it reached

It was time for splitsecond judgment, whether right or wrong. It turned out right, in an unexpected way. To

Winstead, both these cars were hostile, so he gunned his car as it hit the bridge, intending to sweep past the

From back near the neck of land, The Shadow's .45s were tonguing their last stabs. Possibly one of those

slugs found a tire on the fleeing car; or it could have been that Winstead himself veered too far to the right. In

This wasn't the Thunder Cliff Highway; nor was the rail tricked. But it was old, wooden and weatherbeaten.

The flimsy barrier splintered and Winstead's car did a sidewise somersault on to the northbound tracks,

The glare of a mammoth searchlight was coming up that track and Winstead's car flitted into it like a moth

seeking a flame. Hardly had the car hit the rails before it, in turn, was struck by the front of the mammoth

diesel locomotive that was hauling a Chicagobound limited at a seventymileanhour clip.

The big engine played football with Winstead's car, bouncing it beneath the bridge and along the track in

tremendous bounds, finally shunting it toward the river bank, a twisted jumble of metal that contained an

From the tongue of land that led to Castle Point came a strange weird laugh that shivered into fading echoes

It was The Shadow's mirthless knell for Peter Winstead, the mastermind who had outguessed himself for the