THE VINDICATOR ...........................................................................................................................................1

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

CHAPTER I. PRICE OF SILENCE........................................................................................................1

CHAPTER II. CRIME'S PENALTY .......................................................................................................5

CHAPTER III. THE VANISHED MURDERER ....................................................................................8

CHAPTER IV. GATHERED EVIDENCE ............................................................................................11

CHAPTER V. CROSSED PATHS ........................................................................................................15

CHAPTER VI. THE RUBBER KING..................................................................................................18

CHAPTER VII. CRIME DELAYED....................................................................................................21

CHAPTER VIII. VREEKILL CASTLE ................................................................................................25

CHAPTER IX. THE QUEST THAT FAILED ......................................................................................29

CHAPTER X. WALLS OF DOOM......................................................................................................33

CHAPTER XI. TRIGGER SEES THE SHADOW...............................................................................37

CHAPTER XII. PATHS IN THE DARK ..............................................................................................41

CHAPTER XIII. DUEL OF DARKNESS .............................................................................................44

CHAPTER XIV. CRIMELESS MYSTERY.........................................................................................48

CHAPTER XV. AGAIN THE VINDICATOR .....................................................................................53

CHAPTER XVI. THE LAST SHAKEDOWN ......................................................................................57

CHAPTER XVII. DEATH LEAVES A TRAIL...................................................................................61

CHAPTER XVIII. SHIFTED EVIDENCE...........................................................................................64

CHAPTER XIX. BACK FROM DEATH.............................................................................................68

CHAPTER XX. CRIME'S TRUE TALE..............................................................................................72

THE man in the limousine was nervous, fearful, as the big car swung into the narrow treefringed lane. His

hands tightened on the metal box that rested in his lap; his eyes had a twitch as they peered through the car

In the front seat, the chauffeur calmly turned the car into a driveway between high box hedges. The passenger

gave a last look along the lane, then settled back with a comfortable sigh. He was home at last; after a drive

Ahead glowed the lights of the big mansion; the car was rolling to a stop on a side drive, quite close to a large

veranda. There were lights on the porch, and people too. The strains of dance music wafted from the open

Alighting from the car, the passenger was no longer shaky. He told the chauffeur to take the limousine to the

garage. Then, with the metal box tucked beneath his arm, the man produced a key and unlocked his own side

He was smiling at his own fears. Odd that he, Thomas Grennel, man of finance, whose wealth exceeded a

million dollars, should be worried by a short ride in the dark, from the station to his home.

True, this section of Westchester County was isolated; the roads the sort where enemies might lie in ambush.

True, too, that the box which Grennel carried contained much that would attract men of crime.

But no one, except Grennel and one other man, was acquainted with the contents of that box; and that other

man, even though Grennel mistrusted him, was not the sort who would resort to highway robbery; at least,

Inside the mansion, none was aware that Thomas Grennel was at that moment unlocking his own side door,

hoping to steal into the house unnoticed. Most of the guests, some fifty or more, were dancing, except for the

There were two, however, who stood near the rear door of the large ballroom chatting as they watched the

THOUGH vivacious, Dorothy Grennel was not attractive. She was overly tall and awkward. Her evening

gown, though as tasteful as it was expensive, was too fluffy for her type. It made her arms and neck look

skinny, rather than slender; and it would have suited a demure girl, rather than Dorothy, whose long, haughty

Never a good dancer, Dorothy preferred to watch the others perform the Lambeth Walk. She knew that her

feminine guests were envying her. For Dorothy, by her charm alone, she thought, was keeping Ross Bland

Bland was tall, handsome, his curly hair and wellpointed mustache matching in a lightbrown hue. His

welltailored evening clothes added to his natural poise. Dorothy could count nearly two dozen girls who

"Cute, isn't she?" questioned Dorothy. "The little blonde in green, the one at whom you are staring, Ross."

Bland smiled, offered Dorothy a cigarette. He had been thinking that the little blonde was more than graceful.

Her sparkling blue eyes and saucy smiling lips were the sort that he would like to meet at closer range. But he

"I was looking at her partner," he parried. "An oddlooking chap, with his wide, dark eyes and long, serious

face. Reminds me of a polo pony I used to own. I've been expecting him to whinny, any moment."

"You'd better not let Margaret Brye hear that," laughed Dorothy. "She's in love with the fellow. His name is

"So was my polo pony," chuckled Bland. Then, as he flicked his cigarette lighter: "Is the girl any relation to

Dana Brye, the old chap who designs all those elaborate time locks and other contraptions?"

"He is her father," replied Dorothy, "and Larry Chandler is secretary to Roger Marquin, who controls all

Bland's eyebrows lifted. Everyone had heard of Roger Marquin, since his return from South America a few

years ago. Marquin's connections were of an international sort; no one knew just how heavily he profited

from rises in the price of rubber, but his wealth was estimated at a million dollars.

Then, his gaze turned toward the hall. Bland forgot the persons mentioned, at sight of someone else. It was

Thomas Grennel, coming in from the side door. He had locked that door behind him and was making quick

PUFFING his cigarette, Bland was heedless of Dorothy's further conversation. He had observed the box that

Grennel carried and it roused his curiosity. He was anxious to talk with Grennel.

Bland's first problem was to get away from Dorothy; and that was suddenly settled for him. A servant

approached, to say that she was wanted on the telephone. Bland waited until she had passed a corner of the

"Mr. Cranston?... You're coming out here? Marvelous!... Father? Why, he was to be at the office tonight...

No; wait! One of the servants is telling me that he just arrived... Yes, his chauffeur just brought him from the

The music had begun again, but Bland's knock on the study door was audible within, for a voice called to

enter. As he stepped in, closing the door behind him, Bland was startled to see Grennel half risen from his

Then, seeing it was Bland, the financier sank back, ran his fingers weakly through his thin gray hair.

Grennel had the high cheeks, the large, aristocratic nose that his daughter had inherited. Usually, his

expression was one of importance; tonight, worry made him look shriveled. He pointed Bland to a chair, then

"I'm glad to see you, Ross, but I don't know whether you should have come here. I thought" Grennel

"We've been going to discuss that mining deal," he said. "The option won't hold much longer, Mr. Grennel. I

still think I can swing you a controlling interest in the silver mine for twenty thousand dollars. But it may not

Grennel opened the box, began to take out stacks of currency, one hundred thousand dollars in all. Bland's

eyes opened wide; he was wondering why a twentythousanddollar proposition had to be postponed, when

"I am taking you into my confidence!" Grennel's tone again was hoarse. "You must promise, Ross, that you

Ross nodded his promise. Grennel brought a letter from his desk, passed it across to Bland, groaning:

Other letters were phrased more strongly. They teemed with actual demands for Grennel's payment to the

writer who called himself the Vindicator. The final one specified that the hundred thousand dollars was to be

paid in cash, setting this night Bland checked it by the date on Grennel's desk calendar as the time limit.

"Witherby was president of the People's Trust," spoke Grennel, hopelessly. "I actually sent him the notes, for

a paltry fifteen thousand dollars, in the sealed envelope mentioned. I dated them ahead, so I would have a

"Poor Witherby! His plight was worse than I thought. He burned all his personal papers and committed

suicide. I thought that my envelope had gone with the rest; but evidently I was wrong. Foolishly, I let the

"WHAT about the Vindicator?" questioned Bland. "Do you think that he intends to reimburse persons who

"He does not!" Grennel forgot his hoarse whisper, in his indignation. "This is blackmail, Ross! Sheer

blackmail! The man himself has been bold enough to call me over the telephone and admit it, at the same

time reminding me that I must pay. I can tell you much about this crook who calls himself the Vindicator, and

Grennel interrupted himself. The sharp gleam of his eyes showed that he was not yet willing to take anyone

"This money," declared Grennel, tapping the bills that he had replaced in the metal box, "is marked. I have

sent the list, with the numbers of the bills and their markings, to the New York police. Once I have reclaimed

my envelope, I shall do more than seek the Vindicator. I shall expose him and the game that he has worked

Gathering the letters, Grennel replaced them in the desk drawer. There was a safe near one corner; picking up

the money box, Grennel stepped spryly in that direction. He turned the dials, swung the safe door half open.

"I want you to be here," he told Bland, in a whisper, "in case the man himself arrives. Your description of

him may be valuable when I denounce him. But you must remain concealed, no matter who arrives.

Remember: the final letter stated that if any witnesses were present, I would suffer "

Words dying on his lips, Grennel fairly shoved Bland into a niche between the safe and the wall, then swung

the metal door fully open to cover the hiding place. There was reason for Grennel's hurry.

A knock had sounded at the study door; a sharp, imperative rap that carried an expected summons.

THROUGH a narrow, but ample, space at the edge of the safe door, Ross Bland saw the visitor who entered

Grennel's study. It took the crouched witness only a few seconds to decide that the arrival could not be the

The fellow was rangy, but slightly stooped of build. His face, somewhat sharp of feature, could have been

presentable had he so chosen; but inclination, plus habit, had produced an opposite result. The man wore a

leer that seemed fixed to his uglycornered lips; the glint of his eyes was wolfish.

He was dressed in an illfitting waiter's uniform, and it was plain that the man had never had training as a

"Hello, Grennel!" gruffed the rangy visitor. "Let's get acquainted. My name's Kobin Trigger Kobin, they

call me, and it's a moniker that's got sense. If you ain't convinced, start something!"

Either Grennel had steeled himself for this test, or felt that he could depend upon Bland. At any rate, the

financier's accustomed dignity had returned. He acted as though unimpressed by Trigger Kobin. The thug, in

"We're in the same boat, Grennel," he informed. "I don't know nothing more than you do. The bigshot wants

the dough and sent me to get it. I never met him: I've only heard him talk over the telephone, funnylike, the

"He's got plenty on me, like he has on you. I gotta deliver, that's all. I planted myself out here along with the

extra waiters that you hired for tonight, and I brought some other guys along. We don't want trouble, no more

Bland could see Trigger's crafty eyes rove the room. The blinds were drawn at the windows; against them,

Trigger could see the dark lines of steel bars that protected the room against burglary. Trigger's glance

seemed to consider the bars unnecessary, for he had given the safe a careful scrutiny and had admired it.

Good reason for that. The safe, like many of the latest and best design, had been installed by the expert, Dana

"I have the money here," declared Grennel, suddenly. "As you state, trouble would be bad for both of us. But

Obligingly, Trigger produced the envelope and laid it on the desk, letting his hand go to his hip as soon as

Grennel raised the envelope to the light. To Bland, the envelope looked intact; moreover, it was stamped with

a wax seal that Grennel apparently recognized. With a nod, the financier turned toward the safe.

Grennel obeyed. He went to the safe brought the metal box to the desk, and let Trigger count the money.

"I must open the envelope," warned Grennel, "before you go. That was the understanding "

"Because the arrangements were changed tonight. This transfer was supposed to have taken place in my

office until the Vindicator" Grennel pronounced the name contemptuously "called up and made new

"The bigshot said to mention that. Listen, Grennel; if you know what's good for you, you'll keep your trap

buttoned tight! Lay off the wise stuff and I'll tell you why. The bigshot got leery that something was

"He knows you've been squawking to the coppers. Sometimes stool pigeons work two ways. Get it? There's a

police inspector that thinks he's hot stuff a guy name Joe Cardona and you've been talking to him.

Whatever you've spilled so far, don't matter. It ain't been too much. But all the bigshot says is: one more

Trigger finished the sentence graphically. He brought his hand from his hip, made a motion as if slicing his

Rigid, the financier made no reply. Bland thought for a moment that the threat had put Grennel on the verge

"Well, there's your envelope. Open it, and find out if the goods ain't the real stuff!"

With hands that could scarcely pluck the paper, Grennel finally managed to tear open the envelope. He was

feverish as he brought out slips of paper, studying them in the light. Then, with an eager bound, he crossed

the room to a huge fireplace, where a small fire was burning, even though the night was warm.

With a pleased gulp, Grennel flung the reclaimed notes into the embers, watched the papers flare up and turn

Trigger, leaning against the desk, watched the scene with relish. Then, remembering that he had closed the

bargain, he grabbed the metal box, made for the door and sidled out into the hallway.

The closing of the door awoke Grennel to sudden activity. Forgetful of Bland behind the safe, the

grayhaired man bounded to the door, made certain that Trigger had gone toward the kitchen on the other

Satisfied that the emissary was on his way, Grennel pounced back to the desk. He snatched the hand

telephone from its cradle and called for a connection with New York City police headquarters.

Grennel's eagerness caused Bland to remain where he was. Thoroughly intrigued by the recent scene, the

young man had no desire to interrupt it. It would be best, he thought, to let Grennel finish his call

In a moment, Grennel's voice rose excitedly over the distant dance music. He was talking to the very man he

"I'm at home," announced Grennel. "I had to come here... A call from the Vindicator... Yes, the Vindicator;

that's what the blackmailer calls himself. I have his letters here to prove it...

"Yes, I delivered the marked money... No, not to the crook himself. He sent a man for it. A rogue called

Trigger Kobin... You've heard of him? Good!... Yes, I received what I expected... No, I don't care to mention

THERE was a pause. Evidently Cardona was asking questions. Bland could see perplexity show on Grennel's

"The Shadow?" asked Grennel. "No, there was no call from such a person... A friend, you say? I expected a

friend to drop in at the office. A man named Lamont Cranston... No, he isn't here. I left before he arrived. But

Grennel had said something previously about knowing who the Vindicator was. Bland wondered why he

didn't get to the point. Grennel did come to it, after Cardona had finished a few more questions. His lips

"I can tell you more, inspector!" he exclaimed. "I know who the Vindicator is... Yes; positively! He gave

himself away by something he said when he phoned my office. I was afraid to call you then..."

There was a click, that Bland took for an interrupted connection on the telephone. He hoped that Cardona had

not been cut off. But Grennel was talking again, and the police inspector was evidently listening, although the

"He gave himself away," repeated Grennel, with a chuckle. "There's only one man that he could possibly be.

He calls himself the Vindicator, but I recognized his voice. The Vindicator is "

Grennel stopped himself. He was staring toward a window. He had forgotten that a listener was on the wire,

waiting for the allimportant name that Grennel was about to utter. He was riveted only by what he saw.

It was something that explained the clicks heard by Bland. Those sounds had been the raising of a window

that the hidden witness could not see. Though barred, the window had an ordinary sash inside the metal

crossbraces. The sash had raised two inches and was about even with the downpulled shade.

Sharp, emphatic, flashing a tongue of reflected flame, a revolver shot spurted through the scantraised

Ross Bland, sole witness to the tragedy, saw the telephone leave Grennel's hand, strike the desk and slide to

the floor, carrying the stand with it. But the fall of the instrument was drowned by a louder thud; that of

Collapsing like a dummy figure, the grayhaired man struck the floor like a thing of waxwork. The name that

Grennel had been about to utter was locked within his closed lips by the very man whose identity was at

For the thrust through the window, delivered from the direction opposite the route that Trigger Kobin had

Death had become the final price. Death delivered by the master criminal who called himself the Vindicator!

THE shot that killed Thomas Grennel was timely, from the standpoint of the man that fired it. But the

First, the night was warm; hence there were persons on the side veranda. Second, with a loud blare of sound,

the orchestra finished the piece it was playing. An emphatic silence had resulted; and that sudden stillness

was ruined by the gun's report, so startling that it cleaved the night air with its echoes.

Instantly, there were shouts from the veranda. Like the gunshot, they were heard by the lone passenger in a

big car that was rolling in along the front driveway. Through the blackness, that arriving guest had also seen

As men in evening clothes piled from the veranda, to spread across the lawn, the passenger in the arriving car

In the dozen seconds that Stanley required to complete the order, the passenger in the back seat underwent a

remarkable transformation. As Lamont Cranston, a newly arriving guest, he had been a figure in evening

clothes, when he saw the gun spurt from across the angle of the long lawn. But while men were springing

His hands were drawing a black cloak over his shoulders; as his arms flung themselves into the sleeves, he

twisted to scoop a black slouch hat from the seat beside him. As one hand clamped the hat on his head, his

The moment that the car stopped, a figure slid out into the darkness of the driveway a shape that went so

swiftly, so silently, that Stanley still thought Cranston was in the car and sat back patiently to await further

A variety of matters were explained by his quick change. Cardona's question over the telephone regarding

The Shadow, was prompted by the police inspector's hunch that such a crime hunter would certainly be

Grennel's answer, that he had expected his friend Cranston, showed that Cardona's hunch was right, even

though the inspector did not know it. Finding Grennel gone from the office, The Shadow had called his

SPREADING out from the veranda, the excited guests were naturally forming a fanwise cordon across the

lawn as they closed in toward the darkened wall outside of Grennel's study. In so doing, they were gaining

No crook, however willing he was to fight, would be foolish enough to fling himself into the light. His only

chance to avoid exposure was to circle the rear of the mansion and take to the smaller lawn on the far side,

unless he found a chance to duck through the hedges at the rear. In either case, the quickest, surest way to

That was the route The Shadow took. As he neared the rear of the house, he could hear the shouts of the

pursuers coming from beyond the corner. Driving swiftly, silently through the darkness, The Shadow had

heard no scurry from the murderer. He was in time to trap the fellow, whether he rounded the house or darted

It was up to The Shadow, an automatic already in his fist, to waylay the killer before the others did.

As he clipped five yards by cutting close to lowroofed steps outside the kitchen door, a sudden clatter

interrupted him. The door was flung outward; with it came a flood of light. A man lunged from the kitchen, a

His hurtle carried him across The Shadow's path; as he struck the ground, the fellow turned to shout back at

other men, who were using guns to slug their way free from the kitchen. The fellow was Trigger Kobin, and

as he wheeled about, the lighted doorway formed a background for a sight that startled him.

Against that glow was a blackcloaked human figure; a head that wore a black slouch hat. Trigger glimpsed a

hawkish profile that disappeared as its owner twisted away to regain the darkness. In that instant, Trigger

With that, Trigger fired at blankness. The Shadow had whirled back again into darkness, and Trigger took

to the same sort of blanket. It was lucky that he didn't shoot again, as he dived into the dark, for The Shadow

It chanced, therefore, that The Shadow's shot went wide. As he shifted, totally deceiving Trigger, the fellow

made the mistake of returning a shot from a spot farther away. By all logic, the duel should have ended with

The thugs at the doorway had heard his shout; they had seen The Shadow's shots. They were flinging

themselves from the sides of the steps, shooting wildly as they came. The Shadow, whipping away, had to

Sprawling, the first comer hit the ground, but the others, three in all, were bounding across his prostrate form,

shooting toward the deeper darkness. There was only one direction that The Shadow could have taken:

They were spraying their shots high and low, driving in to fall upon their prey. Whether he flattened on the

ground, or tried to scale the wall, The Shadow would be prostrate by the time they reached him.

THEN, like a stab from nowhere, came an answer that dropped another of the thugs. It was repeated; this

time, a crook located it a volcanic gun spurt that seemed to issue from the ground beside the wall. The

The final hoodlum, lunging onward, stumbled. He grabbed at the wall, to save himself from a plunge into an

He had reached The Shadow's protective covering. The cellar windows had stonewalled wells outside them,

for they were below the ground level. Those stone pits were scarcely ever noticed, because they were covered

with hinged gratings. The Shadow, finding one against the wall, had yanked the grating up and dropped

The grating had not fallen back into place. That was why the last thug stumbled in the pitfall. Before he could

recover his balance, hands had caught him and were dragging him down. Wildly, the mobster tried to slug his

invisible opponent. His blow was warded off by The Shadow's arm; and with a reverse stroke, the cloaked

The shallow pit retained an occupant, but its inmate was no longer The Shadow. He was out from that

temporary shelter, leaving the stunned crook below the grating that The Shadow dropped back into place.

Quick, probing shots were The Shadow's next move; he dispatched them in an effort to locate Trigger Kobin.

There was an answer from a line of trees along the drive, beyond where Stanley had parked the limousine.

Trigger's one shot was so hasty that it whined harmlessly off into the darkness.

Trigger's bad aim did not deter The Shadow. He knew how poor such marksmen could be at long range. His

own aim was the sort that could drop Trigger before the fellow fled out through the front drive, which was his

More men were upon him, a shouting frantic crowd whose faces were blurs above the sharp white of their

shirt fronts. The guests had lost the murderer's trail when they heard the commotion by the kitchen. They

All that they clutched was empty darkness; but amid it was a swishing form that bowled them in several

directions. The Shadow, finally forgetting Trigger Kobin, had become a human whirlwind. The blows that he

delivered were straightarmed shoves, rather than punches; but they carried a power that strewed the lawn

He was past the kitchen steps, The Shadow, still hoping to regain the murderer's trail, when he was met by

the last of the guests, a man who sprang in suddenly. In the gloom, The Shadow saw a gleam which told that

There was a clang, as The Shadow's automatic stroked the revolver. That hard slash numbed the attacker's

hand. He lost the gun and grappled, only to be flung into the light by the kitchen steps.

As his opponent sprawled, The Shadow heard a girl's shriek. A blonde, clad in an evening dress of green,

dashed into view. She stooped to aid the sprawled man to rise groggily upon the steps.

THE girl was Margaret Brye, the blonde that Ross Bland had noticed on the dance floor. Her whole

expression showed concern, for the man she aided was her fiancee, Larry Chandler. He had been first in the

chase around the house, and his long face was solemn now, as he ruefully rubbed his head.

Margaret's lips tightened as she stared into the darkness, hoping to sight Larry's opponent. But The Shadow

was gone and, as a token that no one could trace him, a strange laugh quivered from the darkness. Sinister,

mocking, that tone certified that he had done his part in battle against men of crime.

Elusive, the laugh left others guessing as to its precise location. Even Stanley was puzzled; staring from the

front seat of the limousine, the chauffeur scratched his head. That laugh might have come from anywhere.

Not so with the voice that Stanley suddenly heard. It was Cranston's quiet tone, ordering him to start the car,

drive out from the grounds, turn around, and come back to the front door of the mansion.

Chance of pursuing either the murderer or Trigger was ended. The Shadow, having accomplished the utmost

under the circumstances, had again become Lamont Cranston. Playing that part, he intended to learn what had

Such details would be vital to his quest. For The Shadow was sure of one important fact. He knew, although

he had not viewed the result, that Thomas Grennel had been murdered; that an unknown killer was the man

He had heard, too, of a master criminal who styled himself the Vindicator. Other facts testified that the crook

in question must be the murderer. The killer's escape, therefore, marked the beginning of a new campaign.

The Shadow, true champion of justice, would seek the Vindicator, that pretender whose claims of righting

INSPECTOR JOE CARDONA played an important part in the investigation of the Grennel murder case,

even though the crime had occurred outside his bailiwick. Arriving at the mansion, he found the Westchester

County authorities in charge. And they had been eagerly awaiting his appearance.

They regarded Cardona as a material witness, due to his telephone conversation with Grennel. They felt

grateful because the New York City inspector had called them and reported the murder before word had

reached them from Grennel's. Joe's testimony, moreover, was needed to establish that given by another

Stockybuilt, swarthy of countenance, Cardona had a direct manner that made his statements convincing. He

declared, emphatically, that Grennel had told him of Bland's presence. Every detail given by Cardona such

as Grennel's mention of the Vindicator, and the payment to Trigger Kobin as gobetween meshed perfectly

When Cardona had finished, he found himself shaking hands with Bland, whose face had regained its usual

smile. While waiting for Cardona, the mustached young man had been very much a suspect; one county

detective holding to the belief that Bland might actually have been the murderer.

With Bland cleared, he was asked to repeat his testimony. He gave it, from the moment of the murder.

"That shot was fired through the window," stated Bland. "I heard it; I even saw the flash. But I was where I

couldn't do anything about it. By the time I was out from behind the safe door, the killer was gone.

"The window was barred. I couldn't go after him through there. I yanked open the study door and ran right

into some excited servants. They saw Grennel's body and grabbed me. But I couldn't have gone out through

the side door anyway. It was locked. One of the servants had to take Grennel's keys to open it."

The servants substantiated Bland's story; so did Dorothy Grennel, who had arrived with them. That swung the

burden to the outside witnesses, who told their stories in half a dozen styles but with the same chief fact. All

had heard the shot and swore that it had been fired outside. A few claimed that they had seen the gun flash

Their story of the chase was uniform. They had pursued the murderer to the back of the house. There, they

had been diverted from their chase by the roar of battling guns. They had mixed it with a fighter in the dark,

Someone had heard the name shouted just before the fray, and the title fitted. Like a living shadow, he had

come and gone, but he had left tangible evidence of his battle in behalf of justice. Four crippled crooks had

been taken into custody. One of them, the thug that The Shadow had slugged, was able to act as spokesman in

The fellow was a smalltime hoodlum named Muck Salders. He had been too groggy to think up an alias,

"We didn't come here to pull no rubout," testified Muck. "We come along with Trigger Kobin, because he

wanted to chin with old Grennel and didn't want nobody butting in. We was to use our dukes, if any guys got

"But when we run into The Shadow, Trigger yells to start shooting, so we did. Anyway, we didn't croak The

Shadow so what? It wasn't us that put old Grennel on the spot; nor Trigger, neither. Nobody can hand us a

POSSESSION and use of firearms seemed a sufficient charge against Muck and the other thugs; but that was

a matter for the courts to settle. Joe Cardona held to the personal opinion that Trigger Kobin, if captured,

It was certain, though, that Trigger had not foreseen the murder of Thomas Grennel, although he had issued

There was one feature that Cardona definitely did not like. Even if found, Trigger would furnish no trail to

the Vindicator. That was obvious from Trigger's statements to Grennel, as reported by Bland.

But how to account for the disappearance of Grennel's murderer? What had become of the vanished

A lone witness suddenly offered testimony. He was one of those who had been in the pursuit: Larry Chandler.

His previous statements had been similar to those of other guests who had left the veranda. But Larry had

"I was closest to the man," he stated. "So close that I saw his gun when he chucked it away. I might have

"This gun?" demanded a county detective, exhibiting the weapon. "The one picked up near the kitchen door?"

"I saw The Shadow," he declared. "I didn't know that he'd been fighting crooks, so I went after him. That's

when I lost the gun. You'll probably find my fingerprints on it, to prove my statement."

Cardona's eyes went sharp, his lips tight. He sped a glance toward Lamont Cranston, who was present as a

listener but wasn't rated as a witness, because he had arrived after all the excitement was over. Cardona knew

He was wondering, Cardona was, whether Cranston, too, had noted the smartness of Larry's statement. The

young man was intimating that the fingerprints would prove his story; whereas, they might more logically

Whether Cranston caught it or not, Cardona could not guess. Cranston's face was immobile, masklike. Not

"Since you didn't tackle the murderer," he said, "maybe you can at least tell us which way he went."

"There was only one way he could have gone," returned Larry. His face was more solemn than ever. "I was

coming from one side, The Shadow from the other. The killer must have cut through the rear driveway,

"I don't know. But if he had a car parked in the lane out back, he would have used it quick enough."

That led to questioning of Grennel's chauffeur, who had been in the house with the other servants. He hadn't

seen any car in the back lane, but maybe one had followed from the station. There had been several cars

parked at the station; ones that the chauffeur had noted while waiting for Grennel.

No one, though, could testify to having heard a car pull away from the back lane. Again, that proved nothing,

for the lane was fairly distant and the sound of a starting car could easily have escaped notice.

Apparently, Larry's story was to be taken at face value. Cardona, fuming at the thought, suddenly introduced

"The shot that killed Grennel?" parried Larry, coolly. "I was on the veranda talking to Miss Brye. We were

both startled by the shot; I was faced toward the study and happened to see it. I told Margaret that's Miss

Brye that I was going to see what was the matter. Being near the rear of the veranda, I was the first to begin

NOT for a moment did Cardona's eyes leave Larry's. The young man met the inspector's gaze directly.

County detectives, as well as other witnesses, had their eyes glued on the pair.

Two persons, however, glanced elsewhere at Larry's mention of Miss Brye. Those two were Lamont

Cranston and Ross Bland. They let their eyes turn toward Margaret, read the facial expression of the girl in

Margaret's face went pale, then took on a flush that crept down her neck and shoulders. But she recovered

Margaret's eyes were looking past Cardona, to meet Larry's. His gaze was as steady as ever, and it gave the

"That is true," said Margaret. "Larry and I were on the veranda together. We heard the shot, and he dashed

away. Others followed, and I went with them. That was why I was close enough" her voice took on a new

firmness "to see Larry pick something from the ground. When he dropped it by the kitchen, I saw that he

Cranston's eyes had moved again. They were watching Ross Bland. The Shadow saw that Bland, like himself,

had recognized that Margaret's testimony was colored to support Chandler's story. How much of it was actual

It was Joe Cardona, this time, who had missed his opportunity to find a flaw. Margaret's testimony gave the

sterling mark to Larry's statement, so far as the police inspector was concerned. Joe turned to the county

detectives and apologized for breaking into the quiz. They politely thanked him for his efforts.

The net result of Cardona's interjected question was to clear Larry of all suspicion, thanks to Margaret's

support. When the county officials decided to dismiss the witnesses, they included Larry Chandler and

One man alone remained. That was Ross Bland. But the detectives made it clear to everyone that they merely

wanted to go over the details of Bland's conversation with Grennel; that Bland, like all the other guests, was

Joe Cardona rode back to New York City with Lamont Cranston. On the way, the ace inspector gloated over

his future opportunity. The murder had been done in Westchester; but Manhattan, Joe's own stomping

"Trigger is the guy to find," assured Cardona. "Maybe he can't tell us who this Vindicator is, but it's a cinch

he sent Grennel's dough along to the bigshot. That's the lead I'm going to go after, when I get hold of Trigger

The gloom in the big car hid the slight smile that The Shadow allowed upon his lips. There were persons,

perhaps, who would prove more important in this case than Trigger Kobin. One was Larry Chandler, the

Besides those two there was a third, whose excellent memory of details and whose sharp ability to notice

persons' faces made him the sort who might obtain important clues on his own. That was a reason why The

If The Shadow's thoughts of the future were correct, and they had an uncanny way of being right, Ross Bland

THE next two days produced sensational newspaper accounts relating to the Grennel murder. There wasn't a

doubt that the Vindicator, despite the smugness shown in his letters, was a crook of superior skill. Facts

leaked out to prove that Thomas Grennel was not the first victim of the Vindicator's blackmail schemes.

Over a period of a few years, the Vindicator had shaken down at least a dozen men of considerable

prominence, accumulating close to a quarter million dollars by such methods. Some had told a partial story to

the police, without mentioning the Vindicator by name; that was how Inspector Cardona had recognized what

Similarly, The Shadow had obtained vague facts regarding the Vindicator. But until he suspected that he had

been recognized by Grennel, the Vindicator had never resorted to violence, let alone murder.

Curiously, Grennel's death made previous victims talk. Like Grennel, all had received documents relating to

their own misdemeanors of the past. They had paid cash for such papers, then had destroyed them; so they

were safe in that respect. But when it came to guessing the identity of the Vindicator, there was nothing they

One of the victims had used Grennel's trick of delivering marked money, then had instructed private detective

agencies to watch for it. After a year the cash had bobbed up from various places, always defying efforts to

It was plain that the Vindicator was well fortified financially; that he could afford to let "hot" money cool. He

probably would keep Grennel's marked bills in his own possession, then release them some months hence,

through various wellprotected channels. The people who would eventually put the cash in circulation would

The sooner, therefore, that the Vindicator was found, the more chance that he would be caught with the

unsavory goods. On that account, Joe Cardona was combing the underworld for Trigger Kobin. The Shadow,

however, was more interested in the affairs of persons who belonged to a much higher layer of society.

LATE in the afternoon of the second day, Margaret Brye entered the cocktail lounge of the fashionable Hotel

Clairmont. She chose her favorite table in a deep, comfortable corner where the lights were mild.

There was a man at a nearby table, but he looked half asleep. Studying his face, Margaret decided that she

had never seen him before. She was wrong, but could hardly be blamed for the error. The Shadow, when he

changed the contour of his features, always appeared quite different from Lamont Cranston.

Margaret was sipping a daiquiri when she saw another man stroll over from the bar. He was coming to her

corner, and she heard a polite voice that she recognized; a moment later the man was seated at her table.

"Ross Bland!" exclaimed Margaret. "I didn't recognize you at first. I never knew you came in here."

"I don't, usually," returned Bland. "I just happened to come in with a friend. He had to catch a train, so I

Bland had actually arrived alone, as The Shadow could have testified. The man's real purpose was to have a

private chat with Margaret; and he had learned, probably through mutual acquaintances, that she sometimes

"I'm waiting for Larry," said the girl. "He's driving me out to Mr. Marquin's home. I'm living there, you

"So I understand," nodded Bland. 'They tell me that your father likes to isolate himself when he gets in an

"Not exactly that," explained Margaret. "Some of his experiments are dangerous. That is why he goes to

Vreekill Castle. I shall be glad when he returns to New York, so we can take our old apartment."

Bland's question was casual, but it brought a tightening of Margaret's lips. In any discussion of her father's

work, she preferred to settle questions rapidly. Opening her handbag, she took out some letters, laid them on

"This letter is from dad," said the girl, picking up an envelope. "It came yesterday. He isn't certain how soon

he will be back. What is more" Margaret was gathering the envelopes, putting them back in her bag "I

never go out there to see him. The road from Vreekill to the castle is a poor one, and it is the only way to get

there. Besides, dad never admits visitors. I don't think he would open the door, even for me!"

There was an emphasis to Margaret's tone that discouraged further questions. She wanted the subject

changed, and Bland obliged. There was another matter that he was particularly anxious to discuss.

"I'm obliged to Larry Chandler," remarked Bland, "because his testimony helped so much the other night. He

made it quite clear that the shot was fired from outside the window and not inside the study. Without Larry's

Margaret nodded. She was looking past Bland, toward the man at the other table, and was confident that he

was out of earshot. She didn't realize that the low curved ceiling of the nook acted as a sounding board. The

"OF course" Bland was offering a cigarette "Larry owes a lot to you. His testimony needed your support.

There was a touch of alarm in Margaret's eyes; her fingers were nervous as they plucked a cigarette from the

"Let's talk about something else." Margaret was covering the worry in her tone. "I feel so badly about poor

"You two used to race your speedboats, didn't you?" he inquired. "Out at the Northview Yacht Club. Isn't

"You'll have to match her with the Rambler," chuckled Bland. "That's my boat about the same build as your

"The Whiskaway is up for repairs," she said. "I... I struck a rock when I missed the channel."

"A rock outside the Northview basin? I didn't know of any there. I'll have to watch out for them in the

Margaret, trying to recover from her confusion, was grateful at that moment to see Larry Chandler enter. She

After a few moments' chat, Bland found he had to leave. He was scarcely out of sight before Margaret spoke

Larry stared a moment then shrugged. His hand came across the table, steadied on the girl's.

"It doesn't matter," he assured. "I really thought you were there, Margaret, or I wouldn't have said so. It

actually happened exactly as I told you after we were alone. I saw someone lift his head, there by the

"You'd been there just a moment before. It must have happened when you started away to look for Dot

Grennel. Anyway, I was halfway to that window sneaking up on the fellow, whoever he was, when the shot

"I heard that," acknowledged Margaret. "That's when I forgot Dot and looked for you. I didn't see you where I

had just left you. I thought" her eyes were large, with a dewy sparkle "that someone had fired at you.

"Poor kid!" Larry's hand parted the girl's fingers. "Of course it scared you! But I'm glad, darling, that you

"There's one question, Larry," she said. "No matter what your answer, I promise never to reveal it. But I must

THE SHADOW could see a twitch of Larry's features. In a moment, the man's long face had stiffened for the

test. The coming question might prove a grim one. It was possible that the girl might actually ask if Larry,

himself, had been the man by the window. But she didn't. The question that she put brought quick relief to

"That man by the window," asked Margaret, "did you, by any chance, recognize him then or later?"

"Positively not!" he declared. "I couldn't see his face at the window, for it was dim and his back was turned.

"I lied about that, too," reminded Margaret. "I thought it would help you, Larry."

"It did, and I appreciate it. I was a fool to snatch up that gun and put my own prints on it. The killer must

have wiped it on a handkerchief while he ran. Only my prints showed. Fortunately, they don't count against

The girl's gaze was far away. She didn't doubt a word of Larry's story, so far as his own part was concerned.

"Who the murderer might be?" Larry snapped the interruption hotly. "Certainly not! If I had recognized him,

I'd have shouted it out! But what makes you think that I might know the Vindicator?"

"Nothing," replied Margaret, with a forced smile. "Nothing, except a crazy notion that I suppose I shall

"Let's go, then," he suggested. "I just called Mr. Marquin. He's having a guest for dinner and wants us there

early. You'll remember the chap; he was out at Grennel's, but he didn't get there until after the fireworks."

Larry nodded. He and Margaret left the lounge. From his own table, The Shadow watched their departure.

His changed lips wore a slight smile. Larry's remark was a reminder that it was time for The Shadow, too, to

Soon, The Shadow would be back in his guise of Cranston, with another opportunity to overhear any

ROGER MARQUIN'S Long Island residence was larger, more pretentious, than Grennel's Westchester home.

Marquin had chosen it because he entertained a lot, mostly foreigners, who were interested in the rubber

Since most of his holdings were managed through South American agents, Marquin had no office in

Manhattan. A suite of rooms on the second floor of his mansion had been converted into offices, where he

The dinner proved a subdued affair. Roger Marquin sat at the head of a table large enough to have

accommodated two dozen diners, in addition to the four persons who were present. Yet the table, large

The service, like the food, was excellent. Marquin always kept a large retinue of servants, in expectancy of

many guests; and his serving men were so well trained that each course of the dinner seemed to arrive in

From one end of the table, Marquin chatted at longdistance range with Lamont Cranston at the other. The

rubber king was a man of middle age, forceful both in manner and expression. His face, tanned from long

periods that he had spent in the tropics, had the large forehead of a thinker, the square jaw that marked him as

In booming tone, he talked of expeditions up the Amazon; how he had won the control of valuable rubber

plantations despite the opposition of powerful foreign syndicates. He spoke almost cheerfully of defeats that

he had suffered, his air indicating that losses merely drove him on to other gains.

Larry and Margaret, at opposite sides of the table, faced each other in silence throughout the entire meal.

Marquin was too busy talking to notice the fact; but to The Shadow, it evidenced that they had resumed their

Perhaps Margaret had put some other questions, more pointed ones, and Larry had not liked them. Possibly

their coldness was exaggerated. This gloomy dining room was anything but a chummy place.

Near the dinner's end, Marquin glanced at Margaret. His heavy tone dwindled as he remarked:

"Don't worry about your father, Margaret. Those experiments of his will soon be over. Furthermore, I doubt

"Time bombs are not playthings," reminded Margaret. "I hope that dad will turn to something different in the

DINNER ended, Marquin conducted Cranston up to his suite of offices. There, The Shadow saw stacks of

foreign correspondence on a desk which evidently belonged to Larry. There were filing cabinets along one

wall, proof that Larry's task was a heavy one. Marquin commented on that very fact as they went into the

"Young Chandler is a prize," he declared. "He is far more than a mere confidential secretary. I hope some day

"How did you first acquire him?" was Cranston's response. "Was he a secretary originally?"

"No, indeed. He was an architect. With a firm that had many wealthy clients. But the building boom ended

and there was no more opportunity for Chandler. He came to me to ask advice regarding conditions in South

"Chandler has money," he declared. "How large a fortune, he never stated. Enough, I would say, for him to

live on the income, provided his stocks were paying dividends. I liked him, and offered him his present job.

"Chandler is a social climber. I say that in his favor" Marquin smiled frankly "because I like men with

ambition. At present, he is engaged to Margaret Brye; but I am not sure" Marquin's tone lowered to a

confidential pitch "how that will work out. There's still a question regarding the wealth of her father, Dana

By that, Marquin intimated that Larry, if not a fortune hunter, at least took into calculation the financial

position of his future fatherinlaw. Mention of Dana Brye put Marquin into a reflective mood. He pointed

to the safe in the office wall; it was similar to the one that The Shadow had seen in Grennel's study.

"Brye designed that safe," declared Marquin. "He sold a lot of them, because the combinations are so intricate

that no one has ever been known to crack one, except with dynamite. But I am not sure that Brye is a good

"He may have money, but I doubt it. Unless love of his work is all that moves him, he should have retired a

few years ago. Instead, he is working on a dangerous invention. So dangerous, that he has arranged for me to

A knock interrupted, from the door of the outer office. Marquin called to enter; Margaret appeared. She

"Certainly!" agreed Marquin. He opened a desk drawer. "I believe that there is enough in the fund that your

father left with me. No; wait!" He was opening a notebook. "It appears that you have overdrawn the amount.

Again, Margaret's air was one of hesitation. At last, she unfolded a letter that she carried and handed it to

"Who is this man Jolden?" asked the rubber king. "Why has he written you, begging for money?"

"He worked for dad years ago," replied the girl. "Two letters came from him; they were addressed to my

QUICK links were forming in The Shadow's chain of thought. Margaret was holding the envelope from

which she had taken the letter. The return address was in one corner of the envelope, printed in a sprawly

hand. That envelope was one of those that Margaret had taken from her handbag at the Clairmont.

Definitely, Bland must have seen it and noted its clumsy handprinted address. From it, he could have

learned where Jolden lived; the fact might have interested him. If Bland happened to be investigating the

Grennel case on his own, there was a chance that he would check on any unusual name that came his way.

The name "Jolden" was unusual. Moreover, to The Shadow, it was important. Classified in the back of his

brain were the names of many lesser crooks, and among them was that of Louis Jolden. Since the envelope

Jolden had done time in Sing Sing, as a secondary member of a bankrobbing mob. That dated back twenty

years the exact length of Jolden's sentence. But the fellow had been released in much less time, because of

"Why don't you let your father handle this?" questioned Marquin, addressing Margaret. "Old employees can

become a very great nuisance. Perhaps your father has tired of helping out the poor chap and, therefore, has

"Very well," she said. "You are probably right. It was very long ago that Jolden was in dad's employ. But he

told me once, dad did, that if Jolden needed money and he was not around, I should give the fellow some.

"But since he actually wrote to dad, I suppose it is not my affair. What should I do? Write to Jolden and tell

"Wait," suggested Marquin. "Do nothing, unless the man writes again and becomes insistent. Perhaps your

The two men walked with Margaret to the door of the outer office. When she had gone, Marquin shook his

"There's Dana Brye for you! That is why I fear he may have squandered all the money he made. He is a soft

A moment later, Cranston was shaking hands. Marquin wondered why his guest was leaving, until he recalled

that Cranston had mentioned an appointment that would take him away soon after dinner.

The Shadow usually made such statements when he went places as Cranston. Appointments always

accounted for a sudden departure; if he wanted to stay anywhere, he could decide that they were not

Within ten minutes The Shadow, still Cranston, was leaving Marquin's front driveway, a passenger in the

limousine that Stanley drove. His hands, however, were pulling out a secret drawer beneath the seat.

From that drawer, The Shadow was bringing the black garments that so effectively obliterated his guise of

The Shadow intended to pay a prompt call upon Louis Jolden, a man whose crooked past might have a

JOLDEN'S address was well north of Times Square, on a side street lined by crumbly old houses that had

once been private residences. Most of them, including the one where Jolden lived, had been converted into

The Shadow was no longer in the limousine when he rolled past the row of buildings. He had transferred

from the big car to a taxicab, an independent cab, which The Shadow privately owned. The driver, Moe

Shrevnitz, was the speediest hackie in New York and one of The Shadow's secret agents.

There were cars parked along the street, and The Shadow noted lurking figures that were shifting back toward

an old sedan. Apparently, that car had arrived only a few minutes ago. Consequently, The Shadow ordered

Observing a space between two buildings, The Shadow whispered another order. The cab slackened speed,

The Shadow dropped off into darkness. By the time the cab had swung the corner, he was taking the passage

Scarcely had The Shadow picked the building door that he wanted, when a stir occurred near him. Two other

persons had crept in by another route; they were holding a subdued conference, close enough for The Shadow

"Yeah, here's where you cover, Greasy," said one. "I'll slide back and tell Trigger you're posted."

Shuffly sounds marked the speaker's departure. The crook called Greasy remained; The Shadow could hear

him moving about on the cement just below the steps to the rear door. Meanwhile The Shadow, though

Crouched low, to avoid a dull light that came through a pane of thick frosted glass, The Shadow was working

Tiny picklike instruments did their duty. But when the latch gave, it clicked sharply and Greasy heard it.

Immediately, his stealth became remarkable. He started creeping toward the steps so neatly, that The Shadow

could barely detect the sound. Before he managed to locate Greasy's position, the thug paused.

The situation indicated that Greasy had a drawn gun, would be using it at close range if he saw the door

move. This was a jam that could become more troublesome, the longer The Shadow postponed action. The

detail of Greasy's exact position had to be settled. In the dark, The Shadow shifted.

Against the frosted pane, Greasy suddenly saw the shaded edge of a slouch hat that rose, then stopped. The

crook took two sidesteps to a perfect position and leveled his revolver. He had a suspicion that he had spied

The Shadow, and Greasy was taking no chances. With a sharp intake of breath, he tightened his trigger

Right then, an avalanche struck him. The hurtling mass bowled Greasy to the ground. His gun clattered,

unfired, as long fingers took his throat. Greasy went senseless when the back of his head rammed the cement.

RISING from Greasy's prone form, The Shadow turned to the steps and reclaimed his slouch hat, which he

had balanced sideward on its brim, so that it projected against the frosted pane. The next question was what to

do with Greasy. After peering into the apartment house hallway, The Shadow decided to lug the stunned

There was a space just beneath the inside stairway that served as a resting place for Greasy. Trussing the

crook with belt and handkerchief, The Shadow closed the fellow's lips with a strip of adhesive tape that

Moving stealthily past the foot of the stairs, The Shadow was a gliding thing of blackness, difficult to discern

against the darkened stairway. Noiselessly, he moved upward to inspect the floors above.

It was at the third floor back that he found Jolden's apartment. Most of the doors bore name cards; but this

one didn't, which seemed good policy for an exconvict. The door wasn't latched; easing it open, The

Shadow heard the buzz of voices. He was looking in upon a scene that he had half expected.

He saw Jolden, a thinlipped, tightfaced man with baldish head. With darting eyes that peered through

clouds of cigarette smoke that he puffed, Jolden was talking to a visitor: Ross Bland. Apparently, the two

"It's the straight dope I've given you," assured Jolden, in a wheezy voice. "And why not?" he shrugged his

shirtsleeved arms "considering that I don't owe anything to Dana Brye. We've got along all right, him and

"I understand," returned Bland, in an icy tone. Then, more indulgently: "I hope, Jolden, that your conscience,

"Conscience, hell!" he mouthed. "I've done my stretch, and that's that! Say, if I'd figured you for a dick when

you walked in here, you couldn't have made me talk if you'd used a hunk of rubber hose! That sob stuff you

"You want justice done. Sure! A lot of dopes feel that way, but they're guys that have never been in stir. If I'd

ever been that soft, the trip to the big house would have cured me. You're using your bean, though, by trying

to dig up the facts without calling in a lot of bulls. Dumb coppers, like that Joe Cardona, can gum up

Jolden paused, to take a last puff at an inch of cigarette before he chucked it. Then, following Bland toward

"I needed dough and old Brye won't give it. All I've ever done is tell him I was hard up; nothing else. You

wanted to hear what I knew about Brye, so I told you, for five hundred bucks. This country's still free enough

WITHDRAWN to the second floor, The Shadow watched Bland come down the stairs. Stiffly, eyes straight

ahead, Bland was clutching an inside pocket, proof that he carried more money than the five hundred dollars

It was obvious that he had found no pleasure in dealing with a man like Jolden; but he was trying to act

It wouldn't do to let Bland walk out through the front door into the hands of new mobbies governed by

Trigger Kobin, who had mysteriously bobbed back into the game. To warn Bland, The Shadow stepped out to

meet him, gave a friendly whisper that the fellow should have heeded. At that moment, Bland heard a sound

Taking The Shadow to be a foe, he flung himself madly upon the blackcloaked accoster. Grappling, The

Shadow tried to whirl Bland to safety along the secondfloor hall, for a sharp clatter had begun on the third

They reeled against a crazy railing, that gave with their weight. Catching a solid post, The Shadow remained

where he was; but Bland went through, to the steps that led down from second floor to first.

That drop inspired him to another. Bouncing to his feet, Bland vaulted the banister and landed in the rear hall

of the first floor. The quick dash of his footsteps told The Shadow that Bland had taken the proper route to

Whipping about, The Shadow looked up to the third floor. He flattened instantly, for he saw guns above.

There were shots, but the bullets whined over The Shadow's head. Immediately, his sweeping hand sped from

Two thuggish figures bobbed above one diving back to safety, the other beginning a long, sprawling dive

Rolling aside, The Shadow avoided the hurtling thug that he had clipped. Coming to his feet with a powerful

knee spring, he gave a mocking challenge as he drove for the top of the stairway. Flattening again near the

top step, he saw the route by which the thugs had entered: an open trapdoor that led out to the roof.

The second thug was crouched below that gap, aiming a gun. Behind him stood his leader, Trigger Kobin,

also with a drawn gun. Both fired at sight of The Shadow's head, but they were too slow. The Shadow was

sliding one step downward, as he took that peek. It was his gun, poked over the top step, that got results.

In the midst of blazing shots, Trigger's mobster pal collapsed. Trigger, himself, was wheeling away toward

the wall as The Shadow fired. But he made the mistake of stopping too soon, as he had that other night.

In two more seconds, Trigger Kobin should have known the folly of trying to beat The Shadow in a

The Shadow barely managed to halt his trigger tug, as a figure lunged through an opening door. It was

Jolden; he had heard the shots and seen the results. He thought that Bland must have started the battle, even

Jolden, in the penitentiary nearly twenty years, belonged to an era that dated back before The Shadow's

He had heard of The Shadow, but the cloaked fighter's battle challenge was something that newcomers did

not talk about when they had reached their prison cells. Therefore, Jolden thought that the marksman from the

stairway, presumably Bland, had reached his limit in bagging two crooks out of three.

Considering himself the prey that invaders sought, and seeing only Trigger left, Jolden decided to risk a dash.

Hurdling the sprawled figure of the second thug, he made for the stairway. His leap took him farther than he

expected. Jolden had blocked The Shadow's fire, but not Trigger's. For Jolden's guess was right; he was the

JABBING the shots that he had hoped to give The Shadow, Trigger turned Jolden's hurdle into a plunge.

With a mad shriek, Jolden went over the top of the stairway. His body, writhing in air, came down so rapidly

At the halfway point, The Shadow clutched the rail and stayed there; but Jolden continued, to end in a dead

Though The Shadow's eyes looked above, his ears heard pounding feet from the stair well below. Crooks

were invading from the front, attracted by the gunfire. They figured that Trigger needed them and they were

The Shadow spurted final shots toward the third floor. Amid the echoes, his laugh rang out anew, to let

Trigger know that he could expect more. Poking a fresh gun through the banister, The Shadow blasted away

Trigger had escaped through the trapdoor to the roof. Once in flight, he had decided to keep going. When The

Shadow rolled out to the roof, there was no sign of Jolden's murderer. Trigger had taken a quick route across

Sirens were wailing from the streets below. Police were arriving too late to trap Trigger Kobin. They would

furnish no obstacle, therefore, to The Shadow, when he also used the roofs to reach some empty house and

there descend. For The Shadow was carefully clamping the trapdoor, to leave no trace of his departure.

That task done, his laugh came weirdly, but subdued, as The Shadow began his journey beneath the shroud of

night. The game had shifted tonight, producing new elements in the quest for the Vindicator. Ross Bland had

become an important figure; for that young man had personally gotten important facts that referred to Dana

Louis Jolden, Bland's informant, could talk to no one else; not even to admit that he had spoken to a visitor.

The fact that Bland had heard Jolden's story was known only to The Shadow. As for Trigger Kobin, he had

Like his hidden chief, Trigger had committed murder. Under such circumstances, the law would hunt him

harder; but it was likely, too, that the Vindicator would use Trigger right along, since the fellow's lot was

Out of tonight's confusion The Shadow would foresee trails with many crossings; new paths that would end

their tangle in a straight route to that hidden master of crime, the Vindicator.

THE death of an obscure exconvict was not important enough to become lunchtable conversation at the

swanky Northview Yacht Club. Nor were the members interested in the fact that the police had pinned

murder on Trigger Kobin, after rounding some crippled mobbies in a raid the night before.

Among the luncheon group was Ross Bland. He, perhaps, was thinking of Louis Jolden; but there was

something else upon his mind. All during lunch, he scarcely noticed another silent member who sat opposite

him. Ordinarily, Bland would have been glad to chat with so prominent a person as Lamont Cranston; but

They met, Bland and Cranston, outside the yachtclub library, where Bland headed immediately after lunch.

"Someone was telling me about a buy in Arivada Silver. They say that you have options on a controlling

Bland showed a flash of interest. As always, when he began intensive conversation, he proffered his cigarette

"It's a reclaimed mine," he stated. "Huge prospects, Mr. Cranston. At present prices of silver, the big mining

interests are so busy with their own projects that they have let many opportunities slide. This is the right time

Bland started to answer; then hesitated. His glance went toward the library and its huge file of charts. He had

"I'll find out," he told Cranston. "Suppose I call you in a few days, when I have all the details."

Cranston was agreeable. He strolled away, while Bland went into the library. But Cranston did not go far.

From that distance, printed names could not be read; but The Shadow easily recognized the outlines on the

AN hour later, Bland started out in his speedboat, Rambler, bound, so someone said, on a trip across Long

A package had just been delivered for Lamont Cranston. In the library, The Shadow opened the envelope and

The picture showed Vreekill Castle, on the Hudson. They had been taken this morning from a passing

airplane. Such craft were commonly seen above the Hudson's cliffs as far north as Vreekill. Comparing the

photos with the chart that Bland had so recently consulted, The Shadow found that the pictures revealed all

Whether or not Bland had learned what he wanted, was a question. The Shadow, however, had certainly

As Margaret Brye had said, Vreekill Castle could be reached by a road. The pictures showed a twisty ribbon

Perched on the cliff, the castle held a precarious position, due to the cleft rocks below it. Though the

photograph had been taken directly from above, the building, a sprawl of ancient stone, appeared to have an

Although much of the ground near the castle was barren, there were clumps of trees that formed an irregular

path toward a cliff just north of the building, which was on the west side of the river. A narrow chasm lay

between; on its brink were a few fairsized saplings that had gained root in crevices among the rocks.

An important fact, that only the air photos could have shown, was the presence of houses among the scrubby

patches of woods. The buildings were scarcely more than shacks; probably they had belonged to workmen

One of those wooden structures, the largest of the tiny group, was certainly inhabited; for the camera,

working from above, had picked out the pygmy figure of a man, who could have considered himself

Photographs returned to their envelope, The Shadow soon was riding to Manhattan. Stanley headed the

limousine to the Holland Tunnel, glad that Cranston was returning home to New Jersey, for furious storm

clouds were gathering from the south, betokening a late afternoon storm. But while they were riding along the

There, Cranston dismissed the limousine and entered an autogiro. Defying the approaching storm, he took off

in the strange machine. Big flaying arms shaped like a horizontal windmill, lifted the wingless giro into a

AS he piloted the craft, The Shadow donned his garb of black. He was flying north, keeping ahead of the

Early dusk had brought lights to Manhattan and the city was one mighty cluster of tiny firefly sparkles. The

glow of the George Washington Bridge was another landmark; but soon The Shadow's only guide was the

Lights of water craft, occasional glimmers along the shore, were beacons that brought The Shadow back to

his difficult course, until, when he was many miles north, the blackness of the settled night was broken by a

It was the full moon, rising bloodred because of the horizon's haze. The Shadow had outraced the storm; the

clouds had not yet occupied the east. The moonlight, according to The Shadow's calculations, would be

dependable for at least another hour. That space of time was much more than The Shadow needed.

He had gauged his own schedule to the moon's. Within the next ten minutes, the ruddy glow showed the sight

that The Shadow expected. From an altitude of seven thousand feet, he spied the toylike structure of Vreekill

A few miles above the castle, The Shadow dropped the autogiro into a treesurrounded clearing and

concealed it where no one would discover it. Alighting, he spent the next fifteen minutes picking a

He came, at length, to the turning point where he could move eastward, to the cliff just north of Brye's

Despite the moonlight, The Shadow determined to visit the largest of the wooden shacks before approaching

the castle. Keeping to the trees, he found a blackness that the moonlight could not penetrate. Spotting a

One glance within the shack explained how Trigger Kobin replenished his depleted mobs. This was where he

kept his reserves; and Trigger, himself, was with his crew. Only three thugs were present, but from Trigger's

growled statements, The Shadow learned that there were at least half a dozen more around the grounds.

"WHY the squawk?" Trigger was demanding. "This is a cinch here, ain't it? Nobody's supposed to go into the

castle. All right, we're seeing that they don't. The way the bunch is posted near here, they'd spot any guy that

One of the thugs grumbled that this duty didn't worry him. The place he wanted to stay away from was New

"Stick here then," be decided. "When this job's over, you can lam. A couple of good torpedoes is all I'll need,

and they're in town already. The way saps like you guys let The Shadow knock you off, I'll do better without

Moving away from the shack, The Shadow worked his way north of the castle. At moments, he paused,

particularly at places where the trees thinned. There, by blotches of moonlight, he could see the patrolling

They were keeping themselves well under cover. None was close to the castle, for their game was to block

Lingering at one spot, The Shadow gained a proper view of the castle itself. Its stone walls looked crumbly,

but they bore signs of strengthening patches. Its windows, all high, were narrow, vertical slits. Its door, the

Skirting among the trees, The Shadow reached the cliff on the north. There, he crept on hands and knees,

No watchers were posted near, for they were unnecessary. Persons might reach the stone walls of the castle

Without considerable equipment, it would be seemingly impossible for anyone to bridge the chasm. But the

Black against rock shadows, The Shadow arose beside the brink. The space that yawned was too wide for an

ordinary leap; and it afforded no landing place beyond. Nothing but sheer wall, built to the very edge of the

castle's crag, with an abyss straight below. Close to the cleft, The Shadow could hear the murmur of the

Hudson's waves, stirred by the storm that was beating up from the south. Then came swashes, as if larger

billows had rolled into the waterfilled ravine. There were scraping sounds, then nothing but the murmur.

The Shadow was concentrated upon the castle, not the chasm's depths. In the rugged wall he saw a slitted

window, slightly below his level. He gauged its width and was satisfied. His next task was to reach it.

As he stood on the brink, The Shadow was holding to two of the saplings that the photograph had shown. He

Testing the ground as he edged away, The Shadow turned and made a short, swift dash that ended in a leap.

HIS takeoff looked as if he had started a crazy jump across the chasm a suicidal stunt that could only have

ended in a bounce from the opposite wall. But that spring also had an upward impetus. Its outward effect

He was literally hurling himself up the slender trunk, making a climb through the speed of his surge. His

carry in the direction of the chasm was intended to bend the sapling, and it did. Instead of sliding back to the

ground, The Shadow wriggled forward, his hands hauling him farther along as the tree yielded downward.

He was past the center of the bend. Hanging by his hands, he hauled the slender tree into the shape of a drawn

bow. Dangling above the abyss, The Shadow depended solely upon the strength of his grip, to prevent a fall

that would have dashed him straight to death. The tree, as it bent, seemed woefully frail; yet The Shadow

Hand over hand, swinging above black nothingness, he was working himself to twiglike branches at the tree's

very top. The bend of the branches at that point became straight downward. Twiggish branches snapped

warningly. The trunk, if it could still be called such, was like a rope in texture. From this point, there could be

His strength taxed to the full, The Shadow would have a long, slow task to work straight upward, hand over

hand; and by that time the sapling, already weakening, would give beneath the strain.

Return, however, was not in The Shadow's plan. His shoulder was scraping stone. Twisting, he saw a slit of

black carved in a stretch of grimy gray. Tightening one hand with nails that dug into the sapling's bark, The

Shadow flung his other arm through the gray slit. His hand found a grip upon an inner ledge.

The sapling slid from a loosening fist. It whipped back to its position on the chasm brink, lashing to and fro

like a living thing resenting the treatment that it had received. While the tree still quivered in the darkness,

The Shadow's other hand was through the slitted window in the wall, taking hold at the side.

Strong shoulders heaved. Arms spread wide within the window, gave a pull. Twisting to get through the

narrow space, The Shadow gave another haul and yanked his body inward. His black shape had merged with

Hands reached the floor, to make the drop a light one, as knees supplied a final shove from the window ledge.

A SPOT of light glimmered upon an ancient flagstone floor; turning, it threw its brilliant eye against walls of

moldy stone where cobwebs formed a woven tapestry. Probing, the glow found a doorway leading from one

The beam was The Shadow's flashlight. In the upper story of Vreekill Castle, he was picking a route through

The Shadow knew the history of Vreekill Castle. Begun in Dutch Colonial days as a sure citadel against

raiding Indians, it had later been converted into a blockhouse. These were the rooms that had quartered the

Abandoned time and again by successive owners, the gloomy, isolated structure had finally been acquired by

Dana Brye; but it was obvious that the present owner had no use for the upper rooms. They had been left to

As he glided through the ravenlike rooms, The Shadow's flashlight met a shaft of black only a few feet ahead.

There was a whisper: the subdued tone of The Shadow's laugh. He had escaped the deep outside chasm, only

to miss an inside danger by the fraction of a yard. Turning the flashlight to the right, he stepped toward a

Something detached itself from a broken flagstone and whipped away. The Shadow took a side step to avoid

the sliding object; but he pivoted with the flashlight as the center, keeping the glow fixed on the spot. There

The thing was a black snake, that had found its way into the castle seeking field mice as prey for its

constrictor's coils. Alarmed by the light, the snake had taken to a wide crack in the wall.

Other fissures showed along that same wall. Playing the flashlight in a semicircle, The Shadow saw a series

of narrow, jagged crevices. This was the wall on the river side; its outward lean was very apparent. Dipping

the light to the bottom of the wall, The Shadow continued its course down into the black hole that he had so

The pit was a stairway, and The Shadow's sideward shift had brought him to the steps. They were made of

stone, those steps, and each was a huge single slab. Despite the size of the slabs, The Shadow tested each one

Though they had settled at different angles, all the steps were tilted toward the outer wall. The masonry,

Perhaps some flaw in the foundation was the cause; possibly the original builders had set the castle too close

to the brink. The exact reason was less important than the fact that Vreekill Castle could not long continue as

AT the base of the stone stairs, The Shadow came to a heavy door. Brye had evidently placed that barrier not

only to block off the rooms above, but to trouble any chance venturer who might enter there.

Nevertheless, he had foreseen that invasion from that direction was improbable; for the door was merely

Wedging a thin strip of metal through the crack, The Shadow worked upon the bolt. Had that measure failed,

there were others that he would have used. But the bolt, allowing play in its socket, worked under pressure.

Hinges groaned as he pressed the door open. Stifling that sound by slower tactics, The Shadow gradually

gained a required space. Once through the door, he closed it, again avoiding any repetition of the grinding

His precautions were wise, for from the other side of a fairsized room came a trickle of light that denoted a

door that stood ajar. This room, stacked with odd boxes, was evidently used for storage. If The Shadow's

So it was, and more. Peering through the partly opened door, The Shadow saw a curious conglomeration. He

viewed a large room, entirely windowless, with workbenches in one corner, a cot in another. The room was

At the far side of the room was a tiny oil stove, the principal portion of Brye's kitchen. In final contrast, the

end wall, hollowed into a niche, contained a huge safe that The Shadow recognized as one of Brye's make.

That one room served Dana Brye as workshop, eating place, living quarters, and office. There was no reason

why Brye should ever leave it while he dwelt alone in Vreekill Castle; and for that very reason, Brye was

there. He was near the workbench finishing some trifling task, and his profile was visible from The Shadow's

THERE was nothing of the hairbrained inventor in Brye's appearance. His profile was well formed, with

straight forehead, even shaped nose, and strong chin. His hair, graystreaked, was somewhat shaggy. Brye's

face and expression were youthful despite the wrinkles that came when he smiled.

There was cunning in Brye's countenance. First sight was insufficient for The Shadow to pass judgment; but

it was a certainty that Brye had toiled ably. In his own way, he had contrived something which definitely

Turning from the workbench, Brye went to the wall opposite the big safe. There, The Shadow saw a door

much stronger than the one that blocked the upstairs route; a door, moreover, that had no mere bolt. It was

His head tilted, his lips holding a half smile, Brye worked the combination and drew the big door slightly

open. Crossing the room with a spry stride, he reached the safe and thumbed its dial in rapid fashion.

He was engrossed in that task, too much so to hear disturbing sounds. The Shadow, too, was intent; yet his

It was the stealthy tread of feet upon stone. Looking toward the big door, The Shadow saw it open. Into the

The arrival was Ross Bland. As he swung the door wide, The Shadow could see curved stone steps that came

BRYE had finished with the safe's combination. He was ready to swing open the big metal front when he

sensed Bland's presence, either from a slight footfall or the draft which swept sharp and chill from the dank

With surprising alacrity, Brye whipped about; but Bland, ready for that emergency, was quicker in drawing a

Approaching Brye, who stood with upraised hands, Bland tapped the man's pockets, then pointed him to a

chair. As Brye sat down, Bland put away his gun and remained standing while he spoke.

"My name is Ross Bland," he told Brye. "Thomas Grennel was a friend of mine; and so, for that matter, is

your daughter. I mention those two facts, Mr. Brye, because they will have a bearing on what is to follow."

"Last night," continued Bland, "I talked to Jolden. You knew him, didn't you, Mr. Brye?"

Emphasis on the word "knew" brought a rise to Brye's grayish eyebrows. Seeing it, Bland smiled grimly.

"Yes, Jolden is dead," he declared. "But he didn't die before he talked to me. He told me that he used to

"Probably he lied," observed Brye, speaking for the first time. His voice was sharp and piping. "He has lied to

me, when he claimed that he was destitute. That is why I refused to help him any longer."

"I'll take your word for that," conceded Bland, "but you are not touching the main issue, Mr. Brye. I mean the

"Of course!" Bland snapped the interruption. "But faithful to what? I can tell you. Jolden was a member of

the Krigley gang, bigtime bank robbers of twenty years ago. But he worked for you and helped you figure

Brye gave a subdued chuckle, as though he thought that all other types of safes were obviously easy.

"I know you camouflaged it," declared Bland. "Such type of work was in your line of business. But

everything that you discovered reached the Krigley gang. They used your information to pull those bank

"What if they did?" demanded Brye, suddenly. "I had no idea who Krigley was. That is why "

"Why you wrote to him?" broke in Bland. "Yes. Jolden told me that you corresponded with Red Krigley. He's

dead, Krigley is, and so is Jolden, the one remaining man who knew the facts. But you know as well as I do,

"A crook," sneered Brye, "will always brand an honest man as one of his own class."

"Which makes it even. But you say that Jolden is dead. So we can eliminate his testimony."

"All that we can do," he decided coolly, "is come to terms. I know your present game, Brye. It is bigger than

any you ever played before. You are the man who calls himself the Vindicator! You have used your contacts

with important men to gain their confidences. From that, you have blackmailed them, to gain yourself a

"That is something," he told Bland, "that you will find much more difficult to prove than my association with

"You can tell me nothing!" interrupted Bland. "You have merely learned enough to keep your methods

covered; something in which you failed before. I have not come here to argue the question. I have come to

BRYE'S laugh faded. His eyes narrowed coldly; Bland met them with an equal gaze.

"As the Vindicator," declared Bland, "you claimed that you intended to make restitution to the proper persons

from the funds that you demanded and got. My purpose is to see that it is done. I owe that to my friend,

"Though you may be a murderer, Brye, it is not my task to punish you. I have another friend: your daughter,

and on her account I intend to let you go your way. One false move on your part, however, will justify my

Turning, Bland stepped toward the safe. He had seen Brye unlock the combination; therefore knew that he

had simply to swing open the door. But Bland's move produced an electrical effect. It brought Brye from his

Bland couldn't get his gun from his pocket in time to meet Brye's surge. Forgetting the weapon, he struck out

in a furious attack. His hard punches drove Brye back, until the older man reeled away, his face buried in his

arms. Striking the big door by the lower stairs, Brye slumped to the uppermost steps.

Standing with fists still clenched, Bland saw that Brye's slump was no fake. Longfingered hands were

clawing weakly, but they could barely stroke away the grizzled hair that had streaked over Brye's eyes. With

He made for the safe, yanked the big door wide. Inside were boxes, stacks of papers, but most important, a

square cabinet that was actually clamped to special crossbars in the safe. That box, constructed of thin metal,

was the one that intrigued Bland. He tried to open it, but the top would not budge.

All that was plain to The Shadow's gaze. Shifting to get a distant view over Bland's shoulder, the hidden

watcher saw a streak of copper beneath the silvery line of a steel bar. The sight told him instantly that it was

time to intervene. Knowing Bland and his inability to listen when under stress, The Shadow paused long

That brief delay was fortunate. At that very moment, Bland's efforts to open the metal box came to an abrupt

end. The cause was produced by the box itself. It exploded with a blast that not only ruined it, but spread the

With that shock, the whole room quivered, responding to a glare of vivid light accompanied by a horrendous

When his vision cleared, The Shadow found himself sprawled on the storeroom floor, staring through the

doorway toward a ruined mass of metal against a blank space in the wall. In front of that wreckage lay a

The mangled corpse was the remains of Ross Bland, the man who had come in quest of the Vindicator's

AMID the reverberations that echoed in The Shadow's ears came sharper clatters, as chunks of stone

detached from walls and ceiling, to strike the floor of the storeroom. A warning rumble told that inner

Coming to his feet, The Shadow swung himself into the doorway that connected with Brye's workroom.

There, he halted. The ceiling had begun to peel, beginning at the niche, where the debris of the safe was

visible. In peeling, the ceiling shed a thick layer of stones and mortar. Loosened chunks caused others to go;

It was as if some invisible acid had begun to eat its way on a gigantic scale, gobbling the ceiling with

increasing speed. Only one result could follow; it arrived with a titanic crash, exactly as The Shadow

Due to the collapse of the ceiling below them, the flagstones of the floor above came rumbling through,

bringing some of the heavy stone partitions that divided the tiny upstairs rooms.

The floor of the main room quaked. Bland's halfmangled figure quivered as though imbued with a return of

life. The Shadow could feel tremors from the sides of the stone doorway where he stood. Chance stones fell

about him; some bounced high enough to glance from his arms and shoulders. But the ancient door frame

Gazing across a pile of debris, The Shadow looked for Dana Brye. He saw the master of Vreekill Castle risen

Brye, safe, relished this scene of ruin. He was studying it with an expert's eye. His time bomb, set in the safe,

had done more than trap his unwanted visitor, Ross Bland. In fact, Brye wasted no more than a brief glance

Every trace of Bland's overhandsome features had been obliterated as completely as if they had been mere

The blast had singed his clothes into ashes. No mark of identity remained to prove that the dead man was

Brye had seen that almost in a glimpse. His final survey of the room was accompanied by repetitions of his

piping laugh. With sudden decision, he turned about, yanked the steel door that stood beside him. That barrier

Instantly, The Shadow followed. Brye's route could be the only feasible road to safety. Moreover, it gave The

Reaching the metal door, The Shadow pulled its latch and tugged it wide. Fortunately, Brye had not bothered

Hardly had The Shadow sprung through the open doorway, before another explosion occurred. The blast

came from beneath the ruined room where Bland's body lay. It heaved the floor like a volcanic eruption,

Spreading outward, chunks from that convulsion reached The Shadow. He was hurled, head foremost, down

the winding stairs, to bounce from the wall and tumble farther downward in a helpless spiral.

CATCHING himself at last, The Shadow lay numbed, incapable of immediate motion. From the clatter

above, he knew that the second blast, set off by Brye somewhere below, must have weakened the old castle

Here on the stairs was total blackness; but The Shadow's flashlight operated, when his numbed fingers found

it. Rising through sheer will, he resumed his descent at a pace that was painfully slow. He came to a landing,

where an open doorway showed a small chamber that had probably once been a dungeon. It was here that the

Sliding noise, broken by heavy thumps, proved that the wreckage from above was settling steadily into this

Soon, after The Shadow resumed his downward descent, he was staggered by the effects of another blast, at

the landing that he had just left. Brye, safely below, had set off a blast to demolish the upper section of the

stairway. Probably he would repeat that process with the stretch that lay ahead!

Flinging himself down the steps, The Shadow let the spiral walls guide him. It was a nightmarish descent,

that became realistic only when The Shadow stumbled into light along a rocky path at the bottom of the spiral

The level ground felt soft when he sprawled upon it. Too numbed to feel pain, he crawled to a jutting rock

and settled there. He was in a tiny grotto lighted by electricity, probably supplied by a small power unit.

Hearing the swish of water, The Shadow knew that he had descended at least a hundred feet, the height of the

crag that Vreekill Castle topped. This grotto was a natural cave, connecting with the chasm that The Shadow

It was here that Ross Bland had come in his speedboat, the Rambler, after guessing that Margaret Brye had

Assuming that Brye was the Vindicator, Bland had recognized that Vreekill Castle might have a secret way

of entry. So had The Shadow, but he had bridged the chasm, figuring that the upper route would be less

A hollow roar ended those reflections. A rocky avalanche came pouring to the bottom of the spiral stairs.

Brye had let off the next time bomb; as reverberations died to whispers, they seemed to speak a warning.

Strength flowed to The Shadow's limbs. Staring over the jutting rock, he saw a deep brackish pool; in it two

speedboats side by side. Brye was clambering from one craft, the Rambler, into the other, which bore the

Before The Shadow could raise a shout or draw a gun, the Whiskaway was in motion. Brye sped it beneath a

narrow lowvaulted channel; rising in the cockpit, the grizzled man yanked a thin rope from a concealed spot

The Whiskaway was gone, out to the watery chasm. The dangling cord controlled the final time bomb. The

Shadow's lease on life was cut to the time space that Brye was allowing for his own race to safety!

FLINGING forward again, The Shadow tumbled aboard the Rambler. Still half dazed, he found himself

But the motor coughed into life. Yanking the control lever, The Shadow shot the Rambler out through the

channel. The light from the grotto showed the wall of the chasm straight ahead; with a hard twist, The

Shadow swept the speedboat past the turn. He saw the end of the chasm, a mere crack against the moonlight.

There lay safety that might even yet be denied. To The Shadow's ears came a rumble vaster than any that had

preceded it; a subterranean roar that staggered the whole cliff above. It wasn't just the grotto. Brye's last touch

had set off as many as a half a dozen mines, located at various places beneath the castle.

The blast that banished the grotto and its lights sent a sweep of water through the collapsing outlet. Like a

tidal wave, the billow lifted the Rambler and lofted it out through the rift in the chasm. There were rocks

ahead; it took all The Shadow's regained skill to veer the boat away from them. He saw his proper channel

Instinctively, The Shadow stared upward, for his course was set. He saw Vreekill Castle, still ruddy in the

glow of moonlight that was about to vanish under the creep of black thunder clouds that dominated the sky.

The castle was a hollow shell, for its inner floor had settled into one deep pit; but, until this moment, the outer

Cracks that were widening, spreading into fantastic patterns. In sudden fashion, those breaks were rendered

vivid by a flash of blinding lightning that split from a storm cloud just as it effaced the moon.

With the flash came a peal as loud, as sudden, as a thunder clap; but it did not burst from the glareswept

sky. That roar was the outer wall of Vreekill Castle, as it spread into a mass of illshaped fragments and took

A Niagara of stone was bounding from the summit, hurling its frightful, irresistible cascade toward the tiny

hull of the Rambler, which was speeding directly beneath. Governed by the law of falling bodies, those

That brief time was sufficient for The Shadow. As his eyes saw the great wall cave in, his hands had yanked

the speedboat's wheel. He was chancing that he had reached the open channel, and he had. The Rambler,

despite a lost second in its veer, was more than a hundred feet from the cliff when the stony deluge spattered

The Shadow was swinging the Rambler northward, when another sweep of lightning came. It showed

vacancy atop the cliff, except for a few jagged edges of foundations that might have been the summit of the

Vreekill Castle was gone forever. But Dana Brye, in his destructive departure, had left but one victim

entombed within the ruins. The Shadow had escaped the fate of Ross Bland, thanks to the speedboat that the

LIGHTNING flashes guided The Shadow as he sped the Rambler northward; but he saw no trace of the

Whiskaway upon the heaving surface of the windlashed Hudson. Brye had probably headed downriver, or

toward the opposite shore. The Shadow was keeping close to the west bank, to pick a landing place from

He had covered a mile and was throttling down the motor to scan the shore more carefully, when the next

flare of lightning came. The pelt of rain was audible, and with it, The Shadow's keen ear detected another

It was a muffled ticking, like a clock. Springing up beside the wheel, The Shadow turned about. When

lightning flashed, he saw a square box wedged in place: a death machine much like the metal cube that Bland

The thing was a portable time bomb that Brye had placed in the Rambler to destroy all traces of Bland's visit.

Methodical to the last degree, Brye had transferred it from the Whiskaway, because his calculations regarding

the destruction of the grotto had not included the presence of an abandoned speedboat.

The Shadow had seen too much of Brye's devices to risk any trouble from another. Instead of trying to pry

the time bomb loose, he sprang to the side of the Rambler and took a long dive overboard.

By the time The Shadow had swum a dozen strokes, the throbbing speedboat had lifted into fragments. His

head below the water's surface, The Shadow missed another dangerous hail this one composed of broken

Fifty yards farther, The Shadow's swim was completed. Pulling himself to a rock beside the shore, he stared

into the rainswept blackness of the Hudson. Above the fury of the elements, his lips phrased a strange, grim

The world would believe that Dana Brye had perished in the destruction of Vreekill Castle. The body of Ross

Bland, when found, would support that belief. But Brye, alive, though posing as a dead man, could not evade

The Shadow knew the truth. Some time in the nonetoodistant future, he would again find Dana Brye. But

the weird mirth toned from his remote bank of the Hudson, betokened more than a mere search for a crafty

It was a renewed challenge issued by The Shadow. A challenge to the Vindicator, man of supercrime!

DURING the next few days, dozens of workers searched the ruins of Vreekill Castle looking for the body of

Dana Brye. Among that crew were six who always managed to be digging with their backs turned whenever a

news photographer snapped a picture of the search. They were members of the outside squad that Trigger

Those hoodlums hadn't wanted their present job. Circumstances had simply thrust the work upon them. The

huge explosions that came from Vreekill Castle had brought a fire truck from the village, along with a sheriff

and a carload of deputies. Trigger and three mobbies had decamped by that time in the only car available; but

Trigger had previously coached his reserves on what to say if the authorities discovered them living in the

A couple of them, so they said, had worked here the summer before, when Brye had repaired the outside

walls of the castle. Finding work scarce this year, they had remembered the empty shacks and had decided to

They had brought along some pals other workmen who were out of luck. Honest fellows, all, who would

The kindhearted sheriff decided to give them the employment that they claimed to need. They were just the

right men, he declared, to help dig out the debris from the castle, and they could live in the shacks while they

To preserve their alibi, the six unfortunate hoodlums had to accept the sheriff's offer.

The situation pleased Trigger Kobin when he heard about it through other mobbies, who arrived with curious

throngs that came to watch the morbid work. It meant that he would obtain firsthand information regarding

That news came through on the third afternoon, when searchers, Trigger's men among them, unearthed the

Since it was commonly agreed that Brye had lived alone in Vreekill Castle, the body, it was decided, must be

his. In fact, the sheriff established that point by questioning the "honest" workers who had squatted in the

shacks among the woods. They testified and this time they told the truth that they had never seen a single

WHEN Joe Cardona, the swarthy New York police inspector, saw the frontpage photograph that showed a

crowd watching workers bring the supposed body of Dana Brye to light, he crumpled the whole newspaper

"That's the stuff that makes crime!" roared Cardona. "Boobs that go around looking at a lot of corpses, are the

kind of nuts who get what doctors call a murder complex. Some time I'm going to tell the commissioner that

when he wants to stage a real roundup, he ought to send us to a place like this Vreekill Castle. I bet if we

grabbed all those spectators, we'd get a lot of those psycholitical birds they talk about."

Cardona's outburst produced a nod of agreement from his only listener, Detective Sergeant Markham. To

himself, Markham was muttering the word "psycholitical," pronouncing it carefully, in syllables,

That was one word that Markham intended to look up in the big dictionary that he had acquired by cutting out

It paid to know what long words meant, thought Markham. Maybe that had helped Cardona rise to the rank of

inspector. It didn't occur to Markham that the word Cardona had used might not be in any dictionary at all.

"Those pictures are bad stuff," repeated Cardona, thumbing toward the wastebasket. "You've got a couple of

nephews, Markham, that you're always talking about. Don't ever let them get interested in stuff like that."

Markham nodded, rather dutifully. His nephews never looked at the front page of a newspaper. The comic

"It gripes me!" muttered Cardona. "Here I am chasing all over town, looking for mobbies that used to work

for Trigger Kobin, and not a one of them anywhere around. I might just as well been out there with that

bunch of nincompoops watching guys haul what was left of Dana Brye out of that mess they used to call a

Cardona's comment was more accurate than he knew. Had he gone to Vreekill, he would have seen the men

he wanted. They were in the picture that had roused his anger, but, as usual, they had managed to keep their

It was unlikely, however, that Cardona would have learned anything from those hoodlums, had he found

them. They were no longer in direct touch with Trigger Kobin. That fact explained why The Shadow had not

dropped in to enliven one of their dreary evenings, when they were resting up from their compulsory job at

Trigger, The Shadow knew, was depending no longer upon the cooperation of a mob. He regarded his

reserves as on the lam, which they would be, as soon as their present work terminated. The Shadow was

willing to let them travel unmolested, since none of that particular group had aided Trigger in any murders.

Like Cardona, The Shadow was at present looking for Trigger Kobin, because the man had assumed a special

importance. He was probably closer to the Vindicator than ever; and with leads lacking to Dana Brye, The

Unlike Cardona, The Shadow was visiting places other than those where Trigger would normally be found.

He knew that Trigger was smart enough to stay away from the usual underworld establishments; besides,

Trigger had announced a new policy, that night when he had talked to the mobbies assembled in the shack.

He had said that he had acquired a couple of good torpedoes; men who were already in town; hence The

Shadow had checked on persons of that description. Through his own channels in the underworld, he had

learned that Jeeper Quade and Slink Rembo, two highly touted sharpshooters from Chicago, had been recent

THROUGH Hawkeye, one of his agents who had an uncanny skill at tracing shifty crooks, The Shadow had

located Jeeper. The Chicago expert had gone high hat. He was living in a studio apartment in Riverview City,

Rents in Riverview City were no longer high; nor were many questions asked of tenants who paid in advance.

Many of the more conservative residents in those apartments had moved because of shootings in the vicinity.

The Shadow could picture those deadend streets as just the neighborhood where Trigger Kobin could sneak

in and out, which meant that he might be using Jeeper's apartment as a hideaway.

That explained why The Shadow, his black garb blended with the darkness of a fire escape, was beginning a

precarious trip along a tenthstory ledge. As he shifted against the wall of the apartment house, he took on

the appearance of a human beetle, too small to be observed from the street below, particularly as the wall,

The Shadow's objective was a dimly lighted window. Reaching it, he clung there, as if held in place by the

This, evidently, was the studio portion of the apartment. It was furnished with junky Oriental curios, some

pieces of cheap statuary, and paintings that looked as if they had been bought in wholesale lots. It had an

inadoor bed; and odd clothing, strewn about the place, showed that it was used as living quarters.

The only light was near the wide doorway that led to an outer room. Moving along the wall, The Shadow

A darkish, wisefaced man was tuning in a radio. The Shadow recognized Jeeper Quade, saw the fellow

press off the radio switch and come to his feet, reaching promptly for a gun as the door of the apartment

"Sit down, Jeeper!" voiced Trigger. "Cripes! You'd think you were the guy they're after for a murder rap! All

"Yeah," returned Jeeper. "One from Slink. He got word from one of the guys out at Vreekill. He was waiting

"Nothing that we ain't heard. They found Brye's body, that's all. Slink says to call him when you want him."

Trigger glanced at his watch; he decided to ignore the telephone for a few minutes. The reason was explained

"Hello..." The expression on Trigger's face became crafty. "Yeah, we heard from Vreekill... Sure, they found

Brye's body, all right. Straight dope, right from the guys that I left there... Yeah, it's Brye, all right. It couldn't

THE call finished, Trigger darted a shrewd look at Jeeper. With a wise nod, he decided to take this capable

lieutenant into his confidence. Jeeper was no ordinary mobbie. He was smart like Trigger; and smart guys

worked better for persons who knew their stuff. Trigger could tell Jeeper something that would make his eyes

"That was the bigshot," informed Trigger. "This Vindicator guy that I told you all about."

"Because I'm not supposed to know. Only, I'm not as dumb as the bigshot figures."

"Listen. Up to the time that castle blew itself apart, I had a hunch that the bigshot was this Dana Brye. If he

"Maybe," put in Jeeper, "the bigshot didn't want nobody to get in and see Brye. Or he could have wanted to

"And maybe it was Brye who wanted us to keep guys away. That makes sense, don't it?"

"It did make sense, maybe. But not any longer, now that Brye's cashed in his checks."

Trigger smiled. This was where the smart stuff came. He watched Jeeper's face to see how the theory struck

him. "This is the fifth time the Vindicator called up," reminded Trigger, nudging toward the telephone. "He's

always got two questions: Am I sure that Brye was in the joint when it blew? And have they found the body

"He asks the first one over again, right now, after I tell him that they found the body, the way the papers said.

Still, he don't seem satisfied. He acts like he thinks I'm wise to something; at least, that's the way that funny

"Maybe I am wise. Listen, Jeeper. None of the mob even saw Brye, from the time we covered the place. He

never went out to get his mail. It's still laying at the Vreekill post office. Suppose Brye wasn't in that castle at

Jeeper showed the interest that Trigger expected. Before he could put a question, Trigger intervened.

"I know what you're going to ask," said Trigger. "What about the body? Well, what about it? Maybe it was a

stiff that Brye lugged in there and left. He could have set those bombs of his way ahead. And that's how"

Trigger spread his wolfish lips in a wide smile "Brye could have been around to croak old Grennel."

There was a nod from Jeeper. Seeing the fellow's increasing interest, Trigger spat a warning.

"Nobody's to know this, not even Slink. We're playing in with the bigshot, see? It means dough, so it would

be bum stuff to let him know we've guessed who he is, because he don't want it that way. Brye's using this

Vindicator gag to cover up. If nobody knows who you are, you're better off. Take, for instance, The Shadow

WITH the words, Trigger's lips clamped shut. Past the doorway, silhouetted against the wall, he saw a shape

that was all too familiar a hawkish profile, topped by a slouch hat. Stiffening, Trigger watched to see if the

He watched Jeeper as the fellow moved away, unsuspecting that anything was wrong. Easing back to his

former position, Trigger finally sighted the profile again. He suspected that it had moved farther back, but

Trigger didn't take time to study that silhouette closely. His left hand slid under the back of his coat, to reach

Leaping to the left to get the needed angle, he jabbed two shots deep into the corner of the adjoining studio.

Jeeper came dashing from the pantry, an uncorked bottle in one hand, a fistful of ice cubes in the other.

"I got The Shadow!" informed Trigger, gleefully. "Come on. Let's take a gander."

They stepped past the doorway. On the floor lay the shattered portions of a plaster bust that had recently been

a lifesized replica of the Marquis de Lafayette. Beside it was a darkgray felt hat.

"I paid ten bucks for that thing," commented Jeeper. "That's going high for a shootinggallery target. Say

how did that hat get there?" He looked to a shelf above the table where the bust had stood. "I guess it must

have fell off and landed on that geezer's head. They called the thing a bust." He looked to the floor again.

Trigger's "Shadow" was explained. He didn't realize that he had seen two separate silhouettes one of The

Shadow in person; the other of the Lafayette bust, after The Shadow, knowing that he had been observed, had

One token only could have told Trigger Kobin that The Shadow actually had been here, and that was a sound

that the murderer did not hear the soft closing of the window by which The Shadow had started his

TRIGGER KOBIN suffered little loss of pride because he had been overquick with his gun. He made a joke

of his mistake; he told Jeeper and Slink that The Shadow had "turned out to be a bust." It took Trigger all

night to think up that one; meanwhile, The Shadow, in his turn, had considered some constructive thoughts

It was plain that Trigger was no more important to the Vindicator than he had been previously. Instead of a

mob, Trigger merely had two sharpshooting pals. Whether Trigger was called on individual duty, or the

Nevertheless, it was not yet time for The Shadow to inform the police regarding Trigger's whereabouts. By

watching Trigger, some clue might be gained, in indirect fashion, to coming moves that the Vindicator

There were plenty of empty apartments in Riverview City, so he ordered a picked few to move in there and

keep watch on Trigger's activities. With that arranged, The Shadow concentrated on the more difficult task of

Since Brye had no criminal record, it was a devious matter to learn his past. The Shadow managed it through

Brye had retired from the business of manufacturing safes some years before. His experiments with time

bombs, a natural outgrowth of his love for the intricate, had caused him to move from one workshop to

None of his former places were the sort that he could use for hideouts, as all of them had been taken over by

other businesses. But Brye, it seemed, had always liked obscure districts, and it was likely that he had an

Putting other agents on the investigation of basements that had recently been rented, The Shadow hoped for

results. They might come, if Brye proved overconfident in the fact that he had been declared as dead.

There was one place quite different from any of Brye's workshops, where the missing man might appear. The

Shadow chose that for his own observation, on the chance that his path might cross Brye's.

Comparing the different theories of Ross Bland and Trigger Kobin, The Shadow saw how each had come to a

similar conclusion, though not in possession of the full facts. Bland had used a starting point that was still a

doubtful quantity. He had presumed that Larry Chandler had recognized Dana Brye as the murderer of

Thomas Grennel. Since Larry was in love with Margaret Brye, he would have had a reason to suppress the

From that, Bland had checked on other matters; his guess about the Whiskaway, his study of the Hudson

River chart, had all resulted in the episode which caused him to denounce Brye as the Vindicator and come to

Trigger, playing hunches only, was miles wide in his basic belief that Brye had not been in Vreekill Castle at

all. Still, Trigger had come to the same conclusion as Bland: that Brye was the Vindicator. So he had arrived

somewhere with his guesses, since his final result tallied with the opinion of a man who had used much

One fact that concerned The Shadow was that of the Vindicator's next move. With all the commotion

following his murder of Grennel; some small excitement at Jolden's death; and the huge interest over the

explosion of Vreekill Castle, the Vindicator could best afford to bide his time, since all those events were

Grennel had known Brye, and had bought a safe from him. Jolden had worked for Brye many years ago.

Brye's daughter, Margaret, had been one of the guests at Grennel's home the night of the murder there, as had

None of those facts had been linked, except by Ross Bland and The Shadow. Nevertheless, the Vindicator

Perhaps the Vindicator was plotting crime of a different sort, as a variation before he resumed his blackmail

enterprises. Possibly he had taken an actual holiday. The Shadow was confident, however, that the Grennel

Once he had shown himself proof against the law, the supercrook would pluck new victims. To block him

THERE was one person, considered in The Shadow's review of linked events, whose interest in all such

matters had ended. That person was Margaret Brye. News of the explosion at Vreekill Castle had kept her

She believed her father dead. She had loaned him the Whiskaway under promise not to mention the matter;

but she had also believed his statement that he merely wanted it for tests of submarine bombs tests which

might cause trouble, if persons knew that he was working such experiments in a navigated river like the

It hadn't occurred to her that there was a subterranean route to Vreekill Castle. Her mind had been filled only

with the knowledge that timebomb manufacture was a highly dangerous business. She knew, too, that her

father had arranged for Roger Marquin to become her guardian and manage her estate, should he, Dana Brye,

The tragedy had fallen. Its final proof had been the finding of the body in the ruins.

During the day after that discovery, Margaret ignored the front pages of the newspapers. Listlessly, she read

the society columns, where she noticed an item stating that Ross Bland had taken a trip to the West. Probably,

the journey concerned Bland's silver mines, Margaret thought, of which she had heard mention.

It did not strike her that the name of Ross Bland should have appeared upon the front page in big headlines,

while that of Dana Brye could be included among those of persons who had gone somewhere, without

naming the exact destination. Insertion of the Bland notice, it happened, had been the work of Dana Brye.

With evening, Marquin's big mansion seemed like one huge morgue to Margaret. The servants moved about

like living corpses. She hated the sight of Larry Chandler, seated across the table from her. Maybe Larry was

in love with her, as he claimed; but the girl could not forget that they had quarreled only the day before the

tragedy at Vreekill. He had felt sorry, very sorry, so he said, when he heard of the explosion.

In her present mood, Margaret considered that a very ordinary statement. If Larry cared so much for her, why

hadn't he found some way to really, lessen her sorrow? Perhaps he didn't know how; but Roger Marquin

certainly did. He had spoken so sympathetically, that Margaret had ended by sobbing, her head on his

All through the dinner hour she felt Marquin's eyes upon her; and that knowledge calmed her. She

remembered how he had first broken the news. He had told her that if Dana Brye were actually dead, he,

Marquin, her father's friend, would always be a friend to her. The ordeal had lessened from the moment that

Tonight, Marquin's sympathy was even more apparent. At eleven o'clock, the usual hour that he retired, he

understood that Margaret preferred to remain alone downstairs beside the fire; although Larry, who also

turned in at eleven, could see no sense in it. By midnight, the huge mansion was so silent that the girl felt

When she went up to her room on the second floor, near the suite of offices, Margaret noticed the moonlight

shining through the window. Half reclining on the bed, she undressed slowly, listlessly, letting her clothes

drop to the chair beside her. At last disrobed, she was reaching wearily for her nightgown when her eyes,

It was a figure on the lawn, gliding toward the house. It couldn't be a shape cast by the tree boughs, for they

were entirely stilled. As she watched, the startled girl saw the peculiar shade disappear into darkness.

Breathless, she sat upon the edge of the bed, watching for its reappearance. It did not return; the thing had

A MINUTE must have passed before Margaret sighed, drew the nightgown over her shoulders. Perhaps the

moonlight, pouring in so gently, had roused her imagination. Why should she fear a ghost? Should any

A strange thought, yet one that intrigued her. The notion keyed her senses. Staring through the window, she

Instead, she heard a sound. It was slight, like the opening of a door. Not her door; for when she stared, it

hadn't moved. Another sound came a scruff, as though someone had encountered a chair in darkness.

Hurriedly finding a dressing gown, she looked for the slippers that went with it. They weren't about; she

decided to waste no more time. From a drawer in the dressing table she brought a .22 automatic that her

father had given her on a trip to Mexico, a few years before. Softly, she opened the door of her room and

She sensed a sound again. It came from Marquin's offices. She was glad that she had not found her slippers,

for her bare feet made no sound as she trod along the hall. The door of the outer office was open, proof that

someone was inside. Cautiously approaching the connecting door, Margaret opened it a few inches.

There was a light in the inner office. It showed a man crouched against the safe at the far wall. His back was

turned toward her; he wore a dark hat on his head. The girl could see his fingers working the dials in slow,

proficient fashion. The man could not be Marquin; he had gone to bed an hour ago. Nor Larry; he, also, had

Tightening her hand upon the gun, Margaret covered the crouched man. From what she had heard of burglars,

they had to be surprised and treated firmly. Reaching for the door, she opened it suddenly, hoping to bring the

With that, the girl's plan ended. Her fingers, numbed by the chill that swept her entire body, lost their hold

upon the automatic. All her ideas of ghosts swarmed upon her with terrifying reality. For the man that

NOT until Dana Brye spoke did Margaret grasp the simple truth, that her father was still alive. His voice,

firm but modulated, dispelled the girl's illusions of a ghost. Brye was using a familiar tone, kindly, paternal

one that Margaret had often heard. It was quite unlike the piping pitch that Brye employed when excited.

The gleam of Brye's eyes betrayed something that Margaret should have noticed but failed to detect. Her

father was calm only because she, of all persons in the mansion, had been the one to discover him. A bulge of

one pocket, with Brye's fingers just above it, signified that he carried a gun. His other hand, resting upon a

darkgray topcoat that he had placed across a chair, showed that he had been ready to begin a rapid flight.

The floor lamp, too, was close. Had he heard Margaret's approach a few seconds sooner, Brye could have

"There is nothing to fear," spoke Brye. "I am alive. You may be quite sure of that!"

Margaret nodded. She was sure. She watched Brye remove his hat, lay it carefully upon the coat while he

stroked back his shaggy hair. His face, which had momentarily displayed distortion, became benign. Whether

Never had the girl seen her father in any mood but a kindly one. He could be querulous, she knew, for there

were times when she had heard his piping voice rise in argument when she was in another room. In her

presence, however, he had never displayed anger, nor shown himself unreasonable.

Brye noticed that Margaret was staring past him, toward the safe. He didn't realize that she had been testing

her own eyes, wondering whether, if this figure of her father proved to be a specter, she could see through the

shape, like a cloud of mist. Brye thought that she was troubled because she had seen him working at the dials.

"I am not here to commit burglary," announced Brye, his mild tone carrying a touch of rebuke. "You may

safely say that you did not see me opening this safe. Actually, I was closing it. Nor have I taken anything

Margaret's eyes showed belief. She didn't ask why Brye had still been thumbing the dials when she first saw

him. Turning to the safe, Brye resumed his manipulation; his lips, away from Margaret's sight, took on a tight

Boldly, Brye was completing his work with the combination. He reached for the handle of the safe door, drew

Brye was on the point of nodding, in response to Margaret's trustful question. Then deciding that the truth

would be more impressive, he shook his head. Brye saw that he would need props of truth to support his

"Marquin alone knows the combination," he replied, "but my knowledge of this safe enabled me to open it.

First, let me tell you how I happen to be still alive. That will explain the rest."

THE story that Brye purred in confidential tone was one that intrigued his daughter to the core. His time

bombs, he said, were far more important than they were dangerous. Because of their value in warfare, he had

intended to turn them over to the government as soon as he had perfected the intricate mechanisms.

Four nights ago, Brye related, he had been awakened by peculiar clicking noises that could only have come

from the detonators of his empty bombs. Peering into the storeroom, he had seen an intruder, a man who

Brye declared that he had stolen out to the huge front door, had found it open. Deciding to go to the village of

Vreekill to get aid, he was scarcely past the door before the first explosion came. The spy had come across a

loaded bomb, which Brye had planned to test under water during a cruise in the Whiskaway.

"That blast set off the others," completed Brye. "The castle went to ruin! Staggered by the shock, I found my

way down a path, to where the Whiskaway was moored. By the time I had crossed the river, the boat was

awash. She had been damaged by a flying rock. I managed to reach the shore, but the Whiskaway lies

Brye's story explained the matter of the body found in the ruins. Margaret had almost accepted the entire tale,

"What about the squatters the newspapers mentioned?" asked the girl. "They declared that they saw no one

Brye had an answer for that question. He was convinced, so he said, that the pretended squatters were men in

the employ of the unknown spy; for it would have taken several persons to pry open the great door. Naturally,

they would not mention their chief's visit. As to whether they had seen Brye leave, that was a moot point.

"Amid the explosions and the storm," declared Brye, solemnly, "I may have reached the Whiskaway

unnoticed. But it is possible that I am still known to be alive. My inventions" he tapped his forehead "are

Margaret agreed. Seeing that, Brye pressed another point. His face, though still kindly, displayed a crafty

"Marquin has many visitors," he declared. "Persons from South America but representing many nations.

"Impossible!" exclaimed Margaret, horrified. "Mr. Marquin would never have betrayed you!"

"You misunderstand me," purred Brye. "Except for yourself, Marquin is the only person that I fully trust.

That is why I told you both about my work. Either of you might have mentioned it too freely."

Margaret felt that the rebuke belonged to her, and said so. She remembered one person with whom she had

discussed Brye's experiments: Ross Bland. She felt it unnecessary, however, to mention him by name.

Brye was looking toward the safe. His eyes were craftier than ever. He tilted his head as though he heard a

sound; then, his face expressing wellpretended concern, he turned to Margaret and whispered:

"Tiptoe out to the hall and make sure that no one is awake. When you return, I shall explain more."

THE girl made the trip carefully. Lacking slippers, her tread was noiseless; but she was anxious not to

stumble barefooted over anything. When she returned to report that all was quiet, she saw the safe door open.

Brye was in front of it; he whipped about suddenly, clamping his hand to his inside pocket.

Seeing an open box inside the safe, Margaret felt a momentary suspicion, until she saw that it contained

nothing but old envelopes and loose papers. Brye coolly closed the box, pushed it into a corner.

"I have placed a note for Marquin in that box," he declared. "It will explain this other box" he lifted one of

Brye was wearing his hat and coat. Margaret remembered how the coat had lain on the chair and realized that

Brye could have had the box concealed beneath it. When her father opened the lid of the metal box, the girl

"My entire fortune!" declared Brye. "Yes, Margaret, I am wealthy. The manufacture of safes was profitable.

But" he smiled wryly "being dead, I cannot open a bank account. I am entrusting this cash to Marquin;

"He will not mention it to you, nor will he inform you that I am still alive, for I have instructed otherwise.

Whatever he tells you, act as though you believed it; for he will be saying it in your own interest, at my

"I must also have your promise," declared Brye, firmly, "that you will tell no one that I am still alive. No one,

you understand not even Marquin, because he would worry if he knew that someone, particularly yourself,

"And you will abide by that promise," persisted Brye, "until I release you from it?"

Brye was satisfied. He put the metal box behind other objects at the rear of the safe. He closed the door,

twirled the dials. Pulling off the light, he whispered for Margaret to follow him through the outer office. It

"Look from the window," he whispered to his daughter. "Tell me if you see a car there. And wait!" he

had detected something else "look at the front door, too. See if someone has opened it."

"It's a police car! Officers are coming from it! One of the servants is at the front door beckoning to them. It

Brye was shuffling for the door of the outer office, Margaret hurrying after him and clutching her dressing

gown with one hand, while she fumbled in the pocket where she had placed her little automatic.

"Down by the side stairs!" she told her father. "I'll listen at the top; if I hear them coming to cut you off, I'll

"Good!" agreed Brye. "Draw them away if need be. Tell them anything afterward that you saw a burglar, or

THEY were in the hallway. To the left were the side stairs that Margaret had mentioned. Brye reached them

first, making too much noise in his hurry. From the right, he had heard sounds that came up the large front

Alarmed by the noise that Brye made, Margaret turned as soon as she neared the side stairs. In dim moonlight

It was Larry Chandler. Dressed in trousers and shirt, he was half black, half gray, in the moonlight. But

Margaret could see his face plainly. Huddled, trying to obscure her father when he descended the stairway,

Margaret knew that she must be visible to Larry. She was about to call out that all was well, when something

Larry had a revolver. He was aiming it. His voice was harsher than the girl had ever heard it, when he rasped:

Brye made a slight stumble on the stairway. Hearing it, Larry thrust the gun straight for the only figure that

he saw, which was Margaret's. Before the girl could find her voice to scream, Larry pressed the trigger.

Death did not come to Margaret Brye. Instead, the gun spurt took a slant up toward the ceiling. In from some

blackness had come another figure, a cloaked form as sablehued as night. A driving fist gloved in black had

From the side stairway came the jab of shots from Brye's revolver. Seeing Larry, he had apparently begun a

belated effort to save Margaret's life. He was shooting for the spot where Larry had been; but both figures

The Shadow, forceful in his drive, had bowled Larry clear from the hallway, over the brink of the front

stairway. Larry was tumbling downward; but his cloaked opponent remained at the top. Lying flat, The

Shadow poked a gun muzzle along the side hall; keeping his aim wide of Margaret, he jabbed an answer to

Brye, like his daughter, was away from The Shadow's aim; but the gunshot produced results. The crafty

inventor did not care to wage further battle with an elusive foe who seemed charmed against bullets; whose

own gun, quick with its response, had seemingly poked up from nowhere. Muffled clatters from the side

stairs, heard only by Margaret and The Shadow, were proof that Dana Brye had fled.

A triple duel had ended in the darkness, with none of the participants harmed. Nor had Margaret Brye,

petrified throughout that action, suffered any effects of battle. Perhaps that was why The Shadow regarded

From the gloom at the head of the front stairs came a weird, mocking laugh a strain of mirth that brought

Half taunt, half challenge, that tone told The Shadow's satisfaction over the swift change that he had

FEW fighters but The Shadow would have relished the present situation. By thrusting himself into the open,

he had defeated the prime purpose of his journey here; namely, to meet up with Dana Brye under

circumstances wherein he could make the inventor talk. Instead of that, The Shadow had taken over Brye's

Brye was gone, but The Shadow was in the thick of it. Two shots Larry's and The Shadow's had

accomplished the very thing that Margaret had intended to do with her .22; they had attracted everyone to the

center of the house, instead of the side where Brye had fled. Though Brye had fired a shot in between, it had

Someone had turned on lights downstairs. Larry, reclaiming his revolver halfway down the steps, looked up

to see The Shadow weaving away from the light that came from the lower floor. With a shout, Larry was on

Gaylor, the butler, was yelling to the officers, telling them that Larry was all right. Thus Larry, as he dashed

He had recognized The Shadow as the fighter that he had met at Grennel's. The verdict there had favored The

Standing in the side passage, her tiny gun in hand, she wondered why Larry was taking up the chase. Only

That flash of thought cleared the last doubt that Margaret might have held concerning her father. He, at least,

had fled without shooting at The Shadow. His shot at Larry had been delivered in an effort to save Margaret's

Grateful for that deed, the girl overlooked the possibility that Brye might first have seen The Shadow; then

However, that was past. All that counted at the present was The Shadow's plight. It was real, for he was

ignoring the best path to safety: the side hall where Margaret stood. He didn't want Larry to start another

As she saw The Shadow turn toward another hallway, Margaret recognized the reason and chafed at her own

Again, she didn't see both sides of the matter. Her presence also prevented The Shadow from overtaking

Dana Brye. That was something for which her father would have thanked her. Brye, anxious to meet no one

who might recognize him, would not have enjoyed the prospect of outfacing The Shadow.

The hall that The Shadow took was blocked. It led to the rear of the house, where a flight of stairs went to the

servant's quarters. Alarmed by the gunfire, some of Marquin's hired help were on the way down. Husky

Moonlight from a hallway window failed to show the gun The Shadow carried; otherwise, those servants

might have dropped back. They were armed only with improvised weapons: one had a broken chair arm,

another the chassis of a table lamp. A third carried a metal rod, the principal portion of a towel rack, that the

fellow had wrenched from a bathroom wall. With those assorted cudgels, the trio piled upon The Shadow.

DOWNSTROKES of their arms were met by warding sweeps, as The Shadow whirled among them. His

system was a series of side strokes delivered in revolving style. He put enough lift to the process to drive the

cudgels away from his head; and he prolonged his own strokes, to land blows in return. His fists, each

weighted with an automatic, planted solid thuds against the jaws of his assailants.

Opponents couldn't see The Shadow's strokes arrive, for his arms were like invisible pistons, shooting out

from the vague darkness of his cloaked body. What the servants didn't see, they felt. Two were sprawling by

The third husky took a lurch straight for Larry. They met; floundering to the floor, they wrestled there, for the

servant thought he was grappling with The Shadow. The officers thought the same when they saw the

floundering figures. They were dragging them apart, trying to figure which was Larry, when a driving thing

Reversing his course, The Shadow was choosing the front hall again. He met Gaylor on the way,

straightarmed the fellow with a force that sent him clear across the hall, through a door that ripped open

Margaret, away from the side hall, heard The Shadow's taunting laugh as he left pursuers behind him. With a

Before he could take that route, The Shadow wheeled to meet another adversary. It was Marquin, attired in

dressing gown, a revolver in his hand. The rubber king had come from a front room; the opened door flung a

Marquin's eyes were sharp, his square jaw firmly set. He aimed with cold precision when he saw the invader

loom upon him. From the shouts that he heard, Marquin was justified in the belief that he was meeting a

deadly enemy; and he, more than any of the previous antagonists, was the one who could bring The Shadow's

The Shadow was sweeping in to beat Marquin's gun not with a shot of his own, but with the hope of

slashing the revolver aside. Marquin, experienced in meeting danger through the long periods that he had

spent in primitive lands, used sudden tactics to avoid the drive. In the fashion with which he had once

avoided the thrust of a savage spear, Marquin sidestepped, jerking his gun closer to his body.

The Shadow's cross slash missed. Striking the wall, he recuperated with a valiant backcut of his other hand.

Whether that blow could have warded off Marquin's gun before it fired, was a question that was never

answered. Before either thing happened, Marquin's gun hand was wrenched aside by the firm clutch of small,

Margaret Brye had intervened, repaying The Shadow for saving her that time when Larry had fired. Marquin

The Shadow was away; with Larry and the others coming from the rear, he took the front stairs as the sure

Shots rang from above, but all were wide. Pursuers were piling pellmell down the stairs as The Shadow

vanished through the open front door. By the time that they had reached there, he had gained the patrol car,

A few seconds later two cops, shooting wildly from the porch, saw the taillights of their car twinkle beyond

the driveway, while the fading whine of the highspeed second gear replaced the echoes of their gunfire.

RETURNING into the house, one angry officer put in a call to headquarters, while the other began to

The servant stated that he had heard someone enter the house and creep up to the second floor. Coming down

by the back stairs, Gaylor had phoned for the police. From there the story belonged to Larry.

He told how he had sighted someone in the side hall, only to be met by the sweeping attack of another

"Miss Brye can tell what happened," he told the officers. "She was the person in the side hall. She has told me

so herself. You were very foolish, Larry" Marquin turned to rebuke his secretary "or else you were too

Amazement showed on Larry's long face. He heard Margaret declare that she, too, had heard sounds in the

house; that she had been looking along the side hall when Larry had seen her. It was plain that Larry,

plunging toward the front stairs with The Shadow, had not heard Brye's shot; for he accepted Margaret's story

"What happened subsequently," decided Marquin, "was your fault, Larry. You forced the unknown man to

fight his way out of here. In all the commotion I would have shot him down, if Margaret had not shown

Larry's face reddened; then his confusion ended with a display of sudden temper.

"He was a burglar, wasn't he?" demanded Larry. "Maybe he robbed the place before he stole that patrol car. If

"Because you should have recognized him," put in Margaret hotly. "He was The Shadow the person who

"What if he was The Shadow?" snapped Larry. "Maybe he was pulling something crooked that night, only

"Perhaps I can," returned Margaret. "I think that he came here to talk to me about my father."

"Are you sure of that?" He asked Margaret quietly. "Did you see The Shadow before Larry encountered

"Yes, I did," replied the girl, realizing that she could build slim facts into a case that would favor The

Shadow. "He was outside my window hoping, perhaps, that I would notice him in the moonlight. Perhaps he

saw me, too, for I was looking out. Perhaps the noise he made when he entered was to attract my attention."

"He might be able to explain the explosion," declared Margaret, warily. "Perhaps it wasn't accidental, as we

"Dana Brye had no enemies," he said. "What is more" his tone became emphatic "we know that those

experiments of his were dangerous! Much more dangerous, Margaret, than he ever admitted to you.

Nevertheless, there is a matter that troubles me: the question of your father's fortune.

"How much money he possessed is doubtful, but there has been no trace of where he placed it. Perhaps"

Marquin's words, though speculative, went far to overrule Larry's claim that The Shadow could have come to

the mansion intent on crime. Larry's notion was further ridiculed when Inspector Joe Cardona arrived from

On the way here, Cardona had found the abandoned police car. When he heard the circumstances under

"What else could he have done," demanded Cardona, "with a lot of crazy guys shooting at him? He couldn't

stay around and pass out calling cards! Anybody that thinks The Shadow goes in for crooked work" Joe

"I regard the episode as closed," decided Marquin. "To satisfy everyone, however" his glance, too, meant

Larry "I suggest that you accompany me upstairs, inspector, while I open my safe and make sure that

CARDONA went upstairs with Marquin. Larry, alone with Margaret in the living room, became suddenly

Margaret ignored the statement. Persistently, Larry repeated it at intervals for the next five minutes, until the

"Sorry for what?" she snapped. "Sorry because you didn't manage to shoot me, there in the hall?"

"That was a mistake, Margaret! A horrible mistake. It was dark; I couldn't see that it was you."

"You have a cute way of not noticing faces when you don't want to, Larry. Funny, how you failed to

recognize that murderer at Grennel's. You saw him, but nobody else did. Yet you couldn't describe what he

"I don't mean that time." Margaret raised her tone. "I mean when you sneaked over to the window of

Grennel's study. No wonder you lied, and said you didn't go there. Maybe persons would have wondered "

"I swear I didn't see his face!" interrupted Larry. "You must believe me! Remember, too" Larry's tone was

Larry's final statement was not a tactful one. Possibly he didn't mean it to sound as pointed as it proved; but

"I lied for you," she declared, coldly, "because I thought I loved you. In way of gratitude, you accuse me for

Larry began to stiffen, then relaxed. Marquin was entering the room, smiling as he came. Rubbing his hands

cheerily, he scarcely noticed the dark expressions on the faces of Margaret and Larry.

"Everything is shipshape," informed Marquin. "The safe is untouched! I didn't have to go through it

thoroughly to learn that it had not been opened. Cheer up, Larry!" He clapped the young man on the back.

"And you, too, Margaret! Our friend, The Shadow, is cleared, and no one has been hurt. After Inspector

Margaret smiled, and Marquin seemed pleased. He did not know the thoughts that inspired her expression.

The girl was glad that Marquin had not searched the safe more thoroughly. She preferred that he should find

no evidence of her father's visit until tomorrow, when he could give it more sober thought.

Riding back to Manhattan, Joe Cardona muttered over the details of the report that he had written. One fact

had been established. The Shadow's visit had been to good purpose. But it had the elements of a crimeless

"It don't make sense," mumbled the ace inspector. "Or does it? Whatever it makes" Joe shook his head

IT happened that Joe Cardona had for once attributed too much to The Shadow. The most important facts

concerning the episode at Marquin's were known to one man only: Dana Brye. The little that Brye didn't

The grizzled inventor was living in an excellent hideout a basement dwelling that had a boarded door and

a dim, weatherbeaten Chinese laundry sign hanging out front. Brye hadn't rented the place; he owned it,

Some months ago, crates had been moved into the place, after the Chinese laundryman's lease had expired.

Those boxes had remained unpacked until Brye's arrival the morning after his supposed death at Vreekill.

That day, Brye had unpacked; as a result, he was at present living in a room that resembled his Vreekill

There was a workshop in one corner, its bench covered with bits of mechanism. Another corner formed

Brye's kitchen. His cot was in the third corner, while a fourth actually held a small light safe that Brye had

clamped to the floor with special locks. Like the explosive safe at Vreekill Castle, the tiny strong box was one

As with his former quarters, there were two ways out. One was the boarded door, which Brye did not intend

to use; the other, a trapdoor that led into a small subcellar. From there, Brye had a secret exit out through a

All in all, he regarded this hideout as one where no one, not even The Shadow, could find him.

The place had one advantage over Vreekill Castle. It had a telephone, allowing Brye outside contact without

the necessity of a long trip. Brye was very particular about that telephone. He kept it in a little closet at the

back of the room, and whenever he made a call, he stepped inside and closed the closet door.

During the day that followed his trip to Marquin's house, Brye entered that closet often. It was not until

evening, however, that his face showed a canny smile after he had finished a telephone call. Opening his little

A glance at his watch brought a nod of satisfaction. Another look toward the closet; Brye nodded again.

There would still be time for another call before he left here. The thought brought a chuckle from Brye's

Soon, he would be leaving this hideout on an important mission; one that must be fulfilled tonight. No one

CIRCUMSTANCES made The Shadow's surmise about Brye's hideout unimportant. He was no longer

looking for it. Dusk had taken The Shadow to a previous district that he had visited the neighborhood

where the apartment buildings of Riverview City raised themselves to lofty heights, as if to shake off the

The Shadow had taken a new interest in the affairs of Trigger Kobin; an interest that demanded his personal

The day before, Jericho Druke, The Shadow's giant African agent who hailed from Harlem, had been

admitted to Trigger's apartment when Trigger was not there. Jeeper had let him in, and Jericho, posing as a

Jericho looked like a janitor, in his overalls, and he had come on a logical mission. He was bringing fresh

As in the fabled story of Aladdin, there was a catch to Jericho's offer of "new lamps for old." One of the bulbs

that he inserted in the ceiling, with the aid of a ladder and his long reach, had a tiny microphone attached.

When the ceiling lights were on and Jeeper always kept them burning in the gloomy living room the mike

Anywhere in the building, a person could plug a special receiver into an electriclight socket and hear

everything that was said in Trigger's apartment. Such a receiver the loudspeaking end of a dictograph

Day and night, from the time when Jericho had supplied the light bulb, Burbank had been listening in on

everything that happened in the apartment occupied by the crooks. Burbank was located in the other

Off and on during this new day, Trigger had been getting telephone calls from the Vindicator. Burbank had

relayed all the details to The Shadow; and although the calls merely included Trigger's end of the

conversation, they had been important enough to command The Shadow's personal attention.

Eight o'clock was the time when Trigger expected a final call. While he waited for it, he indulged in

comments for the benefit of Jeeper Quade. Trigger felt that he could talk freely to Jeeper, as Slink Rembo, the

"I told you the big shot was Brye," bragged Trigger. "He had something on the bean, all right. Whatever it

"How do you know Brye was out there?" demanded Jeeper. "The newspapers didn't say so."

"Ain't Brye's daughter out there? That's good enough reason why he'd show up. He's using her as a stooge, or

"The grapevine ain't wise," reminded Jeeper, referring to the mouthtomouth "telegraph" system of the

"Sure! But the grapevine didn't tell us what The Shadow was there for. He wasn't out there calling on Brye's

"You're right, The Shadow don't," he affirmed. "He'd even walk out on a Turkish harem, that guy! Listen,

Jeeper: The Shadow was out there looking for Brye. Which means that Brye is the Vindicator! I can put two

The telephone bell provided an emphasis to Trigger's final statement. Reaching for the telephone, he said to

"Ten to one it's the Vindicator Brye to you and me because something's hot and here's where I get the

Trigger's end of the telephone call consisted mostly of monosyllables, chiefly the word "yeah," which he

uttered with various inflections. When he had hung up, Trigger turned to Jeeper.

"It's what I thought," he said. "We're going to stage another of the Vindicator jobs, like the one out at

Grennel's. Only, I ain't doing the collecting this trip. I'm going to talk to the guy that has to do it. He'll like it,

WHEN Trigger sneaked from a deadend street, a halfhour later, he was confident that no one was on his

trail. He had two sharpeyed lookouts posted in the darkened thoroughfare to make sure that his way was

clear. Those watchers were Jeeper and Slink, and both boasted that they had eyes like cameras.

Perhaps they were right. However, no photographer could have snapped a picture of the gliding shape that

followed Trigger through the darkness. Garbed in his black attire, The Shadow did more than use darkness as

Riding in a cab that he entered in such a manner that the driver saw his face but vaguely, Trigger felt

complete satisfaction. The police, in his estimate, were palookas; and that applied to Joe Cardona in

particular. As for The Shadow, Trigger argued that since the cloaked investigator hadn't dropped in and

started battle, it meant that The Shadow knew nothing about the apartment in Riverview City.

It didn't occur to Trigger that The Shadow had decided to leave him alone, on the hope that Trigger would be

assigned to just such a mission as the one the Vindicator had ordered for tonight.

That, at least, had occurred to the Vindicator. Trigger was using Jeeper and Slink in a manner that the big

shot had ordered. Also, on his present journey, Trigger adopted some precautions that were not of his own

choice. Spying another cab at a gloomy corner near an elevated station, Trigger dismissed the one in which

Several blocks north, he alighted; ascending to an elevated platform, he took a train and rode two stations

south. Hailing another cab, he gave an address; taken there, he looked about, then sneaked through an

Crossing over, Trigger cut through another passageway that brought him to an avenue. He stopped in front of

Behind the counter was a meekfaced baldish man whose name, so Trigger guessed, was Tobias Bourne.

That name was on the sign in front of the jewelry store, and the meekish man answered the description that

Trigger edged along the counter, looking at cheap jewelry. Bourne followed along the other side, as though

magnetized by the customer. Trigger was well dressed; his sharp features were not unhandsome when he

avoided his wolfish smile. He seemed to take a solemn interest in the jewelry: hence Bourne suspected

There, Trigger's hand emerged to poke a gun past the counter end. Prodded in the lower ribs, Bourne started

THE back room was on the other side of a partition. Opening the door, Bourne entered, with Trigger close

behind. Looking around the place, Trigger saw another door, which he knew led to the cellar; for the

In another corner was a curtained entrance to a passage. It led to a side door that opened into a little courtyard

Trigger introduced himself. When he mentioned his name, Bourne jerked upward as if he had experienced an

electric shock. The baldish jeweler had heard of Trigger Kobin. He gave another start when Trigger spoke of

"We're getting places," chuckled Trigger. "Here's the whole dope, Bourne. The big shot knows all about you.

He knows how you fenced those sparklers that Peewee Wendorf brought in from Buffalo. What's more, he

Bourne's mouth opened to an egg shape. In scared fashion, he ejaculated one word:

"Because the Vindicator was smart enough to buy some of 'em," informed Trigger, "and to keep 'em.

Remember the Jem Jewelry Co., that took eight hundred dollars' worth? That outfit's phony! It didn't even

"The Vindicator put that one over on you. All he's got to do is send the stuff he bought up to Buffalo, along

with your letters to Jem Jewelry. When the bulls get tired looking for a company that nobody ever heard

The frantic look on Bourne's face was exactly what Trigger expected. He pushed the jeweler into a chair, then

leaned back to look him over. He waited until Bourne began to whine an incoherent plea, then remarked

"There's a way out, Bourne. All you've got to do is play ball the way the big shot wants."

"You've heard of Noel Shalley, haven't you?" asked Trigger. Then, as Bourne nodded: "Well, the Vindicator

has got him labeled, just like he had Grennel and all those other bigmoney boys that he shook down. He's

"Tonight, Shalley comes across, or else. Only, it ain't dough this time, it's jewels; because Shalley collects

them and has plenty. Shalley's coming here, see? To leave the rocks and you're the gobetween."

Bourne began to understand. Realizing that he could protect himself by doing what the Vindicator wanted, he

"What about the evidence that Shalley will be buying? That's the way the Vindicator works, isn't it?"

"You know a lot," approved Trigger, in a genial tone. "Been reading newspapers, haven't you? Yeah, the

Vindicator is selling something, like he always does. It's nine o'clock now; in half an hour a messenger will

leave an envelope. That's what you're to hand over to Shalley when he shows up at ten.

"Only not until Shalley gives you the jewels and shows you the letters that the Vindicator sent him, so you

can check and make sure they're worth a hundred grand. After that, you'll get a call from the Vindicator

telling you where to deliver 'em. But don't get jittery, Bourne. I'll be around to see it go through."

Looking past the jeweler, Trigger studied the curtained doorway, then the door that led to the cellar. His nod

"That's where I'll be," he decided. "Come on, Bourne. It's nine o'clock. Time for you to close up shop."

While Bourne was nervously closing the store, Trigger watched him from the connecting door in the

partition. His eyes toward the front of the shop, Trigger didn't notice the slight stir of the curtains at the back

An outer door opened noiselessly, then closed. The silence of the tiny courtyard was stirred by a strange,

The Shadow had heard the Vindicator's plans, as voiced by Trigger Kobin. From those, The Shadow was

THE huge clock in Marquin's living room was chiming nine when Margaret Brye looked up from a book, her

lips set in a determined expression that increased her resemblance to her father. She heard someone stepping

in from the hallway, and if it would prove to be Larry again, she wasn't going to talk to him. This would be

the fifth time since dinner, that he had come in to stare at her and wait for her to speak.

It wasn't Larry, however. The arrival was Roger Marquin. Margaret changed her grim look to a smile; but

"Where is Larry?" he asked. "I thought I would find him in the office. He went up there after dinner, didn't

Margaret remembered that Marquin had gone out soon after dinner, to attend a community meeting. He had

said that he would be back in an hour, or so, unless the meeting proved to be important. Evidently, it had not

"Yes, Larry was in the office," assured Margaret, "but he came down here regularly every fifteen minutes,

Marquin rang for Gaylor; when the butler arrived, he asked him if Larry had gone out. Gaylor replied that he

"That's curious," remarked Marquin slowly, after the servant had left the room. "I can't understand why Larry

went so soon, even if he does intend to come back. There's no reason why he should return. I thought he

"Yes. The steamship Anaconda," returned Marquin. "It sails early in the morning for South America. Larry is

Margaret's amazed eyes told Marquin that Larry had made no mention of the voyage. Stroking his wide chin,

"I begin to understand it," he said. "You're the person responsible, Margaret, though you didn't know it."

"You will remember," explained Marquin, "that Larry has had a vacation coming to him for some months.

Also, that I once suggested that if he went to Brazil and met with my representatives there, we could consider

Margaret nodded. Larry had often talked about that trip. It was to be their honeymoon; that was why he had

postponed it. Counting upon his marriage to Margaret, Larry had intended to take her along. Despite herself,

"Larry didn't tell me anything about... about this vacation. Maybe... maybe that was why he kept coming in

"It probably was," returned Marquin, sympathetically. "It troubled me, this morning, when Larry suddenly

said he wanted to take that trip. He knew that the Anaconda was due to sail and said this was his opportunity.

I told him to think it over; which he did. When he left his desk, just before dinner, he said that his mind was

Margaret's tears became real. In one surge of emotion, she realized that she did care for Larry, more than she

would ordinarily have believed. Marquin sat beside the girl, spoke soothingly as he patted her quivering

"Larry is returning because of you," Marquin told her. "He wouldn't leave without saying goodby. It's all for

the best, Margaret. You two have seen each other too much lately, under circumstances that produced a

"Don't forget that this is Larry's last night in New York. He probably had some matters that needed attention.

THERE was considerable truth in Marquin's surmise. At that moment, Larry Chandler was thinking of a very

important matter. Riding in a taxi, he was holding a long envelope in his hands while he watched from the

He saw the office. Telling the driver to stop, Larry alighted, entered the office. He handed the envelope to a

The clerk nodded; he beckoned to a gumchewing messenger boy. While Larry was receiving his change, he

watched the messenger go out the door studying the typewritten address on the envelope.

Much though he liked to dally, the messenger knew he could not linger long on this trip. He had only a dozen

blocks to go, and the clerk would check to see that he was back in half an hour.

That envelope was addressed to Tobias Bourne; it bore the street number of the jeweler's little shop.

Glancing at the clock in the telegraph office, Larry observed that it was just quarter past nine. That allowed

the right amount of time for the envelope to reach Bourne. It left Larry exactly one hour, at which time he

"I expect an answer," he told the clerk. "It will be a package, that will arrive at quarter past ten."

Larry strolled from the office and turned in the direction of Times Square. The arrangements gave him just

SOME blocks from the lighted area of Times Square, a shrouded figure stood in the darkness beside an

oldfashioned brownstone mansion, the most pretentious edifice on its street. This was one of those gloomy,

forgotten sections that reminded oldtimers of Manhattan as it had been in the gay '90s.

The Shadow was not concerned, however, with memories of the past. He was thinking of the present, and the

immediate future. The brownstone house was the home of Noel Shalley, noted jewel collector, and its

location was perfectly suited to The Shadow's vigil. Along a darkened street like this one, The Shadow could

There were few lights in Shalley's house, but The Shadow knew that the collector was at home. He had seen

Shalley draw a window blind only ten minutes ago, which was luck, for The Shadow had arrived only a short

There was no mistaking Noel Shalley. He was a tall, stoopshouldered man, who kept to the tradition of the

'90s by wearing a bushy beard. The beard was quite conspicuous, for it was a reddish brown; but it identified

Shalley on sight, which rather pleased him, for he was a man of much selfimportance.

Besides, Shalley's father and grandfather had worn beards like it, and that was enough for Shalley. He had

traveled the world over, always with the beard accompanying him. People remembered him because of his

adornment; and except during one trip to London at a time when street gamins delighted in shouting

"Beaver!" at anyone who wore a beard, Shalley had never regretted his taste for whiskers.

While The Shadow's eyes were steady on the upper windows, his ears caught a sound below. Cautious

footsteps were coming along a passage that led from a side door. That door had been locked when The

He let the man turn the other way and continue along the street. There was one place that the departer could

not pass without being observed: a spot where a bright light was glowing from an open vestibule, while a

The man came into the light, darted quick looks right and left as he increased his pace. Before he had reached

the farther darkness, which made a short stretch to the corner, The Shadow caught a full view of the fellow's

face. It wasn't bearded. The man was cleanshaven, and his countenance was recognizable instantly, even at a

The profile, with its straight forehead, even nose and strong chin, was that of Dana Brye's!

A secret visitor to Shalley's home, Brye was evidently pleased with what he had accomplished, for The

Shadow could detect his usual cunning look. When Brye was gone, The Shadow edged toward the passage

Brye's visit threw a new angle on the case. There were always consequences when Brye slipped in and out of

places, as he had at Vreekill Castle and at Marquin's mansion. No longer watching Marquin's, The Shadow

knew that Brye could have other trips there; but he hadn't expected to see the missing inventor at Shalley's

This might mean that Noel Shalley would not leave for Bourne's jewelry shop. It was possible that Brye's

visit had made such a trip unnecessary. Perhaps there were factors in the Vindicator's game that The Shadow

His own plans fully prepared, The Shadow was faced by a lastminute situation that threatened to turn them

all away. He was half regretting that he passed up the present opportunity to overtake Dana Brye, when a new

FROM the entrance to the side passage, The Shadow heard a sound from Shalley's front door. He edged

outward in time to see a man step from the doorway and reach back to close the door. Against the momentary

There was no mistaking that profile, which Shalley regarded as aristocratic, like his beard.

By the time that Shalley had locked the door and started down the steps, The Shadow had crossed the street

Shalley stopped at the bottom of the steps, looked in the very direction that The Shadow had taken, but saw

only the dim lights of a parked cab. Stepping toward a street lamp, Shalley called "Taxi!" in a booming voice

The cab came to life. Swinging across the street, the driver opened the door. Noel Shalley stepped into the

cab, giving Bourne's address as he pulled the door shut. The bearded man was on his way to pay tribute to the

From that moment onward, many important events were to be shaped by the hand of The Shadow!

TWO men faced each other across a backroom table. On one side, the bearded face of Noel Shalley showed

a contemptuous glare; from the other, the meekish countenance of Tobias Bourne peered with a forced grin.

Bourne didn't like his present assignment; but his position was mild compared to Shalley's. By "playing ball"

in accordance with Trigger's instructions, Bourne had found the task much easier than he thought.

At half past nine he had answered a banging at the front door of his shop, to receive an envelope from a

messenger. At ten o'clock, there had been a knock at the rear door from the courtyard. There, Bourne had

Their business was coming to a rapid completion. On the table lay letters from the Vindicator, which had

been sent to Shalley. While Bourne was reading them in squinty fashion, he noted that Shalley was reaching

in his pocket. Bourne was nervous for a moment, thinking in terms of a gun; but all that Shalley produced

Opening the bag with hurried bands, Bourne began to appraise the jewels that it contained. There were

emeralds, rubies, sapphires, all flawless stones as Bourne viewed them through his glass. The jeweler gave an

"They are worth more than a hundred thousand dollars," he asserted, raising his tone loud enough to be heard

"Why not?" came Shalley's rumble. "I want no more trouble from the Vindicator, whoever he may be. Come,

Bourne produced them. He saw Shalley's eyes gleam as brightly as the jewels that lay beneath the single

lamp. Unlike other victims of the Vindicator, Shalley had not expected papers that he intended to destroy.

One was a death certificate that bore the name of Lionel Durman; another, a scrawled note, evidently a dying

confession, that bore the same man's signature. The third was a bill of sale made out to Shalley and receipted

"Durman was the rajah's secretary," muttered Shalley. "He stole those gems, though I didn't know it. To

protect himself, he later stole this receipt, which he had given me when I bought the gems in good faith.

"So he confessed it!" Shalley was eyeing the scrawled paper. "Probably to crooks like himself, who were

torturing him to get the gems he no longer had or the money that he had squandered. I knew that Durman was

"Had the rubies been traced to me" Shalley's fist thumped the table "I could never prove that I had not

been part to a criminal transaction! I have wanted this missing receipt for years. The confession, of course,

supported it. The fact that Durman is dead" he added the death certificate to the other papers "relieves me

Bourne saw the papers go into Shalley's pocket; watched the bearded man lean back in satisfied relief. The

jeweler poured the gems into the chamois bag and placed the latter in a small square box. He began to wrap

the box into a package, noting by darted glances that Shalley's expression was becoming rueful.

A buzz sounded near Bourne's chair. It was the telephone bell, which Trigger had fixed so it would not make

too much noise. Bourne answered the call, held a brief conversation, then glanced at his watch.

"Quarter past ten," he said. "I am late; but I didn't know" his tone was pathetic "just where I was to go.

You're to remain here, Mr. Shalley, for exactly half an hour, while I take this package to "

BOURNE cut himself short. He saw a gun muzzle poking from the cellar door and realized that he was not

"Where I go is my own business," he declared. "Mine, and the Vindicator's. I am not coming back, so do not

wait for me, Mr. Shalley. Remember: a half hour, and during that time you are to call no one on the

Bourne went out by the rear door, taking the package with him. Hardly had the jeweler gone, before Shalley

After a few minutes, Shalley shifted over to Bourne's chair and picked up the telephone. Calling police

headquarters, he asked for Inspector Cardona. Learning that Joe was not there, the bearded man announced:

"My name is Noel Shalley. I have just paid a large sum in jewels, to the Vindicator. I can describe those gems

so that they can be traced. What is more, I can tell you who the Vindicator is. His name is "

Shalley cut off short. He was on his feet, the telephone lowered in his hand. The cellar door had opened.

"Lay off!" rasped Trigger. "I'm pinchhitting for the big shot tonight. I'm here to give what he gives to guys

As Trigger finished the announcement, Shalley flung the telephone. Its cord was long, for Bourne used the

telephone in both the shop and the rear room. Trigger dodged the unexpected missile, shooting wildly as he

Diving in the opposite direction, Shalley grabbed the lamp cord and tugged it. The instant darkness was

marred only by the jabs of Trigger's gun. Then came spurts from another weapon. Shalley had a gun, too, as

Amid the incessant roar, Shalley must have dropped, for his final gun spurt came from the floor, just as

Trigger knifed another flaming stab in his direction. There was the clank of a gun striking the floor; then a

fading groan. Gurgling sounds came from the front of the jewelry shop. Men were pounding at the outer door.

In that room of death, a flashlight glimmered. A man was working in the dark above a body. Finally, there

was the crinkle of paper, as the gleam turned upon a bearded face that lay stiff in death. Footsteps reached the

Arriving in the back room, two patrolmen found no trace of Trigger Kobin. Instead, they discovered the body

of a dead bearded man who, by identification cards in his wallet, was promptly identified as Noel Shalley.

But the officers found no money in the wallet. Shalley's cash was gone, along with the documents that had

The fact that the dead man lay penniless, made the officers suppose that he had died resisting an ordinary

robbery. Using Bourne's telephone, they tried to get in touch with Joe Cardona, but failed. Too bad, one said,

ODDLY, Joe Cardona had been very close to Bourne's jewelry store, but had left a short while before the

shooting began. The police inspector was following a tipoff that he believed was from The Shadow. Near

the alley that allowed a rear exit from Bourne's place of business, Cardona had picked up the meekfaced

At this moment, he was watching Bourne enter a telegraph office near Times Square. Through the window,

Cardona saw the jeweler leave a package, then depart. Considering the package more important than Bourne,

A man came briskly along the street. When he entered the telegraph office, Cardona recognized the fellow.

He remembered Larry Chandler very well. With all the fuss that Larry had kicked up out there at Marquin's

When Larry came out again, he was carrying the package that Bourne had left. There were plenty of cabs at

hand and the young man stepped into one. As soon as Larry's taxi had started, Cardona jumped into the one

It wasn't long before Cardona guessed exactly where the trip would end. The cabs crossed the East River,

followed the traffic of a boulevard, and swung into a paved roadway that Cardona recognized as the straight

Figuring that Larry might notice that he was being trailed, Cardona told his own driver to ease the speed. By

the time the trailing cab rolled into sight of the mansion, Larry's taxi was pulling from the driveway, having

Gaylor answered when Cardona rang the doorbell. The inspector asked sharply if Larry had entered; Gaylor

"Mr. Chandler went to his room," said the butler. "Do you wish to see him, Inspector?"

Gaylor led the way, with Cardona telling him to hurry. By the time the servant pointed out the closed door of

Larry's room, the police inspector had made a lot of noise without realizing it.

Another door opened; Margaret Brye stepped in sight. She hadn't heard Larry enter; she gave a surprised gasp

Marquin appeared from his offices. The outer door was ajar, and he, too, had noticed the commotion. Like

Margaret, Marquin stared as an astonished witness, when Joe yanked open the door of Larry's room and

entered with a drawn gun. There was a sharp exclamation from the inner corner, where Larry was packing a

Without waiting for Cardona's challenge, Larry dropped the package that had come from Bourne and

snatched up a revolver that lay in the suitcase. Before he could get a grip on the weapon, Cardona lunged at

him. Joe always preferred a live prisoner to a dead one, and he was glad, very shortly, that he hadn't been

For Larry's nerve faltered when he recognized the swarthy police inspector. Battered by Cardona's drive, the

By way of precaution, Cardona clamped handcuffs on Larry's wrists, then pocketed the secretary's gun. That

OPENING Bourne's package, Cardona found the chamois bag; he gave a low whistle when he poured out its

sparkling contents. Cardona didn't know where those gems had originally come from, but he could guess that

Handing the gems to Marquin, Cardona dragged Larry to his feet and demanded the facts.

Larry merely returned a sudden stare. From the way he acted, Cardona decided he was trying to appear

Before questioning Larry further, the ace decided to have a look in the packed suitcase. There, Cardona found

It was locked, but the fastening gave when Cardona hammered it with his revolver butt. The lid of the box

popped open and Cardona was looking at piles of green currency in bundles that totaled one hundred

The amount, the high denominations, the numbers of the bills, matching a memorandum in Cardona's pocket,

were proof that the ace inspector had struck a longsought find. To Larry, Cardona rasped a denunciation that

"This was the cash that Thomas Grennel handed over," announced the detective ace. "It pins more than

blackmail on you, Chandler. It tags you for a murder rap! You're the crook that calls himself the Vindicator!"

Larry's hoarse denials sounded puny. Cardona regarded them as meaningless chatter. This was one time when

Joe could not be guessing wrong, not at the end of a trail like the one that he had just followed.

That trail, resulting in the recovery of stolen wealth, had been provided by The Shadow!

CARDONA'S next task was to grill the prisoner. As a setting for that process, he chose Marquin's inner

office, where he placed Larry under a strong light. With Marquin and Margaret as witnesses to the quiz,

"It wasn't Trigger Kobin," snapped Cardona. "You can't shove the job on him. It was somebody out there on

Cardona's eyes were hard. They caught the signs of a nervous twitch on Larry's face. Shoving his chin close

Out of the confusion, Larry found his voice. His eyes met Margaret's. Away from the light, her face was only

"I couldn't have killed Grennel," he argued. "I wasn't close enough to the window. I couldn't have done it, I

A voice intervened. It was Marquin's, calm but emphatic in its very ease of tone.

"Let me ask a question," suggested Marquin. Then, as Cardona nodded willingness, the rubber king turned to

Margaret: "I must question you, not Larry. The other night, after The Shadow had gone, I overheard you

arguing with Larry. Didn't the discussion concern the testimony that you gave after the crime at Grennel's?"

Margaret set her lips firmly. She moved closer to the light, boldly facing her questioner.

"I know that you love Larry," added Marquin, soberly. "You proved that tonight. But I do not feel that I am

asking too much, when I request you to state the simple truth. There are times, Margaret, when justice must

The girl was still determined not to speak; but Marquin's words had taken effect upon another listener. The

statement that Margaret had proven her love for him, brought a new expression to the face of Larry Chandler.

He recognized that the girl must have talked to Marquin some time during the evening; and as Larry watched

"I can answer the question," he announced, firmly. "I lied about what happened at Grennel's. I had left the

Margaret's interjection was one of anguish. The handcuffed man hesitated; then showed his own

"By my own statements, I forced Margaret to testify that I was with her at the time. I was a coward, that was

Larry looked toward Margaret and received his reward. He had declared the facts at a time when such a step

could ruin him. He had done so with the hope of clearing Margaret from any vestige of blame. To the girl,

Though her face was sad, Margaret smiled. Her conflict of emotions revealed her true self; brought her closer

to Larry than on the night, many months ago, when she had accepted his proposal of marriage.

During those months, Larry had been troubled by the increasing dread that Margaret's willingness for

marriage had been inspired solely through loneliness. All such doubt was dispelled, in this present crisis.

It was Larry's task to prove himself innocent of crime, that he might collect the prize he saw before him.

"I SAW the murderer that night at Grennel's," Larry affirmed, "but did not recognize him. You will recall that

I did not recognize Margaret Miss Brye in the hallway of this house on the night when The Shadow came

"My eyes are not as sharpsighted as they should be. I use these" he drew a pair of glasses from his pocket

with his handcuffed hands "when I work at my desk. That accounts for certain of my shortcomings. But I

am innocent of any crime, and feel that I can answer all questions to your satisfaction."

Cardona liked Larry's way of putting it; not because he believed the secretary innocent, but because he found

it easy to meet direct statements with replies of the same sort. Cardona liked to "bat them back and forth," as

"All right," countered the inspector. "If you didn't murder Grennel, how did you happen to get his cash?

Perhaps you'll tell me" Cardona's tone was dry "that somebody put it in your suitcase."

"Somebody did," returned Larry. "I'm that person. Tonight, after dinner, I found the locked box on my desk,

"Yes this note," replied Larry. "It also told me" he was bringing a folded paper from his pocket "to send

an envelope to a jeweler named Bourne, by messenger. The envelope was with the box, and I was to receive a

"The package with the jewels," put in Cardona. "What were you to do with it? Take it to Brazil, too?"

Larry nodded. He had handed the note to Marquin, who was reading it. Puzzlement came over Marquin's

"The note says all that," he declared. "But I didn't write it. I notice, too, that it instructs Larry to hold box and

Marquin passed the note to Cardona, who saw that it was typewritten, with the initials "R. M.," at the finish.

"Anybody could have knocked out this note on one of the typewriters around here."

"Mr. Marquin always types his memos," argued Larry. "I naturally supposed that this was one from him."

"Except for the initials," reminded Marquin. "I never add them to the notes I leave you, Larry. I only include

Larry's lips went tight. To Margaret, that signified that he was merely annoyed because he hadn't noticed

something unusual about the note when he found it. To Cardona, it meant that Larry had made a much more

"The game's up, Chandler," asserted Cardona, bluntly. "You typed this note yourself, as an alibi. I'm taking

you to headquarters or, rather, I'm sending you there as soon as I can get the men to take you."

CARDONA reached for the telephone, made a call. Two minutes later, he was talking with some show of

"There's been another murder! The victim is a man named Noel Shalley. His body was found at Bourne's.

These jewels are his. It's all clear, Chandler. You're the Vindicator; but you've staged your last shakedown!"

Larry was still staring at the incriminating note that he had so laboriously extracted from his pocket, because

"I can't believe that," interrupted Marquin, tartly. "No one other than yourself could have typed that note,

Larry. You have found the man you were after, inspector. I suggest that you take him to the cell where he

Margaret spoke the interruption. She had risen; her eyes were flashing. Looking from Marquin to Cardona,

"I have seen that box before," the girl declared. "Here, in a place where Larry could not possibly have found

Marquin looked startled. His lips moved wordlessly, but when he found his voice his statement was

"If you saw the box in there" Marquin was pointing to the safe "someone else must have learned the

combination. I never opened the safe when you or anyone else was in this office."

Torn between her love for Larry and the promise that she had made to her father, Margaret had come to an

absolute decision. It was prompted by Marquin's earlier statement, that justice must be served. That factor

threw the balance; for, despite her love for Larry, Margaret had considered her promise binding.

She had lied for Larry once. Tonight, she could have lied for her father. One or the other had to be sacrificed,

and the girl was torn by the dilemma. Nevertheless, all honesty and fairness demanded that the guilty man be

"My father is not dead," spoke Margaret. Her own voice seemed very far away. "He came here the night that I

have mentioned. He opened the safe by some method of his own. He showed me the box and the money in it.

"What he could do once, he could have done again. He left the money here, deep in the safe, where Mr.

Marquin would not find it. But he came here again today, to reclaim it. No" the girl shook her head, as

Cardona started an interruption "I did not see him today, but I am sure that he was here.

"Because only he could have brought the box from the safe and left it with a false note for Larry. There was

every opportunity for him to do so while we were at dinner. Had he come a trifle earlier, he would have

overheard Larry telling Mr. Marquin that he had decided to take the trip to Brazil."

Her denunciation finished, Margaret sat down in a daze. Cardona was pummeling her with questions that she

didn't seem to hear. She was looking at Larry; his head was bowed. He knew the greatness of Margaret's

sacrifice. Marquin, too, was solemn. The only doubter in the room was Joe Cardona.

Getting no answers to his questions, the inspector hammered the desk and voiced a loud objection.

"You can't get away with that story, Miss Brye! Your father is dead, that's why you're shoving the blame on

him! You're in love with Chandler you've admitted it and you're trying to save him! It's easy enough to

Cardona's fist stopped tight on the desk. His eyes stared past the lamplight. Too amazed to speak or move, he

sat there rigid, a frozen gaze on his face that made the others turn. Cardona had recognized the man who had

stepped into the room; so did they, as the arrival reached the glare of the lamplight.

It was Dana Brye. His face had lost its craftiness. His features were drawn, weary, and the expression very

pale. He looked the part of a man who had returned to life after a sojourn in the grave.

His voice, however, was firm. Like his daughter, Dana Brye had come to a decision. Facing the silent, staring

ALTHOUGH Dana Brye produced amazement by his unexpected entrance, no one was startled at the

admission he made. From what Margaret had testified, it was evident that Dana Brye, if actually alive, would

Any man who could mysteriously vanish from Vreekill Castle, leaving another body in his place, was

obviously a master of hidden ways. His ability, too, at moving in and out of Marquin's home without

detection pointed to skill at the very measure which had made the Vindicator a criminal of evil fame.

Brye's operations with Marquin's safe were merely further evidence of crooked ability; and they came within

the field of reason, not only because of Margaret's testimony but because every listener knew that the safe in

question was one of Brye's own manufacture. If anyone could find a way to open the combination, it would

Margaret's disclosure of her father's secret was not sufficient reason. Brye still could have kept out of sight.

There was a deeper answer, and Margaret believed that she could give it, if she chose.

Brye, a lurking witness to this scene, had watched his daughter's loyalty swing from himself to Larry

Chandler. Such disappointment might not have influenced him to declare himself a criminal; the real rub was

that circumstances, some unforeseen by Brye, had thrown crime's burden on Larry and thereby predicted a

Behind the fixed expression on Brye's face, Margaret could sense emotion. No matter how crooked he might

be, Brye was still her father and recognized his paternal obligation beyond all else. Margaret knew that he

Flinging her arms around Brye's shoulders, the girl laid her blond curls against his chin and sobbed. Every

weeping gasp that left her lips was throbbed there from her heart. Her anguish held the witnesses silent. No

Rigid as a figure of stone, the grizzled inventor made no effort to comfort his daughter. His sacrifice was a

stolid one, as cold, upon the surface, as the merciless deeds of the Vindicator. When Brye finally moved an

arm, he did not let it rest on Margaret's shoulders. Instead, he pointed to Larry, with the words:

Cardona unlocked the handcuffs and dangled them loosely, in readiness for Brye. His hands finding

As she looked up, her brimming eyes and tearstreaked face gifted with a loveliness that only her heart could

have produced, Brye's grip tightened. The muscles of his hands and forearms showed their strength, as he

"Go to him." Brye's tone, though level, carried no reproach. "He is the man you love!"

Margaret hesitated; then saw that Larry's arms were waiting. As she reached them and heard her lover's

soothing voice, she realized that this ordeal had forever ended her doubts. She belonged to Larry, as she

should have known long ago. Whatever her father's fate, both she and Larry would always remember that

That thought, to them, would clear the stigma of her father's name. Whatever his misdeeds, Dana Brye had

"YOU knew that it was father!" the girl sobbed to Larry. "You recognized him, didn't you, the night that he

"I did not recognize him," interposed Larry, his tone very solemn. "I told you the whole truth, Margaret. Had

I seen his face, I would have told you but no one else. It would have been betrayal, to accuse your father

Cardona had clamped the handcuffs on Brye's extended wrists. Marquin, approaching, his face morose, said

Brye's only answer was a smile. He was looking toward Larry and Margaret. When he spoke, Brye looked

"Anyone who would destroy such happiness should die. I suppose that applies to me. May it apply to all

Cardona wasn't in a mood for parables. Though his gruff voice was a trifle husky, Joe began to demand facts.

He wanted Brye's full confession and this was the time to get it, while the prisoner was in a soft mood. But

Brye, still watching Larry and Margaret, remained heedless of Cardona's questions.

"You shoved Grennel's money into Marquin's safe," summed Cardona. "A smart place to put it, if you hid it

deep; but you couldn't leave it there forever. You were waiting until the Shalley job was ripe. It was all set

"So you came here to pick up the dough. You were going to take it along, gather in the jewels that Bourne

delivered; and keep right on traveling. But when you learned that Chandler was going to Brazil, you had an

"Why not let Chandler lug the swag? That's the idea that hit you. So you stuck the tin cash box right there on

Chandler's desk, along with the envelope that was to go to Bourne, for him to hand to Shalley. You typed a

Cardona might as well have been inside Marquin's big safe itself, shouting at the surrounding walls. None of

"You made a bad slip," jabbed Cardona. "You thought it was all off between Chandler and your daughter. If

something went sour and Chandler never got started for Brazil where you were going to cable him, in

Marquin's name, and have him send the swag he'd at least be the guy to take the rap. But she loved him,

It was brutal, that sort of talk, and Cardona knew it. But the Vindicator's murders had been a hundredfold

more brutal than any words could be. Cardona didn't intend to stop until he forced Brye into giving details of

"They look very sweet," declared the inspector sarcastically, as he turned to stare at Larry and Margaret. "But

I can spoil that picture, Brye. Suppose I don't take your sayso that you're the Vindicator, until you've proven

"You can't!" It was Margaret who gave the challenge. "You haven't a bit of evidence against him. My father

has taken the blame for all those crimes. You've just built your own case against him. What more do you

"She is quite right, inspector. If you take me with you, I shall be glad to tell you more. By the way, there are

some business affairs that I would like to settle. Would you, Roger" he turned to Marquin "mind coming

They were walking toward the door, Cardona and Brye, the inspector making suggestions that he considered

"You'll feel better, Brye," Joe was saying, "when you've got all this off your chest. I know that you're feeling

"Not for my crimes," interposed Brye dryly, pausing just short of the doorway. "For my mistakes!"

"Call them what you want," conceded Cardona. "Crimes or mistakes, they can't be changed once they're

A dry smile flickered on Brye's lips. His tongue seemed to lick it away, so that he could make the solemn

TIRED of Brye's cryptic remarks, Cardona decided to cut all conversation until they were outside. He was

due for another interruption, however, from a different source. The telephone bell had begun to ring;

Hooking one arm under Brye's, Cardona hauled the prisoner back to the desk with him. But as he stood there

talking into the telephone, Cardona's grip relaxed. So did the hand that held the telephone. It was only by a

"It's from headquarters," announced Cardona, his voice peculiarly awed. "They've just been talking to the

morgue. It wasn't Shalley who was killed at Bourne's. The beard fooled them, until it came loose. They've

found out who the dead man is!" Joe paused, to take another breath. "Trigger Kobin!"

The hush that gripped the persons in that inner room was broken by a singular whisper that stirred from

Marquin's darkened outer office. A vague, strange whisper, scarcely audible: almost an echo rising from that

Yet, with its fade, that sibilant token of repressed mirth proved its reality. It was no memory from the past. It

was a prelude to the future: the cue for another man to appear upon the scene as strangely as had Dana Brye.

In through the doorway stepped the answer to Brye's recent wish: a man whose bearded face and high

aristocratic nose went with the dignity of his steadygazing eyes. Behind him, blackness seemed to stir.

Other eyes, burning from the gloom, gave evidence of a sponsor who had remained behind the scenes.

None saw that strange figure in the background. Their gaze was only on the bearded man another of death's

That man, produced from the past, was the last of the Vindicator's victims. Noel Shalley had been brought

IT seemed a greeting from one dead man to another, when Dana Brye sprang forward to meet Noel Shalley.

Joe Cardona, suddenly aroused, thought that Brye had started to attack Shalley and drew a revolver to prevent

trouble. But the inspector's gun hand lowered when he saw, to his complete bafflement, that the two were

"I have brought the letters, Brye," announced Shalley. "The ones that you left at my house this afternoon."

With a gesture of his hands, Brye indicated Cardona. Shalley passed the letters to the police inspector, who

stared at them, then spread them in front of Marquin, who had come to the desk beside him. Larry and

Margaret, intrigued by this surprise, stared over the intervening shoulders, to read the letters also.

"From the Vindicator!" exclaimed Cardona. "Addressed to Dana Brye! Demanding a hundred thousand

"That I wrote to Red Krigley," added Brye, with a pleased chuckle. "The head of the Krigley mob. Louis

Jolden you've heard of him was working with me at the time. I didn't know that Krigley was a crook; that

my letters, stating the weaknesses in various makes of safes, were being used by his mob."

Brye's statement impressed Cardona. The inventor was appearing in a new light, as a victim of the type of

blackmail in which the Vindicator had specialized. Questions were coming from others Marquin, Margaret,

"My time limit was set," declared Brye. "The money that the Vindicator demanded was almost my entire

fortune. So I put the money in a basement hideaway that I established here in New York, and went to Vreekill

Castle. I was determined that I would find some way to beat the Vindicator's game.

"He knew it. He set men to watch me. But Vreekill Castle had a secret outlet by way of the river. I saw how

I could turn those watchers to my advantage. If the castle, which had become worthless, should be destroyed,

For the first time, Brye decided to omit one detail from his new, and accurate, story. The matter of Ross

Bland, he decided, was one that could wait for further explanation. Bland's visit, it happened, had precipitated

"I set off time bombs that I had planted throughout Vreekill Castle," continued Brye. "The Vindicator was

free to choose his own answer regarding my supposed death. Accident or suicide, it did not matter which he

Shalley thought that Brye had finished. The bearded man supplied an interlude of his own.

"But I was menaced!" exclaimed Shalley. "Brye learned it, knew that my deadline was today. He kept calling

me all afternoon. When I finally returned home and talked to him by telephone, I invited him to come to my

"When Brye arrived, he showed me the letters that he had received from the Vindicator. He left them with me

and suggested that I go through with my own payment of tribute; that my jewels, like Grennel's money,

"I started out to Bourne's place" Shalley turned to Brye, feeling that he, especially, would be interested in

SHALLEY paused. Brye, eager to hear the story, did not interrupt with further details that concerned himself.

Listeners watched Shalley stroke his reddish beard. He was coming to a portion of the story as incredible as

anything that had yet been related, yet so definite in Shalley's memory, that he finally recited it as the

"In the cab," declared Shalley, his tone half awed, "I saw myself! I mean that literally! I was looking at a

man, already in the cab, who might have been my own reflection! True, the disguise was a simple matter"

"The man who might have been myself, was The Shadow. He talked to me quite as confidentially as Brye

had. He won my trust; I told him all that I knew. I finally agreed to wait in the cab, while he took the jewels

The rest flashed instantly to Joe Cardona. The ace could picture that back room as plainly as if he had been

there. Bourne and Shalley, the latter actually The Shadow, completing the transactions that the Vindicator

had demanded. Bourne's departure; the phone call to headquarters by the pretended Shalley.

There had been battle, Cardona knew. Swift shots in the darkness, wherein Trigger, the murderer, had found a

foeman far superior to any that he suspected. The Shadow, by one of his clever feints, had jabbed home the

He had been forced to that eventuality. With men beating at the front door, there had been no time to remove

Trigger's body. Yet it was imperative that the Vindicator, wherever he might be, should not learn of Trigger's

death until The Shadow could complete other moves. But it would not matter if the Vindicator thought that

There, in that back room at Bourne's, The Shadow had peeled away his own disguise; had placed the

With the important papers in his own possession, The Shadow had placed a wallet bearing cards identifying

Shalley in Trigger's pocket. The entering police had found only the body and had taken it for Shalley's. For

"An admirable arrangement, Shalley," approved Brye. "Unfortunately, when I arrived here I heard that you

had been murdered. Knowing that my story would never stand without your support, I was forced to sacrifice

Brye had stepped to Marquin's safe. Despite his handcuffs, he turned the combination and swung the big door

"That box on the desk," he said, "the one containing Grennel's money, was actually in this safe the night I

came. So was this box" with a quick dip into the safe, he brought out another box that Margaret

remembered "which contains the documents that the Vindicator kept for blackmail.

"In one envelope, I found my letters to Krigley and removed them. In another, I found papers relating to

Shalley, the victim next on the list. That is why I went to Shalley to enlist his aid, that the law would find

A SHARPRASPED command swung everyone about, to face a revolver held by Roger Marquin. No longer

did Marquin need his oily mask; nor did he care that the truth was known regarding the source of his wealth.

"I am the Vindicator!" he announced, his tone a rumbly snarl. "I typed that note to Larry, adding the

unneeded initials so I could disclaim it if I chose. Had he reached Brazil, I would have cabled him where to

"If caught, he would have been branded as the Vindicator. Loss of the swag was worth that result. My plan

failed; but I have another one. I intend to leave here safely. I shall add this wealth" his free hand reached for

the stacked money and the sparkling gems which lay close together on the desk "to the profits that I have

It was Joe Cardona who gave a look toward those beside him. Including himself, he counted five persons,

"You can't get away with it!" warned Cardona. "We have you five to one, Marquin. The moment you go

"I shall be safe," inserted the Vindicator, sharply. "I can depend upon Gaylor and the other servants. I have

already summoned them" in shifting his gun arm, Marquin revealed a button at the corner of the desk

There was a clatter from the outer hall. Marquin, chuckling his triumph, was backing toward the connecting

office that would lead him there, when, from close behind him, came a peal of mocking challenge. Marquin,

They were face to face, The Shadow and the Vindicator. The one a being cloaked in black, whose eyes

burned their message of vengeance; the other a calloused murderer, whose latest fruits of crime were tucked

The .45 that loomed from The Shadow's fist seemed ready to swallow the .32 revolver that Marquin was too

The Vindicator stood rigid, helpless, So puny, he seemed, that The Shadow, knowing another clash was close

As Cardona, Larry and Shalley surged for Marquin, with Brye and Margaret close behind him, The Shadow

There were shouts from the hallway door. Gaylor and the other servants had arrived. They saw only Marquin

and the group that was suppressing him, for The Shadow had swished away from the intervening doorway,

into the gloom of the outer office. Hearing Marquin's answering cry, the servants surged.

Then The Shadow was upon them, giving them a taste of sledging automatics, not merely his weighted fists.

His guns tongued bullets, too, for tonight Marquin's men were armed with revolvers. They used those

Shooting men were sprawling when they fired; the only blackness that their bullets found was that of the

The door to the inner office had slammed. When The Shadow opened it, he saw chaos. Marquin's gun had

been plucked from his hand; the weapon was lying in the corner. But the Vindicator, a fighting madman, had

Across the floor was a strew of bank notes, Grennel's money; glimmering amid the green were Shalley's

jewels. Marquin had lost the swag in his haste, but a corner panel, swung open, showed a spiral stairway by

Two persons had gone after him: Cardona and Brye. The others, Larry, Margaret and Shalley, were unhurt,

but they had been sprawled in the final struggle and were too late to take up the chase. Larry, however, was

The Shadow reached the window. He saw the garage, heard the final rumble of its opening door. Marquin had

"He's taking the roadster!" added Larry. "He'll come out of there like a shot; so fast, it will be hard to stop

THERE was a note of prediction in Larry's words; but before its fulfillment, another scene occurred. While

The Shadow was calmly aiming to cover the open door of the garage, Cardona and Brye bounded from the

Cardona was ahead; but Brye was gaining, shouting something that the inspector did not heed. Halfway to the

garage, Brye overtook him. Flinging his long arms forward, he slung them over Cardona's head, using the

Under Brye's rolling weight, Cardona hit the dirt. Both men were flattened there, tangled, when Marquin

made the exit that Larry had promised. But his trip in that highpowered roadster was far more stupendous

With one vast roaring blast, the roof of the garage split open. Its walls spread aside like the cardboard shams

of a movie set. Spreading amid an inferno of flame came the chunks of Marquin's car, while from its very

Last to strike the earth, that human shape landed in grotesque fashion, a misshapen mass. Inert, it lay amid the

dust and smoke of the debris. When that cloud settled, the last spasms of flame from the shattered garage

threw wavering light upon the mangled remains, revealing a face which bore sufficient vestiges to identify it

The Vindicator had perished before starting the next stage of a flight that The Shadow had been ready to nip

when it began. Dana Brye, foreseeing that Marquin might manage to escape in his highpowered roadster,

had visited the garage before coming to the house tonight and attached a quickaction bomb to the ignition

WHEN Brye returned to the house with Cardona, the grizzled inventor was no longer handcuffed. He was

explaining how a body had happened to be found in the ruins of Vreekill Castle, and was also stating who the

"There was no trap set for Bland," declared Brye. "I did my best to stop him from opening my safe. He flung

me across the room and went ahead while I lay dazed. By opening the safe, he set off the first of my time

"After the first explosion, I had to go through with my plan of abandoning the castle. The finding of a body in

the ruins helped my plan, of course, but it was not intended. As for Bland, I believe that he was a crook

Shalley, hearing Brye's statement, remembered an envelope that The Shadow had left with him. The cloaked

visitor, himself, was gone; he had left immediately after the garage had exploded. Cardona received the

"Don't worry about Ross Bland," said Joe to Brye. "There was a witness at Vreekill Castle one you didn't

Cardona grinned at Brye's question. What a scene it would be The Shadow entering court, to take the

"Your story will stand," Cardona told Brye. "Bland was crooked, like you thought. He'd been cleaning up on

a small scale, selling a phony stock called Arivada Silver. This envelope contains all the facts to prove it.

Bland figured you were the Vindicator, and tried to shake you down. Any jury will believe you on that,

Across the room, Larry was answering a phone call. He lowered the telephone with one hand and looked at

"Two passages to Rio!" exclaimed Larry. "Aboard the Anaconda. I only ordered one, but they tell me I have

It was Margaret who understood. There was another telephone downstairs one that The Shadow could have

"The ship has a captain, Larry," laughed the girl. "He can marry us, can't he? After we sail?"

The telephone left Larry's hand. Both his arms were needed, as he gathered Margaret into them. Their kiss

was accompanied by a happy chuckle from Dana Brye; but that was not the only token of approval.

From somewhere, through the open window, it seemed, came a parting tone of laughter; mirth that faded as if

it belonged, not to a living being but to the vast domain of night itself. That laugh carried no taunt of

It told of triumph, The Shadow's final victory, over the archcrook, Roger Marquin, who had styled himself

the Vindicator, to pose falsely as a man who wanted justice. The Shadow, real champion of justice, had

reason to be triumphant, for his prowess had ended the Vindicator's career of evil sham.

To Larry and Margaret, that mirth meant more. They knew that The Shadow was wishing them Godspeed