FOXHOUND.......................................................................................................................................................1

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

CHAPTER I. CRIME WITHOUT PUNISHMENT ................................................................................1

CHAPTER II. FLIGHT OF A SURGEON ..............................................................................................5

CHAPTER III. TRAPPED FOR MURDER ............................................................................................9

CHAPTER IV. A GUEST OF DAWSON .............................................................................................13

CHAPTER V. FLAME UNDER WATER ............................................................................................16

CHAPTER VI. THE RIDDLE OF COLETTE ......................................................................................20

CHAPTER VII. THE MAN WITH THE SCAR ...................................................................................25

CHAPTER VIII. MASKED MADMEN...............................................................................................29

CHAPTER IX. THE MAN IN THE TUB .............................................................................................32

CHAPTER X. AT CEDAR LAKE ........................................................................................................35

CHAPTER XI. THE BOATHOUSE POOL ..........................................................................................39

CHAPTER XII. A ROOM AND A PORTRAIT ...................................................................................43

CHAPTER XIII. THE JUNK YARD....................................................................................................48

CHAPTER XIV. THE BLUE BLZES ...................................................................................................51

CHAPTER XV. THE GHOST IN THE FURNACE .............................................................................55

CHAPTER XVI. THE FRESH WATER CLUE...................................................................................59

CHAPTER XVII. VISITOR IN GRAY .................................................................................................62

CHAPTER XVIII. AN AIRPORT TRAGEDY .....................................................................................66

CHAPTER XIX. DOUBLE DOOM ......................................................................................................70

CHAPTER XX. THE CHAIR CAR......................................................................................................72

CHAPTER XXI. THE IRON MINE.....................................................................................................75

CHAPTER XXII. SINISTER LAKE .....................................................................................................79

CHAPTER XXIII. THE SECRET OF FOXHOUND...........................................................................83

CHAPTER XXIV. A GIFT FOR CARDONA ......................................................................................89

THERE was an electric hush in the courtroom as the blackrobed judge leaned forward on the bench. The

It was the climax to one of the strangest murder prosecutions in the history of the grim old Criminal Courts

Building. A double murder yet only one indictment. A defendant whose evil appearance, as well as his

record as a habitual criminal, proclaimed him guilty yet he was about to be acquitted.

It was evident in the crowd's hushed attention, in the angry spot of color in the prosecutor's worried face.

Every one in the courtroom knew that the smirking Jimmy Dawson was guilty, but no one would have bet

The whole dramatic upset in the trial had been brought about by one man. Alonzo Kelsea. The highestpriced

and shrewdest criminal lawyer in the city. A man whose cheapest retainer was fifty thousand dollars. Yet he

was representing a petty gunman who apparently had neither friends, influence or money.

A sigh ran through the tense spectators. The judge checked it with a sharp rap of his gavel. His eyes were

expressionless under knitted brows. For a second he stared at Dawson, the defendant; then his glance moved

"Let me remind you that my client has been indicted for the murder of Pat Malone, the detective who was

shot to death on the pier of the AmericaGaul Line. He has not been indicted for the death of Herbert Baker,

who was killed five minutes earlier by persons unknown aboard the Loire, as she lay at her pier. There have

been attempts by the prosecutor, all through this trial, to link the defendant, James Dawson, with both crimes;

but no indictment was returned for the Baker murder and with the permission of the learned judge, I will

ask the jury to ignore that phase of the matter entirely in returning the verdict. Does your honor concur?"

The judge nodded. "The court directs the jury to confine its attention solely to the murder of Detective Pat

Malone. There has been no proof established to link the defendant, James Dawson, with the death of Herbert

Baker, killed so mysteriously in his cabin aboard the Loire. Proceed, Mr. Kelsea."

"Thank you." His eyes moved to the jury. Every man in the box leaned forward, listening intently. They

"I am going to speak only one sentence, gentlemen; but that one sentence will acquit an innocent man. I ask

His gaze held the jurymen for a long instant, then he bowed gravely to the judge and sat down. It was the

shortest and simplest speech ever made in a murder trial. Alonzo Kelsea had staked the life of his client on

ALTHOUGH an eyewitness had testified he had seen Dawson fire bullets into the body of the pier detective,

Malone, Leland Payne had established an unshaken alibi for the accused man. He swore and it was

impossible to doubt the word of the aged philanthropist that at the exact moment of Pat Malone's death,

Crossexamination couldn't shake him. And the eyewitness a longshoreman, with an unsavory police

record himself had faltered in his identification under the suave attack of Kelsea.

The millionaire, on the contrary, stuck to his story, refusing to tell what the nature of his conference had been

Leland Payne was the city's most beloved citizen, honored many times for his countless charities and his

upright life. No one in the courtroom believed for an instant that he would utter a deliberate lie. And the

accusation of the sullen longshoreman rested on one brief glimpse of a man with a smoking pistol, a splash in

Dawson had walked calmly into police headquarters, twentyfour hours after the double murder, protesting

his innocence. Alonzo Kelsea had taken his case for nothing. Could such a man be guilty?

There was a murmur in the courtroom like the foaming topple of an enormous wave. People squirmed, started

Gravely, he told the men in the jury box that under the rules of evidence, they had returned the only verdict

possible for honest men. The testimony of Leland Payne, upright citizen, friend of the judge himself, was

His eyes swung past the grinning Dawson, toward the discomfited and angry prosecutor. In clear, biting

words he hinted at a miscarriage of justice. He directed the prosecutor to use all legitimate efforts to get to the

bottom of this strange double murder of a passenger aboard the Loire and the pier detective, Malone. He did

not say so directly, but it was obvious to every one in earshot that he believed Leland Payne had been tricked,

Alonzo Kelsea was on his feet instantly, protesting in a loud voice, but the judge shut him off grimly.

"There are forces shielding this defendant," he snapped, "that, I trust, will be brought ultimately into the

open! Forces that I believe to be criminal and sinister. I hope Police Commissioner Weston will use every

effort to solve this ugly double murder." His voice hardened. "No reflection is intended on counsel for the

A REPORTER, hurrying to the street, paused as he saw the aristocratic face of a man who stood with a

companion in the rear of the courtroom. It was Police Commissioner Ralph Weston. The gentleman with him

The newspaper reporter ignored Cranston. He was too busy to waste precious time on a man he considered a

"The judge has hinted at a sensational background to this case. His remarks would seem to indicate police

Unruffled by the rebuff, the reporter swerved, saw two other men and dashed across to intercept them. One of

them was squarefaced, muscular, obviously a police official in spite of his civilian clothes. This was Joe

His companion was Charles Malone, brother of the pier detective for whose murder Dawson had just been

acquitted. As breezily as he had ignored Cranston, the reporter paid no attention to Charles Malone.

His glance darted inquisitively at Cardona. Cardona had been in complete charge of the police investigation

"Listen, son. You go back and tell your editor that Joe Cardona hasn't quit this case by a long shot! Outside of

Malone said, bitterly: "Dawson is guilty as hell. He shot my brother on that pier."

"I've traveled a long way to see justice done. I think the testimony of Leland Payne was honestly given; but,

There was grief in Malone's eyes, cold anger, a colder determination. A wealthy lumberman from the Middle

West, he had hurried to New York at the first news of his brother's murder. Cardona had assured him that the

case was openandshut. Now, to his stupefaction, Charles Malone saw a grinning gunman acquitted with

"I intend to hire a private detective," Malone whispered harshly at Cardona's ear. "You've done your best, but

TWO men were coming down the court aisle toward the door: Dawson and the suave Alonzo Kelsea.

Cardona thrust out an imperious arm, blocked the exit of the acquitted prisoner.

"I believe you," Cardona growled. "You've made plenty at thievery and you spend it as fast as you get it.

Kelsea smilingly lifted the detective's hand from Dawson's arm. "Stop annoying him," he said softly, a gleam

in his steadily smiling eyes. "He's been acquitted or didn't you hear the news yet?"

"Because I'm a publicspirited citizen. I hate to see an innocent man framed." His foxy grin widened

maliciously. "Or if that explanation doesn't suit you, I did it for the wife and kiddies. Come on, Jimmy."

"He did it for at least fifty thousand dollars," Cardona muttered in Charles Malone's ear. "He never turns a

finger for less than that. I'm going to find out what's back of this, and who paid him to get that killer free!"

The two men walked grimly together to the street. Commissioner Weston, who was still standing, frowning,

Cranston shook his head vaguely. Weston hesitated, and then followed Cardona and Malone.

The millionaire sportsman, member of the exclusive Cobalt Club, remained in the empty courtroom as if he

hated to leave. He was staring at the emblem of justice above the bench where the judge had sat. His piercing

eyes flamed suddenly with an inner light. A lowtoned laugh came from his tightly compressed lips; but

there was no mirth in the sound. It was a menacing, confident laugh that no fellow member of Cranston's at

the Cobalt Club had ever heard. Had Cardona heard it, he would have gasped with incredulous amazement.

This person passing himself as Lamont Cranston was The Shadow! His was the unguessed hand that had

struck down scores of criminals who had proved themselves too cunning to be trapped and caught by

ordinary police methods. A lone wolf of justice, striking always to uphold the law. That was why he had

come to this courtroom in a guise that protected his real identity from discovery.

Staring at the emblem of justice, he mentally asked himself four grim questions: Who was "Herbert Baker"

and why was he murdered aboard the Loire five minutes before Jimmy Dawson shot and killed Detective Pat

Malone on the pier? Who paid Alonzo Kelsea his undoubtedly huge fee? How was Leland Payne tricked into

his alibi testimony? Who was the real criminal figure back of the cringing figure of Jimmy Dawson?

But as he walked slowly to the sidewalk and entered the swanky car registered and owned by Lamont

Cranston, he knew instinctively that he was embarking upon one of the most dangerous and complicated

THE darkness was black, intense a sightless and soundless invisibility. With eerie suddenness, a rasping

laugh broke the stillness, proving that the darkness hid the shape of a room, and that a man was in that room.

A paleblue light glowed as though by a will of its own. Under its cold rays the face of The Shadow became

vaguely defined. Had an observer been staring intently at the spot, all he would have seen was the burning

eyes, the strong, beaked nose that denoted power and strength, the calmly resolute lips.

A tiny wall light glowed without warning across the invisible desk at which The Shadow sat. The

blackcloaked form of The Shadow moved. White, tapering fingers were disclosed as he picked up the

On one of his fingers gleamed a precious stone. It was a girasol, the rarest one of its kind in the world. It

flamed crimson, yellow and then a deeply lustrous green as the headset was placed in position on The

He listened calmly. A voice, trained by years of service in The Shadow's cause, said crisply: "Burbank

There were no further words. The Shadow replaced the headphones. The wall light winked out, leaving the

sanctum bathed again in its mysterious blue radiance. The Shadow laughed softly. Burbank had received and

transmitted swiftly the orders that would start Harry Vincent and Clyde Burke on the trail of an unknown

master criminal. Like Burbank, these two agents of The Shadow were trained to obey his will implicitly.

IT was the evening of the same day that had witnessed the unexpected acquittal of Jimmy Dawson. The

Shadow, too, had work to do. He was going to visit Leland Payne, the man whose testimony had ruined a

case prepared so carefully by the usually competent Joe Cardona. As Lamont Cranston, The Shadow could

The two were close friends of long standing. Cranston admired the aged millionaire, knew that his alibi

testimony in court had been honestly given. His task was to uncover a cunning swindle that had deceived an

honorable and wellloved philanthropist into protecting a vicious gunman from the electric chair.

The hand of The Shadow drew a sheet of white paper across the top of his desk. On it he wrote two entries in

The inked names faded slowly into invisibility. Baker's name first, then Malone's. The paper was again

spotlessly white. But the burning eyes of The Shadow continued to stare at that unmarked sheet, as thought

This "Herbert Baker" was the center of the whole enigma. His cabin on the Loire had been ripped to pieces

by a hasty search. Yet, apparently, his murderer had found nothing. For Jimmy Dawson had been

Why had he shot down Malone with such grim ferocity? Was the killer really Dawson? The Shadow was sure

he was, in spite of the fact that an eyewitness had faltered in his identification under the snarling

Dawson's escape overboard, his swift flight in a speedy motor boat, and his smiling surrender later, at police

headquarters, in the company of the suave Kelsea all this meant to The Shadow a planned criminal scheme

The passenger, "Baker," had not yet been identified. He had been traveling under a forged passport. His

finger prints had been hopelessly disfigured by acid. Neither Cardona in New York, nor the authorities in

Washington had been able, as yet, to answer the question that screamed in newspaper headlines. Who was

"Herbert Baker" and why was he murdered? And unless Dawson could be linked with the actual murder of

The Shadow's muted laugh was grim as the blue light faded in his sanctum, plunging the room into velvet

blackness. There was no further sound. Not the tiniest creak to disclose that a man was leaving that secret

FAR down in the streets of Manhattan, a taxicab was moving jerkily through the crowded evening traffic.

The Shadow in the guise of Lamont Cranston, sat in that taxicab. He was riding uptown to the palatial

Beside him on the seat was a leather briefcase, on which his gloved hand casually rested. It contained black

cloak and slouch hat. Lamont Cranston, not sure of what he might encounter before this evening was over,

He left the cab at a street corner on West End Avenue and proceeded on foot toward Riverside Drive. He

passed the low stone wall that divided Leland Payne's estate from the sidewalk. Inside were spacious

grounds, landscaped and lovely, in the rear of the massive home of the millionaire.

Cranston's sharp eyes saw something else that made him crouch suddenly, shielded by the shadow of the wall

and the green hedge just inside the stone barrier. The rear door of Payne's mansion was slowly opening!

In another instant a figure peered cautiously, emerged from the house with furtive haste and melted into the

Cranston's mouth hardened with grim interest. He had recognized that sly figure. Of all the persons in New

York, the man who had just sneaked so stealthily away was the one least welcome to the home of Leland

Payne. Payne hated and mistrusted this man. He was Doctor Bruce Hanson, a young research specialist in the

A rather grimly secretive young man, he had risen to prominence only in the last few years. He referred

vaguely to his birthplace as the Middle West. And if reports current were true, Madge Payne, niece of the

The Shadow was over the stone wall and inside the shadowy grounds a few seconds after the noiseless figure

of Doctor Hanson had vanished. He approached the rear door. It was still slightly ajar. Cranston glided inside,

Hanson and Dawson! Why should Leland Payne wish to confer with either of them? Payne was the acme of

conservative respectability, yet he had obviously been conferring with a young man whom he hated because

of his radical and wild political opinions, as well as his open interest in Payne's lovely niece. Hanson was not

wealthy himself, and a match with Madge would give him the money he craved for his rather daring and

coldblooded experiments on living animals another reason why the gentle Payne hated him.

THE house was deathly quiet. A dim light was burning in the pantry, but there was no sign of servants. The

Shadow suddenly remembered that this was Thursday evening, the night when all of Payne's servants except

With the briefcase gripped in his left hand and his eyes hard and wary, Lamont Cranston moved quietly

through the deserted pantry, along a carpeted hallway to the front of the house. Why was everything so quiet

He found his grim answer at the foot of the main staircase. Winslow lay face upward, his eyes glazed and

horrible. He had been stabbed in the throat with a thinbladed instrument that had ripped ruthlessly through

the jugular vein. There was no sign of the weapon, but to Cranston's practiced eye the wound itself suggested

An instant later the crouched Shadow was erect, staring up the wide staircase. In the perfect stillness of the

The Shadow listened intently. Then his briefcase opened with a skillful twist of his fingers. In the space of

thirty seconds, an amazing transformation occurred. Without moving an inch, Lamont Cranston was gone. In

A black cloak covered this new personage from head to foot, shrouding from view all except his eyes and

nose. A slouch hat shaded the alert, restless eyes. Smoothfitting black gloves covered the tapering white

He ascended the staircase, moving with infinite care. Down a long, gloomy corridor, through a carved

archway to a closed door. He was reaching gloved fingers toward the knob, when, without warning, the door

Madge Payne stood disclosed. She recoiled with a choked scream as she saw the ominous intruder. The

Shadow made no move to step forward. His eyes stared into hers, as if reading the very soul of this terrified

girl. He saw a lovely face, twisted, chalkwhite with fear. He saw a torn sheet of paper in her hand, watched

SWIFTLY The Shadow bent, recovered the sheet of paper. His action removed the spell that had held Madge

Payne frozen and motionless. She sprang past him, vanished into the corridor. The Shadow did not pursue

her. He had read a tragic significance in the wide, terrified eyes of that girl that bade him stay.

His glance dropped to the crumpled page in his hand. The writing was that of Leland Payne. It was a small,

lined page, one obviously torn from a diary. The writing confirmed The Shadow's deduction:

The writing ended abruptly in a ragged smear of ink, as if the pen had been dragged violently from the hand

The Shadow's breath hissed as he read the damning note, torn desperately by Madge Payne from the diary of

her own uncle. He advanced noiselessly into the room from which the girl had emerged. It was a small

chamber, that gave access to a larger rear study where the millionaire philanthropist transacted all of his

The connecting door was closed but not locked. The Shadow opened it. He saw the face of Leland Payne

staring at him. Payne was lying in a twisted heap on the floor, almost in the center of the room. His neck and

He had been stabbed to death in exactly the same way in which Winslow, the unfortunate butler downstairs,

had met his doom. A knife as sharp and thin as a surgeon's scalpel had ripped through the dead millionaire's

THE SHADOW'S instinct as a trained man hunter warned him to proceed carefully and thoroughly. Whoever

had killed Payne had taken the knife away with him. The Shadow made no direct accusation against Madge

in his mind, as yet. He merely assembled facts to be considered later in the privacy of his sanctum.

Madge was obviously trying to protect a man who had fled from the rear door of the mansion, barely a few

minutes earlier. Madge loved this man, perhaps enough to shield him from the consequences of murder. Was

Doctor Bruce Hanson guilty? The Shadow made no effort to answer that question yet.

There were two doors to the dead millionaire's study, one leading into the anteroom through which The

Shadow had just passed; the other leading to the corridor and the staircase. This latter door was locked. Two

of the windows were curtained and bolted; a third was open. Crouching carefully to prevent his presence

being seen from outside, The Shadow observed with interest that this window gave easy access to the dark

He returned to his examination of the room, and made an immediate discovery. Under an armchair lay a

woman's hairnet. It was an interesting clue because the mesh was blond, whereas Madge Payne was a

decided brunette. Had there been two women in this sinister room, or was Madge deliberately trying to

mislead police investigators with a planted clue? And if so, why should she so foolishly draw attention to a

woman's presence at all? Madge herself didn't live here with her uncle. She had a small, modern apartment of

The Shadow was turning toward the desk on which the telephone stood when his motion was halted by the

faint echo of a creak from the anteroom. From the point where he stood it was impossible to see past the

The Shadow reached the door cautiously and stepped through. The anteroom was empty. This was peculiar,

because his ears had told him accurately of the presence of a living being in that room a second or so before.

A deep groan came suddenly from Leland Payne's study. It came from the spot where the dead man lay.

Instantly The Shadow whirled to find two figures dressed in evening clothes, staring at him through the

slitted eyeholes of black silken masks. Both of them held pistols. Neither of them spoke.

THE SHADOW'S gun leaped from concealment. But fast as his motion was, the smaller of the two masked

men had already jerked the trigger of his queer, shortbarreled pistol. A stream of ammonia gushed straight

into the eyes of The Shadow. He fell, apparently blinded, agonized by the raw burn of the liquid on his

But he was neither blinded nor hurt. His eyelids had closed a second before the ammonia had touched him.

He had recognized the weapon as an ammonia gun in the splitsecond it took the smaller man to press the

He was aware that the smaller man was not a man at all, but a woman disguised in male apparel. He wanted

to know more about this pair and he was risking his life deliberately by feigning unconsciousness. He

To this end he endured stoically the vicious blow that the taller man aimed at his skull as he toppled forward.

The Shadow's head rolled cleverly with the blow, although the movement went unnoticed as he crashed to the

"Shut up! This is a piece of luck. Wait here. If he makes a move, slam him on the skull!" The man sounded

The woman stayed; the man raced away through the anteroom. The Shadow could have sprung at his female

captor, disarmed her in a twinkling, but that didn't suit his purpose. He had a grim suspicion, borne out by

something of repressed terror in their tones, that these two intruders were tools of someone else.

To capture them here and now would be to lose sight of the main objective in this already fantastic case.

There must be some tremendous stake involved, to pull into the conspiracy Madge Payne and Doctor Hanson;

Jimmy Dawson and the suave Alonzo Kelsea and now this murderous pair in the silken masks!

He heard the woman gasp as her companion returned, staggering under the weight of the dead butler. The

butler was pitched headlong to the floor alongside the telephone stand. The Shadow saw the masked thug

SUDDENLY the thug dropped the phone, sprang like a thunderbolt toward The Shadow. He had noticed a

faint flicker of The Shadow's eyelids. His clubbed gun smashed downward. This time, The Shadow felt

roaring pain in his head, but he gritted his teeth and remained as he was without a cry.

The thug sprang back to the telephone. The Shadow fought firmly to retain his dazed consciousness. He had

to hear whom this killer was reporting to over the wire, and to find out the reason in back of his lugging the

The dimly heard voice of the thug gave him an amazing answer. The man was calling police headquarters!

Calling it with hoarse cunning in the simulated voice of the dead butler, Winslow. He cried out in a feeble

scream: "Help! Murder!" Then he swept the phone to the floor and closed the dead hand of Winslow over the

The amazing boldness of the scheme made The Shadow's muscles tense. They were going to frame him for

Suddenly she screamed as she saw The Shadow springing to his feet. She caught at his gun, wrenched it

upward. His bullet streaked thunderously into the ceiling. Before The Shadow could tear himself loose from

the clawing grip of the woman, he felt a numbing impact back of his ear, and the room and the masked

figures swam in a whitehot dazzle through his brain. The dazzle died into utter nothingness

WHEN The Shadow recovered his senses, he was lying alone except for the dead bodies of Leland Payne and

the butler. He felt a weight across his head and found it was a heavy candlestick. The other end was gripped

The Shadow rose to his feet, his head throbbing, but conscious of the peril in which he was now placed. The

faked scene was so devilishly complete! The butler, falling dead as he tried with his last breath to phone for

the police; Payne killed as he struck down his assailant with the candlestick. On the floor near the dead

millionaire was a bloody knife that had not been there before. A surgeon's scalpel!

And the police were warned and now racing to the Payne mansion to catch The Shadow.

The Shadow darted to the window and peered cautiously out. Too late for escape in that direction. He saw the

blue glint of a policeman's uniform in the darkness. Beside the cop was a heavyset man in civilian clothes, a

Swiftly, The Shadow tried both doors of the room. They were locked and immovable. He knew that he had

no time to force the locks before the police arrived. Already, he could hear a grim peal of the front doorbell

The small briefcase he had carried with him as Lamont Cranston was still lying in a dark corner of the room

where he had dropped it. He whipped it open, drew from it a curious instrument like a long screw driver,

With this tool he attacked swiftly, not the lock of the door that led to the corridor, but the hinges themselves.

In less than a minute, both hinges had been unscrewed and the door hurled aside. Seizing his briefcase, The

He was barely in time. As he reached the lower floor, police were battering down the front door of the

mansion. The Shadow turned toward the rear of the house. He heard the front door give way with a

splintering crash. Police and detectives burst in through the vestibule. In a moment they were running

THEY saw no sign of The Shadow. The Shadow at this moment was in the cellar of the mansion.

He had flung open a door outside the pantry that his intuition told him must be the laundry chute. It was. The

echo of the crashing door was in his ears as he dropped feetfirst down the black chute.

A pile of dirty linen at the bottom broke the force of his vertical fall and sent him toppling forward on hands

and knees. He was up in an instant, tiptoeing through the cellar. Here was the huge furnace, fuel bins, and the

Dim cries overhead told The Shadow that the bodies of Leland Payne and the butler had been discovered by

the police. In a moment, men would be searching every nook and cranny of the mansion the cellar as well

The Shadow opened the chute cover and squirmed his lean body inside the upward slant of the chute. The

briefcase remained in his grip. It was impossible to reach back and close the cover behind him; he'd have to

depend on his own speed to outwit the searchers now clattering down the cellar steps from above.

He crawled upward like a writhing snake in the pitch darkness. At the top he paused only long enough to butt

the cover open with his head. The cover fell soundlessly on the grass alongside the opening.

The Shadow, too, dropped and lay motionless. He had seen the peering eyes of a bluecoat staring at the dark

grounds from a kitchen window in the rear of the mansion. But the policeman didn't notice the darker blob

that lay so stiffly on the grass. The Shadow's black cloak protected him from observation. A second later the

ACROSS the shrubberyfilled expanse of the grounds raced The Shadow, his face held low. He made

straight for the stone wall that surrounded the estate. He went, not toward the rear, but boldly toward the front

In a second, his cloak and slouch hat were discarded, hidden securely in the briefcase which he had grimly

Lamont Cranston went over that wall to the sidewalk. He was not observed. A small crowd of pedestrians

was watching the main gates, their backs toward him. Calm, smiling, impeccably dressed, he tapped a man on

Cranston nodded, walked onward, away from the house entrance where police stood guard with drawn guns.

He heard the deeptoned whistle of a ship in the Hudson River. His face was grim as he listened. It reminded

him of the still unidentified "Herbert Baker," whose death had started this bloody riddle. Now Leland Payne

The millionaire's niece and her lover, Doctor Hanson, were directly involved in the crime. So was the

mysterious masked couple in evening clothes who had tried with grim ruthlessness to pin the guilt of murder

The Shadow had permitted these four suspects to escape from the mansion. He preferred them to be

uncaught, for the present. He believed such procedure to be necessary, if he was to delve deeper for the final

CLYDE BURKE, walking slowly down Madison Avenue, late the following afternoon, paused and turned

The man behind him was Jimmy Dawson. Burke had picked up his trail on a friendly tip from a dick at police

headquarters. Burke, one of the ablest reporters in Manhattan, was ace high with Joe Cardona and his men.

He was also a trusted agent of The Shadow, although this latter fact was a wellguarded secret.

As Dawson passed him, Clyde Burke pretended to watch the shoe display in the shop window. In reality, his

eyes were watching the reflection of his quarry in the shining glass. The man walked very slowly, his glance

seemingly straight ahead; but there was a faint sidewise jerk of his profile that was not lost on the attentive

Dawson hurried to the corner, turned east. Clyde followed, having first nodded meaningly to the driver of a

taxicab that had been parked at the curb. Behind the wheel of the cab was a citywise little man who was used

to situations of this sort. His name was Moe Shrevnitz. Like Clyde, he, too, was under the banner of The

To a casual glance, Moe Shrevnitz appeared like any other of the sharpfeatured hackmen that infested the

avenues of the city. But there was an important difference. The genius of The Shadow had transformed him

Jimmy Dawson reached a subway entrance on Lexington Avenue. He disappeared down the stairs without a

single backward look. But Clyde, following him an instant later, was not deceived. He was aware that the

cunning gunman had decided to shake off pursuit. The subway was an ideal spot for such tactics.

Clyde took his time at the change booth, passed slowly through the turnstiles. Dawson was at the upper end

of the platform. The station was already rumbling with the approach of a local train. As it came to a clanking

Dawson entered a car. The moment he disappeared Clyde did the same, three cars down the train. Instead of

taking a seat, he strode swiftly back to the last car. He sat hunched in a side seat, watching the platform.

The train got under way. As it swept onward into the black tunnel, Clyde saw what he had expected: Dawson

had left the train an instant before the doors closed. He was striding toward the exit stairs that led to the street.

The swift whoosh of the train sucked the station backward out of sight. Clyde leaped from his seat and in two

A woman, who saw what his intent was, screamed shrilly. She thought she was witnessing a suicide. But

Clyde had no intention of killing himself. He had wasted barely a second in reaching the rear vestibule and

swinging over the chains. The train had not yet reached maximum speed. Before it could do so, Clyde was

He let go instantly. Running as hard as he could, he tried to keep upright. The speed was too great. He

tripped, swerved, fell headlong to the roadbed. But he swerved away from the danger of the third rail.

That was his most desperate peril; it had been grimly in his mind from the moment he entered the train. He

felt his forehead strike against the outer track, felt the warm trickle of blood on his bruised skin; but he was

A SMALL flight of wooden steps gave access to the south end of the platform. To his grim relief, there were

Moving at a slower pace, Clyde went up the stairs to the street. There was, as he fully expected, no sign of the

clever Jimmy Dawson. Nor was there any trace of Moe Shrevnitz and his taxicab. The latter fact brought

Clyde Burke dabbed with his handkerchief at the thin streak of blood on his forehead. He waited. Twenty

minutes later, a raspy voice called: "Cab, mister?" and Clyde stepped into Moe's taxi.

It picked up speed instantly. Moe wasted no time in reporting. He had scooped up Dawson by cutting boldly

in front of a rival cab. He had driven the gunman south and west to an apartment house in a quiet,

middleclass neighborhood. He had discovered not only the house in which Dawson was hiding, but also the

The latter feat was a cinch to a hacker with the resourcefulness of Moe. He had pretended he was

shortchanged, had followed his fare upstairs in the automatic elevator. Arguing stubbornly, he kept at

Dawson's side until the gunman reached his apartment door. Then he discovered the "lost" coin in his pocket,

The apartment, he reported to Clyde, was on the left side of the building. There was a narrow, paved alley

The cab halted presently at a busy corner of the West Side. Clyde walked slowly down the avenue to the

FIVE minutes later, Clyde was in a narrow, paved alley, staring upward. The side of the building in which he

was interested was coveted with deep shadow. The building opposite was bathed in afternoon sunlight to a

With a quick upward leap, Clyde caught the lowest rung of the suspended ladder and drew himself to the first

platform. He managed to ascend to the fifth floor without being seen. He peered inward, his body flattened

He saw Jimmy Dawson and another man whose appearance drew a wordless gasp of surprise from the

reporter. The second man was Alonzo Kelsea, the suave and highpriced criminal lawyer whose efforts had

Dawson's face was frightened. Kelsea, on the contrary, seemed to be in a poisonous rage. His florid

countenance was brickred. He caught the cringing gunman by the shoulder and shook him ruthlessly. To

The window was open an inch or two at the bottom. The gunman's words came clearly to the ears of the

"Shut up! I'll tell you! The day before I took your case, I was sent fifty grand in a locked suitcase. Cash get

it? Delivered to me by a messenger boy. A note inside telling me to defend you and giving me complete

"And what happened?" Kelsea growled, harshly. "I didn't dare deposit the money. You can't bank fifty grand

in cash without having to answer a lot of questions. So I kept the stuff, figuring I'd get rid of it in dribs and

drabs. And this morning, when I opened the bag to examine it, it was stuffed with newspapers! Get that, you

"If you're accusin' me of stealin' the dough," Dawson whined, "you're crazy! You're pullin' a wise stunt, but

To Clyde, outside the window, the rage of the lawyer seemed distinctly phony. Kelsea was putting on an act

Dawson, his face white, asked a strange question in a shaking voice: "Are you Foxhound?"

His furious gesture struck the pleading hands of the gunman aside. He turned toward the apartment door.

"I'll give you three hours to find that fifty grand and return it to me! Think it over!"

"But I I swear " Dawson was babbling with fright, his words tumbling over one another.

He walked to the door, let himself out. In the room, Dawson clenched his fists helplessly at his sides. He was

Amazed, Clyde watched him from the iron platform outside. He knew Dawson to be a professional gunman,

a thug and killer of long standing. Yet the man's abject terror was real. He had gasped out the word

"Foxhound," and Kelsea had not denied that he might be this mysterious personage.

Was Foxhound the moving force behind the double murder that had occurred at the pier of the AmericaGaul

Line? If so, could Foxhound be Kelsea himself? Or was the shrewd lawyer using a grim bluff to further his

own criminal plans? That he was a criminal, Clyde Burke no longer doubted for an instant.

He was slipping backward toward the slant of the fire escape steps when he was frozen motionless by the

The woman had raised the shade of her window directly opposite. She had seen Clyde crouched outside

Dawson's apartment. She mistook him for a thief and was yelling at the top of her lungs.

Clyde knew it was hopeless to reassure her. His only chance was to beat a hasty retreat before the murderous

He heard Dawson's window fly upward behind him and knew he was trapped before he turned. The gunman

was standing grimly at the open window, his right hand concealed by the folds of a curtain. The muzzle of a

JIMMY DAWSON'S mouth widened into a fake grin for the benefit of the staring woman across the airshaft.

"It's okay, lady," he called, cheerily. "This feller ain't no burglar. He's my brother, Joe. He forgot his keys and

The woman sniffed. "It's a pity your brother can't remember his keys, is all I gotta say. Scaring a person half

Clyde Burke, obedient to the menace of the gun hidden by the folds of the curtain, had stepped across the sill

of Dawson's window, and was standing motionless in the spot where a quick jerk of the weapon had directed

him. He couldn't be seen now from outside. A curt order sent his hands stiffly upward above his head.

He said in a hard, flat voice: "You got me right, pal, I'm a crook. I thought no one was home. I "

"Yeah? You're the guy that tailed me down Madison Avenue and across to the subway!" He frowned grimly.

"How did you find this dump so damned quick? Even if you jumped off the train, you still didn't have time "

"Now I got it! You and that damned taxi driver! The two of you in cahoots, huh? I take his cab and he reports

back to you where I scrammed. That argument of his about the fare was phony. That's how he found out the

"What's the racket?" the low, deadly voice whispered. "A double cross to wipe me out because I know too

"But you saw Kelsea here, though, didn't you? Maybe you even heard what we were talking about."

Clyde didn't reply. To talk would be only to make his situation more precarious. He was wondering who

CLYDE obeyed. He faced the wall, his palms flat against the surface of the wallpaper. There was a framed

picture hanging just above the tips of his extended fingers. He tensed himself, rising slightly on his toes so

that he could whirl about the minute he jerked the heavy frame from the nail that suspended it.

It was a grim chance, but Clyde took it. The picture jerked free in his quick grasp. He whirled a fraction of

a second too late. Dawson had seen the heave of his shoulder muscles and had stepped closer with a short,

The butt of his pistol struck Clyde on the temple as he turned. The picture fell from the reporter's nerveless

hands, bouncing on the floor with a faint jangle of broken glass. Clyde's knees bent and he dropped,

The blow had paralyzed him. An instant later, he felt the quick looping of tightly drawn cords around his

wrists and arms. His legs, too, were trussed. He could see Dawson grinning down at him. The gunman's face

and body seemed to swing back and forth like a bloated pendulum. Clyde groaned, gritted his teeth and the

His skull ached like raw flame where the gun butt had struck him. But his wits were clearer, now.

Dawson bent, caught the reporter's trussed feet in both hands and dragged his victim along the floor on his

Clyde's trailing head bumped across a wooden sill and he saw a porcelaintopped table, tub covers, a sink

and a gas range. He was in the kitchen of the apartment. The shade was tightly drawn on the window. His

Snickering, Jimmy Dawson ripped a newspaper into shreds and began swiftly, to wad the stuff in the cracks

that outlined the sash of the closed window. Gas! He was planning to kill Clyde the easy, noiseless way!

Time for him to get away and establish an alibi if it were necessary. Murder by asphyxiation!

DAWSON swung open the door of the oven in the gas range. Grunting, cursing under his breath, he dragged

the writhing prisoner closer, jammed his head inside the oven. He upset the heavy table, and pinned Clyde's

Instantly, Clyde smelled the heavy, overpowering fumes of illuminating gas. It blew into his mouth and

nostrils like a noxious wave. He closed his mouth, tried to breathe in short, quick breaths, his lips pressed to

the metal bottom of the oven. Behind him, the kitchen door had slammed. He heard the rustle of paper being

jammed in the narrow crack at the bottom. Then there was a faint patter of receding feet.

Clyde's throat began to burn with a queer, raw weakness. He knew he was choking now, inhaling the gas in

helpless gulps. He fought against the sense of drowsy wellbeing that began to flood through his limbs and

Dawson closed the outer door of the apartment furtively. He glanced down the hall toward the staircase. Then

he hurried to the automatic elevator and descended from sight toward the street level.

A man crouched below the level of the staircase witnessed that swift getaway. The minute Dawson vanished,

this man appeared lightly from the dimness of the stairwell. There was worry and concern on his watchful

face. He knew that Kelsea had left the apartment some fifteen minutes earlier. He knew that Clyde Burke was

in trouble of some sort, otherwise Clyde would have emerged from the apartment as soon as the gunman had

The man in the hallway was Harry Vincent. Detailed to trail Kelsea, he had followed him to the hangout of

Dawson only to lose the slippery Kelsea a short time after the lawyer had left the apartment.

Vincent had retraced his steps instantly. The orders of The Shadow, relayed to him by the calm voice of

Burbank, had been definite and explicit. In case of an unforeseen upset he was to contact Clyde Burke and

He got the apartment door open in a swift minute or so with a skeleton key. The moment he was inside he

smelled the gas. A quick race to the kitchen, and he had the door open and was jerking Clyde Burke's head

He closed all the gas cocks and bent over the fallen man. Clyde's eyes were closed. His face was flushed, his

Vincent was ripping the wadded newspapers from the jammed edges of the window when a voice behind

VINCENT shoved at the wall with his palm to give him the swift leverage for a plunging rush at his foe. But

the hand of the crook moved with the swiftness of light. A knife in his hand whizzed with practiced skill

across the room. It pierced the palm of Harry Vincent and pinned him to the wall.

As he tried to jerk the quivering steel free, he was met by a silent rush of Dawson. A blackjack struck Vincent

on the jaw, tumbling him. Dawson was squatting on him like a vicious toad, smashing downward with the

Clyde Burke lay on the kitchen floor, aware of what was happening but bound and helpless. He was still sick,

nauseated. He knew Vincent and he were doubly doomed when he saw the gunman leap from the kitchen and

return with a halfgallon jar of water in which a grayish, lumpy substance was suspended beneath the

"Yeah phosphorus!" Dawson whispered, his voice thickish with haste and a cruel enjoyment. "This time,

I'm improving on the stunt. I ain't takin' no chances. Figure it out for yourself, pal!"

From a cupboard he snatched an empty lard tin. He poured water and phosphorus into the tin. In the bottom

he punched a hole so that the water began to drip rhythmically. His finger swept across the front of the gas

stove, turning on every one of the jets. Gas began to flood again into the small room.

"When enough water drips, the phosphorus will be exposed to the air. When that happens blooie! it bursts

into flame. I figure five minutes, pal. There'll be a swell gas explosion that will blow out the side of this

house and blow you guys with it. There won't be enough of you left for anyone to identify. Nice?"

"And you can tell that guy with you," he snarled, "that he didn't fool me a dime's worth! I saw him giving me

the eye from the staircase when I started to breeze. I took the elevator two floors down and then came right

THE door slammed and was locked from the outside. The dripdrip of the water from the tin that held the

phosphorus filled the room. To Clyde Burke's bulging eyes, the can was emptying at an alarming rate of

In his mad haste to arrange the trap and get away, Dawson had punched too large an opening. The gray lump

of the chemical was already barely covered by the protecting water. In two minutes, maybe less

Clyde tried to roll over, to force his dizzy body to his trussed feet. He managed to pivot for an instant on

wavering knees, then the swirl of gas in his panting lungs made everything go hazy. He felt the impact of his

JIMMY DAWSON wasted no time getting to the front room. He ran to the window of the living room. Too

dangerous to sneak out through the building itself. Might be more of these damned private dicks waiting

below in the lobby. They'd get the building smack in their faces in about two minutes!

Dawson flung up the living room window and stepped to the fire escape. It was dark now outside, plenty dark

enough to make a quick sneak without being seen. A cinch for a wise guy who knew just how to

The echo of a lowtoned laugh made Dawson freeze where he was, with one hand still on the sill. His mouth

gaped in terror as he saw a figure detach itself from the blackness of the brick wall. The figure uttered no

sound except that ominous laugh. It was robed in black. A slouch hat covered all of the face except the

Gloved hands shot toward him, hurled him backward into the room. The Shadow followed like a streak of

darkness. Dawson rebounded from the floor and darted for the apartment exit. The Shadow was clutching for

him, his gloved fingers swooping without mercy, when suddenly the gesture stopped in midair.

The nose and the ears of The Shadow had transmitted a double warning to his brain. Gas and the queer

He divined instantly what the combination of the two might mean. He whirled, raced along the narrow

passage that led to the kitchen. He knew that Dawson was already making his getaway. But he knew also that

hundreds of innocent people were in peril of death from the blast of a planned gas explosion. He didn't

A quick turn of the key in the kitchen lock and the door flew open. The Shadow saw the perforated lard tin.

He snatched it in the trembling second that the topmost tip of the phosphorus reached the surface of the

fastdraining water. His left hand turned on the water faucet of the sink. His right lifted the can in one

The room remained deadly quiet. Water ran over the edge of the overflowing can, drained down the sink with

a faint gurgle. That was the only sound. The phosphorus was still a sodden gray lump under water. No flame

By his quick, unhesitating choice The Shadow had averted an explosion that would have turned the whole

THE SHADOW knelt above the helpless bodies of his two agents. He had already opened the window.

The Shadow had received the report of the taxi driver, Moe Shrevnitz, relayed to him by Burbank. He had

raced grimly to this apartment to trap Dawson and take him to a guarded spot for questioning. He had failed

But The Shadow was content. He was not a machine, but a living man. Better a thousand Dawsons escape

In quick, curt phrases he began to interrogate Clyde Burke concerning Alonzo Kelsea. His eyes glowed

LAMONT CRANSTON sat in one of the deep leather chairs at the Cobalt Club, a newspaper lying idly on

his lap. His eyes were half closed. In spite of the fact that it was early forenoon, there were half a dozen club

members in the lounge, and Cranston didn't want to be drawn into aimless talk with them.

His mind was at a white heat of interest. The headlines of the newspaper in his lap confirmed in greater detail

sensational news he had heard already from the lips of Police Commissioner Weston.

Cranston had called up Weston the evening before, had innocently led the talk to the subject of Leland

Payne's death and the pier murders; and Weston, excited and jubilant, had given him a tip. The tip, just

received from Washington, concerned the identity of the mysterious "Herbert Baker," whose still unsolved

murder aboard the Loire had plunged the city into its most baffling crime puzzle of a decade.

A headline, black and flaring, extended across the entire top of the newspaper on Cranston's lap:

Lamont Cranston assembled the facts in his mind. For the moment, he ignored the murder of Leland Payne.

Between them they had thoroughly wrecked the Investment Trust Co., escaping with a cool twenty million

dollars stolen from the pockets of ruined men and women all over the country. They had left a trail of suicide

and disaster behind them. Springer was the rascally president, Backus the chief accountant.

Not a trace of Springer or the twenty million in loot was ever discovered. Backus was caught, tried,

convicted, sentenced to a term of forty years in jail. In less than two years, he broke jail and escaped. His

death on the Loire was the first news of his whereabouts since the night he had fled jail with the help of a

Cranston's lips curved in a grim smile. Unlike the police, he had never regarded Backus as anything more

than a deluded tool of a coldblooded and daring master crook. All through his trial, Backus had protested his

innocence, steadfastly denied any knowledge of the stolen twenty million or the whereabouts of the vanished

Cranston believed him. But the evidence was so strongly woven about the unfortunate chief accountant that

And now his cabin ripped to pieces in a hurried search; his body murdered by Jimmy Dawson, or someone

who looked like Dawson Backus had returned to the newspaper headlines for the last tragic time.

WHY had Backus escaped so daringly from jail, fled to Europe, returned under a forged passport and been

murdered? Obviously because his intent had been to clear himself at the expense of the rascally Thomas

Springer, who had vanished into thin air with every penny of the twenty millions of loot four years before.

If Backus had discovered proof of Springer's present identity and whereabouts, he had been in an excellent

spot to dicker with the police for a pardon and the huge reward that had been offered by a committee of

Dawson, or some other agent of Springer, had searched that cabin to destroy the evidence. The fact that the

cabin was ripped to pieces and that Dawson was emptyhanded when he had shot Pat Malone, the pier

detective, was proof enough to Cranston that the murderer had been unsuccessful in finding that which he

Backus was dead but what had happened to the evidence gathered so desperately in Europe by a revengeful

convict? Had it actually been hidden in the Loire's cabin? Cranston didn't believe so. Backus would have

known the risk he was running and have prepared for that contingency. Where, then, could the evidence be

for which Thomas Springer had already engineered coldblooded murder? And under what name and what

That he was smart, cunning, completely secure in his new role, was evinced by the fact that not one penny of

the twenty million he had stolen had ever been recovered. Evidently he had established credits in a dozen

European banks under a dozen carefully builtup aliases. With such a fortune he could assemble around him

a gang of criminals to surpass any the baffled police had ever before been forced to cope with.

Lamont Cranston rose from his chair, took his hat and coat from an attendant and walked quietly toward the

He climbed into the expensive roadster he always used when he drove himself. He had a definite goal in

mind. He was driving to the pier of the AmericaGaul Line. He knew that the Loire was now again in port.

He wanted to ask a few innocent questions, and have a keen look at the cabin in which Backus had been

JOE CARDONA sat solidly in his chair at police headquarters, his dark, squarecut face thoughtful, worried.

With him was Charles Malone, brother of the detective who had been shot down on the pier when he had

Malone's face was bitter, tragic. He had dropped in to find out if Cardona had any fresh news about the case.

"Not at all," Cardona snapped. "The more help we can get on this case, the better I'll like it." He smiled

wanly, patted his visitor briefly on the shoulder. "I can well understand how you feel. Pat Malone was a fine

police officer. He was killed like a rat because he stood in the way of something big in the crime world.

"You mean Springer, of course? The missing president of the Investment Trust Co.?"

The phone rang and Cardona scooped it from the desk with a quick gesture. Charles Malone sat quietly,

He sat there, bitter at the failure of the police, rubbing his irongray hair with a confused and angry gesture.

He didn't notice that Cardona had finished his telephone talk until Joe caught him eagerly by the arm. He saw

then that something unusual was in the wind. Joe's face was alert, his dark eyes shining.

"Come on!" he growled. "I've just had important news from the AmericaGaul Line. Maybe we're getting our

"The purser of the Loire. She's back in port today. The purser says he's found new evidence in the Backus

Malone lost his hopeless look. He sprang to his feet. The two men hurried downstairs and caught a taxi at the

curb. In twenty minutes they had passed the guard at the pier end and were aboard the huge liner, conferring

THERE were two other people in the room a very frightened steward and an equally frightened stewardess.

The man was tall, gaunt; the woman very fat, blackhaired. She began at once to jabber excitedly in French

"This is Colette Duval, stewardess on D Deck. The man is Pierre Renoir. He had charge of the aft section of

cabins on B Deck where the man Backus was killed. Pierre, tell these gentlemen exactly what you told me."

The steward gave Cardona a sidelong, frightened look. He spoke slowly. The purser translated, when he

lapsed occasionally into French. He had, he admitted, been the first man to reach the cabin when Backus had

screamed his death cry. Backus was on the floor. Dying, not dead, as the steward had sworn at first. Pierre

Pierre's troubled gaze moved to the fat stewardess. "He say: 'Colette,' m'sieu'," he admitted in a low voice, to

Cardona's face was grim. "Colette, eh?" He swung accusingly toward the woman. "Your name is Colette

"Because I I wanted to meet Pierre Renoir. We are in love, m'sieu'. We hope to be married."

"Why didn't you report this matter at once to the police?" Cardona asked Pierre.

The steward shrugged. "It is murder," he whispered. "I know Colette cannot do this thing. But I am afraid to

speak, until Colette at last advises me to tell truly what I heard. That I have done."

"Both these people are thoroughly reliable and honest," the purser interjected. "They have been with the line

"Yeah?" Cardona rapped. "I want to have another look at that cabin on B Deck. Upstairs, all of you."

THE purser led the way with the two suspects. Cardona and Charles Malone followed. The cabin where

Backus had met his death opened on the starboard deck. The door was locked and the purser unlocked it. It

Colette and the frightened Pierre sat down on the edge of the bed. Cardona stood beside the purser, eying the

cabin's interior. Charles Malone stood just inside the door with the hesitance of a man confronted by a

He was staring at the suspected stewardess when, without warning, a pistol roared from the deck outside the

open door. A bullet whistled an inch or so to the left of Malone's head and buried itself in the cabin bulkhead.

Malone staggered, his jaw gaping stupidly. Cardona's hand caught him and flung him headlong to the floor,

out of range of the murderous attacker outside. A police gun jerked from concealment into Cardona's hand.

Then, like a flash, he had hurdled the prone body of Malone and was leaping through the doorway to the open

He saw no one. He started to rush aft, then hesitated. The brief delay saved his life. From the rigging

overhead a heavy weight dropped, crashing, to the deck. It struck with a terrific impact barely twelve inches

As he flung up a dazed arm and swayed backward, the purser and Charles Malone emerged breathless and

pale from the cabin. Cardona ignored their frightened cries. He was staring aloft at the rigging whence the

There was no human being visible. But Cardona noted a thin line that stretched downward from the rigging in

a sagging loop toward one of the starboard lifeboats. The line disappeared behind the stern of the craft.

Cardona was across the deck in a twinkling, searching the narrow space between the lifeboat and the rail. If

he had expected to find the man who had fired from ambush at Charles Malone, he was disappointed. All he

saw was the end of the cord that had been used to release the iron bar from the rigging with a quick,

A planned double attack. The killer had wanted to get, not only Malone, but Cardona as well. He had

expected Cardona to leap from the cabin the moment he had killed Malone. Only luck had saved both men

Cardona stared at the river far below the level of B Deck. No ripples marred its surface. Had the killer leaped,

or was he still on board? Cardona growled a swift order to the palefaced purser. The latter ran to execute it.

A calm voice behind Joe said very quietly: "What in the world is happening here? Did I hear a shot or did I

CARDONA turned, and the tension left his eyes. "Hello, Mr. Cranston. Did you see anything of a man with a

Lamont Cranston shook his head. "Sorry. I was down below, seeing a friend of mine off. I heard a shot and

hurried up here. I saw no one but you people." He bowed to the trembling Malone. "How do you do, Mr.

"Plenty serious," Cardona said in a husky voice. "Someone just tried to kill both Malone and myself!"

Malone shuddered. "It looks as if someone is bent on killing every one who is making an effort to solve this

Cranston's gaze swung toward the stewardess and her companion. "Who are these people?"

"Why should a dying man whisper 'Colette' if he never met this stewardess in his life, as she claims?"

Cardona growled. "I'm holding both of them as material witnesses. Does the word 'Colette' mean anything to

He stepped back as the ship's purser came, hurrying back with the news that all pier exits to the ship had been

He strode off, with Charles Malone at his heels. The purser took charge of the frightened steward and

LAMONT CRANSTON remained where he was. He gave merely a brief glance at the rigging and the

lifeboat. He knew the killer was too cunning to leave any real clue to his presence. Besides, Cardona had

Colette! Not the name of a fat stewardess, but the name of a littleknown painter of the Middle Ages! Remy

Colette, whose works were valuable because of their scarcity. There were not more than twenty authentic

A man well versed in art, Lamont Cranston had a sudden, revealing memory. He recalled something he had

read idly in the New York Classic, two weeks earlier. The recollection was enough to send him hurrying from

LAMONT CRANSTON drove swiftly uptown to the public library at Fifth Avenue and 42nd Street. He

hurried to the periodical room and voiced his request at the desk in a low, cultured murmur.

The attendant shook his head. "Sorry, sir. That particular copy of the Classic is now in use. That young lady

Cranston nodded, said he'd wait. He walked toward a nearby chair and sat down. His eyes drifted

imperceptibly toward the alcove that the attendant had pointed to with a negligent forefinger.

Instantly, Cranston stiffened with interest. The girl who had taken the paper for perusal was someone he had

last seen in the dimness of Leland Payne's mansion. A girl who had dropped a damning sheet torn from a

Cranston's gaze dropped as the girl glanced up. She rose, a moment later, and came toward the desk, carrying

the newspaper she had borrowed. As she passed Cranston her gaze met his and she flushed. He wondered

The blackrobed figure whom she had encountered in the darkness of her uncle's home had nothing in

common with Lamont Cranston. There was no way she could guess that such was The Shadow's masquerade.

Yet she had flushed nervously when she had caught his rather keen eye observing her.

She laid the newspaper on the desk and left the library with what seemed like flustered haste.

Cranston knew why when he had obtained the paper from the desk and taken it to a table across the silent

room. There was no trace of a certain news item he had wanted to read. Instead, on page seven, there was a

Lamont Cranston rose at once, returned the paper with a polite smile. In two minutes he was again in his

expensive car, driving westward across 42nd Street. He went directly to the Classic office and secured a copy

This time, his search was successful. On page seven, where the furtive penknife of Madge Payne had left a

gaping hole in the library paper, was a small headline that brought an interested sparkle to Lamont Cranston's

He read the news item with attentive interest. It contained nothing that could conceivably be connected with

the murder of Herbert Backus aboard the liner Loire, yet to Cranston's keen brain the link was clear, definite,

THE story itself was an account of the arrival, via air, at Lakehurst, N. J., of a Colette landscape purchased

abroad for the Museum of Art by its European representative, Monsieur Cracow. The Colette was to be

transshipped immediately to the museum, where it would be added, later, to the modest collection of the

painter's works already owned by the museum. The name of the painting was "Landscape with Flowers."

That was the extent of the story that Madge Payne had stolen from the paper in the public library. But to The

Mentally, he put himself inside the body of a dead man. He visioned himself as Herbert Backus, an escaped

convict, searching through Europe to find some trace of Thomas Springer, the man who had framed him and

vanished with twenty million dollars. Burning for revenge, Backus would not rest until he had found what he

had broken jail to seek: the proof of Springer's hidden identity, the evidence that would betray him to the

Having found such evidence, what would an intelligent man like Backus do with it? Bring it back with him

on the Loire, trusting to his forged passport and his disguise? Hardly! He knew that the moment he had

escaped from jail his life was forfeit, if Springer and his gang caught him. Perhaps he had some warning that

Springer was aware of what he was up to. He'd seek some better and less risky way to smuggle it into the

Lamont Cranston's guess was that Backus had victimized for this purpose Monsieur Cracow, the European

representative of the Museum of Art. If he deliberately made friends with Cracow, found the opportunity to

secrete his evidence somewhere on the painting, he could rest easy in the knowledge that it could never be

discovered and stolen from him by the murderous Springer. It would remain in the museum until he chose to

The proof of Cranston's shrewd deductions lay in the word that had been gasped out by the dying Backus.

"Colette!" With his last breath, Backus had tried to warn a bewildered steward of the real reason for his

murder. The clue had been completely misinterpreted by the purser of the Loire and by Joe Cardona.

While they were browbeating an innocent French stewardess, whose only connection with the case was the

accidental coincidence of her name a common enough name in France, Cardona should have realized the

real clue to the whole mystery lay bare to the more exact logic of The Shadow's reasoning.

All he had to do was to proceed to the museum, see his very good friend, the curator of paintings, and get

permission to examine the Colette landscape that had come across on the dirigible Hindenburg. To find

hidden evidence would be child's play for The Shadow. The only possible method of hiding contraband

ALL this reasoning of The Shadow rested on one necessary premise: that the desperate Backus had managed

to get access to the painting in Paris. He accepted that hypothesis because, without it, the whole chain of

For an instant, The Shadow was tempted to link Springer with the sly figure of Doctor Bruce Hanson. Madge

Payne had known the secret of the Colette clue. She and Hanson had been present in her uncle's house either

before, or immediately after he was killed. Madge had tried to steal the sheet from Leland Payne's diary that

Yet The Shadow had allowed them to escape. He had no intention of turning either of them over to Cardona

until he had absolute proof that Doctor Bruce Hanson was the false front that covered the identity of the

missing Thomas Springer. When he was certain of that, the rest of the complicated pattern would fall into

place. Dawson and the very suave Alonzo Kelsea would find themselves indicted for conspiracy and for

Lamont Cranston was thinking of Kelsea as he walked slowly to his car parked outside the Classic building.

Not a muscle of his face changed as he saw Kelsea himself, standing at the curb, waiting for the traffic light

to change. The light changed and still Kelsea didn't move. His inaction was explained, when another man

Cranston was now to the left of the two. Listening intently, he heard a queer greeting and a queerer reply.

The two crossed the street together, proceeded east. Cranston followed. He knew that the words he had heard

unbidden formed a criminal password. It was the same word that Clyde Burke had heard Dawson address to

Kelsea when the latter had accused the little gunman in his apartment of defrauding him of fifty thousand

The trail led to a very swanky restaurant. Kelsea and the stranger took a table close to the wall. Lamont

Cranston moved lazily to one adjoining. He pretended to be very deaf; he gave the waiter who served him a

hard time. Finally, he produced an earphone, inserted it in his ear and smilingly apologized for his deafness.

Cranston, of course, was the least deaf man in Manhattan. The object he had produced was a tiny microphone

capable of making the smallest whisper clear and distinct within a radius of twenty feet.

He observed Kelsea's companion. The man was tall, lean, muscular. He had high cheek bones and black,

glittering eyes. On his cleanshaven chin was a tiny white crescent that showed clearly through the dark

beardshadow on his tanned skin. It was a scar that stamped him with clear individuality. The Shadow filed

THE pair at the next table were discussing the strange murder of Herbert Backus with the bored air of men

with nothing else to do. Kelsea smilingly insisted that Dawson was entirely innocent. The scarfaced man

Neither of them seemed to be able to understand the subsequent death of Leland Payne. All this was in

Suddenly, the scarfaced man dropped his voice to a whisper. But the words came with crystal clarity over

"Yes. Very." Kelsea's eyes swerved toward Cranston. He shook his head meaningly. There was no further

talk except trivial matters. Kelsea called for the bill and the two men left the restaurant together.

The Shadow lingered. He did not care to follow and risk the chance of indicating his real interest in their

Besides, he had not forgotten the Colette painting at the museum. He paid his check, added a generous tip,

and started back toward the car he had left parked at the curb outside the Classic building.

By the time he had reached it, the hands of his watch showed ten after five. It was too late to catch the curator

of paintings. Without the curator's friendly cooperation it would be impossible to view the masterpiece at

close range. However, the same difficulty held true for Madge Payne, if, as The Shadow suspected, she was

It could wait until the morning. Meanwhile, The Shadow intended to sift the strange, facts that had come to

Since that dramatic moment, Leland Payne had been killed apparently to save Dawson's alibi from

exposure. Doctor Hanson and Madge were definitely linked with Payne's death. So were two mysterious

figures in evening clothes one of them a woman disguised. Kelsea was very friendly with a scarfaced man

who knew the gang's password. And Dawson, frightened and desperate, after Kelsea's visit to his hideout,

Lamont Cranston smiled grimly. The whole solution to the case now lay within his grasp.

He was right. But there were two factors he failed to take into consideration: Time, and the boldness of the

criminal forces he was now opposing. Foxhound was more than a password; it was a grim symbol of the

THE next morning, New York City was startled to read the details of a brutal, new crime.

Vandals had descended on the Museum of Art sometime between midnight and dawn, and had left behind

them a crimson trail of murder and destruction. Two watchmen had been slain, a score of paintings slashed

wantonly to ribbons. Ripped from the walls, the pictures had been completely destroyed by a half dozen

The fact that they had stolen nothing, the senseless savagery of their raid, the vicious murder of two helpless

A third watchman had escaped death by hiding in terror behind the folds of a priceless tapestry. It was he who

had given the police the few meager facts they possessed. He was able to tell nothing concerning the actual

criminals, save that they were all masked and behaved like a squad of disciplined soldiers. Not one of them

His had been few. He had directed the actual work of destruction, slashing and smashing the pictures his

henchmen ripped from the wall at his snarled orders. His voice, the watchman asserted, was harsh, metallic,

hardly human more like a poorly recorded phonograph record than the voice of a living man.

Some twentytwo paintings had been utterly destroyed, all of them valuable examples of the work of dead

masters. The motive for the horrible vandalism was utterly unknown. The mysterious marauders left the

museum as emptyhanded as they had been when they burst in. They had stolen nothing whatever.

SUCH was the sensational news which Lamont Cranston read with frowning eyes, as he ate a leisurely

breakfast in his suite at the Cobalt Club. Although Cranston possessed a magnificent home in New Jersey, it

was not unusual for The Shadow, as Cranston, to remain at the Cobalt Club for several days at a time.

Already, his brain had fathomed things about the museum outrage that had been overlooked by police and

reporters. Unlike them, he did not suspect the vandals as madmen. He noted that among the twentytwo

pictures that had been destroyed were four Remy Colettes, all that the museum possessed. The other eighteen

had been ruined for pure camouflage. It didn't suit the purpose of the criminal leader with the disguised

metallic voice, to have police or reporters realize that his sole interest was in those four Remy Colettes.

The Shadow smiled coolly, as he studied the list of the destroyed paintings. Not one of them was the

"Landscape with Flowers," which had arrived two weeks earlier by air aboard the dirigible Hindenburg.

The Shadow dressed swiftly. He called a taxi and drove to the imposing stone structure of the Museum of

Art. There was quite a large crowd of curious onlookers drifting back and forth in front of the building, kept

in motion by the vigilant eyes of a score of policemen. The broad steps in front of the museum, however,

A policeman stopped Cranston as he alighted from his cab and started up the steps. Cranston showed his card,

explained that he was a personal friend of the curator of paintings. He was forced to wait a few minutes, then

THE curator was alone in his office. He looked pale and distraught, but he smiled as Cranston entered with a

"That's quite all right, Mr. Cranston," the curator murmured. "I know your professional interest in art, how

His voice trembled. There were tears in his eyes. An artist himself of no mean ability, he would have given

Cranston soothed him by suggesting that the police would undoubtedly capture the masked men before long.

The curator nodded sadly. "I'm not a revengeful man, Mr. Cranston, but I hope to see the day come swiftly

Cranston rose from his chair. "By the way," he said, quietly, "I notice you've had one piece of good luck."

"You managed to save one of your Colettes. The 'Landscape with Flowers,' that arrived two weeks ago by air.

Thank Heaven, the thieves didn't get that! No doubt, you had it carefully boxed in the basement, the moment

it arrived, waiting for it to be properly prepared for hanging among the collection already on display."

The curator nodded listlessly. He wasn't paying much attention to his caller's words.

"I wonder if I might have a brief took at it," Cranston persisted, smoothly, "before I leave?"

"I'd like to oblige you," the curator said, "but, unfortunately or rather, most fortunately I can't. The

"What!" Lamont Cranston masked the explosive surprise of his exclamation with a pleasant smile. "Where in

The curator looked puzzled at the question. "Of course not! A man. The chauffeur for Harley Vanderpool. As

you know, Mr. Vanderpool has a tremendously valuable private collection, that will some day become the

property of the museum. Naturally, we like to do favors for him for that reason. I'd already promised him the

'Landscape with Flowers' when it arrived. He is to keep it until such time as we are ready to display it to the

"No. I had already left. It was turned over by Mr. Dixon, who is in charge of the receiving vault in the

basement." The curator saw the grave look on Cranston's face and his voice became shrill with sudden alarm.

"You had better call Mr. Vanderpool's home, at once," Cranston said, in a dead voice. "Ask him if he really

The curator leaped to the phone. He spoke only a couple of sentences, then he sank back in his chair,

"The chauffeur was a fake!" he whispered. "Mr. Vanderpool sent no one to the museum yesterday!"

"Quickly!" he cried. "Send for Dixon, the man in charge of the basement vault. Get him up here, at once."

The message that the curator sent over the departmental telephone brought Dixon up on the run. Dixon was

an oldish man, with a pointed gray beard and bald head. His breath wheezed in his throat.

"The Colette!" gasped the curator. "Did did you " He gulped, was unable to finish the sentence.

"Sit down," Cranston said, quietly. "Are you sure the man was Vanderpool's chauffeur?"

"Why I thought so. I never saw him before yesterday. But Mr. Vanderpool is always changing his servants,

Falteringly, Dixon began to describe the uniform, the leather leggings, the visored cap of his visitor.

"The face!" Cranston said, swiftly. "Forget what he was dressed like. His eyes, his nose, color of his hair!

Dixon took a deep breath and recovered his scattered wits. Fortunately, there was a strong electric light just

outside the door of the basement vault, and he had been able to get a good look at the stranger. He described

"No. I have no idea in the world who he might be," Cranston replied, his voice dull, no longer filled with that

grimly electric tension. "You had better report this whole matter to Acting Inspector Cardona. He's the man to

THE SHADOW left the museum a few minutes later. He pushed through the crowd on the sidewalk and

hailed a cab. He gave no address to the driver. His destination was a street corner in that part of the city that

The description that the aged and trembling Dixon had given of the mysterious "chauffeur" was an exact

In the speeding taxicab, Lamont Cranston laughed quietly. From now on, the gentleman from the Cobalt Club

was retiring from the scene, vanishing into obscurity. In his place would emerge a blackrobed figure that

moved stealthily and surely to grimly appointed ends. The eyes of The Shadow were about to be focused on

SOMETHING had gone wrong with one of the lights on the eleventh floor of the Dorsetshire Apartments.

There were three frosted lamps in the ceiling of the broad, quiet corridor. One was directly opposite the

elevator shaft; a second at the left end of the hall; a third at the extreme right.

It was this third lamp that had gone out. The result was almost complete darkness in front of the last

There was no nameplate on the door. Yet the door in front of which the corridor light had so mysteriously

The yearly rent of this apartment was worth many times the meager salary earned by Doctor Hanson from the

medical research foundation where he was employed. The renting agent of the building was aware of this.

However, Hanson's references were excellent; his rent was paid promptly. He had few callers and no noisy

A quiet laugh came from the darkness that shrouded Hanson's door. The man who uttered that laugh was

dressed entirely in black. His hands were gloved. All that could have been seen by a close observer was the

deepsocketed, glowing eyes, the beaklike nose, the grim lines of a mouth that was partly hidden by the

The Shadow laughed because he knew that the mysterious Doctor Hanson was not within that discreet

apartment. Harry Vincent had provided the information which had been relayed to The Shadow by the crisp,

dry tones of Burbank. Vincent was trailing Hanson. The suspect was loitering in the vicinity of Herald

In his absence, The Shadow intended to get possession of the only undestroyed Colette painting in America.

THERE was a faint click in the darkness, and the apartment door opened. The Shadow glided inside and the

door closed behind him. He stood motionless, his back to the oaken panels, listening intently. If anything, the

The Shadow discovered the reason for this, as he moved quietly, through the suite of rooms. Every shade in

the apartment had been drawn tightly down over the windows. Brocaded curtains were an added precaution

The Shadow turned on a floor lamp in the living room. Instantly, he observed evidence that told him this

apartment had recently undergone a thorough and most peculiar search. Without moving from his tense

position in the center of the living room, he deduced the fact that Jimmy Dawson had visited this apartment,

that a vicious struggle had occurred between Hanson and the sly little gunman, that the apartment had been

It was impossible to doubt this latter fact. The search had been made in too orderly a manner. Had Dawson

triumphed in the struggle everything would have been topsyturvy, ripped to violent confusion. The only

sign of confusion was a felt hat lying upside down and trampled in front of a bookcase near the shaded

window. The initials on the stained sweatband were clearly visible from where The Shadow stood: "J. D."

Dawson would never voluntarily leave such a clue to his illegal presence. Therefore, he was still in the

The Shadow moved quickly from room to room without finding a trace of him. Finally, he turned to the

Here, too, the shade was drawn over the small groundglass window. Palegreen shower curtains shrouded

the outline of a builtin bathtub. The Shadow drew the curtains, aside with a steady hand and Dawson lay

Flat on his back, his legs doubled at the knees, there was no sign of a wound on him. But his eyes were closed

He was not dead. The Shadow tested heart and pulse and found them beating strongly, although with retarded

There was a drop of blood on his neck, and just above it an almost microscopic bit of jagged steel.

THE SHADOW sniffed at the wound, but was unable to determine from the smell the drug that had been

used by the cunning Doctor Hanson. A quick search of Dawson disclosed that his pockets were empty.

The queerest thing about him was the leering grin that remained stiffly etched on his unconscious face. There

was sly triumph in that grimace, a mocking satisfaction. Not even the effects of a strong drug had been able

The Shadow coupled that grin with the fact that the search of the apartment had been made by Hanson

himself. The puffed black eye of the gunman did not escape his attention. Had Dawson already managed to

steal and secrete the Colette painting before he was surprised by the unexpected return of the doctor?

His defiant and cocky grin would seem to indicate so. There was no other reason why Hanson should search

his own apartment or pause in the bathroom to smash an angry fist into the face of the unconscious crook in

Why had Hanson hurried to Herald Square? The Shadow abandoned any further thought of a search.

He glided to the telephone, whispered a number in a voice that was barely audible. There was a brief silence,

"Report received five minutes ago. Place Hoboken, New Jersey. Message as follows."

The Shadow listened, not a muscle moving in his gaunt face. Only his deepset eyes gave a hint of the

satisfaction that filled him. The eyes glowed like living flame. He hung up, and immediately made a second

This time, he telephoned police headquarters and asked to speak with Acting Inspector Joe Cardona. His

message was a single crisp sentence. The sentence told Joe the address of Doctor Hanson and added the

information that the drugged body of Jimmy Dawson was lying, faceupward, in the doctor's bathtub. Before

Cardona could yell a surprised question, the line was dead and The Shadow was moving swiftly toward the

The report of Harry Vincent had brought an unexpected change to the plans of The Shadow. Hanson had

gone to the vicinity of Herald Square to meet a woman. The woman was Madge Payne! She was carrying a

heavy suitcase, which she had immediately handed to Hanson. Both had descended the street stairway to the

Vincent had followed. When the pair had arrived in Hoboken, they bought railroad tickets to Denville, New

Jersey. Vincent made sure that they had boarded the train, then he hurried to a public phone and reported to

The Shadow had given no command. Vincent would have to stand by, for the present. There was a strong

possibility that his surveillance had been noted by Madge or the doctor. Vincent's usefulness was ended, as

The darkened light bulb outside Hanson's apartment was again glowing in the deserted corridor. The Shadow

was nowhere to be seen. Not a sound indicated that he was already descending the enclosed staircase,

THE apartment of Doctor Bruce Hanson remained for only a few minutes in the darkness in which The

Shadow had left it. Outside the shadedrawn window in the bedroom came a sudden, sharp snap. The sash

lifted and the shade was left drawn. A figure squirmed over the sill into the room.

There was a thud of heavy feet, then the light in the living room clicked on. It disclosed a tall, muscular man,

whose face and head were entirely hidden beneath a silvergray silken cloth in which tiny slits had been cut

for eyeholes. A .45 automatic gleamed dully in the powerful hand of the intruder.

He stood a moment, listening intently, then with a lithe bound he ran straight for the bathroom. A snarl

sounded in his throat as he viewed the unconscious body of Jimmy Dawson still lying limp in the bathtub.

The masked man wasted not a second. Apparently, he had known what to expect and what to do. From his

pocket he took a syringe and a long hypodermic needle. He filled the syringe with a colorless liquid from a

small bottle with a metal cap. He pulled back Dawson's collar, exposing the flesh at the base of his skull. Into

a spot near the top of Dawson's backbone he drove home the hollow needle of the hypodermic.

The result was like magic. In a second or two Dawson stirred, groaned, opened his eyes. They froze as they

saw the hooded face above his. Into Dawson's eyes came a peculiar mixture of terror and bravado.

He said nothing, nor did the masked man. Tremblingly, Dawson rose from the tub and staggered to the tiled

floor. The man who had revived him threw an arm under the crook's armpit and hurried him across the living

room, pausing only to retrieve Dawson's trampled hat from in front of the bookcase and to jam it with a

They ran together to the bedroom, and here Dawson swayed. The masked man clutched at him with an oath.

He pushed the crook through the open window to the platform of a stone balcony outside. Beyond it was

"Wake up, damn you!" the masked man breathed, savagely. "If you don't get a move on, I'll drop you eleven

stories and smash you so that no one will ever recognize you not even the wise Joe Cardona!"

DAWSON whimpered, squared his shoulders, stood whitefaced at the edge of the balcony. The masked man

got across with a lithe leap. He held out an imperious hand, and Dawson gripped it and followed with a

The wall of an adjoining warehouse formed an angle with the steep rear of the Dorsetshire Apartments. There

was a light ladder propped in the shadowy angle. It led aloft to the roof of the warehouse. Painted black, it

Dawson caught at the rungs and ascended slowly. The masked man followed. The ladder was drawn up the

moment both men reached the roof. It vanished over the edge of the warehouse cornice.

Far down in the street below sounded the shrill wail of a police siren. A radio car was rushing at top speed

toward the apartment house. The masked man chuckled at the ominous sound. His chuckle was ironic, as cold

AN hour and a half after Jimmy Dawson had been revived and rescued from danger of the police by the

masked stranger with so curious a knowledge of drugs, The Shadow stood alone and thoughtful under the

He stood at the sheer edge of an unpaved private road. Beneath his feet a rocky cliff dropped forty feet into a

wooded chasm. Through the dark blur of twisted branches, The Shadow caught the starlit gleam of a lake

Road, lake and surrounding hills were all privately owned, the property of one man. So was the house at the

Arriving at Denville, The Shadow had discovered that Madge and Doctor Hanson had engaged a taxicab and

driven to Cedar Lake. He had been unable to discover who their mysterious host was. All that the sleepy

station agent could tell him was that the lake, the hills and the stately house had been purchased quite recently

The Shadow's car was hidden a quarter mile back in a leafy covert. He had climbed over a fence and was

about to descend the cliff in order to approach the house from the rear without discovery. His goal was a

series of steep wooden steps that stretched from the rear of the house to the lake, far below.

He slid over the edge and began to descend cautiously, taking his time but moving with steady progress. It

was slow, dangerous toil, but in ten minutes he reached the bottom and plunged into the dense underbrush

The land was utterly wild and uncultivated. He heard a squealing scurry and saw a rabbit vanish into

darkness. Thorny bushes ripped at his cloak and menaced his eyes, as he fought his careful way through. He

stepped into a clearing, and before him was the long outline of the wooden staircase that led aloft to the dark

rear of the cottage. He was gliding forward when a voice said, with grim distinctness: "Halt!"

THE voice came from a wooden platform of the staircase itself. A man was crouched beneath the overhang,

the barrel of his pistol making a faint gleam in the darkness. He emerged warily, keeping the ominous circle

Almost instantly, another figure joined him a woman! She, too, was tense with murderous rigidity as she

For an instant, The Shadow surmised that the unpleasant pair were Doctor Hanson and Madge Payne. He

raised his robed arms obediently and waited for them to approach. His easy surrender was deliberate, a trick

He saw now that the woman was a stranger, someone he had never seen before. Blond, blueeyed, an utterly

lovely face except for her eyes. Their blueness was like polished glass. He read hate, fear and murder in them.

The Shadow was watching the man. He saw vaguely in the darkness a small, crescent scar on the jutting chin.

It was the mysterious stranger he had observed talking with Alonzo Kelsea in the restaurant on 42nd Street.

His eyes veered for the fraction of a second and in that instant The Shadow leaped. His upraised hands

chopped downward with a powerful blow. The edge of his palm struck the pistol and sent it flying from the

The next instant, they were locked in a death grapple. The Shadow's fingers tore loose and clutched for the

killer's throat. He tried to swing him like a shield in the face of the panting woman. She had whirled at the

Not a word was spoken by any of the three. The harsh gurgle of the scarfaced man, the scrape of The

Shadow's feet on the rocks, the panting gasp of the woman as she began to circle about the two fighters, was

The awkwardness of her companion gave the woman the sly opportunity for which she was waiting. The

scarfaced man stepped into a small declivity on the slope, lost his balance, pitched backward, dragging The

The Shadow knew what was coming, but quick as he was to roll, the woman was quicker. She was over him

like a flash of blond lightning. The downward swing of her strong wrist caught The Shadow partly on the ear,

partly on the cheek bone. He felt the numbing blow of a pistol butt. His grip on the throat of the man beneath

DAZED, The Shadow began to crawl away on hands and knees. Blood dripped from his cheek and ear. He

dropped behind the jagged top of a rock outcrop and the muzzle of his gun menaced his two assailants.

To his surprise, he saw that they had abandoned the attack, had whirled, were already racing away toward the

distant lake below. In the clearing they formed a distinct double target. The Shadow could easily have shot

down both of them with two quick explosions of his leveled gun. But his trigger remained unpressed.

He allowed them to escape. He, too, had no desire to advertise his presence to the trio he knew were at this

moment in the cottage above. Madge Payne and Doctor Hanson were up there with a suitcase that might

Who was the third man? Was he the fugitive Thomas Springer Foxhound the wealthy estate owner from

The Shadow wiped the blood from his face. He rose, vaulted the rough rail of the wooden steps and began to

The house was built in tiers against the side of the cliff, so that each story formed a projection below the floor

above. A light showed dimly through a glassed veranda on the lowest floor, and The Shadow dropped close

to the ground and wormed his way quickly to the side of the house. It looked like a huge dwelling, with

There was a rain pipe at the side, that emptied into a metal barrel, half filled with water. The Shadow tested

the pipe, found it strong and solid enough to bear his weight. He ascended like a black bat in the darkness, his

cloak hanging loosely like the spread of limp wings. He had removed his gloves, and as he hung below the

level of a lighted window, the flash of his girasol made a tiny spark that changed eerily in the blackness of the

He peered through the pane of the lighted room. He saw that it was a bedroom and that it was empty. He was

hanging limply from the sill merely to relax his body for an instant and take the cramped pain from his

The sharp, cutting edge of the rare jewel on his ring made only a faint buzzing sound against the pane. The

noise was covered by the wind in the trees and the incessant chirp of millions of crickets. A circular section

of the pane came loose and was dropped into the water barrel below with a faint splash.

Through the opening in the glass went the long black arm of The Shadow, and a moment later the catch of the

THE SHADOW was now inside the bedroom. The light he had observed came from an empty hallway

beyond. He crept up oaken stairs, making no sound on the rich carpeting beneath his feet. Above, the hall

branched into a corridor that led right and left. On this floor must be the parlor and living room.

A voice said, suddenly: "I've brought the suitcase. That's all you need to know."

The voice was lowpitched, menacing. The Shadow recognized that voice. He was listening to Doctor Bruce

The voices seemed to float through the open doorway of a small anteroom. The Shadow peered, saw that the

room was empty, saw also a doorway that pierced the side wall; a long sofa was opposite. He entered the

From this point, he was invisible from the doorway. He moved the sofa outward from the wall, slowly, an

A damask covering hung in front to within an inch or so of the floor. He was able to see below the fringe into

A man was sitting there smilingly, staring at a locked suitcase on the floor in front of the armchair in which

Kelsea leaned, opened the suitcase. It contained no rolled canvas of a stolen painting as The Shadow had

anticipated, but something equally surprising. It was crammed with packages of currency.

"Fifty grand," Kelsea muttered, and there was avarice in his thick, lingering accents. "Thank you, doctor, for

"Dawson is small fry," Hanson growled. "You've got the money you were promised. Now I want the

Hanson's gruff snarl was cut through by the clear cry of Madge. Her eyes were ruthless, menacing, like the

expression The Shadow had seen in the eyes of the blond companion of the scarfaced man.

"Because," Madge said, curtly, "no one else could have hijacked that painting but you. Bruce took it from the

"And you suspect I got hold of it there, eh? I'm sorry, but you're wrong. Jimmy Dawson, who seems to have

"Dawson," the doctor cut in, with grimly restrained fury, "came to my apartment, not Madge's. In case you

care to know, he's lying drugged and helpless in my bathtub, waiting to be disposed of later."

"Again you're mistaken," Kelsea drawled. "Would you be surprised to know that Dawson is neither

"Think that statement over and don't try to threaten me even if you are Foxhound!"

"I?" Hanson laughed, gratingly. But there was a flicker of fear in his eyes, as he glanced toward Madge. The

HANSON didn't answer her. Instead, he sprang at Kelsea as the latter rose from his chair. A violent blow sent

the lawyer crashing back on the padded seat. A gun whipped from Hanson's pocket and menaced Kelsea. The

"Get downstairs and search this house. Search every room! I came here for that Colette painting and I mean

The Shadow, watching her from beneath the sofa, saw doubt, fear, a dawning horror in her eyes. Without a

FOR perhaps ten minutes, the strange tableau in the living room persisted. Neither man spoke. Then The

Shadow began to move slowly from his place of concealment in the adjoining room. His sharp ears had heard

The angle of the doorway in the hall hid him from sight, as he crawled across the rug and reached the

hallway. He descended the stairs noiselessly to the bedroom through which he had made his entry. It was

from this room that the faint sound had come. His gaze moved toward the window, and he saw at once that

There was a faint reek of perfume in the room. To the Shadow's nostrils, the vague heliotrope odor

immediately conjured up a lithe, pantherish woman with blue eyes as hard as agate. The blond companion of

He was out the window and down the water pipe in an instant. In the soft, spongy earth below he saw the

confused imprints of shoes. The trail ended on the top landing of the long wooden staircase that led through

The Shadow hurried downward. He knew that Madge was a prisoner. He realized, also, that she was an

innocent pawn in this queer web of deceit. Her love for Bruce Hanson had drawn her unwillingly into a

The lake was velvetblack, twinkling faintly under the starlight. There was no sign of Madge or her two

abductors. The concrete canoe landing was bare, except for the long shapes of two upturned canoes. Another

canoe was in the water, moored by a thin cord to a rusted ringbolt in the concrete.

A few yards to the left was a two story boathouse, its windowpanes blank and dark. It was obvious that no

Then he knew the answer! A faint, yellowish glow tinged the depths of the water on the lake side of the

boathouse. The light issued from beneath a stout wooden barrier that closed off a water entrance. The bottom

THE SHADOW let himself quietly down into the lake. The water was icecold and quite deep. He was glad

of that; wading would have made utter silence impossible. He swam slightly below the surface, in order to

When he was directly opposite the closed watergate he lifted his head and inflated his lungs with a deep,

fulldrawn breath. Then, with the sleek, black grace of a seal, he upended and dived straight downward.

The faint yellow light in the water was a sure guide. The Shadow swam under the mossy, slippery edge of the

wooden barrier. He came up slowly, retarding his rise with a fanlike flutter of his cupped palms. There was a

squat shadow above his head, which he knew to be the outline of a floating rowboat. He came up between the

He was in a small, enclosed pool some fifteen feet long and a dozen feet wide. The light here was yellow and

brilliant. It came from a cellar room adjoining the pool. Screened by the concrete and the dark overhang of

He heard with abrupt suddenness, the shrill voice of the blond woman with the agateblue eyes.

"This dame's a dirty little liar! She came here with Doc Hanson to put the heat on Kelsea. She knows where

The blonde laughed. "He's up in the house on the cliff watching Kelsea and the doc."

She was the toughestlooking female The Shadow had watched in many a day. His eyes at the edge of the

concrete pool observed her and the scarfaced companion whom she had called Stoner. Both were glaring at

the terrified face of Madge Payne. She was flat on her back on the floor of the boathouse cellar. The fingers

She gave the hair a vicious jerk that drew a faint groan from her captive's pale lips.

Madge uttered a shrill, unbelieving cry. "He's not! And even if he were, I'd never "

THERE was a bright glitter in Stoner's staring eyes. His muddy face was flushed. The scar on his chin stood

out like a deadwhite crescent against the darker hue of his skin. He drew with lingering enjoyment a

Madge writhed, but Helene caught her and held her helpless. The knife began to descend slowly toward the

"It's going to hurt like the very devil," Stoner promised, grimly. "First, I'll just nick your skin a little, let you

The point of the knife made a tiny movement. A thread of crimson appeared on Madge's throat, trickled

The Shadow's gloved palms pressed unnoticed on the edge of the stone pool. He was on the point of rising

from the murky water when a sudden sound from the upper story of the boathouse caused him to wait.

Stoner and the blonde heard the noise, too. It was the slam of a heavy door, followed by the swift rush of a

man's feet. Stoner dropped the knife and pivoted toward the stairs that led to the floor above. A heavy gun

Helene, too, had drawn a pistol. Her crimson lips were parted with a fierce excitement.

She screamed and swerved aside as a pistol roared from the top of the stairs. The bullet hit the stone

pavement of the cellar floor and ricocheted against the wall. The prompt explosion of Stoner's gun made a

The Shadow saw the grim face of their assailant at the head of the stairs. He was Alonzo Kelsea, and he was

advancing with suicidal stubbornness. The Shadow understood why when he saw one of Helene's bullets

flatten on the lawyer's chest, staggering him for an instant, but not stopping him. Kelsea was wearing body

Madge Payne was crawling on hands and knees toward the concrete lip of the pool, but neither Helene nor

AS Madge reached the edge of the pool, she recoiled. She saw a grim face half submerged in black water.

Before she could draw back, a wet hand seized her ankle in a grip of steel, tumbled her overboard. The noise

The Shadow had seen Madge's mouth fly open as he grasped her. He counted on the fact that her involuntary

gasp of terror would fill her expanding lungs with air. He dived as her falling body broke the surface, and his

Down, down The lower edge of the wooden barrier that closed off the water entrance from the lake scraped

The Shadow's spine as he yanked the girl along. He could see her eyes wide open. Bubbles sprang from her

nostrils and the corners of her mouth. She was exhaling; she hadn't breathed deeply enough! In a moment the

But they were both rising now, impelled by the powerful thrusts of The Shadow's legs. Their heads broke the

surface of Cedar Lake in a plume of spray. Madge gasped, coughed, drew a deep, shuddering breath.

The Shadow forced her on her back, towed her with swift strokes through the darkness toward the squat,

concrete shape of the canoe landing. She lay there, breathless, inert, while the cloaked figure of her rescuer

He lifted the girl and deposited her in the canoe. A gloved hand thrust a paddle into hers. The Shadow's

Madge shook her head. She sat immovable in the floating canoe, the paddle held stiffly in her hand. She was

Hanson himself ended the grim stalemate. There was a slight splash near the landing and the doctor's body

rose from behind a pointed slab of rock. A gun pointed at the heart of The Shadow.

"Get back, whoever you are," he ordered, in a carefully lowered voice, "or I'll blow you apart!"

Hanson hesitated. Then, with a quick leap, he was along the shore and into the canoe. He seized the paddle

from Madge's nerveless hand. He dipped it deep into black water. The handle bent under his grim pressure.

The canoe shot arrowlike into the darkness that shrouded the lake. It disappeared as though in a dream,

leaving behind it only a swiftspinning swirl of bubbles to mark where it had gone. A moment later, the

A LAUGH came from the compressed lips of The Shadow. He turned, ran with a squishing sound up the

slope toward the rear of the boathouse. He crossed a small clearing and glided out of sight among tangled

He was just in time. There was an excited jumble of voices, then the upper boathouse door opened and The

Three people emerged. Helene, Stoner and Kelsea. It was evident that there no longer was enmity between

"Why didn't you yell when I fired?" the lawyer breathed. "I thought you were The Shadow."

"Next time, use your eyes," Stoner snarled, his sallow face still flushed. "Where did you leave Hanson?"

"I don't know where he is. He got suspicious when Madge didn't return, slugged me and ran down toward the

"Forget him," Helene shrilled. "It's Madge we want! She knows where the painting is. And The Shadow has

"They'd never try the lake. They've sneaked back to the house to locate the painting. If we close in from front

He ran toward the steep wooden steps that led aloft through the darkness. Helene followed.

The Shadow heard Stoner cry: "What about the cliff? That's how he got down here in the first place. I think

THE SHADOW began to retreat swiftly. He hurried in the direction of the cliff. He knew that every minute

now was precious. Ripping his way through tangled vines, tripping over mosscovered rocks, he reached the

He climbed faster than he had descended. He was barely ten feet from the top when he heard a dim yell, far

A gun roared with echoing thunder. Six inches to the left of The Shadow's head a spurt of dust bounced away

from the cliff. Again a bullet struck, this time a foot or more to the left. A glance downward showed The

Shadow his enemy. Stoner. The fellow was firing wildly, agonized at the thought that his victim was

He emptied his gun in a desperate fusillade. But The Shadow had already crawled over the lip of the cliff and

He found it, sprang in. The car made a black streak along the winding road, pausing only for a brief second to

It roared down smooth asphalt, gathering impetus at every revolution of the spinning tires. The Shadow had

ascertained all he wished to know for the present. He was satisfied that the missing Colette painting was not

In the mind of The Shadow, the sly Jimmy Dawson loomed as the probable explanation for this phenomenon.

Dawson was playing a shrewd doublecrossing game. The Shadow had to find him. The highpowered car

sped along the highway leading toward Manhattan. The Shadow's grim gaze raced endlessly ahead of the

CHARLES MALONE was staring inquiringly at Joe Cardona. He had been summoned by Joe to police

headquarters. Cardona felt sorry for Malone; he was looking seedy and disheartened these days. The private

detective he had hired to avenge his brother's murder had so far, Malone admitted glumly, accomplished

nothing at all. Jimmy Dawson had disappeared. The whole case seemed to have run into a blank, hopeless

"Speaking of Dawson," he said, "a funny thing happened yesterday. I had a telephone call telling me where to

find him. I went there and found the call was a fake. Made the superintendent unlock the apartment with a

"Search me. Some guy we couldn't trace. The apartment belongs to a swanky doctor named Hanson."

"By the way, you never did tell me the name of the private detective you hired."

A glint came into Cardona's eyes. Joe had received, not one, but two mysterious telephone calls from the

unknown being who called himself The Shadow. The Dawson fiasco had Joe frankly puzzled. But the second

message was a description of a man and woman he had been advised to investigate and here he was on

He described to his visitor a scarchinned man and a blond woman with agateblue eyes. Charles Malone

"Helene Carfax. She's Stoner's assistant. She handles his office business. Stoner spends all his time outside. I

"Of course. It's like a small, white crescent. Are you implying that he's not really a detective?"

"He holds an agency license, if that's what you mean," Cardona said, grimly. "But he's the kind of 'detective'

I'd like to toss into a cell, if I could get the proof on him. Why didn't you tell me his name, long ago?"

"No. He telephoned me at my hotel the same night Dawson was acquitted of my brother's murder on the pier.

He said he was certain he could solve the case, if I cared to spend the money for investigation."

He jammed his derby on the back of his head, rose from his creaky swivel chair. "I think it might be a hell of

a good idea to make a call on this David Stoner and find out where he's been lately."

DAVID STONER'S detective agency was located in a swanky office building on lower Madison Avenue.

It was on the nineteenth floor, and it consisted of two boxlike rooms: a tiny outer office, and an inner room

for clients. The door to the inner room was wide open. Except for a few sticks of cheap furniture, it was

empty. The outer room contained a typewriter, several filing cabinets and a hardfaced blonde.

She gave Cardona a brief, lidded glance, then she smiled at his companion. "How do you do, Mr. Malone?"

"No." It was a crisp monosyllable. Her tone said unmistakably: "Who the devil are you, and what business is

"Miss Carfax, let me introduce you to Acting Inspector Cardona, of the police department."

Cardona grinned, cleared his throat, went into his song and dance. But his bluff about a "fresh clue" and his

smiling hope that he could meet Mr. Stoner to discuss it, met with small success.

Helene didn't know when Stoner would be back. She herself was in charge of office affairs and familiar with

Her "help" was to dodge most of Joe's quiet questions. The few she answered truthfully got him nowhere. She

made no effort to hide the sneer on her heavily rouged lips. Cardona kept his temper, however, and stuck to

his role of a slightly thickheaded police officer who didn't know what it was all about.

Finally, when Malone was on the point of interrupting the farce with an angry exclamation, Cardona brought

"Thank you a lot, Miss Carfax," Joe said, blandly. "If anything breaks later on, I'll give you a buzz on the

ON the sidewalk downstairs, Charles Malone said bitterly: "That girl treated us like a pair of fools! Just what

"Plenty!" Cardona said. "In the police business there are times when it pays to stall. If I didn't do anything

else, I've convinced that wise blonde upstairs that I'm just a dope. Maybe it will encourage Stoner to get a

little bolder. That's one of the ways we nab clever crooks. Don't worry, Mr. Malone. Take it from me, we

They walked along the curb, watching for an empty cab. Behind them, advancing closer and closer, came the

figure of a tall, thinfaced young man in shabby clothes. There was a twodays' growth of beard on his

sallow jaws. He looked like a panhandler. As a matter of fact, he had been begging outside the building that

housed Stoner's office. He had watched Cardona and Malone go into the building, and come out again.

The moment the young beggar observed their reappearance, he began to follow them along the curb, shielded

His eyes alternated between Cardona's back and the entrance of the building next door to Stoner's. Suddenly

he saw something that made him spring forward. He ran with the awkward stagger of a drunken man.

He seemed to trip and fall. But his arm, shielded by his body, struck Cardona in the small of the back and

shoved him viciously into the gutter. Joe went headlong. So did Charles Malone, upset by the sudden impact

There was a yell of horror from the crowded sidewalk. The front tires of the automobile skidded sidewise as

the driver fought to swerve at the last minute. It was an impossible task; the wheels sped straight for the

Cardona had rolled to his knees with an instinctive jerk of policetrained muscles. In the splitsecond as the

brakes squealed and the crowd yelled, his hand bunched itself in Malone's collar, tossed him limply toward

Joe tried to follow, but it was too late. The fender of the car struck him on shoulder and thigh, tossed him

forward like a bale of hay. He fell on hands and knees, rolled over on his back.

IN an instant, the avenue was a turmoil of excitement. The sedan slewed around in a half curve and halted.

Malone rose dizzily from the curb, unhurt except for the sharp bang of his skull against the stone. A dozen

"I'm all right," he panted. "Where did that bum go? A young guy in shabby clothes. Looked like a tramp.

There was no sign of him in either direction. He had fled the moment his murderous shove had sent Cardona

His desperate attack had a single, grim purpose. He had prevented Joe Cardona from observing a man who

had just entered the office building that adjoined the one in which David Stoner maintained his modest

He ascended in the elevator to the nineteenth floor. He entered an office marked: "John Smith, Attorney." It

was a large suite, but there was only one girl visible in the anteroom. She didn't even raise her head as Stoner

passed down a short corridor and opened a door marked private. He locked it behind him.

The room looked as if it were seldom used. Stoner left it immediately by a second door, which he also locked.

The inner room was completely empty, except for cigarette ashes and a few flattened butts on the floor.

Stoner bent hastily over one of the carved decorations in the design and a panel sprang noiselessly open. He

He had now passed through the building wall. He was in the structure that housed his own suite of offices a

suite larger than his clients suspected. This was the secret of Stoner's setup that Cardona would have

Stoner entered a luxurious, beautifully furnished chamber. The lamps were lighted because there were no

As Stoner appeared, a man who had been waiting nervously in one of the armchairs, rose to his feet.

The man was wearing darkcolored glasses. There was a trim, closecropped mustache on his upper lip and

something had happened to change the appearance of his eyebrows. They were dyed to match the new color

But had Joe Cardona taken a long careful look at him, he would have known who he was. It was Jimmy

DAWSON had been drinking. The bottle of whisky on the table at his elbow was a third empty. Liquor

Stoner's eyes remained on the trembling gunman, as if weighing and measuring him.

Stoner smiled. He walked to the table, poured himself a drink. He turned, his cold eyes lifting toward the wall

behind him. There was a framed painting on the wall. He raised his glass in an oddly humorous gesture of a

The crouched figure of a magnificent dog seemed almost alive on the canvas. The eyes gleamed, the jaws

A THIN young man in cheap and rumpled clothes was begging on the sidewalk in front of the pretentious

town house of Alonzo Kelsea. He made no move to leave the neighborhood. Nor did he stray very far from

Clyde Burke had been watching this young man for nearly ten minutes. Hidden by the stone overhang of a

nearby doorway, he had noticed the beggar's interest in the house of the famous criminal lawyer. Kelsea's

The hand of the beggar kept moving nervously toward a ragged pocket of his coat. Clyde caught a glimpse of

Abruptly, the beggar started forward. So did Clyde Burke. Out of his doorway with one swift stride, he began

to approach the two men who now were converging near the parked automobile at the curb.

Their backs were to Clyde. He heard the beggar say something in a low voice and extend a plain white

envelope to the lawyer. Kelsea reached for it. The next instant, Clyde had snatched it from Kelsea's pudgy

The quiet street was shrill with the cries of Alonzo Kelsea. He raced at top speed after the fleeing figure of

But Clyde knew the neighborhood. While waiting in the doorway, he had formulated his plan of escape.

Rounding the corner like a deer, he crossed the side street diagonally and vaulted a wooden fence in the rear

Clyde's only thought now was to get rid of the note unseen. Ducking through a hole in another fence, he

flitted swiftly down a narrow alley. He could hear the thudding feet of his pursuers as he rounded a turn, sped

There were three empty ash cans standing a few feet from the sidewalk beyond. Clyde halted briefly, raised

the middle can, shoved the flat envelope beneath its bottom. His left hand jerked a fountain pen from his

pocket. With a swift dart of his wrist he sent a blob of ink splashing against the side of the can he had

The thing was done almost in the flash of an eye. Clyde gained the street before his pursuers came in sight.

He slowed his pace immediately to a walk. He braced himself for an unpleasant scene, and it came without

IT was the thin young man. Behind him, puffing from his recent exertion, was Kelsea. But worse still, a

"That's him!" the lawyer shouted. "He's a thief! He stole a very valuable paper from me!"

Clyde Burke grinned with sudden relief as he saw the face of the policeman. Here was a lucky break he

hadn't bargained for. As a star newspaper reporter, he knew hundreds of cops, had done favors for lots of

The cop turned in puzzled fashion toward the angry Kelsea. "Are you sure this is the guy who pulled the

"If you mean a fellow in a gray suit, about my build," Clyde said, softly, "he came tearing out of that alley a

minute ago. He hopped into a taxi and went around the next corner on two wheels.

"This lad is okay," the cop said, curtly. "He's a newspaper reporter. One of the best in town, too. His name is

At the mention of newspaper reporter, Alonzo Kelsea's whole attitude changed like magic. He smiled,

apologized. With the perspiring policeman, he went back into the alley. So did the thinfaced man.

Clyde continued onward to the corner and entered a drug store. He watched for the cop to reappear. In five

minutes or so, he saw him emerge alone and continue on his interrupted beat. As soon as he was gone, Clyde

There was no sign of the tramp or of Kelsea. Clyde approached the three ash cans, was about to bend over the

middle one and recover the paper, when a sixth sense warned him he was being observed. Instead of

He had taken only a step or two when a curt voice said: "Stick 'em up, wise guy! Don't move, or I'll let you

FROM the darkness of a cellar entrance came the ruthless figure of the fake panhandler. A gun was now in

"You didn't think you could fool us that easy, did you?" he taunted, in a hard, bitter voice. "Where's that

"No? Keep walking in front of me. If you try to run, I'll blow your spine apart! and I got an easy getaway,

Clyde understood, when he walked the length of the alley and reached the street where he had first scaled the

fence. Kelsea was standing at the curb in front of the opened rear door of his limousine. He stepped aside and

The newspaper reporter fell sprawling and Kelsea followed him with a quick leap, slamming the door of the

The thug circled the car and slid behind the wheel. The automobile started. The dusk through which Clyde

had vainly hoped to escape was now deepening to darkness. Lights flared and receded as the automobile

Clyde didn't answer. The time for lying and bluffing was now past. He knew that both his captors were

The ride led southward and then east. The car came to a halt almost in the shadow of a huge stone abutment

Kelsea's goal was a long fence that shut in the wide, sprawling expanse of a junk yard. Clyde could see

towering piles of scrap metal over the top of the fence. The thinfaced gunman at the wheel unlocked a door

in the barrier with a key that Kelsea tossed to him. The reporter was hustled inside the inclosure and the door

He was taken through the deserted junk yard, past aisle after aisle of rusted and twisted scrap metal. In the

very center of this area, hidden from sight of the street, was a small wooden shack. It proved to be a

barelooking office with a dusty rolltop desk and two very ancient wooden chairs. The only modern thing in

Kelsea wasted no time. "I'm going to the nearest drug store," he told his companion, "to get the necessary

materials that will make a smart news hawk do some rapid talking. Before I get through, he'll be damned glad

"Don't worry," the thin man said. His grin was wolfish. "I'd rather hurt a guy than kill him, any day. It's more

CLYDE pretended to be scared, confused. He knew it was now or never. If he waited until Kelsea returned,

he was doomed. He had a plan in his mind, a plan that had occurred to him the moment he had caught sight of

the telephone on the desk. He had to get a message to The Shadow, to warn him where the envelope was

hidden and to tell him the whereabouts of the junk yard where he was now a prisoner.

As he stumbled blindly toward the chair which the thug pointed out with a wave of his gun. Clyde seemed on

the verge of fainting with terror. But his mind was crystalclear. He whirled with a sudden, double gesture.

His left hand swept the gun aside with a sweep of his palm. His right, closed into a hard fist, struck the

There was a crash, as man and chair went over backward. In two swift jumps, Clyde reached the window and

went headlong through in a jangle of broken glass. He was on his feet in an instant, racing through the dark

aisles between mountainous piles of junk. He dived under a piece of moldy tarpaulin and waited breathlessly.

The thug did exactly what Clyde had anticipated. He ran pellmell through the dark junk yard toward the

Clyde went back like a noiseless streak toward the empty office. He vaulted inward through the smashed

window, seized the telephone in trembling, bloodsmeared hands. He had cut himself severely going through

the window, but he didn't care about that. He called a private number known only to the loyal agents of The

Clyde poured out his message in breathless gulps. He described the alley and the position of the inkspattered

ash can where he had hidden the envelope so eagerly desired by Alonzo Kelsea. He told the whereabouts of

the junk yard. Then with a brusque click the receiver of the telephone was replaced, and Clyde Burke was

It was pitchdark as he threaded his furtive way toward the distant fence. He knew escape was impossible.

He could hear the harsh whispering of two voices from the vicinity of the gate. Kelsea had returned. It was

Clyde's plan not to try to escape, but to deceive the cunning lawyer about the telephone call.

He crouched as the yard all about him burst into dazzling brilliance. Kelsea had turned on a switch that

illuminated electric lights strung overhead on thin cables. From now on, Clyde's life depended, not on his

CLYDE heard Kelsea's mocking laugh, saw the muzzle of the thug's gun. He was hustled back to the office

with the broken window. A blow sent him sprawling to his knees, blood pouring into his eyes from a gash on

But Clyde Burke was content. Neither Kelsea nor the gunman suspected that a telephone message had been

"Toss him in the cellar," Kelsea growled. "We don't want any more noise than we can help and he'll

A square trapdoor, in the floor of the dusty office opened. Clyde was thrown bodily through the opening. The

eyes of the thin man were shining with pitiless pleasure as he descended below. Kelsea's, too, were aglitter

IT was very dark and very quiet in the narrow alley where Harry Vincent had paused. He struck a match, hid

the brief glow with his clipped palm. His eager stare showed him three empty ash cans, the center one stained

with an irregular blob of ink. He tilted the middle can and withdrew from beneath it a white envelope. Then

There were few pedestrians visible and none of them seemed to be interested in Harry. Under the glow of a

street light, he ripped open the perfectly blank envelope and withdrew the sheet of paper it contained. There

was a brief typewritten paragraph on the page, with neither salutation nor signature. Harry read it with

Harry Vincent pondered that queer message carefully. His personal responsibility was grave and immediate.

The order conveyed to him by Burbank had been explicit. He was to recover the hidden note, read it, and act

without delay according to his own best judgment. For once, there had been a faint tingle of excitement in

Burbank's usually dry voice. It was obvious that The Shadow was concerned with more pressing matters and

The contents of the cryptic note were clear enough to Harry. To an ordinary brain, the password mentioned

might seem to be "Blue Blazes." Vincent, however, was aware that it was Foxhound. Besides, the coupling of

Blue Blazes and a head bartender named Max was significant. As a veteran investigator of underworld

Its expensive glitter was merely a front to hide the real nature of the place. Actually, it was a meeting place

Vincent tore the note into shreds. He caught a taxi and drove southward toward the garish purple neon sign of

It was thronged as usual. He entered quietly and sat at a small table not far from the bar. Sipping a drink, he

watched the bar and the three men who were mixing drinks behind it. He decided that the baldheaded,

heavyset man in the center was Max. But he waited patiently until he heard one of the waiters address him

"Yeah?" The bartender flicked at a wet spot on the bar with his rag. "I don't think I know him. Fox who?"

"Oh!" There was brief silence. No one else was observing them. "Wait here," the bartender whispered.

He sidled away and mixed a drink. When he came back, he handed the glass to Vincent and something else.

"Men's room," the bartender said, out of the corner of his smiling mouth. "Second door. You know about the

VINCENT finished the drink swiftly and slouched away. He entered the washroom and saw at once that there

were two closed doors in the side wall. He tried the first. It was unlocked and proved to be merely a closet

His key fitted beautifully. Opening the door, he was amazed to find himself confronted with an unexpected

flight of wooden stairs leading upward into darkness. He flitted through the doorway, closed the door softly.

He ascended the stairs in pitch darkness. Two steep flights, two landings. At the second landing, he found his

groping fingers touching a blank wall. He struck a match and grinned tensely, remembering the barkeep's

remark about a button and peephole. He saw a white button sunk almost flush with the wood of the barrier.

Alongside it was a metal handle that was obviously part of what looked like a sliding panel to cover a small

Harry was afraid to press the button until he knew what he was up against. Instead, he moved the handle of

A tiny hole was disclosed. By pressing his eyes close, Vincent could see clearly as though through the finder

of a camera. To his astonishment, he found he was looking into a small room that looked like an office. A

desk, a few chairs, and beyond them the ground glass of a door that suggested that the corridor of an office

A woman sat slumped at the desk, her back toward Harry. She was weeping softly, her shoulders shaking

with inaudible grief. Harry recognized the pale profile, the slim, lovely figure. It was Madge Payne, niece of

the slain philanthropist whose innocent testimony in court had acquitted Jimmy Dawson of murder.

Vincent pressed the white button grimly. The barrier slid aside and closed behind him with a faint click. It

He advanced toward her, smiling, courteous, very friendly. He was afraid she might scream and betray his

presence in this queer rendezvous. But instead of screaming, she became very still.

A voice behind Vincent's back rasped with cold distinctness: "Hands up, you damned spy! Turn around

VINCENT obeyed. Doctor Bruce Hanson was glaring at him from tight, watchful eyes. There was an

automatic pistol in his hand and his gaze was a mixture of rage and fear. He had come in through the corridor

Hanson paid no attention to her. He continued to stare at his prisoner. "Who are you? One of Cardona's

"You lie!" The ominous voice got softer. He addressed his words to Madge, although he didn't turn his head.

The girl obeyed. She left by the corridor door. For sixty seconds, there was absolute silence in the room.

During that time, Hanson's left hand dipped cautiously into a side pocket and emerged with a small knife.

His gun waved Vincent two paces backward from the desk and telephone. He laid the knife on the desk and

from his pocket his left hand again emerged with a small bottle that contained a colorless liquid that looked

thickish like castor oil. He uncorked the bottle with the fingers of his free hand and poured some of the

The ring of the telephone interrupted him. Instantly, he laid the knife down and answered the phone, the

"Hello?" he whispered. A brief pause, then his mouth twisted in a frozen grin. "The word is Foxhound."

Harry listened. It was impossible to distinguish the sounds from the other end of the wire, but Hanson's

"Dawson taken care of, eh? That's excellent... I assume that the Colette is now safe... What? The devil you

say!" His voice shrilled with incredulous dismay... "No. I don't. A little trouble at this end, but nothing

He hung up. With the gun in one hand and the coated knifeblade in the other, he approached Vincent.

A small clock on the desk ticked on and on, its faint sound the only noise in the quiet room. Presently,

Vincent's legs began to tremble. Without a word, he pitched from the chair and sprawled on the floor.

HANSON was over Vincent in an instant. He pressed upward on the closed eyelids of his victim, gazed at the

fixed stare of the eyeballs. Then he sprang back to the desk, corked the bottle with a quick gesture. Bottle,

knife and gun disappeared into his pockets. He opened the corridor door, peered watchfully for a moment.

On the floor of the office, Harry Vincent stirred and his eyes opened. The expression in them was dull,

sluggish, but he was a long way from being unconscious. He had faked that swoon, knowing it was his only

Vincent felt no pain, but his head was queerly light, as though it was stuffed with cotton. He staggered to his

feet and snatched at the telephone. He had to trace that mysterious phone call that Hanson had received and

In a gruff, official voice that would have deceived Joe Cardona himself, he pretended to be the police

detective. He asked for an immediate tracer on the message received a few minutes earlier. The report was

Again the hand of Vincent clutched the phone. He heard a familiar, faraway whisper: "Burbank speaking." To

The Shadow's discreet contact man he gasped out a terse report of the events that had happened since the

moment he had tilted an inkstained ash can and recovered the message that Clyde Burke had secreted.

Vincent waited, his teeth clenched. His head began to droop, but Burbank's voice over the wire roused him.

"Unable to transmit message. Will try again. Original orders still in force. Will repeat them. Quote. Proceed

Harry Vincent hung up with a blurred groan. He knew that an emergency existed, otherwise The Shadow

would have received his message. It was up to Harry now! He was still on duty and expected to carry on.

Vincent swayed toward the door, got it open, staggered down the corridor. He was in an office building, as he

The cool air of the sidewalk revived him a little. He walked to the corner, watching for a taxicab. There was a

single clear thought in his spinning brain. He must get somehow to Pier 139, Hudson River! Pier 139... Pier

Around the corner, a familiar purplish glow met his eyes. Blue Blazes! The night club was part of the office

building; that was how he had been able to reach the rendezvous from the washroom stairs

He saw suddenly, as in a dream, the fresh dimness of green grass and a few scattered benches. It was a tiny

triangular park, formed by the intersection of street and avenue. Harry moved very, very slowly to a bench

He rested dizzily against the metal corner of the bench. His head dropped on his chest. In a moment, he was

THERE was a simple reason why The Shadow had not received the faltering report of Harry Vincent. He was

no longer in his sanctum. Far to the east of the park in which Harry had momentarily collapsed, The Shadow

was alighting from a battered, taxicab that stood at a dark curb almost under the approach of Brooklyn

Moe Shrevnitz was behind the wheel of that taxi. He had driven hard and fast. He was aware that the life of

The fence that divided the junk yard from the sidewalk lay in deep gloom. Moe glided close to the fence, bent

his muscular back. The Shadow crouched, leaped upward from his fleshandblood perch and caught at the

top of the fence. He went over and down like a black wraith. Moe, listening, wasn't able to hear the thud of

The little taxi driver went back to his cab and extinguished the lights. If any policeman investigated the

Meanwhile, The Shadow was on the move. Passing noiselessly between towering piles of scrap metal, he

He saw the broken window through which Clyde had leaped to fool Alonzo Kelsea and a thinfaced gunman.

He saw other things by a dim light that sprang from his flashlight. In the middle of the office floor was the

outline of a crack. The crack formed a perfect square. It could be nothing but a closed trapdoor.

However, The Shadow did not enter the empty room. He knew that to follow Clyde by the trapdoor route was

suicidal. Kelsea and the thug with him would turn the steps below into an inferno of flying lead, before a

The Shadow's burning eyes left the broken window and surveyed a queer circular patch of blackness in the

tangled weeds at his feet. He was bending to investigate when he heard with startling distinctness the voice of

"I'VE been very patient, Mr. Burke," Kelsea was saying. "I've given you ten long minutes to think things

over. You still have two minutes left, in which to save yourself the agony that comes from my particular type

The Shadow knew Clyde was trying to play for time, to lengthen by two precious minutes the span that might

enable The Shadow to reach the scene and capture the cunning criminal lawyer who was either Foxhound

Already, The Shadow was acting with cool speed to justify the confidence of Clyde Burke.

From the dark circle in the ground that was almost hidden by the tangled weeds that overgrew it, The Shadow

lifted a disk of grated metal. It was more than a foot in diameter. It lay like a hingeless cover over the top of a

large, circular pipe that descended in a steep slant toward the cellar beneath the shack.

The Shadow's arm explored the pipe. He felt thick dust, a coating that clung to his fingers like gray, powdery

The Shadow had divined correctly that the opening in the earth was an air duct designed to carry fresh outside

Again he felt the interior of the pipe. It was stonecold. Nor would the dust that lined it be quite so thick if

He had wasted almost thirty precious seconds in this swift inspection. Only a minute and a half left before the

THE SHADOW lowered himself, headfirst, into the maw of the huge air pipe. It was a close fit for his

extended body, but he was able to move. The thick coating of dust was a double help to him. It kept him from

It was easier when he reached the bottom of the slant. The rest of the pipe was horizontal. He wriggled ahead

with infinite caution, lest the weight of his body might send the ancient pipe crashing from its support to the

floor. A faint glimmer of light ahead showed where the air passage ended. The rusted metal damper was wide

Thrusting, his head forward, The Shadow drew an inaudible breath of relief as he saw there was neither

firepot not grate; merely the rusted inner shell of an old furnace, the ash pit below and the grated door of the

It was through this hinged metal door at the bottom that the faint illumination streamed. It came from an

The Shadow's body moved wormlike, inch by inch into the cold shell of the abandoned furnace. His chin and

chest touched the floor of the ash pit and remained rigid, supported by his outstretched palms. It was a slow,

ticklish task to withdraw his legs and feet from the pipe opening and to get them down without losing his

balance and toppling awkwardly in the narrow space into which he was now crammed.

A twist of his head brought his eyes toward the metal slots through which yellow light streamed. Hidden

effectively from view in the last place where Kelsea would have expected to find him, The Shadow was able

CLYDE BURKE was seated directly under a ceiling light. He was bound hand and foot to a chair. His face

was a mass of dried blood from the gashes he had received when he had leaped through the shack window

above. Kelsea stood at his left, a watch in his pudgy palm. On the other side was a wolfishlooking thug with

There was anguish in Clyde's eyes, but no trace of fear. He said nothing. With an oath, Kelsea bent and

picked up something from the floor. It was a rubber hotwater bottle, distended and bulging with some

undisclosed liquid that had evidently been poured into it from an empty glass container on the cellar floor.

The cramped position of The Shadow was such that he was unable to twist his hand far enough backward to

draw his gun. His only movement was to compress the hand that lay athwart the ash pit door into a hard,

Kelsea had attached a long, flexible tube to the hotwater bag. The thug with him held the bag high in his

hands, while the lawyer forced open Clyde's jaws and introduced the end of the tube into his throat.

Clyde gasped, gagged, began to swallow spasmodically as Kelsea struck him a numbing blow in the face.

Milky liquid ran from the corners of his mouth, dripped on his clothing and the floor. He writhed, gave a

At that same instant, the balled fist of The Shadow struck the metal door in front of his face, sending it

He emerged headlong, like a projectile shot from a gun. The thing he had counted on was the complete

surprise of his attack. He was only partly successful. Kelsea yelled with terror, dropped the water bag and ran

like a streak for the trapdoor stairs. But the thug at his side was made of deadlier stuff.

The bullet struck the floor in the exact spot where The Shadow's head had rested, a second earlier. Before he

could change his aim, The Shadow's writhing body was upright. Blackgloved hands were clutching twin

guns snatched with dizzy speed from hidden holsters designed for a fast draw. They roared, driving the

thinfaced thug to his knees behind the shelter of the chair in which Clyde was still helplessly fettered.

From this cunning protection, the gunman drove The Shadow swiftly backward. It was not, however, a

retreat, as the gunman thought, but a more prudent method of attack. Screened by the semidarkness in the

corners of the cellar, The Shadow was circling warily to flank his foe without risking the accidental death of

His final rush brought him into a clear line with his crouching enemy. The gunman fired almost pointblank.

But The Shadow's bent knees dropped him vertically under the bullet. He had seen blood spurting from the

neck of Clyde Burke and he realized that the treacherous killer had already sent a murderous slug into the

There was no pity in The Shadow's heart as he dropped his foe with two bullets. The thug fell backward

The trapdoor was wide open. Alonzo Kelsea had wasted no time in saving his own skin.

THE SHADOW'S only thought was for Clyde. The reporter was badly wounded, unconscious. His head hung

Up through the cellar trapdoor and out the broken window above, The Shadow raced at top speed. He knew

that the sound of firing would bring police to the scene in a few minutes. He wanted neither himself nor

Clyde to be intercepted. To permit that disaster would be to ruin his whole campaign and expose his true

He reached the gate in the junk yard fence and threw it open. Moe Shrevnitz, warned by the sound of

shooting, had backed his cab directly opposite. He started the cab almost before The Shadow had hurled the

wounded Clyde within, jumped in himself and slammed the door. The taxi raced around the corner.

Moe slackened his speed slightly and went straight uptown, cutting corners occasionally and gradually

working westward. The Shadow's voice had whispered a curt command in his ear and he knew exactly what

He stopped for a brief instant, and when his head turned The Shadow was no longer in the cab. He had sprung

Moe's own course was clear. He was to drive Clyde Burke to the private hospital maintained and operated by

the wealth of The Shadow for just such an emergency. It was in a neighborhood where the arrival of a

nighthawk taxi would excite no particular attention. Nor would the spectacle of a sick man being carried

indoors seem strange. A public "accident ward" was part of The Shadow's camouflage to screen his own

BEFORE Clyde was on the operating table in a bright, highceilinged room, heavy with the smell of ether,

The Shadow was inhaling the dull, clammy odors of the Hudson River. He was gliding quietly through the

unlocked gate at the street end of Pier 139. He was now completely aware of Harry Vincent's delayed report.

That report was a strong indication to The Shadow that the cunning Thomas Springer Foxhound himself

was somewhere along the length of this darkened pier. The thought made the burning eyes of The Shadow

glow, not with triumph as might have been expected, but with a grim apprehension. He was thinking of

From the facts The Shadow had already gathered in the course of this amazing conspiracy, he was aware that

Dawson held the key to the whole enigma. Dawson was the man who possessed the stolen Colette. It was

The unlocked pier gate was an ominous hint to The Shadow. Unless his intuition was wrong, it meant that the

body of an innocent pier watchman had already been sacrificed to the needs of a sly criminal.

He found the watchman's body barely twenty feet inside the cavernous maw of the long covered structure that

extended hundreds of yards into the black expanse of the river. The victim had been killed without a chance

The Shadow began to glide silently down the length of the pier. His goal was the distant stringpiece beyond

which was deep, black water and the distant twinkle of lights on the New Jersey shore.

As he approached the pier end he saw suddenly a deeper blackness on the surface of the river. A faint

rhythmic hum came to his ears. He identified it as the murmur of a powerful Diesel engine. The engine was

idling, waiting to transmit instant power to the screw of a motionless speed boat.

The Shadow was bending forward to see more clearly whether anyone was aboard the mysterious craft, when

hands slipped like twin snakes over his shoulders and fastened grimly on his throat.

THE struggle that followed was vicious. The two antagonists fought backward along the pier. The Shadow's

foe hung on grimly, but his pressure was weak and his lighter body swayed like a pendulum as he strove to

The Shadow made no effort to batter at the unseen face jammed like glue in the small of his back. Instead, he

planted both legs solidly on the flooring of the pier, and his gloved hands swept backward and down in a

Leverage and gravity did the rest. The man flew over The Shadow's shoulders like a flying blur and landed

Before he could gain his feet, The Shadow had straddled him with both knees, a gun butt swinging upward

The blow didn't descend. Both men cried out with an amazed, double recognition. The man on the pier floor

Gaspingly, he tried to explain, as a strong arm held him upright on dizzy, wavering feet. He had regained

consciousness, sick and weak, on a park bench in lower Manhattan. His orders had been to carry on, no

matter what happened. And he had. Except for the weakening effect of the drug, his head was now fairly

clear. He had caught a taxi, left it a block away from the pier, found the dead watchman

THE SHADOW laid a sudden hand on the babbling lips of Vincent. His sharper ears had detected the faint

splash of oars. The sound came from beyond the pier end where lay the speed boat.

Instantly, The Shadow raced toward the stringpiece. He saw that the mysterious oarsman had already tied a

rowboat to the stern of the speed craft and had leaped desperately to its throttle.

It was impossible to see anything but the dark blur of the man's bent body, The Diesel engine roared and the

craft shot away in a cream of churning foam. It curved into shrouding darkness and headed upriver, throttle

The Shadow caught at Vincent's arm, made him lower the weapon he had drawn. The roar of a pistol shot

was the last thing he desired at this moment. Besides, the craft was already far out of range. Except for the

Dazed, Harry stared at him. He understood, however, when he saw The Shadow lie flat across, the murky

Bracing himself, Harry gripped the ankles of the descending figure and held him inverted at full length over

He could see vaguely that The Shadow's head had ducked inward out of sight. He felt tremors run through the

suspended body in his grasp, as The Shadow clutched for an unseen handhold. Then there was a curt

The legs turned over in a somersault and struck the surface of the water with a splash. They were drawn

inward out of sight. Harry could hear a faint series of thumps that dwindled into silence.

UNDER the pier, The Shadow had found the foothold he desired in the crossed V of a wooden support. There

were other such V's, spaced at regular intervals connected by an overhead beam. The Shadow used the beam

as a suspension bridge, moving hand over hand with silent speed, using the crotched timbers occasionally to

Presently, he saw the dark blob of a rowboat. The boat was tied loosely to one of the piles by a hastily drawn

loop in a thin, pliable cord. The current had wedged the stern of the craft between two upright timbers, and it

The crumpled body of a man lay in the bottom of the boat, the upturned face a vague blur in the gloom. The

His lips were stiff in a frozen grin, as The Shadow dropped carefully into the rowboat and examined him. He

was stone dead. There was not a mark on him; but the method of his death was clear. He had been drowned.

His clothes were dry, but they were rumpled and clung to his body like shapeless bags. His eyes were wide

open in a face that was bloated and horrible from long submersion. His queer grin puzzled The Shadow. Why

should a drowned man grimace so triumphantly unless, in some mysterious fashion, he had outwitted his

The Shadow divined the answer. Dawson had died with the secret of the missing Colette painting still locked

in his own brain. Foxhound had drowned him without learning the precious secret that he had to learn, if he

was to destroy the evidence gathered in France by the dead Herbert Backus. Until he located and destroyed

that painting, the safety of Foxhound was not worth a penny. Drowned though he was, Jimmy Dawson still

The Shadow stared at the dead face below his. Then he bent suddenly and did a strange thing. He rubbed the

forehead of the drowned Dawson with the tip of his forefinger and then touched his tongue. He did the same

He had discovered something extraordinary. Dawson had not met his death in the salt tides of the Hudson

River. He had been drowned in fresh water! And, unless the sharp perception of The Shadow was at fault, the

THE SHADOW wasted no further time. Like a lean, swaying pendulum, he made his precarious way back to

the stringpiece of the pier and whistled a signal. The arms of Harry Vincent leaned and clutched at the

He seemed to be filled with a measureless content. With Harry at his side he glided silently down the pier,

past the body of the unfortunate watchman whom Foxhound had slain, and out to the dark street. There

The two then descended to the deserted platform of a subway station. While Harry watched for loitering

passengers, The Shadow stepped into an open phone booth and called police headquarters in a low voice. He

spoke swiftly and hung up. A train was already roaring into the dim station. Harry boarded it. The Shadow

THE next morning, Lamont Cranston made two telephone calls from his luxurious suite at the Cobalt Club.

The first was to a certain private hospital in a restricted neighborhood of Manhattan. He learned that the

midnight operation performed on Clyde Burke had been completely successful. The bullet had been removed,

The second call was a friendly hello to his good friend, Police Commissioner Weston. The talk drifted

gradually to the news of Jimmy Dawson's death, which Cranston declared he had read in the morning paper,

Weston confirmed the amazing clue discovered under a smelly pier the night before. Dawson had been

drowned in fresh water that had been heavily impregnated with iron. And the killer had had the effrontery to

call police headquarters and admit it! He was gone when a squad car reached the lonely subway station from

That made Lamont Cranston chuckle. "I'm afraid it's all too much for an amateur like me," he said softly, and

He wondered if Weston was considering the same peculiar fact that was now making his eyes narrow with a

gleam of inner concentration. Less than a month previous, Doctor Bruce Hanson, had been awarded a gold

medal for his successful experiments with soluble iron, as a cure for pernicious anemia!

MADGE PAYNE was dressed and ready for the street. In a few minutes, Doctor Bruce Hanson was going to

call for her, take her to a quiet spot where they could confer without interruption or the fear of eavesdroppers.

Madge desperately wanted to talk with Bruce. His queer demeanor and queerer actions of the last few days

The smiling taunt of Alonzo Kelsea when she and Bruce had been at his house above the lake, remained in

Madge turned and went into the bedroom to get her hand bag. She had been there scarcely a moment when

A woman glided in from the outside corridor. She had made her entrance with a duplicate key. She was

blond, sinuous, very lovely except for the glitter of her eyes. They were a deep blue and as hard as agate.

The woman was Helene Carfax, secretary and companion of the wily David Stoner, who ran a fake detective

Helene walked into the bedroom with a sneering smile on her rather full crimson lips.

Helene's laughter was throaty, confident. She was taller, heavier, stronger than the slim girl who was facing

"I'll answer your questions in order, my dear. First, I dare do anything I choose. Second, I got in with a

She was unprepared for the desperate courage of Madge. With a fierce forward rush, Madge flung herself at

the blonde, wrapping her in an embrace that swept her from her feet and whirled her helplessly around.

But before she could do any damage, she was swept headlong across the room by the determined Madge and

The closet door slammed. Madge turned the key in the lock. Sobbing, she ran back to the living room. She

stood there absolutely terrified, her slim fingers clenched hysterically at her sides. What should she do? Call

the police or wait for Bruce Hanson? He was late now; it was already ten minutes past the time he had set

The ring of the apartmentbell sent a warm flood of relief coursing through her tense body. That would be

She opened the door and stood quite still; gazing at the tall man on the threshold. It was David Stoner, a

quizzical smile on his thin lips, the crescent scar on his chin like a deadwhite birthmark.

"GOOD evening, Miss Payne. I trust that by this time you and Helene have completed "

The smile faded from Stoner's jeering lips as he saw the expression on the girl's face, noted that there was no

sign of Helene Carfax. He closed the door with a quick shove of his shoulder. A gun leaped into his hand and

"Oh, yes you do! I can see it in your eyes! Let's have a look around this dump."

He seized her arm, bending it upward behind her back until she bit her lips to restrain a cry of agony. He

A denial on Madge's part would have been useless. In her haste to imprison Helene she had slammed the door

on the blonde's dress. Part of the material showed through the crack. From behind the panel a furious

Stoner unlocked and opened the door with a jerk of his left hand. The blonde came out like a plunging tigress,

her blue eyes mad with rage. She flew at Madge and would have ripped the dress from her body, had not

"Cool off," Stoner said, shortly. "We've got business to do." He shook Madge until her head wabbled, then he

"She's lying," Helene cut in, savagely. "Hanson's coming here to meet her. She was planning to go out with

"Nice work, Helene," Stoner grinned. "We'll wait for him. Take charge of Madge. Keep her in the bedroom.

"I'll see that she keeps quiet, if that's what you mean," Helene muttered. She clutched Madge and dragged her

Stoner went to the corridor door, pushed in the release mechanism that left the door unlocked. He moved to

Presently, the apartment bell rang. Nothing happened. Again the bell rang. After three fruitless peals, the

knob was rattled by someone outside. The door opened suddenly and a man staggered on the threshold, his

Stoner's gun protruded from the portieres. "Close that door with your hip, doctor! Up with the hands! That's

Stoner's voice rose suddenly. "Helene! In with the girl, and let's have a sensible little talk."

DOCTOR BRUCE HANSON'S face was pale and set. It grew whiter when he saw the terror in Madge's eyes.

"You know better than to pull anything like this, Stoner," he said in a thick, barely recognizable voice. "Get

"Let go, Helene," Stoner said. He seemed worried by the doctor's complete disregard for the weapon he held.

Hanson had lowered his arms. He was staring at the private detective, and there was a look in his hard,

"I don't know," Hanson said. He looked weary, defeated. But Stoner, watching him, thought he detected a

"Maybe you'll talk with a bit of persuasion," he said, huskily. "Give that girl's arm a twist, Helene."

Three things happened with appalling suddenness. Madge screamed, twisted from the blonde's clutch.

The bullet went wide because of Madge's daring. By a quick leap that brought her courageous body straight

in line with death, she had clutched the barrel of the weapon and shoved it aside. As she fell to the floor,

tripping over Stoner, the doctor wrenched the gun from Stoner's hand. He leaped backward with a growl that

Hanson meant it. There was no doubt of that. The blonde began to whimper faintly. Stoner's face was flushed

a deep red, except for the circling scar on his chin. Suddenly, Hanson began to laugh at them, a brief, metallic

"Good! In fact, excellent!" He glared at his two helpless captives. "Get out! Both of you."

"Huh?" Stoner's jaw dropped. Then his face became hard and wary like the doctor's. "I get it. Just a little

"Yes. Just a little mistake. Out and don't try to bluff the wrong man again. You might get killed, next time."

"Be quiet," he said. He nodded to the pair in front of him, and Helene and Stoner left the apartment without a

There was an elevator in the broad corridor outside, and a staircase that led to the street below and to the

upper stories of the building. Stoner caught Helene's arm and whispered into her ear. The blonde nodded.

Without another word, the pair turned to the stairs. In the dimness it was impossible to tell whether they had

INSIDE the apartment they had quitted, a lowtoned discussion was taking place between Madge and Doctor

Hanson. She was frightened, tense, suspicious. He was cold, aloof, almost surly. He wanted her to wait alone

in the apartment. He had, he said, some immediate business that would take him away for not more than ten

In the end, his strange authority prevailed over her. He left the apartment, closing the door quietly behind

Madge sank on the sofa. The catch on the door was still unlocked, but Madge was unaware of that. She was

unaware of anything except the terror in her heart. What was the strange bond between her lover and the ugly

pair who had tried to kill him and her? Why had Bruce let them go without calling the police? Was there a

There was no sound in the room. Yet something in the silence sent a chill racing along Madge's bent body,

There was a man in the doorway. Or rather a thing! A gray spectre that closed the door with a lithe gesture

Pearlgray, he was, from head to foot. A gray mask covered his face. Gray gloves on the clenched hands. A

Madge Payne's mouth flew soundlessly open. She was too paralyzed to move or to scream, and the ominous

Behind the fluttering mask, a voice issued like the metallic tones of a phonograph record.

"You are going with me obediently, and without a word. Do you understand? Or do I have to tell you that I

Madge's power of utterance returned to her with a shrill shriek. "Bruce!" she cried. "Oh, please Bruce!"

It was impossible to tell whether it was a cry for help from her vanished lover, or whether it was an imploring

He sprang at her, clapped his graygloved hand across her mouth. She stiffened, a look of utter loathing on

Foxhound caught her up in his arms, strode soundlessly to the apartment door. It opened, and he peered

THE SHADOW was in his sanctum. Not a muscle moved in his body. His face was like a carving in granite.

Under the blueshaded light, hanging from above, the desk was piled high with an orderly array of

documents. Typewritten sheets, photographs, specimens of handwriting signed by both men and women,

clippings from newspapers and a small sheaf of filing cards from The Shadow's own secret cabinet.

Another pile consisted of certain objects gathered by The Shadow and retained for his own private scrutiny.

A woman's hairnet; a pistol bullet taken from the body of a man; a lock of hair bleached white from exposure

All the clues in this murderous riddle of Foxhound were now classified and understood. The Shadow was

The strong light above the desk went out suddenly. There was a faint sound of feet moving, the rumble of

drawers opening and closing on oiled rollers; then The Shadow was back at the desk, now empty. Within the

circle of illumination, The Shadow's hand rested. A pen was poised over a sheet of blank paper.

He wrote six names four of them men and two, women. One by one, he drew a line through the names.

They faded gradually until again the paper was blank. This time, The Shadow wrote another name and below

He stared until the letters slowly faded. Laughter came from his taut lips as though he were amused at a rather

bitter joke. He knew who Foxhound was! The alias itself had revealed to him the identity of Thomas

Even without the facts he had uncovered, The Shadow would have guessed the secret of the murderous

The strange murder of Jimmy Dawson had given The Shadow a final inkling of the truth. A quiet trip up the

Hudson had located a small speed boat equipped with a Diesel engine. Innocent inquiries had revealed the

It was owned by a man named Fox, who had property in the hills, miles back from the Hudson. That was all

Dawson had stolen the valuable Colette painting. Foxhound had failed to recover the painting, had killed his

henchman. The superintelligence of The Shadow went a step further than Foxhound had been able to. He was

now convinced that Dawson had hidden the Colette at, or near, the very spot where he had been drowned, in

ABRUPTLY The Shadow's hand moved. The sanctum was plunged into complete darkness. He left the room

with the same uncanny ease by which he had entered it. The darkness hid the method by which he made his

A few minutes later, a tall, hawknosed man, dressed conservatively and carrying a briefcase, drove his car

southward on Madison Avenue. He parked in the block where the building stood that housed the detective

The Shadow did not enter Stoner's building. He walked to the entrance of the building next door. The elevator

operator was dozing on a chair in his opened car. The Shadow glided noiselessly past.

He climbed the stairs to the nineteenth floor and walked silently down a dim corridor to a locked door on

The Shadow opened the door with a skeleton key. It was pitchdark inside. There was a faint rustling sound,

The figure of the dignified business man who had entered the office was now gone. In his place was a

blackrobed figure who carried an empty briefcase in blackgloved hands. The face hidden by the brim of a

slouch hat was a vague glimmer, except for the bold, beaklike nose and the flaming intensity of

Passing an empty information desk, The Shadow opened a small gate and moved down the same corridor

along which Stoner had passed on the day that Cardona and Charles Malone were almost killed at the

Again, a skeleton key opened a door for The Shadow. He crossed an empty office, passed onward through

others. The barrier that had been no hindrance to Stoner was none to The Shadow. He found the secret of the

carving and the panel slid aside. His movements were infinitely more cautious now. He had passed through

Presently he saw it through a keyhole in a massive door. His watching eye surveyed the splendor of a richly

SWIFTLY, the ear of The Shadow took the place of his eye at the keyhole. He heard the murmur of Stoner's

"You're quite right. As you say, that's that! Finish your drink and let's get a move on."

"I'll see you as far as Times Square. I have a personal appointment to attend to, later."

"So have I," Helene said. She gave a loud and prolonged yawn. There was the faint thud of a closing door.

It took him a bit longer to open this door, but he was successful. He paused only to glance at the rich

furnishings and the portrait of the foxhound on the wall; then he was through the other door and into a

shabby, unkempt cubicle which he recognized instantly as the client's room of Stoner's detective agency.

Stoner and the blonde had already left the outer office. The Shadow observed the typewriter with a smile. It

had probably never been used except for camouflage. The drawers of all the massive filing cabinets were

Hurrying outside to the dim corridor of the nineteenth floor, The Shadow observed the indicator arrow above

the elevator shaft. The arrow rested motionless at the figure "1." There hadn't been time enough for the

elevator to have risen and descended. Stoner and his blond confederate had gone down the stairs.

The Shadow hurried down the staircase after them. He wanted to trail one of them to the mysterious

appointment they had referred to so casualty. Although they were obviously planning to separate at Times

Square, The Shadow was convinced that both had the same goal in mind. Why, then, was it so necessary for

them to separate beforehand? It was a question to which The Shadow had no reasonable answer.

He paused briefly on the fourth floor to press the elevator button. He knew the operator would respond with

sleepy reluctance, perhaps spend a minute or two in a fruitless wait for a nonexistent passenger. That would

THE SHADOW'S trick was successful. Emerging from the bottom of the staircase, he moved through a

deserted corridor to the street. His only danger was the bright light burning above the entrance, but he dared

not delay. It was necessary for him to cross the sidewalk and reach his parked car, if he was to follow Stoner

He could see Stoner's back. The private detective was entering a car a few feet from the corner. The Shadow

Instantly, there was a shrill scream. Helene, watching from inside the car, had recognized the flitting figure in

that momentary blaze of light. Stoner whirled, and the blast of his gun shattered the silence with an

The Shadow pitched heavily to the pavement. Again and again, Stoner's gun roared. Slugs whistled above

The Shadow's prone form. He had wriggled to a narrow space between the curb and the dark overhang of an

Unhurt, warned by Helene's impulsive scream, he was returning the fire of his foe, from the protected spot

where his swift plunge had taken him. His bullet smashed one of Stoner's car's headlights; another whisked

Helene had already started the car, and Stoner sprang inside with a desperate leap as it got under way. It

The Shadow ran toward his own car. But fate cheated him of his intent to follow the trail of the fugitive. A

policeman was racing up Madison Avenue, blowing shrill blasts on his whistle. The Shadow, trapped, was

He huddled in a doorway, quickly tore off cloak and slouch hat and stuffed them in the briefcase. His car he

would have to leave where it was. But the license plates would tell nothing; they were registered under a

UNNOTICED by the copper, The Shadow crossed the street and rapidly walked toward the subway. A local

train let him out two stations to the north. He was about to enter a taxicab when the raucous cry of a newsboy

The Shadow bought a paper, glanced at the headlines. He entered the taxi, told the chauffeur to drive him to a

certain street corner on the upper West Side. As he rode, his somber eyes devoured the headlines and the

The story was lengthy, horrible. The Shadow's eyes skimmed it, selecting the facts. Charles Malone had been

cut to pieces by the whirling propeller of an airplane that had darted deliberately toward him as he crossed the

An instant later, the murder plane slanted upward into the black sky and vanished toward the northeast. No

one could be found who had spoken to or seen the face of the murderous pilot. He had come and gone

mysteriously. Malone, killed instantly, had been identified from papers in his pocket.

The Shadow's laugh sounded faintly inside the speeding taxicab. Of all the suspects whose names he had

written in the privacy of his sanctum, only two could fit the sinister role of mystery pilot. Alonzo Kelsea had

a license and was a competent flyer. Concerning the other man, The Shadow had no aviation information, as

He stared grimly at the heavy black editorial enclosed in a box to the left of the murder account. It was

In biting, sarcastic phrases the editor referred to the scourge of murder that had been loosed on the city by the

death of Herbert Backus. Inspector Cardona had seized this dangerous time to leave the city on his annual

vacation. The editor demanded that Joe return forthwith and either solve the case or resign from the police

The Shadow was well aware that Joe had planned, weeks ahead, to go on vacation at this time. But he

frowned as he read the editorial. He knew that Cardona, vacation or not, would never quit his duty in the

middle of so important a case. Weston was trying to hide the real truth from the newspapers and the public.

Joe Cardona had been kidnapped. There was only one criminal with the temerity to pull so bold a stroke.

THE neighborhood where the brownstone house stood was very quiet. Situated on a side street in the upper

Eighties, the building looked very much like a respectable rooming house. The visitors, arriving one by one

But the manner of their arrival was odd. Each came on foot, although the hour was quite late. Each was

muffled, so that a chance passerby would have had difficulty in recognizing or remembering the face. And

their arrivals were so neatly spaced that exactly fifteen minutes elapsed between the closing of the massive

Their goal was a somber, highceilinged room on the top floor of the house. The whole appearance of the

room was gray, from walls to decorations. The only different color was the queer garments worn by the three

strange figures who now waited silently in that room, staring occasionally at the door through which they had

Black robes, corded at the waist, covered the trio in a shapeless disguise from the hems of which peeped

black felt slippers. The faces were hooded and blank, except for slitted holes behind which eyeballs gleamed.

The height of the middle figure and the smallness of the slippers suggested that one of these visitors might be

There were two doors to the chamber, both locked at present. A small platform stood directly in front of one.

But it was toward the second door, at the far end of the chamber, that the slitted eyes kept watching. Through

that door they had entered, one by one, from private robing rooms downstairs. They awaited another like

themselves before the bell could be rung. The bell, a set of silver chimes, stood on the table.

Suddenly, the click of a key sounded in the lock of the end door. It opened to admit the fourth blackclad

visitor. When it had seated itself at the table with the same silent movements of its predecessors, a hand

All eyes were now attentive on the door back of the platform. It opened as the last notes of the chimes

UNLIKE those who had waited, the fifth figure was silvergray, from head to toe. In the hand was a flat,

silver tray that contained five sealed envelopes. His voice, metallic, filled the silent room with harsh

"I shall be brief, because the time requires brevity. I shall be exact, because I want no mistakes made after

you have left this house. I have but one purpose in summoning you here: The death of The Shadow!"

There was a brief flutter of breathing behind the watchful black masks, but no word was uttered. They waited

"You have done well and you have been well rewarded. The final payoff will be large enough to make each

of you independently wealthy. The deaths that have occurred so far have been five in number, each of them

necessary to my safety. Backus, Pat Malone, Leland Payne, Jimmy Dawson who made the mistake of

trying to betray me and now, Charles Malone, whom I killed myself this afternoon at Newark Airport.

"At the present, there are two more captured enemies, waiting to be drowned in my headquarters upstate. Joe

Cardona is one; Madge Payne is the other. There remains only the problem of The Shadow which I have

"The Shadow has traced my speed boat to the spot up the Hudson where I keep it moored. I suspect he has

already discovered the nature and the location of my underground headquarters in the hills to the east.

Through one of his agents, a man named Harry Vincent, he has reserved a Pullman ticket for Albany on the

"His destination, I am sure, is not Albany. The Shadow will leave that train at the little river town where my

speed boat is moored and from which the North Turnpike leads straight to my headquarters.

"Needless to say, The Shadow will be killed tomorrow night. There are five sealed envelopes in this tray

which I hold. Two of them contain sealed instructions. The rest are blank. Each of us, including myself, will

take one of these envelopes. They will be opened later, in complete privacy. Those who draw blanks will

proceed at once to the rendezvous upstate. The two selected by chance to act as executioners of The Shadow

will obey the orders they receive. That person may be myself or any of you. And now choose your

THE silver figure of Foxhound advanced to the edge of the platform and held the tray in front of him. His

four robed subordinates passed in a silent file. Each selected an envelope. Foxhound took the last one

"That is all," he said in his metallic murmur. "You will now leave for the robing rooms. Change quickly to

street clothes and depart from the house. The usual procedure will be followed. No. 1, please!"

Without a word, a blackrobed figure rose, unlocked the small door at the end of the room, passed from

sight, locked the barrier behind him. Fifteen minutes passed in complete silence. Then the harsh voice of

Again a figure rose. In fortyfive minutes the room was empty. Each of Foxhound's henchmen had departed,

his identity unknown, except to Foxhound himself. From the lips of the master criminal came a brief,

complacent chuckle. He turned, left the conference room by the same private door through which he had

Somewhere in Manhattan, two potential murderers were reading typewritten slips of paper with grim,

expressionless faces. Each was unknown to the other. If one failed, the other was ready to succeed. The

ON the following evening a tall, whitehaired old man approached a ticket window at Grand Central Station

and asked in a gentle, rather highpitched voice for the Pullman reservation that was being held for him. He

It was almost time for the Albany Express to leave. The old man hurried through the gate and descended to

His brief hesitation and the glance were not lost on a man who was standing in front of an empty telephone

booth watching the old gentleman. The man who watched was not there by chance. He was well aware that

The Shadow, however, was not in ignorance of the fact that his disguise was known and that he was being

spied upon by a henchman of Foxhound. He had planned deliberately for this to happen. His purpose was to

He had sent Harry Vincent to reserve his parlor car ticket for him, knowing full well that Harry would be

followed by agents of Foxhound and The Shadow's apparent blunder disclosed. He laughed faintly as he

In a phone booth on the upper level, the furtiveeyed man was calling the 125th Street station, the train's only

stop before it sped northward from Manhattan. He was calling the number of a particular booth.

Alonzo Kelsea was in the waiting room at 125th Street, sitting in that booth, awaiting the call. His eyes were

"Took the train," a voice reported with staccato speed. "Not sure if he sneaked off again before it started.

Watch for fake conductor behind baggage car. He's planted on board to make sure."

He hung up, climbed the stairs to the elevated platform, where the train was due in nine minutes. No one who

knew Kelsea would have recognized him. He was wearing dark glasses. A bandage over his left ear and

He hurried to the north end of the platform, and when the train thundered in he was at a spot just behind

where the baggage car halted. A man in the uniform of a conductor swung down and whispered briefly.

"Parlor car Wellington. Two cars from the rear. Seat No. 19. White hair and mustache. Can't miss him."

The milling crowd on the platform was boarding the train. Kelsea hurried rearward, boarded the train. The

A porter guided Kelsea to the parlor car Wellington. His seat was behind The Shadow, near the rear vestibule.

He grinned as he passed his intended victim. The old man's eyes were tightly closed in slumber. This was

KELSEA, however, was making two very bad mistakes. The eyes of the gentle old man in Seat 19 had been

only partly closed. He was aware that Alonzo Kelsea was riding behind him. He also knew that there was one

too many conductors on this train. The extra trainman, a tall, gimleteyed individual presumably offduty

and traveling for pleasure, had shown a railroadpass when the realconductor came through to collect

To The Shadow, his presence was easily understandable; he had been placed on this train by Foxhound to

make sure that The Shadow did not slip away before the express pulled out from Grand Central.

The Shadow's eyes had been pressed to the windowpane as the train thundered into 125th Street. He had seen

the swift meeting between Kelsea and the fake conductor. He knew that both were now riding with him, to

encompass his death before he alighted near a certain village upstate where the North Turnpike wound

through heavily wooded hills to the property of a wealthy Mr. Fox, whom no one along the river seemed to

The train roared smoothly through the night. In Seat 19, the old man dozed steadily. He seemed wearied by

the swift rush of lights outside, the hollow roar of bridges and tunnels. Not once did his head turn backward

in the direction of Kelsea. He knew that a move would be made presently. His purpose was to fool Kelsea

into thinking the trick had succeeded but to leave the train at the spot he had already decided upon.

Kelsea's role was simplicity itself. He watched for the train butcher. When the lad came through the car, he

A moment or so later, Kelsea rose with a brief exclamation and the air of a man who has forgotten something.

He followed the train butcher and caught up with him on the platform at the rear of the car.

They were quite alone here, hidden from view of either car. The loud rumbling of the wheels covered the

sound of Kelsea's voice, as he spoke persuasively and rapidly. For an instant, the lad looked incredulous,

"It's just a joke," Kelsea chuckled. "I'll see that you don't get into any trouble."

The train butcher eyed the twentydollar bill covetously. "I'll do it," he promised, hoarsely.

He listened attentively to Kelsea's instructions. Then he continued onward toward the club car. Kelsea

NEARLY an hour passed. The train slowed down to stop at a station. A mile or so beyond this station was

the village where Kelsea knew The Shadow was planning to swing off the train when it slowed for a long

curve. Kelsea wiggled nervously on his seat. Then he smiled with relief, as he saw the train boy approaching.

The lad was carrying a tray of glasses filled with orangeade. As he passed the seat where the old man was

The contents of the tray were spilled all over the dozing passenger. Orangeade splashed into The Shadow's

face, puddled in a sticky mess in his lap, drenched his clothing. He shrank backward, a look of pretended

The boy, in a fever of apology, began to dab at the clothing of his victim. "The train jerked I'm sorry, sir I

couldn't help it!" Out of the corner of his eye he saw Kelsea nod slightly toward him, and he added quickly:

"That's all right, my boy," the old man said, mildly. "I'm sure you couldn't help it. I'll attend to it myself,

He rose, walked toward the narrow corridor at the front of the car, beyond which was the curtain of the men's

Screened by his newspaper, Kelsea watched the victim disappear. The moment The Shadow was gone from

sight Kelsea was on his feet, leaving the car. The train had halted, and was already beginning to pull out from

the station. Brushing past the porter on the steps, Kelsea leaped to the station platform.

He watched the lighted observation platform of the last car roar out of sight along the dark rails. There was a

haggard grin on his fleshy lips. In the next minute or two, The Shadow would be dead!

KELSEA wasted no time, but set out walking briskly toward a small river village that was situated a mile up

The village was extremely small: a single shabby street. It was late and there were no pedestrians in sight.

Kelsea crossed the street diagonally toward a service station that occupied the far corner. Beyond the service

station was a crossroad, and two branching highways that led back into the hills.

Kelsea nodded to a silent attendant in greasy coveralls, walked past him to the rear of the place. Parked out of

Kelsea unlocked the car, switched on the lights, started the powerful motor. If the attendant saw him leave the

Kelsea drove to the crossroad and took the fork marked "North Turnpike." The car whizzed through the

darkness with a speed and a sureness that would indicate the lawyer had been along this route many times

Crouched over the wheel, his teeth shining in a broad grin, Kelsea chuckled. Trapping and killing The

THE SHADOW had walked quietly to the curtained washroom of the train, fully aware of the fact that he

He lifted the curtain and stepped inside. A man in a conductor's uniform was standing there alone. It was the

fake conductor. He murmured a courteous word of surprise at the drenched appearance of the old man and

immediately walked out. But his footsteps didn't recede. The Shadow could hear the faint sound of his

breathing, just outside the drawn curtain. Obviously, he was posted there to prevent any other passenger from

There were three wash basins standing in a row. Two of them, apparently, were not working. A placard

marked "Out of Order" was propped on each of the two end sinks. That left only the one in the middle in use.

The Shadow eyed the sink, the plunger that operated the water and the gadget that supplied liquid soap. He

turned and looking upward, surveyed the ceiling of the washroom. It was pierced with a grating that supplied

The Shadow's expression was grim. He knew what he was expected to do; what he intended doing was

He stood well to the left of the end basin. His arm reached out over it to the water plunger of the middle sink.

With his forearm back of and below the sink and only his hand showing, he pressed downward on the metal

Instantly, water spurted; but the noise of its flow was drowned out by the roar of a pistol explosion. Flame

spat from the ventilator grille in the ceiling. A bullet whizzed downward and flattened against the steel wall

of the train. Had The Shadow been standing with his back inclined above the middle sink, the bullet would

THE SHADOW whirled, unhurt, wrenched the curtain aside and sprang into the corridor. As he expected, the

man in the fake conductor's uniform had whirled away at the sound of the shot and was racing toward the

He halted with a yell of astonishment and rage as he saw The Shadow emerge, unhurt and alive. His hand

The Shadow, too, had drawn a gun. Both weapons exploded with a single earshattering echo. But whereas

the disguised conductor had planted himself stiffly against the angle of the corridor to steady his aim, The

Shadow was descending arrowlike toward the floor. His swiftly hinging knees cut a full foot from his height.

Crouched, coolly aware of what he was doing, he placed two bullets an inch apart in the body of his

wouldbe murderer. The criminal's bullet split the air harmlessly where the head of The Shadow had been a

He pitched forward like a felled tree. The gun bounced from his relaxed fingers.

Instantly, The Shadow retraced his steps. In two leaps he was out of the corridor and into the Pullman,

No one made a move to stop The Shadow. He crossed the grinding roar of an enclosed platform and entered

A single figure tried to balk him. It was a man in blue uniform one of the real conductors. Courageously, he

The Shadow was careful not to hurt this brave employee more than was absolutely necessary. He avoided the

conductor's wild rush with a twist of his shoulders. His hand caught a forearm and wrist and locked them in a

The Shadow darted away. Through the club car, he ran. A wrench of The Shadow's hand opened the door to

the observation platform. He climbed over the shining railing. His feet were braced on a narrow ledge at the

outside, one hand supporting him. His eyes watched the rocky ballast that whizzed backward at a speed that

All The Shadow needed was a sane chance for his life and fate gave that to him as the train screamed round

a curve and again straightened. To the right of the roadbed, the ground dipped. The racing lights of the train

disclosed a deep blackness, cupped by a circular slope of loose, sandy gravel. A sand pit! One of dozens of

such places in this desolate upriver country of quarries, lime kilns, and brickyards. Flying by with the speed

Between the lip of this manmade crater and the platform of the roaring train was a leap of almost a dozen

Launching himself outward with every atom of strength in his thighs and legs, he plunged like a fluttering

bundle through the whip of the wind. He missed the sharp points of hard rock ballast and crashed against the

But the sand was loose and sliding and he took most of the grinding impact on shoulder and hip. He rolled

A LESS intelligent man would have been killed instantly, his spine snapped in two by the force of his

gyrating descent. The Shadow, however, understood his danger. As he struck the sand he made his muscles

limp. Barring the chance of crashing against an imbedded boulder, he was safe from the danger of broken

His head tucked itself inward against the curve of his chest. Except for this, he was like an unresisting

Water stopped him with a tremendous splash. It was cold, icy. The Shadow reached the surface with a few

quick strokes and inhaled a long breath of air. A moment later, he was resting on wet sand at the edge of the

deep pool that covered the bottom of the pit. He ached from head to foot, he was soaked and shivering; but he

By the time The Shadow had climbed to the top of the pit, the blood was flowing warmly through his veins.

He was eager to reach a certain river village from which planned murder had tried to keep him and failed.

It was the same village from which Alonzo Kelsea had recently departed in a sedan.

Later, The Shadow, his clothing dry from the night breeze, but sadly rumpled, walked along the deserted

block of the single street. His goal was a dark alley adjoining the onestory bank building where he expected

It was. But when he tried to start it; it refused to move. He lifted the hood and examined the motor. Whoever

had damaged the parked car was an expert. He saw at a glance that it would take hours to get it repaired.

Opening a lid in the rear, The Shadow took out a bulky briefcase that contained his black cloak and hat. He

Only two places seemed to be open along the street. One of them was a filling station on the far corner. The

A man was washing down an empty sand truck with a long hose. He stared at the rumpled old man, listened

"Sorry. We don't have no cars for hire. Only trucks. We haul sand and gravel from them pits up the river."

The Shadow sighed, told a long, rambling tale about a sister in a town back of the hills; an earlier train he had

"That's too bad, mister. I tell you what. See that filling station? They might be able to fix you up over there.

The owner has a brother who owns a flivver. The brother likes to make a dollar or two extra money by hiring

AS he crossed the street, The Shadow saw the filling station attendant eying him keenly from the shack

doorway. He didn't like the fellow's looks. He decided to make a small experiment. He stated his problem to

the attendant, explained that he wanted to hire a car and driver, and offered twentyfive cents to be driven a

His offer was instantly accepted. The attendant disappeared behind the shack to search for his "brother." The

Shadow smiled grimly, as he heard him calling in a loud voice: "Jake! Hey, Jake! I got a customer for you!

Twentyfive miles for twentyfive cents and no argument! To The Shadow, it seemed to tie up very neatly

with the mystery of his own damaged car in the alley alongside the bank building. Kelsea had already struck

The Shadow knew the answer, when he saw Jake. His face was bearded and there was a greasy, black oil

The Shadow divined why there was a beard on that disguised chin. It covered a small, crescentshaped scar.

THE SHADOW said nothing and got into the seat next to his driver. The car was not a flivver, as the garage

man had said, but a brandnew and powerful sedan. It rolled into motion with a fast, beautiful pickup and

roared to the crossroad. A twist of the wheel and it swerved into the North Turnpike.

Staring at the instrument panel, The Shadow noted a peculiar thing. The gas gauge was broken. It was the

only thing out of order in this brandnew car. It had been deliberately damaged. The Shadow was certain that

this broken gauge would undoubtedly be the pretext for a second murderous attempt on his life.

In the gentle, highpitched voice of an old man, The Shadow drew the bearded man's attention to the

Stoner said briefly: "Yeah." He was afraid to talk too much, for fear of disclosing his real identity.

"These hills look like mighty good country for iron ore," the old man continued, mildly. "Any iron mines

Stoner's body jerked nervously at the question. The speeding car swerved for an instant and recovered.

He didn't answer the question about iron mines. To his relief, the old man relapsed into silence. The car began

to slacken speed slightly, and The Shadow watched the road for a sign he expected to see very soon.

A quarter of a mile onward, a private lane cut between thickly leafed trees. The car passed the lane and

started up a steep hill in the road. Halfway up, the motor coughed and died. Stoner swore and set his brakes.

"The gas gauge fooled me," Stoner said, thickly. "The tank must be empty. I thought I had plenty for the

"Do you mind getting out and looking? There's an extra gallon tin in the trunk carrier on the back. Fill the

The Shadow nodded. He got out slowly, walked wheezingly to the back of the stalled car. But the moment he

He paid no attention to the gas or the cap. He lifted the trunk cover. There was an extra tin of gas inside and

Noiselessly, he laid the suitcase on the road behind the left rear tire. Then he unscrewed the tank cap, making

plenty of noise. The next instant he was flat on the ground, his body as straight as an arrow between the

wheels. His arms and legs were stiffly extended, his face pressed sidewise, as close as he could bring it to the

He had barely flung himself into this flattened position when the brakes of the stalled car were suddenly

THE heavy automobile rolled swiftly backward, crunching over the suitcase. The Shadow gave a shrill,

Speeding backward down the steep bill, Stoner felt the crunch under the wheels. He saw two motionless

He braked to a jarring standstill. He had extinguished his lights. But in the gloom he could see dimly the limp

body of his late passenger. There was another object close to the old man, which the trembling Stoner

He got out of the car, walked slowly toward his victim. He was still a half dozen paces away when he

recognized the battered suitcase. He saw that the old man was unhurt. With a shrill oath of dismay, he

The Shadow's drawn gun was under his left elbow. He fired instantly and his bullet pierced Stoner's arm,

Before Stoner could clutch with his free hand, The Shadow was on him in a silent attack that reduced his foe

to a helpless huddle. A light, strong cord from beneath The Shadow's coat swathed the wouldbe murderer

In another instant, Stoner was tossed into the car and The Shadow was behind the wheel, backing swiftly

down the long hill. He turned the automobile around and returned to the side lane in the road with a quick

burst of speed. The gas tank, of course, was not empty; that had been merely Stoner's lying excuse for a

A quarter of a mile into the property of the mysterious Mr. Fox, and the winding lane came to an end. Beyond

it was a small footpath winding to the left between thick, overhanging bushes. The Shadow parked the car out

of sight, made sure Stoner was taut and helpless, and hurried on foot along the path.

The path ended in an enormous weed grown hole in the dark earth. The vertical edges of rotted supporting

timbers showed like broken teeth. It was the unkempt and decayed entrance to an old and abandoned iron

The Shadow's flashlight glowed with steady brilliance. It threw a small circle of vivid light ahead of him. The

white wig and mustache of the old man were now gone. Once more, The Shadow was robed in black.

INSIDE the brandnew sedan that was hidden under interlaced boughs at the end of the private lane, David

Stoner tried grimly with his uninjured arm to escape from his bonds. It was useless. He could neither stir nor

Suddenly, he ceased his desperate efforts to release himself. He had heard a clear warning whistle: a peculiar

An uglylooking man in soiled dungarees had given that warning signal. He had moved furtively into view

from a direction exactly opposite to that taken by The Shadow. There was a flashlight in his hand and he sent

its rays impatiently along the ground. He had expected to meet Stoner at this very spot, and Stoner wasn't

Suddenly, his eyes narrowed with suspicion. He had seen the tire marks in the lane. The beam of his torch

swept inward toward the bunched trees. He saw the ruddy reflection of an automobile's taillight. The light

was out; the glow was merely a reflection. In a moment, the man in dungarees was advancing cautiously, a

He discovered Stoner's predicament, released him, helped him to his feet. The moment the gag was out of

Stoner's jaws, he began to whisper fierce, impatient sentences. The man in dungarees listened with respectful

"Quick!" Stoner gasped. "You'll have to give me a hand, get me down that rope in a hurry! There's not a

He turned, ran, and the thug at his side ran with him. They hurried in the same direction from which the thug

had so mysteriously appeared. Their route took them away from the mine entrance. They approached a cliff

and halted at its very edge. The edge dropped away sixty or seventy feet to the rocky, weedgrown bottom of

Peering over the edge, Stoner gave a croak of satisfaction and impatience. There was a stout, knotted rope

attached to a metal hook imbedded in the rock. The rope dangled about twentyfive feet to a small isolated

It was slow and ticklish, but the man in dungarees was as good as his boast. Stoner wound his uninjured arm

about the neck of his henchman. His legs were wrapped tightly around the man's thighs and he hooked his

The two men vanished over the sheer edge of the rocky wall. They descended inch by inch, the hands of the

He was panting, covered with sweat, when they reached the ledge. But Stoner gave him no chance to recover

BOTH of them now held small flashlights. The light streamed through a small opening in the cliff, disclosing

an ancientlooking tunnel. This was one of the abandoned galleries of the iron mine owned by the elusive

The two panting criminals hurried along the narrow passage, crouching in places where the roof was low.

But the man in dungarees jerked a lever in the wall and the boulder rolled aside, returning to its position after

they had passed. They were now in a more modern gallery. It was lined with smooth concrete and spotlessly

clean. It led in a gradual slant, turning occasionally till it reached another barrier.

This was something quite different from the boulder they had left far behind them. It was the steel door of a

Stoner pressed a button and the steel door slid aside, disclosing a small elevator into which both men hurried.

There were only two buttons on the panel at the side. Stoner pressed the lower one. Immediately, the car

began to descend. It dropped to a considerable depth. Then it halted and the door opened, automatically.

The passage beyond was hewn from virgin rock and it was not very long in extent. It opened into a

tremendous underground chamber if "chamber" could adequately describe it. Electric lamps, strung

overhead on stout wires, illuminated dimly a huge cavernous opening in the bowels of the earth.

The light was reflected like stars from the dark, uneasy glimmer of the surface of an underground lake.

There was an empty rowboat drawn up on the muddy shore of this black expanse of underground water. A

pair of oars lay alongside. They were dripping wet, showing they had been recently used.

Stoner's companion shoved the boat into the water, steadied the craft while Stoner climbed aboard. Then he

began to row swiftly across the underground lake, following the glow of the electric lights strung overhead in

The crossing took ten minutes of steady pulling. The shore on the opposite side sloped steeply downward

from the water. The lake ended in a cement retaining wall that kept the water from overflowing its basin and

The two men moored the rowboat and hurried down the dark, rocky slope to what appeared to be the end of

the mine a barrier of solid ironore cliff, shining faintly in the dim light. But there was a way through. A

Stoner turned, pointed along the wall to a fissure in which was visible the steel rungs of a vertical ladder. The

man in dungarees ran to the ladder and climbed upward, vanishing into the gloom at the top.

Stoner did not follow. His trembling left hand produced a key, unlocked the steel door in front of him. He

There was no clang of metal. The edges of this strange door were faced with rubber soft, spongy and

A moment or two passed, then the door opened again. It stayed open, waiting ominously, for the expected

arrival of The Shadow. The final and most deadly trap of Foxhound was ready. It was baited with the bound

CRAWLING slowly along in the ancient entrance to the mine, The Shadow soon discovered that he had

made a serious blunder. The weedchoked passage became narrower and narrower. It became obvious to him

that the passage had not been used by human beings for years past. He had allowed the desperate need for

He rectified that error at once. Squirming about, he crawled back to a spot where he could stand erect. He

hastened once more to the surface of the ground. He retraced his steps to the spot where he had concealed the

A glance at the earth as he approached, and he knew Stoner had already made his escape. He saw the marks

of footprints in the spongy ground: the trail of two men. In order to satisfy himself that it was not a deliberate

trap to capture him, he approached the hidden car stealthily, peered inside. It was empty.

The Shadow followed the footprints. No attempt had been made by the fugitive pair to conceal them. On the

contrary, they made a clear, welldefined trail. The Shadow made an instant deduction from this fact. Stoner

Grimly he obliged. The trail led him straight to the edge of a steep cliff. His movements became slower now,

He climbed down the knotted rope to the ledge below, entered the gallery of the mine. Inside, the boulder that

had rolled aside for Stoner did the same thing for The Shadow. It was impossible not to see the lever in the

Down this newer, more modern concrete gallery The Shadow hurried, straight to the elevator shaft. The lift

took him down into the depths of the earth. He came at last to the huge cavern of the underground lake.

A faint exclamation of wonder came from the tight lips of The Shadow. Foxhound must have spent a fortune

arranging this snug retreat far in the bowels of the earth! No wonder he could hide with impunity from the

The air in the cavern was fresh and clean, undoubtedly pumped from above ground. The lights strung across

the black water indicated a powerful dynamo somewhere. But what of Foxhound? He knew The Shadow had,

by this time, pierced his secret. He was bent on luring The Shadow deeper and deeper into the earth. But

The answer was clearly shown in the muddy shore of the lake. A rowboat had been launched recently from

this very spot. It had crossed the lake guided by the dim, sparsely hung lights overhead.

THE SHADOW produced twin guns. Removing his cloak, he wrapped the weapons securely and tied the

compact bundle above his shoulders and back of his head. He waded into the lake and began to swim,

His arms beneath the surface made no splash; nor did his submerged feet. He swam away from the dim line

of lights crossing the roof of the chamber. The water was cold, clammy and apparently alive with fish.

Something wriggly and slimy gripped his ankle with a sudden pressure, but The Shadow kicked strongly and

He was more than halfway across the mysterious lake when he stopped swimming suddenly. He had heard

the cautious splash of oars! A moment later, he saw a distant rowboat and recognized its occupant. The man

The Shadow, treading water with calm efficiency, was utterly invisible from the man in the boat. Nor would

Kelsea have seen him in any event; for at this moment a weird shriek filled the mine with a bloodcurdling

It was an electric siren! Its grim blast seemed to be a warning for Kelsea to hurry.

Kelsea redoubled his anxious efforts at the oars and landed at the concrete wall that lined the opposite shore.

He ran, as Stoner had run before him, down the steep declivity that led to the steel door in the rock. He ran

past the door and ascended the rungs of the vertical ladder in the fissure of the wall.

The Shadow was too far out in the lake to tell accurately just where he had disappeared. One moment he was

The Shadow knew there was no time to waste. He was aware that the lives of at least three people depended

on his speed and his intelligence. His powerful stroke pulled him to the edge of the lake. He approached the

The Shadow knew that the open door was not chance. Crouched in the darkness, he eyed the door and the

vertical steel ladder in a fissure just beyond. The Shadow crept, not toward the ladder, but toward the door.

THE sight that greeted The Shadow froze him into attentive caution. Two men and a woman were bound and

gagged on the stone floor of the chamber. Their bodies stretched outward like triple hands of a clock from a

The girl was Madge Payne. One of the men was Doctor Bruce Hanson. The other was Joe Cardona.

It was Joe who saw The Shadow first. His eyes bulged with a fierce, terrified warning. His head shook a

His meaning was as clear as though he had yelled desperately at the top of his lungs: "Forget us! Keep out!

The Shadow knew now that this was the spot where Jimmy Dawson had been drowned. He remembered how

the earth slanted so steeply downward from the concrete wall of the lake. He saw three things in the chamber

that confirmed his opinion. One was the chunk of iron ore to weigh down the victims. The other two were

The Shadow eyed the size of the chunk of ore. He observed the diameter of the circular plate in the floor.

Then, deliberately, he entered the trap that Foxhound had prepared for him and three others. The

A QUICK slash of The Shadow's knife released the three victims. Cardona rolled weakly to his knees, jerked

The voice was cold, metallic, filled with murderous amusement. It issued from the circular opening in the

ceiling of the stone room. The watertight plate above had lifted. But there was no face in the opening.

"The quartet is now complete," the metallic voice of Foxhound continued. "In a moment, I intend to flood

this chamber with water. You happen to be below the level of the lake and the water will fill every inch of

your tomb. You have my permission to swim upward with it until you reach the ceiling. After that, use your

own judgment. I am sorry to have to drown you, but you four happen to be the last persons on earth who

The jeering laughter that accompanied the remark was utterly devoid of pity. The plate in the ceiling closed.

Cardona whirled toward Doctor Hanson and Madge. "In Heaven's name, who is he? Kelsea?"

"I don't know," Hanson gasped. "I've never seen him except when he was wearing his silvergray disguise."

The Shadow clutched Cardona's arm with an urgent gesture. He had dropped to his knees beside the heavy

chunk of iron ore. He held his left wrist and forearm against the rock, gestured to Cardona, to make him fast

to the heavy weight. A vision of death was bright in Cardona's bulging eyes, but he clenched his teeth and

He was none too soon. A scream of terror came from Madge Payne. The plate in the floor was rising!

Water bubbled and spurted. The water was under terrific pressure. It jetted upward as the plate rose higher

and higher. It filled the room with a sullen thunder, splashing and foaming over the stone floor like a

The Shadow and Cardona were bent over, the chunk of ore to which The Shadow's left wrist and forearm

were now fettered. Both men lifted the weight, their faces flushed with the strain. They staggered through

foaming water toward the spouting column that jetted through the manhole in the floor. Barely able to hold

Hanson and Madge stared at them with tragic, hopeless eyes. She and the doctor were in each other's arms,

The Shadow knelt beside the manhole and Cardona let go his support of the rock. It dropped straight through

the foaming pillar of water, dragging The Shadow headlong after it. His legs shot stiffly upward and vanished

THE SHADOW was in the slanting pipe through which the water of the lake was roaring upward under

pressure! But he was going down, down, dragged by the terrific weight of the iron ore, past the rushing tug of

the water. In no other way could he have possibly passed counter to that streaming torrent. He had counted on

His lungs were expanded to their full limit, filled with every atom of air they could hold. He needed it,

bubbled it out, sparingly from between tightly compressed lips like a miser. He felt the pressure decrease and

his descent become faster. He was out of the pipe and into the lake itself. An instant later, he struck soft mud

His free hand slashed viciously with a knife and cut his bound arm loose. He began to move but sidewise,

rather than upward. He knew what this peril was. The suction of the undersurface torrent was whirling him

He fought away from this danger by muscular kicks of his legs and a fierce cupped motion of his upraised

hands. The suction diminished, ceased. He began to shoot toward the surface of the lake. Just as his lungs

were bursting with the agony of depleted oxygen, his head splashed into view above the lake. He drew in a

But his exertions became, if anything, more desperate. Turning, he swam with all speed to the concrete edge

of the lake. He emerged dripping on the shore. Not more than three minutes had elapsed from the moment he

He ran down the steep declivity of the shore. He knew that every instant counted, if he were to save the

victims trapped behind the locked steel door. They were rising swiftly toward the ceiling on the foaming crest

THE SHADOW ran straight for the ironrunged ladder that led upward in the darkness along a deep fissure

in the cavern wall. Wriggling through a hinged opening at the top of his climb, he found himself in a stone

Another opening, then strong light dazzled his eyes. He was in the room directly above the murder vault. He

saw the closed metal plate through which the voice of Foxhound had issued. Beyond it were two motionless

They were dead, both of them. They had been shot through the head. The Shadow ripped the masks from

The disclosure did not appear to surprise The Shadow. He had wasted barely a second in that swift

The surface of foaming water was barely a foot below his eyes. He saw Cardona swimming desperately, his

mouth wide agape almost under the circular opening in the ceiling. Beyond Cardona were the splashing heads

of Madge and Doctor Hanson. They yelled with bubbling shouts, as they saw the deepsocketed eyes of The

He caught Madge's arm, hauled her through. He was reaching for Cardona when Madge screamed shrilly

behind his crouched body. The Shadow whirled. A masked figure in a doorway behind him sent a scarlet

The slug tore into The Shadow's body, toppling him. Lying weakly on his side, he saw the killer

blackrobed, masked, silent pull the trigger again. There was no time for him to move.

It was Madge who acted promptly. She had scooped a fallen gun from the floor with almost one motion. She

threw it with desperate haste, straight at the masked face of the murderer. Instinctively, his hand rose to ward

off the flying missile, and his shot went wide of The Shadow's prone body. The next instant, The Shadow was

on his feet and Joe Cardona was rising through the manhole; Doctor Hanson followed him.

The masked man fled. Cardona and The Shadow were after him in an instant, the latter reeling as he ran. The

chase led through a stone corridor. For a moment, The Shadow faltered, and Cardona passed him with flying

There was a gun in Joe's hand. He reached a solid oaken door a scant second behind his quarry. The fugitive

He leaped into a large room, and there sounded instantly the roar of a pistol. The Shadow followed in time to

see the masked man fall with a neat, round hole in his covered forehead. Accurate shooting was one of

The Shadow laughed faintly. There was pain in his glazed eyes and a trickle of blood from a bullet wound in

He said, "Yes," in a peculiar voice. It seemed extraordinarily loud. But as he said it he shook his head

negatively, and his finger rested for an instant across his lips. He pointed silently toward the closed door of

An expression of amazement passed across Cardona's tense face. He had unmasked Kelsea with a growl of

certainty. Death, he thought, had narrowed down his suspects to the sinister identity of the lawyer. He knew

now that Madge and Doctor Hanson were innocent cat'spaws in this conspiracy. Stoner and the blond

But The Shadow had shaken his head, pointed warningly toward the closed door of the closet. Was Foxhound

Cardona advanced quietly toward the closet door, his gun ready to spill lead through the panel. His face was

stiff, watchful. He suspected that the closet was probably a concealed arsenal. Foxhound would not have fled

there so stupidly unless he had some method of turning the tables on his foes at the last minute.

A rich rug on the floor covered the sound of Joe's advancing feet. But as he stepped in front of the door, he

Instantly, The Shadow's hand tugged fiercely at his companion. Cardona was dragged heavily backward, fell

Hardly had the two men dropped when the closet echoed with the stuttering roar of a concealed machine gun.

Holes made a grim, dancing pattern in the wood of the door. The plastered wall opposite spat rhythmic flicks

Cardona, breathless at the sudden murderous ambush, lay where he had fallen, his pistol finger paralyzed. But

The Shadow's twin guns went into prompt, purposeful action. He fired at the pattern of holes in the door.

From within, came a shrill, shuddering cry. The clamor of the machine gun ceased.

Joe was on his feet. He took a prudent step backward. So did The Shadow. Both of them suspected treachery.

"Come out!" Joe yelled. "Hands high above your head! One funny move and we'll cut you down!"

THE door opened slowly. A masked figure emerged. Joe gave a quick cry of wonder, but The Shadow was

silent. The figure was silvergray from head to foot; and oddly menacing, in spite of the fact that its clenched

Cardona took a single step forward and halted as a hard, reckless laugh came from behind the fluttering silken

"Be careful, gentlemen! I'm holding a live grenade in my left hand, and the pin has been drawn! You

The metallic voice became slow, very distinct in this ornate, magnificently furnished living room deep in the

"I intend not to be caught. My purpose is to walk peacefully from this room, locking both of you behind me.

If you obey, you lose a prisoner but you will save your lives. Otherwise, I shall throw the grenade and blow

There was truth in Foxhound's voice, a tense desperation in his poised body. He knew the game was up and

"Agreed!" The Shadow rasped. A flick of his burning eyes ordered Joe Cardona to back up toward a far

Joe obeyed. He had caught a revealing glimpse of The Shadow's momentarily averted face. The lips had

Joe talked desperately from his corner. He threatened, cajoled, pleaded. Foxhound listened, laughing faintly

as he turned slightly and began to edge toward the door. The Shadow estimated the positions of Cardona, of

AS The Shadow sprang, Foxhound snarled and threw the live grenade. The Shadow's fist crashed against his

chest, sending him reeling. At the same instant he bent, snatched the corrugated steel egg from the rug, and

His aim was bulletlike, and accurate. The grenade vanished through the doorway of the open closet.

Foxhound was still falling from The Shadow's blow when the closet flamed with a terrific explosion.

Chunks of jagged metal whizzed across the room. The Shadow's face flicked suddenly crimson, as though a

knife had been drawn crookedly across his cheek. Foxhound screamed and collapsed, rolling headlong on the

rug. He had been exactly in line with the closet door. A fragment of metal had pierced his thigh, ripping

Cardona, who was out of range of death in the far corner, leaped forward. There was nothing for him to do.

Blood poured from the gash across his cheek, but he paid no attention to the wound, or to the slug from

Alonzo Kelsea's gun that was imbedded deep within his body. His hand stayed Cardona's eager rush. Into

Incredulous, dazed by the knowledge The Shadow had just imparted to him, Cardona dropped to one knee

Cardona was staring into the pinched, sneering face of Charles Malone, known as the brother of the detective

From the corridor beyond the room came two soakingwet figures. They peered like frightened ghosts.

Doctor Hanson and Madge. They were unaware of anything except the unmasked criminal on the floor. Like

"But Malone was murdered, cut to pieces by an airplane propeller at Newark Airport!"

THE SHADOW smiled. His voice was weak, but his words were crystal clear. Malone had been the

executioner, not the victim. His cunning hand had driven the airplane. The victim a penniless derelict hired

for the purpose had been dressed in Malone's clothes, his pockets filled with Malone's papers and

The Shadow had guessed the truth, because of the bizarre method of the crime. An airplane propeller, a

victim ripped to bloody tatters all this to prevent a true identification of an unfortunate derelict lured by a

The Shadow's spaced words linked the triple personality together. "Thomas Springer Foxhound Charles

Malone jeered shrilly, "Prove it! Malone, yes; Foxhound, yes; but I'm not Springer, and you never can prove

The Shadow didn't reply. He walked across the richly furnished room toward the wall. There was a picture on

that wall a painting of a gorgeously proportioned dog, a foxhound. He jerked the painting from the wall.

His knife ripped the canvas away. Under the canvas was another picture the missing masterpiece of Remy

Foxhound snarled with helpless rage as Cardona snapped handcuffs on his jerking wrists. The Shadow,

oblivious to the drama behind him, was peeling a strip of canvas away from the Colette. There were two

backs to the painting, a real and a false. Pasted in orderly array was the absolute, the damning proof gathered

Photos of Thomas Springer stolen from the files of a French plastic surgeon, both before and after his facial

transformation; a list of every foreign bank where credits had been established by the wily Foxhound; his

aliases used successfully to deceive the police of a half dozen countries. There was not a fact nor a document

missing. Jimmy Dawson had hidden the stolen evidence in the one place where Foxhound had never dreamed

Pale, his face smeared with blood, The Shadow laughed. The name Foxhound itself had been the first key to

the truth. "Run with the fox and hunt with the hounds!" Cardona's friend Cardona's deadly enemy. Only

Charles Malone fitted that description. His reckless pun had tipped his cleverly hidden identity to the keen

DOCTOR HANSON and Madge Payne stood like frozen ghosts, staring at the slumped figure of the captured

criminal. They were unaware that Cardona and The Shadow had withdrawn to the side of the room, were

seated close together on the rich upholstery of an expensive couch. The Shadow was wounded, desperately

tired, but his lips moved in a steady murmur. It was necessary for the police to have the complete facts in the

Cardona listened, his face rigid with attention. There was only one gap in the facts: the motives and the

Cardona rose from the sofa. He approached the whitefaced couple across the room, and accused them:

"You were both in Leland Payne's home on the night of his death. You've said that you didn't murder him,

and now I believe you. He was killed by Stoner and Helene Carfax, the latter disguised as a man."

Cardona's voice hardened. "Why were you there and why didn't you notify the police, instead of hiding the

Hanson's face was very pale, but there was no evasion in his words. With his arm protectingly around

He was in love with Madge, wanted to marry her. But Leland Payne hated him for his political opinions.

Payne decided to get rid of him by offering him ten thousand dollars to give up his niece. That was why

Hanson and the girl had been present in the old man's mansion on that tragic night.

They found Payne murdered and a message involving Hanson scrawled in his diary. Payne had discovered

that his courtroom testimony for Jimmy Dawson was false. The visitor who had called on him at the exact

time that Dawson was actually killing Backus and Pat Malone at the pier of the AmericaGaul Line was an

Payne knew Doctor Hanson was a master of this art and had suspected him. He had agreed to meet "Dawson"

in his home because he had been informed over the telephone that he could buy evidence that would brand

"Because," Hanson replied, dully, "Foxhound threatened to expose me to the police as Payne's murderer,

unless I obeyed his orders. I had no way out and he knew it. It wasn't my own safety that I feared, but that of

Madge. My arrest would have implicated her in the murder. My theft of the Colette, everything else I did,

CARDONA nodded. It fitted in with what he already knew. Not one of the henchmen of Foxhound had ever

seen their leader except in his silver mask. Kelsea was the legal end of the conspiracy. Stoner and Helene

took care of strongarm stuff behind the front of a detective agency paid for by Foxhound out of his hidden

Foxhound or Springer had assumed his role of the dead Pat Malone's brother, with cunning ease. He had

flown by airplane to the hunting camp in Wisconsin where the real Charles Malone had been on vacation. He

had lured him away, killed and buried him, flew back to New York in time for the trial of Dawson.

It gave him a perfect role one in which he could keep in constant touch with the police to discover their

plans. If they chanced to suspect Stoner, Foxhound could always pose as the griefstricken brother of Pat

Malone, hoodwinked by a fake private detective. Stoner not knowing who he really was, could never squeal.

Foxhound had staged the death of "Charles Malone" to wind up his campaign. He was certain that he was

now sitting pretty. He had kidnapped Madge and Hanson and Joe Cardona. He was ready to kill his other

The sofa on which The Shadow had been reclining while Cardona was talking was now empty.

Joe grunted with amazement. He rushed toward the corridor beyond the room. At the doorway he stopped. A

small, white card was pinned to the casing. Printed on it in black lettering was an inked message:

Beneath these two lines was another, scrawled by a hand tremulous with weakness:

Joe Cardona pulled the card loose and placed it in his pocket. There was a queer expression in his brooding

"You can't let him go like that," Hanson urged. "He's wounded. He needs attention."

"There's no man on earth I'd do more for than The Shadow. I know he's wounded. If there was any way I

could help him, my life and the last drop of blood in my body would be at his disposal. But his orders are

clear. He doesn't wish to be followed. And I'm loyal enough to respect his wishes."

"If only I could have have thanked him, told him what I I feel deep in my heart "

Cardona shook his head. "To me he always has been The Shadow. But I can tell you one thing" his voice

grew stronger. "He's the greatest detective that you or I will ever see in this world! A genius who has

IT was dark and very chilly at the edge of a sheer cliff that rose from the rocky depths of a deep ravine. Stars

There was no sound in that desolate stillness except a faint gasp of exertion, the scraping of unseen feet

against the rocky wall of the cliff. Someone was climbing slowly, painfully, up the rope that hung from a

Presently a face showed. It was haggard, smeared with blood. The deepset eyes were pits of exhaustion. But

the tight lips, the powerful hawk nose, indicated that this was a man whom neither wounds nor weakness

The hands groped, seized a firm grip. The Shadow squirmed to the safety of level ground. He lay flat on his

After a minute or two, he rose to his feet. His steps were wavering, but not his purpose. He moved straight

The car was still there, the same as he had left it, even to the broken gasoline gauge on the instrument panel.

The Shadow slumped as he opened the door, but the weakness was only temporary. The smooth feel of the

wheel under his hands was like a reviving draught of strong liquor. He forgot his bleeding face, the bullet

wound in his body. With eyes burning feverishly, he backed the car from concealment, turned it about in the

He drove it to the main highway beyond and turned it toward the distant Hudson River. Its speed increased.

Headlights bored steadily into darkness. Behind the wheel, the eyes of The Shadow were just as steady.

His expression was an exact duplicate of the look that had been on the face of Lamont Cranston when he had

stared, many days earlier, at an emblem of justice in a courtroom where Jimmy Dawson had been

The thought of Lamont Cranston, suave member of the exclusive Cobalt Club, amused The Shadow.

Cranston's absence from the club would cause no comment and it would coincide with the convalescence of

Joe Cardona Joe was destined to receive a rather queer gift. A paperweight sent to him from an unknown

friend: a flattened lead slug mounted on a heavy base of sterling silver. Joe's friends at police headquarters

would stare curiously at his desk. Reporters would try to pump him. Joe would tell them anything but the real

truth that the slug had come from the body of a man who chose to call himself The Shadow and to dwell

The ruddy glow of the automobile's taillight vanished into the night. Except for the murmur of wind among

leaves, the night was utterly still. The sigh of the wind was soft, barely audible, filled with drowsy peace.

The peace would be broken abruptly when "The Loot of Death" broke through glaring headlines in New York

newspapers. A million dollars was "The Loot of Death" and it would fall on The Shadow to trace each

dollar to its resting place in the heart of crookdom and make a master looter confess his part in crime!