Chapter I — A Squealer Dies

"The Shadow!"

The hoarse, frightened cry came from a man who cowered beside the wall of the little room. His beady, blinking eyes were staring wildly at a tall form clad in black.

"Yes, I am The Shadow!"

The reply came in a mocking whisper, from unseen lips. A cold pause followed; then the sinister voice repeated its taunting statement.

"I am The Shadow. I bring you doom, Hawk Forster!"

The cornered crook could only stare in terror. "Hawk" was facing The Shadow, dread avenger, whose name brought fear to the hordes of the underworld — even to the overlords of crime. To such rats as Hawk Forster, a meeting with The Shadow occurred only once in a lifetime. The cringing gangster knew the verdict that now awaited him.

Death!

The Shadow, tall and mysterious, garbed in black cloak and slouch hat, was a stern, inexorable figure. His countenance was obscured by the upturned collar of his cloak and the tilting slope of his dark hat. Hawk Forster, blinking nervously, could see only the glow of two penetrating eyes that shone from unfathomable depths. Those eyes were the sign of doom!

A single arm extended from the folds of the black cloak. The gloved hand held an automatic. The muzzle of the gun was trained upon the huddled gangster.

The setting of this strange scene was the squalid room of an old hotel. An open bag upon the floor showed that the gangster had been about to leave. A doorlike window, with the dim rail of a small balcony beyond, showed the path by which The Shadow had entered to surprise the fleeing man.

"You fear death." The Shadow's voice was ironic. "You killed two men in cold blood, but you fear death, yourself. So I shall let you live" — the sudden hope that came in Forster's eyes ended with the next words — "for a little while!"

The crook chewed his puffy lips. His face had turned white. His eyes were pleading. The Shadow laughed again — the same sardonic laugh that had announced his presence here.

"Murderer though you are," he declared, "you have a coward's heart. Three nights ago you killed two men and fled. You were recognized. The police have been searching for you. They could not find you."

"But I, The Shadow, learned where you were hiding. Now, the police have learned of this place. They are on their way here. Soon, they will arrive."

Hawk threw a frightened glance toward the heavy door. It was his only way of escape.

Yet he dared not move.

The Shadow laughed. The plight of this trapped killer pleased him.

"But unfortunately," resumed The Shadow, "the police do not move as swiftly as The Shadow. Knowing that you might be planning an escape, I came here to hold you for them. Cowards such as you do not belong to The Shadow. So you may live — with one goal: the electric chair at Sing Sing."

"No! No!" gasped Hawk. "No! Let me go! I'll—"

His words were interrupted by sounds from the hallway outside the room. A heavy fist pounded on the strong door. Hawk Forster knelt in quaking silence.

"Open in the name of the law!" came through the door.

The muffled command went unheeded. Hawk Forster shuddered as he crouched against the wall, afraid to move. The Shadow, silent as a statue, made no attempt to force him. Sharp blows resounded. Hawk Forster turned his face toward the door. He could see the stout wood quiver from each blow. Again he faced The Shadow, in the center of the room. Hawk's pasty face was pitiful. He knew that he could expect no mercy from The Shadow; yet he held one furtive hope.

"Let me go!" he pleaded. "If you do, I'll tell! Yes, I'll tell what even you don't know! I'll give you the lay on the biggest game—"

He stopped as The Shadow laughed. The menacing automatic seemed endowed with life as it moved slowly forward. The glowing eyes were livid. Hawk Forster was learning the menace of The Shadow to the full.

To The Shadow, Hawk Forster was just another rat of the underworld. Time and again, The Shadow had trapped creatures of his ilk. They always pleaded for mercy — offered to squeal; to barter with The Shadow to save their own worthless skins. The Shadow had a way of dealing with them.

"You will squeal?" His voice was a harsh, weird whisper. "Squeal, then! Tell me what you know that I do not know. Speak!"

The words were a command. They offered no conditions. The Shadow's voice meant doom, with no escape.

Hawk Forster knew it; but his fear of The Shadow made him speak. Against his will, he squealed, while the battering at the door continued its mighty tattoo.

"It's a big game!" gasped Hawk. "They've been layin' low until it was ripe. Now it's all set. But before they start, there's one guy that's due to get his!"

"Be quick!"

The Shadow's command was terse and low as Hawk paused to lick his thick lips and stare in terror toward the slowly yielding door.

"Dan Antrim" — Forster was gasping what he knew — "Dan Antrim, the lawyer. He's crooked. Mixed up with the racket. He's a double-crosser! That's why he's goin' to get his. It's comin' from a guy that he thinks is—"

The words became a terrified squeal as the cowardly gangster saw the door bulge inward under the impact of a mighty smash. Hawk threw his arms before his face. The Shadow's left hand struck them down. His burning eyes were close to Hawk's hideous, distorted countenance.

"Who is after Antrim?"

"I'll tell you!" cried Hawk. "A guy I used to know — long ago. He's given me the lay. He's comin' here — to New York — to get—"

Before the miserable man could continue, the door was lifted bodily from its hinges, and hurled into the room. It had yielded unexpectedly. As it fell, two men sprawled headlong upon it.

The Shadow, never forgetting his purpose here, moved swiftly and silently. In three long, rapid strides, he was by the window. There, he turned for one quick, parting glance. Hawk Forster was pouncing forward. The Shadow saw the reason. In front of one of the men who was clambering from the flattened door lay a gleaming revolver.

The rising man was Detective Joe Cardona, ace of the New York force. His gun had shot from his grasp when he plunged in with the door.

That revolver meant salvation for Hawk Forster. The inrush of the police had ended The Shadow's opportunity to hear what Hawk knew. Now the menacing figure had departed, and Hawk saw his chance to thwart the men who sought to capture him.

Hawk's clawing fingers closed upon the revolver. Up came the weapon, before Cardona could reach it with a futile clutch. The second detective was raising his gun, too late. Hawk's finger was on the trigger of the revolver. The gangster's puffy lips were snarling their triumph.

As Hawk's finger moved, a shot resounded. It did not come from the gun that the murderer had grabbed. Instead, the report issued from the balcony outside the window.

The Shadow's automatic had spoken! Hawk's last chance was gone! The revolver dropped from his hand as The Shadow's bullet shattered his wrist. For a split second, the men on the floor formed an unmoving tableau.

Hawk Forster was staring at his useless hand. Joe Cardona was sprawled forward, at the end of a hopeless effort to seize the gangster's arm. The second detective was stupefied as he rested on one knee. None noticed the curl of smoke that weaved inward from the opened window. Hawk was the first to act, despite his bewilderment. He shot out his left hand to seize the gun. Cardona was wriggling sidewise to gain the weapon. The other detective had his opportunity, and used it. He fired twice over Cardona's back.

Hawk's mad spring ended in a twisting slump. The rat-faced gangster fell sidelong, and rolled upon his back. His bulging eyes must have fancied that they again saw the black clad figure of The Shadow, for terror came over Hawk's face as he coughed out inarticulate words.

Cardona heard the utterances, but could not understand them. He did not know that the dying man was trying to complete an interrupted statement; that Hawk Forster, on the rim of the beyond, was squealing. Then the eyes closed. The rat-faced gunman was dead.

Joe Cardona, his revolver regained, scrambled to his feet and looked about the room. His companion sprang forward to look at the dead man.

"Where did that shot come from?" growled Cardona. "Somebody clipped him right when we needed it most. Wasn't any of us—"

He paused as his gaze took in the opened window. Cardona motioned his companion back toward the doorway, while he himself slipped along the wall and approached the blackened casement. True, the single shot had saved Cardona's life; but had the man who fired it intended to aid the detective or hinder him? Cardona had seen shots like that go astray through strange twists of luck. While his brother officer, now wary, covered the window, Cardona stepped boldly to the balcony. All appeared dark outside. Deep fog blanketed the street.

Peering down into the gloom, Cardona made out a balcony on the floor below. Then there was a drop to the street. A swift, agile man could have escaped that way.

Through the fog, a street lamp showed the sidewalk below the balcony. A uniformed policeman dashed into the lamplight, staring upward. Evidently he had been attracted by the sound of the gunfire. Cardona shouted down to him. The patrolman recognized the brusque voice of the detective, the most widely known of all headquarters men.

"Any one down there?" demanded Cardona.

"No," came the officer's reply.

"Look under the balcony."

"No one there."

"Send for the wagon, then. We've got a dead one up here."

The policeman hurried away toward the patrol box, at the corner. Cardona peered downward; then shrugged his shoulders and went back to look at the body of Hawk Forster.

In the patch of light upon the sidewalk, a splotch of blackness appeared. It wavered there while a man emerged from a spot beside the dark wall of the old hotel.

The darkness disappeared as a tall form flitted across the street and merged with the misty light. Through the thickness of the fog resounded the tones of a weird, chilling laugh. Joe Cardona, viewing the body from the window, heard that laugh. It awakened a responsive chord in the detective's mind. His forehead furrowed as he caught the hint echoes of sinister mirth. The laugh of The Shadow!

Cardona knew that laugh. It had come to his ears at other times, when he had been miraculously saved from death at the hands of evildoers. To Cardona, the weird merriment brought enlightenment. He knew now that he had been brought here by The Shadow. He knew the source of the telephone call that had told him where Hawk Forster, wanted murderer, could be found. A quiet voice had spoken to Cardona over the phone — not the voice of The Shadow.

But Cardona had cause to believe that the avenger of crime employed trusted subordinates. The Shadow! He had spotted, captured and thwarted Hawk Forster, the killer. It was one more token of The Shadow's relentless war against crime; another blow struck in the cause of justice. Joe Cardona understood and thought that he knew all.

Cardona was wrong. He did not know that Hawk Forster was a rat who had tried to squeal; that the murderer had known the schemes of more potent crooks, and had been about to blab them to The Shadow when the detectives made their premature entrance.

Cardona suspected nothing. Only The Shadow knew that some great crime was brewing.

Yet he had gained only an inkling from Hawk Forster before circumstances had forced him to make a rapid exit. Danger threatened Daniel Antrim, a lawyer who dealt with criminals. When that danger struck, it would mark the beginning of rampant crime.

Vile plans were under way! With Hawk Forster dead, none but the schemers themselves knew what the details were.

Only The Shadow could meet these enemies of the law. To do so, he must learn both source and nature of the contemplated crime which Hawk Forster's sealed lips could never tell!

Could The Shadow uncover the plot, wherever it might be brewing?

Chapter II — Man with A Mission

The trim yacht Vesta was plowing smoothly through the mild blue waters of the Gulf Stream. Upon the rear deck, beneath a widespread canopy, sat four men, dressed in suits of cool pongee. Glasses clinked in their hands. Often their conversation was broken with ribald laughter.

The four appeared a typical group of pleasure-seekers, with nothing more to do than enjoy to the fullest the luxurious life of tropical seas.

There was a definite ease of equality about these men; each seemed to possess poise and leadership. In action, manner, and deportment, they were much alike. Yet in facial appearance and physical proportions, there were noticeable differences.

The difference became particularly evident during a peculiar ceremony which the men performed. They were drinking to the health of each in turn — apparently a regular procedure.

One man would keep to his seat as the other three stood and lifted their glasses.

"To George Ellsworth," those drinking the toast first recited in unison, "the best of luck and health!" They drank and sat down, plopping their empty glasses before the man whom they had toasted.

"Fill them up, Butcher. Fill them up!"

The one called George Ellsworth complied. His manner was characteristic of his nickname, "Butcher." He was a big, bluff fellow, some forty odd years of age. His face was full, his lips jocular. His fat, beefy hand gripped the bottle and filled the glasses.

Then Ellsworth rose, and two others got to their feet with him. The fourth of the group remained seated.

"To Howard Best," came the chant, "the best of luck and health!" Down went the drinks; down plopped the glasses.

"Your turn to fill them, Deacon," said Butcher.

Solemn-faced and taciturn, Howard Best silently filled the glasses, his white, scrawny hands tense. He was the sober-minded member of the group. The sobriquet of "Deacon" fitted him like a slipper. He appeared years older than Butcher. Standing next to the huge man, Deacon looked very lean and withered.

"To Maurice Exton, the best of luck and health!"

Thus chimed the third toast; and after it the jocular order:

"Pour it out, Major! Don't be stingy with the bottle!"

Maurice Exton — the one called "Major" — was a medium-sized man in his late thirties. His hair was black, his features sallow. A neat mustache that matched his hair adorned his upper lip.

A Van Dyke tipped his chin. His shoulders were erect, and had a military bearing. He filled the glasses with steady hands. Then came the toast to the fourth of the group:

"To Joel Hawkins, the best of luck and health!"

After the passing of this last toast, there was momentary silence.

Then Deacon turned to Joel Hawkins and said:

"Don't forget the glasses, Ferret. There's another one coming up."

"That's right," replied "Ferret," with a wry grin. "Did you think I forgot?" Joel Hawkins leaned forward with a shrewd, gleaming grin. Short, stoop-shouldered, so as to almost appear deformed, the name of Ferret was apt. The man's eyes peered sharply through partly closed lids.

Handling the bottle with his face on a level with the glasses, he seemed to be measuring each drink so that all would be exactly the same.

Major picked up his glass and stood, while the other three followed him to their feet.

"To David Traver!" he said, in an even voice.

"To David Traver," came the chorus, "the best of luck and health!" The men drank this final toast more slowly. Their glasses swung down one by one. As they resumed their seats, they looked about with satisfaction.

"Well, we've remembered Judge," declared Butcher.

"Judge has remembered us," said Deacon quietly.

The conversation took a new turn now that the strange formality had reached its end.

"New York in the morning. The end of the trail," announced Butcher, with a broad smile.

"All on deck at seven. We want to take a look at the Statue of Liberty!"

"Let the old gal take a look at us!" cackled Ferret.

"It's all the same to me," said Major. "What I'm thinking about is the few bottles that we might carry in. Judge would appreciate hearing our toast, when we see him."

"Deacon's the boy to lug in the grog," said Ferret cunningly. "He could pack it under his coat. There's plenty of room around that spindle shape of his. Lend him one of your coats, Butcher."

"Why worry about it?" questioned Butcher. "Like enough Judge will have a house-load of booze in over the Canadian border. No use monkeying with the custom men, if we can help it."

"There's sense in that," declared Major. "You know I don't like to take foolish chances. There are enough big ones. It was a great load off my mind when we spotted that plane off the Florida coast. The crew figured we sent in our full liquor supply then."

"They've been educated to it," observed Deacon.

"The important thing now," resumed Major, "is to split up after we land. Handshakes at the dock. The best of luck — for the future!"

"And no tears from you, Deacon," said Butcher. "I thought you were going to bust out crying when we made that overboard heave down in the Caribbean—"

"Forget it, Butcher," growled Major; "forget it! Deacon has forgotten it. That reminds me, Ferret — you're the one that has some forgetting to do."

"Major is right, Ferret," seconded Deacon.

"That letter writing" — Major shook his head in disapproval — "it wasn't right, Ferret!"

"But Hawk was a pal of mine," protested Ferret, looking around the group. "He wouldn't squawk. Anyway, I only told him—"

"We talked that over before," said Major. "We'll drop it now. I'm thinking of tomorrow. I'll get you a time-table, Ferret, as soon as we reach New York. The first train out of the big town will be the best. We want you to drop in on Judge ahead of the rest of us."

"All right," returned Ferret, in an annoyed tone. "Leave it to me, Major."

"I'll leave it to you!" Major spoke emphatically. "But remember, you're one in five. The interests of the gang come first. You may have some idea of your own. Get it out of your head — until afterward. There'll be plenty of time, later on. We're all going to be independent, after a while."

"Remember it," echoed Deacon, staring solemnly at Ferret.

Butcher chimed in with a warning growl.

That ended the discussion. Butcher, chewing the end of a Havana cigar, called for the steward, and another bottle was brought to the table. Afterward came dinner; then an ocean evening that ended with the men tottering singly to their cabins.

Faces were weary and solemn when the men gathered in the morning, as the Vesta nosed her way through the outer harbor. Standing by the rail, the four watched the outgoing liners, and stared toward the Staten Island shore.

Butcher seemed half groggy and less jocular than usual. Deacon was quiet and silent; but that was not unusual. Major said very little, but bore himself with the poise of a veteran. Ferret was the quietest of all. Yet his glance was furtive, and his manner restless.

With various delays in order, it was late in the afternoon when the Vesta had finally docked, and the four men had passed the customs officials. Ashore, the departing passengers shook hands with the stern-faced captain of the yacht. The Vesta was due to clear for another port within a few days. Deacon entered a taxicab alone. Butcher drove off in another. Major and Ferret remained, the latter grinning as he looked along the avenue that bordered the water front.

Major left him for a moment, to return with a time-table.

"Your train leaves Grand Central at midnight," he said. "I've marked it here. Telephoned a reservation for you. Go get some dinner, take in a show, but be sure you pull out on the Whirlwind Limited. Get me?"

"I get you," answered Ferret with a grin. "So long, Major. I'll be seeing you later." Ferret stepped into a cab and rolled away. He went directly to the Grand Central Station. There he picked up his railroad and sleeper tickets. He followed Major's advice about obtaining dinner.

But afterward, Ferret went to a telephone booth and consulted the Manhattan directory. His first finger ran along one of the front pages of the book. It stopped at the name of Antrim. Ferret noted the address. He closed the book, and his eyes gleamed wickedly. He had found his entertainment for that night!

Major was right. There were five of them. The predominant interest of the five was a common interest. But Ferret — more than any of the others — had an interest of his own. He did not intend to let it pass. The others would never know!

There was plenty of time remaining before midnight. A stroll on Broadway first; then he could take the path he wanted. Leave it to luck. If luck came his way, he would meet it. Thus it was that shortly after ten o'clock, Ferret, hands in pocket, appeared on a street some blocks north of Forty-second Street, sauntering toward the apartment where Daniel Antrim made his home.

Chapter III — Ferret Talks Business

Beneath the light of a street lamp, Ferret stopped and reached into his inside pocket. He drew forth a crumpled envelope. From this he extracted a much-creased letter.

The note, as Ferret opened it, revealed a crude scrawl, with a roughly traced diagram in the center of the page. Ferret's avid eyes swept through the writing as though they were merely refreshing themselves with knowledge that was already deeply embedded in the man's memory.

The letter was the work of a man who could spell but crudely. Ferret, a quick, keen reader, touched important statements with his finger tip, and smiled cruelly as he read them.

I have bin watching A sins you wised me up about him… I got into his plac whil he was out one nite… This drawing showes the lay… In the desk he kips the dop on the gys he is dubbel-crosing… Solly Bricker… Centter 1592… Keeping mum becuz of what you rote… Phony key behynd haul raddiater… Hawk.

The final word formed the signature. Ferret digested every statement in the letter. He paid particular attention to the diagram, which bore such marks as "big room," "back door," "raddiater," and "desk." Then Ferret tore the letter into tiny fragments. He strolled on through the dark, and tossed the pieces to the breeze. They fluttered away in all directions.

Sneaking craftily, Ferret reached the front door of an old apartment building. The inner lobby was dimly lighted. He entered and turned toward a flight of stairs at the left, ascending to the third floor. At the end of the hall were two doors — one at the corner on the left; the other on the right, but a dozen feet from the corner.

There was a light beaming through the glass transom of the doorway on the left. Ferret grinned. He stared suspiciously at the door on the right. The transom above it was black. That was sufficient. Ferret looked back along the gloomy hall. Seeing no one, he advanced to a radiator at the extreme end of the hall. He stooped and fished beneath the radiator. A key glimmered in his hand. Ferret was looking intently at the key. He did not observe the white face pressed against the transom at the right. Someone was watching him, but Ferret did not know it.

Silently, the stoop-shouldered man unlocked the door at the left and entered.

He was very cautious now — more stealthy than he had been in the hall, where his footfalls left a slight sound. He was peering into a lighted room, from a small entry. In the far corner he observed a stout, bald-headed man seated at a desk.

Ferret's lips curled in hatred as he noiselessly closed the door behind him. From his hip pocket he drew a short, stub-nosed revolver.

He crept forward like a preying cat until he was no more than six feet away from the bald-headed man. Then a sneering chuckle came from Ferret.

The stout man whirled quickly in his swivel chair. His red, bloated face became a livid purple. His body trembled. His bulging, startled eyes caught the upward nudge of Ferret's revolver. Instinctively, he raised his arms.

Ferret, cold-eyed, harsh-faced, and unmasked, stared directly at his quarry. The venomous hate in his eyes did not seem to impress Daniel Antrim.

The lawyer stared back at Ferret, wonderingly. Evidently he did not recognize the man who was threatening him.

"What do you want?" he demanded suddenly.

"I want to talk to you," growled Ferret, with a leer.

"Who are you?" questioned Antrim.

The reply was an outburst of cackling laughter.

"Who am I?" quizzed Ferret. "Did you ever hear of a man named Joel Hawkins?" Antrim shook his head slowly.

"Well, that's who I am. Joel Hawkins!" Ferret's laugh was frigid. "And you're Dan Antrim, the lawyer. The double-crosser!"

A startled look came over Antrim. For a moment he trembled. Then he became steadier, and assumed the air of a man who is ready to play out a desperate bluff.

"You're wrong," he said, "all wrong. You're mixed up. Let's take this easy now. Put down that gun—"

"And let you pull another double cross? Nix!"

"I never double-crossed anybody in—"

"You never did different!" growled Ferret.

He gave a forward thrust with his arm, and shoved the gun almost against Antrim's ribs.

"Slide back that chair!" Ferret ordered. "I'll show you the goods. That's what I'll do!"

Covering Antrim, who was pushing himself away from the desk with his feet, Ferret yanked at the bottom drawer of the desk. It jerked open, and Ferret pulled out a stack of papers. He did this mechanically, watching Antrim as he worked.

With quick, short glances toward the contents of the drawer, Ferret found the envelope he sought. It was marked with the name of Bricker.

With one dexterous hand, Ferret shook some folded papers from the envelope. He gave a swift look at them; then gazed suddenly at Daniel Antrim.

The expression on the lawyer's face told everything. Ferret had not had time to notice what was on the papers; but Antrim's unrestrained fear showed that he knew his bluff had failed.

Ferret chuckled.

"I don't have to look any more," he declared. "I know you're a double-crosser. You've pulled it on a lot of people. There's one thing I'm not going to tell you just yet — that is, how I found out. Wait until you hear."

His voice trailed into another laugh. He lifted the receiver from the hook of the telephone on the desk. With his gun elbow on the top of the mouthpiece, Ferret dialed a number with his left hand. Antrim, wild-eyed, was watching, trying to learn the number that Ferret was calling.

"Who— who—" he began, in a stutter.

"I'm calling a fellow who has a lot to learn," declared Ferret. "He'll find it out — now!" His eyes were gleaming with a menace that made Antrim remain unprotesting. A query came over the wire. Ferret spoke.

"That you, Solly?… Good… Listen, I'm giving you a straight lay… Dan Antrim is double-crossing you… Yes, the lawyer. You thought he was O K.? Well, he isn't…

"All right. You know where he lives? Come up, then… Walk right in. The door will be open for you… Yes, you'll find him here, and the dope you want will be lying on his desk…

You'll be just in time to see him get what's due him. I'm going to plug him, but he won't be dead.

I'll leave the second shot for you. Don't forget to grab the stuff you find…"

Ferret was listening shrewdly. He heard an excited oath across the wire. He hung up the telephone.

"Solly is convinced," he said to Antrim, with a grin. "He's coming here. When he gets here it's curtains for you, Dan Antrim."

"I'll make it worthwhile!" gasped the lawyer. "Lay off this! Let me go. I'll pay you—"

"Pay me?"

Ferret's cold tone was intense with hate. He shoved his body close to the lawyer's form and snarled a terse message into Daniel Antrim's ear. A look of complete stupefaction spread over the lawyer's face. Ferret stepped back, leering.

"You get it now?"

"You— you—" gasped Antrim.

"Yes," grinned Ferret. "You didn't figure I would be around, did you? Well, you'll never know how I got here!"

He stepped across the room and waited, covering Antrim from the farther door.

"All I'm going to do is plug you once," he said, still grinning. "Then I'll leave you for Solly. You and the papers on the desk."

"That back door of yours is going to make a nice way out for me, Antrim. I unlatched the front when I came in. Solly won't have any trouble. None at all. None at all!" The two men were motionless now. Antrim, slumped, was breathing heavily. Ferret, leering, wore a fixed expression on his crafty face. It was a strange scene — especially when viewed from the transom of the apartment door.

For there a man was peering, with one foot poised on the radiator, his opposite hand clinging to the side of the doorway. This man, looking from the hallway, had silently witnessed each move in Ferret's trapping of Daniel Antrim.

The peering man, serious-faced and broad-shouldered, dropped from his perch with the lightness of a cat, and stood an instant in the hallway. He turned and crossed to the half-opened door on the other side. He hastened into a dark apartment, and closed the door. A few moments later he was at a telephone. A quiet voice answered him. It spoke only a single word. That word was a name:

"Burbank."

"Vincent calling," declared the man at the telephone in a low, tense tone. "Man in Antrim's apartment. Covering him with gun. Has telephoned. Evidently expecting someone else."

"Stand by. Call in three minutes."

Harry Vincent, agent of The Shadow, stood by in the darkness. He had been stationed here to watch developments at Daniel Antrim's. The man to whom he had just spoken was Burbank. Harry knew, while he waited, that Burbank was communicating his message to The Shadow. He called the number again. Once more came the quiet voice of Burbank. This time, it carried an order.

"Prevent action by Antrim's enemy. Hold him there."

That was all. Quickly, Harry hung up the telephone and slipped from his darkened apartment. He approached Antrim's door, and carefully turned the knob. The door yielded. Harry had not waited to take another look through the transom. He held an automatic firmly in his right hand, pointing it through the narrow opening of the door. He saw the positions of the two men virtually unchanged.

Ferret, gloating, had his eyes on Antrim. The lawyer was staring at the man who covered him. It was a tense moment for Harry Vincent; but he had experienced more difficult ones in the service of The Shadow. His course was plain, and he followed it.

Stepping into the entryway, he let the door swing easily behind him. It stopped before it was fully closed. Without waiting for the noise to be noticed, Harry spoke in a brusque, determined tone:

"Drop that gun!" he ordered. "One move and you're dead!"

Ferret knew the words were meant for him. He knew too much to let them pass unheeded. His hand did not move as his eyes turned to note the automatic in Harry Vincent's hand. Ferret's fingers unclosed mechanically. His own revolver clattered on the floor.

"Turn this way!" commanded Harry. "Hands up! Back against the wall!" Ferret's gloating turned to a hunted, furtive glance. Sullenly, he did as he was told. He stared straight into the barrel of Harry's automatic.

Daniel Antrim, recovering his wits, arose slowly and approached his desk. Harry did not stop him. Antrim, fumbling in a drawer, was hunting for his gun.

Harry's firm, unyielding method did not allow Ferret a single inch of leeway. But as Harry watched, he noticed something that suddenly brought uncertainty. Ferret's furtive eyes were changing. The lids half closed, and the pupils gleamed through the narrowed slits.

It was startling that this should happen when Harry held him helpless, and Antrim was also rising as an enemy. It came as an instant warning to the man at the door.

In a twinkling, Harry saw that Antrim was producing a revolver. Ferret could be his quarry, now. Harry knew that danger had arrived.

He swung instantly toward the door behind him. As he did, a huge hand caught his wrist and wrenched it downward. An arm, already swinging, brought the barrel of a revolver flashing toward his head. Harry's instinctive dodge diverted the terrific blow. Its intent was to crack his skull. Instead, it clipped the side of his neck.

That was sufficient. Harry's automatic fell from his nerveless fingers. He slumped, unconscious, to the floor of the entry.

Solly Bricker had arrived.

Chapter IV — The Man of the Night

The moments that followed the fall of Harry Vincent were thrilling ones. Ferret, Daniel Antrim, and Solly Bricker were the principal actors in an exciting scene. The supernumeraries were a quartet of hoodlums who had followed Solly into the apartment.

Daniel Antrim heard the scuffle at the door. His revolver was in his hand as Harry Vincent fell. Instinctively, the stout lawyer swung to meet the new menace. His bloated face was blue with excitement.

Antrim was between two enemies: Ferret, unarmed, and Solly, a formidable foeman.

Seeing the surge of men in the doorway, he sensed that a third real danger lay there.

Ferret, shrewd in spite of his predicament, began to move cunningly the moment that Antrim turned away. He was swift, yet cautious, as he sank to the floor and extended a furtive hand toward his gun. It was not only fear of attracting Antrim's attention that withheld Ferret; it was also uncertainty regarding Solly Bricker. Ferret knew that the notorious gang leader might shoot first and inquire afterward. Solly, himself, had need of prompt action. His arm was down, following the blow that he had delivered to Harry Vincent. His men were in back of him, blocked from action by their leader's body. Solly, coming up with his gun, intended to cover Antrim until he knew how matters stood. But with the lawyer wildly springing to an attack, Solly was forced to act quickly. Antrim was about to fire. Solly, his body turned, could not beat him to the shot. The gangster dropped away, and his men, inspired by their leader's action, scrambled back into the hallway. Had Antrim been capable of pressing his advantage, he might have broken the attack, for the cards were momentarily in his favor. But the lawyer, a poor handler of a revolver, did exactly what Solly had expected him to do. He fired at the spot where the gang leader had been; not where the enemy was now located.

The lawyer's first bullet crashed into the wall a full foot above Solly's shoulder. His second shot was even wider of its mark.

Now came Solly's reply from the rising automatic. The gangster's shot was close; it whizzed by Antrim's body, just as the lawyer, realizing his former mistake, was lowering his gun toward Solly. Had the duel remained in the hands of these two men, the next second of action would have decided the outcome. Daniel Antrim had his finger on the trigger. Solly Bricker was ready with his next shot. Each had gained a sure aim. Their shots were about to be discharged simultaneously. But neither had reckoned with Ferret. Sliding toward his revolver, the stoop-shouldered man with the crafty eyes was watching the participants in the exciting affray.

Even before they fired their first shots, he saw that neither would be concerned with him.

Ferret's cunning glide had turned to a quick movement.

He was up with his gun at the crucial moment, his finger tightening on the trigger. A loud report, and Daniel Antrim toppled sidewise, just as he was about to fire.

So short was the time between Ferret's shot and the imminent outcome of the duel between Antrim and Solly, that the latter had no time to alter his aim. His shot followed, zimming just above the head of the crumpling lawyer.

Ferret waited no longer. With a wicked chuckle he dived for the door that led to the rear of the apartment. He had decided this conflict just as he had threatened to do. He had wounded Antrim, and left the rest for Solly. With the echoes of the gunfire resounding through the apartment, it was time for him to be on his way.

Solly did not notice Ferret's departure. This man — he did not know Ferret's identity — had saved his life. Antrim, crumpled on the floor, was trying his best to raise himself to a firing position. Solly Bricker showed him no mercy.

Thrice the gang leader's automatic pumped leaden carriers of death into the writhing form. Daniel Antrim, the double-crosser, lay dead and motionless when Solly lowered his pistol and strode to the desk. He snatched up the documents that lay there. His quick scrutiny revealed that they referred to him. They betrayed Antrim's plans to have Bricker brought to justice — because Solly had refused to enter into a compact with the crooked lawyer!

Antrim had never threatened; but from the moment that Solly had received Ferret's phone call, he had been suspicious. That fact had accounted for his prompt arrival with his mob.

Cursing, Solly spat at the dead man on the floor. Then, recalling the beginning of the conflict, he turned to the door through which his four gorillas were appearing.

"Get that guy!" exclaimed Solly. "The one I knocked cold. Drag him in here!" The gang leader thrust the incriminating papers in his pocket, and watched as the hoodlums lugged Harry Vincent to the center of the room. Their victim was still senseless.

"Prop him up, two of you!" ordered Solly. "The others stand guard. One at the front door. One at the back. We're going to scram."

Harry, his body twisted crazily, was spread-eagled by his outstretched arm. His form was held upright between two sullen-faced mobsters. His head was leaning face downward. The side of his face and neck showed the mark of the blow that Solly had delivered.

Stalking forward, Solly clenched his left fist and brought it upward brutally. He struck Harry forcibly on the chin, and the helpless man's head flopped back. Solly leered at the pale, expressionless face.

"He's out," declared the mob leader. "Out cold. That's because I hit him. I knock 'em cold. We've got to scram. No time to waste. Hold him — I'll do the rest."

He stepped back and calmly leveled his automatic at Harry Vincent's heart. With cool indifference, Solly placed his finger on the trigger, and prepared to viciously end the life of The Shadow's operative. It seemed certain doom for Harry Vincent. Two gangsters were clutching him. An armed man was at each entrance. Solly Bricker was about to fire.

No one moved as Solly took deliberate aim. The man at the rear exit was peering through the doorway. The man on guard at the front door, interested in the craftsmanship of his leader, had turned his head to watch Solly.

Five mobsmen — all armed and unscathed. Harry Vincent, weaponless and unconscious.

These were odds that Solly Bricker liked! A million to one in his favor, so he thought. But Solly was wrong. Neither he nor any of the watching men saw the long black shadow that projected itself upon the floor. It started from the hallway, and above it loomed the man himself — a tall, silent figure, clad in black cloak and slouch hat.

The Shadow was present!

Had the mysterious arrival relied upon a single gun; had he acted in haste or had he yielded a sound to tell of his presence, he could not have saved the life of Harry Vincent. But The Shadow never erred!

Each of his black-gloved hands clutched an automatic. With smooth, certain motion, he nudged the pistol in his left hand against the body of the man at the door, and pointed the right-hand gun directly at Solly Bricker. Both pistols spoke together, so that the two shots sounded like one of terrific volume. The first shot eliminated the man at the door. He dropped forward, a wound in his side. The other shot struck Solly's forearm just above the wrist, and plowed on into the gang leader's body. The Shadow's right arm was extended, his left held close to his body. His left hand moved forward from the recoil of the .45. The gun barrel now rested squarely on the crook of his right elbow.

The left-hand gun spoke again with perfect aim. Its bullet clipped the man at the opposite door before the startled gunman could recover from his surprise. The watching gangster went down. As the left hand drew back, the right whirled, and the two automatics were covering the men who held Harry Vincent!

One against five — yet The Shadow had turned the tables in one quick second. A perfect marksman, every one of his timed actions led to another. Three shots, each calculated, had disposed of three enemies. The other two were in The Shadow's power!

Here entered the element of uncertainty. Solly's last two retainers were neither cowardly nor brave. They were toughened gang fighters, who liked to shoot down helpless victims; at the same time, they were men who believed in fighting as the best means of self-preservation.

They realized nothing of The Shadow's strategy. They only knew that they were in a tough spot. As men who had never given mercy, they expected none. Each with the same thought — knowing that they were two against one — let go his hold on Harry Vincent, and swung his revolver toward the menacing form in black.

The Shadow had two bullets for them. His left-hand pistol spouted flame as a quick shot flattened the nearer gunman. But the attacker on the right was a graver menace. He dropped to the floor as Harry's body fell. He was behind the crumpling form, and his revolver was coming up. The Shadow fired. His bullet grazed the gangster's left shoulder as he hunched away from danger. An inch lower, and the shot would have told; but an inch lower would have made Harry's form the target. The gangster's right hand swung up in front of Harry's body. The man pressed the trigger, once— twice— But the hasty shots went wide. The Shadow, too, was moving. He was coming forward swiftly, just as the hand appeared. Forward and to the right — missing the area covered by the revolver. The Shadow's left arm, stretching far and low, delivered a shot that prevented a third bullet from the gangster. It clicked the top of the revolver barrel, and ricocheted to the wall beyond. Instinctively, the gangster drew away, and in that action, he displayed his neck and shoulders above Harry's body. The Shadow's right hand acted.

That finished the conflict. A single shot from close range was delivered by the hand that never failed. The bullet paralyzed the mobster as it took him in the neck, along the spine. The last of The Shadow's enemies sprawled face downward on the floor.

The Shadow's automatics went beneath his cloak. A long stride, and he was plucking Harry Vincent from the floor. Distant shouts were coming from the hall. The Shadow, employing amazing strength, lifted Harry, and carried him through the rear door of the apartment.

When two policemen dashed into the apartment, a moment later, they found Solly Bricker and his crew, sprawled out, with the body of Daniel Antrim.

Solly, like the lawyer, was dead. The Shadow's timely shot had reached his heart, after clipping his extended forearm.

From the fire tower, which opened on a small courtyard behind the apartment, a body appeared as though suspended in space. It was Harry Vincent's form, supported by the invisible figure of The Shadow. Then the carrying figure showed in the filtering light, like a black phantom of the night. He was bearing his companion away to safety. Suddenly The Shadow stopped. He set Harry's form against the wall. His figure loomed over the unconscious man, like a protecting guardian. His black cloak masked Harry's presence as completely as if it had been blotted out by night. The light of an electric torch appeared. A policeman, attracted by the shots, was entering the alley. He neared the fire tower. Uncertain of his surroundings, he turned, and his flashlight gleamed directly upon the figure of The Shadow.

The policeman was dumfounded. His revolver in his left hand, his torch in his right, he might have killed The Shadow. But he never gained the advantage.

The Shadow dropped forward, catching the policeman's wrists. Twisting powerfully, he whirled the officer's body in a circle.

The revolver and the flashlight shot through the air in opposite directions. The policeman landed on his back, and rolled over twice. Stooping, The Shadow raised Harry's body and carried it swiftly toward the street.

The policeman, momentarily dazed, saw his flashlight shining on the ground. He leaped for it, and flashed it back and forth. It located his revolver. He hurried toward the street — with many seconds lost. The patrolman looked up and down. Forty feet away, he saw a man halfway in the door of a parked automobile. The policeman raised his revolver and ran shouting in that direction. The man emerged from the car and stood awaiting him. The policeman stopped short.

He was facing a tall man, immaculately clad in evening clothes. The man blocked the door of the car; the officer's flashlight, shining beyond, showed thick darkness within the vehicle.

"What is the trouble, officer?"

The gentleman spoke in a quiet voice. The policeman was immediately impressed by his importance. The contrast between the swift activity of the shrouded figure in the alley, and the quiet bearing of this individual, was obvious.

Not for one moment did the officer suspect any connection between them, but he figured that this man might serve as a witness.

"A man got away from me back there," declared the policeman, waving his gun toward the entrance of the alley. "Did you see him? Which way did he go?"

"I saw no one," was the quiet response.

The policeman stared down the street toward the corner. He decided that his attacker must have dashed in the opposite direction. Pursuit, now, would be useless.

The officer felt that his duty was up in the apartment building, not knowing that others of the police had already entered by the front door.

"All right," he said gruffly. "Sorry to have bothered you, chief. If you're driving away, and see any one that looks suspicious, better get to the nearest policeman."

"That is exactly what I shall do."

The officer turned and hurried off toward the apartment house. The tall, quiet-faced man watched until he had disappeared from view. Then, with deliberation, he reached into the car and lifted a black garment that lay there, revealing the helpless form of Harry Vincent.

The black cloak swished. A slouch hat settled on the tall personage's forehead. With a soft, uncanny laugh, he stepped into the car. The motor purred rhythmically. The car rolled along the street. The automobile turned the corner, and headed toward Broadway. The driver was silent, and almost invisible — little more than a mass of blackness.

The Shadow was taking away his rescued underling. The whispered laugh reechoed through the car. For The Shadow had conquered the fiends of the underworld.

But Harry Vincent, still senseless, had not yet told the story of the conflict. The Shadow had not learned that the lone instigator of the wild affray had escaped.

Ferret had gone. The Shadow, unable to tarry in Daniel Antrim's apartment, had gained no inkling of the man's departure.

Chapter V — Ferret Is Pleased

Riding westward on the Whirlwind Limited, a man in the club car was idly noting the headlines of a Detroit newspaper. The train was speeding through the Michigan countryside. The man who was reading divided his time between the scenery and the paper.

It was Ferret — he who bore the name Joel Hawkins. Leisurely, well-attired, he appeared no more than a New York business man bound for the Middle West.

Ferret's eyes gleamed. The man's placidity turned to craftiness as he noted a certain headline over a New York news item:

Gangsters War In Ney York Apartment

The account referred to the affray of the previous night. Eagerly, Ferret scanned the details. A puzzled frown appeared upon his forehead.

According to the report, a mob of gunmen had invaded the apartment of a lawyer named Daniel Antrim. There, guns had broken loose. The lawyer had been slain by the mobsters. It had developed into a shooting party of magnitude — a battle which indicated the warring of rival factions. When the smoke had cleared away, the police had entered to find four men dead and two wounded. One of the dead was Daniel Antrim, the attorney. Another was Solly Bricker, notorious gang leader. In the latter's pocket, the police had discovered papers that showed Antrim's handwriting. These documents contained evidence incriminating Solly Bricker of many misdeeds. It was evident that Daniel Antrim had conducted negotiations with various criminals.

Otherwise, he would not have established facts that were entirely unknown to the police — facts which manifested themselves in the papers found on Solly Bricker.

It was supposed that Solly had come to Antrim's to discuss affairs of mutual interest.

Evidently, Solly's gang had been lying low in the hallway outside the apartment. The lawyer and the gang leader had come to guns instead of terms.

Solly's henchmen had rallied to his rescue. But Antrim, wise to the ways of gangdom, had relied upon a crew of his own. The result had been the end of Solly and his crowd. There was sufficient proof that men had escaped from the place. Daniel Antrim could not have accounted for five enemies, single-handed. All indications showed that he had been put out of action early in the melee. Moreover, the dead and wounded were all of Solly's outfit.

A policeman, entering the rear of the apartment, while his fellows were coming in through the front, had encountered an escaping man. The officer had failed to stop the fugitive.

Thus it was positive that at least one man had made a get-away from the premises. Others might have gone before. Ferret wondered. The amazing result of the fracas seemed incredible. The one escaping man — that must have been the fellow whom Solly cracked at the door. Ferret had seen the man go down, completely out.

Had he come to life and accounted for the gangsters single-handed? That seemed to be the only answer. Ferret read the account again and again. He threw the paper aside and stared unseeing from the window. After all, what did it matter? The affair was for the best. Daniel Antrim was dead — and the blame lay on Solly. Had the gang leader gotten away, the police would now be looking for the lawyer's slayer. As it was, they were seeking among gangsters who were known to be inimical to Solly Bricker. A satisfied smile curled over Ferret's lips. He had gone against Major's instructions. He had walked into a tough spot, looking for personal revenge, when he should have been serving the Five Chameleons. He had stepped away in safety, and the others had shot it out. Ferret had started something with which he would never be connected. It was work that he liked. He had done well in New York!

Now, his opportunity lay far away. Unmixed with affairs in New York, he could pursue his intended task. He grinned as he thought of Major. His companion would never know of Ferret's unscheduled activity in New York.

Ferret bore the air of a man who had squared accounts. He picked up the newspaper again and rested his finger on the name of Daniel Antrim. A fiendish sneer came over his face. Then, realizing that persons might be watching him, the stoop-shouldered man dropped the journal and walked back toward the dining car.

The longer Ferret considered the subject, the more pleased he became with his own immunity. At times he had qualms, fearing that Major might read the account of the gun battle and perceive some connection between it and Ferret. But he soon dismissed these thoughts as ridiculous. When the Limited reached Chicago, Ferret obtained a local newspaper and perused a fuller account of the New York affair. The Chicago journals were always ready to play up shooting matches that took place in Manhattan.

The chief concern of the New York police, he read, appeared to be directed toward the future. The affair at Antrim's might mean the beginning of extended feuds.

Taking another train in Chicago, Ferret proceeded westward. He was coming to the end of his journey, far away from New York. It was late the following afternoon when the train approached the stop of Middletown Junction. That was Ferret's destination.

He alighted at the platform of an old station. The short branch line running to Middletown was no longer in operation. A bus had replaced it.

Ferret took the bus, and half an hour later the vehicle stopped on the main street of a prosperous Middle Western town. Ferret stepped off and consulted a paper which he drew from his pocket. He asked no questions here. Suitcase in hand, he sauntered along the main street. He walked by a block of modern construction, made up of new buildings, all connected into one, to form the pride of Middletown.

Ferret noticed a marble-fronted bank in the middle of the block. A larger bank occupied the farthest corner. Here, Ferret turned right and crossed the town square.

He had never been in Middletown before, yet he knew his way perfectly. On the opposite side of the square, he entered the beginning of a residential district, and within a few blocks he turned up the walk to the front door of a good-sized house. Here he rang the bell, and a maid quickly appeared in answer. Ferret handed her a card that bore the name of Joel Hawkins. He inquired if Mr. Traver was at home. The maid responded in the affirmative, and conducted Ferret into a small parlor. She returned later, and led him to the door of a room near the back of the first floor.

Ferret entered and grinned. A man was seated at a desk, going over a stack of mail. He was a man past middle age, of strong physique and stern face. His thick hair was gray, and he carried himself like a prosperous man who held a high position in his community. Ferret closed the door.

"Hello, Judge!" he said.

The man looked up sternly.

"You are Mr. Hawkins?" he inquired.

Ferret, taken aback by this, could only nod.

"You wish to see me?" came the question.

"Yes— er— Mr. Traver," said Ferret. A broad grin appeared upon the gray-haired man's face. He arose and walked over to Ferret. He shoved out his hand, and Ferret accepted it with another grin.

"Glad to see you, Ferret," said Judge, in a pleased tone. "Major wired me that you would be here first. You made good time. Have you been behaving yourself?"

"Yes," lied Ferret.

He met Judge's cold, questioning stare. The other man appeared satisfied. Ferret was inwardly relieved. Major might be shrewd, but he could not compare with Judge. This man, despite an expression of benignity that cloaked his countenance, was one who could not be easily deceived.

"Sit down," invited Judge.

Ferret obeyed.

"We shall not go into details tonight," declared Judge. "There will be plenty of time — after you have acclimated yourself to Middletown. But remember, Ferret, this is a small city. It has its own ways, and you must accustom yourself to them. Middletown is not New York." The comparison was an apt one; though Judge did not realize it, it made an immediate impression upon Ferret, who was fresh from his New York adventure.

Judge, still speaking quietly, rang a bell. The maid entered.

"Mr. Hawkins will remain for dinner," announced Judge.

Ferret was thinking, wondering what lay ahead in Middletown. Judge was his leader, a man whom Ferret feared and obeyed.

His inability to foresee the future made Ferret's mind swing to the past — to the last day on the yacht, when they had drank the health of Judge — to the instructions given him by Major — to his defiance of those orders, and the resulting fight at Antrim's.

Judge was finishing his work at the desk, and Ferret's thoughts were miles away. His half-closed eyes were picturing the wounded form of Daniel Antrim, the menacing figure of Solly Bricker— Then, into Ferret's mind, came speculation over the strange outcome of the fray.

It was a matter that had troubled him ever since he had read the first report in the Detroit newspaper. Who had brought the battle to its strange ending? Who could have entered to deal death and destruction — then to escape before the police arrived?

As though endowed with clairvoyance. Ferret was visualizing someone in back of the grim game at Antrim's — a figure of power and of vengeance. As Judge began to speak, Ferret brought himself back to his surroundings, and the momentary vision faded from his mind. Ferret was laughing at his own fears. Yet in that moment, he had been near to the truth. Safe from gangdom, safe from the law, Ferret could not be free from a man who knew both — yet worked with neither.

Crafty though Ferret had been, his escape and his new environment could not remain unknown to The Shadow!