Listeners shuddered. Crooks in the underworld snapped off their radios as they heard the reminder of the enemy they feared. The voice of The Shadow! Many knew it; yet none had encountered its author, face to face!
But in one spot in Manhattan, a strange event was under way. A dim light showed beside a radio set. In front of the loud speaker was the revolving disk of a phonograph record. As The Shadow’s voice came over the air; as the sinister tones ended with a creepy, sardonic laugh, every note was caught and transcribed to the record.
The radio snapped off. The task was ended. A fiendish chuckle sounded as hands stopped the phonograph and removed the disk. An insidious task was done.
The Shadow had predicted that Charg would be forced to deal with him. The prophecy was on its way to a completion.
That disk which had caught the tones of The Shadow’s laugh was to play a part in the next attempt at murder — which would come from the lair of Charg!
CHAPTER XVII. HANDS OF DEATH
“WHO are you, intruder?”
“I am Jerry Laffan. I am the servant of Charg.”
“Your token?”
“Three.”
A pause. Jerry Laffan stood silent as he eyed the screen and the seated figure beyond. He could detect a motion of the jeweled turban.
“You will join Daper,” came Charg’s grating tone. “Together, you will go to the apartment where you laid the trap so long ago. Arrive there at eleven o’clock. Are my instructions plain?”
“They are.”
“Together,” resumed Charg’s, asp, “you will remove the taboret. After that, you will return alone. Make sure the victim will not be discovered. If necessary, remove the body. Are my instructions plain?”
“Yes.”
“Charg has commanded.” The words seemed ominous.
“When Charg commands,” repeated Laffan, “his servants obey.”
The shady arm was stretching behind the screen. It was moving to the switch that operated the outer door. Laffan swung away as he heard the final words:
“Then go. To linger with Charg means death.”
It was early evening in Manhattan; Jerry Laffan had the shelter of darkness when he emerged from the building that housed Charg’s lair. The stocky man knew that there was no need for hurry. A few hours remained before his meeting with Bart Daper.
Evil was afoot. Laffan knew it from Charg’s instructions. These were emergency orders, tonight. Some one was being lured to a trap that had long since been planted. Laffan’s face showed tensely in the light of Tenth Avenue.
This was the third night since the affray at Whilton’s. Both Laffan and Daper had reported to Charg since that battle. Both had told him of The Shadow. Present plans — as Laffan saw them — could mean but one thing. A lure had been laid by Charg. The Shadow was to be enmeshed.
JERRY LAFFAN was no ordinary criminal. Dangerous though he was, he had been recruited from outside the underworld. That was one important reason why he had been useful to Charg. Jerry Laffan had no record, so far as the police were concerned. The same applied to Daper; it had also applied to Quinton.
Yet Jerry Laffan knew the menace of The Shadow. Moreover, he and Daper had encountered The Shadow, only three nights ago. Had he been on his own resources, Laffan would have fled Manhattan; but there was a staying force that kept him here: the power of Charg.
Laffan had confidence in the master whom he dreaded. Though The Shadow had gained success three nights ago, it had been in conflict with mere agents of Charg’s; not with one of the monster’s murderers.
The thought gave Laffan new confidence. His lips showed a grin.
Tonight, The Shadow would encounter a killing force. He would be met by a strangling, mangling battler — the same sort of foe that had dealt with Fallow, Dyke and Talbot. There was to be no placing of a trap — as at Whilton’s. The snare was already set.
How was The Shadow to be lured? Jerry Laffan pondered vainly over the question. He did not know that the answer was already in the making. A visitor had arrived at Herbert Whilton’s Long Island home.
Lamont Cranston, proxy for the absent philanthropist, had come to obtain Whilton’s mail.
A servant ushered Cranston into the smoking room. Alone, the visitor picked up a small stack of envelopes that lay upon a table by the telephone. One letter, its address a crude scrawl, caught the keen eyes of The Shadow. Fingers ripped open the envelope.
The note within was scrawled, in the same handwriting as the address. The Shadow read the message:
DEAR MR. WHILTON: You are in danger. I am a friend. I can tell you who seeks your life. Come to the old house on East Seventy-seventh Street which is now called the Aurilla Apartment.
You will find me in the rear apartment on the third floor. If I am late, a note will be there for you. Come alone. I can speak only in private. Be there at exactly 10:30.
A FRIEND.
A soft laugh crept from Cranston’s firm lips. The note was definitely a lure. Its vague terms added to its crudity. An old man, like Herbert Whilton, would balk if he received such a communication.
But The Shadow knew that the note was not for Herbert Whilton. It was intended for its present reader: Lamont Cranston. It was the outgrowth of the affray between The Shadow and the agents of Charg.
The Shadow had declared himself three nights ago. On the succeeding evening, he had made his part even more apparent. He had talked to Bryce Towson of The Shadow. Shelburne had overheard.
Frederick Thorne had learned of Lamont Cranston’s statements.
The sender of this note had issued a challenge to The Shadow. It was a declaration that a death trap existed; an invitation for The Shadow to come and uncover it. Charg, master of murder, was prepared for The Shadow, lone fighter against crime.
Lamont Cranston’s tall form settled in a chair beside the table. His hands raised the telephone. Lips phrased a number. A voice responded:
“Burbank speaking.”
“Instructions to Marsland and Vincent,” whispered The Shadow. “On watch at the Aurilla Apartment, East Seventy-seventh Street, beginning at ten o’clock. Watch all arrivals. Follow any suspicious persons who depart.”
“Instructions received.”
The telephone clattered. The Shadow arose. His laugh was sibilant, confined within the smoking room.
He was ready to accept Charg’s challenge. He had also planned a counterthrust. Should agents of Charg escape tonight, they would be tracked by competent men who worked in The Shadow’s behalf.
HOURS passed. At exactly ten o’clock, a light clicked in The Shadow’s sanctum. White hands obtained the earphones. The bulb glimmered as Burbank responded to this new call.
“Burbank speaking.”
“Report.”
“Report from Vincent. He has been watching Bryce Towson’s home. Towson has been there since five o’clock. Vincent has left. He started for the Aurilla Apartment at nine thirty.”
“Report received.”
“Report from Marsland. He was watching Thorne’s. He saw Thorne go out before dinner. Thorne did not return until half an hour ago. Marsland has left for the Aurilla.”
“Word on Shelburne?”
“None. Neither Vincent nor Marsland have seen him. No report from Burke.”
“Report received.”
The earphones clattered. The light went out. A parting laugh sounded through the sanctum. From Stygian blackness, The Shadow was faring forth to new adventure.
Half past ten. The old building now called the Aurilla Apartment loomed in top-heavy style above the sidewalk of Seventy-seventh Street. To Cliff Marsland and Harry Vincent, viewing the gloomy house from across the street, two entrances were visible.