“That you, Wolf?” he inquired. “This is King Furzman. Say, Wolf - that idea of yours about The Shadow sounds right. I got a tip-off from Wellerton. He says The Shadow was on his trail, too.”
“He says what?” Wolf’s reply was an incredulous tone over the wire.
“He says The Shadow is on his trail,” repeated King. “That is, The Shadow was on his trail, until he managed to duck out.”
“Where?” came Wolf’s question.
“That’s my business,” snapped Furzman, remembering Graham’s injunction to say nothing regarding his whereabouts. “The point is that Wellerton figures The Shadow trailed you here last night.”
“So that’s his game, eh?” Wolf’s snarl sounded clearly in the receiver. “Tryin’ to blame somethin’ on me. Say, King, don’t let that egg stall you. He’s got somethin’ up his sleeve. He’s out to double-cross you, Wellerton is.”
“I know where he’s gone,” declared the big shot harshly. “I want you to keep away from here. Lay low for a while.”
“Honest, King,” came Wolf’s plea, “I ain’t handin’ you no boloney. Let me come up there tonight - I can put you wise to the kind of a bird Wellerton is. He’s tryin’ to slip somethin’ over on you. Say - he couldn’t duck The Shadow if that guy was on his trail -“
“Can the gab, Wolf,” ordered Furzman. “You won’t get anywhere by knocking Wellerton. You heard what I had to say. Lay low until you hear from me.”
“Listen, King -“
Wolf’s plea was cut short as Furzman hung up. The big shot set the telephone heavily upon a table and growled to himself as he stood staring at the wall.
His mind was at odds. Graham Wellerton’s warning had been impressive; Wolf Daggert’s doubts, however, began to change the matter.
King Furzman wondered.
Was Wolf right? Had Wellerton been stalling?
It was conceivable that Graham could have some game of his own; that he had followed Wolf’s lead and used The Shadow as an alibi.
The big shot’s face was grim. His eyes were angry. With hands thrust in his Tuxedo pockets, he fumbled with the revolver that he kept there. At last he brought his hands into view and reached for the telephone again. On the point of giving Wolf Daggert another call, he laid the instrument aside.
Two lieutenants, at odds with one another. Were both on the square or were both crossing the big shot? Weighing the matter, King Furzman considered yesterday’s episodes.
Wolf Daggert had failed. Graham Wellerton had succeeded. Moreover, Graham had deliberately left his share of the loot in Furzman’s possession. That was the deciding point. Graham Wellerton was on the level.
A new thought came to King Furzman. Graham Wellerton was a keen worker. He had suggested that The Shadow might even now be spying on the big shot. Gouger had started out to search the apartment. How was he making out?
Turning, King Furzman looked toward the archway with its hanging draperies. He stopped suddenly. His eyes became fixed; his body rigid. In one instant he had gained positive proof that Graham Wellerton’s warning was a sound one.
Standing within the range of light was a living apparition of darkness. A tall figure, clad in black, was blocking King Furzman’s path. The folds of a sable-hued cloak were motionless. The face of the being who wore that garment was hidden beneath the projecting brim of a black slouch hat.
The only tokens of the hidden face were two gleaming eyes that burned with steady light. Despite the hypnotic power of those sinister optics, King Furzman could visualize the entire form of the personage before him. His startled gaze took in the muzzle of an automatic that projected from the folds of the cloak, held firmly by a black-gloved hand.
King Furzman made no motion. Like a statue, he stood gazing at the spectral figure which had so silently materialized itself. There was no mistaking the identity of this weird phantom that had seemingly emerged from nothingness.
King Furzman, erstwhile racketeer who had turned his hand to crime, was face to face with the master mind who battled men of evil. The gasp that came from the big shot’s twisted lips was proof of the recognition that was in his mind.
King Furzman was face to face with The Shadow. Graham Wellerton’s warning had failed to save the big shot from this meeting with the archenemy of crime!
CHAPTER VI
THE BIG SHOT SPEAKS
KING FURZMAN, as he faced The Shadow, was a man who betrayed consternation. The big shot was a man who constantly wore an expression of cold brutality - a mask which ever hid the emotions which he felt. The mask had lifted now. Stark fear had replaced King Furzman’s habitual glower.
The big shot was knowing the fear that had gripped other crime wreakers when they had encountered The Shadow. Furzman’s forehead glistened with perspiration; his hands were limp; his body trembled. Through his mind was passing all that he had heard concerning the vengeance which The Shadow had delivered to those who sought to thwart his purposes and his ends.
Before the first shock of fear had passed, King Furzman gained new knowledge of The Shadow’s terrifying presence. The token that came was an audible one - a whispered laugh that shuddered as it came from unseen lips. Quavering reverberations, silent shocks of impending doom, beat weirdly against Furzman’s eardrums.
Then came the voice of The Shadow. It followed the persisting echoes; it carried an eerie note that resembled a sneer, yet which held a strain of bitter mockery. Each whispered word was delivered in an uncanny tone that changed King Furzman’s trembling into a state of tense fixation.
“King Furzman” - The Shadow’s statement sounded as a knell - “you have plotted crime. That is why you have met The Shadow. You can hope for no deliverance while I am here. You will tell me what I wish to know.”
Unconsciously, the big shot found himself nodding in reply to The Shadow’s words.
“You have heard from your henchman,” resumed The Shadow. “Graham Wellerton has told you where he has gone. Give me that information.”
Tensely, Furzman tried to resist the threat. The eyes of The Shadow glinted. The muzzle of the automatic moved forward with a subtle thrust. Furzman replied mechanically, hoping only to avoid the menace of The Shadow.
“Wellerton has gone” - the big shot’s voice was no more than a gulping gasp - “to - to Grand Rapids - gone with his mob -“
“His purpose,” came The Shadow’s cold demand.
“Bank holdup,” gasped Furzman. “The - the” - the pause was hopeless - “the Riverview Trust will be his first job.”
“The time,” quizzed The Shadow.
“Two nights from now,” gulped Furzman. “Two nights from now - before nine o’clock -“
THE SHADOW’S laugh was one of whispered scorn. The tone provoked new terror in King Furzman’s evil brain. Despite the fact that he had told the truth, the big shot knew that The Shadow was not yet through with him.
“You have money here” - The Shadow’s words broke in a hideous, sneering chuckle - “money which does not belong to you. Tell me where you have hidden it.”
“In the wall of this room,” panted the big shot. “Behind the third panel from the door - in a safe -“
“The combination,” prompted The Shadow, with his terrifying aftermath of whispered mirth.
“Three - four - one - eight -” Furzman spoke in monotonous fashion, is though his lips worked of their own accord.
“Your crime is proven,” came The Shadow’s sinister judgment. “You have profited by the work of others. You shall suffer of your own accord. That telephone” - the blazing orbs stared beyond the big shot - “will be the instrument that will deliver you to the law. Pick it up.”
