'Now to drag him out,' declared Gats.
It was Felix Zubian who spoke now. He had entered the room, and was standing near the door.
'Just a minute, Gats,' he said.
Leaving Mann's helpless form in Squint's charge, Gats approached Zubian. The two conversed in low tones. A sudden exclamation came from Gats.
'You mean The Shadow will come here?' he questioned, not loud enough for the others to hear.
'Of course,' replied Zubian.
'Then we can get him!' exclaimed Gats.
'Not we ourselves,' said Zubian. 'That would be a mistake. You have your own job—with Vincent and Mann. It is not wise for me to join in a gang attack. Leave chosen men here with Squint, in the next room.'
'I get you. Then when The Shadow comes to see why he hasn't heard from Mann -'
'He will walk into another trap.'
'Great! I'll give the lay to Squint.'
Gats took the little gangster into the adjoining office. In brief terms, he explained the situation.
Squint was elated. He, like Gats, was out to get The Shadow. Waiting here would be different from Twenty- third Street. At the close range between the offices, Squint could not fail to spot The Shadow.
'There'll be five men with you, Squint,' explained Gats, in a low tone. 'Don't tell them who you're laying for. Have them set and gang the guy when he blows in.'
'Leave it to me, Gats,' rejoined Squint, speaking from the corner of his mouth. 'I ain't goin' to pass up no chanct to get The Shadow! Leave it to me, Gats!'
RETURNING to Mann's office, Gats threw one powerful arm under the investment man's shoulder and drew his form up. Another gangster grasped Mann from the other side.
The Shadow's agent was groggy, but capable of action. With expert precision, the three walked from the office, Gats placing Mann's hat on the investment broker's head as they went by the rack.
To all appearances, Rutledge Mann was leaving the Grandville Building, accompanied by two friends. He was awake enough to speak; but the muzzle of a revolver advised him to keep silence.
Felix Zubian followed shortly afterward. Squint Freston and five mobsters remained.
There was an ugly smirk on Zubian's face as he made his way to the Cobalt Club. Wherever The Shadow might be, he would soon discover that one of his trusted men was missing, and Zubian expected action on that!
Zubian had not questioned Gats Hackett regarding his plans. He considered the gang leader a capable inquisitor. If anything could be learned from The Shadow's agents, Gats would find it out.
Vincent and Mann were but pawns in the game; but pawns might prove useful. Zubian congratulated himself upon his cleverness in turning Gats Hackett's scheme into a new snare for The Shadow.
Arriving at the Cobalt Club, Zubian strolled through the spacious lounges, in hopes that he might spy the familiar figure of Lamont Cranston. His quest was not rewarded; the millionaire was nowhere to be seen.
Nevertheless, Zubian was satisfied. In his previous studies of Cranston's activities he had discovered one fact that might prove a useful clew—should it ever be required.
There was no use in considering the future now. Once again, the odds were against The Shadow. That he would appear at Rutledge Mann's office, Zubian accepted as an assured fact. This would be Squint Freston's opportunity to prove the faith that Gats Hackett had in him.
The big clock in the lobby of the Cobalt Club showed ten minutes after six when Felix Zubian passed it on the way to the grill. One last glance assured the crook that Lamont Cranston had not entered.
Shrugging his shoulders, Zubian lighted a cigarette and took his place at a table in the grillroom. He ordered dinner, and sat back in ease.
To-night, the next stroke would be given. Once again, the odds lay with The Shadow's enemies. Mann was captured; Vincent would soon be a prisoner also. Then would come the reckoning.
Once more, Felix Zubian smiled. Failure seemed impossible; yet even failure would not reflect on him. So long as The Shadow was at large, Zubian felt that he could trail him. He was still The Shadow's shadow!
CHAPTER XVI. ENTER THE SHADOW
WHEN Felix Zubian had glanced about the lobby of the Cobalt Club, he had not seen Lamont Cranston; therefore, he had assumed that The Shadow was not on the premises. Therein Felix Zubian had been deceived.
Seated in a comfortable chair was a man whose visage possessed none of the characteristics of Cranston's physiognomy. To all appearances, this individual was at least three inches shorter than the millionaire.
Zubian, now familiar with the names of many Cobalt members, had recognized this man as Henry Arnaud. But he had not discerned the fact that Cranston and Arnaud were one and the same.
The Shadow, Zubian had heard, was a master of disguise. But he had never dreamed that this strange personage could so change his face that a keen observer could detect no similarity in the make-up. Thus Zubian, The Shadow's shadow, sat quietly at dinner while the very man he hoped to find was strolling the lobby less than a hundred feet away.
Henry Arnaud, like Felix Zubian, had noticed the clock. Ten minutes past the hour of six seemed to indicate something to him, for he arose from his chair and went to a telephone booth. There he called a number and listened while a quiet voice spoke over the wire.
'Burbank,' said the voice.
Burbank was a unique agent of The Shadow. He was the contact man through whom special messages were relayed to The Shadow. Located at some unknown source, reached only by telephone, Burbank aided in activities where swiftness counted. His duties were manifold, his work unfailing.
'Report,' said Henry Arnaud.
'No word from Mann,' declared Burbank.
'Communicate with him,' ordered Arnaud.
Leaving the booth, Arnaud returned to the lobby, resumed his chair, and waited five minutes. Then he reentered the booth and made another call to Burbank.
'No answer from Mann,' informed the quiet voice.
'Communicate with Vincent,' was Arnaud's order.
It was six thirty when Henry Arnaud again called Burbank. This time he received another barren report; the two men could not be reached.
'Vincent not at Metrolite,' stated Burbank.
Henry Arnaud was thoughtful when he again resumed his chair. He waited for a few minutes, then quietly arose and obtained a package from the checkroom. He left the club and hailed a taxicab, giving the driver an address on Broadway.
Alighting from the cab, Arnaud entered the Grandville Building.
Early evening had arrived; the lobby was lighted, and only one elevator was in service. Henry Arnaud went up to the twenty-second floor.
Still carrying the package under his arm, Henry Arnaud disappeared in the gloom at the end of the corridor. Nor did Arnaud return; but another figure stepped forth in his place.
It was the form of a man clad entirely in black—a strange being who emerged with uncanny suddenness.
Garbed in flowing cloak, with face hidden beneath a broad-brimmed slouch hat, this personage stood several inches taller than the man whose place he had taken.
Henry Arnaud had become The Shadow! In that guise he intended to visit the office where Rutledge Mann had been captured. There was a stairway that led down to the twenty-first floor; and it was this route that The Shadow followed.
To the ordinary observer, the location of Rutledge Mann's office on the twenty-first floor would have indicated nothing. But when The Shadow approached it, the fact that the suite had been chosen with design became apparent.
The tall form in black moved stealthily onward, stopping when it reached a turn in the dimly lighted passage.
