certain other articles that formed an indispensable part of The Shadow's necessary equipment.
The Shadow walked quietly to a near-by garage, unlocked the coupe in which
he had escaped from the scene of the blast. He drove northward through the city.
His driving was careful, as befits a man who has had a narrow escape from death. The wound in his side had not been as deep or as dangerous as Doctor Sayre had at first feared. The flying fragment of metal from Spud Wilson's dynamited automobile had inflicted a shallow, bloody gouge rather than imbedding itself deeply into the flesh. That fact, plus Sayre's skill and the splendid vitality in The Shadow's lean body, accounted for his miraculous reappearance behind the wheel of his high-powered coupe.
A stiff corsetlike band of adhesive tape made Lamont Cranston's figure sit
somewhat slantingly behind the wheel. That and the unusual pallor of his lean cheeks were the only indications of a desperate adventure that had filled the newspapers with screaming headlines.
Who had planted the dynamite that had blown that parked car to pieces?
And
why? As yet, The Shadow had no answer to either question. But he matched those two unanswered questions with two accurate facts that only he, himself, knew.
The first was that the bloody tatters of rags that were found in the wreck
of a stolen car on Varick Street were all that was left of a sly crook named Spud Wilson. The second fact was that the answer to the outrage seemed to point
very definitely to the mansion of Arnold Dixon in Pelham Bay. The 'burglary,'
which had first excited The Shadow's attention, was very evidently a cover-up for something far more sinister and murderous.
It was toward the mansion of Arnold Dixon that The Shadow was now driving.
His plan was simple. He had an overwhelming desire to meet, observe and study at
close range this eccentric millionaire. He wanted to talk to Bruce, the recently
returned son.
He hoped to observe the butler and - if possible - William Timothy, the millionaire's lawyer. The Shadow was aware that the latter was a friend of Dixon's of long standing. Nearly every night the two played chess together and drank a glass of port.
The Shadow had already arranged a plausible excuse to explain his visit.
In his inner pocket was a letter of introduction from the curator of ceramics of the Museum of Art. Lamont Cranston was an amateur collector of Chinese pottery of no mean reputation. He had even written a monograph or two on the subject. Hence The Shadow had no trouble obtaining the letter of introduction from the curator and he expected no trouble in getting into Dixon's home.
Dixon's private collection was the largest and best in the country. He was
proud of it. He took a childish delight in showing off some of his rarer pieces
to the jealous eyes of rival collectors.
A SIBILANT laugh of satisfaction escaped the lips of The Shadow as he saw the massive gray walls of the Dixon estate loom up in the darkness. It was a large place, built like an old-fashioned castle in a swanky and restricted section overlooking Pelham Bay.
The Shadow drove past the gate, watching carefully until he saw a spot where he could hide his car. Turning the coupe, he backed under a thick clump of evergreens and left it there, securely hidden from sight.
The Shadow discovered that the gate which led to the grounds was closed but not locked. He passed through and walked with deliberate steps along the curving path that led through a rather thickly planted park toward the distant turrets of the stone mansion.
Within an ornate, high-ceilinged room on the ground floor of the Dixon mansion, two men were awaiting the appearance of the millionaire. One of them was dressed in the severely dark clothing of a butler. He was a short, stocky man with a placid face and a fringe of gray hair around his ears and the back of his almost bald skull. This was Charles who had been in the service of Arnold Dixon for more than thirty-five years.
Charles was arranging carved ivory chessmen on a board, but it was evident
that his mind was not on his occupation. His eyes kept veering toward the other
man. This second man was William Timothy, the millionaire's attorney and his closest friend. It was for him and Dixon that the chess game was being prepared.
Timothy was tall, spare. He paced up and down with an alert, nervous step,
except for the cringing limp every time his left foot touched the carpet. He suffered from chronic attacks of arthritis. But to-night his anxiety was mental, not physical.
He said, abruptly: 'Charles, put down those chessmen. I want to talk to you.'
Charles straightened from his task. There was a look of relief on his plump face as he stared at the lawyer. He smiled wanly, as if he knew what Timothy was about to say.
'There's no need for either of us to beat about the bush, Charles,' the lawyer murmured. 'We know there's something highly unusual going on in this house. Mr. Dixon won't talk. He's desperately afraid of some one or something... We've both of us sensed that.'
'That's true,' Charles quavered. 'The master hasn't been himself for the past three months not since those two men first came here for a private interview with him.'
He added, timorously: 'They're calling to-night, as I whispered to you over the telephone.'
'You were right in letting me know about it,' Timothy said. 'I'm very anxious to get a good look at this Bert Hooley and his friend, Joe Snaper.'
'They both have white, pasty faces; they talk in husky whispers out of the
corners of their mouths. Very ugly-looking fellows, indeed.'
'The names are probably aliases,' Timothy murmured, grimly. 'I've tried to
trace them, to have them shadowed to wherever their headquarters is; but no luck.'
His voice hardened. He queried: 'The same peculiar thing happens each time
they call?'
'Yes, sir!'
CHARLES amplified his exclamation in a low hurried voice, his glance watching the huge doorway through which presently would emerge Arnold Dixon and
his good-looking son, Bruce. Hooley and Snaper had been coming regularly to the
mansion for the past three months, twice every month. Their visits seemed to terrify Arnold Dixon, but he never refused to see them. They were closeted alone with him in his private office for twenty minutes or so. They always left
looking triumphant.
Charles had tried timidly to speak to the old man about it, and had been amazed at the angry transformation in his usually gentle employer. In a high, strident voice, Dixon had told the faithful butler that if he didn't mind his own business and stop asking impertinent questions he'd be instantly discharged.
'And Bruce - what of him?' Timothy asked.
Again the butler glanced at the draped doorway.
'I'm afraid of Bruce, sir. I - I don't trust him.'
'Why not?'
'Because every time these two fellows call, Mr. Bruce vanishes. He's done it every time, sir. Never once has he commented on them to either me or his father. But the moment they enter his father's study and the door is locked, Mr. Bruce vanishes.
'I wasn't sure of that until lately. Then I began quietly to search for him. It was no use, sir. Apparently, Mr. Bruce either leaves the house or is hidden somewhere in the old wing where his father's study is located.'
'And a valuable collection of Chinese pottery, eh?' Timothy said, softly.
There was a taut smile on his worried face. 'Tell me honestly, Charles, what is
your opinion of these two fellows?'
'I - I think that Hooley and Snaper may be blackmailers, sir. It's curious
that their visits began shortly after Mr. Bruce - er - returned from his long absence. I'm convinced that the master is paying regular tribute to protect either himself or Bruce. Mr. Bruce was always a wild, headstrong boy. He
