offices in the Badger Building.'
'Excellent!' purred Bradthaw. 'But who is The Shadow?'
'That, I have not learned,' admitted Strampf, in a rueful tone. 'I know only that he poses as Lamont Cranston; that he spends most of his time at the Cobalt Club, where he sometimes meets Police Commissioner Weston.
'There is a real Lamont Cranston - at present in South Africa. When I learned that, I thought that I might discover The Shadow's actual identity. That may be difficult -'
'Why bother?' inserted Bradthaw. 'As usual, Strampf, you have kept pressing for more details when you have acquired a sufficiency. Since The Shadow passes as Cranston, we can regard him as Cranston, for the present. We shall trap him - as Cranston.'
Strampf looked doubtful. He found another card and studied it. He asked for a large city map. Bradthaw produced one that was so huge it covered the entire top of his big desk. Strampf placed his finger on a definite spot.
'The Shadow has a headquarters in this area,' he declared. 'I have narrowed it down to one place: a small office building that has very few tenants. I have studied that building. There is only one portion that could contain The Shadow's secret abode. That is the north section of the basement, near the rear wall.'
STRAMPF had accomplished something much more remarkable than he supposed. He had discovered a spot that crooks had sought for years, with such little success that the underworld no longer believed the place existed.
Strampf had located The Shadow's sanctum!
'Let me remind you,' continued Strampf, in serious tone, 'that I have not seen The Shadow enter that headquarters. That would be impossible, since he would go there only when cloaked in black, and the whole neighborhood is dark, at night.
'Obviously, The Shadow must have a private telephone wire connected through to his contact man, Burbank. We may assume also that The Shadow's files and other equipment are located in that headquarters; the place is a stronghold. In an emergency, The Shadow would go directly there.'
Strampf wanted to say more, but Bradthaw interrupted with a gesture. The insurance man's big brain was at work. The mind that had devised crime insurance had a genius for crime itself. Bradthaw had foreseen a duel with The Shadow. He was ready for it.
'We shall act at once!' announced Bradthaw. 'Not by a crude thrust, for The Shadow would meet a direct move. Instead, we shall take quick, unexpected steps, until The Shadow finds himself confronted with the very emergency that you have pictured, Strampf. We shall finally finish him, in the one place where he least suspects it. His own headquarters!'
Bradthaw produced lists that gave the names of big-shots of Duke Unrig's ilk. With those names were details of their organizations. A dozen big-shots had scores of smooth workers; hundreds of finger men and members of cover-up crews whom they could reach.
Until today, each big-shot had worked independently. That was ended. Those big-shots were to become lieutenants, under the command of one mighty crime-master, Marvin Bradthaw.
As Bradthaw mapped his immediate campaign, Strampf and Caudrey looked on, swept by approving admiration. They heard Bradthaw make telephone calls to certain contacts. The word was on its way.
Bradthaw settled on the zero hour.
'Five o'clock,' he stated, 'will mark the beginning of The Shadow's Waterloo.'
IT was five o'clock when a chubby, round-faced man came from the Badger Building and stepped aboard a cab. He was Rutledge Mann, the investment broker who served The Shadow as a contact man and research specialist. Mann promptly experienced the greatest surprise that he had ever encountered in The Shadow's service.
Two well-dressed but hard-faced men stepped into the cab with him, one from each side. A thuggish driver started the cab; in the rear seat, Mann sat prodded between two gun muzzles, too helpless to move.
At five-thirty Harry Vincent entered his room at the Hotel Metrolite. The telephone bell rang. An even voice, a perfect imitation of Burbank's, gave brief instructions. That voice was talking from the hotel lobby; but Harry never guessed it. The orders were to visit the apartment where Wally Drillick had formerly lived.
Harry reached that apartment, twenty minutes later. The moment that he entered three men overpowered him. Bound and gagged, Harry was taken out through a service elevator.
Meanwhile, Clyde Burke had received a faked Burbank call at the Classic office. In response, he left the newspaper building and headed for the Rat's Hole, expecting to find something from Hawkeye in the rear room.
Instead of another suitcase, Clyde discovered a trio of beefy hoodlums. They ganged the reporter in expert fashion and loaded him into a touring car that was waiting in the side alley.
It was nearly eight o'clock, when Hawkeye sidled through the darkened alleyway where he sometimes met Cliff Marsland. Tonight that gloom hid waiters other than Cliff. Hawkeye heard a suspicious stir; he whipped out a gun and started to retreat.
A wall of attackers closed in behind him. Hawkeye was suppressed before he had time to fire a single shot.
At eight-fifteen Cliff Marsland was ready for a short trip from his hide-out. As he started from the window, he heard a slight clang from the fire escape. A husky was through, grabbing for Cliff before he could produce a gun.
Cliff settled that rowdy with one punch; smeared a second who came through. A third attacker piled upon him; as Cliff grappled, others crashed the barred door of the room. Five against one, they added Cliff to the increasing list of prisoners.
At half past eight, Moe Shrevnitz was about ready to leave a hack stand near Times Square to head for the Cobalt Club, where The Shadow wanted him at nine o'clock. A couple of men in tuxedos started to board the cab. In thick half-drunk style, one gave the address of a hotel where they wanted to go.
The hotel was on the way to the Cobalt Club. Moe decided to take the passengers as the easiest way to avoid a delaying argument. When the cab reached the darkness of a side street, the men in back were no longer tipsy.
One reached through the front window and cooled the back of Moe's neck with a revolver muzzle. He told Moe to pull to the curb. Moe did.
There two lurkers got in. A few minutes later one of the newcomers was handling the cab, while Moe was riding in the rear seat surrounded by a trio of captors.
Crews of crooks had rounded up The Shadow's agents. The stage was set for the trapping of The Shadow himself!
CHAPTER XI. TO THE SANCTUM
LUCK had favored Marvin Bradthaw far more than the crime-master knew. Bradthaw had planned well in taking off the agents one by one; and he had wisely left Burbank until later. He knew where the contact man could be reached at any time; and Burbank was the one person who communicated directly with The Shadow.
In the case of Rutledge Mann, Bradthaw had been exceptionally lucky. On almost any other day, Mann's disappearance would have been promptly noted by The Shadow. If it had been, Bradthaw's plans would have been broken. Through sheer luck however, Bradthaw had picked the time when The Shadow expected no word from Mann.
At five o'clock, Mann usually went to an office on Twenty-third Street and there deposited an envelope-load of reports in the mail box of a mythical person named Jonas. The Shadow came later to pick up that envelope. Today it was not required, so The Shadow had not missed it.
There had been no need for Mann to accumulate information regarding large insurance companies. The Shadow was handling that matter himself. As Lamont Cranston, he was at the Cobalt Club, going through a stack of volumes in a stuffy alcove of the secluded library.
It happened that the Cobalt Club was well provided with financial reports of insurance companies. The Shadow could not have picked a better place to look for the information that he wanted.
During crime's recent run there had been two peculiar phases. Big-shots had followed the odd policy of
