Shadow 167 - Realm Of Doom 02-01-39, The by Maxwell Grant

Author:Maxwell Grant [Grant, Maxwell]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Street and Smith
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER XII

THE SHADOW AWAKES

WHEN The Shadow awoke, he heard the buzz of voices. They seemed a continuation of the last that he had heard, but he could not make out the words they uttered. From the blur, however, he remembered the last clear statement that had reached his ears.

He recalled the final moments of the fight beneath the roof of the covered bridge; how he had been dragged into the bus. Then the talk of “driving for old Oxotone” - something that made as little sense as when he had heard it.

The Shadow opened his eyes.

About him, he saw a garish scene. He was in a square room, where overlapping rugs covered the rough floor. Deeper draperies hung from the walls; but otherwise, the place looked like an office.

No longer tortured by the gas, The Shadow’s eyes discerned the man who sat behind a large desk. That man had a bloated face. His eyes glared uglily from beneath brows gray-streaked like his hair. His hands, resting on the desktop, were mammoth ill-shaped talons.

The Shadow recognized Thumb Gaudrey.

There were others in the room; vaguely, The Shadow knew their voices. He looked about wearily, saw their faces. Out of the blur, they became plain.

Two of the men were Clip Rallin and Rigger Bayne. The Shadow gradually identified a third as Uke Flenn, from his memory of the fellow’s photograph.

Slumped in a chair, The Shadow was the object of the conversation between Clip and Rigger.

“He’s the same guy, I tell you!” insisted Clip. “The dude we saw in the hotel at Charleston.”

“Yeah,” agreed Rigger, his smile hard. “The bozo who was squinting through the molecule.”

“Monocle!” corrected Clip. “And this” - he laid something in front of Thumb - “is the card he was looking at!”

Rigger reached to The Shadow’s vest, grabbed a cord that hung there. He gave a tug, bringing the monocle from the prisoner’s pocket.

“Here’s the eye dingus,” declared Rigger. Fragments of glass were falling as he spoke. “Only, it’s broke. The guy must have busted it when he put up that fight.”

The Shadow withheld a sigh of relief. The monocle was broken; that was a help. With the glass gone, there was no way for the crooks to learn of its magnifying properties. Nevertheless, he knew that he would be in for a sharp cross-examination from Thumb Gaudrey.

The big-shot had already noted the opening flicker of The Shadow’s eyelids. Leaning across the desk, Thumb boomed a question:

“Your name is Lamont Cranston?”

Slowly, The Shadow nodded. Thumb added:

“What were you doing in Charleston?”

“Charleston?” The Shadow spoke coolly, in Cranston’s tone. Then, as if he didn’t understand: “Do you mean Charleston, South Carolina?”

“I mean Charleston, West Virginia,” boomed Thumb. “You were seen there, a few nights ago.”

The Shadow stroked the bruise on the back of his head. His attitude indicated an honest attempt to remember where he had been a few nights ago. At last, his manner brightened.

“Of course!” he exclaimed. “I was in Charleston the night of the governor’s reception. An interesting place! I liked it so well that I stayed awhile, before I went on to Asheville.

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