The Shadow 049 The Circle of Death by Maxwell Grant

Author:Maxwell Grant [Grant, Maxwell]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Street & Smith
Published: 1934-03-21T23:00:00+00:00

The Shadow seldom revealed his various identities to his agents. To them, he was a mysterious specter of blackness. Confident though they were in The Shadow’s power, they had never met him face to face except in guises which The Shadow chose. That of Henry Arnaud was one which The Shadow had not disclosed.

LATER, Henry Arnaud might have been seen in the vicinity which Joe Cardona had left. Back to his original purpose, The Shadow followed a course up Seventh Avenue to the Hotel Goliath. He turned and retraced his steps.

The big sign which served as signal to the members of the death circle was gleaming white tonight. Agents of doom were quiet. Did The Shadow know that fact? The strange smile which showed on Henry Arnaud’s lips might have been evidence of such knowledge.

The Shadow’s course became untraceable. Even when he appeared in a guise such as that of Henry Arnaud, he still possessed a strange ability in disappearing from view. It was more than an hour later when The Shadow again manifested his presence - this time in his sanctum.

The bluish light clicked on. Beyond the table, a tiny bulb was glowing. The Shadow took the earphones and spoke. Burbank’s voice responded.

A report. The Shadow wrote it as he listened to Burbank’s voice. This was word from Clyde Burke, stationed at the Hotel Delavan. It concerned the affairs of Felix Tressler.

Burke had learned that the millionaire never left the penthouse. He had found out that Tressler’s secretary, Wilton Byres, occasionally appeared in the lobby.

Burke had gained a description of Tressler, as well as one of Byres. The Shadow’s writing gave terse details as they came from Burbank. This information completed, The Shadow disposed of the earphones.

His eyes again read the notes that he had made. The writing faded, word by word.

The large map of Manhattan came into view. This time, The Shadow marked it with three white pins and three of black. More than that, his hand traced courses through the thoroughfares near Times Square, to mark the paths that three men had followed to their doom.

Dustin Cruett, Maurice Bewkel, Bigelow Zorman: all had died within the space of a few blocks. They had come into a realm of disaster. Certainly, there must be an explanation of these odd fates which had gripped the unfortunate trio.

The Shadow’s laugh was a token of growing understanding. The pins were plucked from the route-marked map. The bluish light went out as the paper crinkled. The laugh still persisted. It rose to a shuddering crescendo.

Something swished in the darkness. Then came silence, with sinking echoes of the taunting laugh. Garbed in cloak and hat of black, The Shadow had departed.

Agents of The Shadow were within the circle of death. They were watching the strategic spot which The Shadow had picked for them. It was their task to report concerning Felix Tressler. Channing Rightwood, still out of town, was under The Shadow’s care.

Yet the foreboding tone of The Shadow’s laugh gave a strange impression that continued until the final whispered echo had ended.

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