Part 9 (1/2)

When the man with the bags arrived in the lobby of the Hotel Metrolite, Henry Arnaud was already there, standing near the desk. His keen eyes saw the newcomer register. They sparkled as they observed the scrawled name: Channing Rightwood.

”Front!” called the clerk. ”Room 2016 for Mr. Rightwood.”

Henry Arnaud's eyes were studying the face and profile of Channing Rightwood. The arrival was pale of countenance. His long chin and large nose formed two noticeable features of his physiognomy. His pointed mustache was of a reddish tinge; his eyebrows and hair were darker.

There was a droop to Rightwood's lips that formed another peculiarity of his countenance. The man's appearance, though dull, was at least individual. Any one who had seen Channing Rightwood's face would remember it.

A faint smile showed upon Henry Arnaud's thin lips. As soon as Rightwood had gone, this firm-faced observer stepped up to the desk and registered with a flouris.h.i.+ng signature. He pointed to a bag that he had brought with him.

”How about the fourteenth floor?” questioned the clerk. ”Would that suit you, Mr. Arnaud?”

”I would prefer a room higher up,” announced Arnaud. ”Say five or six floors above.” There was a subtle emphasis upon the word six. The clerk did not notice it; yet it made a subconscious impression. Mentally, the man added six to fourteen.

”A room on the twentieth?” he questioned.

”That will be satisfactory,” came Arnaud's response.

”Front!” called the clerk. ”Room 2020 for Mr. Arnaud.”

UP in Room 2016, Channing Rightwood had removed coat and vest. The arrival was tired after his long train journey from Chicago. He stretched his arms and walked to the window.

He stared at the blazing electric signs about Times Square. There was one among that glittering group that had white corners and borders which did not change their hue. Rightwood, however, did not particularly notice it.

Turning from the window, Rightwood seated himself in a comfortable chair. He picked up a newspaper and glanced at the headlines. One story caught his eye. It told of a mysterious death which had occurred near Times Square. Rightwood read it with interest.

A victim had been found dead in a taxicab. The driver was gone; so was the identification card which told his name and gave his photograph. Detective Joe Cardona, a.s.signed to the case, had discovered that the cab was a wildcat vehicle, unregistered.

No papers had been found upon the victim. The man's description was given; in fact, a photograph of his dead face appeared in the newspaper. The picture had been taken at the morgue. Death was attributed to a virulent poison. The heel of the man's right hand showed a jab where a needle had entered it.

Rightwood puzzled over this unusual story. Completing its details, he tossed the newspaper aside and again stared from the window. He yawned. His eyes half closed as he resumed his chair. Then, with a lazy motion, he picked up the telephone and called a number.

”h.e.l.lo...” Rightwood recognized the voice that responded. ”Is that you, Mungren? I thought so... Yes.

I'm here in New York... Just arrived by Michigan Central... Yes... I'm calling you about that option.

”What's that?... Not a good buy?... One minute, Mungren. One minute... No, I still have confidence in Electro Oceanic... I have my reasons... Yes, I have the money, too... Two days yet?... Well, I don't think I'll change my mind. In fact, I'm sure I won't... Talk with you first? Certainly... Tomorrow afternoon at five o'clock... You can't convince me that I'm wrong, though... I'll be at your office...”

Rightwood clanked the receiver on the hook. He sat in puzzled speculation. Then his impression began to change.

Seated in the dully-lighted room - only a table lamp was illuminated - Rightwood had an odd feeling that someone else was present. He realized now that the sensation had commenced just as he had begun to speak to Logan Mungren.

Rightwood stared dully toward the window. Beyond was the glow of Manhattan. Here, in this quiet room, he was practically isolated from the world. He had heard no sound; he had seen no one; yet he sensed that eyes were watching him.

SO startling was the impression that Channing Rightwood did not make an immediate move. He pressed his hands against the arms of the chair and tried to shake off the grim obsession that had seized him. His laugh was nervous. He was fighting a strange mental battle against the weird unknown. Rightwood's lips twitched. His breath came in nervous gasps. The longer that he tried to steady himself, the more difficult did the task become. A minute pa.s.sed. The man could stand it no longer. With a hoa.r.s.e gasp, he leaped to his feet and turned instinctively toward the door.

Channing Rightwood became motionless. Rigid as a statue, he stared with wild, bulging eyes at the figure which he saw before him. He was gazing upon a spectral shape that might have come from some corridor of s.p.a.ce!

A being clad in black. A body shrouded by sable-hued cloak. A visage hidden by the broad brim of a slouch hat. These were the eerie impressions that Channing Rightwood gained.

More vivid, more terrible, were the eyes that Channing Rightwood saw. Optics that blazed with the sparkle of fire; hypnotic orbs that stared with commanding force - such were the eyes that flashed from beneath the hat brim.

Then came a terrifying manifestation. A whispered laugh came from hidden lips. Eerily it filled the room.

Its dying, mocking echoes crept to Channing Rightwood's ears. Ghoulish, shuddering taunts thrummed through the startled man's hectic, maddened brain.

Fixed by that steady gaze, Channing Rightwood paled. In the dimness of the room, he felt that he had been transported to a mysterious, unreal world.

Channing Rightwood was face to face with The Shadow!

CHAPTER XVII. THE SHADOW ORDAINS.

THE SHADOW spoke. His voice came in a sinister whisper. Coupled with the gloom near the door, the sound of his words created an uncanny effect upon the man who listened.

”Death.” The Shadow's word was ominous. ”It awaits you here, Channing Rightwood. It is the fate which befell four others, among them two whom you knew well.”

A pause. Channing Rightwood shuddered as the quivering echoes of The Shadow's whisper persisted from the walls.

”Maurice Bewkel died.” The Shadow's voice was a sepulchral one. ”Bigelow Zorman died. You, Channing Rightwood, are to be the next!”

Rightwood's fists began to clench. For a moment, the startled man sought to shake off the spell of those hypnotic eyes and that dread tone. His fevered brain caught the fearful thought that if death awaited, this black-cloaked being might be its messenger.

”Death!” gasped Rightwood. ”You - you are here to kill me -”

The Shadow's answer was a whispered laugh. It bore a sneer; yet Rightwood understood that the disdainful mockery was not intended for him.

”You shall live.” The Shadow's p.r.o.nouncement was emphatic. ”Death will not strike while my protection lasts. You must obey my injunctions. Remember, Channing Rightwood; you must obey!”

”I am safe!” Rightwood blurted a challenge. ”There is no danger here and -”

”No danger!” The Shadow's gibe was scornful. ”Already you have made the first step toward your doom. I have heard your words. You have talked with Logan Mungren.” ”Logan Mungren!” Again Rightwood gasped. ”You mean - you mean that Mungren -”

”Mungren is awaiting your visit,” p.r.o.nounced The Shadow. ”From your own words to him I learned his purpose. Should you visit him tomorrow; should you persist in your plan of purchase, the death trap will be laid.”

”Mungren!” Rightwood's voice was a challenge. ”He - he seeks to do me harm? I am not afraid!”

The thought of Logan Mungren, an ordinary person, was a proof of Rightwood's nerve. In the presence of The Shadow, appalling being clad in black, Rightwood had no qualms when the name of the stock promoter was uttered. Rightwood was convinced that The Shadow's words were true. Eagerly, he took up the challenge created by this being from the night.

”I shall see Mungren.” Rightwood's tone was determined. ”If he has some secret plot against me, I shall learn it. I shall visit his office tomorrow. Nothing can stop me!”

The Shadow's shuddering laugh added sudden pallor to Rightwood's peaked face. The burning eyes fixed in a more potent stare.

”Tomorrow,” so announced The Shadow, in a prophetic tone, ”Channing Rightwood will visit Logan Mungren.”

”As I have stated!” blurted Rightwood.

”Not as you have stated,” corrected The Shadow, in his presaging voice. ”Channing Rightwood will meet Logan Mungren; but Channing Rightwood will not be present!”