Part 2 (2/2)

Marquette was on his feet, trying to find words. He heard Releston add: ”Agent F-3 told me that he was in Was.h.i.+ngton. Recalled here under special orders -”

”But he can't be!” blurted Vic. ”Agent F-3 is dead!”

Releston stepped back, aghast. Marquette was prompt with further details.

”We received the news this morning,” he explained. ”A body in the Paris morgue - a corpse taken from the River Seine - was identified as that of James Murtrie, otherwise Agent F-3!”

Releston reached for the memo pad. From memory, he wrote the H Street address; handed the slip to Marquette, saying: ”This is the address the false F-3 gave me. I told Cranston that The Shadow was to go there.”

”There's time to block that,” a.s.serted Marquette. ”Let me have your telephone, senator.” TWENTY minutes later, creeping men were approaching the gloomy house on H Street. The old mansion stood completely dark, foreboding ill to all who entered. The invaders were not perturbed. Their number was too great; their authority too strong.

The squad consisted of a dozen secret service men, headed by Vic Marquette.

Craftily, the squad closed in. Expert hands tried doors and windows. Old woodwork splintered dully; a window came open. Vic Marquette went through, hoisted by a pair of husky operatives. Others joined the leader. Vic's flashlight blinked upon the warped floor boards. It showed a wide doorway, opening into a room that had once been a parlor.

Soon, an electric lantern gleamed through that square-walled room. It showed a scene of complete desertion. Though Vic stood in the very room where The Shadow had been overpowered, there was not a clue to show that the parlor had been occupied in years. Curtains had been removed with furniture. Even the embers and ashes were gone from the fireplace.

Vic Marquette considered the facts as he saw them. Some one had telephoned Senator Releston, posing as Agent F-3. The purpose had been to get a lead to The Shadow. Somehow, the poser had learned of Lamont Cranston, and had tried to a.s.sa.s.sinate The Shadow's friend.

Circ.u.mstances showed that the attempt had been unsuccessful. Therefore, Marquette pictured Cranston safely on his way to New York to contact The Shadow.

This deserted house, in Vic's opinion, was merely a blind. It had not even been visited by the fake Agent F-3, and probably would not be. Nevertheless, Marquette decided to leave a pair of operatives on duty. The Shadow, should he come here, would recognize that they were government men.

Marquette was convinced that the man who had telephoned Releston, calling himself F-3, was the actual thief of the National Emergency Code. That, however, furnished no enlightenment. Marquette had already rejected Bryland as the possible thief. Hence Marquette was doubly led astray. Not only was he wrong about Bryland, he did not even suspect the presence of Hugo Creelon in Was.h.i.+ngton.

Added to that was Vic's complete ignorance regarding the capture of The Shadow. It was Vic's belief that The Shadow would soon be heard from. He was counting on the master-sleuth to furnish clues to the missing code. Thus the secret service was at a standstill. There would not even be a move to rescue The Shadow, since his plight was unknown.

When Vic Marquette left the house on H Street, he saw a pa.s.sing sedan roll by. It looked like any car that might have been traveling Was.h.i.+ngton street.

Marquette did not know that sparkling eyes had viewed him from the car window.

Nor did Marquette hear the low, insidious chuckle from the straight lips of the man who saw him.

The occupant of that sedan was Hugo Creelon.

Through with the house on H Street, the master-spy had ridden by to check on the arrival of the government men. Creelon was satisfied that the secret service had learned nothing. He was confident, too, that no suspicion rested on Frederick Bryland.

To-morrow, Creelon intended to contact the man who held the NEC; to gain the all-important code through shrewd bargaining with Bryland. For Creelon held no doubt regarding the ex-major's possession of the code.

Hugo Creelon had gained the information that he wanted from the best ofsources. The facts had been supplied him by The Shadow.

CHAPTER V.

THE SPY'S PLAN.

IT was afternoon the next day when The Shadow awoke. He found himself in surroundings that he did not recognize, and he viewed them with a strange, listless effect.

The Shadow was attired as Cranston; he was seated in a large easy-chair in a corner of a compact, well-furnished room. To his right were windows, high up from the ground, for The Shadow could see the tops of trees against the dullish, clouded sky. To his left was a closed door that was the only entrance to the room.

This room was a combination living room and bedroom. A chunky, broad-shouldered man was raising a heavy folding bed. The Shadow watched the servant affix the bed to the paneled wall, then turn the panel about to swing the bed into a closet.

The man's actions were painfully slow. When he turned the panel, it revolved at a snail's pace. It seemed minutes before the bed was out of sight, with a blank wall in its place. More minutes while the chunky man was turning toward The Shadow's chair.

The Shadow saw an ugly, big-toothed face that wore a long scar on its left cheek. He recognized the features. The chunky, man was one of those with whom The Shadow had battled at the house on H Street.

A fangish grin spread itself upon the fellow's face. The ugly lips moved with a remarkable slowness, curling in such fantastic fas.h.i.+on that they seemed ready to halt at any moment. With deliberate stride, the husky servant approached The Shadow. As he came, he lifted each foot with a curious slowness; placed it down again with such peculiar motion that The Shadow wondered why he did not lose his balance.

Halfway toward The Shadow, the man swung toward the door, making the turn in slow-motion fas.h.i.+on like a figure in a news reel. As the man's eyes moved away, The Shadow saw a chance for attack. He gripped the arms of his chair; raised himself to begin fresh battle.

Oddly, The Shadow's action was even slower than that of the scar-faced man. The Shadow's finger took ages to clutch the chair arms, His rising body seemed weighted. His average speed had the semblance of a foot a minute. So slow was The Shadow's process that the servant had time to turn around again, despite the fact that the fellow's painful speed did not increase.

When The Shadow found his feet, the man was already facing him. As The Shadow tried to raise his arms, the other's right hand started in his direction. It was coming slowly, no more than an inch a second; but the speed was too great for The Shadow. Before he could ward off the slow-motion thrust, the man's hand was against his chest.

Mere pressure threw The Shadow off balance. He could feel his arms swinging wide, even though their motion was slower than a turtle's crawl. He was falling backward, lingering as if in a dream.

At last, the weary drop ended. The Shadow was back in his chair.

Exhausted, he saw the servant again look toward the door. With a strained effort, The Shadow managed to inch his gaze in that direction.

The door was opening inward, in keeping with this slow-motion nightmare.

The Shadow saw a man upon the threshold. He recognized Hugo Creelon. He watched the pale-faced spy deliberately move forward and start to close the door behindhim.

THE lingering action continued. It could have been an hour, to The Shadow's stressed brain, before Creelon finally reached the chair where The Shadow sat. Then came Creelon's words - long-drawn beyond description.

”You are helpless,” Creelon told his prisoner. ”You need no bonds. You have seen the futility of trying to resist.”

Creelon's head turned slowly; his eyes at last faced the wide-shouldered servant.

”Food, Jarruth,” ordered Creelon, in his prolonged drawl. ”Food for our guest.”

While Jarruth began a slow-footed departure, Creelon again turned toward The Shadow. By this time, The Shadow had guessed the answer to the riddle. He was doped; and he knew what drug had been used. Creelon had given him a dose of has.h.i.+sh.

The Shadow had witnessed the effect of that Oriental opiate when used upon others. To the has.h.i.+sh victim, every second seems a minute; every minute an hour. A day could be a year; a week an eternity.

With his brain swept by such fancy, The Shadow mistook rapid actions as slow ones. His own response was in accordance. Numbed by the drug, he could not have battled a midget. Creelon knew it, the prolonged chuckle that seemed to ooze from the spy's straight lips was a trickling, satisfied jeer.

”Perhaps you wonder why you are still alive,” said Creelon. ”That is - if your mind can wonder at anything other than your plight. I shall tell you why you live. I may have further use for you.”

Creelon paused - only for a few seconds - but to The Shadow it seemed a s.p.a.ce of minutes.

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