Part 4 (1/2)

Vic Marquette nodded to himself. He was glad that he had not met Bryland.

A better plan had come to Vic's mind.

Seeing Bryland with Nina Valencita and having knowledge she had acted as a spy for the Spanish royalists, Vic decided Bryland's knowing her was reason enough to make a search of his home for the NEC.

But first, Vic looked up Congressman Leeth's home telephone number. There was one thing Marquette wanted to find out; that was who had won the argument, Bryland or Martha. Vic's bet was that Bryland had talked the girl into going to the theater.

He hoped so, anyway; for he wanted Bryland to be placed for the next few hours.

Marquette had his fingers crossed when he called the number.

No one answered the telephone. Evidently all were absent from the Leeth homestead. That explained why Martha might have listened to Bryland's protests.

The prospect of an evening alone at home could easily have won the girl over.

Marquette dialed again to make sure. There was no response; so Vic put in calls to members of his squad.

WITHIN fifteen minutes, Vic and two carloads of operatives were ready for a speedy trip to Fairfax. Marquette had decided to make the first search at Bryland's Virginia mansion.

One man was standing on the curb. Marquette gave him special instructions about guarding Bryland's Was.h.i.+ngton home: ”Stay outside of Bryland's apartment house, Chandley. Don't stop him if he goes in; you might get the wrong man by mistake. Grab anybody, though, that comes out - anybody that you think might be Bryland.

”It's a cinch he didn't have the NEC on him when he left the Apollo Club.

If he has it, it's one of two places; his home or his apartment. We won't give him a chance to take it away from either.”

The cars headed for the Arlington Memorial Bridge. As they neared the Potomac, Vic Marquette settled back in a rear seat, fully satisfied with the course that he had chosen. He was glad that he had not trailed Bryland. That trail, in Vic's opinion, would have been a mistake.

Vic did not know what opportunity he had missed. Actually, success was slipping from his grasp. The trail that the secret service man ignored would have opened remarkable paths. It would have taken Vic to a certain emba.s.sy in Was.h.i.+ngton; to a hidden lair within that emba.s.sy, where a master-spy dwelt in security.

More important, it would have carried Vic Marquette to the spot where The Shadow lay a prisoner, doped into helplessness, awaiting the doom that Hugo Creeland was ready to decree.

Vic Marquette was carrying a search order, on which his signature was scarcely dry. Without knowing it, Vic had signed another warrant, as plainly as if he had affixed his name to it.

That was the unwritten order for The Shadow's death. Vic Marquette, alone, could have provided The Shadow with outside aid. The Shadow would never receive the help that he desired.

CHAPTER VII.

THROUGH THE GLa.s.s.

FREDERICK BRYLAND'S dinner hour had been planned as a pleasant one; but had resulted in a spat. The Shadow's dinner time was planned as a tragic jest.

Shortly after eight o'clock, Jarruth wheeled in the tea wagon, bringing a bowl of soup and a plate of more substantial food. He rolled it up to where The Shadow was seated, staring listlessly.

Hugo Creelon had heard from Nina Valencita. Frederick Bryland would arrive this very evening. Creelon had given the order for The Shadow's dinner.Afterward would come a dose more powerful than has.h.i.+sh.

Death by poison would be The Shadow's fate, as soon as Creelon commenced negotiations with Bryland.

Laboriously, The Shadow inserted spoon in soup, while Jarruth looked on jeeringly. Every spoonful was an effort, and Jarruth enjoyed it for a while.

Then the sight tired him. The prisoner was more lethargic than at lunch time.

Jarruth went out to prepare the dessert. He hoped that it would be a gla.s.s of poison.

When Jarruth was gone, a change took place. Perceptibly, The Shadow came to life. His motion was not swift - it still showed painful slowness. But his speed was much closer to normal.

The second dose of has.h.i.+sh had been less effective than the first. The Shadow, however, had not shown it. Once awake, he had pretended further sleep, during a period that seemed interminable. Every time his eyes had begun to open he had closed them, awaiting dusk. Jarruth had not reported the prisoner as awake until after six o'clock. Jarruth was wrong. The Shadow had aroused two hours before.

Swallowing a few more mouthfuls of the beneficial soup, The Shadow managed to push the tea wagon away. He tried to rise; he failed, but tried again. He succeeded. Wearily, his steps almost as slow as Jarruth's had appeared to be, The Shadow faltered forward.

Once he reeled; felt himself falling slowly. He caught a table and regained his balance. Resting, The Shadow realized that he possessed only one capability that could bring swift motion. That was the ease with which he could fall.

A sprawl might seem slow; but it would be as rapid as any drop that another man could produce. It was easy to topple off balance. It was upon that factor that The Shadow depended. The warmth of the soup was giving him a false sense of speeded motion; but he was wise enough not to rely upon it as real!

The Shadow reached the panel where the folding bed was hidden beyond.

Gripping a solid wall, he leaned against the panel. It began a slow revolution.

The Shadow tightened his grip on the wall; he s.h.i.+fted as the panel came around.

He seemed shackled.

Though the panel's swing was prolonged, The Shadow could not guarantee that he would clear its path. Yet he persisted; and with success. When the bed swung completely into place, The Shadow stood beyond it.

The Shadow raised his hand up to the catch that held the bed suspended.

He lowered his hand; through sheer weight alone, it drew the catch. The bed was balanced. The Shadow edged his shoulder past it. He felt a pressure; he resisted with all his strength. Braced against one edge of the bed, The Shadow was holding it in place. For a man in his weakened condition, it was a Herculean task.

The Shadow watched the door of the room; held on for a long, tiring period. The door began to open - deliberately, but not so slowly as it had opened earlier in the day. Jarruth appeared; closed the door behind him. In his hand, the servant was carrying a gla.s.s of amber-tinted liquid.

Jarruth's ugly leer told that he had received the order that he wanted.

The executioner was arriving with The Shadow's poison.

LOOKING toward the easy-chair, Jarruth showed a surprised scowl when he saw that the prisoner had left it. Wheeling so rapidly that the motion seemed fairly fast to The Shadow, Jarruth saw the tall figure by the folding bed. TheShadow, still guised as Cranston, was on the far side.

Jarruth did exactly as The Shadow had hoped. The servant's actions came like clockwork. Putting a hand to his hip, Jarruth pulled a revolver and started menacingly toward the wearied prisoner.

The Shadow relaxed. His yield was instant. The weight of the big metal bed brushed him aside, sent him toppling to the floor. Though the fall seemed slow motion to The Shadow, he was actually hurtled from the path that the hinged bed followed.

Jarruth, starting for the prisoner, saw the metal Juggernaut arching down upon him. Once released, uncontrolled by a lowering hand, that ma.s.s of metal had weight combined with power. Jarruth ducked away to avoid it. The Shadow, going to the floor in a painful, slow-motion drive, witnessed the result.

The bed seemed to lower itself like a reluctant drawbridge while Jarruth did a curiously delayed turnabout. Slowly, the metal footboard of the bed opened out, reached Jarruth's head and tapped it a gentle blow. The sound, though, was sharp to The Shadow's ears.

To Jarruth, the bed's fall was sudden; swift. A surge of down-swinging metal; a crash that he could not escape. That was the last that The Shadow's jailer knew. The Shadow, alone, watched the finish.